Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (5 page)

Jeenie Dempster was the wrong side of forty. (True, for a woman in TV there was no right side – but Jeenie had a worse side than most). Within days of her arrival at Backchat, Jeenie had shown herself to be mean, rude and self-absorbed. As a jobbing presenter, she’d been charming to those in power; charmless to those who had to staple her scripts and plug up her blackheads. Tess had not liked the woman much, but her corpse had looked very lonely in all that mud. Her milky, sightless eyes seemed to plead from the grave.

Who the fuck had put her there?

“All the papers say the same thing,” said Miller, who’d piled up most of the morning’s editions on the back seat beside his camera and corn snacks. “Jeenie
was
murdered – but the police aren’t saying how – and Sandy’s everywhere, going on about this stalker.”

“But are the papers buying it?”

“They’re saying the stalker must have followed Jeenie to Squarey Street. Early, before the rest of us arrived. I suppose…” Miller held up his hands as if framing a shot. “Stalker approaches Jeenie. Jeenie laughs – or pushes them over like she did to that kid on our shoot in Morecambe, remember? The one with the rattly leg—”

“Callipers.”

“She pushed them over. The stalker got angry.”

“Enough to kill?”

Miller nodded. “Then popped her in a flower-bed.”

“Nice theory,” said Tess. “Three problems with it.” Craning round in the driver’s seat, she listed them.

“Number 1, Jeenie was a gardening presenter on daytime TV. Her geriatric audience could barely open their next jar of Mellow Birds, let alone stalk her through Croydon with a spade. Number 2…” She reached across Miller to open his rear passenger door. “Jeenie wouldn’t step foot in a garden unless there was a camera trained on it.”

“And Number 3?” he said, getting out.

“Jeenie would never,
ever
turn up early for work. It was her one point of professional pride.”

“I just thought…”

“Don’t. We’re not here to think. We’re here to fill a slot on daytime TV. So turn your camera on, and film something.”

“Okey doke.” Miller swung his camera up on to his shoulder. “Like what?”

“I dunno.” Tess gave a directorial wave. “Fag butts on the path, footprints in the flower-beds, dog crap in the street. I don’t care how it got there – just shoot it on the wonk, so it looks creepy. Come the edit, I’ll bleed out the colour, insert some menacing music and pump up your background rustling.”

Sandy Plimpton had already fired off several mails to Tess this morning, emphasizing the need for “explosive new footage, but no more than four minutes or we’ll start hemorrhaging viewers to Sky.” Staring at the nondescript front of 13 Squarey Street, Tess doubted she could produce 30 seconds. Miller, however, appeared to be catching someone in his viewfinder. A florid-faced man in a slightly greasy suit was walking up next-door’s path, clutching a sheath of estate agent’s details. Keeping his camera trained, Miller gestured for Tess to get out of the car. “He could be a witness,” he said. “Go do your thingy.”

“What thingy?”

“
You
know, when you look like you’ve just downed a shot, or nicked something. Your hair gets messy, and your smile goes soft, and—” He shoved her forward. “That’s when you ask what he’s been witnessing.”

Getting a shove from Miller meant something. By the time Tess had untangled herself from the estate agent, they felt like old friends.

“You’re the lady from the telly!” he said, straightening his jacket. “I’m Frank Weaver, Weaver Estate Agents.” He indicated the ‘For Sale’ stuck into No. 11’s gatepost. “We’re expecting viewings to
soar
after yesterday – time-wasters, most of them, but you only need one. I say, you’re not filming
me
, are you?”

“Oh no!” Tess waved Miller and his camera away. “We just wanted to check a few things out. Perhaps you could help? You didn’t see anything out of place last weekend, did you? Anyone lurking round on Monday morning, maybe? Anything…odd?” Aware of how inept she sounded, Tess felt her cheeks flush.

Watching the colour rise up the girl’s pretty, rather troubled face, Mr Weaver felt moved to help. “Well, I
did
have a quick word with a few of the neighbours,” he confided. “It was like a street party here yesterday, but nobody could actually say they’d
seen
anything – except for some dopey chap at No.10.”

Tess followed the estate agent’s gaze to a house across the road: It was more dilapidated than the others on its block, with a scrubby front yard and a huge Jamaican flag in the downstairs window. “He was up before dawn on Monday,” said Mr Weaver. “Doubtless hadn’t been to bed, when he saw someone coming out of Number 13. He couldn’t say if it were a man or woman – but he
did
say they looked furtive.”

