In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  Harriet looked diplomatically blank. She wasn’t answering until she knew precisely what he was talking about.

  ‘Actor problems,’ Billy expanded, his eye commanding her.

  She muttered, ‘Well, you know, Mike’s drinking … late half the time, quarrels with Annie, doesn’t know his words, can’t concentrate.’

  Billy looked down at the long sheets of computer print-out in front of him and shrugged his shoulders impatiently. ‘I’ll have him to lunch, talk to him, sort him out. He’s an arrogant SOB, but never forget, he’s a star, no getting away from it. He’s got the charisma, Harriet. He and Annie both; they’re the show’s biggest pull.’ He glanced at Sean. ‘I think we should heat up their scenes even more. The ratings soar every time they have one of those spats on screen. Good stuff. But you still aren’t going far enough. Sex and violence, gets ’em every time. I think it’s time they actually did it on screen, don’t you?’

  ‘Annie doesn’t like the idea,’ Sean said wryly.

  Billy gave that beatific smile which had made one TV critic call him the Evil Cherub, a description Billy cherished, and which had spawned a series of cartoons in the popular press, the originals of which Billy had paid through the nose to get, and which hung on one of the panelled walls.

  ‘Annie will do what she’s told. She’s just an actress. Don’t ask her, tell her.’

  Sean persisted. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, either, not yet.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ Billy cut across him. ‘Built up at the right pace, it could mean a big rise in the ratings again. Take it slowly but make sure they all know it’s coming. We want them tuning in every night in case they miss the big moment. Right? Let me see the scripts for the next month; I want them on my desk by the end of the week.’

  Sean looked at Harriet, who gave him a wry smile.

  ‘Right,’ Billy said, satisfied that he would be obeyed. ‘Now, what’s this whisper I hear about our Annie and Derek Fenn? Surely to God it isn’t true? Wouldn’t do her image any good at all. Man of his age … and a failure … and what’s this about a kid? Has she got a kid tucked away somewhere, or adopted?’

  ‘No. There’s no child, and she never had any affair with Derek.’ How did he hear these rumours so quickly? Harriet pondered furiously. Who was his spy? One of the actors? A member of the crew? There was no point in smoking the spy out – Billy would only replace him or her.

  ‘No smoke without fire.’ Billy often spoke in little gnomic phrases, aphorisms and proverbs which served instead of actual thinking. He had a handy portable piece of wisdom for most situations.

  ‘Unless you use a smoke machine,’ said Harriet, and he laughed, showing very white, false teeth.

  ‘Never thought of that. Good for you, Harry.’

  She wished he wouldn’t call her Harry, he only did it when he was irritated with her, because he knew it annoyed her. The trouble was, she and Billy knew each other intimately by now. She wasn’t unaware of the fact that Billy would like their relationship to be even more intimate. He wasn’t putting any pressure on her to go to bed with him, but his eyes had a possessive gleam in them when he looked at her. In some ways, she was tempted; not simply because if she became Billy’s mistress it would get her anything she wanted, while it lasted, all the clout and influence she hungered for, not to mention the freedom to make the programmes she really wanted to make but knew were something of a risk. No, quite apart from that, although he wasn’t good-looking, Billy had something you couldn’t ignore. Like a Roman Emperor, he had the power of life or death – and that made him intensely sexy.

  It shouldn’t, Harriet thought, and some women might not respond to it, but she was ambitious, she knew she wanted power, herself; she found it exciting, and it played around Billy’s head like lightning, making-him magnetic.

  ‘Well, I hope Annie isn’t going to unleash a scandal on us,’ he was saying to Sean. ‘Not her image. She’s on the side of the angels. Mike could weather any amount of scandal. He’s a wild boy and they like it, but they won’t like it if Annie turns out not to be as pure as driven snow.’ He looked at Harriet and his eyes glittered. ‘So I hope you’ve got the lid screwed down on whatever is behind all this.’

  I hope so, too, she thought, but only smiled reassuringly at him. ‘We’ll take care of it, BG.’

  ‘You’d better. I can always get a new director if you let me down,’ he told her silkily.

