My third novel...

I started writing my third novel June 2008, with eight pages of notes, and called it Catch a Falling Star, a title I later had to abandon when Jade Goody used it. How can I describe it? Not fantasy, like my other novels. It's like a cross between I Capture the Castle and an early Dick Francis, written in the first person. I'm pleased with how it's turned out; since I finished it, an average of one person a week, having read the start on Authonomy, has emailed me for the rest in order to finish it - and Authonomy is a site for writers, not readers. This is my elevator pitch:

A young woman  discovers a stranger asleep on her roof terrace; he turns out to be a rock star who died three years ago…

There is a dog in the novel, who looks pretty much like this one:

                                                                        

Here are the first six chapters. If you would like to read more than that, you can here.

 

HEART OF ROCK

 

CHAPTER

1

I didn’t see the man straight away.

I slid open the glass door to my rooftop terrace, in my left hand a plate piled with two slices of toast, a banana, a mug of coffee, plus sultanas for the blackbird. I strolled to the far corner to admire a view I never tire of: an urban clutter of roofs, chimneys, and windows, with a glimpse of the trees in Hoxton Square two streets away, and the distant Gherkin glittering in the early morning sun. Already the faint hum of London traffic competed with the coo of a courting pigeon.

The sultanas went into the blackbird’s dish. I turned, and stopped dead, heartbeat accelerating.

There was a stranger asleep on my outdoor sofa – my new expensive sofa that I can’t really afford and shouldn’t have bought – a scruffy mongrel curled up beside him. The man wore jeans and a sweatshirt; below the old jacket draped over him, grubby fraying trainers stuck out, incongruous against the cream cushions.

My first impulse was to shake him awake, and tell him to get off my property, now. How the hell had he got up here? With a dog? My flat is on top of the building, immune to burglars, or so I’d thought. But on reflection, he might be dangerous…a schizophrenic, a drug addict – though a pretty fit one if he climbed up here – a psychopath… His face reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t think who. It would come back to me. Older than I was, I’d say, probably late twenties; dark hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, unshaven, regular features smoothed in the innocence of sleep. Good cheekbones and jawline. The sort of face I might find interesting attached to someone who wasn’t a vagrant trespassing on my rooftop.

I backed away. My mobile was recharging by my bed. I would tiptoe across the terrace and through the French windows, slide them gently shut and ring the police.

The dog’s head lifted, bright brown eyes shining through fur sticking up in all directions. He hopped off the sofa, and trotted over, claws clicking on the tiled surface. He looked at the plate in my hand, then back at me, triangular ears pricked, expression optimistic; his tail wagged, and he made a small hopeful sound.

Hastily I crouched and handed him a piece of toast to silence him.

Too late. The man’s eyes opened. Sitting up, he ran a hand through hair as rough as the dog’s, and swung his worn trainers to the floor. He was nearer the door than I was. He looked at me. I was quite decent in my towelling robe, but I’d have felt happier dressed. I edged towards the safety of  my flat. The man got lithely to his feet. He was six foot tall, lean and muscular under his shabby clothes, and a seedling of panic unfurled below my diaphragm. If we both went for the door, he’d get there first.

‘I’d like you to leave. Now. Or I’m calling the police.’ There was a noticeable tremor in my voice. Damn.

He picked up a threadbare backpack from the floor. ‘Right. No problem. We’re going. Come on, dog.’ He sounded sane, at any rate, if curt. He walked over to the railings.

The dog, however, knew there was a second piece of toast. He gave a brief bark, then sat back on his haunches, begging, liquid eyes appealing.

The man said to the dog, ‘Now you’re just embarrassing me. Cut it out.’

I gave the dog the toast. He wolfed it down as fast as the first slice, then joined his owner. The man scooped up the dog and put him in the backpack. He slung the straps over his shoulders, rested one hand on the balcony railing, hesitated and turned.

‘I don’t suppose you’d consider letting us out through the front door?’ His voice had changed; it was warm and persuasive. A deep, attractive voice. ‘It’d save the climb. Up’s easier than down. And I’m bursting for a pee.’

For the first time, he smiled; a disarming, eye-crinkling smile with a big helping of charm. Though it did occur to me he might be doing it deliberately, entirely conscious of its effect, I’m only human. I no longer believed he might be clinically insane, drugged or dangerous. Still, I deliberated. I wished I was taller. More muscled. And a Ju-jitsu black belt. Then if after all he turned out to be a mad axe-man, I could deal with it.

I made up my mind. I decided to trust my judgment.

‘All right.’

Yes, I know most people would think I was crazy, letting a strange man into my home. Maybe they wouldn’t do it, but I’ve never been one for ticking the boxes; I loathe the institutionalized timidity of Health and Safety. I live alone, I run my own small business and I’m used to making my own decisions. I reckon I’m a good judge of character. And I thought he was okay.

I led him inside and showed him the bathroom door.

My flat is just about perfect; one big studio room with the staircase and a black glass and steel kitchen along one wall, and a bathroom and a utility room opening off the wall opposite. There’s a mezzanine for my bedroom. The architect I employed thought I was mad not to use the whole of the rooftop area for the flat. He said I could have two bedrooms, and it would put at least fifty thousand on the property. But I wanted a stretch of windows on to an open space where I could grow things, and wander out for breakfast among the honeysuckle, jasmine and bay on sunny days; or entertain friends under a summer moon on sultry nights. And that’s what I’ve got.

In the man’s absence I fetched my mobile, keyed in 999 and put it ready to hand below the counter. I pulled on trousers and tee shirt, opened a tin of sardines for the dog, and gave him a bowl of water. I turned on the radio. Allegri’s Miserere, one of my favourites. I dropped some more bread in the toaster, and put the kettle on. My coffee had gone cold.

I was eating when he came out. His hair was tidier than before, and wet round the edges where he’d washed his face. I found this evidence of an attempt to keep up appearances reassuring.

‘What’s the dog called?’

‘He hasn’t got a name yet. He picked me up…last night.’

‘What are you called?’

He paused for a moment, eyes expressionless, as though deciding whether to tell me or not. He had switched the charm off again, it seemed. ‘Joe.’ His gaze went to the food on my plate.

‘I’m Caz. Caz Tallis. D’you want some toast? Coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

I pressed the toaster knob and spooned instant coffee into a mug (I prefer instant coffee to the real thing. James grumbles about it every time he comes here).

‘How did you end up on my roof?’

