The Devil's Smile E-Book

Daniel Sellers

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'Sellers is a writer of pulse-pounding tension. Every book hits the mark perfectly. I'm a huge fan - Michael Wood' October, 1995. Adrian Brown's second year at Leeds University is a blur of throbbing bass line and neon-lit nights out. However, a violent encounter with a man he met in a basement club has the power to sober him up. Sheila Hargreaves, who has grown fond of Adrian following their brush with the infamous Lollipop Man, has written a book about the murders and is busy with a new TV show, Yorkshire CrimeTime. And then her erratic co-presenter Tony Tranter goes missing, and his body turns up riddled with stab wounds. Could his death be linked to recent violent attacks on men? Moving from dark city corners to the glare of the TV studio lights, Sheila and Adrian find themselves on the trail of another killer. 'Fabulous suspense, gut-churning tension and terrific plotting had me gripped' - MK Murphy Gripping and engrossing, this is another unforgettable thriller from Sellers, a writer at the height of his powers. I raced through it at the speed of light' Awais Khan 'A powerful brew' Peterborough Evening Telegraph 'The Devil's Smile is yet another brilliant slice of gritty Northern Noir, a must read for crime readers everywhere' The Derbyshire Times

Leseprobe

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THE DEVIL’S SMILE

DANIEL SELLERS

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For Anna and Alison, ladies of Leeds

Contents

Title PageDedication123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536 37383940414243AcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorBy Daniel SellersCopyright

7

1

Thursday 12th October, 1995

Someone had been sick on the stairs down to the club. Adrian would have stepped in it if the bouncer hadn’t grabbed him and steered him past.

‘Thanks,’ he said, hoping he sounded sober.

She narrowed her eyes, mock-suspiciously. The club had a policy of turning away anyone who was too drunk – mainly because of incidents like this. Adrian wasn’t drunk, just tipsy, after three pints in the Wharf with a girl from his course. He gave the bouncer a reassuring smile, determined not to forfeit the fiver entry fee, and descended the curving, neon-lit staircase, meeting a cross barman on his way up with a mop and bucket.

Downstairs was banging with European techno dance music, but the place was half-dead. No one on the dance floor, only a handful at the bar and just a few people in the seating area, installed in wicker chairs round low tables. He assumed the puker was long gone.

The club was dimly lit, except for a few uplighters, the 8lights round the mirror-backed bar, and the dance floor, where coloured spotlights danced and a glitterball threw stars over the ceiling, pillars and puffs of dry ice.

Adrian got himself a bottle of Corona, then made his way deeper into the club, where people went to snog and where, on Fridays and Saturdays, there was a hatch into a kitchen through which you could buy chips.

He squinted into the darkness but saw only a couple of girls necking in a corner.

No Lee.

Fuck.

In the Wharf Inn, he’d heard second-hand that Lee and his mate Tall Jason were planning to come here, but that intelligence was clearly faulty.

He’d been introduced briefly to Lee one Sunday night in the Wharf a couple of months ago. He was spot-on Adrian’s type – stocky, black hair worn in curtains that framed his pale face and sleepily sexy blue eyes. He dressed alternatively, always looking casual but stylish. It was the superior way he behaved in a crowd that clinched the deal, the way he was always scanning, searching, but eternally dissatisfied. Adrian was infatuated.

‘Tell him you like him,’ his mate Gav had said, doubtless sick of Adrian’s droning. ‘What’s the worst he can do?’

‘Laugh,’ Adrian told him.

He didn’t believe Lee would laugh. More likely he’d sneer and turn away.

No, his plan remained to put himself in Lee’s eyeline as often as possible, while looking as moodily handsome as a short, grungy student could manage. And so here he was, drinking overpriced beer, alone in a basement club behind Leeds Market, with no Lee in sight. 9

A man coming back from the toilets banged into Adrian and mumbled an apology. They made brief eye contact. He had intense round eyes under tight curly hair. Adrian didn’t recognise him and looked away.

He propped himself against a pillar, with a view of the entrance, and lit a menthol fag. It was damp down this end, and stank of bleach from the loos. It was dungeon-cold too, with a chill that emanated from the walls. He’d seen a rat here once, sitting on a table, washing its face.

It was past eleven now, and as the pubs shut, the club filled. He recognised some faces, regulars from the Wharf and the Old Penny.

The music was better, trancey and euphoric. The dance floor filled up. He drank his beer and smoked, enjoying the feel of the beat through the floor.

Two Coronas in, he’d entered a spiral of self-pity, resolving to embrace the single life. He was nineteen and had never had a boyfriend. Not a real one, anyway. He got sex as often as he wanted it, but he rarely fancied the blokes. There was Ste, his old school friend, still living at home with his folks and working for his dad. They met sometimes if Ste was in Leeds, after a match, when he was pissed. He’d made the journey from Elland Road to Adrian’s shared house a couple of times now, smelling of booze and sweat in his Leeds United top.

It was fun and dirty, but unsatisfactory.

He took the last fag from his packet and mentally prepared for the long walk home to Headingley. In the flash from his lighter he saw a man had appeared in the dark area, standing only feet away but looking away from Adrian. It was the man who’d bumped his arm, the one with the intense, staring eyes. Adrian studied him, noting the way the light caught his long 10eyelashes. He wasn’t horrible-looking, but not at all Adrian’s type. He was too old, for one thing – at least twenty-five – and his leather jacket made him look grim and aggressive, an effect that wasn’t softened by the strings of beads wound round his throat.

The man caught Adrian watching him. He smiled. His lips stretched and became thin and shiny. Adrian recoiled, but suddenly the man was at his side, in his space. Adrian could smell his aftershave. Something sharp and woody.

‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ the man said.

