by Paul Charles
‘Contracts between the manager, agent, publisher and record company are a legal minefield. For obvious reasons the artists’ solicitor should not be acting for the manager, although this is sometimes the case. And if the manager puts together the perfect team of agent, promoter, publisher and record company, the artist will need an accountant to look after all the money, he, she or they are going to make.
‘On top of that team there is also a secondary team – tour managers, road crews, musicians, stylists, hairdressers, record producers, studio engineers, concerts engineers, personal assistants, bus drivers, truck drivers and so on and so on. The bigger you are, the more you have.’ Colette paused for a mouthful of tea.
‘Let’s say our artist has put together his team with the help of the manager and is about to make the first record. If it’s a single it will consist of two songs. If it’s an album, nowadays a CD, obviously there will be ten to twelve songs, usually written by the artist. Bob Dylan, for example, always records his own compositions, but Cliff Richard records songs written by other people. The writer’s royalties are collected via a publishing company that protects the copyright of the songs. If the record company sell the CD for say, ten pounds, out of that they will pay the publisher of the song, say for argument’s sake, one pound. They will pay another pound to the performing artist; more if you are Paul McCartney, less if you are a new group starting out…’
‘Like the Blues by Five,’ Kennedy offered.
‘Yes, indeed,’ smiled Colette, happy to have at least half of her audience still with her – PC Gaul’s attention was more on how her free flowing dark blue dress was falling into the curves of her body. ‘The balance of the ten pounds will go towards VAT, manufacturing costs, distribution costs, promotion costs, packaging costs and, of course, profit!
‘From their pound per record, the publishing company will give the writer as little as fifty pence or as much as ninety-five pence, and will keep the rest. So, in effect, the record company looks after the performer of the song, and the publishing company takes care of the writer of the song,’ Colette concluded.
‘So you see,’ added Martyn Farrelly, ‘Colette pointed out to me that if it had not been for Peter, then firstly, I wouldn’t have had a record deal, secondly, I wouldn’t have had a publishing deal, and thirdly, and most importantly, I wouldn’t have met her. While my artistic integrity let me disregard the first two points, meeting Colette was down to Peter, so I contacted him again and we made our peace.
‘And now… Oh God! I just can’t believe he’s dead.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We don’t give out our ages,
And we don’t give our phone numbers
- The Roches
As Kennedy was gratefully accepting a second cup of tea from Colette Farrelly, WPC Anne Coles was in North Bridge House, dialling the number of the Fraud Squad at New Scotland Yard.
She introduced herself to DS Sandy Johnson, advising him of the case she was working on and explaining that Camden CID had reason to believe their victim had been blackmailed by chart hypers.
‘The whole chart-hyping thing has been explained to us, but somewhere along the line it was mentioned that the Fraud Squad had been carrying out its own investigation. My DI wanted me to check with you to see if you have any additional background or anything new that might be of use to us in this O’Browne murder.’ She occupied her free hand by rolling a pen around in her fingers in an effort to distract herself from missing the smoking habit she had painfully managed to kick.
‘Ah. How long do you have? A couple of weeks by any chance?’ laughed the boisterous voice at the other end of the phone.
‘I’ll take the short route. Let’s leave out the tourist attractions, please,’ the WPC requested into the handset, which took but a millisecond to relay Anne Cole’s voice (slight distorted) to the ear of DS Sandy Johnson.
‘Okay.’ Johnson primed himself as though he were Colin Jackson about to depart the starting blocks at forty miles per hour. ‘Basically we found that the pop charts were being distorted – no, not by the noise – in two ways. First, the record company sales reps seek “ticks”, which are sales marks from the shops they visit. Obviously in somewhere like the Outer Hebrides, where the rep and the sales assistant are mates, this is easier than the cities.’ DS Sandy Johnson went off into a verbal sketch between a rep and a sales assistant in a shop on the Hebrides, all the time keeping up two Scottish accents. He had DS Coles laughing out loud. She thought that this DS, Sandy Johnson from the Fraud Squad at New Scotland Yard, could be someone she would be interested in getting to know better.
But at the end of his sketch all she said was, ‘And the second system?’
‘The second system: ah well, that really is a continuation and a refinement of the granny squad.’
‘The granny squad?’ the WPC chuckled, anticipating another one-act play.
‘Yes,’ DS Johnson said with more than a little mischief, ‘and never ever put your granny on the stove.’
‘What? Why on earth not?’
‘She’s too old to be riding the range.’
‘Oh please!’ The WPC tried not to laugh. ‘Can we be serious, I’m not sure my DI wants his after-dinner patter improved.’
‘Sorry. Seriously, the granny squads started off in the seventies. They were literally a group of grannies and bored housewives who went out in their hundreds to buy up records. They were usually organised by band members, fan clubs, managers and record companies, or a combination of all four. It was much easier then because there were fewer chart return shops.’
‘I know a little about the chart return shop system,’ Coles offered, avoiding an explanation.
