The End of the Roadie (A Mystery for D.I Costello) (19 page)

At the morning briefing, Jim and Gary reported no success among the concert-goers at Brixton or Wembley. “Saw a few touts,” remarked Rick, “but none matching the description of the bloke we’re looking for.”

“Ah well,” said Angela, “we’ve tried, at least.”

“There’ll be other gigs,” said Jim.

Angela looked at him and nodded. “Yes, all the time. I bet you anything you like, if we went to them all we’d find touts among the audience doing good business. I’m not sure we should spend too many hours on this just now, though.” She turned to the back of the room where D.C.I. Stanway sat, leafing through the pile of emails. “What do you say, sir?” she asked.

Stanway looked up from his perusal. “I’m glad you’ve given it a go, of course, but I’m inclined to agree with you, Angie,” he replied. “It’s not as if we don’t have other avenues to explore.” He waved the sheaf of papers at no one in particular. “This is definitely promising. I presume you’re all of the opinion there’s only one person behind this collection of names and buzzmail addresses.”

“That’s the premise we’re working on, sir.”

“And what bearing, if any, does the blackmail of Brendan Phelan have on things?”

“Ah, sir, there’s been a development in regard to that. Gary and I chased it up last night after everybody had been dismissed for the day.”

“Yes?”

“We can’t say for sure there’s any tangible link to the
murder, or to the ticketing scam, but Gary and I went to see him yesterday. He’d had a call from someone claiming to be an associate of Oliver Joplin, who told him to expect the demand for payments to continue.”

“And?”

“Well, the fact is that friends and associates of Oliver Joplin seem to be rather thin on the ground.”

“What about the rest of the crew or the band?”

“That’s just it; he didn’t really mix with them.”

“Ah, a bit of a loner, was he?”

“Seems like it, sir. We think he worked the ticket scam with this other man, the one we’re trying to trace. And I’m assuming, until I learn otherwise, that it’s this same man who’s now continuing the blackmail.”

“You’ve got a kind of two-pronged attack, haven’t you? Following up these emails and trying to find this man.”

“That’s about it, sir.”

“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” said Stanway, rising to go. You’ve got quite a bit of trawling around to do between you.”

As the door closed behind him, Angela turned back to her team. “OK, everybody, see you all back here later today.”

The mobile phone lying on her bed hummed into life. A familiar face appeared on the screen. Her pulse raced as she picked it up and pressed “answer”. “Jack?” Her voice was nervous. Jack was her only connection to the crew that worked with Brendan.

The tone of his voice reassured her immediately. “Hi, Shortcake, told you I’d keep you in the loop, didn’t I?” he began, by way of a greeting.

Carla let out a sigh of relief. “Is it more concerts?” she asked, not bothering to hide her eagerness. “How many?”

“Whoa,” he laughed. “Steady on; it’s a bit too soon to be
planning another tour. The poor bloke’s got to have some rest. It’s just a one-off. You know Brendan had to pull out of that charity gig because of the shooting?”

“Yeah, loads of his fans were upset about that.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Anyway, the same charity has managed to set up another evening. A couple of other acts couldn’t do the last evening because of prior engagements. They’re available now, so it’s all going ahead for next weekend, the Saturday night.”

“Brendan’s headlining, I presume.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you put me down for runner?”

“Who else, babes?”

Carla smiled. “Thanks, Jack. Where is it?”

“We’re at the Apollo again. It’s come free unexpectedly. Some American band got sent back at immigration.” Carla remained silent for a moment. A shiver went through her. “You OK with that?” asked Jack.

“Yeah… yes, of course I am. Just for a moment, going back there was a scary thought, but I’m all right now.”

“That’s it. Stuff happens. You have to deal with it.”

“I know,” Carla gave herself a mental shake. “I’ll be fine,” she replied.

“That’s the spirit,” said Jack. “Doug and I are still fine-tuning the details. I’ll let you know when it’s sorted and what your call time is, OK?”

“OK. Thanks, Jack.”

Carla threw the phone on the bed, stood up and took a deep breath. This was going to be good. Only yesterday Shauna had asked if she’d been in touch with Brendan. Carla had allowed a little impatience to creep into her voice, to indicate the question shouldn’t have been asked. She had explained, again, how he needed space to assimilate what
had happened. Usually that would be the end of it, but almost immediately she’d intercepted a raising of eyebrows between Shauna and Paige. For the first time she wondered if they totally believed in her relationship with the star. To be exposed would ruin everything, and the humiliation would be unbearable. This gave her what she needed to reinforce her credibility. She pushed through into the living room where her two flatmates were listening to Brendan’s latest CD. They looked up expectantly.

