The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  “No, Tuesday…yeah, Wiltshire…if we don’t, someone else will, might as well get in first…yeah, damn right he’s earned it…”

  When he was done, he took a business card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. In red lettering on a black background, it said ‘Ryan Velez. What needs doing.’ She turned it over but there was nothing more, only a handwritten phone number. She looked at him, questioning.

  “Ring me when you’re free of your sidekick,” he said. “I’m not here much longer, but we should see each other again.” He sounded star-spangled confident, but there was a hint of doubt in his eyes as he saw Cam coming along the aisle.

  Then Cam was sitting next to her, and Ryan picked up his bag, and the satchel. He’d leave them in peace, he said. He was spending the rest of the trip in the bar. Cam was obviously relieved, but Livi wasn’t sure how she felt. She tried not to watch him go.

  It was only then that she realised she hadn’t found out why he was tripping around after dead rock stars. He didn’t seem dodgy or ghoulish. A tease, sure…but dangerous? She fingered the rectangle of his card in her pocket. What needs doing. That told her absolutely nothing. Tuesday. Wiltshire. She thought of the folding map of Wiltshire, the last clue from his bag. Which expired rock star might have lived in Wiltshire? Or died there?

  Well, it was nothing to do with her now.

  Unless…unless she wanted to see him again.

  Twenty-Eight

  Back at St Pancras, Cam apologised and said he had to go, and that he’d be busy for a few days. Livi knew better than to ask where. If he had people to see, they would obviously be Sasha Fernsby. Which was fine. Fine. She had Wiltshire and Ryan Velez to think about, anyway.

  “I don’t want to leave you to go back to the flat by yourself,” he said as they stood in the station, people stepping around them and their luggage.

  Livi realised she didn’t want that either. “I’ll ring and make sure Cass is home. Without reporters or crazy people.”

  “Good. Hopefully Steve will still be there. Or if no one’s home, you could go to Aidan and Will. Maybe I’d better wait and see.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

  He looked at his watch. “Right, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He paused. “Last night—”

  She leapt in. “Oh, no, that’s okay.” He looked doubtful, but she waved a hand, trying to seem casual. “What happens on tour, right?”

  “Well…okay then.”

  He gave her a hug and she held on, suddenly feeling the loss of him. They might have stepped back to the friends side of the line, but her heart wasn’t completely convinced. “Thanks for looking after me.”

  He let her go and smiled, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. “Well, you know. I’ve got your back.”

  She watched him make his way through the crowds, off to who knew where. Despite the kiss, there had never really been a beginning of anything, she knew. So why did this feel like yet another ending?

  As she turned to go, her eye was drawn upwards to the statue of lovers embracing under the station clock. “Oh, get a room,” she muttered, and turned to make her way back down to the tube, back to reality.

  * * *

  Cass was there when she phoned, and thrilled to hear she was back in one piece. When she got home, Livi found her waiting in the doorway. She hustled Livi in and locked the door firmly behind them. There had been no sign of Len or the reporter, she said, but best to be careful. She was desperate for every detail of the trip. So they sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating chocolate Hobnobs, and Livi told all. The Île Saint Louis, Père Lachaise, and the Eiffel Tower. Jim Morrison, the pickpockets, and Ryan Velez.

  Well, almost all. Not everything needed saying. If even Cam had been caught up in the cinematic romance of Paris, that was understandable. One impulsive Parisian kiss didn’t change anything in the real world. The American was every bit as gorgeous as she had remembered, and Cass had hoped. And it was very nice of Cam to help her find him, after all, so what he did with Sasha Fernsby after that was none of her business. If she’d been looking at him in a different way, well, things had been a bit crazy lately. A person could be forgiven for being drawn to a friendly face from simpler times. Still…she wondered where he was now, and what he was doing. And with whom.

  Come to think of it, maybe another opinion wouldn’t hurt.

  She cleared her throat. “Cass…how did you know? About Steve?”