  She wasn’t scared by the threat, she was always conscious that if she needed to she had an ace she could play and scoop the pool.

  ‘There’s no need to threaten Harriet!’ Sean said, and Billy looked at him, at once, his lip curling.

  ‘And a new writer, too. Actually, I was thinking the other day that it was time you moved on, came up with a new series. We need a change of direction from you, Halifax, or are you just a one-idea man? That will be the acid test. Can you come up with a new idea?’ His tone was scathing, dismissive, meant to get under Sean’s skin and make him feel small.

  Harriet glared at him – what did he think he was doing, taking her writer away from her? Any new series Sean thought up, she wanted first approval. She’d discovered him, he was her property. Billy wasn’t handing him over to anyone else.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Sean drawled. ‘Actually, I’ve got an idea I’ve been polishing for some time, but it isn’t all worked out yet.’

  ‘Well, get it ready, get it ready,’ Billy Grenaby said, a little cross because he hadn’t scared either of them. Billy loved to play at being a Billygoat Gruff, to watch people wince and turn pale when he growled at them.

  He glanced at his watch, his face sulky. ‘Sorry, got to kick you out – another appointment, I’m afraid. Keep in touch. Bear in mind what I’ve said.’ Only when they were on their way out did he call after them, ‘Oh, and dump Fenn, will you? At once. Rewrite all the scripts to cut him out.’

  Marty Keats rang Sean at the studio half an hour later while he and Harriet were dissecting their interview with Billy and deciding that their honeymoon with him was over and difficult days might well lie ahead. The fact that their climb up the ratings had slowed, even if the show was still climbing, was probably what lay behind Billy’s sudden hostility. You were only as good as your last ratings, as Harriet said just as the phone rang.

  ‘Oh, hello, Marty,’ Sean said. ‘You got my messages, then? Where have you been?’

  ‘What’s it to you? Today was my day off. I’ve been out since early this morning, visiting my sister in Reading, just got back. What’s all this about Derek? I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

  ‘He didn’t come to work, and he isn’t answering his phone – we thought he might be with you.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. It’s odd, though. It isn’t like Derek, not turning up for work. Maybe he’s ill? I’ll go round to his flat. He has a woman in twice a week to clean for him, and she has a key. She lives across the road. If Derek doesn’t answer the door I’ll get her to come over and open the door.’

  Sean made up his mind on the spur of the moment. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  Marty arrived first. She collected the key of Derek’s flat from his cleaning woman, who was in bed with flu and said she hadn’t been over for several days. Maybe Mr Fenn had the flu too? He might have caught it from her.

  ‘That’s probably it,’ Marty agreed. Knowing Derek, if he had the flu he would dose himself heavily with whisky, his favourite medicine, go to bed and stay there in a stupor, ignoring ringing phones and knocks on the front door.

  When Marty went over to Derek’s flat, she met Sean on the pavement. ‘I got the key,’ she told him. ‘But you’d better wait outside until Derek has said you can come in – he won’t like it if I let you into his home without permission.’

  Sean shrugged and followed her to the front door. She unlocked it and walked inside, calling, ‘Derek? You home?’ There was no answer. ‘Smells musty in here, as if nobody’s been here for days,’ Marty said, opening doors and
looking into rooms.

  Sean’s nostrils quivered. He knew that smell. His gorge rose. He saw Marty push open the sitting-room door and freeze on the threshold. Her hand went up to her mouth as if she was about to be sick, and she made a choked, retching sound.

  ‘Come out of here,’ Sean said, running.

  He put an arm round her and half pushed, half carried her out of the flat.

  ‘He … he … he’s …’ she spluttered, skin a whitey-green and eyes dazed with shock.

  ‘I know, go outside, into the fresh air, sit down and just keep quiet,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll ring the police.’ He pulled the front door shut and pocketed the key. ‘We mustn’t touch anything in there. Off you go, Marty.’

  As she staggered out, Sean began to use his mobile phone.

