Remix (2010) (9 page)

“Where are your keys?”

“Come down to the yard. I want to show you something.”

“Can’t you bring it up here?”

“No.”

Grumpily I slipped out of my overalls and went downstairs in my shorts and bare feet. I opened the front door. Ric, dressed in black leathers, sat astride an immense motorbike that throbbed and snarled huskily, the noise reverberating round the Yard. It was very black; shiny black on matt black, with a few chrome bits here and there to better demonstrate its blackness.

“I got you a helmet. Come for a ride.”

“I’m paint stripping…”

“Five minutes.”

I put on the helmet and climbed on the bike, bare-footed and bare-legged as I was, and wrapped my arms round Ric, smelling warm leather and feeling the bike quivering to be off like a thoroughbred. With a deep roar we left the yard, and shot down the road. He took me on the fastest circuit of Shoreditch I’ve ever made. At corners the bike leaned in until I thought we must graze the ground, but Ric knew what he was doing. It was exhilarating. I was laughing as we came back to Fox Hollow Yard. I got off, and stood admiring the bike.

“It’s a Harley?”

“Yeah, a Night Rod Special.”

“Where will you keep it?” Parking looms large in the mind of any Hackney resident.

“Street parking’s free for a bike, but I’ll find a lock-up for it. I’m going to Epping Forest. Come with me?”

I was torn. “I would, but Saladin’s stand is covered in paint stripper. I’ll have to get it off, and I meant to finish it today. I didn’t get anything done this morning.”

“At the weekend, then. Less traffic. We’ll get you some leathers.”

He turned the bike. “See you tonight.” He accelerated and disappeared; I listened to the diminishing growl of the engine till I could hear it no more. I sighed and went indoors, wishing I was with him, imagining speeding along forest roads…

As I closed the front door the office phone rang. My friends call me on my mobile, so this was either someone trying to sell me something, or a potential customer. I answered it hopefully.

“Hallo?”

“Is that Caz Tallis?” The pleasant, civilized voice was familiar… “This is Phil Sharott.”

He’d looked up my number like Ric said. He knew where I lived. I felt instantly on my guard.

“Oh, hallo.”

“I’m sorry to bother you when you’re probably very busy, but I’m in London today and I wondered if it would be possible for us to meet?”

“Uh…why?”

“I’d like a word with you about Ric, if that’s okay. Without him there. Perhaps you could meet me at a bar near your workshop? I can be in Hoxton Square in half an hour.”

I did not want to meet Phil Sharott that afternoon. Not when I’d turned down an outing with Ric, not when I should be working, and not on my own. It would be embarrassing after our last meeting. I hadn’t even said good bye to him that day; normal social conventions had gone missing soon after we were introduced. But here he was, sounding calm and urbane, heading my way and wanting to talk to me. At least he seemed unaware of my visit to Dave Calder. I thought of the five horses Ric had sold. I’d better find out what Phil had to say. A sidekick’s duty.

“Okay, if you can make it an hour. I’ve got a job to finish. Where shall I meet you?”

“Do you know Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen? I’ll wait for you outside.”

The sky was grey when I left Fox Hollow Yard, as though it might rain at any moment. Dog came with me for the walk. I was pleased to have his company, as I’d got absurdly nervous about the meeting over the past hour. I paused in the narrow alleyway that fed into Hoxton Square, and switched on the recorder I’d brought with me. I wasn’t sure it would work properly through the bag, but thought it worth a try. It would help when I wrote up my notes. As I emerged from the alley and walked down the pavement, I saw Phil’s tall figure in the corner to the right of Hoxton Bar, under cover between the charcoal brick wall and the glass etched with an enormous LUX. His elegant suit was lighter than the bricks, and darker than the sky. He moved forward, smiling.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Caz.”

His use of my name seemed wrong, somehow, though ‘Miss Tallis’ would have been ludicrous, unless, I suppose, I’d been a client of his. We didn’t go into Hoxton Bar; he led me a little way back to a cafe with railings and three tables squashed into the space outside. No one was sitting there. The red awning wouldn’t help a lot if it rained. I sat while he went inside to order coffee.

