by Mark Timlin
With one perfectly manicured fingernail she pressed a button on the intercom and breathily told someone that Mr Sharman was in reception. She didn’t mention Dawn. Somehow I think the dislike was mutual.
Another blonde dream opened the door that led inwards and beckoned to us to follow her. She led us through to Chris’s office. I had to fight to keep my eyes from following the roll of her buttocks under a very tight, very short grey skirt. I knew Dawn was watching me out of the corners of hers. I turned and smiled at her and nearly collided with a palm in a pot. She shook her head. Marriage. A wonderful institution. But, as the old joke goes, who wants to live in an institution?
Kennedy-Sloane was waiting in his office with the killer view of the city stretching away to Essex. He jumped up when we entered and showed us to a pair of chairs in front of his desk. At least he paid attention to my wife which raised the temperature a little.
‘Drinks?’ he asked. ‘Tea, coffee or something stronger?’
I asked for a beer. Dawn took an Evian water. Chris poured himself a vodka on the rocks.
In the centre of his otherwise bare desk was a plain folder. When we were all sitting comfortably he opened it.
‘These are the faxes that arrived yesterday,’ he said, and fanned them out in front of us.
I looked at the top one. It was a copy of a handwritten note. The handwriting was large and whorly, and it read:
To whom it may concern,
Royalties Section,
Lifetime Records/Music,
555 La Branca,
Los Angeles,
California,
USA.
I understand that you are holding a large sum of money that belongs to me. It being the royalties accrued since my death was wrongly reported on 7 April 1972.
I will write again with details of where I wish the money to be paid.
Yours sincerely
Jay Harrison.
‘Short, sharp and to the point,’ I said.
The next fax was a copy of the envelope in which the letter had arrived. It was in the same handwriting and the address was as on the top of the letter. It was postmarked ‘London W1’, and dated 14 April. The next sheet was a copy of the last page of a recording contract dated June 1967 between Lifetime Records and Dog Soldier. It was signed by all four members of the band, and as far as I could tell, the signature that was scrawled under the neatly typed ‘Jay Harrison’ on the contract was the same as that on the letter. Pretty damn close anyway, considering twenty-six years had passed. The third fax was a copy of a death certificate made out on 7 April 1972, stating that Jay Harrison had expired from a heart attack. The attending physician’s name was Dr Malcolm Priest. The final three faxes were contemporary reports of his death. The one from the London Daily Mirror was pretty typical.
pop star dies of heart attack
read the headline. Then the story followed:
Jay Harrison, lead singer of the American pop group Dog Soldier was yesterday found dead in the flat he rented in Hyde Park Mansions, London.
Twenty-nine-year-old Harrison had been living in England for the past eight months preparing new material for the band’s forthcoming LP. The singer was found in the bath by his girlfriend Kim Major (26) when she awoke to find herself alone at 3am. Earlier, the pair had attended a party given by Track, The Who’s record company, at the Café de Paris. She immediately called Harrison’s doctor, who declared him dead at 3.45 am.
Dog Soldier, part of the acid revolution of the so-called ‘Summer Of Love’ hippy explosion of 1966/7, had long been the centre of controversy, coming to a head when Harrison was arrested for using profanity in public and indecent exposure during a concert in Houston, Texas last year. He was still awaiting trial at the time of his death.
Dog Soldier had many top ten hits in Great Britain including the number one, ‘Just Do It’, plus five best-selling long-playing records. At the time of going to press, Miss Major was not available for comment, and believed to be staying with friends in the country.
Details of the funeral are to be announced later.
Beneath the story was printed a photograph of Harrison before he went to seed.
The newspaper was dated 9 April 1972.
I passed the faxes one by one to Dawn as I read them. ‘Did you know him?’ I asked Kennedy-Sloane.
‘No. A bit before my time, Nick. I knew of him of course. Who didn’t? But when he died I’d just started working for a brokerage in the city. In those days it wasn’t the done thing to admire acid-rock bands. Engelbert Humperdinck was more our style.’
‘Still is, isn’t it, Chris?’ I said.
He pulled a face.
‘I’ll need some more information,’ I went on.
‘Such as?’
‘The exact address of the flat where he died. It’s a long shot, but I’ll go take a look. Someone there might remember what happened that night. There’s a distinct lack of witnesses to all this. The girl and the doctor both being dead. And where was the body taken? Do you know?’
Kennedy-Sloane shrugged.
‘Try to find out, will you, Chris? Someone alive’s got to have seen this dude dead.’
‘You have such a way with words,’ he said.
‘Cheers. Now, about that cheque.’
Kennedy-Sloane took a large envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it to me. I opened it. I pulled out a company cheque for eight thousand quid. It was drawn on Coutts. The royal bank. I don’t think I’d ever seen a Coutts cheque before. It felt like cash.
‘Good bank,’ I said.
‘Not as good as it used to be. All the statements used to be handwritten in fountain pen. But times change.’
‘Don’t they just,’ I agreed. ‘So what do you reckon to all this, Chris?’
‘God knows. What about you? You’re the detective.’
