The I-Spy Murders

by David W Robinson

  Marlene greeted her the same way and directed Brenda to the armchair at the far end of the settee. Brenda noticed that when the actress sat, she crossed her shapely legs, baring a dangerous amount of thigh. Brenda decided not to do the same and, instead, sat forward, leaning on her right arm, keeping both feet primly on the floor.

  “How are you, Brenda?” Rivers asked.

  “Nervous,” she admitted. Sheila and Joe (and Ursula Kenney) had told her to be herself.

  “Absolutely nothing to be nervous about,” Marlene promised her.

  Brenda wondered if she could detect a hint of insincerity in the way the words were delivered. It would match the steel in the actress’ eyes.

  “So tell us a little bit more about yourself,” Rivers invited.

  “Well, Ryan, Marlene, I’m fif… in my fifties. I come from a lovely little town in West Yorkshire called Sanford, where I work as an assistant cook and waitress at a cafeteria. I used to be a bank clerk, but I lost my husband six years ago, and I felt I needed a fresh challenge, and cooking and serving meals to all those lorry drivers seemed just perfect to me.”

  “What’s the name of the café, Brenda?” Marlene asked.

  Brenda blushed. “Oh, I don’t think I should mention it.”

  “Go on,” Rivers urged. “Give the place a plug. We can always send a bill to the owners.” He laughed.

  Brenda, too, smiled, but it had less to do with Rivers’ joke as the thought of how Joe would react if he received a bill for advertising.

  Controlling the urge to laugh out loud, she said, “It’s the Lazy Luncheonette on Doncaster Road, Sanford.”

  “What is it you think you can bring to I-Spy?” Marlene asked.

  Brenda struggled to recall what she had written on her original application. “Maturity,” she said, “but not the stuffy kind of maturity you see in so many people. I’ve lived a long time, Marlene, and if life is a game of two halves, I must be into the second half, and you learn, you know. You learn how to be happy, how to take as much enjoyment as possible out of every day, and how to pass that enjoyment on to others.”

  “And you’re hoping to pass some of that approach onto your fellow Housies?”

  It seemed to Brenda an idiotic question. Hadn’t she just said so? Aloud, she said, “I hope so, yes. And I hope they can teach me, too. I have a friend who used to be a secretary in a large school, and she’s always telling me that she learned so much from the pupils.”

  “Now, Brenda,” Rivers said, “you’re one of the Housies who’s volunteered to prepare a special meal. Are you giving any secrets away about what it might be?”

  Brenda smiled coyly. “Not yet, Ryan. Not until Thursday night.”

  He grinned at her. “I’ll bet they can hardly wait.” Gazing into the camera, he went on, “There you go, all you truckers,” Rivers said to the camera. “The next time you’re Sanford way, stop by the Lazy Luncheonette and try a plate of Brenda’s spécialité de la maison… Egg and chips. Brenda, thanks very much. Time for you to go…” he paused, waiting for a signal from the audio engineers to tell him the echo was turned on. When he spoke, his voice boomed around the set. “… into the I-Spy house.”

  He and Marlene applauded, Brenda stood and made her way to the rear of the studio where another assistant waited to guide her through the rear door.

  With the feeling that her moment of singular glory had been a somewhat muted affair, she found herself somewhere at the rear of the house. More crew waited for her. One handed over her suitcase, and ran through the rules for the last time.

  “Are you happy to go into the house, Brenda?” The woman asked eventually.

  Brenda nodded. The woman pressed the four digit lock on the door behind her. “Turn to your right, go up the stairs and you’ll find the ladies dorm, just along the first landing on the left. Live transmission begins at three, and all Housies must be in the living room by five minutes to. Good luck.”

  Brenda stepped through and the door closed and locked behind her. She turned to look at the door. There was no means of opening it from this side.

  Chapter Three

  Brenda’s biggest problem was getting her suitcase up the steep flight of stairs to the first floor landing. She had to stop twice to get her breath back while mentally cursing herself for her stupidity of packing excess clothing.

  “You’ve enough here for a Caribbean cruise, you daft old bat,” she muttered to the empty staircase.

