Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (30 page)

“Sandy Plimpton’s story seems to be holding up,” he said. “Forensics have gone through the defrosted pâtisseries in Colin Pound’s fridge. Over half of them were spiked with peanuts – KP nuts at that.”

“You’ve checked the nut wrappers in her dressing room?”

“Mark Plimpton’s fingerprints all over them.”

Tess felt a spurt of excitement. It turned to anger: She was out of it now, remember? If she wanted her thrills, it was back to a tried and tested route to get them. Unfortunately, Selleck’s flat didn’t scream erotic pleasures. The bright, white walls of his lounge were lined with tidy shelves of CDs, DVDs and police procedural manuals. A strong smell of Toilet Duck and pine failed to disguise an underlying odour of keep-fit and glue. Pride of place beside the TV was a rowing machine, surrounded by dumb bells and training shoes. In the opposite corner, an Ikea desk was strewn with tiny paint pots, glue tubes and a half-assembled model plane. A giant Messerschmitt hung from the ceiling and, on a shelf below the window, a pair of World War II Spitfires book-ended a row of lever arch files marked ‘Utility Bills’ and ‘Tax Return.’

Fortunately, Selleck was looking a lot hotter than his hobbies. When he’d ushered her into his flat, he’d obviously just stepped out of the shower. It suited him – his hair looked more ruffled, his cheeks ruddier. Apologising, he’d pulled on a thick, brown polo-neck sweater which softened his eyes but sharpened his jawline.

Tess downed the last of her Pinot, and smiled. They were going to end up in bed, weren’t they? Languidly, she scooped up her hair in her hands. Would he bite her ear? Would he kiss her neck? But he’d started stacking their plates, and all she felt was a draught. She shivered, and thought of Miller: Was
he
cold too? Dead cold – please no -

Looking back afterwards, Selleck didn’t understand how it happened. One minute, he was thinking about bringing out the cafetiere, the next he was enveloped by a yielding mass of warm flesh and tickly hair. As hot, sticky lips pressed down on his, the laws of physics seemed to shoot out of the window. Simultaneously, he was aware of something both breathing down his collar and nibbling at his chest. Then he felt a scrape against the back of his head and, all at once, a pair of ankles were up round his ears, steadily increasing the pressure on his temples. Just when he felt he might pass out, he was jerked back into a state of supreme consciousness by what felt like several hands – and possibly a foot – slipping down inside the front of his boxers.

Oh my God, oh my God, he panted. He was galloping through the Kama Sutra on a bucking bronco. He was breaking his cardinal rule – sleeping with a lady on a first date – and it was great – nothing could stop them – nothing –
God, nothing
–until they broke his lamp.

When one of Tess’ long legs clipped his favourite light-shade from Debenhams Homewear, Selleck cried out. He rolled her off him. “Broken glass! Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

Extracting himself from the couch, Selleck squatted down to sweep up the hazard with his dustpan and brush. Rising back up, he felt the fever ebb from his thighs. He’d loved that lamp. “I think it’s time for coffee.”

“Come again?” Struggling slightly, Tess sat up. Then she listed to one side. “Do I
look
like a woman who wants a coffee?”

No, he conceded. Breasts barely covered, she looked more like a ship’s figurehead on a bad night round Cape Horn. DS Selleck, however, had lost his wind. For now, Tess in the flesh – all that soft, creamy flesh – was too much for him. He wanted her to leave so he could go to bed and dream about her. Maybe he could plan his strategy for next time. (He’d not drink those two glasses of wine, he’d eat lots of iron the day before, move the lamps to the spare room). “I think perhaps we better call things a night,” he said. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow if we’re to get your friend Alan back into custody.”

“Fat Alan?” Tess put her boobs away. “What’s he done now? You said it was Mark Plimpton’s peanuts you found in Colin’s fridge—”

“Mark’s favoured
brand
, I said. KP Nuts are stocked by every supermarket and petrol station. Also the corner shop outside Alan Pattison’s block of flats, we’ve checked.”

“But it’s Mark who’s got the rock-hard motive for both killings—”

“And Alan Pattison who’s got a deranged obsession with the show.”

“
Had
a deranged obsession,” corrected Tess. “With
Jeenie
.”

“Every obsession starts somewhere. Fandom is a gateway drug. Text book stuff.” Text book, right, thought Tess. Prim bastard had probably never known an obsession in his life. Not counting airfix planes and bicep management. Bastard. She burped, tried to think like a sober person.

