SOUND STAGE 2, TOP HAT FILM STUDIOS, OXSPRING LANE, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK. 1850 HOURS. MONDAY 15 DECEMBER 2008.

The make-up lady dropped the brush in the powder pot, unfastened the bib, whisked it away and said, ‘That’s it, Mrs Santana. Thank you.’

Felicity Santana eased her sylph-like body elegantly out of the chair and stepped out of the harsh lights of the make-up trailer into the huge expanse of the dimly lit sound stage. She looked across the array of viewing screens, cameras, microphones, playback projectors, screens, lighting standards and gathering of engineers, tradesmen and artists standing around and looking down at the set a hundred yards away, with the sky, moon and Plough shining brightly through a huge glass window.

Some of the crew nearby sensed her arrival, turned slightly, noted her presence and shuffled uneasily.

Three people made their way towards her through the clutter.

A young man wearing headphones round his neck said, ‘Mrs Santana, Mr Isaacs sends his apologies and says about five minutes.’ He dashed off.

‘Can I get you anything, Mrs Santana?’ Marianne Cooper, the gofer to the great star, said.

Felicity Santana didn’t even acknowledge she was there.

‘You look fantastic, Felicity,’ a tall man with a shop-bought tan and a sugar-tongued voice said. ‘Why don’t we wait in your caravan? It’s not very warm out here. Ridiculous … shooting summer scenes in winter without extra heating.’

She smiled up at him, turned to Marianne Cooper and said, ‘A small gin with some fresh lime juice with ice. You’ll find it in the bar behind the bookcase in my husband’s office.’

Marianne Cooper smiled politely and ran off.

Felicity Santana and the man with the tan reached the caravan. As soon as the door was closed, he reached out to her, put his arms round her, whispered something indecent and kissed her gently on the lips.

She responded to the kiss and then they kissed again. He ran his hands down her back and her thighs. Her bosom heaved. She sighed and her fingers caressed the back of his neck. His face flushed and his heart beat soundly and rapidly like a tom-tom. After a few moments, she gently pushed him away with a smile. ‘Not here. No. There’s no time. I’ll be called anytime.’

‘When are you going to leave him?’ he said, holding her head gently and looking into her eyes.

‘When you have eighteen million pounds, darling,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘You can take his eighteen million and have a passion and love from me that that old man could never give you.’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t make assumptions, darling. Peter Santana is a very remarkable man.’

He put his hands under her arms, his thumbs under her bosom, looked into her eyes, wrinkled his eyebrows and said, ‘You know that I can do a lot for you.’

She sighed. It was true, but she wasn’t prepared to admit it to him.

‘We talked about it once. I told you I could do it. All I would need would be … the means. I could get that. I have contacts. Might take a week or two.’

Her face glowed. She came very close to him. She ran her lips gently across his cheek. She ran her hands gently through his hair. Her mouth came up to his ear.

His heart began to pound again.

‘If you were caught it would be twenty years,’ she whispered.

‘I wouldn’t get caught. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.’

There was a knock at the door.

They separated quickly.

She reached down to the handle.

It was Marianne Cooper, the gofer, with a tumbler on a tray. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs Santana,’ she said with a smile.

Felicity Santana’s eyes flashed. She glared down at the girl. ‘You didn’t interrupt us,’ she snapped.

The gofer’s eyes opened wide. The smile vanished. She was hurt and confused; it was impossible trying to get used to being treated rudely by ‘stars’. She shrugged. ‘Your drink. Fresh lime juice and gin.’

Mrs Santana snatched the glass from the tray and slammed the caravan door shut.

The man looked across at her, eyebrows raised. ‘My,’ he said, rubbing his chin, ‘we are on edge tonight.’

‘That girl saw us.’

‘She couldn’t have. The door was closed.’

‘She suspects.’

‘So what?’

‘Can’t risk any talk.’

He put his hand round her waist. ‘Peter hasn’t got long. He’s seventy-two, heart disease. Then you’ll be open season.’

‘Huh,’ she said, playing with his tie. ‘How do you know? Doing what he’s doing, he could go on for ever.’

‘Sit down. Relax.’

She peeled his hand away from her tiny waist and walked the length of the caravan, carrying the glass, and then came back. She began to rub her chin, then remembered the make-up and looked at her fingers. She took a sip of the drink. ‘He takes his pills, eats mostly fruit, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t touch alcohol, walks on the hills religiously for two hours every day; the rest of the twenty-four he spends in bed either writing or sleeping.’

‘He comes here,’ the man insisted.

‘He comes here all right. For two hours. Comes in every month to view any new faces, count the money, and check that Isaacs isn’t ordering too many paperclips.’

‘Doesn’t he ever go anywhere else?’

‘Our mountain lodge at Tunistone, which I detest, and the hospital, for check-ups.’ She pulled a face like a bottle of vinegar. ‘Life is one big round of fun.’

