Strictly Murder (20 page)

"I was thinking of early in the new year. Obviously there are financial and legal aspects to be worked on first though, with your approval, I'll approach the screenwriter this week to make sure he is available. Once that is sorted to our mutual satisfaction, it will be full steam ahead."

He beamed, presumably on having uttered the entire sentence with only the merest of clichés and without recourse to a single instance of his habitual weasel words.

"I'll have my agent contact you to discuss finances and contracts." KD informed him, rising to leave.

"One other thing before you go."

She sat down again.

Cameron indicated Vasos, who had sat silently since his claim to be excited, watching his production director dig his own holes and attempt to climb out of them again.

"We are planning a series of chat shows with a female host interviewing women of distinction. Would you consider being a guest on the show?"

If KD was disappointed that Nafti hadn't asked her to present it she gave no sign.

"Of course, who will be hosting the programme?"

It was Cameron who answered, blinking his gingery eyelashes for a moment before chosing his words with care.

"Sadly, our hoped-for presenter is no longer available."

I made an intuitive leap.

"Jaynee Johnson?" I suggested.

His wariness remained but there was a flicker of some other emotion in his eyes. Fear, perhaps?

"Yes. Jaynee would have been perfect.."

A genuine sadness replaced the fear, if fear it had been. He looked about ready to burst into tears. His voice actually trembled as he added. "She will be sadly missed."

KD and I exchanged a glance.

"Do you have an alternative lined up?" she asked.

"We are working on that. For the moment it is enough to know that you are interested and we are glad to have you on board."

He had himself under control again and smiled broadly at my employer

We left Mariner Productions shortly after. I knew KD well enough by now to realise that she had been boiling up throughout most of the interview but, fortunately, we were in the car park before she finally blew a head gasket.

"What a dreadful little man. I'll make sure Crispy Bacon-Sandwich screws him and his wretched company for every penny!"

I struggled to keep up with her furious stride towards the car. Frankly, I didn't much care for Kenny Cameron either but his reactions to the mention of JayJay intrigued me. There were a lot of questions I would like to ask Mr Cameron, though how to engineer this for the moment defeated me. And what of Jaynee? Had she been intending this as another string to her bow or had she been thinking of leaving
'
Star Steps
'
altogether? And was this sufficient motive to kill her?

"And I was really disappointed in Yassou Nafti. I'd hoped he'd look more like Tom Conti in '
Shirley Valentine
'. What on earth is the matter, Verity.?"

Gripped by a sudden fit of the giggles and doubled over with laughter, I vainly tried to fasten my seat belt.

"Stop it!" she glared at me. "Control yourself."

I reached into my pocket for a tissue with which to wipe my streaming eyes.

"Please, KD. Don't call him Yassou Nafti to his face," I managed to gasp when my voice was back under control.

"Why not? It's his name!"

"No it isn't. His name is Vasos Nafti. Vasos. Don't call him Yassou Nafti whatever you do. It's Greek for 'hello sailor'."

I was still laughing when KD stamped on the accelerator and we shot out of the car park.

Dinner over and done with, I was slumped on the settee, totally out of sorts with the world and everyone in it - especially me - when Jerry Farish called. Still trying to come to terms with Jim's revelations, KD's comments and my own feelings, I felt ill-prepared for his visit, nervous and fidgety, scared of losing my temper.

"These are for you."

I took the proffered roses from his outstretched hand - and put them straight in the bin.

"Oh! Don't you like flowers?"

"Not when they're used as a bribe I don't, no."

"A bribe?" he asked in measured tones, one brown eyebrow raised.

"Do you always treat your chief suspects to dinner and flowers? Or did you single me out for special attention?"

He looked at me suspiciously, then indicated the wine glass on the draining board.

"Have you been drinking, Verity?"

"Water," I snapped. "Just water."

Annoyingly, he picked up the glass then grunted on seeing the residue of colourless liquid at the bottom. The policeman in him still made him sniff the contents, though, which only stoked the fires of my anger.

"Verity," he began, his eyes pleading with me, "What is all this? What's the matter?"

I turned away. In truth it wasn't fair to blame him; my anger would be better directed at myself for I had broken my own guidelines, my own golden rule. I had allowed myself to hope, permitted myself to dream and ended up hurt, as so often in the past.

