Strictly Murder

by Lynda Wilcox

  “And what about her co-star?”

  “Mr Ferrari? He’s gorgeous, really nice.” Her eyes looked wistful for a moment though I hadn’t missed the formality. “My friend Lauren, in make-up, says he hardly needs to spend any time in her chair before recording the show.”

  “Did he and JayJay get on?”

  “Oh yes. They got on really well together. She always said that as a presenter he made an excellent dancer.”

  My head shot up from my notebook. That hardly tallied with what Candida had told me. The producer had reckoned the two stars had had a romance.

  “Really? Were they seeing each other?”

  Fleetingly, a pinched look crossed Holly’s face, though whether in distaste or disapproval, I couldn’t tell

  “I think they might have gone out on a date a couple of times but I don’t think it was serious.” She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “JayJay had lots of admirers.”

  Hmmm. Holly was either too young or too innocent to be a good observer of human nature and the people around her, by the sound of it. Time to change tack.

  “Did anyone ever threaten her?”

  “What, here?” She sounded aghast. “Oh no.”

  “She didn’t, for example, receive threatening letters or hate mail?”

  Holly shook her head.

  “No, just loads of fan mail. She was really popular.”

  I began to think I was wasting my time. Holly’s sunshine view of the world offered no clues to the dead woman’s real personality, what she truly thought about others - or what her colleagues felt about her. Once again I moved on.

  “Can you tell me more about the show, Holly? I got the general gist of things from Candida but it would help if I had more details.”

  At least, I hoped it would help. Just at the moment I felt totally in the dark, floundering around in unknown names and an unfamiliar subject.

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “I understand that the series lasted eighteen weeks? When did they start?”

  She flicked through a large upright calendar on her desk.

  “The programmes were recorded every Monday afternoon and the first one of this series was on …”

  I waited while she found the right place.

  ” … Monday 22nd February.”

  I wrote this down before asking, “What about rehearsals?”

  “There was a meeting here every Tuesday morning when the new contestants would be paired with the professionals,” Holly explained clearly. “They then rehearsed for three hours every weekday morning. There would then be a full rehearsal, including the presenters and the judges, the following Monday morning before recording, in front of a studio audience, later that afternoon.”

  Tempting though it was to ask if that was ‘a live studio audience’ - you don’t, after all, get dead ones - I refrained. I didn’t think Holly would get the joke so I merely nodded.

  “What about the first week’s recording? Did they meet the Tuesday before that?”

  Holly looked at me witheringly.

  “Of course. The very first contestants would need a week to practice, too.”

  “Did JayJay and Greg rehearse this often?”

  “Oh no,” Holly laughed at the idea, “they’re professionals. The contestants wouldn’t get to meet the stars until the full rehearsal on Monday morning, prior to the recording which could go on until late in the evening. JayJay and Greg practiced their routine for the next week on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday before returning the following Monday. They were never here after Thursday or before Monday morning.”

  I frantically scribbled all this down whist trying to get it clear in my head. One full day and three morning’s work a week hardly amounted to the gruelling schedule Candida Clark had claimed.

  “Thanks, Holly. I think I understand it better now. Did the two stars stay in hotels?”

  “No, they both rented out houses during the run. They could be up here for nearly six months. JayJay had a house on the Golden View estate.”

  I knew of the place. Only for people on celebrity salaries.

  “I don’t know where Mr Ferrari stayed.”

  Again, I noted the formality whilst wondering why she would know where one star lived but not the other.

  “Golden View is a long way from Willow Drive. I wonder why she went there?”

  Holly shrugged but said nothing. I felt I was getting nowhere fast. I tried one last question, one angle I’d not touched on yet.

  “And JayJay was happy in her work here at the studios?”

  She pulled at her lower lip.

  “Well …”

  “Yes?”

  “I did once hear her say, ‘I shall be glad when I’m out of this place’, but I think she just meant she was ready to go home, you know, to the house she rented when she was up here doing the show.”

  It didn’t sound like it to me but perhaps Holly was right. She’d certainly given me plenty to think about.

  “Well, if you can think of anything else will you give me a call? Here’s my home number.”

  I scrawled my name and number on the back of one of KD’s business cards and passed it across the desk. She looked at it briefly and slid it into a drawer.

  “And, Holly, I think it would be best if we kept all this to ourselves.”

  She gave me a conspiratorial wink, out of place on her guileless face.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Long. Mum’s the word.”

  I sighed and left the office.

  I’d put it off for as long as I could - in truth, I’d largely forgotten it - but now there was no way round it. It was time to watch the DVD of ‘Star Steps’. I slipped the recording KD had given me into the slot in the machine, grabbed the remote control and made myself comfortable on the settee, coffee and a bar of chocolate to hand on the small table in front of me. Gritting my teeth, I pressed the ‘play’ button.

  “Welcome to Star Steps, your date with the Stars,” screamed a voice.

  The screen showed a wide flight of stairs with garishly clad couples posing at the edges of each tread.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, please greet your hostess,” the same voice went on in a rapturous tone. “Here she is. It’s JayJay!”

