by Shaun Hutson
‘Yes, I’ve read all about them. Didn’t one of them get arrested last week?’
‘For decking a journalist at some showbiz party. The guy was just taking pictures and the guitarist got the hump and broke his nose.’ Marsh shrugged. ‘I think that dozy slag he’s going out with objected to the intrusion.’ He shook his head.
‘They’re in Canada at the moment, aren’t they?’
‘They fly back tomorrow. They’ve been in trouble out there, too: mouthing off about the Royals and shit like that. Very original. They want to be the new wild men of rock, but they’re only playing at it. Sticking two fingers up at cameramen and spitting at your own fans doesn’t make you the new Sex Pistols. Try biting the heads off a few bats, driving cars into swimming pools, or lobbing TVs out of hotel windows – that’s more like it.’ He grinned.
‘So what do I do with them?’ she wanted to know.
‘You liaise with their press office and their record company, make sure this gig goes off without any hitches. With all the proceeds going to charity, I’ve managed to get some local big nobs involved too. The local MP is going to attend. And we’ve got a big party lined up too, after the gig. Yours truly gets to present the cheque to the heads of the chosen charities. I need you to work closely with them, too.’
She nodded.
‘So, let me get started,’ she said. ‘By the way, Jim, what about getting one of the guitarists from Waterhole to donate a signed guitar after the gig, for auction? You could raffle it at this party you’re having. I’m sure those local dignitaries would be only too happy to fork out for it. Especially as the money is going to charity. It’ll make whoever buys it look good too, won’t it?’
‘And you wonder why I wanted you back?’ Marsh grinned.
He turned and headed towards the door.
‘All the info you need is on the computer,’ he added. ‘Any problems, give me a shout.’ He paused at the entrance. ‘Thanks again, Hailey.’
‘Thank me when it’s all over,’ she said, smiling.
He closed the door, leaving her alone in the office.
33
THE PUBLIC BAR of the Tawny Owl was relatively empty for a lunchtime. The smell of liquor mingled with the odours of food; the sound of a dozen conversations competed with music from the jukebox.
Rob Gibson sat back in his seat, glancing around, tapping one finger on the table as he listened to the music.
‘. . . I’m all out of faith, this is how I feel . . .’
He saw Frank Burnside paying for the drinks, then make his way carefully back through the light crowd of customers towards their table.
‘. . . I’m cold and I am shamed, lying naked on the floor . . .’
Burnside set down the two glasses of Jameson’s, and seated himself opposite his partner.
‘. . . Illusion never changed, into something real . . .’
‘Maggie would go mad if she could see me drinking.’ Burnside smiled.
‘Oh, come on, Frank,’ Rob protested. ‘If you can’t have a drink to celebrate becoming a father, when can you?’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right. Get it down you. And congratulations. When’s it due again?’
‘November. I didn’t want to say anything until we were sure this time – after Maggie lost the last one. And neither of us is getting any younger.’
‘Cheers, Dad,’ chuckled Rob, raising his glass in salute.
The two men drank.
‘I remember when Hailey got pregnant,’ Rob mused. ‘I felt like a kid with a new toy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. She moaned because I wouldn’t touch her, but I was scared of hurting the baby. And when Becky was born . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off. ‘She was born by Caesarean. I was the first one to hold her. I couldn’t believe it. Hailey and I just looked at each other and burst into tears. When I was ringing people afterwards, I kept crying too. I think it’s relief as much as anything. You know that they’re all right, they’re healthy. It’s like the wait’s been worth it.’
‘How are things between the two of you now?’ Burnside wanted to know. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘It’s still difficult,’ said Rob. ‘It’s been worse since I got back from Manchester. She started work again today, too.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
The look on Rob’s face told Burnside that it wasn’t.
‘She claims it’s only part-time, but I know what she’s like. She loved that job. If Marsh asks her to put in a few extra hours, she’ll do it.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I don’t want her working too many hours. I don’t want her with him any more than she needs to be.’ He sipped his Jameson’s.
‘Why?’
‘He fancies her – I’m not stupid. When they used to go away together on business, I reckon he had a crack at her. He might even have fucked her.’
‘Come on, Rob, don’t you trust her? Hailey wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘How do you know, Frank?’
Burnside looked at him evenly, then took a sip of his own drink.
‘She might feel that she wants to get back at me now, especially after what happened with Sandy. If Marsh comes on to her again, she might just go for it. Just to get back at me.’
‘How old’s the guy? I thought he was in his fifties.’
‘So what?’
‘Give Hailey a bit of credit, Rob. If she really wanted to get back at you, I’m sure she could find some other way.’
‘Yeah, maybe. But then she doesn’t know what happened while I was in Manchester, does she?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Sandy came up.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Rob. I thought that was over.’
‘It is. I didn’t fucking plan it. She turned up at the hotel. She spent the night.’
