‘Are you the press, gentlemen?’ he asked, with an edge of polite contempt in his voice.
‘Do we look like experts in fiddlin’ expense accounts?’ Woodend asked.
‘I—’ the commissionaire began.
‘We’re bobbies,’ Woodend said. ‘Show him your warrant card, Bob.’
Rutter took his card from his pocket, and handed it over. Most doormen would have given the card no more than a cursory glance, but this one examined it carefully before returning it.
‘That seems to be in order, sir,’ he said. ‘Now if you’d just like to take a seat while I call—’
‘There’s no need to call anybody,’ Woodend told him. ‘We’ll find our own way around.’
The commissionaire looked dubious. ‘The studio’s a lot more complicated than it looks at first, sir,’ he cautioned. ‘You might get lost.’
‘We probably will get lost,’ Woodend replied. ‘In fact, I rather hope we do. You’d be surprised just how many interestin’ things you can find when you’re not really lookin’ for them.’
The commissionaire studied Woodend’s face to see if he was joking, decided he wasn’t, and shrugged his broad shoulders.
‘Well, you’re the bobbies, so I suppose you know what you’re doin’,’ he said philosophically.
‘An’ you used to be a bobby yourself, if I’m not very much mistaken,’ Woodend said.
The commissionaire beamed with obvious pleasure. ‘I most certainly was, sir,’ he said.
‘Desk sergeant by the time you retired?’ Woodend guessed.
‘Spot on, sir.’
Woodend nodded. ‘Well, it’s nice to know the security in this place is in a safe pair of hands,’ he said.
He stepped clear of the door, turned his gaze on the interior of the mill, and tried to imagine it as it must have been in the old days.
‘You’ll not have had places like this in the South, will you?’ he asked Rutter.
‘Not that I know about,’ the inspector agreed.
‘This weavin’ shed was once one vast room that housed hundreds of workers,’ Woodend said. ‘But it was more than just bricks and mortar. It stood as a cathedral to the religion of industrial might – a vast, stark, utilitarian monument which, despite its ugliness – or maybe because of it – attained some kind of terrifyin’ majesty.’
‘That’s a bit deep for this time of the morning, isn’t it?’ Bob Rutter asked jovially.
But Woodend was talking more to himself than to his inspector. ‘Life was hard back then,’ he continued, ‘but there was a comfortin’ certainty about it, too. The mill was part of the community – and the community was a livin’, breathin’ thing. We were all involved in the same struggle, you see. Neighbours helped neighbours. An’ when you talked about your family, you didn’t just mean your wife an’ kids – you were talkin’ about all your aunties and uncles an’ second cousins as well.’
He ran his eyes over what the NWTV builders had done to the mill. At the far end, a brick wall had been built right up to the high ceiling, and it was behind that, presumably, that the actual studio itself was located. An open concourse ran though the centre of the building, all the way from the far wall to the main doors. On either side of the concourse, low brick buildings had been erected, each with a flat roof – as if the high ceiling above them were really open sky.
‘Fragmented,’ Woodend said softly.
‘What was that?’ Rutter asked.
‘The place has been fragmented – just like society itself. It’s been broken down into smaller, more manageable units – the sort of units the modern mind can comprehend.’
‘You sound as if you wish time had stood still,’ Rutter said.
‘Do I?’ Woodend asked, surprised. ‘I didn’t mean to. Only an idiot thinks the good old days were really that good. Still, there were some good things – an’ now they’ve gone for ever.’
The chief inspector reached into his pocket for his packet of Capstan Full Strengths, and turned his attention back to the central concourse. Though it was still early in the morning, the business of the television studio was already well under way, and quite a number of people were scurrying from one place to another. Woodend watched them for a while – the executives in smart suits; the workmen in overalls and khaki half-length coats; the young women in skirts and jumpers; the young men in suede jackets – and as he watched, a smile came to his lips.
‘You seem to have cheered up all of a sudden,’ Bob Rutter said.
‘Oh, I have,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I was a bit concerned for a while back there about how I’d manage in the world of television, but I’m not any more.’
‘So what’s changed your mind?’
‘Just look at this place,’ Woodend said. ‘What does it remind you of?’
Rutter studied the central concourse, just as his boss had done. ‘In a way, it’s a bit like a village,’ he said.
‘Aye, it is,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Maybe it’s not got the same sense of community as the one I grew up in, but it’s a village, right enough. An’ if there’s one place I feel at home in, it’s villages.’
Nine
Ostensibly, Jeremy Wilcox was studying the shooting script which lay on his desk in front of him. In practice, his thoughts had ranged far beyond the mundane technical details of the next episode. He was wondering, specifically, how best to let the people who mattered in NWTV know that it was he – and he alone – who had saved the previous evening’s show from disaster. He could tell them directly, of course. Or he could let it accidentally slip out in a conversation over drinks. But there had to be subtler ways to do it – ways that would somehow also give the impression that he was too involved in being creative to ever think of indulging in office politics.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Answer that, Lucy,’ he said, without looking up. ‘And tell whoever it is that I’m far too busy to see anyone right now.’
