Squirming with embarrassment over my interview with Mr Goldstein was bad enough. But now I had to grovel to someone else.
I had to apologise to Giles Mander in order to resurrect the book contract and get some kind of financial order to my life. Texting was a better option than having to talk to him, which meant I had to switch on the phone and find out how many more missed calls there were from Shelly. I was supposed to have let Giles know my decision by Monday morning, yesterday, but he was hardly going to hold me to that, especially now that I planned to do exactly what he wanted.
I stepped into a shop doorway and switched on my phone. Sure enough there were two new texts from Shelly. I glanced at the second: get back to me Jack, please. You can’t treat me like this! I love you, love you, love you... I switched it off and deleted both without reading the other. Then texted the following to Giles: Sorry you were right. Will write the Maggi O’Kane massacre exactly as you say and deliver the complete manuscript within a week. As I pressed send, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. This wretched mess was over. Giles wasn’t the nicest guy in the world, but he’d been straight with me, and I certainly didn’t want to do anything that might harm his career. A week was a reasonable timescale to finish the book, and it was a fortnight before the delivery date on the contract; all the rest of the work was complete, and assembling the details of Maggi’s massacre would be a speedy, although deeply depressing, affair. When I researched the true circumstances of her parents’ squalid deaths, Shelly was going to hate me even more than she probably did already, and in view of what I’d just discovered I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to face her anymore.
An hour later there was a gratifying beep telling me an incoming text had arrived, and since it said Giles as the sender, I didn’t have the worry of reading another Shelly text. As I pressed view, I was already making plans to drive straight back home and get started on the final tweaks and editing for Crash and Burn. Until I read the following:
Sorry Jack, but when we didn’t hear from u on Monday and couldn’t contact u by phone, and weren’t answering your email we assumed you’d made up your mind to go your own way. So we’ve rescinded the contract. Please regard the advance you’ve already been paid as a suitable kill fee...
I found a café and went inside and ordered bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, wondering just what I should do. Presumably the contract was legally binding, but even if Figaro Publications were in the wrong, I was hardly in a position to challenge them in court. Even if I did, there was bound to be some get-out clause in the contract. Most likely they’d say I hadn’t written the book to their required standard. Another text arrived, and with a sinking heart I saw the name Shelly mob above the words, reminding me that I hadn’t yet deleted her number from my list of contacts. I read it in a daze:
Jack, why won’t u call? I’m really worried now. I’m sorry I got things so wrong. Forgive me for trying to spice things up, some guys like that kind of thing, but I swear I’ll never do it again, I swr it Jack, pls believe me pls pls pls,. Oh Jack we really did have a connection didn’t we? I just have 2 cu again...
Shelly was the last piece of trouble to slot into the ghastly jigsaw puzzle that was my life. Now I knew that her mother really had been a suicidal killer, I pondered on the theory I desperately didn’t want to be true. If someone self mutilates, as Shelly’s wounds to her wrist indicated, the conventional reasoning is that they have a low self esteem. Or that they’re trying to gain attention, to stand out in some way; it’s often troubled adolescents who have no family support, who feel inadequate or worthless in some way. Shelly had grown up without a father or mother, living with shame, suspecting that her grandparents hadn’t wanted her, looked after her under sufferance, and that her mother had abandoned her, as had her father, the latter, of course, unwillingly. But to my mind sadomasochism was a much more grizzly aberration, chiefly because it involved third parties. The association of pain with sexual desire was an area I’d had plenty to do with in my work with serial killers and torturers. To my mind the practice smacked of the murky world of abusers, rapists and killers. There was a Swedish psychologist called Kvartmein who had uncovered empirical evidence to suggest that a tendency towards sexual deviancy of this kind could often be hereditary. Maggi, if she’d had the same mindset that her daughter had, could have indulged a sadomasochistic lifestyle to her heart’s content, and no one would have been the wiser, it would have been laughed off as mindless exhibitionism, the extremes of a rock star’s lifestyle, less shocking and newsworthy than Ozzy Osbourne biting off the head of a live dove, or his much vaunted penchant for munching on bats (in fact Ozzy is an animal lover, and both actions were mistakes that he now sincerely regrets). Maggi had been an exhibitionist, a wild rock singer, living the life, partying hard, taking drugs, doing everything to excess No one might have guessed at the dark and vicious motivations that could have driven her. Not to mention the rumours about her band’s treatment of the groupie in Sheffield.
