A man with a beard (artist, journalist or buyer? I had no idea) joined me and said, “Thought-provoking.”
“It is indeed,” I said, smiling and walking away.
I climbed the stairs to the second exhibition room where the sculpture was. It was more crowded than downstairs. I saw Jeff Pike at once. He stood, drink in hand, talking to Grant Atherton, whom I recognized by his height, trademark white suit and round dark glasses. Ric had told me to ignore Jeff, but make sure he got a good look at me. So I wandered over to an exhibit on a plinth, and circled it, giving him a chance to check me out from all angles.
What I was looking at was a life size, realistically modelled naked female torso, gagged, blindfolded and tied up. Made in resin. Its title, I saw from the catalogue, was Dreams of Another Death. Nice.
“I’m buying that one,” said Jeff Pike. He’d moved to my side so softly he made me jump. There was something feline about him; he was slim, five foot ten, with dark hair, a triangular scrap of beard on his chin and a face slightly too narrow to be handsome.
“Are you? Why?” I was genuinely curious.
“I’ve had my eye on the artist since he was at the RCA. He’s going to be big. I’ve got a few of his student pieces, but this is something else.”
I moved to the next plinth. Jeff Pike followed me. A severed arm, the hand clutching a mobile phone. Life Beyond the Grasp of The Artist. It was no good, I was not going to be able to fake enthusiasm for this junk. At a technical level they were made with skill. I could have done without the sensationalism of the subjects, a deliberate attempt to make money by shocking the public. But it was the stupid titles that really got me.
“So what does Dreams of Another Death mean?”
“Don’t ask me, darling. Artists like those poncy titles. They get taught to do them at art college. It’s the sculpture that matters.” His hand groped the badge at my waist, turning it so he could read what it said. Alarm shot through me at his touch. “Vikki Wilson. La Vista magazine.” He looked me over, quite blatantly.
“Jeff Pike, isn’t it? I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m writing a book about The Voices and…”
“You rang me the other day.”
“Yes.” I lowered my lashes, and raised them again. “You weren’t terribly forthcoming.”
“So you thought you’d have another crack at me here?”
I smiled winningly at him. “That’s right.”
He paused, staring at me. Some calculation was going on in his mind. “Okay, Vikki, I’ll answer your questions. But you should know, I make things up. I can’t be trusted. I don’t always tell the truth.”
“Well, can you make an effort to this time? I don’t want to be sued.” I got the recorder out of my handbag and switched it on. A man approached Jeff with some papers and a pen.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr Pike, would you mind…”
“Fuck off, I’m talking to Vikki here. Grant knows what I’m buying.”
The man flinched, apologized and made off. Jeff Pike focused on me again. “What d’you want to know about? My childhood? There’s a lot of stuff I tell the press. Maybe you’ve read some of it. My mother had it off with most of the Rolling Stones, so I know one of them’s my dad, but not which one. I was adopted after I was found scavenging for food in wheelie bins, that’s what I usually say. My foster mother had sex with me when I was nearly fourteen.”
He stopped, as though waiting for me to express incredulity or shock. I didn’t express anything. His eyes were fixed on mine, brownish-yellow, their pupils dilated. I wondered if he’d been snorting coke. He continued, talking fast.
“Hobbies, you probably want to know about those. Amateur taxidermy when I was a kid. Roadkill squirrels, neighbourhood cats when I could catch them…I wasn’t much use at it. They were all stinking, lumpy and balding, their eyes dropping out. Now I collect art. YBAs - Young British Artists. I’ve got one of the best private collections in the world. The bigger, more stomach-turning stuff. You can say I specialize in art involving entrails. That’s a new one. You can be first with it…or what about my real name? Jeremy Pendragon-Smythe. Or Keith Whylie. Or Cynthia Splott.”
I interrupted his monologue. If he was going to talk, he could talk about what I’d come to hear. “The book will focus on Bryan Orr’s death. Can I ask where you were on the day Bryan died?”