‘Hoxton’s too noisy to sleep, especially in the small hours of Sunday morning. A lot of people milling about, music, police sirens.’ He put a spoonful of demerara into his coffee, looking down as he stirred it. His hands were nice. Strong-looking. Round his wrist was one of those chunky fake-designer watches with lots of dials, and numbers circling the edge. ‘So I climbed up to your flat roof. I thought it was a commercial building, no one around at the weekends.’

‘You must be good at climbing.’

‘Yup.’ He did the smile again, a mega-kilowatt one this time, looking at me under his lashes. This guy had charisma in spades, and he could turn it on and off at will. The irritating thing was, even though I could see him doing it, it still worked. I couldn’t help smiling back.

‘I really meant, why haven’t you got a home to go to? Why are you sleeping rough?’

‘It’s a long story. Happens every day. Boring, too.’ He spread two slices of toast thickly with butter and honey.

I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

‘So bore me with it.’

He was eating the toast as fast as the dog had. He shook his head. I couldn’t quite believe he was refusing to tell me anything, while sitting on my stool in my kitchen eating my food.

‘Let me guess. You’re just out of jail, and you lost that big see-through plastic bag they give you with everything you own inside it.’

‘Could be.’

‘Or you were a member of a fringe religion, gave them all your possessions, then lost your faith and had to leave.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Or you got hit over the head, lost your memory, and you’re wandering around waiting for it to come back.’

This seemed to amuse him. Without asking permission, he reached for the loaf of bread, and put two more slices in the toaster. He helped himself to an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. I got up and put my plate and cup in the dishwasher. It’s possible I did this with a hint of a flounce. I let the silence ride.

He spoke. ‘My wife kicked me out. Changed the locks, put my stuff in a skip. Drew all the money out of our joint account.’

I turned to look at him. ‘Why?’

‘Usual reasons.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Another woman. Women. So I went on a bender. Spent all my cash, lost my mobile. Ended up in Hoxton.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Hitch to Maidenhead. I know someone there who’ll lend me money, maybe put me up till I sort myself out.’

 ‘I’m delivering a horse to Bracknell today. I’ll give you a lift if you like, it’s in the same direction.’

‘Thanks. Where d’you keep the horse? Downstairs?’

It was my turn to smile. ‘Yes. You’ll see in a minute.’

 

We went down the stairs, the dog pattering after us, and out of the door below. As I locked it behind me, I looked forward to seeing Joe’s reaction. I’m proud of my workshop, and secretly enjoy showing it off.

I restore rocking horses. There’s not much money in it, but I wouldn’t do anything else. I’m living my dream. That’s what my mother told me to do, two years ago when she knew she was going to die. I thought about it for a while, then gave up my job teaching Art, sold her house in Fulham, and spent the proceeds buying the decaying Hoxton house and transforming it. Unfortunately, I got it slightly wrong and ended up spending more than I got from Mum’s house; so now I’m penny-pinching to pay back the bank bit by bit. It was totally worth it, though, and in five years, with luck and hard work, I’ll be clear.

The whole of the floor below the flat I use for the final finishing stages, as the light’s terrific; gesso, painting, dappling, nailing on the manes and tails, making the saddles and bridles. I breathed in the familiar agreeable smell, a mixture of leather, acrylic paint, whiting and rabbit glue.

Joe looked about him. Half a dozen horses, all old, all different makes and sizes, stood around at various stages of refurbishment. I patted the nearest one, a G & J Lines bow rocker, and paused to allow him to express interest and admiration, should he want to. He didn’t.

‘Maybe you should phone your wife,’ I remarked, as we went down the next flight of stairs.

‘Maybe,’ he said.

The room below is where I do the woodwork. There are two workbenches, and as many big machines as I could fit in; a planer, band saw, circular saw, a lathe and a belt sander. Hardboard patterns hang on one wall, with hand tools on shelves. Planks of wood are stacked against the wall wherever there is room. It’s beautiful. I ran my hand through a pile of fresh sawdust. The smell here is even better, the resiny fragrance of pine. I glanced at Joe. Nothing. I led him to the next staircase.

‘She probably feels she over-reacted. I expect she’d ring you if she could. She might be worrying about you.’

‘I doubt it,’ Joe said.

The ground floor is my office and showroom. It’s carpeted, with a desk and a leather sofa. Elegant. Two doors lead to a minuscule kitchen and compact loo and shower. I had them put in because I lived here while the builders built the flat on the roof, and it’s quite handy now if anyone wants to stay. I keep the finished horses here; the ones waiting for delivery or collection, and the unsold ones. Five of them are mine, brand new and made to my own pattern; based on traditional horses, but carved by me to my designs. Not sold yet. It’s difficult to sell modern rocking horses, unless they are mass-produced and cheap. I told Joe this. He grunted.

‘You didn’t say whether you had any children.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Joe said. ‘You’ve got sawdust on your nose.’ He flicked it off, and suddenly grinned at me. ‘Cool horses. Cool set up.’

I’m a fool. I could feel a huge smile spreading across my face.

It was useful, Joe being there, because it meant he could help me lift the rocking horse to the van. The horse was a Collinson, dating from the 1970s, not very valuable, but it looked nice the way I’d restored it, and it was big. On my own I’d have had to take it off the stand.

The van was on the road outside – it’s double yellow lines all the way round Fox Hollow Yard where my workshop is. I reversed the van slowly between the brick walls of the archway and over the cobbles to my door. We loaded the horse and got in the cab. I turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled into life, gave an apologetic cough, and died. I took the key out again.

After thirty seconds, Joe said, ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘It does this. You have to give it a few minutes, and try again.’

Joe fished an iPod out of his pocket, put the earphones into his ears, eased down in the seat and closed his eyes. The dog settled in his lap. I tried the key once more, and this time the van got its act together and set off gamely down the road.

‘It’s a good van really, it’s just feeling its age,’ I said. Joe didn’t answer.

 

Being Sunday morning, the roads were quiet as we cut across London to the M4. I like it when you get to the first sight of real countryside, with sheep and cows. Joe seemed to be asleep. I had hoped he'd tell me more about himself. We passed Slough and I wondered whether to wake him up for directions, or leave it a bit.

‘It’s got to be junction seven or eight…’ I muttered under my breath.

He opened his eyes and sat up.

‘Eight.’

A sudden suspicion entered my mind.

‘You weren’t asleep,’ I said accusingly. ‘And is that iPod even playing anything?’ How could he have charged it, anyway?

‘Nope. I got fed up with all the questions.’

Fine.

