I managed to tear Mo away from his security check, and we climbed the stairs to our own floor.
‘Examine the door,’ he advised, as I got out my key. ‘They may have booby-trapped the lock.’
‘This thing has really got to you, hasn’t it?’ I remarked, as we safely entered our apartment.
‘If there’s one thing I can’t handle it’s terrorism,’ pronounced Mo bitterly, searching each room in turn for explosive devices.
In the end he seemed reasonably satisfied, and sat down on the sofa with a blow of the cheeks. The weather was exceptionally humid, and trickles of sweat were already beginning to make their way down his bullet-shaped head.
‘You may think I’m over-reacting,’ he said, fanning his face with a magazine, ‘but if these animal rights loonies were following you they probably know exactly where we work by now.’
‘It’s possible,’ I conceded, opening a window to encourage a draught. ‘But I don’t see why they would target us, necessarily.’
‘At least you can’t complain that it’s a dull case.’
‘On the contrary,’ I retorted, ‘stripped of the sensationalism which attends pop stars, terrorists, and large sums of money, it struggles to rise above the banal. However, we press on. Vicki’s manager will be here shortly. I rang her yesterday; she seemed most anxious to assist us. You never know – she might even add another layer of complexity.’
Mo put the hoover over the carpet and I dusted the furniture, in honour of our first official visitor.
Sandy O’Neill arrived somewhat earlier than the appointed hour, carrying a briefcase, and looking generally very business-like. She was in her early forties, with pleasing, definite features, and a shiny, manageable bob.
‘Very good of you to see us at short notice, Miss O’Neill,’ I remarked, pouring her a cup of coffee from our handsome service. ‘I know how busy you are. You manage several other artists apart from Vicki, or am I misinformed?’
‘She takes up most of my time, of course,’ answered Sandy with a quick smile, ‘especially with the new album being launched soon.’
‘It was you who advised her to contact us, I understand? No doubt you spotted our little advertisement?’
‘That’s right. To be brutally honest, Mr. Webster, I would have preferred Vicki to go straight to the police. But she refused point-blank.’
‘Well, I’m gratified you chose us as your second option.’
‘Shall we get down to the nitty gritty?’ suggested our guest solemnly. ‘What are we going to do about Jake? Do we pay off the kidnappers – again – or what?’
‘We have a few days in which to make that decision,’ I replied evenly, ‘which is really why I asked you to come and see us, Miss O’Neill. Any information you can provide will be appreciated.’
She shrugged. ‘Ask me whatever you want.’
‘Let’s start at the beginning, then. Can you remember whose idea it was to photograph Vicki wearing only fur stoles?’
‘Mine, I’m afraid. I thought a kind of “rich bitch” image would really sell the album; Vicki agreed. Obviously, if I’d known the press would twist everything and make out the furs were genuine, I’d never have suggested it.’
‘So, you’re absolutely certain the furs were artificial?’
‘Of course! I particularly wanted to avoid a reaction from the animal welfare lobby – so I asked the shop to double check when I bought them. What more could I do?’
‘Is it normal for you to buy Vicki’s costumes personally?’
‘I do it occasionally – if she’s too busy.’
‘When the stories started to appear did you consider putting out a statement, assuring the public that no genuine fur had been used?’
‘We did put out a statment like that. Several, actually. But the mud had already stuck.’
‘I see. Couldn’t you have sued the papers for libel, in that case?’
‘We considered it, but there were obstacles.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for a start the “evidence” disappeared. Didn’t Vicki tell you? The furs were stolen from out of her bedroom.’
‘When was this?’ I asked, exchanging a glance with Mo.
‘Just after the media got hold of the story. I told Vicki to inform the police immediately, which she did. But they were never recovered.’
‘You worry me, Miss O’Neill,’ I reacted gravely. ‘It begins to look more and more like some kind of conspiracy against Vicki.’
‘I see what you mean,’ she agreed.
