REMIX

by

Lexi Revellian

Published by

HOXTON PRESS

2 Hoxton Street, London N1 2PG

Copyright

©

Lexi Revellian

2010

All rights reserved

While the places in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters and events are fictitious.

Chapter

1

*

I didn’t see the man straight away.

The sun was shining, so I’d taken my breakfast toast and coffee out on the terrace. I strolled to the far corner to admire a view I never tire of: a London roofscape, a glimpse of trees in Hoxton Square two streets away, and the distant Gherkin gleaming in the early morning sun. Already the faint hum of traffic competed with the coo of a courting pigeon. My blackbird hopped towards me, bright eye cocked, waiting for his ration of sultanas. I put them in the dish, turned, and stopped dead.

There was a stranger asleep on my outdoor sofa – my new expensive sofa that I can’t really afford and shouldn’t have bought – a scruffy mongrel curled up beside him. The man wore jeans and a sweatshirt; below the old jacket draped over him, grubby fraying trainers stuck out, incongruous against the cream cushions.

My first impulse was to shake him awake, and tell him to get off my property, now. How the hell had he got up here? With a dog? My flat is on top of the building, immune to burglars, or so I’d thought. But on reflection, he might be dangerous…a schizophrenic, a drug addict – though a pretty fit one if he climbed up here – a psychopath… His face reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t think who. It would come back to me. Older than I was, I’d say, probably late twenties; dark hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, unshaven, regular features smoothed in the innocence of sleep. Good cheekbones and jawline. The sort of face I might find interesting attached to someone who wasn’t a vagrant trespassing on my rooftop.

I backed away. My mobile was recharging by my bed. I would tiptoe across the terrace and through the French windows, slide them gently shut and ring the police.

The dog’s head lifted, bright brown eyes shining through fur sticking up in all directions. He hopped off the sofa, and trotted over, claws clicking on the tiled surface. He looked at the plate in my hand, then back at me, triangular ears pricked, expression optimistic; his tail wagged, and he made a small hopeful sound.

Hastily I crouched and handed him a piece of toast to silence him.

Too late. The man’s eyes opened. Sitting up, he ran a hand through hair as rough as the dog’s, and swung his worn trainers to the floor. He was nearer the door than I was. He looked at me. I was quite decent in my towelling robe, but I’d have felt happier dressed. I edged towards the safety of my flat. The man got lithely to his feet. He was six foot tall, lean and muscular under his shabby clothes, and a seedling of panic unfurled below my diaphragm. If we both went for the door, he’d get there first.

“I’d like you to leave. Now. Or I’m calling the police.” There was a noticeable tremor in my voice. Damn.

He picked up a threadbare backpack from the floor. “Right. No problem. We’re going. Come on, dog.” He sounded sane, at any rate, if curt. He walked over to the railings.

The dog, however, knew there was a second piece of toast. He gave a brief bark, then sat back on his haunches, begging, liquid eyes appealing.

The man said to the dog, “Now you’re just embarrassing me. Cut it out.”

I gave the dog the toast. He wolfed it down as fast as the first slice, then joined his owner. The man scooped up the dog and put him in the backpack. He slung the straps over his shoulders, rested one hand on the balcony railing, hesitated and turned.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider letting us out through the front door?” His voice had changed; it was warm and persuasive. A deep, attractive voice. “It’d save the climb. Up’s easier than down. And I’m bursting for a pee.”

For the first time, he smiled; a disarming, eye-crinkling smile with a big helping of charm. Though it did occur to me he might be doing it deliberately, entirely conscious of its effect, I’m only human. I no longer believed he might be clinically insane, drugged or dangerous. Still, I deliberated. I wished I was taller, more muscled, and a Ju-jitsu black belt. Then if after all he turned out to be a mad axe-man, I could deal with it.

I made up my mind. I live alone, I run my own small business and I’m used to making my own decisions. I reckon I’m a good judge of character, and I thought he was okay. Besides, if he climbed down, he might kill himself – and the dog – and I’d feel terrible. I imagined a scream, a thump, rushing downstairs… then living with the knowledge I could have prevented it.

“All right.”

I led him inside and showed him the bathroom door.

My flat is just about perfect; one big studio room with the staircase and a black glass and steel kitchen along one wall, and a bathroom and a utility room opening off the wall opposite. There’s a mezzanine for my bedroom. The architect I employed thought I was mad not to use the whole of the rooftop area for the flat. He said I could have two bedrooms, and it would put at least fifty thousand on the property. But I wanted a stretch of windows on to an open space where I could grow things, and wander out for breakfast among the honeysuckle, jasmine and bay on sunny days; or entertain friends under a summer moon on sultry nights. And that’s what I’ve got.

In the man’s absence I fetched my mobile, keyed in 999 and put it ready to hand below the counter. I pulled on trousers and tee shirt, opened a tin of sardines for the dog, and gave him a bowl of water. I turned on the radio. Allegri’s Miserere, one of my favourites. I dropped some more bread in the toaster, and put the kettle on. My coffee had gone cold.

I was eating when he came out. His hair was tidier than before, and wet round the edges where he’d washed his face. I found this evidence of an attempt to keep up appearances reassuring.

“What’s the dog called?”

“He hasn’t got a name yet. He picked me up…last night.”

“What are you called?”

He paused for a moment, eyes expressionless, as though deciding whether to tell me or not. He had switched the charm off again, it seemed. “Joe.” His gaze went to the food on my plate.

“I’m Caz. Caz Tallis. D’you want some toast? Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

I pressed the toaster knob and spooned instant coffee into a mug (I prefer instant coffee to the real thing. James grumbles about it every time he comes here).

“How did you end up on my roof?”

“Hoxton’s too noisy to sleep, especially in the small hours of Sunday morning. A lot of people milling about, music, police sirens.” He put a spoonful of demerara into his coffee, looking down as he stirred it. His hands were nice. Strong-looking. Round his wrist was one of those chunky fake-designer watches with lots of dials, and numbers circling the edge. “So I climbed up to your flat roof. I thought it was a commercial building, no one around at the weekends.”

“You must be good at climbing.”

“Yup.” He did the smile again, a mega-kilowatt one this time, looking at me under his lashes. This guy had charisma in spades, and he could turn it on and off at will. The irritating thing was, even though I could see him doing it, it still worked. I couldn’t help smiling back.

“I really meant, why haven’t you got a home to go to? Why are you sleeping rough?”

“It’s a long story. Happens every day. Boring, too.” He spread two slices of toast thickly with butter and honey.

I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

“So bore me with it.”

He was eating the toast as fast as the dog had. He shook his head. I couldn’t quite believe he was refusing to tell me anything, while sitting on my stool in my kitchen eating my food.

“Let me guess. You’re just out of jail, and you lost that big see-through plastic bag they give you with everything you own inside it.”

“Could be.”

“Or you were a member of a fringe religion, gave them all your possessions, then lost your faith and had to leave.”

“Maybe.”

“Or you got hit over the head, lost your memory, and you’re wandering around waiting for it to come back.”

This seemed to amuse him. Without asking permission, he reached for the loaf of bread, and put two more slices in the toaster. He helped himself to an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. I got up and put my plate and cup in the dishwasher. It’s possible I did this with a hint of a flounce. I let the silence ride.

He spoke. “My wife kicked me out. Changed the locks, put my stuff in a skip. Drew all the money out of our joint account.”

I turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Usual reasons.” He smiled slightly. “Another woman. Women. So I went on a bender. Spent all my cash, lost my mobile. Ended up in Hoxton.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Hitch to Maidenhead. I know someone there who’ll lend me money, maybe put me up till I sort myself out.”

“I’m delivering a horse to Bracknell today. I’ll give you a lift if you like, it’s in the same direction.”

“Thanks. Where d’you keep the horse? Downstairs?”

It was my turn to smile. “Yes. You’ll see in a minute.”

We went down the stairs, the dog pattering after us, and out of the door below. As I locked it behind me, I looked forward to seeing Joe’s reaction. I’m proud of my workshop, and secretly enjoy showing it off.

I restore rocking horses. There’s not much money in it, but I wouldn’t do anything else. I’m living my dream. That’s what my mother told me to do, two years ago when she knew she was going to die. I thought about it for a while, then gave up my job teaching Art, sold her house in Fulham, and spent the proceeds buying the decaying Hoxton house and transforming it. Unfortunately, I got it slightly wrong and ended up spending more than I got from Mum’s house; so now I’m penny-pinching to pay back the bank bit by bit. It was totally worth it, though, and in five years, with luck and hard work, I’ll be clear.

The whole of the floor below the flat I use for the final finishing stages, as the light’s terrific; gesso, painting, dappling, nailing on the manes and tails, making the saddles and bridles. I breathed in the familiar agreeable smell, a mixture of leather, acrylic paint, whiting and rabbit glue.

Joe looked about him. Half a dozen horses, all old, all different makes and sizes, stood around at various stages of refurbishment. I patted the nearest one, a G & J Lines bow rocker, and paused to allow him to express interest and admiration, should he want to. He didn’t.

“Maybe you should phone your wife,” I remarked, as we went down the next flight of stairs.

“Maybe,” he said.

The room below is where I do the woodwork. There are two workbenches, and as many big machines as I could fit in; a planer, band saw, circular saw, a lathe and a belt sander. Hardboard patterns hang on one wall, with hand tools on shelves. Planks of wood are stacked against the wall wherever there is room. It’s beautiful. I ran my hand through a pile of fresh sawdust. The smell here is even better, the resiny fragrance of pine. I glanced at Joe. Nothing. I led him to the next staircase.

“She probably feels she over-reacted. I expect she’d ring you if she could. She might be worrying about you.”

“I doubt it,” Joe said.

The ground floor is my office and showroom. It’s carpeted, with a desk and a leather sofa. Elegant. Two doors lead to a minuscule kitchen and compact loo and shower. I had them put in because I lived here while the builders built the flat on the roof, and it’s quite handy now if anyone wants to stay. I keep the finished horses here; the ones waiting for delivery or collection, and the unsold ones. Five of them are mine, brand new and made to my own pattern; based on traditional horses, but carved by me to my designs. Not sold yet. It’s difficult to sell modern rocking horses, unless they are mass-produced and cheap. I told Joe this. He grunted.

“You didn’t say whether you had any children.”

“No, I didn’t,” Joe said. “You’ve got sawdust on your nose.” He flicked it off, and suddenly grinned at me. “Cool horses. Cool set up.”

I’m a fool. I could feel a huge smile spreading across my face.

It was useful, Joe being there, because it meant he could help me lift the rocking horse to the van. The horse was a Collinson, dating from the 1970s, not very valuable, but it looked nice the way I’d restored it, and it was big. On my own I’d have had to take it off the stand.

The van was on the road outside – it’s double yellow lines all the way round Fox Hollow Yard where my workshop is. I reversed the van slowly between the brick walls of the archway and over the cobbles to my door. We loaded the horse and got in the cab. I turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled into life, gave an apologetic cough, and died. I took the key out again.

After thirty seconds, Joe said, “What are we waiting for?”

“It does this. You have to give it a few minutes, and try again.”

Joe fished an iPod out of his pocket, put the earphones into his ears, eased down in the seat and closed his eyes. The dog settled in his lap. I tried the key once more, and this time the van got its act together and set off gamely down the road.

“It’s a good van really, it’s just feeling its age,” I said. Joe didn’t answer.

Being Sunday morning, the roads were quiet as we cut across London to the M4. I like it when you get to the first sight of real countryside, with sheep and cows. Joe seemed to be asleep. I had hoped he’d tell me more about himself. We passed Slough and I wondered whether to wake him up for directions, or leave it a bit.

“It’s got to be junction seven or eight…” I muttered under my breath.

He opened his eyes and sat up.

“Eight.”

A sudden suspicion entered my mind.

“You weren’t asleep,” I said accusingly. “And is that iPod even playing anything?” How could he have charged it, anyway?

“Nope. I got fed up with all the questions.”

Fine.

I stopped the van where he told me to, keeping the engine running, outside an ordinary, quite pleasant detached house in a street off the main road. Joe undid his seatbelt and put his hand on the door catch, looking me in the eyes. His were brown like the dog’s, but a shade darker.

“Well, thanks. Good luck with the horses.”

I reached for my handbag, got out a twenty pound note and handed it to him.

“What’s this for?”

“You can’t wander around without any money. It’s just in case.”

He put it in his jeans pocket. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Keep it. It’s a gift.”

I didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t return it. I preferred to give it to him, even though twenty pounds is quite a lot of money to me. In spite of his grouchiness I liked him; I didn’t want to watch him walk off, him and the dog, with just what he stood up in and no money for a bus, or a cup of tea, or a phone call if his friend was out.

If he’d asked me for money there’s no way I’d have given him anything. Strangers are always coming up to me on the street and pitching me a tale about being robbed and needing the fare to get back home. I must have a kind face. I gave the first two what they asked for, then wised up. But Joe hadn’t asked for anything, except to use my bathroom.

He smiled, opened the door and got out, followed by the dog. I put the van into gear and drove off. I didn’t expect to see him again.

Chapter

2

*

The Collinson’s new owners lived in an old rectory, surrounded by gardens. The horse was a present for their youngest daughter. They had selected it at the gesso stage in my workshop the month before, which meant they got to choose the finish: a blond mane and tail, chestnut tack and blue rosettes.

The father came out as I arrived, to carry one end. Between us we lugged it inside and up a broad curving flight of stairs, and paused at the top to get our breath. Rock music pounded out from the older daughter’s room; beyond a door bearing a skull and crossbones it was a typical frowsty teenage den, with curtains drawn against the sun, clothes tangled all over the floor, and its occupant hunched at a computer screen. She gave us a dark stare, and returned to Facebook.

Something caught my eye.

On the open wardrobe door was an iconic rock poster, so ubiquitous that even I, who am not a fan, had seen it and knew the name of the rock star. It wasn’t posed; the photographer had got this atmospheric shot with luck and skill mid-performance. Ric Kealey stood against a smoky dark background, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else, his back to the camera, showing some impressive muscles. His left hand caressed the neck of his guitar, his head turned so he could smoulder at me over his naked, glistening shoulder. You could see beads of sweat flying where he’d flung back his hair.

He looked a bit like Joe. Younger, and his hair was long, whereas Joe’s was quite short, but there was a definite resemblance. That must be why I’d thought he looked like someone I knew.

“One last heave?” said my customer. “Nearly there.”

“Okay. Ready?”

We edged carefully through a doorway – I didn’t want to scrape the paint after all my hard work – and lowered the horse on to the middle of the carpet. This room was pinker than was good for it, and contained more soft toys than any rational child could require. (Someone once asked me to paint a rocking horse, a perfectly good Patterson Edwards, pink. I refused. I have my principles.) I wondered how long it would be before the bedroom turned into a teenage fortress, and whether the rocking horse would stay.

We stood and admired my handiwork for a few minutes, then he offered me a cup of coffee, and I thanked him and said I had to be off. Another satisfied customer. The van started first time, and I headed for home.

The journey back was slower, once I got to the outskirts of London. Round about the Cromwell Road I was hardly moving. I flicked through the station presets on my van’s ropey old radio; Abba, Mozart, weather and an advert telling me I could get rich playing the stock market. As if. I switched it off.

I started thinking about Ric Kealey. He’d become the biggest, most sensational rock star ever, back in the days when I was at art college. Not my sort of music, but you couldn’t help knowing about him. He was everywhere, and as far as the tabloids were concerned The Voices and their lead singer were the best thing since Princess Diana. Whatever they did made the front page. They were huge; they supplied the soundtrack to a whole generation’s yearning, exaltation and dreams.

I decided to look Ric Kealey up on the internet when I got home, and see if he really did look like Joe.

Since it was Sunday I grilled some bacon and treated myself to a BLT for lunch. I made a pot of tea (weird of me I know, since the Good Lord gave us teabags, but I think it tastes better). I took it on a tray out to the terrace, put it on the table, fetched my laptop and curled up in comfort on my new sofa under the big cream parasol. The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew, the blackbird sang. Perfect.

I googled Ric Kealey, and went to Wikipedia. The page went on for ever. Only one picture, of him with a guitar while he was still at school, looking solemn, his face with the soft curves of adolescence, hair flopping over his eyes. He started the band when he was sixteen or so. In the photograph he didn’t look much like Joe. His mother was an actress, mainly on television – not a household name, but quite successful, in work most of the time. I realized she’d been in a sitcom I watched as a child called Better the Devil. His parents split up when he was small, he went to boarding school at seven, excelled at music from an early age…

I had a swig of tea, a mouthful of sandwich, and scrolled down, looking at the subtitles. The Voices In My Head (band), Early Fame, Musical Influences, Kealey/Orr songwriting partnership, Drugs and Alcohol, Conflict, Relationship with the Press… I stopped there and clicked on the link to The Voices In My Head. There were a couple of photos of the band members, one early one before they got Jeff Pike as their drummer, and a black and white poster with them all in dark glasses looking morose, as if earning squillions every year was no laughing matter. I returned to Google and clicked Images.

Loads of pictures; Ric Kealey in colour, in black and white, tiny at Wembley Stadium, close-up so his features filled the frame, fake Andy Warhol silk-screen multiples of his face, Ric playing his guitar, singing, smoking a cigarette, making a V-sign at the paparazzi, on stage with fans reaching for him, full face, profile…and all of them looking very like Joe. Very like Joe indeed.

It couldn’t be him, though.

I went to Youtube and typed Ric Kealey in the box, and selected the only song whose title I remembered. A grainy postcard-size rectangle showed The Voices on top of a tall building; London, since I could see the Eye in the background. A big flat space, with random bits of air conditioning systems, lifts, satellite masts and fire escapes sticking up here and there. The camera panned in close on the drummer. A heavy, throbbing drumbeat. Stirring. I turned up the sound. The camera moved to Ric Kealey as he struck the first, arrogant chord on his guitar. Every hair on my skin stood up. I suddenly understood why they were mega-successful. He began to sing into the microphone, intensely, as though he was alone, completely ignoring the camera crew filming him. I watched, transfixed, to the end of the song. Ric glanced across to the bass guitarist, and smiled.

I sat back, heart thumping. Youtube offered a replay, or another of The Voices’ hits. I didn’t need a replay. I knew now that Ric was Joe, beyond any doubt at all.

Which was very odd, as Ric Kealey died three years ago.

Chapter

3

*

Back to Wikipedia. I scrolled down to Kealey’s Death.

‘Reportedly, Kealey had been drinking heavily and had resumed illegal drugs use in the weeks before his death. Friends said this was a reaction to his arrest on suspicion of the murder of fellow band member Bryan Orr, although before this he was allegedly depressed by the prospect of the band splitting up, and the effect this might have on sales of The Voices’ most recent album, Fluke. (In fact, Fluke went on to out-sell every album the band had made except for Random Voices.) He had been released on bail of two million pounds the previous week. On 15th April, one day after his twenty-seventh birthday, Kealey went to the house of his manager/agent Phil Sharott, in Cookham on the River Thames near Maidenhead…’

Maidenhead! He must have been going to see him after I dropped him off…

‘…and without his permission or knowledge took off in Sharott’s Cessna aeroplane. Kealey had been taking flying lessons, but was as yet unqualified. He headed to the coast. A witness on a yacht reported seeing the aircraft crash in deep water to the west of the coast of France. “Its engine cut out and it went into the sea. It sank really fast. I didn’t see anyone parachute from it before it crashed, and no one swam away, though of course I had a good look for survivors.” The witness was able to pick up various parts of the plane, which confirmed its identity. The body of the plane was never recovered. Theories about the death abound. It is widely assumed that Kealey committed suicide, since the aeroplane did not have sufficient fuel to reach land in the direction in which it was headed. However, bearing in mind his lack of flying experience, and the fact that he was most likely under the influence of drugs and/or drink, it may also have been a tragic accident.

‘The Orr murder case was closed. The police issued a statement saying they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the murder.’

I considered the implications of this. I had spent the morning alone with a man the police believed guilty of murder. He hadn’t seemed like a murderer to me, but then murderers, when not actually murdering people, probably did act as normally as anyone else. Feeling hunger, needing a pee, befriending stray dogs.

I hoped he wasn’t intending to kill the agent. Perhaps I should ring Phil Sharott and warn him? How could I do that without him thinking I was a nutter?

Or I could ring the police… A moment’s reflection made me aware this was not an option. I might as well tell them I’d spotted Elvis working down the chip shop. They’d think I was out of my mind if I only told them I’d let an intruder into my home, fed him, then driven him to Maidenhead. I had no proof my visitor was Ric Kealey, and I didn’t know where he was now. Would they send policemen to warn the agent of a possible visit from a dead rock star on my say so? I couldn’t see it happening. I read on.

‘Kealey’s death at the age of twenty-seven makes him the sixth and latest member of the notorious 27 Club, or Forever 27 Club as it is sometimes known, a popular culture name for a group of influential rock and blues musicians who all died at the age of 27, sometimes under mysterious circumstances.’

I looked it up. Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Ric Kealey.

Ric Kealey’s page again. Conspiracy Theories After Kealey’s Death.

‘Many fans refuse to believe Kealey is dead, their conviction fuelled by the fact that his body was never found. The website Ric Kealey Lives promotes the theory the plane crash was set up in order for him to escape the murder trial, and that he was spirited away by friends, had plastic surgery to make him unrecognisable, and is now living abroad. In spite of the alleged surgery, fans have claimed sightings in Australia, South Africa, India, Mexico and Chile.

‘Alternative theories maintain he is dead, but the fatality occurred during a botched attempt to fake his own death; that he was murdered by the real murderer of Bryan Orr, in order to cover the killer’s tracks; that his death was part of a suicide pact, to which there are clues in the last album made by the band; and even that on his last solo flight he was abducted by aliens.’

I reached for my sandwich and finished it, then drank my tea, barely registering that it was stone cold. Like most people, I’ve always scoffed at conspiracy theories. NASA faked the moon landings, shape-shifting lizard-people run the world, Di and Dodi died as the result of a fiendish plot hatched by florists…yeah, right. I’d now stumbled on proof that one conspiracy theory, at least, contained some truth.

Unless Ric Kealey was recognized and the whole thing got in the papers, it seemed unlikely I’d ever discover anything else about it. Frustrating. But then, if I’d spotted him, surely other people, fans, would too?

‘Kealey’s estate was inherited by his one surviving relative, his older sister Paula Sharott, who died in a car accident two years after her brother at the age of thirty-six. On her death the estate passed to her…’

My mobile rang. Must change that ring tone.

“Hallo?”

“Caz.” It was James. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just you haven’t rung me up for a while and asked me to do something for you, like fix your laptop or lift a horse up the stairs. This isn’t like you.”

“Huh! Cheek. Maybe I’ve found someone else with brain and muscles to be my willing slave.”

“Fat chance. No one else is crazy about you like I am.”

This is James’s little joke. I’ve known him since we were both tiny, and we went to the same primary school. We’re like brother and sister. We get on really well, and see quite a lot of each other, but that’s all there is to it. He’s got a girlfriend called Posy; she seems nice, but I haven’t got much in common with her. She lives in Cambridge, so James is at a loose end during the week. It was unusual for him to ring on a Sunday.

“Well, maybe if you came round Thursday evening I could line up some heavy lifting, and cook you spaghetti as a reward.”

“That’s the best offer I’m likely to get all week. I’ll bring a bottle. Seven thirty-ish?”

“Great. See you then.”

“Bye, Caz.”

“Bye.”

I took my laptop and crockery indoors, and decided not to waste the whole afternoon researching Ric Kealey, tempted though I was. Feeling sensible and virtuous, I went to the workshop to dapple a horse instead, to help pay off the bank loan.

Chapter

4

*

It rained Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, but Thursday was back to the sort of weather one feels entitled to in June. I was pleased. If we ate outside, James could admire my new sofa.

The doorbell rang at 7.30. James is punctual to a fault, so much so that I start worrying if he’s ten minutes late. His tousled fair hair and pleasant profile were immediately recognisable on the tiny black and white entry phone screen. He always reminds me of a blond teddy bear – but a nice-looking teddy bear you can rely on.

“Hi, come on up,” I said, and pressed the key button. I heard the buzz of the lock release, and saw him push the door open.

Some of my less fit visitors have to sit down when they reach the flat, puffing and fanning themselves, but although he works long hours in a bank, James is in good shape. He plays rugby at weekends – his nose is askew from an early rugby incident – badminton, and tennis in summer. He tried to get me to play tennis a few years ago, though I’ve never been able to hit a ball in my life. He kept saying I’d love it, it wouldn’t be anything like it was at school, I should give it a go. Eventually I gave in, and my single game of tennis in front of a group of his mates from work is one of my most embarrassing memories ever. “God, you were right, you really can’t hit a ball,” he’d said, and taken me to the bar to console me.

“Hi Caz.” He kissed my cheek and handed me a bottle of wine. “You’re looking terrific. I don’t know why I say that, you always do. What’s that you’re playing?”

“Fluke. D’you like The Voices?”

“They’re okay.” He took off his jacket and tie, stretched and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He’s the only friend I’ve got who wears a suit on a daily basis. “Wouldn’t have thought they were your sort of thing, though.”

Now if I was going to tell anyone about the strange materialization of Ric Kealey on my rooftop, it would be James. I can tell him most things, I suppose because I’ve known him so long. But I didn’t. He might think I was wrong, and it was just someone who looked like him; or he might get all serious and try to persuade me to go to the police. And I still hadn’t worked out what I thought about the whole thing…

I turned off the CD player, opened the wine and poured two glasses, handed James his, picked up a bowl of salted cashews and led him outside. I’d laid the table out there before his arrival. James went over to the sofa.

“This is new. Very nice.” He sat down. “I thought you were economizing?”

“I am. This is absolutely the last thing I’m buying for the flat. It is now officially perfect in every way. And all I have to do is live on tins of sardines for a few years, and never go out anywhere, or have a haircut, or buy any new clothes until I’ve paid for it.”

“It’s not sardines tonight, is it? I’m sure spaghetti was mentioned.”

“Just for you, James, I’m pushing the boat out. Spaghetti Carbonara with a side salad.”

“Great.” He slipped off his shoes and swung his legs on to the sofa, lying back where Ric Kealey had lain. He breathed deeply. “Mmm, this is the life. I had a stinker of a day.”

“You can recover while I cook the meal. I’ll let you off peeling duties for once.”

His eyes followed me as I turned. “Not affording hairdressers is good. I like your hair the way it is, right down your back.”

I went inside and got started.

London hasn’t been dark since World War Two ended. James and I sat on after dinner as the twilight faded and city lights appeared. Faint noises of revellers in the bars of Hoxton Square drifted up to us, making my roof feel snug and intimate. I’d just made coffee (“Bloody hell, Caz, what’s this? Generic instant coffee? Not even Gold Blend?”) when the doorbell rang. It was past eleven. I went to the entry phone to see who it was.

Ric Kealey, his hair different…my heart banged in my chest.

“Hi.” I could hear my voice sounding wary.

“Caz, can I come in?”

“What for?”

“There’s something I want to ask you.”

I paused. “Okay, but I can’t be too long. I’ve got a friend here. Hang on, I’ll come down.”

I didn’t press the buzzer to let him in. James was looking at me enquiringly.

“It’s this guy…I’m just going down to see him. I won’t be long. There’s half a bottle of Metaxa in the cupboard, help yourself.”

I turned on the showroom spots and opened the door. At first all I could see was an enormous bunch of flowers; the scent of roses, lilies, and freesia wafted in. He put them into my arms, then held out a twenty-pound note, and did the smile.

I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He was transformed. His hair was bleached a pale blond, and professionally cut in a spiky style. He wore a white tee shirt and black designer jeans, leather belt, red Converses and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He looked amazing. Spectacular. If he walked down a street he’d turn every female head. In stark contrast to the last time we’d met, everything about him looked expensive.

I glanced at the dog beside him, half-expecting him to have had a makeover too, to be washed, fluffed up and trimmed. He wagged his tail at me. He was unchanged, except that he now wore a smart collar with studs.

I took the money from Ric’s hand, and pocketed it, speechless.

He made a move forward. “Can I come in?”

I stayed where I was in the doorway. “I know who you are.”

His eyes narrowed. There was a pause. “Ah. And that would be…?”

“The late Ric Kealey.”

Another pause, while he considered denying it, and decided not to. “Fuck.”

We stood there, looking at each other.

“Can I come in anyway?”

I moved aside and he walked past me and sat on the black leather sofa like he owned it, occupying the maximum amount of space the way men do, the dog at his feet. I put the flowers on my desk and sat behind it. For some reason, this made me feel more in control of the situation. I broke the silence.

“I’ll have to call the police. You’re wanted for murder.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I came back to find out.”

“Like in one of those corny whodunits where the innocent man tracks down the real killer, all the while being chased by the police who think he’s the murderer? Like The Fugitive or something?”

He glared at me. “Yes.”

“And in order to achieve this, you’ve made yourself look as conspicuous and eye-catching as possible, so anyone seeing you will know immediately you’re a rock star, and sooner or later work out who you are? Why don’t you just wear a sign round your neck saying Look At Me?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t walk around like I was. Anyway, I changed my hair colour.”

“Oh yes, like rock stars never do that. Celebrities change their hair all the time. Look at David Beckham. People still know who he is. You’re crazy. And why didn’t you stay with your agent? That’s where you were going, wasn’t it?”

“He’s away. He’ll be back at the weekend.”

“Does he know you’re alive?”

“Yes…” He was going to say more, then didn’t.

“Where did you get the money for all this?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re like the sodding Spanish Inquisition, Caz, you know that? I sold my Rolex. I got my hair done, bought the clothes, and stayed at a hotel for a few days. Not a flash hotel, either. I didn’t go out. But people kept staring at me. Even the Romanian chambermaid asked for my autograph, I think so she could find out who I was. And I ran out of money.”

“So you came here.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe you could put me up till Phil gets back.”

“You’re asking me if I’ll let you stay here?”

“Just for a couple of days.”

I picked up a pen and fiddled with it. The trouble was, I believed him, and I had no reason to do that. No reason at all, simply my gut feeling that Ric wasn’t a murderer; and I might be wrong. The silence grew. He didn’t try to persuade me, or protest his innocence. He just waited.

Footsteps came down the stairs, and James put his head round the door. It must have struck him as bizarre, both of us sitting there among the motionless rocking horses, not saying anything, as though we were conducting a séance. He gave a startled glance at Ric, the dog and the flowers.

“Er, hi. I’m James.”

Ric said, “Hi, I’m Joe,” just as I said, “This is Ric, James.”

James hesitated, looking from Ric to me, then said, “Caz, I ought to be going. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

I got up and walked him to the door. He gave me a kiss, his expression preoccupied. He hovered uncertainly for a moment.

“Take care of yourself. I’ll ring you in the morning, Caz.”

The door shut behind him. I didn’t feel alarmed at being alone in the building with Ric, and that made up my mind for me.

“I won’t have drugs in the house.”

“I haven’t done drugs for three years.”

“You can sleep down here. You’ve got to keep it tidy. There’s a duvet in the cupboard by the shower.”

“Okay.”

“And in the morning, you can tell me all about it.”

“Why? I just need a temporary place to crash, not a sidekick. I’ll be out of your hair in two days. I’ll do this alone.”

Be like that. I picked up the flowers and walked towards the staircase. The dog jumped up and I patted his head. “Have you got a name for him yet?”

“Yes. He’s a French dog, he picked me up in Marseilles, so I thought maybe he should have a French name. But we’re in England now. I’m calling him Dog.”

“I bet you lay awake all night thinking that up.”

I went upstairs, and locked myself in my flat.

Chapter

5

*

I woke early the following morning to the heady fragrance of Ric’s flowers. By eight fifteen I was in my workshop, showered, breakfasted, dressed and picking rusty nails out of a large F. H. Ayres.

When new, this horse had been top of the range. He had the delicately carved features of an over-sensitive thoroughbred, the head not just turned sideways, but at an angle too, so you could practically see him skittering away, tail held high. The safety stand bore a Harrods Knightsbridge stencil in script, discernible only if you knew it was there. In the hundred or so years since his manufacture he’d had a hard life. I reckoned he’d endured three refurbishments by amateurs, and the one thing they were really good at was banging in as many big nails as possible. The posts and top rail of the stand were bodged replacements, and his ears, lower jaw and one leg were missing. Add to this that he’d been kept for the past twenty years in a damp shed, so all his joints were loose, and you can see the horse and I would be spending plenty of time together in the coming weeks.

Properly restored he’d be glorious.

Another bent nail pinged on top of the others in the box. Dog pottered in, followed by his owner holding a bag of Iams.

“Is it okay if I make myself some toast and use your laptop?”

“Yes. Go up. The door’s open.”

Ten minutes later I crept upstairs to check he hadn’t absconded over the side of the building with my valuables. I got so my head was high enough to peer into the flat. Ric was at the kitchen counter, hunched over the laptop, keys clacking furiously, playing a computer game, Dog curled at his feet. Harmless enough. I retreated.

James rang, as he said he would. He’s a man of his word. He asked tentative questions about ‘my visitor’ last night.

“Joe. I knew him at Central St Martin’s.” I felt bad, lying to James, but I had to tell him something. It was the first time ever that I’d not been truthful with him. He said nothing for five seconds, which is quite a long time.

“I thought I’d met all your college friends. You said his name was Ric.”

“It’s Joe Rick. We called him Rick. When we weren’t calling him Joe…” I’m a crap liar. “He needed somewhere to stay. He’s going tomorrow.”

“What does he do?”

“Paint. He’s on the dole.” This at any rate had the ring of truth. All the students I knew in the Fine Art Department either went into something else on leaving college, or were unemployed. I changed the subject. “How’s Posy?”

“Fine. She’s…fine.” He sounded abstracted. “Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later.”

Ric was still at my laptop when I went upstairs to make myself a cup of coffee at eleven. Not playing a game; frowning over something he clicked off at my approach. He glanced up.

“I was thinking, maybe you could take me to Phil’s tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t you get the train?” I was miffed about his refusal to tell me anything. I felt he was taking advantage. And his breakfast things were still beside him on the counter. Huh. He might have put them in the dishwasher, instead of expecting me to tidy up after him. I spooned coffee into a mug. I didn’t ask if he wanted any.

“Okay. Can you lend me fifty quid?”

“It can’t be that much for a cheap day single. Under a tenner, I’d say.”

“I’d have to get taxis both ends. Easier to go door to door. And it would be nice to have your company, too.” He got up and took his plate and cup to the dishwasher, and stacked them neatly inside.

I gave him a suspicious look. He was being charming again.

“Does he know you’re coming?”

“No.”

“How do you know he’ll be there?”

“The housekeeper told me he’d be back tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you ring him?” A sleek new mobile lay beside the laptop.

“I haven’t got his number. He went ex-directory.”

This seemed distinctly odd to me. “But you’re quite sure he’ll have you to stay?”

“Fairly sure.” A shadow passed over Ric’s face. “He owes me. Go on, Caz, I’ll talk to you this time. I promise. Tell you the story of my life. From fame and fortune to the gutter.” He grinned at me. “I’ll let you be my sidekick.”

Like I said, I’m a fool. I agreed.

So, that Saturday morning my van crept and juddered along the Marylebone Road towards the Westway, the sun behind us. The van doesn’t like going slowly. Sometimes it gets overwrought and has to rest for a while. The traffic’s been terrible along there ever since the Con Charge came in, though I’d thought it would be okay at the weekend. That was a mistake. Every now and then, I noticed the occupants of neighbouring cars giving sidelong glances at Ric sitting beside me. He had the window down and his bare forearm resting along the edge, Dog on his lap.

“Maybe you should get in the back. Everyone’s looking at you.”

He got out a pair of dark glasses and put them on, as though that made him invisible. A powder-blue VW convertible drew level and its driver gazed at him. He looked away. I forbore to comment. The truck on my right hooted, and when I glanced up the man in the passenger seat said, “Heya!” and whooped. I scowled and put on my sunglasses.

Just too damn gorgeous, that was our trouble.

The traffic accelerated, and we turned towards the A4. Time for Ric to spill the beans to his new sidekick. I opened my mouth to say this, but he spoke first.

“Where did you get that horse, the big one with attitude? An Ayres, did you say it was?”

I told him it had been a very lucky find. The pensioner who owned it had been going to throw it out – he didn’t know what it was, and thought it beyond repair. He’d said I could have it for fifteen quid, but in the end we’d settled on £375 as being a fairer price. Ric asked about the other horses, how I got started, where I’d been to college, about my teaching job and how I got my fabulous workshop. I told him about Mum dying, and how much I missed her; he said his parents were dead too, but he’d never been close to them. They’d sent him to boarding school when he was seven, and he spent the holidays with his grandmother. We were turning off the motorway when I realized I’d intended Ric to confess all, and we’d be at his agent’s house before he had time to do this.

I’d better get on with it. I said, “What’s Phil Sharott like?”

“He’s a lawyer. He was a trainee solicitor in Bristol when I was there. He’d done law at Bristol.”

“What did you study?”

“Pure maths.”

“Wow.” I was impressed. “You must be bright.”

He smiled wryly and shook his head. “I didn’t qualify. I went a bit wild the first year – the exams don’t count towards the degree, and you’re allowed to retake them. The second year, I left before the end to work full time with the band. I knew I hadn’t done enough to keep up. I jumped before I was pushed. D’you have exams at art college?”

“No.” I refused to be sidetracked. “Why would a lawyer manage a rock band?”

“Phil wanted to make some money while he was a trainee. He’s pretty good at it. Our first record deal was his doing.”

“What did he think of you faking your own death?”

“He organized it.”

I was taken aback. You’d think a lawyer would uphold the law, not break it.

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to go to prison.”

“But if you were innocent, surely you’d have got off? They’d have found the real murderer. They only stopped investigating because you were dead.”

“No, because they thought I did it. Haven’t you read it up?”

“It’s all circumstantial, isn’t it, the evidence? Just that you had a row with Bryan Orr—”

“Two rows. Not everything got in the papers.” He sighed. His voice was flat. “Okay, I’ll tell you how it started. Bryan had a new girlfriend. Emma. Emma Redfern. She temped one week for Phil, that’s how they met. She wanted to make it as a singer herself, and I reckon that’s why she latched on to him. I didn’t like her much, but he was under her thumb, and she went everywhere with him, you could never talk to him on his own. She said he wasn’t getting a fair deal, he needed to stick up for himself – for instance, why was it always Kealey/Orr on the credits, why not Orr/Kealey on half of them? It had never been an issue. It got blown up out of all proportion, because of her. In the end me and Bryan were barely speaking, let alone writing songs together. A lot of it was my fault, back then I was out of my head half the time, and he had written a couple of songs on his own, it’s true, that were credited to us both. I was a mess, I didn’t turn up when I said I would, I’d got unreliable. I’d lost it.”

He was speaking more slowly now. “On the day before he died, we were supposed to be doing a remix at Tiger Studios. I turned up two hours late. We got into an argument, then, I don’t know how it happened, me and Bryan were fighting on the floor. Jeff and Dave had to pull us apart. I stormed out, and Bryan followed and yelled at me on the main staircase. In front of a lot of people. He said, if you come back I’ll fucking kill you.”

Ric stopped talking. I pulled in to the side of the road and switched off the engine. I wanted to concentrate.

“Then what?”

“The next day I sobered up – as sober as I ever was in those days – and went round to see Bryan at his flat, to sort it out between us. He had a big place by Regent’s Park, in one of those wedding cake buildings. He was out, but his girlfriend was in. We shouted at each other…she slapped me, I grabbed her wrist…we ended up in bed. Bryan came back and found us.” Ric paused. “I’d never seen him so angry. Emma got scared and ran out. There were some commando daggers on the wall, Bryan collected them. He snatched one up and went for me. I thought he was going to kill me. He cut my arm, and it bled a lot. That stopped him. I took the knife away from him and chucked it across the room. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and started crying. I should have done something, I shouldn’t have left him like that, but I just walked out. I was seen leaving. In a state, blood on me.”

I waited. Ric was shaking. Eventually, he said, “Emma came back later and found him with the dagger stuck in him, dead. She told the police what had happened, and they arrested me. Phil came to see me. He said I’d get off lightly, it was self-defence. I told him I hadn’t killed Bryan. He was alive, unhurt, when I left. Phil said that would be difficult to prove. His advice was to plead self-defence, I’d be charged with manslaughter and be out in three or four years. But I didn’t kill Bryan.”

“D’you think his girlfriend did it? To save herself, maybe, if Bryan attacked her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or Phil? Knowing he could shift the blame on to you?”

“Why would Phil want to kill Bryan? Bryan was a nice guy. My best friend. I don’t want to talk about this any more. Let’s get going.”

It crossed my mind, as I started the van, that Ric might have blanked out the memory of killing his friend, because he couldn’t bear it.

Chapter

6

*

I didn’t ask any more questions. We drove in silence, at the sedate pace the van favours, down twisting country roads, and those lovely lanes where the trees meet over your head and you’re in a green tunnel. This was prime English countryside, at the best time of year for it.

“It’s the next turning on the right,” said Ric. We were driving between a dry stone wall on our left, and a high mellow brick wall on the other side with trees visible over its top. “Those big gates.”

I turned in and stopped, facing them. Behind the engine noise it was quite quiet, just birdsong; something you notice if you live in London where it never is quiet. The blank shark’s eye of a CCTV camera watched us. Ric got out of the van. There was an entry phone, but he ignored it. He climbed up the edge of the gate with insolent ease, swung himself over the spikes at the top, and down the other side. He disappeared for a moment, and the gates started to swing open. When the gap was wide enough he slipped between them and rejoined me.

“I thought we’d surprise him,” he said. His face was grim. I realized the meeting we were on our way to might be a contentious one, and began to feel apprehensive.

We bowled down a long tree-lined private road winding between landscaped wooded areas and lawns. It was all very lush. Two bull mastiffs dashed towards us and ran alongside, barking in a way that suggested what they really wanted was the opportunity to take a chunk out of our legs, if we’d only stop and get out of our vehicle.

“They’re new,” Ric commented. “I wouldn’t talk to them, Dog, if I were you.”

We passed a big lake, and then we could see the house, a substantial Georgian pile, the drive curving round a circle of lawn to meet it. It looked like something out of the estate agent pages of Country Life. In front was a crimson Audi with its boot open, and a man loading a bag of golf clubs. He looked up at our approach and called the dogs over to him.

I parked to one side of the house. Its glossy white paint might have been finished the day before. The front door was a subtle English Heritage eau de nil, flanked by standard bay trees in antique lead planters; window boxes held miniature topiary, ivy and cyclamen. I could see gardens beyond the house, bright with flowers and the intermittent silver of a sprinkler. My van was lowering the tone. We got out, leaving Dog inside, and walked across the gravel.

“Ric?”

“Hi, Phil.”

Phil Sharott put down his clubs. He was tall, with a mild face and intelligent eyes glinting through stylish spectacles. He wore a blue polo shirt and cream chinos. I couldn’t visualize him sticking a dagger in anyone.

“You look…incredible. How did you get here? When you didn’t answer my letters I thought something had happened to you.” His eyes went to me.

Ric made the briefest of introductions. “Caz. Phil.”

Phil smiled and held out his hand. “Caz…?”

“Tallis.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He closed the car boot. “You’d better come into the office.”

The bull mastiffs had wandered off once they realized we weren’t legitimate prey. We followed Phil through the front door, past neat lines of Wellington boots, Barbour coats and fishing tackle, into a spacious hall. It was as well-kept as the exterior. Twin staircases spiralled upwards on either side; a circular walnut table in the middle held a flower arrangement; the oil paintings on the walls were originals, and valuable.

