Pretend We're Dead

by Mark Timlin

  ‘How come you know so much?’

  ‘Used to be in the drug squad, didn’t I? I did a lot of research on that sort of thing.’ And a lot of drugs, I thought. Happy days. ‘And with the doctor dead, we’ll never know if the heart-symptoms story was a front or for real.’

  ‘If it was true, then Harrison probably did die of a heart attack, just like it says on the death certificate,’ said Dawn. ‘I’m just surprised there wasn’t more of a fuss made at the time. Christ, he wasn’t even thirty when he died.’

  ‘You know that no one was much interested in Harrison then,’ I said. ‘They were different days, the early seventies. The national press hadn’t realised how fascinated the public are in pop stars’ little foibles. Burnt out or not. In fact, especially burnt-out ones. It gives their readers a little warm spot inside when they see someone who used to be famous fall on hard times. Of course the papers have made up for it since. There have been loads of stories that Harrison isn’t dead. ’Specially since they decided to make a film about him. He’s been spotted running a gas station in New Mexico, shopping in Paris, begging on the streets in Berlin, and serving in Pizza-land in Oxford Street. But then again, John Lennon has been reported as being on a life-support machine at a special hospital in New England with inoperable brain damage. And of course Elvis gets seen everywhere. It’s permanent conspiracy-theory time when it comes to famous people dying. Both Brian Jones and Jimi Hendrix were supposed to have been murdered. Hitler’s in a home for old Nazis in Argentina, and JFK is living on an island off Hawaii with a harem of beautiful girls. No one wants to believe that these characters can really die. It’s weird.’

  ‘You seem to have become an expert on dead celebrities,’ said Dawn.

  ‘I picked up all that when I went through the newspaper library,’ I said. ‘Frightening, isn’t it? Anyway. Carry on.’

  ‘Right. Now the story gets interesting. Jasper and Jake Cousins get called in to prepare Harrison’s body for burial. They seal the coffin up tight and no one, but no one gets a peek.’

  ‘And of course the four people that we know saw the corpse are all dead themselves,’ I interrupted. ‘A bit strange, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Dawn, lighting another cigarette and signalling for refills of our brandy glasses. ‘Don’t you get carried away with conspiracies. It was twenty years ago. How old was the doctor at the time?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Some detective you are.’

  I accepted the rebuke. ‘Middle-aged, I imagine,’ I said. ‘I could find out I suppose.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter. Nobody lives forever, Nick. And Jasper Cousins was old. Then there was Kim Major. She was a fatality just waiting to happen by all accounts. So her death was no shock. The only one of the other three who died prematurely was Jake Cousins, and even he couldn’t have been any spring chicken. These things happen.’

  Shit happens, I thought. Course it does.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But it would be good if at least one of them was still around for us to talk to.’

  Dawn shrugged, and the waiter brought the brandy bottle again.

  ‘To continue,’ she went on. ‘Harrison is buried under that lump of cement at Highgate Cemetery, and Kim Major moves out of the flat in Hyde Park, and we lose touch with her until she turns up dead too.’

  ‘I wonder how come she was so broke?’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Both Harrison and Kim Major were rich kids. His old man was a big wheel in the US Air Force and her dad owned a string of department stores in the midwest of America. And of course Harrison made a fortune with the band. Relatively at least. Even with their lifestyle I’m surprised he could blow it so quick. So how come she couldn’t afford to pay the rent on the flat?’

  ‘Maybe his money was all tied up so that Kim couldn’t touch it. And perhaps she’d been cut off without a penny by Daddy. It happens when a good girl goes to the bad.’

  ‘You’d know,’ I said, and immediately regretted it. ‘Sorry, babe,’ I said. ‘Just my big mouth again.’

  She shrugged. ‘I would as it happens. I’ve seen it plenty of times.’

  ‘I wonder who paid for that tomb then,’ I said.

  ‘His family?’

