Dying for Millions Page 5

  ‘Keep your wool on, woman! Hey, it’s Sophie – how are you, our kid?’

  ‘G’day, Sam!’ My Aussie accent was no more convincing than his Black Country one.

  Karen shuffled, leaning forward on the table to give him the benefit of her bosom, which owed something, but not everything, to a Wonderbra and a low-cut T-shirt. Someone should have told her that she was wasting her time, but I figured she was safer trying to persuade him of the advantages of heterosexual behaviour than trying a similar line with Phiz. As if he’d been doing it all along, Sam started juicing items from a eclectic assortment of fruit and vegetables; the resultant liquid would go into one of the flasks Andy took on stage with him for between-number swigs. One of the guitar technicians swapped flasks as they were emptied. There would also be bottles of mineral water; like the Queen, Andy had Malvern water wherever he went.

  I realised I couldn’t start yelling about lack of security when no one but me knew why Andy’s people should be especially vigilant. ‘Hey,’ I began, ‘what’s this Jill was saying about a gorgeous young man with legs up to his armpits?’

  ‘Where? I’ll fight you for him! Oh, you mean young Tony. Frightfully straight, luvvie. No good to me at all. And, though I die to say it, a bit on the young side for you. He might do for young Karen here – and of course, they have an immense bond already. They both come from Acocks Green, save the mark.’

  Karen withdrew her bosom and pouted, not very effectively.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ I asked her. ‘Good. Now, Andy usually goes and says hello to people as he makes his way to the stage – they’ll be giving the lighting and sound one last check about two-thirty, I should think. So you’d better pop off and look busy.’

  She took it for what it was – a rebuke – and flounced off.

  ‘“Exit, pursued by a bear.” You were a bit grumpy with her, sweetie.’

  ‘She brings it out in me. Like a rash. And she is supposed to be working, not having her fortune told.’ I looked at the tarot cards still stacked beside the juicer. ‘Is she going to marry a tall, dark, handsome stranger?’

  Sam shoved the cards in his back pocket and unpeeled a banana. ‘You know I never, ever reveal the secrets of the cards.’ To my mind he sounded more guilty than offended. ‘Look, Sophie, Andy’s due on stage for the sound-check in ten minutes, and this stuff won’t juice itself.’

  I took myself off. By now Ollie might well be in the auditorium, so I sauntered up on to the stage, into the organised chaos that always precedes a major gig. Six articulated lorries hold a great deal, and there was an army of men to deal with it. Mob-handed, that was how Jonty described it.

  I heard Jonty and Ollie before I saw them.

  ‘What d’you mean, he can’t get the fucking things? There’s no fucking sound without the disks!’

  ‘The fuzz have sealed it off. The whole suite. Searching it. A tip-off.’

  I’d never seen Jonty have a tantrum before. If asked, I’d have put money on his remaining cool in the face of the four-minute warning; but he was practically in tears, and his language got proportionately more lurid.

  Ollie took it for a bit, then cracked. ‘Jesus, you’re just full of shit – you know that?’

  ‘OK.’ The voice was Andy’s. ‘What’s up? Jonty?’

  ‘I told you Tobe had left the disks back at the Mondiale? Well, Ollie’s man went to get them and isn’t back yet. Says the fuzz have sealed your suite.’

  ‘No point you two yelling at each other,’ said Andy. ‘What’s this about the police?’ His voice lost its admonitory edge.

  ‘A tip-off. Drugs.’

  ‘Drugs! What the hell – anyone seen Sophie?’

  This was clearly my cue. ‘Did I hear someone take my name in vain?’

  ‘You know a load of policemen. Get on the blower and find out what’s going on. Someone’s searching my hotel room for drugs, for Christ’s sake!’

  I shook my head. ‘Chris isn’t in that area. And the only other person I know with any clout is in Fraud. Jonty, you could phone the Drugs Squad and ask them to release the disks – put on your best Sandhurst accent and they’ll eat out of your hand. And sort the rest out later.’ I looked hard at Andy; he raised an eyebrow in return. A possible skirmish in the campaign against him: the possibility had to be considered.

