Wink Murder

by Ali Knight

  ‘I’m going to work so just leave me alone.’

  ‘Only when you hear what I have to say.’

  I’m half running down the steps of the Tube station but she’s following me. ‘I wasn’t in your house. Why on earth are you so convinced that I was?’

  I snort as I pass my ticket over the sensor. ‘Let’s just say that I’m observant. You left a little calling card.’ She looks blank. ‘Teacups and a spoon.’ As I say this I know how absurd it sounds and have a sudden doubt as to whether I’ve imagined the whole thing.

  ‘Teacups?’

  I move on to the train and find a seat. She sits down next to me.

  ‘The pattern they made; I knew it was you.’

  ‘Rational, scientific Kate threw me across a table because of teacups?’

  ‘What do you know!’ I’m being petulant and stubborn to disguise my doubts and realise too late that she can probably see this instantly. She gets celebrity denials every day of her life; my lies are no less visible.

  She must take pity on me because she doesn’t pursue it. ‘I know Paul didn’t do that to your face.’ We turn towards each other. ‘See. I know. He didn’t do that to you and he didn’t kill Melody.’ She holds my gaze with her arresting eyes. She’s wearing a petrol-blue scarf which intensifies the colour of her irises – they shine violet. She adjusts the cutting-edge designer bag on her shoulder – a free perk of her job, no doubt – and immediately I want that bag. She makes it look as if life would be glossier and happier with that across my shoulder.

  ‘It’s easy for you to play the hero, see the past in black and white and rose. You don’t have the messy contradictions and compromises of an eight-year marriage to consider, or children.’

  ‘However convinced you are about his guilt, you’re still wrong.’

  I shrug with irritation. Her conviction is endearing and I feel something akin to shame. She’s a better, more loyal friend to Paul than I am. I steal a sideways look at her; she’s clean and gorgeous-smelling. I touch my ruined face and notice that the man opposite is mesmerised by her. He glances up in awe, shifting in his seat, watches her criss-cross her legs, follows her hand as she scratches a shin.

  This passer-by’s fantasy of the pretty woman on the train doesn’t include slices on her arm. ‘Why do you self-harm?’ I keep my voice low.

  She waits a few moments. ‘It’s a way of keeping control, I guess. I was bulimic when I was a teenager.’ She twirls a tiny and delicate ankle.

  ‘Did Paul know?’

  She looks shocked. ‘Of course! He was my husband.’ I swallow. He’d never told me. He kept her secrets, was loyal to her even after the end. My shame intensifies.

  A thought strikes me. ‘Were you doing that when we were all partying together?’

  She folds her arms, clasping her elbows with her hands as if trying to protect herself. ‘Particularly then.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

  She tries to make light of it by changing the subject. ‘Why do you think Paul killed her?’

  I tell her in a quiet voice the events of that night. ‘He was so upset, so devastated.’ She sits impassively, nodding. She doesn’t look at me. In her silence there is something I’m keen to discover. ‘What?’

  She avoids the question and regards me under long lashes as we bump along shoulder to shoulder. ‘You’re unusual, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me why.’ I steel myself for Eloide’s particular brand of hippy intuition.

  ‘You’re prepared to believe that your own husband murdered someone. You’re not afraid of examining the motives of those closest to you. Believe me, you’re wasted in TV.’ The man opposite sways to his feet as the train shunts to a halt at a station. She doesn’t notice his lingering looks as he leaves.

  ‘Why are you so sure he’s innocent?’ I watch the man outside the window give Eloide one last stare before we plunge back into the tunnel. I don’t think she even knew he was there.

  ‘I don’t know what happened that night.’ Her voice drops to almost a whisper. ‘I can’t explain the blood. But how he was, one minute here’ – she holds her hands above her head – ‘the next here’ – she knocks the side of her knee – ‘devastated; I’ve seen him like that before. Twice I saw him like that.’

  ‘When?’

