The Blissfully Dead (9 page)

Chapter 16
Day 4 – Wendy

W
endy sat at her desk in the half-deserted office, one of the strip lights flickering in a way that made her glad she wasn’t epileptic, and wondered what DI
Lennon
was doing right now. Snuggling up on the sofa with his wife,
probably
. Or reading his little girl a bedtime story. She knew all about Lennon’s wife and her heart went out to the poor cow. She hoped he was kind to her
. . .
Actually, she couldn’t imagine him being anything but. Despite the tattoos, the hair that needed
cutting
and that serious face, he was, well, he was
lovely
.

Lovely and gorgeous. The kind of man who was sensitive and empathetic but strong enough to be protective and sexy.

Jesus, listen to her! Sexy? She laughed, drawing a curious look from Martin two desks down, and reminded herself that it was a bad idea – a bloody terrible idea – to have a crush on her superior officer. Especially one who was married. Wendy’s dad left them after a younger woman he worked with tempted him away, moving to the other side of Wolverhampton, and Wendy would never, ever be a homewrecker. Never be like that scutter who made her mum bawl her eyes out for months. Not that she was the type that men left their wives for. She hadn’t even had a boyfriend for three years. Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she had the body of a
teenage
gymnast – flat as a pancake, straight up and down, like an ironing board, and only five foot two. Twenty-five years old and she still got ID’d any time she tried to get into a club, and pretty much every time she bought drinks in a pub. It was deeply
irritating
. Unless she wore a ton of make-up – and often even then – she looked younger than her fourteen-year-old sister, Lucy.

Her latest attempt to appear her age was to have all her dark hair chopped into the shortest of pixie cuts because most teenage girls had the obligatory long, artificially straightened curtain of hair, but it hadn’t made a lot of difference. Pat – as she’d heard Carmella call him, not that Wendy would dare to herself – hadn’t appeared to even notice that anything was different about her.

Wendy really wanted to impress him, and the best way she could possibly do that, she thought, would be to find the bastard who had killed those two poor girls.

She gazed again at the photo of Rose Sharp on the whiteboard across the office. Even if it wasn’t about gaining Pat’s admiration and respect, she’d do anything to get the scumbag murderer off the streets. This was her chance!

Rose reminded Wendy of her little sister, Lucy, who still lived at home. Lucy actually thought OnTarget were a bunch of twats,
preferring
Jake Bugg and cooler indie music, spending her
weekends
hanging
around the horse statue in the city centre with the
alternative
kids. Lucy thought that her older sister was ‘well sad’ for being into pop music, though she would happily join in with a game of
Just Dance
if none of her friends knew about it. Lucy would laugh her socks off if she saw what Wendy was doing now: signing up to the official OnT forum. She had chosen a picture of Shawn looking dreamy as her profile picture, with an animated GIF of the band on stage as her signature, and she decided on the username
ShawnsCupcake
.

As well as signing up to the forums she had also set up a new
Twitter
account, and had joined Tumblr and StoryPad. She didn’t bother with Facebook because OnT fans didn’t congregate on there, mainly because Facebook was seen by teenagers as a place for mums and grans.

Then she had spent an hour catching up with the latest OnT news and gossip, searching for the OnT hashtag on Twitter and seeing what the fans were talking about at the moment. Predictably, the deaths of MissTargetHeart and YOLOSWAG were hot topics, but so was Blake’s new tattoo and rumours that Zubin was seeing Trixie from Love Bomb. There was a disturbing amount of vitriol aimed at Trixie, which reminded Wendy of how much she’d hated any girl who was linked with Lee from Blue. For two years she had been convinced she was going to grow up to marry Lee, had longingly stroked the posters of him on her wall, sketched his face a thousand times, though his nose always came out wonky and his lips not quite kissable. She closed her eyes and remembered how that had felt – the rushing hormones, the deluded certainty that if the object of her rampant affections met her, he would see she was special. That she was The One. She recalled, too, the pain she’d experienced when Mandy Briggs told her she didn’t like Blue anymore and was switching her allegiance to McFly.