* * * *
Walking along the road I mused on the grim reality that I’d lost everything. The advance I’d been paid hardly covered the travelling costs for the work I’d completed, and due to my obstinacy and conceit, it looked as if my grand discovery was nothing more than someone’s misguided attempt at art, a grim glimpse into the dark depths that Maggi O’Kane’s mind had travelled to before she’d enacted her final drama.
Then I remembered something.
Alfie Goldstein had seemed a reasonably truthful, no-nonsense character. Too brutish to be imaginative. Yet there was just something a little too cavalier about his dismissal of the photographs. I suddenly remembered that when he’d been telling me about the photos I’d found to be merely being props for an artist’s idea, I thought that his eyes had shifted sideways. Just for the merest split second. A sideways shift of eye direction can mean a person is lying. I remembered, too, a superfine sheen of sweat breaking out on his upper lip as he’d launched into his explanation, another indicator of untruths. There was also something just a little too cut-and-dried about the man-mountain’s self assurance, his fatuous confident manner that smacked of bluster.
Or of fear.
The best form of defence is attack. Supposing Goldstein’s mockery had been designed to disarm and humiliate me so that I instantly concurred with his version of events?
More cogently he had said that this apparent ‘Lost Album’ marked the end of Maggi’s career. It was only now that I remembered reading that at the time she died, Maggi’s star was still rising: she’d just completed a sell-out tour of the States, in fact she was on top of the world. If Goldstein could lie about that he could be lying about everything.
Just supposing I had stumbled on to something? What if I had unwittingly picked up on the fact that Maggi O’Kane and Border Crossing had all been murdered because they knew something about the death of John Lennon, something that the American government did not want to be made public? Something that would, even after all these years, be politically embarrassing?
As I walked along the busy road, I didn’t even notice the car that had mounted the pavement.
It was accelerating hard, and heading straight in my direction.
Chapter 5
THE HOUSE THAT FELL INTO THE SEA
I jumped sideways, crashing full length against the bookshop window. Felt a surge of gale-force air as the car passed within inches. There was an agonising pain in my elbow that had struck the toughened glass. Heard the harsh roar as the car tore away, and the brief frantic screech of brakes. Before the acceleration caught like a chainsaw ripping through flesh. Turning, I caught sight of it zigzagging into the distance.
I staggered back, panting, aware of the spreading pain. It had been a black car, moving fast enough to kill me. If it had struck me it would have sent me hurtling through the air, and I wouldn’t have had a chance. And in the split second I first saw it coming, I thought the driver’s profile looked familiar.
Neat silver hair. G
old-framed glasses.
Edward Van Meer!
A kind passer-by came and asked if I was all right, taking my arm.
“Did you see what happened?” I asked. “Did you see the car?”
“What car?”
He was an older man, fiftyish, grey hair and beard. And he was frowning at me in concern.
“The car that came onto the pavement – it was aiming straight for me, that’s why I slammed myself up against the glass!”
“Sorry,” he shook his head. “I just came round the corner and saw you there, staggering about. I thought you’d had a dizzy turn or something.”
“You didn’t see what happened?”
“No, I’m very sorry. But, look here, if someone tried to run you down, maybe we should call the police as well as an ambulance?” His fingers were poised on his mobile, ready to dial.
I persuaded him not to bother, thanked him for his trouble and he went on his way.
