The Deadline Series Boxset

by Wendy Soliman

  Alexi smiled as Marcel hammed it up for the cameras, banging on about how passionate he was about all things in life, food being just one of them.

  ‘He’ll get all the ladies tuning in, even the ones who hate cooking,’ Cheryl whispered. ‘The camera really does love him and the French accent is the perfect touch. I can see why the producers were so keen to have him. Good job you had the sense to tie him into a contract with us, otherwise…’

  ‘Here come the contestants,’ Alexi said, sitting forward, keen to see what they were like. Details had been closely guarded and all she knew was that there were two men and two women.

  A hush fell over the audience. It was made up of an assortment of crew, suits from Far Reach— the production company Patrick was so keen to make an impression upon—and an array of local big-wigs, including the mayor.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Drew breathed as the first victim, a lady by the name of Juliette Hammond, tottered onto the stage in four-inch heels and a skirt that could have doubled as a belt, leaving precious little to the imagination. She was hotter than the temperatures generated in Marcel’s kitchen and she knew it. There was an audible gasp of appreciation from the entire male audience. Alexi could understand why the men had all sat up and taken notice. The woman was short, stacked and feminine to her well-manicured fingertips. She had a waterfall of long blonde hair artfully cascading over one shoulder and suspiciously green eyes. Odds on she was wearing coloured contacts. Oh hell, even Alexi was starting to think like a bookie.

  Alexi forgave Ms Hammond the heavy-handed makeup which was probably necessary for appearing before the cameras. Did that mean the contestants would have to wear makeup all the time, even when they weren’t ‘performing’? So much for being caught in their downtime looking natural. Juliette’s figure was slender yet curvy and everything about her screamed sex appeal. Even Marcel seemed momentarily speechless which, in Alexi’s experience, was unheard of.

  ‘Wonder if she can cook,’ Cheryl murmured.

  ‘Who gives a shit,’ one of the crew replied.

  Greta Reid was Juliette’s polar opposite; tall, overweight and totally unremarkable. The two male contestants, John Shelton and Anton Heston were different species as well. Anton had the caramel-coloured skin of a West Indian, with a fine head of dreadlocks and laidback attitude to go with it. John was short, balding and on the ugly side of forty. They each did their spiel for the camera, talking about their backgrounds in the catering trade, their love of all things to do with food and what it would mean to them if they won this leg of the competition.

  ‘Heaven help the winner,’ Drew muttered, aware that he or she was guaranteed a year in Marcel’s kitchen, if they could take his temper for that long, learning the trade under his not-so-tender tutelage. The winner of the entire competition would get a big cash reward and an opportunity to feature in a regular TV cooking show.

  When asked by Dakin what he thought of the competitors, Marcel gave them a contemptuous look, including a preening Juliette in his disdain, and said he would reserve judgement until he found out if any of them could actually cook. If Juliette expected the preferential treatment her looks probably guaranteed her with men then Alexi reckoned she was in for a disappointment. In her experience, good looking, charismatic people like Marcel didn’t need the competition. Time would tell.

  Paul reminded them that from now on they would all be on camera. Everything they said and did would be recorded for posterity…or, more precisely, the edification of the viewing public. With those words ringing in their ears the producer called ‘cut’ to the live segment. The contestants didn’t seem too sure what to do with themselves after that. They milled around, drinking champagne, making small talk, looking apprehensive.

  ‘The gloss is already wearing off,’ Drew muttered.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Cheryl replied. ‘I’ll throttle Marcel if he screws this up for us by being too…well, Marcelish.’

  ‘He needs this opportunity as much as they do,’ Alexi said, hoping she was right about that.

  Alexi’s party left them to it and returned to the main part of the hotel. Cosmo and Toby materialised and escorted them back.

  ‘At least that lot will be confined there for the duration,’ Drew said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the annex, ‘and we can keep our distance.’

