The Evil that Men Do (16 page)

‘I hope so! I'd better make a list of them, so I'll know what I'm looking for.'

‘And once you have them?' Alan wasn't letting me forget about this till morning, as I would much have preferred. I was getting extremely cold feet about the whole thing.

‘We march up to Mr What's-his-name's office and I tell him my name and ask to see Paul. Peter, I mean! And then after that  . . . um. He'll recognize us, of course, and we can tell him  . . .'

‘Exactly. Tell him what?'

‘Oh, dear! Alan, what have I got us into?'

For the difficulties of tomorrow's proceedings were just coming home to me.

We'd found Paul/Peter. We, or rather I, had an appointment to see him. But would there be any privacy at all? Or would he be surrounded by his retinue, and fans, and paparazzi, and goodness knows who-all?

Would he in fact want to talk to us? He knew us only in connection with an unpleasant incident just after he had witnessed a murder, if we were right in that conjecture. He might well not even remember who we were. His mind had certainly been on something else, something that had put him almost into a state of shock. What could I, or we, say to him to persuade him to talk to us, and in private?

‘We'll just have to tell him the truth,' I said. ‘I don't want to blurt it out in front of everybody who might be there, but I think we have to tell him Jo Carter is missing, and we need help in finding her.'

‘I have a better idea,' said Alan, taking pity on me. I was floundering, and he knew it. ‘You launch into your ditzy grandmother routine, and while he's trying to remember where he's seen you before, I'll slip him a note, explaining why we need to talk with him at some length.'

‘Alan, that's brilliant,' I said with relief. ‘He'll know how to manage his people. So now all we need to think about is exactly what information we need from him, and we can talk about that on the way tomorrow. Now, let's have something to eat. Fretting always makes me hungry.'

We set out early the next morning, with only coffee to bring us to some semblance of consciousness. I brought along a thermos of it, and after a few miles felt awake enough to consider our approach to Paul.

‘All right,' I asked Alan. ‘What are you going to say in that note?'

‘I'll keep it simple and brief, so he can read it instantly. Something like “Jo Carter is missing. Urgent we talk.” If any of what we have inferred is even remotely near the truth, that ought to catch his attention.'

‘And I'll do a reprise of that disgusting act I put on yesterday. Loudly. I want to create enough distraction that no one will notice the note-passing.'

We were tied up in traffic for a while in Birmingham. I stewed while Alan waited patiently behind lorries, avoided bicycles and buses, inched along trying to enter clogged roundabouts. The internal combustion engine is going to be the death of mankind one day, if not by inhalation of its toxic effluent, by apoplexy at its ability to create incredible congestion and inspire road rage.

After what seemed to my overstretched nerves to be a week or so, we found the building we were looking for and, miraculously, a car park not too far away. Our first mission was to find some Peter James recordings, which proved to be easier than I had feared. A small music store featured his picture in the front window, and after parting with an exorbitant amount of money, I was the proud owner of a good deal of music I would hate. That transaction completed, we had nearly an hour to spare, so we went into the nearest café, which happened to be a Starbucks, and got some breakfast.

‘I don't really like the idea of American chains taking over England,' I said as I downed my latte and coffee cake, ‘but I have to admit this tastes good.'

Alan smiled and sipped his espresso. He knew I was talking about trivialities to avoid thinking about what lay ahead.

It still lacked fifteen minutes to the hour when I could sit no more. ‘Alan, let's go. I know we'll be early, but I can't stand it one more minute. Do you have your note?'

He patted his breast pocket. ‘Ready for your impersonation of a brash American?'

I swallowed hard. ‘Let's get it over with.'

The building was newish, with very little grace or style, but efficient elevators. We were whisked to the seventh floor faster than I would have wished, and found the room number on a plain wooden door with no name.

‘After you.' Alan gave me a slight bow and a look that told me clearly he knew exactly what I was feeling.

The office was pleasant, but by no means luxurious. The reception desk, in curved blond oak, might have been an attempt at retro style, but I didn't think it was. Somehow the effect was more garage sale. Not shabby, but definitely not showy.

