The Vanishing Point

by Val McDermid

  ‘The Style Boys? The ones that didn’t win X-Factor?’

  ‘That’s them. Sound like they’re channelling sixties Motown. Temptations, Isley Brothers, that kind of sound.’

  ‘They’ve got the money to go to Detroit and record?’ The producer sounded incredulous.

  ‘It’s crazy, I know. But some shit-for-brains twat who thinks he’s going to be the next Simon Cowell loved their sound and decided to bankroll them. More money than sense, if you ask me.’

  ‘And he chose Pete? To engineer a sixties soundalike album?’

  The engineer laughed. ‘Which proves the shit-for-brains bit.’ He turned to Nick. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Pete’s a good engineer. But this is way out of his zone.’

  The producer hit the talkback button. ‘One more time, guys. Travis, I need you to be spot-on with the beat, you’re still drifting in the middle bars.’ He rolled his eyes at Nick.

  ‘How can I find out where Pete’s working in Detroit?’

  The producer shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know.’

  The engineer pulled out his phone. ‘If you want to know, ask an engineer.’ His thumbs danced over the screen. ‘Paul Owen at the Bowes Festival will know, he’s got the Style Boys headlining for them.’

  They leaned back in their seats and listened to another rendition that Nick could tell wasn’t quite on the money. ‘I’m going to fucking kill myself,’ the producer said. ‘Do you get days like that in your job?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘What are you after Pete for? I wouldn’t have had him down as the criminal type,’ the engineer said. ‘Pretty straight guy, Pete. Well, what passes for straight in this game.’

  ‘I need to ask him a few questions. Something that happened in his neighbourhood he might have witnessed. But if he’s been gone for the last couple of months, chances are he’s out of the frame altogether.’

  The engineer’s phone shimmied across the sound desk, signalling an incoming text. He picked it up and glanced at it, before holding it out to Nick. ‘There you go, mate.’

  ‘Style Boys @ South Detroit Sounds till end of week. Early mix sounds better than expected,’ he read. Nick smiled. ‘Thanks, lads. Hope your drummer finds his beat.’

  All the resources of the FBI were chasing Jimmy Higgins. But the way things were looking, it was all going to come down to a single London copper with a feel for the music scene. Nick smiled. If he could bring Jimmy Higgins home, he’d be a happy man.

  And more importantly, Stephanie would be a very happy woman.

  38

  When Scarlett came back from the chemo session, she was wrecked. The drugs had ripped the energy out of her, leaving her a pale husk. But it wasn’t the chemo or the bereavement itself that had broken her. According to Simon, who had brought her back, she’d had a text from Joshu’s sister Ambar on the way home. Ambar had stated categorically that neither Scarlett nor Jimmy would be welcome at her brother’s funeral. ‘If you have any respect for my family, please stay away. You have no place at a Hindu funeral.’

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ Scarlett said weakly once we’d got her to bed. ‘Fucking, fucking bitch.’ She gripped my hand so tight I could almost feel the bruises forming. She spoke in broken fragments of sentences. ‘I’m going to show her. Tomorrow, Steph. We’ll get started. We’re going. To organise a memorial service. For all the people. That knew the real Joshu. Not this fake. Perfect son his family are trying to create.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ I said. ‘We’ll give him a proper send-off. You’re right, his friends should have the chance to say goodbye. But in the meantime you need to rest.’

  She let go of my hand. I could see the fight draining out of her. ‘Sleep now,’ she said. ‘Everything hurts, Steph. My body and my heart. Everything.’

  I stayed with her till she fell asleep, which took less than five minutes. She looked so frail, so pale, the dark circles under her eyes a new addition since the start of the chemo. She looked closer to death than Joshu ever had.

  When I left Scarlett, Leanne was carrying Jimmy downstairs. He was grizzling softly, repeating, ‘I want my mummy,’ in a low monotone.

  ‘We’re going for a little swim before bedtime,’ she said, looking worn out. ‘Do you want to come too?’ She sounded almost desperate.