Phil turned to the left, and led us through a door, down a short corridor and through another door. His office was Homes and Gardens meets Hard Rock Café. Kind of impressive, though. A huge desk made of polished mahogany with a green leather top and a green glass-shaded lamp stood to one side; there was a chesterfield and a Persian rug. The opposite wall was given over to rock memorabilia, housed in a specially-made unit that went with the desk. There were shelves of trophies, framed gold CDs, photographs and press cuttings, all about The Voices. A glass-fronted section contained three guitars, an elaborate leather jacket, microphones, a signed drumhead, fanned concert programmes, tour books and an arrangement of guitar picks.

Ric shook his head. “Jesus, Phil, this is naff.”

Phil said mildly, “It impresses the clients. That’s what it’s there for.”

Ric sprawled on the sofa. I had a quick look at the photographs, then joined him. Phil perched on the edge of the desk. There was a small silence.

“What happened to the money, Phil?”

Phil Sharott glanced at me. “Need we bore your friend Caz with this?”

“You can talk in front of her.”

“Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee?”

“Just get on with it, Phil.”

“As you wish. When Paula died, I had to wind up her affairs for probate. The account was in her name as well as yours.”

“You could have told me. I went to the Credit Suisse at Marseilles, and found my account had been closed six months before. All the money taken out. My money.”

“I did write to you. I wrote to the post restante address you gave me. The letter must have gone astray.” Ric snorted. “I’m not trying to cheat you, Ric. If you’d stayed at the villa like I said the problem wouldn’t have arisen. I didn’t know where you were. When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed something had happened. You hadn’t been in touch for more than a year.”

“I tried to call you. You’d gone ex-directory.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Phil frowned. “We agreed you wouldn’t ring me. It’s insecure. To be honest, I’m not at all happy about your turning up here like this.”

“So give me my money and I’ll go away again.”

Phil smiled, a deprecating smile. “I don’t have it on me. I can’t contact the bank to set up a new account and transfer the funds until Monday, and then it’ll take several days, maybe a lot longer. There could be a problem with banking information security regulations, given you don’t have an identity, or any papers or fixed address.”

“You managed it last time.”

“Yes, and I will now, if you’ll just be a little patient.”

Ric got to his feet. “At Credit Suisse, the manager showed me the account details, when I was having trouble believing there was nothing there. The money had been paid in, all right; totting up for more than two years. It got to nearly forty million dollars, Phil, before you withdrew it, and that’s after the extra-large cut you insisted on for your trouble. I’m a millionaire, and I hadn’t even got the money for the train fare here. If you have any cash in the safe, I suggest you give it to me.”

Phil’s mouth straightened. “Certainly.”

He got up and went to an oil painting of a Dutch interior. It swung to one side. Behind it, set in the wall, was a safe. Though I’d been feeling tense at the palpable antagonism between the two men, I had to smile. I thought such things only existed in the movies. I stood up for a better view, and watched with interest as he moved the dial of the combination lock six times, and the door opened. Inside was disappointing. Though not large it was nearly empty; I could see a stack of leather jewellery cases resting on a white cardboard box, a dull pink A4 cardboard folder and, nearer the front, a slim bundle of twenty-pound notes.

Phil handed the notes to Ric, who counted them. “Nine hundred and twenty. Is that all you’ve got?”

“Yes.”

Ric stuffed the money in his pocket, and looked around the room. He went over to the showcase.

“My Fender Strat…I’ll take that with me.”

“I’d prefer you not to, Ric.”

“Unlock the case.”

“It’s insured, if it’s not there how am I supposed to explain it?”

“Give me the fucking key, Phil, now. I’m taking it with me.”

“Just calm down, Ric, can we discuss this sensibly—”

Ric picked up one of the Golden Globe trophies, and swung it against the showcase. There was a bang, and a waterfall crash of glass. An alarm bell went off. Ric lifted out the guitar and amp, placing them on the floor beside him. He reached in for the jacket, and shook the shards of glass out of it.

“I’d forgotten this,” he said conversationally to me, over the noise of the alarm, as he put it on. “Wore it on our first album cover. How do I look?”

The jacket was black, with lots of biker badges, metal, enamel and embroidered; it also had studs, buckles and leather fringes.

“Cool,” I said. “A bit o.t.t., but definitely cool.”

Phil’s face was rigid. I felt sorry for him, but it was becoming clear to me there was a history between the men I hadn’t been told about. Ric walked over to the desk, found a pen and wrote on a card. He handed it to Phil.

“My mobile number.”

He picked up the Strat and amp, and walked towards the door. I followed him. He paused, and spoke over his shoulder.

“I’m tired of being a non-person. I’m going to start again, solo this time. Make a come-back. I might go to the police.”

“As your lawyer, I would advise against that.”

I could still hear the alarm ringing as we crunched across the gravel. I turned, and saw Phil at his office window watching our departure. We reached the van, and Dog’s face greeted us, his enthusiasm misting and smudging the glass. Ric let him out briefly while he loaded his loot in the back of the van, so Dog could scamper off and lift his leg against a shrub. Then we got in and set off down the drive.

It seemed Ric wouldn’t be staying at Phil Sharott’s after all.

Chapter

7

*

We drove in silence, retracing our journey through the sunny Berkshire countryside. I sneaked a look at Ric. He was absently stroking the dog; his face had a closed, intent expression.

“Forty million dollars is a lot of money,” I ventured.

“It should be more. I think. In the old days I didn’t bother about money, as long as I had enough for what I wanted. I let Phil take charge of all that. I’m wondering if he’s been screwing me.”

“That house must have cost a fortune.”

“Yeah.”

Supposing Phil had called on Bryan Orr after Ric left, and seen an opportunity to get Ric out of the way with a view to getting his money? Suppose he’d stabbed Bryan, then helped Ric fake his own death thinking he wouldn’t be able to return? But then, he was unlikely to be Ric’s legatee, so that wouldn’t work…and I found it hard to believe he would murder cold-bloodedly for money anyway. He would have to be a monster, and he didn’t look like a monster.

“You never said where you were for three years. Or how you got away from England.”

Pause. “I was labouring on a farm in the Auvergne.”

“For three years?”

Ric nodded.

“Quite a change of lifestyle.”

“My old lifestyle was shit. Even before it happened…before Bryan died, I didn’t like where I was at. I wasn’t writing songs, I wasn’t performing, I was just getting smashed every day. Alcohol, coke, heroin, meth, E, K, anything going. I was out of control, getting into fights, doing stupid stuff, and the paparazzi following me round wherever I went, waiting for it to happen. A lot of it I don’t remember. You start by thinking you can handle it – you think you are handling it – by the time you know you can’t, it’s too late.”

His fingers tapped a rhythm on the van’s door. I slowed to pass two horses and their riders, nicely turned-out Pony Club types. They waved to thank me.

“When I was in police custody, I thought I’d be there till the trial. After that, straight to prison for God knows how long. I felt bad.”

“But they didn’t have any real evidence it was you. Didn’t forensics work out the blood on you was yours, not Bryan’s?”

Ric gave a brief, humourless laugh. “They didn’t get the chance. Back at my flat I had a shower. I stuck my clothes in the washing machine and turned it on. The police loved that. ‘Do you normally do your own washing, sir? A bit unusual for a rock star, wouldn’t you say?’ I said how was I supposed to know someone was going to stab Bryan, and I’d be needing the clothes to prove I didn’t do it? They looked at me in that special way they learn in police college – they made it dead obvious they didn’t believe a word I said. They went on at me in relays for hours. I think they hoped the withdrawal symptoms would soften me up. Bastards wouldn’t even give me a cup of tea. Eventually they put me back in the cell to think about it. The next day Phil bailed me. I still don’t know how he got them to do that. They don’t usually let murder suspects out on bail.”

Ric stopped talking. After a minute, I said, “What then?”

“We hit on this plan of faking my death. Paula – my sister – didn’t approve, but she went along with it. So: after the crazy plane trip, while the Cessna flew on without me, Phil picked me out of the water – he’d been following me on his boat – and we went to a French cove near the Spanish border. It’s easy to berth there, like you’ve come from just along the coast. They don’t ask for your papers. He hired a car and drove me to a villa tucked away in the hills, above a little village called Asile. Phil had bought it a while before, with cash he needed to get rid of. He’d never stayed there. It’s remote, difficult to get to. Ideal if you want to disappear. Then he went back home. He left me three crates of vodka and a whole stash of drugs. I guess he meant to help. I flushed them down the toilet. I’d had enough. I went cold turkey.”

“Bad.”

“Yeah. But there are worse things. I got better after a while.”

“Were you on your own?”

“A middle-aged maid came in every morning and did the food and the cleaning. Maria. I think she disapproved of me. She wasn’t very sympathetic.”

“Then what?”

“I left Asile a few weeks later. Told Phil he could write care of the Sainte-Emile Bureau de Poste. I got a job on a farm; cash in hand and a barn to sleep in. The farmer wasn’t a bit like you, Caz, he didn’t want to know who I was or where I came from or why I had no friends. I was just cheap muscles to him. It suited me. He had horses I used to work with. Percherons, huge and really gentle, because over the centuries they’ve eaten the stroppy ones. I stayed there three years, climbing in the mountains when I wasn’t working or sleeping. I got good at it. Did a bit of parkour, too, when I got the chance. No contact with anyone except a few villagers. They didn’t talk much. Phil hadn’t got my address, just the poste restante. He wrote occasionally. Mostly I didn’t answer. He told me when Paula died.”

It seemed to me Ric had found his own way of punishing himself for Bryan’s death. He hadn’t done his time in Brixton, Wandsworth or Wormwood Scrubs. He’d sentenced himself to three years’ solitary in rural France, with hard labour; no treats, no visitors, no friends.

“I got my head together. I felt ready to move on. So I went to the Credit Suisse at Marseilles. While I was still at Asile, Phil had sent me details of the numbered account he’d set up under my name and Paula’s. The deal was he’d pay my share of The Voices’ earnings into it each month, minus the extra cut he was getting for arranging it. But it was closed.”

“Where did the money go, if your sister was dead? Who inherited it?”

“Her husband. Phil Sharott.”

“She was married to him?” I began to feel I wasn’t keeping up very well with all this. “So Phil cheated you once Paula had died?”

Ric looked sideways at me. “That’s what I wondered. I decided to come and see him. Of course, I hadn’t got a passport, but a boat skipper took me on as crew, and dropped me off on a Welsh beach. I hitched and walked to London. I met you.”

I thought this over. It answered my earlier question.

“Ric, I don’t want to upset you, but have you thought…are you sure Paula’s death was accidental?”

“It was a head-on collision with a truck. The truck driver died too. It was his fault. So yeah, I think it was an accident.” This, it appeared, was not a new idea to Ric; it was a possibility he’d considered. “Paula and Phil always seemed pretty solid to me, too. You’ve met Phil – does he seem the murdering type?”

“I’m not sure I know what that is.” It did seem to me Phil Sharott had a lot to gain by Ric being out of the picture. I changed tack. “Who was the blonde woman in the photographs? She was in several of them.”

“That’ll be Emma.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“She is.” Ric shifted in his seat and stared out of the window.

I wondered what was he going to do next. It looked like I’d got a lodger until either Phil Sharott sorted out the money, or Ric decided to hand himself over to the police. Or until he discovered who killed Bryan Orr. I thought of the murder mysteries I had read; not many, just tatty old paperbacks my mother had; Dick Francis, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett…their heroes went round asking questions, putting information together, and getting hit over the head by the villains, which was a good thing, if painful, as it meant they were getting close to the truth. Ric could not do this. He’d be recognized.

“Are you going to the police like you told Phil?”

“If I turn myself in, they won’t investigate. Why should they? I need to give them evidence it was someone else.”

“How? If you go round interviewing witnesses and suspects it may just occur to them you’re not dead…”

“You’re right, I can’t do it.” I could feel his eyes on me. “But you could, Caz.”

“I could not.”

“You can say you’re a journalist writing a book about the Orr murder.”

“No.” I wanted to make myself absolutely clear on this one. “Ric, you are looking at the worst liar in England. Probably the world. I’d give myself away before I got through the door. I’m not doing it.”

“I’ll tell you what to say. You can record the interviews and I’ll know when they were lying.”

“No. Seriously bad idea. Anyway, I can’t afford the time. I have to earn my living.”

He gave me a long look, and said no more for the rest of the drive.

After lunch I spent the afternoon updating my website, loading photos of the latest horses, and writing a bit about them. It’s worth spending time on this, because an appealing description with lots of detail can make the difference between selling a horse or not. People can choose one from the photos and send me a cheque, or narrow their choice before they visit the showroom. The home page has a pleasing picture of me nailing a mane on a J & G Lines, smiling winsomely at anyone visiting my website. As well as Horses For Sale, I have pages on Rocking Horse Makers, one on Identifying Your Rocking Horse, examples of my restorations, Before and After, and a page on my own designs, Modern Classics.

Ric stayed downstairs playing his guitar. I could just hear it from the flat. He came up to make himself coffee. While the water boiled he peered over my shoulder.

“Thunder, Athena, Biscuit…they have names.”

“Yes, it’s easier to remember than numbers.”

“D’you sell to shops?”

“In theory I do. At sixty per cent of these prices. I must do a sales trip. I’ve been putting it off. I’m not much good at selling.”

Ric poured water, added milk and sugar and picked up the packet of chocolate digestives. “I’ll have this downstairs. I’m on a roll.” He dropped something beside the keyboard. “Half of what I got from Phil. For food and that.”

Sunday passed in the same peaceful co-existence as Saturday afternoon. I’ve had friends to stay here who were under my feet the whole time; exhausting. Ric was surprisingly easy to live with. I didn’t see much of him, and he didn’t bother me. He even put away the duvet and cleared his own dishes. Mostly he played his guitar or lay on the roof sofa. Not asleep; he seemed to be thinking. When I brought a horse up to the roof to sand, he went inside to get away from the dust and used my laptop and printer.

Monday morning I heard Dog barking at the pigeons in the Yard. He derived a simple doggy pleasure from startling them into flight. He and his owner were off for a morning walk. An hour later I buzzed them back in. Ric was holding a big Marks & Spencer carrier bag. Ten minutes later he left again, this time without Dog. I watched from the upper workshop window as he emerged into Fox Hollow Yard. Incongruously, he was wearing a suit, a normal dark grey one, with a white shirt and black shoes. I thought this a clever idea. Ric really isn’t a suit sort of guy; no one who knew him before would expect to see him wearing one. Though I’d have guessed he’d reject M & S in favour of a more exclusive tailor like Paul Smith.

He hadn’t said where he was going. I was curious. In spite of all he’d told me, I felt I hadn’t heard anything like the full story yet. Dog pattered up the stairs, and settled near my workbench in a friendly way.

I kept finding myself at the window, watching for Ric’s return. I suddenly wondered whether he’d gone to the police – but why would he buy a cheap suit to do that? He might have disappeared for good…but I didn’t think he’d leave Dog behind. I went down to the office/showroom. None of his things were lying about. I opened the cupboard by the shower. The Strat was there, and his new clothes, folded, the Converses lined up beside them, as neat as a suicide’s pile of belongings on a beach. No note.

I went back upstairs, thoughtful. The thing was, though I’d now known Ric for four days, and he was living in my house, in some ways he was still the stranger I’d found asleep on my rooftop. I knew very little about him. I liked him in spite of this. The fact that he was so attractive didn’t help me to form an objective opinion. He had that quality which earns stars in Hollywood twenty million dollars a film; you couldn’t take your eyes off him; it was as if he glowed under his own personal spotlight. And, when he wanted, he had those warm eyes, whose gaze made you feel you were basking in the sun.

I hoped he was all right.

The doorbell rang at tea time. I let him in. He came into the flat carrying a small bright yellow Selfridges bag and looking pleased with himself, and went straight for the chocolate biscuits. In the suit he made me think of a male model in a colour supplement fashion shoot. I was determined not to ask him where he’d been. He sat on a stool and grinned at me.

I crumbled before he did. “You’re looking incredibly smug. Spill.”

He got some papers out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me. I unfolded the top one. It was on Selfridges headed paper; a signed order for one of my Modern Classics, large size. The next was an order from Harrods, for three of my horses, one in each size, small, medium and large.

“I told them I’d left my order book in the car,” he said. “They want delivery this week. I said that would be okay. I’ll give you a hand.”

“You’ve been selling my horses? My own designs? To Harrods and Selfridges?”

“Yeah. I sold the fifth one to a shop in Notting Hill.” He felt in his pockets and produced a card: Ollie and Grace: The Children’s Store. “They’ll pay on delivery, tomorrow. I gave them a discount for cash, ten per cent.”

“That’s…amazing. Fantastic.”

I’d not managed to sell even one of my own designs in the five months since I made them. I’d begun to think they were a mistake, unsaleable, and I should stick to restorations; I regretted the time I’d spent on them. Now he’d shifted the whole lot in one day; over eight thousand pounds’ worth of horses. My quarter’s turnover – and profits – would be transformed. And if they sold quickly, the shops might reorder; I might get a steady source of income from them. I was thrilled. He must have planned it, printed off pictures to show the buyers, bought the suit specially…how very kind of him to go to such trouble…

“Ric, I don’t know what to say. I’m really grateful. Thank you so much!”

He sat back. We beamed at each other. I could have hugged him. Suddenly the penny dropped. I stopped smiling.

“You did this to put me in your debt – to make me go round sleuthing for you!”

Ric leaned down, got a box out of the Selfridges bag, and laid it on the counter in front of me. It contained a brand new Olympus digital voice recorder.

“Yup,” he said.

“No.” I glowered at him. “I’m not doing it. No way. Forget it, Ric.”

Chapter

8

*

My hand trembling, I picked up the phone and thumbed in the number.

“Dave’s a pussycat,” Ric said. “He won’t give you any grief. That’s why we’re starting with him.”

I nodded. I was as ready for this as I was ever going to be. We’d been over it so many times, with me trying to think of all the awkward questions Dave Calder might ask.

“If it’s a total fiasco I’m not doing the others, okay?”

“Chill out. There’s no reason this won’t work.”

“Suppose he remembers the original interview?”

“Why should he? I don’t.”

A man’s voice answered the phone.

“Hallo? Is that Dave Calder?” They say people can tell you’re lying more easily if they can’t see your face. My voice had gone high, the way it does when I’m anxious. I tried to bring it down, and the next words came out in an absurd low-register purr. “My name’s Vikki Wilson. Phil Sharott gave me your number. I did a piece about The Voices in La Vista magazine a few years back.”

“Oh, hi, Vikki, I think I remember you. Short blonde hair?”

“It was then. It’s a bit darker and longer now.” This isn’t going to work. He’ll know I’m not the same woman.

“What can I do for you, Vikki?”

“I’ve been commissioned to write a book about the Bryan Orr case. I want to talk to all the people who knew him. I wondered if I could come and see you?”

“Sure, if that’s okay with Phil. He likes to check out stuff before it goes into print.”

“Yes, he told me that. That’s fine. So when would be a good time for you?”

“How soon d’you want to come?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I could do Tuesday morning? Or I could fit you in tonight, if you like, round about nine o’clock.”

Bloody hell. Tonight. Still, get it over with. Less time for him to mention it to Phil.

“That would be great. Where shall I come?”

He gave me an address in Hampstead. I wrote it down, my hand shaking so much that my handwriting verged on indecipherable. “See you this evening, then. Bye.” I clicked the phone off, and looked at Ric.

“Nine tonight.”

Less than three hours away.

I made an extra effort with my appearance, to boost my confidence. Did I mention I’m not bad-looking? If you divided people into sheep and goats, according to their looks, I’m definitely on the sheep side. Slim, nice proportions, big eyes – genetically fortunate. It’s quite useful sometimes.

So that evening I washed my hair, put on skinny jeans and a clingy filmy top that shows off my figure, and applied lots of smoky eye make-up. When it was time to go, I went to the showroom to collect Ric, keys in one hand, digital recorder in the other; nervous.

He went, “Whoa!” appreciatively, eyeing me up and down.

“Let’s get it over with.”

I didn’t enjoy the drive to Hampstead. Every time I thought about meeting Dave Calder my stomach lurched. I had this awful vision of letting slip something that would give me away; he’d then know I was a fraud, but I would still be there, face to face with him, having to somehow make my excuses and get out of the house. It wasn’t that I thought he’d call the police or get nasty with me. It was the social embarrassment I dreaded, and being asked for an explanation I couldn’t give. Though come to think of it, there was also, I supposed, the chance that Dave Calder was the murderer, and might get very nasty indeed if he didn’t like my questions…

“What shall I say if he sees through me?”

“He won’t see through you. It’ll be cool.”

We drove down a narrow sloping road right on the edge of Hampstead Heath, near the Ladies’ Pond. The trees were green and gold in the evening light.

“This is it,” said Ric, as we passed a driveway. “Park here.”

I drove on till I found a space, and reversed into it. I sat for a moment, hands cold and sweating. I was making too much of this. I’d be fine. I got out of the van, and walked towards Dave Calder’s house.

It’s strange meeting someone for the first time whose face you know. You always expect them to be bigger, too, if they’re famous; larger than life.

Dave Calder was only an inch or two taller than me, and had a face like a clever monkey’s, with a shock of brown hair. He opened the front door to me himself. He was wearing grey sweat pants and a baggy tee shirt, and bare feet. In his hand was a can of Budweiser.

“Hey, Vikki, come in,” he said. His eyes flickered over me. “I remember you now. Even with the hair different.”

Smiling nervously, I followed him up a short flight of steel stairs into a vast white-painted space, its expanse of pale wood floor nearly empty. Handy if you wanted an impromptu game of football, or suddenly needed to learn to rollerblade. Star-like lights dotted about the ceiling competed with the fading daylight; half a dozen huge windows showed a view of trees. There wasn’t much in the room, but what there was, was big. Like the plasma television let into one wall playing Police, Camera, Action, a pair of speakers my height, a white sofa that curved on for ever, and a soft brown rug that must have used up a whole flock of sheep. Not what you’d call cosy.

Dave picked up a remote and switched off the television. “What’ll you have to drink?”

“Er…white wine, please. This is amazing…”

He glanced around. “Yeah. Champagne do you?” A door in the wall opened to reveal a fridge. Dave got out another can of Budweiser and a bottle of Moët & Chandon. He put down the lager and eased the cork out of the champagne. Foam dribbled as he got out a glass, poured, and handed it to me.

“Cheers.”

We sat on the white sofa.

“So, Vikki, what d’you want me to tell you?”

I got the digital recorder out of my bag. “D’you mind? Save me writing it all down.” When he said it was okay, I switched it on and placed it between us.

I cleared my throat. “I’d like it if you could talk a bit about the day Bryan Orr died.”

“Can’t help you much there, love. I wasn’t in London that day. I was at the races. Epsom. First I knew about it was hearing it on the radio on the way home.”

This isn’t going to be any good. “Perhaps you can tell me about the relationships in the band?”

“What d’you want to know?”

“Well, my publishers want me to cover the background to the murder, intimate details about the band members, how you got on together…of course I’ve read the archive, but I’d rather hear it direct from you and the others.”

“We got on all right. Most of the time.” Dave Calder scratched his thick hair. “There’s only me and Jeff left. He was better mates with Ric than he was with me. He was cut up when he died, gutted, it really shook him up. He took it bad when Bryan was killed, but then Ric… These days I don’t see that much of him. He’s drumming with Ratchet Attack now.” He took a swig of beer. “Jeff’s a mad bastard.”

“Is he? Why?”

“He does crazy things.”

“Like what?”

“He ate my goldfish.”

“He ate your goldfish?”

“My favourite goldfish. I used to keep fish. Fancy ones mostly, I had a big aquarium in my old place, with all sorts, tosakins, shubunkins, veiltails, but Goldie I’d won at a fair when I was a kid. You know, they give them you in a plastic bag. I’d had her forever. She got to twice the size. One night, we went round to mine after a gig. Must be seven years ago. We’d had a few, and Jeff was leaning over the tank with his hand in the water, poking at the fish. I told him to lay off, and he ate her.”

“That’s awful…”

“He thought it was funny. Killing himself laughing, he was. Wanker. Never forgotten it.”

“Does he often do that sort of thing?”

“Yeah. He likes practical jokes and stuff. Once we were staying at the Ritz, and he got them to send up four live lobsters so we could race them. Ric didn’t like it, they got into a punch-up over it.”

“What was Ric like?” Good, I’d remembered to use the past tense.

Dave’s expression became thoughtful. He was the least good-looking of the band members, but there was something gentle and appealing about him. I could see why he had a following among the female fans of The Voices.

“He was smart. Brainy – he could’ve done something else and been a success, know what I mean? He went to pieces though. He couldn’t handle it once we hit the big time. Turned into a real head case. That’s really why the band was going to split. That and him and Bryan falling out.”

He waved the Moët at me. I shook my head. “It was when Emma came along it all got worse. Ric didn’t like her, he didn’t like her being with Bryan all the time. He was always making snarky comments. Things like, ‘Oh Emma, what a lovely surprise to see you here again,’ and, ‘I see the harassment order isn’t working.’ Bryan was easy-going but he got hacked off. It was like Ric couldn’t leave it alone. Jeff said once, Ric should come out of the closet and get it together with Bryan, ‘cause that’s what he really wanted. Ric smashed him in the face and made his nose bleed.”

“He’s not – he wasn’t gay, was he?”

“Nah.” Dave dismissed the idea. “Jeff just said it to wind him up. Ric used to have to fight women off, they were all over him like a rash.”

Ric seemed to have done a lot of fighting, one way and another.

“What’s Emma like?”

“A looker. Everyone fancied Emma. Ric said he didn’t, but I reckon he did. When you think what happened… And now she’s with Phil.”

“Emma’s with Phil? You mean he’s her agent?”

“Well, he is, but I meant they’re an item. They got together after Paula died.”

I wondered if Ric knew this. He hadn’t mentioned it.

“What do you think about all the conspiracy theories, like Ric didn’t kill Bryan, or Ric’s not dead after all?”

“Ric? Alive?” He gave a snort of laughter. “No. That vain bugger couldn’t keep out of the limelight for five minutes. If he was alive we’d know about it. And he had a row with Bryan, and he was there, his prints on the knife…I dunno who else could’ve done it.”

We went on talking. Dave was quite chatty, and didn’t appear to be hiding anything, but none of what he was saying struck me as that relevant. I got the impression he was a little lost without The Voices, though he’d had three years to get used to it. He did guest appearances now and then, and the odd charity concert, but apart from that, not much. Our conversation got more general – I couldn’t think what else to ask. I left the recorder on, as Ric might make more of it than I was doing.

Dave seemed lonely in his big house. He started asking about my job, which unnerved me, then wanted me to stay and watch a film with him. He waved a hand at the champagne.

“More of this? You’ve drunk hardly anything.”

“I’m driving.”

“Why not stay the night, Vik?” His sad monkey eyes were hopeful. “I’ve got five empty bedrooms.”

I told him I’d got to be going, my boyfriend was waiting for me. Dave walked me through the Hampstead darkness, leaves rustling in the light wind, to the van. I stopped before we got to the front of it, afraid he’d spot Ric. He asked for my phone number; in case he thought of anything useful for the book, he said, but I think more because he quite liked me.

I liked him, too. I couldn’t imagine him killing Bryan Orr.

Chapter

9

*

Back at the workshop, Ric stayed in the office listening to my conversation with Dave Calder, while I opened a new file in Word, Private Investigations, and typed a quick summary. I wanted to be methodical about this. Then I went to bed early. It had been easier than I’d expected, pretending to be an author and quizzing Dave, but I felt tired. I climbed up to my bedroom, and read a couple of chapters of Farewell, My Lovely for research purposes, before closing my eyes and succumbing instantly to sleep.

The next morning, Tuesday, Ric and I spent delivering the rocking horses he’d sold. At Ollie and Grace: The Children’s Store a little crowd of shoppers gathered to stare at my work. Dog had his own circle of young admirers patting him. The shop owner was pleased; she said the horse looked even better than in the photos, and handed me a satisfying roll of banknotes. Ric flirted outrageously with her and made her blush. I dragged him away before our meter expired.

Selfridges and Harrods were straightforward as we were able to unload in their delivery bays, so had no parking hassles, and we got home in time for a late lunch. Ric made the sandwiches while I squeezed oranges and sliced carrots. We took it outside and slumped on the sofa with the feeling of a job well done.

When he’d finished eating, Ric got his mobile from his pocket, keyed in a number and laid it on the table. “Jeff next,” he said.

I put my sandwich down. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. Dave had been a breeze, talking to him had been a walk in the park, but I hadn’t liked what he’d said about Jeff Pike.

“Can’t I do Emma first?”

“If she’s with Phil now, she’ll probably mention you to him and then your cover will be blown and you won’t be able to grill Jeff. But he’s no more likely to check up on you than Dave.”

“But he eats goldfish. That’s not very nice.”

“I remember when that happened. He’s got an evil sense of humour, Jeff has. You wouldn’t believe the stories he told the press when we began to make it big. Totally phoney. They’re still doing the rounds. Once it’s out there you can’t get it back.”

“Is there any point my talking to him if he makes stuff up?”

“I can sort out what’s true and what’s not. Jeff just doesn’t know when to stop. He’s a lunatic. The Voices did some gigs on Mykonos in the early days, and he burnt our villa to the ground – he said the bonfire was too small, he wanted to see flames against the sky. We had to sleep on the beach. He was the same on stage. You never knew what he’d do next. Crazy stunts. The crowd couldn’t get enough of it. He once put his drums sticks down mid-performance, pulled a girl out of the audience and shagged her in the wings.”

“Goodness…” I said feebly.

Ric gave a short laugh. “I hope she enjoyed it, he was back on stage for the next song. Things other people would think of and maybe talk about, Jeff will actually do. He doesn’t give a toss. I’m not sure he’d know an ethic if it was held up in front of him in a strong light, with a label on it saying, ‘This is an Ethic’. He can be very funny, though.”

“Like when he said you fancied Bryan? Was that funny?”

“Not hysterically, no.” Ric’s voice had gone cool. “Me and Bryan were mates since school, that’s all there was to it. Jeff just didn’t get it.”

“So what about Emma?”

“What about her?” he said brusquely.

“Did you fancy her?”

“Not my type.”

“So why did you…?”

“Why did I screw her the day Bryan died?” Ric’s eyes were flinty. “I’ll tell you why I screwed Emma Redfern. Because I could, because I didn’t like her, because Bryan cared about her and I was pissed off with him. That’s why I felt so shit after. It was my fault, even if I wasn’t the one who stuck the knife in him. And if you’re thinking that makes me no better than Jeff, I agree with you.”

He looked away, his face dark and closed, then got up, went inside and walked downstairs. I wished I hadn’t asked him. I felt even less enthusiasm for talking to Jeff Pike. I wished I hadn’t got into this. I picked up the mobile and made the call.

Ten minutes later I went down to the office to find Ric. He was lying on the sofa, hands behind his head, staring into space.

“It’s no go. He won’t do it,” I said, giving him his mobile.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes. He was quite rude. I could hardly get a word in – he didn’t even let me get my name out. Vikki’s name. Said he didn’t care whether Phil thought the book was a good idea or not, he wasn’t going to waste his time talking to me. It took him a while to tell me, though, because he swore a lot while he said it, and made suggestions for things me and Phil might like to do to each other.”

“Shame he couldn’t see you…if he knew what you look like he’d have agreed.” Ric thought for a moment. “You’ll just have to ask him in person. Waylay him. Then he’ll do it, no question.”

“I’m only doing it if it’s a public place. I don’t want to be on my own with that man.”

“Fair enough. I’ll think about it. Maybe at his home, when his wife and kids are there.”

I turned to go.

“Caz.”

“What?”

“Sorry I got short with you. Let’s go out tonight. Have a meal, go to a club. I’ve got just enough dosh.”

I laughed. “Do you always spend your money as soon as you’ve got it?”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “Yes. Of course.”

“You’ll have to tone yourself down a bit if you don’t want to be recognized. It’s a pity the market’s only Saturdays. You can get a tee shirt for a pound, and a hoodie for a fiver down Hoxton Street. We could try Peacocks, they’re cheap. Or Age Concern.”

Ric recoiled as though I’d suggested he wear drag. “I’m not going out looking crap.”

“What about when we first met?”

“Nothing wrong with those clothes, except I’d been wearing them for three years. On second thoughts, let’s get a bottle and a film and stay in. Unless you have plans? Have you got a boyfriend, by the way?”

“Not just at present,” I said with dignity. “I did have. We parted by mutual agreement.”

Later that day we drove to Waitrose up the Holloway Road. Ric didn’t hang about. I trotted after him while he sped round collecting duck a l’orange, potato dauphinoise, green vegetable medley, Häagen-Dazs strawberry cheesecake ice cream, a bottle of Bollinger and, as an afterthought, a steak for Dog. He stopped at the DVDs.

“What d’you want to get?”

I scanned the racks. Not a huge choice. I picked up The Other Boleyn Girl.

“What about this?”

“History as chick flick.” He held up Blade. “This is good.”

“I think not. My Best Friend’s Wedding? I missed seeing it.”

“You can go on missing it. Unforgiven? Awesome film.”

“Yes, but kind of depressing…”

In the end we went for a classic; Casablanca. I couldn’t believe Ric hadn’t seen it. I went through a big Humphrey Bogart phase in my teens. I can’t say Ric was keen, in fact he had a definite lack of enthusiasm, but I told him he’d love it, it was on everyone’s top ten films list.

At the checkout everything we’d got, a small basketful, one meal for two, came to £73.58. I winced as Ric got the notes out and paid.

“That’s twice what I spend in a week on food.”

“Ah, but then you’re not a multi-millionaire,” he said softly into my ear, so the girl didn’t hear.

“Right now neither are you,” I muttered.

The meal was delicious. It made a pleasant change from the baked potatoes, sardines, spaghetti, and beans on toast that were my normal fare. We ate it in front of the television, watching Casablanca. When we’d finished everything except the champagne, we pushed the plates to one side on the floor, and slumped, replete, on the sofa. Dog lay at the other end, on his back, paws in the air, asleep.

Ric put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him, in a companiable way, not making anything of it, while we watched. If I’m honest, I have to say I enjoyed the feel of his arm and gently-moving muscular ribcage. My boyfriend and I had split up a few months before; no great loss, but I missed the warm sensation of someone else’s body next to mine more than anything else. James and I don’t have the sort of friendship where we can hug each other, or casually lean against each other, without it meaning something. I don’t know why, but if our hands brush we both apologize. Funny.

The film came to its satisfying conclusion; Ingrid Bergman followed her duty rather than her heart, while Bogart and Claude Rains walked off to win the war: “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“What d’you reckon?”

“Cool.” Ric turned and kissed me lightly on the lips as the credits rolled, drew back and looked at my face.

“Not a good idea, Ric…” I can’t say I didn’t like it, because I did. I liked the texture and smell of his skin, his eyes intent on mine, his strength; and there was a sense of danger about him, that I found both disturbing and exciting. It just didn’t feel right. Well, it felt right, all right, but not right. Am I making myself clear?

He kissed me again, putting a bit more into it. “Why not? I think it’s a good idea,” he murmured. “One of the best ideas I’ve had for weeks…”

I had to get a grip. Fast… “I’m your sidekick. Sherlock Holmes didn’t screw Dr Watson.”

“Yeah, but I’m not so sure about Batman and Robin, the Boy Wonder…” Ric’s hand slid under my top and stroked my back. Aah…

But it wouldn’t do; too much of Ric was still white on the map, even if I decided to risk the hic sunt dracones parts. I scraped together some indignation. “Stop treating me like an amenity. Forget it.” I pulled away. “And it’s no good looking at me like that, either.”

“Would it help if I said I wanted to rip your clothes off the first moment I saw you?”

“No!”

“Could be your only chance to go to bed with a dead rock god.”

“Bog off.”

“You’re a hard woman, Caz Tallis.”

Making a huge effort, I got up from the sofa and cleared the dishes. Not what I wanted to do at all. Ric, I felt sure, was well aware of that. He didn’t push it. He didn’t appear unduly concerned by my rebuff. He brought the bottle and glasses to the kitchen, standing closer to me than he used to, then mooched off downstairs.

Chapter

10

*

“Has your friend gone?” James asked, once we’d ordered and the waitress had left.

“Joe?” I said, though I knew perfectly well who he was talking about. “No, actually, the man he was going to stay with couldn’t put him up after all. He’s still at the flat.”

I took a piece of hot bread off the wooden serving platter. No side plates – maybe they weren’t trendy that week – so I buttered it in my hand, crumbs going all over the white tablecloth. Delicious… The restaurant affected an air of severity, and called itself a chop house; it had been launched that spring by a first-class chef who knew his own worth.

James looked perturbed. “How long is he going to stay with you?”

“I don’t know. Till he gets himself sorted out.”

“Is he paying you rent?”

“Yes, he gave me a few hundred pounds to be getting on with.”

The waitress reappeared with two glasses of wine. I was glad I didn’t know what they cost. It might have spoilt my enjoyment.

“Have some bread, it’s lovely.”

James shook his head. He hesitated. Two young Russian men were shown to the next table, sat down and began an impassioned and incomprehensible conversation.

He said, “You’re not…he’s not…you’re not going out with him, or anything, are you?”

“Good heavens, no!” I gave a light laugh. “I’m just helping him out, that’s all. Purely temporary arrangement.”

“Who is he, Caz?”

“I told you. He was at college with me. A few years above me…” My face felt hot. I knew I was going pink. I drank some water. “Gosh, it’s warm in here.”

“Caz, I don’t want to offend you, but I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.” He gazed earnestly at me. “And now your mother’s dead, there’s nobody to look after you and I worry about you.”

James has the old-fashioned virtues, honesty, loyalty, dependability; these attributes, while not flashy, are the bedrock of any relationship. I looked away from his grave blue eyes at the white tiles, bentwood chairs, schoolroom globe lights, and a clientele who did not look rich, but must be to be here. There was a busy hum of people enjoying themselves.

“If I tell you, you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself. Whatever you think about it.”

James looked alarmed.

“What on earth is it, Caz?”

“You’ve got to promise.”

“Okay.”

I lowered my voice. “The guy at my place. He’s Ric Kealey.”

“Ric Kealey’s dead.”

I shook my head. “No, he faked it.”

James’s hand shot across the table and grasped mine, as though he was saving me from drowning. Like I said, we don’t touch. I left my hand in his, feeling uncomfortable.

“He’s wanted for murder. You’ve got to tell the police.”

“He says he didn’t do it. And I believe him. Well, ninety-nine per cent of me does, anyway.”

James’s face was appalled. “Caz, quite apart from the danger to you of having a possible killer in your house, you’ve made yourself an accessory after the fact. You could go to prison.”

“It’s obstructing justice and harbouring a fugitive, actually. I looked it up. I couldn’t find what the sentence is, though.”

“Have you given him a set of keys?”

“Well, yes…else I’d be letting him in and out all the time.”

The waitress materialized beside us, and put our plates on the table. She had to work round our arms. Cold rabbit brawn terrine for James, salmon smoked in the chef’s back garden for me. As soon as she had gone, he said,

“Why don’t you come and stay with me? Just while he’s at your place.”

“I can’t do that! What about my work? Anyway, I’ve agreed to talk to a few people for Ric. People he thinks could have done it. Er, can I have my hand back? I need it to eat.”

James released me. “Are you mad? He’s got you going round interviewing suspects?” The Russians’ eyes slewed our way, and he lowered his voice. “If Ric’s story is true, then what you are doing is the equivalent of poking a furnace with a short stick. He’s no business to let you do it.”

“It’s all right, really,” I said uneasily. “I’m being careful.”

James wouldn’t let the subject go. I suppose he hoped to convince me to shop Ric to the police. I told him about selling the horses, and it seemed only to confirm his low opinion of Ric. “You realize this man’s manipulating you? And you’ve fallen for it, you’re doing whatever he asks you to. I wondered what he was after when he turned up with that ridiculous bunch of flowers…”

And so forth. I kept getting him off the topic, to find he’d returned to it. I wished I’d never told him, especially as the food was remarkable and he was putting me off. The main course I had was amazing.

I tried again. “How’s Posy? I haven’t seen her for ages.”

James fidgeted with his pudding spoon, watching the twirling reflection of the ceiling fan. “She’s fine. Hannah’s thinking of opening a shop in London, and she might get Posy to run it for her.” Posy’s boss Hannah was an old school friend of hers, who did interiors and had a small but flourishing shop in Cambridge selling furnishings.

“Would she like that? She’d have to move to London.”

“Yes, she’s quite keen,” said James.

It occurred to me for the first time their relationship might be getting serious. I’d never thought that about any of James’s girlfriends before. Posy would probably move in with him if she came to London, and maybe that’s why she wanted to. Frankly, I found it depressing that most of my future meetings with James were likely to include Posy. I valued our friendship, enjoyed the private jokes that went back to our childhood, and the presence of a third person would spoil that. But there was nothing to be done. I would just have to get used to it; she was a nice girl, after all. I must not be selfish. Start now.

“Why don’t you bring her with you Saturday week?”

The nineteenth of July was James’s birthday, and James always comes round to my place for supper on his birthday. He’s been doing it since we were teenagers and he used to come to my mother’s house in Fulham; I can’t even remember how it started, but it’s become a tradition.

“But we always celebrate my birthday just the two of us.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to. Anyway, Ric’ll be there.”

“I suppose. All right then, I know Posy would love to see your flat now it’s finished.”

“We can have a proper dinner party, out on the roof if it’s fine.”

I’d tethered my bike to a lamppost in Cowcross Street. James walked me there, and waited while I unlocked the chain and fixed the lights. I thanked him for the meal, and he exhorted me to be careful. He suggested I should wear a bike helmet. I suggested he should ride a bike and find out what it was like.

I set off through streets crowded with the young, rich and chic. Almost no breeze, just the rush of air created by my speed. A perfect summer night. I could smell the flowers in Charterhouse Square. Carthusian Street, Goswell Road, and Old Street towards home.

Ric opened the door as I was fishing for my keys. He carried the bike upstairs for me to its niche on the first floor, then followed me up to the flat.

“Got any brandy?”

“Metaxa. D’you want some?”

I poured us a glass each and we took them outside. The moon was nearly full. No stars; it’s rare to see them in a London night sky. Dog pottered about, then came and settled by Ric. He liked to stay close, as if, having found himself an owner, he was going to keep an eye on him. Ric didn’t have a lead for Dog; he didn’t need one. He stroked the dog’s ears.

“Phil rang this evening.”

I looked at him. “Has he sorted out the money?”

“No. He said he’s working on it – he reckons he’ll have to get me a false identity. He wants me to leave London. Go and stay in a bed and breakfast in Scotland.”

“Why?”

“He said I’d be less likely to be recognized somewhere remote. He’d rather I went abroad, but he knows I won’t till I’ve got the money. I’m not going, though. Not abroad, and not Scotland. I’ve had it up to here with remote. I told him. He didn’t like it. He’s afraid I’ll be spotted, then he’ll be implicated.”

“How long will the money take?”

“I asked him that, and he said he doesn’t know. I told him I can’t live on nothing. He’s going to post me twenty grand in cash.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s not as much as I asked for.” Ric brooded. “He’s going to send it to the post office in Albemarle Street addressed to you.”

“Why me?”

“Because they’ll want identification before they hand it over.”

“He could send it here and save me a trek.”

“I didn’t want him to have your address. I shouldn’t have let him meet you. You told him your surname, and he remembered it. I’m worried he might look you up on the internet, and there’s your website with all your details.”

“D’you think he did it, then?”

“I’m not discounting anyone at this stage,” said Ric, making me smile. He must have pinched the line from Agatha Christie. I was feeling cheerful, after a good meal and the Metaxa. I drained my glass.

“More?” Ric picked up the bottle and gave me a top up.

“What’ll you do with the twenty thousand?”

“Spend it.” Ric grinned. “What else is money for?”

Chapter

11

*

Friday I biked to Oxford Circus and picked up Ric’s money. On the way there I dropped into Topshop and bought two tops, a pair of shorts and some strappy gold sandals. I’d been a bit careful about spending on clothes lately, but felt entitled since getting the cash for the horses from Ollie and Grace.