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ I said. ‘Speak to Chris.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a pile,’ said Dawn. ‘Whoever is under that will take a lot of getting out.’

  ‘With what we’ve got so far, no chance. It takes a lot more than we’ve discovered in this country to get an order to exhume a body. In fact, what we’ve got so far would just about fit under one of your fingernails.’

  She smiled. ‘And after all that, nothing much happens, except, as you say, all the people who saw Harrison’s body died and he got famous again. A cult figure. So famous in fact that kids are prepared to camp out at his graveside. And odd men dressed as monks come and pray there. And then, almost exactly twenty years after he’s reported dead, a letter turns up, purporting to be from him, with a reasonable facsimile of his signature at the bottom, denying the fact, and demanding all the back royalties he’s owed, and his record company freaks.’

  ‘That’s another interesting thing,’ I observed. ‘Like I said, there have been dozens of reports since seventy-two that Harrison is still alive. I wonder why this particular letter has caused such an upset.’

  Dawn shrugged again, then said, ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘About the letter?’

  ‘No. About the whole thing.’

  I thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘Babe, I think it stinks like shit. My intuition tells me that Harrison’s still alive and running round London, and I think that with a bit of luck we’re going to find him.’

  14

  After we’d finished lunch, and I’d paid with my badly dented credit card, I drove us back to Tulse Hill. The phone was ringing as I opened the flat door and I picked up the receiver. It was Chris Kennedy-Sloane.

  ‘I was just going to call you,’ I said.

  ‘I must be a mind-reader. What did you want?’

  ‘That can wait. What do you want?’

  ‘You remember you asked me about finding someone to identify those people in the photographs you found?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ve come up with someone.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Tony and Pam Taffler,’ he said. ‘They’ve been around for years.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘They’re brokers.’

  ‘What kind of brokers?’

  ‘Time brokers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They buy and sell books, records, magazines, clothes, furniture. All sorts. Artefacts of the sixties and seventies. You name it, they can get it.’

  ‘Who do they sell it to?’

  ‘Anybody. Film and TV companies. Ad agencies. Private collectors. But most importantly, they also sell information.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Well, let’s imagine you want to know what people were doing on any particular date. What was on the news. What they were wearing. You know the sort of thing. You call up the Tafflers and they’ll tell you. Their whole flat is full of all kinds of junk, and they’ve got a lot of stuff in storage.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said. ‘But who buys it?’

  ‘You’d be amazed who wants to know things like that. They even got called in as consultants for an exhibition at the V&A last year.’

  ‘If it’s good enough for them…’ I said.

  ‘It’s good enough for you,’ he finished. ‘I’ve given them a bell. They’re expecting a call from you. They’re looking forward to seeing the photos.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Give me their n
umber.’

  He reeled off the ten digits and I copied them down on a pad.

  ‘I’ll call them right up,’ I said. ‘And I’ll let you know if they’re any help.’

  ‘Fine. So what did you want from me?’

  ‘I’ve just been up to Highgate to look at Harrison’s grave. Very strange. I want to know who paid for it in the first place and who pays for the upkeep, what there is of it, now.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find out,’ said Sloane. ‘I’ll get back to you. And don’t forget to let me know if the Tafflers were of any use.’

  ‘I’ll do that little thing,’ I said, and hung up.

  I told Dawn what was happening, and dialled the Tafflers number right off. A woman answered. ‘Is that Pam Taffler?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Nick Sharman. I believe Chris Kennedy-Sloane’s talked to you about some photos I’ve got.’

  ‘Of Jay Harrison?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yes. Sure he did. Tony and I can’t wait to see them. We met him a couple of times before he died.’

  ‘Then maybe you can help identify some of the other people in the pictures.’

  ‘We’ll do our best. Can you come over?’

  ‘Sure. Where and when?’

  She gave me an address in a block just off Shepherd’s Bush Green, then said, ‘How about tomorrow night? Say seven-thirty.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I bring my wife?’

