Dying for Millions (7 page)

The music faltered to silence: the musicians on stage first, then, finally, the computerised system. Yes: it was my voice. And now it was joined by others. ‘Paramedics! Quick, for Christ's sake!'

But from the angle of the man's body, from the blood trickling from nose, mouth and ears, I didn't think there was much they could do. I could hear slow feet: a St John's volunteer. I wanted the paramedics that were part of Andy's entourage, travelling everywhere with him just in case. ‘No! You look after them.' I pointed to the women I'd left. ‘Ollie – call an ambulance!' I yelled. I tore off my jacket and laid it pointlessly over the man's torso; Andy took a second to realise what I was doing, and started to strip his, but he was beginning to shake. He'd missed death himself by inches.

‘Sophie?' His hand reached for mine.

I sat him down on a convenient ramp, and realised I was trembling too.

Someone had the sense to turn on all the working lights and douse the spots. The band and backing singers formed a horrified circle. Pete. Pete Hughes: that was the name going round. At last two paramedics arrived; they took one look and shooed us away.

I had to get Andy back to the safety of his room. Somewhere in the row of onlookers might be the injured roadie's partner. And then there was Karen—

‘Ollie?'

He stepped forward.

‘Ollie – can you organise Karen and the others backstage? Tea, coffee? Griff – get Andy back to his room. Don't let anyone in.' I sounded calm – quite authoritative, in fact. I tried not to look at what the paramedics were doing. When one of them broke off for a moment, I said, ‘If there's even a whisper of hope, get a helicopter to transport him. Andy'll pay.'

He shook his head. ‘Probably better to get the fuzz to close off road junctions. Not all that far to City Hospital.'

‘Do what's best,' I said. ‘But if you need a chopper—'

The ambulance men – also paramedics, according to their uniform – took years to come: five-and-a-half minutes by my watch. By then Jonty was with me on the stage, together with several security men in the Music Centre uniform.

‘The police'll be on their way, Jonty,' I said.

There was a murmur from the handful of roadies still on stage.

‘Automatic, with an accident like this,' I said.

‘Won't be popular,' he said. ‘It's a self-regulating world. Don't want the Bill poking their noses in.'

‘Tough. It's a no-drugs tour, isn't it – that's one thing you don't have to worry about.'

‘Don't you believe it. The contents of Birmingham's sewage system won't bear analysis in about three minutes from now. And sometimes there's one or two bits of half-inching, too. Nothing major,' he added hastily, ‘we all know each other too well. Don't rob your mates, do you?' He rubbed his hands across his face, suddenly older than his forty years. What a way to end his career with Andy. ‘Better call the Health and Safety people,' he added. ‘Injury at work. Hope to Christ Ollie insisted on everyone wearing full safety harness.'

I nodded, hardly listening; something else had occurred to me. ‘Jonty – tell the Music Centre people not to let anyone out. Or in, for that matter.'

He looked at me quizzically. Hadn't Andy confided in him?

‘There's just a chance,' I said, ‘that someone could have seen something but not want to get involved. You know how it is.'

The ambulancemen started to move what was left of Pete. One or two of the roadies crossed themselves as they passed.

A tour paramedic stood up, stripping his gloves. He came over to me. ‘They're clearing Dudley Road to give us a through run. But he'll never make it.'

I shook my head: there was nothing to say. And then I remembered my jacket. That bloody mess of rag. ‘I'm sorry. In the pocket.' I pointed. ‘My keys—'

He slid his hand in, held out two bunches. ‘You won't want your jacket, will you, miss.'

‘Andy, you have to tell the police now,' I said, making tea – there was a supply tucked discreetly beside a cupboard that turned out to be a fridge. I stirred in sugar and pushed the cup and saucer into his hands.

‘It was an accident! The man was on a high gantry. You know how they forget about harnesses.'

I gave him the sort of look I usually reserve for thick students.

‘Andy, listen. Someone has been telling you that they want you dead. The cars – the obituary – someone dies on your set—'

He put down the cup and saucer, dreadfully genteel, and walked to the window that overlooked the covered mall. Down there, the water clock told us that it was three-thirty. And for the first time I noticed that Pete Hughes's blood had spattered Andy's jeans.

‘It was a fucking accident. What I have to do now is decide whether or not to go on with the show.'

There was a scratch at the door, and Jonty slipped in silently, as if in the presence of death. He made straight for the fridge and found a miniature whisky which he downed it as if it were cold tea. Then he looked more closely at Andy. ‘One of these wouldn't do you any harm, either,' he said. ‘And for Christ's sake get those bloody jeans off.' As he realised what he'd said he bolted for the bathroom.

I caught Andy's eye and nodded. ‘Just step out of them. Where's your dressing-gown?'

‘Over there.'

I threw it. ‘As soon as Jonty's finished spewing I suggest you get in there too – shower, have a bath, whatever. Make you feel better. Then you can think about the gig.'

‘Thought already,' he said, turning his back and slipping off his jeans. ‘Got to go on, hasn't it? OK, the punters'll know there's been an accident, and there won't be a more subdued bunch of roadies in the western hemisphere, but the trust's been promised its share of the takings, and that guy's family can have my own share. Scrub the party afterwards. The food can be given to the homeless.'

‘Better phone Ruth, in case the media pick up anything and exaggerate it.' His mobile phone was on the table near me: I tossed it over and pointed to the dressing room. ‘It's more private in there.'

But he tapped the number where he was, peering like a fugitive between the grey vertical blinds at the mall and its water clock.

I busied myself with tea for Jonty, which he drank as tentatively as other people tackle neat whisky, told him what Andy had decided, and took myself off to check on Karen.

Whoever designed and equipped the Music Centre had a sense of social order that Mozart and Haydn would have recognised. Most of the Centre is luxurious: the auditorium itself is sumptuous in wood and plush. The backstage regions, however, have all the glamour of a public lavatory, elegance having been abandoned for functional concrete, metal stair-rails and cold blue paintwork – apart from the areas that international artists might be expected to see, of course. So the corridors and stairs Andy and his entourage trod were carpeted and well-lit: those frequented by the roadies and caterers were reminiscent of a run-down, thirties-built NHS hospital. There was an irrepressible rumour that the Music Centre management had tried to ban members of the Midshires Symphony Orchestra from public areas like bars while they were in their working clothes – their working clothes being evening suits and long black dresses. I wondered what the management made of the jeans-and-trainers uniform of Andy's crew.

After the cups of tea, there was a lot of washing up, and I rather hoped to find Karen remembering her obligations. Jill was busy, and the other women – but not Karen. Cursing under my breath, and possibly out loud, I went to find the caterers.

I found a rebellion.

Sam explained: Jonty had said probably no party. OK, they could quite see why not. But what was this about everyone having to hang about in this benighted dump when there was enough time to see a little of Birmingham? If indeed, as he personally doubted, there was anything of Birmingham worth seeing. I shrugged, and muttered something non-committal about the police.

‘Jonty says that was your idea. Jesus, calling the bloody cops!'

I wondered briefly whether to trust him, but decided against it. ‘My boyfriend—' I stopped. I loathed the term. But surely Sam wouldn't be politically correct enough to demand the word companion, and whatever else Chris was he certainly wasn't my partner. ‘My boyfriend's in the police. The routine rubs off. Probably the fuzz themselves will tell you all you can go.'

‘I wish.' He stared malevolently at the empty juicer. ‘I wonder what flavour His Nibs'll want tonight.' He juggled a couple of mangoes.

‘Phone and find out,' I said briefly. ‘Seen Karen anywhere?'

‘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.'