by H. Y. Hanna
Gaz looked up and his eyes widened as he saw Cassie.
She gave him a dazzling smile and asked in a throaty voice, “Is this seat taken?”
“Uh, no… I mean, sure… sit down!” He jumped to pull out a chair for her. “Er… can I get you a drink?”
“I’ve got one, thanks,” said Cassie, holding up her mulled wine. She leaned back in her chair so that he had a good view of her, with her deep-red sweater setting off her tumbling dark hair, and her tight-fitting jeans showing off her voluptuous figure and long legs to perfection.
Gaz swallowed and tried hard not to ogle her. I had to fight the urge not to laugh. Although I’d known about Cassie’s femme fatale tendencies ever since our days in school together (when she’d left a trail of broken hearts in her wake!), I’d rarely seen her exploit her looks. Cassie’s first love was her painting, and she spent more time cooing endearments to the canvas than to any lucky male. Not that it had stopped men flocking to her anyway, and she was never short of hopefuls wanting to fill the spot as her boyfriend. But for the most part, she treated romance with a casual indifference and never made much effort to attract a man’s attention. Now, though, she was giving it her all and I was impressed. I also felt a stab of pity for Gaz. The poor man didn’t stand a chance.
Cassie fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I hope you don’t mind me just coming over like this but I noticed you from across the room…” She gave him a smile heavy with meaning. “I thought you looked like the kind of man I’d like to get to know.”
“Uh… um…” Gaz’s usual aplomb failed him and he stammered like a schoolboy. “I… I’m glad you did. You… you look like the kinda girl I’d like to get to know too.”
Cassie laughed. Then she leaned forwards suddenly, feigning surprise. “Wait a minute—you look kind of familiar… You’re not that chap who’s on From Pleb to Celeb, are you?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Gaz, grinning and puffing his chest out.
“Ooh, I love your impressions,” said Cassie, opening her eyes very wide. “You’re so hilarious!”
Gaz’s chest swelled even more and he looked like his head was rapidly expanding too.
“So, tell me…” Cassie gave him a coy smile. “What’s it really like being on a talent show?”
Gaz grinned. “It’s good fun. I mean, there’s a lot of hanging around an’ waiting for things to happen but they feed you really well an’ it’s pretty comfy backstage.”
“It must be amazing to be treated like a star!”
“Yeah, it’s kinda cool to have people fussing over you—although I don’t like summa the things they make me do—”
“Like what?”
“Oh… like put on make-up. Blimey. Never realised that men had to put make-up on telly as well. The make-up woman’s always fussing about ‘shine’ or something, an’ dabbing bloody powder on my face before I go on stage.” He wrinkled his nose. “She even wanted to put some lipstick on me once, but I told her: No way—I’d end up looking like a right plonker!”
Cassie laughed dutifully. Then she lowered her voice and said: “It’s so awful about Lara’s murder, isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news!’
Gaz’s face sobered. “Yeah. Pretty shocking, it was.”
“Did you… see her?”
He winced. “You mean her body? Well, I rushed over, just like everyone else, but I didn’t get too close.”
Cassie gave a delicious shiver. “Yeah, it’s such a gruesome murder, isn’t it? I mean, frozen by liquid nitrogen—what a creepy way to kill someone! I feel really sorry for Lara… although I must say, I never liked her much based on her TV appearances—did you like her?”
Gaz looked uncomfortable. “She… she was all right.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Um… not particularly. She was just another contestant, really.”
“Funny… I heard differently,” said Cassie with a smirk. She leaned across the table and said in a suggestive tone. “I heard that you and Lara got very friendly… friendly enough to share a bed.”
Gaz went pale. “Where did you hear that? It’s rubbish! I didn’t… we never…” he blustered. “That’s a loada bollocks!”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been a big deal if you had,” said Cassie with a shrug. “She was an attractive woman—loads of men probably wouldn’t have minded sharing a bed with her.”
