Dying for Millions (8 page)

‘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.'

‘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.

‘I'd be very grateful,' he said, smiling as if she were doing him a favour.

But this time her face didn't soften.

It was all over. The last rapturous yells, the last wild applause, the last blown kisses. The stewards had pulled in the last bucketful of money for Andy's Foundation – this time it would be shared, as he'd told the fans, with the injured roadie's family, so they'd been extra-generous with their donations.

‘Birmingham, I love you!' Andy had called for the last time.

And for the last time the stage plunged into darkness around him.

The official fan club had booked one of the smaller Music Centre halls for the party, and had decorated it to look like a giant tent – as if Andy's connection with Africa were more in the nature of a safari than a life-saving commitment. When he and his party – including Ian and me – went in, it was pitch black. Then the lights blazed up and there, in the centre of the room, her mouth taped ostentatiously, was Ruth.