“I’ve just had a call,” she announced. “Hot off the press. Brendan’s doing a charity gig to make up for the one he had to pull out of.”

“Oh, wow!” Two excited faces beamed at her, the doubts she had accurately sensed forgotten for the moment. “Ooh, tell us!” they pleaded.

“He’s just called me,” she said, flopping down onto the sofa and drawing one leg up underneath her with a nonchalant air.

“So he’s coming out of his – you know – shock?” asked Shauna.

“Oh yes; I knew he’d bounce back,” said Carla.

“When are you going to see him again?” queried Paige. Carla studied her nails wondering if a one-off gig would do the job she needed it to do. Still, it was all she had to work with. “He reckons the press are still hovering about watching his every move, so we’re going to wait until he goes into rehearsal. He thinks he’ll be back to his old self by then, bless him.”

Angela gazed out at an idyllic view across Buckinghamshire fields. She and Gary had been waiting fifteen minutes for Terry Dexter to finish a telephone call and join them. She thought back to her two previous meetings with him – the ‘Mr Angry’ of the first occasion and the much more pleasant individual of the second. “I wonder,” she mused aloud.

“You wonder what?” asked Gary.

“If I had that sort of relationship with a celebrity, same as he does… I wonder if I’d feel more like second fiddle or first minister.”

Gary laughed. He left his perusal of the bookshelves on the far side of the room and joined her in contemplating the landscape. “Neither, I would think. Like the manager; he’s got a good gig and I expect he knows it.”

“You think?”

“Yes. They were best mates at school, remember. And performing together ever since. It must mean he has a firm friendship with Brendan.” Gary looked across to where several pictures adorned one wall. They could see the two men smiling out at them in a variety of poses; with arms about each other’s shoulders, standing four-square facing the camera, with and without rifles, with and without braces of pheasants.

“It looks as though Brendan comes out here to shoot.” Angela turned back to the room and followed the direction of Gary’s gaze. “I wonder if the friendship is really mutual.”

Gary gave her a puzzled look. “You mean, he thinks more of Brendan than Brendan does of him?”

“Well, Brendan’s got to be the goose that lays the golden eggs, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t think you were a cynic when we first met.” Angela and Gary jumped at the sound of the voice. They turned to find Terry Dexter had entered the room by a door they hadn’t seen before. He came towards them, smiling, a phone in his hand.

“I’m not, normally,” replied Angela, returning his smile which, she could tell, wasn’t in the least offended. “But, I’m afraid, in my job I have to consider every option.”

“Quite right; I expect nothing less from the police,” he agreed, reaching them. “Can I get you something to drink?” Angela and Gary refused politely, and Terry led them to where some comfortable chairs were grouped in front of an imposing Yorkstone hearth.

“It’s genuine,” he said, sitting down and indicating they should too. He glanced around the well-appointed room. “Our friendship, I mean. Eleven, we were; our first day at senior school. That’s when we met. We got stuck side by side in class. The master, Brother Xavier, spent the first part of the morning introducing himself and trying to get an angle on us all. You know the sort of thing. ‘Who likes football, boys?’ And he put his fingers into his ears to make like he was blocking out the loud cheer that went up: ‘YAY!’ ‘Who wants to try out for the school team?’ More noise. ‘Me, sir – me, sir – me sir!’ ‘That’s good. Did you know we play a lot of rugger here too?’ And back went the fingers in the ears. It was all good fun, but I couldn’t help noticing Brendan’s responses were the same as mine; merely polite, just enthusiastic enough not to appear uncool on our first day. But when Bro Xavvy mentioned the school orchestra, we couldn’t keep our hands down. That made us laugh – to realize we had something in common, and there we were
sitting side by side among all these footballers and aspiring scrum halves. We became friends from that moment. And no, I’m not.”

“Not what?” asked Angela.

“Jealous of him. I’m a very competent musician, Inspector; a worthy member of the band. I don’t have Brendan’s voice. Neither do I have his charm. I’m not without talent, but I’m fully aware thousands of people wouldn’t pay vast sums of money to come and see me in concert. It’s something I accepted a long time ago.” He flashed a sudden smile. “It no doubt helps me to maintain what little humility I have.”

“Do I hear Bro Xavvy speaking there?”