  Cass smiled. “Well, it wasn’t like love at first sight or anything. But he was so nice, and I felt so relaxed. So myself. And then, you know, he turned out to be so much more manly than I expected.” She grinned. Then she sat up straighter. “Wait—are you thinking about Cam, or the American?”

  “Well...” If she said it out loud, would that make it real? “Maybe Cam. But I don’t know. I think being in Paris played with my head. It was ridiculously romantic.” She wasn’t going to mention the kiss—not until she knew what it meant, or didn’t mean.

  “Maybe it was romantic for a reason,” Cass suggested. “Maybe you just needed to see him out of your ordinary surroundings.”

  “Maybe…but he’s going home in a minute, remember?”

  “They both are,” Cass pointed out.

  “True.”

  “I never thought I’d be a cheerleader for the nice guy,” Cass said, “but now I realise, they do have a lot going for them.”

  “I take it Cam is the nice guy here,” Livi said. “But the thing is, I think he’s got someone on the go already.” She told Cass about all the phone calls.

  Cass decided she was unimpressed by the persistent Ms Fernsby too. “Sasha Fernsby. Sounds too fancy by half.”

  “I know.” Livi crinkled her nose. “For a moment there, it seemed…” She sighed. “But I suppose not.”

  There was silence as they both pondered the situation. Then Cass steered them towards the positive. “But anyway! This American,” she said. “Tell me more about him.”

  Livi handed her the black and red card, and she studied it carefully, front and back. “This is so cryptic! You are absolutely hopeless. I can’t believe you didn’t find out anything more.”

  “Well, there wasn’t much time. And it was uncomfortable, to say the least, with the two of them there.”

  “But the—Ryan—was he still completely to die for?” She leaned forward, eager for the juicy details.

  Livi laughed. “Actually, yes. He looked like he’d just come off the set of a Levi’s ad. I practically fell over in the aisle when I saw him.”

  Cass was delighted. “Well then, you have to phone him.” She turned the card back over and pointed at the number.

  “He’s supposed to phone me, really.” Livi feigned disinterest.

  “No, don’t be so old-fashioned!” She couldn’t bear it. “And anyway, he doesn’t have your number! Although, I suppose maybe you should wait a day or so. How long is he here for, did he say?”

  “Definitely until Tuesday, we know that much. Now the last clue makes sense. Can you think of any dead rockers from Wiltshire?”

  Cass shook her head. Neither of them had any idea what the connection could be. They decided to talk to Mia about it tomorrow.

  But that night, curled up in front of the television, too sleepy to channel surf, a story on the late news made her sit up. Fleet Donnelly, the chaotic and controversial singer, was being released from prison on Tuesday. He would be returning to his country home in Wiltshire, and despite credible threats to his safety, he was understood to have refused additional security arrangements.

  Ryan Velez’s words rang in her head. Tuesday…Wiltshire…if we don’t, someone else will, might as well get in first…yeah, damn right he’s earned it…

  Surely not. Surely not. And yet…what had been in that weighty, bubble-wrapped package? She looked again at his card. ‘What needs doing.’ What, exactly, might need doing on Tuesday?

&
nbsp; * * *

  Livi had her hands full the next day getting the salon back in order after her time away. It was ridiculous how a place could fall into disarray in such a short time.

  But all day the idea niggled at her. Should she ring him? What the hell would she say? “Um, hello, I was just wondering, are you planning to knock off a rock star tomorrow? If so, could you please not?” As though any decent would-be assassin would confess immediately and cancel his plans.

  By the end of the day, she was almost convinced that she was the only thing standing between Fleet Donnelly and an untimely end. How would she feel if she was back on the couch watching the late news on Tuesday night, and the story was now ‘Fleet Donnelly victim of transatlantic killer’? Brian Jones, Keith Moon, Jim Morrison…would that trail lead to one more headline? Okay, maybe it was delusional—but could she take the risk?