  Jonty reached for his mobile phone, turned his back on us and started talking. He paced backwards and forwards, gesturing with frustration.

  Andy turned towards me, putting paid to any further contributions from Ollie. ‘That kid – the student of yours – didn’t she want a photo or something?’

  ‘Didn’t she introduce herself? I got her into the washingup team.’

  ‘Only saw the usuals.’

  ‘Shit. If I can find her, have you got time now? I suppose you’ll be running behind schedule.’

  He grinned. ‘It should all run like clockwork. Damn it, this is the thirtieth time we’ve done it! The set was up in record time. What d’you think of it?’

  ‘Impressive. That big ramp projecting into the auditorium – is that where you strut your stuff and look sexy?’

  ‘Believe me, all I think about is all I think about those people putting their lovely lucre into my trust fund. I codpiece for Africa, girl, and don’t you forget it. Any luck, Jonty?’

  ‘Plenty. And some of it good. The guy’s on his way with the disks, so we shall have sound after all. And your suite is clean. Not surprising, since apparently you’re not using it.’ Jonty looked at me curiously.

  ‘They can check the luggage in the artic. And my overnight case, which is still in Sophie’s spare room. Didn’t you tell them about it being a no-drugs tour?’

  ‘I don’t think believing people is a police attribute,’ I said mildly. ‘Anyway, how about that photo of you and Karen? Shall I fetch her?’

  He took longer than I expected to make what I’d have thought was a minor decision. ‘No, I’ll walk round with you. You could bring her back up front – she could sit and watch. Remind her about no photos while we’re working, though.’

  I nodded. There’d be flashbulbs aplenty during the show, but Andy was superstitious about them beforehand.

  I found Karen in the ladies’ loo, her face puffy with tears. She’d popped in earlier, just to make sure she looked gorgeous for Andy, and had spent so long titivating that she’d missed his visit to the washers-up. There was another paroxysm of tears as she recounted her tale of woe.

  ‘Come on, love – he’s in his room waiting to meet you.’

  ‘Not like this!’

  I could see her point. Ironically, he’d have been at his best if she’d confronted him complete with tear-stains; he had one of the best hugs I’d ever been engulfed in.

  ‘We’ll have to do it later,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to Andy.’ I couldn’t promise anything; it wasn’t my time I was disposing of.

  By the time I reached Andy’s dressing room, the door was locked. A post-it told me the disks had turned up and they were starting the run-through any moment now. I shrugged: no daffodils, and no photocall for Karen. At least she might look civilised enough by now to go front of house. Perhaps I was an old softie too.

  There were several band wives sitting in the first three or four rows: I passed Karen a spare pair of ear plugs and settled down next to her in the near darkness. Someone on the lighting gantry at the back of the stage was having trouble with one of the spotlights, and the exchanges between the stage manager and the lighting engineer were so fruity that I glanced at Karen. However much of a Rivers fan her mother might be, she presumably wouldn’t want her daughter to hear the F and C words used quite so prolifically – and, indeed, inventively. The trouble appeared to be that the huge Wind of Change Tour symbols intruded between Andy and the spot when he moved downstage; although the roadie who’d hung them insisted they were located in the precise position he’d used in Dublin, there was clearly a problem. Andy prowled restlessly about the stage, as if looking for something
valuable. From time to time he glanced at his watch. He’d said very little about giving up music that wasn’t positive; when I’d tried to talk about what he’d miss he’d been evasive. But giving the last performance for some time – possibly for ever, if he stuck to his resolution – must be a nerve-racking affair, especially on home territory. Everyone expected so much of him. And it wasn’t just his last gig – it was the roadies’, too. They would be out of work – as would the caterers and the PR team. OK, the good ones would drop into jobs with no difficulty – but times were hard for the average ones. As they were for us all.

  At last everything seemed to be fixed. The lights for the first number came up: blackness at the rear of the set, and a cascade of bright lights like a curtain. The loudspeakers roared into action. Andy ran forward, as if breasting a waterfall.