“Even if Alan
had
some disturbed reason to kill Colin. Can you really see him having the wits to exploit Pound’s peanut allergy – or the stealth to get into Backchat and plant those nuts in his fridge?”

“Why not? You seem to have let the man have the run of the place.”

“So it’s
my
fault now is it? For bringing a freaky, fatball killer into the fold?”

“If the hat fits…”

Or jacket, thought Tess. Was it time to explode Mrs Meakes’ bombshell? She tried to focus. Failed;
imagined
the detective’s face as she tried to explain how a muddled geriatric had seen a dralon jacket that would have been
far
too snug a fit round Alan’s hips, only the bin men took it off with them…

Hell, she was losing
herself.
“If you’re so sure it’s Fat Alan, bring him in.”

“We can’t. He’s disappeared.”

“He’s
disappeared
?”

“According to his mother.” Selleck straightened his shirt. “Mrs Pattison hasn’t seen her son since the night before Colin Pound’s murder. She claims to have no idea where he’s gone. No-one does.” He gave Tess a long, hard look.

“So
that’s
what this is about?” She found focus, at last. “This cosy meal, this little grope. You in your tight trousers with your Coldplay and chicken chasseur? You wanted to find out if I know where
Alan
was!”

Selleck tugged at his collar. “If you think I brought you back here to pump you for information—”

“Man alive, call that a
pump?!
” Tess rose to her feet. She gathered up the vestiges of her dignity and a bowl of Kettle Chips from the windowsill. “I MAY know the EXACT whereabouts of Britain’s most WANTED man. I COULD give you the tip that would send your career shooting UP the police detective ladder. But feeling as I do – resolutely UNpumped – I shall keep my thoughts TO myself, focus ON the case, and continue my search for a vicious DOUBLEKILLER.”

With that, she stormed impressively out the front door – or would have, had she figured out the latch. When the policeman subsequently exited his lounge, he found Tess propped against the door, sipping Kettle Chips from the bowl.

He was seized with a strong urge to take her in his arms, and carry her to his bed. She was an injured wild cat in need of soothing. He was reaching out for her.

She sprang back.

He felt the blood rush his face. He bowed his head to hide it. So he didn’t see Tess wince, or her blue eyes flood with regret. He was too busy undoing the lock. “If Alan
could
turn on Jeenie Dempster,” he said. “The woman he adored, why stop there? The
Pardon My Garden
team were the first friends Alan had made in over twenty years. You were the one person he believed in after Jeenie. Now you’re part of a nationwide hunt to bring him down. Can’t you see you should be worried?”

“What’s to worry about? If he wants me that much, he can have me.” With a last, confused look at Selleck, Tess headed off into the night.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“To find our killer, stupid. Everyone else has buggered off.”

In the event, Selleck drove her home. He insisted. Then didn’t speak again until Tess got out. As Tess tripped over her seatbelt, and then surfed the tarmac like it was a particularly choppy wave, he revved accusingly. “Will you be alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. There’s my flat. That’s my front door.”

It was only when he’d driven off, Tess realised it wasn’t. She’d got him to stop in completely the wrong street. Fuckit, some of the trees looked vaguely familiar – and wasn’t that the distant screech of Thursday night stock cars round Wimbledon Dog Track?

Unless it was a lorry.

With no moon to guide her home, and precious few streetlights, Tess decided to take the drunkard’s route. She would put her head down, and follow her feet. Moving off, she conceded tonight’s date had not been a success. The exasperating officer hadn’t even stripped her with his eyes. So how come she’d felt so naked?

Sighing, Tess consoled herself with the last of the Kettle Chips. (She’d tipped them down her shirt before the Detective Sergeant could confiscate the bowl). Grazing from her bra, she tried to think. Couldn’t. Her brain was swimming. Wreckage from the last few days bobbed up her: Jeenie’s dead, jelly eyes… Colin Pound’s tongue swelling up like a liver…

Something rustled behind her. Tess swivelled round, too fast. Rested in a hedge.

Silence.

She hauled herself back up, and staggered on. Now the images came with sound. Rod Peacock celebrating the death of his two, most tiresome stars with a long, sick chuckle.

Too long. Too late, Tess realised the sounds were real – heavy breathing – hurried footsteps coming up behind.

