Dead on Cue (16 page)

Whatever his motives, it suited her. Being his messenger gave her the perfect opportunity to study the life of the whole studio. Besides, if the stories she had heard about him were true, then the shorter the time she spent with him, the better. He would have fewer opportunities to try anything on with her – and she would be less likely to find herself in a situation in which she felt obliged to break his arm.

She had just drawn level with the edge of the office block when she noticed the platinum blonde. The woman was just emerging from one of the small conference rooms, though perhaps ‘emerging' was too direct – too straightforward – a word to describe what was going on.

People who ‘emerged' did not first open the door just wide enough for them to be able to glance quickly up and down the central concourse. People who ‘emerged' did not then step quickly out on to the concourse, closing the door behind them with the back of their stiletto-heeled shoe. No, the platinum blonde was not ‘emerging' – she was ‘breaking cover', like a timid animal slipping out of its lair.

There was nothing timid about the woman once she was clear of the conference room. She walked down the concourse like some kind of Lancashire Marilyn Monroe, her hips swinging and her buttocks involved in a life-and-death struggle beneath the seat of her tight leopardskin trousers.

She was the sort of woman who'd be a real smash down at the Whitebridge Palais de Danse on a drunken Saturday night, Paniatowski thought sourly.

And though the sergeant hated to admit it – though she personally found such sexual posturing grotesque – it had to be said that she was also being a real smash at that very moment.

Heads were turning. Men in overalls and men in smart suits stopped what they were doing to drink her in with their eyes. Even a couple of the women on the concourse were following her progress with envious expressions.

The platinum blonde's swaying progress came to a halt as she stopped to talk to a tall man in a blue suit who was obviously an acquaintance. As she chatted coquetishly, Paniatowski's thoughts shifted from the woman herself to the door she'd just come out of.

Why the caution? the sergeant wondered. Had something happened in the conference room which the blonde had no wish to be associated with?

Now was as good a time as any to find out. She crossed the concourse and was just reaching for the conference room door handle when she heard a husky voice behind her say, ‘And just what do you think you're doing?'

The blonde, hands on her hips, was standing no more than a couple of feet away from her. There was no doubt that she was a strikingly attractive woman in many ways, Monika thought. Her bone structure was good, her nose was slender and her lips were full and promising. It was the eyes which spoiled the overall effect. Though they were the deepest blue, they were also cold enough to deep-freeze hot chocolate.

‘I asked you what you thought you were doing,' the blonde repeated.

Monika felt her hackles start to rise. ‘I could ask you the same question,' she said.

The other woman smirked unpleasantly. ‘You may not be aware of it, but I happen to be Diana Houseman – the producer's wife,' she said, as if she were playing a trump card.

‘Really,' Monika replied, refusing to hide the fact that she was not the least impressed.

‘Really!' Diana Houseman repeated. ‘And who might you be?'

‘I
might be
Mr Wilcox's new personal assistant.'

‘Are you, or aren't you?'

‘I am.'

‘And has Jeremy instructed you to go into that room?'

‘Not in so many words,' Monika admitted.

‘In fact, not at
all
.'

‘You may be right,' Monika agreed.

‘Then, that being the case, I suggest you go about doing what he
has
instructed you to do.'

I could slap you, Monika thought. I could slap you really hard. But aloud all she said was: ‘Is there any reason why I
shouldn't
go into the conference room?'

‘Do you know, one of the cafeteria staff was rude to me last week,' Diana Houseman said.

‘Fascinating,' Monika replied.

‘Not as rude to me as you've been – but rude enough,' Diana Houseman continued. ‘I had a word with my husband, and got her sacked.'

If Diana Houseman tried to get her sacked, it would soon become obvious to everyone – from the producer down – that she didn't really work there at all, Monika realised.