  The unseen audience whooped, hooted and applauded in a cacophony of sound as a celluloid version of the woman I had last seen dead, shimmied and twirled onto the stage. The skirt of her silver lame dress flared around her hips as she pirouetted in silver dance shoes to centre screen coming to rest, legs spread wide, arms stretched out above her head, all hair, mouth and teeth.

  “And here is your co-host, Greg Ferrari”.

  Now, the camera panned upwards past the wide, white-toothed smile of Jaynee to the top of the stairs as, once again, the audience erupted into whistles and cheers.

  With a balletic leap that might have put Baryshnikov to shame, a figure in black appeared at the top of the steps. To the accompaniment of applause and the plastic grins of the dance pairs to either side, Greg Ferrari tapped and spiralled his way downwards. Even I had to admit that the man could dance. His long legs moved swiftly, elegantly in a variety of steps and complex movements that dazzled the eyes and, whilst I would love to say that I never took those same eyes off his feet, in fact they were transfixed by his face. Gorgeous, Holly had called him and I could see what she he meant. Quite simply, he was the most massively handsome man I had ever seen.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he took Jaynee’s hands and twirled her around so fast her blonde hair flew out behind her and swayed in its own slipstream, then he pulled her to him, lifting her as if she were no heavier than thistledown, before flipping her over and gently setting her down.

  He sashayed to the left of her, then to the right. He twirled all the way round her before catching her hand reeling her in towards him, then unwinding her out again, like some horizontal yo-yo. In all of this time, JayJay had hardly taken two steps under her own steam and their routine had cle
arly been designed to highlight his talents over hers. She was no Ginger Rogers that’s for sure, I thought as, with a final twirl, they came to rest taking their bows in front of audience and camera. The whole thing had lasted six minutes and the crowd hadn’t shut up — once. It reminded me of a magic show where the illusion is all done with mirrors. Or as Shakespeare put it, ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing’.

  Their performance having finished, the camera moved from the two presenters to focus on the contestants. In swirls of jewel coloured satin and chiffon the dancers on the stairs descended to take their turn in the spotlight, circling the stage, their acrobatic and frenzied gyrations bringing gasps from the appreciative audience but only groans from me. The sheer fakery of their rictus smiles together with the doll-like make-up, the skimpy and ridiculous costumes of the women, the black frock coats and glossy gelled hair of the men all left me entirely unmoved. I paused the disc, appalled at the fatuousness of it all.

  I heaved a sigh and took my mug through to the kitchen to refresh my coffee. My problem, I thought, standing at the sink looking out at the brick wall as the kettle boiled, was that I was an anachronism, born in the wrong era, out of my natural time and out of step with the modern world. I enjoyed things that made me old enough to be Holly Danver’s grandmother, not a mere twelve years her senior. I liked old films from the heyday of Hollywood in the 1940s, the music of the 60’s; not modern movies filled with graphic sex and violence or the current crop of chart toppers - all girl bands and rap artists. KD would no doubt say I was simply old-fashioned, I reflected sipping at my coffee and sitting back down. Whatever, I was too old to change now. I picked up the remote control and forwarded the disc past the still-grinning faces of the contestants. Jaynee and Greg came into shot, smiling and talking to each other. I turned up the sound.

  “Wow, Greg, what a dazzling line-up.” Jaynee Johnson’s voice rang with an amazement that gave all the appearance of being sincere. “It looks as if we have a bumper crop of fabulous dancers, tonight.”

  “You’re right, JayJay. The judges are really going to have their work cut out.”

  Hell’s teeth! Did somebody write this? Were the prize pair following a script or did they just make it up as they went along? I shook my head in sheer disbelief that hundreds of thousands of people watched this drivel every week and, apparently, found it entertaining. I pressed the mute button. The couple continued to mouth soundlessly at each other as I watched. This served two purposes, I discovered. Firstly, I was no longer distracted by the banalities and secondly, I could concentrate on the body language of the two stars which was telling me far, far more. I’m no psychologist but if Greg and JayJay had ever been an item they certainly weren’t now. I rewound the disc and watched those last few seconds again. They stood just a fraction too far apart as if one or the other wanted to maintain some distance between them and their heads were tilted fractionally away — even allowing for the cliched drivel they were uttering, this couple were talking at, not to, each other. I paused the disc again while I found my notebook and made a list of questions.

  When I’d done that I sat back and surveyed the page. One thing was becoming increasingly clear. If I was going to delve any deeper into the mystery of JayJay’s death then I needed to talk to Greg Ferrari — and soon.

  Chapter 4

  As he’d promised, Jim was waiting in the entrance to the Central Library when I got there. He gave me a grin and a peck on the cheek before pushing open the double doors and letting me through.

  “Is this going to be a regular date, then, Ver?”

  “Regular date?” I looked at him blankly.

  His eyes smiled at me from under a mop of sandy hair.

  “It’s not the first time you’ve asked me to come digging into the bowels of the library with you,” he pointed out as we crossed to the enquiry desk.

  I laughed at his choice of words

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it. It’s hardly the most glamorous, or tempting, description for a date.”

  “Well, if you won’t go on a proper date with me, I have to take my chances when I can.”