Adrian shrugged, clicking into too-cool mode and scanning the club as if yearning for alternative company.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Adrian.’ He lifted his chin. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Tell you if you let me buy you another one of those.’ He nodded at Adrian’s near-empty bottle.

‘I’m all right, thanks.’ He didn’t mind games, but this guy creeped him out. ‘Going home soon.’

He turned his head and his heart skipped. Lee was by the bar, Tall Jason looming at his side.

‘Gotta go,’ he told the man, and was off without another look.

He planted himself next to Tall Jason and contrived to catch his eye.

‘Oh, hiya,’ Tall Jason said.

Lee’s pal was a bit gormless, but Adrian envied him his friendship with Lee. The thought of being daily in Lee’s orbit made him weak. He peered past Tall Jason but Lee seemed focused on catching the barman’s eye. He glanced this way and seemed briefly to notice Adrian.

‘All right?’ Adrian called. 11

Lee looked sharply away, not just uninterested but dismissive. Adrian steadied himself in the cold wind of rejection. He lifted his chin, determined to look unbothered.

But he was bothered. His cheeks burnt with it.

Lee ordered, then he and Tall Jason peeled away in the direction of the wicker seats without a backward glance.

The barman asked Adrian what he wanted.

‘I’m buying,’ the smiling man said, materialising at his side.

Adrian glanced quickly to where Lee was talking to a woman and laughing.

Fuck it.

‘Fine,’ he said to the smiling man, his face still on fire. ‘Bottle of Corona, please.’

Back down the dark end of the club, the man told him his name was Edmund. Adrian pretended interest. He worked in ‘high-end security’, he said.

‘Securing what?’ Adrian asked.

‘Stuff.’

He felt suddenly a lot drunker, as if the music was inside his head, stirring his vision and blocking his thoughts. His hearing came and went and he felt himself sway.

‘Steady,’ Edmund said, and had hold of his arm.

‘I don’t feel very well—’

‘You need fresh air,’ Edmund said and grasped his arm tighter.

They were in a car, going fast through an interchange where roads crossed over each other, then through lights, including a set that was red.

Adrian felt sick and his head swam, so that he had to keep his neck very straight. 12

Edmund was driving and at the same time extracting a cassette from its case. Edmund’s place was being renovated, he said. They’d have to go to Adrian’s. He tossed the case at Adrian’s feet and pushed the cassette into the player. Music blasted: Culture Beat, ‘Mr Vain’. The whole car shook.

It’s OK. He’s taking me home.

Had he told Edmund his address? It seemed so. They were passing Woodhouse Moor now, heading for Hyde Park Corner.

Edmund’s driving was aggressive, all acceleration then sudden braking, yanking and shoving the gear stick.

Then they were in the warren of streets.

‘This it?’ Edmund asked. They were stopped and Edmund was breathing funny, excited.

They were out; Edmund took Adrian’s key off him and opened the door, then shoved it closed behind him.

Adrian fell into the kitchen and groped for the sink where he filled a glass with water.

He swigged.

Drink. Keep control. Tell him to leave.

No music here, but in his head it still throbbed, like the start of a headache.

Edmund was in his face now, pressing him hard against the counter, knocking a cereal box so some of the cereal spilt.

‘No—’

‘Shhh.’

Edmund’s mouth was firm against Adrian’s, those thin, shiny lips like hard rubber. Adrian clamped his teeth and squirmed to get out of the way.

‘I want – you to go,’ he managed.

‘I drove you home!’ Lips again and his bony chin. ‘Fucking tease.’ 13

Adrian pushed him and he staggered into the kitchen table, dislodging papers and a mug. A knife spun – a normal one, not sharp – but Edmund grabbed it, and jabbed it towards Adrian. ‘Think I’m fucking going anywhere?’

Edmund lunged and pressed himself into Adrian, the blade close against Adrian’s belly, while he yanked at his own belt buckle with his free hand.

Outrage exploded. He shoved Edmund in the chest. Screamed, ‘No!’

A clattering noise. Something falling: a bang.

‘What you talking about?’ Edmund’s teeth were bared. He dropped the knife and was on Adrian with both hands.

‘I killed a man,’ Adrian cried.

A sneer of disbelief.

‘I did! I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t get out!’

Edmund yelped out a laugh – just as the kitchen door flew open and smashed against the wall.

‘What’s going on?’ Adrian’s housemate Gav demanded. He came into the kitchen, his face entirely white with make-up, his dyed-black hair out at all angles.

Edmund screamed in fright and dropped the knife.

‘Adrian, man—’

‘He’s leaving,’ Adrian gasped, bending in response to a sudden pain in his belly. ‘Make sure he goes.’

‘Too fucking right.’ Gav strode into the room. Adrian saw Gav’s girlfriend cringing back in the hallway.

Gav took Edmund by the arm and dragged him, snarling, from the kitchen.

Adrian heard the front door slam. The pain grew. He lurched forward and vomited all over the ripped kitchen lino.

14

2

Thursday 2nd November, 1995

‘Look, it’s Sheila Hargreaves!’ a voice cried from across the vast lobby of the Yorkshire Press.

Sheila tensed, fixed a smile, then turned her head.

‘Sheila, over here!’

A man in a checked shirt was waving manically to her. She didn’t recognise him but hadn’t expected to; this happened from time to time. He was thirty-something, bearded, standing with a woman, and the two of them were hemmed in by children in a green-and-gold school uniform. Twenty or so of them.

Oh, Lord …

She broadened the smile and went over.

‘What an amazing surprise, eh, kids?’ the man cried, clapping his hands. He reached out a hand and she offered one of her own. He took it and pulled her into their throng.

‘And who have we here?’ Sheila asked, beaming about with delight, while the children stared agog.