Terry smiled. “You do. Now, there
was
a humble man; humble and holy, and there aren’t too many of those about. You wouldn’t think those qualities would make him popular, would you, but I can’t think of anybody who didn’t like Bro Xavvy.”

“I think Brendan remembers him fondly as well,” said Angela, carefully.

Terry threw her a shrewd glance. “Yes, he’s had cause to remember some things he said with particular clarity over the past eight years.”

“Ah.”

Terry nodded. “Yes, Inspector, I do know about the blackmail.”

“How many other people know?”

“Not many. Des, Brendan’s mum and me.”

“Not even Tilly? As few as that?”

Terry nodded. “It’s a very closely guarded secret. To be honest
I
wouldn’t even be in the know but for the fact that I once overheard Oliver making his demand, and I asked Brendan what was going on. He didn’t want to tell me but I pressed him. Oliver was clever enough not to get too greedy.
Brendan said he could cope. He said as long as the status quo remained he could put up with it, and maybe he was right, but it took its toll on him all the same.”

“Really?”

“Inspector, you can’t go on like that year after year. It wore him down slowly.” He paused. “He… he hasn’t written anything new in several years, and for Brendan that says it all. He was even beginning to have difficulty tweaking the old stuff. He’d reached the end of his tether.” A look a raw anger flashed across his face. “The bastard!”

Angela thought for a moment, aware of being on delicate ground. She only had Terry’s word for how he came to know of the blackmail, and no way at all of knowing if he was aware it looked set to continue.
In any case
, she reminded herself,
I didn’t come here to talk about that
. “Unless he’s prepared to make an official complaint, I can’t do anything to help.”

“He won’t do that. He’s terrified of what the media would do to him. Especially the way things have been in the last few years. The situation has become quite ridiculous in some cases, but Brendan did at least sleep with the girl. His defence would have a hard time.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” agreed Angela. “I actually wanted to talk about something else.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. This might sound a daft question, but would you mind giving me your email address?” Terry raised his eyebrows but made no comment as he reeled off an address that sounded nothing like any of those received by Oliver. Gary wrote it down slowly, making sure he had it correct. “That’s your only one, is it?” asked Angela, when he had finished.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard anything about a possible ticketing scam related to Brendan’s concerts?”

He opened his eyes wide at this. “Never. I mean, I’ve seen touts out in front of the theatre, of course, but – no.”

“What I’m thinking of is deliberate fraud.”

“Wow! It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Was Olly involved? I can just imagine that; bleeding Brendan backstage and ripping off his audience out front.”

Angela gave him an enigmatic smile. “We’re not sure of anything yet, Mr Dexter; the investigation is still in its early stage. I think that’ll be all for the moment.” She rose and Gary did likewise. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Oh, yes – yes, of course.” Terry got up and led them through to the front door.

“What do you reckon?” asked Gary, as he belted himself in behind the steering wheel.

“Oh, he’s got a motive, all right,” replied Angela. “He’s spent the last eight years watching his best friend being slowly destroyed. And as well as making a good living from him, I should think Terry Dexter is very loyal to his friends.”

As Angela and Gary were leaving Terry Dexter’s estate, Rick and Jim were being shown into the neat, cosy living room of Don Buckley’s house.

“A buzzmail address? No, I haven’t got one,” he said, in response to their query. He brought up his personal details on his mobile phone and handed it to Rick. “That’s my email,” he said.

“Thank you.” Rick wrote it down. “Have you ever received an email from this address – or any like it?”

Don looked blank and shook his head. “Sorry, it means nothing to me. It must be another D. Buckley. It’s not like Smith, but even so there are loads of Buckleys about.”

Rick and Jim exchanged looks, wondering where they could take this conversation. Jim had suggested as much
on the way. “I mean,” he’d said, “I know this email address business is important and we have to check it out, but it’s a long way to go for just one question. And whoever was trying to get in on Oliver’s scheme is going to deny having one of those addresses anyway, aren’t they?”

Rick could only agree; then it suddenly occurred to him, though they’d noted everyone’s movements on the night, nobody had been asked about their perception of where other people had been. He decided it could be an interesting path to pursue. “Do you remember the scene outside the stage door at the time of the shooting?” he asked.

Don narrowed his eyes as he thought. “Your colleague was already there when I came out to see what was going on. Apart from Brendan, of course. To be honest, my attention was mostly taken up with Brendan. D.C. Houseman asked me to get him a chair and something to keep him warm – for the shock. I know loads of people came out of the stage door just about then. Your bloke told them to go inside. Poor old Jack had to tug a flight case back through the door after struggling to get it outside.”

