Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (7 page)

The bus was bearing down on her. She was in the wrong lane – on the only route out. She hit the horn, and yelled out of her window. “
Miller
!”

The bus was so close, Tess could see the driver waving her out of the way. Then she felt a cold draught hit the back of her neck – and heard the rear door of her car slam shut.

It was the starting shot she’d been waiting for. Still on the wrong side of the road, Tess accelerated past the traffic clog, and then swung back into the left lane just as the double-decker whizzed past her right bumper.

It wasn’t until she’d put a good half mile between her and Croydon Police Station that Tess dared to check her rear-view mirror. Miller was sprawled on the back seat, squashing the life out of Britain’s Most Wanted Man.

“They schaid I was shick,” rasped Fat Alan, as Miller rolled off him. “They schaid I was schcaring her, but it’sch not true, isch it Tesch? Schee liked me. Jeenie liked me.”

“Of course she did,” said Tess. “Who wouldn’t?” About nine tenths of the population, she conceded, the man wasn’t blessed.

Fat Alan (as Jeenie had christened him) looked like a cherub who’d long since fallen from heaven. His chubby face was that of a baby, but his eyes were those of a scared, old man. Unfortunately, in Alan’s mind, he was somewhere just shy of twenty-one. He had a moustache of soft, blond hair that Tess suspected he’d grown to conceal the eczema around his mouth. When he was nervous, he’d smooth his moustache, and pick at his skin. The hair on his head was flaky with dandruff and dried-up styling product. Tess guessed he was aiming for a funky, spiky look. Instead it looked like matted stalagmites were growing up from his waxy, limestone scalp.

His wardrobe showed a typically conflicting mix of styles. He wore an old man’s anorak and slacks along with slogan T-shirts that made him look like a second-hand teenager:
‘It’s the Real Thing’
proclaimed Coke. ‘
Choose Life’
insisted Wham, long after the rest of Alan’s generation had opted for Fairtrade Tea, Mylie Cyrus and
The Walking Dead
. He also had a speech impediment.

“Jeenie wasch all I had.” Air whistled through gaps in his broken, yellow teeth. “Schee liked me. Schee gave me thingsch.”

Tess eyed him in her rearview mirror. “And
you
, Alan, did you ever give
Jeenie
anything? Send her letters, maybe?”

He sniffed. “I made her a card once. But schee couldn’t read it – schaid my writing wasch funny – schee was scho pretty when schee laughed.”

Hopeless, thought Tess, driving blind through the backstreets of Croydon. (She daren’t stop to ask directions in case she had a Newsnight van on her tail). “Did the police at least get you a solicitor?”

“I schent him way,” said Alan. “He was schouting at me. He didn’t underschtand. No-one underschtands. Jeenie’s all I had. And now schee’s dead… schee’s dead!”

Sobs heaved from him. Tess was relieved when her mobile rang, less so when she picked up on Sandy Plimpton. Reluctantly, Tess plugged in her earpiece to what her boss had to say. Forty minutes of traffic and an Esso snack-stop later, Tess was still being briefed.

“Take the back roads–
not
the A40,” Sandy ordered like a pushy Sat Nav. “Jeenie lived at 390A Bayswater Road – above a dry cleaners apparently – you
must
be there now?”

Swinging round Shepherd’s Bush roundabout, Tess took consolation from the fact Alan’s sobs had quieted. If Sandy learned Tess had the police’s prize suspect in the back, she’d want a camera stuck straight on him. Tess may have been forced into a reporting role but she drew the line at stitching up Alan. So
what
if he was daft? It made him one of the few souls to trust her.

“Pressure’s on, Tess, we’ve had the CID in,” continued Sandy. “They’ve asked us to back off – further media exposure could compromise their investigation.”

“I need to drop my report?” Fat hope.

“You need to sweet-talk their liaison officer. He’s been assigned to ‘assist’ your enquiries,” said Sandy. “He’ll try to block every one. Don’t let him, Tess, you have a duty.”

“Yes, to the police.”

“No, to the public! Yesterday’s viewing figures are in,” said Sandy. “
Live with Sandy and Fergal
picked up 3 million viewers by closing credits. Numbers spiked with
your
studio appearance: Despite the fact you did little more than grunt into your bosom, all the focus groups recorded a high approval rating.” For a second, the Executive Producer and TV Host sounded weary.

“No matter how hard I try – no matter
what
I give them – it’s still the ditzy blonde in a dirty skirt who wins their hearts.”

