* * *
The arrest of Ricky Nicholls was not accompanied by photographers or journalists as he left his house in handcuffs, but word quickly spread on social media that the music star had been arrested.
He was met at the Police station by his brief and the two men spent an hour discussing the allegations. Ricky denied them, admitted them and then denied them again in quick succession.
The legal expert was used to his client's evasive indecision and had successfully defended him against previous allegations, one of which had gone to trial. He knew Ricky's faults well.
This one was clear; Ricky was completely guilty of the crime he had been arrested for, and doubtless several others too since their last meeting. Despite Ricky's overconfident and brash attitude, the accusations were serious.
The police officers put them to him, and Ricky batted away their questions with undeniable anger in his voice. Frustration almost.
He accused the police of picking on him because he was “working class.” His brief raised his eyebrow at his angry client; Ricky had been a student at a £4,000 a term school and his city broker father was a rich man.
“We have to follow up on the reports,” the police officer repeated. “OK. Interview terminated at twelve eighteen.” He glanced at his colleague. “But I have one piece of good news for you. I hear that a recent crime report you made about your personal files being hacked into has progressed. Some colleagues of ours are making an arrest.”
“Alas we won't be able to progress,” his partner added with a wry smile. “The guy is working class and you've made your feelings on that clear. 'Pigs shouldn't pick on plebs.'” He smiled as Ricky recoiled a little at his teasing. “And so we can't possibly …”
“Fuck that!” Ricky squealed.
“Detective Sergeant. If this is your attempt at humour then I must object in the strongest terms …”
The police officer interrupted Ricky's legal adviser with a sneering groan. “Keep your wig on,” he snapped. “Their investigations will continue regardless of socio-economic status. As will ours.”
“So you will be releasing my client.”
“Maybe later. Maybe not.”
* * *
Her peace was shattered by a knock on the door; Charlotte retrieved two male police officers, openly ogling the indecent employee and introducing themselves to the nervous Hazel.
She nervously shook their hands; not because she wanted to, but because they held their hands out expectantly and she didn't dare do anything else. “Hazel Nicholls?” the gruff, battle-scarred officer to her left asked. He groaned theatrically as he bent his knees to sit on the couch opposite the musical agent and picked up a notepad from his inside pocket. “Cup of coffee, love,” he demanded as Charlotte took their discarded coats. “Cream, no sugar.”
“Me too!” His partner uttered.
Hazel stared at the policemen, uncertain of how to react to their presence. The first man, sat to her left; he was tall, balding and large. His eyes were haggard and his skin hung loosely around his check bones. His nails were dark and yellow. He didn't look like the model of efficiency or health.
The second officer, to Hazel's right, had short blonde hair and was just as tall. Whereas the first officer was round, this one was thin and squinted as Hazel nodded, in answer to the original question.
“Yeah. I'm Hazel.” There was a brief silence as Charlotte clinked china in the adjacent kitchen. “What d'ya want? Where's Ricky?”
“Mr Nicholls is helping us with our inquiries?” The younger office tapped his notebook and opened it, glancing up at the fidgeting wife. She swept her long red hair behind her ears and he coughed. “I understand Mr Nicholls was caught up in a fracas with a sixteen-year-old called Freddy Ed-strome?”
“Edstrom,” his colleague corrected. “A Freddy Edstrom at the Cobhart Park Hotel two days ago. We understand you witnessed it.”
Hazel hesitated; she gripped her shaking hands to hide her nervousness and nodded without saying a word. “Sort of. Well it was nothing. Didn't see much. Just nothing really.” Her voice wavered.
“We do have CCTV,” the officer said, and then added. “It's not great quality so we need to speak to witnesses. We will be speaking to a number of people who were working on a music video production. We believe they saw something.”
Hazel gulped; her heart pounded as she breathlessly spoke at a canter. “I was outside and this lad came and fed the ducks and I took some of his bread as he said I could and then Ricky comes over and they argue and I try to tell them to stop and they both pushed one another and that's it.”