She plugged her headphones into her PC and opened Spotify, streaming the latest OnT album. She stared at photos of the band, trying to convince herself that they were not just fanciable but
godlike
. It crossed her mind that maybe she should pretend Shawn looked like DI Lennon, instantly chiding herself. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and entered the zone. She was an OnTarget fan now. She loved them more than she loved her parents, her dog, her friends. They were her Everything.

It was time to join the fray.

She soon noticed that there were half a dozen ‘super users’ on the forum, girls – she assumed they were female, anyway – whose threads got the most views and comments, and who responded to nearly every thread started by another user. It was ridiculously cliquey. These half-dozen fans dominated discussions and opinion, with a second, larger group of acolytes who agreed with their opinions and acted as cheerleaders. Anyone who dared voice a different opinion, who wrote anything deemed to be in any way negative or stupid or ‘sad’, was instantly shot down. Sometimes arguments broke out between new users and the forum elite, page after page of passionate back and forth, which went on until the new user surrendered or a moderator stepped in. It was an intimidating place.

Wendy realised that her best bet was to ingratiate herself with these super users. If, as it seemed, they spent their entire waking lives on here, they would surely know Jess and Rose, if not in real life – or ‘meatspace’ as it was called – then online.

The most fanatical user of all, the queen of this microcosmic world, called herself, quite simply, Jade. Her real name, or a reference to the gemstone? There was a line in one of OnT’s songs, Wendy remembered – something about a girl with jade-green eyes. This was the kind of fact she needed to know, so she looked it up. Yes, it was from ‘Green, Green Eyes’, their song about a jealous girlfriend.

Anyway, this Jade had the most powerful voice on the forum
and anyone who dared question her or voice an opinion that
deviated
from hers in the slightest was throwing themselves into a pit of flame. Jade had just started a thread headed ‘WHY SHAWN MAKES ME FEEL LIKE CHOCOLATE!!!’

Just watched the ‘You’re So Amazing’ video for like the billionth time and decided that Shawn makes me feel like chocolate on a hot day. I MELT!!!!

This was followed by numerous posts full of OMGs and multicoloured dancing smileys, all the girls agreeing and discussing what chocolate bar they would be.

Wendy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She needed to get this first response right. Inside, she was that thirteen-year-old girl, desperate to be liked, to be part of the gang.

She typed:
Shawn makes me feel like
a
Haribo on a hot day – all sticky
☺
!!!

She hit enter and waited for the response. Would the girls find it too gross? Unfunny? Would they ignore her or, worse, attack her?

She hit refresh. To her enormous relief, two users had already posted responses full of rolling, laughing smileys. The first of these called herself F-U-Cancer – another of the site’s super users – and then the rest were off, discussing what confectionery Shawn made them feel like, and why. Wendy waited, but Jade didn’t post in this thread again. Instead, she started a new one, and soon all the girls were chatting about how long they had been OnT fans, as if it was a competition, and then they were all laughing about ‘noobs’ who thought they had the right to call themselves proper fans. Jade was the most scathing about noobs, as if anyone who hadn’t got into OnT from the moment they formed was an inferior being. Wendy contemplated joining in with this thread, either
defending
new fans or claiming she’d been into them since day one. She decided to leave it. She didn’t want to rile this Jade person further.

Wendy was going to have to work hard to show Lennon the progress he demanded. She got up and went to the coffee machine in the corridor. She had a feeling she was going to be pulling an all-nighter.

Chapter 17
Day 5 – Patrick

P
atrick’s teenage self had endlessly fantasised about the thing he was doing at this very moment: pushing his way through glass revolving doors into the cavernous atrium of a multinational music corporation. He quashed the thought immediately, castigating himself for such shallow egotistical whimsy when two teenage girls had so recently lost their lives. Besides, in his fantasy he was there because his Cure-rip-off band had just been signed for a six-figure sum and was being paraded around the offices as the Next Big Thing.
That
was never going to happen.