The desk was also unattended. In fact, there were no humans anywhere in sight, although voices could be heard in the background. They were loud and argumentative, and they were getting closer.

A door opened, and a small riot erupted into the outer office. Only three men were talking, or yelling, but they were plainly upset.

‘How many times?! I tell you, I don't know where the bloody hell he's gone! Just left a note, didn't say where, didn't say when he'd be—'

‘Didn't say anything about a contract, either, did he? What am I supposed to do with all these damn kids? They can't do a session without—'

‘Find him, damn it! He's got to be—'

Alan cleared his throat. Loudly.

One of the men spun around. ‘And who the bloody hell are you? We don't run auditions here. Down the hall, 7316. And good luck, darlings.'

Alan ignored the contempt in his voice. ‘This is my wife, Dorothy Martin. She has an appointment with Peter James.'

The silence was so sudden I thought for a moment I'd gone deaf. Then the man who had spoken to us, the fat, bald one, turned to me with a look of menace. ‘Oh, you have an appointment with Peter, do you? I don't suppose you'd care to tell me where he is?'

I gulped. My prepared speech deserted me. ‘Um  . . . I phoned yesterday about him signing some CDs for me. Ten o'clock, you said. Or somebody said.'

‘That was me,' said the spotty young man in the purple shirt and the outrageous tie. ‘I remember you. You sound different.'

‘Never mind how the hell she sounded,' said Baldy. ‘I don't know who you are, madam, and I don't bloody well care. I've got a recording session due to start in an hour, and my star's gone missing!'

EIGHTEEN

I
turned to Alan. He had adopted a very official look, and pulled out of his pocket, not the note he had planned to give Paul, but his identification.

‘Gentlemen, my name is Alan Nesbitt. I have retired from Her Majesty's constabulary, but I still have some police powers. I think we had better sit down and talk about this situation.'

‘The police!' said Baldy. His face was dangerously red. In fact his whole head looked like a ripe tomato. He spoke with a heavy American accent, and I thought he ought to have a cigar in one corner of his mouth. ‘I told you not to call the police! The publicity—'

He was apparently addressing the spotty youth, who shouted, ‘I didn't call anybody. When have I had time to call anybody? I only—'

‘Please!' said Alan. He has a knack of sounding authoritative without raising his voice, reminding me of myself, back all those years ago when I taught nine-year-olds. ‘The lad is telling the truth. No one called me. I came here simply to accompany my wife. However, since I am here, and since I may know a good deal more about your missing singer than you do, we will get along better if we sit down and speak calmly. Are you expecting any other callers this morning?'

Baldy raised his hands and looked at the ceiling as if imploring the Almighty. ‘Expecting any other callers, he says. Only the rest of the band, and the photographers, and the media, and God only knows who else. Why did I ever get in this business, why? Is it worth the agony, I ask you?'

I'd had enough. ‘You got into it, sir,' I said, summoning my own sit-down-and-shut-up voice, ‘because you thought you would make a great deal of money. I have no idea whether it's worth it or not. What I do know is that a friend of mine is missing, and if your concern is merely the effect this will have on your ulcers and your bank balance, mine is for the well-being of one young man named Paul Jones or Peter James or whatever you want to call him. Now sit down and tell my husband what he wants to know.'

Somewhat to my surprise, they all sat. Somebody's mobile phone began to bleat out
La donna è mobile
. I looked up in surprise, and Baldy said, ‘Yeah, well, OK, I like other stuff, too. Culture freak, that's me.' He pulled the phone out of his pocket, looked at the display and put it away.

‘I won't ask you to turn off your phones,' said Alan, taking charge without any difficulty at all, ‘because an incoming call might be important to our inquiry. I will, however, ask you to set them to vibrate, so as to disturb us less, and we'll lock the office door, if you don't mind. I hope this won't take long. I do realize you're all busy.'

‘Not without Peter,' growled the third young man, a nondescript fellow with thick glasses.

‘I have introduced myself, Alan Nesbitt, retired Chief Constable of Belleshire, and my wife, Dorothy Martin. Perhaps—'

‘Bit off your beat, aren't you?' That was Baldy.