Jerking round, she saw a figure emerge from the darkness: broad shoulders in a coat, baseball cap pulled down low. Panic gripped – her heart pounded, but her legs couldn’t move. Only when her pursuer’s breath seared her neck, did adrenalin surge.

Tess turned, and swung a fist, just as her attacker raised theirs. Thrashing out in the dark, she felt hard arms enclose her. Her mouth was being covered. She bit down, tasting glove leather… and fierce, toxic fumes. Her assailant cried out in pain, but Tess was choking, her eyes were burning – she was losing the fight, wasn’t she? The heavy breaths were coming louder – getting harder -

Slowly, she realised the breathing was her own. Her attacker had fled, taking with them the toughest part of her.

Alone and hurting in the dark, Tess curled up into a ball, and cried for her Dad.

“
S
houldn’t we try to pick her up?”

“She’s too roly. Things plop out at you.” Tess surfaced to a familiar voice, in contemplative mode. “Dragging works best.”

“MILLERRR!” she croaked.

“Shoosh dear, don’t move!” Crap, thought Tess, was that her
Mum
?

“The back of your head’s a mess.” Yep, her Mum. “It’s bleeding, dear, you’re hurting. Oh, careful Miller – mind the tree!”

For the next ten minutes, Tess’ cold, aching body was scraped over tree roots, hauled round a corner, thwacked over a traffic island, towed through a bus shelter, tugged down an alley and lugged up a broken driveway.

She’d never felt so happy.

The ride itself was surprisingly comfy. Hood up, her Puffa jacket worked like a sort of padded sled. Mostly, however, Tess was cushioned by relief. For the first time in forty-eighthours, she felt safe. As night clouds and lamp-posts passed over her pounding head, she raised it for reassuring glimpses of her rescuers. While Violet Darling strained under the weight of her daughter’s left leg, dragging it along like a Tudor canon, Miller held her right leg lightly as a loo roll. His free hand rummaged in his duffle coat for corn snacks.

It was like he’d never been away, sighed Tess. How many nights had they returned like this, Miller munching Wotsits, Tess eating pavement? Miller had frequently carried her home, often as not covered in blood. Only when they’d pulled her through her front door and lifted her into bed, did Tess think to explain the blood was, for once, her own. “I was attacked,” she croaked. “Someone was trying to warn me off.”

Miller blinked behind his wire-rimmed specs. “Who?”

“I couldn’t see their face,” she said. “It was dark. They were wearing a cap, pulled right down”.

“A baseball cap?” She nodded. He pushed up his glasses, as if to focus on the mental snapshot the two of them had so far compiled of Jeenie’s killer. “Bulky-looking, in a coat?”

“Yes – no – it was all too quick. They didn’t even speak. I just felt them… I… I
smelt
them.” She recalled their leather glove against her face – the strange stink of glue. Her terror. “Where
were
you Miller?”

Tess fought a bewildering urge to cry. Only now her friend was back, taking up space and ignoring her questions, did she realise how lonely she’d been without him. And how annoying he could be.

Take tonight. Tess had spent forty-eight hours trying to rescue the great spoon. Now
she
lay felled, while he appeared to have returned from a confidence seminar. Miller’s black eyes were twinkling, his curly hair sleek. He looked like he’d been put through a car wash, and then run past a life coach. There was a new resolution about him, thought Tess. Having dispatched the last Wotsit, his jaw was set. His shoulders were squared, and he stood tall. Miller wasn’t just dominating the room, he looked set to take off the ceiling. But maybe it was just her position that had changed. She’d never looked up at him from her bed before.

“What happened to you?” she said. “You’ve been missing two days. I kept ringing your phone—”

“It went flat,” he said. “You know me and batteries don’t get on. But I went to Oxford, like you told me. I found Aaron Peacock – at his college like you said – only he wouldn’t talk to me. He seemed depressed.”

“So?”

“I put him on a flume.”

“A
flume?
”

“Who stays sad on a log ride?” he reasoned. “Only Alton Towers was further away than I remembered, and then we had to stay the night in a Travel Lodge because Aaron got a bit wet and scared. But it worked out in the end because I think the fever really helped, you know, get him talking. You weren’t worried, were you?”

“Worried?” She gave a hollow laugh. “About a great lump like you?” Miller shrugged his shoulders; nearly took out the light.