  I was well aware that Jim had carried a candle for me ever since, at the age of eighteen, I had fallen madly in love with his flatmate, Robert Hastings. Rob with his good looks, intelligence and personality had swept me off my feet. Add to that the fact that he could wear the tattiest jeans and tee-shirt as if they’d been designed for him, he was brilliant in bed and he drove a sports car and what more could a girl want? Well, for this girl, nothing. He was my ideal man and I loved him passionately and with total abandon. Unfortunately, I wasn’t his ideal woman and, when he’d dumped me after a few short months, I was devastated. For a while I went out of my mind. I slept with almost every man that asked me and flung myself at a fair few that didn’t, then I shut myself away and lived like a hermit, not wanting to see anyone, or to eat, or to live. Rob was my life and without him my life was over. I contemplated suicide but, as one of my favourite writers, Dorothy Parker, pointed out, all the options were either too painful or too difficult to achieve. So I lived. By the time I’d come out of this spiral of misery and self-loathing, Rob had moved away, back to University in Salterton, and I had never set eyes on him since. Fourteen years since I had seen the man I still considered I loved. I didn’t think of him often these days, except perhaps to wonder what he had made of his life, and, when I did, the pain in my heart was still there, a huge block that stopped me moving on, stopped me loving again. Poor Jim, what chance had he got when I compared all men to the one I’d lost and they all came out wanting?

  “Verity? Are you all right, Verity?”

  “Hmm?” I looked at Jim’s concerned face and took a deep breath.

  “Are you OK? You disappeared there for a minute.”

  “Yes, thanks Jim.” I breathed out. I been so far gone in my memories I’d almost forgotten where I was.

  “Shall we carry on?”

  “Of course,” I smiled. “We’d better, there’s a lot to do.”

  We’d reached the desk by now and the librarian looked up at us, evidently relieved to have something to do.

  “Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “We’d like to see the newspaper archives please. In the basement.” Jim took out his newspaper identity card and flashed it in front of her.

  “If you could hang on a minute, I’ll have to get the key.”

  We nodded and she wandered off to an office somewhere.

  “So what is it this time?” Jim asked when she’d gone.

  “Just general research, really. KD is looking for more ideas for her next book”

  “So why doesn’t she just make it up? Isn’t that what writers are supposed to do? Fiction writers, I mean.”

  He grinned. Jim called himself a writer but his official job description was crime reporter for the Crofterton Gazette. If you write for a newspaper you’re not supposed to ‘make it up’.

  “Well, she does in a sense. She will change all the names, obviously, and the locations, the dates and so on.”

  “And you do all the research do you?”

  “Yes, to start with. Later on, once KD’s into the plotting and planning stage of the novel then we’ll discuss things, throw ideas around and try and work out whodunit. If we don’t know that already, of course.”

  “It sounds as if you both write it.”

  “Oh, no. KD does all the writing. I just do the research, offer ideas and usually come up with the solution, that’s all.”

  “So you’re the detective and she’s the writer.”

  I laughed but after the events of the last twenty four hours Jim’s throwaway comment came a little too close to home. Besides, given the way KD and I worked, his observation was largely accurate. Not that I would admit it. KD liked to think of herself as the real life version of her fictional hero, Agnes Merryweather. I was just her sounding board.

  “My official title is personal assistant and I don’t
claim to be anything else.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “Yes, I am. Apart from the research work there’s the regular PA stuff - booking hair appointments, book signing tours, interviews and appointments with her agent. So it’s varied and interesting enough for me not to get bored.”

  The librarian returned with the key. Jim signed for it with a flourish before leading me through the silent tiers of books and downstairs to the door to the archives.

  “I can’t stay long, Verity,” he said, opening the door. “I’m working on the Jaynee Johnson murder case and supposed to be tracking down the estate agent who found her.”

  “Umm …”

  “What?”

  “The estate agent didn’t find her.”

  “Oh? How would you know that?”

  I took a deep breath. I felt I owed Jim and could trust him not to splash my name all over the Gazette.

  “Because I did.”

  “What? Found her? My God! What an exclusive.”

  Jim’s face lit up before assuming a baffled look.

  “But I thought it was an estate agent.”

  “Where did you get that idea from?”

  “The police, I suppose. I think it was in their press release.”

  I took a chair at the wooden table in the centre of the room, waiting for Jim to join me while I digested the fact that Inspector Farish had, thankfully, withheld my name.

  “I was viewing the house, Jim, with a member of staff from Knight’s. He stayed downstairs taking a phone call. I was the one who actually made the discovery.”

  “Oh, Verity, how awful. I’m sorry for that comment about an exclusive. You probably don’t want to talk about it.”

  He tried to look contrite but couldn’t quite mask his disappointment. I took pity on him.

  “It’s OK, Jim. Though I’d rather my name isn’t splashed all over your paper.”

  “Absolutely, Verity.” He ran a hand through his pale hair. “You have my word on that.”

  So, I told him everything I could about my unwelcome discovery of Jaynee Johnson’s body. I only gave him the facts and drew the line at the ‘human interest’ side of things.