‘Going back to the furs,’ put in Mo, ‘have you kept the receipt? That would be good evidence that they were artificial.’
Sandy looked rather embarrassed. ‘I lost it out of my purse, actually. Stupid of me.’
She snatched a packet of cigarettes from her handbag – her hands trembling very slightly. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, before lighting up.
‘Feel free,’ I said.
‘It’s a filthy habit, I know. In fact I’ve been trying to give up, but it’s a lot harder than meat.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I became a vegetarian over a year ago – stuck to it ever since. But the dreaded weed is something else.’
She let out a nervy giggle.
‘Presumably, then, you think it’s inherently wrong to kill animals for food?’ I asked, nimbly.
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied instinctively, then, seeing our reaction, added: ‘but I’m not militant about it, if that’s what you’re thinking. These extremists who use violence are no better than any other terrorists. They’re scum!’
Sandy’s hazel eyes hardened behind the plumes of smoke issuing from her glossy lips. Just then it was easy to imagine how she must have clawed and hustled her way to the top of the pop management pile.
‘Tell me,’ I said, replenishing her coffee cup with a serene smile, ‘how did you first come to manage Vicki?’
‘Through Jake, really – we go back years. He discovered her, did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘She was in an all-girl dance act that wasn’t really going anywhere. Jake realized Vicki had a fantastic voice. He wrote lots of positive stuff about her in Turntable magazine, and on the back of that she got a solo deal with Cresta Records.’
‘It’s funny,’ she continued reminiscently, ‘because at the time he was dating one of the other girls in the group – Denise, I think her name was. Next thing we knew Jake and Vicki were an item.’
‘Was Denise bitter?’
‘Extremely, at first. But she’s happily married with two kids now.’
‘All forgiven and forgotten, you think?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘And what of Jake himself? How do you think he’ll react under the strain of being a hostage – for a second time? You obviously know the man pretty well.’
‘All I know is that he’s been rather fragile for some time now,’ confided Sandy.
‘You mean physically?’
‘And emotionally. What with his drink and cocaine habits, and all the ups and downs with Vicki.’
‘Ups and downs?’
‘Well, last year they were going to get married – it was announced and everything. Then Jake’s boozing got worse. Vicki forked out for him to go to the Clearwater Project – that’s a residential rehab place in Somerset. All the celebs go there for drying out – actors, musos, writers.’
‘I think I’ve heard of it,’ said Mo. ‘It’s got a good reputation.’
‘You’re totally cut off from the outside world, there; no T.V., newspapers – even letters are banned. Anyway, by the time he came out Vicki had changed her mind about marrying him.’
‘Why was that?’ I asked.
‘Her career was really starting to buzz. America was catching on to the first album. I guess she just needed time to reassess her priorities.’
‘What’s the latest situation between them?’
‘They’ve come to an “understanding” – isn’
t that the right term? Vicki will be devoting the next five years to her career. If by the end of that time Jake has got himself under control then she’ll tie the knot.’
‘Sounds like an eminently reasonable arrangement,’ I remarked appreciatively. ‘I don’t suppose you had a hand in it?’
Vicki’s manager smiled demurely. ‘I might have done. But it’s all completely academic if we don’t get Jake back in one piece.’
‘As you say, Miss O’Neill, as you say . . . Well, I think that’s all for now. Thanks very much for your time – it’s been most interesting. We’ll keep you informed of any developments, of course.’
I got up and showed her courteously to the door. She paused in order to cast a final, critical eye over our parlour.
‘I really like the way you’ve done this out. Who’s your designer?’
I pointed to Mo, who gave a self-mocking bow.
‘If you want to earn some extra money you could always come and do my bedroom.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he laughed.
‘Oh, before I go,’ said Sandy, turning to me inquisitively, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘Let me guess, you want to know if my middle name really is Sherlock.’
She looked startled. ‘How did you know what I was going to say?’