“Thank you,” said Tess. “I try.”

“You’d better” said Sandy. “The jobs of Miller and your crew are hanging on your efforts, starting now: I’ve persuaded this CID
liaison
officer to get you into Jeenie’s flat. He’s… hang on, I put his name on my phone.” A beep sounded in Tess’ ear. Then Sandy was back.

“He’s called DS Selleck. I told him you were Jeenie’s dearest friend. You need access to her flat on compassionate grounds.”

“Namely?”

“Jeenie’s Fendi baguette. I told the officer she’d want to be buried with it.”

“Her baguette? But Jeenie hated food. You can’t closet her for eternity with a French stick.”

“It’s a
handbag
, you fool. A design classic. The kind of article a cheap tart like Jeenie could only dream of. But DS Selleck doesn’t know that – you can have a good look round, then grab any old handbag when you’re done. No chance the police will let a TV camera into the flat though. You’ll have to roll your findings into your studio report.”

“My
findings..
?”

“I want you to convey a forensic picture of the murder victim’s home with a chatty, daytime feel. Think
CSI Through the Keyhole –
and pocket anything interesting.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll know it when you see it. Just get it out of that flat.” Sandy’s voice cracked. “Then bring it to
me
.”

• • •

Killing her phone, Tess ploughed through the traffic on the Bayswater Road and tried not to think about the shit Sandy could hurl at them.

“It’ll never stick.” Miller poked his curly mop round the driver’s seat. “Whatever Sandy says. She’s just a lot of hot air… and angry chins.”

“You reckon?” Feeling Miller’s face against hers, Tess reached up–and knocked a piece of corn snack from his ear. He’s got no idea, thought Tess.

She’s got no idea, thought Miller, feeling her hand brush his hair.

Their eyes met in the rear view mirror. Then Tess pushed him out of the way to see what was coming up behind. “It’s that cocking car again,” she said. “See that Ford Mondeo? It’s been riding up my bum since I left Hammersmith.” Either Tess was getting as neurotic as her boss, or they were being followed.

She hit the brakes. Miller fell back in his seat. His gaze went through the rear window. “You’ve done it,” he said. “We’re here. 390A Bayswater Road.”

“Good,” she said. Keeping an eye on the road behind, Tess parked swiftly and appallingly outside a shop called
Diamond Drycleaners.
It looked posh yet grubby, just the kind of establishment she’d expect to find on this exhaust-fumed, stucco-fronted stretch of West London. Diamond Drycleaners was here to serve gracious foreign bankers in their renovated mansions blocks, Tess guessed, not the dispossessed local families housed in crumbling B&Bs on either side.

The shop window itself was bare – swathes of polyester bunched round an empty pedestal – but packed into the gloom behind, Tess saw a crowded counter-top and rails of of suits in clear, polythene covers. She transferred her gaze back to the street outside: The door to the drycleaners shared a portico with its neighbour. 390A presumably led to a flat above the shop.

“Jeenie’s.” Tess turned round in her seat to face Fat Alan. “That’s the door to her flat. Recognise it?” He stared blankly from her to the street. Some bloody stalker
he
was. “Jeenie,” Tess enunciated slowly. “Lived above the shop.”

“No schee didn’t! Don’t lie to me, Tesch – pleesch–
not you too!
” The transformation was sudden – and frightening. Fat Alan pulled at his hair, sending up flakes of dried scurf and styling gel. He started to rock in his seat, shaking his head, and forcing Tess to adopt the tone her father had taken with the Taliban.

“Now Alan—”

“I know Jeenie. I
know
Jeenie.” Alan beat his hands against his head. “Schee lived in a big, white housch in Belgravia – with six German Shepherd dogsch and Easchy, Elegant Schtyling.”

The penny dropped. “Bogging hell, Alan, that was
Hello
,” said Tess. “This is the Bayswater Road.” But the man was no longer listening. After hours holed up in a police cell, after running the gauntlet of jeering, shouting reporters – after forty minutes of being squashed up against Miller in the back seat of a badly-driven Fiat – Alan had cracked. Pushing open his door, he pulled himself out and started to stumble down the street.

Miller moved to go after him. Tess stopped him. Together, they watched Fat Alan disappeared into the mouth of Holland Park tube, like a mole desperate to burrow down to safety. For now, they’d done all they could for him. While Tess continued to attract unwanted attention, their terrified friend was better off alone.

