Romeo's Tune (1990)

by Timlin, Mark

  I shrugged in agreement. I wasn’t that hungry anyway, not for food, just for information and I didn’t want to waste a lot of time getting it. The waitress turned on her heel, displaying an inch or so of lace on her black panties, and made for the kitchen. I looked at her retreating back, then at Kennedy-Sloane.

  ‘Some people get off on it,’ he said. ‘I can see that you don’t. The chaps love it. It’s just one of their nasty little ways of showing their complete contempt for women. They’ve never forgiven them for getting on the floor of the exchange. It disguises the fear, you see. Most of them were snatched away from their mothers at a tender age and sent to prep school, then on to public school. A vast majority of them spent the happiest years of their lives wanking off the first eleven behind the cricket pavilion. No wonder they called them fags.’

  ‘Not you?’ I asked.

  ‘Not at all. I come from Stepney. Secondary Modern.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed,’ I said.

  ‘My dear chap, you’re not supposed to. As far as this lot are concerned I’m pure Harrow and Oxford. I try to be all things to all men, and all women too for that matter. You want a barrow boy, I’ll oblige. You want one of the upper classes and I’ll give you that too. You see I actually did spend a year at Oxford.’

  ‘Which college?’ I asked.

  ‘Oxford Street. I sold fake Chanel No. 5. Made a bomb. In reality I did go to a minor public school in Essex as a day boy for a year, before they slung me out and back to the school of hard knocks. Got some good contacts too.’ With a grimace he dismissed his past. He refilled our glasses with champagne and said, ‘So you’re going to take the Divas on? Very interesting. Do you really think you’re going to get any money back for McBain?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well... I wish you the very best of luck.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll need it?’

  ‘Without a doubt. It’s a lost cause and McBain should know it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you know about Mogul?’

  Before I could reply our soup arrived. Tomato with fresh basil, very tasty. I watched as Kennedy-Sloane poured it down his face between large chunks of french bread loaded with butter and mouthfuls of champagne.

  ‘High cholesterol,’ he said, wiping his lips with his napkin. ‘Very bad for me, but delicious.’ He’d finished his soup before I was half done. He pushed his plate away. ‘Where were we?’ he said. ‘Oh yes, the Divas. Before we get onto them, tell me what you know about the finances of the record business in general.’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I confessed.

  ‘Good. I’ll assume you know nothing.’

  ‘OK,’ I said and sat back and listened.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘For starters don’t believe anything you read about it in the tabloid press. You don’t get a million pounds for being number one for a week or so in the summertime. The first thing to remember is that the artist’ – he pulled a face – ‘pays for everything.’ He heavily underlined the last word. ‘And I mean everything. From studio time to hotel bills on tour, up to and including promotion of the record. Don’t be fooled by the easy money stories. If you play, you pay. For every Elton John and Rod Stewart there are literally thousands of musicians living on the breadline, scratching a living at best. And as for the guys who do make it, the chances are, in the early days at least, that they’ve gone for a small royalty just to get on record. And for lots, the early days are the only days. Then there’s management and agency rake-off, plus people like me who need paying. Capiche?’ The guy was a slimeball, but despite that I quite liked his candour.

  ‘In the sixties,’ he went on, ‘it was even worse. Low, low, low royalties. As much as fifty per cent to management. Songwriting deals that gave the publisher, not the writer, ninety per cent. And then if they kept the money going round the world, the publisher could keep raking in ninety per cent from each territory and push the money through two or three before the sucker saw bean number one.’

  ‘Territory?’ I queried.

  ‘The UK, America and Canada, Europe, Australasia. You make a recording and publishing deal for each one, unless you’re very lucky and get signed worldwide.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure that I did.