It had all happened so fast. Just like my attacker at The Mansh, who’d hit me from behind so I fell down the steps into the cellar, there were no witnesses, no actual verification that it had happened at all. Was my mind playing tricks? Then, as I struggled to recall what had happened, I remembered my impression that it had been Edward Van Meer in the driver’s seat.
Or had I been mistaken?
Walking slowly, shocked and shaken, I made it back to the third floor of the NCP car park. It was hot and stuffy inside the cocoon of my Volvo as I closed my eyes and tried to relax. The windows were misting up, and I was still trembling from my ordeal. I opened a window to let in some air, wishing that just one other person had witnessed what had happened so that I didn’t feel so desperately alone.
Someone was shouting in the distance. A yelp of joy. The mindless keening of cheerfulness, acting as a cruel counterpoint to my loneliness and mounting sense of desperation.
I dialled the number of my friend Ken Taylor. It had been six weeks since Figaro Publications had sacked him, and I knew he’d been trying for different jobs, in between his role as house husband looking after their home and his twins. Ken had told me that Natalie, his wife, had made it clear that there was no point in keeping their nanny on while he was “Hanging about the house with nothing to do”. She’d compounded her gloomy pronouncement, saying to Ken: “What’s the point in paying a nanny now? You might never get another job.”
“Hi Jack. How’s the book coming along?” my friend asked when I’d got through.
I told him what had happened, leaving out my grim and short-lived experiences with Shelly: there are some things that are too embarrassing to even tell your best friend. He didn’t interrupt, but listened to the whole sorry saga of the cancellation of my book contract.
“LoneWolf Productions,” he said at last. “Well there’s your answer. Figaro Publications were sold to a big conglomerate, just before I was sacked, some kind of financial restructuring at the top. LoneWolf were part of that conglomerate. Figaro would hardly be able to publish anything that was even vaguely critical of its parent company.”
“Shit. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“And all this about Maggi O’Kane’s ‘Lost Album’ called Assassination. I know quite a bit about the music industry, and I’ve never heard of Maggi making a ‘lost album’ – I’ve never even heard of the concept of a lost album. I have heard a few things about Alfie shifty-eyed Goldstein. I wouldn’t trust him. Hey, hang on Jack, I’ve just had an idea. Be with you in a tick.” I heard a background noise of a child yelling, heard Ken shout something and the yelling increased.
I pictured Ken struggling as a house husband in his three-bedroom semi in Wimbledon, his children tottering around, and Natalie, his wife, at work as a busy solicitor in the city. Ken hadn’t opened up to me about his difficulties at home, but I could imagine his plight: Natalie, an incredibly intelligent, hard-working lawyer, a workaholic, and Hazel and Anthony, his three-year-old twins, demanding constant attention. Would Natalie’s wages cover the bills I wondered? The pressure for poor old Ken to find a lucrative position was horrendous.
“Here we are.” Ken said, slightly out of breath, as if he’d run up and down the stairs. “Here’s the name of the artist who did most of the work for the album covers for Maggi O’Kane. Barry Kite. I’ve got a phone number, where he was five years ago. Why don’t you go and have a chat with him? He’ll remember if he worked on this so-called ‘lost album’ or not. If he knows nothing about it, then you’ll know for sure that Alfie Goldstein was lying. And if he was lying, the interesting thing is why was he lying? Is there something that LoneWolf are trying to hide?”
I asked Ken about work and he moaned about the three failed interviews he’d had since leaving Figaro. We arranged to meet up in a few days.
Ten minutes later, after I’d tried to get an answer from Barry Kite’s number without success, my phone rang.
“Jack, it’s Ken again. I’ve been calling a few people about this Maggi O’Kane suicide business, and I definitely think you are on to something that’s much bigger than either of us realised. Some people were cagy, wary, you know? But from various different sources and reading between the lines I’ve found out that there’ve been at least four deaths in the past 20 years that were never completely explained to everyone’s satisfaction. All of them deaths of artists who were managed by LoneWolf, all of whom were wanting to get out of their contracts with the company, or who were causing problems of various kinds to them. Including a very recent one, who you’re not going to believe. Lucinda Lee. I’d rather not tell you any other names on the phone. Listen Jack, I think you’ve stumbled onto something big. I don’t think we should hang about. Can we meet up and discuss it?”