“My flat in Mayfair.”
“On your own?”
“No, darling. With a woman.”
I tried to remember the questions we’d listed. I didn’t feel I was doing very well so far. I doubted Jeff was going to tell me anything to the point.
“Do you believe Ric Kealey killed Bryan Orr?”
“Not really. Can’t see him doing it. But what do I know?”
“So if it wasn’t Ric, who do you think it might have been?”
“Maybe it was Emma. Ah, the lovely Emma. Everyone wanted to give Emma one, and nearly everyone did.”
“Did you?”
“I’m still waiting in line. She hasn’t got round to me yet. Busy lady. Very taken up with Phil right now. My theory is she was an undercover agent for the Bunny Batteries, with a mission to kill. So the Bunnies would get right to the top, which they did for a while once half our line-up was dead. Her secret assignment: infiltrate The Voices, one man at a time. Now that I think about it, that’s quite probable, because she said she was a temp, but she could only type with two fingers.”
Jeff was standing too close, nearly touching me. I could smell cigarette smoke, and his aftershave, sweet, spicy, and too liberally applied. I wanted to back away, but stood my ground. He was still talking.
“Or was the killer someone off the street? A mad fan. Look at John Lennon. You wouldn’t believe the lengths the fans go to. Some of them’ll do anything just to get close to you. Pretend to be a journalist, crash a private view, say they’re writing a book…”
Bloody hell, he’s rumbled me.
He smiled unpleasantly, watching my face, only inches away. “I remember that La Vista interview. Largely because of what happened afterwards in the car park between me and Vikki. I don’t know why, it stuck in my mind - and it wasn’t you, was it darling, with your lacy knickers pulled down in the back of the Merc? That Vikki had smaller eyes and bigger tits. So why don’t you tell me who you really are?”
My pulse rate shot up. I deeply did not like this man. It wasn’t as if I was getting anything out of him, either. I decided to establish a new cover story and leave fast. I took a step back. “Okay, I’m not Vikki Wilson. I am writing a book about the Orr case. I’m not a journalist or a published author, I’ve never written a book before, so I thought no one would speak to me. That’s why I said I was her. I’ll be going now.”
I switched off the recorder and put it in my bag. Jeff Pike was smiling a little, his eyelids lowered. He didn’t believe me.
“You know what I think, babe?”
I do not like being called babe. I could feel my eyes narrowing.
“I think you made all that up just so you could get to meet me.”
With hindsight, I can see I should have agreed; this was my chance to leave him satisfied; give him an explanation that flattered him. I might even have got some information out of him, something I’d signally failed to do so far.
But he’d annoyed me. I laughed. “Oh please. Not all women are desperate to throw themselves at you, you know. There’s the odd one or two who really aren’t interested, who can’t actually discern your appeal. Like me, for instance.”
He leered. That is the only way to describe his expression. “Oh yes, so why did you ring me, chase me here dressed like that and chat me up? I don’t buy that book crap.”
I made to go, and his arm came out, hand flat on the wall to stop me.
“There’s just one thing you were after, sweetheart.”
“You don’t really like women, do you?” That made his smile vanish. I had nothing to lose now. A sudden revelation struck me, and I voiced it without t
hinking. I said, “You fancied Ric Kealey.”
I’d hit the bull’s-eye, I was certain of it. His face became venomous, murderous. He looked like a man capable of sticking a knife in another human being. I was glad we were not alone. He lowered his arm, turned away from me to Grant Atherton and raised his voice.
“Grant, this woman is pissing me off. She says she’s from La Vista, and she’s not. She’s a ligger.”
Chapter
13
*
I was still upset when I got home. I’ve never been escorted from a building before between two security men, with everyone staring at me wondering what I’d done. It was humiliating. Grant Atherton, in front of a roomful of people, told me he didn’t ever want to see me there again, and the fact that I had no desire to return was small consolation.
