Remix (2010) (3 page)

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 economizing?”

“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.”

Another pause, while he considered denying it, and decided not to. “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 seance. 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 Marseilles, 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.