Belsey considered this.
‘It’s been hectic,’ he said.
‘I explained to whoever it is at your office that this was urgent.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘I think it was a Chris I was dealing with.’
‘Sure. This is Nick now. Chris is away.’
‘For god’s sake. Where are you? Can you come in?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Now is all I’ve got. And it will have to be quick.’
He suppressed an urge to laugh.
‘I’m in Primrose Hill at the moment, actually.’
‘Give me a call when you’re outside.’
She hung up. Belsey moved the phone from his ear and stared at a lot of people jogging in a line. The world had become stranger since he withdrew his involvement. Gravity was lighter, oxygen thinner. The woman on the bench beside him hadn’t paused. ‘Natasha used them with the twins and said they were superb, but all she’s learned in three weeks is how to order a bloody ice cream.’
Belsey walked back to Amber Knight’s road. He checked his reflection in the wing mirror of a Lambretta and shook his head in wonder. What the fuck was he doing? Past the paparazzi, the schoolgirls. He dialled Gabby again.
‘I’m outside.’
‘Make sure the gate shuts behind you.’
The gate buzzed open. A schoolgirl ran up and handed Belsey a pink envelope.
‘Can you give this to Amber?’
‘Sure.’
He walked through. A camera clicked behind him. The gate shut.
Amber had bought a beautiful home. A double-fronted house looking like nothing in two hundred years had left a mark. White gravel stretched to the front door with neat lawn either side. Two Porsches, yellow and silver, had been moved onto the grass to accommodate a black van. The front door of the house itself was open a crack, cable running out to a generator on the lawn. Belsey pushed it and stepped into a hallway with huge mirrors and polished floorboards. A grey pug ran out of a room to the right and pawed at his legs. Someone said: ‘Cut.’
Through the doors he could see a small film crew, a man with a camera on his shoulder, a boom, lights, other people with headphones, radio mics. The room was double height with a white piano on a rug, glass stairs twisting up to a mezzanine level, a swing seat hanging from the ceiling. It stretched to the back of the house, to more glass: a wall of it looking onto a garden. As well as the film crew there was an entourage of smarter men and women with IDs hanging around their necks. On the sofa, head tilted to receive a make-up brush: there was Amber.
The star was more brightly lit than the anonymous people around her, but she looked real enough. Odd with reality, in fact. She wore a white sweater, jeans with a rip exposing tanned thigh. Her hair was up. She was no more than ten metres from him.
That had been easy enough.
She was alive at least. No sign of any chemical poisoning. Belsey turned back to the hallway, put the fan’s envelope on a ledge at the side. Someone said: ‘Excuse me.’ He turned to see a young woman with a headset and clipboard emerging from the living room.
‘Have you signed a release form?’
‘A release form?’
‘Have you been in it before?’
‘No.’
She thrust a clipboard with a release form in his direction, pen resting on the dotted line. He checked the sheet: Halcyon Entertainment. One Perfect Day. ‘I hereby irrevocably consent to the inclusion in this documentary of my appearance and words . . .’
‘I’d rather my face wasn’t shown.’
She peered at him, struggling to get her head around this.
‘Seriously?’
‘I’m on the run.’
The woman shrugged and took the clipboard back as if he was an arsehole. Her radio crackled. Belsey watched her return to the room, head over to a man with a utility belt who was peeling tape from the floor.
He walked towards the back of the house, past a huge chrome and copper kitchen, a room with a small catwalk and mirrored walls adjoining what looked like a fully functional salon with sinks for hair-washing and a nail bar. Five model heads sported wigs in different styles. Wide, carpeted stairs took him up to a first floor with a lot of rooms that looked like waiting areas for Thai restaurants – tasteful combinations of cream, dark wood and slate. Belsey peeked through doorways until he found a woman going through a chest of drawers. He watched her sifting papers for a moment before she sensed him, stiffened, then placed the papers back very carefully before turning.
