The Fall

Martin Kemp

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2025

Copyright © Martin Kemp 2025

Cover design by Claire Ward/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Cover photographs © CollaborationsJS/Trevillion Images (man); Shutterstock.com (background) and Shirlie Kemp (author photo).

Martin Kemp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008626846

eBook Edition © May 2025 ISBN: 9780008626860

Version: 2025-04-17

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A Note From Martin Kemp

I am thrilled to be able to bring you the second instalment in Johnny Klein’s chaotic life! An ex-rock star who had it all; success, family, the world at his feet, the money, the fans - and the ego to go with it! But who is Johnny? Where did it all start …

1979 Covent Garden, London

It was the climax to a beautiful day. The late summer light was turning a dusty shade of pink over the busy Holborn streets and the grey pavements were still warm below my feet as I stood in line. To the front and back of me were a row of pretty young things in feathers, taffata and lace. Their hair stood up straight, defying gravity, styled into giant beautiful quiffs and foot high spikes in brightly coloured dyes.

I was slowly moving down the line, waiting to be allowed into this new club night at Billy’s in Covent Garden. On the door, I’m examined by the main peacock, a beautiful creature dressed like a space cowboy, who I would get to know as Steve Strange.

Later, on a Tuesday night, a small wine bar on the corner of – I forget where … it was relaunched, refilled with a young, colourful clientele. It would become a pop culture legend.

The Blitz Club.

The place itself was little more than a large corridor, with a bar that ran down the length of it, opening up to a small dance floor with a two-foot-high stage that stood empty, almost beckoning a band to get up there and become the focal point of this wonderfully outrageous gathering of like-minded people!

It was on that stage only several weeks later that I first met Johnny Klein, as my band had taken up the call to arms and filled the black wooden stage with our guitars, drums and brand-new synthesisers, freshly out of the box.

The buzz of adrenaline, that short thirty-minute set, had awakened inside me an alter ego, a rush of endorphins that had overridden any common sense that might have previously been there, an alter ego who would sit on my shoulder in the coming years.

At the end of the short set, I looked around the stage, as the final guitar power chords rang out!

To my left, at the side of the stage, was Boy George, still hanging coats in the cloakroom.

In front of me a sea of New Romantics clapping and cheering, and by my side, tucked into a dark shadow looking on, was Johnny … his messy grey hair, his leather jacket, Levi jeans and cowboy boots with engraved silver toecaps that caught the light, draining the last mouthful of the golden whisky at the bottom of his glass.

I could sense him there, watching on, a figment of my young, vivid imagination, someone who was to become my friend, my confident, my alter ego, a ghost that I have given life to inside the pages of The Game, and now my follow-up novel The Fall.

There is more of who I am, who I was, inside this novel; more than any biography I have ever written, to the point where even I have to ask, is Johnny Klein me? Am I him? Or are we just one?

Life isn’t straight forward, sometimes there’s a curve ball thrown at you, that takes you by surprise, spins in on your blind side, and before you know it, your comfortable reality is shattered like a sheet of glass, thousands of tiny sparkling shards around your feet; your reality becomes a nightmare.

This is the ongoing story of Johnny Klein’s struggle to find peace in normality.

Although not everybody’s normality is the same …

Martin Kemp

Dedicated to Harleymoon and Roman

So proud of you both!!

1

Riviera

Johnny Klein looked rough. And he felt rough. Standing here amid the wealth of Saint-Tropez in one of the most exclusive enclaves in the south of France, gazing up at the front gates of the stunning villa that was to be his home for the next forty-eight hours, it all just made Johnny look and feel even more rough. Decades of the rock-star lifestyle had taken their toll on him. His shoulder-length grey hair could do with a decent haircut, behind his sunglasses his eyes were red and swollen and underlined with dark rings. His knee ached. Johnny had given up on himself, and it showed. Gone were the times when his appearance mattered, gone were the times when his morning ritual included an hour in front of the mirror. Gone were the times when his pop-star persona and chiselled good looks would shine through, no matter how hard he had partied the previous night, no matter what time in the day he had emerged from his pit. This Johnny Klein’s cells had replaced themselves so many times over his fifty-seven years that the young rock god with the zillion-watt smile was barely in his DNA anymore. He looked different, he felt different, he thought different. He was a craggy worn-out version of the boy who had sold more calendars back in the day than Michael Jackson and Prince put together.

Rory Bloom, his travelling companion from London, was tinkering with the keypad that would open the villa’s gates. Rory had been one of their most trusted roadies, back when Johnny’s band, Klein, were touring the world. Rory had been broad-shouldered and well-muscled back then, honed from the repeated effort of hauling massive speakers, stage scaffolding and lighting rigs in and out of trucks day after day, week after week. That solid physique was gone now. So was the hair. Back in the day, Rory had sported a cascading mass of bouncing blond curls that had earned him the nickname ‘Diana’, after Diana Dors. All that was left of that once crowning glory was a collection of pale, wispy filaments scraped across a pasty, blotchy scalp.

Rory continued to press buttons on the keypad.

‘You do remember the entry code, don’t you?’ Johnny asked.

‘Of course I do!’ Rory snapped without looking around, and kept on tapping away at the keys.

‘Are you sure?’

‘D’you think I’m a fucking idiot?’

‘Do you really want me to answer that, Rory?’

Rory turned and glared at Johnny: ‘It’s your fault, you’re putting me off.’

Johnny raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture and took a step back. He returned his gaze to the beautiful villa. It was an impressive place, overlooking the bay of Saint-Tropez, sitting on the coastal road as it snaked its way around the harbour. Some might call it tacky, a pimp’s palace, but for others it was a house that only appears in dreams. It wasn’t Johnny’s, of course. It belonged to Pete James, lead singer of hyper-successful band The Whack. Unlike Johnny, who had been left behind by the industry, Pete had stayed in the music business, building up a career in the 1980s that he was still riding today. That’s why he could afford a villa in Saint-Tropez, and why Johnny and Rory were just there to run errands.

It was big, Glaswegian Don Slater, Pete’s right-hand man and fixer, who had recruited them for this little mission.

‘Pete will cover your travel and expenses and bung a few quid on top,’ Don had told them. ‘Just pick up the two guitars you’ll find in the secure room – the red Gibson and the silver Fender Stratocaster. Bring them back to London – in one bloody piece with no scratches! Keep them in their cases at all times. And don’t try and play ’em, Johnny – they’re special.’

‘I don’t play anything anymore,’ Johnny had said quietly.

‘Good, keep it that way,’ Don had replied. ‘You treat them guitars like they’re Ming fucking vases. They’re being auctioned at Sotheby’s, at a big charity bash for people even less fortunate than you two wasters.’

‘Big-hearted as ever, Don,’ Johnny had muttered, but Don had already been hustling him and Rory out. And when Don hustled you out, you didn’t argue.

And now here they were, standing outside Pete’s Saint-Tropez villa, Johnny soaking up the glorious French sunshine as he watched Rory trying out one code after another … after another.

‘You should have written it down,’ Johnny said flatly.

‘I did write it down!’ Rory barked, and pointed at the back of his hand. ‘It got washed off after I went for a slash on the plane. I thought I’d used a permanent marker.’

Johnny rolled his head back and let out a long, exasperated sigh – and then he heard a low, wheezing sound. It was Rory laughing.

‘You’re so easy to wind up, Johnny,’ Rory grinned at him, and with that he effortlessly punched in the code. The gates obediently opened. ‘Never underestimate a roadie.’

‘Bollocks.’ Johnny rolled his eyes and followed Rory inside.

The villa was as impressive on the inside as it promised to be from the outside. Antiques chosen by an experienced collector, discreet fine art and Louis-Philippe furniture, mixed with state-of-the-art modern items. Johnny and Rory roamed about, checking out the TV room with its 105-inch flat screen, sitting snuggly in shelving that wrapped itself across the length of one wall, then scoping out the kitchen with its white marble and stainless steel – the type of kitchen that looked empty but where everything was just well hidden, a cupboard even for the well-used but gleaming coffee machine. Johnny opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of Corona.

‘This place is perfect,’ he said, handing over one of the bottles.

‘It’s so-so,’ Rory replied, taking the beer.

‘So-so? I’d slum it here, even if it’s not lah-di-dah enough for you, Rory.’

‘I don’t warm to the place. Maybe it’s …’

‘Maybe it’s what?’

‘Maybe it’s because it’s Pete’s place,’ Rory said, and took a swig of his beer. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and added: ‘I’ve got issues with Pete.’

‘Everyone who knows him has issues with Pete,’ Johnny grinned, and necked his own beer. ‘Look, mate, forget Pete. This place is ours for the next couple of days. Let’s make the most of it, eh? Where are the guitars we need to bring back to London?’

‘In the secure room, apparently. Don told me its upstairs, first left.’

They trudged up the wide, sweeping staircase to the landing. Johnny elbowed Rory as they climbed, and indicated the massive crystal chandelier suspended above their heads.

‘Pete must have money to burn, jammy bastard,’ Johnny said, feeling envious.

Rory glanced at the chandelier but didn’t seem either impressed or interested.

‘The secure room must be through here,’ he said, and leading the way up to the landing, he pushed a door open. Both he and Johnny instantly stopped in their tracks, their jaws hanging open, their eyes wide.

‘Fucking hell …’ Johnny breathed.

They were looking into a huge, pristine, white room kitted out as a recording studio. There were banks of mixing desks, microphones, speakers, sound baffles, everything, all of it top quality and bang up to date. The back wall was entirely made of glass, floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking panorama of the Golfe de Saint-Tropez glittering beneath the sun, every ripple catching the light and dancing around like tiny ballerinas on the rake at the Sadler’s Wells theatre.

‘Pete’s chandeliers are shit,’ Rory said, ‘but he can sure put together a recording studio, I’ll give him that.’

Johnny was stunned by the studio – but also disturbed by it. It brought back memories of the life he’d left behind, the life of a rock star. It was a life that had given him so much – money, fame, sex – but in the end it had taken even more from him. It wrecked his marriage to Laura, it had fractured his relationship with his now-teenaged daughter, Chelsea, and it had led him ultimately down a path to self-destruction, bankruptcy and destitution. Johnny couldn’t help but compare lives. Pete had this state-of-the-art studio in his second (or third, or fourth?) home, whereas Johnny was stony broke. He’d lost his luxury home in Mill Hill and had had to call in every favour he could. Now he lived rent-free in a single-room bedsit above Graceland – not Elvis’s mansion but a Brick Lane curry restaurant owned by the Major, the uncle of Mona, one of Johnny’s few remaining friends/something more, who was a music journalist. Seeing all this recording equipment and mixing gear took him back to those long-ago days when he was too young and too stupid to realise that the debauched life of a rock star that he was starting out on would not last – could not last – forever, that living at this intensity could only result in crashing and burning. And Johnny, like so many others, had indeed done just that.

But not Pete. Pete had all of this, and more. Pete was doing fine. Pete was doing better than fine.

‘Feel like cutting a new album in here?’ Rory asked.

Johnny set down his empty Corona bottle on one of the gleaming mixing desks and said coldly, ‘Nope, I’m done with that shit.’

Yes, he was done with it. It was an old life that he wanted to leave behind, a life that had given him fame and fortune whilst at the same time taking from him things of far greater value – his marriage and the respect of his daughter. Pete was in the habit of giving him the odd bit of work here and there, such as looking after his guitars sometimes, ferrying stuff around for Don, occasionally putting people’s lives in danger … Some months back, it had brought Johnny a blast from his past and dragged him into drugs and a criminal underworld that had got a good friend killed.

Since then, Johnny had briefly toyed with the idea of getting back on the road again, but after reflection, he had cooled on the prospect. The thought of getting back in the studio did not entice him, it only stirred up feelings of shame and regret about the kind of man he had allowed stardom to turn him into. Johnny could see himself for what he was now: a self-centred has-been who was better off on the sidelines. No drugs, no groupies, no hassle, and trying hard to be a better human being.

Trying or failing?

He tried to push all these painful emotions back down into the cellar of his mind again and said, ‘Come on, Rory, where the hell are these damned guitars?’

There was a door away to the side that needed to be accessed by a keypad. That, they figured, must be the secure room.

‘Type in the code,’ Johnny said.

Rory stared at him, blank faced, chewing his lip.

‘You do know the code?’ Johnny added. ‘Rory. Please. Please tell me you’re joking again.’

Rory grinned: ‘You really do think I’m a dick, don’t you, Johnny!’ Rory punched in the code and the door opened. The room inside was lined with shelves neatly stacked with what appeared to be pop memorabilia: handwritten chord sheets from old recording sessions, napkins scrawled with impromptu lyrics, cassette tapes and spools of reel-to-reel, diaries filled with touring dates, gig posters, and more.

‘Pete’s a hoarder,’ Johnny said, leafing through a stack of carefully stashed press cuttings about The Whack. Unlike Johnny, Pete clearly enjoyed reliving his youthful days of pop-star debauchery. But then, unlike Johnny, Pete was still reaping the rewards.

Rory peered closely at one of the boxes containing reels of recording tape. For a moment, he seemed tense, his mouth drawing into a narrow line – and then suddenly he shot a look at Johnny and in a flash his mood brightened, almost too quickly.

‘It’s an Aladdin’s cave of old pop stuff,’ he said, looking around. ‘Ah, bingo!’

Rory had spotted two guitar cases resting carefully upon metal stands. Johnny opened the cases, revealing a sparkling red Gibson in one, and a shiny silver Fender Stratocaster in the other. Despite himself, and his avowed rejection of the rock-and-roll lifestyle, guitars still retained their mystical allure for Johnny. His eyes were drawn first by the Gibson. He remembered buying his first one with his record company’s first advance. The warm satin cherry-coloured wood caught the light, shining like a well-polished Chevy.

‘That’s them,’ Rory said.

‘Very nice,’ whispered Johnny, taking a moment to cast his gaze over them. ‘They’re very, very nice.’

‘Hey, there’s a massive Marshall speaker back there, Johnny. Wanna plug one of these babies into it and give it a go?’

‘Nope,’ Johnny said simply, and at once he shut and locked the cases.

‘Oh come on, Johnny. Pete’ll never know.’

Guitars were like his gateway drug into the rock-and-roll lifestyle, and Johnny was firmly on the wagon. As much as he was tempted to pick up the Gibson and play his signature riff, that wasn’t what he was here for.

‘I don’t give a shit about Pete. I told you, I’m done with that old life. Let’s get these guitars downstairs and then figure out what we’re going to do with the rest of the day. I’ve got about five quid in my pocket. God knows what that is in euros, but I’ve got a feeling it doesn’t go very far in Saint-Tropez.’

‘Well, there’s beers in the fridge,’ said Rory, as they headed back downstairs with the guitar cases. ‘Maybe there’s even more goodies stashed away, if we can find ’em.’

So they went looking, all the way down to the cellar, which is where they did find them. A whole cellarful. Row after row of wine bottles. Rory removed one at random and blew dust from the label.

‘This is Chateau La-fucking-tour!’ he exclaimed, marvelling at it. ‘This isn’t the cheap piss you get out of a box. This stuff goes for a grand a bottle!’

‘We can probably carry about ten of ’em upstairs in that wicker basket,’ Johnny said. ‘Pete won’t miss ’em.’

‘And if he does?’

‘Fuck him.’

That evening, as the sun set over Saint-Tropez, bathing the town in a warm orange glow, and the moon rose and the stars began to sparkle high over the Mediterranean, Johnny and Rory sprawled on huge padded recliners next to the kidney-shaped pool in the enclosed courtyard of Pete’s villa. Empty bottles of Chateau Latour lay scattered on the patio, whilst one or two lurked at the bottom of the pool.

Almost paralytic from the top-whack booze, Johnny muttered, ‘I always wanted a pool. On the Med.’

‘I always wanted a place out in Ibiza,’ Rory said. ‘On the beach. With a jetty. And a boat. A sailing boat. Not massive, just … you know, normal, man.’

‘My place on the Med, your little boat in Ibiza … It’s dreams, mate. It’s just dreams.’

‘No,’ said Rory, and he suddenly sounded more sober than before, more focused, more serious. ‘Not just a dream. I’m gonna get it. I’m gonna make it happen.’

‘What you gonna do, Rory, rob a bank?’

‘It’s not me who’s robbed anyone, Johnny.’

Johnny turned blearily towards him, offended: ‘I never robbed you, Rory.’

‘I didn’t mean you. I was thinking of someone else.’

‘Who?’

Rory was gazing up now at the shimmering spectacle of the Milky Way stretched out above them. His mind seemed to be drifting up there somewhere, amid those millions of distant stars.

‘Tell me, Johnny,’ Rory said quietly, ‘did you ever know my dad?’

Johnny had to take a moment to search through the wine-addled wreckage of his memory, but then he recalled an image of a tall man, almost as blond as Rory had been back in the day, but less showy, more intense and introverted, hunched over a guitar, humming as he played, and then scribbling down chords and lyrics in a battered notebook. The memory was hazy and uncertain. It was all such a long time ago.

‘I … I think I saw him once or twice,’ Johnny said vaguely. ‘I didn’t really know him. His name’s N … N …’

‘Nick,’ said Rory. ‘Nick Bloom.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Johnny said, but now the wine was hitting him hard, and he was starting to drift away into sleep. ‘Nick … yes …’

Rory continued speaking, almost to himself: ‘Nick. My dad. Gone now. Dead. But I remember. I’ll never forget. Or forgive. I’ll never forgive.’

Johnny tried to follow what Rory was saying, but it was too late. The booze was overcoming him, in the warm and comforting way that only grand-a-bottle French wine can do. He was dimly aware that Rory was saying something about Nick Bloom, about his music, about the songs he wrote, about the tragic failure of his almost-famous music career – and then Johnny heard nothing at all, because he had drifted away into warm oblivion.

2

Lounge Lizard

Johnny struggled to open even one eye. He could feel his face burning as he squinted, looking through the hazy layer of dried crust. The sunlight was so bright and he winced. His head was banging, and the other eye had a blood-red filter. He could almost see the veins inside his eyelid pump in time with his pulse. A few decades earlier, he would’ve seen it as inspiration for the next tour’s lighting rig, but now it was just high blood pressure cascading through his clogged arteries. His mouth was suffering from dehydration along with his brain. He could taste the inside of his stomach that had fermented overnight – a strange mix of battery acid and yogurt that had left a dry, white film clinging to his tonsils, that now felt more like dry raisins than human flesh.

Johnny was still crashed out on the lounger next to the sparkling blue swimming pool. His hand went down beside him and pulled up a bottle of Chateau Latour. He put it to his lips and a single droplet of alcohol traced down the inside of the bottle and into his cesspit of a mouth. It was as much as Johnny could do to lift the empty bottle to his eye, checking out the dry bottom. The sun caught the end of the bottle and rays of light shot around the inside of the vessel like a child’s kaleidoscope. Johnny threw the all-too-empty bottle into the pool and he blew out a long sigh.

Struggling, he pulled himself off the lounger and lumbered towards the cool interior of the villa, stumbling over empty wine bottles as he went, the clanging glass hurting his head even more. Pete’s villa had everything – a wine cellar, a designer kitchen, the world’s biggest flat-screen, a state-of-the-art recording studio … but right then and there Johnny would gladly have traded all of it for a packet of paracetamol.

Johnny found his way to the kitchen and downed glass after glass of Evian, then doused his head in a whole bottle and shook his soggy mass of grey hair like a wet dog. Better. Not great, but definitely better.

‘Rory!’ he called out as he shuffled into the huge hallway and looked up at the massive crystal chandelier suspended above the sweeping staircase. ‘Rory, you awake?’

Nothing. The two guitars they were to transport back to London were sitting just where they’d left them last night.

‘Rory? Where are you?’

Johnny plodded up the staircase and began opening doors along the landing. He found one gorgeous bedroom after another, all decked out in the finest satins and silks, every window giving spectacular views of Saint-Tropez and the shimmering blue water that surrounded it. It was a shame he’d managed to kip on a lounger by the pool instead of in one of these. There was no sign of Rory – no snoring mound under the bedsheets, no discarded trousers in a heap by a bed, no indication that anyone but Johnny himself had ever been here.

‘Rory?’ he called out. ‘Where the fuck are you, you bastard?’

Still no answer. Johnny felt sure Rory wasn’t in the villa. Perhaps the drink had affected Rory and had made him do something stupid. Johnny had seen plenty of drug- and alcohol-induced insanity in his time: people out of their heads climbing onto ledges, believing they could fly, or suddenly deciding to juggle kitchen knives, or blundering off into the sea at midnight when they didn’t even know what planet they were on. But from what little Johnny could recall about last night, Rory hadn’t been acting high. Drunk, yes, but not out of his head. He’d been talking lucidly about … what? His dream of getting a place on the beach in Ibiza. And something else, something about his late father, Nick. And forgiveness. Or rather, his refusal to forgive.

Johnny found himself gravitating to the recording studio with its breathtaking panoramic windows. The place was silent and deserted, except for all the recording gear and mics. The empty bottle of Corona Johnny had left on one of the mixing desks was still there – but now Johnny saw that something white had been lodged into the open neck. It was a note, a message in a bottle.

Hi Johnny

Something came up, had to shoot off.

R

At once that uneasy feeling in Johnny’s spine became a cold tingle in the pit of his stomach, an undeniable conviction that Rory had pulled some sort of stunt. Johnny’d been around the block enough times to know when someone had done a moonlight flit. But why? Those two valuable guitars destined for the charity auction were still downstairs, so he hadn’t nicked those. And nothing else seemed to have been touched in any of the rooms – not that Johnny could tell. Perhaps he’d done a runner with a few bottles of Chateau Latour under each arm. There was that question why, again. He could have easily helped himself to Pete’s thunderously expensive wine and still picked up his cash-in-hand payment for bringing the guitars back. It made no sense.

While he had been thinking, Johnny had subconsciously drifted to the secure room that led off from the recording studio. The door was slightly ajar by barely an eighth of an inch. Johnny knew they had firmly shut the door behind them yesterday – his short-term memory wasn’t that fucked. The only way it could have been opened again was via the numbered keypad, and Johnny didn’t know the code. Only Rory knew that.

He must have come back here last night, Johnny suddenly realised. He came back to the secure room while Johnny was passed out by the pool and was probably so drunk himself that he failed to shut the door properly when he came out again.

Johnny inched towards the door, saying in a low voice: ‘Rory. If you’re in there, about to jump out on me with a Pennywise mask on … I swear to you, old mate, I swear to you on the grave of Phil Lynott that I will personally ensure that your saggy old ball-sack gets run through a meat grinder very, very slowly …’

Bracing himself for a sudden and stupid practical joke, Johnny reached out, gently opened the door, and then took a bold step inside the secure room.

Rory wasn’t there. Just shelves of music memorabilia. Is this what Rory had come in here for last night? Johnny looked about at the various boxes with their posters, chord sheets, tour diaries, cassette tapes. He had the feeling they had been moved, that they were not sitting as neatly as they had been yesterday. Rory had been rummaging during the night. But for what?

Johnny plodded back downstairs, made himself a strong black coffee, and shuffled back to stand by the swimming pool. The empty bottles littered about on the patio or lying submerged in the water gave rise to that old feeling, that almost constant companion over the last few years – shame. He was pushing sixty, and he was still living like an adolescent. Couldn’t he just once – just for once – have acted like a fucking adult?

A genteel tinkling sound wafted to him from inside the villa, drawing Johnny like the song of a siren draws sailors to a watery doom. But it was actually just the phone, so Johnny answered it.

Johnny picked up the phone: ‘Er … yeah?’

‘It’s me,’ came a harsh Glaswegian voice. It was Don. ‘You got those guitars?’

No pleasantries, just straight down to business.

‘Yeah, we got ’em,’ Johnny said.

‘And you haven’t managed to break them yet?’

‘They’re all in one piece, Don. And so’s the rest of the villa.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Don, everything is fine, we haven’t busted anything, the chandelier’s still up, and the two guitars are sitting right here in their cases ready to be brought back over to you.’

‘Well,’ said Don, ‘I’ve got to admit that if even half of what you just told me is true, then I’m impressed. Bravo. Sounds like you boys might actually be growing up at long last.’

Johnny felt that burn of shame again, but he rammed it down.

‘Mission nearly accomplished, then,’ Don went on. ‘All you two need to do now is get them guitars back over here safe and sound.’

‘There’s, um …’ Johnny broke off.

‘There’s what?’ Don asked, his voice immediately suspicious, menacing. ‘Here it comes, I knew there had to be something. There’s what, Johnny?’

‘Well … there’s not two of us anymore.’

A long pause. And then Don said: ‘Keep talking.’

‘There’s just me. Rory’s … well, he’s …’

‘Floating face down in the pool?’

‘He’s gone. Disappeared. Done a midnight bunk.’

At once, Don snapped: ‘What’s the fucker nicked?!’

‘Nothing,’ Johnny said. ‘At least, I don’t think he has. I’ve had a look around and everything looks the same.’

‘Bull-SHIT!’ Don roared. ‘Nobody does a midnight bunk from somebody else’s luxury villa without stealing something!’

‘Don, calm down. I don’t know what Rory’s done or where he’s gone or why, but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t nicked anything.’

‘Shut up and listen and do what I tell you!’ Don bellowed. ‘Stay put. Do NOT leave the villa. You don’t go anywhere, you don’t do anything, you don’t even fart until I get back to you with further instructions – got it?’

Johnny’s shoulders sagged and his head was pounding again. ‘Sure, Don, I got it,’ he said wearily.

‘Sit tight and listen out for the phone,’ Don snarled down the phone line. ‘If anyone calls that ain’t me, hang up.’

Johnny replaced the receiver. It looked like he would be hanging around the villa all on his tod, waiting for the phone to ring. It wasn’t how he would have chosen to spend his time in a luxury villa in the south of France.

***

That evening, the sun that was setting so gloriously over the Golfe de Saint-Tropez was the same sun that was feebly illuminating the thick cloud over London. From the panoramic windows of his private penthouse office overlooking Hyde Park, Aki Hashido gazed out at the grey sky, then down at the sprawl and grime of Central London nine storeys below. A spray of light drizzle began to fleck the window, but Hashido was fully protected from the dismal English weather, cocooned in his climate-controlled penthouse just as he was cocooned from the wider world by his wealth. Hashido watched sporadic sheets of rain begin to drift across the city.

Hashido unlatched one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and edged it open. Cold, wet London air whistled in, bringing out the gooseflesh along his arms. But Hashido relished it. He stepped back slightly and checked out his reflection in the glass. He was approaching seventy: slim, taller than average, with neatly cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a face sharpened with high cheekbones. He oozed discreet luxury in a tailored suit, a bespoke silk shirt with monogrammed cuffs, and Italian shoes brought to him from Florence by his personal shopper.

