‘Do you know a woman called Chloe Burlington?’
‘No,’ the woman said. ‘Why?’
‘What’s this about?’ the husband asked, with well-mannered hostility. Belsey produced the lawyer’s memo slip.
‘Is this your home phone number?’ They both peered at it.
‘Yes,’ said the husband. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Has anyone else used your phone in the last day or so?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone had access to the house?’
‘No.’
Belsey looked beyond the couple. Radio 4 playing, smell of a bolognese; post on a ledge by the door addressed to John and Melissa Shaw.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ he said. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘What’s it got to do with Conor?’ the man said, looking at Belsey like he was a pervert.
‘I don’t know.’ Belsey found a pen in his jacket and wrote his number on the back of the memo slip then gave it to them. ‘If anything happens, if you notice anything strange, give me a call. But – I think this is a mistake. So don’t worry.’ He stepped back, apologised again, turned and heard the door close behind him.
He walked to the end of the path but didn’t go back to his car. He looked back, waited to see if they peered out of the window. No peering. He could see, through the bay window, the boy on the floor, drawing. No parents with him. After a shock like that, some bloke knocking at the door asking after your kid, you’d go to him. The boy sat alone on the edge of a rug, pens spread around him. Belsey took a step back towards the house: the radio had been turned off. Melissa Shaw hadn’t heard of Chloe Burlington. Yet they had the radio on and it had been news all day.
None of those things necessarily meant anything.
A woman was watching him from the window of the neighbouring house. She dropped the curtain when he caught her looking.
He drove a few blocks west, stopped, checked the news on his phone. They’d released a series of photographs from the last couple of years of Chloe Burlington’s life. She had a very bright, attractive smile and it was identical in every one: Chloe on a beach in a bikini; in jodhpurs with a horse; in a ball gown at an opera house.
There was a voicemail from Steve Tanner. ‘You’ve left us with no choice, Nick; we’ve had to get a warrant on you. Do yourself a favour and walk into a police station, mate.’ Gabby wasn’t answering his calls. He found Terri Baker’s business card. She did answer.
‘We met briefly at Amber’s,’ Belsey said. ‘Yesterday. I’m the new security guy.’
‘Nick. How nice of you to call.’
‘I have some concerns about Amber and I wanted to see if they connected with your experiences. Do you reckon we could grab a coffee?’
‘Of course. What kind of concerns?’
‘Just some things I’d rather not discuss over the phone. You seem to be in the know. This might be of interest.’
‘Well I’d really like to talk to you,’ she said. ‘The coffee’s on me.’
14
TERRI SUGGESTED SOHO HOUSE. They could find a discreet corner, she said.
The whole place was a discreet corner. Belsey must have passed the building on Greek Street a thousand times without noticing that it existed and he wasn’t allowed in. One of London’s private members’ clubs, as understated and forbidden as any well-preserved townhouse. The entrance hall was subtly plush. A staff member beside a desk smiled and waited for something.
‘I’m here to see Terri Baker,’ Belsey said.
‘He’s with me.’ A man hauled himself out of an armchair at the side and approached fast.
‘Am I?’
The man had grey hair expensively cut, a pink shirt. He looked possibly CID. Belsey checked for police kit. He saw a gold watch, gold cufflinks: no kit.
‘Andy Price,’ the man said. ‘We spoke on the phone.’ He gripped Belsey’s hand. He stank of cigarette smoke. ‘Just wanted to say hello. I’ll take you to Terri.’
‘I’m sure I can find her.’
‘This place is a maze.’
Price led him into the club. They went up carpeted stairs, past a couple of nice bars, a dining room lined with bookshelves. ‘So are you going it alone?’ Price said.
‘I’m not going it at all.’
‘I’ve had interest.’ Price scratched his nose. ‘Quite healthy money. Not crazy, but tidy. Everyone wants to know who you are.’
‘That’s the problem.’
‘Your call, Nick. Just didn’t want you to miss out. What are you going to say to Terri?’
‘I’m going to ask her why Amber Knight’s killing people.’
Price laughed. They stopped on a landing. He took hold of Belsey’s lapels and adjusted his jacket. He brushed some imaginary dirt off the arms.
‘She’ll take advantage,’ he said.
‘That’s not what I’m worried about right now.’
‘Everything will change when the papers get hold of your name. You might find someone on your side quite useful.’
‘It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of, Andy. Give me some space though.’
They continued into a lounge bar with olive-green walls and carefully worn leather sofas. A group of four hung by the bar, a couple occupied a table at the side. Baker sat a healthy distance away, alone in a far corner. She looked more dressed up than when he’d last seen her, in a shimmering blouse, short black skirt and mascara.
‘Ah, you met Andy.’ She put a wine glass down and got to her feet, beaming as she came to kiss Belsey on both cheeks. ‘Andy’s the best in the business,’ she said, sotto voce.
‘I’ll leave you both to it,’ Price said. He squeezed Belsey’s shoulder, retreated with a wink. Belsey sat down in an armchair. A waiter appeared.
‘Drinks?’ Baker said. ‘Have you eaten?’
