Dying for Millions (6 page)

We trailed back to the sitting room. Despite the personal items it was curiously depressing; the calming shades of grey and green had badly misfired. And the atmosphere seemed to be rubbing off on its temporary occupant. What it needed was perking up. Andy's dressing rooms were usually lush with flowers, weren't they?

‘No roses?' I asked.

‘At this time of year, where do roses come from? Roses come from Africa. Are roses indigenous to Africa? No, roses are not indigenous to Africa. So if you want to grow roses in Africa you erect acres of greenhouses and divert millions of gallons of precious water from people who need it for their subsistence crops, then use more of the earth's precious resources flying the roses to European markets.'

‘OK. No roses. Not so much as a British daffodil?'

‘Wouldn't mind some of those,' he said. ‘But they're not a priority. Ah, Jonty!'

Jonty, the tour manager he'd worked with for years, gave me a smacking kiss and his watch an anxious glance. ‘There've been a couple of glitches,' he said. ‘Tobe's left the sodding sound system boot-up disks at the Mondiale – didn't find out till five minutes ago, stupid bastard. I've sent a local gofer to pick them up.' He made it sound as if the guy would have to travel miles rather than a couple of hundred yards up the road; Griff caught my eye. ‘And there's been a couple of the Brummie roadies sacked. Don't know the meaning of “no drugs tour”. So what I thought we'd do is …'

Raising a hand to Griff, I drifted off. It'd be nice to organise some daffodils for Andy, to try and lift the gloom that had descended on him, though I was reluctant to go out myself only to have to confront the Cerberus who'd questioned my ID on the way back. No doubt Ollie would know a gofer who'd got a couple of minutes to spare. If there was any work still to be done it was probably in the capable hands of the touring roadies; the Brummies would have done their whack.

The place was alive with Wind of Change T-shirts and sweat-shirts. There was no Ollie to be seen backstage; I'd go round the front. Perhaps, though, I'd better look in on Karen first, to see how she was getting on.

There was a cheerful babble coming from the group of women washing up. It looked as if they were just coming to the tail-end of the lunch-time crockery: there were far more clean plates than dirty stacked on caterers' trolleys. Despite my late breakfast I helped myself to a couple of prawny pastries, which proved to be more-ish but unfilling, and sang out a greeting to Jill, Ollie's wife and supposedly Karen's mentor. Of Karen herself there was no sign. If the wretched girl had let Jill down …

Jill stripped off her rubber gloves and hugged me. ‘Your little friend's made a great hit,' she said, surveying the work that was left.

‘Does that mean she's not pulling her weight?'

‘Well, it's her first time. Stars in her eyes.'

‘Stars my arse. She's paid fifty quid to help!'

‘She did quite well on the breakfast stint. Then Ollie decided to show her around – you know what an old softie he is. Funny, the thing that impressed her the most was the catering team. Or, at least, one of the guys in it. I must admit he's gorgeous – legs that go on forever and the neatest little bum.'

‘Show me!'

‘Into cradle-snatching, are you?'

‘It's called having a toy boy. And I could use one.' I thought briefly of Chris – even more briefly of Carl, who still carried a torch for me – and sighed. ‘Yes, I could certainly use one,' I repeated.

‘There's always Phiz!' Jill crammed a couple of vol-au-vents into her mouth, resumed her gloves, and picked up a pile of plates. ‘You know he's panting for you.'

‘He's panting for anything in a skirt. I meant to warn Karen—'

‘I think young Peachy Bum has put paid to any chances Phiz might have had. Go on, go and have a look.'

‘See you later then!'

Armed with a chicken leg, neatly boned and stuffed with something interesting, I toddled off to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was Karen, poring over tarot cards and swigging a bilious-looking brew from a pint glass. She turned another card, and absently poured another slurp of liquid from the juicer goblet.

‘What the hell d'you think you're doing? And where the hell is Sam?'

Sam was Andy's chef, ready to indulge whatever diet Andy happened to be following at the time. When he was in junk carnivore mode, Sam's burgers were magic – but should his employer enter a more self-denying phase, Sam was ready with lentils. He'd probably have worked wonders with stewed hair-shirt, if called upon.

