“I don’t see how it could have anything to do with this week,” Sheila speculated.
Joe shrugged. “You never know.”
With a final hug, Dylan wandered off and Brenda said to Anne, “How about it? Tonight at the Victoria.”
Anne smiled weakly again. “I’ll see how I feel after I’ve spoken to my husband and had some sleep.”
“Talking of which,” Joe said to Sheila and Brenda, “I could do with some kip myself. Why don’t you bid au revoir to your chums, Brenda and let’s get back to the hotel?”
***
It had turned half past four by the time Joe finally got back to his room, and fatigue was threatening to overtake him.
“I don’t have time to sleep yet,” he said to himself.
Taking a shower, he shook it off and seated himself at the table beneath the window, connected his netbook to the free wi-fi connection and while he waited for it to hook up and open the browser, he gazed through the windows at the summer sunshine on the river.
Frequently when working on such puzzles as this, Joe relied on hunches. Many times they proved worthless, but just as often, they hit the mark. This time, he knew the moment he Googled Victor Prentiss that he was onto something.
There were many entries, but at the top of the list were two that took his immediate attention. The first was a video of an interview with Prentiss, and Joe watched it with growing interest.
The interviewer was a well-known, feminist journalist and she was clearly haranguing Prentiss on his habit of sleeping with as many women in the movie industry as he could. Despite the interviewer’s (and Joe’s) increasing irritation, the man remained unrepentant.
He was a large man, tall and muscular, and Joe guessed him to be in his early fifties. His thick head of dark hair, complemented by similar thick matting on his strong forearms, showered over his head in an unruly manner perfectly at ease with his couldn’t-care-less attitude.
Checking the date of the video, although it had only been uploaded to the web within the last six months by someone hiding behind the handle Xarm, the programme from which it had been taken was over 20 years, and Joe guessed it must have originally aired just a few weeks or months before his death.
“We all know that success comes at a price,” Prentiss said. “I’ve made many young women stars in their chosen field, whether TV, movies or the production side of the business, and I extract a price for that.”
“You coerce them into your bed?” the interviewer suggested angrily.
Prentiss laughed. “There’s no coercion involved. Suggestion, certainly, but not coercion. I don’t force these women. They know who I am, they know I can probably do them some favours and they’re willing to trade their favours in exchange. It’s a business deal. What’s wrong with that?”
“What happens to those who won’t, shall we say, come across?”
The big man shrugged. “Nothing. I told you, there’s no pressure.”
With the bit between her teeth, the presenter pressed the point. “Name me one actress you have helped who refused to jump into bed with you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that anymore than I can name you one actress who did jump into bed with me.”
It did not surprise Joe when Prentiss went on the attack a little further into the interview. “Your trouble is you’re inconsistent. A few weeks ago you were clamouring for prostitutes to be allowed the right to ply their trade as long as they were not coerced into it.”
“That’s a different matter entirely,” the interviewer raged. “I’m arguing for such women to have the right to choose.”
“And I’m saying the women who come to me, seeking my help, have a choice. They can say no. I don’t hold that against them.”
Joe stopped the video at that point. He had already decided that Prentiss was a thoroughly disagreeable man. “And if he accidentally throttled himself trying to get off, it’s exactly what he deserved,” he announced to the empty room. “Cosmic justice.”
Returning to his Google results he picked up the second link, this time to Dan Wellesley, retired entrepreneur, and again what he found captured his immediate attention.
The site was interspersed with photographs spanning several decades during which, if Joe understood it, Wellesley, a financier, poured a lot of money into movies and TV, as a result of which, he was quite friendly with Victor Prentiss.
Most people found Vic Prentiss a self-centred misogynist, but I have to say, I enjoyed his company, and over the years I had a lot of fun and made a lot of money working with him.
