Twenty-Six
False modesty had never been one of Monika Paniatowski’s failings, and she was well aware she could sometimes change the atmosphere of a room just by walking into it. Normally, however, the atmosphere she created was one of interest – and perhaps of speculation. This time, as she entered the scriptwriters’ office, it was as if she’d brought a chill Arctic wind with her – a wind which had instantly frozen Ben Drabble and Paddy Colligan to their desks.
For a few moments the icemen were perfectly still, then Drabble, thawing a little under Monika’s questioning gaze, managed to say,
‘It’s . . . it’s Miss Peignton, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Monika agreed.
‘And . . . er . . . how can we help you, Miss Peignton?’
‘Mr Wilcox would like to see copies of the draft scripts right away, please,’ Monika told him.
The two writers exchanged uneasy glances.
‘To tell you the truth, we’ve hit a few snags we didn’t expect, and there’s not much to show him yet,’ Ben Drabble said awkwardly.
‘Yes, we’ve still not got beyond a very rough outline,’ Paddy Colligan chimed in, with very little conviction.
‘Mr Wilcox expected that,’ Monika said. ‘He told me to ask for whatever you’d got.’
The muscles in Ben Drabble’s left cheek twitched as he remembered the phone call he’d had from the Red House Restaurant not ten minutes earlier. ‘Honestly, we don’t really have anything at all,’ he said apologetically.
The office door swung open so violently that it crashed noisily against the wall, and turning, Monika saw Diana Houseman framed in the doorway.
The platinum blonde seemed to have lost all of the self-assurance she’d displayed the last time they’d met, the sergeant thought. Mrs Houseman’s hair was dishevelled, her cheeks were unnaturally red. But it was her eyes which were really telling – they were as wide and troubled as those of a frightened rabbit caught unexpectedly in the beam of a car’s headlamps.
‘I . . . I thought you’d be alone,’ Diana Houseman gasped.
Who was she talking to? Monika wondered. Drabble? Or Colligan? Both of them looked shocked, but more by the sudden nature of her instrusion than the fact that she was there at all.
‘I need . . . I need to talk to you,’ Diana Houseman continued, still looking in the general direction of both men, so it was impossible to say which one she was addressing. ‘It’s very important.’
‘We’re always here to help in any way we can, Mrs Houseman,’ Ben Drabble said awkwardly. He looked pointedly at Monika. ‘If you’d excuse us, Miss Peignton . . .?’
‘But what about the script?’ Monika asked, more to see how he would react than anything else.
‘I’ve told you, we’ve nothing to show to Jeremy Wilcox at the moment,’ Ben Drabble said irritably.
‘He won’t like that,’ Monika replied.
Ben Drabble snapped the pencil he was holding in his hands. ‘I don’t care whether he likes it or not,’ he said. ‘If Jeremy Wilcox has got any complaints, tell him to take them up with the producer. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving us . . .’
Yes, but leaving who, exactly? Monika wondered as she backed out of the room and stepped into the corridor. Did Drabble mean all three of them? Or was he just talking about himself and Diana Houseman?
How many people had he and Constable Pickup spoken to in Sladebury? Rutter asked himself as he drove back to Whitebridge.
Fifteen? More than that?
And what had they learned from all those interviews? Absolutely bugger all of any use!
Val Farnsworth had been a smashing kid, the villagers had all agreed – a bit wild sometimes, but there’d been no real harm in her – and they were tremendously proud of what she’d achieved.
But there was one person in the village who didn’t share everyone else’s admiration of Val, Rutter reminded himself, remembering what the landlord of the Red Lion had almost said. So perhaps it was still possible to squeeze one small pearl of information out of the day after all.
He turned to the constable who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him. ‘Tell me about your Uncle Arthur,’ he said.
Pickup jumped, as if he’d been given an unexpected electric shock. ‘What was that, sir?’
‘Your Uncle Arthur. Tell me why he doesn’t like Val Farnsworth.’