  Alexi suspected things wouldn’t be quite that straightforward but didn’t disillusion Drew. With four such diverse contestants, living and working at close quarters, there were bound to be fireworks. That, of course, was what the television station was counting on to boost their ratings.

  ‘Who gets to jump Juliette’s bones?’ Patrick asked. ‘Anyone running a book?’

  ‘You won’t get odds on that,’ Drew replied. ‘Marcel decides who wins so she’ll have him in her sights.’

  ‘Actually, I think she’ll go for Paul,’ Alexi said musingly. ‘As presenter he has more influence with Far Reach Productions. Or Evan, the actual producer, of course. There again, perhaps we’re doing her a disservice and she really is here to prove herself as a cook. The skirt and heels might have been the station’s way of vamping up interest.’

  ‘And my baby might sleep through the night,’ Cheryl replied, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Will you let me buy you lunch?’ Patrick asked Alexi in a quiet aside.

  Alexi hesitated. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘We need to talk a bit about your upcoming feature on incest,’ he reminded her.

  Alexi nodded. The idea for the feature came about due to the Natalie Parker case. It transpired that Natalie had been abused by her adoptive father. Not strictly a case of incest, it had still ultimately led to her murder and inspired Alexi to delve more deeply into the whole minefield of parental abuse. The article, she thought, was one of her finest pieces and Patrick agreed with her. The paper’s lawyers, though, had reservations. When didn’t they?

  ‘It would be a business lunch then and you can put it on your generous expense account?’

  ‘Sure it’s business,’ he replied, looking smug.

  Chapter Two

  Tyler Maddox popped the tab on a can of beer, kicked off his shoes, settled back in his recliner and took a long swallow of his drink. He chuckled as the opening credits rolled and the second week’s episode of What’s for Dinner? filled the screens on primetime cable TV. In spite of the lame name, the programme was already topping the ratings and he couldn’t seem to switch on the telly or open a paper without hearing or reading some fascinating new fact about the contestants.

  He was glad for Cheryl and Drew’s sake, and especially Alexi’s, even if it galled him to admit that Alexi’s ex was responsible for getting Hopgood House the lucrative gig. Personal animosities aside, he was at a loss to understand what it was about fly-on-the-wall TV that gripped the nation.

  Marcel was, Ty conceded, a top-notch chef. He also had charisma by the bucket load and the camera was his best friend. He shared his disdain for the contestants’ efforts equally amongst the four of them—no favouritism in his kitchen. But the scenes featuring him and the stacked blonde outside the workplace were another matter. You could literally sense the chemistry between them. There were lots of touchy-feely moments, and Ty figured the nation had to be taking bets on whether Marcel would be caught sneaking into her bedroom for a private tasting.

  Marcel’s biting criticisms bordered on being downright offensive and he had almost reduced the other female contestant to tears on several occasions. Why would people put themselves through that much humiliation just for their fifteen minutes of fame? They either wanted to make it in the world of culinary excellence really badly or had their sights set on the celebrity

  Z list. In the case of the blonde, it was hard for Ty to decide which.

  The fact was that Marcel hadn’t had to up his game much for the benefit of the cameras. Ty happened to know he treated everyone who worked for him with the same withering contempt. The master performer was on every time he en
tered his kitchen. No, make that every time he got out of bed. And still all the wannabe chefs in the area flocked to his door every time he had a vacancy to fill. Go figure.

  When Alexi had got involved with the business side of Cheryl’s hotel, Ty had advised her against offering Marcel a contract that included a percentage of the profits. He hadn’t been able to give her a valid reason for his doubts, other than that prima donnas were always a pain in the backside to control. He was an inspired chef, no question about that. But he was also temperamental, rude and arrogant.

  Jealousy? Ty didn’t think so. As far as he was aware, Marcel hadn’t tried to hit on Alexi. Not that it was any of Ty’s business if he did. Ty had, tentatively, but her response had been lukewarm. He figured that was because Alexi was still hung up on her former boss and smarting from the way he’d treated her. She was newly unemployed, had moved away from everything she knew and promptly stumbled across a murder case that made headlines and shocked the nation. It was enough to unsettle anyone.