“Furtive?”

“Dodgy-looking,” nodded Mr Weaver. “That’s what he said. Dodgy-looking – and sort of butch. Wearing a big coat and baseball cap.” He leant closer. “Whoever it was didn’t want to be spotted, if you ask me: coming out of a deserted house in the dark, why would you?”

Tess felt a rush of excitement. “Do you think this bloke at No. 10 would talk to us?”

“‘Fraid not.” It was the estate agent’s turn to blush. “When I pushed him to talk to the police, he shut his front door in my face. I’ve since learnt he’s left his keys with No. 7 and hitched a ride to somewhere Balearic.” But the girl had stopped listening to him. She was staring at something over his shoulder – a look of sheer horror on her face. Mr Weaver turned around, half-expecting to confront a murderer. Instead, he saw a two-man camera crew headed by one of the foremost investigative journalists of his generation.

“Darling!” cried her father.

“Crap,” said Tess. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Making news. Or rather helping
you
make it.” Murmuring apologies to his film crew, flashing an ‘excuse us’ smile at Mr Weaver, Darcus took his daughter by the arm and steered her towards the edge of the pavement. “Sandy Plimpton told me you’d be here.”

“What
is it
with you two?” said Tess. “Tell me you’re not—”

“God no,” he shuddered. “The flesh hangs off that woman in pockets. But she
has
been trying to get my ear for years – and now, unfortunately, she has it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You tripping over Jeenie’s body on live TV! I watched the clip on Youtube. By the way, did you know someone’s posted a singing version? They’ve stuck cats on it.”

“Move on.”

“How can I? My daughter. With cats? And that’s not the worst of it. I spoke to Sandy this morning. She told me what the two of you are planning – your new role as crime reporter—”

“Believe me, Dad, this is no plan of—”

He held up his hand. “Ratings are ratings, I get it. On one level, I’m flattered.”

“You?”

“Well, It’s
my
fame you’re trading on, isn’t it? My reputation you’re exploiting? You have my name if nothing else.”

“Dad –”

“I don’t know the circumstances of your poor presenter’s death, but may I presume your reckless attitude was in some part to blame?”

“
I
didn’t put her in the ground!”

“But you
did
let someone else do it – on
your
shoot. You know I love you, darling.” She did? “But you’re weak. You wobble when the pressure’s on.” And just like that, Squarey Street was gone. A drinks party was raging downstairs, and Tess was back in her childhood bedroom, staring hard at a poster of Marty McFly while Dad chastised her for having spilt macaroni cheese on Bono.

“Suddenly you’re an investigative journalist! Where’s your training? Where’s your experience? It took three tours of Iraq and a one-to-one with Tutu before I could look my audience in the eye, yet you seem to think you can command the attention of millions overnight. Well, don’t forget Tess, I’ve worked with you,” he hissed into her neck. “I know
just
how dangerous your gung-ho approach can be. I warned you then, and I’m warning you now—”.

A shadow fell over him. “Oh, good God,” he glanced up. “
You’re
not still hanging around, are you?”

Tess didn’t need to turn around to know she’d find Miller.

“Good morning, Tess’ Dad.” Swinging down his camera, Miller stuck out his hand. Reluctantly, Tess’ Dad took it. As she watched Darcus’ manicured fingers crushed in Miller’s grasp, she registered rage in her father’s eyes – and a small twinkle of triumph in her friend’s. For a second, Tess had the oddest feeling the two men were fighting over her. Then Miller released Darcus’ hand. Her father thrust it sharply into the pocket of his Burberry mac.

“What say you, Tess?” Darcus’ eyes held hers. “Give this one up – for your old man?

Forget this TV nonsense and let me fix you up with a proper job.”

For a second, Tess pictured her and her father forging a new partnership: Darcus relating her latest triumph at the Groucho Club, Tess giving notes as she strode down Charlotte Street, (‘I need the file on the Hong Kong project and a skinny latte now!’)

She checked in with Miller. He gave her an encouraging shrug. It was the shrug that had prefaced him shredding her copies of Amnesty International for next door’s hamster – and hosing her down in a paddling pool when she returned from another soggy Greenpeace sit-in. “It’s not about me any more, Dad,” she said. “I can’t—”

“No,” said Darcus. “You never could.” Patience snapping, he turned to the waiting estate agent. “We have an 11 o’clock viewing, I believe. So shall we…?” He gestured for Mr Weaver to lead – and his film crew to follow.