I stopped the van where he told me to, keeping the engine running, outside an ordinary, quite pleasant detached house in a street off the main road. Joe undid his seatbelt and put his hand on the door catch, looking me in the eyes. His were brown like the dog’s, but a shade darker.

‘Well, thanks. Good luck with the horses.’

I reached for my handbag, got out a twenty pound note and handed it to him.

‘What’s this for?’

‘You can’t wander around without any money. It’s just in case.’

He put it in his jeans pocket. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’

‘Keep it. It’s a gift.’

I didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t return it. I preferred to give it to him, even though twenty pounds is quite a lot of money to me. In spite of his grouchiness I liked him; I didn’t want to watch him walk off, him and the dog, with just what he stood up in and no money for a bus, or a cup of tea, or a phone call if his friend was out.

If he’d asked me for money there’s no way I’d have given him anything. Strangers are always coming up to me on the street and pitching me a tale about being robbed and needing the fare to get back home. I must have a kind face. I gave the first two what they asked for, then wised up. But Joe hadn’t asked for anything, except to use my bathroom.

He smiled, opened the door and got out, followed by the dog. I put the van into gear and drove off. I didn’t expect to see him again.

  

 

 

CHAPTER

2

 

The Collinson’s new owners lived in an old rectory, surrounded by gardens. The horse was a present for their youngest daughter. They had selected it at the gesso stage in my workshop the month before, which meant they got to choose the finish: a blond mane and tail, chestnut tack and blue rosettes.

The father came out as I arrived, to carry one end. Between us we lugged it inside and up a broad curving flight of stairs, and paused at the top to get our breath. Rock music pounded out from the older daughter’s room; beyond a door bearing a skull and crossbones it was a typical frowsty teenage den, with curtains drawn against the sun, clothes tangled all over the floor, and its occupant hunched at a computer screen. She gave us a dark stare, and returned to Facebook.

Something caught my eye.

On the open wardrobe door was an iconic rock poster, so ubiquitous that even I, who am not a fan, had seen it and knew the name of the rock star. It wasn’t posed; the photographer had got this atmospheric shot with luck and skill mid-performance. Ric Kealey stood against a smoky dark background, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else, his back to the camera, showing some impressive muscles. His left hand caressed the neck of his guitar, his head turned to smoulder at me over his naked, glistening shoulder. You could see beads of sweat flying where he’d flung back his hair.

He looked a bit like Joe. Younger, and his hair was long, whereas Joe’s was quite short, but there was a definite resemblance. That must be why I’d thought he looked like someone I knew.

‘One last heave?’ said my customer. ‘Nearly there.’

‘Okay. Ready?’

We edged carefully through a doorway – I didn’t want to scrape the paint after all my hard work – and lowered the horse on to the middle of the carpet. This room was pinker than was good for it, and contained more soft toys than any rational child could require. (Someone once asked me to paint a rocking horse, a perfectly good Patterson Edwards, pink. I refused. I have my principles.) I wondered how long it would be before the bedroom turned into a teenage fortress, and whether the rocking horse would stay.

We stood and admired my handiwork for a few minutes, then he offered me a cup of coffee, and I thanked him and said I had to be off. Another satisfied customer. The van started first time, and I headed for home.

 

The journey back was slower, once I got to the outskirts of London. Round about the Cromwell Road I was hardly moving. I flicked through the station presets on my van’s ropey old radio; Abba, Mozart, weather and an advert telling me I could get rich playing the stock market. As if. I switched it off.

I started thinking about Ric Kealey. He’d become the biggest, most sensational rock star ever, back in the days when I was at art college. Not my sort of music, but you couldn’t help knowing about him. He was everywhere, and as far as the tabloids were concerned The Voices and their lead singer were the best thing since Princess Diana. Whatever they did made the front page. They were huge; they supplied the soundtrack to a whole generation’s desire, exaltation and dreams.

I decided to look Ric Kealey up on the internet when I got home, and see if he really did look like Joe.

 

Since it was Sunday I grilled some bacon and treated myself to a BLT for lunch. I made a pot of tea (weird of me I know, since the Good Lord gave us teabags, but I think it tastes better). I took it on a tray out to the terrace, put it on the table, fetched my laptop and curled up in comfort on my new sofa under the big cream parasol. The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew, the blackbird sang. Perfect.

I googled Ric Kealey, and went to Wikipedia. The page went on for ever. Only one picture, of him with a guitar while he was still at school, looking solemn, his face with the soft curves of adolescence, hair flopping over his eyes. He started the band when he was sixteen or so. In the photograph he didn’t look much like Joe. His mother was an actress, mainly on television – not a household name, but quite successful, in work most of the time. I realized she’d been in a sitcom I watched as a child called Better the Devil. His parents split up when he was small, he went to boarding school at seven, excelled at music from an early age…

I had a swig of tea, a mouthful of sandwich, and scrolled down, looking at the subtitles. The Voices In My Head (band), Early Fame, Musical Influences, Kealey/Orr songwriting partnership, Drugs and Alcohol, Conflict, Relationship with the Press… I stopped there and clicked on the link to The Voices In My Head. There were a couple of photos of the band members, one early one before they got Jeff Pike as their drummer, and a black and white poster with them all in dark glasses looking morose, as if earning squillions every year was no laughing matter. I returned to Google and clicked Images.

Loads of pictures; Ric Kealey in colour, in black and white, tiny at Wembley Stadium, close-up so his features filled the frame, fake Andy Warhol silk-screen multiples of his face, Ric playing his guitar, singing, smoking a cigarette, making a V-sign at the paparazzi, on stage with fans reaching for him, full face, profile…and all of them looking very like Joe. Very like Joe indeed.

It couldn’t be him, though.

I went to Youtube and typed Ric Kealey in the box, and selected the only song whose title I remembered. A grainy postcard-size rectangle showed The Voices on top of a tall building; London, since I could see the Eye in the background. A big flat space, with random bits of air conditioning systems, lifts, satellite masts and fire escapes sticking up here and there. The camera panned in close on the drummer. A heavy, throbbing drumbeat. Stirring. I turned up the sound. The camera moved to Ric Kealey as he struck the first, arrogant chord on his guitar. Every hair on my skin stood up. I suddenly understood why they were mega-successful. He began to sing into the microphone, intensely, as though he was alone, completely ignoring the camera crew filming him. I watched, transfixed, to the end of the song. Ric glanced across to the bass guitarist, and smiled.