‘I’m Mr Thompson, this is Miss Green, and these are some 15of the second-years at Holy Trinity Middle School. And why are we here, children? Tell Sheila!’

A number of them spoke all at once. Sheila only caught the word ‘cheque’. Two of them had hold of an oversized cheque, with onethousandandtwenty-twopounds written on it in black marker pen.

‘How wonderful!’ Sheila cried, confident she’d read the situation correctly. ‘And you’re here to present it to the charity?’

‘That’s right,’ the grinning teacher said.

Now another man was approaching, older, short and looking a bit bewildered. She was introduced to him and learnt he represented a cancer charity. She spotted a photographer lurking nearby.

‘And what are your names?’ Sheila asked the children closest to her. They told her, gathering round as they became more confident in the presence of a well-known local celebrity – a.k.a. ‘Yorkshire’s auntie’.

‘Be in the photos, would you, Sheila?’ Mr Thompson asked.

At that second Sheila spotted her old friend and former colleague Jeanette standing by the newspaper’s reception desk, watching bemused, arms folded. She sent Jeanette a quick grimacing smile. Jeanette, who never had time for niceties, rolled her eyes and shook her head.

‘If we’re quick,’ Sheila told him.

He cheered and the children joined in.

‘Should have asked for an appearance fee,’ Jeanette said as they rode up to the fourth floor in a lift. ‘Or told him to get stuffed.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Sheila said, taking a moment to pull herself together. ‘What’s five minutes of my time? Where are we going?’ 16

‘Top-floor meeting room,’ Jeanette said, eyes on her watch. ‘We’ve got a couple of minutes.’ She peered closer at Sheila. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. First Thursday of the month, so I’m a bit jangled.’

‘Problems again?’

‘Nothing specific. Just apprehensive, shall we say?’

‘Trouble with Tony?’ Jeanette asked, referring to Sheila’s co-host.

‘Not that I’m aware,’ she said drily. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’

For just over a year, Sheila had co-presented a new monthly crime programme, Yorkshire CrimeTime, broadcast live from the studios of the Yorkshire Broadcasting Corporation in Leeds. A mix of reconstructions of local crimes, as well as interviews with police officers, victims and their families, it had become immensely popular with viewers. Sheila enjoyed it but for one factor: her unreliable and, at times, downright inappropriate co-host Tony Tranter. She’d been wary of hosting the programme alongside another local ‘big name’, after years of presenting her own magazine show for a different channel. But the programme’s producer had persuaded her, employing a mix of flattery and warning about the potential emotional impact of the programme’s contents. ‘Much better to share the emotional load between two,’ he’d told her.

But it had been a mistake. She’d known that three months in, but she’d gritted her teeth and told herself to give it a year. Now, she was just about ready to walk.

‘What’s so urgent about this call anyway?’ she asked, a little snappily, wound up by her own cross-reflections.

‘God knows, but Michaela’s insisting – and she wants to talk to us at the same time, so it must be something.’

The lift doors opened and Jeanette led the way down the 17side of a smoky open-plan office. The Yorkshire Press’s deputy news editor was a small woman, in her late forties like Sheila, but fitter and faster. Sheila was conscious of eyes on her as she half-jogged to keep up.

The meeting room was in a corner of the floor, with views through grubby windows over the industrial estates of Holbeck. The ceiling was oppressively low and the lighting stark. Sheila had worked in this brutalist building years before and had hated it, thinking it like something from a dystopian future. She couldn’t imagine working here again.

‘There’s coffee in that jug if you want it.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Jeanette busied herself dragging a triangular conference-style telephone and its wires across the room and placing it in the middle of a table. Meanwhile, Sheila went into her bag for her mobile telephone. She’d heard it ringing while she was busy with the schoolchildren. There was a missed call from the switchboard at Television Centre. A voice message too. The sight of the little envelope made her stomach lurch.

She switched the phone to silent and dropped it back in her bag.

‘Problem?’ Jeanette asked.

‘Probably. But it’s too bad.’

A year or two ago it had been a novelty to have a mobile phone. A genuine convenience. But now more people had them, especially through work, and she detected a new expectation creeping in that you should be available to anyone who wanted to contact you.

‘I’ve got Michaela’s number here,’ Jeanette said, a scrap of paper in her hand. ‘Ready?’

She wasn’t. She was grumpy, distracted and hadn’t given 18their book on the Lollipop Man a thought for over a week. ‘Yes,’ she said, anyway.

Jeanette set the device to speaker and dialled.

‘Hi, it’s Michaela here,’ came the strong echoing voice of their editor.

‘It’s Jeanette, Michaela. I’m here with Sheila and we’re all ears.’

‘Thanks so much for this, both. Not happy news, I’m afraid.’

‘Shoot,’ Jeanette said, pen poised over her pad.

‘We’ve had a second legal challenge from the family of the lorry driver, Norman Waite – the one the police dismissed because he had a good alibi. They’re threatening legal action if we name him.’

‘But he was convicted of raping and murdering another child,’ Jeanette said, pulling a face. ‘Not sure we could do any more damage to his reputation than he did to himself!’

‘I’ll take advice from our solicitor.’

‘Was that it?’ Sheila asked irritably.

‘No. I wanted to talk about the structure of the opening.’

‘What about it?’

Jeanette sent her a warning look and Sheila bit her tongue. Michaela proceeded to labour over her desire to move information out of the introduction and into the first chapter. They’d discussed this at length before, but Michaela was still worrying away at it.

Sheila let Jeanette do the talking, and Michaela seemed content.

‘You should also be aware,’ Michaela went on, ‘Rosa Laycock has been in touch, asking to see the text and threatening all sorts of consequences.’

‘Her?’ Jeanette rolled her eyes.