‘Hey,’ she smiled. She was short, in patent leather heels, long dark hair, bright red lips and thick mascara.
‘Hey.’
‘I haven’t seen you around before.’ The woman thrust a hand out. ‘Terri.’
‘Nick. I’m looking for Gabby, Amber’s PA.’
‘She’s definitely around somewhere.’ Terri studied him, hungrily. Now Belsey saw the notebook and Dictaphone on the coffee table. ‘So how do you know Amber?’
‘I’m security. Just started.’
‘Ah. Security. Well, welcome to the madhouse.’ She winked. ‘You’ve got a job on your hands.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, you know. Everything. I’ll let Gabby fill you in.’
She gave him a business card and smiled again. The card identified her as Terri Baker, the Mirror’s show-business correspondent.
‘Do you have a card?’ she asked.
‘Not on me.’
‘We’re all one big team here,’ Terri said. ‘I’m sure we’ll see each other around.’
‘I’m sure.’
Belsey returned to the corridor, went up another floor. There was a room with massage tables and one with a dance floor beneath a mirror ball, framed magazine covers on the wall, windows leading onto a large balcony. Belsey crossed the unlit dance floor to the balcony. It was busy out there, he saw as he got close. On the other side of the window two men with secateurs and watering cans tended a lush set of window boxes. Beyond them, a miraculous half-acre of garden lay green and empty. Intruders like side doors, back doors, access from gardens. And here it was: a set of steps leading down from the balcony terrace to the garden. A half-acre – that was a lot of perimeter to protect.
He returned to the landing and followed it to a pink marble bathroom as big as the Hampstead CID office. A jacuzzi took up a whole corner, next to twin sinks crowded with lotions, ornaments, awards. Adjoining the bathroom was an austere bedroom with a lot of white fabrics, white walls, hyacinths and scented candles. It had a flat-screen TV facing the bed. No picture of her ex by her bed, as rumour had suggested. One framed photo of a teenage Amber with a much older man who looked like he was her father.
Belsey opened drawers, found lingerie. The sizes matched Mark Doughty’s haul. A woman passed the doorway, glanced in, stopped.
‘Excuse me. Who are you?’
She was short, in her early thirties, with a severe black fringe. She clutched a bulging file. The voice was instantly recognisable.
‘Gabby.’ Belsey shut the drawer. ‘Nick Belsey. The security guy.’
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Exactly. This is a shambles.’
She stared at him. She looked angry, but also like she didn’t have many facial expressions to choose from.
‘I don’t have long,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
No handshake.
She led him back down the corridor, talking to the space in front of her.
‘Do you need coffee? Water?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
They reached an office that didn’t look like it had been fully occupied yet: neat piles of paper on the floor, bare shelves, an incongruous leather-topped desk, empty but for a MacBook. She dropped the file on the desk.
‘Take a seat. I didn’t realise Karen was on it.’ She took one of the piles of paper from the floor and spread it over the desk. ‘Where do you want to start?’
Belsey sat d
own and placed Amber’s passport on the table, but Gabby was focused on her paperwork.
‘We need a full twenty-four-seven team back on. There were originally three guys on rotation here. Amber might need some persuading, of course.’ She ran her finger down bullet points. ‘We need a review of her phone and emails and how secure that is. We’ve had someone trying to hack in, journalists snooping. All that needs to be sorted out.’
‘Does that include the one downstairs?’
‘Terri? Terri’s OK. Terri’s on-side.’
Her phone rang. She checked, then muted it. ‘The thing right now is I need you to help keep costs down as much as possible. Obviously, this is sensitive . . .’
Belsey slid the passport towards her. Gabby checked it this time, frowned.
‘I’ve been looking for this. Where did you get it?’
‘It was in the bedroom of a man called Mark Doughty, about ten minutes’ walk from here.’ She showed no recognition of the name. Belsey moved the paperwork to the side and placed Mark’s ID on the desk. ‘Recognise him?’