She imagined outlining to Cloggin'-it Charlie the chain of events which had led to her cover being blown. Worse, she imagined what he would say in response – saw herself being at the wrong end of the famous Woodend sarcasm, which, it was well-known, could fell a rampaging rhino at twenty yards. That couldn't be allowed to happen, and if it was necessary to grovel to prevent it, then grovel was what she would have to do.

Monika took a deep breath. ‘I'm
so
sorry, Mrs Houseman,' she said in a little-girl voice. ‘I don't know what came over me. Really I don't.'

Diana Houseman's cold blue eyes glinted like those of a wild animal which knows it has its prey cornered. ‘Can you give me one good reason why I
shouldn't
report you to my husband?' she demanded.

I'm going to have to cry! Monika thought. The bitch isn't going to be happy until she's seen me weep!

She screwed up her eyes tightly, then forced the tears out. ‘I . . . it's all been so difficult,' she sobbed. ‘I've got my period, my boyfriend's left me for another girl and . . . and . . . sometimes it seems pointless to go on.'

‘All right, I'll let it pass this time,' Diana Houseman said with a condescending magnanimity that made Monika want to slap her all over again. ‘Now stop crying and get back to work. Jerry Wilcox will be wondering where you've got to.'

In other words, get the hell away from this door, Monika translated.

She didn't want to go. If she went now, then whatever Diana Houseman had been concealing from her in the conference room would be long gone by the time she got another chance to check on it. But given the circumstances, what choice did she have?

Aware that Diana's Houseman's eyes were following her as she walked up the corridor, she made her way back to Jeremy Wilcox's office. She wondered if Wilcox would notice that her eyes were red, and how she would explain it if he did. But the need for an explanation did not arise, because when she reached the office there was no sign at all of the director.

W
ork finished earlier at the studio on days when there was no broadcast, and the moment the canteen staff had served Woodend with tea and sticky buns, they pulled down the shutters.

The chief inspector laid his tray on the table where Jane Todd was waiting for him.

‘How much was that?' the producer's assistant asked, reaching into her purse.

‘Forget it, lass,' Woodend said. ‘This is on me.'

Jane Todd smiled. ‘Do you know what they always say in the television business?'

‘No. What do they always say?'

‘That's there no such thing as a free lunch. And I assume by that they mean there's no such thing as free tea and sticky buns either.'

‘So you don't think I'm just showin' you a part of my naturally generous nature?'

‘Of course I don't. I work for Bill Houseman, which – as you've already realised – means I know a lot of what goes on in this studio. That makes me a good source of information. But rather than coming straight out and asking me direct questions, as most of your colleagues would have done, you've decided to do it subtly – over a cup of tea and sticky buns – so I won't even realise I'm being pumped.'

Woodend shook his head admiringly. ‘You're far too clever for me, lass,' he said.

‘That's just what I'd have expected you to say,' Jane Todd replied. ‘But both of us know it's not true – you're so sharp, Mr Woodend, that you're in danger of cutting yourself.'

‘Call me Charlie,' Woodend said. ‘An' what if you're right about me wantin' to pump you? Would you mind?'

‘I might have done if I hadn't seen the way you treated that constable outside Valerie's dressing room.'

‘Come again?' Woodend said.

‘If Jeremy Wilcox had been in your place, he'd have left the poor lad a quivering wreck. And why? Because he could! Because by tearing a strip off him, he'd be demonstrating, yet again, that he's important. You could have done the same – goodness knows, the constable was expecting you to. But you didn't. You tried to put him at his ease instead. I liked that.'

‘I'm not sure if that really proves anythin',' Woodend said, looking down at the table.

‘But it does. It proves that you're a nice man who doesn't care about the trappings of power, and just wants to do his job as well as he can.'

‘Isn't that true of nearly everybody?'

Jane Todd laughed again. ‘Even
you
don't believe that,' she said.

Woodend sighed. ‘Maybe you're right,' he agreed.

