Paparazzi

by Jo Fenton

  “I’m sorry. I thought I’d made it clear that I wouldn’t be returning when I took my coat.” I give a half-smile and pick up speed to move away from him. My heart’s thumping in case he catches up with me again, and as soon as I reach the concourse, I dive for the Ladies, which is fortunately nearby. Once there, I take some deep breaths and splash water on my face from the sink. There’s a touch on my shoulder, and I jump. It’s a lady in the uniform of the train company.

  “Are you all right, love? Was that man harassing you? I noticed you on the platform.”

  “He stressed me out a bit.” I explained what had happened on the train.

  “Poor pet! I hate men like that. They think they can take up a seat and a half, and God help the poor soul sitting next to them. Obnoxious gits they are, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “Of course, thank you.” Her sympathy is very welcome. “I’m probably being really paranoid, but would you mind checking that he’s not outside waiting for me? I’ve got really on edge.”

  “Sure, love.” She puts her hand on my shoulder briefly, before going to the exit and disappearing. She’s gone for several minutes, and I’m wondering what’s going on, when she returns with a WPC.

  “Blighter’s still out there. I asked him to stop loitering and move on, and the cheeky swine said ‘You can’t make me. I’m waiting for someone.’ I said, ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be waited for.’ He was very rude, so I went and fetched the Transport Police who were just heading our way on the concourse. This kind lady came in with me. She’ll escort you to wherever you need to go next, while her partner detains that awful man.”

  “Thank you so much. You’re really kind.” I smile at her, and then at the WPC who’s hovering, looking concerned.

  “You’re welcome, love. I suggest, if you can afford it, you take a taxi to your destination, rather than messing about with the Tube or the bus.”

  “Great idea, thanks. I will.”

  The WPC accompanies me to the taxi rank, and shields me from the man who’s being questioned by a handsome Sergeant in his early thirties. The Sergeant is facing our direction and is forcing the other man to face away from me and his colleague. Clever.

  Once past them, the WPC becomes friendly and chatty, and we’ve built up quite a rapport by the time I get to the front of the taxi queue. She gives me a card just before I get in the taxi.

  “Lovely to meet you, Becky, although not the best circumstances. Call me if you need any help when you return here later, or if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “Thanks, Amy. You’ve been really kind. Look me up next time you’re in Manchester.”

  Once in the taxi, I direct the driver to a shopping centre in Kensington. I’ve done my research, and this was the location of the Tube station where I was planning to get out and start my walk. A shopping centre is also an innocuous destination for a passenger from Euston. All the same, I don’t calm down much during the journey. I’m very on edge after my experience at the station, and keep looking back to make sure we’re not being followed. I know I’m doing a terrible job of looking like an innocent shopper, and eventually the driver asks me through the intercom if I’m okay.

  “I had an unpleasant experience on the train and was accosted again when we got to Euston. I just want to make sure he’s not following me.”

  “Poor wee lassie,” says the driver, in deepest Glaswegian. Then he fills my ears with tales of taxi chases, and crimes that he’s been involved in solving. It turns out that he’s a private detective when he’s not being a cabbie, and we have a lovely chat, exchanging business cards at the end of the journey when he drops me off. I put the card into my purse and thank the driver before getting out at the shopping centre.

  Glancing round, I can’t see anybody suspicious. Everyone just appears to be going about their business of shopping, chatting with friends, walking (or in one case, running) towards the Tube station or the nearby Overground. I check my watch. I have half an hour before I’m due to meet Sylvia. There’s enough time to pop into Waitrose and grab something to eat along the way. I’m suddenly hungry. Settling for a banana and a Twix, as they’re easy to munch on the move, I pay, and return to the street. I’ve memorised the route, but it takes a minute to get my bearings. My watch tells me I now have only twenty minutes. How on earth can it take ten whole minutes to buy fruit and chocolate? There’s no point dwelling on it. I take a deep breath and hurry toward the designated meeting place.

  I’m a little out of breath when I arrive outside the flats with just one minute to spare. I do a quick survey of the surroundings. This is a pleasant residential road, with lots of big houses, well-kept gardens, and mostly well-dressed but otherwise ordinary people walking dogs, jogging, and doing normal activities that would be expected in this sort of area. There’s a bell on the door against the flat number, but the name tag next to the number is blank. I press the bell. An intercom vibrates, and a female, cultured voice says, “Who is it?”

  “Becky. I have an appointment.”

  “Come in, dear. First floor. It’s the flat on the left.”

  The door buzzes, and I push it open. In the hallway is a mirror, and a quick glance at it shows me how flustered I look. I have a rummage in my bag and extract a hairbrush and lipstick. Twenty seconds later, I’m on my way upstairs. I notice a lift, but choose to take the stairs as I’m in a hurry.

  The door to the flat on the left is open, and in the doorway is a smart lady in a wheelchair.

  “Come on in.” She smiles at me, a welcoming expression that makes me feel more at ease. I realise I’ve been on edge all day.