  Obviously we weren’t going to tell Jimmy anything that night. But he clearly sensed there was something bad going on. I didn’t feel much like swimming, but I reckoned opportunities for relaxation would be in short supply over the coming days. And the kid needed a bit of love and attention. In spite of my gloom, I enjoyed frolicking in the water with Jimmy, who perked up as soon as we all started playing. When Leanne finally took him off to bed, too tired to miss his mother, I stayed in the water, swimming lazy laps and thinking about Nick Nicolaides, wondering whether I’d ever see him again.

  The next few days were chaotic. Breaking the news to Jimmy was more harrowing for Scarlett than for her son, who was too young to understand the import of what she was telling him. He cried because she was crying, but we all knew he hadn’t grasped the reality that his dad wouldn’t be coming back. ‘He’s going to keep asking about Joshu, and I’m going to have to keep explaining it again and again,’ Scarlett said afterwards. ‘And then one day it’ll sink in and his little heart will be devastated.’

  What none of us wanted to think about was how it would be for Jimmy when the day came that he understood how his father had died. With luck, he would be secure and happy enough in his own skin not to be thrown completely off course by the information. But it would be hard to assimilate, however well adjusted he turned out.

  But telling Jimmy was only a small part of what we had to get through in the days after Joshu’s death. Scarlett was determined that the memorial service for Joshu should be held as soon as possible. I think she saw it as a spoiler for whatever his parents had planned. ‘They didn’t give a stuff about him when he was alive. They don’t have the right to own him now he’s dead,’ she said. The morning after we heard the news, she dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen in spite of our protestations. ‘I’ve got a to-do list,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll go back to bed.’

  I really didn’t have the time for sorting out Joshu’s memorial. I had work of my own and deadlines to meet. But friendship trumps work in my world. ‘Give me the list,’ I said. ‘We’ll sort it out, won’t we, Leanne?’

  Leanne looked less than thrilled, but she nodded agreement. She gestured to the low table and chair where Jimmy was singing to himself and eating cereal with his Power Rangers posable figures. ‘I’ll take Jimmy to nursery, then I’ll muck in.’

  ‘No,’ Scarlett said, mutiny on her face. ‘I loved him. This is the last thing I can do for him and I want to do it myself.’

  It was a fine sentiment, but it wasn’t practical. ‘I know you do. And it says a lot for you that you still feel like that in spite of the way he treated you. But the most important thing you can do for him now is stand tall and proud at his memorial service. You have to be strong for Jimmy as well as yourself. Leave the nuts and bolts to us. What you need to do is nothing. You need to be amazing at his send-off. You need to show the world you’re winning your personal fight.’ I pulled her into a tight hug.

  ‘Yeah, you’re Kate Winslet in Titanic,’ Leanne said. ‘You gotta show them, Scarlett. Joshu’s gone, but you go on.’

  I stifled an embarrassed snort of laughter at the image Leanne had conjured up. ‘Show the world that you’re a survivor, Scarlett. And in years to come, Jimmy will take strength from that. An amazing memorial for his dad, with you at the heart of it.’

  To be honest, she didn’t take much persuading to head back to bed. She squatted down beside Jimmy and played Power Rangers with him for a few minutes, then hugged him tight. They walked into the cloakroom hand in hand, where she zipped him into his coat, handed him off to Leanne then staggered back down the hall and up the stairs, refusing my arm and muttering under her breath.

  Organisi
ng the memorial wasn’t the easiest task I’ve ever taken on. Obviously, anywhere with formal religious associations was out of the question. Scarlett had no particular Christian affiliation and Joshu was as lapsed as it was possible to be, in spite of his parents’ determination to give him a proper Hindu funeral. Leanne and I sat at the breakfast bar scratching our heads, trying to figure out what to do. Outdoors was too dodgy – you can never rely on British weather. The last thing Scarlett needed was for the heavens to open and for the memorial to descend into muddy farce.

  It was Leanne who suggested a club. It was where Joshu had spent his working life, after all. My first reaction was to reject the idea – clubs are dark, subterranean caves that look cheap and tatty with the lights switched on. Leanne, whose life as Scarlett had made her almost as much of an expert as Joshu in the world of dance and DJs, couldn’t think of a single one that wasn’t a dingy dive at heart.