It was a homemade site, the kind anyone could build with minimal knowledge of the internet, the kind most internet service providers offered to their subscribers. There was nothing fancy about it. Pages of text, detailing his life and times as a venture capitalist, the movies and TV programmes he had invested in and profited from, were littered with photographs of well-known and some not so famous actors and actresses, faces Joe might be able to link to I-Spy, but he was not certain. Right-clicking the mousepad, he downloaded several into his photograph folders for later study.
Prentiss was not the only producer Wellesley had worked with, but he was obviously Wellesley’s favourite. In contrast to the interview Joe had watched the previous day, Wellesley spoke in fond terms about the man.
It has to be said that Vic used people; especially women. He could never get enough of them and he was quite blatant about it. “If you want what you want,” he would say to them, “you give me what I want first.” And they did. That was the wonderful thing about it. These people were so eager, hungry for their share of the TV and movie exposure, that they were happy to jump into bed with him.
Vic was a man who liked to share, and he often shared these starlets with his friends. Do I speak from experience? You would have to work that out for yourself. I’m not one to kiss and tell.
Joe knew right away that Wellesley had ‘shared’ some of Prentiss’ women, and the money man went down in his opinion, sinking almost as low as Prentiss.
There was always criticism that Vic had ruined as many women as he made. That was unfair. He did his best for them, but sad to say, when a girl with no talent still cannot make anything of herself, even with Vic’s help, then she would be quick to blame him for it. And there were a number of such women. One took herself off home to London, claiming to be pregnant by Vic. The last I heard, she had had the child and committed suicide a few years later.
There was always some doubt about Vic’s death, too. Sure he indulged in scarfing, but he was careful. He never did it while he was alone. So did the two women who were with him that night leave him to die, or did they actually tighten the belt around his throat? Or did they simply not know what was happening. These are questions I can’t answer, but there was a young actress from Liverpool who claimed to know the truth.
Joe seized upon the latter. Ursula came from Liverpool. Was Wellesley hinting at her?
Skimming through the pages of the website, Joe found an email address, put a message together and sent it. He did not expect a quick response, so left the computer on the table and crossed to the bed, intent on taking a nap before dinner.
He had barely flopped on the mattress when the machine beeped to let him know there was an incoming message.
With an irritated tsk, he returned to it and opened up the message. “You want to know about Vic Prentiss? Bell me. We’ll arrange to meet.” The message ended with a phone number.
Taking out his mobile, Joe rang right way.
“You’re Murray?” a thick, Liverpudlian accent asked.
“You’re Wellesley?”
“The same. You want to know about Vic Prentiss?”
“I want to know whether he knew a woman named Ursula Kenney. Don’t know if you watch much TV, but…”
“She was all over I-Spy until she topped herself yesterday,” Wellesley interrupted. “Yes, Vic knew her. She’s not the only one, either. Why not come out to my place? Mollington. A fe
w miles out of Chester.”
“No car,” Joe replied. “You say Prentiss knew others on I-Spy. Who?”
“Not yet,” Wellesley replied. “I need to check my facts, first. Can you get out here tomorrow morning, then?”
“Sure,” Joe replied. “Tell you what, I can probably hire a car for the day. Gimme your address.” Joe wrote it down as Wellesley dictated it. “Do you think your information may throw some light on Ursula’s death?”
“Can’t swear to that, sport” Wellesley replied, “but I think I can throw some light on Vic’s death. About eleven tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”
“I’ll be there.” With a wolfish grin he cut the connection and then called up the internet on his netbook to seek out local car hire firms.
***
With the Sanford 3rd Age Club disco in full swing, Joe sat on the podium close to the terrace exit, and surveyed the scene. It was a familiar sight and one which always gladdened him, even if he chose not to say so.
Everyone was aged fifty or over, but he would be hard pressed to find anyone in the throes of middle-aged lethargy or depression.
“If life’s a game of two halves, then this lot are well into the second half,” he said to his companions while the crowd jigged to John Fred & The Playboy Band’s Judy in Disguise.
