Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  They also announce their suspicion that the cassette from French’s answerphone was deliberately removed from the machine. A fingertip search was conducted and the tape has not been found anywhere in the house.

  And also they report that a large sum of cash has gone missing. On the afternoon of last Saturday, French withdrew £10,000 in cash from his bank. There is no sign of this money anywhere in his house.

  Scott Dolan’s name appears in the by-line. So, he’s graduating from the gossip columns. Clearly, Brian is his ticket to the big time.

  The fresh fall of snow last night has transformed the walk to the office into a stroll through a Christmas card idyll, but I’m not in the mood to appreciate it. Sounds are muffled as the cars crawling carefully along scrunch on compacted snow and ice.

  I buy a bottle of Scotch from Tesco’s and hide it in my bag.

  And I haven’t even started worrying yet about the work I’ve got to do.

  VOICEMAIL

  There’s a voicemail waiting for me when I reach my office. I let it play. It’s Renwick:

  ‘Where were you last night? We were supposed to be having dinner with Chas and Dave - celebrating that Press Complaints Commission thing. I didn’t know where you were, so I had to tell them you’d come down with food poisoning. Dave seemed to buy it but I’m not sure about Chas, he’s pretty smart. And you don’t just snub these people, Daniel. You don’t just snub stars. You’d better have a good excuse, that’s all I’m saying.’

  THINGS GO FROM BAD…

  Elizabeth is already in, sitting at her desk and reading one of those free magazines handed out at the station. Her screen-saver is busy sending random shapes hurtling around the monitor.

  I guess she decided to make an early start on the agreement I had drafted. From her relaxed bearing it looks as if she’s already finished it. I’ll proof-read my amendments, tweak any loose sections until they’re taut and unambiguous, and have it ready for Wilson by nine.

  ‘Morning,’ I say.

  ‘Morning,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d come in a little earlier and get started on the amendments to that document you were working on.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say. Must remember to buy her a bunch of flowers or something.

  ‘Thing is, I couldn’t find it anywhere. What’d you do with it?’

  ‘It’s on my desk. I left it there when I finished last night.’

  ‘Are you sure? I couldn’t find anything.’

  I’m not panicking - not yet. There’s a rational explanation for this. Lightning can’t possibly strike twice. Perhaps I put the agreement into my drawer for safekeeping. It was late when I left, and I was flustered by Brian’s call. It’s not surprising a detail like that slipped my mind. Or maybe Wilson has already been in to see me and took the amended draft away with her. Unlikely but feasible. Dozens of potential explanations. No need to panic. Not yet.

  Deep breath.

  I check my desk. Nothing. I open out each drawer and scoop out all the everyday debris that I’ve allowed to accumulate. Nothing. Perhaps it’s fallen onto the floor. I get down onto my knees and root about. I can’t see it anywhere.

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t moved it?’

  ‘No,’ Elizabeth says. ‘I haven’t even seen it.’

  ‘Well, someone moved it,’ I say. ‘It’s not where I left it.’

  ‘Where did you leave it?’ She’s starting to look upset. I point at my desktop.

  ‘Should I call housekeeping? Maybe the cleaners took it by mistake. We still might be able to find it.’

  ‘Worth a try.’

  ‘I could print it off again?’

  ‘It’d take hours to go through it and put the amendments back in again. Unless we can find the original, there’s no point. We might as well just give up.’

  …TO WORSE

  I slump into my chair, my forehead pressed down into my palms. I can feel hot blood pumping against the backs of my eyeballs. I’m reaching for the Scotch when Elizabeth comes back inside.

  ‘There was one other thing,’ Elizabeth says in a low, hesitant voice. ‘Miss Wilson’s secretary called just before you came in. She’s set up a meeting with you and Miss Wilson for this afternoon. She said you’d know what it was about.’

  Great, now I’m going to get sacked. Maybe if I’d been able to present the agreement in decent shape I might have earned a second chance. Can’t even do that now. I’m going to look like a lazy, negligent idiot.