"Verity," he said again, softly, touching my shoulder. I shrugged him off and moved so that I put the table between us.

"Why do you think you are our chief suspect?" He tried again.

"Well aren't I? I found her."

I racked my brains for any figures Jim had quoted but his exact words were gone, washed away by the rising tide of anger that had swept over me since yesterday morning.

"Statistically, the person who claims to have discovered a body is most likely to have committed the crime. Isn't that what you policemen believe? "

He ran a hand across his forehead and through his brown locks.

"That is often the case, yes, but look, Verity …"

"And statistically …"

"Damn statistics." He brushed this aside with a gesture of his hand. "There are other factors to be taken into consideration."

"Well, Jim Hamilton …"

"What? That twerp from the Crofterton Gazette? I might have known he'd ferret you out. Is that who's been filling your head with this statistics nonsense?"

His voice was raised as he leaned towards me over the table, hands resting on his knuckles. I took exception to his description of Jim and wasted no time in telling him so.

"How dare you be so rude?" I flung at him. "Jim is a personal and long-standing friend. I trust him."

As though slapped, he took a step backwards but it wasn't my accusation of rudeness that had rocked him.

"And you don't trust me?" he asked quietly, looking me straight in the eye.

"Not when you use the pretext of a dinner date to grill me about the JayJay murder case, I don't."

"I did nothing of the sort," he protested. "It was you who raised that subject when we got back here."

This was so patently true it served only to incense me even more.

"And what of you? You knew Jaynee Johnson, didn't you?"

He looked baffled by this tangent but answered the question anyway.

"Yes, I knew her."

"And did you take her out? Did she get the 'Fabulous Farish' treatment, too?"

I saw his brow darken, the jaw clench in anger at the epithet but it was too late; my temper bubbled over.

"Were you screwing her?"

Conscious of my coarseness I stopped, my lips clamped, the shame of my words colouring my cheeks.

"I wasn't, as it happens. I never had the pleasure. Not that my sex life is any of your business. This case is not your business."

"What do you mean, 'not my business'? I found her wretched body."

"Which gives you no right to interfere with my investigation. Look, I've told you before, stay out of this. And stay out of my life."

"I'm not in your life," I retorted.

"No, you're not but I had thought … even hoped, that you might be."

He wrenched open the door and strode through it, slamming it behind him.

That night, for the first time in fourteen years, I cried myself to sleep.

Chapter 9

As I'd expected, I encountered no difficulty getting past reception when I announced my presence at Silverton Studios that Tuesday afternoon. After all, I did have an appointment. I'd made it that morning before I left KD's, though not for another half hour yet, leaving me plenty of time to visit the Penthouse suite. Once out of the lift on the top floor I walked up the remaining two flights of stairs, pulling on a pair of thin cotton gloves as I did so—no point in leaving evidence of my visit. I tapped quietly at John Brackett's door. I'd already checked that he was away from the studios that afternoon but I wasn't taking any chances. I'd expected to see an enormous room covering the whole of the top floor but found the CEO's office appeared built to more modest proportions, a fact explained by the wooden partitions of the folding wall to my left. The floor to ceiling window that faced me offered a wide view of the surrounding countryside and the studio car park directly below, thus allowing the head of Silverton to observe the comings and goings of his staff and the arrival of visitors from the comfort of his executive chair behind the desk. Only an old fashioned, leather edged blotter and a gilt framed photo of JB's wife (at least I assumed it was his wife - the one KD said he never slept with) cluttered the top. I worked my way quickly and methodically through the drawers on the left hand side finding nothing more interesting than a few executive toys and a print out of Health and Safety regulations. A folder in the top drawer on the other side offered greater food for thought containing, as it did, a list of all the Studio's employees, including contract staff like JayJay and Ferrari, and their current salaries. I gave a silent whistle, quickly scanning the sheets. How much? This lot of talentless dross made more money in a 'season' than I was likely to earn in a lifetime. I put the file back where it came from then hit pay dirt in the drawer below. Written on a single sheet of paper in the neat round lettered hand that I instantly recognised as JayJay's, I read this curious billet–doux, dated Monday 17th May.

'My dear John,