‘I told her big bad Auntie Sophie would be after her, so she’s washing up, isn’t she?’
‘Not so as you’d notice. Seen young Peachy Bum anywhere? She could be seeking consolation in his arms.’
‘He’s in the First Aid Room – fainted clean away when he heard what had happened. Any news, by the way?’ All the camp frivolity left his voice.
I shook my head. ‘And I can’t imagine that it’ll be good when we get it. Poor bugger. Any theories floating around about how it might have happened?’
‘Plenty. And all contradictory. Why don’t you go and have a nose round? You’re Family, after all. You’re entitled.’ He picked up a melon; the conversation was at an end.
That was exactly what I wanted to do; but there was still the small matter of Karen. Not expecting miracles, I looked back at the washer-uppers – and, to my amazement, there she was, wielding a tea towel as if she’d never done anything else. I would leave well alone.
As I headed up the steps to the stage I was intercepted by a policewoman. ‘Excuse me, miss, you can’t go up there at the moment – the Health and Safety people are busy. Authorised personnel only.’
I flapped my pass at her – the one that gave me access to everywhere except the Pyrotechnics Room. She looked impressed, and waved me through.
There wasn’t much to see; it had the desolate air I associate with a room after a party. A middle-aged woman wearing a hard hat was scaling the lighting gantry; a young man was busy with a tape measure and calculator. A police sergeant watched them with a preoccupied air, but looked round quickly enough when I appeared.
‘I’m Sophie Rivers,’ I said. ‘Andy just wondered—’
‘Not a lot I can tell you,’ he said. ‘Except they don’t seem to have found anything wrong with the guy’s safety harness clips, or the clip points.’
‘So—?’
‘So they’ll no doubt let the management know their findings as soon as they’re ready, Mrs Rivers. If you’ll tell your husband that.’
Somewhere on my back I took a wrong turning and found myself looping round the deserted building. The acoustic rooms, the practice rooms, they all echoed with the question: who wanted Andy dead? And another question, pounding with each step I took: why, why, why?
Eventually I made my way back to Andy. Griff, stern and alert, stood outside his door, with another, younger, bullet-headed man.
‘’Ave to search you, sweetie.’
‘Stow it. This is Ms Rivers—’
‘The Money’s missus?’
‘Cousin. Not that we don’t show any woman we come into contact with absolute respect.’ His new colleague looked doubtful. ‘But she’s the only one we let in without checking first with Andy – who, by the way, is Mr Rivers to you, and never the Money in front of anyone. Ever. And she’s the only one we leave alone with him.’
‘What about Mrs M—’
‘It’s Mrs Rivers, and she’s not here. OK?’
The bruiser nodded sullenly.
I smiled at Griff. ‘You’d have made a splendid infants’ teacher.’
‘I’m a killer on the PTA,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘Better go on in, Sophie. He’s got company, by the way.’
‘Company’ turned out to be a couple of uniformed officers, trying to piece together what had happened. I gave them my story.
‘Come on, miss – you must have seen more than that.’ The constable tried to look stern, but since he was scarcely old enough to shave he wasn’t very convincing.
‘When you’ve got all those loudspeakers going at full belt, when the lights are specifically angled to prevent you seeing anyone except Andy, you can’t tell what’s going on,’ I said. ‘I’m sure someone will demonstrate – Jonty would fix it.’
Jonty nodded.
‘Might be useful,’ conceded the elder officer, a ginger-haired woman sergeant of about my age: Kerry, Andy soon discovered, was her first name, but I don’t think he troubled about her surname.
‘What about the show?’ Andy asked. ‘I want it to go ahead. Everyone wants it to go ahead. Do we have to get permission, Kerry?’
‘From the Health and Safety Inspectors, sir,’ she said. No doubt to her acute embarrassment, a vivid blush oozed up her neck, until her whole face was awash.
‘If the show were to go ahead, would you both like tickets?’ Women have gone down on their knees for a smile like that: to do Andy justice, I don’t think he meant it to be as devastating as it always was. ‘Could you see to it, Jonty?’