  Cass, of course, thought absolutely not, when Livi asked her that night. Something had to be done. And if it meant Livi seeing the divine Ryan Velez again, all the better. When Livi pointed out that the divine Ryan Velez could, after all, be a twisted, dangerous madman, Cass said really, she thought probably not, but did Livi remember any of her self-defence moves?

  She thought back to Len. Maybe she’d play it safe after all. The police knew what they were doing, surely.

  On Tuesday morning she made sure to watch the news before she left for work. She yelled out for Cass to come and see. A reporter was outside the prison as Fleet Donnelly was released, wearing his signature jaunty hat, but looking less drug-addled than usual after his stint at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He stopped to light a cigarette and give the waiting cameras a peace sign. Time away clearly hadn’t dampened his swagger at all. Then she was reassured to see several very large bodyguards get him safely to an anonymous black car.

  “He’ll probably be all right,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  Cass nodded. “Oh, I think so. More than likely.”

  Neither felt a hundred per cent convinced.

  Naturally, when they got to work Cass couldn’t resist telling Aidan and Will about Livi’s concern for Fleet. They both laughed like drains, but Cass shushed them.

  “It’s not completely silly,” she said. “You know he’s had all kinds of dodgy things go on around him. And this American is persistently mysterious.” She elbowed Livi. “Show them the card.”

  So Livi took out the card and passed it to them. They agreed it was, indeed, mysterious.

  “I do keep wondering why he was going around all those dead rock stars,” she said. “What’s that all about?”

  Aidan wasn’t one to mess around. “Just ring him. Then you’ll know.” She looked reluctant, so he gave her a little push. “Go on, I dare you.”

  So she went into the staffroom, and sat in front of the telephone. After a few moments gathering her courage, she dialled—and got his voicemail. In true man style, it was short and to the point—can’t take your call, leave a message—and gave absolutely nothing away. She hung up.

  Then, without giving herself time to second-guess, she looked up the number for the Wiltshire police and dialled again. A no-nonsense voice answered. As she was explaining about the American and the phone call and the bubble-wrapped package that may or may not have contained a weapon, it sounded mad even to her, but she pressed on. When she was finished, there was a moment’s pointed silence.

  “We have had a number of calls this morning from concerned…young ladies.” His tone made it clear that ‘young ladies’ was not his first choice of description. “Mr Donnelly has accepted responsibility for his own security, which I think is only right given the amount of police time he has taken up recently. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She was comprehensively squashed. “Um, yes, I suppose so, but—”

  “Thank you for your call, Miss.” And the conversation was over.

  For a moment she sat at the table, quietly steaming at being so thoroughly dismissed. Then she made a decision. She dialled again, Mia’s number this time, and filled her in on the latest developments.

  “Wow, you’ve had some drama. I was half expecting you to ring anyway. Cass texted me about the Wiltshire clue—I thought she might have talked you into going today.”

  “It’s mad, I know. I’m getting to be as bad as her.”

  “Well, I can’t go with you today, but you can take my car if you like.”

  “Really? Thank you.”

  After Livi’s week away, Nicolette had entirely disappeared again, so she’d be able to sneak away one last time. Everyone agreed that Nicolette was probably sorting out her chipped acrylics, and catching up on emails to Jake. With all the drama lately, Livi had been increasingly grateful for that hands-off approach. After today, though, she’d have to settle down and get on with things. It would probably be a relief to get back to the regular routine. But first, Fleet Donnelly.

  “I thought maybe I could pretend to be a stylist, to get past his security.”

  “Blag your way in?”

  “Exactly.” How exactly, she didn’t know, but she’d have an hour or two in the car to figure it out.

  “You can take my other equipment case then, as a prop. Do you know where he lives, though?”

  This was, admittedly, a flaw in the plan. “Not exactly.”

  “Leave it to me.” Mia loved a challenge. “I’ll bring the car as soon as I can.”