Back at the workshop, Ric ripped open the jiffy bag, counted the notes, pocketed them and left the building with a gleam in his eye, leaving Dog with me. I went to work on the Ayres. He’s called Saladin. I had already removed the car filler some idiot had liberally applied, and glued in the new right back leg I made for him, copied from the existing one. I put the horse on his stand while the glue dried, with bolts through the holes, to make sure he would still fit properly on it – something I learnt to do the hard way.

Now the glue was set, I lifted the horse off and dismantled the stand, then heaved it up to the roof and applied paint stripper to the multiple layers of paint. I was deeply involved in this vile task when the bell went. I peeled off my vinyl gloves, stepped out of the old trainers I keep for messy jobs, so as not to tread paint stripper indoors, and went to answer it. It was Ric.

“Where are your keys?”

“Come down to the yard. I want to show you something.”

“Can’t you bring it up here?”

“No.”

Grumpily I slipped out of my overalls and went downstairs in my shorts and bare feet. I opened the front door. Ric, dressed in black leathers, sat astride an immense motorbike that throbbed and snarled huskily, the noise reverberating round the Yard. It was very black; shiny black on matt black, with a few chrome bits here and there to better demonstrate its blackness.

“I got you a helmet. Come for a ride.”

“I’m paint stripping…”

“Five minutes.”

I put on the helmet and climbed on the bike, bare-footed and bare-legged as I was, and wrapped my arms round Ric, smelling warm leather and feeling the bike quivering to be off like a thoroughbred. With a deep roar we left the yard, and shot down the road. He took me on the fastest circuit of Shoreditch I’ve ever made. At corners the bike leaned in until I thought we must graze the ground, but Ric knew what he was doing. It was exhilarating. I was laughing as we came back to Fox Hollow Yard. I got off, and stood admiring the bike.

“It’s a Harley?”

“Yeah, a Night Rod Special.”

“Where will you keep it?” Parking looms large in the mind of any Hackney resident.

“Street parking’s free for a bike, but I’ll find a lock-up for it. I’m going to Epping Forest. Come with me?”

I was torn. “I would, but Saladin’s stand is covered in paint stripper. I’ll have to get it off, and I meant to finish it today. I didn’t get anything done this morning.”

“At the weekend, then. Less traffic. We’ll get you some leathers.”

He turned the bike. “See you tonight.” He accelerated and disappeared; I listened to the diminishing growl of the engine till I could hear it no more. I sighed and went indoors, wishing I was with him, imagining speeding along forest roads…

As I closed the front door the office phone rang. My friends call me on my mobile, so this was either someone trying to sell me something, or a potential customer. I answered it hopefully.

“Hallo?”

“Is that Caz Tallis?” The pleasant, civilized voice was familiar… “This is Phil Sharott.”

He’d looked up my number like Ric said. He knew where I lived. I felt instantly on my guard.

“Oh, hallo.”

“I’m sorry to bother you when you’re probably very busy, but I’m in London today and I wondered if it would be possible for us to meet?”

“Uh…why?”

“I’d like a word with you about Ric, if that’s okay. Without him there. Perhaps you could meet me at a bar near your workshop? I can be in Hoxton Square in half an hour.”

I did not want to meet Phil Sharott that afternoon. Not when I’d turned down an outing with Ric, not when I should be working, and not on my own. It would be embarrassing after our last meeting. I hadn’t even said good bye to him that day; normal social conventions had gone missing soon after we were introduced. But here he was, sounding calm and urbane, heading my way and wanting to talk to me. At least he seemed unaware of my visit to Dave Calder. I thought of the five horses Ric had sold. I’d better find out what Phil had to say. A sidekick’s duty.

“Okay, if you can make it an hour. I’ve got a job to finish. Where shall I meet you?”

“Do you know Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen? I’ll wait for you outside.”

The sky was grey when I left Fox Hollow Yard, as though it might rain at any moment. Dog came with me for the walk. I was pleased to have his company, as I’d got absurdly nervous about the meeting over the past hour. I paused in the narrow alleyway that fed into Hoxton Square, and switched on the recorder I’d brought with me. I wasn’t sure it would work properly through the bag, but thought it worth a try. It would help when I wrote up my notes. As I emerged from the alley and walked down the pavement, I saw Phil’s tall figure in the corner to the right of Hoxton Bar, under cover between the charcoal brick wall and the glass etched with an enormous LUX. His elegant suit was lighter than the bricks, and darker than the sky. He moved forward, smiling.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Caz.”

His use of my name seemed wrong, somehow, though ‘Miss Tallis’ would have been ludicrous, unless, I suppose, I’d been a client of his. We didn’t go into Hoxton Bar; he led me a little way back to a café with railings and three tables squashed into the space outside. No one was sitting there. The red awning wouldn’t help a lot if it rained. I sat while he went inside to order coffee.

He joined me, and there was a pause while I added sugar and stirred. I’d have preferred tea. Dog sniffed his trouser legs, then settled well away from him. Phil Sharott could only have been seven years older than Ric at most, but he seemed more, as though he belonged to another generation. Maybe it was the conventional clothes and haircut. And his manner…

“I had a look at your website. D’you know, I was most impressed. I had no idea of the craft skills that went into the sort of work you do. It took me back. We had a much-loved rocking horse when I was small; it fell apart in the end.”

“What make was it?”

“I don’t know.” No one ever does. “Quite old, it had been in the family for generations.” Probably an Ayres, and they put it on a bonfire. “I’d love to come and have a look at your studio some time. I don’t have children, but when I do I’ll definitely be buying them a rocking horse.”

I didn’t feel I had to say anything as I listened politely to these niceties. He’d get to the point eventually.

Phil Sharott glanced at the sky. “I hope it won’t rain, I thought if we sat out here we could talk privately.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s lucky for Ric that you’ve taken him under your wing. You didn’t know him before, I take it?”

“No.”

“How did you meet?”

“Oh, we just bumped into each other.” I’d decided on a policy of telling Phil as little as possible.

“Very kind of you to help him out – and he’s not an easy man to help. So few people these days are discreet…it really would be a disaster for Ric if it became known he was in London. I’m not sure he fully realizes that. I’ll come clean, Caz; I’m hoping you’ll agree to support me in persuading Ric he’d be safer in Scotland. He might listen to you.”

“Ric will do what he wants to do. It’s up to him.”

“If he’s recognized, the decision will be out of his hands.”

“It might be for the best. The police might find the real murderer.”

Phil Sharott looked at me thoughtfully through his designer spectacles. They were metallic blue-grey to tone with his silk suit. “Ah. Has he told you he didn’t do it?”

I returned his gaze. “Yes.”

“And you believe him?” he asked mildly.

“Don’t you?”

“I’m a lawyer, Caz. I believe in what can be demonstrated in a court of law. I try to avoid forming opinions based on too little data. In this case, all the evidence points one way. There was a public quarrel, Ric visited Bryan the following day, was seen to leave Bryan’s flat with blood on him; Bryan was found dead, Ric’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. Against that, we have Ric’s assertion that he is not the killer.” He sipped his coffee. “I would not feel confident, were I the barrister putting this case before a jury, that they would find Ric innocent. That is why I suggested to him at the time he should plead guilty with mitigation. Had he taken my advice, he would most likely be a free man by now.”

“With a criminal record for a crime he didn’t commit, while the real killer goes free.”

“Indeed. If your supposition is the correct one.”

It was blowy and spitting with rain now, the road’s tarmac darkening. The bushes in Hoxton Square moved in the wind, and litter blew along the patched and seamed pavement. I shivered and zipped up my fleece. “What I don’t understand is why a reputable lawyer should help an accused man fake his own death.”

A faint smile passed over Phil Sharott’s face. “That’s an entirely reasonable comment. But you didn’t see Ric in prison after Bryan died. I was there. He was in a horrendous state – partly of course the withdrawal symptoms – any long-term illegal drug and alcohol abuser would experience those – but also the horror of what had happened affected him badly. He was terrified, frantic, close to a total breakdown. Quite unable to face the consequences of having committed a grave criminal offence.”

I wasn’t going to let that pass. “You said you avoided forming opinions—”

“Forgive me. Unable to face the consequences of Bryan Orr’s death. He vehemently refused to plead guilty, yet clearly could not cope with a long-drawn-out trial and lengthy prison sentence. Perhaps I was wrong, but I did what seemed best at the time. And Ric’s sister was strongly in favour of getting him away. Paula didn’t think he could stand prison, and I let her influence me.”

That wasn’t what Ric had said – he’d said Paula was against it. Or was it just the faked death she’d been against? And Phil made Ric sound weak, and that’s not how he struck me at all. Ric was tough. Look at the way he’d stopped taking drugs after Bryan died, when he’d lost everything; the very time most addicts would be seeking chemical oblivion. And even before, when by his own admission he was off his head with drugs, I couldn’t imagine his personality radically different; couldn’t see him raving and gibbering in a cell, begging for help.

“That doesn’t sound like Ric.”

“You’ll excuse my saying, you haven’t known him very long. Trust me, like you I want what’s best for Ric. Besides the murder, he now faces additional charges of jumping bail, causing a false police investigation and wasting police time. His running away will not help to persuade anyone he is innocent. And I firmly believe that it’s in his best interests to return abroad, and in the short term he should go somewhere out of the public eye. I’m really hoping you’ll help me to convince Ric of this, Caz.”

I looked straight at Phil. “You haven’t mentioned the money yet. There’s a lot of money at stake here.” He drew breath to interrupt but I carried on. “You’ve had the use of Ric’s millions for the past year. You’ve just given him twenty thousand pounds. Big deal. The interest on forty million dollars for a year is over a million pounds.” I’d done the sums while I finished stripping Saladin’s stand. “Fifty times twenty thousand. That’s not counting last year’s earnings, either. And it seems to me it’s better for you if Ric’s off the scene, because that leaves you controlling everything, and I’m wondering whether that’s the reason you want me to persuade Ric to leave.”

Phil laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. For the first time, his manner was cool, almost hostile. “Is that what Ric’s been telling you?”

“No, I worked it out for myself.”

“I can assure you, Caz, I don’t need to embezzle Ric’s fortune. Have you any idea how much The Voices have earned over the years?”

He waited for me to answer this rhetorical question. An old trick I wasn’t going to fall for. I stared at him expressionlessly till he went on.

“And it’s gone up since Ric ‘died’, even though that put an end to performing or recording. I’ve found other ways to develop The Voices’ earning potential.”

I knew this. There had been bootleg releases, ‘classical’ orchestral arrangements by the City of Prague Philharmonic, an instrumental from a Voices’ song used behind a Toyota commercial…Ric was not happy about it.

Phil said, “I’m a very good manager. I always was. I’ve been earning fifteen per cent of the band’s takings for all those years. Investing the money, not pouring it down my throat, injecting or inhaling it. Think about it. Why would I defraud Ric when I’m rich already?”

“Why do multi-millionaires work hard to make more money than they can ever spend? I don’t know.”

His eyes flicked over my clothes and rested on my canvas handbag, five pounds down Leather Lane. “Perhaps one needs to be wealthy to acquire an insight into that. Personally, I do it because I find it more interesting than being idle.”

I didn’t feel I was getting anywhere with this. I’d got a horse waiting for me. I pushed my chair back. “Anything else you want to say? Anything I can pass on to Ric for you?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t find it necessary to tell Ric about this meeting. Could I ask you, as a favour, not to?”

“No. Sorry. I like to keep things open. I can’t see why you don’t want him to know we’ve met, anyway.”

“On second thoughts, you’re right, it’s unimportant.”

We both got up and stood together on the pavement before going our separate ways. Phil Sharott fired a parting shot.

“One thing perhaps I should say. I’m sure you are aware you are currently breaking the law, and have considered the possible consequences to yourself, so I won’t bore you with that. But if you’re thinking Ric’s a reformed character, Miss Tallis,” he said, fixing me with a beady eye, “then I would warn you; that’s a dangerous assumption to make. You don’t know as much as you think you do about Ric. I bid you goodbye.”

I bid you goodbye? I bid you goodbye? No one talks like that. Stuffed shirt. And what about him breaking the law?

He crossed the road to White Cube 2, and got into a black cab as its passenger got out. The taxi disappeared down the narrow cobbled street going west.

I turned and headed back to Saladin, the dog trotting beside me. “I didn’t like him, Dog. What did you think?”

Dog agreed with me, I could tell.

Chapter

12

*

“Yes! This is how we do it, Caz.”

Ric’s voice was triumphant. He had been tapping away for most of Saturday morning on my laptop. I looked up from Odds Against, a paperback so ancient it had lost its cover and spine; the rubber band holding it together was broken and stuck to it. All the pages were there, though. I’d checked before I started reading.

“Do what?”

“Get Jeff to cop an eyeful of you, so he’ll be helplessly attracted like a dog to a lamppost, and you can give him the third degree about the murder.”

I wasn’t sure I cared for his simile. “I thought he had a wife? And children?”

“If you think that’s stopped Jeff’s single-minded pursuit of anything in a skirt, then you haven’t the first grasp on his character and you’d better do some research. I’ve finished with the laptop.”

“I’m reading. Doesn’t his wife object?”

“I think Janey accepts it. She keeps out of the way, on their farm in Devon, breeding rare sheep. Hardly ever comes to London. She’s quite ordinary looking, a bit older than Jeff. And his turnover of women is so fast, none of them are around long enough to pose a threat to her.”

“So what is the plan?”

“Brit Art.” Ric’s gaze was severe. “If you took being my sidekick a bit more seriously, you’d know Jeff collects Young British Artists. Their nastier stuff, mostly; dead animals in formaldehyde, blood, guts, that sort of thing. You used to teach Art. You’ll know all about Brit Art.”

“It’s one of the reasons I left, having to teach children of an impressionable age about rubbish artists.”

Ric turned back to the screen and scrolled down. “Jeff goes to all the new exhibitions. He dragged me along once in the early days, to the Royal Academy, because he said it was a seminal show I mustn’t miss. I refused to go to any others with him. He’s a real enthusiast, a collector, spends serious money on it. All you’ve got to do is go to a private view and bond with him over a fish tank of dead embryos, or whatever. Discuss your mutual love of the current art scene, then tell him who you are. Well, tell him you’re Vikki Wilson.”

“Do they let anyone in? Wouldn’t the galleries open just for him, if he’s a big buyer?”

“It’s possible…but there must be somewhere he mixes with the rabble.” Ric was still clicking away, concentrating on the screen. “You can tell them you’re from La Vista. We’ll have to work out which private view he’ll be at, so you can turn up looking hot like you did for Dave. Has Dave rung you, by the way?”

“Yes, he did actually. Yesterday. He was on the phone for ages. I think he wanted someone to talk to.”

“You see? Irresistible, that’s you. Jeff doesn’t stand a chance.”

Monday morning Saladin’s eyes arrived in the post. Clear glass with black glass pupils, twenty-four millimetre diameter. (Amber glass is prettier, but not authentic.) I painted the backs red-brown, matching the remnants of paint in the eye sockets, and set them in with Rustin’s filler, so Saladin could get his first sight of the twenty-first century. His aristocratic face sparked into life. We looked at each other.

“Now you can see where you’re going, you handsome animal. Gesso next.” I patted him, and went to get ready for my next bit of sleuthing.

I stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, and crossed the road to the minimalist façade of Loop X, Grant Atherton’s gallery. Grant Atherton is the biggest mover and shaker in Brit Art, now that Jay Jopling’s gone over to painting. He’s very good at setting up profitable cycles of discovery, investment, promotion and sales; he’s the Emperor’s tailor. His gallery is in Clerkenwell, at the end of one of those narrow roads off Old Street. I’d often biked past it on my way to Cornelissen’s, where I buy pigments for my paints. It’s never occurred to me to go in the gallery. Even if I was an admirer of the sort of art they sell, I couldn’t afford it.

I wore a compromise between what I thought a journalist might wear, and what, in Ric’s opinion, most turned me into eye-candy. The shortest skirt I possessed, sheer black tights, my highest heels that seldom see the light of day on grounds of practicality, and a low-necked top were Ric’s choice; a sharp cropped jacket added, I hoped, a professional air. The security men eyed me as I walked through the open glass doors. We’d got it right; I was hot.

A group of people were hanging around the bare and white-painted reception area. They all looked at me. Perhaps we’d overdone it, made me too conspicuous. And Ric could have got it wrong, though he’d been so certain; Jeff Pike might not be there. My heels clicking on the concrete floor, I headed for a girl sitting behind a high white counter.

“Vikki Wilson, from La Vista,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. Actually, I felt calmer than when I’d been to see Dave Calder; partly because that time had gone okay, and partly because this meeting was in a public place. Ric had rung and told them I’d be coming, and he said they hadn’t raised an eyebrow. What was the worst that could happen? Jeff Pike could be really rude then have me thrown out, that’s all. Not that bad. And it probably wouldn’t happen… The girl smiled, ticked her list, and handed me a catalogue and a badge with my name on. I clipped it to my waistband, where it wasn’t too obvious, and strolled into the main exhibition room, helping myself to a glass of wine on the way.

One quick look told me Jeff Pike wasn’t there. A dozen people were studying the paintings on the walls, and consulting catalogues, or standing in groups chatting. I know a lot about art, and I know what I like…and it wasn’t this sort of thing. Each canvas was very like the last, painted in shades of black, containing a smaller white square with tiny squiggles in. Sometimes the white square was at an angle. Right. I read the press release I’d been given.

‘Darkness Assaults the Soul’, comprising four series of canvases, is a cry of anguish and despair that reverberates from the disintegration of the here and now to the furthest limits of the universe. By re-interpreting multifarious references from fractal geometry, physics, astronomy, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and the story-telling of pre-Renaissance literature, Gareth Hallows creates a metaphor for the human condition. The elaborate structural dichotomy of the dominating allegory…

I stopped reading. Who writes this stuff? A computer programme? As far as I’m concerned, there is one test for art; if it was dug up thousands of years in the future, long after our civilisation was dust, would the digger-up pounce on it and say, “Wow! Look what I’ve found,” or not? If not, it’s not art. And no amount of pretentious semi-literate guff will make it so.

A man with a beard (artist, journalist or buyer? I had no idea) joined me and said, “Thought-provoking.”

“It is indeed,” I said, smiling and walking away.

I climbed the stairs to the second exhibition room where the sculpture was. It was more crowded than downstairs. I saw Jeff Pike at once. He stood, drink in hand, talking to Grant Atherton, whom I recognized by his height, trademark white suit and round dark glasses. Ric had told me to ignore Jeff, but make sure he got a good look at me. So I wandered over to an exhibit on a plinth, and circled it, giving him a chance to check me out from all angles.

What I was looking at was a life size, realistically modelled naked female torso, gagged, blindfolded and tied up. Made in resin. Its title, I saw from the catalogue, was Dreams of Another Death. Nice.

“I’m buying that one,” said Jeff Pike. He’d moved to my side so softly he made me jump. There was something feline about him; he was slim, five foot ten, with dark hair, a triangular scrap of beard on his chin and a face slightly too narrow to be handsome.

“Are you? Why?” I was genuinely curious.

“I’ve had my eye on the artist since he was at the RCA. He’s going to be big. I’ve got a few of his student pieces, but this is something else.”

I moved to the next plinth. Jeff Pike followed me. A severed arm, the hand clutching a mobile phone. Life Beyond the Grasp of The Artist. It was no good, I was not going to be able to fake enthusiasm for this junk. At a technical level they were made with skill. I could have done without the sensationalism of the subjects, a deliberate attempt to make money by shocking the public. But it was the stupid titles that really got me.

“So what does Dreams of Another Death mean?”

“Don’t ask me, darling. Artists like those poncy titles. They get taught to do them at art college. It’s the sculpture that matters.” His hand groped the badge at my waist, turning it so he could read what it said. Alarm shot through me at his touch. “Vikki Wilson. La Vista magazine.” He looked me over, quite blatantly.

“Jeff Pike, isn’t it? I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m writing a book about The Voices and…”

“You rang me the other day.”

“Yes.” I lowered my lashes, and raised them again. “You weren’t terribly forthcoming.”

“So you thought you’d have another crack at me here?”

I smiled winningly at him. “That’s right.”

He paused, staring at me. Some calculation was going on in his mind. “Okay, Vikki, I’ll answer your questions. But you should know, I make things up. I can’t be trusted. I don’t always tell the truth.”

“Well, can you make an effort to this time? I don’t want to be sued.” I got the recorder out of my handbag and switched it on. A man approached Jeff with some papers and a pen.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr Pike, would you mind…”

“Fuck off, I’m talking to Vikki here. Grant knows what I’m buying.”

The man flinched, apologized and made off. Jeff Pike focused on me again. “What d’you want to know about? My childhood? There’s a lot of stuff I tell the press. Maybe you’ve read some of it. My mother had it off with most of the Rolling Stones, so I know one of them’s my dad, but not which one. I was adopted after I was found scavenging for food in wheelie bins, that’s what I usually say. My foster mother had sex with me when I was nearly fourteen.”

He stopped, as though waiting for me to express incredulity or shock. I didn’t express anything. His eyes were fixed on mine, brownish-yellow, their pupils dilated. I wondered if he’d been snorting coke. He continued, talking fast.

“Hobbies, you probably want to know about those. Amateur taxidermy when I was a kid. Roadkill squirrels, neighbourhood cats when I could catch them…I wasn’t much use at it. They were all stinking, lumpy and balding, their eyes dropping out. Now I collect art. YBAs – Young British Artists. I’ve got one of the best private collections in the world. The bigger, more stomach-turning stuff. You can say I specialize in art involving entrails. That’s a new one. You can be first with it…or what about my real name? Jeremy Pendragon-Smythe. Or Keith Whylie. Or Cynthia Splott.”

I interrupted his monologue. If he was going to talk, he could talk about what I’d come to hear. “The book will focus on Bryan Orr’s death. Can I ask where you were on the day Bryan died?”

“My flat in Mayfair.”

“On your own?”

“No, darling. With a woman.”

I tried to remember the questions we’d listed. I didn’t feel I was doing very well so far. I doubted Jeff was going to tell me anything to the point.

“Do you believe Ric Kealey killed Bryan Orr?”

“Not really. Can’t see him doing it. But what do I know?”

“So if it wasn’t Ric, who do you think it might have been?”

“Maybe it was Emma. Ah, the lovely Emma. Everyone wanted to give Emma one, and nearly everyone did.”

“Did you?”

“I’m still waiting in line. She hasn’t got round to me yet. Busy lady. Very taken up with Phil right now. My theory is she was an undercover agent for the Bunny Batteries, with a mission to kill. So the Bunnies would get right to the top, which they did for a while once half our line-up was dead. Her secret assignment: infiltrate The Voices, one man at a time. Now that I think about it, that’s quite probable, because she said she was a temp, but she could only type with two fingers.”

Jeff was standing too close, nearly touching me. I could smell cigarette smoke, and his aftershave, sweet, spicy, and too liberally applied. I wanted to back away, but stood my ground. He was still talking.

“Or was the killer someone off the street? A mad fan. Look at John Lennon. You wouldn’t believe the lengths the fans go to. Some of them’ll do anything just to get close to you. Pretend to be a journalist, crash a private view, say they’re writing a book…”

Bloody hell, he’s rumbled me.

He smiled unpleasantly, watching my face, only inches away. “I remember that La Vista interview. Largely because of what happened afterwards in the car park between me and Vikki. I don’t know why, it stuck in my mind – and it wasn’t you, was it darling, with your lacy knickers pulled down in the back of the Merc? That Vikki had smaller eyes and bigger tits. So why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

My pulse rate shot up. I deeply did not like this man. It wasn’t as if I was getting anything out of him, either. I decided to establish a new cover story and leave fast. I took a step back. “Okay, I’m not Vikki Wilson. I am writing a book about the Orr case. I’m not a journalist or a published author, I’ve never written a book before, so I thought no one would speak to me. That’s why I said I was her. I’ll be going now.”

I switched off the recorder and put it in my bag. Jeff Pike was smiling a little, his eyelids lowered. He didn’t believe me.

“You know what I think, babe?”

I do not like being called babe. I could feel my eyes narrowing.

“I think you made all that up just so you could get to meet me.”

With hindsight, I can see I should have agreed; this was my chance to leave him satisfied; give him an explanation that flattered him. I might even have got some information out of him, something I’d signally failed to do so far.

But he’d annoyed me. I laughed. “Oh please. Not all women are desperate to throw themselves at you, you know. There’s the odd one or two who really aren’t interested, who can’t actually discern your appeal. Like me, for instance.”

He leered. That is the only way to describe his expression. “Oh yes, so why did you ring me, chase me here dressed like that and chat me up? I don’t buy that book crap.”

I made to go, and his arm came out, hand flat on the wall to stop me.

“There’s just one thing you were after, sweetheart.”

“You don’t really like women, do you?” That made his smile vanish. I had nothing to lose now. A sudden revelation struck me, and I voiced it without thinking. I said, “You fancied Ric Kealey.”

I’d hit the bull’s-eye, I was certain of it. His face became venomous, murderous. He looked like a man capable of sticking a knife in another human being. I was glad we were not alone. He lowered his arm, turned away from me to Grant Atherton and raised his voice.

“Grant, this woman is pissing me off. She says she’s from La Vista, and she’s not. She’s a ligger.”

Chapter

13

*

I was still upset when I got home. I’ve never been escorted from a building before between two security men, with everyone staring at me wondering what I’d done. It was humiliating. Grant Atherton, in front of a roomful of people, told me he didn’t ever want to see me there again, and the fact that I had no desire to return was small consolation.

Back at Fox Hollow Yard I took off my high heels and stomped up the stairs to the flat. Ric was on his mobile, striding to and fro. Dog sat behind the sofa. He looked at me, then his head went back to following Ric’s movements.

“Phil, get used to it. I am not going to fucking Scotland.”

……………..

“So pay them what they want to do it fast.”

……………..

“No! I don’t give a shit. I’ve had it with your excuses.”

……………..

I sat on a kitchen stool, flushed and fuming, dumped my shoes on the floor and my bag on the counter. They’d taken back my catalogue and badge. Ric gave me a distracted glance.

“No, you listen to me. Get that account sorted out this week, if you don’t want me coming round to see you. I’m not discussing it.”

He hung up, breathed deeply, swore, turned to me, and registered my state.

“What’s the matter?”

“Jeff Pike. He’s loathsome. I feel I need a shower.”

“Jesus, what happened? You’re shaking.”

“He knew I wasn’t Vikki Wilson. He played along for a bit, because he thought I was coming on to him, then he got really nasty. He had me thrown out.”

“Shit. Did he say anything useful?”

“Not that I noticed. Maybe you’ll spot something.” I got out the recorder and shoved it at him. “Jeff doesn’t like women.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t fancy them; just that he doesn’t like them. If you ask me, he’s bisexual. But in denial. I think he was keen on you. When you were alive, if you see what I mean.”

“Me?” Ric’s laugh was uneasy. “Why d’you say that?”

“Because he didn’t like your being close to Bryan. Because Dave said he was devastated when you died. Because of his face when I said he fancied you. And I’m wondering whether he might have killed Bryan in a jealous rage because he was your best friend.”

Ric stared. “It’s all those detective stories, Caz, they’ve got to you. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. Jeff’s not bi. He’s married with children.”

“You said yourself that hadn’t affected the way he behaved.”

“With women, yes. I’d have known if…if he had…” Ric frowned. He paced across the room and gazed absently into the twilight outside the windows, then came back. “He wouldn’t have kept quiet about it all those years, surely... Now I think about it, it did just cross my mind once or twice in the early days. While we were touring, living on top of one another. But right from the start there were hordes of girls hanging around. Stand still and they’d climb all over you. We were both getting laid every night, and Jeff never made a move on me, or said anything. He’s never had a boyfriend, as far as I know.”

“You should have told me!”

“I’d forgotten it. It was just a passing thought I dismissed and didn’t think of again.”

“Well, any other passing thoughts, share them with me, will you? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come out with it like that.”

Ric wasn’t listening, he was thinking back. “It sort of figures. I think you could be right. Weird. A few times Jeff saw me home when I was paralytic, and you wouldn’t think he’d bother, you’d think he’d be the type to leave you in the gutter. And he did talk to me more than the others. He’d tell me things…”

“What sort of things?”

“Stuff about himself. One time we were on tour in Manchester, and after the gig we stayed up smoking weed. Just him and me. We saw the sun rise. He rambled on for hours with me sitting there stoned, listening. His childhood was pretty shit. He was put into care when he was five or six, spent some years in a children’s home, then was fostered. You know that story, about his foster mother?”

“Yes, it’s on the recorder.”

“He’s lying. It wasn’t his foster mother, it was her husband. She didn’t put a stop to it. A lot of other stuff too. That’s one reason he’s the way he is.”

“How d’you know it’s the truth?”

“It was how he told it. Not slick or glib, he could hardly get the words out. All those stories he tells, it’s just to protect himself. Yeah, he’s a tosser, but he comes across as worse than he is. When you know what his childhood was like, you can understand.”

I felt mean. I’d disliked Jeff, and shown it; Ric had seen past his obnoxious attitude, sympathized, and been kind to the guy. Even if he had got into fights with him and made his nose bleed. Yes, Jeff was awful, but even awful people have feelings. I should have been nicer; it hadn’t even occurred to me; I could feel my face fall. Ric’s mobile rang, a distinctive snippet of classical cello.

“Fuck. That’ll be Phil because I hung up on him. He’s being a right pain in the arse. Since he got nowhere with you, he’s done nothing but nag me.” His arm went round my shoulders and he gave me a quick squeeze, while he got the phone out of his pocket. “Don’t worry about Jeff. He’s an arsehole. He’s used to people not liking him.” Ric pressed the button and put the phone to his ear, scowling.

“For fuck’s sake, Phil—”

A pause. All expression disappeared from Ric’s face. He said nothing. He ended the call, and laid the mobile carefully on the counter, as though it might explode.

“Who was it?”

“Jeff.”

The phone rang again. Ric didn’t pick it up.

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Ric?’ like he couldn’t believe it.”

“Bloody hell.” We gazed at each other in consternation. “Did he really know it was you? He couldn’t be sure just from what you said, could he?”

The ring tone cut off. Three seconds later it started again.

“I was an idiot not to check who it was.”

“I should have rung him from my phone.”

“Too late now.”

We both stared at the mobile. It went quiet, then rang, and went on ringing, the elegant little tune going round in a loop.

“Fucking hell,” said Ric.

Chapter

14

*

“Ric is that u? PLEASE TALK TO ME. Jeff.”

Just one text message, but over the next two days, Jeff rang Ric’s mobile repeatedly. The haunting cello fragment took on sinister overtones. Ric didn’t want to put the phone on silent, in case Phil rang; so he had to keep glancing at the caller’s name, and ending the call. He turned it off overnight, and woke to a list of unanswered calls. I was cautious answering my mobile, in case Jeff had got my number from Dave Calder. I got jumpy whenever the doorbell rang, and let the answer machine screen my calls on the business phone.

“If he turns up, don’t let him in, and deny all knowledge of any rock star, dead or alive. But there’s no way Jeff can find your address when he doesn’t know your name.”

“Suppose he asks Phil?”

“Phil won’t tell him. And he’d be straight on to me to complain about you talking to Jeff. So it’s cool.”

I suspected Ric was just saying this to reassure me. I noticed he went to the window to check Fox Hollow Yard each time he was going out, the same as I did. I sincerely hoped Jeff wouldn’t turn up. I would lie to him, now his suspicions were aroused, even less convincingly than before. And of all the people who might have stabbed Bryan Orr, he was the only one I could imagine doing it.

On the third day, the obsessive calling suddenly stopped and I relaxed a little. Not entirely, because I’ve noticed that people are very good at finding ways to do things they really want to do; and if Jeff Pike really wanted to track Ric down, and it was humanly possible, he would do it.

Meanwhile there was Emma. Emma the beautiful, the enigmatic, whom everyone had fancied. The morning after I went to Loop X, Ric looked up from the game he was playing.

“Give Emma a ring.”

“Emma’s the last one, right?” I said to Ric, checking. “After that, if we haven’t got anywhere, you’ll leave it?”

“Yeah. I’ll make a decision; go abroad again with the money, or go to the police. Unless we get some more leads.”

I took a deep breath, handed him my phone and he put in her number. Ric has a fantastic memory for such things, unlike me. I can barely remember my own phone number. He can recite the value of Pi to a hundred decimal places; he learned it because, he said, it’s a beautiful number. I told him he had to be the best-looking geek in the world.

“Hallo? Is that Emma Redfern? It’s Vikki Wilson here, from La Vista magazine.”

“Oh, hi, Vikki, how can I help you? Do you want an interview?” Her voice was very attractive; light, but slightly husky. She’d make a fortune doing voice-overs.

“Actually, this isn’t for La Vista. I’ve been commissioned to write a book about Bryan Orr’s murder. I wondered if you’d agree to talk to me?”

“Poor Bryan. Such a tragedy, so much talent. For a long time I didn’t even want to think about it. Who is publishing the book?”

“Harper Collins.”

“Do you know when it’s coming out?”

“They want the launch to coincide with the anniversary of Bryan’s death. Early April next year.”

“Mmm…yes, that should be fine. Just one thing, I’d have to ask you to keep what I tell you confidential until the book’s published. There are some details about what happened I haven’t told anyone before, and now I finally feel able to talk about it, I know the press will be interested. So you wouldn’t mind signing something saying you won’t make use of what I tell you, other than for the book, will you?”

“No, of course not, I’m happy to do that.” What could it be?

“Then when would you like to meet me? Why don’t you come to my house? Bayswater.” She gave me the address. “What about the day after tomorrow, Thursday? Three thirty? We can have tea.”

I told Ric. His head went up at the mention of the mysterious details, like a police dog on a cold trail who’d picked up a scent. I didn’t tell him I thought she’d sounded nice. Maybe he’d misjudged her; people sometimes do take against the individuals their friends are going out with. I would make up my mind when we met.

“I’d better check her out on the internet,” I said. “Have you finished?”

Ric nodded and got to his feet. “Mind if I have a bath?”

He locked himself in my bathroom with the recorder, saying he wanted to listen again to the interviews and check he hadn’t missed anything. I felt he was being optimistic. There were zero results to show for my efforts. We weren’t getting anywhere. Once I’d talked to Emma, he’d have to admit we weren’t going to, either. Unless she absent-mindedly dropped the name of the murderer into the conversation… Still, I’d give it my best shot. I settled at the laptop. Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted.

Emma Redfern… I looked at Google Images first. There wasn’t a single bad shot of her; she’d been right at the front of the queue when the looks were handed out. Genuine blonde hair, shoulder-length, many different styles, but always perfect. (I wondered if I should get a good haircut, and to hell with the bank loan.) Hazel eyes, an English rose complexion, delicate features and full, sweetly-curving lips. I clicked on one photo; below is the image in its original context on the page…

A curiously moving picture of her with Bryan Orr in OK! Magazine; Emma smiling at the camera, while Bryan gazed at her, his hand through her arm, two weeks before he died.

Loved-up Bryan invites girlfriend Emma to join him on U.S.A. tour

When bass guitarist, Bryan Orr, hits the road this summer with The Voices In My Head for their American tour, there’ll be a very special guest joining him for the ride; the platinum-haired beauty Emma Redfern. “He’s so in love with her, he can’t bear to leave her behind,” reveals a pal. The pair have been inseparable since they started dating last month. Emma is talented as well as beautiful; the Croydon-born estate agent has ambitions to be a songstress, and is at the start of a promising career in the world of music.

My eye was caught by another photo, because Ric was in it. A round table at an awards ceremony dinner, at the end of the evening judging by the number of bottles and glasses. Emma in profile (she had just the straight nose I’d coveted as a teenager – mine tips upwards) as she smiled at Phil Sharott on her right. She was showing off her curves in a strapless satin dress. Sitting on her other side, Bryan Orr leaned towards them as if trying to catch what she was saying. Opposite, Jeff Pike, cigarette in mouth, had his boots up on the white tablecloth. Next to him, Ric sat back in his chair, holding a brandy glass, looking across at the others; sardonic and handsome, like Mr Darcy in a dinner jacket. An empty space showed where Dave Calder had been. The image seemed full of significance, if only I knew what it was.

Emma featured on Google mainly as Bryan’s girlfriend, though there was the odd entry about her singing career. She had yet to break through; I wondered whether Phil Sharott would be as successful managing her as he had been with The Voices. I’d never heard her sing. There were a few shots of her and Phil. I noticed one particularly bizarre photo; Emma, young and lost in a line-up with a motley bunch of people striking poses, wearing extravagant outfits, including a man in a Union Jack suit. Emma’s long evening gown contrasted demurely with the amount of skin the other women had on show. Following the direction of her eyes I saw Phil Sharott at the edge of the photo, unlike himself without his glasses.

I was just going to try Youtube when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone. The entry phone showed James’s face. I smiled with relief, and pushed the buzzer. A couple of minutes later I heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“Hallo, Caz. Not working today? Alexander the Great’s looking good, I had a look at him on the way up.”

“That’s Saladin.” James tries to take an interest in my horses, but he has the visual equivalent of a tin ear. “Alexander’s a G & J Lines. I finished him ages ago, he’s in the showroom. And how d’you know I’m not working? I could be working on the computer.”

He turned the screen around. “Celebritygossip.com?” He read aloud, with distaste, “Stunning singer Emma Redfern helps Phil Sharott (the man behind über-successful band The Voices In My Head) forget the tragic death of wife Paula in fatal crash last January.”

“Why aren’t you working, anyway?”

“Dental check up. I was practically passing your door on the way back to the bank, and thought if I asked you nicely you might make me a cup of your disgusting coffee.”

I put the kettle on. Dog came in from the roof and wagged his tail at James, who patted him. “Did Ric bring him from abroad? No chance at all he’s got a microchip and paperwork, I suppose? You realize he might be rabid?”

“Don’t be silly, James, I’ve never seen a less rabid-looking dog.”

He sat on the stool next to me. “Another reason I came by is I had a word with a barrister friend of mine – Rollo, I think you met him once at a party – and asked him about the penalty for obstructing justice and harbouring a fugitive. I told him I knew someone who was writing a thriller.” James’s blue eyes were bleak. “It’s immediate custody, and a sentence of between twelve to eighteen months and four years, depending on mitigating circumstances. Caz, in your situation there aren’t any mitigating circumstances.”

The bathroom door opened. Ric appeared, clad only in a bath towel wrapped round his waist, clothes under his arm, recorder in hand.

“Hi,” he said to James. He came over and helped himself to a handful of chocolate digestives. Ric had a serious biscuit habit. No one would guess this from his physique, most of which was currently on show. I noticed some nasty bruises on his arm and ribs, and wondered how he got them. Maybe he’d come off the bike. He said to me, “I’ll bring the towel back up.”

He disappeared down the stairs, Dog following him. There was the sort of silence usually described as pregnant. Probably with twins. At last James spoke.

“You let him use your bath?”

“Sometimes he fancies a change from the shower.”

“What does he do all day?”

“Plays his guitar – I think he’s writing songs. Or he goes climbing, or out on the bike.”

“Push bike?”

I laughed. “No, a Harley Davidson. I’ve been with him a couple of times.”

“And I take it he doesn’t have a licence, insurance or tax disc for that?”

“He used to have a licence. There are people breaking the law every minute in London. Lighten up, James, you’re being pompous.”

“He’s only got to be pulled over by a policeman for some minor infringement like speeding, and the whole thing’ll come out. Then they’ll come knocking on your door. Of course I’ll visit you in Holloway, Caz, it’s quite convenient from where I live, but I’d really rather not.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, before I go, I’ve got tickets for the Globe this Friday, the evening performance, d’you want to come? If you’re not in clink by then. Sorry it’s short notice, I booked them for me and Posy, but she can’t make it, Hannah’s got some rush on that day…it’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

A favourite of mine, and James would have got good seats. “Ooh, yes please. I’ll look forward to it.”

James sighed, and drained his coffee. “Goodness, that was nasty. I’d better be off.” He pecked me on the cheek. “Bye, Caz. Do take care.”

Chapter

15

*

After lunch, on the Thursday I was to meet Emma, I made myself look respectable. This was the last time I’d be attempting private detective work. Just as well, in view of my complete lack of training, experience or aptitude. When I went down to the office Ric checked me over.

“Got the recorder?”

“Yes.”

“D’you know how to find her house?”

“I’ve printed off a map from Google.”

“Remember, ask her about her job.”

The only suspicious thing Ric had come up with from his soak in the bath, was a discrepancy about what Emma’s job had been before she became a full-time singer. On the internet, it said she was an estate agent; Ric, Dave Calder and Jeff Pike had all believed her to be a temporary secretary – a secretary who couldn’t touch-type. As leads go, it was hardly inspiring.

The door bell rang. Ric and I looked at each other with one thought in our heads: Jeff. It was that morning the phone calls had ceased. I went to the entry phone, while Ric peered between the Venetian blind’s silver slats.

“It’s Phil,” I said. “Shall I let him in?”

Ric nodded. I opened the door. Phil Sharott’s crimson Audi was recklessly parked at the side of Fox Hollow Yard. He might regret that; Hackney traffic wardens are many and remorseless. Phil stepped into the room. I’d never seen him ruffled before, even when Ric smashed his showcase, but now his colour was high and his eyes unfriendly. He marched up to Ric and got straight to the point.

“I had Jeff turn up on my doorstep this morning. He said some woman approached him pretending to be a journalist, and when he rang her number, you answered it. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

“Cool it, Phil.” Ric’s laid-back manner was calculated to irritate. “I only said a couple of words. He can’t be sure it’s me. I’m officially dead.”

“Unfortunately, one of those couple of words was my name. Which kind of reinforced his theory that it was you. I’ve just spent an hour trying to persuade him that, since you are dead, it was not possible that the person he heard was you. What he heard was someone who sounded like you, who happened to know a man called Phil. I told him a lot of men are called Phil. I failed to convince him. He went to use the bathroom, and ten minutes later I caught him wandering around upstairs looking in the bedrooms.”

Ric could cope with this, I felt. I moved discreetly towards the front door. My hand was on the catch when Phil swivelled to me.

“Just one minute, young lady, I’d like a word with you.”

“Sorry, can’t stop, I’ve got an appointment with a customer. About a horse.” My lying had improved, with all the practice I’d been having lately. I was getting quite good at it. “Got to dash. See you, Ric.”

I was hot, flustered, and fifteen minutes late when I arrived at Emma Redfern’s mews house. I’d made the mistake of taking the tube, and at Holborn we were advised there was a signal failure. We all sat getting hotter, with the train making occasional lurches along the track, for twenty minutes. Finally arrived at Marble Arch, and running along the Bayswater Road, I’d dived into the wrong turning, in spite of my map.

Emma opened the door with a manicured hand, and gave me a perfect smile. She was shorter than I’d expected, not more than five foot three at most. She wore pristine jeans and a vest top; casual clothes, but so new and expensive they looked elegant. The sort of thing you see in Selfridges, and wonder who’d pay two hundred and fifty pounds for a pair of denim jeans, and half that again for a tee shirt. Her hair was silky and crisply cut, swinging as she moved. I got a waft of expensive, subtle perfume. Emma had all the gloss of a New York female executive.

“Hi, Vikki, you found it all right. I’m Emma. Do come in and I’ll make us some tea.”

As I followed her down a short passage, I glimpsed my face in an oval gilt mirror. Shiny and pink, with my fringe sticking up. I combed my fingers through my hair.

Emma led me into a large kitchen that took up half the ground floor. It was done up like an interior decorator’s notion of a farmhouse kitchen, with a duck-egg blue Aga and a sofa to match by the window. Apart from two scarlet cushions on the sofa, and some dark green tiles, everything else was cream. There was a vase of lilies on the long, cream counter, a butler’s sink and one of those oversized taps with a flexible spray. It had the sort of casual charm that takes time, money and flair to achieve.