‘Well, nowadays the system is refined to the point where there are about two thousand chart return shops across the country on computer and a reading is taken from a varied five to six hundred of them, so hyping has become harder and nowadays it’s a lot more expensive, because you have to cover a lot more shops – perhaps as many as two thousand. But then again, the rewards tend to be a lot higher. And for fifteen to twenty thousand pounds you can buy yourself some additional “marketing”. It’s very slick and professional compared to the old days of the granny squads.
‘The record companies approach these new legit “marketers” to “work” the relevant single, passing on details, such as when TV appearances, radio plays, concerts, press are planned to happen. This way the surge in record sales can be explained by promotional activity. The marketers will invoice the record companies, who will pay a “marketing bill” and thus keep their hands clean.
‘Marketers have, I believe, about three regional teams which, Monday to Saturday, travel the country – or at least their respective parts of the country – buying up the single in an attempt to create as natural a sales pattern as possible. Don’t forget that every individual sale shows up on the computer, so if one person buys six copies of the single in one purchase, suspicions will be raised.’ DS Johnson paused and WPC Coles could hear him lighting up a cigarette.
‘What happens to all the records these people buy?’ the WPC inquired, cutting into the telephone pause.
‘It seems that the records and all the receipts proving purchase find their way back to the marketers. The receipts would be made available to someone at the record company to show that they were betting their money’s worth.
‘The records – actually, the majority are CDs these days – are, we believe, in some cases being shipped to Holland to be exchanged for drugs. One such shipment we seized contained albums, which led us to believe that some of the record companies are using CDs and albums, to pay the marketers. Obviously fifteen thousand pounds worth of CDs is easier to find than fifteen thousand pounds in cash.’
‘But surely it would take a hell of a lot of records, CDs, whatever to buy enough drugs to make the exercise worthwhile?’ reasoned the WPC.
‘The shipment I’m talking about had a shop value of over half a million pounds. We w
orked out that it would raise about a hundred thousand pounds, which would buy enough drugs to realise a street value of a couple of million pounds,’ the DS replied, between drags on his cigarette.
‘But why bother? Why not just buy the drugs for a hundred thousand pounds? These drug dealers are not short of money.’
‘Think about it. They are both getting something for nothing. The suppliers are getting half a million pounds’ worth of legit merchandise for a hundred thousand pounds, and the dealers are getting over a million pounds worth, maybe even two, of drugs for free and as a by-product of another job. And it gives both parties a front, the appearance of participating in legitimate business.’
‘I suppose that makes some kind of sense, but I still can’t figure out how our blackmailer fits into all this.’ The WPC jotted down some of the sums volunteered by DS Sandy Johnson.
‘You’ve got to assume that it’s not the marketer. He’s got too much to lose. Perhaps it could be someone the marketer has fallen out with, maybe a member of one of his teams, or maybe, and more likely, the leader of one of his teams. People making their money illegally tend to become greedy very quickly and, well, there is always some kind of angle, isn’t there?’ the DS surmised.
‘So how do we find out who it is? Do you know these teams? Do you know who the marketer is? Have you ever prosecuted?’ Coles reeled off her list of questions.
‘Hang on, hang on, one at a time, please. We’ve never prosecuted because hyping is very difficult to prove. There is nothing illegal in someone going into a shop once, or several times, and purchasing however many copies of a record they like. We’ve never been able to make a direct connection between the marketers – hypers – and the record companies. Either they pay the money direct to legit marketers through the books or they pay with CDs. So they stay clean.
‘Any time a record moves up the charts on fresh air, it’s put down to fans trying to help, or the band’s and/or manager’s family being overly-enthusiastic. The record companies regulate themselves through the BPI and as they are nearly all at it, it’s very rare for any action to be taken. When it does, it’s always used as a PR exercise: look how straight we are, punishing our own.
‘We believe that there are about three marketers in London at the moment and we believe they may share team members. Look, tell you what, leave it with me for a time and I’ll see if I can dig you up any names, okay?’ Sandy Johnson offered.
‘Brilliant, yes. I’ll hear from you, then. That’s great – thanks for all the info. Bye.’ Anne Coles reflected that some days, maybe even today, promised lots. She could not help trying to imagine, from the vocal clues, what this DS Sandy Johnson looked like.
Her mother had often told Anne how, in her own schooldays, she used to daydream about what her future husband (Anne’s father) would look like. She had been way out.
The WPC wondered some more about Sandy and then thought, shit, I’ve got work to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
You’re tired of dreamin someone else’s dreams
When they really don’t include you any longer
- Paul Brady
While WPC Coles was considering her dad from her mum’s point of view, Colette Farrelly had proved two important points for Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy, which were that she made a dammed fine cup of tea, and that she was an excellent hostess; she kept his tea fresh.
Colette offered Kennedy and PC Gaul a helping of the oven-fresh bread which had been the source of the excellent smell as they had entered the house. Regretfully he felt he had to decline her kind offer, as he and ann rea were meeting Leslie Russell for dinner that evening. Kennedy was not a fitness freak, although he was not unhealthy or overweight. But he felt that unless he watched himself, he could easily be stretching the belt.