Back at Fox Hollow Yard I took off my high heels and stomped up the stairs to the flat. Ric was on his mobile, striding to and fro. Dog sat behind the sofa. He looked at me, then his head went back to following Ric’s movements.
“Phil, get used to it. I am not going to fucking Scotland.”
……………..
“So pay them what they want to do it fast.”
……………..
“No! I don’t give a shit. I’ve had it with your excuses.”
……………..
I sat on a kitchen stool, flushed and fuming, dumped my shoes on the floor and my bag on the counter. They’d taken back my catalogue and badge. Ric gave me a distracted glance.
“No, you listen to me. Get that account sorted out this week, if you don’t want me coming round to see you. I’m not discussing it.”
He hung up, breathed deeply, swore, turned to me, and registered my state.
“What’s the matter?”
“Jeff Pike. He’s loathsome. I feel I need a shower.”
“Jesus, what happened? You’re shaking.”
“He knew I wasn’t Vikki Wilson. He played along for a bit, because he thought I was coming on to him, then he got really nasty. He had me thrown out.”
“Shit. Did he say anything useful?”
“Not that I noticed. Maybe you’ll spot something.” I got out the recorder and shoved it at him. “Jeff doesn’t like women.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t fancy them; just that he doesn’t like them. If you ask me, he’s bisexual. But in denial. I think he was keen on you. When you were alive, if you see what I mean.”
“Me?” Ric’s laugh was uneasy. “Why d’you say that?”
“Because he didn’t like your being close to Bryan. Because Dave said he was devastated when you died. Because of his face when I said he fancied you. And I’m wondering whether he might have killed Bryan in a jealous rage because he was your best friend.”
Ric stared. “It’s all those detective stories, Caz, they’ve got to you. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. Jeff’s not bi. He’s married with children.”
“You said yourself that hadn’t affected the way he behaved.”
“With women, yes. I’d have known if…if he had…” Ric frowned. He paced across the room and gazed absently into the twilight outside the windows, then came back. “He wouldn’t have kept quiet about it all those years, surely… Now I think about it, it did just cross my mind once or twice in the early days. While we were touring, living on top of one another. But right from the start there were hordes of girls hanging around. Stand still and they’d climb all over you. We were both getting laid every night, and Jeff never made a move on me, or said anything. He’s never had a boyfriend, as far as I know.”
“You should have told me!”
“I’d forgotten it. It was just a passing thought I dismissed and didn’t think of again.”
“Well, any other passing thoughts, share them with me, will you? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come out with it like that.”
Ric wasn’t listening, he was thinking back. “It sort of figures. I think you could be right. Weird. A few times Jeff saw me home when I was paralytic, and you wouldn’t think he’d bother, you’d think he’d be the type to leave you in the gutter. And he did talk to me more than the others. He’d tell me things…”
“What sort of things?”
“Stuff about himself. One time we were on tour in Manchester, and after the gig we stayed up smoking weed. Just him and me. We saw the sun rise. He rambled on for hours with me sitting there stoned, listening. His childhood was pretty shit. He was put into care when he was five or six, spent some years in a children’s home, then was fostered. You know that story, about his foster mother?”
“Yes, it’s on the recorder.”
“He’s lying. It wasn’t his foster mother, it was her husband. She didn’t put a stop to it. A lot of other stuff too. That’s one reason he’s the way he is.”
“How d’you know it’s the truth?”
“It was how he told it. Not slick or glib, he could hardly get the words out. All those stories he tells, it’s just to protect himself. Yeah, he’s a tosser, but he comes across as worse than he is. When you know what his childhood was like, you can understand.”
I felt mean. I’d disliked Jeff, and shown it; Ric had seen past his obnoxious attitude, sympathized, and been kind to the guy. Even if he had got into fights with him and made his nose bleed. Yes, Jeff was awful, but even awful people have feelings. I should have been nicer; it hadn’t even occurred to me; I could feel my face fall. Ric’s mobile rang, a distinctive snippet of classical cello.