‘You fucked her?
‘She put it on a plate, Frank.’
‘I don’t understand you . . .’
‘Don’t come over all sanctimonious on me. It doesn’t suit you,’ Rob snarled.
‘As long as she’s around, it’ll never be over, will it?’
Rob drained what was left in his glass.
‘Are you in love with her?’ Burnside continued.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? No! I told you before, this never had anything to do with love.’
Burnside, too, finished his drink. ‘I’m going back to work,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong, Frank? Are you disgusted? Do I offend your sensibilities? Your morals?’
‘I told you, I just don’t know what’s going on inside your head.’
‘Well, that makes two of us.’
Rob got to his feet and headed for the bar.
‘I’ll see you in a while,’ he said. ‘I need another drink.’
Burnside opened his mouth to say something, then realized it would be pointless.
When Rob turned around again he saw his partner disappearing out of the door.
He held the Jameson’s in his hand for long moments, then downed it in two huge swallows.
34
HAILEY WAS BEGINNING to wonder if she’d lost her touch.
Either that or it was going to take her longer to ease back into this job than she’d originally thought.
Or maybe it was just the people she was dealing with.
Yes, that was it. It was the people she was dealing with.
She looked at the computer screen before her, then at the phone. Only seconds before she had been speaking to one of the girls
(well, be fair, she didn’t sound much older than about twenty)
in Waterhole’s press office. Her name had been Catrina
(with a ‘C’, she’d stressed, not a ‘K’)
and she’d informed Hailey that she really needed to speak to someone called Trudi
(without the ‘e’)
who was out of the office for the time being. S
o, Hailey thanked Catrina with a ‘C’, and asked her to get Trudi, without an ‘e’, to call her as soon as she came back into the office.
The screen showed the names, addresses and phone numbers of everyone relevant, ranging from Waterhole and their record company, press office and management office, to the local MP and his offices, both at Westminster and locally. There were also the names of numerous other local dignitaries that Marsh wanted present at the after-gig party.
Also listed were the promoters, limo firms for transporting VIPs, hotels, helicopter transport firms . . .
It was never-ending.
Hailey smiled. She had missed this job more than she realized.
The organization involved, the hectically ringing phone – it was like a circus where all the acts were insane and the trainers were on drugs. You never knew what was going to happen, from one minute to the next. And she loved it. She felt energized. For the first time in months, she felt as if she was in control. Despite the organized chaos before her, she revelled in the situation.
She decided to call the local office of Nicholas Barber, the MP Marsh had persuaded to attend. She wanted to know what time he would be arriving, and there had also been a fax from his secretary requesting further details of the gig itself – more particularly, how many backstage passes Barber was entitled to. His twin daughters, the fax informed her, were huge fans of Waterhole, so Mr Barber would appreciate it if his daughters could meet the band.
‘You and twenty thousand others,’ murmured Hailey.
She was about to pick up the phone, when it rang.
At last: Trudi without the ‘e’?
‘Hello,’ she began. ‘SuperSounds. Hailey Gibson speaking.’
‘How’s it going?’
She recognized the voice instantly.
‘Adam?’
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Walker.
She sat back in her chair.
‘I know you must be busy,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to know how your first day back at work was going.’
Why couldn’t Rob have done that?
‘It’s great,’ she told him. ‘As if I’ve never been away. The music business is still as crazy as always.’
‘The whole world’s crazy, isn’t it?’ Walker chuckled.
‘Are you working today?’ she asked him.
‘Always working, Hailey. If I don’t work, I don’t eat. It’s a great motivator.’
‘How did you get my number?’
‘I looked up the number for SuperSounds, then just called their switchboard. The receptionist put me through straight away.’
‘Listen, Adam, I’m glad you rang. I wanted to say sorry for last night – when you called round.’
‘Sorry for what?’
‘Oh, come on, you don’t have to be so tactful. You must have noticed the atmosphere.’
‘Just a bit.’ He laughed.
‘Rob can be so bloody rude sometimes. I do apologize for his attitude. And he and I’d just had a few cross words. So you sort of walked into the middle of it.’
Why tell him about their argument? Looking for his sympathy?
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘No harm done.’
‘Well, I’m sorry anyway.’
‘Prove it,’ he said flatly.
‘How?’
‘Have lunch with me tomorrow. And this time I’m paying. What do you say?’
She smiled.
‘I’d love to. Thank you.’
Ask him about that phone call late last night. Ask him if it was him who phoned.
‘What time, and where?’ she wanted to know.
Surely it wasn’t him who called? Why should he?
He gave her the name of a pub about five miles out from the city centre. She wrote it down on a piece of paper.
She knew it: the Happy Brig.
‘How does one o’clock suit you?’ he asked.
‘It suits me fine. See you there tomorrow.’