  After much puffing and panting, pulling and tugging, she finally made the landing and hauled the case along on its castors.

  She guessed that the corridor ran the entire length of the house. Lit only every five yards or so, and then by low-wattage lamps, it was narrow, windowless and gloomy. There were a number of doors, the first of which, as promised, bore a ‘ladies’ sign with a line drawing of a bed beneath it. Before entering, Brenda left her suitcase and wandered further along the corridor. On her right, the next two doors, one on either side, were locked, the third bore a plaque which read, Private Room. Continuing along the corridor, she found three more locked doors and finally, the men’s dormitory. There was, she noted, only the one staircase, only the three rooms they could access.

  She retraced her steps, collected her suitcase and stepped into the ladies’ dorm, to find Tanya Drake had commandeered the bed nearest the door and was busy unpacking into what looked like a cheap, self-assembly wardrobe.

  Although the room was large, the four beds, each with a small cabinet, and wardrobes had taken up so much space, that it felt uncomfortably cramped. Above each bed was a shelf and Tanya had already set up a couple of books and her toilet bag on hers. A narrow door in the far corner, led to the bathroom where there were two showers and separate toilets.

  “At least we can have some privacy,” Brenda commented, “but there are no windows.”

  “Not allowed,” Tanya said. She giggled. “They’re frightened we may be signalling to our secret lovers in the woods outside.” She offered her hand. “We were not properly introduced. Tanya Drake. I’m a nurse. From Derby.”

  Brenda shook her hand. “Brenda Jump, a waitress from Sanford.” She noticed Tanya’s puzzlement. “West Yorkshire. Not far from Leeds.”

  “Ah. What brings you on this gig, Brenda? Apart from the twenty-five grand, that is.”

  “It’s a bit of fun, isn’t it?” Brenda took the bed opposite and slightly further into the room. Throwing her suitcase onto the mattress with a grunt, she turned the combination lock and threw open the lid. “And we all need a bit of fun in our lives. What kind of nursing do you do?”

  “General,” Tanya replied. “I want to go into midwifery, but I’m not long out of my training. I want some experience on the wards under my belt, first.”

  Brenda was puzzled. “I-Spy won’t harm your prospects?”

  “Oh no. I cleared it with my bosses, first.” Tanya sat on the edge of her bed. “I’m not really, er, flighty. You know. I don’t make a habit of…” she trailed off and blushed.

  Brenda smiled and, for the first time since she had entered the place, began to feel at ease. “Bed hopping? Getting drunk? Chasing the boys? Showing off?”

  Tanya smiled bleakly. “Boys don’t really have the kind of equipment that interests me.”

  “Pity,” Brenda observed. “I’ve always found them such good fun.” At once she realised how awful it sounded. “Forgive me, Tanya. I wasn’t having a go at you or your lifestyle. It just, sort of, slipped out.”

  The younger woman shrugged. “No prob. I’m used to that sort of comment, and others say it and mean it. You like waitressing?”

  It was a sledgehammer way of changing the subject and Brenda was glad of it. “No. I hate waitressing, especially serving bone idle truck drivers.” She grinned. “But I work with some very special friends, and they make it a joy to turn out every morning. Besides, I wasn’t always a waitress. I was a senior teller in a bank for years. Before my husband died.”

  Tanya did not have
time to be shocked before the door burst open and Ursula Kenney walked in.

  “Why the bloody hell don’t they have someone to help with our luggage?” she demanded.

  “You could have waited downstairs and asked one of the men when they came through,” Brenda suggested.

  Ursula glowered. “When I need your opinion I’ll ask for it.” She gazed around the room. “So this is it? I have to doss in this dump? And all for a lousy twenty-five grand?”

  Brenda felt her gorge rising. “Are you usually this offensive, or have you been practising?”

  Ursula glared again. “Don’t try riding me, old woman. You’ll find you’re no match for me.”

  Brenda suppressed the urge to strike out at her. “Let’s get one or two things straight, shall we, Ursula. I guess I’m old enough to be your mother, so I expect you to show me some respect. If you don’t I may just be tempted to behave like your mother, put you over my knee, and tan your backside.”