“It’s a grand way of getting over the last few days,” Brenda commented. “So wonderful to think I have all these friends.” A semi-sly grin crossed her features. “And I have money in me pocket. What say we go out and splash some of it tomorrow morning?”
“Cheshire Oaks isn’t far,” Sheila said. “What about it, Joe?”
Joe, still busily scanning the dance floor, snapped out of it. “Huh? What? Oh, I have to be out at some village called Mollington, at eleven tomorrow morning. I rang a car hire firm earlier and I’ve arranged a car for the day. I can drop you off, if you like, then go on to my appointment.”
The women exchanged teasing smiles. “It would be better than having him trailing along and moaning,” Brenda suggested.
“And he’d still be there to fetch and carry for us when we’re ready to come back here,” Sheila agreed.
“All right, Joe, you’re on,” Brenda said.
Busy selecting the next track, Joe did not register their comments. Tapping his microphone, he faded Judy in Disguise and announced, “There you have it, people, John Fred and The Playboys Band from about 1968… give or take. It’s a lively weekend here in Chester, and we have one of our best friends back with us. Let’s hear it for Brenda.” A cheer went up, followed by a smattering of applause. “As you know, Brenda’s been away on I-Spy, and with spies in mind, here’s something a bit slower from 1963. It’s Matt Munro and From Russia With Love.”
While the music started, Joe sat down again.
“Very clever, Joe,” Brenda approved. “Linking I-Spy with James Bond.”
“Not really,” he replied. “I was reading the book on the bus.”
Brenda frowned, Sheila laughed and Joe took a healthy swallow of lager.
“So what’s this appointment, Joe?” Sheila asked. “About Victor Prentiss?”
He had told them the tale in the taxi on the journey from Gibraltar Hall. Now he nodded. “A shot in the dark and it turned out it was a good shot. Y’see, the one thing you have to think about is motive. Ursula was murdered. That’s pretty well established, even though Frank Hoad keeps wavering on it. We know how, but we don’t know why and until we establish that, we’re groping in the dark.”
Brenda smacked her lips. “I used to enjoy a good groping in the dark.”
Joe scowled at her. “You need your backside tanning, you do.”
“Don’t, Joe,” Sheila laughed, “or you’ll end up with tales to make your hair curl.”
“My hair’s already curled,” he growled. “Anyway, like I was saying, we have to establish a motive. I know Ursula was a bit of a tart…”
“A bit of a tart?” Brenda’s eyes widened. “Joe, she had a ripcord fitted to her knickers and I’m surprised she didn’t carry a price list round her neck.”
“All right, all right, so she made you look like a nun. But is that any reason to hang her? Is it any reason to even slap her about? This is the twenty first century, for god’s sake. People do that kinda thing. But as Hoad suggested, suppose Ursula was about to go public on what happened to Victor Prentiss? Suppose Ursula knew who the other woman was, the one the cops never traced? When I spoke to Wellesley, he told me he could throw some light on Prentiss’ death. Maybe that will give us an insight into Ursula’s, too.”
Sheila heaved out a sigh. “That poor woman.” She caught Brenda’s gimlet eye. “Oh, I know what she was like, Brenda, but no one, no matter how flighty or antisocial they are, deserves to die like that.”
“And you said as much to me when I brought you back here yesterday,” Joe reminded Brenda.
“All right, all right, yes. I know what you’re saying, but honestly, when I think of some of the tricks she got up last week, it makes my blood boil. You saw the way she belittled the men? Hinted that they were all, er, lousy lovers? I spoke to both Ben and Greg in private about it, and both assured me that when they were in the Romping Room with her, nothing happened.”
“She’d turn me off, too,” Joe said.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Brenda said. “I mean, literally, nothing happened. Ursula wasn’t interested in them as potential bedmates. They just talked. I don’t know about Marc, and we all figured Dylan was giving her what for every day, but it was the same with Greg. Both Greg and Ben got the impression that she lured them into the Romping Room with intention of making it appear that something happened, so she could deliberately deride them in front of the cameras.”
