rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_ab8b13f6-df90-59cd-b0e2-fef880bc5087">Chapter 14
Tamar was my first target. For obvious reasons, her reaction to Moira’s death was the one that interested me most. I didn’t know what had been happening at Colcutt Manor in the six weeks since I’d dutifully delivered Moira, but the corpse downstairs told me plenty. Not everyone had been as thrilled by her return as Jett. At least one person had taken extreme measures to try to return things to the status quo ante. (I love legalese. Sometimes it sums things up so beautifully.) And even if Jett and Moira had no longer been an item, it can’t have been Easy Street for Tamar having Jett’s alleged soul mate under the same roof.
I knocked sharply on the panelled door Gloria had directed me to and didn’t wait for a reply. Crossing the threshold gave me the answer to one question at least. Jett and Tamar might be lovers, but he was clearly a man who liked his own sleeping space. This room was Tamar’s, no question.
It looked like a guest room where someone was camping out. The only light came from a flickering TV screen, but it was enough to show me the room was decorated in white and gold, with some very nasty still-life oils on the walls. Lots of dead pheasants and fruit. It was furnished in Louis Quinze style. The only straight edges were on the television, which was even housed in a hideous gilt cabinet. If someone had put me up there, I think I would have preferred to sleep in the bath.
Tamar was lying on one of the twin beds wearing a pair of silk lounging pyjamas. She hadn’t noticed my entrance because she was glued to the television, watching a video of 91/2 weeks. A pair of headphones were clamped to her head as she studied Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke indulging in the ultimate nice work if you can get it. I walked across her line of vision and she sat bolt upright in annoyance.
She pulled the headphones off and snapped the bedside lamp on. More gilt horror.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, walking into my bedroom?’ she snapped.
‘Sorry to butt in on you,’ I apologized insincerely.
‘So you bloody should be. What are you doing here, anyway?’
I was beginning to get the message. Maybe I should change my deodorant. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you,’ I said.
She scowled and pushed her tangled blonde hair back from her face. ‘OK,’ she sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. ‘Message received and understood. He means it this time.’ She walked across the room and dramatically pulled open a wardrobe door. ‘I was getting pissed off with having to be a little goody two shoes anyway. I’m too old to be sneaking off to the loo every time I want a joint.’ She rattled the hangers noisily.
Then she turned back to me and shouted, ‘So what are you hanging around for? Enjoying the cabaret, are you? My God, he didn’t have to send you to do his dirty work.’
Crossed wires are, in my experience, the kind that provide most illumination. Unfortunately, it looked like this set had finally short-circuited. ‘I think we’re at cross purposes, Tamar. It’s not Jett who asked me to come and get you. It’s the police.’
‘The police?’ The puzzlement on her face looked genuine. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Like I said, I’ve got some bad news. Moira’s dead,’ I said.
It was as if I’d pressed the freeze-frame button. Tamar stopped dead, her face immobile. At first, she said nothing. Then a slow smile curled her lips. ‘Well, what a shame,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I suppose she just couldn’t stay away from the stuff.’
Tamar might have been a blonde, but I was far from convinced that she was dumb. And if she was guilty, she was choosing a very clever way of hiding it.
‘You’re right off track,’ I commented. ‘Moira’s been murdered. In the rehearsal room.’
That got a reaction. Tamar flushed scarlet. ‘I … I don’t understand,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know any more than that myself,’ I said. ‘I called in to see Jett, and he went to fetch Moira. He discovered the body, and we called the police. They’re waiting downstairs. You’d better get down there now. Everyone’s in the blue drawing room.’ I know I’m not going to win any points from bereavement counsellors for my attitude, but as far as I was concerned, Tamar lost all rights to my sympathy with that smile.
I moved towards the door. ‘Wait,’ she called. I turned back. ‘Do you know who did it?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘Not up to me, Tamar. It’s the police who work that sort of thing out. And they want to see you now,’ I added, twisting the knife as I closed the door behind me.
I didn’t hang around to see if she was following me. I tripped back down the curving stairs, half-expecting a Busby Berkeley chorus to break into song. But all I could hear was the police radio chatter. As I reached the hall, the intercom sounded again. This time, the constable on the door dealt with it so I made my way to the cellar door at the end of a short side-passage. I opened the door which led to a tiny vestibule with a flight of steps. I descended and found myself facing a heavy steel door. Above it was a red light. I know what happens in computer games if you ignore warnings like that, but I thought the chances of being zapped by an android were pretty remote, so I opened the door. Just shows how wrong you can be.
I was in a large recording studio, walls and ceiling covered in acoustic tiling. Keyboards, drum machines and mikes filled most of the available space. At the far end of the room there was a wall of glass. Behind it, a man sat hunched over a series of control consoles, a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth. I could actually feel in my chest and stomach the throbbing bass line that emerged from tall speakers. I walked down the studio and waved to catch his attention. Abruptly the music stopped and a deafening voice yelled over the intercom, ‘Get the fuck out of here! You blind, or what?’
I didn’t know if he could hear me, but I spoke anyway. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have to come upstairs.’ I was beginning to wish I’d left this to Gloria.
‘Look, sweetheart, it might have escaped your obviously limited intelligence, but I’m working. I don’t stop on the say-so of anybody’s bimbo, so just fuck off and find someone else to bug,’ he snarled back at me, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another.
‘Please yourself,’ I said angrily. The next interruption you’ll get will be the cops. They don’t like being pissed about by little boys with expensive toys when they’re investigating a murder.’ I turned on my heel and marched off towards the door, feeling strangely satisfied with my childish response. Two steps later, I regretted it. I’d thrown away the chance of watching his reaction to my news. I turned back quickly and saw he’d stood up.
The resemblance to a chimp was overwhelming. The long arms, the jutting jaw, the flat nose all gave Micky Hampton a startlingly simian appearance. His blond-streaked hair had been carefully cut, but it couldn’t altogether hide the Prince Charles ears. He’d have made a wonderful extra for Planet of the Apes. At least the make-up department wouldn’t have had much work to do.
As I watched, he disappeared from my sight then emerged from a small door at the back of the studio. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘You’d better explain yourself. For a kick-off, who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Kate Brannigan.’
Understanding flooded his face. His soft brown eyes were unexpectedly intelligent. ‘You’re the one who dug Moira up,’ he acknowledged. ‘What did you mean about a murder?’
‘Moira’s been killed. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the police want to see everyone who was in the house tonight,’ I parroted.
Micky’s eyebrows shot up. ‘They’re wasting their time with me. A bomb could drop up there and I wouldn’t know. I’ve worked in top-class studios the world over and I’ve never found one that was better soundproofed than this.’
His