He joined me, and there was a pause while I added sugar and stirred. I’d have preferred tea. Dog sniffed his trouser legs, then settled well away from him. Phil Sharott could only have been seven years older than Ric at most, but he seemed more, as though he belonged to another generation. Maybe it was the conventional clothes and haircut. And his manner…

“I had a look at your website. D’you know, I was most impressed. I had no idea of the craft skills that went into the sort of work you do. It took me back. We had a much-loved rocking horse when I was small; it fell apart in the end.”

“What make was it?”

“I don’t know.”
No one ever does.
“Quite old, it had been in the family for generations.”
Probably an Ayres, and they put it on a bonfire.
“I’d love to come and have a look at your studio some time. I don’t have children, but when I do I’ll definitely be buying them a rocking horse.”

I didn’t feel I had to say anything as I listened politely to these niceties. He’d get to the point eventually.

Phil Sharott glanced at the sky. “I hope it won’t rain, I thought if we sat out here we could talk privately.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s lucky for Ric that you’ve taken him under your wing. You didn’t know him before, I take it?”

“No.”

“How did you meet?”

“Oh, we just bumped into each other.” I’d decided on a policy of telling Phil as little as possible.

“Very kind of you to help him out - and he’s not an easy man to help. So few people these days are discreet…it really would be a disaster for Ric if it became known he was in London. I’m not sure he fully realizes that. I’ll come clean, Caz; I’m hoping you’ll agree to support me in persuading Ric he’d be safer in Scotland. He might listen to you.”

“Ric will do what he wants to do. It’s up to him.”

“If he’s recognized, the decision will be out of his hands.”

“It might be for the best. The police might find the real murderer.”

Phil Sharott looked at me thoughtfully through his designer spectacles. They were metallic blue-grey to tone with his silk suit. “Ah. Has he told you he didn’t do it?”

I returned his gaze. “Yes.”

“And you believe him?” he asked mildly.

“Don’t you?”

“I’m a lawyer, Caz. I believe in what can be demonstrated in a court of law. I try to avoid forming opinions based on too little data. In this case, all the evidence points one way. There was a public quarrel, Ric visited Bryan the following day, was seen to leave Bryan’s flat with blood on him; Bryan was found dead, Ric’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. Against that, we have Ric’s assertion that he is not the killer.” He sipped his coffee. “I would not feel confident, were I the barrister putting this case before a jury, that they would find Ric innocent. That is why I suggested to him at the time he should plead guilty with mitigation. Had he taken my advice, he would most likely be a free man by now.”

“With a criminal record for a crime he didn’t commit, while the real killer goes free.”

“Indeed. If your supposition is the correct one.”

It was blowy and spitting with rain now, the road’s tarmac darkening. The bushes in Hoxton Square moved in the wind, and litter blew along the patched and seamed pavement. I shivered and zipped up my fleece. “What I don’t understand is why a reputable lawyer should help an accused man fake his own death.”

A faint smile passed over Phil Sharott’s face. “That’s an entirely reasonable comment. But you didn’t see Ric in prison after Bryan died. I was there. He was in a horrendous state - partly of course the withdrawal symptoms - any long-term illegal drug and alcohol abuser would experience those - but also the horror of what had happened affected him badly. He was terrified, frantic, close to a total breakdown. Quite unable to face the consequences of having committed a grave criminal offence.”

I wasn’t going to let that pass. “You said you avoided forming opinions—”

“Forgive me. Unable to face the consequences of Bryan Orr’s death. He vehemently refused to plead guilty, yet clearly could not cope with a long-drawn-out trial and lengthy prison sentence. Perhaps I was wrong, but I did what seemed best at the time. And Ric’s sister was strongly in favour of getting him away. Paula didn’t think he could stand prison, and I let her influence me.”