  Elizabeth calls housekeeping. Bad news. If the agreement was collected by mistake, it’s too late to get it back now. Last night’s rubbish has just been pulped.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Elizabeth asks.

  ‘No, don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t forget you’ve got lunch with Gaby Roslin,’ she reminds me.

  With nothing better to do while I wait for my meeting with Wilson, I call the flat to check my messages. After two rings, and before the answerphone can pick up, someone answers. I can hear a loud, whining drone in the background.

  ‘Hello?’ Brian half-shouts.

  ‘It’s me - Daniel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Daniel.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  The droning sound falls away.

  ‘Sorry, had the hoover on. Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  I don’t even start to consider what use Brian could possibly have had for my hoover.

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you’d gone?’

  ‘Sorry, slept late. Hope you don’t mind. Or me answering your calls like this.’

  Brian taking my messages is either amusing or terrifying, I can’t quite figure out which.

  ‘No problem at all. Make yourself at home.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the office.’

  ‘I’m glad you called: you’ve had a few calls. Some guy called Dolan rang, said he was a reporter.’

  ‘Don’t talk to him,’ I say wearily. ‘He’s trying to get quotes off me about you. Don’t say anything if he calls again. Definitely don’t tell him who you are.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Yeah, some girl. Didn’t want to leave a message.’

  My heart falters. ‘Did she leave her name?’

  ‘Nope. I asked if she wanted me to pass anything on. She said it didn’t matter.’

  ‘Were those her exact words?’

  ‘Um, no, I think she said something like, "It doesn’t matter, it’s OK, I’ll call later," or something. Why, are you expecting a call?’

  Hannah! Who else could it be? But I can’t think of a sensible reason why she’d call me.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘not really expecting anyone.’

  There’s a pause. ‘There’s something else; Brian eventually continues, a little self-conscious. ‘I don’t mean to be demanding but do you think you’d be able to come with me to John’s funeral today? I wouldn’t ask, but the others will be there and I could do with some moral support.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I say. A plan hatches: perhaps Brian could put in a good word for me with Wilson. If he said how impressed he’s been with me, maybe that’d count for something… Maybe it’d get me a reprieve. It’s worth a shot.

  Brian gives me the details of the crematorium, and I tell him I’ll see him there.

  I call Wilson’s secretary and ask her to rearrange the meeting. She’ll be furious with my presumptuousness, but I can’t see what difference it would make if she’s already resolved to get rid of me ..

  EMAIL

  I check my mail.

  From Hunter’s secretary:

  From: Templeman, Jean

  To: Tate, Daniel

  Subject: Presentation to partnership council

  Further to Mr Hunter’s email yesterday, I have scheduled your presentation to the partnership council for this afternoon at five p.m. I’ve checked your diary and you appear to be free. Please let me know at once if this is inc
onvenient. Please also let me know if you will require any equipment.

  Jean Templeman

  And another:

  From: Tanner, Richard

  To: Tate, Daniel

  Subject: Re: Presentation to partnership council

  GOOD LUCK! R

  THE RETURN OF THE RELENTLESS SCOTT DOLAN

  Then the phone rings.

  ‘Hi, Daniel, it’s Scott Dolan-’

  ‘How did you get my home telephone number?’ I snap.

  ‘I asked around,’ he says with the aural equivalent of a shrug.

  ‘Well, don’t call me there, OK? In fact, don’t call me at all.’

  ‘I was just wondering-’

  ‘No!’ I slam the phone back down.

  After a couple of seconds, it rings again. I pick it up and leave it off the hook.

  LUNCH WITH GABY

  Early lunch with Gaby Roslin. Joy! She’s unhappy with the long-lens photos taken of her on holiday that have been appearing in all the papers. Some adventurous paparazzo snapped it from halfway up a tree. I know what she wants: a Q&A on how we can get the pix withdrawn. There’s no time to do any legal research, so I swallow down some Dutch courage, collect my thoughts, and go to work.