The security monitor on his desk gently beep-beep-beeped for his attention. Hashido headed over to it and peered at the CCTV screen. Down in the lobby, a man was seeking clearance to come up to the penthouse. The man stared up into the security camera. Hashido knew him at once. He raised an eyebrow, then hit the intercom and said into it: ‘I was expecting you, but not so soon.’

‘No time to waste,’ the man replied. ‘Let me up, Mr Hashido. We need to talk.’

‘We?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ the man said, letting a tone of exasperation slip into his voice.

Hashido took his time. He gently drummed his fingers against the security monitor, curious about the man’s mission, but in no immediate rush to find out.

‘Please, Mr Hashido,’ the man insisted. ‘Let me in. Let’s talk right now.’

A piece of his father’s advice came back to him: When they’re telling you to rush, that’s the time to re-tie your shoelaces. After a moment, the man’s voice came through the intercom again:

‘Mr Hashido, you have the advantage here, I won’t deny it. But I know you’re a man of decency. You won’t turn me away. You’ll let me in. We’ll talk. We’ll come to an arrangement, a beneficial one, for both of us. Press the button, let me in.’

Hashido smiled to himself. He had made the other man sweat down there long enough. It was time for him to sweat up here in the penthouse. Without a word he hit the button, allowing the man in. Then, switching off the security monitor, he walked back over to the panoramic window, folded his hands behind his back, and calmly waited.

Behind him, he heard the soft whirr of the elevator, the sighing swish of its doors opening, the rapid click-clack of approaching shoes. Hashido heard the door open, he turned as his bodyguard brought the man in. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, which his bodyguard understood to mean he should not wait, Hashido turned his gaze back to the window, keeping his eyes fixed instead on the cityscape.

After a long, silent pause, Hashido said: ‘Your London looks like a little toytown from up here.’

Ignoring the remark, the man said: ‘You know why I am here?’

But Hashido refused to let his visitor lead the conversation, so he remained with his back to him, looking out of the window, and said: ‘Toys. Seeing the world from way up high like this, it makes you question the value of things, don’t you find? You ask yourself: What’s it all for? What’s really important, and what is just …’ He turned at last, faced the man standing in his office, and said: ‘… and what is just worthless trash.’

‘The stuff isn’t trash—’

‘No. It’s not. But you are.’

The man’s eyes flashed with anger. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘I came here to do a deal.’

‘No deals,’ Hashido said flatly. ‘You called me a man of decency. Why would I make deals with a thief like you?’

‘I’m not a thief.’

‘You took what was not yours.’

‘I did. Yes, but … but I’m sorry that I did now. It was a mistake, a misunderstanding let’s say.’

‘A misunderstanding?’ Hashido sneered. ‘Is that your excuse? I wonder …’ Hashido kept his gaze on the winking lights below. ‘What is it they say? A man who has stolen once will always be under suspicion. A reputation that takes decades to build can be gone just like that.’ He illustrated his words by holding his palm under his chin and blowing away imaginary grains of sand with a single breath.

‘Nobody needs to know about any of this except you and me,’ the man said in a low voice. ‘We can see to that, you and me, I know you can help me … get on top of the situation, shall we say, I’d make it worth your while.’

‘Yes, we could,’ Hashido said, nodding. ‘But only if I felt inclined to do so. And I think I’ve just made my feelings on that very clear.’

‘So why’d you let me in here? Just to insult me?’

‘Yes. To insult you. To your face. I always insult a man to his face, never behind his back. Because …’ And Hashido allowed himself a tight little smile. ‘Because I’m a decent man. Unlike some.’

The man suddenly rushed forward, his rage exploding. He lunged for Hashido, who took a step back, but the man flung himself at him, clawing like an animal, taking him completely unawares.

‘You’ve got to help me!’

The two of them crashed heavily against one of the panoramic windows, locked together, the men lost balance, fell against the desk, sending a lamp and a laptop clattering to the floor.

‘Stop being an idiot!’ Hashido snarled.

They slammed into a wall, bringing down a framed platinum disc, then stumbled against a potted palm, toppling it.

‘They’ll throw you straight out that window!’

‘You can’t do this to me!’

The man was screaming now, hysterical, Hashido tried to break free of the man’s crazed embrace, desperate to pull away. The pair danced drunkenly away from the fallen palm, crunched the platinum disc under their feet, glanced off a filing cabinet, and then struck the windows again. Then, just as suddenly as he had found superhuman strength in his rage, the man was suddenly limp and ragged, worn out with his exertions, this was right at the moment that Hashido gave a giant tug away from his assailant and fell hard against the window he had left ajar, and all at once the cold through-draught became a great whoosh of air.

Any breath the man had left for his ranting was silenced at the realisation that Hashido was hanging halfway out of the wide-open window, leaning way back, the city of London spread out hundreds of feet below him. The only thing stopping him from falling was Hashido’s fist, which was gripping onto the man’s Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Hashido and the man locked eyes.

There was a slow ripping sound.

The man reached out his arms and desperately tried to pull Hashido back. He screwed up his eyes with the effort, but he was too weak for the man’s dead weight. And then suddenly, like the letting loose of a kite in a gale-force wind, Hashido was gone. Silently. The man felt like all the blood had drained from his body. He shot a glance over at the open window. All he could see was London and the evening sky. He could hear the sound of traffic far below, but he did not hear the sound of Hashido’s body smashing against the hard pavement – the penthouse was too high for the sound to carry that far – nor did he hear the screams and shouts of witnesses. All he heard was the steady moan of the traffic, the rush of the wind as it swept in through the open window, and the thunderous pounding of his own heart.

3

Best Laid Plans

The wait for Don to ring back extended through the night and into the next day. Johnny found himself picking up the receiver and listening, just to check the thing was actually still working. Bored and restless, he had spent his time ploughing through yet more of Pete’s wine cellar, although in an effort at housekeeping, he had at least taken a plunge into the pool to fish out the bottles from its bottom.

He wondered why Don was taking so long to call him back. Johnny was starting to feel that he was being imprisoned in the villa as some sort of punishment, but he tried to make the most of it.

It was late afternoon on the second day when Johnny was roused from a boozy pool-side doze by a series of electronic beeps coming from the direction of the front door. Somebody was tapping in the entry code. Johnny got up, fuzzy-headed, and went into the hallway. He saw the front door swing open and a man strode straight into the villa, stomped up to Johnny, and embraced him in a massive bearhug.

‘Mike?’ Johnny wheezed, struggling to breathe. ‘Mike Penfold?’

Johnny tore himself free and took a step back, the two old bandmates taking a moment to look each other over. In each of their memory banks were images of one another forty years earlier, fresh faced, with bright unspoiled eyes that still sparkled with the excitement of youth. But here they were both staring at reality: the thinning grey hair, the skin covered in bumps, marks and age spots that had sprung up like Post-it notes, reminders that they were not as young as they used to be, and lines that covered their ageing skin, like maps of the road they once travelled together in the back of a Transit van all those years ago, when they would have sold their souls to the devil in exchange for a shot at stardom.

Johnny smiled. These two had grown up together, toured the world together, knew things about one another that no one else did, and things they would never tell. The conversation was already starting behind their eyes before it came out of their mouths. But whilst Johnny was pleased to see Mike, he was worried too. Mike had been part of the reason Johnny had decided to go solo, to move away from the band at the height of their success. He was erratic and unreliable, a time bomb waiting to go off each night. Mike had always said one thing but meant another. It was part of his make-up, buried deep in his DNA. There was a little bit of Johnny that was scared of Mike Penfold, or scared of what he would do.

‘Great to see you, man!’ Mike said. ‘Pete sent me. I didn’t argue.’ Flashing a broad grin, Mike strode into the villa and looked about. ‘Now that is how you do a fucking chandelier!’ he exclaimed.

‘You should see the wine cellar,’ Johnny said.

‘Wine cellar? Bring it on!’

Johnny shrugged, happy to keep the booze flowing. ‘Let’s crack a bottle open by the pool, and you can fill me in on what the hell’s happening.’

He steered Mike through the villa and out onto the patio.

Mike gazed at the pool: ‘Bee-YOU-tiful!’

Johnny pushed him into a lounger and shoved a glass of red into his hand. ‘Okay, what’s going on with Pete?’

‘Well, I’m not too sure, to be honest, Johnny boy,’ Mike said, settling back into the lounger and precariously balancing his wine glass on his stomach. ‘You know me, I’m just the drummer, and who the fuck ever talks to drummers? Don rang me, all wound up, telling me a cab was on its way to take me to the airport. I’d been booked onto a last-minute flight out here. I was glad, to be honest, coz I’ve been kipping around at Barry’s place – I’m sort of between residences at the moment, you get my drift, Johnny?’ Mike glanced sideways at Johnny without quite meeting his eyes. ‘Things were getting a little bit frilly between me and Barry. I think he wanted his couch back.’

‘Who’s Barry?’

‘You remember Barry the driver, don’t you, JK? He used to drive the gear truck when we were touring. Well anyway, I was at Barry’s because … well, they repossessed my house – you know, that place I had in Wapping.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I crashed over at Barry’s.’

‘I thought you were doing well, selling those paintings of yours,’ Johnny said. ‘I saw in some magazine that Mick Jagger bought one of yours.’ Johnny remembered reading about it in one of the glossies that he’d picked up at Laura’s. There’d been a double-page spread about Mike picking up a paintbrush instead of the sticks. Johnny was no art connoisseur, but the paintings looked like crap to his eyes. Big shapeless blobs of colour that could have been done by a toddler.

‘No mate, I gave it to him. He never paid a penny for it. I had to put some spin on it. You know what it’s like. Anyway, selling the odd painting here and there couldn’t keep me in Wapping. So, I was staying at Barry’s when Don rang, and he actually wanted Barry to do this job, not me – he still does odds and ends for Pete, you see. But Barry wasn’t interested, so he passed the phone to me, and I was like, “Yeah, I’ll do it, whatever it is!”’

‘And what is it, Mike? What did Don tell you he wanted you to do?’ Johnny swirled the glass of wine, before knocking back a large swig.

‘Just … help you out,’ Mike said vaguely. ‘Bring a couple of guitars back, or something.’

Johnny paused. Something didn’t sit right. He had the uneasy feeling that Mike wasn’t being straight with him. This whole situation in the villa just kept feeling more and more off, like Johnny was caught up in a game that everybody except him knew the rules for.

‘Mike,’ Johnny said quietly, ‘if there was anything going on, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

‘I dunno what you’re talking about, man.’ He threw his hands out in a gesture of innocence.

‘We’re old bandmates, Mike. We used to be like brothers. Promise me there’s no monkey business going on?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about, JK. All I know is, we have to bring them guitars back.’

Mike reached into his jacket pocket and flourished a pair of return tickets to Heathrow.

Johnny took the tickets, examined them, then said: ‘The flight’s in about four hours.’

‘Time for another drink here before we head to the airport, though, eh?’

Johnny hesitated for a moment, as the prickle of suspicion across his scalp died down, then he reached for the bottle. ‘If you say so.’

***

At the check-in desk, Johnny handed the guitars over to the airline attendant, who carefully wound a bag tag through each handle.

Johnny stood and looked down at the precious cargo as they were pushed along the conveyer belt, trying to ignore the feeling that he was being slowly dragged into something that he would regret.

‘To hell with this way of living,’ he muttered under his breath.

The plane itself was busy as always, full of holidaymakers still in their shorts and flip-flops looking like they had just come off the beach, making the most of the sunshine before heading back to the UK, where they would instantly look like prats once they stepped off the plane in the cold and rain of Middlesex. Amid the hoi polloi Johnny immediately felt uncomfortable. This wasn’t the club that Johnny had been used to flying during his money-making heyday when he ruled the music charts and when his stream of royalties kept him in the lap of luxury. This was Ryanair.

Mike was arsing about in his seat, making a fuss over getting comfy and annoying the people around him.

‘Stop pissing about!’ Johnny hissed at him. ‘Don’t attract attention.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want anybody recognising us. I just want to get back to London in one piece.’

At which moment, a woman’s voice called out, ‘Excuse me, Mr Klein, excuse me!’

Johnny turned around. An air hostess had spotted him and was shouting across the face of the unfortunate passenger squashed in next to Mike.

‘You are Johnny Klein, aren’t you?’ she asked excitedly.

And before Johnny could say no, he wasn’t, but people often thought he was, Mike piped up: ‘You better believe he is! The one and only Johnny Klein – in person!’

As Johnny relished the mental image of Mike’s ragdoll body being sucked out of an open airlock, he was interrupted by the air hostess saying, ‘I knew it! Mr Klein, I’m so sorry, but could I get a picture for my mum? She used to love you and your band. I never ask, but I saw you and …’

Johnny nodded out of politeness and because he had no choice. The air hostess held her phone aloft, her arm outstretched, her face in the foreground and Johnny behind in his seat.

Like a Mexican wave, word spread down the cabin that the once-superstar, the fallen icon of the eighties, Johnny Klein, was aboard the plane. Johnny looked through the gap in between the seat headrests and could see a mass of wide eyes staring in his direction from under their sunburnt brows. Then within moments, Johnny’s discreet trip back home had turned into a complete circus. Every last passenger in the cabin, in beautiful out-of-tune unison, was singing one of Johnny’s big hits from the eighties, ‘Love Come Up’.

Johnny could feel panic rising. The stress was causing sweat to run down the side of his face and his T-shirt was starting to stick to his neck. Mike, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He jumped to his feet and cried out: ‘Keep the rhythm together, people! Follow my lead: a one, a two, a three, a four.’

And with that, he started playing an imaginary drumkit, making all the snare and bass and hi-hat sounds with his mouth.

‘Oh, Christ …’ Johnny sighed, praying that his seat would swallow him up. It was alright for Mike. His white balding head and flabby pink face bore no resemblance to the hirsute, skinny youth he’d once been. Even his own mother probably barely recognised him. Then, to his horror, Johnny heard that the passengers were no longer singing but chanting: ‘John-ee, John-ee, John-nee!’

There was no escape. He knew there was only one way to deal with it and that was to tough it out. Standing by his seat, Johnny looked back down the cabin. To a huge cheer he started to sing, keeping time with Mike’s mouth-drumming, and the whole plane sang along with him. When they reached the last lines of the chorus, the place broke up into applause, whoops, and cheers. Mike took an extravagant bow. Johnny made some awkward movements and sat down, pulling Mike down into the seat next to him.

Mike beamed, utterly radiant. ‘We still got it, Johnny. We still got that old magic.’

Johnny sank down in his seat, the familiar feelings of elation and despair fighting for control of his ego. He reminded himself that he didn’t want ‘that old magic’ – it had cost him too much in his life already.

4

Return to Sender

After they disembarked at Heathrow and headed for the luggage carousel, Mike suddenly declared: ‘I need the bog.’

‘Right now, this minute?’

‘You know how it is at our age.’

‘Well, be quick.’

Johnny shoved him in the direction of the toilets. To kill the time while he was waiting, Johnny ambled over to a large TV screen where BBC rolling news was playing. There was an aerial shot of a high-rise luxury office complex, accompanied by a reporter saying: ‘Today in London, a Japanese music promoter was found dead after having seemingly jumped from his ninth-floor office window. The sixty-four-year-old man was one of the most successful promoters in Japan, on a business trip to the capital. Police currently think there was no one else involved and are not treating it as suspicious.’

‘Music promoter …’ Johnny muttered, pistons in his brain starting to come to life. Did he know any Japanese music promoters? He had certainly toured Japan with Klein back in the day, but he’d been high as a kite the whole time and could barely even remember the cities they’d played, let alone who was promoting them.

After what felt like an age, Mike returned looking visibly more relaxed.

‘Come on,’ Johnny said impatiently. ‘Let’s just pick up those guitars and get this job finished.’

The guitar cases were waiting for them on the carousel. Johnny checked them out, studying them carefully, running his finger expertly along the edges to ensure there were no dents or signs of manhandling. They were all good, no hint of damage.

In the last section of the arrival hall there stood a cluster of people waiting, many holding signs. Johnny scanned the signs until he saw one that said JK + MP which was being held by a slim, well-dressed man.

They headed over to the man and Johnny asked: ‘Don sent you?’

The man nodded: ‘The limo’s just outside. Follow me, gentlemen.’

Carrying the guitar cases, Johnny and Mike followed the driver out to the limo. He popped the boot and they carefully stashed the cases inside. As the driver slammed the boot again, he said: ‘Back to London, then.’

Johnny moved towards the passenger door, but the driver gently stopped him: ‘Ah, not you, Mr Klein. My instructions are to only take Mr Penfold.’

‘You are fucking joking, aren’t you?’ Johnny said, looking the driver straight in the eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Klein,’ the man said, and he seemed to genuinely mean it. ‘My instructions were very specific.’

Mike grinned at Johnny and said, without a scrap of sympathy, ‘Sorry, man!’ before jumping in the back.

‘Here, Mr Klein,’ the driver said quietly, and with the utmost discretion he pressed some money into Johnny’s hand. ‘Your fare home, courtesy of Mr James.’

Feeling bitter and abused, Johnny took the money. He needed it.

The driver remained close to him and said in an almost-whisper: ‘One more thing, Mr Klein. Before I head off, would you be so kind as to …’

He offered a piece of paper to Johnny. Johnny frowned, nonplussed. Then the driver produced a pen and clicked it. Johnny understood. The man wanted his signature. Johnny rolled his eyes, but submitted. The driver took the signature with glee, folded it carefully into his pocket, and headed into the car. As the engine purred into life, Mike lowered the window and grinned out.

‘Don’t take it too badly, Johnny-baby,’ he said. ‘It’s not often the humble drummer gets VIP treatment over the lead singer. Been great seeing you again, man. We ought to hook more often. Where do you hang out these days?’

‘Brick Lane,’ said Johnny.

‘You got a flat there?’

‘Not exactly. A room above Graceland.’

‘Above what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘We conjured some real magic back there on the plane. People love us. They love you, Johnny. We should think about cashing in on that. The music, Johnny – it hasn’t died.’

‘It’s dead,’ Johnny said firmly. ‘I’m not going back to that old game.’

‘But Johnny—’ He seemed to be about to say something else, when the limo pulled off and carried him away towards London and Pete’s palatial home in Chelsea. Johnny watched the limo disappear into the great mulch of traffic surging through Heathrow, and then, like Cinderella not invited to the ball, trudged alone towards the underground entrance.

It was late evening when Johnny finally jumped off the bus at the corner of Brick Lane, the gateway to London’s East End. The spices in the air seemed stronger than ever. The hum of the busy street, that was never quiet at the best of times, was getting louder with every step Johnny took as he turned past the old furniture shop on the corner and onto Brick Lane itself. The sight of hundreds of people gravitating to the end of the street, where the Graceland restaurant stood proudly overlooking the rows of Balti houses and Indian restaurants, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The last time this had happened was when Graceland was smashed up and Ravi, the owner’s cousin (also an Elvis impersonator), was killed. Johnny could feel his heartbeat race and his pace quicken as those memories, that had become part of his cellular tissue, came flooding back. He had tried hard over the past few months to convince himself that it wasn’t all his fault, that Ravi had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But as hard as he tried, the only time he ever really forgot was when he was staring into the bottom of a bottle of Jack. If it wasn’t for the guilt that flooded his cerebral cortex, this might almost have felt like coming home.

As Johnny walked further down the street, his step slowed as he took in the sight before him. For years now Graceland had been offering something unique on this strip of the world, but this was taking it to another level. He could see that the front of Graceland had been covered in a giant kabuki curtain. It stretched from the top of the building down the two storeys of the Victorian façade and stopped just above the double doors of the entrance. Klein, JK’s band, had used the kabuki-curtain trick many times over the years, throwing up projections onto the fabric before it fell to reveal the band, in all its rock-and-roll glory, to thousands of screaming young fans.

Everyone was on the street, from the maître-d’s to the kitchen staff, the regular customers that Johnny was getting to know far too well, even old Charlie-boy the chestnut seller who had lit his coals earlier than usual, hoping for a little bounce-back from the unexpected new footfall. Johnny stood on the opposite corner and winched his shades up his nose, shaking off his anxiety when he felt arms suddenly encircling his waist and a woman’s voice behind his ear asked, ‘Guess who!’

‘Now let me think … Cheryl Cole?’ he said as he turned to face the voice.

‘Oh, you idiot!’ Mona said with a huge smile across her pretty face. She and Johnny weren’t an item as such – not that Johnny hadn’t run that thought through his head a thousand times. But each time they got closer, something threw a spanner in the works. That was probably doing her a favour. Johnny knew he was relationship poison.

Mona joined him by his side, slipping her arm around his waist as she glanced up to him, not trying to keep the warmth from her eyes. ‘You look tired, Johnny, considering you were sitting around in a villa in the south of France. I daren’t ask if you were behaving yourself, though I probably already know the answer.’

‘As good as gold,’ Johnny said, keeping a straight face.

‘Right. Anyway, you obviously got my message. I didn’t think you would make it in time.’

‘Yeah yeah, of course I did. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Johnny was selling it like a pro, but the truth was he hadn’t looked at any messages over the previous few weeks, and had barely thought about anything except the guitars and Pete’s wine cellar. In fact, he hadn’t even bothered to charge his prehistoric Motorola after it ran out the moment they’d reached Saint-Tropez. What was happening here at Graceland was a surprise, but if Mona thought he had done something right for a change, then there was absolutely no point in disappointing her.

‘And my uncle will be thrilled you made it,’ Mona beamed. ‘This means so much to him.’

Johnny could see Mr Mayor – or the Major, as he liked to be known, in a nod to Elvis’s manager, the Colonel – as he walked out of the restaurant and over to the small stand, where there was a microphone and a white cord that was attached to the bottom of the kabuki curtain. The whole of Brick Lane fell to a whisper as the Major picked up the microphone and a high-pitched feedback echo reverberated down the famous street. The Major, his hand trembling and his eyes filled with emotion, tried his best to clear his throat, to pull the words out of his chest, though he was obviously still in pain.

‘I always said I would put my son’s name in lights. So – Ravi, this is for you.’

It was short and sweet, but that was all that was needed. Everyone knew exactly what the Major wanted to say but couldn’t.

Then the Major hovered his finger over a red button on a grey metal box, before pushing down hard. Like a mainsail falling from the mast of an eighteenth-century tea clipper, the giant kabuki curtain fell with such grace and splendour that the whole of Brick Lane gasped in unison. Johnny and Mona had seen this effect before at rock concerts, but it was what was underneath that took Johnny’s breath away. The old mural of Elvis made up from plastic discs, that you could see move in the breeze as you made your way up Brick Lane, had been replaced with a two-storey 3D image of Ravi made out of layered plastic. He was dressed in his white Elvis jumpsuit in a full-blown ‘Elvis karate’ pose, his hair quiffed and his hand around a gold diamond-studded microphone. Johnny stood open-mouthed. It was beautiful and gleamed under the small spotlights that sat above the front doors.

Johnny leant into Mona’s ear, catching the sweetness of her perfume as he whispered: ‘Tell me if I’m out of place here, but how is the Major affording all of this? This rebranding won’t have come cheap.’

Mona’s smile crawled across her face. ‘I know, but the restaurant has been doing so well the past few months since we reopened. It’s amazing. It’s gone from strength to strength.’

Johnny blew out his cheeks and looked up at Ravi staring down. All kinds of unwelcome emotions were hitting his nervous system at once in a full-on assault. Johnny understood all too well that the Major wanted to celebrate Ravi. He was the star of Brick Lane, an Elvis that no one would ever forget. His out-of-tune vocal renditions and his behind-the-beat dancing were legendary this side of London. It had seemed like the worse Ravi was, the more the crowd of diners at Graceland had loved him, and it was like that until the day Karl Jones and his East End thugs had smashed up the restaurant, along with Ravi. Johnny’s fingers tingled, his guilt at his part in all of that manifesting as a physical symptom, and now he was faced with this giant reminder looming over him from above, watching his every move, studying his every imperfection – of which there were so many. Ravi’s 3D plastic stare burned into his soul.

Mona squeezed Johnny’s hand, breaking him out of his thoughts, and looked up at him tenderly from under her long black lashes, as the Major made his way through the crowd of people, his eyes swollen with emotion and his chest swollen with pride.

‘Johnny, I knew you wouldn’t let us down,’ the Major said. ‘I knew you would get here for the unveiling.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it. It’s … well … it’s amazing.’

‘Yes, I told Ravi I would turn him into a star that would burn so bright, no one will ever forget him … and I kept my promise.’

‘It’s wonderful.’ Mona threw her arms around her uncle’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. ‘And it’s good to have Johnny back, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, of course. Johnny, I wondered if you can come and see our new Elvis one night soon. Balti is on me.’

Johnny could sense the Major was worried about something, so he glanced at Mona, who explained her uncle’s concerns.

‘He’s worried because the new Elvis isn’t getting the same sort of feedback as Ravi. He’s a lovely man but it’s just not clicking with the regulars. Maybe you can come and see what you think?’

Johnny struggled with an immediate answer. He’d promised to help Ravi, and look how that had worked out. It might be best for everyone if he kept his distance. But then Mona and the Major had been good to him. They’d been true friends, when Johnny thought he had none left …

‘Johnny … Johnny … ?’ Mona said, concern on her face. ‘You looked like you were miles away.’

The Major leant in close to Johnny, like a kid at Christmas who just can’t hold onto a secret: ‘That’s not all, my friend. Come with me.’

The Major led Johnny and Mona through the crowd that was now breaking up, and the maître-d’s were making their way back to the doorsteps. Trade in Brick Lane only ever pauses for moments, if ever at all. They followed the Major to the side street where the delivery bikes were parked. He stood back as Johnny took in what was in front of him. Gone were the old scooters with the worn-out hotboxes decorated cheaply in a Vegas-era Presley face. They had been replaced with state-of-the-art three-wheeled scooters that were encircled in a sheet of Perspex to keep the driver and the hotbox dry and out of the elements. Above the driver’s head was another picture of Ravi that had been sunk into the Perspex – it was almost see-through, ghost-like.

‘Johnny, come closer and take a look,’ the Major said as his mouth stretched wide in a grin.

As Johnny walked up to the bike, he swore Ravi’s eyes followed him. Johnny walked backwards then forwards again, and as he walked past the scooter’s overhead shield, it looked for all the world like Ravi winked at him. That giant, leering 3-D wink kicked Johnny deep in his guts, but he knew it was something he had to hide, to push down. He felt like life was coming towards him at an unstoppable pace, a hundred miles an hour, and he was guaranteed to crash at some point.

***

Inside Graceland, Johnny trudged wearily up the familiar steps that led to his attic bedsit. Opening the small white door, he was greeted by the sight of his room, with its narrow bed, bare floorboards, battered leather armchair, the hotel-style minifridge and the strange window that looked like a porthole. It used to peek out of Elvis’s eye down to the throng of the East End below, but now Ravi’s eye constantly peered into the room, watching Johnny’s every move like a reproachful familiar. It was light years away from the opulence and comfort of Pete’s Saint-Tropez villa. That was Pete’s world, this was his – and the contrast struck him like a slap. He thought back to the airport, to Mike disappearing into the limo, while he had been left standing there with a few quid thrust into his hand, like a sex worker.