‘How did you . . . who told you—?’
‘That doesn’t really matter,’ Rutter interrupted. ‘I am right, aren’t I? He doesn’t like her? Because of what happened with Ellie Tomkins?’
‘Well, yes, in a manner of—’
‘So tell me what happened.’
The young constable had turned as red as a beetroot. ‘It all happened a long time ago, sir,’ he said awkwardly, ‘back when I was nowt but a nipper.’
‘So you don’t really know?’
‘I know all right. What I wasn’t told, I’ve managed to piece together myself, but even so . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, it isn’t something you like to talk about, is it?’
‘How will I know that until I’ve heard what you’ve got to say?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ Pickup said reluctantly. ‘My Uncle Arthur an’ Ellie Tomkins had been walkin’ out together for over three years, and they were just six months off getting wed. Then Ellie broke off the engagement, and went to Manchester to live with Val.’
‘And your uncle blames Val?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Isn’t that a bit harsh?’ Rutter asked. ‘There could have been any number of reasons why Ellie decided not to go through with the marriage, and if Val Farnsworth was kind enough to offer her a roof over her head . . .’
Pickup sighed. ‘You don’t understand, sir.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘No. You’re like all the people in Sladebury. They thought Val was just being kind, an’ all – but she bloody wasn’t. Ellie didn’t just go to live in Val’s house, you see. She went to really live with her . . . if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ Rutter said pensively. ‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘They said what?’ Jeremy Wilcox demanded.
‘They said that they really didn’t have any new bits of script to show you,’ Monika answered levelly.
‘Not even for Friday night’s show?’
‘Apparently not.’
Wilcox had been sitting in his swivel chair, but now he got up and began to pace the room. ‘They’re like the Freemasons,’ he said angrily.
‘Who are?’
‘The people who’ve worked on Madro right from the beginning. No, I take that back – they’re worse than the Masons. At least the funny-handshake brigade are usually willing to let you join them if you’ve got the right qualifications and think you have something to contribute. But not this lot! Oh no! If you weren’t here at the birth of the show, you’re nothing – and you never can be anything, no matter how good you are.’
‘If you’d tell me what you’d like me to be getting on with, Mr Wilcox . . .’ Monika said, with all the uncertainty she imagined a real assistant would feel in this situation.
Then she saw that she might as well not have bothered with the ham acting, because he wasn’t even listening.
The director’s pace had quickened, so that now he was covering the length of his office in three angry strides, then swinging round to repeat the action in the opposite direction. And though he was still talking, it was fairly obvious that he wasn’t talking to her.
‘They never wanted me on the show in the first place,’ he said angrily. ‘Especially Bill Bloody Houseman! He’s always been the worst of the lot. He wanted a poodle, not a director – somebody who’d be happy to sit at his feet and wait to be told what to do. And now they’ve all got together and think that they can freeze me out. Well, they’re wrong – oh so wrong. I’m sticking with this show until I’m ready to go. And if anyone tries to get in my way, they’re go
ing to be very, very sorry.’
Twenty-Seven
Woodend was late for the meeting in the Drum and Monkey. He hadn’t planned to be, but he was, and as a result Rutter and Paniatowski found themselves alone together in the bar. For the first couple of minutes they both tried to maintain a friendly façade by making safe – almost sterile – comments on topics that even they could not possibly disagree over, but that soon became a strain, too, and they lapsed into awkward silence.
It was a relief to them both when the chief inspector finally walked into the bar a good twenty minutes after he’d intended to.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I tried to get away earlier, but it’s not always easy to walk out on the Brass.’
‘You were discussing what should happen now the chief’s in hospital, were you?’ Rutter asked.
‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘For all them buggers have muttered about how useless John Dinnage was in the past, they’re runnin’ round like headless chickens at the thought that he might not be there any longer.’