Blue and white crockery, triangular sandwiches sprinkled with cress, and a home-made Victoria sponge were laid out on the table. Somehow I couldn’t see Emma making the sandwiches or the cake. She switched on the kettle.

“Do sit down and help yourself. They’re only bought-in sandwiches, from a shop round the corner. So lazy of me, but it’s a good shop. I prefer tea made in a pot, but it won’t take a moment.”

“So do I,” I said. “I can’t stand teabag tea.”

I sat on one of the charmingly miss-matched old wooden chairs and loaded a plate.

“I’m about to launch my second album and music video, and I need to woo the press, so I hope you don’t mind if I practise on you?” Her eyes opened wide, as though she really cared what I thought. “You’re the first person I’m talking to, and it’s less scary because your book won’t be published for ages.”

“That’s fine. D’you mind if I record it?” I got out the recorder.

Emma pulled a face. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. It’s funny, I don’t mind photographers a bit.”

Understandable with those looks…

I switched it on. Emma and I eyed each other for a few seconds and both began to giggle.

“You’re supposed to ask me a question,” she said.

“Um…” I decided to start with something she’d feel comfortable with; it seemed crass to launch straight into her boyfriend’s murder. “What’s your music video like?”

“Completely absurd, but I love it. In less than four minutes I have four costume changes. It goes through the seasons, beginning with snow, and a guy walking away, and ends with falling leaves and him coming back. Corny.”

I couldn’t help liking her. I wondered why Ric hadn’t. “What’s the song called?”

“It’s a Voices’ song. Not one of their best-known ones, but it’s lovely. You’re on my Mind. Quite a different arrangement, sort of slow, like a ballad.” Emma poured boiling water into a silver teapot, brought it over to the table and sat down. She put a sandwich on her plate. “It comes out next week. I’m hoping it’ll be my breakthrough hit. Fingers crossed. My debut album didn’t do too badly, but I’ve learnt a lot since then, and I’ve got a new manager.”

“Phil Sharott?”

“You’ve done your research. Yes. I had a manager before, but he wasn’t anything like as good as Phil.”

“When did you switch?”

“Six months ago. I’d kept in touch with Phil, he was very kind to me after poor Bryan died. And he believes in me.”

Emma chatted disarmingly for a while about her singing, her new album, and her plans for the next year. She did it very well; promoting herself but not in an obvious, tedious way. Plainly ambitious, she was able to laugh at her own plans to storm the music business.

“I tried for The X Factor, but didn’t get on – just as well, back then Simon Cowell would have shredded me. You must swear not to tell anyone this, it’s too embarrassing, but four or five years ago, when I’d try anything, I went to an audition to represent Britain in the Eurovision Song Contest. I was terribly nervous, the song I had wasn’t brilliant and of course I didn’t get it. Lucky for me really, it wouldn’t have done my street cred any good. But I got to meet Terry Wogan, and you never know when a contact like that might be useful.”

“Have you always wanted to be a singer?”

“Yes, though I’d like to act as well. Be like Madonna was, but with a more successful film career.” She laughed. “I don’t want much.”

“Better than working as a secretary.” There, I’d worked it in.

“Is that what you did before you were a journalist?”

“Er…yes.” Oh…she thought I meant me.

Emma picked up the teapot, shook it gently, and poured. I helped myself to milk, and tried a different approach.

“So how did you meet Bryan?”

A tiny pause, or did I imagine it? I licked sugar off my fingers and had a sip of tea. Lapsang Souchong, too smoky for my taste. I like Indian tea.

“I was working as a temp. I did one week for Phil while his secretary was sick. That’s how Phil and I met. Bryan was so sweet, he asked for my phone number on my last day.”

“Oh, I’m sure I read somewhere you were an estate agent…”

“That’s right. I temped once when I was between jobs. How’s the cake? Is it all right?”

“Delicious. Which temping agency?”

Emma looked at me, a little surprised. “Why?”

“I wondered if it was one I worked for.”

“I can’t remember. It was years ago, and not for long. Secretarial something…oh, I forgot, d’you mind terribly signing this? There’s a copy for you.”

She reached to the counter for two pieces of A4 paper. I read the top one; I agree not to disclose anything related to me by Emma Redfern except for the purpose of writing a book about the Bryan Orr case, and more particularly not to make available such information to the press…

I dated and signed it, remembering to use my pseudonym. Emma put her copy behind her on the counter; I folded mine and tucked it in my handbag.

“Can I ask you about The Voices In My Head? The individual band members, and what they were like? You must have known them very well.”

“Yes, after that first week, when I started going out with Bryan, I saw quite a lot of them. Bryan liked me to be with him, he always got me to come along. Have you met them yet?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll know…Dave Calder is a sweetheart, you want to pick him up and cuddle him. And Jeff…he’s outrageous, but if you’ve met him you’ll know that.” Emma looked at me shrewdly. “Did he make a pass at you?”

“Yes.”

“Quite a crude one?” I nodded. Emma’s voice went lower. “I hadn’t met him, it was my first day with Phil at the recording studios, and I was making coffee. He came up behind me and put his hand up my skirt. Phil told him off, and he made some stupid joke. I was quite upset, because I’d been so excited about meeting the band.”

“Poor you!”

“Oh, it was all right, Phil said that’s just the way he was, not to take any notice. He was right, Jeff was okay after that. And Bryan and Dave were really nice to me, even before they knew me.”

“Do you mind talking about Bryan Orr?”

“No. It used to be too painful, all I could think of was that dreadful day…but now I can remember the good times. Bryan loved me so much, you know; he’d have done anything for me. He was going to write me a song. He wanted to marry me, but I’d known him such a short time.” Emma lowered her eyelids, and her lovely mouth turned down. “Of course, now I wish I’d said yes and made him happy.”

“What about Ric Kealey?”

“Ric…he was so gorgeous, that’s the first thing you noticed about him. Film star good looks. I remember, when Phil introduced us, I was literally speechless, like a schoolgirl. Totally in awe of this guy. A rock god.” She laughed a little, ruefully. “And he was always so rude to me.”

“Was he? Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he liked it when I started going out with Bryan. He and Bryan were at school together, you know. They were best friends.” Emma pushed her plate with its untouched sandwich away from her. “Ric was always getting at me. Because I was there quite a lot with Bryan, he started calling me the Fifth Voice, and I could tell he didn’t mean it in a nice way. I tried to ignore his attitude, but it got worse. Then he started staring at me. I used to catch him doing it, and when our eyes met he didn’t smile, he’d just go on staring…” She shivered. I waited, but she seemed to have stopped.

“Why did he do that?”

“I think he fancied me. He used to make excuses to be alone with me. If I left the room, he’d follow. Discreetly. But when we were alone, he’d just put me down. Everything I said was stupid, or boring. He made me cry once. I don’t think Bryan noticed, and I didn’t say anything, because Ric was his friend.”

So there had been more between them than Ric admitted, and he had found her attractive…but couldn’t do anything about it while she was going out with Bryan. And his (not very nice) way of dealing with it was being horrid to Emma. Not his type, indeed. I thought he’d been hiding something. And he had…and no wonder, because the truth showed him in a bad light.

“I started getting silent phone calls in the middle of the night on my mobile when Bryan was away, never when he was there. Hardly anyone had the number. There’s no proof it was Ric, of course, but he knew when I was alone, and he could have got the number easily, too.” He still had the number… “I didn’t report it or tell anyone because of Bryan. But I remember one night, the band was doing a charity concert in Birmingham. I hadn’t gone, though I wanted to, because my agent was taking me to an awards ceremony, and I couldn’t get out of it. I was in the flat on my own. The phone rang five separate times. It was scary. In the end I stopped trying to sleep. I got up, wrapped the duvet round me, and watched a film.”

“Why didn’t you turn the phone off?”

“My mother had an operation the week before. She was only just out of hospital. My father might have needed to get hold of me.”

I was getting a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. This was a side to Ric I hadn’t encountered, and I didn’t like it. I was afraid, going by Emma’s beautiful, troubled face, there was more to come, and I wouldn’t like that either.

“The next morning, when Bryan came home, Ric was with him. He said, ‘Emma, you look terrible. Huge bags under your eyes. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’ Then he smiled.”

There were cake crumbs on the ridged surface of the antique wooden table. Old pitch pine. Like Saladin’s stand. The wood might have come from the same forest. I pressed my finger on some crumbs, and transferred them to my plate.

“The day before Bryan died, I went with him to Tiger Studios. The band was doing a remix. They couldn’t get on with it because Ric hadn’t arrived. We were hanging around for hours, then he showed up. He was drunk, and stoned too. Not staggering-about-drunk – Ric didn’t do that. He just got so no one could deal with him – he was out of control.” That’s what he’d said… “He was really offensive to Jeff, and Jeff just took it, and that surprised me. Then he started on Bryan, and Bryan was like, come on guys, we’re here to do a remix. Ric said, and three years later I can remember every word of it, ‘So what’s Emma doing here, then? I didn’t realize remixing was among her areas of expertise, in fact I’d rather assumed there was only one thing she was good for, and that’s got nothing to do with music.’ And then Bryan hit him.”

This tallied with Ric’s own account, except Ric had said he couldn’t remember how the fight started. Emma’s story sounded all too plausible.

“They had a fight – it was dreadful – Dave and Jeff pulled them apart. Ric left, and you’ve probably read about what Bryan yelled at him. It was in the papers. The next day I was on my own in Bryan’s flat. I’d moved in with him the month before. The bell went, and it was Ric, and he pushed his way in. I told him Bryan was out, and there was no point him waiting, because Bryan didn’t want to see him. He told me to mind my own business. Then he started shouting at me, and I slapped him. He grabbed my arm, pulled me towards him and kissed me. He was very strong. I struggled, but I couldn’t get away. I tried to, but I couldn’t.”

Emma paused, and her big hazel eyes filled with tears.

“And then he raped me.”

Chapter

16

*

I sat at the table, unable to speak for a moment, staring at her, shock and dismay squeezing my heart and making my legs tremble. I felt winded. Ric had raped her…and lied to me about it. I’d thought I knew him, and I was wrong. I didn’t know him at all.

“That’s…awful…” I put my hand on her shoulder. Her perfume was stronger close to.

A tear spilled on to Emma’s cheek. “He kept saying it was what I wanted, he’d seen the way I looked at him, and I said no, and he just laughed and dragged me into the bedroom. I said, please, Ric, don’t, think of Bryan, and he said, fuck Bryan.”

Emma wiped away the tears with the inside of her wrist. I dug into my bag, found a wodge of tissues and gave them to her. She mopped her eyes. The tears were pouring out of them, running down her face. She was crying the way I had when my mother died.

“I did my best to fight him off, but I was so much smaller than him, I hadn’t got a chance. In the end I stopped resisting and let him get on with it, get it over with. I didn’t hear Bryan come in. Suddenly he was in the room, pulling Ric off me, screaming at him, hitting him. I couldn’t bear it, I had to get away. I ran out of there, and kept running till I got to my flat in Kings Cross. I ran a bath, I took off all my clothes and put them in the bin, I scrubbed myself, washed my hair, ran the water out and did it again to try to feel clean. I had bruises all over. I couldn’t stop sobbing. Everything was spoiled.”

“Oh poor you, how terrible…” I patted her, inadequately. “How could he… Is it too painful to talk about? You don’t have to tell me, I’ll go away if you want.”

Emma said, “No, I feel better getting it out into the open. I’ve hidden it for so long…” She blew her nose, and gave a small smile. “There, I’m all right now.”

“So what did you do? Did you ring the police?”

“I couldn’t face it – their questions, examinations, looking for evidence…” Emma shuddered. “And do you know the conviction rate for rape?” I shook my head. “Six per cent. That’s all. And you have to wait for months, and go to court, and be called a liar, and be in all the papers…”

I looked away from her pale, distraught face – still beautiful even though her eyes were swollen and her nose pink – and gazed at my plate. I felt as if I’d never eat again. I felt sick.

Emma sat up straight. “But now I want people to know. What happened, what Ric Kealey was really like. Because it’s the truth, and it should be told. I wasn’t strong enough before, but I am now. I’m doing an exclusive interview with the News of the World next week. They’re paying me, but that’s not the point. It’ll be good publicity for my album. Do you think that’s frightfully cynical of me?”

“No…if it makes you feel better about it…if it turns an appalling experience to something positive…”

She breathed deeply; she was calmer, less vulnerable. Maybe it had helped her, telling me. “What else do you want to know? I’m okay now.”

“If you’re sure? What happened when you went back to the flat and found Bryan?”

Emma’s eyes closed briefly, as if to shut out the memory. “That was the worst moment of my life. I rang Bryan, and he didn’t answer. So I went back to the flat. I didn’t want to, after what happened. I was afraid Ric might still be there. I let myself in. My hand was shaking so much I could hardly get the key in the lock. I opened the door slowly, listening. The flat was silent. I thought maybe it was empty. Then I saw Bryan sitting against the wall. There was blood on the carpet, but I didn’t realize he was dead at first. I went up to him and tried to rouse him. I saw the knife and pulled it out…” Emma took a deep breath. “Blood gushed out of the wound, and ran over my hand. I was terrified. His head fell forwards. I dialled 999, got the police and an ambulance. I was hysterical, and the girl the other end was so calm…it was unreal.”

Being raped, then finding the dead body of your boyfriend. Ric’s doing. I couldn’t find any words. The room felt colder. Emma went on.

“Lots of police and paramedics arrived, swarming all over the place. About six police cars outside, lights flashing. A woman police officer took me in the kitchen and made me a cup of tea and I couldn’t drink it. I told her about the rape, then I decided I couldn’t face pressing charges. They were understanding about that, they knew why I didn’t want to. They said Ric would go into custody, and I had time to reconsider if I wanted to. They were nice. Everyone was very kind to me.”

We sat quietly side by side at the table, both wrapped in our own thoughts, the recorder recording our silence. A key grated in the front door lock, then I heard the door closing. Feet approached the kitchen. Emma looked up with a smile.

“Phil, I didn’t know you were in London today. How nice.”

Bloody hell. Phil Sharott. He glanced at me, and focused on Emma.

“Emma, are you all right? You look upset.”

“I’m fine, it’s just I’ve been telling Vikki about the day Bryan died. Thinking about it always makes me cry. Vikki, this is Phil Sharott, my manager. Phil, this is Vikki Wilson, we’ve been doing an interview. She’s writing a book about The Voices.”

Phil walked towards us. In his hand was a plastic-wrapped Hackney parking ticket, which he put on the table.

“Miss Wilson. Delighted to meet you.”

“Er…hi. I’m just off.” I turned to Emma. “Thank you very much for being so frank. I appreciate it. Best of luck with the album launch.”

“Thank you.” Emma got up and smiled. Her tears had dried. “If there’s anything else you think of, just ring me. You’ve got my number. Anything at all I can help with, don’t hesitate.”

I slung my handbag over my shoulder and picked up the recorder. “Goodbye, Emma.” I made for the door.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” said Phil pleasantly.

“I came by tube.”

“Then I’ll walk you to the station.”

“There’s no need, truly. I know the way.”

“I insist. Emma, I won’t be long, I wouldn’t want Miss Wilson getting lost.”

Emma looked surprised, as well she might. I followed Phil into the mews. He started on me as soon as we were out of sight of the house.

“Really, Miss Tallis, you’ve upset Emma and made her cry. That’s not kind.”

“She wanted to tell me—”

“Tell you what?”

“About the day Bryan Orr died.”

“Only because you lied to her and told her you were writing a book.”

I didn’t answer. I wanted him to go away. I wanted to be on my own. I walked briskly, though I didn’t feel brisk, Phil tagging along beside me.

“What are you playing at? You said you were seeing a customer about a horse. Coming here, pretending to be someone you are not, deceiving Emma, distressing her and wasting her time for reasons which I frankly cannot fathom… Did Ric put you up to this? What on earth did you hope to achieve?”

“I should have thought that was obvious,” I muttered sulkily. He was talking to me as though I was a badly-behaved schoolchild.

“What are you trying to prove? That Ric’s innocent? Because that’s what you want to believe? Did she tell you what Ric did to her?” He scrutinized my face, and nodded. “I see she did. I hope you like what you discovered today.”

I hadn’t liked it. I increased my pace. I didn’t want to spend any longer in his company than I had to. When I was alone I would think about Emma’s revelation, and what to do about it. Phil accelerated to keep up with me.

“As for the murder, you really should give me some credit. I’m a lawyer. I’ve seen the evidence. The police don’t have any doubts. You don’t know how hard it was to persuade the judge to let him out on bail. You going around impersonating people, telling lies, playing private detectives, isn’t going to help anyone, least of all Ric. This was his idea, wasn’t it?”

I said nothing. I marched rapidly past the rich people’s houses towards Marble Arch, eyes facing front, as if he was a stranger hassling me.

“He needs to get back abroad and keep his head down. I’m sorting out the money as fast as I can. I’m going to ask you to wipe that interview you’ve just done with Emma. Give me the recorder.”

I was still holding it. I jumped away and put it in my bag, and did up the zip, not slackening my pace.

“Hand it over, Miss Tallis.”

“No, why should I?”

“Because it was procured under false pretences. You’ve no right to keep it.”

“Tough. Try and stop me.” I was practically running now.

Phil made a grab for the handbag. He got hold of the strap. I jerked it away, but he held on. I stopped and spun round, nearly bumping into him. The mixed emotions of the last hour condensed into rage and rushed through me. I was so furious, I was tempted to take a swipe at him. That would wipe the superior expression off his face. I glowered.

“Let go or I’ll scream.”

He didn’t move. A young woman pushing a buggy passed us; she stared, then averted her gaze. I drew a big lungful of air, opened my mouth, and he took his hand off the bag. We stood, a foot apart, staring angrily at each other, breathing hard. Phil’s eyes dropped first. He made to walk away, then paused, turned, and said,

“Clearly I am wasting my breath trying to reason with you. You’d better go back to Ric and see what he wants you to do next. Fortunate for him that he’s found someone so credulous. You’re the only person who believes his fairy tales, and are likely to remain so.”

I watched his tall figure stalk away down Connaught Street. My whole frame was shaken by my breathing and my frantically-pumping heart. I decided I’d get rid of the adrenaline sloshing round my system by walking home.

It would give me time to work out what to do.

Chapter

17

*

Desperate to keep moving, I hovered at the red lights amid the confusion of cars, street signs and people that is Edgware Road. A gap in the traffic – I dashed across, a driver blasting me with his horn and yelling. Bastard. The grey sky had darkened to match my mood. A gritty wind blew in my face.

I wanted to get home…but Ric was there. Ric…I’d liked him, trusted him – been a little in love with him, I could see that now. And he’d been lying to me all the time. He was a rapist and a murderer. Right, so I would go to a police station, the one at Shepherdess Walk, and tell them. They’d think I was mad at first, but I’d make them believe me. They could have my keys, go and arrest Ric, take him away, and then I could go home. I wouldn’t have to see him. End of story. I’d get back to the life I had before. Dog – I would keep him, Ric couldn’t have a dog in jail.

Misery swept over me and I wanted to cry. I sniffed, and fished in my bag for a tissue. I’d given them all to Emma. A search of my pockets came up with one, disintegrating and rolled in a ball.

Upper Berkeley Street, Portman Square, Manchester Square. Why had Ric made me go and see Emma, knowing what she could tell me? Had he counted on the fact that she’d kept quiet about the rape all these years? Then what did he hope she’d tell me that might help him? If he was guilty of rape, did it follow that he was also guilty of murder? My head ached and I couldn’t think straight.

It wasn’t credible Emma had made it up. No one could be that convincing, the way she’d cried. Surely. And why would she make it up? To get publicity for her album, a boost to her career, and a lot of money from a tabloid – would that be incentive enough to invent such a story? Was she that manipulative? I didn’t know her. I only met her that afternoon. I had liked her, thought her natural and friendly, sensible and good-humoured. I might have been wrong.

Wigmore Street, Regent Street, Oxford Circus; packed with people hurrying, dawdling, talking on their mobiles, laden with carrier bags, the street solid with nose-to-tail red buses. I remembered the day I bought the clothes at Topshop, on the way to collect Ric’s money. Phil Sharott – where did he fit in? He wasn’t averse to breaking the law, however fond he was of adopting a high moral tone. He’d faked Ric’s death, set up dodgy accounts, and provided illegal drugs. Perhaps he supplied drugs to The Voices. I must ask Ric. Except I wouldn’t see Ric again, and I wouldn’t be doing any more investigating either. I pressed on down Oxford Street, the crowd thinning. Light rain prickled on my face.

Emma and Phil Sharott. She’d taken up with him after his wife died – very soon after. Who was her boyfriend for two and a half years, between Bryan and Phil? No one the paparazzi had been interested in, or it would have been on Google. Unless it had been someone who wanted to keep it quiet, and had succeeded. Or maybe Ric had put her off men for a while. I could understand that.

I trudged past Tottenham Court Road tube station, the litter-strewn nothingness of Centre Point’s ground level, New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury Way. No wonder Ric had been touchy on the subject of Bryan’s death. He’d always shut up or left the room, though what he had said tallied with Emma’s account. But what he hadn’t said was the crucial part, it now appeared.

Theobald’s Road, the tall trees of Grey’s Inn Field on my right, expensive and fashionable Clerkenwell Road. I’d been very convenient for Ric, right from the start. I’d given him a place to live, a taxi service; I’d let him come up to the flat, even when I wasn’t there, and use my computer. He’d got me running around talking to people. James thought I was crazy. Ric would have been in my bed if I’d let him, too… But I’d said no, and he’d been okay about that, he’d backed off. He hadn’t raped me; he hadn’t been pushy or put pressure on me, then or since; we’d been alone in the building, and Fox Hollow Yard is deserted outside working hours. No one lives there except me, and a studio photographer who’s away most of the time.

I felt muddled, the way you do when you’re about to make the wrong decision. I hadn’t known Ric for long, but I knew him better than Emma. My opinion, tentatively formed on my rooftop weeks ago, was that he was all right; until today nothing had happened to change that. Maybe Emma was making it up. It’s safe to allege rape three years on – impossible to prove or disprove the story. Even safer if she believed Ric was dead. The dead can’t argue, and you can’t slander the dead. Clearly, Phil had not told her Ric was alive.

Along Old Street, left into Bath Street, wait for ages to cross the broad expanse of City Road, into Shepherdess Walk. I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t decided. Supposing I shopped Ric to the police, then found out he was telling the truth? He’d have less chance than last time, after jumping bail and playing dead. Particularly once Emma had dropped her bombshell.

Still uncertain, I walked past police vans, up steps smelling of urine and disinfectant to the bright blue automatic door. Inside, the duty sergeant stood at a counter behind thick glass in a short-sleeved shirt, explaining to a sad Chinese girl.

“That’s your crime reference number. You’ll get a phone call, can’t tell you when, I’m afraid, but they’ll take more details. Sorry about the wait. You could be lucky, there’s a chance of getting it back, but sometimes they break them up for parts…”

There were three chairs, occupied by a black man, a white man, and a child. The child stared curiously at me, the men were slumped, practically asleep. An Asian family and a short stout peroxide-blonde woman waited in line. I leaned against the wall by a public phone.

The girl left, and the family asked about a police report they were waiting for, regarding a fight, that they needed to apply for housing in Hackney. None of them looked like people who’d get involved in a fight. They were told it would take six to eight weeks. The space was so small, it was impossible not to eavesdrop.

I tried to imagine telling the helpful policeman behind the glass, with half a dozen people idly listening to our conversation, that I’d got the late Ric Kealey in my flat round the corner, and was here to turn him in. He’d be polite, I could tell that. I’d just have to sound sane and be persistent.

The minutes dragged by. The family’s problems appeared intractable; poor things, struggling with bureaucracy in an alien tongue. I felt exhausted. I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, as Bryan had. Emma had seemed more upset talking about the rape than about finding Bryan’s body. Was that significant? I couldn’t imagine being in either situation. Perhaps she’d got used to talking about the murder, but not the rape.

The Asian family left, the white man went to the counter, the fat woman sat with a sigh of relief and I glanced at my watch. I’d been there twenty-five minutes. Ric would be wondering what had happened to me, why I hadn’t rung. It was his turn to cook that evening, and he’d threatened me with a curry. I’d told him I only liked mild fruity curries. He assured me his curry, though admittedly there was a risk it might blow the top of my head off, would be so delicious it would change my mind. It was a legend among The Voices.

“None for you, Dog,” he’d said, burying his face in Dog’s fur. “I like the top of your head just the way it is.”

He’d planned to shop for ingredients while I was at Emma’s. I got to my feet, moved to the door, pressed the release, and walked through it. I was not going to hand Ric over to the police, not yet.

I would play him the recording, and watch his reaction.

Chapter

18

*

Ric was upstairs in the flat, almost completely horizontal on the sofa, Dog sprawled on his chest. They were watching Shrek. I sat on the far end of the sofa, and Ric heaved himself more or less vertical and clicked off the television. Dog jumped down, came to be patted, and wandered off.

“What kept you? I expected you hours ago.”

I didn’t want to look at Ric, but I made myself. He looked the same. Impossibly attractive, familiar, a face I’d grown fond of. I know this sounds stupid, but my chest hurt, a sort of dull ache round my heart.

“I walked back.” My voice sounded flat and tired. “Phil came in just as I was going.” I got the recorder out of my bag, and put it on the coffee table. “He didn’t let on to Emma. He wanted to wipe the interview, but I wouldn’t let him.”

“Lucky you’d finished. Did she say anything?”

“Yes…listen to it.”

“I was going to start the curry now you’re here. Can’t you tell me while I do it?”

“It’s better if you hear it for yourself.” I switched on the recorder.

Emma and me giggling…Ric raised his eyebrows. I turned up the volume, so every word could be heard. My voice asked,

“What’s the song called?”

“It’s a Voices’ song. Not one of their best-known ones, but it’s lovely. ‘You’re on my Mind’…”

“Shit. Phil should have asked me.” I paused it. He shook his head. “It’s okay, go on.”

We sat there while Emma told me about her hopes for the new album. On the recording I sounded unlike myself, the way one does; I could hear my mother’s inflections from time to time. Ric slid down on the sofa and shut his eyes. They opened when the subject of Emma’s job came up, but he didn’t say anything. We heard Emma ask me to sign her agreement, and I got out the piece of paper and handed it to Ric. After a quick look he put it on the table.

“What about Ric Kealey?”

“Ric…he was so gorgeous, that’s the first thing you noticed about him…”

Ric sat up. It’s irresistible, listening to what others think about you. A vain bugger, Dave Calder had called him.

“I think he fancied me. He used to make excuses to be alone with me. If I left the room, he’d follow. Discreetly. But when we were alone, he’d just put me down…”

“Pause it!”

I paused it.

“That is so not true! I did not follow her around. If anything it was the other way about, for the first few days, till she latched on to Bryan. Emma fancied me – no question – she just thought Bryan was a softer option.”

I pushed the button.

“…I started getting silent phone calls in the middle of the night on my mobile when Bryan was away, never when he was there. Hardly anyone had the number. There’s no proof it was Ric, of course, but he knew when I was alone, and he could have got the number easily, too.”

Ric reached across and stopped the machine. “She gave me her number! Bryan lost his mobile, and she offered me her number so I could get hold of him. I never used it. Why is she saying this?”

I turned it on again. Emma’s voice, lower and troubled, “The next morning, when Bryan came home, Ric was with him. He said, ‘Emma, you look terrible. Huge bags under your eyes. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’ Then he smiled.”

“She’s making it up! This didn’t happen!”

He listened quietly to Emma’s account of the row at Tiger Studios, eyes down. I guessed he was okay with her version of that.

“…He grabbed my arm, pulled me towards him and kissed me. He was very strong. I struggled, but I couldn’t get away. I tried to, but I couldn’t… And then he raped me.”

“WHAT?” There was fury and disbelief on Ric’s face. “She’s saying I raped her? It’s a lie. You don’t believe her, Caz, do you?”

“I don’t know what I believe. Listen to the rest.”

“That’s…awful…” My voice, sounding shocked.

“Caz, I didn’t do it. She’s lying.”

Emma’s tearful voice continued. Ric did not interrupt any more; he sat in silence. It got to, “Phil, I didn’t know you were in London today. How nice.”

I pressed pause, looked at Ric, and said, “Tears were running down her face. Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s a superb actress. I don’t know her well enough to judge. Where did you get those bruises you had last week?”

“Not from raping Emma three years ago. Or d’you think it’s something I do on a regular basis? I got into a fight with a guy outside a café. I came out and caught him trying to smash my bike lock with a hammer.”

“You didn’t tell me. I nearly turned you in today, after what Emma said. I went and queued at the police station – if there’d been fewer people you’d be arrested by now. I want to know what really happened, Ric. You said yourself you were off your head with drugs half the time. I don’t like lies. Tell me the truth.”

Ric got up, scowling. “I’m going to see her. Right now. She’s only doing this because she thinks I’m dead. Phil can’t have told her. Come with me, I want you to be there, then you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

I stood up too. “Hang on, Ric, let’s talk about it first. There’s no point—”

The doorbell rang, and went on ringing, as if it was stuck. I looked at the entry phone’s small screen to see who it was. Ah.

“It’s Jeff.”

“Jesus, what timing. Don’t answer it.”

The bell stopped. I went to the round window that overlooked Fox Hollow Yard. A silver Maserati was parked in the middle of the cobbles. Jeff stood next to it, scanning the windows for signs of life. I shrank back. He moved out of sight towards the door, and the bell started again.

“He’ll go eventually,” Ric said.

Silence. I waited to see Jeff get in his car. Instead a series of thumps and crashes resounded through the building.

“He’s kicking my front door! I’ll have to let him in, he’ll damage it – or he might break a window!”

I made for the buzzer, and Ric grabbed my arm. I thought of Emma; maybe Ric did too. He let me go.

“Ric! RIC! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, ANSWER THE DOOR!” Jeff sounded beside himself. His shouting must have been audible on the street outside the Yard. Anyone hearing it would think someone was having a row and pass on. Probably…

Another frenzied attack on the door.

“Just leave it, Caz, he’ll go in a minute.”

Jeff walked to his car, but not the driver’s door. He opened the boot, and delved around. He closed the boot. In his hand was a car jack.

“I’m letting him in.”

I sped to the entry phone and pressed the buzzer until I saw Jeff’s head appear on the screen, and the door open, then pelted downstairs. I didn’t want him going berserk in the office with the jack. There were a lot of valuable horses down there. Ric ran after me. Dog scrambled after Ric.

We burst through the door. Jeff turned towards us, his face blank. I could smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room. His eyes passed over me as if I wasn’t there, and rested on Ric. Slowly, he bent and laid the jack on the floor, keeping his eyes on Ric as if he might disappear.

Ric smiled at him. “Hi, Jeff. It’s been a long time…”

Jeff came forward and clasped Ric in his arms, burying his face in his neck. If I’d had any doubts about Ric’s sexual orientation, the way he was standing in Jeff’s grasp would have dispelled them, even though I couldn’t see his expression. Discomfort was written all over him; his spine was rigid, his head held back; when harsh sobs came from Jeff’s throat, Ric patted him gingerly on the shoulder with every sign of reluctance.

“Hey, it’s okay, dude,” he muttered.

I retreated through the door and left them to it. I was tempted to pick up the jack and take it with me, but figured if Jeff got violent Ric could sort him out. My legs ached as I climbed the stairs; I went into the flat and headed for the kitchen. Though I was hungry, I couldn’t face cooking. There was a bottle of wine in the fridge and I poured myself a glass. I toasted the end of a French loaf, buttered it, put an apple on the plate and slumped on the sofa, staring into space.

The situation seemed to me to be getting out of hand.

Ten minutes later Ric put his head round the door.

“I’m ordering pizzas – what do you want?”

“You left Jeff on his own down there?”

“It’s okay, he’s calmed down. He’s just a bit drunk and emotional. Wants to talk. Best if you keep out of his way. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“How did he find the address?”

Ric came towards me. I got a faint whiff of Jeff Pike’s aftershave. “He rang Emma and asked if Vikki Wilson had been in touch. She told him you were going to interview her today, so he went to Bayswater and skulked around until he saw you come out of her house, then followed you here.”

All the way from W2 to Hoxton, and I hadn’t spotted him. I really wasn’t cut out for P.I. work.

“So what happened to him for over an hour?”

“He lost his nerve. Couldn’t face finding out he was wrong after all.” Ric appeared faintly gratified by Jeff’s devotion. “He went to the pub on the corner and had a few quick vodkas for Dutch courage, got a taxi to Bayswater to pick up his car, then drove back.”

“He won’t tell anyone you’re alive?”

Ric shook his head. “No way.” Again a hint of complacency.

“Well, keep an eye on him.”

“And the pizza?”

“Four seasons.”

“I’ll bring it up when it gets here.” He walked over to the stairs. “Sorry about this, Caz.”

“Yeah, you’ve got to stop all these people having fantasies about you. It’s becoming a nuisance.”

He turned. “Does that mean you believe me? About Emma?”

Perhaps it did. I’d spoken without thinking. “I’m too tired to work it out tonight. I believed Emma, and I believe you too. Phil said I was credulous, and maybe he’s right.”

Ric smiled, not his usual smile; he looked curiously comforted and vulnerable. I wanted to hug him.

“I’d better get back downstairs.” He shook his head. “Poor old Jeff. There’s nothing to be done about it…”

“Poor old Jeff’s wife.”

“I’ll go and order the pizzas.” A thought struck him, and he turned. “One thing, we don’t have to worry about Jeff turning up any more.”

The rest of the evening, spent curled up on the sofa with a pizza, a good novel and half a bottle of wine restored my spirits. The Big Sleep – I’ve read it three times, and seen the film, and I still don’t know who killed the chauffeur.

At about ten I heard the front door close. I took my plate to the kitchen, and walked to the window. There’s a security light in Fox Hollow Yard that is set off by movement; the idea is to discourage people from dealing drugs, having sex or peeing against the walls. The Yard looked like a film set in its brilliant beam. I could almost hear a voice say, “And…action!” On cue I saw Jeff go to his car, remove a couple of parking tickets from the windscreen, drop them on the cobbles, open the passenger door, chuck the jack in the back and get in. Ric, looking like the star of the film, strolled over and got behind the wheel. The Maserati’s powerful engine purred into life, and the car moved smoothly on to the road like a panther out on the prowl for its evening meal.

When Ric returned, I was on the roof terrace watering the plants. I’d forgotten to do it in daylight, but I’d switched on the outdoor lighting and could see well enough. Spem In Alium, by my namesake Thomas Tallis, sounded in the quiet; eerie, angelic, piercingly sad. I thought of the Duke who, hearing it for the first time, ‘tooke his chayne of gold from of his necke & putt yt about Tallice his necke & gave yt him.’

Lavender, honeysuckle and thyme scented the air, and the moon was new, sharp against a deep blue sky. Ric walked through the flat, out to the rooftop and stood beside me.

“Nice out here. I took Jeff home. Beer on top of vodka, he was too drunk to drive. He wanted me to stay at his place.”

“Oh.”

“No, I mean he said I could stay there instead of here. I thought you might want me to go.”

I moved to the next bay tree. They stand taller than me, a metre across, in big Italian pots, and drink a lot. The splash of the water was as soothing as the music. Maybe I should get a fountain. Ric leaving…

He followed me, standing close in the darkness. “Because of what Emma said.”

“D’you want to go?”

Ric took the hose, turned it off and laid it down, and put his hands on my waist. Their warmth through my tee shirt made me shiver.

“No. Too many things I don’t know,” he said. “What’s Caz short for?”

I stared up into his eyes. “Cassandra.”

“Cassandra…” He pulled me against him. Oh dear…

He said, “What were you like before I knew you?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Uh…who was your last boyfriend?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“No…” Ric’s mouth was on my cheek, my neck, my ear. Ric was good at kissing. I didn’t want him to stop. My mind still doubted; my body had its own agenda.

“An IT guy called Kevin.” I could feel Ric’s silent laugh in his ribcage, and in his breath against my skin. “There, I told you…”

“Would I laugh at you? So who was your first?”

“Chris. He was nice – a genuinely nice guy. We were eighteen, and he had it all planned…we’d share a flat, and get married after he finished university.”

A pause, while we kissed. I wrapped my arms around him. I was filled with a wild recklessness. I didn’t care about Emma. She was lying. I didn’t believe her.

“Why did you split up?” he murmured.

“I met someone else.”

“Who was that?”

I leaned back, but kept hold of him, and smiled. “Now who’s like the sodding Spanish Inquisition?”

Ric’s face was shadowed, but I could see his eyes, glinting in the dark. “I thought, if I kept you talking, you might not notice when I led you upstairs to your bedroom. And maybe, if you got really interested in the conversation, I could take off all your clothes, and you wouldn’t mind. A cunning plan. Would it work, d’you think?”

My heart beat fast. “I don’t know. You could try it and see.”

He let go of me, took my hand in his, and drew me towards the flat.

Chapter

19

*

I woke as cosy as a hamster in its ball of straw, with Ric’s warm body next to mine. Moving slowly, I turned to sneak a look at him as he slept. His mouth curved in repose; his eyebrows were like an osprey’s wings; I could see dark roots among the blond where the real hair colour was growing through, matching his stubble and the hair on his gently-moving chest. A big smile spread itself over my face. I felt light, radiant, fizzing with happiness, as if all pain and trouble were far away, insignificant and easily dealt with.

Ric’s mobile rang. His eyes opened, and he smiled.

“Caz.”

“Ric.”

His hand reached for me under the duvet.

“Aren’t you going to answer the phone?” I said.

“No.”

“It might be Phil.” What is it about a phone, that makes it so difficult to ignore, like the cry of a baby?

“And your point is?” He pulled me on top of him. It didn’t seem to be bothering Ric. And very soon, it wasn’t bothering me either. When the ring tone ceased, I didn’t even notice.

We lay, some time later, limbs tangled and comfortable, putting off getting up for breakfast. The sun moved across the wall; random thoughts drifted through my mind. How little, really, I knew about Ric. I propped myself up on one elbow and pushed my hair back.

“How many girls have you slept with?”

He half opened his eyes. “D’you mean had sex with? You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

“I stopped counting after a hundred. It seemed a bit adolescent. Keeping score.”

“More than a hundred!” I felt a pang at being the most recent of so many. “Will you even remember this after?”

“Oh, yes.” His finger caressed my despondent mouth. “You’re not forgettable, Caz. You’ve got more substance than the rest…you’re grittier, gristlier, less bland…more likely to get stuck between the teeth…”

“Thanks…”

Ric grinned at me. The cello ring tone started again. He stretched out a lazy arm, and held the phone to his ear.

“Phil.” I could feel his relaxed muscles tense; his eyes were still on mine, but the warmth had left them.

…………….

“See you then.”

Ric put the phone down on the bedside table. “He’s on his way over, he’ll be here in half an hour.”

“Gah!” I leaped out of bed and headed for the shower, nearly tripping over Dog curled up on the rug.

By the time Phil Sharott rang my doorbell Ric and I, after a frenetic scramble, were washed, dressed, and eating toast. There was none of the embarrassment you sometimes get after a first night together. It just seemed like the right thing had happened, and apart from feeling so happy that I couldn’t stop smiling, and wanting to gaze at him all the time, everything felt normal. A very good normal. Ric seemed rather cheerful too.

I offered Phil a cup of coffee.

“No, thank you,” he said, a hint of frost in his tone. For a moment I couldn’t think why, then I remembered our dash along Connaught Street. Yesterday. It seemed a long time ago. I tried to get my brain into gear.

We all went and sat on the sofa, Ric in the middle. Phil picked up my old green and white Penguin edition of The Lady in the Lake I’d left among the cushions. He surveyed it, eyebrows raised, before he moved it out of the way. He put his briefcase on the coffee table, opened it and got out several envelopes and packages, which he laid out neatly side by side. His manner was sober and business-like; he had the air of an accountant or bank manager. Ric reached for the first envelope, and lifted the flap. I saw the maroon and gold of a British passport. It was rubbed around the edges, with one corner bent over. He flicked through it, pausing to consider the photograph page. He stiffened and looked accusingly at Phil.

“This expires in three weeks.”

“It’s the best I could obtain. That’s a genuine passport. The photograph will pass for you, and it’s a common name. I agree, it’s unfortunate about the expiry date, but three weeks is plenty of time for you to leave the country, establish an identity and set up a number of bank accounts.”

“Where did you get it from?” I asked.

Phil’s spectacles gleamed repressively at me. “One has various contacts.”

“In the criminal underworld?” I said, just to annoy him.

“He’s a lawyer, he’s always mixing with criminals,” said Ric, reaching for the next envelope.

“If it’s a stolen passport, mightn’t Ric get stopped using it through customs?”

“Highly unlikely. But in any case, I’ll be taking him on my boat – too many people at airports. He might be recognized.”

Ric drew out several white folded packages, each about ten centimetres square.

“Careful with those,” said Phil.

Ric unfolded a packet; inside, on pale blue translucent paper, something sparkled. I craned to see. A dozen brilliant-cut stones, about the same diameter as a pencil. He handed me one; I held it in the sun and it flashed red, blue and green fire. Diamonds.

“There’s a million dollars’ worth in those packets. Top quality colour, clarity and cut, between one and a half and three carats. Best to keep them a few years before you sell them, or you won’t get what I paid. Easily concealed.”

The next manila envelope held something the size of a small brick. Ric pulled out five neat bundles of notes.

“Fifty thousand euros,” said Phil. “About forty thousand pounds at the current rate of exchange.”

Without comment, Ric put the euros aside and opened the last A4 envelope. It contained what appeared to be utility bills, and various receipts. Ric shuffled through them. I watched his intent face, poring over the documents. He was so beautiful…something made me glance up, and I saw Phil’s eyes on me. He looked away to Ric.

“Proof of residency in this country for the past two years, essential for opening a bank account.”

Ric looked about, as if expecting to find something he had missed. His face was stony. “And that’s the lot? That’s all I’m getting of my fifty, sixty, seventy million dollars?”

“Of course not. When you get abroad, you use the ID material to open a series of bank accounts in your new name…”

“Robert Smith?” Ric’s voice was chilly.

“Yes, as in the passport. That will enable me to transfer multiple lump sums, keeping them below a level at which banks might start to take an interest.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’d say forty or fifty thousand pounds in each account. With these papers there’d be no reason for them to get suspicious.”

I said, “Don’t banks have to report transactions over a certain limit?”

“Which film did you get that from, Miss Tallis?” I didn’t reply. Actually, I’d got it from The Sopranos. He smiled, patronizingly. “They do things differently in America.”

Cello music sounded from the mezzanine. Ric had left his mobile beside my bed. He didn’t make a move, and neither did I. After a moment, when it became clear we were ignoring it, Phil continued.

“Long-term, the best cover may well be an offshore company, or setting you up as a business—”

My mobile rang in my pocket. An unfeasibly strident and jaunty tune I’d been meaning to change. I got it out – James – and turned it off. I could feel my face going pink. I kept my eyes down, so I don’t know whether Phil put two and two together.

“…then you can submit invoices on a regular basis. I’ll start working on it as soon as you’ve left the country.”

“No.” Ric slapped the papers on the table. “I’m not doing that. I want all of the money, now. In diamonds if necessary, but I’m not going to wait and take it in dribs and drabs. And I’m staying here until I get it.”

“Please don’t be hasty, Ric. I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into the best way to go. This method may be piecemeal, and slower than you would like, but it’s safe and you’ll get your money. There isn’t a better way – if there was, I’d have found it.”

“So that’s it?” Ric pushed the papers with a contemptuous finger.

“Yes. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

“Well fuck you. In that case, maybe I won’t go abroad.”