‘Good old-fashioned guesswork,’ I replied with a wink.
That evening, a warm and sultry one, we drove up to Hampstead. I parked my trusty Nissan on Heath View Avenue, several hundred yards away from Vicki’s house, then we approached on foot.
Mindful of our client’s concerns, I was disguised in a trendy jacket, baseball cap, baggy jeans, and chunky trainers. A guitar was slung rebelliously over my shoulder. Mo’s appearance was similar.
The pop star’s house was an imposing, turreted, neo-Gothic pile set back some way from the road. We crunched up the gravel drive under the eerie gaze of two security cameras, mounted on tree trunks.
Our ring on the doorbell brought a large, affable-looking woman to the threshold. She showed us into the living room, which was minimally furnished and predominantly white. By contrast, a black grand piano stood in the corner, upon which Vicki was strumming abstractedly.
‘Your visitors, Miss Vine,’ announced the woman (whom I took to be the housekeeper).
‘Ah, Sherl!’ reacted our famous client, looking up. ‘I like the gear, by the way!’
‘Thank you.’
‘You weren’t followed here, were you?’
‘I trust not. Let me introduce my colleague, Morris Rennie.’
Mo slipped off his cap, and stepped forward with a sickly grin. ‘Good to meet you at last. I really love your music.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ replied Vicky, rather flatly.
‘Was that a new song you were working on? Sounded great,’ he continued sycophantically.
‘That? No way! I was just mucking about. So you’re a fan, are you?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Which album do you like best?’
Mo froze in panic.
‘It’s . . . er . . . it’s really difficult to choose, you know,’ he stammered.
‘I’ve only made two,’ she pointed out frostily.
‘Didn’t you say you liked Vine Vinyl?’ I put in, coming to Mo’s rescue.
‘That’s right! If I had to choose, it would be – er – that one.’
My colleague shrank back, deflated by his faux pas.
‘So, to business,’ I said briskly. ‘I take it there’s been no further word from the kidnappers?’
‘Nothing,’ replied our client sombrely.
‘In that case, may we possibly see your bedroom? There are a couple of things I need to confirm.’
Vicki shrugged, then disengaged herself from the piano, and led us upstairs into an impressive chamber, which was dominated by an exquisite four-poster bed.
‘Now, where is this Japanese vase that was mentioned in the ransom note?’ I asked, looking round.
‘I used to have one,’ she explained, ‘but I sold it about six months ago. And it wasn’t Japanese, it was Chinese.’
‘Where did you keep it?’
‘Here, on this window-sill.’
‘I see. Well, whoever wrote that ransom letter was obviously acting on old and inaccurate intelligence. Can you think of any strangers who may have had access to this bedroom – at the time when the vase was still here?’
Vicki contemplated for a while. ‘Loads of people, actually. I had the whole place redecorated last autumn. There were workmen coming and going all the time.’
I sighed. ‘That hardly narrows the field. Of course, there is an alternative possibility; the vase may have been seen from outside . . . ’
I went to the oriel window and calculated several lines of sight.
‘Who owns that house over the road?’ I asked.
‘A High Court judge. Lived there for years.’
‘Perhaps he’s an animal lover?’
Vicki was tickled by the idea. ‘He goes fox-hunting regularly.’
‘Oh! Then I think we can safely rule him out. Alright, let’s move on to the furs. They were stolen from this room, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, I kept them in here,’ replied the singer, pointing to a substantial oak wardrobe in the corner.
‘And did the theft take place when the decorators were in, by any chance?’
‘Yes. Do you think one of them did it?’
‘Entirely possible. Somebody from the A.D.M. must have been in this room – that’s clear.’
Later that evening Vicki gave us an impromptu rendition of her hits on the piano, which was a most pleasant interlude. Then Byron Silk arrived unexpectedly.
Vicki’s Man Friday turned out to be a lithe rastafarian with an outwardly stern manner who broke into an engaging grin upon the least occasion.