  She is looking full at me now with those startling eyes. ‘You didn’t think I’d noticed that man looking at me, did you?’ She leans back in her seat, almost disappointed that she’s right. ‘Don’t underestimate me, Kate, you of all people. Paul often says how perceptive you are. That you see things others miss. But you’ve got a blind spot with me because of what happened in the past. Think about how I can help you.’

  ‘When was he like that?’

  She pauses. ‘When he had an affair.’ Eloide doesn’t try to touch me. She doesn’t try to soothe me or pretend she can make it better. ‘And it didn’t make him any less of a person, or make me love him any less. I can’t tell you what happened in those woods that night, but I can tell you Paul wasn’t there. He didn’t kill her, Kate. I’m going to fight with you – or against you – to prove that he’s innocent.’

  My station blurs into focus and I sway to standing. She’s contradictory: fragile but stubborn, flaky yet more determined than I had realised. For years I’ve hated her, when maybe I should have admired her. I walk up the steps of the Tube in a swirl of dreadful sensations. I’ve fallen through a trapdoor into a world I don’t recognise where old enemies may be allies and my husband may be my undoer.

  32

  Livvy glances at me across the studio and does a double take, veering off course towards me. ‘Christ! You look as bad as I feel.’ She invades my personal space as she tips my chin up towards her nostrils and examines my puffy temple. I feel like a girl being examined by the school nurse. She blows disapprovingly. ‘You’ll frighten the guests, looking like that. Shaheena will have to do the meet and greets.’

  ‘So I’m officially too ugly to work in TV,’ I say, lamely trying to make a joke.

  ‘Few of us aren’t,’ Livvy replies matter-of-factly.

  I don’t feel like laughing. I sense the pitying glances from Shaheena and Matt, have seen the silent stares from the floor manager and lighting crew. They’ve heard the news about Paul. He will be mentioned on the programme tonight. I glance at my mobile. There are no messages. The police can hold Paul for up to seventy-two hours before they have to charge him or release him. The longer he’s in, the worse it looks.

  We’re gathered for the run-through before the live show this evening. Usually, the atmosphere is one of excitement and jokey expectation, a ‘break a leg’ camaraderie unites us, but today a sour air hangs over the studio. Even Marika in a tight black skirt suit and the highest scarlet heels can’t lighten the mood. She talks intently to the programme editor in a corner as they strike words from a paper script.

  The make-up artists wander to and fro, waiting for their moment in a few hours’ time. Chet, the director, snaps out commands from the gallery. ‘Marika, when you sit down on the sofa, get close to Colin, almost touching shoulders – you need to seem like you’re really a team.’ Colin tries to give Marika a mock bear-hug, but neither of them have the energy to pull it off with their normal gusto. From my position at the side of the action I feel that it’s all my fault, that they are all blaming me.

  ‘OK, Marika, let’s try the new position!’ Chet shouts.

  She nods and picks up her coffee cup. As the opening music rolls Marika normally strides across the set, smiling and gesturing, but today she perches on the sofa edge as a camera zooms in for a close-up and the lights darken. ‘That’s great!’ Chet calls.

  ‘Our mission on this programme is to fight crime wherever and whenever we find it. To make this country a safer place for you and your family.’ She pauses and gives a slight shake of her head. ‘This week, we’re dedicating the show to a crime that we’re determined to solve, because this murder involves
one of our own, the creator of this show, Melody Graham.’ Marika rises from the sofa arm, the camera tracking her. ‘Our own managing director, Paul Forwood, is at this moment being questioned by police for this murder. But I stand here before you to stress the editorial independence of Crime Time; we allow no interference in what we broadcast from our owners or from the network. We bring the truth, and nothing but the truth, to you.’ She turns to face Colin, now making his way across the floor towards a map of the woods where Melody’s body was found.

  ‘God she’s good,’ Shaheena says, and we watch her quiz Colin about road junctions near the crime scene and timelines.

  Astrid and a million lookalike wannabes should listen and learn from the queen of popular TV.

  Livvy comes up behind me as we watch the run-through. ‘No word from Gerry yet?’

  ‘No.’ I’ve been checking my work mobile all morning to see if he’s been in touch.