Phil shut his briefcase. “I’m sorry that’s your attitude, after all the trouble I’ve taken.” He pursed his lips, and spoke with deliberation. “Emma’s due to talk to the News of the World on Tuesday. I think I can undertake to convince her not to, if you are out of the country by then.”

Ric got up slowly, his face darkening, exuding menace. Phil stood too, and moved back a little.

“So she makes up a rape story, then you use it as a lever to get me out of England? Is that it? Blackmail? Did you put her up to it, Phil?”

“Of course not. And I think you’d find life a little easier if you faced up to the consequences of your actions. You’re not fooling anyone.” He glanced at me. “Except the incurably naive.”

I could tell he meant it. I found him a difficult man to assess, but on this occasion his sincerity was obvious; he certainly believed Emma’s account of the rape. And he was brave, saying that, given Ric’s demeanour. Maybe he thought he wouldn’t hit a man in glasses. Myself, I wasn’t so sure. Phil was taller than Ric, but lacked his muscles and street-fighting aggression. Ric stepped up to him. Though his voice was low, every word was distinct.

“Emma cheated on Bryan with me. Her decision. Get used to it, Phil, because it’s the truth. I didn’t have to persuade her, even. She was gagging for it.”

For a second Phil was motionless, his face reddening; then he aimed a blow at Ric, inexpertly but with feeling. Ric sidestepped; his left arm came up fast to deflect it, and he struck Phil hard on the face with his right fist. Phil stopped fighting, and put his hands up to protect himself. He’d had enough, but Ric went on hitting him anyway, as if he was a punchbag. Phil bent over and turned sideways, stumbling away. Ric yanked him back by his collar and hit him again, his face cold, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

I leaped up. “Stop it!” I grabbed his left arm. “Stop, Ric, you’re hurting him.”

“He asked for it, the little shit,” he said, not letting go, punching him in the ribs with his free hand. Phil grunted in pain. Ric hit him again.

I pulled at him with all my strength. “No, Ric, please, don’t…”

One last smashing blow that sent Phil staggering across the room, doubled-up and gasping for breath, and Ric stopped. He stood, breathing hard, not because of the fight but because of his anger, then shook my hand off his arm, turned and went through the door on to the roof terrace. Dog trotted out of the corner he’d retreated to, and joined him. Phil subsided on the edge of the sofa, holding his side, winded. His nose was bleeding. Blood dripped on his expensive suit. He got out a white handkerchief and spat blood into it.

I sat beside him. “Are you all right?”

“Hardly, after that assault,” he said bitterly. “Ric’s an animal. He should be locked up.”

I walked to the kitchen and got a clean dishcloth, ran it under the cold tap, and wrung it out. I went back to Phil. He took off his glasses with a trembling hand and checked them. I wiped his face. He sat quietly letting me do this, then held his handkerchief to his nose, trying to stem the bleeding, while I dabbed ineffectually at the blood on his lapels. One of them was ripped at the seams where Ric had grabbed it.

“I think if you took it off I could get the blood out.”

“Thank you, but don’t bother, Miss Tallis. If you could pass me my briefcase, I’ll leave. I don’t want to stay here longer than I have to. I’d be grateful if you’d walk me to my car.”

“Okay…”

We got up, me holding his briefcase and Phil still pressing the handkerchief to his nose. I could tell moving hurt him as he went down the stairs. Phil’s gleaming Audi was parked outside Fox Hollow Yard. As we approached, a traffic warden slipped a parking ticket under the windscreen wiper and walked away. Behind the glass was a label showing parking time paid for. I peered at it.

“It hasn’t expired! Write in to them and you won’t have to pay it. They’re terrible…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Phil opened the driver’s door and put the parking ticket on the passenger seat. He eased himself carefully inside, shut the door, wound down the window and looked up at me.

“You see what he’s like, Miss Tallis? Violent, uncontrolled, vicious. You’re not safe with him. You’re making a big mistake to trust him, an even bigger one if, as I suspect, you’ve allowed yourself to become entangled with him. He’s untrustworthy. I’ll do my best to persuade Emma not to give her story to the press, for her sake, not his. The best thing for everyone, you, me, Emma, is for Ric to go back abroad. Best for him as well. Perhaps now you understand why I think that?”

I didn’t say anything. He started the car, put it into gear and drove off down the road. I walked slowly back to the flat.

Ric was still outside, leaning on the railing. I went and stood beside him. He looked at me; no expression, like the day I met him.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said.

I thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he said, “He started it.”

“Ric, you’re not ten years old! You don’t have to hit back just because someone hits you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the way you see it. If people hit me, I don’t stand there and take it.”

“I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way you went for him.”

“He’s got my money, Caz. And now he and Emma have cooked up this rape scenario that justifies treating me like dirt. And there’s fuck all I can do about it. He’s got me where he wants me and he knows it.”

“He believes Emma’s story. He thinks you raped her. Couldn’t you tell?”

“I could tell he was using it to manipulate me.”

“Beating him up isn’t going to help.”

“It helped me.” He turned and looked at me properly. “I’m pissed off, Caz. I had a life, and yeah, I fucked up, but a lot of what I had I liked, and I want it back. You don’t know how it feels when you write a new song, and know it’s good, and play it at a gig for the first time, and the audience gets it – totally gets it. You’re there in that moment together. That’s what it’s about. Not the money or the fame. You’ve made it happen, it’s yours, you’ve got it right here in your hand.” Ric held out his palm, and closed his fingers. He shook his head impatiently. “I can’t explain, but you feel so alive. Nothing else comes close. That’s what I want, that’s what I’m missing. I haven’t finished yet, I’ve barely begun. I want to be back at the top, and get it right this time. I’m writing again, good stuff, the best I’ve done. It’s getting to me, hanging around doing nothing, staying out of sight. I can’t see an end to it. Phil was the last fucking straw.”

“I can see it’s frustrating. But Ric, you’re in enough trouble already. You’re wanted for killing Bryan, and if I hadn’t stopped you hitting Phil, you might have killed him, the way you were going.”

“Him?” His voice was sharp. “You mean in the sense of him too? You think I killed Bryan?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t this morning. But seeing your face while you were attacking Phil…I could imagine…if you were drunk or something…”

Ric turned, strode to the French windows, into the flat, across to the door and out, slamming it shut. Dog ran over and whined and scratched to follow him. His tail went down and he sat. A minute later I heard the front door slam, then a motorbike start up.

Desolation swept over me. Only an hour before, nothing could touch me; the whole world shone in a golden light. Now everything felt wrong. I went inside, up to my bedroom and sat on the bed. Ric’s mobile lay beside it. I couldn’t ring him. Supposing he crashed his bike… I thought of Emma weeping, Phil’s face pale and smeared with blood, his hands shaking; Ric’s expression before he left. I wished my mother was still alive, a phone call away, thirty-five minutes on the tube.

Dog’s claws scratched on the stairs. He jumped on to my lap. I hugged him and laid my cheek on his fur.

“It’s all right, Dog, don’t you worry, he’ll be back. He’ll come back for you. He wouldn’t go off without you. His guitar’s here, and his phone, and his diamonds… Everything will be okay, I promise.”

Chapter

20

*

Ric’s phone rang. Without really thinking it through, I answered it.

“Hallo?”

Pause. “Who’s that?” Jeff Pike, the nasal edge to his voice more marked down the line.

“It’s Caz.”

“Not being Vikki today, then? Where’s Ric?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone out.”

“When will he be back?”

“He didn’t say.”

Pause. “Tell him to call me.”

“Okay. Bye,” but he’d hung up.

After a bit I went downstairs and cleared the breakfast things. I collected Ric’s documents and the diamonds, and went to the first floor workshop. A medium-size George Woodrow stood in the corner. He had horizontal cracks running along each side, and to repair the joints I’d have to lever them apart and plane the timber level. I pulled out the remnants of his gingery tail, rolled up the papers one by one and poked them into the one inch diameter hole, then pushed in the diamonds. The passport had me stumped for a moment, but I found it would just squeeze through the widest part of one of the gaps. It dropped into the body cavity. I put the tail back. It would take an exhaustive police search to find the stash. Rocking horses are so heavy, it doesn’t occur to most people they are hollow.

That done, I climbed the stairs to the flat. There was a spatter of blood on the black walnut floorboards, and I wiped it up. I stared out of the window; the sun had gone behind the clouds. A solid lump of misery settled itself below my heart. Ric might ring me from a call box when he’d calmed down. I turned on my phone.

Dog eyed the door, then me, in a pointed way, so I took him to Shoreditch Park. When we returned I got a grip on myself. It was a Friday, a working day, gone eleven-thirty, and there were jobs to be done. Saladin was waiting for his first coat of paint. I went to the second floor workshop.

The horse looked at me out of his glass eyes, head angled, as if contemplating flight. A stab of pride cheered me briefly as I admired my authentic carving of his replacement ears and jaw. Originally, he’d have had a nailed on bridle, but I would make him a detachable one with buckles, like a real bridle. I don’t like putting nails into an old rocking horse’s head. In his white gesso layer, you could see Saladin’s shape clearly, and it was superb. I’d promised the pensioner who sold him to me that I’d post him a picture when the restoration was complete.

F. H. Ayres horses were painted with a blue/grey base, to allow for the yellowing effect of the spirit varnish. I got the paints out of the cupboard, and mixed the colour in a clean jam jar.

What would Ric do? He had been angrier than I’d ever seen him. Angry with me. The way he shook off my hand, the way he’d slammed out… He might go to the coast, find a boat and go abroad, and I’d never hear from him, never see him again. But surely he wouldn’t do that…would he?

I turned Saladin on to his side, in order to paint his belly and the inside of his legs, then stood him upright once more. I painted his head carefully, using a flat varnish brush to minimize brush marks, then down his arched neck and on to his shoulders. It didn’t take long, though he’s a big horse. I’d just finished when my mobile rang. Eagerly I got it out.

It was James.

“Hi, James.”

“You haven’t forgotten we’re going to the Globe tonight?”

I had forgotten. “No, of course not. What time shall I meet you?”

“It starts at seven thirty – say we meet in the foyer downstairs at seven fifteen?”

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll bike over.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

“You sound a bit…absent-minded.”

“I’m in the middle of painting Saladin.”

“How’s he looking?”

I didn’t want to chat to James. I wanted him to get off the phone, in case Ric rang.

“He’s looking …” I glanced at the horse. Oh my God, too blue. How could I do that? I’d painted him blue. “…fine. Great.”

“I must come and have a look at him.”

“Yes. Well, I’d better get on. See you tonight.”

“See you, Caz.”

I put the phone on the workbench and stared at poor Saladin. Not blue/grey. Definitely blue. A blue horse. Rats. I’d have to let him dry for a couple of days, sand him down and re-paint. I’d counted on doing the dappling on Saturday. Bugger.

I took the brushes to the sink and washed them, deciding to spend the rest of the day on Teasel, instead of the more demanding bridle-making I’d pencilled in. Teasel was a small, quite sweet Collinson, overpainted in black splodges on white; a typical Dad In Shed finish. The grotty but simple job of stripping and filing off her gesso was something it was difficult to mess up.

By four o’clock I’d had enough. Barely a third of Teasel was back to the wood, largely because of my totally pathetic compulsion to keep going to the window to check out the Yard. What on earth was the point of knowing Ric had returned twenty seconds earlier than I otherwise would? Cross with myself, crosser with Ric for not ringing, and anxious in case anything had happened to him, I decided to down tools, have a relaxing bath, wash my hair and make myself look my best for the evening ahead.

I love Shakespeare’s Globe. So did my mother. She contributed to the building fund when I was seven – I can remember her telling me about it – and just past the attendants as you go in there’s a paving slab with her name on: CHRISTINA TALLIS. I always look at it and think of her when I go to the Globe.

James was waiting for me inside the main entrance in the modern annexe. He was carrying two cushions and two seat backs (I do without and save the hire charge when I go on my own, though it’s unarguable that they make the benches much more comfortable) and two programmes.

“Hi Caz. You’re looking even nicer than usual.” He kissed my cheek.

“Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

We went upstairs and through to the Globe. There was my mother’s name on her paving stone, and beyond rose the oak beams, lime plaster and reed thatch of the theatre. James had booked two of the best seats in the house, dead centre at the front of the first balcony. We sat and read our programmes. My mind wandered. Maybe Ric would be at the workshop by now. I’d get back and he’d be there with Dog…James had said something.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Shakespeare was your neighbour. It says here he probably lived in Shoreditch when he was a young actor.”

“You see? Classy area.”

“Cheap and convenient, if perhaps down-at-heel,” James read. “Well, it’s certainly not cheap any more…”

“Shhh, it’s starting.”

In the interval James took me to the bar and left me on a stool in a corner while he went to buy the drinks. The play, a good production, had taken my mind off Ric, but now my thoughts settled on him again. I tried ringing his mobile. No answer.

James handed me a glass of wine, and sat beside me. “Cheers. So how’s everything going? What’s happening with your guest? Any progress there?”

My heart lurched unhappily. “Not really.”

“What’s he planning on doing? He’s been with you for over a month. He can’t stay for ever.”

“It’s just till his money’s sorted out.” If he comes back, that is…

“What’s the problem?”

Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to talk to him about Ric. Though there were things I wouldn’t tell him – like Ric and I had slept together, and the row – it would be a relief. Though he disapproved, he’d certainly listen and be interested, and care about how it affected me. And he’d know about the money aspect. I glanced around. The only people in earshot were Japanese.

“You’ve got to promise—”

“—not to tell. I know. I already have.”

“There’s a problem with Ric’s money. The thing is, three years ago his estate went to his sister. Then when she died, her husband inherited it.”

“How much money?”

“Ric doesn’t know.” James’s eyebrows went up. “More than fifty million dollars, I think.” His eyebrows rose further. “But it’s difficult for Phil, that’s Ric’s sister’s husband, just to hand it over. He says if Ric goes abroad, and opens lots of bank accounts with fake ID, he’ll pay lump sums into them.”

“How much in each?”

“Up to fifty thousand pounds, he said. But with ten accounts, that’d only be half a million pounds, so Ric’s not happy about it. He’d have to open a thousand accounts, I guess, and he couldn’t do that. Though Phil’s talking about setting up a business as cover, or an offshore company.”

“How well does Ric know his brother-in-law?”

“He’s known him since he was a student.”

“And he trusts him?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I doubt what he suggests is possible.” James’s manner became authoritative; he looked the successful banker he was, rather than the amusing friend I’d known since kindergarten. “Governments are on the alert for criminals who launder their proceeds via international banks. Terrorists and drug cartels. A big thing in banking today is KYC – know your customer. If you deposit a large sum of money in a bank, they’re going to take an interest in you – not just because if you’re rich they want to sell you products, but because of the FATF—”

“What’s the FATF?” I’ve never figured out why men love acronyms.

“Sorry, Caz, it’s the Financial Action Task Force. It issued the Forty Recommendations for banks (plus nine on terrorist financing, if you’re being pedantic). They’re the anti-money-laundering standard. The recommendations are things like, do background checks on depositors, and report anything suspicious. So if you’re a modest earner, and suddenly you’re paying in shedloads of money, they’ll take an interest. Nowadays banks use computer programmes to detect dubious activity. The FATF suggests banks report transactions above a certain amount, and in most countries this happens.”

“Above what amount?”

“It varies, but I can tell you it’s one hell of a lot less than fifty thousand. And as for offshore companies, banks want to know who the ‘beneficial owner’ is – not just the person whose name the account’s in, but who is profiting from it.”

“What about putting the money into diamonds? Would that work?”

“Dealers in gold and precious stones come under the same rules – the Money Laundering Regulations, 2007. If it’s a cash transaction above the limits, they have to report it.”

I digested this. So Phil was misleading Ric, making it sound a lot easier than it was…why? To get him to leave the country, probably; he must have thought the package he’d put together would be more persuasive than it had proved. What were his options, now it hadn’t worked? Now that Ric’s hostility had exploded into violence, what would he do?

At the end of the performance, James walked with me north over the Millennium Bridge. It spans the oily black Thames like a dinosaur’s backbone; the view from it of a floodlit St Paul’s, rising above the lit-up offices edging the river, was fantastic. I love London.

James gestured at my bike. “Let me push that for you.”

“It’s okay.”

We reached Queen Victoria Street, and paused.

“Thanks for a lovely evening, James. It was great.”

“Have a drink before you go. There’s a place round the corner…”

“D’you mind if I don’t? I’m a bit tired.” Perhaps, when I got home, Ric would be there…

“Another time, then. And I’ll see you tomorrow for my birthday supper.” James bent forwards to give me a good night kiss. For the first time ever, his lips met my mouth, not my cheek. I was so surprised I nearly fell over my bike. “Good night, Caz.”

Why did he do that? He watched me set off. I turned as I pedalled up Peter’s Hill, and he was still standing there. I rang my bell and he waved.

James surely didn’t fancy me…did he?

Ric wasn’t there when I got back. I could tell as soon as my tyres bumped over the cobbles in the Yard; above the glare of the security light, all the windows were dark. When I opened the door, Dog jumped up at me as though he’d been alone for a week. I lugged the bike up a floor, then took him out for a quick walk.

On our return he followed me up to the flat. I was Ric’s deputy, in Dog’s eyes. I pottered about for a while, made myself a cup of coffee I didn’t want, and went to bed. I read a couple of chapters of Dick Francis’s Enquiry. I felt jumpy. When I finally put out the light, Dog sneaked on to the bed and curled up near my feet. He was not allowed to do this, and he knew it. I pretended not to notice. It took me a while to get to sleep; I couldn’t stop thinking, and listening to the small noises a building makes at night; waiting to hear a key in the lock. In the end I drifted off.

Suddenly I sat up, barely awake, sweating and panting. I glanced at the clock. It was five past three. I’d had a terrible dream. I was in my flat, but on the floor unable to move; the realization came to me that I was tied up. Below me in the workshop someone was dragging things about, quietly, furtively, and I knew when he had finished whatever he was doing he would come and kill me… I turned on the light. Dog’s eyes glinted behind shaggy fur, but he didn’t stir. He was lying doggo, so I wouldn’t see him and turf him off the bed.

I got up and went to the bathroom. My eyes were big and scared in the mirror. I drank a glass of water. A police siren screeched through the quiet. All at once the conviction gripped me that Ric was dead. I’d never see him again, or hear anything about him, or find out what had happened; how he had died. The days would pass slowly, like the hours were doing now, then the weeks, and eventually I’d settle back into my pre-Ric life. Not knowing. I felt cold.

I slid under the duvet and switched out the light. The dream reached for me. Think of something else…Emma had made Phil believe Ric had raped her. Phil had not told Emma Ric was alive, or that I was not Vikki Wilson. He hadn’t told me Emma’s rape story, even though he knew Ric was staying in my house. Or informed Ric it was next to impossible to hand over fifty million dollars. What else wasn’t he telling? I picked over what had happened, trying to make sense of it…and somewhere in my mind pieces moved, and clicked together to make one perfect corner of the puzzle.

I saw with complete clarity that Ric did not kill Bryan. It was not that I didn’t believe him capable of it, in the extreme heat of the moment; but his behaviour was not that of a guilty man. Only a psychopath could appear normal after murdering a friend, and I did not believe he was a psychopath. My reasoning might not impress anyone else, but it was enough for me, and it lifted a weight from me that had been there since I’d witnessed his attack on Phil. If only I could shake this feeling of foreboding…

I thought I wasn’t asleep, but Dog woke me as he jumped off the bed and skidded across the floor, his paws clicking fast down the bedroom stairs.

Ric.

I hopped out of bed and followed Dog. He stood by the door, intent, nose twitching at the crack. Footsteps came up the stairs.

“Ric? Is that you?” Hope and dread made my voice tremble.

“Yeah.”

I lifted the snib on the lock and opened the door. A blur of fur leaped past me and Ric crouched to catch Dog. Dog wriggled and squirmed with delight, his tail wagging, trying to lick Ric.

Ric laughed, holding his face out of reach. “Hey, Dog, I’ve missed you too.”

I watched them in the first dim light of dawn. Ric put Dog down. His arms went round me; I could feel his bike leathers like armour digging into my flesh through the thin cotton of my pyjamas, his cold contrasting with my warmth. I responded with uncomplicated enthusiasm and relief, like Dog had. Ric was alive. He’d come back.

His skin tasted of salt, his stubble was rough against my face. After a minute or two he held me away from him. “So you don’t think I’m a killer…or maybe you do, but just can’t help yourself? God knows, I’m irresistible.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ric. I’m not some dumb heroine in a film. If I thought that, I’d have rung the police, then got the locks changed. Whatever my feelings for you…”

“So you say…” He kissed me again, till I pulled away.

“I’ve been thinking – Phil’s lying – not about Emma, he believes her – but I don’t trust him. James said the bank account thing wouldn’t work. He’s up to something. Where have you been?”

Ric stretched and ran his hands through his hair. “Brighton. I walked for a bit, went for a swim. Fucking freezing.”

“You should have let me know. Dog was worried about you. He thought you weren’t coming back and he wouldn’t see you again. You should have rung me.”

“Come to bed.”

“You’ve got to do something about Phil. I think he killed Bryan.”

“Leave it till the morning.”

“It is the morning, nearly. I thought maybe he’d got you, and he’d killed you too and I’d never find out what had happened to you.”

“Phil wouldn’t kill me.”

“How do you know?”

“Not the type. I’m here now. Bed. I’m knackered.”

“Jeff rang. He wants you to call him back.”

“Okay.”

We went upstairs, and Ric reached for his mobile and dialled. It seemed an anti-social time to ring a friend. I said, “It’s gone four in the morning.”

“Jeff keeps late hours, he may be up. Anyway, he won’t mind if I wake him…Hi.”

He spent ten minutes on the phone, mainly listening, undressing at the same time. I thought it could have waited. As Ric put the phone down, he saw my expression, shrugged and said, “He worries about me. Like Dog.”

Chapter

21

*

Saturday was James’s birthday, when he and Posy were coming over for dinner. Ric offered to make his curry. He still hadn’t made it, and as far as I was concerned there was absolutely no rush. I put my arms round him.

“Your special curry?” I kissed him. “I thought you were going to make it just for the two of us. And think of the hassle.” I’d gathered it was a major exercise, involving hours of preparation, split-second timing, and spring-cleaning the kitchen afterwards. “Cold ham and chicken will be fine for James and Posy. Potato salad, green salad and crusty bread. I can get it ready beforehand.” No one has ever accused me of being a domestic goddess. I’d rather talk to my guests than fuss in the kitchen. “I’ll get James a cake for afters.”

Ric helped me stick pink tissue paper on some old jam jars, put tea lights in and distribute them round the roof, ready for nightfall. Then we drove to Waitrose for the food and drink, light-hearted, making silly jokes all the way.

By eight o’ clock, after a hot day, the roof was warm in the deepening amber of the evening sun. It matched my mood; the golden glow was back brighter than before. In the background crickets stridulated softly. I’d laid the table and made it look festive with bright paper napkins, more tea lights and small pots of pinks, nasturtiums and snapdragons. The food was laid out in the kitchen ready to go, bottles of special offer Australian Sauvignon were in the fridge and I’d changed into my favourite jeans and a cheesecloth top. Ric wore jeans and a white shirt, with most of the buttons undone, and I could hardly take my eyes off him. This was nothing new. Sometimes, when he was out, I’d secretly go to Youtube and watch videos of The Voices performing, so I could stare at him as much as I liked without him noticing and teasing me.

The bell rang and a minute later James came into the flat, Posy following. I gave him a birthday kiss and he handed me a chilled bottle of champagne.

“Happy birthday! Hi, Posy, come in. Have a drink.”

Posy air kissed me and looked around her. “Wow, this is so fabulous! You must be mega pleased with it now it’s finished.”

Posy looks like a Boden model; pretty in a natural way, with wavy dark hair and an open smile. Maybe she wears Boden, too; she had a red cardigan with ‘fun’ oversized buttons over a patterned shift dress, a big wooden bead necklace, flat green pumps each with a flower on, and a flower-covered clutch bag to match. The outfit was like something a child might draw; the sort of clothes it just wouldn’t occur to me to try on in a shop.

Paws pattered on the stairs. Dog appeared and Posy made a fuss of him. “He’s so sweet! Is he yours?” As she stood up Ric came through the door.

“Posy, this is Joe, he’s an old friend of mine from college. Dog belongs to him.”

Ric gave her one of his smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Posy, staring at him. “You know who you look terribly like?”

“Surprise me.”

“Ric Kealey – apart from the hair, of course.”

“Yeah, I get that all the time,” Ric said. “Where I go climbing everyone calls me Kealey. Shame I can’t sing.”

“But really, it’s amazing, you could get work as a lookalike.”

“Maybe you should do that,” I said. “It’s quite well paid.”

James shook his head. “You’d have to do something about your ears. They’re quite different. But I suppose you could grow your hair over them.”

“Don’t tell me you know what Ric Kealey’s ears were like?” I said. “You’re a closet Voices fan and you’ve kept it from me all these years.”

“No, I just happen to be extremely observant. Eyes like a hawk, memory like an elephant. Of course, Joe could have cosmetic surgery…”

“Nah, I won’t bother,” Ric said. “Who wants to be famous for being the double of someone who really was famous? Dumb job. Bad enough looking like the geezer.”

For a moment we grinned at each other, sharing the joke, then I realized that Posy wasn’t in on it and felt mean.

“Let’s go on the roof and have some of the champagne I’ve just come into.” I handed the bottle back to James to open. “Hang on, I’ll get your present.”

Like most men, James is difficult to buy for. He has all the cufflinks he needs, an unguessable taste in ties, and is well-off enough to buy himself anything he wants. I hoped he would like what I’d got for him.

We sat round the table outside. James poured the champagne and we toasted his birthday, then he put down his glass and picked up the present. “It’s so beautifully wrapped, it’s a shame to open it.” I’d used black wrapping paper tied with scarlet and gold ribbons. “Maybe I’ll keep it like this for a few days…”

“No!” said Posy. “I want to see what it is. Go on, open it.”

James undid the ribbons, took off the paper and opened the box. Inside, on red tissue, lay a miniature rocking horse, a perfect Ayres six inches long. It had begun life as an idea for making extra money; the sort of appealing object I could sell by the dozen to the Conran Shop and similar chi-chi outlets. But I’d fallen in love with it. I couldn’t force myself to cut corners; I’d made the horse the same way I’d make a full-sized one, taking weeks. Not a commercial prospect.

“Caz! It’s wonderful…” James put it on the table, and set it rocking. I’d weighted the rockers with lead so it rocked properly. “I dread to think how long it took you. Give me a kiss.” James leaned towards me, hugged me and kissed my cheek.

The supper was a success. I’d been a little afraid that James would be reserved with Ric, because he disapproved of him, but in fact they got on reasonably well. It does help when people have a sense of humour. Posy was clearly intrigued by my guest, and he spent a lot of time telling her a totally fictitious and highly-coloured account of his life and career as a penniless sculptor, his struggles with the artistic establishment, and the squats he had occupied in Paris and Mayfair. While James and I reminisced about various birthday suppers and the Cornish holidays we shared when we were small, in the background I could hear Ric’s attractive voice, Posy’s exclamations and his laugh.

We’d finished the cheese and were sitting over the last of the Metaxa when the doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch – eleven forty-five. A lost pizza delivery person? But when I checked the screen, it was Jeff Pike. I went downstairs and opened the door. Jeff glowered at me. He’d shaved off the silly scrap of beard; Ric had laughed at it and said it made him look a tosser. Behind him the Maserati gleamed against the dark bricks in the Yard like a car advert.

“Where’s Ric?”

“Upstairs.” Jeff pushed past me. “Hang on, I’ve got friends round. You’ll have to call him Joe.” He set off up the stairs. I scrambled after him. “You’ll have to say you’re my friend.”

As we went through the door to the flat, I thought how nice the roof looked; the profusion of greenery and flowers, and my guests round the table sitting on after the meal, lit by glowing candlelight against the night sky. Ric’s arm lay along the back of the chair I’d occupied; he was smiling at something Posy had said, heart-stoppingly handsome. I felt a happy grin spread over my face.

“Jeff, you know Joe; this is Posy and James.”

Jeff mumbled a greeting, his attention on Ric. Posy’s eyes were like saucers.

“You’re Jeff Pike! The Voices In My Head! And you know Caz!”

“Yeah, me and Caz are mates,” Jeff said without conviction.

“But this is, like, unbelievable! You’re Jeff Pike and Joe’s Ric Kealey’s double! It’s like we’ve got half The Voices here!”

Thank goodness Dave Calder hasn’t got my address, or we might have had three of them…

Jeff glanced at Ric. “Ric was better-looking.”

“He’s not better-looking now,” Ric said.

“You’re older, too.”

“He’d be older, except he’s dead.”

“Dead or not, he’s still the one with the talent.” Jeff sounded hostile, as if he was angry with Ric. It struck me as a distinctly peculiar exchange. What had Ric done to upset him?

Jeff sat in the nearest seat, my one next to Ric. A black snake tattoo coiled round the pale skin of his arm, heading across his shoulder blade and disappearing beneath his singlet. On his wrist was a Rolex like the one Ric had sold. James eyed Jeff, his kind face inscrutable. After an embarrassed moment reliable Posy said, “How did you two get to know each other?”

Jeff didn’t answer. I waited – he was the one who was supposed to be good at inventing stories about his past, wasn’t he? The silence lengthened. Eventually, desperate, I said the first thing that came into my head. “He saved my life.”

“Wow! Amazing! How?”

James, bless him, interrupted. “Jeff hasn’t got a drink.”

He picked up the wine bottle and looked enquiringly at Jeff, who said, “Yeah, okay.”

In those few seconds’ grace, I did a speedy rethink. I ditched my first idea that he’d fished me out of the Regent’s Canal, on grounds of implausibility – it’s four feet deep. “When I say he saved my life, I’m exaggerating, but that’s how it felt at the time. It was a year or two ago, a dark and stormy night…”

Jeff’s smile was sardonic. I longed to say that if he could do any better he bally well should have done. They were all waiting. I pressed on. “It was pouring with rain, thunder was crashing and lightening flashing, and my van broke down in the middle of nowhere. I’d been to a country auction – Bury St Edmonds – to buy a horse. A Lines Sportiboy,” I elaborated, “in good original condition. Been in the same family for three generations. A bargain. Anyway, I’d forgotten to charge my mobile, so I couldn’t call the AA. I looked under the bonnet, but had no idea what to do. I was soaked to the skin. Suddenly this limo screeched to a halt beside me, and who should get out but Jeff Pike!”

“Oh my god! That’s just, so totally random…”

“He was terribly kind. It turned out he’s really good with engines…” A faint snort came from Ric’s direction, “…and he managed to get the van going again. I wrote to his record company to thank him, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. We discovered we had a lot in common.”

Phewf. Thank goodness that improbable farrago of falsehoods was over. Everyone was looking at me with assorted expressions of surprise, concern, derision and enjoyment.

“That’s right,” Jeff said. “We both like modern art, don’t we, Caz?” He put his arm round my waist and squeezed.

I laughed and removed his hand. “He’s such a tease. Jeff, have you eaten? There’s salad left, and some cake.”

“No. I’m good.” He took a packet of Marlboros out of his pocket and waved it at Ric, who declined.

“I forgot you’d turned into a fucking monk,” Jeff said, shaking one out and lighting up.

I handed him a bowl for an ashtray, got myself another chair, then decided I might as well clear the table and make coffee. Posy got up to help me. She has very nice manners. I expect that’s one reason James’s mother likes her.

In the kitchen she asked me a bit about Jeff, then moved on to Joe, trying to establish, without asking directly, whether we were an item. I had the feeling with Posy that she was happier when I’d got a boyfriend; that my friendship with James made her uneasy. She’d have preferred it if he saw less of me, which was silly because we were just friends and always would be. I suddenly remembered his lips on mine the night before…then dismissed it.

James came and joined us, and Posy hugged him and rumpled his blond hair. “Hey, how’re you doing? I missed you.” She gave him a kiss.

James extricated himself and said, “Apparently we’re all smug fuckers, according to your famous friend.”

“It’s having all that money,” I said. “When you’re a rich celebrity, you get used to saying what you think. No one’s going to show they resent it.”

“D’you think he’d mind if I asked him for his autograph?” Posy asked.

I suspected Jeff might be difficult about autographs. “He’d probably insist on signing your skin with a felt tip.”

Posy looked a little alarmed. “P’raps I’ll leave it…”

I got them to make the coffee and went outside to finish clearing the table. Ric was leaning backwards, his chair tipped at a perilous angle, hands behind his head, as relaxed as a cat. “I turned it off while I was climbing. Forgot to turn it on again. No big deal.”

Jeff leaned forward. “Yeah, well I didn’t know that, did I? I thought you’d got arrested, some shit like that, when I couldn’t reach you.”

“Cool it, dude. I’m not going to get arrested. If I hand myself in, I’ll tell you first. Okay?”

Jeff watched me stack the plates. “What the fuck was that half-arsed crap about me mending your engine? Couldn’t you have come up with a story someone with more than one brain cell might have believed?”

Ric laughed. “Jeff knows as much about quantum mechanics as he does about the internal combustion engine. It would have been more convincing if you’d said you fixed his car.”

“How was I supposed to know that? Anyway, nobody else knows either. It’s not like Posy’s going to march him outside and stand over him while he services James’s BMW. He should have made something up, then I wouldn’t have had to.”

I picked up the plates and left. Jeff started on at Ric again, insistent, almost pleading. Ric didn’t seem to be taking it too seriously, mocking and reassuring him in equal measures, but I could tell Jeff was in deadly earnest. He had panicked when he couldn’t get hold of Ric, and come straight to my workshop.

I hoped this wasn’t going to happen often.

Chapter

22

*

The next few days were quiet. I got on with my horses; I didn’t quite get round to dappling Saladin, but I did paint him the right colour so he was ready to dapple. I finished stripping Teasel, and got her first coats of gesso on. Ric was restless, and went out a lot while I worked; he did bouldering at The Castle Climbing Centre, or drove the Harley out of London. Though he didn’t say much, I guessed he disliked the uncertainty of his situation, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. I hoped Phil had succeeded in dissuading Emma from talking to the News of the World. Ric and I didn’t discuss it when we were together in the evenings. Evenings were great.

On Thursday afternoon James rang, and told me he’d split up with Posy.

“Oh dear.” I hoped he wasn’t upset. “What happened?”

“You know Hannah offered her the job in London? She found a shop at World’s End and bought the lease. I said to Posy, I supposed she’d be looking for a flat here, and there was this really long silence. Then I realized she sort of took it for granted she’d move in to my place – perfectly reasonable assumption, she’s been spending nearly every weekend with me.”

“But you didn’t want her to?”

“No. We had this long awkward discussion, and I could tell, though she didn’t say it, she’d been planning for when we got married, and I hadn’t got to that stage at all – and knew I wasn’t going to, with her, at any rate. I felt bad.”

“When did it happen?”

“This morning, on the phone. She started crying. I felt dreadful, I hadn’t realized she was so serious about me.”

“Oh dear…”

James sighed. “It’s all for the best, it wouldn’t have worked out. My mother’ll be disappointed, she approved of Posy. Speaking of which, can I ask you to do me the most tremendous favour? I don’t suppose you could face a dinner party at my mother’s Saturday evening? Posy was going to come, and it’ll be just me and my mother’s friends if you don’t.”

I hesitated. Rosemary is formidable. Her standards are more exacting than those of ordinary mortals. The parties she gives are not what you’d call relaxing; they have a lot in common with a job interview. You have to dress suitably and watch what you say. And she lives in Winchester, so getting there and back makes it a long evening.

“I know it’s short notice. Don’t feel you have to.”

“Of course I’ll come.” Poor James, dreary for him going on his own, and at least the food will be good. “You know me, I never turn down a good hot dinner.”

“Oh, thanks, Caz. That should stop them all taking a kindly interest in my lack of a girlfriend.”

“Have you told Rosemary you and Posy have split up?”

There was a thoughtful silence. “Not as yet…”

Posy, I’d gathered from the little James let slip (he was a loyal son) was the only woman he’d ever been out with who had won maternal approval. James’s mother is critical to a fault, especially of her son’s female friends. I’d had to conceal my surprise when I first learned that she got on with James’s latest. Posy was what Rosemary called Suitable, a Nice Girl, and according to her, hardly anyone was. She wouldn’t think much of me as a substitute, even for one evening.

When I woke Saturday morning, the day of Rosemary’s dinner party, Ric was fast asleep. I slipped out of bed, showered, dressed, went downstairs and had breakfast without waking him. My brain had been working overnight while the rest of me slept, and I wanted to check its results.

I searched for one of the photos of Emma I’d found before on the internet. It took me a little while, but eventually there it was on the screen; Emma, young and pretty in a line-up of strangely-dressed people, her eyes seeking reassurance from Phil who was only just in shot. And this time I knew what it was; it was the Eurovision Song Contest audition she’d told me about. Four or five years ago, Emma had said. I checked the date; yes, she was right. But…it was a whole year before she was supposed to have met Phil Sharott while she was temping. Nearly four years before Paula, his wife, died. Four and a half years before she publicly became Phil’s girlfriend. Her association with Phil had started long before she was admitting.

So she’d never temped at all – that was why she could only type with two fingers – it was simply an excuse to spend a week with her lover, and allow her to get a glimpse of the music industry she wanted to get into. The advantage to Phil was, he got her company in a way that would not arouse the suspicions of his wife, plus the opportunity to impress Emma by introducing her to The Voices. That bit had backfired, because Emma had met Bryan and decided he would benefit her career more than Phil. Phil must have been devastated. I guessed that while Emma was using him, he genuinely loved her.

If Phil had been having a long-term extra-marital affair with Emma, and she’d dumped him for Bryan, he’d had a motive for murder. I was certain she’d gone back to him once Bryan was dead. Murder was an excessive reaction to a girlfriend’s defection, but not unknown. And who else was there? Not Ric. Or Dave Calder – I just couldn’t believe it of him. Jeff Pike…now there was no doubt in my mind he could be violent, and he loved Ric…but he knew Ric was heterosexual; what would he gain by murdering Ric’s best friend? Emma had no reason to kill Bryan, either. She’d just moved in with him, and he was rich, successful and devoted to her. Whether she loved him or not, it was an excellent career move for an ambitious woman. Even after he found her and Ric, she must have thought it likely, infatuated as he was, that he’d forgive her.

It seemed increasingly obvious to me that Phil was the killer. Not that I had any proof.

I gazed at the picture; I was out of my depth, and I had the nasty feeling that Ric was too. He had to hand himself over to the police. That was an essential first step in sorting out the mess he was in. If he did that he’d be safe from Phil, who must now be thinking how much easier things would be, if Ric was dead as well as Bryan. He’d keep Ric’s money, and Bryan’s murder case would stay closed. Alarm grew in me.

The cello snippet. I looked up to the mezzanine and saw Ric’s arm emerge from under the duvet.

“Hi…I’ll call you back, dude. When I’m awake.”

Jeff Pike. Calls from him now featured regularly and frequently in our lives. Ric sat up, swung his legs to the floor and pulled on his jeans. I reached out and flipped the kettle’s switch as he and Dog came downstairs; his hair was tousled, his chest bare; he was a dead ringer for a jeans commercial. I wondered how long it would take me to get used to his dazzling good looks, and whether I was going to get the chance.

While he tipped some food into Dog’s bowl and changed his water, I told him the conclusions I’d reached. He listened in silence. I finished,

“What I think you should do is hire a really good solicitor and a private detective. You can afford it – you’ve got the Euros, and the diamonds. The only evidence against you is circumstantial. There must be proof somewhere that Phil killed Bryan. And if you go to the police, you can tell them all the dodgy things Phil’s been doing, and that’ll make them investigate him. Once you’re officially alive, Phil will have to hand back the money. The solicitor will know how to sort it out.”

“There’s a lot of sense in what you say.” Ric nodded slowly. “I hate not doing anything. And I don’t want Emma deciding she’ll give the rape story to the News of the World – if she hasn’t already, that is.”

“Then you’ll do it?” I could hear the hope in my voice. I was positive this was the best course of action.

“I don’t want to, Caz. The first thing they’ll do is throw me in jail. If I could just give them something so they know it wasn’t me…”

“I’ve been round to everyone now. What more can we do?”

“There might be something incriminating at Phil’s house.” Ric’s eyes glinted. “I’ll break in. See if I can find anything.”

I looked at him, hoping he didn’t mean it. He meant it. A cold, panicky feeling fluttered in my chest. Eventually I said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“He’s got a burglar alarm, for one thing.”

“I’ll go when he’s there so it won’t be on. At night, when he’s asleep.”

“But don’t people with big houses have those alarms where you set it at night just for downstairs?”

“Phil hasn’t. I’ve stayed there. He has a panic button by his bed.”

“What if he wakes up and catches you?”

“I’ll be careful. I know the house. If it came to it, I can handle Phil.”

This confidence worried me. Ric underestimated how dangerous Phil was, I felt sure, just because his manner was mild and he was no fighter. Appearances can be deceptive. Look at Dr Crippen: diminutive and meek, yet he’d killed his wife, dismembered her, destroyed the body in acid, put her head in a handbag and thrown it into the sea on a day trip to Dieppe.

I said, “He’s not likely to have left evidence lying around the place, especially after three years. You’d be wasting your time.”

“There’s his safe.”

“I saw what was in there! Hardly anything, just some jewellery cases, the cash he gave you and a folder.”

Ric pounced on this. “There was a folder?”

“Yes, a pink A4 cardboard one.” Its sides had bulged; it was full of something, but I wasn’t going to tell Ric that. It would only encourage him. I wished I hadn’t mentioned it.

“Why keep a folder in a safe?”

“Insurance policies? Maybe it’s fireproof. And how do you propose to open the safe, anyway? The whole point of safes is burglars can’t get into them.”

“Phil’s crap at remembering numbers. He’ll have the combination written down somewhere in the office.”

“It’s too risky.”

Ric grinned at me. I spent the next five minutes trying to dissuade him, to no avail. He said he’d just break into the office, see if he could get into the safe; if he could, then check it out, and leave. He made it sound straightforward. “It’s a big house. The bedrooms aren’t over the office. He won’t hear me.”

“He’s got CCTV cameras.”

“So? He’ll know it’s me. He can’t go to the police.”

“What about the dogs?”

“They’re not proper trained guard dogs. They might remember me from last time, with a bit of luck. I’ll take some meat for them.”

I was sweating at the very thought of what might happen if Phil found Ric breaking into his safe, and I couldn’t make Ric see it was a crazy thing to do. The idea of another night like last night, lying awake worrying about him, but this time knowing he actually was doing something life-threatening, made me go cold. At last I said,

“I think you’re insane to go, but if I can’t persuade you not to, I’ll come with you. When are you going to do it?”

“Tonight, while you’re in Winchester with James, and I’m going alone, Caz. Dog’s not coming, either.”

“I can put off James. You need me, I’d be useful.”

“No.”

“Please, Ric. I couldn’t bear waiting here in the small hours, not knowing what’s happening. I’m coming with you. I’m not letting you go alone.”

Ric’s eyes met mine. He was not smiling. He said, in a voice of finality, “No, Caz.”

I stood up and went downstairs to the paint workshop. I spread newspaper, got the brackets and swing irons out of the shoebox marked SALADIN, and fetched emery paper and wire wool. I started to remove the rust and old blistered paint, thinking about the night ahead. If interviewing suspects was, in James’s words, poking a furnace with a short stick, this was more like jumping into the furnace to have a good look round.

Ric would have to give me a time by which, if he wasn’t back, I could ring the police. I made a mental list of what he needed to take with him, then got pencil and paper and wrote it down. The door opened. I didn’t look up.

“Caz…”

“Go away. I’m not talking to you.”

Ric came up behind me and wrapped me in his arms. “Don’t be like that, Caz…”

I went on rubbing the brackets with emery paper as best I could. “It’s no good trying to get round me. I’m sulking.”