  ‘I know of a guy,’ he continued, ‘great writer, you’d know loads of his songs. He earned twelve K for one opus. By the time the cash was funnelled through all the holding companies he earned one hundred and twenty seven pounds sterling for it, before tax. I repeat, before tax and try explaining that to the revenue. Mind you,’ he mused, ‘some of those songs that sold ten million records only took five minutes to write. Then of course there’s duff investments.’

  ‘But not for you,’ I interjected.

  ‘Touch wood,’ he said, slapping the table. ‘I tell you this. Give me ten thou, venture capital and your complete trust and I can turn it into twenty grand, tax paid, in a month.’

  ‘Give me ten thou, venture capital and your complete trust,’ I said, ‘and I can turn it into fifty grand’s worth of cocaine overnight, tax free, but it’s illegal, immoral and it might put us into jail for ten years.’

  He literally put his hand onto his heart.

  ‘But mine is legal. I guarantee it.’

  ‘So tell me about McBain,’ I said. I was getting tired of all the bullshit.

  ‘To know about McBain,’ he explained, ‘you’ve got to know a bit about The Boys. Good band, one of the first advocates of the motto: “Live fast, split young and leave a good looking greatest hits album.” Their singles still get played a lot on the radio. “Winter’s Child” got covered a few years ago by some no wave outfit, did very well too. McBain never saw any royalties of course. He probably hocked them for a gram of smack back in the sixties. Big casualty was McBain.’

  ‘He says he’s clean now.’

  Kennedy-Sloane gave me an old-fashioned look.

  ‘Nicholas,’ he said. ‘You’ve been round the block a few times. You know that’s a purely subjective statement. What’s clean to him is dirty to me.’ He looked round the dining-room. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Check that geezer out. The one in the stripes. Your two o’clock.’

  I swung my eyes discreetly over to my right. A young man in a suit made of a material that was dangerously close to deck-chair awning was making for the gents.

  ‘Serious money OINK,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.

  ‘What?’

  ‘One income, no kids. He’s in the marzipan set.’ Now he was winding me up.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Run that past me again.’

  Kennedy-Sloane beamed a huge beam. He loved to be one up and it didn’t hurt to indulge him.

  ‘What I mean is that cash-wise he’s got the cake but hasn’t reached the icing yet, and he’ll never make it all the way. He’s got a habit like you wouldn’t believe. Always in the powder room, constant cold. He’ll crash soon but he honestly believes he’s as clean as that.’ He tapped one of the glasses we hadn’t used and it rang like a tiny bell. ‘It fucking scares me. There’s other folks take an aspirin for a headache and they’re convinced they’re junkies. Anyway, back to McBain. He’s got his act as together as it’ll ever be. Meanwhile he’s owed a lot.’

  The waitress returned to collect our soup plates and as she leaned over the table my face was only inches away from an expanse of smooth, white thigh. Kennedy-Sloane was in paroxysms of delight. When she’d gone he raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Nice arse, you must agree. After half a bottle I find my sexism quotient rising.’

  ‘Loss of inhibition,’ I said. ‘Be careful – it can lead to bad habits.’

  He beamed again.

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  I got back to business.

  ‘What happened to the rest of the band?’

  ‘One topped himself, one’s gone back to being a baker in Plaistow and the other one’s gone space cadet in Amsterdam. I think he’s still heavily into the recreational ingestion of illegal narcoti
cs. A real junkie whilst McBain’s just an amateur these days.’

  ‘Big drug band then?’

  ‘At the time the heaviest, and that’s saying something.’

  ‘So who got all the cash? There was cash wasn’t there?’

  ‘Cash, are you bloody kidding? Oodles of the stuff, and that’s where the Divas come in – and that’s what you really want to know about, isn’t it? Charles and Steven Diva, AKA Charlie and Stevie, AKA Mogul Incorporated. Charlie is the hardest in the business. One of the old school of management. He built Mogul up from nothing in the late fifties and he won’t let go of a cent unless he has to. And the son’s no better. In fact,’ he mused, ‘he’s probably worse.’