“Pushing one another doesn't fracture someone's nose.”
“A minor's nose,” his colleague added, looking up to thank Charlotte as she provided drinks to the guests.
“Well … ummmm … errr … ummmm … it got a bit out of hand, but boys will be boys,” she cried. “You know what boys are like.”
“Boys will be going to jail if they commit assault,” the officer said calmly without looking up from his pad. They drank their coffee and quizzed Hazel on the “fracas” or “fight.”
She longed to answer truthfully; she longed to tell them that her partner had savagely and without provocation beaten up a young teenage lad she was talking to. But Ricky was her husband and Hazel felt she had to stand by him. The answers to the questions were vague and non-committal, and she signed the written statement confirming that what was written was a fair reflection of what she had said.
The Police officers left and an hour later, Ricky arrived in their street with his agent; a small battery of light flashes from behind the front door showed that there was a waiting crowd of journalists in the twilight as their quiet cul-de-sac had turned into a media circus.
Hazel turned on the 24-hour news channel and watched Andre deliver a statement at the front of their gated community while Ricky waited behind him. “My client, The Tempest, was arrested today for his part in a minor fracas last week. This happened while on location filming his latest music video, and occurred as he intervened in an incident to protect his wife. We can’t say any more as legal investigations are ongoing but we are confident common sense and restraint will be exercised.”
Hazel gasped as the words came from Andre’s mouth; he knew the truth. She had told him long before the Police had come for her husband and he had no doubt heard it from Ricky in the Police station. She had seen him bend the truth before, but never lie with such confidence.
She knew he would have briefed a couple of his favourite journalists in the car. The story would hit the news-stands as if Ricky was arrested after being the hero and Freddy would be libelled. Only, the teenager lacked the resources to seek retribution and recompense.
The front door opened loudly and two men strode into Ricky’s long hallway. “What ya fuckin’ said?” Ricky demanded, striding away from Andre and advancing on his young wife. Her smile evaporated as his sharp tone pierced her relief at seeing him. “Gobbin’ off to the pigs ‘cause I touched ya dirty fuckin’ toy boy.” His hand grabbed Hazel on the shoulder. She shrieked.
“I didn't say anything.”
“Ya fuckin’ liar!”
“I didn't …”
Andre interrupted the ferocious tone of voice of his client and tapped him on the arm. “If the Police had a written statement from Hazel that you had hit the lad …” He raised an eyebrow at the scared wife. “… then we would have you in court tomorrow. They've released you on bail, pending further investigations. I'm sure Hazel said nothing untrue.”
“No I didn't. Go ask Charlotte.”
“Oh I will,” Ricky muttered. “I fuckin’ will.” He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, taking out two cans of beer. He looked at Hazel and Andre watching him, and sneered. “Ya two, m’ managers and the lawyers better get m’ outta t’is shit.”
* * *
The man was a natural cynic. Years of being in his chosen profession had taught him of the corruptibility of human natur
e. And few were as corrupt as those in positions of power and influence: politicians, company CEOs and celebrities.
The young man was an unknown; they had never seen him before. He was evasive about his purpose with their receptionist and he had turned up without an appointment. Although his appearance was scruffy, the adornments about his person screamed wealth.
Roger Booth adjusted his tie, and called the impatient man into his office and gestured towards the seat. “How can we help you?”
Ricky eyed the senior private investigator, willing to hear what he had to say. “I wan’ some diggin’ doin’ on some people.”
Roger gestured for Ricky to continue, but the music star said nothing more other than raising his eyebrows and slouching in the leather seat.
“I need a little more than that,” he said. “What is it you want my company and I to investigate? And who? And why?”
Ricky groaned. “The Bare Necessities. I is married to ‘azel and ‘er sister is Paige. I wan’ families info. Every-fink.”
“Why?”
“Fuck ya care?”