He nuzzled my neck. “No, you’re not,” he murmured. His pheromones and my endorphins were trying for their usual effect of infusing me with happy compliance, but I was too anxious for them to get a straight run at it. “It’s quite safe, Caz. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“If it was safe, you’d take me and Dog with you.”

Still holding me, Ric reached for my list. He read aloud,

“Torch

Pepper

Wrecking bars

Camera

Rope

Duct tape

Scissors

Penknife

Glass cutter

Meat, bones, treats for dogs

Dark clothes

Gloves

Balaclavas

Camouflage face paint?

Socks.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I never realized you’d put in time with the S.A.S.. What are the socks for? Do we fill them full of sand and attack Phil with them? Sock him over the head?”

“They’re to go over your shoes, so no one hears you.” I’d got this out of a Dick Francis novel. “You said we.”

“I’d be a fool to turn down an S.A.S. graduate.” I dropped the bracket on the bench, turned and hugged him. “You can hold the torch,” he added.

“Huh.”

“Okay, you can be in charge of the dog meat too. And the socks.”

“I’ll ring James.”

“Don’t do that. We’ll go tomorrow. It’ll be better, Sunday he’s more likely to have an early night. Gives us time to get all the stuff on your list. Then Monday morning I’ll get a lawyer, whether we find anything or not, and go to the police.”

I kissed him.

It was only later it occurred to me: he’d somehow manoeuvred me into being grateful for inclusion in a venture I thought was a Seriously Bad Idea.

Chapter

23

*

I fetched all the things on my list I already owned, and laid them out on the coffee table. I had two wrecking bars, one sixty centimetres, one thirty, each with chisel and swan neck ends; my Canon IXUSi, though we might not be able to use it because of the flash; some lengths of fine rope I keep for holding together awkward glue joints, neatly coiled.

I walked to Hoxton Street market, and bought men’s black socks (three pairs for two pounds fifty), duct tape, and a glass cutter. At Iceland I got some ground pepper, as I only had peppercorns, and two packs of diced beef, which should do for the bull mastiffs. We could take some of Dog’s treats as well. I looked unsuccessfully on the stalls for a black hoodie for Ric; there was a navy one which I thought should be dark enough, so I splashed out four pounds on it.

Ric was lying on the sofa with one of my detective novels. He seemed amused by my comings and goings, and watched the accumulation on the table with interest, without actually helping. I consulted my list.

“I haven’t got a decent torch. I’ll nip to Maplin’s, they’ll have them. D’you think we need balaclavas?”

“Too hot.” Ric stood, zipped on the navy top and brooded at his hooded self in the big mirror over the fireplace. “This’ll do. Cheap and nasty, but I guess the whole idea is no one will see me.” He picked up the longer steel wrecking bar and swung it experimentally.

“What about face paint?”

“Nah. We’d have to get it off once we were out.”

“Gloves? I’ve got some thin vinyl ones. So we don’t leave fingerprints.”

“Doesn’t matter if we do. I’ll run you to Maplin’s.”

He waited outside the shop in Tottenham Court Road, the Harley’s engine throbbing, attracting attention, while I went in and bought two tiny, super bright aluminium torches. Back at the flat I added them to the collection and checked it over.

“I think that’s everything…”

“Yup – with that lot any right-thinking policeman would take us in for going equipped…happy now?”

“Not really…”

Getting the things on the list had distracted me from thinking about using them on Sunday night. My stomach lurched and my hands felt cold at the very idea of sneaking around illicitly in the dark, inside the house of a man I believed to be a murderer. I said pleadingly,

“Can’t we just go to the police?”

“We will,” he said soothingly. “As soon as we’ve checked out Phil’s safe.”

After tea I put our planned break-in from my mind, and concentrated on transforming myself, outwardly at least, into the sort of girl Rosemary considered ‘nice’.

A calf-length floral dress I’d bought in a sale and never worn, teamed with a lilac shrug and natural tights seemed just the job. Inoffensive. I applied minimum make-up, found a pink lipstick at the back of the drawer, and spent ages putting my hair up in a bun. There was a pair of shoes I’d only worn on Speech Days at the school where I used to teach; I slipped into them, then added a string of pearls and matching earstuds. I surveyed myself in the long mirror. I was correctly dressed for the occasion; Rosemary would approve. She’d never think me Suitable, but she’d pass the outfit. I imagined her scanning glance, her small satisfied nod.

I took it all off again. I let down my hair, framed my eyes with khol and put on my favourite dress, blue/grey like an Ayres, fullish skirt that came to mid-thigh, off the shoulder wide straps that sometimes slipped down becomingly. Not too low-cut; you don’t need it with all that leg showing – one doesn’t want to look like a hooker. I laced on high black boots, and found a silver necklace and bracelet. Much more me.

Would I be letting James down? No. Men are simple souls. He’d think a lot of leg on view was good. Anyway, I was perfectly respectable – just not what Rosemary meant by ‘respectable’. Ric stopped watching television long enough to approve.

“When will you be back?”

“It’ll finish around eleven, then about two hours’ drive home.” The bell went. “See you, Ric.”

I kissed the top of his head, and ran down the stairs so as not to keep James waiting. He stood at the door, having already turned his car in the limited space.

“Mmm, you look lovely. Will you be warm enough later on?”

“Hang on.”

I raced back upstairs to my bedroom and grabbed an oversized black jumper. The television was off, Ric on his feet. He caught me at the foot of the mezzanine stairs, said, “Good, I want to kiss you goodbye,” and did, at some length.

Bright evening light shone in our eyes as we set off in the BMW. The bridge of James’s nose had caught the sun – being so fair he burns easily. He told me he’d been tackling the overgrown garden that belongs to his flat. It’s not a terribly convenient garden, as you have to go out of the front door and round the side of the house to get to it, and James tends to neglect it. He’s not a gardener.

“It looks tidier now, but a bit bare.” He glanced at me. “I should put some plants in, but I don’t know what to get.”

“I can give you a list if you like.”

“I’ll have to go to a garden centre. You wouldn’t consider coming with me, would you? Pick out some stuff and tell me where to put it.”

“Okay. Tomorrow week?”

“Thank you, Caz, that’ll be great. We can have Sunday lunch at The Dragon.”

“I’ll bring the van. More space.”

James smiled. Silence fell, the relaxed kind you get between old friends. I had no intention of telling him about Ric’s criminal plans for the next night, particularly since they involved me. He would only try to persuade me out of it whenever we were alone; he’d have three or four hours in the car to itemize his apprehensions, plus snatched opportunities over dinner. I’d be crazy to tell him. But I had a brilliant idea – I’d print out the Private Investigations file, containing the information I’d collected about Phil Sharott – all too little – plus suspects’ addresses and my conclusions, and somehow leave it where James would find it first thing Monday morning. Just in case Ric and I didn’t return.

I shivered, in spite of the sunshine, and resolved not to think about Sunday night.

It was seven twenty when James parked in the quiet Victorian terrace beside his mother’s house and checked his watch. The last time I’d been there was the Christmas after my mother died; James had insisted I went with him when he found out I’d be spending it alone. A dark and sleety day. Now the street was bright and sunny: to a London eye it was remarkably well-kept and litter-free, no recycling bins or bags of rubbish on view; something you only get in the most exclusive parts of Kensington and Chelsea. Window box flowers glowed against white-painted stucco. As I got out of the car and stretched, I heard the cathedral’s bells ringing.

James reached into the back seat and picked up a bunch of cream roses in bud. They looked a little tired after their journey. I wondered if I should have brought Rosemary something. He pressed the brass bell push. Moments later the door swung open to reveal his mother, elegantly dressed in taupe.

“James!” She reached up, kissed his cheek and took the roses. “Are these for me?” She inspected them. “They look thirsty, I’d better give them a good soak.” Her attention turned my way. “Caz, what a lovely surprise. I was expecting Posy.”

Her pearls rattled as we air-kissed; I smelled Chanel No. 5. She drew back and her eyes flickered over me. No approving nod; slightly raised eyebrows and a pause. “Do come in. You’re not the first.”

Rosemary led us into the drawing room at the back of the house. A man and woman were looking out of the open windows at the garden; flower beds, and a path through lush grass leading to trees and what I imagined must be a gazebo, new since my last visit. The couple turned and came to be introduced.

“This is Cassandra Tallis. She’s very artistic and has her own little business in London restoring rocking horses. Caz, this is Anne Hamilton and Brigadier David Hamilton. He retired recently – not that you’d know it, he’s busier than ever. We’re lucky he could make it tonight.”

We shook hands. The Brigadier’s eyes twinkled. “I only see young James once or twice a year, and each time his new girlfriend’s prettier than the last one.”

I smiled, and was about to disabuse him of the notion that James and I were an item, but Rosemary got in first. “Caz and James have been great friends since they were toddlers,” she said dismissively. “Didn’t you meet Posy at Easter? Oh no, I remember now, you were away. She’s a lovely girl, I’m hoping we’ll be seeing a lot more of her.”

I looked at James, but he chickened out of breaking the bad news.

“Lovelier than this one? That’s hard to believe,” said the Brigadier, with old-fashioned gallantry.

“Are you going out with anyone nice, Caz?” Rosemary asked, just to make it absolutely clear it wasn’t me James was going out with.

“Ah…I’m between boyfriends right now,” I lied.

Rosemary asked us what we wanted to drink, and went to summon it, while a girl appeared holding a tray of canapés. I snaffled a tiny smoked salmon sandwich – delicious. James’s mother often used caterers, so she could spend more time with her guests, and the food was always first class.

The Brigadier cross-questioned me about rocking horses, his wife looking amiable but saying little, until Rosemary hauled them off to meet new arrivals. I felt something brush my shoulder. James had replaced my errant shoulder strap.

“I wouldn’t bother, it does that, you’ll be putting it back all evening.”

“I don’t mind,” he said softly, “I’m happy to volunteer as your personal strap replacer.”

I looked at James with wild surmise. I had the nasty feeling he wanted to move our comfortable friendship on a stage. Bad timing. I hoped I was mistaken.

“James,” Rosemary called from across the room, “come and say hallo to Isobel and Mark.”

James joined his mother, and I detoured towards the canapés before following dutifully.

Once dinner was over, people mingled in the drawing room. James had been disconcertingly attentive all evening, but he’d left my side for once, so I thought I’d nip to the upstairs bathroom. Give myself a break from polite conversation; check my nose for shine and my teeth for spinach. On the way I passed the half-open door to the smaller living room, and heard Rosemary’s ringing tones.

“Oh James, you haven’t. Posy is such a nice girl, so suitable, and you always seemed to get on so well together. I really thought she was the one. I do hope you’re not thinking of Caz.” James said something I couldn’t hear. “Of course I like her, I’m very fond of her, she’s simply not your type…how did it happen, I thought you were just friends?”

I heard James’s next remark, because he came towards the door as he made it. “Caz and I are just friends…unfortunately. I haven’t told her how I feel yet.”

My eyes widened and I sprang quickly and quietly up the stairs, grateful for the thick carpet.

Eleven fifteen seemed, by common consent, to be the end of the evening. The guests thanked Rosemary, made jovial parting comments that went on for five minutes, and headed for their cars. A half moon, and the sky was full of stars. It was cooler outside on the doorstep, and I snuggled into my big jumper.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said. Rosemary gave me her dazzling hostess smile. James kissed his mother’s cheek. Maybe I imagined it because of what I’d overheard, but I thought she seemed a little put out with him, a little terse.

“Now drive carefully, James. Remember there’s absolutely no rush.”

I waved as the BMW drew away from the kerb. Rosemary didn’t wave back. I settled into the comfort of the leather upholstery. The quiet and darkness of the car was welcome after an evening of chatter, though I’d enjoyed myself. With a jolt, I realized that in twenty-four hours’ time, I’d be setting off to break into Phil Sharott’s house. Apprehension shot through me. As an antidote I thought hard about Ric; his eyes, his smile, his strong muscular body…

James switched on the radio. Romantic violins from a film half a century ago came over the car’s excellent stereo system; a man with a heavy Italian accent broke into song. Some Enchanted Evening. One moment I was thinking, that dates from before my mother was born – it’s so corny – then its raw longing and passion gripped me and brought tears to my eyes. I leaned back and let it wash over me.

The song ended. I glanced at James as he turned off the radio, then at the dark countryside as we sped past in the powerful car. Neither of us said anything, but I got the worrying idea he might declare his feelings at any moment; that he was working up to doing just that. I didn’t have the necessary reserves of tact to deal with it right then. I shut my eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

I must have nodded off. The silence as the engine stopped woke me. We were in Fox Hollow Yard, James leaning forwards.

“Have I been asleep all the way? Sorry – you should have woken me.”

He smiled. “I hadn’t the heart. You were sleeping like a baby.”

I ducked my head down to see the flat’s windows. The lights were on; Ric had waited up for me. I turned to thank James, and his arm came round me. His lips met mine. No time to think up unhurtful ways of letting him down gently; we were in mid-kiss before I’d gathered my wits. Of course, there was nothing to stop me clenching my teeth and freezing. That would have got the message over. The trouble was, James kissed very nicely…and there was the inhibition-reducing effect of several glasses of wine thrown into the mix. I was in no way drunk, but I did have that cheerful what-the-hell-why-not feeling alcohol induces. I’d always thought I’d known James too long to fancy him; that kissing him would be like kissing one’s brother. Now I found that was not so. Kissing James was...terrific. But wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I broke away as soon as I could.

He ran his hand up and down my arm. “Thank you for coming tonight, Caz.”

“It was fun.” I felt for the car door handle.

“Can I come up for coffee? You know, I think I’m getting used to your horrible coffee. Getting a taste for it, even.”

No! Ric would be in the flat. Possibly in bed. It’d be grotesquely embarrassing. “I’m a bit tired. D’you mind if I don’t ask you up? Some other time.”

He smiled again. “Okay.”

I got out of the car. James did too. He waited while I found my keys and opened the door, then held me and kissed me on the doorstep. I’d have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been disapproving of my own behaviour so much. There was no excuse for not moving away briskly and telling him I was involved with someone else – okay, he’d know instantly it was Ric, but he’d have to find out some time. So why didn’t I? Partly because of a reluctance to discuss my love life with James, and partly because I’d already kissed him in the car. At length he released me.

“I’ll ring you in the morning.”

I said good night and closed the door. I leaned against it and listened as he started the BMW, turned it, left the Yard and set off down the road. When I could no longer hear the engine, I headed up the stairs, furious with myself.

Why did I do that? Why on earth didn’t I tell him? He’ll have to know eventually. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. He’s gone off all happy thinking I’ll be his girlfriend…he’ll be so hurt when he finds out. He’ll never understand why I kissed him. I should have told him about Ric, however awkward it was.

I opened the flat door, and called, “Hi!” into the quiet. No answer.

Dog jumped down from the sofa and made a fuss of me. Ric wasn’t around, and the door to the terrace was shut. I thought he must be asleep in bed. I climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, Dog trailing me. No Ric. I checked the bathroom, then went downstairs and checked that bathroom too.

It was one o’clock – why would he be out? My gaze passed over the coffee table, then returned to it. Some of the things I’d collected were missing…the smaller wrecking bar, a torch, a coil of rope, the navy hoodie…

Ric had lied to me. He’d gone to break into Phil Sharott’s on his own.

Chapter

24

*

I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the table. A lot of the stuff Ric hadn’t bothered to take – clearly he’d thought I was overdoing it. I got my mobile out of my handbag and rang his number. His phone was switched off. Dog jumped up and put his paws on my lap; there was something white round his collar. A note, folded small. I unfolded it.

I’ve gone to Phil’s – don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

Back soon,

Ric

X

Easy for him to say don’t worry. He failed to take Phil seriously as a threat, in spite of all I’d said; and if I’d gone with him, I’d have made sure he didn’t do anything reckless. Together we’d have had more options – if Phil found us and got nasty, I could have got away and rung the police. Ric needed me, and he didn’t know it.

I looked at my watch. By now he might have broken in, discovered something or realized he wasn’t going to, and be on his way home again. Or not.

The thought of waiting up for him – because there was no way I could hope to go to sleep – with my mind running repeatedly through every possible disaster was unimaginable. Supposing he didn’t return? How long before I should get help? Three am? Four am? If only he’d said on the note. By the time I was certain he was in trouble, it might be too late – especially as it would take time to convince the police. The very thought made me frantic. Perhaps I should ring them now?

Ric wouldn’t like that…but I had to do something.

I got up. I’d go after him. No time to waste.

I leaped up the stairs, pulled off my clothes and flung them on the bed. I dressed again in black combats, a belt, a long-sleeved black tee shirt, a sleeveless hooded gilet with lots of zips, and cheap black trainers. Running downstairs I divided the kit on the table between my many pockets, except for the rope which I tied to my belt, and the wrecking bar which I put by the door. I checked the fridge – Ric had taken the meat, so I tipped some of Dog’s dry food into a plastic bag and pocketed it.

Dog – should I take him? Yes – I could leave him in the van when I got to Phil’s; he’d be on his own for less time than if he stayed in the flat. I switched on the printer, opened the laptop and tried to collect my thoughts while it came to life. Just in case I didn’t come back, worst case scenario, I would print out Private Investigations as planned. If I put it through James’s letter box on my way to Phil’s, he would find it in the morning.

I brought up the document, clicked File and Print, and while it was doing that, got the van keys out of my handbag, and attached them with the house keys and the torch to my belt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. With the quasi-commando clothes and my long fair hair falling about my shoulders, all I needed was a submachine gun, and my resemblance to one of the more heavily-dressed heroines of a video game would have been striking. Move over, Lara Croft. I got a hair band out of my bag and tied my hair out of the way.

A deep breath; I opened the door and picked up the wrecking bar.

“Come on, Dog, let’s go and find Ric.”

Out of Fox Hollow Yard into the sodium-lit street and across to the van. Eight minutes since I’d arrived with James. I unlocked the door and Dog hopped on to the passenger seat. The petrol gauge showed half full; it should be enough. James lives in Islington, north when I was heading west, ten minutes at that time of night. Hurry. I accelerated down the road; not much traffic, but I cursed every red light. James’s flat is at the end of a cul de sac. No lights in the windows; he must have gone straight to bed. I stopped the van on the double yellow lines outside, leaving the engine running, and reached for the three pages of Private Investigations.

I’d left them on the printer.

Bugger.

For a moment I thought of trying to write it out from memory – I’d got a pen on me – and hunted around for paper. I’d cleared out the van recently. All I could find was a slip of white card from Waitrose’s car park, not big enough to write everything on, even if I had the time. I couldn’t go back to collect my notes – that would waste twenty minutes. I had a brainwave. I reached down into the gritty crevice where the driver’s seat meets the seat back, and felt for the emergency set of house keys hidden there. I wrote on the card:

JAMES

I need your help – if you haven’t heard from me Sunday morning

first thing, but not before, go to my flat, let yourself in, there’s notes on the printer,

read them and ring the police. Ric’s gone to Phil Sharott’s. I’m going there too.

Caz

I printed his name in big letters, so he’d notice it among the pizza leaflets. Then I secured the keys to the note with the band off my hair. I jumped out of the van, ran up the steps to James’s door, and dropped the small bundle through the letter box.

The van gets noisy above fifty miles an hour, and normally I don’t push it. But that night we fairly hurtled along the M4, even, on the odd downhill stretch, exceeding the speed limit, the engine roaring and the panels rattling. We drove through Maidenhead at two-fifteen, and by two-thirty arrived outside Phil Sharott’s house. I pulled in opposite the entrance. The gates were wide open (had Ric left them like that for a quick getaway?) but everything was still, dark and silent.

Better turn off my mobile; I didn’t want it ringing while I was snooping about. Which pocket was it in… Shit! I’d put it back in my handbag, and I hadn’t brought my handbag with me. What else had I forgotten? It was because I’d left in a rush, I hadn’t been expecting to go – I’d have got everything right if we’d gone Sunday night. I sat for a moment, dismayed, then gritted my teeth. I probably wouldn’t need to phone the police. Ric might have passed me on the motorway, going in the opposite direction, racing back to the flat. He might be there now. If so, reprieve: I was okay about the wasted journey in the small hours; ecstatic, in fact.

Cautiously, I opened the van door and got out. Dog came with me. I approached the entrance, keeping in the shadows by the wall. Dog growled softly in his throat at the darkness beyond the gateway. I switched on my torch and played its light in that direction. There was something there…a sudden movement made me leap back, even before the bull mastiffs broke into snarls and barks, and crashed against the gate. Reflex reaction shot me halfway to the van before I realized they weren’t giving chase. I crossed the road again to investigate. Their barking increased as I drew near, so I threw them a handful of dog food. While they snuffled in the grass hoovering it up, I saw why they hadn’t got me.

The dogs had ropes looped through their collars; the other ends were attached to the side of the gate. Ric must have done it, thinking that on his way out, once the gates were closed, he could free the dogs with the gate safely between him and them.

That meant he was probably still inside. Rats.

I got back in the van and drove down the road, looking for somewhere inconspicuous to park. A short drive leading to a wooded area seemed ideal; as I turned the van something gleamed in the headlights. Ric’s Harley, tucked away by the shrubbery. He’s here. I got out, leaving Dog inside, though I could have done with his company, and locked up. If I somehow missed Ric in the dark, he’d realize I was here too. Don’t know what good that’ll do…

I went back along the road, wrecking bar held discreetly beside my leg, and approached Phil’s driveway. My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t imagine how it would cope when I reached the house. Maybe it would burst out of my chest and run for home. The bull mastiffs barked at me with more hope than ferocity this time, no doubt thinking I’d feed them again. Now my eyes were used to the moonlight, it wasn’t that dark. The keys at my belt clinked; I unclipped them and put them in separate pockets, and pulled my hood over my hair. I sidled past the CCTV camera, head down, and set off up the drive to the house, keeping on the grass near the trees, watching for any signs of life. If someone was there, I wanted to see him before he saw me. All I could hear was the occasional car passing on the road I’d left, each fainter than the last, the soft rustle of the breeze through the leaves, and the blood thumping in my neck. When an owl flew silently across my path, I jumped in the air like a startled deer.

The drive seemed longer on foot, and everything looked different by night. There was the lake to the right, shimmering through the trees. I slowed as I neared the dim bulk of the house with its circular lawn, and the separate garage block on my left. None of the windows was lit. I stopped on the edge of the gravel, got out the black socks and pulled them over my trainers, legs trembling. Dick Francis hadn’t gone on enough about how scary prowling around in the dark was. Or perhaps I was just a total wimp. A last look round before venturing across the open space of drive to the corner where Phil’s office was; no sign of life at all, but if there was a watcher at a dark window, I wouldn’t know. I walked slowly, trying not to make a sound. The office windows were closed; no blinds or curtains, and no marks of a forced entry on any of them. No one in there.

Where was Ric?

Keeping close in to the walls, I moved anti-clockwise, checking ground floor windows. I reached the corner; I peered round it, and traversed the side of the house. Nothing.

From the next corner, I could see the back garden; but calling it that gives the idea of a suburban patch of grass, with washing line, children’s bikes and a fence, and this was on another scale altogether. Extensive grounds, an estate agent might say; a stone-paved terrace with a swing seat, antique cast iron chairs, tables and sun umbrellas. From there, steps between topiary yews led to a big lawn (even in the dark, I could see the stripes on it) with a lime tree circled by a wooden seat. To the right, two tennis courts and a building with full length windows, that I guessed held a swimming pool. Flower beds, behind them big trees, the wind sighing through their leaves, and no indication of where the garden ended. It shaded into the night. Beyond would be the hangar containing Phil’s replacement for the Cessna, and the grass airstrip, the one Ric had taken off from in April over three years ago. And beyond that, too far away to be audible, the river.

I looked to my left. Creeper-covered brickwork, and bright rectangles of light shining on to the flowers and flag stones. My heart rate redoubled. Phil was up. No reason he would spot me. Deep breaths…

I tiptoed to the edge of the nearest French window, open to the night air. I crouched in the herbaceous border among the musk roses and moved my head carefully so I could see through the crack. A big room, softly illuminated by pools of light from silk lampshades, conventionally and lavishly furnished; no expense spared. Cream panelling, several sofas in green and beige, polished floorboards and Chinese carpets. Drapes rather than curtains edged the windows, their swags held back with tasselled cords. Paintings with their own little lights, vases of flowers; glossy books on coffee tables, no bookshelves. Not my taste, but comfortable.

A movement caught my eye. Emma sat at an antique desk, using a laptop. She wore a crimson evening dress, her hair was up, and her attention so entirely focused on what she was doing that I forgot to worry while I stared at her.

It hadn’t occurred to me she’d be there, though I might have guessed. What more likely than that she would spend the weekend with her boyfriend? So where was Phil? As this thought entered my mind, the door opened and he appeared, wearing a dinner jacket and carrying a tray. They must have been out to some dressy occasion. Emma didn’t look up. He came over to her, lowered the tray to the desk, stood behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders, pink against her creamy skin. She said something, but carried on typing. It was true, she typed with two fingers. Phil poured tea into a cup (herb tea? No milk). Emma absently sipped it, and went on with what she was doing.

Phil stroked her neck, and began to undo her hair.

For some reason – Emma’s passivity, perhaps – this creeped me out. I wouldn’t want Phil Sharott touching me, and I didn’t want to watch him touching anyone else, either. Emma’s hair fell on to her shoulders, and he ran his fingers through it. She remained intent on the screen. He bent his head to hers, and cupped her breast. I watched, fascinated, repelled, as his hand moved under the crimson silk. A minuscule expression of irritation flicked over her face, and she carried on typing for a bit; then she clicked a few keys with finality and closed the laptop. Her face smoothed to a smile; she joined her arms behind her round Phil’s legs, and tilted her head back to let him kiss her throat. I averted my gaze.

The rap of a shoe on floorboards; Phil came within a foot of me on the other side of the French window as he reached to close it. I kept my head down and held my breath. The glass door clicked shut, a key turned. I looked in to see Phil following Emma out of the room, one hand on her hip, the other snapping the light switch by the door. Darkness.

Chapter

25

*

I got to my feet, the roses’ thorns tugging at my clothes, and stretched delicately. Upstairs, lights went on. Keeping close to the wall, in case Phil looked out (though my feeling was he’d be otherwise engaged) I continued round the house. I turned left, with the separate stable block converted into garages on my right, and was back to where I’d started.

A shock went through me as if I’d touched an electric fence. The corner sash window was open. Calm down. I sank to my knees and peeked over the sill. A tall shape, darker than the room, and a point of light moving.

“Ric?” I whispered.

The torch turned on me so I could only see its blue-white glow, and blackness surrounding it. “Caz, what the hell are you doing here?”

I lifted my wrecking bar I’d been lugging around all this time and dropped it inside, swung a leg over the window sill and climbed into the office. Ric came towards me. Suddenly I was shaking with rage.

“We were supposed to be doing this together, remember?” I hissed. “Tomorrow. That’s what we agreed, then you sneak off on your own!”

“I didn’t want you getting hurt if things went wrong.”

“You lied to me!”

“You made a fuss when I said you couldn’t come.”

“That’s not the bloody point! You don’t just tell people what they want to hear to shut them up, because it’s more sodding convenient! If you’re going to do that, how can I believe a word you say?”

“Chill out, you’re here now.”

“You just don’t get it, do you? It’s a matter of trust. Integrity.” Ric’s composure was making me madder. If it’s possible to shout in a whisper, that’s what I was doing. “Right.” I headed for the window and put a foot on the sill. “You don’t want me here. I’m leaving. I’m going to the first call box I can find and I’m ringing the police.”

Ric’s hand gripped my arm and hauled me back. “Don’t do that.” His teeth gleamed in the dark. He was turning on the charm. “I’ve been missing my sidekick. Stay and help. I had to carry everything myself…and why a call box? What about your mobile?”

“I left it behind,” I said, sulkily. He laughed under his breath. “It’s your fault, I had to get ready in a rush.”

Ric pulled me to him and kissed me. I was trembling, but he felt solid as a rock. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I won’t ever leave you behind again. Or Dog. Will that do?”

“No, it won’t, it’s totally inadequate, but this isn’t the time or the place to tell you what I think of you, you rat. Let’s get out of here.”

“In a minute. I haven’t got into the safe yet.”

“Can’t we leave it?”

“Ten minutes. Then we’ll go. I only got here seconds before you turned up. They arrived at the gate when I did, I had to jump in the ditch so they didn’t see me.” Ric grinned; he wasn’t just relaxed, he was enjoying himself. “I climbed up to a first floor window. I’ve been hanging around upstairs. Have a look for numbers written down. Start with the desk.”

“The day we came here, he didn’t look up the number. He had it in his head.”

“True – but he’ll have written it down as well, I bet. He doesn’t trust his memory.”

“All right. Just ten minutes, though. This is freaking me out.”

“Don’t worry. Phil’ll be in bed by now.”

I looked at my watch – two fifty-five – then sat at the desk and switched on my torch. The inlaid leather surface was clear, apart from a computer screen, keyboard and mouse, a telephone and a leather-covered container for pens. Try the drawers. The top one was locked.

“Where d’you think he’d put the key?”

Ric came over, took the short wrecking bar from his pocket, wedged it above the lock and jerked the drawer open, then returned to the safe. The dreadful splintering noise made me wince – I’m used to preserving antiques, not vandalizing them. I flashed my torch at the showcase Ric smashed last time. It had been mended, and the exhibits shuffled along to cover the gaps left by his Fender Strat and jacket. I returned my attention to the job in hand. The drawer slid out; in it was a desk diary and an address book, plus a pocket-sized tan notebook. I opened the notebook.

COMPUTER: 27club

BARCLAYS: user ID: 0275484395

password: holeinone

mem. place: canaryislands

BARCLAYCARD GOLDFISH: no.: Emma’s birthday

mem. word: lovely

log in ID: 874420639

card no.: 5401 3745 9887 0203

philsharott@aol.com: solicitor

psharott@aol.com: lawyer

CREDIT SUISSE…

“What’ve you found, Caz?”

“His computer passwords. Banks and things. Maybe the combination’s here too.”

But it wasn’t. Only a dozen pages were filled in, and he’d written in neat capitals what each ID, username and password was for. Ric was right – Phil didn’t trust his memory. Everything would be written down somewhere. I switched on the computer to be warming up while I continued my hunt; he might have the combination in an Excel file. It beeped and I hit Mute. I’d calmed down a little, now I’d found Ric and had something to do, but it felt bizarre to be sitting in the dark, in someone’s office, going through his private papers by torchlight.

The address book seemed kosher at a cursory glance; no entries for Mr Safe, Miss Combination, or T. Secret. Nothing I could see in the diary, either. I typed 27club to log in to Phil’s computer. Ric had swung the oil painting aside, and was turning the safe dial, which made audible clicks in the quiet.

“What are you trying?”

Ric finished the number he was on, and said, “Phil’s birthday. Nope. I bet it’s a date, though. Six figures.”

“Try Emma’s.”

“Done that. I’m going through every birthday I think he’d remember that I know. If he’s used his parents, we’re buggered.”

He went on methodically trying one set of numbers after another. His recall was amazing. After he’d exhausted birthdays he tried memorable dates. I’d finished with the desk drawers. There was surprisingly little in there; Phil was not a man for clutter, clearly. I moved on to the computer. I tried Excel; I had hopes of that, because there was an Excel password in the notebook. I opened the file. Lists of countries and names that sounded like foreign banks, with numbers and code words. Nothing obvious that could be the six figure combination, but interesting enough to keep for later. Rather than use the printer by the desk, I brought up Hotmail, attached the file and emailed it to myself. After that, I looked in Documents, which seemed to be all business letters, and began to check each one. I didn’t know where else to search. If the safe code was concealed in here, it might take me a week to find it. I glanced at my watch. Three-oh-three.

“Two minutes, Ric.”

He didn’t reply. I carried on scanning as many letters as I could in the time remaining, hoping to strike lucky. I’d leave the computer on; Phil would know we’d been there by the wrecked drawer anyway. The hum of the computer fan and the tiny metallic clicks from the safe seemed loud. Ric turned the dial, one way then the other, stopped and began again.

“Time’s up. Let’s go, Ric.” I longed to be outside, heading for home.

“Okay. Just this last one.”

I skimmed a couple more letters – nothing significant – then crossed to the window.

Six clicks, then a soft clunk, and the safe door swung open.

“Yes! Of course. 05,04,05. He’d remember that,” said Ric. “It’s the day Bryan died.”

My heart went into overdrive. By the light of Ric’s torch, the interior of the safe was the same as the last time I’d seen it. Even the slim bundle of notes had been replaced with another. Ric gave me the jewellery cases while he took out the white cardboard box and lifted the lid. Neatly crammed in, filling it, were syringes, liquid-filled plastic containers, transparent grip-seal bags containing white powder, blister packs of pills, little metal trays with holes in, bars of cannabis resin…

“Does he take drugs?” I asked, as I opened the leather cases. Nothing but expensive, rather dull necklaces, earrings, and brooches from Garrard and Cartier. Paula’s, I was sure; Emma would wear more exciting jewellery. I put them back where they came from.

“He never did. In the old days, he got us what we wanted. Said he’d rather we took good stuff.” Ric returned the drugs stash to the safe, and got out the pink A4 file.

This was taking too long. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Bring it with you, you can look at it later.”

“I just want to see what it is. It may be nothing.” He opened the folder, removed what looked like a folded shirt, and put it on the side table below the safe while he drew out several A4 sheets.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, staring from one to the other.

“What is it?”

“Fuck me…”

I went over to him and took a page. A picture filled most of it; fuzzy, taken on a mobile I guessed, but you could see what it was, even by torchlight. A cream-painted interior; in front of an imposing door with a fanlight, a heap of clothes, high heels, handbags, lingerie, hair spray, make-up, all tumbled together…in the foreground, a man sitting against a wall, head drooping. Look closer, and you could see the knife handle sticking out of his chest, and dark stains on the pale carpet. The other photos showed the same subject, from different angles; the body, and the piled possessions.

I picked up the garment. What looked like popsocks fell out of it – no, they were the cut off feet of a pair of tights…and here was the rest of the tights…odd. A cream blouse, the label Emporio Armani, that didn’t unfold properly from its deep creases, because it was stuck together with something; it had been hastily folded when wet with some dark liquid… Blood.

Ric snatched the clothes from me, shoved them and the photos in the file, and tucked it into his trouser waistband under his hoodie. “We’ve done it, Caz! Split.” He closed the safe door and put the oil painting back as it had been. His eyes shining with triumph, he seized my hand and pulled me towards the window. I grabbed the wrecking bar.

The door opened. My eyes screwed up as dazzling light filled the room. Phil Sharott stood in the doorway, wearing pyjamas and a silk paisley dressing gown.

He was holding a shotgun.

Chapter

26

*

“Stay away from the window, please,” said Phil Sharott, clicking something on the gun, “and put that crowbar down.”

I laid it against the wall. There wasn’t anything about the way he held the weapon that suggested he didn’t know how to use it. It was beautiful, gleaming walnut and engraved steel, the toy of a rich man who indulged himself in country pursuits, golf, fishing, pheasant shooting. No doubt he had a licence for it, and a locked cabinet to keep it in, all above board and within the law. I could see the long polished barrels, because they were aimed at Ric, not me. Bullets or shot, I had no idea, but felt sure at that range whatever it was would make a nasty hole.

Phil’s eyes flicked to the oil painting in front of the safe. A little of the tension seemed to go out of him. He turned his attention to the glowing computer, the desk and the printer. His mouth tightened when he saw the broken drawer.

“Miss Tallis, would you go slowly to the desk and place the contents of the top drawer where I can see them, please? Bear in mind that this is pointing at Ric.”

I did as he asked. My hands had gone icy cold. I laid the address book, the diary and the tan notebook side by side, careful to get the edges parallel.

“Good. Stand beside Ric. Ric, just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Okay, you win, Phil, no need to get heavy,” Ric said. “Sorry about the desk. I thought you were holding out on me, that if I came here and accessed your computer I might find out some stuff about the money. I was looking for offshore investments, stocks and shares, that sort of thing. I think you owe me more than you’re saying. A lot more.”

“So you’ve been looking in my computer?”

“Yeah. Didn’t find anything. Didn’t know what to look for. Maybe I was wrong, doesn’t make a lot of difference anyway, what’s a million or ten between friends? You can put that thing away. We’re going.” Ric edged towards the window. “Middle of the night, we’re all tired. I’ll ring you.”

Phil’s voice was louder. “Stop right there, Ric. I want you both to turn out your pockets. You first, Miss Tallis. Slowly.” The gun moved in my direction.

I bent to the lowest pocket on my combats, took out the plastic cylinder of ground pepper, waved it vaguely at Phil and went to replace it.

“Put everything on the desk, Miss Tallis.”

I put the pepper down, then, pocket by pocket, added the rest of my housebreaker’s supplies. It took some time. Laid out together, the items covered half the desk. Phil eyed them as though he’d be required to make a list from memory later for a substantial prize.

“And the crowbar.” Another visual check. “Come, come, Miss Tallis, I feel sure you have a mobile on you.”

“I forgot it,” I mumbled.

A pause, while he decided to believe me. “Now you, Ric.”

Casually, Ric rummaged through his pockets. As he moved, I thought I could see a corner of the folder now and then, poking against the navy polyester. Sweat started from my pores. “Caz’s got most of it.” The small wrecking bar hit the desk. “She likes being prepared.” The torch and a pen knife. “She was in the Boy Scouts at one time, I believe.” Loose change and a few crumpled notes. His shiny mobile phone skidded across the leather surface to join them. House keys; not, I noted, the Harley keys. He patted his clothes. “That’s it. We’ll be off now. We’d better take this lot, you don’t want it cluttering up the place.” He reached out.

“Leave it where it is. Except for your keys. You can take those.”

We picked them up. I clipped mine to my belt. Phil surveyed us for a moment and lowered the gun. It must have been a relief, his arms would have been getting tired. Thank God, he was going to let us go. I felt light-headed at the reprieve.

“I cannot credit that two grown people have done this. What were you thinking?”

Neither of us answered. If the cost of acquittal was another self-righteous lecture, I could live with that.

“Breaking and entering, damaging a valuable desk, logging on to my personal computer… Once again I’m left wondering just what you hoped to achieve? What was going through your minds? Ric, please accept that I am on your side. Even after your violent outbreak the other day. I appreciate you’ve been under a lot of stress. I am not trying to steal your money; far from it, I’m doing everything in my power to make it over to you. It’s not easy, but I’m doing what I can.”

Ric nodded. “Fair enough, Phil, I can see you’ve got a point. I’ll consider it sober next time I get a good idea. Maybe it wasn’t one of my best.”

Phil turned to me. “And as for you, Miss Tallis, words fail me. I’ve never met anyone who lived such a rich fantasy life as you do. Perhaps you should write a novel.”

“That’s a thought.” Ric put his arm round me. “We’ll be seeing you, then. C’mon, Caz.”

He ushered me towards the window. This unconventional exit was fine by me – the sooner we were out of there the better. Phil did not attempt to stop us. Ric stretched an arm to push the window as wide as it would go, and the pink folder came free from its insecure hiding place and dropped to his feet on the Chinese rug.

For an instant I gazed, appalled, as Phil Sharott’s face drained of colour and the gun barrels lifted, then Ric yelled, “Get out, Caz, go go go!” thrusting me at the window. I swung my legs over the sill and landed in the border, snapping and crushing vegetation, the safe darkness beckoning, then the gun fired, outrageously loud. I should have kept going, should have run for my life, for Ric’s life, but I thought he was shot, and my brain worked too slowly. I came back. Ric was unhurt, but there was a hole the size of a saucer in the wall, inches from his chest.

My ears rang, but I could hear Phil all right, though he spoke quietly.

“Next time I won’t shoot to miss. At this range, it’ll take your head off. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not prepared to do that. An over-reaction to a pair of intruders in the middle of the night…any jury would sympathize. Shut the window, Miss Tallis.”

I hesitated, then did as he said. If only I’d run – I’ve just blown our best chance. If I’d got away, he wouldn’t have dared to shoot Ric.

Phil said, and I could see he really meant it, “You remember the day you officially died, Ric? There was a moment, while I waited for you to swim to the boat, when it occurred to me I could start the engine, and leave you to drown, and no one would be any the wiser. I didn’t decide fast enough. Paula would have had to be told you were dead. I was still weighing it up when you hauled yourself over the side, water streaming off you on to the deck, and it was too late. Unfortunately. It would have saved me a lot of trouble. And your friend, too.”

“You’ve only got one shot left.” Ric was breathing fast. “Which of us would it be?”

Phil Sharott paused before he answered, deliberately, “Miss Tallis, I’m afraid.”

Ric bent and picked up the folder, slowly. “Kill us and you’re fucked, Phil. So’s Emma. You’ll have the police swarming all over you, and they won’t believe a word you say. The press’ll have a field day, too. Killing a world-famous rock star, whose fortune you inherited? Who just happened to break into your house? Try it and see where it gets you.”

The corners of Phil’s mouth lifted. I wouldn’t call it a smile. Below his eye, a muscle twitched. “That’s certainly a point. But on reflection, there would be no requirement to inform the police. What you seem to be forgetting, Ric, is that you’re dead. No one’s going to come looking for you.”

“They’ll come looking for me,” I said, my voice louder than I expected. “Because I left a note of where I was going” – don’t mention James, he might kill him too – “with my lawyer. The diamonds and Euros, as well. And the passport.”

Phil considered me. “I don’t think you have. What lawyer? The one who did the conveyancing on your studio? Hardly. I’m reasonably confident that if I have a good look in your flat, I’ll find those diamonds. Now Ric does have a lawyer – me.”

Oh God. He meant it. He was going to kill us both. I tried to bargain with him. “Let us go, and Ric will go abroad. I won’t tell a soul, I promise. If you kill us, like Ric said, you’re quite likely to get caught. It’s not worth it.”

“I think you could be wrong there, Miss Tallis,” Phil said judicially. His colour had returned, and with it his customary manner. He might have been discussing a case with a colleague, not murder with his prospective victims. “From an objective standpoint, considering what is involved, it would be worth it. Whereas I have grave doubts as to whether your word is to be trusted. It seems probable you are, quite cynically, offering a promise you have no intention of keeping.”

The door behind Phil opened. Emma stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. With eyes wide and no makeup, she looked about sixteen. Still beautiful, though. She wore a cream negligee whose lace and ruffles definitely did not come from Marks & Spencer, and bare feet, with pearly nail varnish on the toenails. Her lips parted as she stared at Ric. He scowled. She moved towards Phil.

“He’s not dead.”

“Emma, go upstairs. Leave this to me.” Phil hardly looked at her, and he kept the shotgun pointing at Ric.

“What happened? I heard the gun go off. Did you know he was alive?” She gazed at him. “You knew…and you didn’t tell me.”

“Emma, please, we can talk about this later.”

Her big hazel eyes turned to me. “Vikki – what are you doing here?”

“Hi Emma,” I said. “I’m being held at gunpoint by your boyfriend. Any chance of getting him to put it away?”

“Phil, why is Vikki here?”

“Her name’s not Vikki. She’s not a journalist. She lied to you. She’s Ric’s girlfriend. Let me handle it.”

“I’m Caz Tallis,” I said.

Emma looked at me uncertainly, then her eyes went round the room, taking in the computer, the damaged drawer, the assortment on the desk. She got to the pink folder in Ric’s hand.

“What’s that? What’s he holding?”

“Please, Emma, it’s not important, go to bed.” Phil’s tone was pleading.

“Yeah, Emma, you fuck off to bed,” Ric said, loudly. “It’s nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Much better forgotten. After all, Bryan’s dead, isn’t he? Nothing’s going to change that. Except he was my best friend, and it matters to me who killed him.”

“You’ll keep quiet if you know what’s good for you,” said Phil.

