by A D FOX
The forensics team had quickly arrived on the scene to cordon it off, photograph it and comb it for evidence. DC Sharon Mulligan arrived around the same time - and it was she who got to do the big reveal. Staring up at the body, held up in a T shape but sagging, Christ-like, against the tape, she said: ‘It’s Dave Perry. You know… the BBC Radio Wessex breakfast show guy.’ They had found an abandoned Audi a little way down the lane and she’d just got the DVLA trace on the number plate.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Kate, feeling her scalp prickle. Her waste of time misper had just morphed into big news.
‘I always thought he’d be better looking than that,’ the detective constable added.
‘He’s dead, Sharon,’ said Kate. ‘And his eyes have been pecked out. Cut him some slack.’
He was cut some slack as soon as the photographer, forensics and pathologist had done their thing. It was a small site, offering up no clues, and the Audi had been collected and taken back to the police pound for further scrutiny. The gaffer tape was sliced through and Dave Perry’s remains were carefully detached, lowered to the ground and put into a body bag.
‘He was stabbed in the ribs,’ said Bryan De'ath, the pathologist. Everyone called him Death. He knew it. He didn’t even roll his eyes any more. A small, plump man of around forty, nominative determinism had had its way with Bryan; he was always destined to be either a pathologist, an undertaker or a serial killer. Kate was glad he’d gone for pathologist; she liked Bryan, even more for his stoicism in the face of that curse of a name.
‘Was that what killed him?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said De'ath. ‘There are only superficial wounds. To get him to do as he was told, I would guess. I can’t be certain, of course, before I get him back to the mortuary, but I would hazard he died of suffocation. The material in his mouth and up his nose is dense grey foam. It looks very much like the windsock of a microphone.’
They took that in, wordlessly, for a beat and Kate realised she’d be seeing a lot more of BBC Radio Wessex from now on. It seemed likely one of their mic socks was missing.
‘Doesn’t look like a spur of the moment thing,’ said Michaels. ‘Gaffer tape… choking… Could it be a sex game, gone wrong?’
‘He’s fully clothed,’ said Kate. ‘And taped up like that, he wasn’t getting his rocks off. Can’t imagine anyone else was, either. I mean… in a hotel room, with a lubed-up root vegetable and some stockings on, maybe… but this isn’t that. It’s a show, though, isn’t it? Whoever it was, they wanted him found like that.’
‘Better get Yankie-boy on the case,’ said Michaels.
Kate nodded. This did seem like a job for Conrad Temple, their occasional guest criminal psychologist.
‘We need to let the super know too,’ she said. ‘Radio station manager is a friend of his,’ she explained to Sharon and De'ath. ‘Kapoor sent us round to talk to Robert Larkhill, the managing editor, just this morning because he’d reported this guy missing. I thought it was just a bit of time-wasting.’
‘We’d better get a trace on that CrimeStoppers call too,’ said Sharon. ‘I mean… that could be the killer, couldn’t it?’
Kate nodded. She was well placed to understand that killers sometimes did it for attention. And bumping off a well-known BBC presenter was definitely going to get that. It was a regional Jill Dando situation. God, how wrong she had been about this one. She rubbed her face, embarrassed at herself. She should have better instincts after all this time. Still, she wasn’t psychic.
She closed her eyes as an image of Lucas Henry flashed through her mind. Stop it. She squeezed the plasticine. Lucas Henry wasn’t psychic either. He’d be the first person to point that out. He was just a dowser. A practical, normal, everyday, perfectly average killer-tracking dowser.
And possibly a practical, normal, perfectly average everyday killer.
5
Gemma Henshall got herself a coffee with lots of sugar and gave Moira a guilty smile. Staff weren’t meant to help themselves to the reception hot drinks. There was a coin operated machine in the lobby outside the newsroom but the coffee in that tasted like dead dog. Or what she imagined dead dog might taste like if roasted, ground up, diluted and dribbled through a plastic nozzle with a lacklustre squirt of UHT milk.