“When you went back inside for the coat, did you pass anyone?”

Don thought for a moment. “No. I’d decided the best idea would be to fetch my own coat for Brendan, otherwise I’d have to chase up someone with the key to Brendan’s room and that could all take time, so I went straight to our room. I was aware of other people going past me in the direction of the stage door – word got out very quickly. By the time I came back it seemed everybody was there and it all became extremely confusing.”

Rick and Jim thanked him for his time, and drove across London to Carla’s address. They found her sending emails, and she handed her phone over so they could check for
themselves. As they expected, she had no buzzmail address. She didn’t even look up as they left.

In his office at the Apollo theatre, Leanne and Derek were observing the same blank-faced bewilderment on Barry Grieves’s face as he answered the same question about his email address. “Sorry, I can’t help you,” he said, raising his shoulders and letting them fall again. “I can only assure you this is not mine.”

Like Rick and Jim, Leanne and Derek felt the need to prolong the interview beyond one simple question. Taking into account the most recent development, they took a slightly different route from their senior colleagues.

“Do you get many touts here?” asked Derek, as they were escorted back through the foyer. Before them, through the glass front door, they could see the concrete pillars of the Hammersmith flyover.

Barry Grieves grinned. “I’ve never bothered to count them, but I should think there are plenty. I don’t usually spot someone’s a tout unless I see them actually trying to sell tickets.”

“Have you ever been approached?”

“Oh, goodness, yes; I think we all have – every member of the staff here, I mean. It’s just a question of hurrying past and saying, ‘No, thank you.’ In the early days I used to stop and tell them I worked here and could see every show for free. But I don’t bother any more.”

“They earn enough from it to keep coming back,” mused Leanne.

“It seems so,” agreed Barry. “Of course, I’ve got to know one or two of the faces, but I’m sure what I see is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Would you have ever noticed a young man with distinctive tattoos down his arm?” asked Leanne.

Barry rubbed a hand across his chin. “Distinctive tattoos? Nothing springs to mind; distinctive in what way?”

“They’re an unusual design,” replied Leanne. “A hawk swooping down each arm.”

“Oh, that would be distinctive, wouldn’t it? But I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. Is he a tout?”

“We think he might be,” answered Leanne, with care. “We just want to ask him some questions.”

“Oh, I see. Well –” Barry pushed the door to let them go through – “a hawk swooping down each arm would certainly be noticeable. If I come across him, I’ll be in touch.”

Leanne and Derek thanked the theatre manager and found themselves standing in the street. “Good thinking with that last question, Leanne,” said Derek. Just at that moment, his mobile beeped. “Oh,” he said, looking at the screen. “It’s a text from Angela. Don’t bother to go and see Doug Travers. She and Gary have caught up with Jack Waring and the two men are together.”

“Oh, good. Let’s get back to the incident room, then,” said Leanne. “I sent for a copy of Kay Joplin’s birth certificate and it might have arrived by now.”

When Jack Waring answered Angela’s call and explained that he was already with Doug Travers, she was glad of the convenience. Two birds with one stone. They found the production manager sitting in the outer office playing with a pack of cards. He looked up and smiled in greeting as they came through the door. “Doug won’t be long. He’s just tying up some details for a gig for Brendan.”

“A one-off?” asked Gary.

“Yes – it’s related to the charity show he couldn’t do because of the murder. Lots of fans bought tickets just because he was in it, and it’s a shame for them to miss out.”

“Better than having to give all the money back,” said Angela. She watched, fascinated, as the cards moved in Jack’s hands.

“Something like that,” he agreed. “The charity has approached us, so we’re setting it up.”

“Either that’s a really obscure game of patience, or you’re practising card tricks,” she said.

He grinned. “Card tricks. What else? You’ve got to keep your hand in.”

“Do you produce coins from behind ears and rabbits from hats as well?” asked Gary.

“I’ve never bothered with the rabbits,” replied Jack. “But producing coins and other objects is bread-and-butter stuff. I’ve done a bit of children’s entertaining here and there – birthday parties and the like, you know. You need to have it in the repertoire. I wouldn’t be without the card tricks; but it’s the big illusions that really fascinate me.”

“Like sawing the lady in half,” said Gary.

“Yes, though of course, it’s one of the better-known ones. I’d really like to pull off something unusual. That’s always been my dream. Bit late now. I should have stuck to magic if I’d wanted to do that.” He smiled wryly, and with an astonishingly deft movement brought the cards together into one single stack.