‘Keep your wool on, woman! Hey, it's Sophie – how are you, our kid?'

‘G'day, Sam!' My Aussie accent was no more convincing than his Black Country one.

Karen shuffled, leaning forward on the table to give him the benefit of her bosom, which owed something, but not everything, to a Wonderbra and a low-cut T-shirt. Someone should have told her that she was wasting her time, but I figured she was safer trying to persuade him of the advantages of heterosexual behaviour than trying a similar line with Phiz. As if he'd been doing it all along, Sam started juicing items from a eclectic assortment of fruit and vegetables; the resultant liquid would go into one of the flasks Andy took on stage with him for between-number swigs. One of the guitar technicians swapped flasks as they were emptied. There would also be bottles of mineral water; like the Queen, Andy had Malvern water wherever he went.

I realised I couldn't start yelling about lack of security when no one but me knew why Andy's people should be especially vigilant. ‘Hey,' I began, ‘what's this Jill was saying about a gorgeous young man with legs up to his armpits?'

‘Where? I'll fight you for him! Oh, you mean young Tony. Frightfully straight, luvvie. No good to me at all. And, though I die to say it, a bit on the young side for you. He might do for young Karen here – and of course, they have an immense bond already. They both come from Acocks Green, save the mark.'

Karen withdrew her bosom and pouted, not very effectively.

‘Enjoying yourself?' I asked her. ‘Good. Now, Andy usually goes and says hello to people as he makes his way to the stage – they'll be giving the lighting and sound one last check about two-thirty, I should think. So you'd better pop off and look busy.'

She took it for what it was – a rebuke – and flounced off.

‘“Exit, pursued by a bear.” You were a bit grumpy with her, sweetie.'

‘She brings it out in me. Like a rash. And she is supposed to be working, not having her fortune told.' I looked at the tarot cards still stacked beside the juicer. ‘Is she going to marry a tall, dark, handsome stranger?'

Sam shoved the cards in his back pocket and unpeeled a banana. ‘You know I never, ever reveal the secrets of the cards.' To my mind he sounded more guilty than offended. ‘Look, Sophie, Andy's due on stage for the sound-check in ten minutes, and this stuff won't juice itself.'

I took myself off. By now Ollie might well be in the auditorium, so I sauntered up on to the stage, into the organised chaos that always precedes a major gig. Six articulated lorries hold a great deal, and there was an army of men to deal with it. Mob-handed, that was how Jonty described it.

I heard Jonty and Ollie before I saw them.

‘What d'you mean, he can't get the fucking things? There's no fucking sound without the disks!'

‘The fuzz have sealed it off. The whole suite. Searching it. A tip-off.'

I'd never seen Jonty have a tantrum before. If asked, I'd have put money on his remaining cool in the face of the four-minute warning; but he was practically in tears, and his language got proportionately more lurid.

Ollie took it for a bit, then cracked. ‘Jesus, you're just full of shit – you know that?'

‘OK.' The voice was Andy's. ‘What's up? Jonty?'

‘I told you Tobe had left the disks back at the Mondiale? Well, Ollie's man went to get them and isn't back yet. Says the fuzz have sealed your suite.'

‘No point you two yelling at each other,' said Andy. ‘What's this about the police?' His voice lost its admonitory edge.

‘A tip-off. Drugs.'

‘
Drugs!
What the hell – anyone seen Sophie?'

This was clearly my cue. ‘Did I hear someone take my name in vain?'

‘You know a load of policemen. Get on the blower and find out what's going on. Someone's searching my hotel room for
drugs
, for Christ's sake!'

I shook my head. ‘Chris isn't in that area. And the only other person I know with any clout is in Fraud. Jonty, you could phone the Drugs Squad and ask them to release the disks – put on your best Sandhurst accent and they'll eat out of your hand. And sort the rest out later.' I looked hard at Andy; he raised an eyebrow in return. A possible skirmish in the campaign against him: the possibility had to be considered.

Jonty reached for his mobile phone, turned his back on us and started talking. He paced backwards and forwards, gesturing with frustration.