‘We spoke on the phone,’ he began, slapping me on the hand in the street-wise fashion. ‘Any news about Jake?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I answered gravely. ‘But we still have four days to pay the ransom. I plan to go down to Sussex tomorrow; I’ll take a look round the cottage where you found him last time.’
‘The kidnappers wouldn’t use the same place again, surely,’ objected Mo.
‘No, but they may have left some traces.’
‘Would you like me to come along?’ suggested Byron. ‘I could show you exactly where we found Jake.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Vicki. ‘I can’t join you, I’m afraid – there’s another recording session in the afternoon.’
At that moment the housekeeper came in to announce that supper was served. We relocated to the sumptuous Regency dining-room.
The food was French, impeccably presented, and the conversation was as bright as could be expected, overshadowed as we were by poor Jake’s perilous situation.
By the time Mo and I finally took our leave dusk had descended. The house loomed behind us like a Hammer movie set, and we came once again under the unblinking scrutiny of the security cameras.
‘Vicki seems to be bearing up pretty well,’ remarked Mo, once we had emerged into the avenue. ‘A bit nervy perhaps, but you’d never guess her boyfriend was being held by terrorists.’
‘She keeps herself busy,’ I replied, ‘which is the best kind of therapy.’
As we neared my car Mo declared: ‘We really must buy you something more stylish, Sherl. A Nissan Micra hardly meets the case. Remember what I said about image.’
‘At least it’s reliable,’ I countered. ‘What would you have me go around in? A hansom?’
‘Let me have a think about it.’
‘You do that, Mo. You do that.’
I stood in the road, fumbling around in the gloom for my car keys.
‘Look at that prat driving without lights!’ exclaimed my friend, pointing up the road.
I turned to see a murky form heading towards us at a crawl. Once it was within about fifty yards it suddenly accelerated with a
roar. I hardly had time to recognize the make of the car – a B.M.W. – and observe that the driver had long blonde hair, before it was virtually upon me! Everything seemed to progress in slow motion, and my feet felt as if they were rooted to the tarmac. Just one second more of inaction and I would have been mown down. Fortunately, however, something like a survival instinct clicked on in my brain. I made a desperate, goalkeeper’s lunge across the Nissan’s bonnet. There was a horrendous scraping noise, then the B.M.W. screamed off towards the twilit heath.
The next thing I knew Mo was bending over me anxiously. I was lying face-up on the pavement – dazed, though seemingly in tact.
‘Are you OK, Sherl? I’ll get an ambulance.’
I shook my head stubbornly. ‘No need. I’m fine. She missed me completely.’
With some effort I managed to lever myself up onto my elbows.
‘Stay absolutely still – in case something’s broken.’
‘Nothing’s broken. I think I’d know. Just help me up, will you?’
Against his better judgement Mo pulled me, slowly, to my feet. I leant on the car roof to steady myself.
‘Who the hell was that maniac anyway?’ asked Mo.
‘The same charming young lady who honoured us with her attentions yesterday. By the way, you saved my life. If I hadn’t turned round –’
‘Forget that! We should get you to a doctor, or at least back to Vicki’s house; those cuts need seeing to.’
‘Vicki’s under enough strain as it is. Why don’t you just drive me to my flat, like an excellent chap.’
Back in my sitting room Mo dabbed at my grazes with cotton wool soaked in T.C.P. During his ministrations I began to shake, quite uncontrollably.
‘It’s delayed shock, that’s all,’ he diagnosed. ‘We’ll have to keep you warm, though.’
‘You missed your profession,’ I managed to say through chattering teeth, as a blanket was draped over me.
The following morning I woke very early from a fitful, unpleasant sleep. Mo had bedded down on the sofa. I crept achingly past him into the kitchenette and made myself a pot of tea and some toast. The noise must have disturbed him because he appeared within a few seconds, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘How are you feeling this morning?’ he yawned.
The Sherlock Effect Page 3