  8

  The murderer sat outside the block of flats, watching the coming and going of the police, watching Sean Halifax talking to them. Halifax had known Derek Fenn – how had he felt seeing him like that, strangled, the black tights still tied around his neck, his face contorted in his last agony, laid out stark naked on the couch? Naked, that is, except for the satsuma in his mouth, injected with a couple of mind-bending drugs, and, of course, wearing the frilly black silk knickers dotted with red satin bows which had been a sudden last-minute inspiration.

  The man deserved to die looking like the clown he was.

  No blood this time. Too much trouble, cleaning up afterwards, if there was blood. You only had to miss a little spot of it to be in trouble. Safer not to shed blood. There were lots of ways to kill which were clean and safe. But it had been fun to dress the body up a little, arrange the scene as if for a TV soap – Fenn was an actor, after all. And it would all confuse the police, keep them guessing.

  The murderer’s mouth twisted – had Sean Halifax liked what he saw? Didn’t look as if he had. But he hadn’t liked Derek Fenn much, had he? Everyone knew the two men disliked each other. Even the press.

  Did the police know that? Oh, but they wouldn’t suspect Sean … not at first, anyway. He was one of them, or had been, and they all stuck together. And, anyway, it would soon come out that the last person to be seen with Derek was a woman.

  The murderer glanced at Derek’s windows. Photographers were up there now. The flashes of their cameras came like summer lightning in the room. The curtains had been opened, you could see the flashes clearly.

  Well, that was one picture the papers wouldn’t be printing.

  Bet they’d love to, though. It would sell a lot of papers if they did. But they’d never get away with it, not even today.

  The murderer smiled, then stopped, eyes irritated. Derek was safely dead, but the old lady in hospital was still alive. She’d somehow survived what should have been a lethal injection. She must be tougher than she looked.

  Couldn’t let it go, though. No, she couldn’t be left alive. His body surged with excitement and he checked it, held it down. Don’t get excited, don’t give yourself away. Look cool.

  But she had to go. Give it a day or two and then … another try. And this time she must be killed outright, no trying to dress it up as an accident. Strangling, like Fenn? Too noisy; might attract attention. A knife? Blood. No blood. He hadn’t liked the blood the first time, he had had nightmares about it afterwards, the splashes of blood over the walls, the floor. He’d been afraid to sleep alone, he had crept into bed with her and he’d felt her body warm and soft wrapped round him. He hadn’t needed to kill again for a long, long time. He had had all he wanted and nobody tried to take it away or hurt her.

  It wasn’t fair. He never wanted to kill anyone. It was just that he had to; he was forced to.

  A pillow over the face might be the best answer for the old woman, clean and quiet. Yes. That was a good idea.

  But he wouldn’t be finished even then because now he knew Sean Halifax had to go. He was too nosy. Once a policeman always a policeman. He was asking too many questions.

  The murderer stretched like a cat, yawning; it had been a long night. Killing made time pass quickly but it left you sleepy – such intense, consuming emotion was draining, and there had been two last night, two in one night.

  Funny, that; there had been years between the first murder and the second. Years and years. You could easily have forgotten it ever happened. It had seemed like something in a dream, a fantasy, something rather shocking but secretly pleasant to remember. Killing had brought him so much happiness. He had often thought it might be good to kill again – and then one day he was alone, and to get happiness back it had been necessary to kill again. Just as he always thought. That time had been deliberate, planned; that was when the first queer tremor of pleasure had showed up and he’d known he liked doing it. Admitted to himself. It was the sense of power it gave him.

  Power of life and death; one minute blood was pumping through their veins, their hearts were beating and they gave you that look that said they were better than you, you were dirt under their feet and they were going to beat you to a pulp – and the next they were still and silent and turning cold. And you had done it. You had the controls – you flicked the switch that turned them off. Only God could do that. God – and you.

  Several people came out from the flats; they weren’t police, surely? No, one of them was wearing fur slippers and huddled in an old dressing-gown. They must be other tenants of the block of flats. They were talking to the police – had any of them seen anything? For a second there was a quiver of fear, then the murderer relaxed.

  Didn’t matter if they had. Annie Lang’s face and soft blonde hair was so well known. If anyone had seen the pair who went into Derek Fenn’s flat last night, they must have recognised her.