Belsey ordered a whisky sour. Baker said she was fine. She smiled at Belsey again.
‘So, into the limelight.’
‘What’s going on with Amber?’ Belsey said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s some kind of situation. Her people are keeping watch over her. I was given a schedule and told to alert them if she tried to go off-piste. There was an intervention of some kind last week. You’re close to the management, go through her drawers and all that. So what’s the story?’
Baker sat back and studied him. She took a sip of wine then presented her own research.
‘You’re a police officer.’
‘A suspended one.’
‘Your name’s Nick Belsey.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re not a security guard. You never have been employed by Amber.’
‘That’s right. I was just sneaking around her house, same as you.’
Terri didn’t appear put off by this. In many ways the story had just got more interesting. Belsey decided to make her day.
‘I went to the club with Amber last night. I met Chloe Burlington there. Chloe’s now dead. Is there any reason Amber might be involved in that?’
This stopped the glass halfway to Baker’s lips. She set it down and picked up a pen and notebook without taking her eyes off Belsey. She tried an incredulous smile.
‘Why?’ she said carefully. ‘Is she upset? Did she know Chloe well?’
‘I’m not sure. Are you aware of them knowing each other at all?’
‘Not really. What do you think the murder’s got to do with Amber?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’
Belsey’s drink arrived, set down alongside bowls of olives and Japanese crackers.
‘I don’t understand what you’re doing here,’ Baker said.
Belsey took a cracker.
‘Think of me as an angel of celebrity journalism, come to give you a story beyond your wildest dreams. But an angel that needs a bit of help in understanding where Amber’s at right now, to put together the final pieces of the story.’
Baker nodded. It seemed he’d put
enough on the table to start play.
‘No one knows what’s going on. There’s money issues. Quite possibly she just overspent. A lot went on the house, the garden. Someone told me it didn’t even stretch to finishing the basement. It was meant to have a recording studio and a cinema. Hence Guy Oakshott, the millionaire fiancé she’s hardly met. Hence the Lancôme deal with the wedding. Everything’s riding on the wedding. I don’t know, this is just stuff I heard. But people are trying to keep the ship afloat.’
‘I get that impression.’
‘There’s been other stuff, too, going on for a while. Being sued by her mum. Not speaking to her stepdad. She’s been cutting off contact with her close friends.’
‘When did she start ditching friends?’
‘It’s been getting worse over the last couple of years.’
Baker looked at Belsey like she was waiting for him to fill some gaps.
‘What were you looking for in her drawers?’ he said.
‘Anything. There’s a book usually with her, like a diary – small, black leather cover. I asked her about it once. She said she was recording the truth about things: love, fame, growing up.’
‘You didn’t find it?’
‘No. It’s your turn, give me something. What makes you think this connects to Chloe Burlington?’
‘OK. How about this. I think Amber got rid of bloodstained clothing when she returned from the club last night. According to a friend, Chloe’s been worried over the last few days. She called the family lawyer. She’s burned paperwork. Her bags were packed, ready to skip. I think she was involved in something and it went wrong. Amber says she never knew her, which is a lie.’
Baker watched him intently, a cautious smile fixed like a legal disclaimer.
‘Did Amber say anything about this last night?’ she asked.
‘No. But there’s a man called Mark Doughty who had Amber’s passport and clothes at his home. He’s a stalker. I showed his ID to Chloe Burlington last night and there was a definite reaction. Maybe he connects them somehow. I’ve seen the guy’s room. He’s definitely keen on his female celebrities. I really don’t know. But last night, I reckon Chloe knew something was going to happen. She gave a friend her necklace. You know, like she was saying goodbye.’
Something was dawning on Baker. ‘Maybe it was her,’ she said.
‘Her what?’
Baker hesitated. She raised herself, hands on the arms of her chair to peer across the room at the other guests. She eased herself back down.
‘Do you know about the Sun?’
‘What about it?’
There was a final beat of reluctance. Then she said: ‘A story about Amber went to the Sun on Sunday three days ago. I don’t know what it’s about. Someone said they paid seven-fifty.’
‘Seven-hundred and fifty thousand?’
‘It had a property attached.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘A recording. A picture or a video or something. We got a call from a guy called Shaun White. Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a publicist. I’m surprised he’s not been in touch with you. He said he had a client who had a story on Amber. It was big. They wanted big money. They couldn’t go into details until it was on an exclusive basis. We backed out early; it smelt wrong. And not just the money.’
‘What else?’
‘The hoops he was making us jump through. You don’t ask newspapers to make an offer blind. That’s not how it works.’
‘A recording.’
‘Yes.’
‘Worth three-quarters of a million.’
‘Supposedly.’
‘A sex tape.’
‘If it’s a sex tape it would have to be pretty colourful. We’ve paid less to Shaun for bigger names. It was my first thought, of course. But seven hundred and fifty grand for a woman having sex with the man she’s about to marry, that’s not that exciting. Even Amber Knight. Maybe her with Jason Stanford.’
‘The QPR player?’
‘She used to date him,’ Baker explained. ‘Amber back with her semi-ex – that would possibly get a hundred and twenty. Wedding weekend. If it was filthy. Not over half a million. Has she mentioned Jason at all?’