I sat back, heart thumping. Youtube offered a replay, or another of The Voices’ hits. I didn’t need a replay. I knew now that Ric was Joe, beyond any doubt at all.

Which was very odd, as Ric Kealey died three years ago.

 

 

 

CHAPTER

3

 

Back to Wikipedia. I scrolled down to Kealey’s Death.

‘Reportedly, Kealey had been drinking heavily and had resumed illegal drugs use in the weeks before his death. Friends said this was a reaction to his arrest on suspicion of the murder of fellow band member Bryan Orr, although before this he was allegedly depressed by the prospect of the band splitting up, and the effect this might have on sales of The Voices’ most recent album, Fluke. (In fact, Fluke went on to out-sell every album the band had made except for Random Voices.) He had been released on bail of two million pounds the previous week. On 15^th April, one day after his twenty-seventh birthday, Kealey went to the house of his manager/agent Phil Sharott, in Cookham on the River Thames near Maidenhead…’

Maidenhead! He must have been going to see him after I dropped him off…

‘…and without his permission or knowledge took off in Sharott’s Cessna aeroplane. Kealey had been taking flying lessons, but was as yet unqualified. He headed to the coast. A witness on a yacht reported seeing the aircraft crash in deep water to the west of the coast of France. “Its engine cut out and it went into the sea. It sank really fast. I didn’t see anyone parachute from it before it crashed, and no one swam away, though of course I had a good look for survivors.” The witness was able to pick up various parts of the plane, which confirmed its identity. The body of the plane was never recovered. Theories about the death abound. It is widely assumed that Kealey committed suicide, since the aeroplane did not have sufficient fuel to reach land in the direction in which it was headed. However, bearing in mind his lack of flying experience, and the fact that he was most likely under the influence of drugs and/or drink, it may also have been a tragic accident.

‘The Orr murder case was closed. The police issued a statement saying they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the murder.’

I considered the implications of this. I had spent the morning alone with a man the police believed guilty of murder. He hadn’t seemed like a murderer to me, but then murderers, when not actually murdering people, probably did act as normally as anyone else. Feeling hunger, needing a pee, befriending stray dogs.

I hoped he wasn’t intending to kill the agent. Perhaps I should ring Phil Sharott and warn him? How could I do that without him thinking I was a nutter?

Or I could ring the police… A moment’s reflection made me aware this was not an option. I might as well tell them I’d spotted Elvis working down the chip shop. They’d think I was out of my mind if I only told them I’d let an intruder into my home, fed him, then driven him to Maidenhead. I had no proof my visitor was Ric Kealey, and I didn’t know where he was now. Would they send policemen to warn the agent of a possible visit from a dead rock star on my say so? I couldn’t see it happening. I read on.

‘Kealey’s death at the age of twenty-seven makes him the sixth and latest member of the notorious 27 Club, or Forever 27 Club as it is sometimes known, a popular culture name for a group of influential rock and blues musicians who all died at the age of 27, sometimes under mysterious circumstances.’

I looked it up. Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Ric Kealey.

Ric Kealey’s page again. Conspiracy Theories After Kealey’s Death.

‘Many fans refuse to believe Kealey is dead, their conviction fuelled by the fact that his body was never found. The website Ric Kealey Lives promotes the theory the plane crash was set up in order for him to escape the murder trial, and that he was spirited away by friends, had plastic surgery to make him unrecognisable, and is now living abroad. In spite of the alleged surgery, fans have claimed sightings in Australia, South Africa, India, Mexico and Chile.

‘Alternative theories maintain he is dead, but the fatality occurred during a botched attempt to fake his own death; that he was murdered by the real murderer of Bryan Orr, in order to cover the killer’s tracks; that his death was part of a suicide pact, to which there are clues in the last album made by the band; and even that on his last solo flight he was abducted by aliens.’

I reached for my sandwich and finished it, then drank my tea, barely registering that it was stone cold. Like most people, I’ve always scoffed at conspiracy theories. NASA faked the moon landings, shape-shifting lizard-people run the world, Di and Dodi died as the result of a fiendish plot hatched by florists…yeah, right. I’d now stumbled on proof that one conspiracy theory, at least, contained some truth.

Unless Ric Kealey was recognized and the whole thing got in the papers, it seemed unlikely I’d ever discover anything else about it. Frustrating. But then, if I’d spotted him, surely other people, fans, would too?

‘Kealey’s estate was inherited by his one surviving relative, his older sister Paula Sharott, who died in a car accident two years after her brother at the age of thirty-six. On her death the estate passed to her…’

My mobile rang. Must change that ring tone.

‘Hallo?’

‘Caz.’ It was James. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’

‘It’s just you haven’t rung me up for a while and asked me to do something for you, like fix your laptop or lift a horse up the stairs. This isn’t like you.’

‘Huh! Cheek. Maybe I’ve found someone else with brain and muscles to be my willing slave.’

‘Fat chance. No one else is crazy about you like I am.’

This is James’s little joke. I’ve known him since we were both tiny, and we went to the same primary school. We’re like brother and sister. We get on really well, and see quite a lot of each other, but that’s all there is to it. He’s got a girlfriend called Posy; she seems nice, but I haven’t got much in common with her. She lives in Cambridge, so James is at a loose end during the week. It was unusual for him to ring on a Sunday.

‘Well, maybe if you came round Thursday evening I could line up some heavy lifting, and cook you spaghetti as a reward.’

‘That’s the best offer I’m likely to get all week. I’ll bring a bottle. Seven thirty-ish?’

‘Great. See you then.’

‘Bye, Caz.’

‘Bye.’

I took my laptop and crockery indoors, and decided not to waste the whole afternoon researching Ric Kealey, tempted though I was. Feeling sensible and virtuous, I went to the workshop to dapple a horse instead, to help pay off the bank loan.

 

 

 

CHAPTER

4

 

It rained Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, but Thursday was back to the sort of weather one feels entitled to in June. I was pleased. If we ate outside, James could admire my new sofa.

The doorbell rang at 7.30. James is punctual to a fault, so much so that I start worrying if he’s ten minutes late. His tousled fair hair and pleasant profile were immediately recognisable on the tiny black and white entry phone screen. He always reminds me of a blond teddy bear – but a nice-looking teddy bear you can rely on.

‘Hi, come on up,’ I said, and pressed the key button. I heard the buzz of the lock release, and saw him push the door open.