  But neither of us could come up with an alternative. In desperation, I hit Google. There were a couple of top ten London club lists, and I took a look at them. ‘Found it,’ I yelped, turning the laptop round to show Leanne. ‘Paramount. The thirty-first floor of Centre Point. Windows all round, it has to look good in daylight. It says there are amazing views down Oxford St and across central London. There’s a dance space where we could have the memorial bit. They do food too. It’s perfect, Leanne.’

  She looked dubious. ‘I don’t think he ever did a gig there. I’ve never been there with him.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s a club. That makes it a tribute to his working life.’

  ‘It’ll cost an arm and a leg. Look, there’s a review that says the drinks are really expensive.’

  I laughed. ‘Do you seriously think Scarlett’s going to be paying for it? By the time Georgie’s sold the rights to Yes! and some shitty TV channel, we’ll be in profit. Trust me, Leanne, this is the answer.’

  Luckily both George and Scarlett agreed with me. We had a week to arrange the memorial service, and though I say it myself, we did a fantastic job. The guest list was a showbiz editor’s wet dream. Everyone who wanted to be perceived as anyone was there, along with a full complement of paparazzi and red-top columnists. Scarlett had taken our words to heart and she’d spent most of the week resting in her room. On the day itself, the make-up artist was first to arrive at the house. Thanks to her subtle work, Scarlett managed the perfect combination of fragility and radiance, walking through the crowd to the podium holding Jimmy’s hand, head held high. He looked heart-breaking, bewildered in a scaled-down black Nehru jacket and black trousers.

  A couple of Joshu’s more articulate and respectable friends spoke about his professional life then Scarlett reduced the room to tears with her personal eulogy. ‘Joshu was the only man I’ve ever known who stopped the breath in my lungs. The first time I saw him, he was behind the decks under the arches at Waterloo. The way he moved, the smile on him, the

  glitter in his eyes, it was like he had a spark inside him that nobody else had. I knew right then he was going to be mine.’

  Never mind that the glitter and spark had probably been from cocaine; nobody in that room could have doubted that she truly loved him.

  ‘But loving Joshu came with a price tag. He had a head full of dreams, and it was like one life wasn’t ever going to be enough for him. Being a DJ wasn’t enough. He wanted to go beyond that, to become a record producer, to make films, to change the way people saw the world. Sadly for me and Jimmy, just being a family man wasn’t ever going to be enough for him either. Joshu had a big heart and he needed more than a simple life could offer. I couldn’t hold him down. I had to let him spread his wings, even though it broke my heart into little pieces.’ Scarlett drew in her breath and quivered on the edge of tears, then gathered her boy to her. Jimmy clutched at her dress, peering out at the crowd with wide, sad eyes.

  ‘The one thing that was enough for Joshu was being a dad. For all his faults, for all his frustrations, he loved his boy. He’d have thrown himself in front of a bullet for Jimmy. If there was one thing that Joshu loved without a second thought, one thing he would never have turned his back on, it was his son. And that’s how I know what happened to Joshu was an accident, not a suicide, as some journalists who know nowt have tried to suggest. Joshu would never, ever have taken himself away from Jimmy. He might have had enough of me. He might have had enough of you lot. But he would never, ever have had enough of Jimmy. So let’s raise a glass to my beautiful Joshu. Let’s remember all the times he made us glad to be alive. To Joshu!’

  It was irresistible. I didn’t think there could be anyone in the room unmoved by Scarlett’s words. From my position by the podium, I looked round the room, my own gaze misted with brimming tears.

  And that’s when my breath stopped in my lungs for all the wrong reasons. There, at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, was the man I’d spent so much time, money and energy escaping from. With a triumphant, ironic smile on his face, Pete Matthews tipped his finger to his forehead in a mocking salute.

  What was it Faulkner said? ‘The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.’ Once I’d struggled to understand that. Now I knew exactly what it meant.

  39

  The rest of the memorial passed in a blur for me. As soon as the formal part of the afternoon was over, I thought I’d try to escape without Pete spotting me. But I could feel his eyes on me, following me round the room. Although this wasn’t my crowd, I knew enough of the media to attempt to use them as stepping stones to get across the room to an exit where I hoped I could make my getaway. But every time I looked up, there he was, on the fringes, stalking me as he’d done so efficiently after I’d walked away from our relationship.

