‘I see,’ Woodend said.
Jane Todd laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ Woodend asked.
‘You are,’ Jane said, with a complete lack of inhibition.
‘Me?’
‘Oh, not just you, but everybody we ever show around the studio. I told you you’d be disappointed, didn’t I? You all know before you come in here that Maddox Row is nothing but make-believe, yet you still end up looking like kids who’ve just been told there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.’
Woodend grinned ruefully. ‘You’re right. That’s just how I feel.’
‘Well, now you’ve had all your illusions well and truly shattered, shall I take you to see the rest of the place?’ Jane suggested.
‘Aye, we might as well have the full two-bob tour while we’re about it,’ Woodend agreed, following her to the studio door.
The world on the other side of the dividing wall was very different to the one they were leaving. If he’d chosen to glance upwards, Woodend would have seen the high mill ceiling, but looking straight ahead he once again had the feeling that he was in the open air, walking through a village.
‘We just had dividing walls between the various departments at first,’ Jane Todd said, following his gaze, ‘but it didn’t take us long to discover that that simply wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘The noise, mostly. We couldn’t hear ourselves think, what with the carpenters banging away from one end of the building and the typists pounding away on their machines from the other. The actors didn’t like it either – said they couldn’t “compose” themselves before the show with all that racket going on. So Mr Houseman had the flat roofs put on, and now I can sit in his office and hardly hear any of the work going on around me.’
‘He seems like a thoughtful man, your Mr Houseman,’ Woodend said.
‘Does he?’ Jane Todd said enigmatically. ‘That’s the office block on your right. You’ve already been in there, haven’t you?’
‘That’s right, I have,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Who else works in that particular block, apart from Houseman?’
‘Well, it’s where Mr Wilcox has his office, then there’s the conference rooms, the typing pool, the finance and ordering department, the public relations office and the entertainment suite. It takes quite a lot of people who never have anything to do with lights and cameras to put on a television show, you know.’
‘Aye, that’s the picture I was already beginnin’ to build up,’ Woodend said.
‘On the other side of the central concourse, we have the various technical departments,’ Jane Todd continued, pointing out several more buildings-within-a-building. ‘That’s the scenery workshop, where the chippies build and maintain all the sets, and next to it is the scenery store. Beyond that is where we keep the technical equipment we’re not actually using in the studio, and there’s a repair shop attached to it. The last part of the technical department is the . . .’ – her voice cracked a little– ‘. . . is the . . .’
‘Is the tool store that the murderer got the screwdriver from,’ Woodend supplied, noticing the police seal on the door.
‘That’s right,’ Jane Todd agreed. ‘It was a horrible way to be killed, wasn’t it?’
‘There aren’t that many nice ways to be violently murdered,’ Woodend pointed out.
They passed the café alcove, and Woodend averted his gaze from the blonde sergeant who appeared to be deep in conversation with three young women who were probably from the typing pool.
‘Refectory and kitchen,’ Jane Todd said, unnecessarily. ‘And on the other side are the various departments with the responsibility for getting the actors ready to appear.’
‘Like what?’ Woodend asked.
‘The props department – walking sticks, spectacles, anything the actors might need for a particular scene. Next to that is the costume department – which is pretty self-explanatory. Finally, there’s the make-up department. A lot of their work is done on the set, of course, but if they have a particularly challenging job on their hands, they like to do it in there.’
‘You seem to know a lot about everythin’ that’s goin’ on in the studio,’ Woodend said.
Jane Todd smiled. ‘I work for Mr Houseman, and Mr Houseman likes to keep a finger in every pie. More often than not, that finger is me.’
From their table in the cafeteria, George Adams and Jennifer Brunton watched Jane Todd and the man in the hairy sports jacket walk past.
‘He doesn’t look much like a hot-shot policeman, does he?’ George Adams asked.
‘You can’t judge a book by its cover,’ Jennifer Brunton replied. ‘And you should know that better than most people.’
That was true enough, Adams agreed silently. Whenever he opened a village féte – forty pounds in used notes in his back pocket, and no questions asked – he met dozens of people who seemed to feel almost cheated that instead of meeting the shuffling pensioner, Sam Fuller, from Maddox Row, they ended up talking to the vigorous actor who played him.
‘Yes, to look at you now, nobody would ever guess you once had to get up at seven o’clock in the morning to slop out,’ Jennifer Brunton continued.
So that was it! George Adams thought. She wasn’t talking about him as an actor at all – she was talking about him as a man with a past. What a bitch she could be when she put her mind to it – and sometimes even when she didn’t!
‘Well, your fairy godmother must certainly have been working overtime for you yesterday,’ he said casually, beginning his counter-attack.
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
Adams shrugged. ‘Nothing much – just that you got your wish.’
Jennifer Brunton frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What wish?’
‘Don’t you remember?’ Adams asked, feigning surprise. ‘We were all in rehearsal, and Val threw a tantrum. You called her – I think I’ve got the words right – “a bloody prima donna”, and said it was about time somebody taught her a lesson she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Well, somebody did teach her a lesson, though she’s never going to have the chance to learn from it now, is she?’