He turned his mind back to the problem of getting credit where credit was due. Who had access to the people who mattered? And how could he prevail upon them to work on his behalf?
Whoever was outside on the concourse knocked again.
‘Have you gone deaf all of a sudden, Lucy?’ Wilcox asked irritably, turning his head to glare at his assistant.
He found his glare was being wasted on a vacant desk, and remembered that Lucy had used the fact she’d been the one who’d discovered Valerie Farnsworth’s body as a justification for taking the day off.
There was a third knock on the door.
‘Come!’ Wilcox shouted irritably.
He’d been quite prepared to give whoever had chosen to disturb him an absolute rocket, but when he saw the tasty blonde woman standing in the doorway, he changed his mind.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
The tasty blonde giggled. ‘Actually, I’m here to help you,’ she said. She advanced across the room, and held out her hand to me. ‘Monika Peignton. That’s Monika with a K. I’m your new, temporary assistant.’
Wilcox frowned. ‘I wasn’t told about this.’
‘Apparently, your regular assistant is going to be away for several days, and Personnel in Manchester thought you’d need me,’ Paniatowski said, not quite simpering.
‘I still should have been told,’ Wilcox said.
But, in fact, he was not feeling as sulky as he was sounding. It was good Personnel should have taken such prompt action. It showed Manchester was really starting to take him seriously. And the girl was a little cracker.
‘Sit down, Monika with a K,’ he said genially, indicating the chair directly in front of his desk.
As Paniatowski sat, she crossed her legs. It was not a gesture that Wilcox missed. Nor had she intended that he should.
‘So, since Personnel sent you, I assume you have extensive experience in acting as a director’s PA,’ Wilcox said.
‘Not really,’ Monika replied, letting her skirt slip a little further up her thigh. ‘Not at all, a
ctually. But I’m very willing to learn.’
I’ll bet you are, Wilcox thought, running his tongue quickly over his lips.
‘So if you have no experience, how did you get the job?’ he asked. ‘Family influence?’
Paniatowski shrugged awkwardly, causing her breasts to jiggle a little. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ she said. ‘Although it is true that my Uncle Desmond occasionally plays a round of golf with Horry Throgmorton . . . Lord Throgmorton, I should say.’
Typical! Wilcox thought angrily. Bloody typical! And then he realised how he might be able to turn things to his advantage.
The girl’s uncle played golf with the boss of NWTV. She seemed to know Throgmorton herself. If she went away with the impression that it was Jeremy Wilcox who was holding Maddox Row together, there was every chance that her opinion would eventually reach the right ear.
‘Well, experience doesn’t count for everything,’ he said magnanimously. ‘If you work hard, I expect you’ll soon learn what you need to know. Would you like me spell out your job for you?’
‘I’d really appreciate it if you could do that, Mr Wilcox,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘The director is central to the process of putting on a television programme,’ Wilcox said. ‘To put it in its simplest terms, without him, there is no show. Your job – again to put it in its simplest terms – is to make sure that nothing happens which might prevent me from doing my work. Whenever I want any sort of errand running, you’re to be there to run it for me. If I need to be alone, you’re to make sure that no one disturbs me. A good director’s PA should learn to anticipate the director’s needs even before he realises that he has them himself. Is all that clear?’
‘Very clear,’ Monika said, sounding both sweet and earnest.
Wilcox nodded sagely. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now before we get started, are there any questions you would like to ask me?’
What kind of question would Charlie Woodend ask at this point? Monika wondered. Probably one which would knock Wilcox off-balance – one which would make him reveal more of himself than he’d ever intended to.
‘Well, there is just one little thing that puzzles me,’ she said, with a show of reluctance.
‘And what is it?’
‘It’s silly. I don’t suppose it matters really.’
Wilcox chuckled. ‘If we’re going to work together, then we’ve got to learn to say what’s on our minds – even if it does turn out to be silly,’ he said. ‘So come on – out with it.’
Monika feigned further hesitation for a second. ‘It’s just that Daddy was in the army – a major general, actually,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘And he always says that what’s really vital when you’re working somewhere is to get a clear picture of the chain of command.’
‘I’m not sure what your point is.’
‘Well, I know you’re tremendously important to Maddox Row – and it’s a privilege to be working for you, it really is – but aren’t you sort of like the colonel to the producer’s general? I mean, I’m sorry if I’ve got it wrong, but that’s how it seems to me – that it’s the producer who actually—’
‘Let me tell you about the so-called producer!’ Wilcox interrupted. ‘The man had an idea – one idea, mark you, an idea which someone else would have been bound to come up with sooner or later – and because of that he’s come to believe he’s the only one who really counts. Well, I can assure you—’
He’d gone too far, he realised, coming to a sudden halt. The tales he wanted Monika to carry home were of a dedicated, superbly efficient director – not a director riven with jealousy.
‘You can assure me . . .?’ Monika prompted.
‘Of course, the producer is important,’ Wilcox said. ‘Everyone involved in Maddox Row is important in their own way. It’s a team effort. But that’s not to say that some of us don’t have a bigger contribution to make than others.’
‘Oh, I can quite see that,’ Monika said dutifully.