“You ask, why do I care? Because if you are an obsessive fan that is going to stalk and murder them, I would really not want to be called as a witness and have this company’s good name plastered over the media. So I think I will have to …”
“Pah,” Ricky spat, and began to tell the private investigator the story of his phone being hacked by a naturist miltia. Claire had invited one of their agents to his wedding, and Emit had just been arrested for hacking into his phone. Ricky believed that there was more to it than what the police had told him and he wanted the team of private investigators to research the backgrounds of Paige, Emit and the Bare Necessities.
Roger didn’t believe much of the theory, but an initial check on Google did reveal that Ricky was who he said he was, his phone had been hacked and a man was helping police with their inquiries.
“I’ll take you case on. You must give us eight weeks and our charges are £40 per hour. If we need to conduct surveillance that will be charged as time and materials. Hours outside of working hours are charged at an additional 50%. As we will be investigating several people for any trace of criminal or fundamentalist naturist activity, as well as researching their backgrounds, I would like you authorise a spend of upto £15,000 with his company. We will seek authorisation for costs beyond this point. At any time you can cancel our investigations and we will pass any leads, work or information onto you.”
Ricky nodded, barely listening and just signed the contract when it was placed in front of him, before flashing his passport at the private investigator.
Chapter LII
Claire
“So, how's the treatment then?”
“So, how's the pregnancy then?”
“I asked first.”
Claire pushed her way through the Christmas crowds that filled their London shopping street. “OK. I’m going to be on treatment for ages, but they treat me as a vague human. They've told me to do what I do when I am happy.”
“Well that's rockin' your sorry arse over the world with me!”
“You're probably not too wrong ‘bout that. And of course that Emit story blew everything up. The Herald stuff about the photos from my collapse was bad enough and then to find out that he was the hacker that did your phone. The journos came back to my front gate.”
“Bastards.”
“Yeah. So was Emit. Can’t believe he’d sell me out like that.”
“Ahh well … you do choose slimy runt for men!”
“So, how's the pregnancy?”
Paige glanced around the packed thoroughfare, presumably looking for hidden journalists ready to leap out of darkened alleyways with a recording device and scribble the secretive knowledge of her pregnancy into notebooks. Clearly assured that the ninja journalists did not occupy that West London street, she turned back to her friend. “Nothing to report. I've not told Jack and I've been for a twelve-week scan two days ago. They report that it's still a baby and it's still growing.”
“Anything else …”
“Like what? I’ve stopped chucking my guts up most mornings.”
“Like … what are you going to do with it?”
Paige sighed. “I was hoping it would go away.”
“It's not going to pack a trunk and leave the womb, waving goodbye as it slithers down the street, is it?”
“Do you have to use language like 'slithers'? That would be a pretty awful horror film.”
“Either way, you need to do something. And tell Jack.”
Paige grumbled; the clumsy attempt at distracting Claire as they meandered past a musical shop selling guitars failed when her friend pulled her into a side street and a secluded coffee shop.
Paige promised to tell her partner over the Christmas break and they resumed their Christmas shopping, spending two hours moving between the packed shops. They met Jack in another café and he rolled his eyes at the bulging bags from their shopping escapade. “How much?”
“Yeah,” Paige teased. “If only we were millionaires. It's only some bits and bobs.”
Claire offered to buy the drinks and took their requests before queueing in the busy café. The newspaper, discarded on a neighbouring table, made for idle reading as Claire waited.
She was so absorbed by an article that she didn't hear the barista calling to her. “Sorry,” she apologised, placed her order and then took the drinks to the table where Jack and Paige were sitting.
“No, no-one wants to do naturist shopping in December,” Jack huffed, causing Claire to smile at the indignant tone of voice her friend had used.
It was Paige's tone of voice when she was frustrated with the world; she grabbed at her T-Shirt and gestured towards her boyfriend. “Who wants to wear clothes when it's so … busy! So hot! So sweaty!”
“And cold.”