‘How does it look?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Not good,’ Woodend said heavily. ‘Even if he does pull through this time, I doubt he’ll ever be fit enough to take the drivin’ seat again.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll miss John. He’s been a bloody good bobby. An’ I don’t even want to think about what useless prat they’ll probably put in to replace him.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Capstan Full Strengths. ‘But enough of that,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with the job we’ve come here to do, shall we?’
For the next half an hour, Woodend and Paniatowski did most of the talking. Rutter, for his part, was quite content to keep his bombshell to himself for a while – if not exactly holding it back, then at least waiting until he could explode it with maximum effect.
It was as Paniatowski was outlining that afternoon’s incident in the scriptwriters’ office that Woodend held his hand up for silence. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again and said, ‘I don’t like the picture I’m startin’ to build up. I don’t like it at all.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘It’s all a bit too neat. A bit too much like paintin’ by numbers.’ The chief inspector shrugged. ‘But then even if it is obvious, there’s still no reason why it can’t be the truth, is there?’
‘What’s obvious?’ Paniatowski said. ‘Do you think you know who killed Valerie Farnsworth?’
‘Aye. An’ I think I know why.’
Rutter grinned at the look of exasperation which had appeared on Paniatowski’s face. He might have looked like that once, too, but he had been working for Cloggin’-it Charlie for long enough now to accept that the oblique statements and long pauses were vintage Woodend, and that the easiest thing to do was to let him move at his own pace.
‘It’s not a motive that would make me want to kill,’ the chief inspector continued, ‘but then I’m not him, am I?’
Rutter wondered idly how long Paniatowski could hold out. He had counted to eight when she finally said, ‘So what is the motive?’
‘It’s very simple,’ Woodend told her. ‘Valerie Farnsworth was killed as a way of ensurin’ the continued success of Maddox Row.’
‘Go on,’ Paniatowski said.
‘After a long run as an unprecedented success, the show was starting to lose some of its audience. So what could the producer, the man who reaps most of the rewards for success – an’ takes most of the blame for failure – do about it? Well, killin’ off one of the leadin’ characters has worked for other shows, an’ so Bill Houseman started playin’ around with the idea of doin’ just that on Maddox Row. But Madro isn’t like any of the shows that have gone before it – it’s trail blazin’ an’ unique – so there were no guarantees that the same old solutions would work this time. On the other hand, if instead of just killin’ off a character, you actually killed off the actress who’s playin’ her—’
‘But why does it have to be Houseman?’ Paniatowski interrupted. ‘Why couldn’t it have been someone else who’d lose out if Maddox Row went down the drain?’
‘Because it matters a lot more to him than it does to anybody else,’ Woodend said. ‘When you’ve been involved with as many murders as I have, you find you start askin’ yourself what it’d take to make you kill. Well, I think I’ve come up with an answer for myself – the only reason I’d murder anybody would be to protect my daughter.’
‘Just your daughter?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Not your wife as well?’
‘Joan an’ me have been together for a long time, an’ if anythin’ ever happened to her, it would be the end of me,’ Woodend said seriously. ‘But I still don’t think I could force myself to kill for her. Annie’s different. I know I’ve not always been the ideal father . . .’ He paused. ‘No, let’s be honest, I’ve never been the ideal father, I’ve not even come close to it. But I do bear part of the responsibility for bringin’ Annie into the world, an’ that gives me a duty to look after her. She might be all grown-up now, an’ not even want my help any more, but that doesn’t matter. However she sees herself, to me she’s still my baby. An’ Maddox Row is Houseman’s!’
‘But even if you’re right, why choose the most popular character in the whole programme?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘He’d been planning to kill off Larry Coates’s character – why not kill off Coates himself?’
It was the moment to drop the bombshell, Rutter decided. ‘I think I might have an answer to that,’ he said, smiling.
‘Go on, lad,’ Woodend said.
‘Monika thinks that Diana Houseman is – for want of a better phrase – a loose woman,’ Rutter said.
