“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 uber-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. “O
oh, 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 wante
d 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?”
Remix (2010) Page 9