  I follow her into a lounge – a beautifully-proportioned living room that looks strangely plain and unlived-in. Blue velvet curtains adorn the windows, which are darkened by Venetian blinds, slanted to allow a view of the street. There is a TV in one corner, and sofa opposite, in a fabric to match the curtains. The single armchair is arranged so that the sofa, chair and TV enclose a small coffee table. It’s a fairly classic arrangement, so why does it feel so odd?

  Sylvia, who I presume is my host, answers my unspoken question.

  “I don’t live here, dear. No one does. This is a convenient meeting spot. The lift makes it accessible to me, and I live a short distance away. The TV allows for more pleasant passing of time. It is occasionally useful to stay overnight, so the flat is furnished, but not excessively so.”

  “Surely if you want it to look more normal, wouldn’t it be… er… sensible to have some pictures, or pot plants, or something in here?”

  “We only acquired it recently. It could do with some work, I grant you.” She beckons for me to sit on the sofa. “How was your journey?”

  I’m not sure why, but there’s something in her voice; an expectation, perhaps, that my trip here was not uneventful. My suspicion grows as I describe my day so far, and she nods, looking totally unsurprised throughout.

  “Was the man on the train one of your people?” I ask.

  “I sincerely hope not, dear. I’d be appalled if one of ours was as clumsy and uncouth as that.” She smiles again. “No, I can think of two reasons your journey was as challenging as it was.”

  “What would they be?”

  “Well, the first is that people like you attract trouble. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, but there are certain people to whom certain situations will gravitate. Agatha Christie had that in mind when she wrote Miss Marple – an elderly lady around whom a ridiculous number of murders occurred. Obviously she was a fictional character, but there are people like that, and I believe you’re one of them.”

  “All the murders I’ve been involved with have been related to work, at least in some capacity or another.”

  “I know, dear. But even at University, you had some interesting experiences, didn’t you?”

  I don’t bother asking how she knows. I presume these people do their research.

  “You mentioned two reasons. What was the other?”

  “Anxie
ty, dear. You were expecting trouble. It made it twice as likely to descend upon you. Yes, I’m sure that man was just an example of an unpleasant traveller, but perhaps because of the purpose of your journey, you magnified it into a melodrama.” She must notice the mortified look on my face, as she continues, “Don’t worry about it. I know you’ve had a tough year. It won’t jeopardise what we have in mind for you. Indeed, your anxiety and observational skills make you an excellent candidate.”

  Despite her protestations, I’m still unconvinced that the man on the train was not planted there, to elicit some kind of response. But I don’t argue. There are more important questions.

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Just some training for the moment, dear. I know you’ve had a decent training in the police force, which will of course be useful. However, there are a few skills that you should learn in addition. Your friend’s son, Will: I understand he’s an experienced hacker?”

  “Yes, I believe so. All legal, as far as I’m aware.”

  “Of course. He’s a nice young man. We have vetted him. Obviously with his father being the unsavoury character that he is, Will could have gone either way. However, he seems to have followed in his mother’s footsteps in terms of integrity and intelligence.”

  “Why don’t you bring him in, if he’s someone you could trust?”

  “Oh, my dear, we are doing. Roger is interviewing both Joanna and Will today, and will fill them in on what they need to know – including the need for Will to share his knowledge with you both.” She pauses. “There is another skill I would like you to acquire for me, which I would prefer you not to discuss with anyone other than your husband, who is of course one of our trusted operators. I understand you’re good at languages?”

  “I was at school.”

  “Excellent. It’s a flair that rarely disappears. The languages themselves fade, but the ability to learn does not.” She fishes in a handbag that was on the floor nearby, and hands me an envelope. “No need to open it just now. It contains access codes for you to learn a certain language for free. You have six months, in which I need you to become fluent in Russian.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Leaving the flat some ten minutes later, I’m bemused. I travelled all the way to London to be asked to learn hacking skills from Will, and to learn Russian from a computer program. They gave no explanations. No questions were really asked. I don’t think ‘How was your journey?’ and ‘I understand you’re good at languages’ count as a rigorous interview. Sylvia reimbursed me for the taxi from Euston. She totally understood my reasons and respected my urge to safety. I forgot to mention the cash that Roger gave me, and now have a few moments of guilt until I resolve to return it to him next time we meet.

  “One must always do what’s necessary to get the job done, and that involves staying safe. Most agents do not need to put their lives at risk, but all would do so if required to complete a mission.” She’d looked at me keenly, and must have seen something to reassure her, for she then seemed to relax.

  As I walk the distance back to the Tube station I keep my eyes wide open, but spot nothing suspicious. I’m not keen to take risks just yet, and still have another appointment to get to. Time is getting a bit tight, and I’m relieved that the Tube is regular, and not too overcrowded. It’s now quarter to four.

  Dan is already in Starbucks when I arrive, a fashionable but slightly stressful five minutes late. There are two coffee cups in front of him. He stands up to greet me, and pulls me into a huge and very welcome hug.

  “Becks! How are you? I got you a cappuccino. I know you’re in a rush.”

  “Thanks Dan. You’re a lifesaver. I probably need to go in fifteen minutes. You know I hate being late.”

  We spend a pleasant quarter of an hour catching up on the usual sort of news that old friends discuss, focussed mainly on him. It’s relaxing to listen to him chatter about new furniture, and his and Gray’s new chocolate-brown Labrador puppy. We’ll save the important stuff for later.