“Well, I weren’t one of them,” Gaz snapped. “Look, can we talk about something else?”
“Oh, sure… sorry…” Cassie’s voice dripped with fake sympathy. “It must be really tough for you.”
Gaz relaxed slightly. “It’s not too awful since she didn’t mean anything to me. I mean… of course, I’m sorry she’s dead, but it wasn’t personal, you know? But, yeah, murder is always pretty nasty—”
“Yes, and especially when it happens so close to you!” said Cassie smoothly. She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “You must have a hunch about who it might be?”
“I… I dunno… It could’ve been anybody backstage—”
“But surely there must have been some people who might have had more reason to want Lara dead? You knew them all—who do you think might have had a grudge against Lara?”
“I… I said I dunno, okay? Jesus, why’re you so interested in the murder?” He looked at Cassie with sudden suspicion. “Hey, are you a copper in disguise?”
“Would it be a problem if I was?” Cassie shot back. “Have you got something to hide?”
“No!” cried Gaz. “Bloody hell, you don’t think that I killed Lara?”
Cassie leaned forwards suddenly, all traces of flirtatiousness wiped from her face. “Did you?” she asked bluntly.
“NO!” Gaz sprang up from his seat, his face outraged. “No, I bloody well didn’t! Is this some kinda set-up? Fine! You want to know who might have wanted to kill Lara? I’ll tell you who: that woman with the puppets. Cheryl Sullivan.”
“Cheryl!” I cried, not caring that Gaz would realise I had been listening. “That’s ridiculous! How can you say that? Cheryl is the sweetest, nicest—”
He turned to me, his face sneering. “Oh, you fell for that act, did you? Well, lemme tell you, Cheryl didn’t always have this sweet, wholesome image. Oh no, our goody-goody nursery teacher used to spend her working days in a very different way.”
“How do you know?” I demanded.
He smirked. “Well… let’s just say, I enjoy a bit of solo time with some quality men’s literature—y’know what I mean?” He made a lewd motion with one hand. “Summa the shops have vintage editions on their back shelves. I like to look through those sometimes… an’ guess who I saw staring back at me from the centrefold one day?”
“You’re saying that Cheryl…” I stared at him incredulously.
He nodded. “Don’t believe me? Go to For Your Eyes Only on Cowley Road an’ have a look. Check out a couple of editions from the ’80s—you’ll see.”
“But I don’t understand—how could Lara have known about this?”
“Because I told her! We were having a natter about the other contestants an’ she said she thought Cheryl was too good to be true—an’ I said she was right. I told her what I’d seen. I probably shouldn’t have,” he added with slight regret. “But y’know what happens with pillow talk—”
He broke off suddenly as he realised what he’d said.
“I assume this was during that one-night stand you insisted you didn’t have, right?” said Cassie sarcastically.
Gaz flushed. “Okay, so I lied. Who’d want to admit having a connection with a murder victim, unless they really had to? But it was just one night—that’s all. We never hooked up again after that and I didn’t murder Lara!”
A few minutes later, after Gaz had stormed out of the pub, Cassie joined us back at our table and gave the Old Biddies a grudging smile.
“Okay—I have to admit, you were sort of right. Gaz did spill a lot of stuff.”
“That’s because you
were brilliant, Cass!” I said, looking at her with admiration. “Seriously, if you ever want to give up painting, you could get a job as a spy for MI6 or even as a police interrogator! That was like watching a professional in action, the way you hooked him and reeled him in, then pinned him down just at the right moment.”
“Yes, your technique was very good, dear,” said Mabel, nodding like a proud teacher.
“He didn’t confess to the murder though,” Cassie said, looking disappointed.
“That’s because he didn’t kill Lara,” said Mabel.
“You believe him?”
“I think he sounded very sincere,” said Glenda. “Such a nice young man—and so handsome too. If I was fifty years younger…” She sighed wistfully.
“Yes, but Gaz does impressions, you know,” I protested. “That’s a type of acting, isn’t it? He could simply have been acting his outrage and all that. You really only have his word.”