  ‘Is there no way to get the money back?’

  ‘No legal way. Lots of people have tried. They just move the books around. Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands, Delaware, Jersey. Moody companies, flags of convenience, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said.

  ‘You see, the main problem is that the band did sign the contracts that are in dispute. They can’t get away from that. The fact that they were underage and took no legal advice means less than shit. Too bad.’

  ‘How much did they get ripped off for?’

  ‘Four mill., six mill., who knows?’

  ‘As much as that?’

  ‘Sure, they were big in the UK, big in the States. They were a young girl’s dream at the time. The record company released everything they ever did over there. Christ, if they’d released their underpants they’d have sold. Especially if they’d released their underpants.’ He gave a dirty laugh. ‘The band weren’t together for long, not as bands went then.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Four years, ‘65 to ‘69, but they sold a bomb and they all came out of it in the red.’

  ‘How come?’ I asked.

  ‘Contracts again. Wave a contract in some kid’s face, tell them that it’s now or never and nine out of ten sign. Sign in haste, repent at leisure. That’s the game. The deal was sixty-forty in the band’s favour. Sounds good doesn’t it?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Mogul took their forty per cent from gross, the band got their sixty per cent from net. Two little words but such a world of difference. So imagine, income one hundred pounds, forty straight to Mogul, exes say, another forty, so each of the band collects a cool fiver. Now multiply that into the millions and see what you get. A very rich Mogul and only a reasonably well-off band.’

  ‘That would still be a lot of cash for each member,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Less tax, less big cars, less bigger houses, travel, hangers-on, women, drugs, equipment, roadies, tour managers, hotel bills. Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘I thought you said expenses came out of the original hundred.’

  ‘Only recording and promotion, not everyday spending and not touring, which is what they were doing nine or ten months of the year. So in fact the harder they worked, the more in debt they became.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I said.

  ‘And on top of that there was straight theft.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Simple, really: management and record company connivance. Press up more records than are declared in royalty statements. The record company inform the management that they’ve sold half a million units; in reality they’ve sold one million. Think of the profit. It helps, of course, if the management own the record company or vice versa.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Yes, but no one knew at the time. It was one of those shady little deals I told you about.’

  ‘So McBain and the rest of the band have a legitimate claim?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we prove it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I’m just supposed to take your word for it?’

  ‘Not entirely. There is someone else you could talk to.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An accountant, fellow name of Jack Kitchen, used to work for Mogul in the late sixties, looked after The Boys’ accounts, amongst others. He’s fallen on hard times lately. Tried to be a bit of a pop star himself apparently. Booze and women, you know the score.’

  Only too well, I thought.

  ‘He was in way over his head and started dipping into company money. Not a good idea. When old man Diva found out, Kitchen got his nuts roasted, literally.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

  Kennedy-Sloane looked at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Never more so, old boy.’

  ‘And what does this bloke do now?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a lot. He started a few businesses of his own over the years, but his heart wasn’t in them. All he does now is accounts by mail. You know the sort of thing. If you’re self-employed he’ll fill in your tax form, do the VAT. Keep things straight. But he won’t handle cash. Most particular about that. Bottle’s gone, you see.’

  ‘Maybe I could use him myself,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve gone this route before.’

  He smiled enigmatically.

  ‘Will he talk?’ I asked.

  ‘About the Divas? I don’t know. He might. Once bitten if you see what I mean. But he does hate them. Blames them for his downfall. He bears a grudge as big as a house. And he does know where some of the bodies are buried.’

  ‘So why didn’t he ever go to the authorities?’

  ‘He won’t have it. He’s terrified the Divas will come back and finish the job. But Kitchen is in severe financial straits at the moment, I do know that, and if you dropped him a few hundred quid he might be persuaded to confirm what McBain and I have been telling you.’

  ‘How do I get hold of him?’

  Kennedy-Sloane fished an oblong of pasteboard from his handkerchief pocket and pushed it across the tablecloth to me.

