Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (24 page)

Fuckit, thought Tess,
her
job was to get out of here. Crawl home. Drink Pernod. Abandon the sinking set, and get shot of the lot of them.

Then what?

In the eye of the storm, Tess had a rare flash of clarity. She saw past the Pernod to another bleak homecoming: her fretful mother in the hallway, last night’s chips in the sink…and a new, unfamiliar line in reproach from Miller. (That was if he ever got back from Oxford. What was he
doing
there? A PhD?) Tess shook her head. She didn’t deal with the future – could barely hack the present. That left one option – the usual–
run.

Head down, lungs protesting, Tess went after Sandy Plimpton. Fuckit, it was career suicide, but adrenalin pushed her on. Cussedness cued up the questions:
You’re clearing off when there’s a show still to run? Fleeing the biggest story to hit since your
last
presenter died?

That woman knew something. And Tess was ready to trample it out of her.

In the event, Plimpton was easy to find. (Swollen Jimmy Choos don’t get you far). After a cursory check of the production offices alongside studio, Tess tracked Sandy down to her Executive Dressing Room. It was another MDF box, bigger than the make-up rooms, but suffering from the same unhealthy atmosphere. Walls were a grubby white, and the only light came from a flickering, fluorescent tube across the ceiling. Crossing the threshold, Tess drew breath, and tasted
Glade Air Freshener
and worn hosiery. Grimacing, she pushed her way between two armchairs, holding tossed shoes and flesh-coloured tights, (all bloodied round the foot).

Sandy was scrabbling for something on her dressing table. As Tess approached, her boss knocked over a vase. It was crammed with wilting roses – the weekly gift of the production crew – but Sandy made no attempt to right it. Dead petals rode a rancid spill across the table – over a copy of today’s script – and Tess recalled the rotting lilies at Jeenie’s flat. The sweet smell of success? Or the sick stench of greed?

“It’s here somewhere, if I can just find it!” Sandy was talking to herself, tearing through clutter. “The packet. He had it in his hand – even offered Colin one, the bastard – the
bastard—”

“Who?” asked Tess. “Had
what
in his hand?”

But her boss had dropped to her knees, and started burrowing through her waste-bin.

“Claimed he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. Was living on junk.” She plunged her hands into a nest of discarded tissues and old odour eaters. “Where
are
they? He came here last night with his pocket full of them–
there!”
She raised her fists. It took Tess to peel them open.

Out fluttered several torn, silver-foil packets, bearing the
KP
trademark. “My husband’s nuts,” said Sandy. “He killed him, d’you hear me? Mark killed Colin.”

• • •

There was no shutting her up after that. Tess blamed shock, and made the most of it.

“He came here – last night,” Sandy told her. “Mark burst in on me and Colin. Can’t you see, this was a crime of passion?” She blamed ‘
coitus interruptus
’; Colin being the coitus, and Mark the interruptus. Pacing her dressing room, Sandy revealed how her estranged husband had caught her in the arms of her lover and gone berserk.

“But…” Tess frowned. “Mark must’ve
known
you were seeing Colin.” The Plimpton-Pound affair had been the subject of gleeful gossip, ever since Sandy had first skipped into the Soho Club with floury hand prints running up the seat of her skirt. But her boss was adamant. Mark Plimpton had been stunned – and why not? When he walked out on Sandy and
Live With –
walked out on Rod Peacock and his Talent Agency – Mark had made a point of shunning the Soho Club, (before it could shun
him
. Rod had half the front staff in his pocket, and wielded the Members List like the Queen did her New Year’s Honours).

Mark had been out of the game. Jeenie hadn’t filled him in. (Sandy was pacing faster, chasing down her thoughts). Further proof, if needed, that Mark and Jeenie never actually
spoke –
doubtless why he’d come begging for her back – because he
had
begged. When he saw the truth – saw Jeenie was just a shameful mid-life crisis – Sandy his soul-mate – in the arms of another man. “I’ll never forget his cry of horror. The hurt on his face.”

“The nuts in his pocket?” prompted Tess.

“That’s right, the nuts,” Sandy nodded. “When Colin asked him to leave, Mark turned nasty – starting hurling abuse at me… peanuts at Colin. He called him my monkey – a stupid ape – playing with him. Torturing him. Mark knew
just
what he was doing – shaking his packet at him – as good as waving a loaded gun!”