‘And because you're not in the job just for what you can get out of it, I'm inclined to trust you more than I'd trust most people. So you tell me what it is you want to know, and as long as it doesn't hurt anybody who doesn't deserve to be hurt, I'll answer to the best of my ability. Fair enough?'

‘Fair enough,' Woodend agreed. ‘Accordin' to what Larry Coates told me back in his dressin' room, the contracts that the cast signed with NWTV mean that the company's got them all by the short an' curlies. Is that true?'

‘It would be more accurate to say that
Bill Houseman's
got them by the short and curlies.'

‘Bill Houseman? I know he's the producer, but even so he's just an employee of North West Television, like everyone else on
Maddox Row
, isn't he?'

‘Yes and no. The series was Houseman's idea, and as long as things go well, the people in charge of NWTV are quite happy to let him run his own little kingdom as he sees fit.'

‘An' we've already established that runnin' his little kingdom really matters to him, haven't we?'

‘Indeed we have. There are a lot of people involved in this show for what they can get out of it. Jeremy Wilcox, for example, would love to have overall control of
Madro
, instead of just being the director. Jennifer Brunton, who, as you probably know, plays Madge Thornycroft, would give her eye teeth to be as popular as Val was – or as Larry
is
. But for them, it's nothing more than a step up the ladder. Jeremy would like to end up running something really artistic and prestigious – like the Royal Shakespeare Company. Jennifer sees herself as a future
Dame
Jennifer—'

‘An' Larry Coates wants to be a star of the silver screen.'

‘Exactly. But Bill has already reached his personal pinnacle – the top of his particular ladder. Whatever else he does after this, he'll never be anything more than the man who created
Maddox Row
. And he knows it. So he wants to hold on to that feeling of success for as long as he can.'

‘At whatever the cost?'

‘There are only two things which really matter in Bill Houseman's life,' Jane Todd said, side-stepping the question, ‘
Madro
and Diana.'

‘Diana?'

‘Mr Houseman's wife.'

‘I don't think I've met her yet,' Woodend said.

‘You can't have, or you'd certainly remember her. She's the kind of woman who leaves an impression.'

‘Tell me about her.'

‘She's a very striking woman, about fifteen years younger than Bill.'

‘Have they been married long?'

‘Less than a year. They had what you might call “a whirlwind courtship”. It took us all by surprise.'

‘An' how does she feel about
Maddox Row
? Is she jealous about how much of her husband's time it takes?'

‘Not at all. She likes the fact that the show makes him important – and, by extension, makes her important, too. And she likes the money it brings in. Oh God, she likes the money.'

‘You're not very keen on her, are you?'

‘I can't stand the bloody woman,' Jane Todd said frankly.

‘So, tell me, who do
you
think killed Valerie Farnsworth?' Woodend asked casually.

Jane Todd stared at him for a couple of seconds, then said, ‘You might start out softly, all tea and buns, but once you get down to it you're not one for beating around the bush, are you?'

‘Never was,' Woodend admitted. ‘An' you still haven't answered my question.'

‘I have my own theories, but without any proof to back them up, I don't think I'm prepared to share them – however much I've begun to like you.'

‘Give me a hint,' Woodend coaxed.

Jane Todd shook her head. ‘No. I don't think I'm even prepared to go that far.'

‘Don't worry, I'm not about to rush off to arrest somebody, just because you think they might be the murderer,' Woodend assured her. ‘But I'd like to hear your ideas anyway. They just might give me another angle on the case.'

‘Perhaps they would, but I still don't feel I could . . .'

‘An' there's another thing to consider.'

‘What's that?'

‘This kind of crime never occurs in isolation,' Woodend said. ‘It's usually no more than a single link of a chain of events. An' it's rarely the
last
link. If you don't do somethin' about the poison quickly, then it'll soon spread, an' probably damage more lives.' He paused and a grin came to his face. ‘I'm mixin' my metaphors a bit there, but you get the picture.'

Jane Todd did not return his smile. Instead, her face had assumed a deathly earnest expression.