If I knew anything about it, they’d come. And Jonty would ensure they had some merchandise to take away at the end of the evening. It wasn’t bribery, just PR. It had worked on Lady Thatcher, when she was plain Mrs T, though Andy would never reveal even to me the size of the personal donation she made. Yes, given a chance, he’d charm money for UNICEF out of the most red-necked, jingoistic American senator. Given a chance.
‘You have to tell them. There may be something there on that stage that’ll help trace whoever it is that’s threatening you. Can’t you get that into your head? More to the point, there may be something there that’ll help the police find out what happened to Pete. If the police treat it as a straight accident, they’ll give no more than a cursory inspection to the stage. They may miss something vital.’
‘The Health and Safety people said—’
‘They said they found no problems with any equipment. They didn’t look for anything else. Why would they? They’ve no reason to be suspicious.’
He was silent.
‘What did Ruth say?’
He looked me straight in the eye. ‘Find who did it,’ he said. ‘And have the party. Call it a wake.’
The sergeant, her skin icing-pale again, was clearly out of her depth. Quite clearly she wanted to yell at him for his foolhardiness: equally clearly she was too much in awe of him to do anything of the sort.
The woman she summoned – acting Detective Inspector Stephenson – had no such qualms. She turned up within fifteen minutes of the sergeant’s call. One step behind her was another plain-clothes officer, my old friend Ian Dale, who greeted everyone, including me, with exaggerated formality. When I caught his eye he raised an eyebrow by a millimetre, enough to hint at his acute discomfort. DI Stephenson was a well turned out woman. Her make-up and hair were immaculate; her trousers were a make I’d rejected as too expensive even half-price in the sale. And they looked better on her than they ever would have on me, since she was about five-foot ten in her socks.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘get all these people out of here, will you, Sergeant? I want to talk to Mr Rivers.’
Chapter Seven
‘Everyone’s been reshuffled,’ Ian said. ‘And I can’t wait till I’m old enough to retire.’ He leaned against the corridor wall outside Andy’s room.
He’d ushered us all out, though Andy plainly wanted me to stay, and he was supposed to be going back in to support the inspector. But he was clearly in no rush. His face was longer, more lugubrious and Eyoreish than ever: even the leather patches on his elbows were coming unstitched.
‘When’ll Chris be back from Bramshill?’ I asked. ‘Not long, now, surely?’
‘Another couple of weeks,’ said Ian, ignoring the clear implication that Chris and I must be in one of our off-periods. ‘And they’ll be after chaining him to a desk. Not supposed to run around getting their hands dirty any more, these Senior Officers.’ He snorted over the capital letters.
I tutted. From within the room a voice summoned him; he raised depressed eyebrows, shrugged, and turned away.
‘I ought to be in there with him,’ I said. ‘Andy. He’s my cousin.’
‘I remember,’ he said, with forbearance. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He patted me on the shoulder and went on, closing the door firmly behind him.
I found myself dabbing my eyes: shock, I suppose. Griff and the bouncer were a few yards down the corridor, talking vigorously with Kerry and her young constable; Ollie and the others were
sorting out the stage for a makeshift rehearsal. One of the backing singers would walk through Andy’s actions. Ollie had agreed with Ruth: the party would go ahead, for the sake of everyone involved.
The door opened behind me. DI Stephenson was prepared to admit me to her presence, was she? I walked over to join Andy on the sofa, and then changed my mind; he was so pale I was afraid he might faint. Perhaps his blood sugar level was low after the shock. I went back to the door and summoned Griff.
‘Go and get a couple of sandwiches, would you? There’s a cafe in the mall. Film-wrapped ones. Salad or cheese – he’s in vegetarian mode again.’ Then I remembered the breakfast bacon, but it wasn’t worth the complications of changing my mind.
‘Not asking Sam to rustle something up, I notice.’
‘He’s busy juicing,’ I said stupidly.
Griff held my gaze steadily for a moment. ‘I think I take your meaning. And if I choose a couple of sarnies at random – and a couple for you, Sophie? – no one’ll be any the wiser. Right?’
‘Right.’