Moira wasn’t a big stickler over the occasional indulgence, though, especially when she could see a staffer had put in a very long day. And Gemma had put in a very long day. Well over twelve hours. As researcher on the breakfast show she was contracted to work from 5am until 1pm but, like many young, keen broadcast assistants, she put in far more than that, unpaid. If you wanted to make your mark in broadcasting, you put in the free overtime; got ahead of the competition. Alongside James, the producer, it was down to her to keep the breakfast show lively, relevant and exciting, simultaneously appealing to the mum on the school run, the businessman on his way to the office and a couple of retirees in their sixties, known as Phil and Sue.
Phil and Sue represented the station’s heartland; loyal and committed after years of listening; the mum was a replenisher, in her thirties or forties with kids at school, beginning to appreciate community, the businessman was in his fifties and interested in local politics and the DowJones index. In regional radio nirvana they'd be scoring twentysomethings too. Teens were a lost cause but kids would be listening because parents and grandparents were.
That was the task set out for Gemma, James and - when he was there - Dave Perry. It was down to Gemma and James to find the topics, jack the guests and set up the talking points to the satisfaction of EVERYONE. It was, as any sane person in radio would know, totally fucking impossible. The more you tried to please the replenishers, the more you’d piss off the retirees. The more business you put into the mix, the more the mums on the school run would switch off. The more six-year-olds you lined up to sing the jingles in Jingle Singer of the Week, the more you sickened that share index obsessed businessman. The more you played 21st century hits, the more the over seventies would clamour for rock’n’roll. And so on. An ever turning wheel of discontent chasing satisfaction chasing disengagement chasing loyalty. It was utterly exhausting, but still she tried.
She tried and tried, because she loved radio. Like nearly everyone else she worked with, she just loved it, despite the relentless way it consumed her life. It had never occurred to her to walk away from it, not even since the Dave Perry situation had arisen a few weeks ago.
Having him off work for the past couple of days had been pretty pleasant, even if running the show with Sheila had been hard work. Sheila, in her sixties, wasn’t really cut out for the breakfast show. Jack and Spencer would probably have been a better fit, and they were gagging for it, of course, but Sheila had been drafted in at the last minute because she was already in the station, grudgingly - and bafflingly - working on the What’s On bulletins at 6.15am when Dave had still not shown up.
Sheila had been the mid-morning host until four weeks ago, when she’d been unceremoniously bumped off it to make way for Jack and Spencer. After decades working for Wessex she was, perhaps understandably, pretty aggrieved. But she’d swallowed it and relocated to the What’s On corner with an outward show of grace. Being in the building when the urgent call went out for a swing jock, she’d stepped in with a swirl of chiffon scarf and Estée Lauder, opened the fader on the dot of 6.00am, and nobly steered the unwieldy ship of breakfast across the morning rush hour.
Gemma liked Sheila but knew she was totally wrong for breakfast. Far too gentle in her dealings with local councillors and phone-in guests who waffled on for way too long, she overran the news junction three times and crashed the pips at the top of the hour twice. When it came to politics or current affairs she was about as incisive as a Labradoodle. Yet Sheila wanted the slot, clearly, and thought she had a shot at it. She was wrong though; she had never been cut out for it; her whole personality shrieked mid-morning or mid-afternoon or radio roadshow meet and greeter. The listeners loved her but they wouldn’t tolerat
e her for long on the fastest, busiest show of the day. It was like trying to work your way along the fast lane of the M25 and getting stuck behind a daffodil-yellow Morris Traveller doing 45mph. Charming… but fucking annoying after two minutes.
Still, at least Sheila hadn’t yet tried to grab her researcher’s tits. Gemma sighed into her coffee as she took a seat in reception. It was 5.40pm and she should be home in her tiny flat by now, having an early dinner and getting ready for bed at nine. The daily crack of sparrow-fart clock-ins pretty much wiped out all hope of a social life but this was entirely normal for radio station wannabes. She went nowhere and met nobody. The only action she’d had in months was the unwelcome attentions of The Voice of Wessex.