Andy turned towards me, putting paid to any further contributions from Ollie. ‘That kid – the student of yours – didn't she want a photo or something?'

‘Didn't she introduce herself? I got her into the washingup team.'

‘Only saw the usuals.'

‘Shit. If I can find her, have you got time now? I suppose you'll be running behind schedule.'

He grinned. ‘It should all run like clockwork. Damn it, this is the thirtieth time we've done it! The set was up in record time. What d'you think of it?'

‘Impressive. That big ramp projecting into the auditorium – is that where you strut your stuff and look sexy?'

‘Believe me, all I think about is all I think about those people putting their lovely lucre into my trust fund. I codpiece for Africa, girl, and don't you forget it. Any luck, Jonty?'

‘Plenty. And some of it good. The guy's on his way with the disks, so we shall have sound after all. And your suite is clean. Not surprising, since apparently you're not using it.' Jonty looked at me curiously.

‘They can check the luggage in the artic. And my overnight case, which is still in Sophie's spare room. Didn't you tell them about it being a no-drugs tour?'

‘I don't think believing people is a police attribute,' I said mildly. ‘Anyway, how about that photo of you and Karen? Shall I fetch her?'

He took longer than I expected to make what I'd have thought was a minor decision. ‘No, I'll walk round with you. You could bring her back up front – she could sit and watch. Remind her about no photos while we're working, though.'

I nodded. There'd be flashbulbs aplenty during the show, but Andy was superstitious about them beforehand.

I found Karen in the ladies' loo, her face puffy with tears. She'd popped in earlier, just to make sure she looked gorgeous for Andy, and had spent so long titivating that she'd missed his visit to the washers-up. There was another paroxysm of tears as she recounted her tale of woe.

‘Come on, love – he's in his room waiting to meet you.'

‘Not like this!'

I could see her point. Ironically, he'd have been at his best if she'd confronted him complete with tear-stains; he had one of the best hugs I'd ever been engulfed in.

‘We'll have to do it later,' I said. ‘I'll talk to Andy.' I couldn't promise anything; it wasn't my time I was disposing of.

By the time I reached Andy's dressing room, the door was locked. A post-it told me the disks had turned up and they were starting the run-through any moment now. I shrugged: no daffodils, and no photocall for Karen. At least she might look civilised enough by now to go front of house. Perhaps I was an old softie too.

There were several band wives sitting in the first three or four rows: I passed Karen a spare pair of ear plugs and settled down next to her in the near darkness. Someone on the lighting gantry at the back of the stage was having trouble with one of the spotlights, and the exchanges between the stage manager and the lighting engineer were so fruity that I glanced at Karen. However much of a Rivers fan her mother might be, she presumably wouldn't want her daughter to hear the F and C words used quite so prolifically – and, indeed, inventively. The trouble appeared to be that the huge Wind of Change Tour symbols intruded between Andy and the spot when he moved downstage; although the roadie who'd hung them insisted they were located in the precise position he'd used in Dublin, there was clearly a problem. Andy prowled restlessly about the stage, as if looking for something valuable. From time to time he glanced at his watch. He'd said very little about giving up music that wasn't positive; when I'd tried to talk about what he'd miss he'd been evasive. But giving the last performance for some time – possibly for ever, if he stuck to his resolution – must be a nerve-racking affair, especially on home territory. Everyone expected so much of him. And it wasn't just
his
last gig – it was the roadies', too. They would be out of work – as would the caterers and the PR team. OK, the good ones would drop into jobs with no difficulty – but times were hard for the average ones. As they were for us all.

At last everything seemed to be fixed. The lights for the first number came up: blackness at the rear of the set, and a cascade of bright lights like a curtain. The loudspeakers roared into action. Andy ran forward, as if breasting a waterfall.

And into the pool of light came the shape of a man, diving, diving towards him. He missed him by perhaps six inches.

‘Andy!' I was on my feet, scrambling over the barriers. ‘Andy!' A jump and a heave, and I was on the stage.

Andy had staggered backwards but was now upright. The other man—

‘Get the paramedics!' Was that my voice?