Kennedy continued the conversation, thinking that maybe one slice of bread wouldn’t hurt. But no, back to the job in hand. It was Kennedy who asked all the questions. PC Gaul was diligently carrying out his instructions: ‘Just keep quiet, note everything down and watch everything like a hawk.’
‘When you and Peter reacquainted yourselves, did he act at all strange? You know, perhaps still a little upset at being cut-off?’
‘No, not at all. He isn’t – wasn’t – really like that,’ Martyn Farrelly replied, unconsciously adjusting to the fact that someone he knew had recently died. It was a weird feeling, even for people who did not spend a lot of time together. When someone dies, the survivor has to deal with a permanent absence, regretting things he hasn’t done or said.
‘Peter was instantly friendly again. It was like we’d seen each other just the previous week and not several years before,’ Farrelly affirmed. He leant forward in his chair, raising his left hand slightly with tip of forefinger and thumb touching and moving his hands a little to emphasise his point before continuing. ‘He was working on his new shop and he wasn’t a person to dwell on regrets. I really envied him for that quality. He always had this ability to just, to just move on.
‘I remember I had a new bunch of songs and I played them for him. On the cassette player,’ Farrelly added in case the policemen thought him vain enough to play the songs to his friend on a guitar in the room. ‘He liked them and he was very supportive and enthusiastic. They were some of the songs I’d written for my first solo record. I was happy to have a chance to play them for someone whose ear I trusted. Having a group of musicians and a manager around can be a great sounding board. You may not even take any notice of what they have to say, but you take some comfort that they do not laugh at what you play them.
‘I mean Colette knows a good song when she hears one. BPE, the publishers, were really annoyed when she left. But it’s different.’ Farrelly was obviously now picking his words carefully, not wishing to offend his wife.
‘I think what my husband is trying to say, not too successfully, Detective Inspector,’ Colette smiled graciously, ‘is that I love him, and that therefore I am not going to be the best critical gauge of his work.’
‘Exactly, exactly.’ Farrelly enthusiastically took up the line, once again leaning forward in his seat, rocking gently. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, dear,’ he smiled at his no-nonsense wife.
‘Anyway, Peter also was on a high at that point. He had discovered that excellent band from America, Half Moon Bay Express, and he was thinking of starting a small label to help them in the UK. They were doing okay in America, but Peter told me that the English record companies were, surprise surprise, dragging their heels. Dragging their heels when they should have been encouraging new musical trends. That’s one of the things I always loved about Peter: if he liked something, he didn’t care what the rest of the biz thought.
‘When it comes to spotting new talent the English record companies are about as effective as a glass hammer. Not Peter. If he liked someone, he would just get on with it and spend a hundred and fifty per cent of his energy helping them find their audience.
‘As that evening wore on, we were both attacking the wine and I think we were both relieved that we’d made up. Anyway, I offered him five hundred pounds to help him start up a record label, Camden Town Records. He accepted it and both of us went off happier men that night.’ Farrelly smiled at the memory, rather than at the other people in the room.
‘And you remained friends?’ Kennedy asked.
‘Yes. Well, probably not as tight as we were in the early days, but I suppose that was to be expected. We were both busy with other careers and I have a family. Obviously your priorities change. But we did keep in touch. For instance, he helped me with the final song selection for my first two albums and generally he would give me career advice when we occasionally spoke on the phone.
‘And of course I gave advice on some of his projects. I’m not sure how much attention he paid to my input, but he did ask me about various mixes and songs on the first Wire Crates album. He was working so hard on trying to get that album perfect.’
‘Did you ever mak
e any albums for Camden Town Records?’ Kennedy asked.
‘No. I had my deal in place before Camden Town Records started. And you know, even if I hadn’t, I would have needed a record company already up to speed. As it turned out, I picked the wrong one anyway, but at that time I needed a functioning company rather than one just starting up. But I would have liked to have worked with Peter again, in some way. After all, we had started out together,’ Farrelly said regretfully.
‘Surely you did, though?’ prodded Kennedy, looking down from the Blues by Five poster behind Colette’s left shoulder.
‘What?’ Farrelly sounded surprised.
‘Well, you were part of Camden Town Records, weren’t you? It was started with your money,’ Kennedy qualified his earlier question.
‘Oh, no. No, not at all. That was just a loan; more of a gift, really. I didn’t have shares or anything.’
‘Oh I see,’ said Kennedy, scratching his left eyebrow. He was silent for a moment. ‘When did you last see Peter O’Browne?’ he asked eventually.
‘Hmmm, let me think…we had a drink at the Edinboro, a pub near his office…’ Farrelly began.
‘I know it,’ offered Kennedy. In fact he knew it well, not because he was a great pub person but because its proximity to North Bridge House made it a regular watering-hole for the majority of Camden CID. ‘When would this have been?’
‘About two weeks ago, I think. Can you remember, Colette?’ Farrelly inquired leaning back fully into his seat for the first time since the interview had begun.
‘It will be two weeks ago tomorrow. Don’t you remember, I met you there and we went into the West End to see that Kevin Costner film?’ Colette prompted.