She cringed when she thought about it. She’d really looked up to Dave when she first arrived on staff six months ago after nearly a year of casual shifts. Getting the breakfast researcher gig had been so exciting and she later heard that Dave had put a word in for her. Or so he said. After a while it became clear why. He was always checking her out and making suggestive remarks, which he liked to wave off as blunt-speaking and being anti-PC. ‘I call it as I see it,’ he liked to say, which, in her case, meant, ‘If I like the look of your arse, it’s only honest of me to tell you.’
She ignored his honest appraisals of her backside and, in due course, her breasts, hips, legs and face, because she just didn’t want to think it was important. She didn’t want to think he was one of those 70s throwback jocks who thought this kind of thing was just normal. He was only in his 50s, for god’s sake - young enough to be better acquainted with the dos and don’ts of workplace interactions with a colleague young enough to be his daughter.
He was smart enough never to say any of this stuff when James, his efficient and rather monosyllabic producer, was in the room. It was always when it was just the two of them in Studio A that he would take the opportunity to squeeze past her, resting his hands on her hips and brushing himself along her bum.
‘Alright, my little Gem,’ he liked to say, as he went. No matter how much she pulled away, abruptly, from him, he refused to get the message. She suspected this was all part of the game for him; he liked the chase. Had anyone else had experiences like this with Dave? She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to be that girl.
Until last week, when he’d really pushed it too far. He’d found her in an editing suite, recording some links for his promo trailer. He wandered in on some thin pretext, and started rubbing her shoulders. She’d stiffened immediately and said: ‘Dave - really - I don’t need a massage. I just need to get on, OK?’ But instead of backing off, he’d just lowered his mouth to her ear and his hands to her breasts, having a little play as he whispered: ‘Come on, little Gem, you know you want this. You’re as tight as piano wire. I can loosen you up.’
She’d got to her feet, ripped off her headphones and told him to fuck off.
Even then he’d just laughed. ‘Lighten up, Gem!’ he’d said, holding his palms up as if she was being hysterical. ‘We’re just having a bit of fun here. You’re way too young to be so uptight! Jeez - is it your time of the month or something?’
She had gaped at him; fury and mortification cutting her throat just when she needed a good comeback. He’d carried on laughing as he opened the soundproof door, allowing the busy atmos of the newsroom to flow in. ‘Don’t worry about it, Gemma,’ he said, loudly. ‘It’s no problem. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Then she’d sat down at the desk, heart pounding and hands shaking with fury. How could that have just happened? It was then that she’d noticed her screen where the track was still visibly rolling; the red RECORD light glowing above a series of seismic spikes. Gulping and trying to regulate her breathing, she’d saved the track and spooled it back. There, on the screen and in her headphones, was the full interaction between herself and Dave. She pressed her hands to her mouth, realising what she had here. What she might do with it. His whispering was hard to make out but her reaction to it was loud and clear… as was his comment about her being uptight and pre-menstrual.
Think. She needed to think. Taking this to Rob Larkhill could be the answer to her problems… but did she really want to? Sexism and harassment claims at the BBC had peaked in recent years and although many of the complainants had won compensation an awful lot of them saw their careers sidelined not long after. Did she want to get a reputation as a ‘complainant’ before her career had even started?
So she’d saved the file in one of her private folders, marked TBC (to be considered) and had thought about not much else since. That had been two weeks ago. More comments had followed since, more unwanted contact, but as yet no more tit-squeezing. The stress of it all was telling on her, though. Last week she’d begun to think of leaving; maybe getting work at a sister station like Solent or Berkshire.
Friday had been the worst. He’d brought chocolates from a fan into the tele-in area and, right next to James, had popped one into her mouth while she was on the phone to a listener, sliding his fingers in with it and stroking her lower lip as he withdrew them. At that moment, as Elsie from Wilton guessed at that morning’s mystery noise, she had gagged on a strawberry creme and felt such rage. Rage that could only end in some kind of action.
Today she was calmer. She had an appraisal with Rob. Things seemed brighter.
So, here she sat, a USB key in her pocket containing the WAV file of Dave’s assault, and waited for her appointment to come around at 5.45pm, wondering whether she would ever actually share it, whether she really needed to. She had drained the coffee and was just about to get up and buzz her way into the corridor and along to Rob’s office when the revolving door spat out Finley Warner.