‘What on earth does she want?’ Sheila asked.

Rosa Laycock was a self-styled psychic medium who had 19claimed to have insight into the Lollipop Man’s activities. Sheila was determined to attribute any of her predictions that had come true to luck and coincidence.

‘Send it to her,’ Sheila said. ‘I don’t care.’

‘The problem is,’ Michaela said, sounding gloomy now, ‘I think she’s got the attention of one of the tabloids. I’ve had a phone call from a journalist asking for a quote.’

‘Which tabloid?’ Jeanette asked.

Michaela told her.

‘Let them write what they want,’ Jeanette said and smirked. ‘All publicity is good, you know that.’

‘Rosa wants to have a meeting, Sheila. She says she’d be willing to come on your Yorkshire Tonight programme.’

‘Well, there’s no chance of that happening,’ Sheila said. She reached for her bag. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Michaela. But can’t you deal with this? We’re both far too busy to be dealing with this nonsense!’

‘I wanted to make you aware, that’s all,’ Michaela said. ‘For my part, I’m not particularly worried about it.’

‘They why are we even discussing it?’ She realised she was sounding shrill now.

Jeanette was eyeing her curiously.

‘There is one other thing,’ Michaela said, apparently unfazed by Sheila’s crossness.

‘What?’

‘Adrian Brown’s afterword is late too. I wrote to him, chasing, but that was two weeks ago. You don’t have a number for him, do you? I only have the address. As I say, I have written.’

‘Somewhere,’ she said, sighing. ‘I’ll call him and ask if there’s a problem. But it’s unlikely I’ll have a chance today – of all days!’

20

3

Sheila found a parking space behind the Television Centre, took her seatbelt off, then went into her bag for her phone.

The phone let you store up to ten numbers, but Adrian’s wasn’t one of her chosen ten, so she had to look in her address book. He’d given her it when they met for coffee just over a month ago. It was new – the number for the house he’d just started sharing with his friend Gavin in Hyde Park.

‘It’s a bit of a dump,’ he’d told her. ‘Gav saw a cockroach the other day. But it’s handy for town. Pretty near the cinema, if you know where that is.’

She knew vaguely.

In the spring of 1994 the two of them had been through a traumatic experience together. But while Sheila had dealt with it pragmatically, booking a number of sessions with a therapist, Adrian had seemed to choose denial. She was still worried about him – about his flat refusal to talk about what had happened in those ruined outbuildings that morning. Now he was at 21university here in Leeds, she was determined to keep an eye on him, inviting him for coffee each month and quizzing him about his course, and sometimes probing him about how he was coping with ‘everything’. He knew what she was doing and would give her a look that gently warned her off.

‘I worry because I’m fond of you,’ she’d told him last time they’d met. ‘You mean a lot to me.’

‘I know,’ he’d acknowledged sheepishly.

She dialled his number.

The phone rang ten, then fifteen times, and she was about to hang up when a bleary voice answered.

‘Oh, hello there,’ Sheila said, thinking she recognised it. ‘Is that Gavin? It’s Sheila here. How are you?’

‘Not bad. Erm … Ade’s not here right now.’

She detected something wary in the young man’s tone, as if he was steeling himself to make excuses.

‘It’s nothing particularly urgent,’ she said, putting a bounce in her voice. ‘Just a very quick thing, but I’d prefer to speak to him rather than leave a message. Will he be back soon, or …?’

‘Mm. Yeah, should be.’

She frowned, then put a smile into her voice. ‘Gavin … is everything all right? Is Adrian all right, I mean?’

The briefest, betraying hesitation. ‘Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine.’

‘Good … That’s good then.’

She said goodbye, then sat, lost in her thoughts – and jumped when she realised someone was standing by her car window, bending to see in.

‘Mary,’ she cried, opening the door. ‘You gave me such a fright!’

Mary Cavan was Yorkshire CrimeTime’s director. A tiny Irish woman in her early sixties, she had a trick of creeping about the 22building and popping up in unexpected places. ‘I’m so sorry, Sheila. Only Frank saw you drive in and sent me out to escort you in …’

‘That sounds ominous.’ Sheila was out of the car now and reached back in for her handbag.

‘Yes, well …’

‘Tony?’

Mary nodded and raised an eyebrow.

‘Late, by any chance, or drunk?’

‘Worse, Sheila. He’s missing.’

She stopped, about to shut the car door, and stared at Mary.

‘His wife Caroline phoned here. She’s in Tenerife, staying at a friend’s villa. She’s been trying to get hold of him since last night, and she called here half an hour ago in the hope he’d turned up. Frank’s going spare. The upshot is, there’s a crisis meeting in room one right now. Come on. We can go in the back way.’

‘At last!’ Frank Crossland said when Mary led Sheila into the meeting room. ‘I’ve had reception trying to get you for the past hour.’

‘I happened to be in a meeting.’ She closed the door then added stiffly, ‘Which you knew about, because I left a message this morning to explain.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very short notice.’

‘For which I apologised in the message. And now I am here,’ she said huffily as she took a seat, ‘unlike Tony.’

Mary visibly winced at her words. Frank was the TV station controller and executive producer of Yorkshire CrimeTime. The programme had been his idea and he considered it a ‘jewel’ in the station’s crown. He was a good executive producer, to be fair, with vision and a commitment to quality. Of course, 23he delegated the day-to-day production tasks to a more lowly individual, the dour and humourless Ruth Mawby, who was thankfully absent just now. Frank liked everything in hand, and grew anxious and bad-tempered when things went awry. Sheila took a breath and folded her hands on the table.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

‘We don’t know,’ Frank said. ‘Only that his wife Caroline can’t find him. She’s talking about flying back this evening.’

