Free Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) by Tash Bell

though – and nothing in her flat. But she did
have
a phone, surely?”
    Tess nodded, surprised. “She’d just got a free upgrade. Some sexy new iPhone. Jeenie clung to the thing like it was her last KitKat Chunky”.
    “Well…” Selleck rose up. “
Someone
prised it off her.” Tess suppressed a thrill. In a short hallway, the law officer seemed quite impressive.
    Turning smartly, he bounded up the stairs and stuck another key in a door at the top.
    “We’ve already done what we need in here.” He opened up. “I don’t want you touching anything, however, unless I give you the nod. And stay where I can see you.”
    Shouldn’t be a problem, Tess decided two strides in. Jeenie’s lounge had the sticky feel of an abandoned porn set. Poky and windowless, it was dominated by a grubby corner-sofa in cream leatherette. To their left was a galley kitchen; to their right, another door shut off what Tess guessed was the bedroom. The walls of the lounge were finger-smudged magnolia; the carpet a sticky beige. There was a dusty, Bang & Olufsen stereo system, a flat-screen TV – and that was pretty much it.
    “Fuck,” she said. “Your lot have really cleaned the place out.”
    It provoked a trace of a smile. “Believe it or not,” said Selleck, “This is how we found it.”
    Whistling, Tess stepped over the only other item of furniture in the room: a cluttered, glass coffee table smeared with faint, white lines and what looked like either blood or soy sauce. Hardly a love-nest.
    She recalled the story Jeenie had sold to the papers in the aftermath of her affair with Mark Plimpton: fantastic sex all night, then lazy mornings in front of the telly, watching his deserted wife throw to the weather.
    “It’s no palace, is it?” said Selleck. The police officer sounded disappointed. “All that stuff you read about these celebrities, you expect them to live somewhere more…”
    “Hygienic?”
    “Luxurious”.
    It was Tess’ turn to smile. “You know what? I’m surprised Jeenie could even afford this. Appearing on TV doesn’t bring you wealth, officer, so much as spare time. Presenting a four-minute gardening slot – just once a week – Jeenie probably pocketed what my researcher got for sixty hours’ hard graft.”
    “Well something bought this little lot.” DS Selleck nodded at the coffee table: a trail of cocaine smears stretched, like a bad zebra crossing, between a bottle of Jim Beam and a cigarette lighter.
    “She seemed like such a nice girl on TV.”
    “That wasn’t moral fibre,” said Tess. “It was hair and make-up.”
    Leaning over the coffee table, Tess studied the rest of Jeenie’s clutter. A scuffed case of MAC blusher lay open. The powder inside was cracked dry, and studded with the remains of a Kettle Chip. Beside it, a badly-rinsed jar of Hellman’s mayonnaise held a bouquet of Interflora lilies. Rotting into their cellophane, they smelled of death and sweets.
    “From Mark Plimpton?” she straightened up.
    “Not according to the card we found in Jeenie’s waste bin.” The officer met her gaze. He knew she was fishing, Tess thought. But he seemed to be doing some calculating of his own.
    “The message might mean something to you.” he said. “
Remember, I am your beginning and your end.
Signed
A.
”
    Alan hung in the air between them – until Tess swung her leg over the coffee table. “Sorry, officer,” she hopped off. “O
ur
Alan starts with an ‘F’.”
    Crossing the room, she heard a noise like a muffled bark come from the DS. “What exactly
was
your relationship with the murdered woman?” he said. “Sandy Plimpton claims you enjoyed an intimate professional bond. Yet in your statement to us—”
    “I knew what
every
producer should know about their presenter,” said Tess. “Can they read off cards? Will they nick the clothes? Fuckit, I didn’t think murder was something real people
did
any more. Why kill someone when you can just leave the room?”
    To prove