  ‘Told you. You can’t rely on a toerag like that.’ She smiles, pleased her world-view hasn’t been challenged by someone exceeding expectations. ‘I think we’ve got plenty without him.’ She nods towards a blown-up picture of Melody being used as a backdrop to a shot. We stand awkwardly side by side, her boss, my husband, the elephant in the studio.

  A little while later Marika turns to camera for the sign-off. ‘Remember, this is your evidence, on your show.’

  Thumping music starts to fade and Chet shouts, ‘And we’re out!’

  ‘Coffee?’ Shaheena asks and I nod, shoving my phone back in my bag. Shaheena looks up into the gallery. ‘Uh oh. Big Chief is in with Black Cloud.’

  We head up the gallery steps to find George, the executive producer, who I’ve not met before, and Livvy bent over a keyboard with a technician.

  ‘What about “This programme is dedicated to the memory of Melody Graham, nineteen eighty-four to two thousand and ten”?’ Livvy says.

  ‘Get rid of “the memory of”,’ George commands.

  I peer over their backs. ‘You could put “creator of Crime Time”,’ I say.

  ‘Let’s keep it simple,’ he says. ‘We’ll do “This series is dedicated to Melody Graham” and her dates. We’ll add it at the start of the credits.’ Livvy and the technician murmur their agreement. ‘God she was young,’ George adds, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘I was getting stoned in Nepal in nineteen eighty-four.’

  Livvy moves out of the gloom of the gallery into the studio. ‘We’re meeting upstairs in five minutes!’ she shouts to no one in particular. ‘Don’t be late.’

  Sky News is on in the corner of the conference room when I get there and I watch the reports roll across the bottom of the screen like the heartbeat of a patient in intensive care. I catch Forwood’s name pulsing past. A copy of the Daily Mail is open on the table. They’ve got a picture of Paul that I’ve never seen before, one of Melody smiling, Lex in front of the offices. I feel the room filling with people behind me, the paper being pulled from my palm as someone points a finger at Melody’s face.

  ‘Look, we’re in the Telegraph, too,’ Matt says, wrestling the pages into submission.

  ‘We’re on now!’ Shaheena adds as the news changes continents.

  ‘Oh, there’s Astrid!’ I exclaim as the front of Forwood’s offices comes into view. They’re filming staff at the door. She’s wearing a tight, pale grey 1950s-style suit with a plunging neckline and towering heels; she looks like a young Marilyn Monroe.

  ‘That’s the moron who forgot to sort out the lease on the central London building we wanted,’ Livvy scolds as Astrid blows a kiss to the camera.

  ‘That’s Lex’s secretary,’ I explain.

  Matt can’t help whistling his appreciation – and his envy.

  ‘OK,’ George says, and we fidget to attention. ‘Turn that down, someone,’ he adds, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I know you’re all speculating as to what’s happening at Forwood,’ he begins. ‘The truth is, it’s a situation that’s changing daily. Try not to get distracted by it. You’re here to do a job, so do it. I believe that in the end this will be great for Crime Time.’

  Livvy snorts. ‘Well that’s a PR spin if ever I heard one. It’s a disaster, isn’t it? The bosses are under suspicion of having knocked off the creator of this programme—’

  ‘Exactly. Every news report is mentioning repeatedly the programmes Forwood have made, and talking about this one as though it’s special. It’s a golden opportunity for us, it’s positioning us as controversial, fresh, even a little dangerous. Now they’ve arrested Paul Forman—’

  ‘Uh mm,’ Livvy interrupts him and turns to me.

  ‘Oh.’ George looks surprised. ‘It’s you.’ He frowns and I feel something akin to shame travel across my cheeks. My bruise throbs painfully. I’m not what he expected and that will make it easier for him to sack me, though he’s sure to use that dreaded phrase “letting me go”. He twists a pencil round and round his fingers. He’s nervous. The room holds its breath and I wait for the axe to fall.

  ‘She’s good,’ Livvy adds, as if she’s inspecting cattle at a country fair. ‘It could work in our favour.’

