by H. Y. Hanna
“Her reverse spins were dead sloppy too,” said the third woman. “My Bella could do them much better—and it only took me, loike, two sessions of clicker training to teach ’er. I saw Trish down at the club trying it with Skip for weeks.”
“Her timing’s all wrong, that’s what… I’ve watched ’er. She rewards too slowly. Doog doesn’t make the connection,” said the first woman.
“Did you tell her?”
“Are you kidding? That woman’s a loose cannon. I’m not going anywhere near ’er if I can help it.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear what ’appened at the obedience cloob show last month?”
“You mean, when that poodle attacked that Great Dane?”
“No, that was the weekend before. This was the Championship Class C… with the joodge from Australia.”
“Oh… yeah?”
“Yeah, well, Trish lost to this new girl and her Labrador—really good ’andler, she was, this girl; they’d only just started six months ago, can you believe it, and they’d blazed right through Novice class and Class A and B—and they were definitely the best in the ring that day. But my God, Trish went berserk when the joodge announced the winner! Joomped on the other girl and really started going for ’er. They needed two people to pull ’er off.”
“Bluddy hell! Was the girl all roight?” said the third woman.
“Yeah, she was loocky—got a nasty bruise on ’er jaw and a couple of scratches but nothing too serious.”
“I’m not surprised, to be honest,” said the second woman. “I’ve seen Trish at shows before: she’s a bluddy awful loser. I always feel sorry for those competink’ against her—I keep well away from her.”
“Did this girl report her for assault?” asked the second woman.
“No… Trish apologised and this girl decided to droop it.”
“I would have reported her,” said the third woman. “The authoritays ought to know if she’s getting aggressive. It’s loike that with the dogs, you know? You report them to the dog warden.”
“Yeah, well, what if Trish finds out that you snitched on her?” asked the second woman. “I wouldn’t want to stand too close to her the next time we’re trainink’ at the club.”
“Still, you know that—” The first woman broke off suddenly as she caught my eye and realised that I was listening avidly to every word.
I flushed and looked hastily away, pretending to check the time on my watch. The women eyed me suspiciously, then turned their backs on me and changed the subject. I was relieved that the line had moved forwards enough that they soon disappeared into the toilet, and I made sure that I lingered long enough in my cubicle that they would be long gone by the time I came out. All this meant that I was really late getting back to my seat. In fact, the auditorium was already dark as I scurried down the aisle and squeezed apologetically past several people already seated in our row, until I made it back to my seat between Cassie and Devlin.
“I thought you’d decided to abscond,” he joked. “Muesli all right?”
“She’s fine,” I whispered.
I started to tell him what I’d overheard, but at that moment music blared from the speakers, drowning out any attempt at conversation. I gave up and sat back; I could tell Devlin later. Still, as the twins appeared and began their singing and tap-dancing routine, I found myself struggling to keep my mind on the act on stage. Instead, my thoughts kept returning to the conversation I’d just overheard.
A lot of it, I had to admit, just sounded like sour grapes. But regardless of that, those women obviously trained at the same dog club as Trish and knew her well. They certainly weren’t making up the stories of her behaviour at other competitions. So Trish Bingham has a history of assault and is known for being a bad loser… I mused. And now she was competing in something ten times more important than some local dog obedience show. How far would she go to remove a threat to her winning?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I was so immersed in my speculation about Trish that I barely noticed the twins’ routine, but I snapped out of my thoughts with a jolt when I heard the voice over the speakers say:
“And now, for something a little bit different… A group who shows that age really is just a number. Please welcome the Pussy Puffs—er, sorry, I mean, the Herb Girls!”
The audience erupted into laughter as the Old Biddies and June Driscoll trotted on stage. They might have changed their name but they’d obviously decided to stick with their white satin, rhinestone-covered Elvis outfits. They looked unfazed, however, by the crowd’s reaction, and stood together with such dignity that the jeering soon faded into a respectful silence.
