‘Larry Coates,’ the other man replied, slurring his words slightly. ‘But there’s no need to apologise for the mistake, my dear man. After two years hard labour in Maddox Row, my own mother probably thinks I’m really Jack-bloody-Taylor. And now it looks like I’m stuck with being the Laughing Postman till they carry me out of this place feet first.’
‘I’m sorry for having disturbed you,’ Woodend said. ‘I didn’t realise the cast would be here at this time of day.’
Coates laughed. ‘When you’re watching Madro on the telly, it may look as if we’re making it up as we go along,’ he said, ‘but let me assure you, we’re not. Our dear director, a sainted man who’s really far too good for this kind of thing – or so he keeps on telling us – insists that we rehearse every line until we could say it in our sleep. And let me tell you, the way some of my fellow actors deliver their speeches, it looks as if they’re doing just that.’
‘You didn’t happen to be in here last night, at about half past six, did you?’ Woodend asked.
‘Ah, from your tone I’d say you were a policeman!’ Coates said. ‘Either that, or one of my fellow hams who’s just being playing a policeman and still hasn’t been able to shake the role off.’
‘No, I’m not acting, I’m the genuine article,’ Woodend assured him. ‘Were you here last night?’
‘When poor old Valerie did the Julius Caesar death scene for real? Yes, I was.’ He reached on to the floor and picked up an empty glass and a half-full bottle of malt whisky. ‘There’s another glass somewhere on the dressing table, if you’d care to join me.’
‘It’s a bit early in the day for me to go on to the hard stuff, sir,’ Woodend told him.
‘I thought you were supposed to say, “Thank you, sir, but not while I’m on duty.”’
Woodend grinned. ‘I think you’ve seen a few too many policemen in plays an’ films, sir.’ He became serious again. ‘You were here when Miss Farnsworth was killed, and you still didn’t hear anything?’
‘Not a peep. Of course, voice projection never was one of Valerie’s strong points.’
‘If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir, you don’t seem very upset by Miss Farnsworth’s death,’ Woodend said.
‘You’re wrong there,’ Coates replied. ‘I’m very upset indeed. That’s why I’m already half-pissed before the sun’s even gone down. Not that I cared much for dear Valerie herself – I’d absolutely hate it if you thought that. Valerie wasn’t the kind of woman to inspire affection – she’d have slit her own grandmother’s throat if she’d thought that would get her moved up a couple of lines on the cast list. But she’s certainly chosen an extremely inconvenient time to take her final curtain – at least from my point of view.’
Woodend walked to the dressing table, and picked up the spare glass, which was standing next to a copy of Variety magazine. ‘Perhaps I will have a little drop of malt, if you don’t mind, sir,’ he said.
‘I’m always delighted to corrupt a guardian of the law,’ Coates said, filling the glass almost to the top.
Woodend took a sip of the whisky. It was very smooth, and probably very expensive.
‘What did you mean about it bein’ an inconvenient time for you, sir?’ he asked.
‘Oh, you don’t want to hear the whole heart-rendering story of my life,’ Coates said off-handedly.
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ Woodend told him. ‘Or as much of it as you can get through while I’m suppin’ this excellent malt of yours.’
‘This show was the making of all us actors who appear in it,’ Coates said. ‘Before we were hired by Maddox Row, our greatest ambition was to be promoted from “fourth spear carrier” to “third spear carrier”. Which meant, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, that when we were given the chance to appear on the telly, we didn’t quibble too much about our contracts.’
‘I can quite see that.’
‘So naturally, those contracts we were so eager to sign were heavily weighted in favour of NWTV. The way they’re phrased, we pretty much have to work for them for as long as they want us to, whereas they can get rid of us any time they feel like it. Two years ago, that really didn’t seem to matter much. We were all grateful for the work, even if the show were only to last for a few weeks, as we all thought it would. But times have changed. Maddox Row turned out to be a big success, and now we’re all stars – but we’re still bound by the same bloody contracts.’
‘So you feel a bit insecure?’
‘On the contrary. We’re far too bloody secure – whether we want to be or not.’
‘Have I missed somethin’ here?’ Woodend asked.
‘No, you just haven’t heard the whole story yet. A few weeks ago, an American television company approached me. They were going to make a series about a millionaire from Boston and his British butler. The idea was that the two of them would travel around the States, solving crimes. The Yanks had seen Maddox Row, and they thought I’d be just right for the part of the butler. And they’ll be filming it in Hollywood! Do you realise what that means? If I played my cards right, I could make the move to being in feature films in a couple of years.’
‘So you accepted it?’
‘I said I’d have to talk to Bill Houseman, to see if he’d release me from my contract.’
‘An’ he agreed?’
‘Not at first. Jack Taylor has a lot of fans. Then Bill came up with the idea of killing off one of the characters to boost the viewing figures, and it seemed the best solution all round if I was the one to get the chop.’
‘But Valerie Farnsworth’s death has changed all that?’
‘Got it in one,’ Coates said. ‘Now that Madro has lost it’s most popular character, it wants to hang on to its second most popular – and that, unfortunately, is me.’
There was a tap on the door.
‘Come in,’ Coates shouted.
The door opened, and Jane Todd stepped inside. ‘I was wondering what had happened to you,’ she said to Woodend, with just a hint of a rebuke in her voice.
‘Sorry, lass, I got distracted.’
Jane Todd smiled. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you had much better things to do with your time than listen to me screaming.’
‘You were screamin’, were you?’
‘At the top of my lungs!’
‘I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘I told you the sound-proofing was very good,’ Larry Coates said.
‘Aye, an’ you weren’t wrong,’ Woodend agreed. He turned back to Jane Todd. ‘Come with me, lass. After all that hollerin’ you’ve been doin’, you deserve a cup of tea.’
Eighteen
Ever since she’d got back from her informative tea break with the typists, Jeremy Wilcox had had Monika running around like a blue-arsed fly. First there’d been a memo to deliver to the props department. After that there’d been one for the carpenters, another for casting and a third for the lighting supervisor.
Perhaps the reason behind all the frenzied activity was that he was the kind of man who measured his own importance by the number of instructions he issued to other people, she thought. Or perhaps he was just keeping her busy as a way of ensuring that she didn’t have much time to watch him.
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 an
d 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.
Nineteen
Work 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 nic
e 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.’
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