A question nagged at him. Why had Pete summoned Mike to his townhouse in Chelsea to deliver the guitars, and not Johnny? Why did they even need two people to get the guitars in the first place? Maybe he was just getting paranoid, but he had that creeping feeling again of being kept out of the picture. Maybe it was just an act of petty malice on Pete’s part, a sick delight in humiliating a man who was already the butt of some ongoing and seemingly endless cosmic joke.

Perhaps none of it mattered anymore. The job was done, Pete had got his precious guitars to parade around for charity at Sotheby’s, and Johnny’s few days of la-la-living in Saint-Tropez were most definitely over.

Johnny sank heavily into the leather armchair which wheezed under his weight. He fished out the old Motorola from his pocket, its battery dead for days now, and plugged it in to charge. Checking the voicemail, his brow knitted at the abrasive tones of a message from Don.

‘Hey Johnny, hope you ain’t too sour about getting stiffed at the airport. Not my decision to leave you there, that was Pete, he wanted to split you two boys up the moment you touched down back in England, get you away from each other.’

‘What the hell for?’ Johnny said out loud.

‘You’re probably wondering what the hell for,’ Don went on. ‘We should discuss this face to face. Something’s come up. Trouble. Meet me tomorrow morning at Ellie’s in Shoreditch, eight o’clock sharp. You can walk it from your gaff – it’s the café with the green tiles out front. Breakfast’s on me. Be there, eight a.m. It’s important,’ Don said firmly.

‘Who for, you or me?’ Johnny asked, but the message was over.

He sat and thought for a moment, but could make no sense of what Pete and Don were playing at. Whatever the hell had kicked off while Johnny had been in Saint-Tropez, he was too knackered to worry about it tonight. He dragged himself out of the armchair and collapsed onto the bed, fully dressed, pressing his face into the pillow.

‘It’s sleeping beauty,’ he heard Mona say quietly. Johnny opened an eye and tilted his head to see her standing in the doorway. ‘Before you conk out, just wanted to invite you to breakfast tomorrow.’ In an ironic display of seduction, she shimmied her hips and batted her eyelashes and breathed: ‘Sausage, egg, and … fried bread – all on me, baby.’

Without lifting his head, Johnny muttered: ‘Sorry, Mona, I’ve got a date tomorrow morning.’

Mona frowned. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Business, not pleasure,’ Johnny added. ‘Definitely not as attractive as a fry-up.’

‘With who? You’ve just got back. What happened in France?’

‘I’ll tell you after.’ Johnny knew Mona could sniff intrigue like a bloodhound could sniff a steak, but the last thing he needed right now was a third degree.

‘Okay then. Well. See you tomorrow, yeah?’

‘Mmm-mm.’

The door closed quietly, and Mona’s steps retreated down the staircase, slow and steady, growing fainter and fainter until they were not audible at all. He knew he’d been offhand, and a knot of guilt tightened in his stomach. He and Mona had been firmly in the friend zone for years, and now … he didn’t know where they were and he was too tired to think about it.

Johnny lay motionless, face down in his pillow, succumbing to sleep. He drifted away into a confused dream about his phone catching fire and Graceland burning down, Ravi standing amid the ruins, all dressed up in his Elvis gear, his white tassels singed and his quiff smoking, gazing sadly at Johnny and saying: You did it … you did it … it was you …

5

Trouble

A pale beam of morning sunlight came through the porthole window and across Johnny’s face, awakening him. He stirred, snorted, issued a fart like a breaching whale, scratched his balls and clumsily picked away the crust of dry spittle congealed on his stubble. His tooth hurt. He reckoned he had an infection but he didn’t have the time – or the money – to do anything about it.

He clambered off the bed, still fully dressed from the day before, and staggered to the bathroom, scrubbing with clawed fingers at the greasy mop of his greying hair, trying to put his thoughts in order as he looked in the mirror at his unkempt appearance.

How did Laura ever leave this? he thought ironically as he groaned out a huge jaw-cracker of a yawn.

Something … something to do … somewhere to be …

It was like a lightning bolt shocking him to life: Don – eight o’clock meeting – be there.

He checked the little clock on the Motorola. It said 8.43.

‘Shit!’

He shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and strode to the door – then paused. Hadn’t that phone been plugged into the wall when he fell asleep last night? And yet, this morning it had been laid on the armchair, its charging cable neatly coiled beside it. Unless Johnny had taken up sleepwalking, somebody had come in during the night and unplugged.

It was probably Mona. Even though he’d blown her out for breakfast, she must have crept back an hour or so later to unplug it for him. She always looked out for him, even when it came to the little things. Always.

Johnny paused for a moment. He was far too late for the meeting with Don, and fuck Don anyway. He’d find Mona instead, plant a big grateful kiss on the top of her head, and whisk her away to the glamour of Dick’s Caff, where Dick himself never took the fag out of his gob when he fried up breakfast.

Stomping down the staircase, Johnny headed into Graceland’s main dining area, where a couple of young members of staff were cleaning and arranging tables.

‘Where’s Mona?’ he asked.

One of the young men shrugged, the other said: ‘Off somewhere. She left early.’

Johnny’s heart sank. And then it sank further when the phone in his pocket started playing the Who’s ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’. He knew who was calling him. With a sigh, Johnny pulled out the phone and answered it: ‘Sorry Don, I overslept.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Don growled at him. ‘Just get your arse over here pronto. And I’ll say it again, Johnny, coz you’re a bit of a prick and not everything sinks in on first hearing: it’s important.’

Don hung up.

The cool dampness of the air outside helped to wake Johnny up. As he strode briskly towards the direction of Old Street, he pushed Mona to the back of his mind. He’d see her later. You have business to attend to, he reminded himself.

Pete business. That was never good business.

Arriving at Ellie’s, he could see Don was at a table, drinking coffee while he waited. He was as big and solid a bastard as ever, despite being in his early sixties now. His silver hair was styled into his trademark short back and sides with a flat wedge top. He didn’t stand when Johnny came over, just motioned for him to sit down, shut up, and listen.

‘But I haven’t ordered breakfast yet,’ Johnny whined.

‘I’ve ordered for you. You’ll take what you get when it arrives and you’ll be grateful. Now listen. There is currently a situation that we need to deal with. We’ll pay you two grand.’

‘Five,’ Johnny said, chancing it.

Don stared blankly at him, then said: ‘Fine.’

Johnny’s heart skipped a beat. He’d been braced for a haggle. Something must be seriously up the swanny for Pete if he was that determined to get Johnny on board that he’d fork out five gees.

The waitress brought them their breakfasts, and Don fell silent. Then, he leant forward and spoke in a low voice: ‘You’re probably sore about the business with the limo at the airport. That was no joke, Johnny. Pete wanted to speak to Mike alone.’

‘About the guitars?’

‘Fuck the guitars, there’s been a theft from the villa. Some items of much greater value have gone missing.’

‘Well, don’t look at me!’

‘Don’t interrupt. We know it wasn’t you, it was Rory. He took things that were not his and now he’s buggered off. We’re not sure if Mike’s in on it too, that’s why we needed to see him alone. Having had a little chat with him, we suspect that he might be, but we’re not one hundred percent sure. But there’s no doubt about Rory, none whatsoever, the thieving little shite.’

Johnny had a few questions, like why they would send Mike to France if they thought he might be involved? Or did they? Could Rory have given Mike the code to the Villa and they were now covering their tracks? He kept these to himself, though, and asked the only really important question: ‘But what has all this got to do with me?’

‘We need you to find Rory.’

‘And Pete will pay me five grand just for that?’

‘Find Rory, and find Pete’s property that he stole. And do it quietly. Discreetly.’

‘Discreet’s my middle name.’ Johnny shoved an entire sausage into his mouth, realising he couldn’t remember the last time he’d consumed anything that wasn’t from Pete’s wine cellar. While chewing, he asked: ‘So what’s Rory nicked that’s worth five grand just for me to track it down?’

Don shrugged: ‘Some tapes, apparently. Pete hasn’t entirely divulged that info, even to me.’

‘Tapes? Like, C-90s?’

‘Reel-to-reel, old-fashioned stuff.’

‘What’s on them?’

‘Christ knows, something that matters a shit-load to Pete.’

‘And to Rory too, I guess – unless he’s holding them for ransom or something. Is that what he’s up to, some sort of blackmail? Or is he cutting a deal of his own somewhere?’

‘At the moment, you know as much as I do, Johnny. Tell me, did Rory say anything while the two of you were in the villa?’

‘About tapes and stuff? No.’

‘What about anything else – something that might be relevant?’

Johnny rummaged around in the cobwebs of his mind, shrugged and said: ‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Did he say anything about Mike? Any suggestion that Mike’s in on it?’

‘He never mentioned Mike. I was surprised when he rocked up.’

‘Don’t feel you have to cover for your old bandmate if he did, Johnny.’

‘Don, I swear, Rory said nothing.’ But a ghost of a memory drifted across his consciousness. ‘Well, he said something about …’

Don leant forward, listening intently.

‘Something about Ibiza,’ Johnny said slowly, probing around in his cranium. What was it that Rory had said to him? ‘He told me he had a dream of buying a beach house in Ibiza and just sunning away the rest of his life in the surf.’

Don scrutinised Johnny, his eyes like two black holes: ‘Anything else?’

Johnny had been so blasted on Pete’s vino when Rory had been talking that his brain at the time had been little more than scrambled eggs. But there was definitely something Rory had been telling him, something about …

I’ll never forget. I’ll never forgive …

The memory drifted away before Johnny could grab it, and it was nothing he could express to Don. Not for the first time in his life, Johnny wished he’d been paying attention instead of being pissed.

He threw up his hands: ‘It’ll come to me, Don. But I saw reels of tape in the secure room at the villa. Rory must’ve sneaked in there when I was passed out by the pool.’

Don looked at him and said flatly: ‘I hope you weren’t passed out on account of Pete’s Chateau Latour.’

Johnny stared back, and then said innocently: ‘We never touched a drop.’

Don gave a tight shake of his head: ‘Just find Rory, find the reel-to-reel tapes he’s nicked, and keep the whole thing quiet.’

‘As long as I get my five grand, that’s all I give a shit about,’ Johnny said, slugging back a very fine cup of coffee to wash down the equally fine sausage.

‘You get your five grand on completion.’

‘I’m going to need something upfront. Expenses.’

Don threw five crumpled tenners across to him and said: ‘Four thousand nine hundred and fifty on completion.’

Johnny scooped up the tenners. ‘I’m tracking down stolen tapes and finding missing persons – you’ve got me playing private eye again.’

‘You’re the last person I’d trust to find their way out of a wet paper bag, let alone a missing person,’ Don said coldly. ‘But neither of us have a choice this time. Now, get on with it.’

‘Once I’ve finished my breakfast,’ Johnny said, and since Don was picking up the bill, he called the waitress over for a fresh pot of coffee and some more toast.

6

Promises, Promises

Johnny was seated in the beaten-up old Porsche 911, a cast-off that Pete had given him as payment for an earlier job. He rattled his knuckle on the car’s clock. As he did so, the long red minute hand fell to the bottom of the round glass dial like a tumbling, out-of-control acrobat at the circus. Johnny could see that the small hour hand said seven-something. It had taken nearly an hour to drive across town, so he figured he had a few minutes before the school meeting started at eight. Johnny’s car rounded the corner and entered the school’s gothic gates, passing between two redbrick columns which had blackened from London’s soot over the centuries. The twin towers of the old Victorian building loomed overhead and a huge full moon hung between them like a burning yoyo. Johnny parked up and headed inside.

***

Laura was in the school assembly hall. The fifteen or so rows of grey plastic chairs were arranged from one side of the parquet flooring to the other in perfect, geometric straight lines, all filled with parents in their smart coats and scarves, waiting for the Head Teacher to enter the room.

Laura pulled back the sleeve of her old green puffer jacket to take a glimpse at her watch, a pretty Cartier that Johnny had given her the day Chelsea was born. It was more to say sorry he nearly missed the event altogether, than to say a thank-you for bearing their first child. Laura had kept it even when times were hard rather than selling it for the cash. Every time she looked down at the gold face, it reminded her that she did the right thing divorcing Johnny. He was never there as a husband. Or as a dad.

Laura inhaled deeply, letting out a long slow breath. She sensed rather than heard the double doors at the back of the hall swing open and turned her head.

The Head Teacher, standing behind a crested lectern, was in full flow as Johnny crashed through the doors and entered the hall. She stopped, looking over the top of her small reading glasses as everyone turned. Johnny’s metal-tipped Cuban heels reverberated through the space as he walked down the side of the room, mouthing the word ‘sorry’ repeatedly. He caught sight of Laura sitting in the middle of the first block of chairs and made his way to the empty seat next to her.

The Head Teacher paused dramatically, took a breath, then with perfectly patronising diction said: ‘Evening, Mr Klein. I’m glad you could join us.’

Johnny ignored the sarcasm in her voice as he moved Laura’s bag off the chair and onto the floor in front of him, flashing the Head Teacher one of his mega-watt smiles.

‘No problem.’

The Head Teacher carried on: ‘Well, most of you have heard the rumours by now, or have been told of what’s going on in and around the school.’

Everyone’s head slowly nodded in perfect unison, including Johnny, who decided it was better to nod along with them rather than admit to being the only one out of the loop.

The head continued: ‘Well, the rumours are true, I am sad to say. We have had repeated reports from pupils about strangers – men – lurking around and repeatedly coming onto school property. We have started to suspect that these strangers may be involved in dealing drugs.’ She paused again to let this sink in before continuing. ‘Drugs in school will not be tolerated in any way, shape, or form. They are an immediate red card, and any student buying, selling or taking them on the school grounds, or the immediate area around the school, will be expelled with immediate effect.

‘The school have done everything we can to stamp it out, but it is not enough, so we are asking for your help. Ask your children if they’ve been approached by any of these men, or even worse, been given anything by them. Anything odd, anything out of character, please talk to them, and let’s get this problem sorted so we can all get back to watching our children grow into decent, successful young adults. A problem shared is a problem halved, and I want us to tackle this together. Now, does anyone have any questions?’

There was a silence. Everyone else, it seemed, had known about this for a while. Johnny slowly noticed that every eye in the house was looking straight at him. He raised his hand and cleared his throat.

‘Erm, what drugs do you think they’re pushing?’

‘Does that matter, Mr Klein?’

‘Well, I just wondered what class it was …You know, A, B, or C?’

‘Well, as some people’s knowledge in the room is more extensive than others’ … We think it is some form of MDMA.’

‘Ecstasy.’

‘Yes, Mr Klein, a form of Ecstasy.’

Johnny thought for a moment before another question popped into his head. Laura looked down at her clasped hands in her lap, her knuckles white.

‘Have the tabs got a smiley face on the front or a unicorn?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘If it’s a unicorn, you can relax a bit, because they’re not too bad.’ The whole room fidgeted before Johnny could even take another breath. ‘I didn’t mean that, it came out wrong. I just meant between the two.’

A few of the fathers began to snigger behind their hands.

The head regarded him with a withering stare. ‘Mr Klein, in our opinion, no drug is better, less harmful, or less to worry about than any other. Now please, we all need to be united on this. I just want to thank you all for coming. And remember, no one knows your children better than you. Please look out for any changes in their personalities, and we will, I promise you, beat this together.’

Everybody began filing out. Johnny was going to follow the others outside, but Laura took his arm and guided him into a side corridor where they could be alone.

‘Why can’t you just behave like a normal person for once, Johnny?’ she growled at him. ‘I mean, at least in public?’

‘Sorry Laura, it just came out wrong.’

Laura gave him the side-eye. ‘You’re a liability, Johnny.’

‘I know.’ He fought for the right words. ‘I do want to help, you know. I’m here aren’t I?’

Laura softened slightly and said: ‘It’s Chelsea’s sixteenth birthday soon.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Johnny lied.

‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’

‘Of course not,’ Johnny tried to hide a wince. He never remembered birthdays – not Laura’s, not Chelsea’s, and sometimes not even his own. He thought of the fifty quid Don had bunged him over breakfast and said, ‘I’ll get her something special. Any idea what she’d like?’

‘Johnny, she wants you,’ Laura insisted. ‘We’ve arranged a party and all she wants is for you to be there.’

‘Won’t her friends be there? If I turn up it’ll just embarrass her.’

‘It’ll mean the world to her, can’t you see that? You don’t have to bring her anything, you don’t have to stay long. Just turn up, wish her happy birthday, give her a hug and kiss, and tell her how much she means to you.’

‘She knows how much she means to me.’

‘No, none of us do!’ Laura’s voice had risen a few octaves, and now she took a moment to lower her voice and regain her composure. ‘Johnny. Please.’

‘Laura, I’m getting it all wrong today, as usual,’ Johnny said. ‘Of course I’ll be there.’

‘You promise?’

Johnny laid a hand across his heart: ‘I promise you, Laura – I’ll be there.’

‘Your promises don’t mean anything to me anymore, but they do to Chelsea. I want you to promise her.’

And she produced her mobile, tapped the screen, and thrust it into Johnny’s hand. He could hear it ringing, then Chelsea’s voice saying: ‘Hey, hi Mum.’

Promise her, Laura mouthed fiercely, her eyes boring into Johnny’s face.

Johnny made okay, okay gestures at her, then said: ‘It’s me, princess. I’m calling on your mum’s phone.’

‘Dad!’ She sounded delighted to hear from him, and it made his heart contract. Chelsea was the best thing he’d ever managed to do, and yet he was fucking even that up.

‘I’m having some friends over for my birthday, Dad. Are you coming?’ Chelsea said.

‘Does your old dad count as a friend? You don’t think I’d cramp your style or anything?’

‘Dad, you are my style!’ Cheslea laughed.

‘I don’t quite know what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment.’ Johnny found himself drying up, the age gap yawning between his middle-aged brain and his daughter’s bubbly energy. ‘Do you want me to pass you over to Mum?’

‘Not yet, Dad,’ Chelsea insisted. ‘It’s nice to talk to you. You never normally call.’

Johnny felt a lead weight of guilt settle in his stomach. He said: ‘I know. I’m not great on the blower, love. I’ll try and be better … I am trying to be better.’

‘Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Dad.’

Laura’s eyes were still focused on him and they seemed to say exactly the same thing. Johnny knew he had been the worst possible husband and his parenting skills, which had started at a minus, had barely made it to a single figure on the scoreboard. But he did mean what he was saying, even if putting it into practice was something he was still working on.

‘I do mean it, Chels.’ Johnny was looking at Laura as he spoke. ‘I know I’ve not done a lot to deserve the right to say this, but … but I’m going to say it anyway: Trust me. Trust that I’d do anything for you and your mum, even if I sometimes come across as …’

He looked for the right word, but Chelsea supplied it: ‘A bit of a dickhead.’

‘You said it better than me, princess!’ Johnny grinned. ‘And … trust me that I’ll be there for your birthday party.’

‘Pinky promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?’

She might be growing up, but Chelsea was still his little girl deep down. ‘Cross my heart, Chels, and hope to die.’

‘Good!’ Cheslea said with satisfaction. ‘You can’t go back on a promise like that. I feel a bit nervous about my party. Like, will anyone come? Will it be lame? But now I know you’ll be there, I feel a lot better.’

‘Great, love, bye,’ Johnny blurted out, shoving the phone back into Laura’s hand. If he heard any more of this from Chelsea he was going to start blubbering like a baby.

Laura took the phone and exchanged a few words with their daughter, told her she’d be home soon, and then hung up. Then she stood there, looking at Johnny. ‘That call meant the world to her. But just you make sure you keep your promise.’

‘I will.’

‘Look me in the eyes and say that you will.’

Johnny fixed his eyes on hers, was about to open his mouth, but Laura suddenly said: ‘Take your sunglasses off.’

He obeyed.

For a moment, there was silence as Johnny and Laura stared into each other’s eyes. Each could see the other’s past happinesses, miseries, joys, rows, excitements, disappointments, and all the adventures that had marked out their marriage during the years of excess and craziness that had come with pop stardom. Above all, there was regret. Regret that it had come to this, to Johnny promising to not be so distant from his own daughter. Regret that when they were done here at the school he and Laura would go their separate ways, she to her home, he to his.

Johnny told himself: I promise I’ll be there. I promise. I promise. I promise.

He swallowed, opened his mouth to say it out loud, but Laura silenced him with a finger laid gently across his lips.

‘It’s okay, Johnny,’ she said gently. ‘I heard you the first time.’

7

Old Ties

Back at Graceland, it was packed, as always. Tables and chairs seemed to be pushed even tighter together than usual to get a few more paying customers through the doors. The business was booming. The sound of the drums rolled out of the antique WEM speakers either side of the small stage, the opening chords to the soundtrack of 2001: A Space Odyssey filled the room, and a pristine-looking Elvis made his way onto the stage. This guy had everything: the strut, the looks, even his own hair, complete with thick bushy sideburns that followed the contours of his sharp cheekbones – not the cheap acrylic wig that was standard for impersonators up and down the country. As his lip curled, a deep resonating voice erupted from his larynx that was worthy of the classic ‘Burning Love’. But there was something missing, one thing more important than a curled lip or a can of hairspray – atmosphere. This Elvis was good, but the diners were more interested in their chicken tikkas.

Johnny caught sight of Mona and headed straight over to her. She smiled at him, a little sadly.

‘How was your breakfast date?’ she asked.

‘Well, it looks like it’s going to earn me a few quid,’ Johnny said.

‘And what’s the deal? Or is it all hush-hush?’

‘It’s … weird. Tell you what – we can talk about it over breakfast tomorrow. At Dick’s Caff. On me.’

‘You must stop spoiling me!’ Mona gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘If you can afford to take me to Dick’s Caff, things must be good.’

‘You bet, baby. Enough for egg, beans, and sausage twice.’

Mona hooked her arm into Johnny’s and walked him out of the restaurant towards the staircase behind the bar. Johnny stopped for a moment and looked up the wooden staircase towards his attic room. The drums seemed to be coming through the old horsehair plaster on the walls, reverberating down the Victorian staircase and up through his battered cowboy boots. But this beat wasn’t coming from the restaurant stage. It sounded like Jon Bonham was in the middle of recording ‘Whole Lotta Love’ at Headley Grange rather than ‘Burning Love’ being squeezed out of Graceland’s four twelve-inch WEM speakers. Then, as Mona raised her perfectly-manicured eyebrows in a question, Johnny heard a drum-fill that he would never forget. It had been burned into his soul – every duff, smash, and boom of it. There was only one person who could play like that.

Squeezed in the centre of Johnny’s room, sitting on a stool behind a small drumkit – a bass drum, a snare drum, a high hat and a single tom – was Mike. His eyes were closed as he smashed his wooden sticks down on the thin drum skins. Mona held her hands over her ears whilst Johnny slid his arms out of his olive-green army jacket and parachuted it perfectly over the snare drum, bringing Mike to an abrupt stop. He opened his eyes and grinned at Johnny, a smile wider than the Shoreditch Road.

Johnny didn’t return the smile, saying, ‘We must stop running into each other like this.’

‘A drummer?’ Mona said. ‘Then, you must be Mike Penfold.’

Mike flashed Mona a smile of über confidence that could only have come from once being in the biggest band in the country. ‘Not just any drummer, sweet pea – THE drummer! And technically, I still am.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Mona said. ‘Klein never officially split, did they? It was more of a long hiatus, but no official “it’s over” sort of thing. Johnny’s good at that.’

Johnny ignored the pointed comment. Mona was right, it wasn’t just the band he had left hanging, but Mona, and even his marriage. He should have moved on and divorced Laura and let her find a new man, start a new life while she still could, but whether it was out of selfishness or just pure lethargy, he hadn’t, or couldn’t.

Mike smiled: ‘Hey, she knows her stuff.’

‘She’s a music journalist,’ Johnny said. ‘Mike, meet Mona. Mona, Mike.’

‘Enchanté, madame,’ Mike said, flashing his eyebrows.

‘Mike turned up at the villa and we flew home together.’

‘And then I got a limo sent for me!’ Mike grinned.

‘Whatever,’ Johnny said. ‘Mona here did that weekend spread in the Times on the band a few months back.’

Mike smiled and looked down at his and Johnny’s waistbands, before poking Johnny’s stomach with his drumstick.

‘Hey, the only spreads we’re getting these days are the middle-aged ones, isn’t that right, Johnny boy?’

Johnny looked down to his expanding waistline, his tone hardening as the last comment hit several jangling nerves. He pushed the drumstick away.

‘Look, what the fuck are you doing here? And more importantly, how did you get in? And where did the drums come from?’

‘The old geezer in the Indian restaurant downstairs let me in. When I told him I was looking for you, he recognised me … He said he was a big fan back in the eighties. I said seeing as I’ve got my kit, we might do a few numbers for him in the restaurant.’

Mona frowned. ‘And my uncle let you wait up here?’

‘Yep, drums and all! Said any friend of Johnny’s was a friend of his, showed me straight up.’

Mona looked at Johnny. ‘Jesus,’ she muttered. ‘So much for security in this place. I need a word with him. Excuse me …’ She headed for the door. ‘Nice to meet you … Mike.’

Mona headed downstairs, leaving the two former bandmates alone together.

‘Mike, what are you doing here?’

Mike took a moment to reply, as his innocent smile dropped for the first time. ‘Look, I need somewhere to stay.’

‘Barry won’t have you back?’

‘It’s serious, Johnny. I’ve got nowhere else to go.’ Mike walked over to the only window in the bedsit.

Johnny said: ‘What did Pete say to you when you gave him his guitars back?’

Mike glanced around. ‘Not much. He asked whether we’d bust the telly in the villa, and how much of his expensive wine we’d guzzled …’

‘Did he ask you anything about Rory?’

Mike shrugged. ‘I dunno. To be honest, I wasn’t really listening.’

Johnny fixed him with a look. ‘Mike. Play straight with me here.’

‘I am playing straight with you, man! I mean, yeah, I think Pete said something about Rory, whether I’d seen him recently, blah blah. I was more interested in getting my spondulicks for delivering his gear.’

Johnny paused. Mike was being vague and evasive. Was he holding something back? Did he know more about Rory’s disappearance with these mysterious reels of tape than he was letting on? Or was it just Mike being a pillock as usual?

‘It’s really weird, Rory disappearing from the villa like that,’ Johnny ventured, ‘I’d love to know what he’s up to.’

Mike shrugged again, tapping his sticks on the edge of the drumkit in a gentle thrum.

Johnny pushed a little further: ‘Pete seems pretty pissed with him over something. I reckon he’d pay a few quid to be told where Rory’s hiding out.’