  ‘This is he,’ he said.

  I picked up the card. It was cheaply printed on substandard stationery. The address was on the wrong side of Wandsworth Common. I could see it now. A shop-front operation, all peeling paint and unwashed windows. A bit like mine really.

  ‘I’ll look him up,’ I said.

  ‘Do that. Tell him I sent you. He won’t see you otherwise. He’s a bit paranoid, I’m afraid. Just say it’s a favour for a favour. He’ll understand.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ he said, and his look said leave it alone.

  And I did by changing the subject. ‘So if everything you say is right, we’re talking multi-million pound fraud here?’ I said.

  ‘Better than that.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The rip-off went into building Mogul’s HQ in Euston. Before that they operated from a little office in Shaftesbury Avenue. The new building cost just over five million in 1969. And I suppose at a conservative estimate it’s worth, now, forty to sixty million.’

  ‘So the building belongs to the band?’

  ‘An interesting theory, but I don’t think it would stand up in court.’

  ‘But correct?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So in theory McBain – or his representative – could legitimately walk into the building and claim it for the surviving members of the band?’

  ‘Just try,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.

  ‘I just might.’

  17

  Right then the steak and Châteauneuf-du-Pape arrived. Kennedy-Sloane went through another rigmarole of tasting the wine. The waitress and I both breathed a sigh of relief when he declared it fit for human consumption.

  I sipped at my glass. The liquid tasted fruity and coated my teeth with a slightly bitter film. But it was over twenty quid a bottle so it must have been good.

  ‘How long have you been in the investigation business?’ asked Kennedy-Sloane through a mouthful of Château-Briand.

  ‘Ten years with the police, six months on my own.’

  ‘And you’re based down in South London?’ It was more of
a statement than a question.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied nevertheless.

  ‘A most disagreeable part of the world if I may say so. Even the so-called up-and-coming areas are falling down. Full of the nouveau upwardly mobile and their delinquent hordes.’

  ‘It suits me,’ I said. I wasn’t going to defend the place. He was right, anyway. ‘But the BMWs are creeping in.’

  ‘Yes, these yuppies really are an unpleasant breed. It’s the first time for two hundred years that bloody office workers have been heroes. Any junior clerk who can drag together the deposit for an Escort convertible, a decent suit and a CD player thinks he rules the world. Personally I think I’ll throw up if I see another Next jacket.’

  I checked my labels and breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘I’m afraid Margaret has a lot to answer for,’ he went on.

  ‘I would have thought you’d have applauded yuppiedom,’ I remarked.

  ‘Not at all. It’s been hard enough to scrape a living for years without all these cockney yobs in striped shirts trying to muscle in.’

  ‘Is that why you went into the music business?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. I singled it out years ago. There’s a lot of disposable cash in record companies and bands and I find that quite a lot of it can be siphoned through my company and make me an exorbitant profit on the way.’

  ‘And the music itself?’

  He nearly choked on his sauté potato. He swallowed and looked at me in sheer amazement.

  ‘Music? What the hell has music got to do with the music business? I detest pop music. It’s a bloody abomination. If I never heard another pop record I’d be quite happy.’

  ‘Just the sound of cash registers ringing?’

  ‘Do I sense a tone of disapprobation in your voice, Nicholas? I’d be careful. Glass houses and all that. I loathe the music biz and all it stands for, and every penny I can extricate from it for myself I enjoy greatly.’

  ‘So I take it you don’t go and see the bands you work for?’

  ‘Christ, no. Gigs are the worst part. I mean gigs, what a stupid word. I never go unless I’m absolutely forced to. The places they hold them in make my blood run cold. Wembley Arena, for instance – Dachau with a sound system. Warm lager in plastic glasses and two ounces of gristle in a greasy bun.’ He laid down his knife and fork neatly and made a little grimace of distaste which could only be washed away with more expensive booze.