‘Thank you, Old Moore.’
Tufty’s voice became a sympathetic bellow. ‘Chin up, old bean. You know what I’d do if I were in your shoes?’
‘You’d limp. Your feet are twice the size of mine. Have you rung up for a reason, or just to swap aphorisms?’
‘A for isms and L for leather. And T for tox work rushed through the system.’
‘You’ve got a result for me already?’
‘Miracles we do while you wait. The impossible probably not until tomorrow. The drug your corpse ingested was an old-fashioned barbiturate. Not enough to kill, just enough to put him to sleep – in the human, not the veterinary sense.’
‘Barbiturate?’
‘Phenobarbital, if you want to be picky. In injectable form it’s used to control seizure. As a sleeping pill it’s pretty much been superseded, but some doctors still prescribe it for people who are intolerant of the benzodiazepines, or find they don’t work for them. Trouble with insomnia, it’s largely self-diagnosed. Someone says old Morpheus is on permanent secondment, you can’t prove otherwise. You have to take their word for it, or—’
‘Or not.’
‘Quite.’
‘So easy enough to get hold of?’
‘Easy and peasy. You get it from your own GP if you know the right words, and if not, you can get it on the Internet these days. And the beauty of barbiturate is it comes in a white powder which dissolves readily in alcohol without leaving a taste. So you can slip it in your sipper and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘I see. Well, thanks, Tufty. That’s cleared up one thing. There were no capsule cases in the stomach.’
‘So I understand. Phenobarbital goes well with suicide or murder, but white powder’s a pain to carry about in your pocket, so if you didn’t find the handy container—’
‘Which we didn’t – it’s another pennyweight on murder’s side.’
‘And how’s the case going?’ Tufty asked kindly.
‘As smoothly as a Jerusalem artichoke through a pasta press.’
‘That smoothly? Ah well, keep buggering on, old gumshoe. You’ll get there. Eventually.’
The name Danny Ballantine had led Slider to expect another skinny young Scot like Ewan Delamitri, an expectation stubbornly not dispelled by the voice over the phone, which was older, richer and more undeniably English than it had any right to be.
Ballantine had said he would wait on at his office in Archer Street to speak to Slider, though it was past home-time. The office was above a vegan restaurant called SeEds, the extraneous capital in the middle giving Slider something to wonder about as he climbed the stairs. The large outer office, supplied with plenty of hard chairs for the hopeful or desperate, was empty and dark, but the door to the warmly-lighted inner office was open, and as Slider arrived a figure appeared in the doorway with a decanter full of amber liquid hospitably in hand.
‘Drink?’ he said. ‘Sun’s over the yardarm.’
‘Thanks,’ said Slider.
The man before him was as little like his Danny Ballantine as it was possible to be. In fact, he was nothing like any Danny Slider could have imagined, though he could have been a Dan or a Daniel. He was tall, well over six foot, and massive, with the figure of an Edwardian clubman straining against the waistcoat of his expensive and beautiful three-piece suit – which was finished off with a spotted bow-tie and a watch-chain across the embonpoint. He had thick, kinky dark hair, ferociously slicked back and down. Enormous glasses rested on a small, sharp nose like a little hard triangle in the middle of his wide, fat face, and he had so many spare tyres round his neck he looked as though his chin was resting on a stack of crumpets. But he moved briskly on exquisitely-shod feet, and his pudgy hands knew their business, as they arranged two cut-glass tumblers, poured generously, and injected a short stream from the siphon into one.
‘Soda?’ he offered. ‘’Ice?’
‘Just as it comes, thanks,’ said Slider.
‘Ah, a purist, eh? Well done.’
Slider had followed him back into the inner office, which was just as it ought to be, dim, mellow, book-lined and panelled, so much mahogany you could have reverse-engineered a rainforest. There was a vast antique desk, leather chairs, comforting lighting, and even a leather globe of the world in a mahogany stand which opened up to reveal the drinks cabinet inside. It was a superb piece of theatre. Yet when Slider managed to get a proper look at his face – hard to do with the fat and the chins and the big spectacles and the whole distracting air of anachronism – he was not that old, probably not above forty-two or so.