‘I . . . I never meant I wanted to see her dead!’ Jennifer Brunton protested. ‘How can you even suggest such a thing?’
‘I didn’t actually suggest it,’ George Adams countered. ‘But you must admit that you’re not exactly heartbroken now that she is, are you?’
‘I’m very, very sorry that—’
‘You’re very, very sorry that the murderer didn’t wait until after Larry Coates had left the show before he did the dirty deed.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh yes, you do. Somebody has to step into the spotlight now that Val’s gone, and if Larry hadn’t been available, it would probably have been you.’
‘Or you,’ Jennifer Brunton said hotly. ‘Neither of us can say for certain who Bill Houseman would have decided to make the big star if Larry hadn’t been around. But I do know one thing for certain.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘As much as I’d like to take Val’s place, I don’t care about it half as much as you do, George. You want to be the star so badly, you’d kill for it.’
Even without seeing the look which her remarks brought to George Adams’ face, she would have realised she’d made a mistake the moment the words were out of her mouth.
‘I was . . . er . . . only speaking metaphorically,’ she added lamely.
‘Perhaps you were, but you should still choose your words more carefully,’ George Adams said. ‘After all, an old friend like me isn’t going to misinterpret what you said, but there are others who might – and that could be as dangerous for you as it would be for me – because neither of us are above suspicion.’
‘Are you saying that I’m a suspect?’ Jennifer Brunton demanded.
‘You know you are. Both of us will benefit from Val’s death, even if all it amounts to is a few extra l
ines each episode – and it won’t do either of us any good to go pointing the finger at the other.’
He was right, Jennifer Brunton thought, and though she was loath to abandon the exchange when he was so far ahead on points, it was probably the wisest thing to do in the circumstances. She looked around her for some distraction, and found it in the shape of a platinum blonde who was just walking past the cafeteria.
‘I wonder what’s made the Queen Consort favour us with her presence again,’ she said sourly, watching the blonde’s buttocks roll in leopardskin trousers like two dwarfs fighting in a sack.
‘Could be our revered leader is taking her out to dinner somewhere once his day of creative genius is done,’ George Adams suggested.
‘Perhaps he is,’ Jennifer Brunton agreed. ‘But I’d be willing to bet that before she sits down at the table with her husband, she’ll be lying down with someone else entirely.’ She paused. ‘Do you think Bill knows that his wife’s got a fancy man?’
‘I can’t make up my mind about that,’ Adams replied. ‘On the one hand, if he did know, you’d expect him to blow his top. But on the other, if he knew but thought that we didn’t know, he might have decided his best course of action was just to keep quiet about the whole thing.’
‘I don’t think Bill does know,’ Jennifer Brunton said. ‘If he did, then surely he’d get rid of the bugger. I mean, it’s not as if Diana’s bit-on-the-side is anybody important, is it? Bill could find a replacement for him before he’d even had time to leave the building.’
‘That’s true,’ George Adams said. ‘It’d be easy enough to replace most of the people involved with the show. One electrician’s pretty much like another. You never really notice when a new scriptwriter takes over. Any fool can tell the cameramen which direction to point their cameras in. And as for actresses, well, how hard is it play a one-dimensional character like the Maddox Row battleaxe, when you come to think about it?’ He clapped his hand over his mouth in mock horror, then quickly removed it again. ‘I’m sorry about that, Jennifer. I didn’t mean to say it, but it just slipped out. Habit, I suppose.’
A dangerous gleam appeared in Jennifer Brunton’s eyes as she abandoned their temporary truce.
‘A very bad habit,’ she said stonily. ‘Like your habit of drinking with the hacks from the scandal sheets until all hours of the night. Of course, that particular habit shouldn’t be too hard to break, now.’
‘What do you mean – now?’
‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ Jennifer Brunton said reflectively. ‘If the journalists had been prepared to print all those libellous stories you were feeding them about Val’s sex life, she’d probably have lost her job. But they weren’t prepared to print them, were they? Your little plan didn’t work out. And now it doesn’t need to.’
Seventeen
The building-within-a-building that Woodend and Jane Todd were standing in front of was quite unlike any of the ones the chief inspector had seen thus far. It was built in an L shape. The shorter arm of the L was at right angles to the main concourse, the longer one some distance away from it, much closer to the side wall of the mill. There were no doors in the long arm, but there were windows which looked out on to an area containing a number of shrubs and potted plants and park benches. The whole complex reminded Woodend of the chalets at a holiday camp where he’d once investigated a particularly macabre murder.
‘Mr Houseman calls that “the Actors’ Garden”,’ Jane Todd said, pointing to the shrubs. ‘He says that it’s somewhere the cast can go when they want to get away from it all.’
‘He seems a very thoughtful man,’ Woodend commented, once again.
‘He can be,’ Jane Todd said noncommittally.
‘An’ what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Bill can be very kind and understanding, and totally unreasonable and dictatorial, almost in the same breath. What I think he is most of all is frightened.’
‘Frightened?’
‘Some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. In Bill’s case, it was a combination of the two. He fought hard to get the show on the air, but he never imagined what a great success it was going to be. And the sad fact is you need to be totally ruthless to handle a great success properly, and Bill isn’t. Oh, he tries – and sometimes he puts on a fairly good show – but it takes an effort. I think there are times when he almost wishes Maddox Row had never happened.’