  Then I saw the one man who might possibly save me. Over by the buffet, his back to the impressive view of central London, Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides was using his height advantage to scan the room. I wasn’t sure what he was doing there. But I was sure I could take advantage of his presence one way or another.

  I weaved through the press of bodies, air-kissing a few of Scarlett’s TV colleagues on the way. Nick looked mildly amused as I finally pitched up beside him. ‘Are you here to give me grief for gate-crashing?’ he asked.

  Bemused, I shook my head. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because I understand you organised this—’ He waved a hand at the room, where the noise of chatter was rising incrementally, like the volume on one of Joshu’s sets. ‘—and I wasn’t on the guest list.’

  ‘I didn’t do the guest list,’ I said. ‘That was Scarlett and her agent. I hardly know anyone here.’ Apart from the bastard across the room whose eyebrows are drawn down in a dark frown now I’m talking to you.

  ‘Damn, I gave myself away.’ He pursed his mouth in a self-mocking expression.

  ‘Why are you here?’ It occurred to me that his presence was a little puzzling.

  He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass and shrugged. ‘Call it curiosity. I don’t often get the chance to have a window on this world. I like to take my chances when I can.’

  ‘If this was an episode of Poirot, you’d be here because you didn’t think Joshu’s death was an accident.’ I was teasing him, but he showed no response at all. Not a quirk of humour or a flash of seriousness. Just a blank.

  ‘But it’s not an episode of Poirot,’ he said. ‘And I’m a nosy copper who had nothing better to do on his afternoon off. How’s the not-quite-widow taking it?’

  ‘Harder than I’d have expected. She put on a good show of being over him, but it turns out she wasn’t. Trust me, there’s nothing fake about her grief. She’s genuinely stricken. Partly it’s on Jimmy’s account. But she still had feelings for Joshu.’

  Nick nodded. ‘She’s lucky to have you to take care of something as major as this.’

  ‘I cracked the whip, that’s all. It was other people who did the nitty gritty.’ An idea was nibbling at the edge of my mind. ‘I’m quite good at getting people organi
sed.’ I tried to project a winning combination of tentative and sexy.

  ‘I imagine you are,’ Nick said, not quite meeting my gaze.

  ‘For example.’ I shifted so that I had my back to the window. If he wanted to keep eye contact with me, he would have to move round, putting Pete firmly in his line of sight. ‘You mentioned that you’re a gatecrasher. But you’re not really. If you had asked to come, we’d have been happy to give you an invitation. In your case, it’s a technicality. But there are people here who are definitely not welcome. And someone like you would be doing Scarlett a huge kindness if you were to escort them off the premises. For example.’

  He moved so he could see the section of the room that I’d been looking towards. ‘Is there someone you had in mind?’

  ‘Don’t stare. But there’s a guy beyond the bar, leaning against the wall. He’s wearing a black jacket and a black shirt with a silvery tie.’

  Nick stooped slightly, as if he were leaning down to hear my words over the background din. ‘Dark hair? Kind of gaunt? Straight black brows?’

  ‘That’s him. His name’s Pete Matthews.’

  ‘And he’s not welcome?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘I presume there’s a reason you don’t want to give him the bum’s rush yourself?’ Nick pushed his shaggy hair back from his face. In the vivid lighting, I could see one or two strands of silver among mixed shades of brown that reminded me of the colours of a female blackbird’s wing. It made him seem more grown-up. More grown-up than me, at least.

  ‘Yes.’ I’m desperate to run away from here and I want you to distract him so I can get a head start.

  ‘But you’d rather not share it,’ Nick said. I don’t think I imagined a note of regret in his voice. ‘And by the time I’ve dealt with the problem, you’ll be gone, right?’

  Not just gorgeous and sexy, but smart too. I really hoped Nick would cobble together some vague reason to come and talk to us again about Joshu. I wasn’t about to count on it, though. ‘Something like that. My work here is done.’