‘Well,’ he said, easing himself into the chair behind the desk and waving Slider to another. ‘Ben Jackson, eh? Have that chair, it’s the most comfortable. Cigar? Mind if I do? I don’t smoke during office hours, but I do like one when the day’s toil is over. I find it relaxing. Not that it all ends with office hours in this business, as I expect you can imagine. So what’s happened to Ben?’
‘When did you last see or speak to him?’ Slider countered.
Ballantine was lighting his cigar, but the eyes watching Slider through the initial puffs were thoughtful. ‘Like that, is it?’ he said, when he removed it from his mouth. ‘What’s he done? No, I understand, you won’t tell me until I’ve told you. Well, I won’t disguise he was one of my favourite clients. So much talent it was hard to know where to start with him. I was devastated when he went into journalism – terrible waste. But I never thought it would be permanent. He’d do it for a few months and get bored and come back to me. That boy’s capacity for boredom is terrifying, you know. And then there was that Kara business – you know about that?’
‘I know they had been going out together, and she died.’
‘That’s it. Terrible when they burn out so young. But some people have that seed of self-destruction in them, and she was one. There’s nothing you can do for them when it’s like that. I tried to warn Ben not to get involved, but he’d been smitten with Saint George-itis when she was an unknown. She had that waif-like look – and she was a nice girl underneath, should have been a suburban housewife, really, except that she was cursed with the ability to sing and a longing to be in “showbiz”.’
Slider could hear the deprecatory inverted commas he put round the phrase. It was obvious that getting Danny Ballantine to talk was not going to be the problem, but he had a rich mellifluous voice and listening to him was no hardship at all; though Slider got the impression he had learned to do the talking-schtick at some point as a form of self-defence. Had he been a tall, fat teenager who was made fun of? Had girls laughed at him instead of going out with him? Had boys called him jelly belly and nancy-boy because he was no good at sports? The bow tie, the suit, the office, the cut glass, the cigar – they could all be smoke and mirrors, so that no one would ever get a glimpse of the real Danny Ballantine, cowering inside the fat dude, not wanting to be looked at.
‘So he was really upset about Kara’s death?’ Slider prompted.
‘Of course he was. Although, to be frank, I think he’d fallen out of love with her almost completely by the end. It’s hard to remain in love with someone who vomits on your shoes as a means of communication. And who has sex with roadies and assistant stage managers in the dressing room.’
‘She was unfaithful to him?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t call it that. She wasn’t responsible for her actions when she was wired. That’s rather the point, isn’t it? Anyway, they weren’t still together by then so it’s moot whether you can call it unfaithfulness. But he was still fond of her, and he felt responsible for her. He’d tried so hard – we both had – to get her straight, but it was not to be. As a matter of fact, dying was the best thing she could have done for her career – her sales took a tremendous upturn. But you couldn’t expect Ben to see it that way. So I understood that he had to go away and get over it. He was entitled to a period of mourning. Interestingly, I’d say his reaction to her death was more anger than sorrow.’
‘Anger?’
‘Absolute bloody fury that Charlie had got her in the end, despite all his efforts. Now is that love or pique at being bested? No, let’s be generous and say both. He was furious at the whole drugs culture and the people who pushed it and the people who profited by it. I said, “Ben, my pet, pick a war you can win. It’s only in the Bible David beats Goliath”. And of course he knew that. After the anger, the languor. He rang me to say he’d given up the journalism job and he was going away for a bit to get his head together.’
‘Are those the words he used?’ Slider asked.