“Ah, but the whole point of this technique is that the suspect is not on their guard—like they would be in a police interview—and so their reactions are much more honest. I think Glenda is right: Gaz isn’t the murderer,” said Mabel.
“What did he mean about Cheryl?” asked Ethel, looking confused. “I don’t understand what men’s literature he’s talking about. When I used to work at the village library, there were certain books that appealed more to men—like novels by John le Carré and Tom Clancy—but they don’t have any photos in them?”
“He wasn’t talking about that kind of men’s literature,” I said awkwardly.
“Well, what other kind is there?” asked Ethel, looking even more bewildered.
I looked helplessly at Cassie, hoping that my best friend would step in, but she grinned and held up her hands, as if saying: It’s all yours.
“Um… you know what?” I said brightly. “I think I’m going to get another glass of mulled wine. Anyone else want a drink?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Well, this isn’t really my idea of a romantic date, but I suppose at least we’re spending a bit of time together,” said Devlin with a smile as he leaned back in one of the plush velvet seats of the auditorium.
I sat down next to him and laid my head on his shoulder for a moment. Devlin slipped an arm around me and pulled me close.
“I can’t remember the last time we went on a proper date,” I said. “And that drink at Quod doesn’t count.”
He sighed. “I know… it’s just been really crazy at work—”
“When is it not crazy at work? You told me things would get better after that last case was over—the one you cancelled our holiday for,” I reminded him with a dark look. “But as soon as that case was closed, you dived straight into a new one.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart—I know how disappointed you were about cancelling the trip to Malta.” Devlin looked at me with genuine contrition. “I really was going to take leave as soon as that investigation was completed. But that double murder in Wolvercote was just too big for me to ignore. The whole department was run ragged over that one—I couldn’t, in all conscience, ask for leave in the middle of that. And, of course, then this happened…” He indicated the stage in front of us. “Lara’s murder is a high-profile case and the Superintendent is putting pressure on me to have it wrapped up…”
“Which is the only reason I get to spend a bit of time with my boyfriend tonight,” I said wryly. “You’re only here so you can observe the suspects—”
“Well, no… I could have sent my sergeant or even one of the junior detective constables to sit through the show. It’s not really high priority.” Devlin tightened his arm, pulling me closer against him and turning his head so that his lips brushed my cheek. “But I wouldn’t want anyone else cuddling my favourite tearoom sleuth,” he added teasingly.
I laughed in spite of myself. It was hard to stay mad at Devlin when he was like this.
“Hey, you two lovebirds… mind if we join you?”
I looked up to see Cassie and Seth in the aisle.
“Cass! Seth!” I straightened up. “Great to see you.”
They dropped into the seats next to us. Seth looked wistfully at me and Devlin, and tentatively stretched out his arm, as if he’d like to put it around Cassie’s shoulders. Then he flushed and hurriedly withdrew it. I felt a pang of pity for him. Seth, like many men, longed to capture Cassie’s heart. The only difference was, he’d suffered for years in silence—ever since the time we’d all met as freshers in our first week at Oxford, actually—and despite yearning to tell her, he was too shy to express his feelings. Which left me awkwardly in the middle. Sometimes I was so frustrated by the stalemate that I wanted to tell Cassie myself, but I knew it was none of my business, really. So now I gave Seth a sympathetic smile behind Cassie’s back and said quickly, to distract him:
“Seth—you’ll be pleased to know that they’re repeating the magician act.”
“Oh really? That’s brilliant.”
“Are they letting him use the liquid nitrogen again?” said Cassie, raising her eyebrows. “I would have thought… given that it was used to commit a murder… Seems a bit bad taste?”
“Albert insisted that he needed it for the special effects—that his act just wouldn’t be the same—and you know how Monty Gibbs doesn’t care about being PC.”
“He did agree to precautions though,” said Devlin. “I’ve got one of my men backstage, standing guard next to the cauldron, to make sure no one else ‘falls in’.”
