by Hannah Howe
Chapter Two
I travelled north-east, to the outskirts of Cardiff. I was driving a modern Mini. Okay, the car had me up to my eyeballs in debt, but I needed something reliable in case I had to chase the ‘bad guys’. More to the point, I needed something reliable in case the ‘bad guys’ decided to chase me.
It was a dull, dank, drizzly day, a day when autumn was drifting into winter. I was in the countryside now, peering through the windscreen wipers, searching for the signpost, the signpost that said ‘Castle Gwyn, thataway’. I found the signpost and a turning that led to the castle. The road was narrow, one lane only, but smooth, covered with a fresh layer of tarmac. I travelled half a mile along that road, then the castle appeared before me, rising majestically out of the trees.
Castle Gwyn was a Victorian folly, a castle with a drawbridge, a dry moat and towers suggestive of white knights, princesses and fairytales. The round turrets had been whitewashed – gwyn is the Welsh for white – and they shone like beacons against the backdrop of dark woodland. Nowadays, patrons used the castle as a film set, as a location to hold wedding receptions and parties, and as a recording studio. Thoughts of wedding receptions reminded me of my own ‘special day’ and my honeymoon spent in A + E, but that’s another story.
I parked the Mini and got out of my car. I was still looking around when Milton walked over the drawbridge, an umbrella replacing his cane. He had something in his left hand, an ‘access all areas’ badge.
“You’d better wear this.” Milton presented the badge to me and I slipped it over my head. “The castle has got its own security people who patrol from time to time and we don’t want them jumping on you now, do we?”
As we crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, I studied the badge, gazing at my picture. “Where did you get this photograph?” I asked.
“The Internet. Remember the Beatrice Black case?”
I nodded. I did. Beatrice was a prostitute from Cardiff. She’d been murdered and after six months of investigations, the police had drawn a blank. Her relatives came to me and asked if I could help. I nosed around, got lucky and, to cut a long story short, secured a conviction. For a couple of days my face was splashed over the local newspapers and the Internet. I enjoyed the satisfaction of solving the case, but I hated the publicity. Since childhood, I’ve loathed having my picture taken.
We crunched our way across the shingle of the courtyard and entered the building. The interior was mind-blowing with every inch of wall space and ceiling decorated. Scenes from Arthurian literature ran around the walls – Arthur on his horse, Lancelot kissing Guinevere, Bedwyr throwing Excalibur into the lake. Above them bees, birds and butterflies swooped all over the ceiling in a display of energy and colour that had my mind spinning. In truth, it was too much, too garish, too over-blown. But bear in mind, this comes from someone who lives in a modest flat overlooking the gas works.
Milton placed his umbrella in a brass stand while I hung my trench coat in a closet as big as my apartment. Then we entered the main hall.
We found Derwena in the hall – another garish room, though offering the relief of lightly decorated tiles running from dado rail to ceiling. Derwena was reclining on a chaise longue, watching daytime television. She was in her late twenties with long, frizzy, bottle-blonde hair. Her eyes were green, I guessed, but it was hard to tell because they were so bloodshot. If I’m honest, her face contained more character than beauty. Don’t get me wrong – she was attractive, but she looked nothing like her magazine pictures. Just goes to show what a bit of airbrushing can do for you. She had a curvaceous figure, maybe a few pounds overweight, and I guessed that she was around my height – and I had somewhere to go to challenge Elle Macpherson.
Derwena was dressed in an ankle-length silk dress – I’d hate to iron that – that had a V-shaped jewelled panel on the bodice. The dress was peach and sleeveless. She wore no rings on her fingers, although large Iceni-shield earrings dangled from her ears. I considered that she was over-dressed for lounging around indoors at just after noon. But then, my wardrobe runs to smart-casual with barely a nod towards glamour and sartorial elegance, so who am I to talk.
Derwena glanced up from the television. She viewed me through her red, bloodshot eyes. “She’s too beautiful.” The songstress waved a dismissive hand in my general direction while glaring at Milton. “Get rid of her. Get someone else.”
I frowned. Me? Beautiful? Okay, I had long auburn hair reaching down to the middle of my back, which I liked. My eyes were dark brown, offering the suggestion that I had large pupils. My cleavage resembled Mount Snowdon rather than the Himalayas, but that’s fine because my boobs were balanced out by a petite rear. I was below average height, nothing special, and I had a waist that would sneak into a Victorian corset. My waist was thin partly because I skipped meals on a regular basis and partly because when I did eat, I worried away any fat. Men found me attractive and maybe I’d been blessed in the looks department, but whenever I caught sight of myself in a mirror, I wanted to look away or close my eyes.
“You wanted a woman, didn’t you?” Milton was having a hot flush – his cheeks were as crimson and as luminous as the walls that ran below the dado rail. “Well, I’ve got you a woman. She’s the best available, I’ve checked them out. And we only have the best for Derwena, don’t we, dear?”
Derwena turned away in a huff. She picked up the remote control and adjusted the volume on the television. Needless to say, the volume went up.