  Ty wasn’t sure if he was in the market for a serious relationship so had backed off to give her the space that she needed. More space than he had intended. He hadn’t seen much of her the past few months. A big industrial espionage case had kept him fully involved for more than two months before he cracked it. He’d intended to give her a call when he’d wrapped it up, see if she fancied going out to dinner. Then this latest damned case had reared its head and for the past two weeks he’d been acting as a glorified sales clerk in a jewellery and pawnbroker’s shop in central Newbury. He now knew more about earrings, bangles, and the gold price than he’d realised there was to know.

  The credits rolled at the end of the show, just as his mobile rang. He checked the caller ID and took the call.

  ‘Hey, Cas, what’s up?’ he asked his partner.

  ‘How’s my favourite sales assistant?’

  ‘What’s the difference between a princess and a pear diamond?’

  ‘I give up. What’s the difference?’

  ‘Several hundred quid.’

  ‘Blimey, just because of the shape?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Ty sighed. ‘Please tell me that you’ve found something that just might prevent me from dying of boredom.’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’

  Ty wished the words back the moment they slipped out. Cassie had been a friend to Ty’s former wife but when the marriage fell apart she wanted to lend Ty more than just a shoulder to cry on. Ty was happy to join her fledgling PI agency but wasn’t interested in anything other than a business arrangement. Newly single, he was looking for a fresh beginning, having just left his position as a detective with the Met. under something of a cloud. On paper he and Cassie made a good partnership. She was a geek, could hack into just about anything. Ty was a great detective, good at reading people and with a highly tuned bullshit detector.

  Cassie’s jealousy came to the fore when Ty and Alexi worked together on the Natalie Parker case. Ty told Cassie that he wouldn’t be dictated to when it came to his personal life. They had a frank exchange of views on the subject and now trod on eggshells around one another, studiously avoiding talking about what they did in their downtime.

  Not that Ty had had too much of that lately. This latest case involved a company that specialised in pay day loans, with a head office in Newbury. It was a small organisation trying to make an impression in Berkshire, up against the big boys. The senior partner, Mick Bailey, called Ty in, complaining that they’d had to cover a lot of bogus loans recently. They took the hit in preference to admitting they’d been conned. Mick thought that one of the country-wide companies might be screwing with them but Ty doubted that. Cash Out was too small to bother the guys who advertised their questionable practices on national TV.

  When someone wanted a loan for the first time, they could call into any one of the twenty Cash Out outlets in and around Newbury. They had to supply ID, employment history and so forth, which was sent electronically to Mick’s office. They ran a credit check and within ten minutes the outlet had a yay or nay. The client was then provided with a laminated photo ID card to encourage repeat custom and it was game on. The problem was, as Cassie soon discovered because she did it herself, someone had hacked into Mick’s database and copied various IDs. People were now popping up at various Cash Out facilities, presenting their bogus credentials and getting their loans. Mick had had to cover nearly twenty grand’s worth of such loans over a two-month period.

  Whoever was doing it was clever, and not too greedy. Just a few hundred pounds each time. Nothing to raise red flags. They’d also chosen winter to pull the scam, when youngish people wearing hoodies and muffled up against the cold didn’t look too much like the pictures on their IDs. Did anyone ever? Ty thought of his own passport photo and how little it actually resembled him, thank God.

  When it became apparent that something was definitely up, Mick’s people put out an email alert to all their outlets, warning them to be extra vigilant. Ty shook his head as he thought about how stupid that was. If the scammers had hacked into the database, it was kind of obvious that they’d read any email alerts and change their game accordingly. One of the first things that Ty imposed was an embargo on any online mention of the scam. All future communication with the managers of the outlets would be made by a company rep. in person, on the telephone or, better yet, not at all. Businesses loved having meetings which were often unnecessary and frequently counterproductive but if word leaked out about Cash Out’s problems they could lose customer confidence.