‘Has anyone been to the house?’

‘Caroline’s sister,’ Frank said. ‘Last night and again this morning. No sign of him.’

‘Caroline’s in bits, as you can imagine,’ Mary said.

‘She would be,’ Sheila murmured.

‘Talked to family, friends, anyone she can think of.’

Tony’s behaviour had been erratic for some time, always fuelled by drink. Twice he’d been late for production meetings on the day of a broadcast, once by three hours, and last month he’d been late to the 7 p.m. rehearsal. When he appeared at seven-fifteen, Sheila had detected alcohol on his breath. She’d told Ruth at the time and Ruth had told Frank. Frank had come to the studio for a quiet word with Tony and then with Sheila. He insisted Tony hadn’t had that much, that he was a pro and would pull it off. And true, he’d got through it, but only just and with Sheila prompting him a couple of times.

But being late and getting through the programme was one thing. Going missing was something else.

‘Where was he last seen?’

‘He hosted a lunch at a golf club in Wakefield yesterday,’ Frank said. ‘A charity thing, which he left about two. Caroline’s sister talked to the organiser. He says Tony seemed subdued but otherwise “fine”.’ 24

‘What are the police saying?’

‘Caroline hasn’t told them yet,’ Mary said.

‘What? Why?’

‘She wanted to see if he turned up here.’

‘We’re hoping she’ll contact them now,’ Frank said.

‘He’ll be drunk somewhere, or sleeping off a hangover,’ Sheila said. ‘It’s so bloody irresponsible.’

‘Hopefully that’s all it is,’ Mary said, and gave her another meaningful look.

Sheila bit her tongue.

Frank had been a friend of Tony’s since university. An old softie, he was Tony’s perpetual champion and defender. When Sheila had gone to his office last month and told him straight, he’d listened, looked pained, but attempted to parry – at which she’d nearly bitten his head off. The next week he’d had Tony in for ‘a chat’ and phoned Sheila afterwards. According to Frank, Tony was sorry and had restated his commitment to the TV station, to the programme and to Sheila. He would try to do better.

‘So what do we do about tonight?’ she asked.

‘He may still turn up—’ Frank began, but stopped when he saw Sheila’s expression.

‘And you’d still let him broadcast?’ She looked at Mary for her reaction, but Mary was looking studiously at the table.

‘Sheila, please,’ Frank said.

‘What about Grant?’ she asked now. Grant Fothergill, an experienced presenter, had stood in on the show a couple of times, once when Tony was on holiday and another when Sheila had had the flu.

‘His wife’s about to go into labour,’ Mary said. ‘We’re thinking of other possibles.’ 25

Sheila sat up. ‘No need. I’ll do the show on my own.’

She saw Mary and Frank exchange glances.

‘If you’re sure, Sheila,’ Mary said.

‘Of course I’m sure. I assume you’ve got Tony’s script?’

‘It’s here.’ Mary had a buff card wallet beside her. She opened it to reveal yellow, paper-clipped pages, then turned it and slid it across the table.

Sheila looked over the first few pages. It seemed to be in order. Tony’s scripts always were – which was something.

‘I’ll merge mine with his,’ she said. ‘It’ll take me an hour or so, then I’ll need to get it typed up.’ She looked at Frank. ‘Happy?’

Frank looked anything but.

Mary said, ‘We are very grateful, aren’t we, Frank?’

Frank nodded sheepishly.

‘We’ll need to work out how to explain his pre-records,’ Sheila said after a moment’s thought. ‘And, of course, we’ll need to give a reason why Tony isn’t here. I can put that into the intro, but you’ll need to tell me what to say.’

‘Say he’s unwell,’ Frank said. ‘Yes, and that we send him our very best wishes.’

‘Fine.’

Sheila got up and slid the wallet containing Tony’s script into her bag, then left the room.

The programme had its own poky office on the ground floor, but Ruth had colonised it, cramming it with boxed papers. Then she’d made it messy, creating the kind of chaos no one else could bear to tolerate.

Sheila found a spare desk upstairs, told Mary where she was and what the telephone extension was, then read through 26Tony’s script, marking the pages here and there. She rewrote the introduction, making it hers alone and putting in a line about Tony’s absence, then read over the whole piece. She sat back, confident she could make a good fist of it. Then, tomorrow perhaps, she and Frank would speak again, and she would tell him either Tony had to go – or she would. She didn’t care if the two of them were old friends. Even when he was on form, Tony was discourteous – to her, to Mary – but this went beyond that. It was a slap in the face to the programme, the station and the viewers – to Frank too, if only he would see it.

She got up to go in search of an electric typewriter when the phone on her desk rang.

It was reception. ‘I’ve got an Adrian Brown for you, Sheila. Want me to put him through?’

‘Oh, yes!’ She sat again, then heard the line transfer. ‘Adrian! Thank you for calling.’

‘Gav said you rang.’ His voice sounded small, far away. ‘Thought I’d better try to get hold of you in case, well …’

She waited for him to finish, but he didn’t. ‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘All right. What did you want?’

‘It’s about the book,’ she said, frowning at his tone, which wasn’t quite abrupt, but was certainly downbeat. ‘Jeanette and I spoke to Michaela. She said she hadn’t had your piece yet. She asked if I could remind you, that’s all.’

‘Oh, that!’ He sounded relieved. ‘Yeah, I sent it yesterday. I put a note in to say I was sorry it was late. I was just … busy.’

‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ She made herself sound upbeat to compensate for his flatness, as if he were a shy guest on her magazine programme. ‘She should receive it in a day or two, then, shouldn’t she?’ 27

‘Was that everything?’ he asked her now.

‘Yes, that was all. Obviously, I was going to ask how you’re doing. Everything all right, is it?’

