“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 Moet & 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 Moet 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.”
Remix (2010) Page 5