  ‘Course not. The more the merrier.’

  ‘We’ll bring a bottle of wine,’ I said.

  ‘What a lovely idea. We’ll make an evening of it.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘See you then.’

  Meanwhile I nipped down the doctor’s. No, I wasn’t ill. Just needed some information. This one had done me some good a while back when I’d had a run in with some nasty faces who meant me a great deal of harm. Permanent harm if they could’ve had their way, and they almost did. Then the good doctor came along and put Humpty together again.

  I tracked him down in the social club at King’s College. Social. From what I’ve seen and heard, if it was any more social there, it’d be illegal.

  I asked him if he wanted a drink. He told me that he was operating later, so I’d better make it a large one, and I reconsidered BUPA.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked. ‘Prostate playing you up. Men of your age and your habits.’

  ‘Bollocks. I ain’t that old.’

  ‘Prostate troubles are starting younger and younger. It’s the modern age.’

  ‘I wish you’d shut up about my fucking prostate. For the last time, I’m all right.’

  ‘So what is it then?’

  ‘Inquests. Post-mortems.’

  ‘They’re always interesting. You should’ve seen this bloke’s body that they brought into the mortuary last week. He’d been lying dead in a flat in Catford for three months. His whole body was welded to the mattress. They had to bring him in still in bed. When we peeled him off, the maggots had eaten all his back away and there was a cockroach nest inside. I mean right inside his head.’

  ‘Christ almighty,’ I protested. ‘I’m supposed to be eating out later. Give it a bloody rest, willya?’

  ‘Sorry, Nick, I forgot how squeamish you are for a supposedly hard man.’

  ‘Listen, Doc,’ I persevered. ‘How do you go about getting an inquest when someone dies?’

  ‘Accident. Suspicious circumstances. No doctor seen for a period of time. Anything like that.’

  ‘But if a doctor has been treating a patient on a regular basis, and everything seems kosher, it’s straight down the boneyard?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And if the doctor’s at it?’

  ‘Then Bob’s your uncle. Do you know how many doctors are mentioned in old people’s wills? Old people that they see all the time?’

  ‘You’re beginning to undermine my faith in the medical fraternity.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll survive. The oldest profession, don’t you know?’

  ‘I thought that was something else.’

  He grinned. ‘But we’re all brothers and sisters under the skin.’

  Cynical bastard, I thought.

  ‘Anyway, why are you asking?’ he said.

  ‘A case I’m working on. Young bloke. American. History of heart problems. Regular doctor from Harley Street. Used to visit him all the time, and make with the bedside manner. Dodgy quack, I reckon. But legit on the face of it.’

  ‘I’ll get him checked out by the BMA if you want. Always glad to help the mighty fall.’

  ‘Too late I’m afraid. Brown bread years ago.’

  ‘So why the interest?’

  ‘The body of the young bloke in question was buried with almost indecent haste. No one saw him dead but his girlfriend, the doctor who signed the death certificate, and the undertakers.’

  ‘Sounds iffy to me. When was this?’

  ‘Early seventies.’

  ‘Jeez. That was a long time ago. Prehistoric.’

  The doctor was about twenty-five.

  ‘Anything could happen in those days,’ he went on.

  ‘What? Like the Black Death?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘But you’d’ve asked for an inquest?’

  ‘Definitely. Anyone under fifty dies of heart trouble. Call in the coroner. Safer all round. But why didn’t the girlfriend? Or a member of the family?’

  ‘That’s just what I’m asking. Trouble is, the girlfriend’s dead too.’

  ‘High mortality rate around this bloke, isn’t there?’

  I nodded. ‘But it’s not impossible for no one to give a damn if someone dies? Just sling ’em in a grave to rot. So long as the paperwork’s in order?’

  ‘Obviously not. Come on, Nick, you used to be a copper. Stranger things have happened as you must be well aware.’