  ‘If we want to catch the perpetrators,’ he’d told Mick, ‘we need to let them think we’re not on to them.’

  Ty took an in-depth look at the bogus transactions and found that the majority had taken place in the shop he was now working in. Most loans were made at the busiest part of the day and almost all of them were dealt with by one particular clerk, a guy by the name of Dean Davis. He had been taken on three years ago, straight from school, lived with his mother in a modest house locally and had no criminal record. He was friendly enough and didn’t show any of the nervousness Ty would expect from someone ripping off his employers. He said little about his private life to the other clerks, never mentioned hobbies, a girlfriend, holiday plans—any of the normal stuff the others talked about when it was quiet. He never went for an after work drink with his colleagues either, always having a handy excuse. No law about being private, but it also seemed a little odd. There again, perhaps Ty had a suspicious mind.

  Make that definitely.

  Davis had followed the rules to the letter and the loans had been made to a raft of different people, none of whom looked suspicious, Ty acknowledged, as he trawled through hours’ worth of CCTV footage. Davis couldn’t be blamed for not smelling a rat. They all had identification that looked kosher—Davis had photocopied them each time he made a loan, which was part of the company’s procedure—and there was no way to point the finger at him. Yet.

  ‘Unfortunately my progress, such as it is, will be insufficient to earn your undying love,’ Cassie said. ‘All I actually called to say is that I’ve managed to take a look at Davis’s bank account. He spends two weeks of each month banking with his local branch and the other two having them bank with him.’

  Ty grinned, amused at Cassie’s way of describing the guy’s overdraft. ‘So, if he is involved, he’s too clever to bank his ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Looks that way and, if it isn’t him, I’m all out of suggestions. No one else working in that shop throws up any alarm signals and I’ve looked into them all. Even so, Davis has dealt with most of the bogus claims, and that can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

  ‘I did notice on CCTV that a couple of the people waiting for loans hung back, looking in display cabinets and stuff, until Davis was free to serve them. Most people looking for a loan don’t have the cash to shop for jewellery and just want to do the transaction as quickly as possible.’

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sp; ‘Then Davis definitely deserves a closer look,’ Cassie said.

  Ty sighed. ‘I guess that means I’m going out tonight.’

  ‘Hot date?’ she asked, sounding a little too casual.

  ‘Yeah, tailing Davis, and it’s frigging freezing out.’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby. Put your thermals on and you’ll be fine. Where are you headed, anyway?’

  ‘No idea. I overheard Davis on his mobile in the break room today, arranging to meet someone at nine this evening. He ended the call when he heard me coming, so I have no idea where or who. Might just be a girlfriend.’

  ‘Take care on that motorbike.’

  A bike wasn’t an attractive option in such arctic conditions but it was the best way to get about and, interestingly, a good vehicle on which to tail a person. It was surprising how little notice people took of anonymous bikes. The helmets were a great disguise, the bike nippy in traffic and easy to park.

  ‘The things I do to earn a crust.’

  ‘Take care and let me know how it goes.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Sighing, Tyler took Cassie’s advice and pulled on thermals and biking leathers. You had to take the rough with the smooth in this game but he had no intention of freezing his nuts off if it turned out to be a long wait.

  He knew where Davis lived and pulled the bike into an alleyway opposite, killing the engine. There was a light on in the front room. Hopefully he wasn’t meeting the mystery person in his own place. When the front door opened twenty minutes later, Ty felt vindicated. Davis appeared, climbed into his ten-year-old Vauxhall and drove off without looking to see if anyone was loitering or seeming the least bit furtive. The lights remained on inside the house and Ty noticed a figure moving around behind the thin curtains. The mother, presumably.

  Davis’s living arrangements were not Ty’s concern, but where he was off to now could be. Ty gave him a head start, then fired up the bike and followed a safe distance behind. Davis negotiated his way around Newbury’s one way system and turned off in the direction of Lambourn.