Alan just smiled. ‘I am, certainly. And I have very little authority even back on my home turf, now that I am retired. But a policeman is a bit like a clergyman, in that once we take office, we are, so to speak, in it for life. I assure you that, although I have no command in this or any other part of the country, I have the full cooperation of the local authorities. Right?'

There was a hard edge to that last word, a clear warning that they'd best take him seriously. All three of them squirmed in their chairs, but there was no outward disagreement.

‘Right. Now may I have your names, please?'

Baldy turned out to be one Morris Rose, artists' representative. His staff consisted of Spotty, otherwise known as Lester Small, who handled publicity, and Glasses, the secretary, bookkeeper, and general dogsbody, whose name was Thomas Fuller.

They did not in fact have much to tell beyond the bare facts, but they took some time to tell it, interspersed with wailings about how this loss was going to affect them.

The firm, Rose & Co., Ltd, was in fact a very small organization. Morris Rose had begun as an impresario, finding new talent and promoting them to performance venues and recording companies. As more and more rising would-be stars came his way, he decided that he could handle more aspects of the business with a little more help. So he hired Small to publicize his people, and soon realized that someone who knew something about business and money was also essential.

So they had struggled along, paying the rent on the office, finding a few modestly talented performers whose flames burned frantically for a brief time, but who turned out to be meteors rather than stars, falling to earth in a shower of sparks after their fifteen minutes of fame.

And then Peter James had come along.

‘What is his real name?' asked Alan.

‘Thought you was friends of his,' said Rose, suspicion sharpening his voice.

‘We are, but we met him as Paul Jones – and he told us that wasn't his real name, but he didn't confide the real one.'

Rose shrugged. ‘I don't know any other but Peter James.'

I turned to Fuller. ‘You must have filled out forms to pay him. He would have had to show his identification.'

‘It was some ordinary name. I don't remember.' Fuller sat on the base of his spine and looked sulky.

‘Would you look it up for me, please?' asked Alan. It was phrased as a request, but Fuller knew it was an order. He uncoiled from the chair and slouched off.

‘So he came to the office, wanting to audition,' Alan prompted Rose.

‘No, he didn't come to us. I found him! Somebody sent me an email with a link to a YouTube video.' He looked at us doubtfully.

‘Yes,' said Alan. ‘I do know about YouTube.'

‘All kinds of stuff out there. Mostly rubbish. But this singer – he was fantastic! Oh, a bit rough, needed some polish, but I knew right away he was going to be
it
! So I dug around a little, found out how to get in touch with Peter James, called him, and the rest, as they say, is history.'

‘History is right,' said Fuller, returning. ‘There's a wad of money tied up in that lad, and now he's disappeared. Browne,' he said to Alan.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Name's Browne. Matthew Browne.'

I would have chuckled if I hadn't been so worried about Paul. What a lot of fake-sounding names we were dealing with! One forgets that there really are lots of people named Smith and Browne and Jones. I suppose, somewhere out there, there are some John Does and Richard Roes, too.

‘May I have the rest of his personal information, please? Age, birthplace, current address.'

‘Look, Mr Nettle,' said Rose. ‘You said you know something about where Peter might be, but so far you're the one asking all the questions. How about giving a little in return?'

‘Soon,' said Alan calmly. ‘His personal data?' he asked Fuller again.

‘Age twenty, born Winchcombe, Glos., gave a post office box in Cheltenham as his address.'

‘Cheltenham,' I said, giving Alan a significant look.

He nodded. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Now, may I ask when you last saw  . . . I'll call him Peter, for now.'

‘Yesterday,' said Rose. He stood and began to pace. ‘Yesterday afternoon.'

‘Just before you called,' put in Small, looking at me.

‘And everything sweet as can be. He's got manners, the kid has. Yes, sir, and thank you, sir, and always right on time, every place he's supposed to be. Last thing he said, we'll turn up around nine so there's time to get to the studio, he says. And then we come in this morning and there's this note!'