Some of my less fit visitors have to sit down when they reach the flat, puffing and fanning themselves, but although he works long hours in a bank, James is in good shape. He plays rugby at weekends – his nose is askew from an early rugby incident – badminton, and tennis in summer. He tried to get me to play tennis a few years ago, though I’ve never been able to hit a ball in my life. He kept saying I’d love it, it wouldn’t be anything like it was at school, I should give it a go. Eventually I gave in, and my single game of tennis in front of a group of his mates from work is one of my most embarrassing memories ever. ‘God, you were right, you really can’t hit a ball,’ he’d said, and taken me to the bar to console me.

‘Hi Caz.’ He kissed my cheek and handed me a bottle of wine. ‘You’re looking terrific. I don’t know why I say that, you always do. What’s that you’re playing?’

‘Fluke. D’you like The Voices?’

‘They’re okay.’ He took off his jacket and tie, stretched and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He’s the only friend I’ve got who wears a suit on a daily basis. ‘Wouldn’t have thought they were your sort of thing, though.’

Now if I was going to tell anyone about the strange materialization of Ric Kealey on my rooftop, it would be James. I can tell him most things, I suppose because I’ve known him so long. But I didn’t. He might think I was wrong, and it was just someone who looked like him; or he might get all serious and try to persuade me to go to the police. And I still hadn’t worked out what I thought about the whole thing…

I turned off the CD player, opened the wine and poured two glasses, handed James his, picked up a bowl of salted cashews and led him outside. I’d laid the table out there before his arrival. James went over to the sofa.

‘This is new. Very nice.’ He sat down. ‘I thought you were economising?’

‘I am. This is absolutely the last thing I’m buying for the flat. It is now officially perfect in every way. And all I have to do is live on tins of sardines for a few years, and never go out anywhere, or have a haircut, or buy any new clothes until I’ve paid for it.’

‘It’s not sardines tonight, is it? I’m sure spaghetti was mentioned.’

‘Just for you, James, I’m pushing the boat out. Spaghetti Carbonara with a side salad.’

‘Great.’ He slipped off his shoes and swung his legs on to the sofa, lying back where Ric Kealey had lain. He breathed deeply. ‘Mmm, this is the life. I had a stinker of a day.’

‘You can recover while I cook the meal. I’ll let you off peeling duties for once.’

His eyes followed me as I turned. ‘Not affording hairdressers is good. I like your hair the way it is, right down your back.’

I went inside and got started.

 

London hasn’t been dark since World War Two ended. James and I sat on after dinner as the twilight faded and city lights appeared. Faint noises of revellers in the bars of Hoxton Square drifted up to us, making my roof feel snug and intimate. I’d just made coffee (‘Bloody hell, Caz, what’s this? Generic instant coffee? Not even Gold Blend?’) when the doorbell rang. It was past eleven. I went to the entry phone to see who it was.

Ric Kealey, his hair different…my heart banged in my chest.

‘Hi.’ I could hear my voice sounding wary.

‘Caz, can I come in?’

‘What for?’

‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

I paused. ‘Okay, but I can’t be too long. I’ve got a friend here. Hang on, I’ll come down.’

I didn’t press the buzzer to let him in. James was looking at me enquiringly.

‘It’s this guy…I’m just going down to see him. I won’t be long. There’s half a bottle of Metaxa in the cupboard, help yourself.’

 

I turned on the showroom spots and opened the door. At first all I could see was an enormous bunch of flowers; the scent of roses, lilies, and freesia wafted in. He put them into my arms, then held out a twenty-pound note, and did the smile.

I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He was transformed. His hair was bleached a pale blond, and professionally cut in a spiky style. He wore a white tee shirt and black designer jeans, leather belt, red Converses and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He looked amazing. Spectacular. If he walked down a street he’d turn every female head. In stark contrast to the last time we’d met, everything about him looked expensive.

I glanced at the dog beside him, half-expecting him to have had a makeover too, to be washed, fluffed up and trimmed. He wagged his tail at me. He was unchanged, except that he now wore a smart collar with studs.

I took the money from Ric’s hand, and pocketed it, speechless.

He made a move forward. ‘Can I come in?’

I stayed where I was in the doorway. ‘I know who you are.’

His eyes narrowed. There was a pause. ‘Ah. And that would be…?’

‘The late Ric Kealey.’

‘Fuck.’ We stood there, looking at each other. ‘Can I come in anyway?’

I moved aside and he walked past me and sat on the black leather sofa like he owned it, occupying the maximum amount of space the way men do, the dog at his feet. I put the flowers on my desk and sat behind it. For some reason, this made me feel more in control of the situation. I broke the silence.

‘I’ll have to call the police. You’re wanted for murder.’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Who did?’

‘I don’t know. That’s one of the things I came back to find out.’

‘Like in one of those corny whodunits where the innocent man tracks down the real killer, all the while being chased by the police who think he’s the murderer? Like The Fugitive or something?’

He glared at me. ‘Yes.’

‘And in order to achieve this, you’ve made yourself look as conspicuous and eye-catching as possible, so anyone seeing you will know immediately you’re a rock star, and sooner or later work out who you are? Why don’t you just wear a sign round your neck saying Look At Me?’

‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t walk around like I was. Anyway, I changed my hair colour.’

‘Oh yes, like rock stars never do that. Celebrities change their hair all the time. Look at David Beckham. People still know who he is. You’re crazy. And why didn’t you stay with your agent? That’s where you were going, wasn’t it?’

‘He’s away. He’ll be back at the weekend.’

‘Does he know you’re alive?’

‘Yes…’ He was going to say more, then didn’t.

‘Where did you get the money for all this?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘You’re like the sodding Spanish Inquisition, Caz, you know that? I sold my Rolex. I got my hair done, bought the clothes, and stayed at a hotel for a few days. Not a flash hotel, either. I didn’t go out. But people kept staring at me. Even the Romanian chambermaid asked for my autograph, I think so she could find out who I was. And I ran out of money.’

‘So you came here.’

‘Yeah. I thought maybe you could put me up till Phil gets back.’

‘You’re asking me if I’ll let you stay here?’

‘Just for a couple of days.’

I picked up a pen and fiddled with it. The trouble was, I believed him, and I had no reason to do that. No reason at all, simply my gut feeling that Ric wasn’t a murderer; and I might be wrong. The silence grew. He didn’t try to persuade me, or protest his innocence. He just waited.

Footsteps came down the stairs, and James put his head round the door. It must have struck him as bizarre, both of us sitting there among the motionless rocking horses, not saying anything, as though we were conducting a séance. He gave a startled glance at Ric, the dog and the flowers.