‘No.’
Baker shrugged, lifted her glass, saw it was empty.
‘Who would I talk to at the Sun, about the story?’ Belsey asked.
‘Damian Drummond. He’s their entertainment correspondent. But you won’t get a thing out of him. People are being very fucking cagey. From the source down. Everyone’s hiding what they’ve got for fear of missing out on the payday.’
‘What do you know about the source?’
‘Just that it was a member of the public, via Shaun White.’
‘Think they’re still set to run it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s gone very quiet, which is weird. But they’re probably just on lockdown with it now. Waiting for Sunday.’
‘Or maybe their source is dead.’
Baker paused with her hand on the stem of the empty glass. Belsey downed half his drink.
‘Are you aware of Chloe Burlington ever approaching the press with stories before?’
‘No,’ Baker said. ‘She’s a millionaire. Why would she?’
‘Because she’s a millionaire? Because she’s got nothing else to do? Even rich people try to make money sometimes; sometimes at the expense of other people.’
Baker squinted at him now, lips pursed.
‘Chloe became anxious on Saturday. What do you know about Amber’s movements over the weekend?’ Belsey asked. ‘Anything unusual? Strange behaviour? Cancelled events?’
‘Nothing that I know of.’
‘Chloe went out Saturday night, a last-minute thing. I think she may have been with Amber.’
‘Something interesting did happen a few days ago,’ Baker said, sitting up. ‘That was when she fired her security.’
‘Why did she do that? Because they were leaking stories to you?’ Belsey said.
‘I never got anything useful out of them. And no, I’m not sure that’s why they were fired. I think she’s just generally paranoid. She was always trying to give them the slip. The night before, Friday, she managed to lose them. Shake them off entirely before going out.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘Gabby overheard her on the phone before, but it didn’t make much sense. Nothing useful. Apparently she mentioned a bridge a couple of times, but didn’t say which one. Not Waterloo, Chelsea, or anything like that.’
Belsey paused. He put his drink down. He got his phone out, showed her Chloe’s post.
‘A bridge,’ he said.
Baker looked unconvinced. ‘Well, yes. Doesn’t look like London, though, does it?’
‘It’s the last thing Chloe posted.’
Baker nodded: a concession.
‘How did Amber go out without security knowing?’ Belsey asked.
‘She got in one of her cars and told the driver to drive off before the guard was in the vehicle. Pretty simple, really.’
‘One of her personal account cars?’ Belsey said. ‘Shield Executive?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time?’
‘Five p.m.’
‘And what time did rumours about a video start?’
‘Later that night.’ Baker opened her notebook, touched pen to paper and seemed uncertain what to write.
‘Have you tried speaking to Shield?’
‘They won’t speak to me,’ Baker said. Belsey downed his drink and got up. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to see if I can have a word. Out of curiosity.’
‘Call me,’ she said. ‘If you find anything out. Will you?’
‘Let’s see.’
Belsey headed for the door. Price was waiting on the landing.
‘How did it go? Is she going to run something on you?’
‘I forgot to ask,’ Belsey said, moving for the stairs.
/>
‘You forgot to ask?’ The talent manager grinned. He thrust paperwork into Belsey’s hands as he passed. ‘Take a look at these,’ he called after him. ‘Have a think about what I said.’
15
THE MAIN OFFICE OF SHIELD Executive Cars was behind Praed Street, amongst the grey fallout of Paddington station: cheap hotels, nondescript pubs, blank-windowed sex shops. Shield tried to keep one corner respectable, with gold lettering on its window, a vertical blind, high gates beyond which eight glistening Mercedes sat like rare animals.
A woman buzzed Belsey in. Tasselled lamps cast a yellow glow over the front office, its polished wood and carpet, the photographs of vintage cars on its walls. The receptionist sat behind a pine counter, blonde, fifty-something, wiling away the night shift with a self-manicure.
‘How can I help?’
‘My name’s Nick, from Milkshake Management,’ Belsey said. She looked uncertain. ‘I represent one of your clients. There’s been a bit of a problem.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I would have called but this is very sensitive and we have issues with the press. My client thinks one of your drivers might have been a little inappropriate.’
She put the nail file down. ‘Your client?’
‘Amber Knight. I work with Gabby. I don’t know if you know Gabby there.’
‘Of course.’
‘She says it’s not the first time this issue’s come up.’
‘Really? This is the first time I’ve heard anything about it.’
‘Well, Amber says that a couple of times your guys have asked for autographs, and this time the driver asked for it on his body.’
‘On his body?’
Belsey shrugged. ‘Supposedly. Amber says this happened on Friday.’ He leaned in. ‘I’m not saying Amber’s the most rational person in the world right now. Was she even driven that night?’
The woman checked the system, typing with her nails horizontal.
‘There was a job. Friday, five p.m.’
‘Where to?’
‘It doesn’t say.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘A bit odd. Paul was driving. He’s here now. I can ask him.’ She looked up at him again. ‘She’s saying Paul asked her to sign his body?’
The House of Fame Page 11