Mike’s ears pricked up: ‘You reckon?’

Johnny smiled inwardly. If Mike knew anything about Rory, the more he talked, the more he would give away. But if Mike was indeed in cahoots with Rory in some way, he might get spooked and clam up if Johnny pressed him too obviously.

‘Yeah, I do,’ Johnny said, and then he casually added: ‘Wanna drink?’

‘Ask a stupid question …’ Mike grinned.

Johnny walked over to the fridge and pulled out a cold Coke and pulled a half-empty bottle of Jack from the bedside cupboard.

‘So, who are you hiding the booze from?’ Mike asked.

Johnny hesitated, the question catching him off guard. ‘Myself.’

Johnny didn’t have to explain. They had both been as thick as thieves when it came to heavy nights in the back of the tour bus (when everyone else was trying to get some shut-eye in their sarcophagus-like bunks with their privacy curtains pulled tightly closed), their every whim indulged, debauchery and excess their infatuation, eventually taking over from the music. Leaving them both on the outside of the things they should have cared about: a loving family, comfort, contented middle age.

Johnny spoke softly now: ‘Listen, you can stay for a couple of days, but that’s all, OK?’

Mike looked grateful. ‘Thanks man, I appreciate it, you know I do. I mean, it’s not as if we haven’t shared a room before. Do you remember Munich? When we trashed that hotel room after the manager stopped us from taking those five girls upstairs? I still think about what could have been – they were well up for it.’

An awkward smile crossed Johnny’s face as the memory crashed back into his head for the first time in decades, from a corner of his pickled brain where memories dangled precariously for a toehold.

‘Yeah, well, this isn’t some grotty hotel in Munich. It might not be a palace, but for the time being it’s my home – got it?’

Mike immediately relaxed again on the drum stool, looking a bit too comfortable, Johnny thought. Tightening the snare drum skin, Mike said: ‘Y’know, I had a call from John Marvin the other day. He said if we were interested, we could put the band back together. He said it doesn’t have to be all of us – you know, like the whole band – as long as …’

Mike’s words expired on the last line, like an actor drying up at the crucial moment in front of a theatre full of punters on opening night.

Johnny finished the sentence for him: ‘As long as I do it.’

Mike now had that look of boyish vulnerability that Johnny remembered far too well.

‘I told you after that shit-show on the plane back from Saint-Tropez, Mike – I’m done with that old life.’

Mike continued as if he hadn’t heard Johnny: ‘He said the Italians would pay a lot of cash to get us over there. You know, the eighties revival thing is huge now. Fuck, Boy George has just been down there, made a shit-load of cash.’

‘It’s not the money, Mike. It’s just …’

‘I know, you’re frightened of the lifestyle. Well look, I’m clean too, remember – no more hard stuff. I don’t want to go back to those days. You look after me, and I’ll look after you.’ Mike slowly twirled a drumstick through his fingers, and then said: ‘You know, somebody at the Velvet might know about Rory.’

Johnny took a moment, his thoughts elsewhere, and then muttered: ‘What’s that?’

‘The Vauxhall Velvet. That gay pub. Rory used to stay there sometimes in one of the upstairs rooms. He was pally with the drag queen who ran the place. She used to give him a place to stay when cash was tight and he had nowhere else to go. You know how it is, Johnny.’

They exchanged a sad look, knowing only too well.

‘He was hanging round the Velvet with a drag queen? I had no idea he was gay.’

‘I don’t think he really knows himself. Perhaps he’s bi, or pan, or, you know, gender fluid, like Bowie. Who cares, anyway.’

‘Maybe the big blond hairdo was a giveaway,’ Johnny mused. ‘I mean, he was the only bloke I knew in the seventies who used conditioner.’

‘Does he still look like Diana Dors?!’ Mike laughed, delighted.

Johnny shook his head: ‘Those days are long gone, I’m afraid – for all of us.’

Mona’s voice suddenly cut in: ‘Well, what have you two been up to in my absence?’

She stood in the open doorway, hands on her hips, looking from Johnny to Mike to Johnny again.

‘Mike’s staying,’ Johnny said firmly.

Mona raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh he is, is he?’

‘Just for two days,’ Johnny added.

Mona sighed heavily. ‘Well, if my uncle said you could stay, then I guess that’s that. We have an old blow-up bed in the cupboard, if the pair of you have got enough puff left in you to inflate it. Mike can sleep on that – unless you boys fancy snuggling up together.’

‘Hey, I get to sleep with a real-life pop star!’ Mike laughed, and with a big stupid grin on his face he rolled the hickory sticks over the top of the tom skin and down onto the snare with a flourish.

8

Old Habits

As the evening drew on, Mike headed off to prowl the East End in search of pleasure, the few quid he’d earned from Pete burning a hole in his pocket. Johnny caught a glimpse of him through the round porthole window of his attic room: a denim-clad figure striding away through the crowds of Brick Lane, becoming just a silhouette against the brightly illuminated windows of the curry houses, and then vanishing altogether.

Mike had his own business to attend to, and so did Johnny. He hunted around Graceland until he found Mona holed up in a little backroom, typing on her laptop.

‘Working,’ she said without looking up. ‘Some of us do that, you know.’

‘I need a favour,’ Johnny told her, ignoring the jibe.

‘So what’s new?’

‘The Vauxhall Velvet. I need you to Google it.’

‘Later.’

‘Please Mona, it’s urgent.’

Mona abruptly stopped typing, took a slow and calming breath, held it, slowly exhaled.

‘Okay,’ she said, maintaining an even temper. ‘I shall put my paid journalistic work on hold for a bit, to make way for the far more important business of Googling stuff for you.’

‘The Vauxhall Velvet,’ Johnny repeated, coming around to look over her shoulder at the laptop screen. ‘V, a, u, x …’

‘I know how to spell, I’m a professional bloody writer!’ Mona growled at him and typed the name into the search engine. ‘There. It’s a gay pub. Did I give you ideas, suggesting you and Mike share the bed?’

‘Very funny.’ Johnny peered at the information on the screen: ‘Well, it’s still going and still doing business. And it’s celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary … tonight, of all nights.’

‘Are you thinking of going?’

‘I’m looking for Rory – he’s done a runner.’ Mona’s eyes widened as she recognised the name. ‘Rory Bloom is his full name. He was a roadie for the band back in the day. His dad was Nick Bloom, although that name probably won’t mean anything to you.’

‘Of course it does,’ said Mona smugly. ‘He was a singer-songwriter back in the seventies. He never really made a success of music and he ended up killing himself.’

‘Show-off.’

‘I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.’

‘Well anyway, I know Nick Bloom’s son Rory. Rory’s done a bunk with some tapes that belong to Pete James. Pete’s willing to pay me to track Rory down. Apparently the Velvet was always a bit of a refuge for him in hard times, so I figured that’s the place to start looking. And it seems like I’m going to be walking slap-bang into their seventy-fifth anniversary celebrations.’

‘It’s bound to be one hell of a party,’ Mona said. ‘Am I your plus one?’

‘We’re not invited, Mona. I’m going to have to gate-crash it. Pop stars can do that very easily.’

‘Even ex-pop stars?’ Mona put in, smirking, and then she added: ‘I’d better tag along. You need an extra pair of ears and eyes, I might find out something about Rory. And besides, you owe me one. You blew out my breakfast invitation, remember?’

‘Well, I was going to make it up to you!’ Johnny thought about it, then said: ‘Okay. But don’t forget, we’re not there to party.’

‘No, we’re there undercover!’ She slammed down the laptop. ‘Right, I’m off to get ready. And as for you, Johnny, you might want to brush your teeth. Your breath – what’s the word? – stinks.’

Mona shooed him away before he could say anything more, so Johnny plodded back up to the attic room. As per instructions, he scrubbed at his teeth, spitting out red-stained toothpaste into the little basin. Trying to push the pain of his tooth infection from his mind, Johnny had been relying on the medicinal combination of Bourbon and painkillers. He lifted his head and watched himself in the mottled mirror as he stretched his mouth open and then shut, before puffing out his cheeks and blowing out through his pursed lips.

***

Twenty minutes later, the bang-bang-bang of the door forced Johnny to pull himself together, stepping over Mike’s drumkit and the now in-situ blow-up bed to get to the door. He could smell Mona’s perfume twisting sultrily through the gaps in the door frame, and Johnny rested his forehead on the wooden door for a few seconds, composing himself before he pulled it back in a smooth motion, ready with a pithy line.

He froze, the words fading away as he stared like an idiot at her, dumbfounded. It was Mona alright, but not the one he knew. Red patent six-inch heels, a tasselled leather skirt, and a leather biker jacket presented an entirely different woman to the journalist he knew. She had more make-up on than he had ever seen her wear before, and her long false black eyelashes further highlighted her small pretty features. She looked like she had stepped straight from the pages of a Vogue photoshoot. Johnny realised he still hadn’t said a word.

When it returned, Johnny’s voice was low and rumbled out through his throat.

‘You look …’

‘Amazing,’ Mona said as she puckered up her lips and fell into a 1960s movie-star pose.

‘I was going to say … different.’

Mona’s face dropped slightly before Johnny corrected himself.

‘And yeah, definitely amazing.’

Mona rolled her eyes, and sauntered past Johnny into the bedsit, leaving behind her a trail of swirling perfume that left his head in a momentary haze. She was more Jessica Rabbit than Marilyn, a cartoon version of Mona that, up until that point, had only appeared in several dreams that he kept in a locked room in the back of his mind.

Johnny looked down at his old 501s and trusted cowboy boots. The once shining metal toe-tips had now turned a dull rusty brown, and his once trendy distressed army jacket was now just plain old distressed.

‘You need to take better care of yourself.’

‘Mona, you sound so much like …’

‘Your mum?’

‘No, I was going to say Laura.’

Normally Mona would have found that more wounding, but whether it was the outfit or recent events, it instead brought a glint to her eye. ‘Same thing,’ she said.

Johnny didn’t trust himself to speak.

***

The Vauxhall Velvet was surrounded by a noisy, colourful crowd for its seventy-fifth anniversary. This was a celebration of not only the good times but also the bad. The Velvet had been a place of safety and revelry for the last seventy-five years. Wherever you fell on the colourful LGBTQIA+ spectrum, you were welcome. The pub’s past had represented all of queer history over the last eight decades, from the flamboyant Quentin Crisp holding court in the main bar in the mid-sixties and talking in Polari, to the nightclubbers of the eighties with their taffeta and silk, terrified of the AIDS crisis. The Velvet had seen it all. The building itself had stood on the corner of Battersea Road for two hundred years, a public house that had seen the locals drown a million emotions into bottles, six nights a week for decades.

Johnny and Mona approached the crowd, filled with drag artists with their bouffant wigs, sparkling lashes and arched brows, men dressed in leather with flat caps, chains and Freddie Mercury deep-cut moustaches, and everything else that could be imagined, with the sounds of Donna Summer pouring out through the pink balloon-arch that covered the entrance to the pub. A drag queen was working the door, checking tickets and turning away the uninvited. Dressed up in big heels, big hair, and bright gold eye-shadow that seemed to go on forever, her voice was low and camp but had a sexy husk to its bottom end: ‘Tickets please, tickets please, tickets only tonight, I’m afraid …’

Mona leant close to Johnny and muttered, ‘Okay, Mr Pop Icon, let’s see if your star-power can get us in.’

‘I’ll show you how it’s done,’ Johnny assured her confidently.

He vigorously mushed up his hair so it was a mess, undid the top three buttons of his shirt, slapped on his Ray-Bans, hooked his arm proprietarily around Mona’s shoulders like she was just his bit of fluff, and elbowed his way through the crowd. He brushed aside an androgynous pair of eighties-style punks and a Marilyn Monroe tribute whilst Mona tottered alongside him, concentrating on nothing but avoiding twisting her ankle. The drag queen on ticket duty gazed languidly at them from under her sparkling lashes, paused, and then suddenly beamed and cried out: ‘Well, well, well, well! How bona to varda your dolly old eek! If it isn’t Johnny Klein, the beeee-U-tiful boy of my wet dreams!’

Johnny recognised her use of the old gay code language, Polari. Though it wasn’t needed anymore as a secret form of communication in the gay community, old habits died hard at the Velvet. She clasped her giant gloved hands around Johnny’s stubbled face, then ran her fingers through his deliberately messed-up grey hair. The pungent smell of nicotine and anti-bac gel from her hands rushed up his nasal passageways.

‘I had pictures of you under my pillow when I was growing up,’ she confided in his ear. ‘The things we got up to … !’

Johnny smiled. Well, it was more of an awkward grin by the time he was released from the iron grip.

‘But it looks like I’ve been discarded for this little palone,’ the queen said, casting her eyes over Mona. ‘Who’s the vixen?’

‘The name’s Mona,’ said Mona.

‘Take good care of him, Moan-ah,’ the queen purred, and then with a wink she added: ‘And when you get tired of him, bung him my way, girl.’

‘It’s a deal!’ Mona grinned back, but then she was tottering again as Johnny marched her swiftly into the Velvet. On the threshold of the main bar they paused and Mona said: ‘So that’s how you gate-crash a party.’

‘When people have grown up fantasising about having sex with you, it opens doors,’ Johnny explained. ‘Now remember, Mona, we’re not here for the party.’

‘I know, I know, we’re undercover. It’s quite exciting! Where do we start?’

Johnny peered at the big, loud, glittery maelstrom that was the interior of the Vauxhall Velvet and said: ‘I don’t have the faintest fucking idea.’

‘I think we should split up,’ Mona suggested, ‘circulate, mingle, chat, and see what happens.’

Johnny nodded. ‘That sounds like a plan. I’ll catch up with you later.’

As he turned to go, Mona grabbed him by his army jacket, locked her eyes on his, and said, ‘And just you behave.’

‘Who the hell comes to a place like this to behave!’ he laughed, and kissing her on the cheek, he pulled away and began moving through the crowd.

***

Mona, too, moved about the Velvet. No men here made a move on her, and those who noticed her at all simply commended her on her heels or make-up. Throwing herself into the revels, she asked about Rory as she moved around the venue, dancing and chatting, like he was an old friend she was looking for, but got no recognition. Eventually, she ended up at the far end of the long bar, where a woman in double denim, her hair cut into a short crop, started to chat to her.

‘So, like I was saying, darling,’ the denim-clad woman was saying, ‘I’m in finance. Futures, trading. Have you ever been to the top of the Shard? They have a wonderful restaurant up there. If you want, I’ll take you there.’

Mona was going to ask her about Rory when she happened to glance across and see Johnny slouched in a corner booth. It was dark and in shadow, but he didn’t look right. He looked pale and sweaty, and then she saw that the bottle of Jack on the table was down to its last dregs. A drag queen in bright sparkly lipstick and a silver lamé dress seemed to be hovering about nearby, pouring him refills.

The woman was still droning on at Mona: ‘Have you ever had sex in a helicopter, darling? Apparently, there’s an art to it …’

But Mona was no longer listening. Johnny was swaying in his seat, and the drag queen was still topping up his glass.

‘Who is that?’ Mona asked. ‘The drag queen in the corner booth, do you know her?’

The denim-woman glanced across without interest and said, ‘Her? Oh, I think her name’s Aurora or something. Christ, you’re not thinking of a threesome, are you, darling? Oh dear no, they never work out half as good as you think they’re going to.’

But Mona was already breaking away from the bar, elbowing her way through the crowd, calling out to Johnny as she approached. Aurora glanced around and seemed to vanish amongst the throng. Mona reached Johnny and saw that he was in a worse condition than she’d first thought. His face was ashen, his eyes unfocused, beads of sweat sparkling across his forehead.

‘You need some air!’ Mona ordered, and with an effort she pulled Johnny to his feet. He stood there unsteadily, as if his legs were about to fold under him. ‘I’ve got you, Johnny. We’ll go together, one step at a time.’

Mona pulled him along like she was guiding a zombie. He swayed. She strained to keep him from falling. It was no good, she couldn’t manage it. She let Johnny sink back into the booth chair she had just pulled him out of. She looked at his saucer-like eyes, his pupils so large there was hardly any colour in them at all, a near-total eclipse.

Mona raised her voice above the music: ‘Johnny, what the fuck have you done to yourself? This isn’t booze, is it? What have you taken?’

Johnny didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond.

‘Johnny, can you even hear me? I thought you were over all this, I thought you’d left this Johnny Klein behind. Christ, Johnny, that’s it! I’ve tried my hardest with you, and this is how you repay me.’ Mona jumped up from the sticky leather semi-circular chair. ‘I’ve had enough. I was here to help you. But there’s no point. I’m going back to Graceland. You can sleep it off here. I’m sure that queen on the door will look after you.’

Mona turned away and, with angry tears ruining her make-up, left without even a look over her shoulder. Johnny lay back on the chair and closed his plate-like eyes, swimming in a whirlpool of colour.

9

Sweet Sixteen

Chelsea’s sixteen years on this planet had been unusual, to say the least. She had realised from a very early age that her upbringing was somewhat different to that of her peers. The mansion in Mill Hill had been the only real home she had ever known. On the rare occasions they’d left the confines of this two-acre estate together, everyone had stared, wanting a piece of her dad. Johnny Klein, one of the most famous rock stars in Britain, married to Laura Klein, the famous TV presenter who gave it all up to go on the road with the band – those were her parents. Defined by them, Chelsea’s life was far from normal in her early years. Then, on her eighth birthday, it happened. There’s the old saying: you never know what’s around the corner. Sometimes you can’t allow for the unforeseeable, but those are the moments in our lives that affect us the most, affect who we are, what we believe in, the way we look at life. All these things can change in an instant.

***

Her eighth birthday. Laura was running late for the school run. She had been on the phone to Johnny, who was away on tour somewhere in Europe. Late afternoon was always the best time to talk to him, in between last night’s hangover and just before the next soundcheck. She was only ten minutes late, and she knew Chelsea would be waiting for her just inside the school gates as she always did, but today was different. Chelsea was excited about her birthday and couldn’t wait to get home to celebrate with her friends.

It was cold that September day. There was a chill that rattled your bones and it had just started to spit, so the school gates became a sea of umbrellas. The form mistress who would always wait with the girls to hand them over to their parents only turned her back for a moment – it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds. But Chelsea had gone! The teacher whirled around, looking for her, asking her friends if they knew anything, calling for Chelsea as the rain got heavier. Another mum came over and tried to calm her, placing both hands on her arms and reassuring her: ‘It’s okay, Chelsea got picked up, she’s gone with the lady with the red brolly, I saw them get into her car.’

It was at that precise moment that Laura arrived at the gates. She saw the panic on the teacher’s face, she didn’t hear any other words apart from one, and it echoed around her eardrums, bouncing off the soft walls again and again: ‘Gone.’ It’s every mother’s biggest fear and it was there, staring her in the face. The teacher took her mobile phone out of her raincoat and dialled 999. The shockwave went through the school like a tsunami and the police were at the gates within minutes, which was more than could be said for Johnny. He was getting ready for his gig and didn’t pick up his phone.

Chelsea found herself in a house in Hornsey. The lady with the red umbrella had a messy dark perm that was starting to grow out and turn a rusty red. Chelsea was led through the doors of a downstairs flat just off the hallway and into a dark living room. She started to cry then, asking for her mummy again and again. The woman brought over a large box wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Chelsea held it in her lap, confused.

‘It’s a present,’ the lady said. ‘For your birthday.’

Chelsea’s fingers sat atop the wrapping paper, and whilst she didn’t know why, her instinct was not to upset this woman, so she began to open it. But then something else caught her eye and froze her stomach. A giant picture of her dad, blown up to almost cover the opposite wall.

‘Daddy,’ Chelsea whispered.

***

Johnny got a private jet, flying straight home as soon as he had found out what had happened. When he got through the door of his Mill Hill mansion, about one o’clock that morning, Laura was there with two police officers. She ran into his arms, and the two of them sobbed together.

***

Chelsea had been changed into a pair of new cotton pyjamas and tucked into a camp bed at the side of the woman’s bed. She was terrified, lying there as the woman lay on her bed watching Top of the Pops reruns of Chelsea’s dad in another time, another era. Chelsea was there for two days and nights, drugged on sleeping tablets to keep her quiet and to stop the crying. It was on the third day that the police tracked her down, after the other mother’s description matched a superfan who had stalked Johnny a few years earlier.

When asked, Chelsea said she didn’t remember much about the whole episode, but it had dug deep into her psyche, into the nucleus of every cell in her body. She’d suffered separation anxiety as a young teenager, not wanting to leave the house on her own. She became quiet, withdrawn, even more so when they lost everything due to Johnny’s debts and were forced to move from their rock-star gated community back to her nan’s in North London. But then she made friends with a group of girls at school who were into goth rock. The mood, the dark message, filled a void in her life. They were a clique, a surrogate family of like-minded kids who travelled under the same flag. In a bizarre way, Laura saw Chelsea’s moods lift and she seemed to find herself.

That same circle of friends, Julie and the others, was here tonight for Chelsea’s sixteenth birthday party. The ceiling in Laura’s mum’s house was crawling with red and black balloons that were trying to clump together like hibernating ladybirds in the last rays of the autumn sunshine. Every so often a balloon caught on a sharp piece of plaster on the patterned Artex ceiling and burst with a loud bang, followed by the unmistakable high-pitched scream of a gaggle of teenage girls. Depeche Mode’s ‘Personal Jesus’ rang out of the tiny speakers on top of the pine sideboard, each note seeming to distort as it swirled around the magnetic cone before being squeezed out into the dining room as a perfect soundtrack to the dozen or so girls, all in their black jeans, black tees, black nail varnish and deep-purple lipstick, all the T-shirts in the room a variation on one theme, printed with pictures of The Cure, Joy Division, and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Chelsea and Laura had gone to live with Susanna, Laura’s mother. While it wasn’t the ideal living arrangement any of them had expected at this point in their lives, it worked. They had somewhere warm and comforting to live and in return, Susanna got company, although Laura wasn’t always sure it was what her mum really wanted.

Chelsea stood in the middle of the group of girls, cradling a glass of Coke – or at least, that’s what it looked like. A girl wearing a Debbie Harry motif surreptitiously topped her up with vodka from a small hip flask. Chelsea had grown up fast over the last couple of years. Gone were the cute, cherub features of her early teen years as she gradually morphed into her mum. Chelsea’s hair was dyed a deep blue-black and crimped into thousands of tiny waves that made every strand stick out from the root up, as if it was inside a Van de Graaff generator, a streak of static electricity being drawn to the edge, pulsating up from a silver ball. On her T-shirt was a black-and-white image of her dad, Johnny Klein, his arms outstretched, his ankles tied by a thick rope as he leant back on a big wooden crucifix. The image was the front cover of his album Mirror in the middle of the eighties, when they had claimed in true Beatleseque style that he was more popular than Jesus. In fact, no matter how distasteful it was at that time, he probably was.

Laura knew that underneath the make-up, the goth soundtrack and the disturbing T-shirt motif, Chelsea was still trying to find herself, break out from underneath that cloud of being ‘Johnny Klein’s daughter’ and become her own person. Even the image of her dad on the cross emblazoned across her chest was an image of him supposedly dead. Chelsea was at that strange juncture in life when you cross from a child to an adult. At this age, she still needed her dad. But he’d let her down. Again.

***

Chelsea’s party had come to an end. The goth rock had disappeared from the speakers and Laura had just pulled out the last wine glass from the mountainous soapy water, dried it with the tea towel, and left it on the draining board with several others. Chelsea was sitting at the kitchen island staring at her phone.

‘Dad was never going to come, was he?’

Laura swallowed hard. She didn’t want to turn her face to look at her daughter. Instead she stayed staring at her own reflection in the darkness outside of the kitchen window. Laura had been through all of this herself: the ‘promises’, the ‘I’ll make it up to you’ and the ‘trust me, I won’t forget’. When Johnny had promised to be at Chelsea’s party, he’d said, ‘Laura, trust me, of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ She had seen that glazed look in his eye before, when he meant every single word he said … until something else distracted him.

Laura turned around: ‘Look Chels, something obviously came up. He would’ve been here if he could. He’s having a rough time at the moment, you know that.’

‘Mum, for Christ’s sake, why do you constantly stick up for him? Why can’t you say the man’s a dickhead, at least every now and again?’

‘Chelsea, that’s enough. He’s still your dad, show a bit more respect here.’

Chelsea was angry. This wasn’t the time to treat her like a kid.

‘Respect. Sure, I’ll show him respect – as soon as he starts showing it to me, or even you, for that matter, and not just his string of empty promises. Respect has to be earned.’

Chelsea got up from the island, locked her phone, and stomped upstairs to her bedroom. Laura looked up to the heavens. Chelsea was right and had every reason to be upset with her dad. Johnny had always spoken about how hard it was to be the one constantly looked at, pointed at, stared at, but he had never thought about how hard it was for his daughter. He never really thought of anyone else.

Laura took a moment, but could see this was far more than just a petulant teenager throwing the well-used toys out of her pram. Chelsea was hurting. But Laura knew it was best just to leave her for the time being, let her get the rage out of her system in her own way. Chelsea had a point, though. Why did she keep sticking up for him?

Because I still want to believe we’re a family …

Without enthusiasm, Laura made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen isle, watching the small brown whirlpool at the top of her Bridgewater mug.

‘Don’t pretend you’re surprised he forgot,’ she heard her own mum say as she appeared in the kitchen.

Laura didn’t reply. It was rare that she confided in her mum. She always tried her damnedest to be strong, never letting her act fall apart in front of her mum, never bringing that stress into her mum’s house. In return her mum would see everything, understand everything, and keep her thoughts to herself, even though they showed on her face and she would barely speak to Johnny whenever he came to the house.

So, confiding in her mum was a once-in-a-blue-moon sort of thing. ‘I don’t know,’ Laura said as she exhaled. ‘There was a time he would never have forgotten her birthday. Now …’

Susanna finished what Laura wanted to say but just couldn’t bring herself to: ‘Now, he’s doing the same to her as he did to you … But what did you expect? I will never say I told you so, but nothing surprises me coming from that man.’

Laura didn’t answer but lifted the cup to her lips, blowing the steam from the rim.

‘But she was sixteen today, mum. Sixteen. And he knows she’s finding life difficult at the moment. It’s not been easy for her, the last few years.’

Susanna raised her eyebrows as if to say, There’s only one person to blame here. Laura was grateful her mother didn’t actually say it.

***

Hours later, Laura lay awake in her bed. The moonlight shone a beautiful pattern as it squeezed its way between the lace net curtains and over her mum’s soft white winceyette sheets. She could hear Chelsea on the phone, not well enough to make out any words, but just enough to hear her laugh several times. Laura felt relieved rather than being upset about being kept awake. It meant Chelsea had moved on from the fact that Johnny had found something more important to do, rather than come to his only child’s birthday party. Chelsea may have inherited her mum’s looks, but she definitely had her dad’s thick skin.