On cue, the maroon Ford Mondeo slid into the space behind them. For a few seconds, the only sign of movement from the parked car was the glint of winter sun off its tinted windows. Then a tall, dark-haired young man emerged. Slowly, deliberately, he walked towards Tess’s window and placed both hands on her roof.

Facing limited options and an unsolicited groin, Tess opened her door.

Hard.

She glimpsed the man’s face, as he went down. Not bad, she thought: dark brown eyes (now watering) and a square jaw (clenched). It took a few moments for him to uncup his crotch; another to delve inside his jacket pocket.

“CID.” He flipped open his wallet ID. “Could you please step out of the car.”

“Why?”

“Let’s see…” He righted himself. “Speeding consistently for the past three miles. Using a mobile handset while in charge of a vehicle. Assaulting a police officer—”

“Alright, alright,” she said. “Keep your knickers on Poncherello. You were following
us
.”

“To our appointment. I’m DS Selleck,” he said. “I don’t need to ask who
you
are, Miss Darling. You’ve been getting almost as much press as the murder victim.”

He
didn’t
add she’d become something of an incident room pin-up. No bloody fear – this was DS Selleck’s biggest case to-date – an honour hard-won – and he didn’t appreciate some pushy wannabe trying to grab glory off the back of it.

Called in from leave on Monday morning, DS Selleck knew only that he was required to assist with a ‘suspicious death.’ He walked into Croydon Police Station, just as Tess Darling swung out of the Gents wearing little more than a Puffa jacket and a scowl. It was the same Puffa jacket today, he noted. The shirt beneath it was new, however, also tight, red and missing some key buttons. The woman obviously liked fruit. A Jaffa Orange label had got stuck to her left breast, round about where DI Selleck might hope to find a nipple.

Blushing angrily, he raised his eyes to hers but they were big and blue as his leisure centre pool, so he decided to focus on her hair, which looked like it had gone through a spin dryer, then had an egg cracked on it.

The overall effect was unsettling. As a boy, Selleck had had been fascinated by World War II, collecting all the ring-binder magazine sets. Tess Darling looked like the wide-eyed, bosomy blondes US fighter pilots used to paint on their planes. Somehow crossed with a bin man.

“I’ll take you up to the flat now.” He turned on his heels. “Your cameraman can remain in the car.”

“Yes, Herr Capitan,” she muttered. Handing the car-keys to Miller – reminding him not sit on the hand-brake – Tess got out of the driver’s side. Stepping into traffic, she swore her way to a better place, ending up outside the door to No.390A. “Jeenie’s death,” she said to Selleck. “You can’t
really
think Fat Alan had anything to do with it?”

“You want to know what I think?” He turned surprisingly clear, grey eyes on her. “I think most stalkers look like they wouldn’t hurt a fly until they’re hacking you down on your doorstep. And speaking of doorsteps…” The policeman stuck a key into the lock of 390A. “The SOC team at Squarey Street aren’t too happy this morning. Seems some idiots might have been fooling round, contaminating the crime scene. Your name came up.”

“What can I say?” shrugged Tess. “I’m a legend.”

“You’re a—” He stopped himself. Pushed opened the door.

Following the officer into a dark hallway, Tess waited as he kicked a freshly-delivered newspaper out the way. He dropped to his haunches to deal with the rest. Sorting through the dead woman’s post seemed to help him compose himself. “We found Jeenie’s keys in her clutch-purse,” he said, stacking fast food flyers. “No mobile though – and nothing in her flat. But she did
have
a phone, surely?”

Tess nodded, surprised. “She’d just got a free upgrade. Some sexy new iPhone. Jeenie clung to the thing like it was her last KitKat Chunky”.

“Well…” Selleck rose up. “
Someone
prised it off her.” Tess suppressed a thrill. In a short hallway, the law officer seemed quite impressive.

Turning smartly, he bounded up the stairs and stuck another key in a door at the top.

“We’ve already done what we need in here.” He opened up. “I don’t want you touching anything, however, unless I give you the nod. And stay where I can see you.”

Shouldn’t be a problem, Tess decided two strides in. Jeenie’s lounge had the sticky feel of an abandoned porn set. Poky and windowless, it was dominated by a grubby corner-sofa in cream leatherette. To their left was a galley kitchen; to their right, another door shut off what Tess guessed was the bedroom. The walls of the lounge were finger-smudged magnolia; the carpet a sticky beige. There was a dusty, Bang & Olufsen stereo system, a flat-screen TV – and that was pretty much it.