‘I can’t remember – does it matter? He said he was going away and would be out of touch for a bit. I was rather heartened that he told me, because obviously there was nothing for me to do for him while he was working for Musical World, but it didn’t mean there was nothing I wanted to do for him, and if a little break like this could get it out of his system and put him back on my books I’d be delighted. I’d told him all along he had to come back. We could have reformed the band – comebacks are all the rage now, and the record companies love them: the fans are that much older, with more money and a lot of nostalgia, jobs and mortgages, want to recapture their carefree youth. And they’re the ones who buy music, rather than illegally downloading it, so the labels know they can actually make some money. And on the tours, of course. That’s where the real money is now, in the music business, the live tours. Or he could have gone solo. Voice like an angel, very musical, and a nice bod. I’ve got a very sweet boy, new on my books, songwriter looking for an artist, Ben would be just right for him. But it’s hard work unless you’re dedicated, and I was never entirely sure he was, so I know exactly what he really ought to be looking at – TV presenting!’ A real enthusiasm, as opposed to the theatrical one, now lit his eyes behind the safety glass. ‘He’d be absolutely bloody brilliant as a youth presenter – the looks, the voice, the charisma, the acting ability, the pop credentials! And I happen to know that Five is commissioning a new early-evening pop- and gossip-based teen programme – Large on Saturday, or Saturday Large or something like that. They’re looking for the right presenter, or they will be as soon as everyone comes back from the summer break, and I know I can get it for him. He’d be perfect – beyond perfect. So if the foolish boy will only contact me, we can get our word in before the usual tired old names muddy the pool. I’m not the only one who’ll have heard about the new show, sadly. And I happen to know that Phil Silverstein, the old ghoul, wants to get something for his kid Ash Dooley, to get him off cable and into the mainstream.’
‘When did you last speak to Ben?’ Slider got the question in before another stream could carry him away.
‘When he told me he was going away,’ Ballantine answered, straight for once. ‘That was – let me think – three months? My God, no, must be nearly four. April, it must have been.’
‘And nothing since then? Not a phone message, postcard – anything?’
‘No,’ said Ballantine, looking at him seriously now. ‘So what’s he done? If he’s in trouble, I want to help. He’s impulsive, like all these artists, but he’s a good boy underneath, I promise you. Whatever he’s done, he’s not malicious. What is it? Tell me the worst.’
So Slider did. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
A long and desperate stillness came over Ballantine. He had spoken regretfully of Kara, but there was real feeling here.
‘No,’ he said at last.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Slider.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘No. Not Ben.’
And Slider saw with consternation that the eyes, the colour of coffee beans, behind the big glasses had filled with tears.
TEN
A Little Night Music
‘But who would kill a lovely boy like Ben?’ he mourned.
‘That’s what I’m hoping you can help me with,’ said Slider. ‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘No, no, everybody liked him. They all thought he was a great guy. He was friendly to everybody – not just the artists but the crews as well. Remembered their birthdays, asked after their mums, that sort of thing.’
‘Well, did anyone have a grudge against him? Someone jealous of his success? Maybe a rival for Kara’s affections?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Someone who blamed him for Kara’s death?’ Slider thought he might as well try Hollis’s suggestion.
‘No, nothing like that. If anything, it was the other way round.’
He stopped himself abruptly at the end of that sentence, and Slider said, ‘What is it? You’ve thought of something.’
He looked uneasy. ‘No, not really. It’s nothing. Look, I don’t want you to read too much into this.’
‘I promise I won’t,’ Slider said with a sort of grim whimsy. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, he did have a bit of a dust-up with a chap, Jesse Guthrie. I’m absolutely not saying he has anything to do with it, you understand? Because it was nothing, just a bit of flying fisticuffs, that’s all. Apparently Ben bumped into Jesse at a night club and had a row with him. This would have been about March-time, in his angry period. He accused Jesse of selling cocaine to Kara. I’ve no idea if there was anything in the accusation. But he started shouting, threw a punch, the two of them got into an undignified scuffle, and the door attendants threw them both out. That was all. Really.’
‘Who is Jesse Guthrie?’
‘Oh, sorry – he’s one of Asset Strippers’ crew. That’s the name of a band.’
‘I know.’
