The End of the Roadie (A Mystery for D.I Costello) (15 page)

Derek slumped forward again and this time stretched himself out on the floor in the approximate position in which Oliver’s body had been found. Gary went round so that he was standing at his head. A ripple of applause ran round the room followed by a brief silence.

“Hmm,” said Angela after a moment. “Not very convincing, is it?”

Derek scrambled to his feet, pretending to be offended. “What do you mean? I’m pretty good at the old amateur dramatics, even if I do say so myself.” He brushed his clothes down.

They all laughed. “You were wonderful,” soothed Angela. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve missed your calling. But I meant the scenario itself. That’s probably about the only way Brendan could have done it, if he’s the murderer, and the idea is not very tenuous. Apart from that, remember, no gun was found at the scene.”

“He could have put it in his pocket,” suggested Rick.

“That’s true; but the forensic team would have found it. They tested him for powder residue, remember, and took away the clothes he was wearing,” said Angela. “Mind you…”

“Yes, even if he’d hidden the gun the whole idea isn’t very tenable,” said Gary. “I heard the shot from the street and reached the body within a minute. I really don’t think it could have happened that way.”

“That’s a relief,” put in Leanne. “I’d hate to think of Brendan as the murderer.”

“Bit of a bummer all the same, though,” said Jim.

“Why’s that?” asked Angela.

“Well, from what you’ve now told us, he had a fantastic motive.”

Patrick was just lighting the candles on a dining room table set for two when Angela arrived home that evening. He’d used their best linen and the dinner service they’d received for a wedding present. “Ooh! This looks nice,” she said, coming into the room. She noted the two place settings. “Isn’t Maddie eating with us tonight?”

“No; she rang me from her office. Gary’s taking her out for a meal.”

“Oh – he didn’t say anything today; but then, why should he?” Angela looked at Patrick and raised her eyebrows. “Are they having a romantic candle-lit supper, do you think?”

“I assumed so, but have you noticed she’s not very forthcoming about the situation between them?”

“It might be because Gary and I work together. He doesn’t say much, either; but then, he’s a man, so I suppose he wouldn’t – not to me, anyway.”

He grinned. “I did try to push her a little. I said, ‘Oh, so this is getting serious, is it?’ Then, just as she was thinking up ways to change the subject, it occurred to me that
our
last romantic meal in a restaurant was interrupted by you being called to this murder, which put the kibosh on things a bit. But by then the meat had been out of the freezer a couple of hours so I thought, ‘Hey, why don’t we eat out – in?’” He leaned back spreading his hands to display the scene.

Angela laughed. She loved Patrick very much, but there were moments when she felt particularly blessed in her husband. “What a superb idea, darling. And what’s the name of this exclusive eating-out-in restaurant?”

“It’s known as the
Chez Nous
. A limited menu, to be sure, but this establishment offers exclusive postprandial delights; Maître d’ Costello, at your service.” He opened his arms wide and Angela moved across to be enfolded in his embrace. Their kiss, long and deep, came to an abrupt halt when the front doorbell rang. “That’ll be yon swain, no doubt,” said Patrick, going to answer it.

“Is the bathroom free?” asked Angela.

“Yes, I heard Maddie come out and head for her bedroom at least half an hour ago,” he replied from along the passage. “Evening, Gary,” he added, as he opened the door. “Come in. I think Maddie’s nearly ready. Go into the dining room, we’re just in there.”

Gary stopped and looked at the table in admiration when he came through the door. “That looks nice,” he said, with a grin. “Do you want me to keep Maddie out really, really, really late?”

“You cheeky detective constable! I’ll make sure I give you a horrible job tomorrow for saying that,” replied Angela, with a laugh. Just at that moment Madeleine entered. Her subtle make-up hit just the right note, her shining chestnut hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders, and her dress – a shimmery midnight blue, with a pashmina in a lighter shade thrown artlessly around her shoulders – presented an exquisite picture.

“Evening, Angie,” she smiled at her stepmother and caught sight of the table. “Hey, nice one, Pops!” She turned to her boyfriend. “Gary, we’d better get going; they don’t need us here.”

Gary wasn’t really listening. “You look stunning,” he said, hardly able to take his eyes off Madeleine. “That’s much better.”

The look of pleased satisfaction that appeared on
Madeleine’s face quickly gave way to bewilderment. “Thank you – er – better… than what?”

“If you remember, Maddie,” Angela cut in, “the last time he saw you, you were wearing your old school uniform and you had your hair in pigtails.” As she spoke she remembered Carla Paterson, affecting the dress and mannerisms of somebody several years younger.
Not quite the same thing
, she thought. Carla’s reasons were calculated in a most decidedly adult manner.