“So… um… Herb Girls!” said Stuart Hollande brightly. “We’re delighted to have you on the show. It’s quite something to have senior citizens in the competition. In fact, this is the first time in the history of talent shows, I think, that there’s been a band where the average age of its members is eighty yea—”
“Yer ’ear that?” cried Monty Gibbs, shaking a fist. “This is a first in British television! We are leadin’ the way. Yer might be shrivelled ole prunes, right, like this lot ’ere, but yer can still be a star!”
“Er… right, thanks, Monty,” Stuart cut in hastily. “Now, let’s see if the Herb Girls would like to say a few words before they begin their performance. Er…” He glanced down at his notes, then looked at Mabel expectantly. “Um… Parsley, is that right?”
“I’m Parsley!” squeaked Ethel. “She’s Tarragon… and that’s Chives,” she added, pointing at Florence.
“And I’m Dill,” said Glenda. “Not Fennel, mind—make sure you don’t confuse the two, although they do look very similar. But dill tastes so much nicer, I think, especially with a bit of grilled salmon or when you’re making pickled cucumbers, don’t you think?”
“Oh… er… right,” said Stuart, looking totally bemused. “Um… so what inspired you to form a ‘granny band’?”
“I think Borage should answer that,” said Mabel, indicating June next to her.
The widow stepped forwards and said in a quavering voice, “It’s for my husband, Bill, who passed away last year. I hope to win the prize and use the money to promote B.E.A.S.T., his support group for those with bushy eyebrows, and continue the work in his memory.”
Laughter erupted in the audience and, for an awful moment, I thought Stuart was going to ask her for more details, but to my great relief, he must have received a signal from backstage about keeping to the schedule because he touched the concealed microphone in his ear, nodded, then turned back to the stage and said:
“Right! That’s… er… very touching. So without further ado—let’s hear it for the Herb Girls!”
The crowd whooped and cheered, more out of reflex than anything else, I think. But when the music started and the five little old ladies on stage began swaying and bobbing to the rhythm, the crowd began to cheer in earnest. Armed with fresh blue rinses, brand-new orthotics, and extra-thick support tights, the Old Biddies and June performed their number with gusto. Okay, so they sang completely off-key and forgot half their lyrics, but there was something very endearing about them and the audience seemed to share my feelings, giving them thunderous applause when they finished.
As the clapping died down, Stuart turned to my mother and said: “So, Evelyn… what did you think of our peppy pensioners? Do you reckon they’re good enough to go through to the Finals?”
My mother frowned. “Well, the thing is, Stuart… I can’t really judge them, can I? Mabel, Glenda, Florence, and Ethel are personal friends of mine—”
“Shh!” hissed Monty Gibbs. “Who said yer know them, eh? Just pretend!”
My mother shook her head firmly. “No, that would be wrong. It would be a conflict of interest.”
Gibbs went very red in the face and started to say something, but Stuart cut in hastily:
“Uh… right, so… I think your opinion is probably the same as mine, Evelyn. These
gorgeous grannies have really given the younger contestants a run for their money! I think they deserve a chance to perform in the Finals, for sheer gumption, if nothing else… Monty? What say you?”
Monty Gibbs was still giving my mother dirty looks, but he gathered himself with an effort and said:
“Uh… yeah! Yeah! Blimey, ’course they deserve ter go through, mate! It’s all dahn ter the public vote though…” He turned towards the main camera and jabbed a finger at it. “So all yer people watchin’ on yor telly at ’ome—make sure yer vote t’night when the show’s over!”
There was only one act left: Gaz and his impressions, and I could feel a sense of anticipation from the audience. After this, the phone lines would be opened for voting and the two finalists would be decided. So far, based on the audience’s reaction, it looked like the twins were in the lead, with Trish a strong contender for second place, and the Old Biddies not far behind. Of course, that could all change if Gaz wowed the audience…
The handsome comedian strolled on stage, looking very trendy in a bright collared shirt and designer jeans. He also looked slightly irritable, rubbing a hand along one cheek, and—recalling what he had said to Cassie at the pub last night—I wondered if he had just been mobbed by the make-up artist for a last powder touch-up.