‘Posh, innit?’ said Carmella under her breath, looking around the mirrored foyer. Global Sounds Music – GSM – had, over recent years, taken over several other major record labels and was now the biggest multinational player in the market. Ten-foot-high glossy photos of the various labels’ most successful artists interspersed the mirrored panels, and the vast expanses of perfectly toned flesh, male and female, made Patrick subconsciously suck in his stomach and push back his shoulders. The music industry was meant to be in trouble, battered by free downloads and streaming, but there was little sign of a tightening of belts here.

‘I don’t recognise any of these artists,’ he commented in reply. ‘Do you?’

Carmella inspected the pictures. ‘Hmm. That’s – thingy, you know, that R&B guy who got done for doing 150 mph on the A3 in his Aston Martin last week. And that’s Selina Whatsername.
Married
to the Liverpool footballer.’

‘Helpful, Carmella.’

Patrick felt quite disgruntled at his lack of current pop knowledge. How had he got so old? He had always prided himself on his musical trivia skills, but now he realised he’d be stuck in any pop quiz question post about 1990. Still, it wasn’t the same these days.
Whenever
he heard snippets of chart music, he turned into his father – the words ‘tuneless racket’ sprang immediately into his head.

‘Well, you must recognise these boys,’ Carmella said, jerking her head towards the larger-than-life photograph of OnTarget. The four members were dressed in matching but different coloured suits, standing with their arms folded and self-important scowls on their faces. Patrick thought they looked like junior school kids – if junior school kids had tattoos, thousand-pound suits and artfully sculpted facial hair.

‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered, and Carmella poked him in the ribs.

‘Come on, you old fart,’ she said. ‘I mean, you old fart,
boss.
’

They approached a smiley young receptionist in a crop top with a bird’s nest of fake blonde and pink dreadlocks piled in a massive bundle on top of her head. Through her glass desk, Patrick could see a diamond belly bar winking at him, drawing attention to her flat midriff.

‘Morning,’ he said, holding out his badge. ‘I’m DI Lennon and this is DS Masiello. We need to talk to someone connected to the band OnTarget, the A&R director or a publicity director perhaps.’

The receptionist gaped at him, then snapped into action,
swivelling
on her chair to a computer monitor on the desk’s return, scrolling busily down a list of names and extension numbers, muttering as she did so, an expression of intense concentration on her round, babyish face. Patrick wasn’t sure whether she was talking to herself or to him. It was kind of sweet how seriously she clearly took her job, though. He felt foolish for requesting someone in A&R because of course in no way had OnTarget been ‘nurtured’ or ‘discovered’. They were as manufactured as a tin of biscuits, selected from the most addictive ingredients of competitors on a TV
talent show.

The girl slapped her forehead. ‘Duh, why am I looking through the address book? They’re all upstairs in the first-floor meeting room – not the band, of course, but everyone involved in their
campaign
. Their manager’s here as well. And Mervyn Hammond.’

‘Excellent,’ said Patrick briskly. ‘What time did the meeting start? Wait – did you say Mervyn Hammond, the PR guy?’

Everyone knew who Mervyn Hammond was, the celebrity publicist who had made a name for himself that was almost as big as that of his biggest clients. He graced the tabloids and TV chat shows on an almost monotonously regular basis.

The girl peered at her computer, and Patrick noticed how she wrapped her arms protectively around her body when talking about Hammond. ‘Yes, the one and only. Um . . . it started at nine thirty. Mervyn and Reggie, the manager, haven’t come out yet, so it’s probably still going on. Would you like to wait and I’ll let them know you’re here? That’s Kerry, Mervyn’s security guy, over there; do you want me to ask him . . . ?’ She gestured towards a belligerent-
looking
brick shithouse in a cheap suit loitering near the leather sofas.

