fist to Cleo’s chin. “Or I’ll fucking feed you.”
Cleo’s dread of the police was matched only by her fear of accidentally eating. The former model twisted her face away. For a second, it was knives drawn – just two women and the scent of sweet fat – then, almost imperceptibly, Cleo gave Tess the nod to proceed.
“The Monday Jeenie was killed,” said Tess. “Did you change her travel arrangements? Did you send an earlier car to take her to the
Pardon My Garden
shoot?”
“No, I bloody didn’t,” she hissed. “I’m an agent. I supervise celebrity careers
not
car hire, as I told
your
people when
they
called to shift her pick-up times.”
“You–? My people did
what?
”
Seeing Tess’ confusion, Cleo relaxed. She pushed Tess’ hand down, and, checking Selleck was still at the bar, proceeded to explain – in withering detail – how little Tess knew. On the Friday afternoon before Jeenie’s death, Cleo had taken a call from someone claiming to represent
Pardon My Garden
. They’d told her of a last-minute change to Monday’s shoot: Jeenie’s call time had been brought forward and a car would collect her at the new,
earlier
time of 6.15am.
Aware no such call had come from
her
production team, (Friday afternoon? They’d been in the pub), Tess asked if Cleo had recognised the voice. “Of course not,” she said. “You know I don’t talk to civilians if I can help it – and no, before you ask, I didn’t ask the caller’s name. They could have been a man, woman or dog for all I cared. I
did
pass the message on to Jeenie, however, and now I
must
get back to Rod. He needs me.”
Rod needed a decent straightening shampoo, but Tess let her go. Cleo had given her more than she’d hoped: confirmation Jeenie Dempster
was
the victim of a carefully planned abduction. Her captor knew her filming schedule – and had a direct line to her agent. Her killer had been close to her, personally or professionally… or both.
“Looking for me, are you? You got my message?” Fergal Flatts pushed out of the throng, and almost fell on her chest.
“What message?” she asked, pushing him off, and wiping down the hot, damp patch he’d left on her shirt. Though she generally had time for the genial Irishman, he was a sloppy drunk – the kind who sprayed you with laughter one second, sobbed on you the next, spilling liquor with his confidences, and then disappearing in a cloud as black as his Guinness. Tess had enjoyed many post-show drinks with Fergal – he was a habituee of the Backchat Bar pretty much from end credits until last orders. Though his jokes always started thick and fast, they thinned as the crowd did. Tess would leave him talking to his pint, laughing alone. “You never left me a message.”
“I didn’t? I meant to.” The funny man rocked on his feet. The thick white head of his pint of Guinness slid slowly down the side of his glass. “I’ve got information.”
“For me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t
dream
of giving Sandy the satisfaction,” he belched quietly. “And when I
tried
to collar that handsome policeman at the bar, well…” Fergal tried to aim his mouth at the top of his drink; missed. “He didn’t look interested.”
Tess looked over at the bar. DS Selleck was now trapped between Mrs Plimpton and a bawdy lesbian once known for her stand-up comedy, now more famous for her tireless promotion of a brand of bag-less hoovers.
“So, it’s your lucky day.” He tilted his pint at her. “The information’s all yours. But only because I know –
I know –
you hate Sandy Plimpton as much as me. She’s an old witch, isn’t she? So help me God. Going after that Fat Alan fella like that – but you’ll take care of him, won’t you? See him right? Because I daren’t say anything, you see. What I’m going to tell you now,” he staggered forward, spilling Guinness down his jacket,”You never heard it from me, see? I’ll swear blind.”
Tess halted him. “What have you
Cleo’s dread of the police was matched only by her fear of accidentally eating. The former model twisted her face away. For a second, it was knives drawn – just two women and the scent of sweet fat – then, almost imperceptibly, Cleo gave Tess the nod to proceed.
“The Monday Jeenie was killed,” said Tess. “Did you change her travel arrangements? Did you send an earlier car to take her to the
Pardon My Garden
shoot?”
“No, I bloody didn’t,” she hissed. “I’m an agent. I supervise celebrity careers
not
car hire, as I told
your
people when
they
called to shift her pick-up times.”
“You–? My people did
what?
”
Seeing Tess’ confusion, Cleo relaxed. She pushed Tess’ hand down, and, checking Selleck was still at the bar, proceeded to explain – in withering detail – how little Tess knew. On the Friday afternoon before Jeenie’s death, Cleo had taken a call from someone claiming to represent
Pardon My Garden
. They’d told her of a last-minute change to Monday’s shoot: Jeenie’s call time had been brought forward and a car would collect her at the new,
earlier
time of 6.15am.
Aware no such call had come from
her
production team, (Friday afternoon? They’d been in the pub), Tess asked if Cleo had recognised the voice. “Of course not,” she said. “You know I don’t talk to civilians if I can help it – and no, before you ask, I didn’t ask the caller’s name. They could have been a man, woman or dog for all I cared. I
did
pass the message on to Jeenie, however, and now I
must
get back to Rod. He needs me.”
Rod needed a decent straightening shampoo, but Tess let her go. Cleo had given her more than she’d hoped: confirmation Jeenie Dempster
was
the victim of a carefully planned abduction. Her captor knew her filming schedule – and had a direct line to her agent. Her killer had been close to her, personally or professionally… or both.
“Looking for me, are you? You got my message?” Fergal Flatts pushed out of the throng, and almost fell on her chest.
“What message?” she asked, pushing him off, and wiping down the hot, damp patch he’d left on her shirt. Though she generally had time for the genial Irishman, he was a sloppy drunk – the kind who sprayed you with laughter one second, sobbed on you the next, spilling liquor with his confidences, and then disappearing in a cloud as black as his Guinness. Tess had enjoyed many post-show drinks with Fergal – he was a habituee of the Backchat Bar pretty much from end credits until last orders. Though his jokes always started thick and fast, they thinned as the crowd did. Tess would leave him talking to his pint, laughing alone. “You never left me a message.”
“I didn’t? I meant to.” The funny man rocked on his feet. The thick white head of his pint of Guinness slid slowly down the side of his glass. “I’ve got information.”
“For me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t
dream
of giving Sandy the satisfaction,” he belched quietly. “And when I
tried
to collar that handsome policeman at the bar, well…” Fergal tried to aim his mouth at the top of his drink; missed. “He didn’t look interested.”
Tess looked over at the bar. DS Selleck was now trapped between Mrs Plimpton and a bawdy lesbian once known for her stand-up comedy, now more famous for her tireless promotion of a brand of bag-less hoovers.
“So, it’s your lucky day.” He tilted his pint at her. “The information’s all yours. But only because I know –
I know –
you hate Sandy Plimpton as much as me. She’s an old witch, isn’t she? So help me God. Going after that Fat Alan fella like that – but you’ll take care of him, won’t you? See him right? Because I daren’t say anything, you see. What I’m going to tell you now,” he staggered forward, spilling Guinness down his jacket,”You never heard it from me, see? I’ll swear blind.”
Tess halted him. “What have you
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