“Gaz… good to see you,” said Stuart with a warm smile. “You’re our final act tonight but I hope you’ll live up to the saying of saving the best for last?”
“Yeah, I… I’ve got a great show planned…” Gaz trailed off, scratching harder along his cheek. I noticed that a red rash was starting to show on his face. He scratched at his nose, then fiddled with his collar. “I’m… uh…” He broke off again and began scratching in earnest, using both hands.
Devlin frowned and said: “Something’s wrong…”
Gaz scratched furiously at his face and neck, looking like he was trying to rip his skin to shreds. He twisted and contorted, trying to reach a spot behind his ear, all while cursing violently. A murmur of concern rippled through the audience as they realised that this wasn’t part of the act but a man really in distress.
Devlin stood up suddenly and shouted: “He needs help! He might be having an allergic reaction!”
The next moment, several members of the crew rushed on stage to help the stricken man and they hustled him into the wings, out of sight. The judges also sprang up from the panel and rushed backstage through their private entrance. Devlin excused himself and pushed past the other people seated in our row, climbing out into the aisle and hurrying out of the auditorium. I followed hard at his heels, whilst behind us, the audience erupted in a babble of confused shouts and questions. We rushed through the doors connecting the lobby to backstage and arrived in the Waiting Area to find Gaz surrounded by judges, crew members, and other contestants. Everyone was talking at once and people were milling around in panicked confusion.
Gaz was still scrubbing manically at his face. “I need a shower,” he moaned. “I need to get this stuff off me!”
“Has someone called the ambulance?” Devlin demanded.
“Yes, sir… it’s on its way,” his constable spoke up.
“Do we ’ave a shower ’ere?” yelled Monty Gibbs.
“No, sir…”
“What about the kitchen sink?” suggested Stuart.
Then Mabel spoke up, her booming voice cutting through the din. “Young man—” She jabbed a finger at one of the crew members. “Go and bring one of the bottles you use to refill the water cooler.”
“The… the water cooler?”
“Yes, the big 15L bottles. Well, don’t just stand there—be quick about it!”
The young man hesitated, then rushed off, returning a moment later lugging one of the giant plastic refill bottles for the water cooler. Gaz grabbed this and upended the whole thing over his head, sloshing water over his face and body. A few minutes later, he stood dripping from head to toe, with a puddle forming around his feet.
“Is it better?” my mother asked anxiously.
“Yeah, a bit,” panted Gaz. “It’s not itching so badly.”
Florence and Ethel handed him their embroidered handkerchiefs, whilst Glenda fished in her handbag and pulled out a large tube of cream.
“Put this on your face, dear… It’s aloe vera cream. It will soothe your skin.”
Gaz mopped his face dry, then did as he was told, grimacing as he spread the cold cream over his skin. A few minutes later, though, he gave a small sigh of relief and I noticed that the red rash seemed to be lessening.
“Thanks… I… I feel better now.”
“That was quick thinking, Mrs Cooke,” said Devlin, nodding approvingly at Mabel. He stepped forwards and everyone fell back, responding to his air of authority. “Are you allergic to anything, Mr Hillman?” he asked Gaz.
The comedian shook his head. “Nah. Never had a problem eating peanuts or shellfish or anything like that.”
“When did you first notice the itching?”
“I dunno… Think it was just as I was walking on stage.”
“Did you put something on your face just before you went on stage?”
“No… but Sharon did!” Gaz pointed accusingly at a woman in the crowd. “Bloody powder—come to think of it, I started itching as soon as she put it on.”