  FIVE MUSICIANS, A FUNERAL AND A FIGHT

  Just past lunchtime. Lunch with Gaby got boozy, and now I feel wiped out.

  Brian and I are standing outside, stamping our feet in the cold and watching the crowd of black-suited mourners file slowly out of the crematorium. So far, from the world of music: Peter Gabriel, Adam Ant, Elton John, Simon Le Bon and Nick Rhodes, Boy George, both Communards, Marc Almond, Billy Bragg, Kevin Rowland, Stephen ‘Tintin’ Duffy, Suggs, Limahl, Chrissie Hynde, Feargal Sharkey, Paul Weller.

  And, from the world of showbiz: Zoe Ball, Dani Behr, Chris Tarrant, Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, Ben Elton, Steve Coogan, Patsy Palmer, Al Murray.

  Bob Geldof is talking to Midge Ure; the Dahlias’ set at Live Aid was one of the London gig’s highlights. Norman Cook and Mark King are reminiscing; two bassists-made-good lamenting the loss of another.

  Everyone is wearing shades, which qualifies this as one of two possible funerals: a dead Mafioso or a dead celebrity.

  Thanks to our vantage point during the service, hidden in a rear row at the back of the chamber, we were the first to exit just as soon as the coffin slipped through the red scarlet drapes and into the furnace beyond. Brian didn’t want the rest of the Dahlias to spot him, for fear they would try to exclude him from proceedings. So we just hid at the back and watched, and no one paid us any attention.

  Brian choked back sobs; tears rolled down his cheeks. The band sat in the front pew, looking grim. Traditional hymns were replaced by a ten-minute medley of their hits, music thumping from bass bins rigged up next to the altar. It was all pretty surreal, my experience of it not helped by me having finished off the Scotch in the taxi on the way over. I’ve got the taste for it now, and I’d like more.

  Outside, I scan the crowd of mourners and doubletake when I notice Oliver Dawkins talking to Davey. The two of them are conferring intently just outside the chapel’s porch.

  Brian is staring down at his feet, his eyes red-raw.

  The snow is dotted with flattened-out cigarette butts from where the next party have been waiting to go inside. He drops another into this collection and scuffs snow over it with the tip of his boot.

  ‘Ten to one they won’t even talk to me,’ he says glumly.

  I have a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a Bic lighter in my inside pocket. I gently pull one out, kinked and crushed as it is, and offer it to him. He takes it. I take out another for myself and light both, shielding the flame behind my cupped hand. I smoke mine quickly, then light another. They taste good.

  ‘Coming with me?’ Brian asks, walking towards a guy shaking the hands of the mourners as they leave the chapel. ‘It’s Giovanni, John’s friend. He found John’s body on Sunday.’

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘Gio’s a nice guy - I ought to say something.’

  Giovanni - buffed up, tanned, shaven-headed, scowls at us as we approach.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Brian says to him, awkwardly squeezing his shoulder. Giovanni shrugs Brian’s hand away, and looks at us disdainfully.

  ‘I noticed you skulking at the back,’ he says.

  ‘The place was full,’ Brian explains.

  ‘I haven’t got anything to say to you.’

  ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am. John was a good friend.’

  ‘Oh, please.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, none of this would’ve happened.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Brian argues.

  ‘Please leave now,’ Giovanni says. ‘Just go.’

  He turns away.

  Brian is about to follow him but I catch his arm.

  ‘Maybe now’s not the right time?’ I suggest.

  We walk away as another group of mourners approaches.

  ‘You’re right - he’s probably upset. It’s understandable.’

  ‘Call him later, or something,’ I say.

  I’m not sure, but I’m suddenly getting the feeling that Brian isn’t telling me everything.

  RECONCILIATION?