“Can you believe that?” Derwena gasped, while waving the remote control at the television. “He had sex with his sister and with his mother-in-law, and he reckons that his wife is sick for running off with their daughter’s rapist! Some people, eh?”
Milton went from crimson to purple. He snatched the remote control from Derwena’s hand and turned the television off. “Derwena, stop filling your head with that rubbish and come and meet Sam.”
Derwena gave me a long, sideways look, then she gazed at the vacant television. She folded her arms across her breasts. “I don’t like her. Get rid of her. Get someone else.”
I shrugged at Milton then smiled politely. “I’ll get my coat...”
“No, Sam, you’re staying.” Milton took a step towards me, obstructing my passage to the hall door. “Let me have five minutes, I’ll talk Derwena around.”
Meanwhile, Derwena had turned her attention to a pile of hair, beauty and fashion magazines. She pushed the magazines to one side, picked up a piece of paper, then waved it at Milton.
“Have you seen this?” she demanded. I peered over Derwena’s shoulder and viewed the piece of paper. It depicted a scantily clad model caressing a bar of gold. The words ‘Derwena de Caro’ and ‘Midas Melange’ were emblazoned across the top and bottom of the image. I guessed that this was the draft cover for her new album. Derwena glared at Milton and complained, “This woman’s got no clothes on.”
“She’s wearing a silk shift,” Milton mumbled, defensively.
“You can see her nipples!” Derwena yelled.
“That’s the pattern on the fabric,” Milton replied, patiently.
But Derwena was having none of it. Like a snowball tumbling down a mountain, she was on a roll. She insisted, “It’s see-through, I’m telling you.” She threw the piece of paper on top of the magazines. “I’m not wearing that. I’m not posing in the nude. I’m a singer, not a Playboy model!”
Milton circled Derwena, waving his arms around in an attempt to placate her. “We’ll modify the image,” he promised. “That’s why we took these shots, to see what works and what doesn’t. Listen, baby, we won’t get you to do anything you don’t want to do. But remember, sex sells. There is a direct correlation between the amount of clothes you wear and your album sales. Basically, the less clothes the higher you go up the charts.”
Derwena sunk into the chaise longue. She pouted, pushing out her bottom lip. “But I want to be loved for m
y voice. I want the respect of my peers.”
“And they do respect you,” Milton enthused. “Think of the Whistle Test Music Awards. Prestigious, high-status awards. But that was four years ago. We need a cover with a bit of pizzazz, something that will catch the eye. And when the teenagers buy the record for the cover they’ll get to love your music. Trust me, baby, I’ve got you this far, haven’t I?”
Derwena’s mind went clicking through the gears and her expression changed from a sulk to a look of delight, via a gamut of other emotions that a Shakespearean actress would have been proud of.
“You’re a darling!” Derwena gushed, throwing her arms around Milton.
“Trust me,” Milton smiled, while accepting her embrace.
“Oh, I do, Milton dearest, I do.”
The unlikely couple were still locked in an embrace when a thin, effeminate man with a mousy moustache appeared in the hall. He gave Milton the eye and the manager pulled away from the singer with a look of relief.
Milton mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. Then he checked his pocket watch before glancing at me. “Excuse me, Sam; I’ve got to see Tim. Back in a tick.”
That left yours truly and Derwena alone in the hall. A large, foursquare oak chair sat beside the television. I smoothed the back of my skirt, then plonked my neat posterior upon the chair.
“Maybe I can ask you some questions?” I ventured optimistically.
Derwena eyed the remote control. She eyed me. Her resigned gaze acknowledged the fact that I had taken my pen and notebook out of my shoulder bag.
“You’re not going away, are you?” she moaned. “Okay,” she waved a dismissive hand in my general direction, “fire away.”
I crouched over my notebook, my pen poised. I enjoyed this part of the job – asking questions, making notes, then trying to piece together and make sense of the answers.
“When did you last see the stalker?” I asked.
“Last night, after recording. It was 3 a.m. and I was undressing, getting ready for bed. I looked out into the night and there he was, staring at me, standing below my window in the castle grounds.”
“What did you do?”
“I closed the curtains and ran to Milton’s room.” Derwena shrugged as she made her reply. She looked at me as if I were stupid, as if the answer was so obvious it barely begged the question.
“What happened then?”
“Tim opened the door. He was naked.” Derwena rolled her eyes. She fanned herself with her left hand. “Tim at 3 a.m. is not a sight that any woman would want to see.” She frowned, leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Why can’t men control their bits, you know?” She made an obscene gesture, then she sat back with a sigh. “Anyway, I insisted that I had to see Milton and I told him what had happened. Milton put on a robe, followed me back to my room and looked out of my window. Of course, the stalker had gone by then. Milton poured me a drink, vodka and orange, to calm my nerves. He told me to get into bed and he’d sort everything out in the morning. I told him to hire a private eye and it looks like he’s hired you.”
I made a note in my notebook, then asked, “Where was Woody, your boyfriend?”