There was a knock on the caravan door.

She leaned over and opened it.

It was the young man with the headphones. ‘Mr Isaacs sends his compliments, Mrs Santana, and says that we are ready for you now.’

‘Right,’ she said.

The young man dashed off.

Mrs Santana finished off the drink with one swig, slammed the glass down, took a long look at herself in the fitted mirror and straightened her skirt.

The make-up lady with her bag was at one side of the door, and Marianne Cooper appeared at the other side.

Mrs Santana gave her the ringbinder holding her script, her keys and a spectacles case, then stepped out of the caravan, slammed the door, turned and led the procession down to the set.

A man came out of his dining room and into the hall on the ground floor of the modernized and extended farmhouse high in the Pennines. He was carrying a silver candelabra, which he put on the hall table. He struck a match and lit the three new pink candles. The flames flickered for a moment or two then settled. He then reached over the hall table up to a small box, which was screwed into the oak panelling on the wall. He took out several fuses, one at a time, until the crystal chandelier illuminating this end of the hall and situated almost above his head went out; he turned to see if the light in the room behind him, a downstairs bedroom, had also been extinguished. It had, so he closed the fuse box, then he took out his handkerchief and wiped clean each of the fuses he had withdrawn.

Then he picked up the candelabra and crossed the hall to the bedroom, causing huge shadows to balloon and swirl eerily on the bedroom wallpaper as he made his way to the nearest bed. He looked at the motionless mound down the middle of it and rubbed his chin. He held the candelabra over the pillow to show the collar of a pink nightdress and a hairy ear.

He shuddered as he looked down at the lifeless figure.

Then he heard a noise. The front door opened. Then closed.

He gasped. His blood froze. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He shakily placed the candelabra on the bedside table, his pulse banging in his ears. He looked across at the bedroom door.

He swallowed with difficulty and called, ‘Who’s there?’

There was no reply.

His heart thumped as hard and as loud as a machine gun. He took a tentative step towards the bedroom door, then stopped when a man appeared in the doorway.

They recognized each other.

The intruder frowned when he saw the candelabra. ‘What you up to, eh?’

‘It’s none of your business. You’ve no right to be here. Get out!’ he said, advancing towards the intruder.

The other man screwed up his face like a paid bill, his eyes shining. ‘That’s the last time you talk to me like that, Santana,’ he said. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a handgun and pointed it at him.

‘Get out,’ Santana said. Then he saw the gun and remained motionless.

‘Don’t come any closer.’

‘Don’t point that at me unless you intend using it,’ Santana said.

The man sneered at him and didn’t hesitate. He fired once.

It hit Santana in the chest.

Santana put both hands up to the point of entry, his head dropped and he collapsed on the floor by the door.

The man stood over him, still holding out the gun. He saw blood ooze between Santana’s fingers and grinned.

‘At last, you bastard. I’ve got you at last,’ he shouted as he kicked Santana’s body violently in the side several times. Then the gunman bounced out of the room, closed the door, wiped the knob with his handkerchief and disappeared into the night.

Detective Inspector Michael Angel was blowing the tune of ‘We Three Kings Of Orient Are’ through his teeth as he checked off and packed up paper files into a ‘Heinz Tomato Soup’ cardboard box. The papers all related to a case he had just solved, written up and was passing to the Crown Prosecution Service. It concerned a rich woman who had been abducted, robbed and murdered. The crime had been a totally callous affair and showed humanity at its meanest.

He was pleased to see the case closed for two reasons: the obvious one of taking another murderer off the streets and away from decent society, but also to reduce the bumf that tended to sit on his desk for much longer periods of time than he liked.

He pulled open his desk drawer and found a piece of string that was rolled up in a tidy figure of eight. He unfurled it, threaded it round the box, made a boy scouts’ loop, tightened up the fastening, knotted it twice then held the box by the string and shook it. It seemed strong enough. He nodded favourably and put the box back on the desk.

There was a knock at the door. It was PC Ahmed Ahaz, aged twenty-one, who, as a probationer, came third at Aykley Heads Police College in Durham in 2006. Angel was very proud of him and considered him to be a first-rate copper. He was keen, personable and above average intelligence. He was carrying a handful of letters.

‘Good morning, sir. Brought the post.’ He put the letters on the desk.

‘Right, Ahmed. Ta. Here, take this box of tricks round to Mr Twelvetrees at the CPS. He’s expecting it.’

‘Right, sir,’ he said brightly.

Ahmed went out and closed the door.

Angel returned to the swivel chair, sat down at the desk, took a penknife out of the desk drawer and began to slit open the envelopes.

The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

It was Detective Superintendent Harker. He was talking as Angel put the phone to his ear, which annoyed Angel; he invariably missed the beginning of the sentence.