Madeleine’s brow cleared. “Oh, yes – the reunion the other night! That was a great get-together, Gary; we’re thinking of doing an ‘and boyfriends’ evening.”

“No problem,” he grinned, “just so long as your stepmother hasn’t got me on night duty of some sort.”

“I’ll get my dad to have a word if so,” she said, taking his arm and leading him towards the front door. “Night-night, folks; don’t get carried away by the romantic ambience. Oh – on second thoughts – get carried away all you like.”

The young man emerged from Ladbroke Grove tube station and made his way along the street. His backpack, slung over one shoulder, banged heavily against him with every step, but he didn’t seem to care. He stopped at a pub, but paused before entering to roll down the sleeves of his shirt, covering the distinctive tattoos on his arms. He hated concealing these works of art. They were a source of considerable pride for him and he’d been really surprised when Olly expressed reservations about them because they made him so easy to identify. He’d shrugged off his business partner’s misgivings and the matter had never arisen again.

Over the past year or so he’d begun to feel that he’d been relegated to the position of junior partner; he didn’t like it. They’d started off on an even footing and he couldn’t
be sure when or how he’d slipped down the ranking. Doing nothing about these tattoos offered a way of silently asserting his authority, his equality. All the same, he was surprised by how much Olly’s death had affected him. He felt cut loose, adrift. For a moment he’d felt complete panic, totally unnerved. What was he supposed to do? How could he carry on? So he’d welcomed the telephone call when it came. The caller seemed to know all about the business. Perhaps this could be a way forward, a fresh opportunity. But he had to play it carefully. The other person had to know he was talking to Olly’s business partner – not merely an employee. He went over to the bar, ordered a pint of beer and sat on the seat nearest the door, according to their arrangement.

Fifteen minutes later the man he was due to meet came in. He wore a smart overcoat with an expensive scarf hanging loosely around the neck, and carried himself with an air of assurance. The newcomer cast a quick look round and their eyes locked. He gave a barely perceptible nod before buying himself a half-pint of beer and joining the young man with the hawk tattoos, lowering himself onto a stool the other side of the table.

“You’re punctual, anyway; that’s a good start.”

The young man took a mouthful of beer. He wanted to say: “How would you know I was on time when you’re late?” But he was unsure of himself, intimidated by these confident people who moved so easily around the stars of the music business. He would most dearly have loved a niche on the inside of that world.

“OK. So what’s your full name?” asked the man, briskly. “I only know you as Alex.”

“Alex’ll do for now,” he replied. He wanted to appear cool, but he felt very nervous about hedging and knew he’d crack if
the other man insisted on a surname. The newcomer merely gave a shrug and a half-smile.

Alex took another pull at his beer. “So what do I call you, then?”

“H.”

Alex frowned. “What? Just ‘H’? Like the letter?”

“That’ll do. You’re going to need someone new to work with, then.”

“Hold on a minute. How about a little sensitivity? Olly’s not even cold in his grave. He was a good mate of mine,” protested Alex.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” came the calm reply; not a flicker of emotion. “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Look, Alex, I can’t hang about. Do you want to deal or don’t you?”

“Not necessarily,” answered Alex, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d got the stationery and the disc locked away in his flat. He thought he was in a good position to bargain.

The half-smile appeared again, this time accompanied by a gentle headshake. “I haven’t come here to play games, Alex. You need someone on the inside – someone who can walk the walk and talk the talk. You hear what I’m saying?”

The necessity of having someone on the inside had also been Oliver’s contention. Alex hadn’t understood why, then, and he still didn’t. When he’d broached the subject with Oliver, he’d been told there were things about the business only an insider could know. He assumed he’d get the same answer now. He could predict the outcome of this meeting and his heart sank. What ingredient made some people big-time while others could barely get a leg-up?

“So, have you brought the stuff?” asked the man.

Alex made a last-ditch stand. “No. I wanted to meet first –
see what’s on the table.” He injected a note of bravado into his tone, but that was all it was. His drinking companion didn’t bother to hide his contempt.

“Nothing’s on the table until I get a look-see at the material. Then we’ll talk.” The man’s dark blue eyes stared directly into Alex’s grey ones. “You’re not in a position to bargain. I know all about your little scam and I could get you taken off the street sooner than you could say Jack Robinson. I’ll give you a few days to think about it and see sense. We’ll meet here Friday at the same time. Only then you’ll bring me the stuff.”

“What makes you think there’s nobody else interested?”

The man didn’t even seem to consider this a possibility. “You play fair with me and I’ll treat you right,” he said, as he rose to go.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alex replied, with a hint of belligerence.