‘He could always give it up,’ Woodend suggested. ‘Go back to producin’ puppet shows.’
Jane Todd shook her head. ‘No, he couldn’t. The show may not make him as happy as he might once have thought it would, but the prospect of losing it is enough to drive him to despair. He’s like a drug addict who has to have his fix, even if he knows it’s a very bad idea.’
‘Must be difficult workin’ for him sometimes,’ Woodend said sympathetically.
‘It is,’ Jane Todd agreed, ‘but it’s worth it. I like being the producer’s assistant. The job pays well, and it’s a lot more interesting than most secretarial work. And if you’re wondering why he employs me when he could hire some young tottie with legs all the way up to her neck . . .’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘. . . it’s because I’m the best damn PA this side of London.’
‘Aye, I can well believe you are,’ Woodend said. He shifted his gaze back to the shrubbery. ‘Since this is the Actors’ Garden, I assume the buildin’ that runs around two sides of it is the actors’ dressing rooms.’
‘That’s right.’ Jane pointed to a window in the long arm of the L. ‘That’s Valerie’s dressing room . . . was Valerie’s dressing room, I should say.’
‘An’ how did she get into it? Climb through the window?’
Jane Todd shook her head. ‘The doors to the dressing rooms are all around the back. That was one of Mr Houseman’s ideas as well. It gives the cast a real sense of privacy, you see.’
Yes, and it also makes it very convenient for murderers who don’t want to run too much of a risk of being spotted, Woodend thought.
They turned left, and walked down the alley which ran between the make-up department and the short arm of the dressing-room wing. It was as they rounded the corner that they came across the young uniformed constable. He was standing in front of the door to Valerie Farnsworth’s dressing room, smoking a Woodbine. When he saw them approaching, he quickly cupped the cigarette in the palm of his hand. Then, realising that would prevent him from saluting, he dropped the cigarette to the ground and covered it quickly with the heel of his boot.
‘I’m PC . . . PC Armitage, sir,’ he said, looking flustered.
Woodend smiled at him. ‘It sounds like you recognise me, lad. Have we met before?’
Armitage reddened. ‘No, sir. But I’ve seen your picture in all the newspapers, sir. After that case in Blackpool, sir. The one where you made the arrest right on top of the Tower.’
‘Fame at last,’ Woodend said to Jane Todd, then he glanced down at the constable’s boots. ‘There was no need for you to go through all that rigmarole of crushin’ your fag, lad. Even if you have got money to burn, you might as well enjoy it while it’s burnin’ . . .’
‘We’re . . . we’re not supposed to smoke on duty, sir.’
‘. . . an’ if I’d been given a bloody borin’ job like yours, I’d probably feel like havin’ a bit of a smoke, myself.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Have forensics finished in there?’ Woodend asked, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the dressing-room door.
‘Yes, sir. I believe so, sir.’
‘Then there’s not much point in you still standin’ there guardin’ it, is there? Go an’ grab yourself a cup of tea, then call Inspector Hebden an’ say that I won’t be needin’ you any more.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.’
As the constable marched away, Woodend noticed that a slight smile was playing on Jane Todd’s lips.
‘
Have I said somethin’ funny again?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps,’ the producer’s assistant replied. ‘Do you want to see the dressing room?’
‘Aye, I’d like to see it, but you don’t have to come in with me if it’ll bother you.’
‘I used to be an operating theatre nurse before I realised I could do more for humanity by helping to bring it Maddox Row,’ Jane Todd said, as an ironic smile flitted briefly across her face. ‘So don’t you worry, Mr Woodend, the smell of death is no stranger to me.’
Woodend stood in the doorway, and looked across the room at the dressing table. It would not have taken the killer more than a couple of seconds to cross the room and plunge the screwdriver he was carrying into Valerie Farnsworth’s back. And a few seconds after that, it would’ve been all over – Valerie Farnsworth lying dead on the floor and the murderer making his way quickly to another part of the studio.
His gaze swept the rest of the room. There was a small desk, a couch, a clothes rack – and nothing more. The room itself would provide him with none of the answers he was looking for, but perhaps it would serve to confirm some of the suspicions he already had.
‘As an ex-nurse used to blood an’ gore, you don’t mind bein’ left alone in here, do you?’ he asked Jane Todd.
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Right,’ Woodend said. ‘I want you to wait for a minute or so, then I’d appreciate it if you’d scream at the top of your voice.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Scream. As loud as you can. As if you were bein’ murdered.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Jane Todd said. ‘You want to see if the sound will travel.’
‘That’s it,’ Woodend agreed.
The room next to the one which had been used by the late Valerie Farnsworth was similarly furnished with a dressing table, desk and couch, but unlike Farnsworth’s room this one was occupied.
Woodend looked down at the man who was sprawled out on the couch. ‘You’re Jack Taylor, the Laughin’ Postman!’ he said, before he could stop himself. ‘I’m sorry, I meant you’re . . .’
Dead on Cue Page 11