Oh dear. He made a beeline for her, carrying his usual Radio Wessex branded tote bag over his skinny shoulder. What could be in it today?
‘This is for Mike,’ he said to her, without preamble. He knew she was staff; she’d helped out on a station tour a couple of weeks ago. He dug a Marks & Spencer biscuit tin from the bag and handed it to her. She lifted the lid and found a doughy looking fruit cake.
‘Well, that’s lovely, Finley,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’m sure he’ll love it. I can drop it in to him now - I’m just passing his studio.’
‘I could come with you,’ said Finley, his wide brown eyes lighting up.
‘Sorry, Finley,’ she said. ‘I can’t take you in now - you’ll need to wait for another station tour. It’s the rules, you know?’ She smiled at him and patted his shoulder.
Finley sat down on the sofa, sighing heavily. Despite being only in his twenties he was a long-serving superfan of BBC Radio Wessex, having become utterly fixated on all things radio from the age of nine. His parents had indulged his obsession by bringing him in to BBC Radio Wessex at every opportunity; on air for every quiz the kid was awake for, skipping in for all the open day tours and outside broadcasts. It was rumoured they even took him for picnics at the foot of the Rowridge transmitter masts on the Isle of Wight during summer holidays. She had learned all this from her colleagues who had forewarned her that Finley was a regular and mostly harmless. ‘But NEVER eat the cakes!’ they had all said, knowingly.
‘You probably won’t get to see Mike today, Finley,’ she said, going in to bat for the drivetime presenter in a way she hoped he would for her. ‘I know he’s got to dash straight off at seven.’
Finley looked disappointed but not surprised. His usual jock-bothering success score was probably below twenty per cent. ‘Sheila crashed the pips,’ he said as he got to his feet, looking slightly to the left of her.
She smiled at his accurate broadcasting vernacular. ‘She did,’ she said, in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘But everyone does once in a while.’
‘Dave hasn’t,’ said Finley. ‘Not for three years, six months and five days.’
She blinked. ‘Well… I’m sure you’re right,’ she said. ‘Um… I’d better take this cake in!’
‘I’ll bring one for Josh next,’ said Finley, backing
towards the revolving door. ‘Josh is my favourite. I go to bed with Josh.’ He gave a loud cackle, as if he’d learned this phrase - and the appropriate follow-on reaction - from the many other fans of the overnight presenter who routinely trotted out this weak gag.
‘See you later, Finley,’ she’d said, smiling brightly and heading for the inner sanctum with her ID card at the ready.
It was only as she glanced back that she noticed the two people walking into reception as Finley reluctantly mooched out. A pretty blonde woman and a slick-looking dark-haired guy with her. They both wore a grim expression which made her shiver. She buzzed herself through and got into the corridor, heading for Rob’s office.
‘Ah - Gemma, come on in, take a seat,’ he said, as soon as she knocked. ‘Sorry I couldn’t see you sooner - you’ve had a very long day.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, sitting and taking a deep breath.
‘Bit of a week,’ said Rob. ‘Can’t be easy without Dave.’
‘Well…’ she said.
‘Sheila’s all wrong for breakfast,’ Rob went on, ‘between ourselves, of course. But until Dave’s back I haven’t got much option. Everyone else is flat out with their own shows - I don’t want to create a great big domino effect by moving Jack and Spencer in… or Mike.’
‘Sheila’s doing really well,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you know when Dave gets back?’
‘Hopefully tomorrow,’ said Rob.
Then the phone on his desk went and he picked it up, waving his apology at her. ‘OK,’ he said, his face suddenly very serious. ‘OK… well… you’d better send them through.’
He ended the call and glanced at her, looking a little discombobulated. ‘Sorry, Gemma… I know you’ve waited all day… but something important’s come up.’
‘Oh,’ she said, standing up and fingering the USB key in her pocket. ‘Maybe I can-’
But the door knocked and, never properly closed, was pushed ajar by the two people from reception.