  ‘Nepotism accusations . . .’ George tails off.

  ‘This is TV,’ adds Livvy as if her boss is a simpleton.

  George nods. ‘I take your point. Still, public image and all that.’

  ‘If Kate has personally done nothing wrong you cannot get rid of her.’ Marika’s sultry voice cuts through their bickering. I can tell that they’ve all been talking about me when I wasn’t here, deciding whether I should still be on the programme. ‘No woman should be condemned simply by the man she’s with. You need to think of that public image.’

  George starts back-covering in the modern way. ‘Yes, yes—’

  It’s time to end my misery. ‘I am prepared to leave without any fuss if you think it would be better for the programme.’ There, I’ve said it, but with a heavy heart. I sense lots of eyes on me. I can’t bear not knowing, having my fate hanging in the balance.

  George twists the pencil again it a way that should be masterful but he drops it and it falls on the table and rolls away towards me. I realise how hard magic tricks really are, how many hours of practice must be needed to achieve a perfect sleight of hand. George hasn’t put in the hours. ‘No, no, stay. But we need to keep you strictly low profile.’

  ‘Thank you.’ What on earth George thinks a researcher is apart from low profile he doesn’t articulate.

  ‘Now, on to tonight’s programme—’

  ‘Have you guys seen Lex’s website?’ Matt asks. ‘Look.’ His hands fly over his laptop keys and he turns it round for the room to see. ‘Its traffic has increased four hundred per cent since yesterday. It’s turning into a real phenomenon. There’s two and a half million pounds pledged so far. Maybe there’s some way we can piggyback on this to publicise the programme—’

  ‘Or imitate it when we run campaigns?’ Shaheena adds.

  George gets animated. ‘See, that’s the power of TV and the internet. This programme is going to be huge.’ He turns to the website editor, his face darkening. ‘We need a meeting immediately we’ve aired.’ Her mouth opens and shuts like a fish.

  Livvy sits back in her chair, luxuriating in the scandal we are mired in. ‘Let’s just hope they don’t arrest any more of us before we air tonight.’ We all murmur our agreement as we disperse to make final preparations for the show.

  Half an hour later Sergei calls, desperate to get hold of Lex. ‘I can’t find him anywhere. The ship is rudderless, I think you say. The employees need a pep talk, wild rumours are taking hold and I fear people will start blabbing to the press unless he comes in.’

  ‘Have you tried him at home?’

  Sergei sighs like I really am the imbecile I feel. ‘Home, mobile, gym, mother’s, favourite restaurants, his website, email. He’s nowhere.’

  It doesn’t feel right. I tell him to check the hospitals, maybe the motorway smash has had a delayed effect. ‘He crashed his car with
you in it?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘Another time, really. I’m still at work.’ He rings off disconsolate and I try John, who to my amazement answers. ‘My God, where’s Paul?’

  ‘Still at the station. He sent me away, said he didn’t need me.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘No. But he was insistent, and you know what he’s like when he’s in that mood.’

  ‘Are they going to charge him?’

  ‘They’re waiting for the test results on the blood on the scarf. If that doesn’t come through in the next hour or so they’ll have to let him go.’

  ‘Were they horrible to him?’

  John makes a strange noise down the phone. ‘This is murder, Kate, not vandalism of a church hall.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I change the subject. ‘Have you spoken to Lex? No one knows where he is.’

  ‘No. What’s he playing at?’ John is annoyed now.

  ‘If Paul’s not let out I think Lex needs to go into the office tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m on it.’ There’s background distraction as John fumbles with something. ‘Are the press leaving you alone?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘Not great.’ Guilt floods me as I say this.

  ‘Well, take care of them, Kate.’

  I say thanks, but I’m not quite sure why.

  33

  I finally get a text from Paul that afternoon saying they’ve had to release him and he’s going home. A desperation to see him overwhelms me; I put him in custody and now he’s out and I just want my husband back. I catch Livvy wiping wet hands on her hair as she emerges from the toilets. ‘I have to go home.’

  She plumps the damp strands. ‘Has he been released?’