Paniatowski frowned. ‘From what I’ve seen today, I’d say she’s having it off with somebody at the studio – and I’ve got a good idea who,’ she admitted.
‘I think you’re only seeing one side of the picture,’ Rutter said.
‘So why don’t you show us the other side,’ Paniatowski countered.
Rutter turned to Woodend. ‘When you were talking to George Adams this morning, he accused Valerie Farnsworth of biting the hand that fed her – Bill Houseman’s hand – didn’t he?’
‘That’s right, he did,’ Woodend agreed.
‘And when you pressed him, he said it was a personal matter rather than a professional one.’
‘True.’
‘So what you have to ask yourself is how Valerie Farnsworth hurt Houseman in a personal way.’
‘Why don’t you just tell us – since you’ve obviously already worked it out?’ Paniatowski said sourly.
‘I learned something very interesting about Valerie Farnsworth this afternoon,’ Rutter said. ‘She was a lesbian.’
‘Oh well, if she was a lesbian, she got no more than she deserved,’ Monika Paniatowski said. ‘There’s no point in us wasting any more of our time investigating a lesbian murder, is there?’
‘Shut up, Monika,’ Woodend said. ‘I think Bob may be on to something here.’
‘Perhaps Diana Houseman is having an affair with a man at the studio, as the sergeant seems to think,’ Rutter said, ‘but perhaps she was also having an affair with a woman.’
‘With Valerie Farnsworth?’
‘Exactly. Now it’s possible that Houseman doesn’t know she’s having an affair with this man. But it’s equally possible that he does, and has forced himself to come to terms with it. He wouldn’t be the first man to play it that way.’
‘No,’ Woodend agreed. ‘He wouldn’t.’
‘But to find out your wife has been betraying you with another woman . . . well, that’s an entirely different matter. I can’t think of any man I know who’d be willing to accept that.’
‘So you’re saying that any man who discovered his wife was having an affair with a lesbian would kill her?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No, of course not,’ Rutter said dismissively. ‘But given that he was planning to murder someone, anyway, wouldn’t that discovery
automatically make her the prime candidate? Wouldn’t it be the perfect way of killing two birds with one stone – of protecting his programme and getting revenge on Val Farnsworth for the way she’s humiliated him?’
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski said grudgingly. ‘Yes, it does make sense. But even if you’re both right about Houseman, it won’t be easy to prove it.’
‘Won’t be easy!’ Woodend repeated. ‘Given the chaos in the studio on the night of the murder, and the fact that we’ve got over two dozen people without watertight alibis, it could be nearly bloody impossible.’
Woodend knew that something was wrong the moment he turned the corner and saw his wife standing in front of their cottage door.
Joan never waited on the doorstep for him! When she heard his car approaching, she automatically switched on the kettle and the television, then started cooking the meal. That was what she always did. That was what she’d done every working day of her entire married life!
He brought the car to a halt at the far side of the house, and as he put on the handbrake, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He didn’t even have time to get out of the vehicle before Joan was by his side.
‘What’s the matter, love?’ he asked fearfully.
‘Annie . . .’
‘What’s happened to her?’
‘She . . . she told me she was goin’ over Rosemary’s house after school, an’ that Rosemary’s dad would bring her home.’
‘Then what are you worryin’ about?’
‘I went up to her room about half an hour ago, to see if she had any washin’ she needed doin’. The first thing I noticed was that her suitcase wasn’t on top of her wardrobe, and then I saw this lyin’ on her bed.’ She thrust a piece of paper into Woodend’s hand. ‘Read it! Read it, Charlie.’
‘Dear Mam and Dad,’ Woodend read,
I know this letter will come as a shock to you, and for a long time I’ve put off writing it, but now I don’t feel as if I have any choice. I’ve tried to like Lancashire, but I just can’t. I miss London and I miss my friends. So I’ve gone back.
The words clawed their way around Woodend’s brain like a ferret trying to bite its way out of a sack.
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