Ballantine gave him a ‘Really?’ eyebrow. ‘He’s a gofer, I believe. Nobody important. The only reason I knew about it is that Murray Mann, the Strippers’ manager, rang up to complain to me the next day. He said my boy’s attack was unprovoked, and Jesse was peeved that he’d been thrown out of the club as well, when it wasn’t his fault. I told Murray that Ben wasn’t my boy any more and it was nothing to do with me, and I also told him, gratis and free of charge, to tell Jesse Guthrie to grow up or go home to his mother. End of story.’ He looked anxiously at Slider. ‘You see why I said it wasn’t important?’
‘It probably is nothing, but you never know what will turn out to be important in the end, so you were right to tell me,’ Slider said. ‘What night club was it?’
‘Oh, blessed if I can remember. They’re all the same, these places, loud music and sloppy kids, whether it’s Annabel’s or – Vanya’s.’ He short circuited himself. ‘That was it. Didn’t think I’d remember. Vanya’s. It’s a club just round the corner in Wardour Street’
‘I know,’ said Slider for the second time. The things he knew nowadays! And Vanya’s had also been one of the places that Paul Barrow worked. Oh, he did like it when things linked up. ‘One last thing,’ he went on, to take Ballantine’s mind off his treachery, ‘money. Was Ben earning anything from royalties, if that’s what they’re called?’
‘Well, not a great deal. Breaking Waves’ CDs aren’t still being sold, except second hand. But the songs are still sometimes performed as covers, so as the writer Ben gets a royalty each time. He gets performance royalties when they’re played on radio or TV – they’re quite strong in the States; there’s a little cult thing going on there. And he gets something from the videos he did for the big-name bands. I suppose all in all it amounts to about twenty thousand a year.’
Slider hadn’t expected it to be so much. ‘So he’s not broke.’
‘Given that he lives rent free in his parents’ flat, he probably manages,’ said Ballantine. ‘But we can all do with a little more, am I right? Why did you want to know?’
‘I just wondered how badly he needed a job.’
‘A job? That’s not at all Ben’s style.’ And suddenly there were tears again, and he drew out a pristine handkerchief, the sort it would be a crime to blow on, and snuffled into it. ‘Look at me,’ he apologized. ‘I can’t get used to the idea. Who would do such a thing?’ He removed his glasses carefully and dried his eyes. ‘I’m going to have to have another
whisky. How about you?’
‘Thanks, but I have to get back,’ Slider said. He felt a bit guilty about leaving him, though – large and fleshy and hurting, like a melancholy manatee.
It would be silly not to go to Vanya’s while he was so close, so he rang home to check that Dad was all right. Joanna had also been out all day, with three recording sessions – ten to one, two to five and six to nine. Precious income, but it made a long day for his father.
But Mr Slider said calmly, ‘All’s well here, son. My boy’s in bed and asleep, and I’m having my bit o’ supper and watching the cricket, so you do what you have to do.’
He wished Dad hadn’t mentioned supper. He was starving, but he couldn’t face any of the fast food on offer, having smelt it. Subs, KFC, Big Macs – it was a shabby outpost of the Great American Dream. Even the one fish and chip shop he passed was reeking with doner kebab, and Phil Rabin’s had closed down years ago. His stomach would just have to get on with it and growl.
The evening was stifling, with a wet, oppressive weight to the air that kept all the smells contained. It didn’t seem to bother the crowds – mostly tourists at this time of year, milling with an aimless sort of movement, gaping about them, stopping in the middle of the pavement to consult maps. Natives identified themselves by their brisker pace, Londoners threading their way through the knots at breakneck speed like slalom skiers; groups of youngsters from out of town clattering and guffawing and shrieking on their way to a night out that would not be nearly as ‘mental’ as they hoped, though they would do their best to make enough noise to disguise the fact.
At Vanya’s there was a queue of young people waiting to get in, the girls with micro-skirts and white legs, balancing on heels so high they’d need the fire brigade to get them down; boys lounging, hands in pockets, trying to look cool and scornful, a little army of spotty James Deans. Slider walked past them and up to the bouncer – though you weren’t supposed to call them that any more. Even door attendant was not flattering enough; these days it was probably Personnel Admittance Executive; or Vice President of A & Cs.
Blood Never Dies Page 15