  Ursula opened her mouth to speak, but Brenda carried on before she could utter a word.

  “I’ve known you less than two hours and already I find you behaving like a spoiled little brat. What’s worse, you’re making some primary, erroneous assumptions. You are equating my age with weakness and senility. Many a better woman than you has tried it and come unstuck.” She injected some real venom into her voice. “Start with me, chicken, and I’ll knock your silly bloody head into the wall so hard, you won’t wake up until Christmas.” She allowed a moment for her threat to sink in. “Now, we all have to live together for the coming week, so I suggest we start by trying to be civil with each other.”

  Ursula’s malevolent feature did not shift. “We’re competitors, old woman, and I see no reason to be nice to someone who wants to rob me of what’s rightfully mine.”

  ***

  Climbing the hill to Junction 22 on the M62, Joe soothed Sheila’s worries.

  “It’s only two o’clock. They don’t start the live broadcast until three, and we’ve only thirty miles to go. We’re in plenty of time.”

  “That’s what you said to Brenda when we got to Warrington,” Sheila retorted, “and she only just made it.”

  “And you’re beginning to sound like Brenda when we got to Warrington,” Joe replied.

  They had kept up the conversation in the entertainment field until Brenda finally left the screen to enter the house, at which point, they made their way back to Joe’s car.

  “If I get a bill from the TV company for Brenda’s free plug, there’ll be hell to pay,” Joe had warned as he climbed behind the wheel.

  Sheila had found Rivers’ comment amusing. “I don’t think he meant it, Joe. He was just being… well… comic.”

  “I’ve seen these so-called comics before. They’re usually wearing hats marked Tax Inspector.”

  Once back on the road home, Sheila had begun to press for him to get to Sanford before the live broadcasts began at three. For Joe, it wasn’t a problem, but in deference to her, he put his foot down. They met little in the way of traffic, but Joe’s suggestion that they stop for a cup of tea met with a stern rebuke from his companion.

  In stark contrast to the outbound journey, Joe’s prediction proved accurate. With no significant delays, even in the busy areas around Leeds and Bradford, he pulled up outside Sheila’s bungalow at 2:40.

  “Why not come in, have a cup of tea and we can watch it together, Joe?” Sheila invited.

  Joe hedged. “I was thinking of getting back to the café, before Lee and Cheryl close up.”

  “Oh don’t be so mean-spirited,” Sheila rebuked him. “Your nephew and his wife know how to cash up and they’ll give you a full run down when you go to their house for lunch on Sunday. Come on. Have a cup of tea and watch Brenda’s TV debut.”

  He grudgingly agreed and followed her up the path, past a pair of dwarf conifers and well-tended flowerbeds, to the side door, where Sheila let them in, hurrying ahead of Joe to silence the intruder alarm.

  Joe had visited the place many times, but he could never quite get over the impression that it was more of a shrine than a home; a memorial dedicated to Sheila’s late husband Peter. Display cabinets were filled with photographs of the couple, and many of Peter alone; his graduation through the Open University, his promotion to Inspector, looking immaculate on his wedding day, and impeccably dressed on his 50th birthday, only a matter of a few months before the two heart attacks which killed him.

  Sheila did have other photographs about the house; their two children, Peter Jnr, and Aaron, both graduates, both married, and long moved from Sanford, now enjoying better lives.

  And the house, unlike his apartment above the Lazy Luncheonette, was spotless, the furnishings in pristine condition. The walnut dining table gleamed in the afternoon sun, every china ornament around the room sparkled, and he half expected to see a twinkle come from the dust-free TV screen. Sheila was nothing if not house proud.

  Joe was at his ease with the two women, but he felt less comfortable when he was with only one of them. Their tripartite friendship had endured 50 years on and off, but it had done so because it was platonic. There had been a brief moment during their teens when he fancied Sheila, and there had been a slightly longer period when he had dated Brenda, but it never came to anything, and by unspoken agreement, they were quite happy with that situation. And yet, whenever he was alone with one of the women, he found himself wondering whether he should make a pass at her.