  And into the pool of light came the shape of a man, diving, diving towards him. He missed him by perhaps six inches.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Andy!’ I was on my feet, scrambling over the barriers. ‘Andy!’ A jump and a heave, and I was on the stage.

  Andy had staggered backwards but was now upright. The other man—

  ‘Get the paramedics!’ Was that my voice?

  The music faltered to silence: the musicians on stage first, then, finally, the computerised system. Yes: it was my voice. And now it was joined by others. ‘Paramedics! Quick, for Christ’s sake!’

  But from the angle of the man’s body, from the blood trickling from nose, mouth and ears, I didn’t think there was much they could do. I could hear slow feet: a St John’s volunteer. I wanted the paramedics that were part of Andy’s entourage, travelling everywhere with him just in case. ‘No! You look after them.’ I pointed to the women I’d left. ‘Ollie – call an ambulance!’ I yelled. I tore off my jacket and laid it pointlessly over the man’s torso; Andy took a second to realise what I was doing, and started to strip his, but he was beginning to shake. He’d missed death himself by inches.

  ‘Sophie?’ His hand reached for mine.

  I sat him down on a convenient ramp, and realised I was trembling too.

  Someone had the sense to turn on all the working lights and douse the spots. The band and backing singers formed a horrified circle. Pete. Pete Hughes: that was the name going round. At last two paramedics arrived; they took one look and shooed us away.

  I had to get Andy back to the safety of his room. Somewhere in the row of onlookers might be the injured roadie’s partner. And then there was Karen—

  ‘Ollie?’

  He stepped forward.

  ‘Ollie – can you organise Karen and the others backstage? Tea, coffee? Griff – get Andy back to his room. Don’t let anyone in.’ I sounded calm – quite authoritative, in fact. I tried not to look at what the paramedics were doing. When one of them broke off for a moment, I said, ‘If there’s even a whisper of hope, get a helicopter to transport him. Andy’ll pay.’

  He shook his head. ‘Probably better to get the fuzz to close off road junctions. Not all that far to City Hospital.’

  ‘Do what’s best,’ I said. ‘But if you need a chopper—’

  The ambulance men – also paramedics, according to their uniform – took years to come: five-and-a-half minutes by my watch. By then Jonty was with me on the stage, together with several security men in the Music Centre uniform.

  ‘The police’ll be on their way, Jonty,’ I said.

  There was a murmur from the handful of roadies still on stage.

  ‘Automatic, with an accident like this,’ I said.

  ‘Won’t be popular,’ he said. ‘It’s a self-regulating world. Don’t want the Bill poking their noses in.’

  ‘Tough. It’s a no-drugs tour, isn’t it – that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. The contents of Birmingham’s sewage system won’t bear analysis in about three minutes from now. And sometimes there’s one or two bits of half-inching, too. Nothing major,’ he added hastily, ‘we all know each other too well. Don’t rob your mates, do you?’ He rubbed his hands across his face, suddenly older than his forty years. What a way to end his career with Andy. ‘Better call the Health and Safety people,’ he added. ‘Injury at work. Hope to Christ Ollie insisted on everyone wearing full safety harness.’

  I nodded, hardly listening; something else had occurred to me. ‘Jonty – tell the Music Centre people not to let anyone out. Or in, for that matter.’

  He looked at me quizzically. Hadn’t Andy confided in him?

  ‘There’s just a chance,’ I said, ‘that someone could have seen something but not want to get involved. You know how it is.’

  The ambulancemen started to move what was left of Pete. One or two of the roadies crossed themselves as they passed.

  A tour paramedic stood up, stripping his gloves. He came over to me. ‘They’re clearing Dudley Road to give us a through run. But he’ll never make it.’

  I shook my head: there was nothing to say. And then I remembered my jacket. That bloody mess of rag. ‘I’m sorry. In the pocket.’ I pointed. ‘My keys—’

  He slid his hand in, held out two bunches. ‘You won’t want your jacket, will you, miss.’

  ‘Andy, you have to tell the police now,’ I said, making tea – there was a supply tucked discreetly beside a cupboard that turned out to be a fridge. I stirred in sugar and pushed the cup and saucer into his hands.