‘The signature on the letter looks like the business to me. If it’s not the real thing, whoever wrote it has seen Harrison’s handwriting somewhere.’
‘An autograph book,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘Or the back of a record sleeve. A menu, an airline ticket. Anywhere. Harrison must have signed his name a hundred thousand times for fans over the years.’
‘True enough,’ I said. ‘And assuming the letter is a fake, which we have to, anyone interested enough would have had a long time to get the handwriting off pat.’
Kennedy-Sloane nodded.
‘How much dough do you reckon is involved here, anyway?’ I asked him.
‘Millions,’ he replied. ‘Ten million, twenty. Who knows? Dog Soldier have sold an awful lot of records since Harrison died. Even splitting the take four ways, there’s a bundle waiting in LA for someone. And the music isn’t all. He’s had half a dozen books of poetry published posthumously. And of course there was the movie. The band all got money from that. It’s a lot, Nick, and the pot is getting bigger every day.’
‘And the cash is all tied up.’
‘That’s right. No one’s touched his share since April seventy-two.’
‘And this sort of thing happens all the time? People making claims on the estate?’
Another nod.
‘And do they always hire private detectives to investigate?’
‘I don’t know. But as far as I do know, there’s never been a claim from this side of the pond before.’
The pond. I ask you.
‘And Lifetime have heard nothing since this letter arrived?’ I said.
‘Not a peep.’
‘It’s been a month since it was sent. And it says he’s going to send instructions about where to pay the money.’
‘He’s optimistic,’ said Kennedy-Sloane tartly.
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘I know how difficult it is to separate record companies from their money. But still, I wonder why there’s been no f
urther communication.’
Kennedy-Sloane shrugged again.
‘Well, we’ll press on,’ I said. ‘If you can find out that address for me, and anything else relevant, I’ll get on the case straight away.’
‘We’ll get on the case straight away,’ interrupted Dawn.
‘We’ll get on the case straight away,’ I agreed. ‘Come on then. Let’s leave this man to make a load more money. We’ve got work to do.’ And we left Chris Kennedy-Sloane in his ivory tower overlooking the river, and went back to the car, and home.
8
Kennedy-Sloane was in touch the next morning before I’d washed up the breakfast things and while Dawn was still in the shower. He gave me the exact address in Hyde Park Mansions where Jay Harrison had shuffled off his mortal coil, and, as a bonus, the name of the managing agents who looked after the place.
‘I don’t know if the flat is still rented, or if it’s been sold off since,’ he said. ‘But it’s somewhere to start.’
‘Cheers, Chris,’ I said. ‘That’s a great help.’
‘I thought that was your job. Finding out things. I don’t know why I’m paying you and doing all the hard work myself.’
‘It must be my beautiful eyes,’ I said. ‘And you’re not paying me,’ I reminded him. ‘Lifetime is.’
‘Whatever. But from now on, you can earn that excessive fee that I negotiated for you without my help.’
‘We’re on the same side, remember?’ I said. ‘If you’re the man with the information I’ll be knocking at your door. Just like I would anybody else.’
‘I’ve got other things to do,’ he said.
‘Course you have. Although if I asked, I bet you’ll be hard pressed to tell me what they are.’
‘Talk to me soon, Nick,’ he said and hung up.
I looked at the clock. Quarter to ten. And any self-respecting managing agent should be right on the job at that time. So I gave them a call.
As I was dialling, Dawn came out of the bathroom, towelling her hair. She gave me a grin, took off her robe, and stood naked in front of me.
‘Calling up your girlfriend, when I’m out of the room,’ she said.
‘Business,’ I replied. ‘Get dressed. You’re distracting me.’
‘That was the idea, my love,’ she said, and ground her hips at me.
‘Get dressed,’ I said again, trying to ignore what she was laying out on display.
She wrinkled her nose, took a clean pair of panties off the bed, and stepped into them.
The phone was answered on the fourth ring. I asked the telephonist to put me through to whoever dealt with Hyde Park Mansions. There was a click, a single ringing tone and a woman answered.
‘Marion Hartley,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you deal with Hyde Park Mansions?’ I asked.
‘I do.’
‘I wonder if you can help me. Is the whole place rented?’
‘It’s a mixture of rented properties and privately owned.’
‘I wonder if you can tell me about number twenty-two.’
‘In what connection?’ she said.
I told her that I was a journalist. A music journalist. Freelance. And that I was doing a story on Jay Harrison. She said that she’d heard of him. I told her that he’d died at number twenty-two Hyde Park Mansions, and that I was trying to trace whoever had rented or bought it after Harrison had died. She sounded vaguely interested. But not fascinated. I suppose it filled in the time between getting to work and her coffee break. After I’d finished she went and got the file, warning me that she only had details on the rented properties in the block. I was lucky. Number twenty-two was still rented. In the name of Simmons. Simmons, C. That was it. No more details. Marion Hartley told me that the company she worked for had only managed the place for about six months. She also told me, but not in so many words, that managing a place like that was a pain in the arse. It probably was. Trying to collect rents off tenants, and being deluged for requests to fix the central heating, while the owners lived it up in the sun somewhere. I could almost feel sorry for her. But not quite. I asked her who had managed the place previously. She told me, and gave me a phone number and the name of the person who had taken care of the building. I thanked her and hung up.