Claire put a skinny latte in front of her friend. “Be nice,” she teased. “She's just not been naked in front of hundreds of people for weeks.”
“Now, you said that,” Paige giggled. “But I was thinking of a Christmas Streak in Leicester Square. Snow Machine. Charity. Call it Bare for Santa.”
“You might want to work on your name. It’s not very catchy.”
“Santa Raw-se!” Claire joked. “Or Clothesless at Christmas. Or …”
“Naturism is for life, not just for Christmas!” Paige replied. “Anyway, just a thought.”
“That’s your thought. I've had one too,” Claire said excitedly and pulled out the paper from underneath her arm. “It's in here.”
“Oh that's an awful rag,” Paige moaned. “They carried the pictures of you. And the story about Andre. And they employ Peter fucking Moran. Do you know how evil that is?” Claire shuffled past the first five pages and tapped a small paragraph story in the corner. “It’s abusive to even have it in front of me. It’s like Thatcher’s used toilet paper. That’s what it is, Thatchers dirty …”
“Ssshh!,” Claire snapped. “Rumour has it, that bosses at the BBC are struggling to find viable acts for their EuroSong You Decide contest. Katie Price, Will Young, Il Divo and even Whigfield have turned down the chance to represent the UK. Judges are to be announced in the coming weeks.”
“And …”
“Don't you see, EuroSong,” Claire cried. “We could reform for EuroSong. No long tour and no lots of music to write. None of the pressure, all of the fun. Just a one off performance to win for England.”
“Great Britain,” Jack corrected her.
“United Kingdom actually,” Claire crowed.
“It’s doesn’t matter” Paige interrupted. “We can't do EuroSong.”
“Why?”
“Because it's so cheesy. No-one takes it seriously. Have we really fallen that far?”
“Europe takes it seriously. We don't. That's the problem. We send failures like Engelbert Humperdick.”
“It's …” Jack interrupted, about to correct her pronunciation.
“Whoever
!” Claire barked. “I bet we'd do a far better job than Katie Price.”
Paige snorted. “Of course we would. We would be fantastic!”
“So why don't we?”
“Claire, a few weeks ago you were half-dead in hospital … it's not a very well thought out idea.”
“Yeah, it’s not a great time for us,” Jack mused. “Maybe next year.”
“But … you said you missed being on stage,” Claire persisted, looking at her friend. “And I need something. And Jack, aren't your political ambitions helped by being the one who won EuroSong for the country. UK ain't won for decades.”
Jack sipped his hot chocolate. “Another year. Let's plan it and enter when we are all ready.”
Claire closed the paper and threw it on the adjacent table. “OK. It was just a thought.”
But one she had not given up on.
Chapter LIII
Jack
Paige glided gracefully into the lounge. Christmas music filled Paige’s expansive mansion and Jack had invited all of his family to spend the holidays with him, and his girlfriend.
Jack rolled his eyes as she offered a tray of nuts to the seated guests with her right hand.
“Oh thank you. And a top up, dear.” Paige produced a bottle of white wine in her left hand and passed the full bottle to Lucinda, slouched across the couch. “And why is it you aren't on TV this Christmas my dear?”
“They offered me the Christmas message spot,” Paige joked. “They were thinking they’d kick out ol’ Liz and give it to some stroppy loudmouth from London. But in the end they decided that it should stay irrelevant and pointless, much like the person doing it, so it’s still Lizzie.”
Jack glanced at his royalist father and then at his republican girlfriend. “You can't say that!” Paul screeched. “That's treason.”
“Awesome!” Paige teased. “I ain't been arrested for treason before. How many until I have the full house of crimes Paige Simmons has been nicked for? I must have a more colourful record than most.”
“You do,” Lucinda replied. “But my dopey brother is wrong, calling for the abolition of the monarchy is not treason. After all, the monarchy only exists because they reckon God has given them a divine right to rule over us, and in today’s secular society that’s a bleeding enigma. If all that is treason then they’ve set the bar bloody low.”
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 22