A pause. ‘It’s fine.’

‘And your course? Going well, is it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’ She paused, wondering whether to ask him outright if something was the matter, though she knew instinctively something was. ‘Perhaps we could meet soon,’ she said instead. ‘What do you say?’

Another, longer pause. ‘Maybe.’

A movement caught her eye. Mary Cavan was coming across the office, eyes fixed on her.

‘Why don’t I call you in a week or so?’ she said into the phone, holding up a hand to forestall Mary – but Mary was at her desk and clearly quite agitated.

‘I need to go,’ she told Adrian.

‘Bye, then.’ As if he couldn’t get off the call fast enough.

Mary said quietly, ‘I’ve just spoken to Caroline.’

‘Any news?’

‘No. She’s managed to get a flight home tonight.’ Mary bit her lip. ‘She wants you to ring her, Sheila.’

‘Me? I can’t tell her anything!’

‘She’s talking to a number of people. I think she finds it reassuring. I’ve got the number.’ She held out a Post-it-Note. Sheila took it. ‘It’s international, so you’ll need reception to put you through.’

They watched one another for several seconds.

‘You might want to call her from a meeting room, if you can find one,’ Mary said now. ‘She was very upset when I spoke to her.’

28

4

Sheila walked through the main building to reception.

The receptionist was on the phone, so she waited, glad there were no visitors in the waiting area. On a wall to the right of reception hung a huge colour portrait of Tony. He was grinning away, showing teeth. His dark eyes twinkled wickedly, and his cheeks were round and red. The toupee, thick and light brown, was all too obvious, blown up at this scale, but Tony’s vanity would have blinded him to that. Sheila’s own portrait was next to it, with her trademark silver-blonde bob. She’d spent hours in the salon the morning of the shoot and had been happy with her subtle make-up. Her head was thrown back, laughing joyfully as if she’d just heard one of Tony’s famous jokes, when in truth she’d never found him the least bit amusing.

The receptionist came off the phone.

‘Good afternoon, Wendy,’ Sheila said. ‘I need to make an international call. And is there a meeting room?’

‘I’m sure there is,’ the woman said and reached for a hardback 29desk diary. ‘The small meeting room’s free.’ She nodded across reception to a door in the corner.

Sheila gave her the number. ‘Ask for Caroline Tranter and say who’s calling.’ Wendy’s eyes widened as Sheila said the name. ‘And it’s private, so …’

‘Of course.’ She made a face, understanding. ‘That poor woman.’

So, news had got around …

She sat in the poky meeting room, taking a minute to focus and ready herself. Caroline must know about Sheila’s difficult relationship with Tony, perhaps even that she’d complained to Frank about him. They’d met only once before, at last year’s Christmas party, held in the cavernous canteen at the back of the complex. They’d sat at the same table, wincing together as Tony, Frank and two production assistants had performed a Monty Python sketch. The party organisers had tried to persuade Sheila to do an act, having heard she could impersonate Joyce Grenfell, but she’d firmly declined. Chatting to Caroline over drinks and nibbles, she’d learnt she owned a boutique in Chapel Allerton, selling high-end products, candles, ceramics, plush children’s toys and cards. She was a slight woman and younger than Tony, in her early fifties. She was arty in appearance – with messily fashionable dyed-blonde hair, beautiful but understated clothes and subtle jewellery. Sheila had found her sharp and clever. Her overriding thought after the encounter was to wonder what she was doing with Tony, who was charming on the surface but fundamentally a self-absorbed man, and – in Sheila’s view – not much of a catch.

She jumped when the telephone extension rang.

‘Caroline Tranter for you, Sheila.’ 30

‘Thanks, Wendy.’ She waited for the click. ‘Hello, Caroline? It’s Sheila here.’

‘Oh, Sheila, thank you for calling me.’ Caroline’s voice was strong but Sheila heard the crack of emotion.

‘That’s no problem at all. How are you?’

‘Not very well, I’m afraid. I don’t know if Mary said, but I’m trying to find a way to get home today.’

‘She did.’

A pause. Sheila held her breath, wondering what this was about.

‘He’s done this once before,’ Caroline said in a rush. ‘Gone missing overnight, I mean.’

‘Has he?’

‘Yes, a year ago. But he was home in the morning and full of apologies. My sister Barbara went round to the house this morning. She was at a conference down south overnight but she drove back to Leeds especially. But Tony wasn’t there. She popped in again an hour ago, but still no sign.’ Another crack in her voice and she said in a rush, ‘I think something’s happened to him, Sheila. Why can’t I find him?’

‘Have you told the police yet?’ Sheila asked.

‘Not yet.’ Now she was crying.

‘But, Caroline, you must. They could help you—’

‘I’ve a few people still to try.’ A sniff. ‘A few last possibilities. Maybe then.’

‘I think you should, and soon.’

An exhausted sigh at the end of the line.

‘Has Tony ever said anything to you?’ Caroline asked, her voice different now, almost challenging.

‘Has he said anything …? About what?’

‘About me? About our relationship?’ 31

‘No. Never.’

‘I see.’ A silence. Then she said quietly, ‘I thought, with the two of you being quite close …’

Sheila’s skin tightened. ‘I wouldn’t say we were “close”, Caroline. We’re colleagues, but that’s all.’

‘But you go for lunch, don’t you?’ There was no mistaking the challenge in her voice now. ‘He’s told me.’

‘Lunch? Well … In the canteen once or twice, maybe, but there are always others there …’

‘I see.’

Sheila frowned, choosing her words carefully. ‘Caroline, I—’

‘Forget it. Forget I said anything.’ Her breathing changed. ‘I’m sorry.’ A sob, and now she was blowing her nose. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘It’s OK, love. It’s OK.’