‘Music journalist,’ said Dawn. Who by then was looking most appealing in very tight, very faded blue jeans, a white blouse and black suede ankle boots. ‘I really must get you a new pair of Ray-Bans.’
‘It’s all part of my chameleon-like character,’ I said.
‘You’re just a bloody liar, you mean,’ she said back, and I winked at her.
‘Is there anything you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. But stick around, and I’ll find you something to do.’
She dropped into the armchair opposite me, and lit a cigarette.
Before I rang the number that Marion Hartley had given me, I checked the phone book. There was no listing for a C. Simmons at the mansions. Directory couldn’t help either. Probably ex-directory. If the worst came to the worst, I could pretend to be a policeman and try to bluff the supervisor to check. I still knew the patter. But not yet. There was plenty of time for that later.
I tapped out the number of the previous managing agents, and asked for the name that I’d been given. Once again I told my story, and the bloke I was talking to told me that his company had only managed the place for two years. He asked if I’d hang on while he found out who had done the job previous to them. I did, and he was back within a couple of minutes with the name of the company, but no phone number.
I went back to the phone book. By the time I’d told my story to the fifth estate agent, my mouth was dry and I was still only back to 1981. Then, on the sixth try, the company I was looking for had vanished into thin air. Gone out of business. End of story.
I went to the fridge and got a cold beer for myself and one for Dawn.
Next I got out the A to Z and located the corner where Hyde Park Mansions stood, and searched around for the nearest hospital. There were several in the vicinity, but the closest with an accident and emergency department was St Mary’s in Paddington. The closest one now. Twenty years ago there were more hospitals and more casualty wings. I wanted to know if an ambulance had been called on the night Jay Harrison died. And if so, when, and what had happened when it arrived. I rang the switchboard and crossed my fingers. The telephonist confirmed that Hyde Park Mansions was in their catchment area. When I asked if that was true in 1972, she put me through to records. It was a miracle. It had been. I asked if by any chance their A&E files went back that far. Whoever I was speaking to, a young woman with a faint Irish accent, confirmed that they did. The last five years on micro-film. The previous five in filing cabinets and anything before that in bales somewhere deep in the heart of the hospital’s storage system. From the way she said it, I got the impression she thought that dragons lurked there. I asked if I could see the records. She asked why. I gave her the freelance music journalist story again. She told me that she loved music, and that I should come by any time. Ask for Mary in records. Mary at St Mary’s. Easy. I said my secretary would be along soonest. With a donation to the hospital fund. Mary sounded genuinely sorry when I said I couldn’t make it in person. I had to interview Michael Bolton at his hotel I told her. She sounded impressed at that. I wouldn’t have been.
We parted the best of friends. Mary and I.
When I put down the phone, Dawn said, ‘Another conquest?’
I was beginning to think that my wife understood me too well. ‘Just part of the job. I keep telling you that,’ I said. ‘Now about that something I said I’d find for you to do…’ And I explained to Dawn exactly what I wanted.
‘Do I get all the dirty jobs?’ she asked.
‘That’s right. If you want to be a detective, you’ve got to pay your dues.’
>
She pursed her lips.
‘Of course, if you don’t want to do it…’ I let the sentence hang in the air.
‘I do,’ she said quickly, slashed some lipstick on her mouth, picked up the keys to the Chevy and went to the door.
‘Give Mary a hundred quid for the hospital charity,’ I said. ‘Out of expenses.’
‘And your love?’
‘Just the money. I’m saving all my loving for you,’ I said, and Dawn cracked a smile, blew me a kiss, and left.
I went back to the fridge for another beer.
While Dawn was gone, I read through the file of faxes that Chris had given me the previous day. As I read the press cuttings about Harrison’s death, I made a few notes. Not many. There weren’t that many to make. I wrote down ‘Undertakers’, and underlined it heavily. If anyone knew who was in that coffin it would be them. And I wondered who the hell had buried him, and how I could find out after all this time. Twenty years. It was a bloody lifetime. Talk about a cold trail. This one was deep frozen.
I made myself a solitary lunch of Sainsbury’s sliced turkey breast, coleslaw, red onion, tomato and lettuce on white bread and wandered the floor thinking, and played Otis Redding CDs while watching afternoon soaps on TV with the sound turned down.
Busy. Busy. Busy.
Dawn came back about four. Her jeans and blouse were filthy. She gave me a look almost as dirty as the clothes she was wearing, peeled them and her underwear off, and went and took another shower. I said nothing. Just made a jug of martini cocktails. Gin. Six to one, with olives. And waited for her to finish.
She wasn’t long. She came out of the bathroom, towelling her hair for the second time that day, sat in the armchair, lit a cigarette and accepted the chilly glass I gave her.
‘Hard day at the office, dearest?’ I enquired.
‘Fuck right off.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Someone who’s happy in their work.’
She downed half the martini in one swallow, catching the olive between her teeth, as I sipped at mine.
‘Well?’ I said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. What did you find?’