Gabby took a good look.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve seen him. That’s him.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s been around a few times. I’ve seen him at events.’
‘Ever in here? In the house?’
‘God no.’
‘He had some clothes that look like they belong to Amber as well.’
Things were dawning slowly and unpleasantly on her. ‘Is that where they’ve been going? Oh wow. Yes, some clothes have been going missing.’
‘You’ve told the police?’
‘No.’
‘Let them know. I think Mark Doughty may be dangerous, but there’s a limit to what I can do. Check any security footage you have. If you see him entering the property pass it to the police. And tell Amber.’
‘What are you saying about me?’
They both turned. Amber stood in the doorway, cradling the pug. Belsey hadn’t been prepared for the effect of proximity. She was just a person, of course, but a person in a lot of dreams across the globe, on billboards, magazine covers, the sides of buses. And here was the original, with eyes that didn’t look at him. Belsey tried to imagine someone being in your house and not bothering to look at them.
Gabby got to her feet. ‘Amber, you remember we had concerns about a fan.’ She held out the ID.
Amber walked over. ‘That’s the guy.’
‘You think?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I think so too,’ Gabby said.
‘Jesus. He’s freaky,’ Amber said. ‘Who are you?’ She hit Belsey with eye contact for the first time.
‘This is our new security guy,’ Gabby cut in. ‘He’s the best in the business. And totally checked out.’
‘Good. Pleased to meet you.’ She freed a hand to shake. Her hand was warm, the shake indistinct.
So he’d touched Amber Knight.
‘What are you going to do about this?’ She nodded at the ID. Her eyes had a curious intensity.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘We’ve got a strategy,’ Gabby said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Will you keep me informed this time?’
‘Of course.’
Amber looked at the ID again, then at Belsey. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you around.’ She gave a sweet and unconvincing smile. Then she was gone.
Gabby exhaled. ‘In future, please – she needs reassurance.’
‘She needs good security,’ Belsey said. ‘What happened to the old team?’
‘It didn’t work out. Don’t worry about that.’
‘You fired them?’
‘Amber fired them.’
‘Why?’
‘She thought they were spying on her.’ Gabby checked the landing, closed the door. She sat down again. ‘There’s a situation here. A lot of nerves, a lot of high spirits. We have the wedding in less than a week, with a lot riding on it. This is a very important few days. Amber has a schedule.’ She found a spreadsheet amongst the lists of security concerns. ‘What I’d appreciate is, if she goes anywhere that isn’t prearranged – I mean, by Karen or by myself – you let me know.’
Belsey glanced across the spreadsheet. The whole set-up shifted a little, the sense of what security meant here. Half an hour ago he couldn’t get through the door, now he was being asked to babysit.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it. Right now, we’re on a mission: get Amber to the church on time. Or to the Dorchester, at least. That’s where the thing’s happening. We had a little intervention last week – to calm her down – and I don’t know if that’s helped. We can’t afford more bullshit. Tell me if she goes anywhere – and if she tries to get any money. Have you saved my number?’ Her phone rang again. She checked the screen.
‘I’ve got it.’ Belsey pocketed the schedule. ‘I’m going to need a cash float for expenses . . .’
‘Right. I reckon that’s possible. So long as you understand, at this moment in time, money’s tight.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Cash float.’ She scribbled this on papers as she rose, phone still ringing in her hand. ‘I’m going to have to take this.’
‘And give Chris a call,’ Belsey said. ‘Just in case I’m redeployed at the last minute.’
‘Stay there.’
She stepped out of the room, talking about a delivery of display stands. Belsey waited a moment then picked up Mark’s ID and walked onto the landing. Gabby was down the corridor, pulling another door closed behind her. Privacy. The house felt more constricting now. He returned to the party room, with the balcony overlooking the garden. The gardeners had gone. He stepped onto the terrace, past the window boxes to the steps and down.
