Warhol's Prophecy (20 page)

Also listed were the promoters, limo firms for transporting VIPs, hotels, helicopter transport firms . . .

It was never-ending.

Hailey smiled. She had missed this job more than she realized.

The organization involved, the hectically ringing phone – it was like a circus where all the acts were insane and the trainers were on drugs. You never knew what was going to happen, from one minute to the next. And she loved it. She felt energized. For the first time in months, she felt as if she was in control. Despite the organized chaos before her, she revelled in the situation.

She decided to call the local office of Nicholas Barber, the MP Marsh had persuaded to attend. She wanted to know what time he would be arriving, and there had also been a fax from his secretary requesting further details of the gig itself – more particularly, how many backstage passes Barber was entitled to. His twin daughters, the fax informed her, were huge fans of Waterhole, so Mr Barber would appreciate it if his daughters could meet the band.

‘You and twenty thousand others,’ murmured Hailey.

She was about to pick up the phone, when it rang.

At last: Trudi without the ‘e’?

‘Hello,’ she began. ‘SuperSounds. Hailey Gibson speaking.’

‘How’s it going?’

She recognized the voice instantly.

‘Adam?’

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Walker.

She sat back in her chair.

‘I know you must be busy,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to know how your first day back at work was going.’

Why couldn’t Rob have done that?

‘It’s great,’ she told him. ‘As if I’ve never been away. The music business is still as crazy as always.’

‘The whole world’s crazy, isn’t it?’ Walker chuckled.

‘Are
you
working today?’ she asked him.

‘Always working, Hailey. If I don’t work, I don’t eat. It’s a great motivator.’

‘How did you get my number?’

‘I looked up the number for SuperSounds, then just called their switchboard. The receptionist put me through straight away.’

‘Listen, Adam, I’m glad you rang. I wanted to say sorry for last night – when you called round.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘Oh, come on, you don’t have to be so tactful. You must have noticed the atmosphere.’

‘Just a bit.’ He laughed.

‘Rob can be so bloody rude sometimes. I do apologize for his attitude. And he and I’d just had a few cross words. So you sort of walked into the middle of it.’

Why tell him about their argument? Looking for his sympathy?

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘No harm done.’

‘Well, I’m sorry anyway.’

‘Prove it,’ he said flatly.

‘How?’

‘Have lunch with me tomorrow. And this time
I’m
paying. What do you say?’

She smiled.

‘I’d love to. Thank you.’

Ask him about that phone call late last night. Ask him if it was him who phoned.

‘What time, and where?’ she wanted to know.

Surely it wasn’t him who called? Why should he?

He gave her the name of a pub about five miles out from the city centre. She wrote it down on a piece of paper.

She knew it: the Happy Brig.

‘How does one o’clock suit you?’ he asked.

‘It suits me fine. See you there tomorrow.’

‘I hope the rest of your day goes well,’ he said. ‘Take care.’

Such a nice thought.

She put down the receiver.

One o’clock tomorrow.

Hailey folded the piece of paper and slid it into her purse.

T
HE AFTERNOON HAD
dragged interminably, thought Rob. It seemed as if each minute had become stretched and elongated – to ensure that time moved excruciatingly slowly.

He had glanced at his watch and up at his wall clock more times than he could ever remember doing before.

He’d walked back to work after Burnside had left him in the pub, ostensibly to clear his head, but also to avoid reaching the office too quickly.

When he entered, Burnside had glanced at him from behind his desk but merely shook his head before turning back to his work.

For the rest of the afternoon the two men hadn’t spoken.

Rob looked at his watch yet again, and saw that it was almost five o’clock. He was going to leave early: get out of this place, get home.

He’d seen Sandy only twice that day. When she first came in, and when he left for lunch with Burnside.

Both times she’d smiled at him.

There had been something behind that smile that he hadn’t liked: a kind of smugness that irritated him. He had tried not to look at her too closely.

Why not? Like what you see a little too much?

Once or twice he’d heard her voice outside his office, but otherwise, he’d managed to avoid her.

This couldn’t go on, he tried to persuade himself more forcefully.

What couldn’t go on? These feelings you have for her?

And yet he had managed to convince himself he
had
no feelings for the woman. Never had. Never would.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on his office door.

Sandy Bennett walked in before he had time to call out.

‘This fax just came through,’ she told him. ‘I thought you might like to see it.’

‘Show it to Frank, I’m getting ready to go home,’ he told her.

She was wearing a dark brown jacket and trousers, and Rob couldn’t help but notice how tightly the trousers clung to her legs and buttocks.

Sandy laid the fax on his desk.

‘It’s about those vans you were going to buy,’ she continued. ‘They’ve agreed to meet your price.’

‘I can read it myself,’ he muttered.