“What I mean is, don’t mess me about and you’ll keep your job,” said the man, with the tone of a headmaster holding out the hope of a grammar school place if only the pupil would knuckle down and work hard.

Alex didn’t have a great deal of confidence, or the highest of intellectual capability, but he did know when he was beaten. He watched the other man pick up his drink and finish it in one gulp and realized that it hadn’t ever been his intention to stay long; another blow to his self-esteem. All he received by way of parting was a curt nod. He sat and finished his drink in a silence that would have been angry without the other thing he had on his mind tonight. He’d been decisive and in control about that, anyway. A smile played around his mouth. He’d show them all. None of them knew he had another string to his bow.

Once outside the man walked slowly back to his car. He
made a call on the way. “Hi,” he said once the phone had been answered at the other end. “Went like a dream… Yes, it was a walkover. Yes – don’t worry.” He finished the call. Smiling to himself he got into his car and drove away, humming the melody from “Battle For Your Love”, his favourite of all Brendan’s songs.

Carla pasted the picture onto a fresh page in her scrapbook. She’d set aside this evening for the task of updating her records. Quite a few glossy pictures waited to be dealt with. This one showed Brendan and Terry Dexter in country gentleman mode. They wore Barbour jackets, wellington boots and flat caps; each holding a rifle slung nonchalantly over his arm. She assessed the way they held their weapons with a knowledgeable eye. She could handle a rifle well enough. She had won the junior section in her club two years’ running, though it wasn’t her favourite firearm.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted her reverie. “Come in!” she called.

One of her flatmates, Paige, entered, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. “Coffee?” she asked, lifting one of them.

“Ooh! You’re a star – thanks!” Carla reached out for the proffered cup.

Paige settled cross-legged onto the floor, leaning her back against Carla’s bed. “Ohhh – that’s a lovely one,” she breathed, gazing at the array of photographs awaiting attention. “That’s the spread from last week’s
Hello!
, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Pictures of Bren with firearms don’t really do it for me, but I thought I’d include them in my records.” Carla’s own familiarity with guns gave her the freedom to make comments like this but, in truth, she wouldn’t dream of missing out on any image of Brendan, in no matter what pose. She wouldn’t admit this, or that she kept a scrapbook
like any other aficionado. Working with Brendan gave her a different status from the rest of his fans. This had to be acknowledged.

“You’re very good about updating your archive,” remarked Paige. She had been well-trained. She gazed on her friend with earnest eyes. She knew she was lucky to be sharing a flat with her.

“Isn’t Shauna going to join us?” asked Carla.

“She’s popped out for some milk. I used the last for our coffees.” Paige using up the milk in making a coffee for Carla, and Shauna going to the corner shop for more, expressed the pecking order of the three flatmates very clearly. Carla, by reason of her perceived relationship with Brendan, ruled the roost; Paige filled the position of trusted lieutenant. Together they lorded it over a loose-knit collection of devoted Brendan Phelan fans, all of them deeply envious of Carla for being even within touching distance of the man.

Paige leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “You’ve got no further news about – you know?”

Carla shook her head. “The shooting has put all the plans out. Brendan’s really shocked.”

Somewhere along the line the runner had allowed Paige and Shauna to form the impression that it was only a matter of time before Carla and Brendan announced their engagement. She’d sworn them both to absolute secrecy, and they had eagerly and sincerely entered into the intrigue. Paige could hardly believe her luck in belonging to this exclusive inner circle, barely one remove from the star himself. Of course, she would have preferred to be the one chosen for such an intimate relationship; but she was realistic about the improbability of such a thing. She settled happily for the prospect of basking in her friend’s reflected glory, when the happy couple could finally go public.

Carla sat back from her task and took a sip of coffee. She gazed into the middle distance, her expression pensive. “He’s, like, gone into himself, you know?”

Paige nodded, her face earnest. “Poor Brendan! It’s such a shame you can’t be with him, to comfort him.”

“It’s not wise at the moment. He’s not in a good place and he can’t deal with ‘us’.”

Paige nodded her head in understanding. These were such personal confidences; the intimacy thrilled her.

“Was Shauna there today?” Carla asked, in a deliberate change of subject.

“She managed to get this morning off and she was there till about one.”

“Did she see anything?”

“Oh yes! At one point when the policeman on duty wasn’t looking she managed to get round to the side – you know – where there’s a back gate. I told you about it, remember, it was ajar and she managed to look through.” Carla nodded, concealing her impatience to hear every detail. “Well, she saw the policeman and woman who came the first time – the one whose picture we saw in the paper – remember?”