  Twenty-Nine

  It was an easy drive to the little village in Wiltshire, and armed with Mia’s research, Livi found Fleet Donnelly’s house without any difficulty. There were cars parked in the narrow lane, so she went around the corner and parked the Saab in a safe spot, then walked back along to the high white gates.

  A gaggle of girls, each carefully made up to look carelessly made up, were hanging around in the hope of getting through to their newly freed idol. Each shot dirty kohl-rimmed looks at the competition as they staked out their territory.

  Barring them from their goal were two security guards, black t-shirts stretched across their unfeasibly large shoulders. Both had necks wider than their chrome-domed heads.

  She held the silver equipment case in front of her, and tried to look as stylish as possible as she pushed through to the front. Not for the first time, she wished she had a few extra inches. She could have been ten years older than any of the leggy, bohemian-themed girls, who were probably lucky the release date fell in the school holidays. In her leggings and wrap top, both in salon black, she felt glaringly conservative. At least she had her strappy beaded heels on. The guards ran their eyes over her, appraising, and she pushed her shoulders back a little more.

  “Hi. I’m from Peach, in London. I’ve come to style Fleet. I mean, Mr Donnelly.”

  “Is that what you girls are calling it now?” said one, giving her a look. “Did you order a girl?” he asked the other, who shook his head, eyes fixed on her cleavage.

  Suddenly she realised what he meant. Urgh. She wished she had some buttons to do up. “No, I’m from Peach salon.” She held up the silver case.

  “Ha, ha, Peach is right,” said bald head number two, finally removing his eyes from her chest. “What tricks do you have in there? You can style me next, darling.”

  Her stomach turned, but she stood firm. At least they weren’t turning her away.

  “Now then, my love, don’t mind him,” said number one. “Some people have no class, no class at all. But you know we can only let in authorised people.”

  She felt her chance slipping away. “Did you let an American in today?” She could tell from his face that they had. “Please, I have to go in. I think Fleet’s in danger.”

  Number two snorted. “In danger of what? Blue balls?” He guffawed with appreciation at his own humour. “Ratty little tosser, he can do it himself…”

  Yuck. She felt properly grubby now, but gave it a last try. “Please?”

  “All right, all right,” said number one. “At least you’re legal. Wouldn’t let my sister in there, but I s
uppose it’ll be worth your while. God knows what you girls see in him.”

  She decided to press her advantage, and gestured to the gates, smiling at him as sweetly as she could. “Would you mind?”

  So he let her in, much to the disgust of the fan-girls, and she crunched up the narrow driveway, heart pounding as she heard the gates close behind her. On each side, the lawn was like a hay field. The stone patio in front of the red-brick house was cracked, and a creeper was having its way with the stonework. What had obviously once been a manicured garden was now brambly and wild. A cat eyed her warily from a windowsill.

  There was no sign of anyone, so she knocked on the peeling front door and waited. And knocked again, and waited. After a bit she tried the door, her heart thumping. The hinges groaned with the effort of opening. As she stepped inside another cat scooted away, dodging through a mess of clothes and papers, books and bric-a-brac, random objects jumbled amongst furniture sitting any which way. A faded Union Jack hung from the ceiling, blocking the light from the window, and there was a dank, stale smell.

  For a moment she stood in shock. The garden should have given a hint of what was coming, she supposed, but still, it was not what she’d expected. Then again, maybe it reflected the inner life of the occupant.

  She clutched the case to her front and picked her way across the room and into a hallway. Eventually she came to the kitchen and found a door into the back garden, which was as dilapidated as the front. Weeds sprang from an old bird bath and a mouldering sofa sat in a patch of grass. In front of it was a rickety table with a half-empty bottle of whisky and an abandoned glass.

  She looked away down to the bottom of the long garden. Just beyond the alley of oak trees, where the garden met waving fields, she could see two figures. In the knee-high grass, Ryan Velez was pointing something at Fleet Donnelly. Her heart was suddenly in her throat. From this distance she couldn’t see what it was, but Fleet seemed to be leaping about, his arms in the air…