  ‘It was an accident! The man was on a high gantry. You know how they forget about harnesses.’

  I gave him the sort of look I usually reserve for thick students.

  ‘Andy, listen. Someone has been telling you that they want you dead. The cars – the obituary – someone dies on your set—’

  He put down the cup and saucer, dreadfully genteel, and walked to the window that overlooked the covered mall. Down there, the water clock told us that it was three-thirty. And for the first time I noticed that Pete Hughes’s blood had spattered Andy’s jeans.

  ‘It was a fucking accident. What I have to do now is decide whether or not to go on with the show.’

  There was a scratch at the door, and Jonty slipped in silently, as if in the presence of death. He made straight for the fridge and found a miniature whisky which he downed it as if it were cold tea. Then he looked more closely at Andy. ‘One of these wouldn’t do you any harm, either,’ he said. ‘And for Christ’s sake get those bloody jeans off.’ As he realised what he’d said he bolted for the bathroom.

  I caught Andy’s eye and nodded. ‘Just step out of them. Where’s your dressing-gown?’

  ‘Over there.’

  I threw it. ‘As soon as Jonty’s finished spewing I suggest you get in there too – shower, have a bath, whatever. Make you feel better. Then you can think about the gig.’

  ‘Thought already,’ he said, turning his back and slipping off his jeans. ‘Got to go on, hasn’t it? OK, the punters’ll know there’s been an accident, and there won’t be a more subdued bunch of roadies in the western hemisphere, but the trust’s been promised its share of the takings, and that guy’s family can have my own share. Scrub the party afterwards. The food can be given to the homeless.’

  ‘Better phone Ruth, in case the media pick up anything and exaggerate it.’ His mobile phone was on the table near me: I tossed it over and pointed to the dressing room. ‘It’s more private in there.’

  But he tapped the number where he was, peering like a fugitive between the grey vertical blinds at the mall and its water clock.

  I busied myself with tea for Jonty, which he drank as tentatively as other people tackle neat whisky, told him what Andy had decided, and took myself off to check on Karen.

  Whoever designed and equipped the Music Centre had a sense of social order that Mozart and Haydn would have recognised. Most of the Centre is luxurious: the auditorium itself is sumptuous in wood and plush. The backstage regions, however, have all the glamour of a public lavatory, elegance having been abandoned for functional concrete,
metal stair-rails and cold blue paintwork – apart from the areas that international artists might be expected to see, of course. So the corridors and stairs Andy and his entourage trod were carpeted and well-lit: those frequented by the roadies and caterers were reminiscent of a run-down, thirties-built NHS hospital. There was an irrepressible rumour that the Music Centre management had tried to ban members of the Midshires Symphony Orchestra from public areas like bars while they were in their working clothes – their working clothes being evening suits and long black dresses. I wondered what the management made of the jeans-and-trainers uniform of Andy’s crew.

  After the cups of tea, there was a lot of washing up, and I rather hoped to find Karen remembering her obligations. Jill was busy, and the other women – but not Karen. Cursing under my breath, and possibly out loud, I went to find the caterers.

  I found a rebellion.

  Sam explained: Jonty had said probably no party. OK, they could quite see why not. But what was this about everyone having to hang about in this benighted dump when there was enough time to see a little of Birmingham? If indeed, as he personally doubted, there was anything of Birmingham worth seeing. I shrugged, and muttered something non-committal about the police.

  ‘Jonty says that was your idea. Jesus, calling the bloody cops!’

  I wondered briefly whether to trust him, but decided against it. ‘My boyfriend—’ I stopped. I loathed the term. But surely Sam wouldn’t be politically correct enough to demand the word companion, and whatever else Chris was he certainly wasn’t my partner. ‘My boyfriend’s in the police. The routine rubs off. Probably the fuzz themselves will tell you all you can go.’

  ‘I wish.’ He stared malevolently at the empty juicer. ‘I wonder what flavour His Nibs’ll want tonight.’ He juggled a couple of mangoes.

  ‘Phone and find out,’ I said briefly. ‘Seen Karen anywhere?’