“Or else you’ll shoot me?” Ric said, “Caz, he’s only got one bullet left. Run while he’s reloading, but be quick, it takes seconds. Ring the police. Don’t worry about me.” I nodded. I would do it for him.

Ric turned to Emma. She backed away. His voice rang with anger and contempt. “I’ll tell you what I think happened, shall I, the day Bryan died?” She stared at him but didn’t answer. “When he came home, that sunny April morning three years ago, he must have heard you immediately, because if you remember you were making quite a lot of noise. Not help-me-I’m-being-raped noises, but shrieks of enthusiasm. ‘Oh, Ric, yes,’ that sort of crap. No mistaking it.”

“You’re lying,” said Phil. “It was rape. Bryan misunderstood what he saw, that’s all, he got it wrong. He wouldn’t let Emma explain.”

“Yeah, that’s what you’d like to believe, isn’t it Phil? Stop kidding yourself. Bryan got it absolutely right.” Ric’s gaze fastened on Emma once more. “He went for me, and I deserved it. He hated me for what I’d done. But I reckon, after I left, he started thinking about how you’d screwed his best mate the minute his back was turned. He worked out what a cheap tramp you are. He’d had it with you. He got all your stuff out of the cupboards, clothes, shoes, jewellery, the lot, and tipped them in a heap in the hall. My guess is he was going to put it in bin bags and chuck it out. But before he could do that, you came back.”

Emma stood, pale, mesmerized, Ophelia to Ric’s Hamlet.

“Bryan told you it was over. You tried telling him I raped you, and that just made him angrier, because he’d seen what happened with his own eyes, and you were lying about his friend. You and Bryan had a huge bust-up. You saw everything you’d got vanishing – your status as Bryan’s girlfriend, the boost to your career, the song he was going to write for you, even your credibility with Phil, all of it was going down the plughole. So you lost it. You stuck a knife in him. Then you panicked, and who did you ring for help? Phil. Faithful Phil, who’d been cheating on my sister for years with you, who you only dumped because Bryan seemed a better bet. You knew Phil was besotted with you, that he’d arrange a cover-up, find a fall-guy. The obvious one. Me. Phil came round, put your things back in the cupboard, tidied the flat, while you showered Bryan’s blood off and changed your clothes. He put the cut-off feet from a pair of your tights over his hands so he didn’t leave fingerprints. Then he left, discreetly, and you called the police like you’d just found Bryan.”

There was a long, strange silence. Ric said, more quietly,

“I suppose you might just be interested that your boyfriend kept a memento of the murder, and took a few photos.” Emma’s eyes switched to Phil. Phil’s mouth opened, but Ric hadn’t finished. “I wonder why he did that? Is it because, though he’ll never admit it, he knows you’re a lying, murderous, cheating little bitch with the morals of a whore, and he thought he might need a hold over you?” Ric held out the folder to her. “D’you want to see them?”

Above the cream lace, the swell of Emma’s breasts lifted and fell with her quickened breathing. She walked towards Ric, avoiding getting between him and the shotgun. She took the folder.

“Emma…” Phil sounded agonized. “Don’t listen to him, leave it on the desk, I can explain…”

Emma sat on the chesterfield, lifted the pink card flap and took out the blouse. After a moment she put it down, drew out the photographs, and stared at them one by one. She raised her head towards Phil, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Beside me, I could sense Ric, still and concentrated like a cat watching a bird, his muscles tense.

“How could you do this to me?” A stray tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t understand…you must have taken these while I was in the shower, and you kept them all this time, and the blouse…why?” Emma’s voice was a whisper. “They’ll put me in prison for years, I’ll be old when I get out… I thought you loved me…”

“I do love you.” His voice shook with naked emotion and sincerity, as though he and Emma were alone. “I know it makes no sense, I shouldn’t have done it, I don’t know what was going through my mind. I was so afraid you’d leave me. But I’ll make it all right, I swear I will, trust me.”

For the first time, he looked her full in the face, and the gun barrel drooped. Faster than I’d have believed possible, Ric launched himself across the room. Phil’s head snapped towards him. Just as Ric reached him and knocked the barrel up, he pulled the trigger.

There was a great bang, a crash as the light fitting exploded and smashed to the ground, and the smell of gun smoke in the sudden darkness.

For a few long seconds I froze, unable to see anything, my ears ringing. A volley of thuds and grunts indicated a vicious fight the other side of the room. Please God, let Ric beat Phil… I heaved up the sash window to leave like Ric had told me to, then had a thought and groped for his phone, on the desk where Phil had made him put it. I was still feeling around when the place lit up. Emma, the other side of the desk from me, had switched on the green glass lamp. Her eyes hard, her colour high, she’d morphed from Ophelia into Lady Macbeth. On the carpet, the two men grappled and punched among fragments of glass, metal and plaster, the gun beside them. This time, Phil was fighting back. I saw Phil’s landline, grabbed the receiver and dialled 9, 9… Emma seized the wrecking bar and smashed the phone, missing my hand by millimetres, then darted towards the scrum on the floor.

As her arm went back, I yelled, “RIC!” and vaulted over the desk, scattering my belongings. Ric heard me and rolled to one side as the steel bar swung at his head. He didn’t move far enough – the blow connected with a thud. Anger and fear fizzed through me. Emma raised the bar to hit him again, and I shot across the room, caught my foot in a branch of the chandelier and crashed to the floor. I jumped up and lunged at her – we toppled together, with me landing on top.

I went for the wrecking bar, but Emma hung on. I grasped it and thumped it repeatedly to the ground, bashing her hand. We struggled, Emma intent on getting me off her, while I tried to put her out of action. I was fitter, faster, and better dressed for combat. I was fighting for my life, and Ric’s; she was fighting for her freedom. When her nails went for my eyes, I dumped any lingering inhibitions. If I’d had a knife, I’d have sunk it between her ribs. Her warm body reeked of expensive perfume, the cream silk slithered and tore under me. I grabbed her hair and banged her head on the floor. She got hold of my fingers and bent them back. It really hurt. I head-butted her, hoping to break her nose, but missed as she turned sideways. Part of me couldn’t believe I was doing this.

Emma got sole possession of the wrecking bar and tried to crack my skull, but with no space to swing it she wasn’t able to hit hard enough. Ric and Phil had gone quiet, but now I heard heavy breathing behind me, crisp clicks and something small and solid hitting the carpet. Someone was reloading the shotgun. I had a bad feeling it wasn’t Ric. No leisure to look. Hurry. I twisted Emma’s wrist savagely, and kneed her in the stomach. She screamed. I yanked the bar from her hand and jumped backwards, colliding with someone – aftershave, not Ric, Phil – jabbed my elbow hard into his ribs, then something went over me so I couldn’t see – his dressing gown, muffling me and pinning my arms. Frantic, I kicked back at his groin. I got him, I know I did, but while I was blind and off balance he shoved me to the floor, and Emma sat on me.

The rip of tape. My duct tape. As used by American criminals, because you can’t work your way out of it like you can with rope. I bucked, wriggled and kicked. It was no use. I couldn’t beat two of them from where I was, though God knows I tried, because Phil wouldn’t be doing this if he intended me to survive. As they got the upper hand, disbelief and dismay possessed me; except dismay is too weak a word. It was a dark triple-distilled essence of dismay I was experiencing, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. When he’d taped my wrists and ankles, with three or four layers of tape, Emma got up.

Phil’s voice, hoarse and concerned. “Are you hurt? I had to reload in case Ric surfaced.”

“Just bruised and upset. My hand’s a bit painful.”

“My poor Emma. I’ll see to it in a minute. You were magnificent. Ric’s out cold. You hit him in the nick of time. He’d have throttled me, but for you.”

More tape ripping. He was securing Ric. I heard the safe combination click, then a faint rattle. The drugs. He was going to kill us now, inject us with a lethal overdose.

“It’s no good,” I said hopelessly, through folds of dressing gown into the carpet, “it’s pointless, you won’t get away with it. Bryan was manslaughter, this’ll be first degree murder.”

I could tell Phil was addressing me, as his voice was dispassionate, quite unlike the way he spoke to Emma. “First degree murder features in the Criminal Code of Canada, not this country. Here we only have one crime of murder: that is, unlawfully killing another person, with the intention to kill or to cause grievous bodily harm. It may be, however, that diminished responsibility or provocation reduces the crime to manslaughter.”

Perhaps the legal technicalities helped him to distance himself from what he was about to do. I tried again.

“Whatever it is, it’s just stupid, it’s crazy, you’ll do life for this, both of you.” Tears filled my eyes and I fought to gain control. I didn’t want them to know I was crying. “If Emma confesses to manslaughter, it’ll be a few years in prison, that’s better for her than being involved in three murders, surely? Two of them premeditated?” No response. It’s difficult to be persuasive when you are lying on the floor, tied up, with your head muffled in someone else’s dressing gown. My voice sounded strained, ineffectual, as I said, “You’re a lawyer, why can’t you see that?”

“Really, Miss Tallis, I don’t require your approval for my plans.”

Phil pulled the dressing gown off my head and moved away. I craned over my shoulder to see what he was doing. He swept everything off the desk into a leather waste-paper bin, and picked up the things that had fallen to the floor, then walked with Emma to the door. With him he took the bin, the gun and the white box. Stupid relief that I was not to die immediately flooded through me.

Before the door shut I heard Emma say, very quietly, “What will you do?”

It worried me that Phil didn’t lower his voice as she had. “Leave it to me. You don’t need to know anything about it. I’m going to take you upstairs to bed now. You go to sleep, and in the morning they’ll be gone. Within twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, everything will be back to normal.”

The door closed behind them. A key turned in the lock.

Chapter

27

*

Oh God, oh God…this was my fault, I should have persuaded Ric not to come, made him ring the police, I knew Phil was dangerous. I should have run away when Phil fired the gun. Without my wrecking bar, Emma wouldn’t have had a weapon. I’d brought the tape just so Phil could tie us up with it…

Get a grip.

James would get my note in the morning. He went running first thing each Sunday – maybe as early as seven-thirty, eight o’clock. I knew he’d go directly to my flat, read the file and ring the police. They’d take him seriously, everyone knows immediately James is on the level, and come straight here, arriving…between eight and eight-thirty, with luck. It must now be around three-thirty. Four and a half to five hours – if we lasted that long, we’d probably make it. Given our current situation, that seemed an impossible length of time for us to survive.

Phil had said, “In the morning they’ll be gone.” Dear God.

I curled on my side, sat up, and shuffled on my bottom towards Ric. His eyes were shut, his lips slightly apart, a thread of blood congealing on his pale forehead. I nudged his shoulder with my knee. “Ric… Ric!”

His head lolled a little to one side, no other reaction. There was a soggy red mess in his hair. A hot wave of panic swept over me. Suppose he had brain damage, with pressure building up inside his skull? Suppose he was dying? He needed to go to hospital. Maybe I could pick up a bit of broken glass – my fingers could function even though my wrists were tied behind me – and cut him free – but without him directing me, it would take forever, and I wouldn’t be able to move him, nor would he be able to free me.

I tried to get my hands in front of me, threading my body through my arms. The hero of The Danger did this with handcuffs, but it proved impossible with taped wrists.

Get help. The phone demolished by Emma lay in pieces, Phil had taken Ric’s mobile…I couldn’t climb out of the window…then I had an inspiration.

The computer!

It was still on, humming softly, though the screen had gone black. I pulled myself across the carpet over to the desk, and knelt in front of the keyboard. I pressed Web/Home with my nose. Easy. Phil’s homepage appeared, Financial Times markets and a Google toolbar at the top; I’d Google police… No cursor. I pushed the optical mouse around with my chin, then realized I needed to left-click. Got it. I nudged it up, overshot, brought it back using the underside of my chin. Overshot. While moving it, I couldn’t see the screen. It was difficult to shift it in tiny enough increments, difficult to control my fear and impatience and make myself do it gradually, as precisely as possible.

Gah! I’m an idiot. Use Tab…

Four clicks, peering anxiously after each one to check where I’d got to, and I’d reached the Google rectangle. Yes! I typed p-o-l-i-c-e c-o-n-t-a-c-t and pressed Enter. Nose-typing was easy-peasy, except for not being able to watch the screen at the same time. Tab to Metropolitan Police Service. Enter. A reassuring royal-blue and white page appeared.

METROPOLITAN POLICE

Working together for a safer London

CONTACT US

This section provides information on how you can contact the Metropolitan Police Service when it is not an emergency.

If a crime is currently taking place and you are in immediate danger, dial 999.

The Met care about what Londoners think and your views are important to us.

Find out how to pass on a suggestion, compliment or make a complaint.

I don’t want to pass on a suggestion, compliment or make a complaint! On second thoughts yes I do, I want to suggest that they have an emergency EMAIL FOR HELP section for when you are tied up with only a computer and no bloody phone so you can’t bloody well dial 9 9 bloody 9, and I want to complain that they haven’t sodding got one! And I definitely don’t want to pay them any bloody compliments when I’m about to be murdered and I can’t get hold of them because their sodding website is NO BLOODY HELP AT ALL.

The Samaritans. They do a twenty-four hour service, maybe they have an online messaging facility for the desperate. I qualify, I’m desperate. I Tabbed towards that little white rectangle, overshot and backtracked by using my tongue on the Shift key while pressing Tab with my nose. How long had I got before Phil returned? Emma must be asking lots of questions, he’d be trying to pacify her; then he’d be making preparations of some sort. I didn’t want to think about that.

The soothing green of the Samaritans’ home page; I scanned it hurriedly.

Volunteers offer support by responding to phone calls, emails and letters.

I moved to emails, pressed the down arrow to scroll and read:

How long does it take to reply to an email? If you email we try our hardest to get back to you within 24 hours. If you need immediate support you can pick up the telephone at any point and speak to a Samaritans volunteer.

No good.

The minutes were slipping by, second by second. I couldn’t see my watch and fear had swallowed my sense of time. Phil probably hadn’t been gone for five minutes. Think, think. Someone who knows me, who’d take me seriously and not assume it was some silly prank. Facebook! But which of my friends would be awake and on a computer at this hour? Okay, then, a site where there is always someone sensible and sober online. That’s IT! Tab to Google box, type, carefully now: g-o-o-g-l-e-q-u-e-s-t-i-o-n-s… An advert: Ask Experts a Question. Enter.

JUST ANSWER

170 experts are online now. This looks good…

Select your expert: Let’s go for Health Expert, they’ll be intelligent.

Jenny, Nurse

Dr Limberg, Doctor

Smiley photos of the white-coated professionals who were going to get me and Ric out of here, please God… Tab a total of thirty-eight times, checking at intervals, sometimes taking ages to spot where I was: at last, I’m in the big white rectangle.

Type your question here.

Right… p-l-e-a-s-e h-e-l-p m-e t-h-i-s i-s n-o-t a j-o-k-e i a-m t-i-e-d u-p a-t- My whole body tensed. Was that footsteps in the hall? p-h-i-l… The key turned, the door knob rattled, no, I’m so nearly there – s-h-a-r-

A quick glance told me it was Phil, dressed now in jeans and a navy polo shirt. I thought my heart had been racing before, but it hadn’t even laced up its Reeboks. Frantically I jabbed at the keys with my nose: o-t-t i-n c-p-p-k- Damn! I need the location, quick, backspace… Firm hands landed on my shoulders and pulled me from the keyboard. A bonfire smell lingered on his clothes; I guessed what he’d been doing. The evidence of Emma’s lies about Bryan’s death now existed only in our minds. Phil’s right eye was puffy where Ric had hit him, almost closed, and I could see red marks on his neck. He studied the page coolly, then clicked it off; went to Start, and shut down the computer correctly. He picked up the mouse, and left the room, leaving the door ajar.

He thinks I can’t use the computer without the mouse!

I nosed the On switch, then the tiny button that turned on the screen. The computer whirred into life and began the start-up routine, taking its time. Would it be better to attempt to reach another room and find a phone, now the door was unlocked? No, I’d be slow and might bump into Phil. Stick with the computer. Seconds trickled by like sand in a timer as the screens sequenced to the sign-in page. Hurry…yes.

Phil’s password: 2-7-c-l-u-b

Homepage

Google

Just Answer

Select Expert

It was still Jenny and Doctor Lindberg, smiling at me like old friends.

Thirty-eight Tabs, count carefully, it’ll be quicker this time. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, Enter…

Type your question here

h-e-l-p i a-m t-i-e-d u-p t-h-i-s i-s n-o-t a j-o-k-e p-h-i-l s-h-a-r-o-t-t i-n c-o-o-k-h-a-m e-n-g-l-a-n-d i-s g-o-i-n-g t-o k-i-l-l m-e c-a-l-l t-h-e p-o-l-i-c-e m-y n-a-m-e i-s c-a-z t-a-l-l-i-s r-i-n-g j-a-m-e-s 0-2-0-7-3-5-4-5-5-7-1 p-l-e-a-s-e h-e-l-p m-e

I clicked Get Answer. A new screen appeared. One question, three instructions. Aagh!

Are you new to JustAnswer? YES NO

Y-e-s.

Create Your User Name I ran my nose along the keys: koiujyhtg

The crisp tap of approaching feet.

Create Your Password sdfghj

The doorknob rattled and the door swung open.

Enter Your E-Mail Address Quick, quick, I can do this, thank God it’s an easy address: c-a-z –t-a-l-l-i-s- Shift key with my tongue and @, h-o-t-m-a-i –

The keys clattered and scraped my nose as a hand yanked the keyboard away. For an instant I thought Phil was going to smash it over my head, but instead he bent to read the screen. I struggled to my feet, despair in my heart. All was still, then Phil switched off the computer. The screen changed to black. Appropriate.

As he faced me, Phil’s battered face was calm; perhaps his mouth a firmer line than usual, as if having to deal with a time-wasting client for the second time in the same day. A faint rattle came from the white box he carried, and he laid it on the desk. Maybe he was less calm than he looked…

Neither of us spoke. I waited, choosing my moment, shaking much worse than Phil. This, I reckoned, was my very last chance. I just might be able to head-butt him. If I was insanely lucky and knocked him out, Ric and I might still escape.

I didn’t believe I was going to be that lucky.

Where should I aim for? He was so much taller than me. His throat, try to hit his Adam’s apple. He hovered a couple of feet away, eyes cautious. Last chance.

“Now there’s really no point your making this difficult…” he began, and as he came tentatively towards me I launched the top half of my body forward as hard as I could. He twisted, my forehead smacked into his shoulder; I crashed to the ground, unable to save myself. I lay stunned for a few seconds on my side, the breath knocked out of me. Phil pushed me on my front, put his knee in my back, and pulled up my sleeve. I jerked my arm, and he held it in a surprisingly strong grip. A pause while his other hand reached for and groped in the box on the desk, a stinging pain, a spreading warm numbness. Phil stood up and walked away.

I thought, this is it; the end of my life, and what a squalid, awful way to end it. Thank God Mum was dead. My death like this would have plunged her into a lifetime’s grief. Ric, he’ll kill Ric now, no…my brain blurred, my eyes closed. I’ll never finish Saladin…someone will, hope they get the dapples right…delicate Ayres dapples…

Chapter

28

*

What’s happening? Brain funny, I feel weird…but not dead…lilies, I can smell lilies, I am dead and it’s my funeral…no, I’m tied up, I’m alive…

I opened my eyes. The carpet, inches away, undulated, its subtle colours singing to me, incredibly beautiful. I watched it for a while, then turned my head, and saw by the gentle light of a single lamp a different room, the one Emma was in when I arrived, but now it was a ship, its walls were sails, they billowed and made me seasick. I shut my eyes, and I was flying. I didn’t like that. Maybe that was why my heart pounded. My head wanted to float away, spinning like a sycamore seed.

“I’m Caz Tallis,” I whispered to my friend the carpet, “and I can get out of this. They shot Philip Marlowe full of dope in Farewell My Lovely, and he escaped. So can I.”

I lay there for an indefinable space of time, thinking about moving. At last, making no noise, I rolled on to my back and attempted to sit up. Extra-strength gravity didn’t make it easy, but at least the walls were calming down, and my relationship with the carpet had cooled. I could see there was nothing that special about it. The world was getting back to normal. Not, on this occasion, a good normal. Ric was over the far side of the room, fastened to an office chair with duct tape round his shoulders and ankles, his head bowed, his face greyish. My heart lurched. He looked terrible.

Footsteps in the corridor made me stiffen then slump to the floor. Phil wants to kill us. Galvanized by fear, my woozy brain heaved itself to its knees and staggered upright, synapses firing all over the place.

I rolled on my front. I lay motionless, and let my mouth sag open; saliva dribbled to the carpet. Feet stopped at the door, then came in. I sensed Phil standing over me, then I heard someone else, and he moved away.

“Emma – what are you doing? You’re dressed…don’t come in here.”

“I can’t sleep, not knowing what’s happening. Have you got rid of those things…in the folder?”

“All gone.”

“Is Ric – are they…”

“Don’t worry, my love. I don’t want you to be worried. They’re both out for the count, you can see for yourself.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Deal with it.”

“I want to know how.”

A pause. “Leave it to me. Let me take you back upstairs.”

Emma’s voice was low and urgent. “No! Tell me! I’m frightened…how are you going to do it?”

“It’s under control.” Phil’s voice was not as certain as his words. His other illegal activities had not been as hands-on as this, and I felt he was barely coping. Maybe Emma thought so too. Her breath hissed impatiently. He said, “I made plans weeks ago for Ric. If only he’d gone to Scotland, none of this would have happened.”

“How would Scotland help?”

“It’s isolated. My boat’s there. If he’d agreed to go to Europe with me –”

“But he could’ve come back any time he liked!”

“Not if he never arrived. Some of the water’s very deep in those parts. No one would find him.”

Nothing was said for a few seconds, then, “So you’ll do the same with Vikki – Ric’s girlfriend?” She sounded eager, as though this was the answer to everything, and once we were out of the picture they could get back to their affluent life, their future unthreatened.

“No. It’s a pity she came with him. The police will look for her. I doubt she’s left details with a lawyer like she says, but she may have mentioned Ric to her friends, or people may have seen them together. I’ve got to set it up so they won’t come looking here.”

“How?”

“Emma, you don’t need to be involved. I’ll do what has to be done. It’s an ugly business, you don’t want to know about it.”

“Actually, I do.” Her voice had gone hard. “My whole life’s at stake. I want to be absolutely sure you get it right this time. You were too soft before – you had the chance to get rid of Ric and you didn’t. You should have known he’d come back.”

“I thought he’d kill himself with drugs and drink, on his own in Asile.”

“Yes, and you thought wrong! I can’t afford you messing up this time!”

“I won’t. Listen: what if the police think she met a confidence trickster who persuaded her he was the late Ric Kealey? She believed him, gave him money, let him stay at her place, started an affair with him. He introduced her to drugs. In the end, he strangled her, stole her laptop, her phone and a few other things, set fire to the house and left. The last person he’d have gone near is anyone who knew the real Ric Kealey, like me, because I’d know he was an impostor. If I said no one had come here, no one had contacted me, the police would believe me. After all, what actually happened is pretty unlikely.”

Silence while Emma digested this, and while I imagined being strangled. A tsunami of panic engulfed me. That nightmare I had – it was going to come true. Oh God. I took stealthy deep breaths and struggled to think, distracted by terror. Phil’s scenario was plausible enough – except James would tell the police and they’d believe him, so he wouldn’t get away with it. But Ric and I would still be dead. If I told Phil about James, would he give up? Or include James in his plans, like he’d included me? And what about Jeff Pike? He’d tell the police it was really Ric. Except, somehow, I couldn’t see them warming to Jeff as a witness. They might discount what he said. My head hurt trying to work it out.

Phil said, “If she told anyone, or he was seen, we’re covered.”

“There’ll be Ric’s fingerprints,” Emma objected. “The police will have a record of them.”

“It won’t take long to wipe every surface. A criminal would do that. It wouldn’t look suspicious if there were no prints. Besides, if the place is burned…”

“How did they get here?”

“I’m just going to look.”

The door closed, its key turned. Emma’s sharp questions and Phil’s replies faded into the distance. I sat up. Ric’s eyes were open and on me.

“Ric! Are you all right?”

He moved his head cautiously, winced and said, “If your definition of all right is being tied up in a chair with your head feeling like it’s going to burst and some mad fucker planning to murder you in the next half hour, then yeah, I’m all right.”

My eyes filled with tears. “That’s good. Did you hear what they said?”

“I’ve been awake for a while. Acting unconscious. I should have listened to you. Sorry, okay?”

I sniffed and wiped my runny nose on the knee of my combats. “Okay.”

The thump of the front door closing disturbed the quiet. Right. I was not going to sit there, waiting for Phil Sharott’s return. I checked the room for a phone, just in case, but there wasn’t one. I heaved myself to my feet, not easy when you are bound wrist and ankle, and leaned against the side of a sofa until the sea swell of the floor had settled down. Feeling queasy, I swivelled sideways along the carpet, moving first my toes, then my heels. I started to inch towards the little antique desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting something to cut the duct tape.”

Emma’s laptop was no longer on the desk, and nor was the tray with its cup and saucer that I’d hoped to break. For a moment I stood, unable to think what to do next. I wished my brain would stop cutting in and out – I needed it. I looked around, then shuffled across the room to the mantelpiece. In front of a large mirror, between a pair of silver candlesticks, was an arrangement of Stargazer lilies and gypsophila in a cut-glass container. It was their heady scent I’d noticed when I came to. I bent forward, the throbbing in my head intensifying, and tipped the whole lot to the floor. Somehow it missed the marble hearth, falling harmlessly on the thick rug. The flowers half spilled out, and water darkened the carpet. I knelt clumsily, knocked the vase away from the flowers and tried to get hold of its edge with my mouth. It rolled briskly away. Aagh. I followed, nudged it round with my head, and had another go at getting a grip on it. It spun under the coffee table. I reached out and banged my head on the underside of the table. It hurt. Tears of frustration and pain stung my eyes. If Ric told me to hurry up, I might just struggle over and attempt to hit him.

He didn’t tell me to hurry up. He said, “I love you, Caz.” I’d think about that later. If there was a later…

I manoeuvred the vase against the table leg, and clamped my teeth round its cold wet rim. Carefully, I stood, moved back to the hearth, leaned over and dropped it. This time it shattered, the crash unbelievably loud in the quiet. Anxious moments passed as I listened for a reaction from Emma, presumably still in the house somewhere. Nothing. I knelt, avoiding the slivers shining on the carpet as best I could, and chose a triangular curving piece of glass, with a bit of the thick base along one edge. With my nose I shoved it to the corner of the marble. I turned round, my fingertips searching.

“Left a bit. Now back about three centimetres.”

There was excitement and hope in Ric’s voice. Yes – got it. I shuffled over to Ric. “I’m going to cut the tape holding you to the chair first. You direct me.”

“Do it where I can see.” I inched to his side. “Lower, bit lower, that’s it, towards me.”

It was a nightmare version of a children’s party game. I could feel the tape. I made sawing movements with the glass. Ric was strapped to a swivel chair, which didn’t help; he could only touch the floor with one foot to stop it moving. My bent knees began to protest, and my mind kept wandering off. Concentrate. Nothing seemed to be happening. If I got through this tape, I’d have to free Ric’s wrists with neither of us able to see what I was doing.

This isn’t going to work.

Ric said, “It’s just scratching it. There’s three thicknesses. Try piercing it with the pointed bit.”

I turned the fragment in my hands. It was getting nowhere with the tape, but skin was a different matter; my fingers stung wherever the edge touched them. Slippery with blood, the glass might slither from my fumbling fingers, and we didn’t have time for mistakes. Time was running out.

“Here?”

“Yes. That’s good, it’s gone through, can you move it sideways?”

“Like this? Ugh…” The glass had got me again.

“Careful…okay, jabbing the point was better, go back to that.”

I could hear distant tyres on the gravel, and an engine noise quite different from Phil’s Audi; the laboured din of worn components, plus the rattle of elderly body panels. My van.

“He’s back.”

Time had run out.

Chapter

29

*

The noise got louder, and for an instant lights flashed past the windows; my gearbox crunched and complained, then sudden quiet and the familiar sound of my van doors opening immediately outside. Phil had backed the van up to the French windows. The pale oval of his face appeared, lit by the light from the room as he looked in, then it was gone. I sawed feverishly with the glass, careless of my fingers. A minute later, the front door banged and footsteps ran down the hall. Phil burst into the room, holding his shotgun up to his shoulder.

It was like one of those awful dreams where you strive to do something and are constantly defeated. This hellish night was now my life; it seemed I would be trying to escape, and Phil would be thwarting me till the end of time. I wanted to howl like a wolf. Phil shoved me on to the sofa, put down the gun and reinforced the tape around Ric.

Ric said, “You need help, you sociopathic shit heap. Emma’s running rings round you, and you’re too stupid to see it. If you think she gives a flying fuck about you –”

Phil stuck tape over Ric’s mouth, then came and did the same to me. Ric’s eyes were dark and snapping with fury. I mustn’t cry, I won’t be able to breathe. Emma walked through the door, trim in jeans, her hair pulled back into a pony tail. She took in the smashed vase, and spoke to Phil as though we weren’t there.

“What took you so long? They might have escaped!”

“Well, they didn’t.” Hurriedly, Phil started searching through Ric’s pockets. He kept his head down, avoiding Ric’s glare. “I couldn’t get the van to start. I was afraid it wasn’t going to.”

Emma said sharply, “What are you doing?”

“He came here on a motorbike. I’m looking for the keys. I’m going to leave them in the ignition so someone will steal it.”

“This is rural Berkshire, not the East End. The police might find it first. Can’t you take it somewhere rough?”

“No, I can’t!” Phil straightened up, the Harley keys in his hand. “I don’t know how to ride a motorbike.” He got a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead and dabbed at the corner of his bad eye.

Emma made an impatient noise. Phil was not coming up to scratch. “Well move it in the van, then. You can’t leave it near here.”

“I suppose you’re right…it’s heavy, you’d have to help me. There’s a ramp in the van.”

Emma went to the French window and opened it. “You’ve made tyre marks on the lawn – Christ – what’s that?”

A brown and cream shape shot past her, ran to Ric, jumped on to his lap, and licked his face. Dog. When he got no response he keened softly and pawed at him.

“Damn. He’s Ric’s, he was in the van. I put him out on the road.”

Emma’s voice went up a notch. “You put it on the road? The road outside your house? Are you deliberately trying to get us caught?”

“I took his collar off first. I didn’t know he’d follow the van. Without a collar he’s just a stray.”

“You should have run it over. We can’t leave it wandering around here.”

“We could take it in the van and drop it off somewhere else…”

“Too risky. That’s the sort of thing people would remember if they saw it. We need to kill it.”

No! Not Dog too…

“Surely not…we’d have to bury it…”

“Yes. So? And why is Ric still alive? He’s looking at me.”

“Emma, please, I’m doing my best. If I can’t find the diamonds and the papers I’ll need Ric to tell me where they are.”

If Phil was not going to kill us until he had the passport and diamonds there was a flicker of hope. If he failed to find my hiding place (and how I wished I’d taken everything to the bank and paid for a deposit box) then we might last till James sprang into action. I couldn’t see Phil being much good at getting the information out of us. He was going to kill us the way a person kills mice; reluctantly and with distaste, not because he wanted to, but because we had to be got rid of. He was flustered, out of his depth, and not naturally violent. On the other hand, Emma was beginning to seem capable of anything.

She surveyed Ric, coolly. “I’ll make him talk, if you can’t.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary.”

Emma said nothing for a few unsettling seconds, looking Ric up and down. Four brown eyes stared back at her.

She turned to Phil. “Perhaps we shouldn’t kill the dog yet.”

It seemed to get darker and colder. My ears buzzed. My breathing had gone funny and I wondered if I was going to faint. Phil took in what she meant. “Oh…surely…no…” He shook his head. “No…”

“Why not? We’ve got to kill it anyway. Remember, it’s for our future together. I bet it’d be the quickest way.”

“Yes, but…I just don’t think it’s…I’m sure we won’t have any trouble – he may well have left them lying around. If not, people hide things in obvious places, usually. If we do a thorough search…” Emma’s expression was not encouraging. His voice tailed off.

After a moment she shrugged. “Have it your own way, if you’re going to be squeamish. I suppose we’ve got his girlfriend.”

She walked towards me, and behind the sofa. Through the blackness round the edge of my vision, I saw Ric move convulsively against the tape holding him to the chair. Dog whined. I strained to see what Emma was up to. She seized a hank of my hair and twisted it painfully, forcing my head over the back of the sofa till I feared my neck would snap and I’d die. I heard a muffled sob before I was aware of making it. When she let go of me and rejoined Phil she was smiling. “It’ll work. He’d tell us now if he hadn’t got tape stuck over his mouth.”

But he couldn’t because he doesn’t know…it would be my decision, God help me, and as soon as I tell them they’ll kill us…I can’t cope with this, I don’t know what to do, maybe I should tell them about James after all, but then they’d be waiting for him…

Emma’s manner became businesslike. “Right, so first we’ll finish off the dog. Then put them in the van, and I’ll help you load the motorbike, and we’ll go to the outskirts of Slough to dump it. If we don’t hang around we can get there while it’s still nearly dark. After that we’ll go on to London.”

“There’s no need for you to come.”

“Oh, I think there is. You’re too soft. Now get the dog.” She looked around, and picked up a silver candlestick, testing its weight.

Phil approached Ric’s chair cautiously, arms out. Dog, streetwise from his days in Marseilles, eyed him thoughtfully, and hopped on to the floor. Phil made a grab at him; Dog dodged, speeding up, paws a blur. Emma swung the candlestick with deadly intent, but he swerved out of reach, sped round the room and bolted into the shadowy garden.

“It doesn’t matter,” Phil said, gazing after him, not seeing Emma’s look of scorn. “He’ll wander off.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Ric and I looked at each other. I expect my eyes held the same desperate hope I saw in his. For an instant Phil and Emma didn’t move, then she turned off the light while he gently closed the French window, turning the handle so it made no sound.

Dear God, get us out of this and I’ll believe in you.

The bell rang again; a pause, then someone kept a finger on the bell push for a very long time.

Emma unhooked the tasselled tie-backs, and drew the curtains over the windows. Phil picked up his gun. The bell stopped.

Please God, don’t let whoever it is go away.

Seconds ticked by; maybe a minute or two, maybe longer. My eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. Some of the tension went out of Phil and Emma; he lowered the gun, and she moved towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Phil’s voice shook.

“To see who it is.”

“Don’t let them see you.”

“Of course I won’t. I’m not stupid.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, and was interrupted by a small scratching outside that seemed loud in the hushed room. They both froze. After a moment Phil turned to Emma and whispered, “It’s the dog. He’s come back.”

Then the silence was split by a yell like charging cavalry, and a crashing, splintering noise as the window burst in. Something shoved against the curtain, a hand pulled it up and I saw Jeff Pike extricate the patio chair he’d used as a battering ram, drop it with a clang on the stone flags and jump into the room, covered in splinters of wood and glass. Simultaneously, the French window opened. Dog scooted through it and over to Ric, keeping the opposite wall from Phil, then James’s blond head appeared between the parted curtains. A quick glance round, and he hurtled towards Phil, bringing him to the floor with a bone-crunching rugby tackle. When he stood, he was holding the shotgun. Phil staggered upright and leaned against the wall, blank-faced.

“Stay there,” said James curtly. Emma backed towards the door. “And you, please. Don’t move.” He walked to the nearest lamp and switched it on, his eyes searching the room. “Caz!” I could see he was shocked to the depths of his civilized soul.

At the same time Jeff said, “Ric! Shit!”

James laid the gun on the sofa and gently pulled the tape off my mouth. His concerned gaze met mine. “Are you all right?”

Tears poured down my face. In my entire life, I have never been so glad to see anyone. He was so sane and solid, the embodiment of safety and normality. I nodded. He got out a penknife and cut me free. When he’d finished, Jeff took the knife and cut through Ric’s tape, with Dog jumping up and wagging his tail. It took Jeff some time; Phil hadn’t stinted on the tape. I’d have needed an hour to hack through it with broken glass behind my back. Phil watched, pallid and irresolute, his face more lined than I remembered, facing total disaster. Emma stood a little apart from him, biting her lip, eyes darting about. Two people bereft of power, who’d had our lives in their hands only minutes before. No one said anything to them.

James gave me a quick, comforting hug, then got out his mobile and dialled 999, keeping an eye on Phil. “Police, please…” He told them his name and telephone number. “I’d like to report two attempted murders…and false imprisonment, assault, theft of vehicle… Jeff, what’s the address?”

“Rowan House, Cookham. Off Sutton Road.”

James repeated it. “Phil Sharott’s house. Can you come quickly? No, we’re not. Yes, I’ll be here. He is. I’ll do that. Bye.”

As Jeff removed the last bit of tape, Ric got to his feet and strode across the room to Phil like an avenging god.

“Give me my Harley keys.”

As soon as Phil had handed them over, Ric punched him in the face. He slammed against the wall, slid down it to the floor and lay still. Ric faced Emma. I thought for a moment he was going to hit her, and so did she by the way she blenched; but he turned and came over to me.

“Caz…”

I wrapped my arms as tight as I could round him. Locked in his embrace, feeling his warmth, smelling his skin, the relief I felt was inexpressible. I didn’t ever want to let him go. The nightmare was over, and we were alive. A minute or two later I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, James and Jeff standing side by side watching us. Jeff put his hand on James’s shoulder.

“Tough shit, mate.”

“Indeed…” James replied, pensively, his eyes still on us. “My sentiments exactly. Commiserations to you, too. Do you suppose it’ll last?”

“No chance,” Jeff said, hopefully.

James sighed. “You’d better have a drink, before the police get here.”

“Hey, I’m sober, man! More or less. You saw me driving, I was fine.”

“Just in case. Let’s all have a drink.” He went to the drinks cabinet, got out four glasses and poured generous amounts of brandy into them. Jeff walked to where Phil lay and kicked him, muttering obscenities. Emma shrank away.

James brought the drinks over. “I know how you feel, Jeff,” he said, over his shoulder, “but that’s probably not a good idea. Come and have some brandy.”

One last hefty kick, and Jeff joined us. “Cheers.” He took a swig, and lit himself a cigarette. “Well, this is nice.”

I let go of Ric, and reached to take my glass. Maybe if I looked I might find some salted nuts… No one paid any attention to Phil supine on the ground, and Emma immobile against the wall; it was as if they weren’t there. Myself, I’d have preferred them to be in another room – especially Emma – but we’d have had to tie them up, and the police would arrive soon, so it wasn’t worth saying anything.

“Caz, your hands…” James sounded appalled, and I could see why; they were covered in blood. “Did he do that?” For a moment I thought James might assault Phil too.

“No, I tried to cut the tape with broken glass.”

“Finish that drink and I’ll find something to bandage them with.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said. “Just surface cuts. Stings, though. Jeff’s are worse. Shouldn’t we put a tourniquet on his arm?” He had jagged cuts from wrist to elbow dripping dark blood on to the carpet, and another on his chin.

James took hold of his wrist and examined it. “Some of these are quite deep. Let me put something round it.”

“Can’t be arsed,” Jeff said. “I’m not going to bleed to death.”

“Why did you go through the window?” James asked, curiously. “You should have tried the door first, old chap. It wasn’t locked.”

“Boring. I like smashing things. What shall we do now? Trash the place?”

“Nah,” said Ric. “Could be it belongs to me.”

“I’m not sure I should drink this,” I said, swirling my brandy. “I don’t know what Phil injected me with. I still feel a bit funny.”

“He injected you?” James frowned. “I’d better ring for an ambulance.”

“Hold on.” Ric put his glass down, crossed the room and crouched by Phil. He yanked his head off the floor by the front of his polo shirt and slapped his face a few times. Phil groaned.

“Wake up. Listen to me. What did you inject into Caz?” When there was no reply he shook him, hit him again, and repeated the question.

Phil’s eyes opened. “Ketamine.”

“Sure? How much?”

“Five millilitres.”

His head thumped to the floorboards as Ric let him go and rejoined us. “It’ll be pharmaceutical ketamine, supplied by legit Asian manufacturers. An anaesthetic, they use it on third world battlefields. You’ll be okay – but don’t drink the brandy. It’ll make you sick as a dog.”

James took the glass from my hand, put it down behind him on the drinks cabinet, and poured me an orange juice. I’d have preferred the brandy.

Ric turned to Jeff. “How did you know to come here?”

“Your phone was off, so I went to Vikki’s gaff. I rang the bell, and Jas opened the door. I was like, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I thought you wouldn’t get my note till the morning,” I said to James. “I thought by then we’d be dead.”

“I wouldn’t have done, but my downstairs neighbour had her handbag stolen at a club. I’ve got her spare keys, so she rang my bell at a quarter to three, and when I went to let her in, I saw your note with my name on.”

“Lucky or what? Awesome…” Thank you, God.

“It said wait till the morning, but I was worried. I went straight to your flat and got the papers you’d left. Then I was really worried. I knew you wouldn’t want me to call the police. I’d just about decided to drive to Cookham when Jeff turned up. We joined forces.”

“Dream team,” said Jeff. “He’s the muscle and I’m the brains…”

“…with additional responsibilities for invective, illegal substances and velocity. We came in Jeff’s Maserati. Terrifying experience. We must feature on every speed camera from Hoxton to Cookham.”

“They can’t do me for it. Matter of life and death.”

“We rang the doorbell, then Dog showed up. He led us round the back, and we saw your van.”

I picked Dog up and hugged him. We all grinned at each other, then Ric and I filled them in on the events of the night while we waited for the police to arrive. I don’t know if it was reaction, or the few sips of brandy, but I felt enormously cheerful, though admittedly it might take a few days for my legs to stop shaking. I checked in the mirror, and was pleased to see I didn’t look too terrible, all things considered. I went and washed my hands, and James found some plasters to put on them. Ric said he’d leave the gash on his head for now, and let the police doctor look at it. Jeff, ignoring the state of his arm wandered here and there, poking at things, trailing spots of blood. He picked up the shotgun and examined the engraving. “Purdey,” he read. “It’s second-hand. Fucking skinflint.”

“Do us a favour, don’t point it this way,” James said. He and Jeff seemed surprisingly relaxed with each other. They must have bonded on the journey.

Jeff took the shotgun to the remains of the window he’d demolished. “How d’you work it?” He fiddled around with it, then fired twice into the first glimmers of dawn. I put my hands over my ears. Dog, unable to do this, hid behind Ric. Jeff clicked the trigger a few more times and turned. “Where does he keep the ammo?”

“No idea,” Ric said. “It’s okay, Dog, just a noise. Ask Phil.”

I doubted he’d get much out of him; Phil lay comatose, breathing audibly, where Ric had left him, a darkening crimson patch on one side of his face. But – “Where’s Emma?”

She wasn’t in the room; she must have sidled out while our attention was on Jeff firing the gun out of the window. Ric found the last of my duct tape and, with a certain satisfaction, secured Phil. Then we all went into the hall to investigate. James opened the front door; outside, beyond Jeff’s car, was the green circle of grass, trees and the curving drive in the misty pale golden light of dawn. Its peaceful beauty made me catch my breath; my eyes filled with tears; was it the remains of the ketamine, or because this was a day I’d not expected to live to see?

A revving engine obliterated the birdsong, and into this idyllic English scene, from the garages to our right, a scarlet sports car erupted. It shot past us, spraying gravel, just missed the Maserati as it turned, ran over the edge of the lawn leaving tracks, and sped away down the drive. We all gazed as the car diminished then disappeared behind the distant trees.

“She’s in a hurry,” said Ric. “I wonder where she’s off to?”

“Pity the gun’s empty,” said Jeff, regretfully.

James’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t tell me you’d have taken a pot shot at her?”

“Keep your hair on, Jas, I only meant I could have shot up the tyres.”