  We resume our vigil at the edge of the garden of remembrance. Eventually the band and their entourage emerge from the chapel. Theirs is a united and public show of grief as they press celebrity flesh. I feel sorry for Brian, stuck with me on the lonely fringe of the crowd, next to this bleak scrap of grass.

  ‘Why don’t you go over?’ I suggest to him. ‘You don’t have to mention the case. Maybe they’d just like to talk? A chance to mend some fences.’

  ‘You think?’ He looks unsure. I hope I’m not misjudging this.

  ‘Worth a try. If it doesn’t go well, you can always just leave.’

  ‘Would you come with me?’ he asks. ‘I’d feel outnumbered on my own.’

  Davey and Dawkins are shaking hands and beaming happy smiles at each other. The Dork saunters off towards the main road, looking smug. He waves when he spots me looking at him.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, ignoring the wave.

  The three surviving members of the original line-up of the Black Dahlias are standing under the eaves of the chapel, accepting commiserations from the dispersing mourners. Sean Darbo, the new singer for their Greatest Hits tour, walks over to join us from where he’s been talking with record label execs.

  POSTER BOY

  Sean Darbo.

  Heart-throb. Cover star of a thousand teenage magazines. Dreamboat. Multi-million seller. Hip young gunslinger. Money-making machine.

  That’s if you believe what you read in the papers.

  The inside line is a different story.

  The truth from the industry grapevine: Sean made a mint out of his first album but things have since taken a turn for the worse. He’s been working on a follow-up for months. The label sent him to Miami to record, and the temptations there proved too much for him. No one had remembered the great idea of shipping the Happy Mondays out to Jamaica to record the follow-up to Pills and Thrills… Some people never learn.

  The demos since have been awful; the label keeps sending him back to the studio to re-record them. There’s a new producer every time: the Dustbrothers, Mirwais, William Orbit. No joy for any of them. None of them can salvage the dross he’s laying down.

  Then there are the stories that Sean’s taken the rock-and-roll lifestyle a little too far: hookers, gambling, booze, nose candy.

  Living the cliché and loving it. He’d started to believe his own press. But now the money has dried up. Sean Darbo needs a boost.

  His solution? Hook up with the Dahlias, tour the world, coin it in, bask in the publicity, write the new album on the road. It’s a can’t-miss plan.

  But how does this make Brian feel? He’s been replaced once by a bass guitarist, no less. That was bad enough. But it gets worse. Now he’s overlooked for a one-trick
pony who’s been asked to sing the songs Brian made famous.

  He must be seething.

  THE BLACK DAHLIAS’ GREATEST HITS

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Martin asks as we edge alongside them.

  ‘I’m here for John,’ Brian says.

  ‘Come on, no one’s buying that.’

  ‘He was my friend too.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Martin says. ‘You never got on.’

  ‘You were always at each other’s throats,’ Alex says.

  ‘I’m as upset about this as you are.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Damon. ‘You hated him, admit it. And he hated you.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about us. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘All the bad feeling we had was because you two couldn’t get on,’ Alex says. ‘It was you being such a bastard that led to us breaking up like we did.’

  ‘I was closer to him than any of you were.’

  Martin finally turns to face Brian directly, open disgust on his face.

  ‘You wanna know how much he thought of you?’ he asks. ‘I wasn’t going to ever mention this but you are so lost in the clouds, man, so deluded, I’m going to do you a favour and tell you. It was John who suggested we dump you. John - it was his idea. Big mark of friendship, right? You two were really close, really tight.’

  ‘That’s not true. The label made the decision,’ Brian says, with a catch in his voice.

  This accords with the official line in the papers, at least.

  ‘Only after John persuaded us and them that you had to go,’ Martin says.

  ‘That’s the bottom line, Brian,’ Alex adds. ‘So just accept it and stop all this nonsense. It’s tedious, and it couldn’t be further from the truth.’

  Brian has tears in his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ Sean Darbo says. ‘Plus it’s boring.’

  ‘What do you know,’ Brian snaps, ‘fucking prostitute.’