“And did it bother them?” Joe asked. “The derision, I mean, not the non-event.”
Brenda waited while Joe attended to the laptop and ran Billy Fury’s Like I’ve Never Been Gone in order to keep the dancers happy.
“No,” she said when he brought his attention back to her. “Not in the slightest. Greg insists he’s happily married and Ben said he’s at an age where he doesn’t care what others think.”
“He sounds like a good match for you, Joe,” Sheila commented.
“No,” he disagreed. “I didn’t wait until I got to this age.”
“No. You’ve never given a stuff what others think, have you?” Brenda declared.
“Let’s stick to the subject, huh?” Joe suggested. “So we know what Ursula was like, but is that any reason to murder her?”
Brenda considered the question. “Where Ben and Greg are concerned, I’d guess no. I can’t say for Marc, though.”
“He seemed a very shy young man,” Sheila said. “He didn’t look as if he had the gumption to kill anyone.”
Joe took out his tobacco tin and began to assemble a cigarette. “Still waters. You can make friends with wolves, but you wouldn’t want to meet a hungry one out in the wild. And let’s not rule the women out of this.” He eyed Brenda. “Present company excepted. Ursula had a proper go at you all last week, and sometimes anger can build and build and build until…” He completed the cigarette. “But I think we’re on the wrong track, here. I think Ursula’s murder was planned before the I-Spy house ever opened for business.”
“If it really was murder, then it makes sense,” Sheila agreed, “but how will you prove it?”
“I won’t until I’ve spoken to Dan Wellesley tomorrow.” He stood up. “If anybody wants me, I’m outside having a smoke.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sat on the rear terrace, Joe was enjoying the Sunday morning sunshine and its promise of another hot day, when Hoad turned up.
Joe had already been out and collected his hire car, a tiny Fiat, and was looking forward to a day out and about in Chester.
Hoad was less sanguine. “Bad news, I’m afraid,” he announced taking out his cigarettes and lighting one.
“I’m used to bad news. Especially when my accou
ntant rings me for the annual tax bill.” Joe, too, lit one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. “What’s the problem?”
“The chances of one of the crew members murdering Ursula are so remote we can forget about them.”
Joe was in the act of drawing in a lungful of tobacco smoke and almost choked on the news. Enduring a long coughing fit, when he eventually calmed his breathing, he gasped, “What?”
“Scientific Support went through that landing and the Romping Room yesterday like a curry going through a dog with the trots. They found traces of every Housey, as we expected. They’d all used the room at one time or another, including your friend Mrs Jump. And obviously, they were all along the corridor many times. But no one from the Housies’ side of things went anywhere near the exit door at the far end. The door that leads to the production side of the building. The only traces of the Housies we found were near the bottom door, which was the way they went into the house when they first arrived. Even then, those traces are from the Housies alone, and all traces of the crew who had been there before the series began, had been covered by them. I guarantee you that no one from the crew has been in the Housies’ half of the hall since before the series began.”
“It has to be one of the Housies, then,” Joe said.
Hoad shook his head and took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Joe, how could the Housies get down to the control room to stop the cameras without getting caught on the cameras in the first place? And if you’re going to say that they were working in league with one of the production crew, fine, but how did the crew member get word to them that Ursula was asleep and it was safe to move? None of the Housies had a mobile phone, and even if they had, notwithstanding the effects of any Zimovane, they would have disturbed the others, and obviously, they would have been caught on camera answering it. The only one who had any contact with the Housies was Master Spy and on the night Ursula was murdered, she went off duty at ten along with the rest of the crew, but again, I-Spy have all that taped. There was nothing untoward in any of the conversations Master Spy had with the Housies.”
The I-Spy Murders Page 19