‘I hope the rest of your day goes well,’ he said. ‘Take care.’
Such a nice thought.
She put down the receiver.
One o’clock tomorrow.
Hailey folded the piece of paper and slid it into her purse.
35
THE AFTERNOON HAD dragged interminably, thought Rob. It seemed as if each minute had become stretched and elongated – to ensure that time moved excruciatingly slowly.
He had glanced at his watch and up at his wall clock more times than he could ever remember doing before.
He’d walked back to work after Burnside had left him in the pub, ostensibly to clear his head, but also to avoid reaching the office too quickly.
When he entered, Burnside had glanced at him from behind his desk but merely shook his head before turning back to his work.
For the rest of the afternoon the two men hadn’t spoken.
Rob looked at his watch yet again, and saw that it was almost five o’clock. He was going to leave early: get out of this place, get home.
He’d seen Sandy only twice that day. When she first came in, and when he left for lunch with Burnside.
Both times she’d smiled at him.
There had been something behind that smile that he hadn’t liked: a kind of smugness that irritated him. He had tried not to look at her too closely.
Why not? Like what you see a little too much?
Once or twice he’d heard her voice outside his office, but otherwise, he’d managed to avoid her.
This couldn’t go on, he tried to persuade himself more forcefully.
What couldn’t go on? These feelings you have for her?
And yet he had managed to convince himself he had no feelings for the woman. Never had. Never would.
His musings were interrupted by a knock on his office door.
Sandy Bennett walked in before he had time to call out.
‘This fax just came through,’ she told him. ‘I thought you might like to see it.’
‘Show it to Frank, I’m getting ready to go home,’ he told her.
She was wearing a dark brown jacket and trousers, and Rob couldn’t help but notice how tightly the trousers clung to her legs and buttocks.
Sandy laid the fax on his desk.
‘It’s about those vans you were going to buy,’ she continued. ‘They’ve agreed to meet your price.’
‘I can read it myself,’ he muttered.
‘What’s wrong, Rob? Are you in that much of a hurry to get home? Worried that Hailey might check up on you?’
He didn’t like the disdain in her voice.
‘Leave the fax,’ he said flatly.
‘Do you want me to send a reply?’ she asked.
‘No. I want you to get out of my fucking office.’
‘Charming. You didn’t throw me out of your hotel room so quickly, did you?’
‘Get out,’ he snapped, reaching for his jacket.
‘You were pleased to see me – don’t deny it. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a good time. I know I did.’
‘Is that why you sneaked out in the morning before I woke up?’
‘Perhaps you should be grateful I did.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, if I’d still been there the next morning, you might never have got out of the room at all.’ She smiled. ‘We’d probably still be there now.’
‘I doubt it.’
He pulled on his jacket and pushed past her to the door.
‘See you tomorrow, Rob.’ She smiled. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to wear? I know you like that skirt with the split.’
He took a step towards her, his face dark.
‘Don’t push it, Sandy,’ he rasped angrily.
He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Leaving her inside.
‘See you tomorrow,’ she murmured, her smile narrow.
36
SO MANY BOOKS. So many titles. So many authors.
But not the one he sought.<
br />
Adam Walker wandered slowly up and down the racks of shelves in the library, eyes flicking over each of the titles.
He had already looked for an alphabetical listing, but found nothing.
He had the right name: Caroline Hacket. But there was no sign of anything written under that name.
Perhaps she’d used a pseudonym, he wondered.
No, surely Hailey would have mentioned that.
Besides, why would Caroline Hacket want to hide her identity behind a fake name? Why would anyone seek anonymity when they could have notoriety instead?
Hailey had mentioned that neither of Caroline’s books had been big sellers, Walker remembered. That probably explained why he’d been unable to find either in any of the city’s bookshops.
Hence this trip to the library.
He continued to walk slowly between the high shelves, occasionally passing other borrowers as he moved.
The library was fairly deserted, apart from two pensioners sitting reading newspapers, and a woman returning books at the counter.
Walker tried the Thriller section. Nothing.
He looked under True Crime. Nothing.
It made no sense. Her books should be here.
He glanced again at titles in the True Crime section.
Beyond Belief
The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer
10 Rillington Place
Helter Skelter
He pulled the last volume down and flipped it open.
Photos of Charles Manson.
Of Sharon Tate.
One famous for being an actress, the other famous for ordering her death.
Perhaps more famous, for that reason.
He looked at another of the books.
At the photos of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.
Famous.
More people knew their names than knew the names of their young victims.
The book itself smelled old, as did the next one he took down and flipped through.
There was a picture of John Reginald Halliday Christie.
He had murdered nine women.
Gassed them. Raped them. Strangled them. Then hidden their bodies in the walls and garden of his house.
Famous.
Walker shook his head.
More titles.
Serial Killers
Hunting Humans