The leafy suburb of Wimbledon Village, high up on a hill, with the lovely common across the road, had rows of houses each worth millions and dinky designer shops and eateries tailor-made for the wealthy middle classes. In stark contrast, Ken’s house was a relatively small semi-detached in Sunnyvale Rise, expensive for its location rather than its luxury.
Ken ushered me into the living room, seemingly oblivious to the background aroma of dirty clothes and kitchen waste. I stepped over a pile of Waitrose bags, still packed with groceries, in the hall, noticed the broken door handle to the living room. There was a scuffed sofa and two cushion-sagging armchairs, most of whose surfaces were covered with newspapers and books, and on the floor a cascade of CDs and DVDs. Piles of unwashed clothes were obliterating other parts of the grimy carpet, which looked as if it once had been creamy-white but now was the colour of mud. Ken is fairly short, around five-foot seven, chubby rather than out-and-out fat. His blue polo-necked sweater nudged his double chin, where I noticed a small patch of unshaven whiskers. What was left of his hair: a thick dark bush surrounding the bald dome, was uncombed and sticking out at all angles. As he sat on the lone spare spot on the sofa he pushed his spectacles back up his nose for the third time since I’d arrived.
“Lucinda Lee?” I said, as I sat opposite him, holding the chipped mug of coffee that he’d produced a moment earlier. “I didn’t know she’d been a client of LoneWolf’s.” Lucinda Lee, a slim, dark haired, thirtyish jazz singer, had recently blossomed as a ‘new voice’ in popular music, and achieved a lot of chart success after years in the wilderness. She’d died of a suspected drug overdose last month in Paris. The inquest hadn’t yet been held, but just like so many other rock stars, Lucinda was known for her conspicuous appetite for drink, drugs and partying. Even as her death was announced, pundits were already suggesting an overdose of one kind or another as the likely cause, something which had been predicted by medical experts time and again over the past few years. In that moment I realised how absurdly easy it would be to murder such a person and make it look like suicide or an accident. If they were already drunk, you’d simply need to persuade them to take the right pills. If they’d already got numerous track marks, how easy would it be to inject an overdose of pure, undiluted and therefore lethal, heroin, assurin
g them it was safe? Taking into account the hedonistic lifestyle of many pop stars, there could have been a number of people who’d died as a result of foul play when their deaths were assumed to be accidental.
“We could be on to something big, Jack,” Ken said enthusiastically, passing across The Guardian, opened at the page of the report of Lucinda’s death. I scanned the copy, a glammed-up summary of the facts I already knew.
“But, come on Ken, it’s hardly likely is it? Are you seriously suggesting that a huge corporation such as LoneWolf, might be murdering its clients?”
“LoneWolf has been criticised for how they handle their artists for years,” Ken replied, tapping his head with a chubby finger. “You know how hard it is for an artist to change their management people. There are all kinds of legal penalties. And it’s understandable in one way. After all, the management company takes a chance and spends money bigging musicians up when they’re unknown, so why shouldn’t they get a few years of commission as recompense?”
“True.”
“Well, Jack, I’ll go on phoning around. See what I can find out.” He paused. “By the way, tell me about Maggi O’Kane’s daughter.”
A shutter of misery came down in my mind. At that moment my phone rang in my pocket. I took it out, and there, sure enough, was the name I dreaded to see in the panel: Shelly mob.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Ken smiled, standing up. “Go on, answer it, don’t mind me, Jack. I’ll give you some privacy–”
“No, no need Ken, I’m not answering it.” I pressed the button, switching the phone off.
He sat down again. “You stayed with her the other night, didn’t you?” he said coaxingly, still with that irritating half smile.
Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1) Page 8