Chapter

30

*

Minutes later flashing blue lights approached through the trees, and two police vehicles, gaudy in luminous green and blue, drove rapidly to the front of the house. Four uniformed policemen, two of them armed, got out and crunched over to us. James stepped forward.

“I’m James Holland, I rang you. When I got here twenty minutes ago, I found Caz and Ric tied up. Phil Sharott was going to murder them.”

The senior officer raised his eyebrows. “Where is he now, sir?”

“I’ll show you. He’s tied up.”

The armed officers went with James into the house; the other two stayed with us.

“Is that your shotgun, sir?” the inspector asked.

“Nah, it’s Phil’s.”

“Better give it to me, then, sir. We wouldn’t want there to be an accident.”

Jeff handed it over. The officer took hold of the end of the barrels between finger and thumb. He laid it carefully in the boot of the jeep, put on gloves, then picked it up again and checked its chamber. “This has been fired recently.”

“Phil was trying to scare me,” said Ric.

“I had a go with it, too,” Jeff said.

The younger policeman stared at him, then Ric, opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Jeff. “It’s Ric Kealey, back from the grave. The Man They Couldn’t Kill.”

The senior officer turned from stashing the gun in the boot, blinked, and considered Ric. “Is this true, sir, are you in fact Ric Kealey?”

“Yup.”

“In that case…Ric Kealey, I am arresting you in connection with the murder three years ago of Bryan Orr, also for breaching bail, causing a false police investigation and wasting police time.” He ran through the obligatory caution mechanically, mind elsewhere. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” His manner returned to a neutral amiability. “If you’d like to spread your arms out against the jeep, sir, I’ll just look you over for weapons.”

“He didn’t kill Bryan,” I said, as the officer patted Ric down. “Emma Redfern did.”

“We still need to take him to the station, miss. Where is this Emma Redfern?” he asked, clicking handcuffs on Ric’s wrists. Dog wagged his tail at the policeman, as though Ric had made a new friend, and Ric didn’t seem that worried either. He gave me a smile and a wink while no one was looking.

“She drove away ten minutes ago. In a red sports car.”

“An Alpha Romeo Spider,” added Jeff.

“D’you know the registration number?”

We shook our heads. The officer reached for his radio and put out an alert for the car. James came through the front door, followed by Phil, untaped but in handcuffs, then the two policemen. One of them carried the box of drugs, the other a stack of smaller boxes, green and white with flying pheasants on them – shotgun cartridges, I guessed. Phil’s head was bowed. His lip was bloody and swollen, his face a mess where Ric and Jeff had beaten him up. He walked stiffly, limping slightly. This must be the ultimate humiliation for a man like him. I felt a tiny spark of compassion for him, though God knows why – I certainly felt none at all for vile Emma. The officer put Ric in the police jeep, putting a hand on his head to guide him (why do they do that?) Dog jumped in after him, and they put Phil in the back of the van.

We hung around for a while, something we were going to do a lot of that day, waiting for reinforcements. The sunlight got brighter, the haze retreated. Another panda car arrived, and four policemen got out; I gathered they were there to search the house. They took Phil’s keys, then we were off. Jeff made towards his Maserati, but James persuaded him to leave it there and come with us in the police car. We all insisted on crowding into the jeep with Ric, as none of us wanted to be with Phil. Dog clambered about, licking us indiscriminately, his tail swiping our faces. Our mood was frivolous, as if we were teenagers off to a party; we teased Ric about being handcuffed, and the policeman joined in. We wanted him to turn on the siren, but he wouldn’t.

Maidenhead police station is modern, utilitarian red-brick with greenery in front and more buildings and car parks behind. A big sign outside the entrance says THAMES VALLEY POLICE. I felt hungry and light-headed, but not sleepy, and was enjoying myself, in a weird way. It was just like being in a police programme on television, except everything happened slowly with long gaps between. They took Phil, and left the rest of us in a waiting room, watched over by our friendly policeman, while they fetched a doctor.

When he arrived, the doctor cleaned up the wound on Ric’s head, and was in favour of his going to A & E for evaluation. Ric had to convince him he hadn’t been unconscious for all that long; he said firmly he was just a bit groggy, with a headache, and he’d be fine. The doctor said no alcohol, rest, and have someone keep an eye on him. Then the policeman took Ric away for questioning. The doctor stitched and bandaged Jeff’s arm, got a blood sample from me and departed.

We got cups of revolting tea out of a machine. James said it was better than my coffee. For breakfast we had crisps and Kit Kats out of another machine. Jeff smoked, below a sign telling him not to.

Next I was taken to an interview room, and a policeman and policewoman recorded me while I told them everything that had happened. There was a box of tissues on the table, in case I got upset, but I was still spookily cheerful. After that, I hung around some more, chatting to James and telling him all the bits he didn’t know about. Jeff was off being interviewed. Strangely, the night’s ordeal had done away with the embarrassment I’d expected to feel at being alone with James – goodness, we’d been kissing each other only six or seven hours before. I don’t know whether it was my escape from death, or his seeing me in Ric’s arms, but we seemed to be back on our old friendly footing, which was great.

The police were going to collect the diamonds, the stolen passport, the Euros and the papers, and wanted me with them. To retrieve the things I’d need my wrecking bar, but it was now evidence, labelled and tucked away in its own plastic bag, so they brought one of theirs. We left from the car park in a police car, and drove past the main entrance. I noticed five men, dressed for comfort rather than style, hanging around, cameras round their necks. They turned to watch us go, and one took a photo. The news was out.

Thinking of news…I got the driver to stop by a corner shop, while I dodged in to buy the News of the World. One relieved glance told me Emma had cancelled her interview with them, no doubt persuaded by Phil: the lead story was not MY ROCK STAR RAPE HELL, Ric Kealey raped me, then I found Bryan’s body, as I’d feared; it was LOVE-CHEAT M.P.’S SEX TAPES, read full transcripts. I bought a copy anyway to show Ric. Church bells rang in the Sunday morning peace of Maidenhead, and the journey to Fox Hollow Yard was quick and smooth. It’s true what I’ve read, that marked police cars travel in a bubble of other drivers’ good behaviour.

James’s BMW was parked outside the Yard. He’d need to move it before Monday morning. As we climbed the stairs to my flat, the policewoman told me she’d got her daughter a Mamas and Papas furry rocking horse which she loved. Though I’d only left ten hours earlier, the flat had a blank unfamiliar air; I felt a sense of disconnection, as if I’d been abroad for a month. It occurred to me that if it hadn’t been for James, I’d probably still have arrived here at about this time, but bound hand and foot. Phil would have ransacked the flat, then strangled me and set fire to the building. No doubt he’d have drugged me first. I didn’t even want to think about what Emma might have done if they hadn’t found what they were looking for. Had James arrived while this was going on, Phil might have killed him too. For a moment, it was as if the sun had gone in, and I shivered.

I levered the George Woodrow’s body apart, and picked everything out, including a thimble, three glass marbles, a red pencil and assorted seashells. The policewoman listed its more recent contents, put them in a large see-through plastic bag and wrote me a receipt. She waited while I watered the plants on the roof, because I wasn’t sure when I’d return. The blackbird flew to the railing and whistled at me in a meaning way. Tranquillity, birdsong, the sun on my back; it felt good. I put out some sultanas, and grabbed my handbag, a packet of chocolate digestives and some apples to take with me.

By the time we got back to the police station, I was ready for lunch. The gaggle of paparazzi had swollen to more than two dozen, smoking, talking on their mobiles, wandering around. Several took photos as we drove past. We came back the way we had left, from the car park. Jeff was on his own in the waiting room, stretched across three chairs. He opened his eyes when I went in, and closed them again.

“Where’s James?”

“Being grilled.”

After a quick flip through the News of the World (it has a certain fascination, but really isn’t my sort of thing) I sifted through the pile of tatty magazines and travel brochures on the low table and selected Friday’s thelondonpaper to read. They brought us coffee in a thermos jug and sandwiches, and we’d just started on them when the door opened and Ric came in, Dog shadowing him closely the way he always does on unfamiliar territory. Ric was no longer handcuffed.

“How’s it going?”

“It’s okay…” I sensed some reservation. “They don’t think I killed Bryan.” He sat between me and Jeff and unwrapped a sandwich. “It’s not just what we said, Phil’s told them Emma did it.”

“That’s great…” Why wasn’t Ric happier? “Are they going to charge you with all that other stuff, like wasting police time?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But Phil’s brought up Emma’s rape claim. He’s saying that’s why she lost it and stabbed Bryan, the balance of her mind was disturbed. Of course they knew about it, it’s on their records even though she didn’t go ahead and press charges at the time.”

Jeff said, after calling Emma some pretty unsavoury names, “She can’t prove it.”

“No. And the police don’t think a jury would convict me, they said so. No evidence, just her word. She lied to them about Bryan, and she and Phil were going to kill us – she won’t have much credibility in court. It’s not that. The thing is, I can’t prove it didn’t happen, either. Once the story gets out, it’ll be there forever, with people thinking maybe she was telling the truth. That’s what pisses me off.”

“Oh Ric.” I reached for his hand. How could I say no one would believe it of him, when I had myself, briefly?

“Fuck her,” Jeff said, inappropriately in the circumstances, making Ric smile wryly. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s done a runner, that never looks good. If they don’t find her she won’t even be in court. Don’t worry about it, mate.” He squeezed Ric’s shoulder.

I said, “They haven’t found her yet, have they?”

“No. They found her car, though,” Ric said. “In the short term car park at Heathrow.”

“Maybe she’ll go to France and get your old job in the Auvergne, working with the Percherons.”

Ric smiled properly this time. “I hope not, she’d be rubbish. She’d neglect the horses, seduce the farmer and murder his wife. While Phil was adjusting to life in jail.” He poured coffee into a cardboard cup and laughed. “That reminds me, the first thing they asked me was if I wanted my solicitor to be present. I said, on the whole, I’d rather manage without him.”

We all looked up at the sound of footsteps outside. I thought it would be James, let out for lunch. The door swung ajar, letting us hear giggling and scuffling, then opened wider, and a voice whispered, “Go on!” A petite policewoman appeared in the doorway, while her friend hung back, peeping round the jamb. She blushed, hesitated, and said to Ric, “D’you mind me asking for your autograph? I’m a big Voices fan.”

Ric turned on the charm. “It’s a pleasure.”

She came into the room, handed him a police note pad and a pen, and went pinker. “It’s just so amazing to see you.”

He smiled into her eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Donna.”

“Pretty name. Suits you.” I looked over his shoulder as he wrote, in a bold scrawl, To Donna – you can handcuff me any time you like, Ric Kealey. “I’ll twist Jeff’s arm and make him sign it too if you’ll do me a favour.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Can you get me some dog food? Dog hasn’t eaten today. And water.”

“No problem. I’ll ask the dog handlers.” Ric did the smile, and she gazed at him and left. Muffled shrieks and laughter died away down the corridor.

“Jesus, I’d forgotten what you were like with the fans,” Jeff said. “I may vomit. It’s an obsession, like you’ve got to make every single saddo fall in love with you. It’s deviant, man.”

“Shut up and sign this,” said Ric, passing him the pad. Donna seemed to have cheered him up, I was pleased to see.

“You know I don’t do autographs,” Jeff grumbled. “There’ll be a queue right down the corridor once she shows this around.”

“Yeah, and you’ve got so much else on.” Jeff took the pen, eyes narrowing. “And don’t write anything obscene. Just your name. That’s it.” Ric plucked the notepad from his hand. Jeff’s signature was a tangle, underlined – very him.

We made desultory conversation as we finished the sandwiches, swapping our extremely limited knowledge about legal matters, most of it gleaned from films and television. The policewoman came and went, and Dog wolfed his lunch. The sun moved round and streamed in the window, making the room look dusty. Suddenly I felt tired. “When d’you think they’ll let us go?”

Ric shrugged, opening the biscuits. “Dunno. They haven’t finished with me yet, they just let me out for lunch. They might want to keep me overnight.”

They collected Ric again. Jeff and I lined up chairs on opposite sides of the sunny room, so we could sleep; ugly chairs, upholstered in harsh turquoise, with square steel legs. The sort of chair only a government institution would buy, that you’d never find in anyone’s house. But quite comfortable. One moment I was wishing it was darker, the next I had sunk into deep velvety oblivion.

“Excuse me, sorry…sorry to wake you…” An insistent voice that wouldn’t go away, dragging me up from dreamless depths. “I’ll get you a nice cup of tea…” I opened my eyes. A uniformed policeman bent over me. The sun slanted more gently through the windows; it must have been early evening. I leaned on an elbow and looked at my watch. Six fifteen. I’d been asleep for hours.

“The inspector would like another word with you.”

I swung my feet to the floor. Jeff had gone, and James was stretched out asleep in his place, his blond hair tousled and endearing. I got up, heavy-headed, and followed the policeman. He showed me into the small bare interview room, and went to get the promised tea.

“Ah, sit down.” The inspector smiled, switched on the recorder, gave a number, date and time and told it he was recommencing the interview with Cassandra Tallis. “I just want to ask you about one or two discrepancies that have come up.”

I frowned, wishing my brain would pull itself together and join the rest of me. “Sure.”

“While you were tied up, you heard Phil Sharott and Emma Redfern discussing how he proposed to murder you and Ric Kealey, dispose of Kealey’s body and set up your flat to look as if he’d killed you?”

“That’s right.”

“Phil Sharott says the conversation never took place.”

“Well it did.” He couldn’t get away with telling barefaced lies, could he?

“He says that in any case you were unconscious at the time, as he’d injected you with five millilitres of ketamine – which your blood sample confirmed – and couldn’t have heard anything. He claims you imagined it under the influence of the drug.”

“Is he saying he wasn’t going to kill us?” My brain grappled with this, while my body got indignant; I felt hot and my pulse rate shot up. I gripped the edge of the table.

“No, he admits planning to murder yourself and Ric Kealey. But he maintains that Emma Redfern was not involved, as you say she was.” The inspector glanced at his notes. “He says she did not see you tied up; she believed he was going to pay you off and take Ric abroad. He says she was unaware of his intentions.”

I gave a gasping laugh. “She was keener than he was! She said he should have let Ric drown three years ago, she said he was too soft. She was the one who wanted to torture poor Dog to make Ric say where the diamonds were – when Phil wouldn’t let her she was going to bash him to death with a candlestick. Not Phil, that is, Dog. Then torture me instead. And she knocked Ric unconscious with the wrecking bar.”

“Her fingerprints aren’t on it.”

“One of them must have wiped the fingerprints.” My slow brain made a great effort and put two and two together. I stated the bleeding obvious.

“He’s lying to protect her.”

A policewoman escorted me to the waiting room once more. I saw a group of people approaching us down the institutional magnolia-painted corridor, and a disagreeable shock jolted through me. Emma, much shorter than the three policemen around her, blonde hair shining against their dark uniforms. Two civilians, one in a suit, one in casual clothes, walked alongside. As we passed, our eyes met. Hers were guarded; her expression did not flicker. She looked away.

Chapter

31

*

Shortly before eight that evening, the police had finished with me, James and Jeff – for the present, at any rate – and told us we were free to go. In the end they decided to let Ric out on police bail, which I thought an encouraging sign, particularly as they’d now got Emma in custody blackening his name. They wanted him back, though, at two p.m. on Monday.

Ric, with Dog and attendant policeman, joined our little group last, and while we waited for him I went to the Ladies, had a wash and put on my best make-up. My mood had lightened; Emma could do her worst, but she was lying; she’d be spending the night in jail, and Ric wouldn’t. Everything would work out.

When Ric arrived, we stood around for a minute, deciding what to do next. We felt as if we were about to be let out of school on the last day of summer term. All of us had managed to snatch some sleep during the day (Ric rather less than the rest of us, as the police spent longer with him) and were in party mood. After what we had been through together we were Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan, blood brothers, closer than family; we didn’t want to part.

“Let’s all go for a slap-up meal to celebrate, and to hell with Emma,” Ric said. “Get a limo to take us back to London.”

“Excellent idea,” said James.

“What about my van? And your motorbike?”

“We’ll get them tomorrow. I can’t ride the Harley, anyway.” He glanced at the policeman. “Insurance, that sort of thing. How about the Connaught?”

“Looking like this?” I said dubiously. We were all the scruffy side of casual. Even James looked as though he’d dressed in the dark. “And there’s Dog.”

“The Dorchester,” Jeff said. “They’ve got private dining rooms. And they do good Chinese, as well as poncy French stuff.”

“I thought you were banned at the Dorchester?”

“Nah, that was the Savoy. Dickheads.” Jeff got on his mobile and rang the Dorchester. “Hi, Jeff Pike here. Fine. I want a private dining room for this evening…round about nine thirty. I’m bringing Ric Kealey and a couple of mates. That’s right. Yeah, better had. Okay.” He finished the call, then made another to order a car to take us to London.

The policeman interrupted him, “D’you want to tell it to go round to the car park, so you don’t have to walk past the press? There’s quite a few of them out there.”

Jeff raised his eyebrows at Ric, but he shook his head. “No. I’ve waited a long time for this. We’ll go out the front.” He took off the cheap navy hoodie he’d just pulled over his black tee shirt, and abandoned it on a chair. He put his arm round my waist, and we headed for the exit.

Beyond the glass doors of the main entrance, the golden evening light glowed. Ten metres away our silver limousine waited, and on either side of the path leading to it was the press. The police had erected metal barriers to keep them back, and several uniformed officers patrolled to keep order. Behind the barriers, leaning over them, were hordes of reporters, jostling shoulder to shoulder, and cameramen with enormous cameras, many on ladders so their faces were banked high like spectators at a football match. Film crews had set up tripods and carried big furry microphones. In the background three satellite trucks waited to beam footage across the world.

They became aware of our presence, and the crowd stirred as every camera lifted, ready. Ric turned to us, a shadow passing over his face. “D’you think word’s got out yet…about Emma?”

“It doesn’t matter if it has. It’s not true. You can handle it.”

He hesitated. “How do I look?”

“You look like shit, man,” said Jeff. “They won’t know you. You’ll have to tell them who you are.”

“Hey, don’t spare my feelings, Jeff, just give it to me straight, I can take it.” Ric ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it. The gash on his head showed dark against the blond; he had stubble on his jaw and shadows round his eyes. His pale skin contrasted with his black clothes.

He was double-take gorgeous.

“You look like the hero of a vampire romance, handsome, dangerous and a bit ill,” I said. It was the truth. Any warm-blooded female wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off him.

He kissed me, then, “Guys, come with me.”

“No. It’s you they’re waiting for.” I gave him a little push. “We’ll join you in a minute.”

Jeff grinned. “Go on, you know you want to. Vain bastard.”

“Just you and me, then, Dog.” Ric moved away, paused, turned, and his dark eyes met mine. He smiled. Not the dazzling smile; a small, intimate one that was just for me; then he switched on the charisma and walked towards the double doors. They slid open. A thousand flash bulbs blazed and coalesced into one brilliant flickering glare. A roar shook the air as they all bellowed his name.

He walked down the steps, posing without seeming to, answering some of the shouted questions, working his way slowly towards the limousine. He flirted with a pretty CNN girl, putting his hand over hers on the microphone, and she blushed just like the WPC had. He picked Dog up so he could be in the shot, and hands reached out to pat him. Dog didn’t seem fazed by the crowd, the noise and the lights. Ric made some joke and the nearest reporters laughed. I watched, proud of him, my heart glowing.

“Well,” James said, “He’s back.”

I glanced his way, and noticed that beyond him Jeff’s whole attention was concentrated on Ric; he was smiling as I had done, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. Ric, I saw with sudden clarity, was the love of Jeff’s life; not his wife, a mother figure who provided the home and family he’d never had, nor the succession of women, mere accessories to his rock star status like the limos and the drugs. Such romance as he possessed was focused on Ric, who indulged him. Jeff had felt like that since the early days of the band. He wasn’t going to go away. If I wanted Ric, I’d need to accept this.

His hand on the car door, Ric looked round for us, photographers still snapping him.

“Just take no notice of them and keep moving,” Jeff said. “Let’s go.” The cameras whirred and flashed anew as we stepped outside, and the reporters yelled, a hunting pack in full cry. The assault of light and noise was overwhelming, disorientating. I could pick out some of what they were shouting.

“This way, Jeff!”

“Over here!”

“How did you get those cuts, Jeff?”

“Jeff, will The Voices relaunch now Ric’s back?”

“Give us a smile, love. Are you Ric’s girlfriend?”

A microphone was thrust under my nose. “How did you meet Ric Kealey?”

It seemed rude to ignore the man. “Er…”

Jeff grabbed my arm. “Vikki’s with me, and she doesn’t want to talk to you, wanker.” He dragged me past, scowling. Wooing the press was not something he went in for, clearly. We reached the car and tumbled in. The driver moved off, chased down the road by photographers shooting through the windows. Jeff raised his middle finger at them. Soon they were left behind, though a handful of paparazzi on motorbikes and mopeds buzzed along in our wake, dust trailing Ric’s comet. We settled into the plushy seats, Ric’s arm round my shoulder.

“How long will they follow us for?” James asked, peering out of the rear window.

“All evening,” said Ric. “Dog, you were terrific, they loved you. You’re a star.”

The driver dropped us right outside the hotel entrance, a doorman opened the limousine’s door and we sprinted up the steps into the marbled halls of the foyer. A beaming manager appeared at once; “Nice to see you, Mr Pike. Welcome back, Mr Kealey. Madam, Sir,” and escorted us, incongruously unkempt as we were, through the sumptuous lobby to a lift. I realized he’d been waiting for our arrival. Heads swivelled as we passed, and hotel guests muttered to each other. One or two took photos of Ric with their phones, discreetly.

I’d never been to the Dorchester before. The private dining room turned out to be part of a suite, so there was a spacious living-room with a fireplace and three sofas as well as a formal dining area. Decorated in soft shades of cream, blue, green, with a balcony and views of the treetops in Hyde Park, it resembled the home of someone rich with conservative tastes – not unlike Phil Sharott’s, come to think of it. Not Jeff’s sort of place at all, I’d have thought; but he seemed at home there, and all the staff knew him.

Once we’d ordered from the menus, I stepped out on to the narrow balcony, with its background hum of traffic, and view of Hyde Park in the twilight; the dark bulk of trees, the deepening blue sky, the street lights and the constant flow of cars. James followed me, and when the Krug arrived in a silver bucket, Jeff got them to bring it outside.

I lifted my glass. “To James and Jeff. To not being dead.”

“To Jeff and James,” Ric said. “To being alive.”

“To Caz…” James smiled at me, “…and Ric.”

“Whatever,” said Jeff.

Suddenly I felt riotously happy. Champagne always has a heartening effect on me, and I’d already been feeling chirpy. I was alive, so was Ric, he’d said he loved me (okay, maybe in the heat of the moment because we were both about to die, but still) and I’d get to dapple Saladin instead of someone else who might do it wrong. Me, Jeff and Ric dropped ice cubes over the balcony railing, trying to hit various features on the roof below, getting very competitive, making up elaborate rules and accusing each other of cheating. James egged us on.

“You have a go, Jas.”

He shook his head. “I’d rather watch you lot.”

“Then get us some more ice cubes sent up, will you?”

“And a laptop,” said Ric. Jeff rolled his eyes, but I thought it a brilliant idea; I was keen to see us on screen.

When the waiter brought what he’d asked for, James didn’t follow him on to the balcony; he hung back, and I could tell he wanted a quiet word with me. A little reluctantly, I made my last throw and joined him inside. Pools of lamplight made the big room intimate; the others were being too raucous to hear anything we said. I sat on a sofa and James perched on the arm.

“God, Caz, I’m so pleased you’re safe.”

“Thanks to you.”

“I keep thinking what would have happened if Jenny downstairs hadn’t lost her keys. It makes me go cold.”

“When you came through the French window – I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see anyone.”

“I’m just so glad I was there.” He reached out and squeezed my hand briefly. His expression lightened; he got up and fetched the laptop from the coffee table, sat beside me and opened it. “Let’s see what you look like on the news.”

I glanced in Ric’s direction, but he was immersed in the game. He’d see it later. James went to the BBC’s homepage. The main story was Rock star Ric Kealey alive, all charges dropped, with a photograph of Ric holding Dog. James clicked on a link, Kealey leaves Maidenhead Police Station. I watched, riveted; on my own I’d have played Ric walking down those steps and charming the reporters over and over. Now the rest of us appeared. James laughed.

“Caz, you look all innocent with huge eyes, like a small child on her first trip to Disney World.” I gave him a look, wasted because he was concentrating on the laptop; when the brief clip was over he went on speaking as he switched it off. “Changing the subject, I had a phone call from Posy today. While you were in the interview room.”

“Oh?”

“She was having second thoughts. Said she missed me, that maybe she’d got it wrong, she wasn’t sure she wanted to settle down after all.”

“Did she mean it? Or was she just saying it because she’d frightened you off before and wanted you back?”

“Lord knows. I’d be taking advantage of her, I think, if we did get back together on my terms.” James went on more hesitantly, “The funny thing is, though, that I’ve sort of come round to her way of thinking.” He stopped; I waited, but he gave no sign of carrying on. He sipped his champagne, staring out at the balcony, and I followed his gaze. Ric and Jeff were leaning over the criss-cross railings, side by side, absorbed in their contest.

“Yeah, dude, bull’s eye, but it was the wrong one, you’re doing the one on the right this time.”

“No, no, it was that one, you retard. The other one’s your one, the one you haven’t hit yet.”

I turned my attention back to James. He was still watching Ric and Jeff.

“You’ve got a rival there, you know. It was pretty obvious on the journey to Cookham.”

This was old news. “Yes…but he’ll never get what he wants.” I was more interested in what he had been saying about Posy. I wondered if, unlike Jeff, she was about to get her way; she knew James, and a woman who has set her sights on a man should not be underestimated. If she succeeded, Rosemary would be pleased with her as a daughter-in-law. “So Posy…d’you mean you do want to marry her after all? She’s very nice…”

“Caz, you’re an idiot.” His blue gaze met mine. “I want to marry you.”

Good heavens, he was proposing! “Oh, James…”

“I know. Ric. But I thought I’d better tell you, so’s you’d know. Just in case.”

There was something I had to say. I owed him an apology. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. This morning.” I avoided his eyes, looking instead at the streams of tiny bubbles in my glass. “I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”

James smiled. “Don’t be. It was nice while it lasted.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I told Posy no. I didn’t feel it would be honest. And she said, she’d got the picture, she couldn’t compete with you. And hung up.”

Chapter

32

*

Monday morning my phone woke me. I stretched out a sleepy hand for it. James. Ric stirred, turned over and settled again, his eyes firmly shut.

“Hi…what time is it?” I said quietly.

“Ten. Did I wake you? I’ve been up for hours, I’m at work now. Have you looked outside?”

“Hang on.” I slid out of bed, put the mobile down for a moment while I slung on my towelling robe, and went to the round window that overlooks Fox Hollow Yard. It was packed with people – reporters and paparazzi in their own little encampment; drinking cups of coffee, chatting, sitting on the cobbles typing into laptops.

“Goodness,” I said. “Ric turned the sound off on the entry phone last night. They followed us here, and rang the bell as soon as we went in. Nothing like as many as that, though.”

“I came to collect the car just after eight this morning, and saw them. They pounced on me for want of anyone better, but I told them I couldn’t say anything, it was sub judice. Don’t know if that’s true. By the way, I bought the papers and put them through your door. Thought you’d want to see them.”

“Oh James, thanks, that was kind.”

“There’s some nice shots of you. Ric of course, and Jeff looking baleful. And read the Daily Mail first – some surprises there. Anyway, got to go. See you, Caz.”

“Bye, James.”

I went softly out of the flat, down three flights of stairs to the office. The answer machine’s red light blinked at me in the dimness, wanting attention. I ignored it – somehow I doubted it was horses the callers were interested in. We’d let the blinds down the night before, so none of the reporters could see me tiptoe to the door, though I could sense them moving about. Two were sitting on the doorstep; I could hear them chatting a foot or two away from me. The newspapers were fanned on the floor where James had shoved them through one at a time. I shuffled them into a thick pile, tabloids on top. Upstairs, I plonked them on the kitchen counter and put the kettle on while I had a quick look. James had said read the Mail first…I was immediately distracted by the paper on top, the Sun, huge letters taking up most of the front page.

RIC KEALEY

HE’S ALIVE

HE’S BACK

and he’s innocent

A photo of Ric, holding Dog, smiling at the CNN reporter. Dog, it seemed, was as photogenic as his owner – he looked adorable. Inside, there were spreads across four pages. The salient facts, though understandably not a lot of detail, plus background about the band and the murder. They revealed Ric’s plans for a solo career; he was quoted as saying, “The Voices won’t be re-forming – been there, done that – but Jeff and Dave are the best, I hope they’ll guest on my next album.” Lots of photos. One of me…hmm, I didn’t look too bad… Rocking together – we reveal the stunning new woman in Ric’s life – she’s Cass Tallis…

Cass Tallis? Who’s that? Huh.

…an ex-teacher who makes rocking horses. After a posh dinner at top hotel the Dorchester with Voices drummer Jeff Pike, she and Ric returned to her trendy Hoxton home. Another photo of me, which I recognized as the one from my website. Could be good for business? I spooned tea into the teapot, poured water and put bread in the toaster. The Daily Express…

VOICES STAR RETURNS FROM THE DEAD!

Sensational reappearance of ‘late’ Ric Kealey – and the police have dropped all charges. Full story inside.

The toast popped up and I reached for it absently. The Mirror had a shot of Ric the day before, and a separate one of a suave-looking Phil Sharott at an awards ceremony…

SO WHO DID KILL BRYAN?

Ric Kealey walks free, Voices manager held.

I poured out the tea, buttered my toast and spread marmalade, moving the Mirror off the Daily Mail…I stopped. They’d split their front page; like the other papers, they headlined Ric’s return from the dead; RIC’S ALIVE, police drop charges, with a photo; but running in tandem, above a picture of Emma looking at the camera, pale hair perfect, eyes wide and solemn –

Exclusive

I KILLED BRYAN

Emma Redfern reveals all to Daily Mail reporter

My three years of shame

Voices manager terrorized me

Why I was too scared to go to the police

I turned the page. A photo showed her arm-in-arm with Phil Sharott. In it he looked a lot older than her, more than he actually was. She was at a slight angle, pulling away from him; his eyes stared fixedly at her cleavage. I wondered how long it had taken them to find a shot like that. In another, Bryan Orr posed, chin on hand, his expression devil-may-care. I read,

THE DAY BRYAN DIED ~ Emma tells Mail reporter the truth

I NEVER MEANT TO KILL HIM

Bryan’s girlfriend said: “It’s such a relief, to be able to speak out about what really happened at last. Now I can go to the police and tell them everything.”

Emma started dating The Voices bass guitarist only months before his death. Their romance blossomed, and she moved into his Regent’s Park appartment soon after. She added, “I loved Bryan so much, but there was a side to him not many people saw – he took drugs supplied by The Voices manager, multi-millionaire solicitor Phil Sharott, which made him irrational and terribly jealous…”

I skip-read to the next bit, THE DAY BRYAN DIED… Alongside was a photo of Ric and Bryan, arms over each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.

Trembling with emotion, tears spilling from her eyes, the 25-year-old said, “That dreadful day in April three years ago, I was alone in Bryan’s flat when a friend of his called. He took advantage of me being alone, and raped me. I can’t say who he was for legal reasons. Bryan came in, saw me with this man and leaped to the wrong conclusions. Though he was completely mistaken, and I was totally innocent, he went berserk. I was distraught, shattered. I told him he’d got it wrong, but he wouldn’t listen. He got really angry, shouted at me, then picked up a knife. I was so scared – I tried to make him calm down. I managed to get hold of the knife – he lunged at me and it went into his chest. I never meant to kill him, I loved him.”

“I can’t say who he was for legal reasons” – I guessed the newspaper had jibbed at printing Ric’s name without corroborating evidence. They’d put the photo instead. People would guess who she meant, and it would come out at the trial. And maybe Bryan had gone mad and attacked her; maybe it had been self-defence. Only she knew the truth, and she was going to say whatever would earn her least time in jail.

WHY I LIED TO THE POLICE

Horrified, Emma agonized over what to do next. “When he slumped to the floor I was devastated at what I’d done. I tried to revive him, but he died in my arms. My first thought was to ring for an ambulance – not that they could have saved him – and the police, but Ric’s manager, Phil Sharott, arrived before I was able to and wouldn’t let me. He said they would charge me with murder, that I’d go to prison for twenty years. He’s a lawyer, so I trusted him, and he said he was trying to help me. He told me to lie to them, and he would arrange a cover-up. In the end I agreed – I was too upset to think straight. Afterwards, I knew I’d done wrong, but it was too late – I thought the police wouldn’t believe me after I’d lied to them, and Phil told me since Ric was dead, it wouldn’t help him in any case. I felt I had to do what Phil said – I even felt grateful to him. He manipulated me, and took advantage of me while I was in a fragile state after the rape, and grieving over Bryan. Later, when I knew Phil better, I thought he might kill me if I stood up to him – I was afraid, I knew by then he was capable of it.”

“PHIL SCHEMED TO GET RIC’S MILLIONS”

Emma reveals how little she knew about Phil Sharott, now 37, even when she became his unsuspecting girlfriend. He played Svengali in her life, running her singing career and dictating everything she did.

“He was a control-freak. He would even tell me what to wear – he liked me to look good when we went out together, but he didn’t want me to be too successful. He was possessive and jealous. He’d always had his eye on me, right from the start. But it wasn’t just me in Phil’s plans – he wanted Ric Kealey out of the way so he could get his hands on his money. That was part of his scheme, to let him take the blame for Bryan’s death. I knew nothing about this, I had no idea Ric was alive, until today when Ric came to his house.”

Emma was stunned when she discovered, just yesterday, that Phil had organized the fake accident in which Ric ‘died’ three years ago. “He told Ric to take his Cessna aeroplane, and picked him from the sea in his yacht and took him abroad to go into hiding. Phil was married to Ric’s sister, and she inherited his fortune. When she died, Phil got his hands on it, which is what he wanted all the time.”

I finished the article, then worked my way through all the others. Though totally absorbed in reading, I was distantly aware of Ric on the mezzanine getting out of bed, going to the bathroom for a shower and dressing. Now he came downstairs, smiled, flipped on the kettle and picked up the nearest paper.

“Look at this one. Here.” I handed him the Daily Mail, and watched his face as he read, his frown deepening.

“She doesn’t name me. That figures. It’d be libel, now I’m alive. But it won’t take long for people to work out who she means…” He read on, and gave a short laugh. “So she’s dropped Phil in it…we might have guessed. That’s why she scarpered before the police arrived. Not to escape – to get her version on record.”

“Yes. I suppose if they’d charged her, the paper wouldn’t have been able to print an interview, it would have been contempt of court or something – prejudicing legal proceedings? She’s scheming as well as horrible.”

“Now Ric has returned, I’m so relieved all the lies are over. I’m going public so people know what really happened, so Bryan’s family can find peace of mind at last,” Ric read, his voice acerbic. “Big of her. She’s all heart, is our Emma.”

“I feel a bit sorry for Phil.”

His eyebrows went up. “You’re talking about some other Phil, I take it, not the Phil who tied you up, injected you with K and planned to strangle you and set fire to your workshop?”

I laughed. “You have a point…but he was trying to protect her, and take the blame himself. And now she’s saying it was all his doing.”

“Then they’re in total agreement. They both want him to be the fall-guy. I don’t see the problem.” Ric spooned coffee, and added water and milk.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Make toast. Then take you back to bed. After that, Maidenhead. If you come too, I can load the bike in your van and you can drive to London while I get the third degree from the police.”

“Fine, but I really meant, now you’re back. What are your plans for the future?”

“Make an album that’ll blow everyone else out of the water.” Ric’s expression was assured, happy; he’d got his life back and he knew what to do with it, this time round. I hoped I’d fit into it somewhere.

Chapter

33

*

It’s autumn now; bright blue skies, leaves edging the pavements for toddlers to shuffle through, and crisp dark evenings with a hint of bonfires in the air. The summer’s events, culminating in that July night, forged a lasting connection between the four of us; me, Ric, James and Jeff. It changed us all too.

I suppose the biggest change is for Ric. He’s got what he wanted; a second chance to get it right. He hasn’t got his fortune back yet, and it seems he won’t until the trial is over – it hasn’t even begun, there have got to be hearings first, and it may be months before it does. The law moves slowly. Phil and Emma were refused bail. The police believe me and Ric, not them. They found the remains of the pink folder and its evidence, in a part of the garden well away from the house; charred Armani buttons among the ashes of the blouse and the photos, concealed with a covering of earth. The buckle and studs from Dog’s collar were there too.

I can’t imagine Emma in Holloway, but she’s wily enough to survive life in jail. Phil less so, I think. I know Ric’s right, but when I think of Phil in prison, having lost everything, betrayed by the woman he loves, and no doubt being given a hard time by Voices fans, I feel a twinge of pity. There is going to be mammoth publicity around the trial, given its sensational aspects – one murder, two attempted murders, Phil and Emma’s testimony conflicting, and the main witness a rock god back from the dead. A bonanza for the press.

Rumours about Ric raping Emma are circulating, but none of the newspapers will print them. Private Eye came closer than any of the others, but stuck to hints and allusions, nothing actionable. Ric’s not happy about this, but accepts he’ll just have to live with it.

He’s hired a forensic accountant to track down and identify his money from Phil’s financial records: a far from straightforward task, since Phil had moved it around in multiple offshore accounts to conceal its provenance. The whole thing will be a nightmare to unravel, but at least the documents I emailed myself from Phil’s computer have turned out to be a useful starting place.

Meanwhile, Ric’s already begun to earn himself a new fortune. Jeff had the idea for a benefit gig, a final get-together at the O2 arena for the remaining three Voices. It sold out within minutes, with tickets going for thousands on the black market. I went, watching from backstage, and it was fantastic, unbelievable, a night to remember. When Ric walked on stage with all the spotlights focused on him the crowd went wild – I thought they’d never stop clapping, cheering and whistling. In the end, Ric did a thumbs up and started playing, and the audience quietened down. Twenty thousand people controlled by one man. The waves of enthusiasm, the energy coming from the fans filling that vast space was palpable. And the band earned it; you’d never have thought it had been over three years since their last performance. (Ric told me later the substitute bassist was bland. Ric misses Bryan, though I think he’s less troubled in his mind now he knows how he died – he still blames himself, but he’s coming to terms with it.) He spent an hour signing autographs afterwards. The crowd round him didn’t diminish, indeed it got bigger, and at last we dragged him away.

In the car, I got him to sign my Access All Areas pass. I told him I’d sell it on eBay if I was ever desperate for money. Not that I really would…

It’s staggering, the adulation Ric attracts. I hadn’t realized what it was like, never having been a fan, or particularly interested in celebrities. Everywhere he goes, and that includes the most exclusive places, people stare, take photographs and more often than not approach him. And their attitude varies from goodwill and admiration for his talent to fanatical worship; from discreet glances to stalking, harassment, mobbing and offers of sexual favours. Ric handles the attention well. He’s pretty laid back about it, accepts it as part of the deal, is even, I suspect, reassured by it, after years of living as a nonentity.

Jeff has lent Ric ten million pounds to be getting on with.

“Ten million?”

The idea of Jeff slipping it to him as if it were a few quid because he’d left home without any cash made me burst out laughing.

Ric grinned. “Yeah. Means I can get on with stuff now, not wait for my money to come through. D’you want some? Pay off the bank loan?”

Some old-fashioned scruple prevented my saying yes. But Hello Magazine is going to do a feature on me and my rocking horses. They rang last week, mentioning a mind-boggling fee.

“You want to pay me how much?” I put my hand over the receiver and relayed the news to Ric. He calmly took the phone from me, and offered to be in the background of one of the shots, if they’d double their bid. Which they did. I didn’t agree to it immediately, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to become any more well-known than I already was.

It’s a bit of a drag, to be honest, being a minor celebrity, though it has its amusing side. Even when Ric’s not here, there’s often a handful of paparazzi hanging around in Fox Hollow Yard, and if I go anywhere they follow, poking cameras in my face and generally getting in the way, doing their job. I’ve got quite friendly with some of them, through seeing them so frequently. Sometimes they give me a hand loading or unloading horses from my van. These guys are oddly protective of me if they think a new paparazzo is overstepping the line. I’ve learned to live with their presence – but I resist the urge to buy the papers to look at the pictures and check what they say about me. That way madness lies.

Though I’m only famous for being Ric’s girlfriend, and nearly being murdered by Phil and Emma, it’s been good for business. The Google ranking on my website has rocketed from three to five. I’ve sold almost my entire stock of horses, and am working hard to replace them. Only Teasel and Saladin remain in the office/showroom. Saladin turned out as well as I predicted he would when I bought him in a sorry state last spring. I’m proud of my work. With perfect dapples, a dark grey mane and tail, tan harness and crimson velvet saddlecloth with gold fringing, he looks as splendid as he did more than a century ago when he was new. He’s a special horse. Dave Calder says he wants to buy Saladin. I’m not sure how serious he is – or whether I can bring myself to part with him.

Ric bought himself a couple of side-by-side penthouse flats in SE1, on the edge of the Thames near the Globe, and has had one adapted into a state-of-the-art recording studio. He’s working on his solo album; he’s really excited about it. He comes to see me on the Harley, or I bike over London Bridge to his place. When he’s out of London, Dog stays with me.

James and I are back to our old easy relationship, just the way we used to be…more or less. We still see each other at least once a week; he comes to my place or takes me out for a meal, and him, me, Ric and Jeff go out together quite often too. But James has changed. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and I have a dark suspicion he is keeping a scrapbook with newspaper cuttings about me. A few weeks ago I dropped into his flat to pick him up for another trip to the garden centre. (His garden’s improved with all the work we’ve put into it, and next summer, when the new plants have settled and grown, it’ll be really nice.) On the sofa were open copies of the Sun and the Daily Mail – not at all his normal reading – with bits cut neatly out of their pages. I pretended not to notice, and next thing they weren’t there, he’d whisked them away. But he’ll find another girlfriend soon, no doubt. He’s such a nice guy.

Three months on, Jeff’s still dropping in unannounced, and still a pain. He’s never going to mellow, but I’ve got used to him, and it’s as though he now accepts me, both as Ric’s girlfriend and as one of the gang – I’m in the inner circle in a way Emma never was. He still calls me Vikki half the time. He’s caustic with me, but then he needles Ric even more, sometimes to a point where I don’t know how he puts up with it. In an odd way, it’s how Jeff expresses his affection. Ric’s easy-going with him, though on a couple of occasions he’s kicked him out when he’s gone too far. This doesn’t seem to bother Jeff, or stop him from returning. James sometimes says, “I wouldn’t do that, old chap,” if Jeff’s about to do something extra outrageous, and we’ve all started chanting it in unison as appropriate. Even Dave Calder does.

How have I changed? Well, my muscles are stronger and my reflexes faster because I now take Jitsu lessons twice a week. I never want to feel as powerless again as I did that night at Phil Sharott’s. It also occurs to me that I wasn’t quite as hopeless at private investigating as I thought – after all, Ric and I got to the truth in the end. But mainly it’s my feelings for Ric, which have grown and spread like one of those invasive creepers they advise you not to plant in Gardeners’ Question Time in case it gets totally out of hand. I haven’t felt this way before, it’s new to me, uncharted territory. It’s like drinking champagne all the time but never getting drunk or having a hangover. And that’s all I’m going to say; I’m superstitious, I don’t want to boast or tempt fate. Will Ric and I still be together in a year’s time? In five years? I’ll have to wait and see. I don’t look too far ahead; none of us knows what the future will bring.

But now is good.

*

**

***

****

www.lexirevellian.com

If you have enjoyed reading Remix, you may like another novel by Lexi Revellian, Replica.

Replica UK

Replica US