‘Er, hi. I’m James.’

Ric said, ‘Hi, I’m Joe,’ just as I said, ‘This is Ric, James.’

James hesitated, looking from Ric to me, then said, ‘Caz, I ought to be going. Thank you for a lovely evening.’

I got up and walked him to the door. He gave me a kiss, his expression preoccupied. He hovered uncertainly for a moment.

‘Take care of yourself. I’ll ring you in the morning, Caz.’

The door shut behind him. I didn’t feel alarmed at being alone in the building with Ric, and that made up my mind for me.

‘I won’t have drugs in the house.’

‘I haven’t done drugs for three years.’

‘You can sleep down here. You’ve got to keep it tidy. There’s a duvet in the cupboard by the shower.’

‘Okay.’

‘And in the morning, you can tell me all about it.’

‘Why? I just need a temporary place to crash, not a sidekick. I’ll be out of your hair in two days. I’ll do this alone.’

Be like that. I picked up the flowers and walked towards the staircase. The dog jumped up and I patted his head. ‘Have you got a name for him yet?’

‘Yes. He’s a French dog, he picked me up in Marseille, so I thought maybe he should have a French name. But we’re in England now. I’m calling him Dog.’

‘I bet you lay awake all night thinking that up.’

I went upstairs, and locked myself in my flat.

 

 

  

CHAPTER

5

 

I woke early the following morning to the heady fragrance of Ric’s flowers. By eight fifteen I was in my workshop, showered, breakfasted, dressed and picking rusty nails out of a large F. H. Ayres.

When new, this horse had been top of the range. He had the delicately carved features of an over-sensitive thoroughbred, the head not just turned sideways, but at an angle too, so you could practically see him skittering away, tail held high. The safety stand bore a Harrods Knightsbridge stencil in script, discernible only if you knew it was there. In the hundred or so years since his manufacture he’d had a hard life. I reckoned he’d endured three refurbishments by amateurs, and the one thing they were really good at was banging in as many big nails as possible. The posts and top rail of the stand were bodged replacements, and his ears, lower jaw and one leg were missing. Add to this that he’d been kept for the past twenty years in a damp shed, so all his joints were loose, and you can see the horse and I would be spending plenty of time together in the coming weeks.

Properly restored he’d be glorious.

Another bent nail pinged on top of the others in the box. Dog pottered in, followed by his owner holding a bag of Iams.

‘Is it okay if I make myself some toast and use your laptop?’

‘Yes. Go up. The door’s open.’

Ten minutes later I crept upstairs to check he hadn’t absconded over the side of the building with my valuables. I got so my head was high enough to peer into the flat. Ric was at the kitchen counter, hunched over the laptop, keys clacking furiously, playing a computer game, Dog curled at his feet. Harmless enough. I retreated.

 

James rang, as he said he would. He’s a man of his word. He asked tentative questions about ‘my visitor’ last night.

‘Joe. I knew him at Central St Martin’s.’ I felt bad, lying to James, but I had to tell him something. It was the first time ever that I’d not been truthful with him. He said nothing for five seconds, which is quite a long time.

‘I thought I’d met all your college friends. You said his name was Ric.’

‘It’s Joe Rick. We called him Rick. When we weren’t calling him Joe…’ I’m a crap liar. ‘He needed somewhere to stay. He’s going tomorrow.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Paint. He’s on the dole.’ This at any rate had the ring of truth. All the students I knew in the Fine Art Department either went into something else on leaving college, or were unemployed. I changed the subject. ‘How’s Posy?’

‘Fine. She’s…fine.’ He sounded abstracted. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later.’

 

Ric was still at my laptop when I went upstairs to make myself a cup of coffee at eleven. Not playing a game; frowning over something he clicked off at my approach. He glanced up.

‘I was thinking, maybe you could take me to Phil’s tomorrow.’

‘Couldn’t you get the train?’ I was miffed about his refusal to tell me anything. I felt he was taking advantage. And his breakfast things were still beside him on the counter. Huh. He might have put them in the dishwasher, instead of expecting me to tidy up after him. I spooned coffee into a mug. I didn’t ask if he wanted any.

‘Okay. Can you lend me fifty quid?’

‘It can’t be that much for a cheap day single. Under a tenner, I’d say.’

‘I’d have to get taxis both ends. Easier to go door to door. And it would be nice to have your company, too.’ He got up and took his plate and cup to the dishwasher, and stacked them neatly inside.

I gave him a suspicious look. He was being charming again.

‘Does he know you’re coming?’

‘No.’

‘How do you know he’ll be there?’

‘The housekeeper told me he’d be back tomorrow.’

‘Why don’t you ring him?’ A sleek new mobile lay beside the laptop.

‘I haven’t got his number. He went ex-directory.’

This seemed distinctly odd to me. ‘But you’re quite sure he’ll have you to stay?’

‘Fairly sure.’ A shadow passed over Ric’s face. ‘He owes me. Go on, Caz, I’ll talk to you this time. I promise. Tell you the story of my life. From fame and fortune to the gutter.’ He grinned at me. ‘I’ll let you be my sidekick.’

Like I said, I’m a fool. I agreed. 

 

So, that Saturday morning my van crept and juddered along the Marylebone Road towards the Westway, the sun behind us. The van doesn’t like going slowly. Sometimes it gets overwrought and has to rest for a while. The traffic’s been terrible along there ever since the Con Charge came in, though I’d thought it would be okay at the weekend. That was a mistake. Every now and then, I noticed the occupants of neighbouring cars giving sidelong glances at Ric sitting beside me. He had the window down and his bare forearm resting along the edge, Dog on his lap.

‘Maybe you should get in the back. Everyone’s looking at you.’

He got out a pair of dark glasses and put them on, as though that made him invisible. A powder-blue VW convertible drew level and its driver gazed at him. He looked away. I forbore to comment. The truck on my right hooted, and when I glanced up the man in the passenger seat said, ‘Heya!’ and whooped. I scowled and put on my sunglasses.

Just too damn gorgeous, that was our trouble.

The traffic accelerated, and we turned towards the A4. Time for Ric to spill the beans to his new sidekick. I opened my mouth to say this, but he spoke first.

‘Where did you get that horse, the big one with attitude? An Ayres, did you say it was?’