‘What’s wrong, Rob? Are you in
that
much of a hurry to get home? Worried that Hailey might check up on you?’

He didn’t like the disdain in her voice.

‘Leave the fax,’ he said flatly.

‘Do you want me to send a reply?’ she asked.

‘No. I want you to get out of my fucking office.’

‘Charming. You didn’t throw me out of your hotel room so quickly, did you?’

‘Get out,’ he snapped, reaching for his jacket.

‘You were pleased to see me – don’t deny it. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a good time. I know
I
did.’

‘Is that why you sneaked out in the morning before I woke up?’

‘Perhaps you should be grateful I did.’

‘What the fuck is
that
supposed to mean?’

‘Well, if I’d still been there the next morning, you might never have got out of the room at all.’ She smiled. ‘We’d probably still be there now.’

‘I doubt it.’

He pulled on his jacket and pushed past her to the door.

‘See you tomorrow, Rob.’ She smiled. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to wear? I know you like that skirt with the split.’

He took a step towards her, his face dark.

‘Don’t push it, Sandy,’ he rasped angrily.

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Leaving her inside.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she murmured, her smile narrow.

S
O MANY BOOKS
. So many titles. So many authors.

But not the one he sought.

Adam Walker wandered slowly up and down the racks of shelves in the library, eyes flicking over each of the titles.

He had already looked for an alphabetical listing, but found nothing.

He had the right name: Caroline Hacket. But there was no sign of anything written under that name.

Perhaps she’d used a pseudonym, he wondered.

No, surely Hailey would have mentioned that.

Besides, why would Caroline Hacket want to hide her identity behind a fake name? Why would
anyone
seek anonymity when they could have notoriety instead?

Hailey had mentioned that neither of Caroline’s books had been big sellers, Walker remembered. That probably explained why he’d been unable to find either in any of the city’s bookshops.

Hence this trip to the library.

He continued to walk slowly between the high shelves, occasionally passing other borrowers as he moved.

The library was fairly deserted, apart from two pensioners sitting reading newspapers, and a woman returning books at the counter.

Walker tried the Thriller section. Nothing.

He looked under True Crime. Nothing.

It made no sense. Her books
should
be here.

He glanced again at titles in the True Crime section.

Beyond Belief

The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer

10 Rillington Place

Helter Skelter

He pulled the last volume down and flipped it open.

Photos of Charles Manson.

Of Sharon Tate.

One famous for being an actress, the other famous for ordering her death.

Perhaps
more
famous, for that reason.

He looked at another of the books.

At the photos of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.

Famous
.

More people knew
their
names than knew the names of their young victims.

The book itself smelled old, as did the next one he took down and flipped through.

There was a picture of John Reginald Halliday Christie.

He had murdered nine women.

Gassed them. Raped them. Strangled them. Then hidden their bodies in the walls and garden of his house.

Famous.

Walker shook his head.

More titles.

Serial Killers

Hunting Humans

Deviant

Who Killed Hanratty?

A woman in her sixties ambled past him, glancing first at him, then at the books he was perusing.

She gave him a brief, distasteful look and hurried on towards the Romance section.

Walker smiled to himself, then headed for the information desk.

The young woman who sat behind it was sipping tea from a mug that bore the legend:
I’M IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER BITCH
.

She looked up and smiled as Walker approached.

‘I need some help,’ he said, grinning.

She nodded inquiringly.

‘I’m looking for some books,’ he told her.

‘You’re probably in the right place then.’ She ran appraising eyes over him, and smiled.

He smiled again, that infectious smile.

‘I suppose I asked for that,’ he said.

‘Which books?’ she prompted.

‘Well, I don’t actually know their titles,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Just the author. Her name is Caroline Hacket. Someone told me they’re crime non-fiction.’

‘Hacket,’ the young woman murmured as she punched in the surname, looking at her computer.

Walker stood studying her as she watched the screen. She was aware of his gaze.

‘This will only take a minute,’ she said. ‘It’s very thorough. It gives you date of publication, ISBN, publisher – everything really.’

‘Don’t worry too much about it.’

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she looked up at him, then back at the screen.

‘Hacket, Caroline,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Two titles. Do you want me to order them for you?’

‘Yes, please. What are they called?’

‘Well, you were right, they
are
crime books. One’s called
Murderous Minds
and the other is
Fame and Foul Play.
’

Walker smiled.

H
AILEY SIPPED AT
her mineral water as she glanced around the dining room of the Happy Brig.

It was what purists scathingly called a plastic pub, complete with reproduction horse-brasses on the artificially aged walls, and a huge fireplace stacked high with logs that would never feel flame.

She and Rob had visited the place two or three times, and always enjoyed the food there.

Today was no different. All that had changed was her companion.

She looked across the table at Adam Walker, who was finishing his steak, pushing the final piece into his mouth.