Laura looked at the clock; it said just after midnight, but her brain felt wide awake. Just then, after a creak on the floorboards, she heard Chelsea’s footsteps walk out of her bedroom, past the bathroom, along the hall and down the stairs. Before she could pull back the covers, Laura heard the front door open and close. She jumped out of bed and went over to the window and watched as Chelsea walked away down the street. Anxiety ripped through Laura’s chest as she watched her daughter turn the corner. She heard herself call out under her breath, but she knew it was no good.

It was 5.30 a.m. when Laura finally heard the door quietly open and then close again, and Chelsea’s footsteps pad up the stairs and into her bedroom. Laura lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for any more signs of movement. She didn’t plan on doing the interrogation now, but she pulled the covers back and slowly swung her feet over the side of the bed. Walking out onto the landing, she moved across to Chelsea’s room. She was pleased to see that the bedroom light was already off, just a soft shaft of light shining from the hall as she gingerly opened the door. Chelsea was in bed, sleeping. Laura thought how young she looked suddenly.

Padding across the room, she kissed her daughter softly on her cheek. Chelsea didn’t even murmur. Laura sighed. It was as if with each day, each hour that passed, she was losing her little girl. She gently stroked Chelsea’s hair, pulled her covers up to her chin, and walked back to the door, closing it softly behind her, unaware that her daughter’s eyes had opened and she’d watched her mum go.

10

Bang in the Night

Mona was running down the staircase at Graceland, pulling her thick white cotton dressing gown on and tying it tight around her waist, her bed hair standing at right angles to her head.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ Mona whispered to herself as she made her way through the restaurant, weaving a crooked path through the empty tables and chairs.

As she got closer to the double doors, through the frosted glass set into the top half, she could see the outline of a police officer. Her heart sank and the worst thoughts ran through her head. She’d left Johnny all on his own at the Vauxhall Velvet, in a terrible state. If anything had happened to him, she would never be able to forgive herself. Was this the part where the officer asked to come in and, in his softest voice, explained that Johnny was dead? Mona stopped for a second, staring at the copper’s silhouette, his wide-chested frame and epaulettes, his peaked cap with the black and white checked band. Mona took a deep breath and unlocked the front door, pulling it back. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt as rough as sandpaper.

The officer spoke first: ‘Johnny Klein.’

Mona knew it. All her fears were coming true. She didn’t answer, just waited for the bad news.

‘Madam, Johnny Klein.’ As he spoke, he pulled Johnny into the doorframe. ‘Is he yours?’

Johnny was a mess, the worst she had ever seen him. And that was saying something.

‘I found him passed out on your front step. He said he lives here.’

Mona didn’t say a word but flung her arms around Johnny. Thank God he was alive, but her relief was now tinged with a good dose of anger and disappointment.

‘Thank you, Officer. I’ll take him from here.’

‘Sure … Look, I was a child of the eighties. Do you think I could get a …’

‘A selfie?!’

Johnny was being half held up by Mona, but he still managed to half-smile.

‘Yeah, course, sorry.’ The copper said with chagrin, ‘I shouldn’t’ve asked.’

And with that, Mona helped Johnny through the doors and into the first booth, the two of them sitting opposite each other.

‘Johnny, why? Why do you do this to yourself? I thought you were over this … stupidity?’

Johnny looked at Mona, his pupils back to their normal size. The faded cracked blue of his irises could be seen again. His breath was bad – it smelt like a mixture of alcohol, fags and vomit. It was enough to make Mona wince as he squeezed the words up through his body: ‘Mona, I was spiked. I didn’t … I wouldn’t. I’m over that, that’s not me.’

Mona tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips.

‘Mona, you have to believe me. I wouldn’t. Someone must have put something in my drink.’

‘Do you know who?’

Johnny smiled sardonically: ‘Mona, I can’t even remember going out last night. The whole night has gone. I’ve got no idea how I even got back here. It’s as if last night never even happened. Now, I’ve taken some shit in my time, but nothing has ever done that to me. I swear to you, Mona. I know it’s the oldest excuse in the book, but you have to believe me. I was spiked.’

Johnny’s face was serious. Mona could see he was telling the truth.

‘Did you find out anything about Rory?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. What about you?’

Johnny shrugged. ‘If I did, I don’t remember.’

‘Look, why don’t you get some rest in? You’ll feel better in the morning. Well, let’s say the afternoon – it’s the morning already.’

Johnny nodded wearily and pulled his heavy body out from behind the table, ran his fingers through his hair and blew out his stubbled cheeks.

‘Just tell me one thing – did we have fun?’

Mona laughed. ‘Yes, Johnny, one of the best nights I’ve ever had.’ The sarcasm in her voice went straight over Johnny’s head, and he smiled.

‘Good, good. See? You should hang out with me more often.’

Johnny turned and walked through the quiet restaurant, his cowboy boots dragging on the carpet tiles. Through the door and up the staircase to his room, the smell of curry spices was thick in the air. They had long since penetrated through the wallpaper lining and into the plaster of the staircase.

The door to Johnny’s room at the top seemed further away than he remembered, and by the time he pushed it open his heart was pounding and a pain in his neck seemed to throb in time. He pushed the door open and moved across the room to his bed. He was just about ready to collapse onto it when he saw Mike under the covers.

Johnny sighed. ‘Wanker.’

He didn’t know if he was talking about Mike, who had stolen his bed, leaving his own half-deflated yellow airbed looking like a used giant condom that had stuck to the wooden floor, or himself who had let Mike stay in the first place. And on top of that, his snoring was off the scale; for every quiet breath out there were several huge throaty vibrations that seemed to stop at times before making him almost choke, and then the whole cycle would start again.

Johnny walked into the bathroom and closed the door. He caught himself in the stained mirror above the old sink. He looked like shite. The dark rings under his eyes were almost purple and his skin looked pale and pasty.

He climbed into the free-standing old bath with clawed feet, kicking his boots off by the heel and watching them tumble over the edge and onto the floor with a thud. He slid his body down the fading enamel. He felt like a tiny embryo in its foetal sac, waiting for the first signs of a contraction. Even Mike’s deviated septum and his own sore knee, that was just starting to come back to life with the rest of his senses, couldn’t stop Johnny from falling into a deep sleep.

***

When he emerged from oblivion, it was the early afternoon, and the sounds of Elvis were coming up from the restaurant.

Johnny struggled out of the bath tub. He felt like shit. His back ached – so did his tooth. Cursing Mike, he changed into fresh clothes, and headed downstairs.

Elvis was in the throes of his final chorus, down on one knee, sweating beads of pure endorphin, his incredible, expensive white tasselled jump suit shining under the ultraviolet lamp that stood right above him on the tiny stage in the middle of Graceland. The white shell-like footlights around the edge of the stage flashed in time with the crescendo as Elvis spread his rhinestone-studded cape, like a peacock showing its incredible tail feathers. The backing track that he was singing to suddenly cut out – the old WEM amp driving the speakers had blown. The stench of electricity and burnt-out valves swept across the stage.

A few customers in the half-filled restaurant clapped slowly, more out of embarrassment and politeness than appreciation of the performance.

But something wasn’t quite right. Elvis was still kneeling, long after the atmosphere had moved on. Johnny realised this just as the Major did. Elvis’s face was stuck, not in exultant post-performance euphoria, but in horrible gut-wrenching pain. The Major was faster to react, rushing in from the side of the stage and putting a towel around Elvis’s neck before helping him up off his knee. He was now clearly in trouble. Johnny guessed his cartilage had popped out and he couldn’t straighten his leg. The Major was struggling beneath the sweating leather-glad angel, trying and failing to lift Elvis, unable even to hold him steady. Elvis was pouring with sweat now, not out of adrenaline but from pure unadulterated pain.

Finally Johnny acted. Just as the Major opened his mouth to ask for help in holding the seventeen stone of vibrating flesh and rhinestones, Johnny was on the stage standing next to him, taking Elvis’s other arm and slowly but painfully lifting him onto his one good leg.

‘Thank you, Johnny. Thank you!’ the Major said, trying to grab a breath.

‘No problem, let’s get him to a chair.’

Johnny left the Major and his wounded Elvis, and went in search of Mona. He found her in the little backroom she used for writing.

‘Ah, so you’re back in the land of the living,’ she said without humour.

‘More or less,’ Johnny said, running his hands over his face. ‘Better than last night, anyway. I don’t know what got slipped in my drink, but it knocked the hell out of me.’

‘I think I know who spiked you. It was one of the drag artists.’

‘Which one? The bloody place was full of them!’

Mona shrugged: ‘Her name’s Aurora, at least according to the person I asked. You were talking to her. Can you remember anything about her?’

‘Nope, it’s a total blank,’ Johnny sighed.

Mona thought for a moment, then said: ‘Almost like somebody wanted you to forget.’

‘What do you mean?’ Johnny asked, and then the penny dropped for him. ‘My God, I see what you mean. I would have been going round asking people about Rory – did they know him, had they seen him … and somebody there didn’t like it.’

‘Aurora must have felt you were getting too close,’ Mona said. ‘Whoever she was, she did a bunk pretty quick, the moment I came over.’

‘So she spiked my drink, and now I don’t know if anybody told me anything about Rory or not.’

‘Exactly. She gets close to you, hits on you for a bit, spikes your drink. You pass out and wake up the next day, not remembering a damn thing. If anyone told you anything, it’s gone now, your mind’s a total blank. That means that Aurora didn’t want you sniffing around, so Rory must be at the Velvet?’ Mona exclaimed.

‘Either that, or he’s still somehow closely connected to it,’ Johnny added. ‘We were on the right track. For all we know, he might be hiding out there.’

‘Well, either way, we’ve picked up his trail. I’d bet this Aurora knows. She’s protecting him, I reckon.’

‘Enough to drug me into oblivion for getting too close,’ Johnny said, nodding to himself. ‘All this … just over some ancient tapes Rory nicked from Pete’s villa.’

‘What do you think’s so important about those reel-to-reel tapes, Johnny?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ve got no idea what’s going on, or why it all matters so much. I suppose money’s at the bottom of it all. It always comes down to dosh in the end.’

‘Do you think Mike’s in on it?’

‘Knowing him like I do, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was caught up in something dodgy. Then again …’ He threw his hands up. ‘We’re stumbling about in the dark. We need something concrete.’

‘We’ve got something concrete,’ Mona said. ‘We’ve got the Velvet. We know something about that place leads to Rory. Oh, I love being an undercover investigator!’

Johnny mulled things over, and then said: ‘Okay, so we’re getting closer … but what’s my next move?’

‘Go back to the Velvet,’ Mona said confidently. ‘Check the place when it’s not packed to the rafters with people.’

‘I guess so,’ Johnny nodded. ‘I can’t think what else to do. But I’ll go alone this time, Mona.’

‘Can I trust you to look after yourself?’

‘Mona, believe me, I won’t touch even so much as a glass of water while I’m there this time.’

‘And when you go, make sure your phone’s charged,’ Mona told him. ‘If there’s any trouble, I want you to ring me at once.’

Reminded of its existence, Johnny fished the Motorola out of his pocket and saw that he had a lot of texts and missed calls from Laura. At once, he felt his blood turn to ice.

Mona must have read his expression, because she asked anxiously: ‘What’s happened, Johnny? Something to do with Rory?’

‘No,’ said Johnny quietly, his shoulders slumping. ‘Just a reminder of something.’

‘A reminder of what?’

‘That I’m the world’s shittiest dad.’

11

Another Brick in the Wall

Todd’s Café had stood about a quarter of the way down Brick Lane for as long as anyone could remember. Surrounded by Indian restaurants, it was like that house in the middle of a motorway that refused to sell up and give way to the inevitable, so they had to divert the highway around it. A greasy spoon that did the best bacon butties this side of the river and supplied a truly all-day English breakfast that had become an East End legend up there with Sweeney Todd’s pies and Pearly Kings. The interior of the café was old-school, with a black-and-white tiled floor and marble-effect Formica tables that had been there since the day it had first opened its doors to the workers of E16. Its orange plastic seating cut into your kidneys as you tried to sit back and relax – reminding you that someone else was waiting for your seat.

Laura had been texting Johnny the whole time he’d been at the Velvet, at first gently reminding him that it was Chelsea’s sixteenth birthday party that night, then ordering him to be there, and then – worst of all – collapsing into a tone of Well, it’s what I should have expected of you.

Johnny had tried to ring Laura’s number that afternoon, but she didn’t pick up, and he knew, just knew, that she was sitting there, cradling a coffee as she watched his name flashing on the screen of her phone, her face set in an attitude of resigned disappointment. Perhaps her mother Susanna was there too, staring coldly from beneath her dark-blonde fringe, oozing contempt for her former son-in-law. And as for Chelsea herself, what would she be thinking?

Mona’s offer of a very late breakfast at Todd’s had come as a welcome distraction from the reality that he had somehow managed to screw up again.

Now the smell of sausage, onion, and egg frying on the hotplate soaked his senses with saturated fats instead of guilt.

‘Are you sure you can face it?’ Mona said. ‘You’re probably still a bit delicate after whatever you took last night.’

‘I didn’t take anything, I was spiked,’ Johnny corrected. He breathed in the thick aromas of Todd’s and waited to see how his stomach reacted. It gurgled, but with hunger rather than bile. ‘I think a solid breakfast’s just what I need right now.’

It occurred to him that all the free food at Graceland – the bhajis, the dahl, the tikka masala – had taken its toll over the last few months, and a roll of skin now hung loosely over the top of his belt. He’d seen it creeping on before he went to look after Pete’s place in the south of France, but now it seemed to have blossomed into a middle-age spread. Johnny was proud to have been known for his super-slim physique. No ‘rock gods’ were fat – they looked like Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. Too strung out to eat like mere mortals, they lived on alcohol, cigarettes and cocaine. He caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the counter, barely recognising the ravaged and paunchy middle-aged geezer who looked back at him. He winced as he took his seat.

‘Tomorrow, I’m going on a diet,’ Johnny said. ‘But today …’

‘Today it’s a Todd’s,’ Mona grinned. ‘You need it after your adventures.’

Mona ordered them both the works, and together they sat by the steamed-up plate-glass window that looked out upon Brick Lane.

‘We need to find out more about that drag queen Aurora you were with last night,’ Mona said as they ate. ‘The one you said spiked you?’

Johnny shrugged: ‘I told you, I don’t remember a thing. Do you really think she spiked me to protect Rory?’

‘It would make sense,’ Mona said, excitement in her voice, feeling even more like an undercover agent than she did last night. ‘As soon as she saw me coming over, she vanished, leaving you for me to deal with. Knowing that whatever you may have learned about Rory would be totally blotted out.’

‘Then we are on the right track,’ Johnny said. ‘There is a connection between the Velvet and Rory. For all we know, he might be hiding out there.’

‘Or if he isn’t, somebody there knows where he is,’ Mona added. ‘And I’d bet this Aurora knows. She’s protecting him, I reckon.’

‘I have to go back there,’ Johnny said thoughtfully.

‘I know,’ Mona said. ‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll have to figure it out when I get there.’

‘Well, just watch your back, for God’s sake,’ Mona warned him seriously. ‘I won’t be there to save you this time.’

***

When breakfast was done, they headed back out onto Brick Lane. The fresh air outside hit them between the eyes. Johnny and Mona walked the short distance to Graceland, but as Mona turned to head inside the restaurant, without warning Johnny grabbed her arm and yanked her away.

‘Hey! What the hell are you—’

‘Shh!’ Johnny silenced her harshly, marching her past Graceland and on down Brick Lane. ‘Somebody’s more interested in us than they should be.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We’re being followed.’

Mona twisted her head around, her hair flicking around her face. ‘Where? What’s going on?!’

Johnny pulled her to him, a fake smile on his face, and hissed: ‘Don’t look round! Just act natural. I don’t want them to know we were heading into Graceland.’

‘Who is it?’ Mona whispered as they marched along.

‘Dunno. Some fella, East Asian. He walked past the window outside Todd’s three times while we were eating, then I saw him standing across the road, pretending to read a newspaper. He was watching us. As soon as we came out and started walking, he dropped the paper and followed us. Quick, through here!’

They ducked into a narrow side alley, and at once Johnny pushed Mona ahead of him, urging her to run. She rushed along the alley and then darted through an opening on the left. Johnny followed her, and she pulled him down behind a collection of large wheelie-bins. Together, they hunkered down, holding their breath. The sound of feet came rapidly along the alleyway. Johnny dared a glimpse from between the bins and saw the guy. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad, thick-necked, barrel-chested and dressed in a slate-grey Hugo Boss suit. He lumbered past them and was gone in an instant, the heavy thud of his footsteps receding quickly as he vanished.

Johnny and Mona both exhaled at the same time.

‘That was scary,’ Mona whispered, her eyes still wide and wary. ‘Who the hell was it, Johnny? Somebody from the Velvet?’

‘I don’t think so, he didn’t look like one of the Velvet crowd. Mona, we’ve got to be careful – I’ve got to be careful. I’ve brought enough trouble down on Graceland already, I don’t want to cause any more. He mustn’t see us go into the restaurant, he mustn’t associate us with that place.’

‘This is crazy,’ Mona whispered as they crept back out into the alley and checked that the coast was clear. ‘What are we going to do, Johnny? If this guy’s lurking about Brick Lane, sooner or later he’s going to spot us going in and out of Graceland, and then he’ll come and he’ll … he’ll … God, I don’t even want to think about it.’

They stepped back into Brick Lane. There was no sign of their pursuer, so they hurried straight to Graceland. As he ushered Mona inside, Johnny got a sudden chill down his spine, the creeping sensation that he was being watched. Worse than that, he felt vulnerable, like a sharp blow was suddenly going to land on him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. But that didn’t make him feel any safer. His nerves continued tingling in anticipation of violence from a threat he could not see. Even when he shut the door behind him, he half expected bullets to suddenly rip through it and smash into his body.

Don’t get paranoid, he told himself. But it made absolutely no difference, and he followed Mona into Graceland, feeling a tightly clenched knot in the pit of his stomach.

12

Back in the Day

Johnny was unable to shake the feeling that they were under siege. He’d tried to call Laura one more time, to no response, and had chickened out of calling Chelsea, adding a further brick to the overloaded sack of guilt and self-recrimination he was carrying around. Later that evening, when Mona wanted to go shopping in the trendy vintage clothing and record stores on Brick Lane, they both headed out to the street before parting to go in different directions.

‘Be careful, don’t go too far,’ he told her, unable to keep an anxious note out of his voice.

‘I’ll keep ’em peeled, don’t worry.’ She stood on her tiptoes and planted a light kiss on his cheek, before heading north up Brick Lane.

As Johnny watched her stride confidently up the street, in her DMs and tiny cut-off shorts, he couldn’t stop the thought entering his head again that she was too young for him.

You’re too old for her, more like.

Frowning, Johnny headed out into Brick Lane. He just wanted to scope the place out, to see if anyone was lurking or watching, get a feel for any danger that might still be lingering there. He kept his head down, trying to hide himself amid the crowds as much as possible. He checked around but could see no sign of the guy from earlier. The feeling of being watched had lessened now he was doing something, but it hadn’t gone entirely. Johnny still felt like he was being hunted, maybe even toyed with, that he and Mona were unwitting pieces in somebody else’s deadly game.

As he took a final look around, the heavens opened. Rain drummed against the pavements, the windows of the curry houses, the roofs of cars. It was gloomy and depressing. He thought of Chelsea, and how the hell he was going to make it up to her for missing her party – his disappointment in himself adding to the dark mood.

With no concrete discovery, he headed back into Graceland. The restaurant was heaving, and Johnny passed through the tables, no one really taking any notice of him. He had become more of a background irritant than the central attraction of Graceland. Then, suddenly, the Major stepped out in front of him.

‘Johnny, can you spare a moment?’

‘Sure, Major. What’s up?’

‘It’s … not easy to put into words.’

Johnny felt his stomach tighten, and he said: ‘Look, Major, if you want me out of here, I completely underst—’

‘Johnny, Johnny, what sort of a person do you think I am?’ the Major asked, smiling rather sadly. ‘You are welcome under this roof for as long as you care to stay. It’s not you I want to talk about, but …’

He broke off as a couple of young guys from the kitchen pushed past them carrying huge sacks of onions.

‘We can’t talk here,’ the Major said when the guys were gone. ‘Follow me, please.’

He led the way up to the first floor, and Johnny followed him down a narrow corridor to a door that, as far as Johnny was aware, was permanently locked. But that was evidently about to change, as the Major had fished out a key from his pocket.

‘Your secret hideaway?’ Johnny joked.

‘As a matter of fact, it is. Every man has secrets,’ the Major said, and he opened the door and stood aside for Johnny to go ahead of him.

As Johnny’s eyes adjusted to the half-light in the room, he could see it was full of music memorabilia, from stacks of old Melody Makers to piles of NMEs. The shelves bulged with old ticket stubs in Perspex frames and the walls were covered in posters of old Elvis movies. This was like Howard Carter opening Tutankhamun’s tomb for the first time and proclaiming, when asked what he could see, ‘Wonderful things.’ On the desk, amongst piles of paper, were several photo frames of the Major in his twenties, his thick hair swept to one side, his face free from wrinkles and his eyes bright and sharp. But there in the middle of the desk was a small six-by-four frame that held a faded photo. Johnny picked it up for a closer look. The quality was dreadful but the picture was of the Major, with a garland of flowers around his neck, and shaking hands with none other than Elvis Presley.

Mesmerised, Johnny muttered, ‘Is that … ? No, it can’t be. That must be fake.’

‘No, it’s real.’ The Major smiled, stepping up behind Johnny and gently closing the door behind him.

‘Why have you never shown me this, or told me about meeting Elvis?’

The Major looked down at the floor before answering. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it was a moment that was bigger than words for me, and as the years went past, after he died … well, the story got less interesting, and so I kept it to myself. That was in Hawaii, before his concert. That garland I gave him, he wore onstage.’

Johnny’s voice was soft and filled with awe. ‘Aloha from Hawaii, January 14th 1973, the Honolulu Centre. I had the poster on my bedroom wall as a kid.’

The Major grinned from ear to ear as the memory came flooding back. ‘I was on holiday, and won a lottery ticket to go backstage and shake his hand. That’s when I gave him the garland. Best moment of my life. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Well, not the Elvis, but my Elvis. He has everything – the voice, the looks, the moves, even his own quiff. But …’

Johnny looked at him, half wanting to finish his sentence for him but not wanting to seem rude.

The Major continued: ‘The restaurant is taking more money than we have for years. The customers are coming through the door. But the reaction our new poor Elvis is getting is awful. Sometimes people don’t even clap. Johnny, you remember when my Ravi was here. The restaurant would be on their feet, screaming and shouting, people would come from across town to see him. But now … the atmosphere has died.’

Johnny knew the answer but was trying to put together a way to say it. He hesitated.

‘Look, Major, Ravi was something special, that’s why we all loved him – one of a kind. But the reason why everyone loved Ravi was because he just wasn’t that good.’

The Major was silent for a moment. ‘I always knew he wasn’t the best Elvis impersonator out there, but he was my boy.’

Johnny softened his voice. ‘That’s the problem. The new Elvis is just too good, too perfect, that’s why no one can connect to him. People loved Ravi for who he was, not who he was trying to be. We all loved him because … well, because …’ Johnny paused for a moment before crossing the red line: ‘Because he was terrible.’

The Major’s eyes filled with water, but a smile of reassurance crossed his thin lips. ‘Yes, he was terrible, but he was my boy, and I was so proud of him.’ A single tear ran down the Major’s cheek as he placed his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

The Major cast his gaze around the room. ‘I’ve been meaning to clear this room out for years. Most of it’s rubbish. I tell myself: You can’t hang onto the past forever, sometimes you need to let go and move on. But it’s not so easy to actually do it. And so the past just sort of piles up, and keeps on piling up, and … Well, you know what I mean.’

Yes, he knew. Johnny’s own past was piled up inside him. If he could clear it all away and start again from fresh, would he? He wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that the past was the past, and that the young Johnny Klein who had strutted and pouted and gyrated was consigned to that past, never to return except in memories and dreams and degraded VHS recordings. Yes, there was quick money to be made by teaming up with Mike again and whatever other debris of the old band could be scraped together. But this older Johnny knew that for all the prizes that it offered, rock-and-roll stardom took away far more than it gave, and that was something the young Johnny Klein had not learned until it was too late. A screaming crowd and eager groupies turns out to be nothing compared to a wife who genuinely loved you. And no recording contract was worth a fraction of the worth of a hug from a loving daughter. Whatever pop fame had given Johnny in the past, it had left him here, washed up, penniless, adrift, and – perhaps worst of all – ashamed. Maybe he was fooling himself that he had changed. Maybe the Johnny of the past was still him and would always be him. The Major could motivate himself to do it, to gather up all the old memorabilia in this room and chuck it out forever. But Johnny doubted that it was possible for him to chuck out all the poison and failure and pain of his old life, or ever make enough room for a new one.

‘Oh dear, I seem to have made you sad,’ the Major said.

‘It wasn’t you, Major. I was just … reflecting.’

‘I understand. If it helps, Johnny, I want you to remember what I said before. You’re welcome to stay here at Graceland for as long as you need to. Never worry about that.’

‘You’re a genuine hero, Major,’ Johnny said with gratitude. ‘Not many people would put up with me the way you do. Or with Mike!’

‘Oh, Mike’s no trouble!’ the Major laughed. ‘In fact, he’s up in your room right now with his friend.’

‘Oh God, he’s not started bringing girls back, has he?’

‘No, not girls. That nice Japanese gentleman.’

Johnny’s blood at once froze in his veins: ‘Japanese … ?’

‘Yes, yes, he turned up while you were outside just now,’ the Major continued innocently. ‘He asked after Mike and I told him to go straight up to the attic room. He was very polite. And he looked very important. Expensive suit. Is it a music job, do you think?’

The usual racket of Graceland was coming through the walls and floorboards – the hum of the diners in the restaurant, the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, the sound of raised Punjabi voices. But now Johnny sensed something else. It sounded like someone was shifting furniture along the wooden floorboards above. Then there was an almighty crash.

I’ve done it again – I’ve brought trouble down on Graceland!

The second crash was heavier than the first, and it spurred Johnny into action. He burst out of the Major’s secret hideaway and thundered up the staircase, his heart racing, his muscles already tensed in anticipation of violence.

13

Asking For It

Johnny pulled himself up the two flights of stairs to his attic room. He didn’t wait, just used his momentum to burst through the door. He saw clothes and bedding strewn about the floor, the chair overturned, a smashed coffee cup, and then he saw the massive expanse of a man’s back, an expensive Hugo Boss jacket stretched tight across it – the guy shaped like a fridge who’d chased him and Mona along Brick Lane. The man turned towards him, his expression calm and cold. As he turned, he revealed Mike’s face, bright purple, contorted, his tongue protruding and a great stream of saliva pouring down his chin – his neck held under the giant man’s arm as he was being throttled, while the man held a gun in his other hand, lifted and pointed towards Johnny.