But it wasn’t, not really.

She let the silence continue for a few seconds before saying, ‘Caroline, if there’s something on your mind – something specific – then you can tell me. I shan’t pass it on.’

Caroline took her time, then cleared her throat. ‘I’ve thought for some time that he’s … that he’s having an affair. In fact, I think he’s had several. Possibly concurrent ones.’

‘Really?’ She hoped it sounded sceptical, but Sheila wouldn’t put it past him.

‘Not that I’ve ever asked him outright. I just … Well, I just sort of accept our marriage isn’t perfect.’

‘No marriage is.’

‘Ha! Sometimes I think all I do is turn a blind eye. But you will tell me, won’t you, Sheila, if you hear anything? You will call me?’ Her voice rose. ‘I can’t bear this! I can’t!’

‘Of course. You have my word.’ 32

Sheila was angry again, not for herself but for the sobbing Caroline, far from home and desperate for news.

‘I want to know he’s safe, that’s all.’

‘Let’s hope he is,’ Sheila said, then bit her lip as she thought how best to phrase what she needed to say. ‘We will need to say something on the programme about why Tony isn’t presenting beside me. We thought about saying he’s unwell and that we send him our best wishes.’

‘OK, but … he might still turn up, mightn’t he? He might be there in time.’

‘He might,’ Sheila said, muscles locking hard.

‘But if he doesn’t,’ Caroline said now, ‘shouldn’t you tell the truth and make an appeal for information?’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘That’s what the programme’s for, isn’t it?’ She was strained now. Petulant.

‘It is, but if the police don’t even know yet, well … It wouldn’t be my decision, in any case.’

‘I see.’ She didn’t hide her dismay.

‘Caroline,’ Sheila said, firmly now, ‘you simply must go to the police. Please. You could call them after this conversation.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Tell them everything and let them help you.’

‘Thank you, Sheila.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Sheila went straight to see Frank.

‘She still hasn’t reported it?’ Frank asked, dismayed.

‘Not yet, no. She seems to have an idea he might just turn up. Which he might. She suggested we might make an appeal for information on air.’ 33

‘Did she? Oh, God.’

He pushed himself up out of his chair and put both hands to his head, as if to keep his brain in. She liked Frank, finding him thoughtful and affable, though his affability was also his weakness. People – including Tony – took advantage.

‘I said it wasn’t my call,’ she said. ‘Which it isn’t. I did point out it would be strange to put out an appeal without the police knowing anything about it.’

‘Quite right, Sheila.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I would appreciate your assurance on something, Frank.’

‘What?’

‘If Tony does show up, even if he’s in a fit state, then he doesn’t go on air.’

He stared, shocked.

‘It’s four o’clock now, Frank,’ she said. ‘We’re rehearsing at seven. I’ll be presenting an hour-long live broadcast on my own. I need to know I’m not going to be shunted aside at the last minute to accommodate Tony.’

His eyes were agitated.

‘If Tony turns up safe – and I genuinely hope he does – then something is still wrong. He’s gone on an all-night binge or got himself into some sort of scrape. He needs help – not to go on live television. Imagine the fallout if he begins to flake out on air.’

Frank’s shoulders sagged.

‘Well?’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, tonight’s show is yours.’

34

5

The rehearsal went well and Mary seemed happy when she came down from the gallery. Even Ruth Mawby, the programme’s gloomy producer, seemed in good spirits.

‘You’re a true professional,’ Mary told Sheila. ‘As if it’s your programme and always has been. Don’t you think, Ruth?’

‘I’d be happy if it was Sheila’s programme,’ Ruth said drily. ‘Might come to pass at this rate.’

‘Well, there’s a thought,’ Sheila said.

She and Ruth exchanged looks.

Ruth was a tall and sturdy forty-year-old. She played rugby on the weekend and often turned up on a Monday with a black eye. Today she was in a rugby top and had a splint on her right wrist. Rumour had it she was gay and partnered with a woman who had been a nun for twenty years but had left her calling for Ruth. The two were supposed to live on a houseboat in Hebden Bridge.

She and Tony had had a tricky working relationship. He’d 35hated having a female producer and was often dismissive or rude. Once Ruth had overheard him describe her as a ‘towering dyke’ to Frank, and she’d hit the roof. When his watch went missing from his desk a few weeks later, turning up smashed and broken in a waste-paper basket, he’d accused Ruth of being behind it. Something she’d denied in the gruffest possible tones.

Ruth went to talk to one of the camera crew.

‘That third reconstruction came off well, didn’t it?’ Mary said to Sheila.

‘The Harehills murder? Quite frightening, but it might jog someone’s memory. You did a good job on that.’

Mary had filmed it on location earlier in the week with Tony. Sheila had been down to film it originally, but then Mary had let her know she wasn’t needed.

‘The murdered lad’s auntie was very pleased. Touched by our sensitivity, so she said. It was straightforward enough, and Tony’s piece to camera outside the house was very heartfelt, don’t you think?’

‘Hmm. Yes, I suppose so. How’s my make-up?’ Sheila asked.

‘It’s grand.’ Mary studied her closely. ‘Oh—’ She brushed at Sheila’s collar. ‘Touch of foundation there.’ She took out a hanky, licked it and wiped. She beamed. ‘Good as new.’

Mary took off as a production assistant appeared at Sheila’s side.

‘DI Singh is here, Sheila,’ she said. ‘I took him straight into make-up, then I’ll put him in the waiting area.’

Sheila thanked her. Singh was the detective she would interview live after they showed the Harehills reconstruction.

Four more police officers arrived to answer the phones in a glass booth on the right-hand side of the studio, throughout the broadcast and for an hour afterwards, when the lines would be 36redirected to Millgarth. She greeted them, recognising a couple of faces from previous months’ episodes.