That wasn’t what Ric had said - he’d said Paula was against it. Or was it just the faked death she’d been against? And Phil made Ric sound weak, and that’s not how he struck me at all. Ric was tough. Look at the way he’d stopped taking drugs after Bryan died, when he’d lost everything; the very time most addicts would be seeking chemical oblivion. And even before, when by his own admission he was off his head with drugs, I couldn’t imagine his personality radically different; couldn’t see him raving and gibbering in a cell, begging for help.

“That doesn’t sound like Ric.”

“You’ll excuse my saying, you haven’t known him very long. Trust me, like you I want what’s best for Ric.
Besides the murder, he now faces additional charges of jumping bail, causing a false police investigation and wasting police time.
His running away will not help to persuade anyone he is innocent. And I firmly believe that it’s in his best interests to return abroad, and in the short term he should go somewhere out of the public eye. I’m really hoping you’ll help me to convince Ric of this, Caz.”

I looked straight at Phil. “You haven’t mentioned the money yet. There’s a lot of money at stake here.” He drew breath to interrupt but I carried on. “You’ve had the use of Ric’s millions for the past year. You’ve just given him twenty thousand pounds. Big deal. The interest on forty million dollars for a year is over a million pounds.” I’d done the sums while I finished stripping Saladin’s stand. “
Fifty times
twenty thousand. That’s not counting last year’s earnings, either. And it seems to me it’s better for you if Ric’s off the scene, because that leaves you controlling everything, and I’m wondering whether that’s the reason you want me to persuade Ric to leave.”

Phil laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. For the first time, his manner was cool, almost hostile. “Is that what Ric’s been telling you?”

“No, I worked it out for myself.”

“I can assure you, Caz, I don’t need to embezzle Ric’s fortune. Have you any idea how much The Voices have earned over the years?”

He waited for me to answer this rhetorical question. An old trick I wasn’t going to fall for. I stared at him expressionlessly till he went on.

“And it’s gone up since Ric ‘died’, even though that put an end to performing or recording. I’ve found other ways to develop The Voices’ earning potential.”

I knew this. There had been bootleg releases, ‘classical’ orchestral arrangements by the City of Prague Philharmonic, an instrumental from a Voices’ song used behind a Toyota commercial…Ric was not happy about it.

Phil said, “I’m a very good manager. I always was. I’ve been earning fifteen per cent of the band’s takings for all those years. Investing the money, not pouring it down my throat, injecting or inhaling it. Think about it. Why would I defraud Ric when I’m rich already?”

“Why do multi-millionaires work hard to make more money than they can ever spend? I don’t know.”

His eyes flicked over my clothes and rested on my canvas handbag, five pounds down Leather Lane. “Perhaps one needs to be wealthy to acquire an insight into that. Personally, I do it because I find it more interesting than being idle.”

I didn’t feel I was getting anywhere with this. I’d got a horse waiting for me. I pushed my chair back. “Anything else you want to say? Anything I can pass on to Ric for you?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t find it necessary to tell Ric about this meeting. Could I ask you, as a favour, not to?”

“No. Sorry. I like to keep things open. I can’t see why you don’t want him to know we’ve met, anyway.”

“On second thoughts, you’re right, it’s unimportant.”

We both got up and stood together on the pavement before going our separate ways. Phil Sharott fired a parting shot.

“One thing perhaps I should say. I’m sure you are aware you are currently breaking the law, and have considered the possible consequences to yourself, so I won’t bore you with that. But if you’re thinking Ric’s a reformed character, Miss Tallis,” he said, fixing me with a beady eye, “then I would warn you; that’s a dangerous assumption to make. You don’t know as much as you think you do about Ric. I bid you goodbye.”

I bid you goodbye?
I bid you goodbye
? No one talks like that. Stuffed shirt. And what about
him
breaking the law?

He crossed the road to White Cube 2, and got into a black cab as its passenger got out. The taxi disappeared down the narrow cobbled street going west.