Don’t think, just do something!

Johnny grabbed the fallen chair, raised it above his head, and brought it down as hard as he could on the Fridge. It didn’t smash like in a movie, it just bounced off his head, causing him to let go of Mike and drop the gun. It slid across the floor and disappeared under the bed. The Fridge turned on Johnny instead. Johnny tried another blow with the chair, but the Fridge swept it away with his arm and threw a punch. Johnny ducked. The Fridge’s fist dented the wall – Christ alone knew what it would have done to Johnny’s face. But he didn’t waste time worrying about that. He seized the moment and launched himself from his crouching position at the Fridge’s balls, punching wildly, hoping to land a lucky bull’s-eye. And today, for once, luck was on his side. The Fridge made a noise like a tomcat on heat and fell heavily backwards, clutching his crotch, and crashed noisily into the bathroom.

Johnny didn’t wait. He grabbed Mike, who was still lying on the floor, gasping and choking.

‘Get up!’ Johnny yelled. ‘We gotta get out of here!’

Mike groaned, struggled to one knee, then toppled over, retching and spluttering.

‘No time to die, you arsehole! We gotta MOVE!’ Johnny yelled.

But it was too late. There was a ferocious sound of splintering, and in the next moment the bathroom door came hurtling across the room, smashing into Johnny and sending him reeling. As he sprawled backwards across the floor, he felt through the floorboards the rapid BASH BASH BASH of the Fridge’s weighty steps pounding towards him.

‘Ah, shit …’ Johnny muttered as he found himself hauled to his feet by the lapels of his jacket, and then he was staring straight into the Fridge’s glaring eyes.

‘Talk!’ the Fridge barked into his face. His suit was up-market, but his breath smelt of the gutter. ‘Talk! Talk!’

‘I don’t know anything!’ Johnny shouted back.

‘Talk!’ And now the Fridge had him pinned against the wall. ‘Talk or die!’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, you stupid bastard! I don’t know what the hell you’re after, but whatever the hell it is, I haven’t got it and neither has— ARGH—’

The Fridge smashed Johnny’s head against the wall hard, and stars exploded across his vision.

‘Talk! Talk! Talk or die!’

‘Mike!’ Johnny cried out blearily. ‘Mike, help me …’

Mike replied feebly from somewhere on the floor: ‘Uuuuuuggghh …’

No help there, Johnny thought. He struggled again, but now the Fridge had him by throat and was pushing his thumbs hard into Johnny’s windpipe. Evidently, they had moved past the ‘talk’ option. Johnny clawed at the hands around his neck, but they were implacable. The Fridge’s enraged face filled his vision, rippling as if underwater. His ears began ringing, tinnitus-like, so loudly now that if the Fridge was still yelling at him, he couldn’t hear a word. The strength had drained from his hands and arms, and they fell limply to his sides. His knees gave way. The only thing holding him up was the Fridge’s vice-like grip around his throat.

The image of Laura flickered into his mind; she was smiling at him, but sadly, with regret. And then he saw Chelsea, looking at him with eyes filled with a thwarted expectation. I’m sorry … about … everything.

Suddenly, Johnny was in the very centre of an explosion. In the next moment, he found himself amid the wreckage of his room, noisily drawing great draughts of air into his lungs, the ringing receding from his ears, his eyesight clearing and coming back into focus.

Everything was in chaos. There were people everywhere, leaping, flailing, shouting. Frying pans, ladles, a mop. It took a moment for Johnny’s oxygen-starved brain to make sense of what the hell he was seeing. And then he got it. The guys from the kitchen had heard all the racket and come pounding up here like the cavalry, bringing whatever weapons they had to hand. Now they were battering the Fridge from every angle with kitchen utensils. The stranger flailed hopelessly, unable to fend off so many attacks from so many directions. He let out an enraged roar and burst out from amid the chaos, stomping towards the exit. A scrawny little kitchen porter who often hung around the chefs, wanting to learn the art of cooking, suddenly appeared fearlessly on the landing and furiously pitched an egg at him. It exploded across the Fridge’s bald head, but he didn’t have time to retaliate, because at once the army of kitchen staff was coming after him, yelling and bellowing as they chased him down the staircase.

The thunder of footsteps retreated. Johnny slumped on the floor, trying to recover from being choked. Next to him, Mike was doing exactly the same. Together, they sat and gasped and massaged their bruised throats, and then exchanged a look.

‘Your left eye’s all red,’ Mike said.

‘What’s going on, Mike?’

‘I don’t know, I’m not an optician.’

‘Not with my eye, I mean with … with this.’ Johnny waved his arm weakly towards the wreckage and chaos his room had been reduced to.

‘I don’t know,’ Mike said.

‘Bullshit.’

‘I don’t know who that bloke was, honest!’

‘Bullshit!’

‘I was asleep, Johnny, and then there’s this noise that wakes me up, and the next thing I know, I’m getting choked out by Oddjob from Goldfinger.’

Johnny got to his feet, rubbing his throat. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of days, and look what you’ve done!’

‘Hey, I didn’t smash this place up!’

‘Yes, you did! It’s smashed up because of you! Fridge-man was here because of you. Don’t deny it, Mike, because I swear to God, I’ll strangle you this time!’

‘Please don’t, JK,’ Mike said meekly. ‘It’s … well, not a very pleasant experience.’

‘Well, that’s something we can fucking agree on,’ Johnny said, managing to get his temper under control. In a lower, calmer voice, he said: ‘Mike, this is important. You need to tell me what’s going on here. Who was that guy? And what the hell have you got to do with it all?’

Mike chewed his lip, reluctant to speak, but Johnny got there before he had to.

‘Rory,’ he said.

Mike sighed, nodded, and lowered his head in chagrin.

‘I fucking knew it,’ Johnny said. ‘What’s the story with you two?’

‘Okay, Johnny,’ he said quietly. ‘I owe you the truth, given what’s happened and all. You see, it’s like this …’

But he was interrupted by the sound of a stampede coming up the stairs. It was the heroic kitchen staff again, this time being led by the Major. Johnny expected him to be horrified at the state of the room, but the Major’s only concern seemed to be with Johnny and Mike.

‘Are you both okay?’ he asked, looking worried.

‘We’re both in one piece – just,’ Johnny assured him.

‘Well, that’s a relief!’ the Major said, placing a hand over his heart. ‘You boys are all that matter. Doors and chairs, we can replace.’

‘We owe you all one,’ Johnny said to the kitchen staff. ‘If you hadn’t all showed up, I think me and Mike would be goners.’

‘My boys are loyal to the last,’ the Major beamed at his staff like a proud father.

‘What happened to that guy? Did you run him out of Graceland?’ Johnny asked.

‘We ran him out of Brick Lane!’ the Major grinned. ‘And my boys would have run him out of the whole East End, if I hadn’t called them off. They’re cooks, not soldiers, and our business is here in the restaurant, not brawling in the streets.’

‘I doubt we’ll see him back here again, not after you’ve shown him what he can expect,’ Johnny said.

‘Graceland has survived violence before,’ the Major told them sadly, but in the next moment he set aside his sadness and addressed his staff: ‘Right, enough of this. Back to work everyone, chop, chop!’

The kitchen staff groaned. They were all still pumped up from the fight, but they did the Major’s bidding and trooped back down to the kitchen. The Major waited, watching them descend, and then turned to Johnny and said: ‘I don’t know what this business is all about, but … I trust that whatever happens, you will look after Mona. I could not bear it if …’

Johnny understood perfectly what the Major was thinking, and he felt the same.

‘I couldn’t bear it either, Major,’ Johnny assured him. ‘Nothing will happen to Mona. I swear. On my life.’

The Major gave him a look that suggested he believed Johnny was sincere in what he said, but that he doubted his ability to make good his promise. Without saying anything, he headed slowly back downstairs.

Johnny stood for a moment, looking around at his wrecked room. The Major’s words had brought Mona very much to the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want her dragged into this violent business any more than the Major did, but whether Johnny liked it or not, she was already involved. She had been there at the Velvet when Johnny was spiked, just as she had been right by Johnny’s side when the Fridge had chased them along Brick Lane. And now trouble was bearing down directly on Graceland itself, Mona’s home from home. There was no way to deny the fact that she was as caught up in this business as Johnny himself.

‘Right, Mike, you need to tell me everything,’ Johnny said solemnly. ‘But not here.’

‘Why not here?’ Mike asked.

‘For one thing, this place looks like a bomb’s hit it, and it’s really doing my head in seeing my current home in this state,’ Johnny explained. ‘But for another thing, I want Mona to hear this too. I wish to God she wasn’t part of this, but it’s too late for wishes. She has a right to know what she’s been dragged into.’

As Mike trudged shakily down the stairs, looking all of his sixty years, Johnny held back, and dropped to his knees, wincing as one of them cracked painfully. He felt under his bed and touched the cold steel of the Fridge’s gun. After a second’s deliberation, he decided to leave it there. Out of sight out of mind, and you never knew when a thing like that might come in handy.

14

A Little Less Conversation

Mona wasn’t far away, and she came straight over when Johnny called. He waited for her in the main restaurant area while Mike sat seemingly unconcerned amongst the chaos in the attic. When Mona arrived she was smiling brightly, pleased to see him. But when she saw his bloodshot eye, his bruised face, the red strangle-marks still livid around his throat, her smile evaporated.

‘It’s okay, Mona, it’s worse than it looks,’ he said, forcing a smile.

Mona rushed over and started examining his injuries, horrified and upset.

‘Somebody tried to kill you … !’ she whispered, hardly able to speak.

‘It was Mike he really wanted. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Who was it?’ And then at once Mona answered her own question: ‘It was him, wasn’t it? The big guy in the suit who chased us.’

Johnny nodded, wincing at the pain it caused in his bruised neck. Mona reacted to his pain, moving in, and with both hands on his jacket she pulled him in close, peering at his injuries.

‘We need to get some ice on those bruises,’ she said.

‘Not necessary,’ Johnny assured her.

Mona gently touched the swelling on the side of his face. It was still hot. Her hand was soft and cool. Johnny relished it.

‘We ought to take you to A&E,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Just for a check-up.’

‘I don’t need A&E,’ Johnny whispered back.

‘What about TLC?’ Her eyes were warm.

‘I suppose I could always use a bit of that. Can I get it on prescription?’

‘Yes,’ Mona breathed, ‘I’ll write you one now.’

In one slow movement she kissed him softly on the lips. Johnny had always resisted this, even though he’d thought about it a million times. He wanted to pull away. He knew it could be the beginning of something wonderful, or the end. A thousand thoughts crossed his mind in one millisecond, a superhighway of flashing feelings as Mona’s dilated pupils drew him in even closer. Johnny could feel her breath on his face.

Johnny gently separated his lips from Mona’s, and said in a low voice: ‘Mike’ll be down in a moment.’

Mona gave him a flat look and said: ‘Is that really the best you could come up with after our first kiss?’

‘Sorry, Mona, but we need to sort this. That man is somehow connected to Rory. Mike knows something about it. I think you should be there as well. After all, you’re as caught up in this thing as I am.’

Mona nodded, but was clearly disappointed that the romantic moment had ended so abruptly.

‘We need to go somewhere else to hear what Mike has to tell us,’ Johnny said. ‘There’s been enough trouble in Graceland for one day.’

‘I know where we can go,’ Mona said, and at that moment footsteps came plodding down the stairs towards them and then Mike appeared.

He grinned broadly and said: ‘Hiya, Mona. You and Johnny-boy gonna take me out somewhere nice?’

Johnny sighed wearily, wondering if this day was ever going to end.

***

Tucked away from the bustle of Brick Lane, The Crow and Crown nestled in an unprepossessing side street and catered almost exclusively for locals. It was quiet and laid back, just a few older men reading their papers at the bar with a pint while the barmaid cleaned glasses. It had discreet booths along one wall, cosy and private, the perfect spot for a quiet rendezvous. As they settled into a booth with their drinks, Johnny almost felt safe. But he knew he could not drop his guard for one moment – especially when it came to Mona’s safety.

‘Come on, Mike,’ Johnny said very seriously. He and Mona were sitting side by side across from the drummer. ‘Start at the beginning. What’s the story?’

‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ Mike said loudly, and Mona shushed him fiercely at the same time as Johnny made keep it down gestures at him with his hands. Mike went through a pantomime of cringing at his own clumsiness, and then continued in what was practically a whisper: ‘Well, it’s like this. You know I said I was crashing over at Barry’s place for a bit? Barry seems to keep in touch with everyone from the old days – techies, studio engineers, roadies …’

‘And Rory?’ Johnny asked.

‘Exactly. Rory swung by Barry’s place for some reason – I think it was to cadge money – and that’s how me and Rory reconnected.’

‘When was this?’

Mike puffed out his cheeks and tried to calculate the date, then said vaguely: ‘A while ago. Three weeks? Four weeks?’ And he shrugged.

‘So a few weeks before me and him got sent to Saint-Tropez by Pete,’ Johnny said. ‘Did he mention Pete at all?’

Mike nodded. ‘He doesn’t like Pete.’

‘Who does?’

‘No, I mean he really doesn’t like Pete,’ Mike explained. ‘He’s dead pissed that Pete’s got his dad’s old tapes.’

‘Rory’s dad?’ Mona put in. ‘You mean, Nick Bloom?’

‘Yeah. Rory reckons that Pete’s got some old recordings his dad made, demos for songs or something, and that they were stashed over in the Spanish villa.’

‘French,’ Johnny corrected him. ‘Saint-Tropez’s in France.’

Mike looked genuinely shocked: ‘Christ, I thought we were in Spain. I mean, it was hot and everything.’

‘Mike, please, stop being an idiot,’ Johnny said tetchily. ‘Don told me that Rory had nicked some tapes from the villa, but he didn’t say what was on them. Seems like they were Rory’s dad’s demo tapes. I don’t know why Pete had them, but evidently Rory decided he wanted them for himself.’

Mona appeared to be thinking. ‘Pete’s villa has been the backdrop for some legendary rock-and-roll stories over the years. All the greats have been in its studio. Bowie, Jagger, The Who. There must be a treasure trove of material down there.’

‘Probably,’ shrugged Mike. ‘Anyway, now you know as much as I know.’

‘And that’s all you know?!’ Johnny snapped.

‘I said I didn’t know much, Johnny.’

‘But you must know more than that,’ Mona put in. ‘Who’s that big fella in the suit? What’s he got to do with any of this?’

‘Wait a second …’ Johnny muttered, thinking hard. ‘We think he’s Japanese, don’t we? Of course! When we were at Heathrow, I saw on the news that a Japanese music promoter had jumped out of a window.’

‘Hashido,’ Mona said. ‘Aki Hashido. And before you ask how I know, can I remind you boys that I’m a music journalist?’

‘Do you think Hashido’s something to do with the Fridge guy?’ Johnny asked. ‘Come on, Mike, I bet you know something!’

‘I know one thing about Hashido,’ Mike said in a dark voice, like he was imparting dangerous knowledge. He glanced about, then leant forward and whispered: ‘He was tangled up with the Yamaha.’

‘The Yamaha?’ Johnny asked, confused. ‘You mean, the keyboards people?’

Mona rolled her eyes and said: ‘He means the Yakuza. They’re international gangsters out of Japan. Our magazine ran a story on them a little while back. They do have connections to the music industry in London. So … I suppose that big guy who’s hanging around all over the place is part of the Japanese mafia! God, that’s really scary.’

‘It is,’ Johnny agreed, rubbing the painful strangle-marks on his neck.

‘Yeah, man,’ Mike agreed, rubbing the painful strangle-marks on his neck.

‘Mike, how do you know Hashido was involved with organised crime?’ Johnny asked.

‘Rory told me,’ Mike said.

‘Rory?! Why was Rory talking about Hashido?’

Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and looked like he was regretting saying as much as he had. He took another swig of his beer, sighed heavily, and said: ‘Rory wanted to cut a deal with Hashido. And before you ask, I don’t know what kind of a deal – I swear to you, I don’t. All I know is that he’d managed to make contact with Hashido and was hoping to cook something or other up with him.’

‘It’s got to be something to do with his father’s demo tapes that he stole from Pete’s villa,’ Mona said. ‘Maybe Rory wanted to sell the tapes to Hashido.’

‘And would that be such a big deal?’ Johnny asked. ‘Nick Bloom’s career never took off. He committed suicide when he was still a relatively young man, another rock-and-roll casualty. How valuable would his old demo tapes be to anyone? It’s only old timers that even remember Rory’s dad these days.’

‘And why would this deal with the tapes involve the Yakuza, even if Hashido was connected to them?’ Mona asked. ‘And why would the Yakuza send one of their heavies after Mike … and after me and Johnny?! I mean, what have we got to do with any of this?’

‘The connection’s obvious,’ Johnny said. ‘I was with Rory in the villa when he stole the tapes. And Mike was there immediately afterwards. That could look like we were in on it. If the Yakuza wanted to get to Rory but couldn’t find him, then they could try going through me or Mike.’

‘But why would the Yakuza want to get to Rory?’ Mona asked.

Johnny turned to Mike, fixed him with a firm look, and said: ‘Anything to say about that, Mikey?’

‘Scout’s honour, I don’t know anything!’ Mike insisted. ‘I’m a fucking drummer, not Goldfinger!’

‘But maybe Rory told you something.’

‘Maybe he did, but if so, I don’t remember! Straight up, guys – if I knew, I’d say. I don’t want to be a part of any of this bollocks and get strangled again! I just want to get back to flogging my abstract expressionist paintings to Boy George.’

‘Do you think the Yakuza killed Hashido?’ Mona asked. ‘I mean, how many music promoters just accidentally fall out of windows like that?’

Johnny was trying to think things through. Slowly and carefully, he said: ‘Even if the Yakuza did kill Hashido, what would be the point? Would they really commit a murder just over some old demos from a long-forgotten singer-songwriter? This isn’t adding up. There’s something right in the middle of all of this that we’re not seeing – something important.’

‘Yes,’ Mona nodded, ‘and the person who knows is Rory.’

‘Which brings us back to the Vauxhall Velvet,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m more convinced now than ever that we were on the right track, looking for Rory there. That drag queen who spiked me was definitely protecting him – and that would make sense, given how dangerous everything’s getting.’

‘What drag queen?’ Mike asked blankly. ‘And when did you get spiked, Johnny?’

Johnny had forgotten that Mike didn’t know anything about the business at the Velvet. And perhaps it was best if it stayed that way. Johnny didn’t trust Mike. Even if he was honest some of the time, he was pretty stupid all of the time, and couldn’t be trusted with secrets. It was best he stayed in the dark.

‘Mike, you’ve been really helpful,’ Johnny told him. ‘Now carry on being helpful by going back to Graceland and sorting out my room. The place is wrecked.’

‘Hey!’ Mike protested. ‘I trash hotel rooms, I don’t clean them up.’

‘It’s not a hotel room. It’s my room, it’s where I live. And it’s where you live for the time being, so if you want to carry on living there, get your arse back over to Graceland and get the place sorted. Go on – either clean up or clear out.’

Mike was going to protest, but gave up. He knew it was checkmate. So, he downed his drink and skulked out.

‘You rather impressed me just then,’ Mona said to Johnny. ‘You’re probably the only person in the world apart from his mother who could’ve got that man to tidy his room.’

‘I don’t care what he does as long as he stays out of the way and out of trouble,’ Johnny replied. ‘Right, it looks like I need to get back to the Velvet. Either Rory’s still there, or I can pick up his trail from there. Whatever the deal is, this time I’m not leaving that place without some solid information. If things are going to start getting rough around here, I want to know exactly what the hell’s going on.’

‘Are you sure I can’t come with you to the Velvet?’ Mona asked.

Johnny shook his head: ‘I think it’s best I go alone. If we turn up like a delegation, we’ll get nowhere. And anyway, I’ve got a hunch that I might end up having to sneak in through a window or something.’

‘I’m not sure that you’re cut out for reconnaissance, Johnny. Just make sure you look after yourself. I want you back here all in one piece – and no more bruises.’

‘That sounds like a deal I can live with.’ Johnny smiled at her, and suddenly he sensed that Mona was about to lean in and kiss him again. Alone together in the cosy little booth felt like the right place, far more so than the middle of the dining area in Graceland. But he pulled back and got to his feet. He felt deeply conflicted about starting a full-blown relationship with Mona.

You are not relationship material. You’d make her unhappy, just like Laura.

Put it to one side and worry about it later, he told himself. It was how he had managed to avoid facing up to his responsibilities all his life. It’s why he trailed so much emotional wreckage behind him.

‘I’ll ring you as soon as I can, Mona,’ Johnny assured her. ‘And if you sense so much as a hint of trouble while I’m away, call the law. Don’t hesitate.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Mona said, and she touched his arm. ‘Be careful, Johnny.’

And suddenly she pulled him close and kissed him – just very briefly.

‘For luck,’ she said.

15

Who Do You Think You Are?

Johnny had managed to take the crowded tube without being spotted, by keeping his head buried in a copy of Metro, and now emerged from Vauxhall station and crossed the busy junction just outside. The Vauxhall Velvet, with its huge double-V banner outside, looked a little withered and tatty in the late evening almost as if it was still hung over from the party the other night. Johnny pulled his collar up and nipped between a line of cars that were stuck at a red light. The last time he was here it had been like a Hollywood premiere, with stars queuing up to get into Grauman’s Chinese theatre on the famous LA Boulevard, but now it felt like any other South London boozer, all the glam and glitter dampened under the heavy cloud.

‘Johnny?’ a stranger’s voice called out from behind him. ‘You are Johnny Klein, yeah? Oh mate, can I get a photo?’

Johnny moved on to the other side of the road, pretending he hadn’t heard.

‘Just a photo, Johnny!’ the guy called out after him. ‘Just a selfie!’

Johnny headed over to the Velvet, intent on ignoring the voice’s entreaties, and then paused as the realisation struck him that he didn’t have anything resembling a plan. He’d vaguely hoped some bright idea would’ve popped into his head while he was on the tube – but no, nothing.

Okay, he said to himself, let’s take this in stages. Stage one is get inside. I’ll worry about stage two when I’m in.

Johnny pulled on the brass handle to the Velvet’s heavy swing door, but it was locked. He moved over to one of the windows, cupped his face with his hands to peer through the glass, making out the expanse of the main bar area. It was dark and deserted. Trying to look as innocent as possible, Johnny sauntered casually around the side of the venue. A narrow alley led to the rear, but it was barred by a gate. Johnny grabbed the top of the gate and tried to haul himself over. Instantly, his body reminded him he wasn’t in his twenties anymore. He huffed and puffed and struggled and kicked, but all he managed to do was end up falling back on his arse with his stomach muscles feeling wrenched. He recalled the days when he would perform a scissor kick onstage that prompted a roar from the adoring crowd. Those days were well and truly gone.

And gone too were the days when he could afford to let five grand go. If he didn’t bring back solid information about Rory, Pete wouldn’t pay him and the Fridge-man might be back to finish the job he’d started. The only way he was going to get that information was from the Velvet. One way or another, he had to get inside that place. But how?

As he dragged himself to his feet and brushed himself down, he heard the same voice that had called out to him before.

‘Johnny! Johnny, mate!’

The voice belonged to a portly middle-aged bloke dressed in a Captain America T-shirt and sporting a peaked cap emblazoned with the ZZ Top logo. He stomped straight towards Johnny, grinning through his beard, and smothered him in a bear-hug.

‘Johnny, my main maaaan! Oh, wow, it’s like, SO amazing to meet you. You’re the best, man. You. Are. The. Best! Johnny, just one selfie, please! Please!’

Johnny struggled out of the messy bear-hug. He was about to tell this bloke to sling his hook – and then a thought struck him.

‘What’s your name?’ Johnny asked.

‘Dougie.’

‘Right, Dougie, I’ll give you a selfie with me if you give me something in return. Listen, um, this is totally hush-hush and between you and me, but, I, um, I’m seeing this cracking bird who lives upstairs in the Velvet.’

‘Nice one, Johnny!’ Dougie beamed, absolutely loving it.

‘Thing is, last night she caught me in the sack with her sister. I’ve come round to make it up with her. She’s locked me out. Won’t even speak to me through the letterbox.’

‘Bloody women, eh? You want me to have a word with her?’

‘Damn kind offer, Dougie,’ Johnny said, clapping his hand on Dougie’s shoulder and really buttering him up. ‘But I think I need to speak to her myself, face to face. Since she won’t open the front door for me, I’m trying to go round the back. I can get in that way because … I’ve … got a special back-door key. But I need to get over this fucking gate. You couldn’t give us a leg up, Dougie mate, could you?’

‘You bet I could!’ Dougie cried out enthusiastically. ‘But a selfie first, yeah?’

Johnny obliged, faking a broad smile as he pressed the side of his face against Dougie’s wiry beard. It did the trick – Dougie was on cloud nine, prepared to do anything for his idol, even if it was just to jockey-lift him over a gate.

‘On three, yeah?’ Johnny said as he set his booted foot into the stirrup of Dougie’s hands. ‘One, two, thr—’

And before he even got the word out, Dougie practically launched him over the gate. Johnny landed awkwardly on the other side, his fall partially cushioned by the nest of plastic wheelie bins that he crashed down on.

‘Splashdown successful?’ Dougie called from the other side of the gate.

‘Perfect,’ Johnny grunted, feeling battered. ‘Cheers, Dougie. You’d better get out of here before the paps turn up. I don’t want this place turning into a circus. I wanna keep it all low key, you know?’

‘Gotcha, Johnny!’ Dougie stage-whispered over the gate. ‘Good luck with the bird. God, I can’t believe it, I got a genuine selfie with Johnny Marr! Fucking a-maze-ing!’

Johnny froze for a moment, his self-esteem feeling a metaphorical slap while he listened to the retreating stomp of Dougie’s feet. Gritting his teeth, he told himself to let it go, just let it go. For once, his ego wasn’t what mattered. What was far more important was to get inside the Velvet and find out something, anything, about Rory.

Finding a narrow frosted window very low to the ground at the rear of the Velvet, Johnny was pleased to see it was ajar, and got down on his stomach to peer through the gap, seeing some toilets on the other side. With effort, he forced the window wider and squeezed himself through. When he landed on the hard floor, the clatter of his Cuban heels sounded like gunshots in the still silence of the Velvet. He froze, grimacing at how his stealthy break-in had so noisily announced itself to whoever was home. But the stillness returned. There were no footsteps or alarmed voices. Just silence.

Okay, stage one completed, Johnny thought.

Whatever information about Rory might be available in here, he would just have to go hunting for it. He crept over to the door, inched it open, and peered out into the corridor outside. It was deserted.