Ten
Woodend took to Inspector Hebden immediately. The other man was in his mid-thirties, he guessed. He had an intelligent face and sharp blue eyes which probably missed very little. All in all, the chief inspector thought as he, Rutter and Hebden sat around the table in the small conference room Hebden had been using as his temporary office, the local man was just the sort of feller that senior officers always hoped would be put in charge of babysitting an investigation until they could reach the scene themselves.
‘Let’s start at the beginnin’,’ Woodend suggested. ‘When were you first aware that somethin’ had gone seriously wrong up here?’
‘We got the call at the station at nine minutes to eight last night,’ Hebden replied.
‘Who made it?’
‘The producer’s assistant, a woman called Jane Todd.’
‘An’ you came here straight away?’
‘As soon as we’d rung the studio back to make sure it wasn’t a hoax call, yes.’
‘How long did it take you?’
‘The station’s only two miles from the studio. I arrived here at two minutes to eight. My back-up teams all arrived within five minutes after that.’
‘Had anybody been allowed to leave in the meantime?’
Hebden shook his head. ‘No, definitely not.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’
‘I talked to the commissionaire – the same one who’s on duty now. His name’s Teddy Kendrick. He’s an ex-bobby. I’ve worked with him myself, and he’s a good man. If he said nobody left, then nobody did.’
‘Somebody could have slipped out while he was on the bog.’
Hebden grinned. ‘They used to call Teddy “Iron-bladder” when he worked at the station as desk sergeant. He could do a whole shift and never leave his post. Besides, if he does have to answer the call of nature he’s got strict instructions that he’s to alert the chief security officer so a replacement can be sent to cover the desk. And Teddy’s not the kind of man who ignores strict instructions.’
‘So the murderer didn’t leave after the body had been discovered,’ Woodend mused. ‘But there’s nothing to have stopped him making his escape between the time he killed Val Farnsworth and the time you arrived, now is there?’
‘Yes, there is. The doctor estimated Miss Farnsworth met her death not more than three-quarters of an hour before she was found. That was at least an hour after anybody had left the studio.’
‘Again, are you sure?’
‘Positive. Teddy Kendrick keeps a ledger in which he logs people in and out. The last entry was at just after six o’clock.’
‘Isn’t it possible that our killer could have slipped out through one of the other exits?’ Woodend asked.
‘No, sir, it isn’t. All the other exits are fire doors, and they’re wired up to the central alarm system. Nobody could have gone through one of them without setting that alarm off.’
‘An’ you’ve checked that the alarm systems on the fire doors haven’t been tampered with?’
‘Not me personally, but it’s one of the first things I got one of my team to do.’
Woodend nodded. ‘You seem to have been very thorough,’ he said. ‘So at least we know that the murderer – whoever he or she is – was still in the building when you arrived. So how many suspects does that leave us with?’
‘In round figures?’
‘That’ll do for a start.’
Hebden grinned awkwardly. ‘With all the actors, technicians, make-up artists, camera and sound men, costume people and management, I’m afraid it comes to more or less seventy-five,’ he said. ‘And if it had happened earlier, before the clerical staff went home for the night, it would have been even higher.’
‘Seventy-five,’ Woodend repeated to himself. He turned to Rutter. ‘How do you feel about those numbers, Bob?’
Rutter shrugged. ‘We’ve had more suspects than that to deal with in our time.’
‘Aye, we have,’ Wood
end agreed. ‘When we were investigatin’ that case in Liverpool, we had a whole bloody city as suspects.’ He turned back to Hebden. ‘I take it you’ve got the names an’ addresses of everybody who was here, haven’t you?’ he asked. ‘Only I expect my keen young inspector is just itchin’ to run his highly-trained eye over them.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got the names and addresses,’ Hebden confirmed. ‘I’ve also got accounts of everybody’s movements for the hour before the victim was discovered.’
‘But from the tone of your voice, you don’t sound as if you think they’ll be particularly useful,’ Woodend said.
‘The accounts will eliminate some of the possible suspects.’
‘But not that many?’
‘I haven’t have time to study the results thoroughly,’ Hebden admitted, ‘but as far as I can tell from a cursory glance, there are very few people who have an alibi for the whole of that period.’
‘Fragmentation,’ Woodend said.
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘I was sayin’ to Bob earlier that what goes on here isn’t all part of one process – as it was when the place was a mill. It’s a lot of different processes which occasionally mesh together. For the rest of the time, everybody’s concerned with doin’ their own little job – so it’s not surprisin’ they don’t have alibis.’ He lit up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘What about forensics? Have the boffins been able to come up with anythin’ useful?’
‘The victim was stabbed several times with a heavy-duty electrician’s screwdriver,’ Inspector Hebden said. ‘It’s been positively identified as belonging to the studio’s maintenance department. It should, by rights, have been in the storeroom.’
‘An’ who has a key to that storeroom?’
‘Quite a number of people – but you’ll probably get nowhere with that particular line of inquiry, since the store wasn’t locked.’
‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Woodend said, almost fatalistically. ‘So does the murder weapon offer us any other clues?’
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