Patrick glanced over at the man, noting the aggressive way his enormous thumbs were stabbing at the tiny buttons of a
BlackBerry
. ‘No, that’s fine. We’ll find our way up, thank you. You’ve been mo
st helpful.’

She blushed and fiddled with a dreadlock until her phone flashed to indicate a call, at which she swivelled back towards her
screen. ‘GoodmorningGlobalSoundsMusicLottiespeakinghow
canIhelpyou?’

As Pat and Carmella walked up the stairs, they exchanged small grins. Some people just made you smile, thought Patrick. He could see the shaven, wrinkled scalp of the security guard’s head, and that the man was playing Candy Crush on his phone.

‘Why does Mervyn Hammond need security?’ he mused ou
t loud.

‘Perhaps the guy’s really just a driver,’ said Carmella as they pushed open the fire door through to the first floor.

‘Could be . . . That’s OnTarget’s label,’ said Patrick, nodding at the brass plaque on the door etched with the words ‘GIDEON RECORDS’.

Carmella looked confused. ‘I thought Global Sounds was
the
ir label?’

‘That’s the company. It used to be a label, but now it’s the parent company. It bought out a load of smaller labels including Gideon.’

‘Oh,’ she said, none the wiser.

The office inside was huge and open-plan, not unlike a swanky version of their own office at the station, with half a dozen people seated at desks in the centre, and smaller meeting rooms and offices around the edges. Dance music blared out from wall-mounted speakers and Patrick made a face. ‘Couldn’t work with all this noise,’ he said to Carmella.

‘Ever thought of going on that TV show
Grumpy Old Men
?’ she replied.

Patrick laughed at her blatant lack of respect for him, then arranged his features into a sombre expression as a rake-thin woman in her thirties approached them. She had black wiry hair scraped back into a Croydon facelift and half a dozen chunky bead necklaces that looked as though their purpose was to weight her down and prevent her from floating away.

‘Can I help you?’

They showed their police badges again and Patrick explained why they were there. The woman glanced over at a roomful of
people
behind another glass wall who were chatting worriedly. They reminded Patrick of lizards in a tank. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘I’m Hattie Parsons, PA to the MD. They’re all in there,’ she said, pointing a bony finger.

‘What’s the meeting about, could I ask?’ Patrick thought he could tell already, by the expressions on their faces. He was right.

‘Er . . . it’s a sort of PR crisis meeting for OnTarget – they’re our biggest band. They’d probably welcome your feedback in there, actually.
The Sun
is about to run a big article about those girls who were killed being OnTarget fans. Obviously this could be a bit of a nightmare for the band, PR-wise.’

Patrick sighed heavily. ‘Bit of a “nightmare” for the girls and their families too, don’t you think?’

Carmella frowned at him, an expression that said
it’s not her fault
. Hattie was blushing as though it
was
her fault and her hand flew to her neck to fiddle with the beads.

‘OK. We’ll pop in, then. Thanks for your help.’

‘Would you like coffees?’ Hattie asked nervously. Carmella declined on both their behalf, although Patrick could have
mainlined
an espresso. He had barely slept last night after the less-
than-ide
al sex with Gill. They had lain like corpses next to one another for hours, both of them knowing the other was awake and yet neither acknowledging it.

Patrick pushed open the meeting room door and ushered
Carmella
in. Hattie Parsons followed. Six surprised faces looked up at them, conversation immediately stilled.

‘Sorry to interrupt. I’m DI Patrick Lennon and this is DS
Carmella
Masiello. We’re investigating the murders of two girls and I understand that you’re discussing this at the moment? We’d like to join you.’

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair for
Carmella
and took the remaining spare one next to her. The five men and one woman around the huge walnut table looked at them as though they had just beamed down from outer space.

‘Carry on,’ said Patrick mildly. ‘Don’t mind us.’ He took out his Moleskine notebook and a pen.

Mervyn Hammond – instantly recognisable with his shock of curly dyed black hair, like a clown’s wig – placed both his palms flat on the table. A small bag of nuts lay opened before him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, belligerently. ‘But this is a private internal meeting. This is most irregular. Of course we’re happy to help you with your enquiries, but we’re discussing publicity damage limitation here; it’s not going to be of the slightest interest to you types . . .’