I told him it had been a very lucky find. The pensioner who owned it had been going to throw it out – he didn’t know what it was, and thought it beyond repair. He’d said I could have it for fifteen quid, but in the end we’d settled on £375 as being a fairer price. Ric asked about the other horses, how I got started, where I’d been to college, about my teaching job and how I got my fabulous workshop. I told him about Mum dying, and how much I missed her; he said his parents were dead too, but he’d never been close to them. They’d sent him to boarding school when he was seven, and he spent the holidays with his grandmother. We were turning off the motorway when I realized I’d intended Ric to confess all, and we’d be at his agent’s house before he had time to do this.

I’d better get on with it. I said, ‘What’s Phil Sharott like?’

‘He’s a lawyer. He was a trainee solicitor in Bristol when I was there. He’d done law at Bristol.’

‘What did you study?’

‘Pure maths.’

‘Wow.’ I was impressed. ‘You must be bright.’

He smiled wryly and shook his head. ‘I didn’t qualify. I went a bit wild the first year – the exams don’t count towards the degree, and you’re allowed to retake them. The second year, I left before the end to work full time with the band. I knew I hadn’t done enough to keep up. I jumped before I was pushed. D’you have exams at art college?’

‘No.’ I refused to be sidetracked. ‘Why would a lawyer manage a rock band?’

‘Phil wanted to make some money while he was a trainee. He’s pretty good at it. Our first record deal was his doing.’

‘What did he think of you faking your own death?’

‘He organized it.’

I was taken aback. You’d think a lawyer would uphold the law, not break it.

‘Why?’

‘I didn’t want to go to prison.’

‘But if you were innocent, surely you’d have got off? They’d have found the real murderer. They only stopped investigating because you were dead.’

‘No, because they thought I did it. Haven’t you read it up?’

‘It’s all circumstantial, isn’t it, the evidence? Just that you had a row with Bryan Orr—’

‘Two rows. Not everything got in the papers.’ He sighed. His voice was flat. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you how it started. Bryan had a new girlfriend. Emma. Emma Redfern. She temped one week for Phil, that’s how they met. She wanted to make it as a singer herself, and I reckon that’s why she latched on to him. I didn’t like her much, but he was under her thumb, and she went everywhere with him, you could never talk to him on his own. She said he wasn’t getting a fair deal, he needed to stick up for himself – for instance, why was it always Kealey/Orr on the credits, why not Orr/Kealey on half of them? It had never been an issue. It got blown up out of all proportion, because of her. In the end me and Bryan were barely speaking, let alone writing songs together. A lot of it was my fault, back then I was out of my head half the time, and he had written a couple of songs on his own, it’s true, that were credited to us both. I was a mess, I didn’t turn up when I said I would, I’d got unreliable. I’d lost it.’

He was speaking more slowly now. ‘On the day before he died, we were supposed to be doing a remix at Tiger Studios. I turned up two hours late. We got into an argument, then, I don’t know how it happened, me and Bryan were fighting on the floor. Jeff and Dave had to pull us apart. I stormed out, and Bryan followed and yelled at me on the main staircase. In front of a lot of people. He said, if you come back I’ll fucking kill you.’

Ric stopped talking. I pulled in to the side of the road and switched off the engine. I wanted to concentrate.

‘Then what?’

‘The next day I sobered up – as sober as I ever was in those days – and went round to see Bryan at his flat, to sort it out between us. He had a big place by Regent’s Park, in one of those wedding cake buildings. He was out, but his girlfriend was in. We shouted at each other…she slapped me, I grabbed her wrist…we ended up in bed. Bryan came back and found us.’ Ric paused. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry. Emma got scared and ran out. There were some commando daggers on the wall, he collected them. Bryan snatched one up and went for me. I thought he was going to kill me. He cut my arm, and it bled a lot. That stopped him. I took the knife away from him and chucked it across the room. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and started crying. I should have done something, I shouldn’t have left him like that, but I just walked out. I was seen leaving. In a state, blood on me.’

I waited. Ric was shaking. Eventually, he said, ‘Emma came back later and found him with the dagger stuck in him, dead. She told the police what had happened, and they arrested me. Phil came to see me. He said I’d get off lightly, it was self-defence. I told him I hadn’t killed Bryan. He was alive, unhurt, when I left. Phil said that would be difficult to prove. His advice was to plead self-defence, I’d be charged with manslaughter and be out in three or four years. But I didn’t kill Bryan.’

‘D’you think his girlfriend did it? To save herself, maybe, if Bryan attacked her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or Phil? Knowing he could shift the blame on to you?’

‘Why would Phil want to kill Bryan? Bryan was a nice guy. My best friend. I don’t want to talk about this any more. Let’s get going.’

It crossed my mind, as I started the van, that Ric might have blanked out the memory of killing his friend, because he couldn’t bear it.

 

 

 

CHAPTER

6

 

I didn’t ask any more questions. We drove in silence, at the sedate pace the van favours, down twisting country roads, and those lovely lanes where the trees meet over your head and you’re in a green tunnel. This was prime English countryside, at the best time of year for it.

‘It’s the next turning on the right,’ said Ric. We were driving between a dry stone wall on our left, and a high mellow brick wall on the other side with trees visible over its top. ‘Those big gates.’

I turned in and stopped, facing them. Behind the engine noise it was quite quiet, just birdsong; something you notice if you live in London where it never is quiet. The blank shark’s eye of a CCTV camera watched us. Ric got out of the van. There was an entry phone, but he ignored it. He climbed up the edge of the gate with insolent ease, swung himself over the spikes at the top, and down the other side. He disappeared for a moment, and the gates started to swing open. When the gap was wide enough he slipped between them and rejoined me.

‘I thought we’d surprise him,’ he said. His face was grim. I realized the meeting we were on our way to might be a contentious one, and began to feel apprehensive.

We bowled down a long tree-lined private road winding between landscaped wooded areas and lawns. It was all very lush. Two bull mastiffs dashed towards us and ran alongside, barking in a way that suggested what they really wanted was the opportunity to take a chunk out of our legs, if we’d only stop and get out of our vehicle.

‘They’re new,’ Ric commented. ‘I wouldn’t talk to them, Dog, if I were you.’

We passed a big lake, and then we could see the house, a substantial Georgian pile, the drive curving round a circle of lawn to meet it. It looked like something out of the estate agent pages of Country Life. In front was a crimson Audi with its boot open, and a man loading a bag of golf clubs. He looked up at our approach and called the dogs over to him.