Then she settled down on set to look through her script and make sure she knew the cases inside out.

This month was the usual mix of small-time, sordid crimes, and downright horrifying ones. A man and a woman had been robbing convenience stores in West Leeds, arriving on a motorbike, then diving inside, helmets still in place, and emptying the tills while threatening staff with hammers. In the latest incident, an off-licence CCTV camera had captured the top half of the woman’s face through the visor. The police were confident someone would recognise her.

Then there was the man who’d attacked two women in Seacroft, following them before making a grab. There were few clues, but one of the victims had agreed to talk on camera, though in silhouette and under a pseudonym. Sheila had recorded the segment earlier in the week, with a counsellor and the victim’s friend sitting nearby.

Third was this month’s big item, always the most serious and potentially most upsetting of the programme, with the last half-hour of the show dedicated to it. This time it was the brutal murder of a young waiter at his home in Harehills. Craig Salter, aged twenty-one, was gay and lived alone. He’d worked late and then gone to a bar to meet friends. He’d shared a taxi part of the way home, then jumped out and walked the rest of the way. Two separate witnesses had reported seeing him in the company of another man during that walk. His auntie found him dead in his kitchen the next morning, slashed and stabbed with a knife. Tony had pre-recorded interviews with the auntie and a friend of Craig’s, and the tapes were ready to go. Separately, they had a tape of one of the witnesses, 37describing what she had seen. The other witness had wanted to remain anonymous. DI Gurjit Singh would join Sheila to make an appeal for information.

They’d finish the programme with their usual CrimeTime round-up – updates and sometimes good news about cases from previous episodes.

Sheila had made a number of small amendments to the script and now waved to the production assistant who had charge of the autocue. He hurried off to make the changes.

Another production assistant was heading her way.

‘Sheila, the newsroom are putting through an urgent personal call. Line one.’ She nodded to a phone on the wall with buttons that lit up.

‘Who is it?’

‘She didn’t give a name, but she said it was urgent.’

Caroline? But why would she have called the newsroom?

She made her way to the wall-mounted phone by the door that connected the studio to the offices.

‘It’s Sheila Hargreaves here,’ she said.

‘Personal call for you, Sheila,’ a voice said.

‘A personal call from whom?’ she demanded, but then the line clicked.

‘There you are!’ An all-too-familiar voice.

‘Jeanette?’

‘You could have told me he’s missing.’

Sheila took a second to gather herself. ‘Who?’ she asked airily.

‘Feign ignorance if you must.’

‘What do you mean by calling me like this? You know we’re about to broadcast.’

‘Knew I’d never get past reception and remembered I had 38a direct number to the newsroom. Now – tell me what you know.’

‘Very little,’ Sheila said, cupping the receiver. ‘I’d like to know what you’ve heard.’

‘News desk just got a tip-off there’s a police statement coming out at nine-thirty. Bit unfortunate that it’s timed to coincide with the start of your show, isn’t it?’

She swallowed and looked quickly about to see if she could spot Mary or Ruth. ‘You could say that.’

‘Thought I should let you know. Now how about you tell me what you know.’

She spotted Mary and waved frantically. ‘I don’t know anything.’ There was a clock above the phone. It was 8.51. Less than forty minutes till airtime. Jeanette started to protest, but Sheila cut her dead. ‘Sorry. I’ve got to go.’ She hung up.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mary asked.

‘That was a friend who works for a newspaper. She’s had a tip-off from the police about Tony. I expect that means Caroline has reported him missing.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘I agree, but word is the police are putting out a statement at nine-thirty. Just as we hit the airwaves. If the news is out there, we can hardly say Tony’s unwell, can we? It’d be tantamount to lying to the viewers.’

They watched one another, neither breathing.

Mary said, ‘Talk to Frank?’

‘I think so.’

Frank came down to the studio. They met standing in a corner. Ruth descended from the gallery to join them and stood, stony-faced, arms folded. 39

‘I understand what you’re saying, Sheila,’ Frank said. ‘But I’ve heard nothing from the police. Even if we’d had a tip-off like your contact, we couldn’t put anything out, on this programme, the news or anywhere else. Unconfirmed, it would be downright irresponsible.’

‘So we stick to saying he’s unwell?’ Mary asked.

‘But it’s not true,’ Sheila said, eyes on a clock on the wall over their heads. ‘He was supposed to be here and he isn’t.’

‘Can’t very well say that, though,’ Ruth pointed out.

‘So what do we say?’ Mary pushed, becoming tetchy, which was unusual for her.

Sheila said, ‘How about: “Tony sadly can’t be with us this evening,” then I move quickly on.’

They looked at one another.

‘That would work, wouldn’t it?’ Mary asked.

Ruth shrugged.

Frank nodded. ‘I can’t think what else we can say.’

Frank left them and Sheila checked the autocue before going to greet the detective she would be interviewing live, currently installed in a small waiting area. He seemed calm and prepared. She made jolly remarks and ignored the fact her own heart was going like a train. She’d presented live television for years now; nerves like this were unfamiliar.

The thought that outside the studio, in newsrooms across the county, people might be learning of Tony’s disappearance and tuning in, in anticipation of information … To say nothing was a risk, but she couldn’t see what else they could do.

Sheila returned to the desk beside the two settees and put her earpiece back in. The studio lights were set low for the programme’s opening sequence. Shortly the credits would roll, 40then the set would appear in a twilight of red and blue. Sheila – usually with Tony at her side – would be seen silhouetted against a white background. Lights would go up in the telephone operators’ booth, and they’d be seen, headsets on, ready for calls. Then the lights would warm as camera one moved forward, ready for the opening shot and Sheila’s welcome.