‘A triple nine call, just in,’ Harker said. ‘A woman cleaner found the bodies of her employers in the bedroom of a converted farmhouse on the Pennines. She said that he was on the floor covered in blood and that his wife was in the bed, not moving. Sounds like a murder followed by a suicide. It is the country home of Peter Santana the TV producer and his actress wife Felicity. The address is The Farmhouse, Pennine Way, off Manchester Road, Tunistone. The cleaner said she’d wait there for you.’

The phone went dead.

The hairs on the back of Angel’s neck turned to gooseflesh and his heart began to beat like a drum in the 1812.

He cleared the line then tapped a number into the handset. It was soon answered.

‘Listen, Ahmed,’ he said. ‘In this order advise the following that there is a suspected murder and tell them I want them at the scene ASAP, all right?’

He then rattled off a list, gave him the Santanas’ address and replaced the phone. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a slim white packet containing a pair of rubber gloves, stuffed it in his pocket, picked up his coat and left the office.

The Santanas were a high-profile couple internationally famous in the film and TV world. They lived in Bromersley, but took no interest in local activities. They had used the relatively insignificant South Yorkshire town as a convenient place to make films for the big and small screen. Although almost all Santana’s films and TV dramas were shot inside the studio grounds, the old town buildings of Bromersley occasionally made an interesting backcloth, while the Pennine range of mountains, hills and woodlands nearby made for stunning scenery. In addition, labour was comparatively cheap and building land a tenth of the cost as the home counties.

Angel had heard of the Santanas and had seen pictures of the deliciously small Felicity Santana on TV from time to time. Her murder and that of her husband would make prominent news in the entertainment world abroad as well as throughout the UK.

The Santanas’ farmhouse was large and had been modernized, with several additional rooms built on at ground floor level, to bring it up to Santana’s requirements. It was high up on the Pennines off the main road between Sheffield and Manchester, and Angel wondered how they would have managed to reach the place in the heavy, snowy days of winters past.

He pointed the bonnet of the BMW up the hundred yards steep climb, then followed the track right, along a short level stretch up to open gates to a short drive, where he pulled up thirty yards away from the front door. Ahead of him were parked a small foreign red car and a big new silver Mercedes.

He switched off the ignition and got out of the car.

At that moment, he was pleased to see a white van from SOCO at Bromersley drive up behind him. Inside it was the team of specialist investigators led by DS Donald Taylor. It parked up behind the BMW.

He gave them a wave of acknowledgement as he made his way towards the house.

Before he reached the front door, it was suddenly opened and a woman in a blue overall rushed out and made straight for him. ‘I have never seen anything like it,’ she said. She was panting. ‘I am the one who dialled 999. Never seen anything like it. You are from the police, aren’t you?’

‘Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said, quietly. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘Gloria Totty. Mrs,’ she said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. Am I pleased to see you! I helped myself to a big drop of their brandy while I was waiting for you. They wouldn’t have begrudged it, I don’t think. Never seen anything like it, Inspector. I’m the housekeeper here.’

‘What exactly have you seen, Mrs Totty?’

‘Mr Santana dead as anything, blood all over. And Mrs Santana dead in bed. I didn’t go near her.’

DS Taylor joined them, togged up in a white sterile suit, headcover, green boots and rubber gloves.

He looked at Angel then the woman.

‘Mrs Totty,’ Angel said. ‘Which room are they in?’

She pointed towards the front door. ‘Bedroom. First on the left.’

‘Downstairs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you,’ Angel said.

Taylor nodded at Angel and rushed inside the house. Three others similarly clad, carrying rolls of plastic foam, followed.

‘Now tell me what exactly happened, Mrs Totty. You say you are the housekeeper here?’

‘Part-time, yes. Ever since they bought the place and had it converted. Start at ten, finish at three today. I arrived at around ten this morning. I knew they were here because his car—’ She pointed to the big silver Mercedes, ‘—was there. Unusual, though, because he always puts it in the garage. And they don’t come up here much, this time of the year. Well, she doesn’t come up at all, anyway, now. Well, I let myself in. I have a key.’

‘The door was locked?’

She put her hand to her chin, rubbed it and said, ‘There’s a thing. No, Inspector. As a matter of fact it wasn’t locked, no.’

‘Please go on.’

‘I went into the kitchen, his study, the sitting room and the big lounge … the gymnasium … and there was no sign of life. I knew he wouldn’t be in the swimming pool this time of year. I didn’t call out or anything. I guessed he’d be in bed tapping into his laptop. He has it fitted up with a table so that he can swing it across. Mr Santana liked everything quiet, like, especially when he was writing. No radio, no Hoover, nothing like that. I made a pot of tea. He always enjoyed a drink of tea. Took it to the bedroom. Knocked on the door. No reply. Again, still no reply. Opened it and … oh dear.’ She shivered and rubbed her arms.