  He never did. It would be the fastest way to compromise both their friendship and working relationship. All the same, he sometimes wondered…

  “Do you think Brenda’s made a mistake going on this nonsense?” he asked as Sheila returned with a tea tray.

  “I think if Brenda has made a mistake, she won’t spend long regretting it, Joe.” Sheila poured tea into a rose china cup and saucer, and passed it to him. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

  Joe, more at home with a beaker, spooned a small amount of sugar in, added a little milk and stirred vigorously. “Not the kind of thing you or me would do, though, is it?”

  Settling into a recliner with a cup and saucer, Sheila leaned back and aimed the remote control at her flat screen TV, turning up the volume. “Brenda has always been more gregarious than either of us.”

  Joe sipped his tea as the I-Spy opening credits began to run. “Gregarious? That’s a new name for it.”

  She chuckled. “You know what I mean. I’ve always been reserved, preferring my privacy. You never sought fame and fortune. Fortune, yes, but you prefer to do it quietly in the background, via the Lazy Luncheonette. Brenda… well Brenda has always believed in enjoying herself. That was true even when Colin was alive.” She glanced quickly at his severe features. “Are you worried about her, Joe?”

  “Worried? No.” The opening shot was of all eight Housies seated around the bizarre furniture in the living room. Biting into a Hovis digestive biscuit, Joe waved at the screen. “She’s more than a match for any of them, I’ll bet. I just wouldn’t like to see her make a fool of herself. That’s all.”

  “If she does, it won’t be the first time, but I don’t think it’s likely. There’s a complete ban on alcohol. Brenda doesn’t often get drunk, but when she does, that’s when she’s likely to show herself up. No alcohol, no antics.”

  They honed their attention on the TV.

  ***

  “Good afternoon, Housies. I am the Master Spy.”

  Brenda had heard the disembodied voice known as Master Spy many times on TV. It was the only communication with the outside world permitted to Housies. A soft, persuasive voice of indeterminate gender, everyone who had watched the programme knew it.

  What she (and presumably her fellow Housies) had not realised was that inside the I-Spy house, the voice came from everywhere at once. Something to do with the way the audio was set up, no doubt, but it was disconcerting nonetheless.

  They had been congregated in the living room since 2:30, ready for the three p.m. laun
ch. In the 75 or so minutes she had officially been a Housey, Brenda had met and chatted with the fourth woman, Anne Willis, a receptionist from a car hire company in Middlesbrough, and talked to two of the men, Greg Ingham, a pub singer and street entertainer from Bristol and Dylan Yorke a mechanic from North London. She had nodded greetings to the other two men, Ben someone or other and Marc Ulrich, both of whom sounded as if they hailed from the Midlands.

  The conversations came about quite naturally as a result of three large TV screens dotted around the living room, showing various scenes from about the house.

  “I noticed you took particular care on setting that little photograph up, Greg,” Brenda said when they had introduced themselves.

  As she spoke, she nodded at the centre screen, where Ben Oakley was busy emptying his suitcase and beyond him on the far, left hand bed, Marc Ulrich was hanging up a drab, dark blue, old fashioned dressing gown.

  Like the women’s dorm, the men each had a shelf. Greg, the first in the men’s dorm, had chosen the bed on the right, furthest from the door, and his shelf, instead of standing above the bed, was angled into the corner of the room. He had set up his shaving brush, soap and razor, the head encased in a shiny, plastic sheath, and alongside them was a selection of paperbacks, in the centre of which was a small, framed photograph.

  “My wife and two sons,” he explained to Brenda. “I set them there because the missus will be following the programme this week, and every time the camera is in the men’s dorm, she’ll see the photograph, and know that I’m thinking about her.”

  “Aw, that’s nice,” Brenda simpered as Dylan joined them.

  “Good thinking,” Dylan said. “I put a picture of my mum on my shelf.” He pointed to his bed, closest the door on the right. Lowering his hand, he offered the open palm to Brenda. “Dylan Yorke.”

  “Brenda Jump.” Brenda shook the hand, noticing that it buried her tiny fingers. “And your mum will be watching, will she Dylan?”