“Fuck. That’ll be Phil because I hung up on him. He’s being a right pain in the arse. Since he got nowhere with you, he’s done nothing but nag me.” His arm went round my shoulders and he gave me a quick squeeze, while he got the phone out of his pocket. “Don’t worry about Jeff. He’s an arsehole. He’s used to people not liking him.” Ric pressed the button and put the phone to his ear, scowling.
“For fuck’s sake, Phil—”
A pause. All expression disappeared from Ric’s face. He said nothing. He ended the call, and laid the mobile carefully on the counter, as though it might explode.
“Who was it?”
“Jeff.”
The phone rang again. Ric didn’t pick it up.
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Ric?‘ like he couldn’t believe it.”
“Bloody hell.” We gazed at each other in consternation. “Did he really know it was you? He couldn’t be sure just from what you said, could he?”
The ring tone cut off. Three seconds later it started again.
“I was an idiot not to check who it was.”
“I should have rung him from my phone.”
“Too late now.”
We both stared at the mobile. It went quiet, then rang, and went on ringing, the elegant little tune going round in a loop.
“Fucking hell,” said Ric.
Chapter
14
*
“Ric is that u? PLEASE TALK TO ME. Jeff.”
Just one text message, but over the next two days, Jeff rang Ric’s mobile repeatedly. The haunting cello fragment took on sinister overtones. Ric didn’t want to put the phone on silent, in case Phil rang; so he had to keep glancing at the caller’s name, and ending the call. He turned it off overnight, and woke to a list of unanswered calls. I was cautious answering my mobile, in case Jeff had got my number from Dave Calder. I got jumpy whenever the doorbell rang, and let the answer machine screen my calls on the business phone.
“If he turns up, don’t let him in, and deny all knowledge of any rock star, dead or alive. But there’s no way Jeff can find your address when he doesn’t know your name.”
“Suppose he asks Phil?”
“Phil won’t tell him. And he’d be straight on to me to complain about you talking to Jeff. So it’s cool.”
I suspected Ric was just saying this to reassure me. I noticed he went to the window to check Fox Hollow Yard each time he was going
out, the same as I did. I sincerely hoped Jeff wouldn’t turn up. I would lie to him, now his suspicions were aroused, even less convincingly than before. And of all the people who might have stabbed Bryan Orr, he was the only one I could imagine doing it.
On the third day, the obsessive calling suddenly stopped and I relaxed a little. Not entirely, because I’ve noticed that people are very good at finding ways to do things they really want to do; and if Jeff Pike really wanted to track Ric down, and it was humanly possible, he would do it.
Meanwhile there was Emma. Emma the beautiful, the enigmatic, whom everyone had fancied. The morning after I went to Loop X, Ric looked up from the game he was playing.
“Give Emma a ring.”
“Emma’s the last one, right?” I said to Ric, checking. “After that, if we haven’t got anywhere, you’ll leave it?”
“Yeah. I’ll make a decision; go abroad again with the money, or go to the police. Unless we get some more leads.”
I took a deep breath, handed him my phone and he put in her number. Ric has a fantastic memory for such things, unlike me. I can barely remember my own phone number. He can recite the value of Pi to a hundred decimal places; he learned it because, he said, it’s a beautiful number. I told him he had to be the best-looking geek in the world.
“Hallo? Is that Emma Redfern? It’s Vikki Wilson here, from La Vista magazine.”
“Oh, hi, Vikki, how can I help you? Do you want an interview?” Her voice was very attractive; light, but slightly husky. She’d make a fortune doing voice-overs.
“Actually, this isn’t for La Vista. I’ve been commissioned to write a book about Bryan Orr’s murder. I wondered if you’d agree to talk to me?”
“Poor Bryan. Such a tragedy, so much talent. For a long time I didn’t even want to think about it. Who is publishing the book?”
“Harper Collins.”
“Do you know when it’s coming out?”
“They want the launch to coincide with the anniversary of Bryan’s death. Early April next year.”
Remix (2010) Page 8