I parked to one side of the house. Its glossy white paint might have been finished the day before. The front door was a subtle English Heritage eau de nil, flanked by standard bay trees in antique lead planters; window boxes held miniature topiary, ivy and cyclamen. I could see gardens beyond the house, bright with flowers and the intermittent silver of a sprinkler. My van was lowering the tone. We got out, leaving Dog inside, and walked across the gravel.

‘Ric?’

‘Hi, Phil.’

Phil Sharott put down his clubs. He was tall, with a mild face and intelligent eyes glinting through stylish spectacles. He wore a blue polo shirt and cream chinos. I couldn’t visualize him sticking a dagger in anyone.

‘You look…incredible. How did you get here? When you didn’t answer my letters I thought something had happened to you.’ His eyes went to me.

Ric made the briefest of introductions. ‘Caz. Phil.’

Phil smiled and held out his hand. ‘Caz…?’

‘Tallis.’

‘It’s nice to meet you.’ He closed the car boot. ‘You’d better come into the office.’

The bull mastiffs had wandered off once they realized we weren’t legitimate prey. We followed Phil through the front door, past neat lines of Wellington boots, Barbour coats and fishing tackle, into a spacious hall. It was as well-kept as the exterior. Twin staircases spiralled upwards on either side; a circular walnut table in the middle held a flower arrangement; the oil paintings on the walls were originals, and valuable.

Phil turned to the left, and led us through a door, down a short corridor and through another door. His office was Homes and Gardens meets Hard Rock Café. Kind of impressive, though. A huge desk made of polished mahogany with a green leather top and a green glass-shaded lamp stood to one side; there was a chesterfield and a Persian rug. The opposite wall was given over to rock memorabilia, housed in a specially-made unit that went with the desk. There were shelves of trophies, framed gold CDs, photographs and press cuttings, all about The Voices. A glass-fronted section contained three guitars, an elaborate leather jacket, microphones, a signed drumhead, fanned concert programmes, tour books and an arrangement of guitar picks.

Ric shook his head. ‘Jesus, Phil, this is naff.’

Phil said mildly, ‘It impresses the clients. That’s what it’s there for.’

Ric sprawled on the sofa. I had a quick look at the photographs, then joined him. Phil perched on the edge of the desk. There was a small silence.

‘What happened to the money, Phil?’

Phil Sharott glanced at me. ‘Need we bore your friend Caz with this?’

‘You can talk in front of her.’

‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee?’

‘Just get on with it, Phil.’

‘As you wish. When Paula died, I had to wind up her affairs for probate. The account was in her name as well as yours.’

‘You could have told me. I went to the Credit Suisse at Marseille, and found my account had been closed six months before. All the money taken out. My money.’

‘I did write to you. I wrote to the post restante address you gave me. The letter must have gone astray.’ Ric snorted. ‘I’m not trying to cheat you, Ric. If you’d stayed at the villa like I said the problem wouldn’t have arisen. I didn’t know where you were. When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed something had happened. You hadn’t been in touch for more than a year.’

‘I tried to call you. You’d gone ex-directory.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Phil frowned. ‘We agreed you wouldn’t ring me. It’s insecure. To be honest, I’m not at all happy about your turning up here like this.’

‘So give me my money and I’ll go away again.’

Phil smiled, a deprecating smile. ‘I don’t have it on me. I can’t contact the bank to set up a new account and transfer the funds until Monday, and then it’ll take several days, maybe a lot longer. There could be a problem with banking information security regulations, given you don’t have an identity, or any papers or fixed address.’

‘You managed it last time.’

‘Yes, and I will now, if you’ll just be a little patient.’

Ric got to his feet. ‘At Credit Suisse, the manager showed me the account details, when I was having trouble believing there was nothing there. The money had been paid in, all right; totting up for more than two years. It got to nearly forty million dollars, Phil, before you withdrew it, and that’s after the extra-large cut you insisted on for your trouble. I’m a millionaire, and I hadn’t even got the money for the train fare here. If you have any cash in the safe, I suggest you give it to me.’

Phil’s mouth straightened. ‘Certainly.’

He got up and went to an oil painting of a Dutch interior. It swung to one side. Behind it, set in the wall, was a safe. Though I’d been feeling tense at the palpable antagonism between the two men, I had to smile. I thought such things only existed in the movies. I stood up for a better view, and watched with interest as he moved the dial of the combination lock six times, and the door opened. Inside was disappointing. Though not large it was nearly empty; I could see a stack of leather jewellery cases resting on a white cardboard box, a dull pink A4 cardboard folder and, nearer the front, a slim bundle of twenty-pound notes.

Phil handed the notes to Ric, who counted them. ‘Nine hundred and twenty. Is that all you’ve got?’

‘Yes.’

Ric stuffed the money in his pocket, and looked around the room. He went over to the showcase.

‘My Fender Strat…I’ll take that with me.’

‘I’d prefer you not to, Ric.’

‘Unlock the case.’

‘It’s insured, if it’s not there how am I supposed to explain it?’

‘Give me the fucking key, Phil, now. I’m taking it with me.’

‘Just calm down, Ric, can we discuss this sensibly—’

Ric picked up one of the Golden Globe trophies, and swung it against the showcase. There was a bang, and a waterfall crash of glass. An alarm bell went off. Ric lifted out the guitar and amp, placing them on the floor beside him. He reached in for the jacket, and shook the shards of glass out of it.

‘I’d forgotten this,’ he said conversationally to me, over the noise of the alarm, as he put it on. ‘Wore it on our first album cover. How do I look?’

The jacket was black, with lots of biker badges, metal, enamel and embroidered; it also had studs, buckles and leather fringes.

‘Cool,’ I said. ‘A bit o.t.t., but definitely cool.’

Phil’s face was rigid. I felt sorry for him, but it was becoming clear to me there was a history between the men I hadn’t been told about. Ric walked over to the desk, found a pen and wrote on a card. He handed it to Phil.

‘My mobile number.’

He picked up the Strat and amp, and walked towards the door. I followed him. He paused, and spoke over his shoulder.

‘I’m tired of being a non-person. I’m going to start again, solo this time. Make a come-back. I might go to the police.’

‘As your lawyer, I would advise against that.’

I could still hear the alarm ringing as we crunched across the gravel. I turned, and saw Phil at his office window watching our departure. We reached the van, and Dog’s face greeted us, his enthusiasm misting and smudging the glass. Ric let him out briefly while he loaded his loot in the back of the van, so Dog could scamper off and lift his leg against a shrub. Then we got in and set off down the drive.

It seemed Ric wouldn’t be staying at Phil Sharott’s after all.