  He promises to wait in Starbucks for me. He’s going to take me back to his house afterwards. Gray’s cooked dinner and left it in the oven for us both. Far better than a busy restaurant for a private chat.

  ***

  The record company is accessed through a smart building near King’s Cross station. I report in at a reception desk on the ground floor, and they send me up in a lift to the fifth floor. I’m greeted there by a youngish, harassed-looking man in his early thirties, wearing black jeans and a shirt and tie.

  “Becky White?” He looks inquiringly at me, so I smile and nod. He has a good firm handshake, but forgets to introduce himself.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I’m Vic, Victor Casey, Troy’s producer. Shall we go into my office?”

  I follow him into a large, modern, well-lit space with its own coffee machine on the wide window ledge. He offers me a coffee, which I decline (having just finished one), and we sit opposite each other on either side of the oak desk. I fold my coat and place it on the carpeted floor next to me.

  “What did you want to know? Your man who rang and arranged this said you needed some background about Troy and the band.”

  “Yes. How did you meet them? How well do you know them?” That will do for starters.

  “I saw them at a gig in London. They were supporting an act I was checking out with a view to a contract. That band was shite, but there was something about Troy Cassidy, and his band were pretty talented too. I approached them at the end of the night and invited them to come along here the next day. We had a chat about terms and stuff. They were supposed to sort themselves out with a manager, but they’ve not got round to it yet, so I’m sort of managing them as well as producing their album. They could really use a manager right now though. Troy’s destroyed about the loss of his wife. He was besotted with her. Refused to do any publicity that involved him with stunning models. Said Linda wouldn’t like it, and that’s not what he was about.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Course. Why else would a bloke turn down the opportunity to photoshoot with a bunch of hot girls? I wasn’t asking him to screw them, just to take a few photos, but he said he couldn’t do it, so we rounded up some motorbikes and leather instead. He seemed pretty cool with that.”

  “What can you tell me about the rest of the band?”

  “As I said, talented lads. All quite good-looking – got to take that into account really – kerb appeal matters. It sells records if the girls fancy them. Harry Pollard – he’s the guitarist – is the one the girls go really gooey about – even more so than Troy. My secretary says it’s his floppy hair and dreamy blue eyes. Don’t quite get it myself, but I can see he’s a draw. Takes the music seriously though. They all do actually. Respect them for that. Not all the kids do – so many these days are just after fame and fortune. You know what it’s like – it’s all about celebrity. So it’s great when we come across a band who can write their own stuff, and who care about the music. Real, proper artists.”

  “What about the others?” I check my notebook as I’m jotting things down throughout the meeting. “Zach and Gaz? Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Zach Finch – he plays keyboards and sax. The dark, quiet, moody type, but he’s a nice bloke most of the time.”

  “Not all the time?”

  “Like I say, he’s a bit moody. Likes his own way.” Vic looks thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell me something. He glances at me, and I keep my expression interested but otherwise neutral. Experience has shown that it’s a good way to get people to reveal more information. “To be honest, I think he had a bit of a thing for Troy’s Linda. Some days you’d think he hated Troy, then he’d pull himself together and be fine for a while.” He hesitates. “If it had been Troy who’d been killed, I’d stick Zach up there as your number one suspect, but I don’t reckon he’d have hurt a hair on her head.”

  “How about Gaz
? Sorry, I don’t know surnames.”

  “Gaz is Gareth Edwards. Tall, skinny, ginger lad with a gleam in his eye and a strong sense of mischief. He’s the drummer, prankster and optimist in the band. I’d say he’s also the glue that holds them together. You know, talks Zach round from his strops; keeps Harry on the straight and narrow when he looks like being distracted; supports Troy through those low confidence times that all artists go through. Gaz is a good lad. Very level-headed.”

  “Does Harry often need to be kept on the straight and narrow?”

  “Hard to say really. I’ve only known them a few weeks. We’ve met a few times, including a five-day stint when they were here in London recording the new album. We got ten tracks laid down – all great. Pretty fast too. Like I said, you know when you’re dealing with professionals. They just got on with the recordings. Did as many takes as needed, without throwing wobblers like some kids do. There were just glimpses here and there – mostly towards the end of each day, when people were getting tired. You could see that John would have walked out at four with half a job done, when Troy stopped for a phone call with Linda. And Harry would flirt a bit with the production assistants between takes. Gaz would pull them back together, tell a few jokes, threaten to put frogs between the bedclothes if they didn’t sort themselves out. All good-humoured, but you could tell how much this meant to him.”

  “You don’t think it meant the same to the others?”

  “Zach cared a lot; you could see he did. They all did. But when the jealousy took hold, he was a friggin’ nightmare. Harry – like I said – he was also a pro. You could see music meant the world to him, but he was also excited by the whole process. And I reckon he wanted it to be fun. Not just hard work.”

  “What about Troy?”

  “Focussed, hard-working and energetic. But then, it got to about four every day, and he’d want a break to chat with his wife and kid, and that’s when it all went a bit… tits-up.”