  She wasn’t getting away scot-free this time; she had to be punished. The police would put her through the mill.

  Yes, the mills of God – and me, he thought, chuckling – grind slowly but they grind exceeding small. Oh, yes, Annie. Pain must be repaid with pain. An eye for an eye and pain for pain.

  He frowned, staring fixedly at Halifax and the police.

  He couldn’t kill Annie, though, because, if he did, what would happen then? He had too much invested in her. He needed her alive. First the death, and then the happiness, that was the way it went, that was the pattern. The fantasy could only come true when she was his forever.

  Sean rang Annie again, but there was still no reply. Then he rang Harriet, but her assistant couldn’t find her anywhere.

  It was half an hour before Harriet rang back on his mobile phone. When he told her what had happened to Derek, she made noises like someone who had been punched in the stomach.

  ‘Dead? Strangled? Are you sure it was Derek?’

  Sean flatly told her what he had seen in one brief glance from the doorway of the room: the sprawled, naked body, the bulging eyes, the blood-engorged features.

  ‘No question, it was Derek.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Harriet said, sounding sick. ‘Poor Derek. He was always so scared of getting hurt, he wouldn’t do any of the stunts himself, even the least dangerous. I hope to God he died quickly, anyway.’

  ‘Strangling isn’t much fun, but it won’t have taken him long to die,’ Sean said, and she made gulping sounds again.

  Sean interrupted her, ‘Harriet, any sign of Annie? I rang her, no reply. Her cleaner must have gone home and nobody is answering. Could you go round there? I’m worried about her. Where the hell can she be? I’d go myself, but I have to stay here. Finding a body automatically makes you a suspect. They’ve asked me to hang around for a bit in case they think of questions they have to ask me.’

  ‘A suspect?’ Harriet sounded taken aback. ‘You aren’t serious? But why should they suspect you?’

  ‘They suspect everybody – I would, myself, in their shoes.’

  She was silent for a minute, then said, ‘Sean, who on earth could have wanted to kill poor Derek?’

  ‘Somebody with a sick sense of humour,’ Sean said, grimacing at the memory of the way the
body looked. ‘Look, don’t think about it. Just go and look for Annie.’

  ‘Of course I will. I wonder what she can be doing?’

  ‘Ring me at once when you catch up with her, won’t you?’ Putting his mobile phone back in his pocket, Sean shivered in the chill spring wind. He had told Harriet not to think about who might have killed Fenn, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it himself. His mind seethed with unanswered questions. Why would anyone want to kill Derek Fenn?

  ‘How long had he been dead?’ he asked the forensic pathologist just leaving after doing a preliminary inspection of the body.

  Dr Kent gave him a dry look. A small, bald man with piercing blue eyes, he had an air of sniffing every time before he spoke, his fine nostrils drawing together in an offended way.

  ‘You don’t really expect an answer at this early stage? I can’t even give you a guess.’

  ‘But last night sometime?’ pressed Sean.

  ‘If you say so.’ Dr Kent left and the detective inspector who was dealing with the case came over to Sean, grinning.

  ‘Didn’t get any joy from our man, then? Well, you wouldn’t. He takes his time, may be a day or two before we get an answer, and we are the police, remember. You aren’t. Not any more. You’re here to give answers, not ask questions.’

  ‘Oh, come off it. I can’t turn my brain off, I can’t help trying to work out who could have done it, can I?’

  ‘If you’ve got any ideas on that score, let me in on them,’ the other man grated, staring at him hard.

  ‘Well, for a start, the lipstick on the mouth, the sexy knickers … had he had sex before he died? I suppose he hadn’t fooled us all for years – he wasn’t gay, by any chance? I mean, that’s what it looks like to me, a gay killing. Does it look like that to you?’

  He knew from the other man’s expression that the idea had already occurred to him, but shrugged.

  ‘Have you ever heard he was gay?’ He watched Sean shake his head, and said, ‘Well, until I’ve got all the evidence I’m not making any assumptions. If all you’ve got is guesswork, Halifax, why don’t you go home? We know where to find you if we need you.’