I wasn’t quite sure what I meant; all I’d thought of was feeding Andy. But perhaps – no, I couldn’t make sense of anything. I went back in, to DJ Stephenson’s obvious irritation. I should have explained first; it wasn’t like me to be as abrupt, as rude, as I’d obviously seemed. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I just thought Andy ought to eat.’
She gestured me down to the sofa. Andy took my hand. She stood over us, studying her note pad. ‘Mr Rivers has had a number of implicit threats against his life. He tells me you are aware of another. Could you tell me in your own words, please?’
I explained about the newspaper death notice. ‘If Andy hadn’t been against publicity I’d have tried to trace the person who inserted it. The Evening Mail people have a system to guard against hoaxes.’
‘I’m sure such investigations will be safe in our hands, thank you, Miss Rivers.’
I was aghast. All the police officers I’d ever met had been friendly and informal, using first names as soon as they could. Perhaps the word ‘acting’ in her title was making her insecure. But just at the moment I could have done without having to make allowances for other people’s foibles.
Ian sighed, heavily.
‘Thanks, Inspector,’ I said, with no irony at all. ‘Do you think this afternoon’s incident might have a connection?’
Wrong again: I could see Ian tense. Slow down, Sophie. Let the woman do her job her own way. I smiled at her, placatingly. ‘Sorry – I’m jumping the gun, rather, aren’t I? Is there any other way I can help you?’
She’d probably have liked to tell me simply to shut up, but a knock at the door interrupted her: Griff and the sandwiches. He’d even cadged some plates to put them on when they were unwrapped.
Andy stared at me as if I were off my head. ‘What about Sam? That’s what he’s here for.’
I shook my head; I didn’t know either. Did Griff really think Sam was capable of poisoning Andy? He certainly seemed to think I might have the same suspicious. At last I asked a question I should have put an hour ago. ‘What were you looking for on stage? While they were pithering with the spot?’
He looked blank.
‘You were wandering about the stage looking as if you’d lost something. Peering round. Picking things up.’
‘Oh! My flask! I’d forgotten. Pete …’ He broke off, shuddering.
‘I think Miss Rivers is right – you ought to eat something,’ Inspector Stephenson said magnanimously. While he peeled the cellophane, she suddenly frowned. ‘What flask?’
‘I keep a flask of juice on stage. There’s half a dozen kept in the wings, so when I finish one I can start another. One of the lads swops the empty one for a full one.’
‘How many people know about the flasks?’
‘All the roadies. All the punters, for that matter. I used to keep it out of sight, but now I always leave it front left. Singing’s a thirsty business. You can quickly get dehydrated. No harm in everyone knowing that.’
‘Juice?’
‘Sam – he’s my chef, tours everywhere with me – juices a variety of fruit and vegetables.’
‘Anything else in there?’ Her voice was still calm, but I had a nasty idea what she was getting at.
Andy stared at her.
‘Such as – substances – to keep up your energy levels, Mr Rivers?’
He was on his feet before I could stop him. ‘Absolutely not! Where have you been these last few years, woman?’
‘All right, Andy, all right.’ Ian, large and impregnable, was on his feet too. ‘Andy’s got quite a reputation for anti-drugs work, ma’am. Chris – DCI Groom, ma’am – was telling me Andy’s been co-opted on to a Home Office working party. That’s right, isn’t it, Sophie? And he’s done all those TV ads, of course.’
All those first names! Ian was making a point, wasn’t he?
‘And it’s a no-drugs tour,’ I added. ‘In fact, weren’t a couple of roadies sacked earlier today for violating the rule?’
‘Are you alleging something, Miss Rivers?’
Was I? I shook my head. ‘Just making a point about Andy’s attitude to drugs.’
‘Perhaps you should let him make his own points.’
It would be better to keep quiet and use the space to think. It didn’t work, of course; I found my mind circling round the flask, which had of course occupied the same spot, front left, for all the rehearsals and performances I’d ever been to. It had become quite a feature: at the end of each performance Andy would lob an empty flask into the audience. So why hadn’t it been there today? Nothing was ever out of place, whether the gig was in Newcastle or New York.