The sun was shining and there was no breeze, but it was not warm.

‘Sit in here,’ he said. ‘We can talk in here.’ He opened the car door for her.

As Mrs Totty got in, he looked round. The site was now a place of concerted activity. Dr Mac, the pathologist, had arrived. DS Ron Gawber’s car was pulling up behind him. The SOCO team were taking specialist dust-sucking machines into the house. The mortuary wagon was parking on some space in front of the big garage, and a young constable was putting up police signs down the drive.

Angel walked round to the other side of the car and opened the door. When they were both settled he said, ‘Now, what did you find in the bedroom?’

She swallowed. ‘It was Mr Santana. He was on the floor in front of the door. His face was grey with an expression of pain, but fixed, frozen like a black and white photograph. I knew he was dead. There was blood on his shirt, his hands, pullover, everywhere.’

‘And Mrs Santana?’

‘Unusual, that. She hasn’t been here since there was a leak in the swimming pool and the builders were brought in. Must be five years ago. I didn’t go any further into the room. She was in bed. Never moved. Even when I screamed. Must certainly be dead. Bit of a nightie and back of her head showing. Horrible.’

He blew out a sigh. ‘Anything been moved?’

‘Yes. There was a candelabra at the side of the bed. And the candles were still lit. We never light them. I don’t understand it. They were just for show.’

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘There must have been some trouble with the lights,’ she added. ‘The fuse box in the hall is open and some fuses pulled out and put on the table.’

‘Anything else?’

She shook here head. ‘Don’t think so.’

A mobile phone rang. It was Angel’s. He wasn’t pleased. He pulled a face and dived into his pocket. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and opened it up. It was the superintendent.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said into the phone.

‘Ah, Angel,’ Harker said. ‘Correction. It can’t be Felicity Santana dead in that bedroom. She’s just been on the phone to our reception, alive and kicking, reporting her husband missing. The telephonist put her on to me and I told her about the triple nine call from her housekeeper up there. She now understands that her husband is dead and that there is an unidentified woman in her bed. She is understandably extremely upset.’

Angel blinked and pulled a face like he’d caught the smell of the gravy at Strangeways.

‘And she’s on her way up to you,’ Harker added mischievously.

Angel’s lip tightened momentarily against his teeth, then he said, ‘Right sir,’ He was furious, he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to see either of the two corpses or check out their identities.

There was a click and the phone went dead.

Angel snapped the mobile shut and shoved it in his pocket.

‘Sorry about that, Mrs Totty.’

She nodded understandingly.

He was wondering what to tell her when Dr Mac, in his whites, arrived outside the BMW and tapped on the window.

Angel lowered it.

Mac pulled down his mask and said, ‘Excuse me, Michael.’ He looked pale and unusually agitated. He glanced at Mrs Totty then looked back at Angel. ‘You’d better come and … have a look at this … for yoursel’. I can’t explain.’

Angel frowned. He had never seen Mac acting so strangely. He was not a man who usually found words difficult.

Angel got out of the car, leaving Mrs Totty open mouthed. He remembered the rubber gloves, tore open the packet and pulled them on. Then he nodded at the doctor, who hurried along, keeping to the plastic pathway laid by SOCO, through the front door, down the short hall to the open bedroom door.

Mac pointed to the heap on the floor covered in sterile plastic sheeting. ‘Peter Santana,’ he said.

Angel looked round. There were splashes of blood on the door, the door frame, the carpet and the wallpaper. He reached down and pulled up the plastic. The dead man was flat on his back on the Chinese carpet. He was slim, short and fully dressed in a suit, shirt, tie and black leather shoes. There was blood everywhere, particularly around the chest area. Angel took a close look at his face. The eyes were closed and a pair of spectacles were on the carpet next to him.

Angel wrinkled his nose and sighed as he lowered the plastic sheeting.

He looked at Mac who, with the nod of his head, invited him to follow him further into the room. He pointed to a silver candelabra, draped in melted pink wax with three candle stubs in it, on a bedside table.

‘That was still lit when I came in here.’

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘And there’s no electricity in the place.’

‘What? Why?’

Mac shrugged.

Angel shuddered. He realized the room was cold. It was also eerie.

Mac then pointed to the nearer of two large beds; SOCO had covered the bedspread and pillows with sterile sheeting. A mound down the middle, however, suggested there was a body, alive or dead, underneath.

Mac went up to the head of the bed and Angel stood next to him. He wondered what was so special that he should be specially brought in before Mac and SOCO had finished their initial examinations. If it was something grotesque, he reckoned he had seen everything.

He steeled himself as Mac, with a rubber-gloved finger and thumb, gently peeled back the plastic sheeting covering the pillows to reveal the pretty collar of a silk garment covering a pink hairy ear. He then pulled back the bedclothes until it became clear that the body wearing a woman’s nightdress was that of a dead pig.