Dead on Cue (15 page)

‘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 . . .'

‘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.'

E
ver 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
.