The woman shook her head in confusion, her eyes wide. “But… but it’s just face powder… We’ve used it before and there’s never been any problem…”
“Can I see this powder?” asked Devlin.
The woman rummaged in a large bag slung over her shoulder and took out a small, flat box. I gasped as I recognised it.
“That’s the powder that Trish was holding yesterday!” I blurted.
Everyone turned to look at me, then swung their heads to stare at the dog walker. She flushed and took a step backwards.
“What are you saying, Gemma? Did you see Trish tampering with this box of powder?” asked Devlin. He took the box from Sharon, being careful to use a handkerchief to wrap around it, so as not to leave any fingerprints.
I hesitated. “Well, not exactly… I just happened to walk into the dressing room and Trish was in there. She was fiddling with something at one of the dressing tables and she was really… uh… defensive when she saw me. She left in a hurry but I noticed that there was some spilled powder on the table where she had been, and a small, flat box which wasn’t with the others.” I indicated the flat box in Devlin’s hands. “It looked exactly like this.”
Gaz narrowed his eyes at Trish. “It was you! You did it to sabotage me!”
“No! She… she’s lying! I never… It wasn’t me!” cried Trish, shaking her head vehemently. “I swear, I never touched that box—”
“Wait—this box isn’t—” Sharon started to say but Gaz interrupted her.
“I know it’s you! You were worried I’d beat you in the voting tonight and you wanted to make sure that you eliminated the competition. You probably murdered Lara too, you bitc—”
“Mr Hillman.” Devlin’s calm voice cut across Gaz’s shouting. “I must ask you to desist from such behaviour and leave the charges of guilt to the police. I will have this box of powder tested for fingerprints and that will easily confirm if Ms Bingham has touched it or not. In the meantime, I would like you to accompany me to the station to answer some questions—after you’ve been checked over by the paramedics when they arrive. And you too, Ms Bingham,” he added to the pale-faced Trish.
Sharon started to say something again, but she was cut off once more, this time by Monty Gibbs.
“Wait—wot about the show?” demanded the businessman. “Gaz ain’t done ’is act.”
“Surely you can’t expect him to go on stage and do his act now?” said Devlin incredulously.
“We ’ave to finish the Semi-Finals show,” said Gibbs stubbornly.
“As far as I’m concerned, the show tonight is finished,” said Devlin. “This was potentially a malicious act of sabotage which could have caused seri
ous harm. I need to get a Forensics team in here and I also need to question those who were in the vicinity.”
“No! No, yer can’t put the mockers on the show!” shouted Monty Gibbs. “Do yer realise ’ow many people are watchin' us tonight? Do yer realise wot the commercial spots cost? Not ter mention me syndication deal… This is me show and I’m not ’avin’ yer shut us dahn again, guv!”
“And this is my murder investigation, Mr Gibbs,” said Devlin coolly. “I’m not having you put people in danger simply to line your pockets. Now, you can either step aside and let me do my job—or I can have my men escort you off the premises.”
Devlin hadn’t raised his voice but there was no mistaking the gravity in his words. Monty Gibbs spluttered furiously, his face turning the colour of a beetroot. But after a moment he seemed to deflate, and he stepped back in a gesture of acquiescence.
Devlin added, in a more conciliatory tone: “We don’t know what substance affected Gaz—it may still be contaminating the area backstage or even on stage. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to risk any member of the audience becoming affected as well. It would be best if you cleared the concert hall for everyone’s safety.”
A look of horror crossed Monty Gibbs’s face as he considered the litigation potential of such a situation, not to mention the negative publicity, and suddenly he couldn’t cooperate with the police fast enough. Within half an hour, the auditorium and backstage had been cleared, and Trish and Gaz were in a police car, on their way to the station to be questioned.
I accompanied Devlin out to his black Jaguar as he prepared to follow them. He opened the driver’s door and gave me a rueful look.
“I’m sorry the night’s ended like this, Gemma.”