“I doubt anyone would try to use the liquid nitrogen as a murder weapon again anyway,” said Cassie. “Not that I’m expecting another death… are you? Is that why you’re here?” she looked curiously at Devlin.
“No, I just thought watching the contestants perform might help me understand them better, and besides, it was an excuse to spend a bit of time with Gemma.”
“Yeah, but—”
“SHHH!” said Seth suddenly. “It’s starting!”
I noticed that the lights were dimming and the din of conversation in the audience slowly died down. There was a drumroll, then a disembodied voice came over the speakers:
“Welcome to the continuation of the Semi-Finals for From Pleb to Celeb, the show where we turn nobodies into somebodies!”
I winced at the dreadful slogan and watched as the curtains parted and the three judges walked out on stage. It was still a shock seeing my mother up there with Stuart Hollande and Monty Gibbs, and she was a stark contrast—in her cashmere twinset, demure pencil skirt, and pearls—to the other two judges in their trendy designer jeans and badly fitting Armani suit, respectively. She looked like someone who had been on her way to the Queen’s Garden Party and somehow got lost and ended up here. But I had to admit, she handled it all with amazing aplomb, showing no nerves or insecurity about her image, and waving to the crowd as graciously as Her Majesty herself. A roar of appreciation and applause greeted her wave and I even heard a chorus of “Evelyn Rose! Evelyn Rose!”
“I don’t get it,” I whispered to Cassie. “My mother is like the worst stereotype of the 1950s housewife… but everyone seems to love her. How come?”
“Maybe it’s because she’s a refreshing change,” said Cassie with a chuckle. “Everybody’s fed up of these self-obsessed, B-list celebrities who just spout insincere crap, like ‘you owned that song, darling’… it’s nice to see a judge speaking honestly, without trying to pose for the cameras or boost their image with the public—you know? I mean, your mother’s comments to the contestants are so old-fashioned and politically incorrect, it’s almost hilarious. Last time, she told that hip hop kid he’d have a great career ahead of him, if he could just cut his hair shorter and wear a belt so that his jeans didn’t keep falling down. And she also told the plumber chap that he really needed to find a wife because at fifty-four, he was getting on and needed a woman in the house to look after him properly.”
“Oh God, she didn’t,” I said, putting my face in my hands.
“Ye
ah, but memes of her comments are going viral on social media, you know? I even heard that one of the breakfast TV shows has done a special segment about her, raving about how she’s bringing back old-fashioned values to British broadcasting.”
I shook my head in disbelief and wondered what my father thought. He was away at an academic conference, otherwise he would have been here tonight, although I couldn’t help thinking that the gentle, absent-minded Professor Rose would probably have been bewildered by it all. On the other hand, after several decades of being married to my mother, he was probably used to being bewildered!
The sound of music blaring on stage reminded me that the show was beginning. Then, to my surprise, the disembodied voice rang out again, this time in sober tones:
“Before we begin our show tonight, we’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the loss of one of our most talented contestants. We are all devastated by Lara King’s death and we know that you will miss her terribly. However, we know that as a consummate professional, she would have understood—better than anyone else—the old adage: the show must go on. And in honour of her memory, we will begin tonight’s show with a short tribute to Lara and some of her finest moments…”
A screen dropped down on the stage and began playing a compilation of footage of the dead woman, from her singing on stage to relaxing backstage, and even a saucy clip of her getting undressed in the dressing room, unzipping her dress and showing a smooth expanse of bare skin which broadcast her lack of underwear.
There was an appreciative murmur from the audience and I wondered cynically if Monty Gibbs had decided to listen to his producers after all about making some kind of gesture towards Lara’s death. Then I saw the little businessman turn around in his seat and scan the audience behind him, smiling with pleasure as he saw their rapt faces. It was just as well that it was too dark for most people to see his expression, otherwise they might have been shocked at how cheerful he looked about Lara’s death.