There was decking at the bottom, with an inbuilt barbeque and hot tub. He was on the other side of the sliding glass wall, looking into the living room, which had emptied, the abandoned flight cases of the film crew stark against the white décor. Someone had knocked out a lot of bricks to create this ten-metre-wide sliding door. But then the garden was worth seeing in panorama. Plum trees, a rock garden with its own waterfall, a stack of sun loungers. He crossed a Japanese-style bridge over a pond to the perimeter wall. The original wall had been supplemented with the razor wire of twenty-first-century security. He followed it to the furthest corner, to an incongruous shed.
The shed was locked. A dusty window afforded a glimpse of hi-spec gardening tools. Belsey looked up. There was something on the roof, material of some kind. He got a foot on the ledge of the window and hauled himself up. Folded on the tar paper was a pink, tasselled bath mat. Damp. Belsey unfolded it and saw diagonal grooves pressed into the underside. He compared them to the razor wire, now just a couple of feet away, and concluded it would make good protection for someone climbing over. It didn’t match the décor of Amber’s new home. But it would have gone nicely in Maureen Doughty’s bathroom.
He couldn’t see any security cameras. Belsey looked back towards the house. The sightline was obscured by the cluster of fruit trees. From the top of the wall he could see the neighbour’s garden. It was equally large, but overgrown. The house it belonged to looked uninhabited: no lights on, a general air of neglect. Nestled within ragged hydrangeas at the foot of the wall was a retractable ladder.
Belsey draped the mat over the razors. The wall was wide enough to make the step-over easy. He dropped down into the hydrangeas. The ladder was untarnished, in good condition compared to the garden around it. He leaned it against the wall and saw how that would work.
Nearer the darkened house, things got bleaker. A swimming pool sat empty but for dead leaves. No garden furniture. He followed a side path to the front of the house and saw the estate agent’s board. A chain had been fastened across the grand iron gates to the driveway but there was a smaller gate to the side, human-sized, and it opened stiffly towards him when he pulled.
It opened onto a back road. No photograp
hers here. It was quiet, residential.
Belsey returned to the ladder, climbed up, stepped across to the shed, then down to the lawn. He imagined being Mark Doughty, dropping into Amber’s world. The trees gave perfect cover as you descended. The curve of the garden meant you were out of view of the house.
He walked back towards the house, across the decking to the wall of glass. No security lights came on. The sliding window moved slickly aside, weighted so that you hardly had to touch it. He stepped into the living room.
He could hear the crew upstairs, knocking equipment into place. Belsey heard a mobile ringtone, then silence. He sat on the stool by the piano, lifted the lid and pressed a key. He took a photo of the room on his phone. What did he want? Thirty grand for a picture of the wedding dress? He had no desire to interfere with someone’s wedding. Maybe he was just stalking.
He got up and opened a door at the far end of the room and gazed upon two or three hundred boxes of Bride.
They were stacked in a rough pyramid, the lower tiers formed by plastic-wrapped blocks of six. Beside the pyramid was a pile of silk pouches, silver ribbon printed with Amber’s name, her fiancé’s name – Guy – the date of the wedding. The perfect bag for the perfect gift – One Perfect Day. Perfect except for Mark Doughty helping himself to a pre-launch freebie.
Beyond the stack of perfume was a small door. Belsey walked in.
What had once been a drawing room of some kind now served as a crowded museum of strangers’ affections, the final resting place for the debris of fame: boxes of chocolates, bouquets of dead flowers, racks of clothes with the labels on. There were several cases of unopened samples including tanning creams, protein shakes, gourmet diet meals and a revolutionary cordless epilator. At the back, past crates of Evian and a rowing machine, were six grey postbags all bulging with envelopes crudely slit open, letters still inside. ‘I am 15 years old. I am from Tallinn. Maybe you know where that is. I am having a hard time in life and there’s no one else I can share this with.’ Belsey sat on the floor and sifted through a few handfuls. No Mark Doughty. He got a lot of other Amber obsession. There were drawings, photographs, poetry.
The House of Fame Page 3