Colin’s peanut allergy was a running joke in the industry. You couldn’t step foot in studio without Pound rushing out from
County Kitchen,
demanding, ‘Put down your snacks. A Snickers could kill me.’ The attention-hungry chef never shut up about it: how he had to source all his ingredients personally, and keep his food prep area inviolate. Should his death prove
not
to be an accident – and the ground peanuts in that apple pie struck Tess as more than ‘factory trace’ – the implications were strong: The killing was an ‘inside job’; the murderer one of them. Who
else
would have known about Colin’s Achilles Nut?

“To think he told viewers,
just
last week,” said Sandy. “On Allergy Clinic.”

“He
what?
”

“Joined Dr Veronica on the sofa – for
Tuesday Health-Check
. Dr Veronica was doing an item on allergies – hayfever, the human cost, remember? Colin wanted to raise the flag for food allergies. He has –
had—”
Her voice caught, “such a strong public service commitment. Plus he wanted to raise his profile with viewers.” And show them the quickest way to kill him off, thought Tess, the death-wish moron. By her swift calculation, their field of possible suspects had just widened to somewhere over the three million mark.

“Whose bright idea was that?” she asked. “Colin’s, I suppose?”

“Oh no, Colin wasn’t an ideas man. It was Rod who made it happen.” Sandy frowned suddenly. “I didn’t like it – Rod’s new push – he’d previously never taken much interest in Colin. These past weeks, though… Rod’s been dropping into studio – checking up on all of us – me, Fergie, Colin, Jeenie. Making notes”.

“
Notes?
”

“On his phone, you know, always tapping away, sending mails to himself. That’s how he did it – ‘keeping the file open’, he called it. On all of us. Our likes and dislikes. Every strength…. every weakness. The fun stuff, he saved to tweet later – you know, “Sandy Plimpton wears Zara.” “Fergal likes a croissant.”

“And the less fun stuff?”

“There was nothing he didn’t know about his clients, Rod said. He was there for us. 24/7.” Screw agent/client affection, thought Tess, this was a show of power. Sandy seemed to be reaching the same conclusion. Slowing her pace, the TV host stared past herself in the mirror. “Sometimes, it was as if Rod was looking for something. At other times, I’d catch him smiling like he’d already found it.”

She was
scared
of him, wasn’t she? Tess was shocked. Sandy Plimpton was the doyenne of daytime – and one of Rod Peacock’s top clients. Over the years, she’d made him a small fortune. Yet she was, in her executive dressing room, shaking like a street-walker in fear of her pimp.

Of course, Tess had heard the rumours about Rod Peacock. His media clout came from ruthless practices. As repository of Soho’s darkest secrets, the agent held sway – and held hostage. Rod knew where all the bodies were buried, didn’t he? He’d interred most of them himself.

Now was it Colin’s turn?

Tess shook herself. She was turning as melodramatic as Sandy. Low energy levels, that’s what Miller would call it: too much running, not enough chair. Pushing a pile of her boss’ undergarments off the nearest one, Tess sank down to think. Forget could, why
should
Rod kill Colin? The shop-soiled chef had outlived his usefulness, true, but Rod had already made plans to replace him with Rutger Aarse. In showbiz terms, Pound had been a dead man walking. Why trip him up with a nut?

Sandy had gone very quiet. Tess watched the Queen of Daytime TV bow her head, and then slowly raise her fists – still clenching Mark Plimpton’s discarded KP wrappers: Was her fear of Rod
nothing
to this new terror? As Sandy brought her fists up to her face, was she confronting the proof of her lover’s killer?

No, realized Tess, she was checking the varnish on her nails.

It came as a timely wake-up call. Sandy Plimpton may be pitching herself as the sane voice of outrage, but Tess would be foolish to underestimate anyone who’d spent seven years presenting daytime TV without cracking… unless the cracks were very well-hidden.

As her boss set about buffing her fingernails with her thumb, Tess reassessed: Sandy claimed Mark still loved her. He wanted to remove both Colin and Jeenie to ensure a reunion with his wife.

Sandy, however, didn’t know Tess had spoken to Rod. She didn’t know Peacock had refuted any idea she loved Colin – had
ever
loved Colin. Believe her agent, and Sandy had wanted to jettison tired trophy Colin, as much as she’d
ever
wanted shot of Jeenie.

A rap sounded at the door. Sandy dropped her hands. “Come in.”

