The Blissfully Dead

by Louise Voss

  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

  Patrick’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 most helpful.’

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

  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 out 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 their 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, no
ne 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-ideal 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 florid 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 the 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?’

  Graham Burns leaned forwards earnestly, brushing his foppishly floppy hair behind one ear. ‘That’s in my remit, yes. The official forum is hosted on a site that we own, though we use a specialist agency to monitor and track all the social activity and online mentions, of which there are many. And I mean many. Somebody tweets about OnTarget every second. Add to that all of the stuff going on across Facebook, YouTube, Tumblr, et cetera, and th
e noise is . . . intense. We’re talking about a community of many millions globally. Last time a new video was released, the servers almost melted and it was viewed on YouTube 600 million—’

  Patrick held up a hand, fearing he was about to be buried beneath a landslide of stats.

  ‘Let’s talk about the official forum first. Is there a private messaging system within it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But we can’t access PMs.’

  ‘You must be able to.’

  Burns pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid not. Privacy is a big thing among teenage girls.’

  ‘Except when they’re sharing semi-naked photos on Instagram,’ Mervyn said, guffawing. Patrick noticed Lauren Greene shifting uneasily from one chunky buttock to the other.

  ‘I could check if the two girls ever communicated privately on the forum,’ Graham said. ‘I just won’t be able to access the content of the messages.’

  ‘That would be useful, thanks.’

  Burns left the room, smiling obsequiously at Mervyn Hammond on his way out. He looked like a right lick-arse, thought Patrick.

  ‘So, OnTarget are pretty . . . massive, then?’

  Reggie, the band’s manager, cleared his throat and recited a long and boring list of statistics about sales figures and chart-topped territories. He had a strange way of emphasising random words.

  Carmella was scribbling frantically and looked relieved when Reggie ended with, ‘Tour of the US and Canada planned for summer. You could say massive, yeah.’

  Mervyn Hammond had said nothing since confirming that he couldn’t do anything about the Sun article. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you can do to help us with the newspaper, Mr Hammond?’ Patrick asked him.

  He shrugged and re-crossed his legs, showing a flash of red silk sock. ‘Sorry, Detective. Don’t the police have any powers?’

  ‘If only, Mr Hammond. If only.’

  Mervyn smiled his oily smile. ‘They might be interested in a profile of the cop who’s out to catch the killer. Could be useful . . .’