  ‘Course I am,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking aloud, that’s all.’

  ‘Anyway, it must’ve. You just said it did.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I replied, and left.

  15

  Dawn drove me up to Shepherd’s Bush in the Caprice the next evening, and we parked in a side street next to the flats where the Tafflers lived. It was a better than average inner-city block. There were security doors at the front, and an entryphone. I buzzed through to the flat and I recognized Pam Taffler’s voice. ‘Nick Sharman,’ I said into the mike.

  ‘Come on up. Fifteenth floor,’ she replied, and when the buzzer went, I pushed the door open, and Dawn and I went into the foyer. It was clean and looked recently swept, and the lift was waiting and working.

  When we got out of the lift, the door opposite was open, and a good-looking brunette in her late thirties, wearing a long dress and thick-lensed bins, was standing waiting. ‘Pam?’ I said.

  ‘Nick?’ she replied.

  I nodded, and introduced Dawn, and Pam let us into the flat. It was a fair size but felt smaller because everywhere you looked there were piles of books and magazines, and even about a hundred brightly coloured mail-order catalogues. The flash on the front of the top one said: Summer ’67. Flower power fashions for teens and twenties.

  Pam led us through the flat to the living room, which was illuminated by the sun starting to set over west London. A tall, olive-skinned bloke of roughly the same age as his wife, with medium-length wavy hair, just beginning to be streaked with grey, was sitting at a table by one of the windows leafing through an old copy of Rolling Stone. He got up when we entered. He had a friendly face and he looked enquiringly from Dawn to me and back again.

  ‘Tony, this is Nick and Dawn Sharman,’ said his wife.

  He came over and shook hands, and smiled an
d asked us to sit. I gave Pam the bottle of wine, and Dawn put her bag with the photos inside next to an armchair which she sat in. As soon as she was seated, a big, grey tabby cat appeared from somewhere, sniffed at her shoes and jumped into her lap. Tony Taffler said, ‘Shoo it off if it’s being a nuisance.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Dawn, and stroked the cat’s head, who immediately started to purr like a steam engine. ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Hector,’ said Tony.

  ‘Hello, Hector,’ said Dawn. ‘Who’s a good boy?’

  ‘He’s a she actually,’ said Tony. ‘A slight mistake when she was a kitten. By the time we found out, she was used to the name.’

  Dawn laughed and apologised to the cat, who twisted round on her knees and went to sleep.

  ‘Who wants some of this?’ asked Pam, holding up our bottle.

  We all made affirmative noises, and she went off into the kitchen to open the bottle and get some glasses.

  Tony Taffler sat back at the table and said, ‘So what exactly is the story with the photos?’

  I told him the bare outlines. I said I needed to identify the subjects in the photographs. Apart from Harrison and Kim Major, whom I already knew. I didn’t tell him why.

  ‘When Pam gets back we’ll have a look,’ he said. ‘You never know. But of course we don’t promise to be infallible.’

  ‘I’ve heard you’re hot stuff,’ I said.

  He grinned when I spoke. ‘We do all right,’ he said.

  ‘What got you into this line of business?’ asked Dawn.

  Tony shrugged. ‘Who knows? Just a series of accidents really. Pam and I have always been fascinated by…’ he hesitated, ‘I’d say popular culture but that makes me sound like someone on The Late Show,’ he said. ‘You know, things that are happening. Music, dance, clothes. We started to collect sixties and seventies stuff seriously when we were living together before we got married. I was a mod when we met, and so was Pam. We bumped into each other first at the Lyceum. We were very young. It was a long time ago. Twenty-five years. Longer.’ He smiled at the memory, and his smile warmed the room. ‘We got a load of stuff out of junk shops and jumble sales,’ he went on. ‘Things people didn’t want then, but are worth a packet now. A few other people, at the BBC and places like that, heard about us and what we were doing, and asked us to research for them. We not only did the research, but we hired out the props too. Simple.’