Time I ate too, perhaps. Griff had found a curious and expensive mixture of cheese, celery and mayonnaise, which didn’t wholly fill the sandwich. Celery was supposed to clear the blood, wasn’t it? I hoped it would clear my head.
Andy and Inspector Stephenson were maintaining a staccato conversation. When I looked up from my sandwich, Ian was staring at me with barely-hidden concern. I smiled; he raised his eyebrows as if to prompt me.
‘Inspector Stephenson?’ I’d interrupted her thought flow: too bad. ‘Andy’s tours are always meticulous down to the last detail. Everything is always placed exactly where it was in the previous performance, and exactly where it will be in the next one. If that flask was missing—’
She sighed, rather too audibly, as well she might. ‘Go and find it, will you, Sergeant? Just to put everyone’s mind at rest.’
He got up with alacrity, probably glad to have something useful to do. With luck, he would come back with it, safe in a polythene bag, in case it had any fingerprints on it.
‘What I can’t understand,’ Inspector Stephenson was saying, ‘is – if you believe these threats – why you’re prepared to perform tonight. Why don’t you cancel? You’ve got the excuse of that man Hughes’s accident.’
‘In the Third World,’ said Andy wearily, ‘a child dies almost every second of a preventable disease. If, by walking on that stage, I can save a few hundred by getting them inoculated, how can I not? And in the part of Africa where my Foundation is working, the life expectancy for the average male is no more than forty. OK, so my life might be cut a little short, if the worst comes to the very worst. So what?’
I pressed my knuckles to my mouth in an effort not to speak.
Stephenson seemed moved; she coughed. ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that. We’ll increase security – check bags, that sort of thing. But resources are very limited, Mr Rivers – Andy—’ His charm had evidently claimed another victim. ‘Miss Rivers?’
‘Sophie, please. What I can’t understand is why all the business with Andy and Ruth’s cars went no further. Why did they do no more than drop nasty big hints? If you’ve got the chance to put funeral flowers on one car, vandalise another, you’d presumably have the opportunity to tamper with either in a much more dangerous way.’
‘Perhaps they wanted to lead up to tonight�
�s performance – the grand finale?’ Andy’s smile was very bleak.
Stephenson was quick to pick up the idea. ‘How about Dublin? Berlin? Any problems at all there?’
‘I’d already increased my personal security – you’ve met John Griffiths, I think.’
‘Briefly. I’d like to talk to him at greater length.’
‘The vandalism – whatever you want to call it – stopped then. But Sophie spotted that obituary in the paper and was alarmed.’
‘I’m not surprised – a most unpleasant prank at the very least. Hell! Excuse me.’ She turned away to talk into her phone. After a while, as Andy had done, she moved to the window, overlooking the mall.
There was a sharp tap at the door – Jonty. He was pale, but the tight lips and blazing eyes suggested anger. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from the Press Association. Would I like to confirm that you died this afternoon. Would I buggery, I said.’
‘Rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated,’ Andy said quietly. ‘What about—’
‘He’s on a life-support system. They don’t think he’ll make it, but they want to contact next of kin before they … Organ transplants. Guy carried the card … Someone’s told the press Andy’s died,’ he said to Stephenson, as she clipped her phone shut. ‘Fortunately they checked first before issuing the story.’
‘Bastards,’ she said. ‘Absolute fucking bastards.’
At this point Ian returned, jiggling the flask in a polythene bag. He caught the full force of the inspector’s invective and blinked, without apparent approval, but she noted his care with the flask and smiled, her whole face lightening as she did so. She took it from him and, holding the cap through the polythene, unscrewed it and sniffed. Her nose wrinkled attractively, Andy grinned. But his expression changed rapidly when she held the flask out to him.
‘What the hell’s Sam put in there?’
I slid sideways to sniff too. I’ve never been very impressed with Andy’s concoctions, but this one smelt downright peculiar.
Stephenson screwed the top back firmly. ‘I think I’d like to have the contents of this examined, Mr Rivers. Just in case.’ Her voice was cold and official once more.
Dying for Millions Page 6