DS Selleck entered. He looked exhausted; hair ruffled, shirt pulled awry. Seeing Tess, he appeared relieved. “You OK?” he said.

Before she could answer, another man entered. Anauthoritative-looking, older police offer, Tess recognised him from Jeenie’s Memorial Service – and yesterday’s press conference: He’d ushered in Sandy and Colin. “DCI Burns.” He introduced himself to Tess. “I’m heading up the investigation into the killing of Jeenie Dempster.” Briskly, he explained he and a few of his team had been upstairs, interviewing Backchat staff for any more information on Mr Pattison. Their presence here was a timely stroke of luck, if luck was what you could call it –

“For Christ’s sake,” interrupted Sandy. “Just tell me, is he dead?”

The DCI paused. Answer enough.

Mrs Plimpton stumbled for the only remaining chair. Selleck tried to offer comfort. “Mr Pound was a brave man. He must have known an accident like this was possible in his line of work. Despite his best efforts, there would always be some risk of contamination – nuts getting into his cooking ingredients—” She cut him off with a shrill laugh. DS Selleck looked angry; DCI Burns intrigued.

“There’s something you should know, officers,” said Tess. “Colin Pound can’t cook. Won’t cook”.

“And now he never will,” said Sandy, then burst into tears.

F
ishing through the debris on Sandy’s dressing table, Tess found a used tissue to hand her boss. Any subsequent sympathy, she turned on the police. “Colin Pound was a salesman,” she explained. “A good one.”

“So?” frowned DCI Burns. “I don’t—”

“Years back, TV chefs were just taking off. Rod Peacock fancied a slice of the action. He’d seen the reaction Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay were getting, and decided to find a combination of the both: macho, enthusiastic… fleshy. Rod went shopping for a new set of pans at
Peter Jones
, saw Colin Pound flogging George Forman Grills to a crowd of giggling housewives, and signed him on the spot. Then he dyed his hair, capped his teeth, and sent him on a Pru Leith Cookery Course. Colin failed the course, but came out cockier than ever. A daytime star was born.”

“But he must be able to cook
something
,” said Selleck. “The man’s been resident chef on
Live With
for years.”

Sandy nodded into her tissue. “Viewers loved him.”

“Knackered housewives don’t want to be told how to cook,” explained Tess. “They want an eager bloke to flirt with them, and stroke a pork stomach like it’s theirs.”

“But…” frowned DCI Burns. “What about the
food
?”

“His wife cooked it,” grinned Tess. “At least, she
used
to. “For the first few years, Laura Pound had aided and abetted her husband’s TV career – by cooking everything he produced on the show. Colin cracked jokes, and rained sweat on to whatever poor piece of offal had been glued to his chopping board, then whipped out his wife’s gristly goulash when the oven timer pinged.

“Then Recession struck,” said Tess. “Audiences didn’t want meat anymore. They wanted buns. Times were hard, and viewers wanted to see a rise in expectations, even if it was just a few inches on a scone. They wanted sweet comfort, and divine angel cakes. It was the start of The Great British Bake-Off, officers. Pies were crusting, thighs were dusting – for everyone but Laura. She couldn’t bake. She could bash a steak, but she couldn’t make pastry.”

Hot hands, cold heart, some might say. But Tess was still scalded by the memory of Laura’s agonized response to Colin’s death. There was nothing cold about the passion she’d evinced for her tortured husband, as little as he deserved it. And Tess wasn’t going to say anything that might lead the police to add to her suffering. “When Mark Plimpton left
Live With,
Sandy and Colin… merged. With some strategic re-allocation of production budget, Sandy found a way to keep Colin in pastry, and Laura off the scene. For half the week, at least,” sighed Tess. “That’s how long it took the poor woman to drive to France and back.”

“
France?
”

“Sandy secured the services of a discreet Pâtisserie just North of Paris. Pâtissier Flaubert have never heard of
Live With,
and couldn’t care less. As long as Laura handed over their Euros in cash, they’d pinch, puff and choux all the pastry required. Colin then pulled it out of the oven in studio: “
One I prepared earlier,”
meant “
one my wife drove up the Chunnel in our Ford S-Max.”

“The return trip could take her the best part of three days. Laura’s very timid driver,” said Sandy. Even now, she couldn’t resist a smirk. “Colin insisted she take it slow, take regular safety stops. We didn’t want her to crush the buns, did we?”