“I don’t understand,” said Tess.

“You brought my name into it. Now the world is watching – and they want a show. Which Darling will get the story behind the Daytime killing?”

“You’re not serious?”

“Deadly, darling.” He moved off. “Lose, and I’ll pay for your first Ryanair flight out of here”.

Tess watched her father – and any shot at a future – disappear into 11 Squarey Street. She felt bleak. Then she felt Miller pull on her coat. “Perhaps,” he said. “We shouldn’t wait for that flight.”

“You what?”

“Perhaps, we should just walk fast – or you know…” He scooped her up under one arm. “
Jog!
”

Angry shouts rang out across the road. Tess twisted round in Miller’s arm to see Mrs Meakes’ house coming to life. An upstairs window was thrown up – the front door swung open.

“You said you wanted footage,” puffed Miller. “And the house was just stood there.”

“So you
broke in?
To a crime scene?” But she was distracted – by a surprisingly strong hand on her bottom. Miller patting her down for the car-keys.

“Bingo,” he said, pulling them from her back pocket. Setting her down, he unlocked the Fiat. “And I didn’t break in. Mrs Meakes’ front door was on the latch. I just filmed a little bit up the hall… a little bit into the kitchen.” He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “And a little bit leaning out of the window. I think that’s when they noticed me.”

“You twit!”

But he wasn’t listening, he was pushing her into the backseat of the car, and then getting in beside her. “There were Scene of Crime people – you know, in plastic suits with carrier bag feet. There were coming out of a white tent in the garden – where we dug her up – so I panned back into Mrs Meakes’ sitting room.” He slammed the car door, and dropped his voice. “That’s when I saw it.”

“You saw
what?”
From Number 13, a pair of uniformed officers emerged to scan the street. Tess slid down in her seat to avoid detection, but Miller had no such flexible options. So he sat still and tried to make like an airbag.

“Actually I
didn’t
see it – but that’s the point. I
know
it was there on Monday because that’s where I ate my Scotch Egg—”

“What?” said Tess. “What
didn’t
you see?”

“The sofa. Mrs Meakes’ sofa.” He looked at her. “It’s gone.”

Mrs Meakes’ current residence was The Happy Cypresses, a retirement home barely quarter of a miles down the road. Even factoring in the time Tess and Miller had to spend waiting out the police – before Tess rolled off in neutral so as not to make a noise – the journey was swift. Parking the Fiat, they walked up to the double-fronted doors of the building. “So close to Squarey Street,” said Miller. “Must make it handy for Mrs Meakes popping home.”

“Home?” Tess stepped inside. “That’s a million miles away.” The Happy Cypresses was a mausoleum of a place – a huge Victorian building with high ceilings and bricked-up windows. Having signed in at Reception, a care-worker led Tess and Miller down a dingy corridor reeking of mince and disinfectant, past a succession of open bedrooms. They breathed in the sickly-sweet smell of talcum powder and urine; glimpsed metal bars on hospital beds, and little cupboards decorated with greeting cards. “Love,” said Tess, “And Death.”

“That’s what it comes down to,” said Miller. “Chocolates melting on radiators.” He stopped. “And telly.” They’d arrived in the lounge, and all chairs were pointed at the screen.

“She’s not turned off the telly since Monday,” said the care-worker. “Have you Mrs Meakes?” The old lady was sat in the front row, her knobbly hands gripping the remote control to the communal TV. “She’s been glued to it since we got her back yesterday,” said the care-worker. “Sky News, local news – and now it’s
Live with Sandy and Fergal
of course.
”

“Mrs Meakes?” Tess squatted down by her wheelchair. “Are you alright?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?
I’m
the one in a chair,” said Mrs Meakes. “Get up, dear, before you do yourself an injury.”

Tess did as she was told. Away from a storm-wracked crime scene, Mrs Meakes wasn’t the limp lavender bag she’d first appeared. “Is there anywhere we could have a chat?”

Mrs Meakes glanced anxiously back at the TV. Tess made herself look too.
Live with Sandy and Fergal
was staring death appropriately in the face. Both hosts were dressed in black. Sandy was also wearing an extra layer of make-up, and a large bat on her head (come fascinator).