As silently as he could, Johnny sneaked into the corridor and followed it into the main bar area. The place felt sad and depleted. It smelled of stale beer and the carpet was sticky underfoot. There was nothing of interest by the bar, but then a blinking red light overhead caught his attention. Johnny glanced up and saw a CCTV camera aimed at him. Looking around, he saw other cameras strategically placed around the walls, each one blinking away with a light of its own. Resigned to the realisation that he was being recorded, Johnny waved sarcastically at the camera.

And then the thought struck him: The whole place must have been recorded the night me and Mona were here. Aurora, the drag queen who spiked me, would be on that recording too. If I can get hold of the CCTV footage, I can get an image of Aurora. She’s the one protecting Rory, so if I can identify her – or him – I’ve at least got a lead.

The CCTV cameras all presumably fed into a computer of some sort. He needed to find the room where that computer was kept and … and then what? He knew fuck all about computers, and the days were long gone when the footage would be recorded on a VHS tape he could shove under his jacket. He might have to resort to stealing the entire hard-drive or whatever, and then find some nerd who could access the security videos contained within. Mona would almost certainly know somebody who could help.

Okay, so where would the CCTV computer be kept? Johnny scouted about, checking out every door he could find. They were all marked with various signs: Cubicles, Urinals, Cleaning cupboard, Private.

‘Private,’ Johnny muttered, stopping in front of it. That felt promising. He tried the handle, but naturally it was locked. He tested the strength of the door and felt it give ever so slightly as he pressed his shoulder against it. It would probably yield to a really good kick. Of course, the racket of doing so would tell anyone upstairs exactly where he was, and it might even set burglar alarms howling. But if this was indeed the right room, and he got in and out quick enough, he might just make it. And nobody would know it was him because he’d have all the CCTV footage with him.

Johnny decided he had no choice but to go for it. He didn’t know what else to do. He braced himself for a strong, well-aimed kick, right where the latch slotted into the door jamb.

He took a deep breath, preparing himself.

‘Don’t move, or I shoot.’

Johnny froze. The voice came from the end of the corridor away to Johnny’s left, just out of his field of vision.

‘Hands up, sailor boy.’

Johnny complied, and without turning, he said: ‘Aurora?’

‘I’m Belle de Jour, sweetheart,’ the voice corrected him. ‘Aurora’s still in her boudoir upstairs. No, don’t peek, or I really will pull the trigger and put a big sloppy hole right between your mince pies.’

‘I’m not moving a muscle,’ Johnny assured her, keeping his hands up and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

‘You’re a dolly dish, Johnny Klein. Glad to see you’ve got a few brain cells ’n’ all,’ Belle de Jour said lightly, almost seductively. ‘Glad to see you’re still in the land of the living after your little experience last time you were here. You turned the most frightful shade of magnolia.’ The voice trilled a light laugh.

‘I guess I can blame Aurora for that.’

‘Bingo.’ And now Johnny could hear the soft tread of Belle’s feet as she crept slowly towards him along the corridor. ‘I’m guessing you’ve figured out her motive for popping pixie dust in your Babycham.’

‘You’re guessing right.’

‘I tend to, you know. And now you’ve come back to confirm your suspicions – unless you simply couldn’t resist the allure of vandalising the door to the staff cloakroom.’

‘Oh, bollocks,’ Johnny sighed. ‘I thought the CCTV footage would be inside.’

‘CCTV footage?’ Belle laughed. ‘Oh my poor innocent petal, you don’t think those little blinky-blinky camera-thingies actually work, do you? They’ve been there since Danny La Rue smoked his last cigarette! Next thing you’ll tell me, you’re naïve enough to really believe I’m pointing a gun at you.’

Johnny dropped his hands and turned to face Belle de Jour. He was expecting to be confronted by some sort of Carmen Miranda figure, all decked up to the nines. What he saw was a masculine, balding figure, barefoot, dressed in nothing but a decorated silk kimono, holding a teacup in her right hand and the saucer in her left.

Johnny felt like a prat – but at the same time, he couldn’t help but laugh at being the butt of the joke.

‘Excuse my unconscionable déshabillé,’ Belle smiled as she sidled up to him. ‘I normally greet visitors in a full sequin number with feathers. I own the place, ducky, so I need to keep up appearances for the punters. But alas, you’ve somewhat taken me by surprise by your unexpected intrusion, and I had nothing to throw on but this old thing.’ Belle sipped her tea and looked at Johnny over its brim. ‘So, Johnny, am I to take it that you’re the bad penny that’s never going to stop turning up here?’

‘I need to find Rory. And I think he’s either here, or somebody here knows where he is. So yes, I don’t have much choice but to keep turning up until I get answers.’

‘Well, Aurora did her best to throw you off,’ Belle sighed. ‘But sometimes a girl’s best just isn’t good enough. But now I’m confronting a beastly intruder and am in fear for my life,’ Belle said, taking another delicate sip of tea. ‘I really ought to call the boys in blue to protect me.’

‘You don’t want the law round here.’

‘No, I suppose I don’t,’ Belle said rather sadly. ‘They’re always such a downer. Always make trouble. Pity, because they’re absolute dishes in their cute little uniforms. I suppose I’m at your mercy, then. Whatever will you do to me?’

‘I just want to speak to Aurora,’ Johnny said. ‘Ask her a few questions. Afterwards you’ll never see me again, I swear it. But until then, I can’t go anywhere, I just can’t.’

‘Wow, so dramatic! Maybe I should get you on the stage … Well, since it looks like you’re going to keep buzzing about this place like a mosquito until you get what you want …’ She elegantly drained the last of her tea, turned, and began snaking back along the corridor. Over her shoulder Belle called out: ‘Keep up, darling, I won’t bite!’

Johnny followed Belle de Jour up a flight of steps, along a landing, and then through a door that seemed to be tucked away, almost hidden.

‘Aurora’s through there?’ Johnny asked.

Belle slowly nodded once, looking at him very intently.

‘Thanks,’ Johnny said. ‘I really appreciate this.’

But as he reached for the door handle, Belle stopped him, resting their own, manicured hand upon his.

‘Doesn’t a gentleman always knock before entering a lady’s chamber?’ Belle scolded him with a smile.

Obediently, Johnny tapped gently on the door.

‘That’s a good boy,’ Belle winked at him, and she turned the door handle and let the door swing slowly open.

Johnny looked into the room. Aurora was standing with her back to Johnny. She was silhouetted against a window, dressed in a blue nightie, her big blonde wig capturing the light.

Johnny hesitated in the doorway, then said: ‘Hello, Aurora.’

Aurora didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, she raised her right hand and laid it on the top of her head – and without warning, pulled her own hair. It came off in one piece, a luxuriant wig.

‘You’d better come in, Johnny,’ Aurora said.

Johnny’s jaw dropped. He knew that voice. And he knew those faded remnants of blond hair that were now revealed beneath the glorious wig.

‘Jesus …’ he whispered. ‘Rory … !’

‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Belle de Jour said, ushering Johnny inside and closing the door behind him.

16

Faces

Rory, or Aurora, turned around to face Johnny, dressed in a diaphanous blue nightie, and also shed of the luxuriant blonde wig too.

‘Surprised?’ Rory asked.

‘Um … very,’ Johnny managed to reply at last. He was genuinely lost for words.

‘This isn’t the first time you’ve been surprised in this way,’ Rory said.

‘I don’t understand. I had no idea you were, um …’

‘Oh yes you did. You knew Aurora was me, Johnny. You recognised me at once, last night you came to the Velvet. Well, not quite at once, but very quickly. That’s why you came over. That’s why we were talking.’

‘I … I don’t remember a thing about last night. Not a damn thing.’

‘No, you won’t. I made sure of that. I’m sorry I had to do that to you, Johnny, but when I saw you in the Velvet, I knew you were looking for me.’

‘How did you know?’

‘It was obvious,’ Rory said. ‘Pete wants those tapes back, and he knew I took them from his villa. As soon as I clocked you in the Velvet, I knew he must have tasked you with tracking me down.’

‘I’m sorry, Rory, but I need the money.’

Rory raised a hand in a gesture that said, It’s okay, I understand. He smiled, a little sadly, and moved away from the window. The light passed through the shimmering fabric of the nightie, revealing the plain silk camisole he was wearing underneath. He headed over to a wardrobe, opened it, and removed a small rucksack.

‘I think I know what’s in there,’ Johnny said. ‘Tapes. Your dad’s demo tapes. The ones you stole from Pete’s villa.’

‘I didn’t steal them,’ Rory corrected him. ‘Pete did. He stole the music on them from my dad. All I did was take them back.’

He opened the rucksack, reached in, and pulled out a spool of half-inch magnetic tape. He held it up for Johnny to see.

‘And that’s what all this is about,’ Johnny muttered, shaking his head incredulously. ‘You know that Pete’s anxious to get hold of those tapes again. Desperate I’d say.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Rory said softly, replacing the spool in the rucksack. ‘Desperate enough to hire you, though I didn’t realise you were moonlighting as 007 these days.’

‘I’m better with a guitar, but I told you, my balls are to the wall, I had no choice but to take the job.’

‘That’s okay, Johnny. We’re all in the soup when it comes to money, and I’m sure Daniel Craig is sleeping easy,’ Rory said, sitting himself in a chair on one side of the room and indicating for Johnny to make himself comfortable on the other. ‘I don’t blame you for taking a few quid to find me.’

‘And now I’ve found you, I’m not sure who “you” are! Are you Rory, or Aurora?’

‘Why do suppose I’m only one and not the other?’ Rory replied, folding his legs decorously. ‘Whenever I’m being Rory, Aurora isn’t far away. And when I’m being Aurora … well, there’s always a bit of Rory there … for now, anyway.’

‘Kinda makes sense now that we used to call you Diana Dors back in the day.’

‘Ah yes, back when I didn’t have to fake having a beautiful blond barnet!’ Rory laughed, casting a glance over at the wig he had tossed onto the bed. ‘It’s taken me a long time to be honest about who I really am, and now I’m happy.’

‘It takes guts to know who you are. And to share that with others,’ Johnny said admiringly. ‘But look, Rory, this isn’t what I came here to talk about.’

‘I know, I know,’ Rory said. ‘You’re more interested in why Pete’s so desperate to get these tapes back.’

‘Yes, and I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’

‘And if I do tell you, what then? Will you go back to Pete and sell me out?’

Johnny sighed and rubbed his temples. He didn’t know what to tell Pete. He felt torn. On the one hand, the fact that he knew exactly where Rory was hiding out was likely to get him the rest of the five grand – but on the other, that five grand was starting to feel more like thirty pieces of silver.

‘Well?’ Rory pressed him. ‘What’s your next move after you leave here?’

‘Christ, I don’t know anymore,’ Johnny admitted wearily. ‘I feel I’m in over my head in all this business. Look at these bruises on my neck. Some Yakuza mafia did that, God knows why – but I’m guessing it’s because of you. So I feel you owe me at least an explanation for why the Japanese heavies tried to strangle me.’

‘I’m sorry you got hurt, Johnny, it’s not at all what I would have wanted. And it’s only partly because of me that the Yakuza are involved.’

‘There was a music promoter called Hashido.’ Johnny tried to find the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in his head. ‘He took a dive from his office window. Now, I’ve heard that he was tangled up with the Yakuza … so I’m guessing he was also tangled up with you and your dad’s demo tapes. So come on, tell me.’

Rory took a breath, sighed, and then said: ‘Back in the seventies, my dad was trying to make it as a singer-songwriter. He was good, Johnny. He was very, very good. But he lacked confidence, especially onstage. In front of an audience, he struggled. He was also a very sensitive man and a highly strung creative type. Too sensitive for the jungle of the music industry. But he tried his best. That’s why he got involved with Pete, he joined his band for a while on keyboards. Pete had confidence. Still does. Pete’s a front man. So my dad felt he could hide behind Pete, at least when they were performing. Offstage, behind the scenes, it was the other way around. My dad was the creative powerhouse, coming up with songs. My dad was happy with that arrangement. It gave him the opportunity to write music the way he wanted to, but to have somebody else be the face and the voice of that music, but he expected recognition, Johnny …’

He broke off for a moment, swallowing down his emotions.

‘Pete took advantage of my dad,’ Rory went on at last. ‘He persuaded him to hand over some demos that my dad had recorded at home on his old reel-to-reel.’

‘The tapes you’ve got in that rucksack,’ Johnny said.

Rory nodded: ‘My dad trusted Pete, so he handed them over. Pete told him he was going to play them to a big producer, that they were going to get them recorded for an album. Well, Pete was at least partly telling the truth. He did play the tapes to a big producer, and he did go into the studio to record them – but just not with my dad. My dad had a fragile mental state, took too many drugs. Pete sacked my dad, then claimed sole credit for my dad’s songs and cut him out of the whole process.’

‘The bastard. What songs were they?’ Johnny asked. ‘Would I know them?’

‘You’ll definitely know at least one of them,’ Rory said. ‘“Night After Day”.’

Johnny’s jaw dropped: ‘“Night After Day”?! That’s the single that put Pete James on the map! It launched his whole career!’

‘It did,’ Rory said quietly. ‘And “Shadow Dogs” did pretty well for him too. And “One False Move”. And “River of Dreams”.’

‘Wait, wait – are you telling me Pete didn’t really write any of these classic songs, but your dad did?!’

‘The proof is all on those demo tapes,’ Rory said. ‘My dad wrote all those songs, and recorded them with just him and a guitar in our little flat in Hendon. You can even hear me as a kid in the background. He handed them all over to Pete – and Pete stole them, every last one.’

‘And became a multi-millionaire.’

‘Yes, he did, while my dad watched from that little fucking flat. Can you imagine what that did to him? Johnny, he was such a talented musician, but he wasn’t a strong man, not up here.’ Rory tapped the side of his skull with his finger. ‘It broke him. To see all his best work taken away, stolen, to get nothing for himself or his own family. He started drinking even more heavily. He popped pills and God knows what else. I remember one night – and it was awful, Johnny – he smashed his guitar against the wall. I was just a kid. I was frightened, and he saw that and he … he just broke down and started crying and … and … I don’t want to think about it, Johnny, it’s too painful. Dad felt so guilty that we all could have had a nice life, if he hadn’t been so naïve and given everything away to Pete James. It destroyed him. One night he just washed down every pill he had with every last drop of booze … and that was that.’

‘Until now,’ Johnny said in a low voice.

‘Exactly,’ Rory said, fixing him with a cold, hard glare. ‘My dad’s story is not over, Johnny. I’ve got the demos that Pete had kept hidden all these years. I’ve got the proof that that bastard’s a thief and a fraud. Those demo tapes are a weapon that can bring Pete James down. Those tapes prove that his whole career was built not just on a lie, but on my dad’s dead body.’

‘Jesus,’ Johnny said, not at all sure how to process all of this. ‘I’ve always known he could be a cynical shit – but I didn’t know he was that bad.’

‘I’m going to crucify the bastard,’ Rory said in a low, emotionless voice.

‘And he knows it, too. That’s why he’s desperate enough to pay me five grand to find you.’

‘Five grand – is that all? I’m worth far more to him than that, Johnny.’

‘He’s tighter than a rat’s arse, Rory, we both know that. But tell me, what’s this guy Hashido got to do with all of this?’

Rory swallowed hard, ran a hand anxiously over his forehead, then said: ‘I met with him. In his office. I went to see him to give him copies of the tapes. It was through him that I was going to get to Pete. Hashido was the one who could go public with the truth about my dad and what Pete did to him. He was also the one who was going to help me reclaim the ton of royalties due to me as my dad’s only heir. And then I was going to live my dream.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Don’t you remember? I told you about it when we were by the pool in Saint-Tropez.’

‘I remember you saying something, Rory, but I was very, very drunk.’

‘Ibiza, Johnny,’ Rory said with great seriousness. ‘A house on the beach in Ibiza. With a boat and a jetty. Me and Belle, just wasting the rest of our days in paradise. We deserve it. Life’s not been easy for either of us.’

‘Life’s not easy for most people,’ Johnny said sourly. ‘Anyway, you were telling me about Hashido. You went to see him with copies of the demo tapes, and then he fell out of his window.’

‘That wasn’t me, Johnny, I swear it!’ Rory insisted. ‘Why would I kill him? What the hell for?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s more to this story than you’re telling me.’

‘If there is more to this story, it’s got nothing to do with me! I asked Hashido if he’d buy them off me, he said he was sorry for my predicament but he didn’t want to get involved.’

‘So what then?’ said Johnny. ‘You got angry and had a fight with him, he takes a tumble and ends up a smashed tomato on a Mayfair pavement?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Everyone knows you’re a hard case with a bit of a temper when it suits you, Rory. That’s why you’re one of the best roadies.’

‘Johnny, for God’s sake, I don’t know who killed Hashido, but it wasn’t me. Maybe it was one of those gangster types he’s involved with.’

‘And why would they kill him?’

‘I have no idea.’

Johnny thought for a moment, then said: ‘How does Mike fit into this story, anyway? I’ve got a sneaking feeling he’s involved in all of this, but I don’t see how. Is he involved with you?’

But before Rory could answer, there came a tremendous crash from downstairs, followed at once by the sound of shattering glass.

Johnny and Rory jumped immediately to their feet, and in unison asked the other: ‘What the fuck was that?!’

The sound of shouting could be heard down in the main bar. Belle de Jour’s voice screamed something, and at once other voices screamed back, just as incoherently.

Johnny ran to the door and flung it open, but at once Rory pushed past him and tore off along the landing, frantically crying out: ‘Belle! Belle!’

Instinctively, Johnny followed, pounding along the landing and down the stairs, Rory’s blue negligee flashing ahead of him. At the foot of the stairs Johnny stumbled and sprawled heavily onto the floor. As he tried to gather himself enough to get up again, he shot a glance along the hallway that led into the bar. He could see Fridge-guy gripping Belle by their slender wrists and forcing them backwards. Belle was kicking and screaming, but was powerless to break free.

Shit, the bastard followed me here! Johnny realised. I led the Yakuza straight to them!

Johnny struggled to his feet at the foot of the stairs, the sound of shouting and breaking furniture filling his ears. His knee was killing him, but he limped on, dragging himself towards the fight in the bar.

Rory sprinted straight into the bar, and the ferocious punch he landed in the Fridge’s face had nothing ladylike about it. It was a punch that said: Get your fucking hands off my girl! The fridge’s head rocked backwards like it had been hit with a bullet, blood spraying from the broken stub of his nose.

Rory and Belle both rushed towards Johnny, frantic and terrified. Behind them, the Fridge loomed up ferociously, spitting out a thick gobbet of blood – but then four of his cronies appeared, two on either side of him, all as big and as angry-looking as the Fridge himself.

Rory and Belle dashed straight into Johnny and dragged him with them.

‘Run! Run!’ they cried, and Johnny didn’t argue. They were heavily outnumbered. They didn’t stand a chance.

Together, the three of them belted back along the hallway and up the stairs. The tramp of heavy feet pursued them close behind. They reached the first-floor landing, and Johnny saw Belle darting through a doorway, while Rory went tearing off in another direction. Which way was Johnny to go? He didn’t know the layout of the place. He was running blind.

He risked a backward glance and saw a wall of Hugo Boss suits (one of them spattered with blood) pounding up the staircase towards him. Johnny stumbled backwards, meaning to run, but his knee – his fucking knee – gave out. The pain was excruciating. He fell on his arse. The charging herd of Yakuza heavies thundered towards him.

And then suddenly, they stopped. Panting and glaring, they filled the top of the staircase, but they no longer advanced.

Johnny dragged himself backwards along the landing, grimacing at the pain in his knee, unable to understand why the hell they’d stopped. Then he saw the Fridge, his face all smeared with red, holding out one of his huge hands. The Yakuza on his right placed a bottle in it, a bottle with a length of cloth hanging from the neck. The Fridge held out his other hand, and another Yakuza placed a big Zippo lighter in it. The Fridge clicked the metal cap on the Zippo and struck the flint. A flame sprang up. At once, all the other Yakuzas began to retreat back down the staircase. Johnny realised in a flash that those bastards knew that their job was all but done, that they had trapped the occupants of the Velvet upstairs, and all that remained was to torch the place, incinerate it, and the occupants along with it.

Through bloodied lips, the Fridge smiled, and slowly brought the flickering Zippo towards the rag in the Molotov cocktail bottle.

With a sudden bang, a door flew open, and Belle de Jour burst out onto the landing. They were carrying a bread knife. Belle brandished it, back and forth – swish, swish – as they advanced on the Fridge.

‘Don’t you fucking dare, you fucking bitch,’ Belle hissed as they approached. ‘Don’t you fucking dare light that thing!’

Belle kept on advancing, sweeping and jabbing with the knife. The rest of the Yakuza were at the foot of the staircase, laughing now, and blowing mocking kisses from the palms of their hands. The Fridge himself didn’t move or say a word, just kept on smiling as the blood oozed from his smashed nose, and touched the flame to the rag.

Belle screamed – not from fear, but from rage. They hurled themself forward recklessly, slashing with the bread knife, but at the same moment the Fridge hurled the flaming Molotov straight at them – hard, very hard. It smashed against Belle’s head and exploded. They went down, still flailing with the knife, as fire shot up all around them, consuming their body. Johnny caught a glimpse of the Fridge’s face, smiling at him through the flames as Belle crumpled in a burning heap and tumbled away down the staircase.

Johnny managed to get to his feet and found himself back in Rory’s room. The landing was ablaze. Thick smoke was now filling the Velvet.

‘Where’s Belle?’ Rory spluttered. ‘Johnny, where is she?’

No time for this! Johnny grabbed a bedside table and hurled it through the window.

‘Don’t think, Rory, just do it!’ he yelled, and hurled himself through the shattered glass. As he fell, his eyes screwed up tight, and he braced himself for the impact. And when it came, it all but knocked the fillings out of his teeth. He experienced a flash of light, and then pain, loads of pain, and he rolled groaning and spluttering, his mind reeling. Something landed on him from above. For a confused moment, he thought it was Rory. But as he forced his eyes open, he saw not a figure in a blue nightie but a rucksack.

With an effort, he turned his head to look back up at the first-floor window, but he could see nothing there now except the jagged fangs of the broken glass, with thick smoke billowing through them. It was like the mouth of hell – and Rory was still inside there, burning and dying, alongside his fearless Belle de Jour.

Johnny’s hand fell upon the rucksack, and he felt the spools of tape inside it. And then, in the next moment, the last dregs of his consciousness fizzled away, and he sank into total oblivion.

17

Sins of the Father

Laura was sleeping deeply in bed. The television was playing some old black-and-white movie. Her fingers and toes twitched intermittently as yet another bad dream raged in her mind. A voice seeped through the nightmares, dragging her out of her slumber.

‘Laura … Laura!’

Laura lifted her head to see her mother, Susanna, standing in the doorway in her dressing gown, her hair scraped back from her face by a headband. Without her blow-dry and her carefully layered make-up, her mother looked every minute of her seventy-five years. Hardly surprising, given that her daughter and granddaughter had come back to live under her roof when she should have been enjoying her retirement.

Laura propped herself up on her elbows. Susanna was holding a small black puffer jacket in her hand. Laura sat up straighter, staring at her mum.

Susanna spoke in an urgent whisper: ‘Laura, it’s Chelsea, she’s just gone out again. It’s gone midnight.’

Laura threw the duvet back. Already dressed in a navy tracksuit, she jumped out of bed and ran over to the window. She could just see her daughter under the glow of an amber streetlamp as she walked away from the house. Laura quickly slid on her trainers that were already lined up under the bed, and Susanna held her coat out so she could slip her arms in.

‘Laura, please, don’t let her see you. I don’t want her to know I’ve been checking up on her as well.’

Susanna held out a baseball cap which Laura took and pulled down over her head.

‘I won’t, Mum. But I just need to know. I’m her mother.’

Laura gave her mum a quick kiss on the cheek and made her way down the stairs and out of the front door.

It was a cold, clear night, the type you’d rather spend indoors looking out at, and the frost was already forming on some of the front lawns. But Laura didn’t notice as she walked purposefully. She had one thing on her mind: Chelsea. Laura had spoken to Chelsea several times, trying to find out where she had been going at night, but the eggshells she was walking on were starting to dig deep into her skin as her daughter brushed her off with anger, disdain and sometimes downright aggression. Laura saw Chelsea disappear around the corner of the street. As she did so, Laura broke into a half-run so as not to lose her. Her heart started to pound, her breath heavy and forming little clouds in front of her. She pulled her collar up and her chin down as Chelsea came back into view. Laura watched her cut through the centre of a block of flats, passing the giant grey metal bins, and into a small alley. Laura kept her distance. Like all Londoners, high and low lived cheek-by-jowl. They might be in Highgate, but these flats had always had a reputation for drugs and lowlife preying on those who were struggling. It was the place Susanna had told Chelsea to stay away from when they had first arrived at her door with just a few suitcases and a bag of Chelsea’s old soft toys.

Laura followed her daughter, step by step, in and out of the small alleyways until her route opened up onto a green field. Laura guessed where she was going next. There was an underpass on the other side of the green that led to a housing estate. Laura held back for a moment until Chelsea had started to descend the concrete steps and then made a dash for it out of the darkness. She was now only metres from Chelsea, still out of sight but close enough to hear voices. It was dimly lit with patches of amber light. Laura could feel her heart bounce hard in her chest and her mouth became dry as she looked on. Chelsea had been stopped by two young guys dressed in dark tracksuits, riding on BMX bikes. Constantly moving, they circled her menacingly as they spoke. It was difficult to hear what they were saying as the echo in the tunnel flooded their voices, but Laura knew Chelsea was in trouble. All of her body was telling her to call out to her daughter; every sinew, every nerve wanted to shout out and make sure she was okay.

Laura took out her phone from her pocket, tapping out two nines before letting her shaking digit hover over a third. Just as she was about to press that last nine on her phone, another hooded young man walked through the end of the underpass, calling out, his voice reverberating down the tunnel in a massive echo, like a mythical creature had stretched its lungs: ‘Back off, that’s enough. Leave her alone, she’s with me.’

The BMXs stopped immediately and came to a squeaking halt. Laura’s eyes were saucer-like as she looked on. The third hooded young man looked at the first two slowly and then, in an East London accent, said, ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

It wasn’t just the words he was saying. The two boys obviously recognised him; they knew who he was and not to question him. Laura watched as they rode away. Turning back to her daughter, Laura could see that Chelsea knew this man. Her body language relaxed and Laura, even from a distance, could make out a small, crooked smile on her face. Laura could hardly recognise Chelsea. She looked older, more streetwise, more independent than she had ever seen her before. Laura watched as the man reached into his pocket and passed something to Chelsea, but before she could take it, the hooded man grabbed her arm and spun her around.

Laura screamed. It was the sharp, unmistakable maternal scream of a woman scared for her child.

Both Chelsea and the hooded stranger spun around. Laura stood in silence as he released his grip on her daughter.