“He was with Nerd in the recording studio downstairs, mixing my vocals. The backing tracks are complete. We only need to re-do a few vocals, mix them and the album’s finished.”
“Who’s Nerd?” I frowned.
“Our engineer. He’s a wizard with knobs, I can tell you.”
I made another note, and not the one you’re thinking. “Nice to be a wizard at something,” I smiled.
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Was anyone else in the castle last night?”
Derwena shrugged. She adjusted the thin strap on her left shoulder. “Just me, Woody, Milton, Tim and Nerd. For the next fortnight, we’ve got the castle to ourselves.”
“And the security guys,” I probed, “could any of them be the stalker?”
“Nah,” Derwena shook her head dismissively, “not the right build. And I get on fine with the security guys.”
I made another note, then asked, “How many times have you seen the stalker?”
Derwena frowned. She was concentrating. Hard. She counted on the fingers of her left hand while silently reciting the numbers. “It must be five times now,” she replied, her generous lips swathed in a smile, as though pleased with herself, pleased that she’d counted to five.
I made another note, though in truth, I had the feeling that if she’d had six fingers on her left hand her answer would have been six.
“Why didn’t you hire someone sooner?” I asked.
“Milton put it down to my imagination.” Derwena withdrew into herself. She dipped her head and eyed me with suspicion. “Okay, I’ve got a vivid imagination and as a child I had a lot of imaginary friends. And okay, the scene with Bongo the Bear did get a bit out of hand and my mother had to take me to see a child psychiatrist, but this stalker is real and he’s scary.”
“What does he look like?”
Derwena peered at me from over her right shoulder, her face hidden in shadow, her eyes furtive, glancing around the room. “It depends on the light.”
“Give me a broad outline.”
After a minute of deep thought, Derwena brightened and replied, “He’s tall, dark. Swarthy. Piratical.”
I scribbled in my notebook and smiled. “Has he got a hook, one eye and a parrot?”
Derwena hitched up the hem of her dress. She jumped up from the chaise longue and flounced around the room. With her pout on maximum, she moaned, “You’re not taking me seriously, are you?”
“If a man is threatening you, I’ll take it very seriously.” I dipped my fingers into my shoulder bag and removed the Smith and Wesson .32. “I’ve brought this along. Isn’t that serious enough?”
Derwena’s mouth and eyes opened wide. She walked over to where I was sitting and gazed at the handgun, her face frozen in awe. The moment melted, then she licked her lips and whispered, “Have you fired it?”
I nodded.
“Wow!” She reached out, her fingers hesitant, hovering over the barrel of the gun. “Can I touch it?”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
I swear that she purred as she ran her fingers over the barrel of my gun. She licked her lips again then murmured huskily, “Can I hold it?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” I withdrew the gun and returned it to my shoulder bag. The thought of Derwena de Caro waving a loaded Smith and Wesson around did not appeal, somehow.
“Milton was right,” she took hold of my hand and guided me over to the chaise longue, where we sat, side by side, “you’re the real deal, aren’t you.”
“I’m the real something,” I sighed.
“Do you think we could be friends?”
“Have you got many friends?”
“In this business?” Derwena curled her top lip into a disgruntled snarl. “They’re all two-faced. They’d shaft you as soon as look at you. It’s all about the bottom line, the mighty dollar. You make them enough money and it buys you a lot of friends.”
I turned away from Derwena and made another note in my notebook: Derwena – no friends.
“Have you received any direct threats,” I asked, “messages, strange phone calls?”
“Milton handles all my messages and phone calls. He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”
I tapped my pen lightly against my forehead, as though trying to get the cogs in my head turning. What to make of her story? Was the stalker real, or a figment of her imagination? I concluded that it was best to assume that he was for real, at least until proved otherwise.
I was scribbling in my notebook and Derwena was adjusting her dress, staring at her cleavage, when Milton returned to the hall. “Woody’s ready,” he announced. “He’d like you to re-record the chorus of ‘Fire and Ice’. Are you up for that, baby?”
“Sure.” Derwena took hold of my hand and marched me over to Milton. “Can my new friend...er...what’s your name?”
“Sam.”
“Can my new friend Sam come along?”
Suddenly, we were best friends. And I thought that I was manic-depressive.
“Of course,” Milton shrugged. “In fact,” he added graciously, “I insist.”
Derwena let go of my hand. She threw her arms around her manager. “I love you, Milton.” She slobbered over his left cheek, planting a wet kiss.
“Everyone loves dear old Milt,” Milton sighed, extricating himself from her embrace, mopping his damp cheek with his silk handkerchief.
Milton allowed Derwena to wander from the hall. I was set to follow, but he placed a gentle hand on my arm, holding me back. “You got what you wanted?” he asked.
“I’m on the lookout for a pirate.”
Milton rolled his eyes. He puffed out his cheeks. “We’re seven miles from the coast. The last pirate seen around here was Captain Morgan in the seventeenth century, but don’t mention that to Derwena.”