‘That’s for us to decide, Mr Hammond,’ said Patrick, noticing a flicker of smug pleasure at being recognised cross the man’s flor
id face.

‘It’s fine, Mervyn,’ said the blond, hearty-looking man next to him, reaching across the table to give Patrick’s and Carmella’s hands a bone-squeezing shake. ‘Let me introduce you to everyone. I’m Tris Kent, managing director of Gideon Records.

‘Mervyn Hammond you obviously know already. That’s Reggie Rickard, OnTarget’s manager.’

Reggie Rickard gave a brief nod in Patrick’s direction without meeting his eyes. He was a small weedy man with thin brown hair who looked as though he needed a good wash. Patrick thought you’d never guess that he represented the biggest band on the planet. He more resembled someone who you would call to get rid of a wasp’s nest in the attic.

Tris Kent pointed across to the other side of the table. ‘
Lauren
Greene, senior publicity manager for Gideon, Graham Burns, OnTarget’s social media manager, and Kazuo Yamada, head of A&R.’

Carmella had discreetly taken Patrick’s Moleskine and was
writing
all this down as Patrick nodded at them all.

Lauren was a stocky woman dressed in flowing layers of the sort of cotton that Patrick thought was probably labelled ‘organic’, and Graham Burns looked exactly like all the hipster guys who
frequented
Shoreditch and Brick Lane these days. Carmella said that they were called D.H. Lawrences because they all sported bushy beards, slicked-back hair, and wore baggy cords and checked shirts. Burns even had a tweed waistcoat on and although his hair was dark brown, his beard had a distinctly gingerish hue. Patrick
mentally
labelled him The Fashion Victim. Kazuo Yamada was a tubby
Japanese
man of indeterminate age in a too-tight T-shirt.

‘How can we help you, then, Detectives, er . . . ?’

‘Lennon and Masiello. We want to talk to you about
OnTarget’s
online community.’ The room fell silent, all eyes on him. ‘You’re already aware that Rose Sharp and Jessica McMasters were both fans, but that alone isn’t what interests us. I understand nearly every girl under sixteen in the world is a fan. What interests us is that both were keen users of OnTarget forums and social channels.’

‘Like, as you say, a large proportion of teenage girls around th
e world.’

Patrick wished he could tell them about the perfume sprayed into the girls’ wounds, along with the fact that they now knew, thanks to Martin’s continued investigations, that both girls had been using apps or the Internet on their phones shortly before their deaths. Martin had worked out that both girls spent 82 per cent of their time online engaged in ‘OnTarget-related activities’. If they had met their murderer on the Internet, the chances were they had encountered him – or he had found them – somewhere in the OnTarget universe.

But all he could say was, ‘There are other details that I’m unable to reveal at this time that make us believe the two girls’ interest in OnTarget was almost definitely a factor in their deaths.’

Mouths dropped open around the desk and Graham Burns shook his head with what could have been sadness or frustration.

Patrick addressed Mervyn Hammond. ‘I’m concerned about this
Sun
article. If there’s any way at all you can use your influence to prevent it from being published, we would greatly appreciate it. The last thing we want is to engender a sense of panic among OnTarget fans and their parents. We’ll release a statement to the press when the time’s right, but for the moment, the less the
public
knows, the better. It brings out all the copycats and attention-
seeking
weirdos.’

Tris looked pained. ‘Believe me, that’s the last thing we want too. It’s what we’ve been discussing for the last hour. It’s hardly good for the band’s reputation, is it?’

Mervyn still appeared very put out. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about the article. The editor thinks this OnT story is juicier than anything else I can offer at the moment.’

‘Who would be in charge of monitoring the OnTarget forums and the social media activity?’ Patrick glanced at Carmella’s notes. ‘I assume that would be you, Mr Burns?’