‘Mum,’ Chelsea breathed, angrily.

The man stepped back from Chelsea, then slowly started to move away. Laura watched almost in disbelief as Chelsea called out to the man as his self-assured walk broke into a slow run: ‘Please, please, don’t go!’ Chelsea threw a furious look to her mum. ‘Mum, go away. You don’t understand.’

Laura stood frozen to the spot as she watched Chelsea run after him down through the mouth of the tunnel and into the darkness.

‘No, no no … Chelsea, please … Please!’

Laura moved forward into the centre of the road, the strength in her legs giving way, and she felt her knees wobble beneath her. She stayed upright somehow, but her voice broke down to almost a whisper: ‘Chelsea.’

Her hands trembling, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone as she tried to mentally pull herself together, tapping on her speed dial and trying to slow her breathing as she pushed the mobile up to her ear. The phone on the other end rang several times before going to voicemail: ‘Hello, you’ve reached Johnny’s phone. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

Laura dropped the mobile back into her pocket and tried to regain control of her senses, as a long shadow slowly emerged out of the tunnel. She watched it grow inch by inch until Chelsea reappeared. Laura regained some control and started to move towards her, tears now rolling down her cheeks, until she had both arms firmly wrapped around her young daughter. Chelsea just stood rigidly, her arms by her sides as she let her mother hug her. Laura held her hand and led her to the kerb, where they both sat down.

Laura’s voice, calm and motherly, said, ‘Baby, you can talk to me. Tell me what’s going on here. Nothing will shock me, I promise. I’ve seen it all with your dad. I’ve been there, I know these characters, these drug dealers, the sick way they dragged your dad in, the way they thought I couldn’t see, as they passed their wraps into his hand like some street magician. I saw it all. Talk to me, Chelsea.’

Chelsea was quiet, hiding behind her long black hair as it fell down in front of her face.

‘Chelsea, listen to me. I’m your mother, I will love you no matter what. I can help.’

Chelsea was composed, calm, unlike Laura, who felt almost sick with the adrenaline pumping through her body as her head pounded. ‘Mum, I don’t have a drug problem, it’s not what you think.’

Laura was lost for words, confused. ‘Well, tell me what it is, then. Who is that boy, and why are you out here in the middle of the night?’

Chelsea slowly lifted her head, her thick black mascara emphasising her father’s blue eyes. ‘Mum, I can’t say.’

Laura looked at her blankly. ‘What do you mean, you can’t say? Of course you can, I’m your mum.’

‘I can’t say. Look, I’m not a little kid anymore, coming running to Mummy. I have to sort this out myself, so just leave it.’ Chelsea pulled herself to her feet and walked off towards her home. Was this the daughter Laura and Johnny had raised? Where was her laughing, funny, loving daughter, and who was this one, secretive and brittle?

Feeling spent, Laura could only follow her daughter, picking up her pace to catch Chelsea as she walked briskly towards home, not looking back to see if her mother was behind her.

Perhaps there was more of Johnny in Chelsea than Laura had realised.

18

Here we go Again

The oblivion that had engulfed Johnny slowly began to give way to sensations. His eyes were still closed, but he heard voices – very distant at first, as if coming to him from the far end of some enormous hall, but growing gradually nearer and more distinct.

‘… over to ICU, when a space is free …’

‘… should be discharged from the ward in, say, the next two or three hours …’

‘… much better than previously but still a little tachycardic …’

He became aware of movement around him, of his own body lying stretched out on a soft surface, of his knee throbbing, his back hurting, and the taste of smoke lingering in his mouth.

With effort, he opened his eyes – and at once screwed them shut again as they reacted to what felt like football stadium floodlights blazing straight into his face. Sheet lightning seemed to explode through his brain cells, sizzling across the synapses.

‘Can you hear me? Hello, sir? Can you hear me?’

It was a woman’s voice coming to him from close by. Johnny felt somebody patting his hand. He once again forced his eyelids open, and this time his eyes just about managed to deal with the light. He blinked heavily.

‘Just relax, sir, you’re safe. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing any pain?’

Leaning over him was a nurse dressed in a navy tunic and trousers. Her blue eyes searched his own for a response, calmly checking him over as she spoke.

‘Can you tell me your name?’

Johnny sent up a silent prayer that she hadn’t recognised him.

‘Can you hear me? Can you speak? Can you move your fingers for me?’

‘Of course I bloody can,’ Johnny grunted, sitting up sharply and swinging his legs off the side of the hospital trolley.

‘No, please lie flat, take it easy!’ the nurse ordered him.

‘I’m fine,’ Johnny said. ‘Or as fine as I ever am these days.’

He looked around to see that he was in a busy A&E unit.

‘Is Rory here too?’ he asked. ‘And Belle? Did Belle make it?’

‘Sir, please, you need to just remain calm.’

But Johnny was already on his feet as memories of the scene at the Vauxhall Velvet came flooding back. His legs still ached from the jump from the first-floor window, but he could sense perfectly well for himself that he had sustained no serious injuries, no broken bones or anything like that. He must have passed out from a combination of smoke inhalation and shock. But somehow, he had escaped the fire more or less in one piece.

The nurse continued to fuss over him, but Johnny assured her he was fit to leave. He couldn’t just lie there without knowing what had happened to Rory. Belle, he was sure, was gone – dead, burned to pieces in the blaze. But there was still a chance Rory had made it out.

‘Thanks for everything, but I need to go,’ Johnny told the nurse, already making his way towards the exit.

‘Sir! But sir!’ the nurse called after him.

‘I’m discharging myself,’ Johnny said, striding away.

‘Sir, you can’t leave without—’

‘I can and I am. I can take full responsibility for myself, so don’t worry.’

‘—can’t leave without your bag, sir!’

Johnny stopped and turned on his heel. The nurse was holding up the rucksack that contained Nick Bloom’s demo tapes.

‘You came in with this,’ the nurse said, with a touch of scorn, ‘so you’d better go out with it.’

Johnny came back and took the bag from her, and said in a low voice: ‘Thanks. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just … have things I need to do.’

‘They can surely wait until the doctor has fully checked you out. You took in a fair bit of smoke, and you may have a concussion.’

Johnny shrugged and shook his head. Then, thinking of Rory, he said: ‘Was anyone else brought into A&E with me?’

‘No,’ said the nurse, shaking her head, ‘just you.’

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘I booked you in straight from the ambulance. It was just you. If there was anyone with you, they’d have come here too. The police have asked us to let them know when you’re ready to make a statement.’

Johnny took a long, deep breath, quietly thanked the nurse for everything, and strode away. Once he was outside of the hospital, he fished the Motorola from his pocket. He noticed a missed call from Laura, but that would have to wait. He rang Mona.

‘Hi, how did it go at the Velvet?’ Mona asked brightly.

‘I fucked up,’ Johnny said, and he found that he was shaking. He slumped down on a bench. ‘I fucked it all up, Mona. They followed me to the Velvet.’

‘Oh my God. Are you okay?’

‘They torched the place. I think Rory’s dead. They’re all dead, Mona, everyone’s dead, and it’s my fault!’

‘Johnny, calm down and tell me exactly where you are. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’

Johnny was shaking hard now, and he felt icy cold, unnaturally cold.

‘They’re dead and it’s my fault,’ he repeated, feelings of guilt overwhelming him. ‘I was careless, I … I …’

‘Where are you, Johnny?’ Mona demanded.

Johnny looked up to see which hospital he was at, and found that he couldn’t read the name until he had scrubbed tears from his eyes.

‘St Thomas’s,’ he said at last, his voice breaking wretchedly. ‘Out the front. On a bench. I deserve to be in the fucking morgue, like Rory and Belle.’

‘Stay there, do NOT move!’ And with that, Mona hung up.

Time passed, but Johnny lost track of it. He sat miserably on the bench outside of St Thomas’s, replaying in his mind those final moments of Belle de Jour bravely swishing her little bread knife before the flames engulfed her, and then the image of that smoke-filled window where Rory should have been but wasn’t. The fact that Johnny had survived when those other two had perished weighed on him like a ton of rocks. He hugged the rucksack containing Nick Bloom’s demo reels to his body and rocked slowly back and forth, oblivious to the people coming and going about him, oblivious to the chimes of Big Ben from across the Thames, oblivious even to the aches and pains in his battered, ageing body. All he was aware of was that he had brought death to the Vauxhall Velvet – death that he himself had cheated, though he had no right to do so.

At some point, he became aware of Mona hugging him and sitting down beside him. Her presence soothed him, and he managed to swallow down his guilt and shame enough to speak to her.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, concern filling her dark eyes.

He nodded. ‘Rory was Aurora.’

‘You’re kidding.’

He shook his head. ‘He spiked me that night because I recognised him. It’s all because of the tapes. They’re in this bag. They’re proof that Pete James’s first big hits were all stolen from Nick Bloom. That’s what all this is about – some fucking demo tapes.’

‘And the Yakuza followed you to the Velvet?’

Johnny nodded miserably. ‘There were loads of them. They burned the place down. Rory’s partner died. I saw it. It was … horrible.’

‘And Rory? He died too?’

‘Probably,’ said Johnny. ‘I assume he did.’

‘You didn’t see what happened to him?’

‘We were together in an upstairs room. I smashed the window and jumped. He threw this bag out with the tapes in it, but he didn’t jump. There was smoke everywhere. I’m guessing he didn’t make it out. He’s gone, Mona. And now we have those tapes … which means we’re the ones who are in danger from whoever wants them so badly.’

‘We’re only in danger if they know we have them,’ Mona pointed out. ‘Perhaps the Yakuza think you and the tapes were all lost in the fire. Perhaps you and those tapes don’t exist, at least as far as those gangsters are concerned. That makes you safe, just for the time being.’

‘I don’t deserve to be safe,’ Johnny muttered darkly.

‘Save it for later, we’ve got work to do,’ Mona said in a firm voice. ‘First things first – we need to find out what we can about what happened to Rory. Maybe he’s in the hospital somewhere.’

‘He isn’t. The nurse told me. I was the only person brought in from the fire.’

Mona thought for a moment, then said: ‘Right. I think we should head back to the Velvet, see if there’s any information I can pick up there.’

‘Like what? From who?’

‘I don’t know, Johnny, but we’ll learn more there than sitting around here. Come on, let’s get moving.’

They jumped in a black cab to Vauxhall, Johnny tightly gripping the rucksack the whole way and relieved that the cabbie was one of the grumpy monosyllabic types rather than one of the enthusiastic chatterers. Jumping out of the cab after Mona had tapped to pay from the back seat, they soon saw police tape fluttering across the street, a couple of fire engines, knots of curious people milling about, police officers keeping an eye on them, and a few firefighters damping down the last smouldering embers of the Velvet. Johnny stopped and stared at the blackened shell.

‘My God, they really gutted the place,’ Mona muttered, staring in horror. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Johnny.’

He didn’t feel lucky. Or rather, he didn’t feel deserving. It was his own carelessness that had led the Yakuza to this place. If he’d been smarter, if he’d just been that bit stealthier, the Velvet would not be a smoking ruin, and Rory and Belle would not be charred corpses.

‘You escaped, so there’s a chance Rory did too,’ Mona said. ‘Let’s ask around, see what we can find out.’

Without hope or enthusiasm, Johnny followed Mona as she strode over to one of the uniformed officers guarding the Velvet.

‘Excuse me,’ Mona asked him. ‘I know somebody who works here. I need to find out if they’re okay.’

‘I’m sorry, madam, I can’t help you,’ the officer said. ‘I don’t know anything about casualties. You’ll have to enquire in the nearby hospitals, I’m afraid.’

‘How many bodies have been recovered?’ Mona pressed him.

‘I really don’t know, madam.’

A voice piped up: ‘I know.’

Mona and Johnny turned to see a thick-set woman with her hair scraped back into a tight bun.

‘I saw the ambulances turn up,’ the woman said. ‘I was right up close. There was a fella lying out front, jumped out the window, I think, and they took him away, God knows what happened to him. And then there was two bodies they carried out with sheets over them.’

‘Two?’ Johnny asked hoarsely. ‘Are you sure it was two?’

‘I saw ’em,’ the woman said with conviction.

Johnny’s shoulders slumped. Mona gently led him away from the remains of the Velvet.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ Johnny replied. ‘I feel like … I feel like taking this fucking rucksack and throwing it in the Thames.’

‘Hardly what Rory would have wanted, don’t you think?’

‘I know what Rory wanted. A beach house in Ibiza. And a little boat. And Belle.’

‘He must have wanted something else too. He threw the bag to you for a reason,’ Mona prompted him. ‘Surely he’d want some scrap of justice for his dad?’

Johnny thought about it. Yes, Rory had wanted that cut of the royalties that Pete James had fraudulently kept for himself. But Mona was right: he had also wanted to redress the wrongs done to Nick Bloom, even if it was too late to put them right again. Pete had betrayed Nick and profited from that betrayal, while Nick himself had gone to pieces and finally destroyed himself. If there was Bloom blood on Johnny’s hands, there was far more on Pete’s. Rory hadn’t just wanted an easy life in Ibiza with Belle de Jour, he’d wanted to see justice brought down on Pete James. Now Rory was dead and the demo tapes were in Johnny’s possession, the last hope for that justice lay with Johnny. If he tossed those damn tapes into the Thames, he would be drowning the last hope of that justice at the same time. But if he kept them, and used them, then Nick Bloom might yet be avenged – and Rory too. At the very least, Johnny owed Rory that.

‘You’re right, Mona,’ Johnny said. He lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. ‘I have a job to do. For Nick Bloom, and for Rory. And for me. I couldn’t live with myself if I was the cause of Rory’s death and I didn’t at least try to finish what he started.’

‘And what’s that?’ Mona asked.

‘The destruction of Pete James.’

He patted the rucksack, with its incendiary cargo of demo tapes.

19

Keep Your Friends Close

For once in his life, Johnny was early for a meeting. He felt bruised and shattered, despite sleeping most of the day. He had borrowed one of the delivery scooters from Graceland to zoom over to the Four Feathers pub off Clerkenwell, and was now tucked away in a shadowy corner, brooding over a pint as he waited for Don to arrive. He had the rucksack with him, sealed up tight, its straps looped securely over his arm. He was not going to let those demo tapes out of his sight until he found a safe place to stash them. With all the trouble that had been kicking off at Graceland, he knew that his attic room was the very last place they would be safe; if the Yakuza didn’t get their hands on them, Mike was surely bound to. Johnny wasn’t going to leave them with Mona either, just in case the Yakuza somehow traced them to her. That was a gamble he was not prepared to take. So, until he’d sorted out a safe place for the tapes, the damn things were coming with him – everywhere. Perhaps, Johnny figured, that was the safest plan of all. If he kept on the move, he would prove to be a hard target to pin down.

The Four Feathers was not too rowdy this evening, but noisy and bustling enough for Johnny to feel hidden. He sipped his pint, forcing himself to be restrained with the alcohol. He needed to keep a clear head, but at the same time his shattered nerves required the soft buzz that a modicum of booze could supply.

Don appeared, looming up in the doorway and scanning the place. It took him a moment to spot Johnny.

It made him feel a little less vulnerable. Just a little.

Don locked eyes with Johnny, paused, then got himself a drink and came over.

‘I’d like to say you’re looking well, Johnny, but that would be bollocks,’ Don said as he heaved his large body into the chair across from Johnny.

‘Strangle marks are the new black this season,’ Johnny said sourly. ‘But let’s skip the banter and get down to business.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Don. He slurped his drink, swallowed noisily, and then fixed Johnny with a look. ‘So what’s on your mind? Why have you called me out here?’

Johnny took a moment. He needed to be careful. Don was very, very close to Pete James, and so there was no telling how much he really knew about the Nick Bloom demo tapes. Don had professed to be ignorant about them, saying only that they were of value to Pete, but he had no idea why. Maybe that was true, maybe not. Johnny had no way of knowing, and so he was going to play things very, very cagily. He knew that his own life might depend on it.

‘Rory’s dead.’

Don froze. Then, eventually, he said: ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Have you heard about the fire at the Vauxhall Velvet?’

Don shook his head.

‘No? Well, Rory was staying there. It was his hideaway.’

‘You know that for certain?’

Johnny nodded: ‘I went there and spoke to him.’

‘Johnny, the surprises keep coming this evening.’

‘He was there, and so were the tapes he stole from Pete’s villa.’

‘I see,’ said Don. He was toying with his drink now but not sipping it. His attention was entirely on Johnny. ‘Tell me.’

‘It was very strange.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t make a lot of sense. He rambled on about his dad – Nick Bloom. Remember him?’

‘Vaguely,’ Don said, but Johnny couldn’t tell how truthful he was being.

‘I couldn’t really follow what Rory was saying, but he was very upset about his dad’s breakdown and suicide. Obsessed about it.’

‘What about the tapes he took from the villa?’

‘Rory seemed to think they were his dad’s tapes and that Pete had no right to keep hold of them. So he took them and went into hiding.’

‘Did he say what was on those tapes?’

‘No,’ Johnny said, speaking with great precision. ‘But he did play them to me.’

Don’s ears literally pricked up at this. ‘And?’

‘Garbage. Lots of white noise, or what sounded like studio chatter, somebody noodling on an acoustic guitar. To me it sounded like the usual crap that’s left over after a recording session.’

Don’s eyes narrowed. Johnny tried to discern the thoughts behind them, but he still couldn’t read Don’s true intentions.

After a few moments, Don said: ‘Those can’t have been the tapes he stole.’

‘Rory swore to me they were.’

‘I don’t care what he told you, Johnny. I’m saying here and now that those could not have been the tapes. Why the hell would Pete be so anxious to get back recordings of nothing?’

‘You tell me, Don.’

‘I don’t know!’ Don exclaimed. ‘I work for Pete, I’m not fucking married to him! He doesn’t tell me everything, Johnny.’

Johnny sensed that Don might – might – be telling the truth. His exasperation felt genuine.

‘I believe there was something in those recordings that wasn’t obvious,’ Johnny said, all the time watching for how Don would react. ‘I reckon a good sound engineer could have teased out more from them than you’d get just by playing them through. It might be something Pete would regard as incriminating.’

‘Incriminating of what?’

Again, Don seemed genuinely in the dark.

‘I don’t know,’ Johnny said. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. The tapes don’t exist anymore and Rory’s dead.’

‘What happened?’

‘A fire. We got attacked while we were talking. Some Japanese heavies broke in and firebombed the place. I got out the window but Rory didn’t make it. He and the tapes all went up together.’

Don peered suspiciously at Johnny, then dug out his smartphone. He Googled the Vauxhall Velvet, and at once called up news stories about it.

‘Celebrated LGBTQ+ pub destroyed in fire,’ he read out. ‘Owner, popular drag queen known to regulars as Belle de Jour, confirmed dead. Body of a second unidentified male found on the scene.’ Don glanced up. ‘Rory?’

‘Rory,’ Johnny confirmed. ‘The tapes will just be unidentifiable ashes somewhere in the wreckage. This story’s over, Don – whatever the hell the story actually was.’

Don sighed, shook his head, shoved his phone back in his pocket and took a hit of his drink: ‘Well, Johnny-boy, looks like you’re right, this story is over. You’ve done what you were asked, you tracked down Rory, and now we all know that those tapes are together with Rory in some better place up there above the clouds. I’ll report back to Pete and see you get your two and a half grand.’

‘Five,’ Johnny corrected him. ‘You agreed on five. You bunged me fifty up front, so I guess you can take that off.’

‘Five grand for return of the tapes. You lose two and a half grand for fire damage.’

‘Bollocks to that, Don, I want the full amount!’

‘Or what?’ Don smiled, taking another sip. ‘It’s a basic law of economics, Johnny – you can’t bargain with a fella if you don’t have anything to bargain with. Them tapes are toast. Pete wanted them back, but now he’ll never get them. So that part of the deal you didn’t deliver on. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Johnny-baby, it’s just business. There’ll be other little errands you can run for Pete to earn yourself a spot of pocket money.’

‘Don’t you want to know who burned down the Velvet and why?’ Johnny asked.

‘You said it was some Japanese guys,’ Don shrugged. ‘Some business of Rory’s, was it?’

Don spoke so freely and casually that Johnny knew – he knew – that Don had less understanding of this whole affair than Johnny himself did. He betrayed no sense of concern about the fact that the thugs they were discussing were deadly Yazuka henchmen. Nor did he show any inclination to link these guys up with the mysterious death of Hashido, the music promoter. Don knew nothing, except that Pete wanted those tapes back and was prepared to pay Johnny to find them.

Don’s being played for a mug by Pete just as much as I am, Johnny thought. We’re both just hired messenger boys and odd-job men.

For the first time, he felt an affinity with Don. Keeping Don close would be very, very useful, as it would gain him access to Pete James himself. And then Johnny could get Pete to understand that those tapes still very much existed, and that there was far more on them than white noise and studio chatter. If Johnny played it right, he could not only destroy Pete James and achieve the retribution for Nick Bloom that Rory had so desired, but he could also make a lot of money in the process. Don might well be the conduit for that money, given his closeness to Pete, but he could be paid off, still leaving Johnny rolling in it. But Johnny would still deduct the two and a half grand Don had just stiffed him for.

Johnny pushed all these thoughts out of his mind. He could not run ahead of himself. He needed to focus on the here and now. As things stood, Don was very possibly an ally for Johnny, and soon Pete would believe the tapes had been destroyed. The pieces of the game were being repositioned, this time to Johnny’s advantage – if he played the game right, that is.

Johnny leant closer to Don and said in a low voice: ‘What do you know about Hashido?’

Don shrugged: ‘He was a music promoter who couldn’t tell the difference between a window and a door.’

‘Or he was a man who knew too much.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Once again, his reaction seemed genuine. Johnny was certain that Don had no connection to Hashido and certainly wasn’t the person who killed him.

‘Hang on,’ Don said. ‘You said that it was Japanese guys who burned down the Velvet. Are you trying to tell me there’s some sort of a connection between what happened to Rory and Hashido falling out of this office window?’

‘What do you think, Don?’ Johnny asked.

‘I’ll tell you what I think, Johnny. I think you’re stringing me along. I think you know things you’re not telling me, and the things you are telling me aren’t completely true. You’re fishing, aren’t you?’

‘Fishing?’

‘For information. From me. About … something.’

‘I’m trying to figure out where you stand, Don.’

‘On what?’

Johnny’s attention was caught by a figure that appeared in the pub doorway. It was an East Asian man, late twenties, muscular build, dressed in striped biking leathers. He might well have been one of the guys who torched the Velvet. Johnny’s instincts told him he was. He watched as the guy peered around the pub, then headed back out again. Through the glass doors, Johnny could see him return to a powerful motorbike parked across the road. Then he swung his leg over the bike but didn’t fire it up. He just sat there, waiting.

‘Don,’ Johnny said in a low voice, ‘did you notice a guy in striped leathers riding a motorbike when you arrived here?’

‘As it happens, yeah, I did,’ Don said. ‘I got here on my bike, and spotted a stripey fella parking up right after I did … Oh, wait, wait – what are you saying, Johnny? Is Stripey something to do with—’

‘Rory’s murder, yes,’ Johnny said. ‘Stripey’s very much something to do with Rory’s murder, and possibly with Hashido’s too. Look, Don, we’re tangled up in something dangerous, here. You’re being followed. Perhaps you’re in danger. God knows, I am. Before you ask, no, I don’t understand what the fuck’s going on, but it’s something to do with those tapes Rory nicked from the villa.’

‘But you said they’re gone.’

‘Listen, Don. Stripey followed you here and he’ll follow you again when you leave.’

‘Not if I go outside now and lamp the fucker like he’s never been lamped,’ Don said.

‘I’ve got a different idea, Don – a better idea. Go out, get on your bike, and drive off. Let him follow you. He’ll follow you, and I’ll follow him.’

Don thought about this, but seemed unimpressed. ‘So we play follow-the-fucking-leader round London on our bikes?’

‘Yep. Except the name of the game is for you to give him the slip. Stripey’ll then have to head on back to wherever he came from, and I’ll follow him there without him knowing. We might get an idea of who the hell he works for.’

‘This sounds like a lot of farting about, Johnny-boy, and for what?’

‘Don, this is serious,’ Johnny insisted. ‘People are dead already. We could be next.’

‘I ain’t caught up in anything, pal!’ Don protested.

‘Then why did the Yakuza follow you here this evening?’

That stopped Don in his tracks. He stared at Johnny, and then at last said: ‘Yakuza? The Japanese mafia?’

‘They’re as bad as they sound. Worse,’ Johnny assured him. ‘Believe me, I know.’

Don glanced back through the pub door. Stripey was still there, sitting astride his bike, patiently waiting.

‘He’s riding a Yamaha MT-10,’ Don observed.

‘Fast?’

‘Fucking fast. Faster than my second-hand Suzuki, I’ll tell you that. And I’ll bet it’s faster than whatever you’re riding, Johnny. What are you riding, Johnny?’

‘A curry delivery scooter.’

‘Jesus Christ …’

‘Look, Don, we can’t beat him on speed, so we’ll have to do it some other way.’

‘Like what? Distract him with naans?’

‘Duck and dive,’ Johnny said. ‘Go where he wouldn’t expect you to go. Shoot down alleyways. Make sudden turns. Jump over the dome of fucking St Paul’s if you have to – just give him the slip.’

‘And you’ll keep up with all this, will you?’

‘I’ll make damn sure of it.’ And Johnny meant it. Too much was at stake for him to blow this. His life might depend on it, and, more importantly, maybe Mona’s too.

Don shot another glance at Stripey, considered it for a moment, then made his decision.

‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said. ‘Do you need to plug your mobility scooter in for a bit first?’

‘Fuck you, Don,’ Johnny sneered, and he got to his feet.

Don drained his glass and stood up too. Together they headed to the door.

‘You go first,’ Johnny said. ‘Stripey’s attention needs to be on you. Once you start up your bike, I’ll follow.’

‘And if this plan works, what then?’

‘As soon as you give Stripey the slip, I’ll call you, let you know where he’s headed.’

‘This’ll never work,’ Don muttered, shaking his head, but he pushed his way out through the pub doors and into the street anyway. He saddled up on his Suzuki, started the engine, and pulled away. Stripey immediately followed on his gleaming Yamaha.

Johnny darted out of the pub and over to where his scooter was parked. In that moment, it looked more pathetic than ever. But it was all he had. So he secured the rucksack with its precious tapes on his back, jumped on the scooter, and took off.

20

Joyride

Laura had already decided that her softly, softly approach to Chelsea was wrong, but it had taken a call from the Head Teacher of her daughter’s school to alert her to the fact.

‘Mrs Klein, it’s Emma MacKenzie here, Chelsea’s Head Teacher.’

Laura felt her gut tighten.

‘We’ve got reason to believe that Chelsea has been bringing drugs – marijuana, to be precise – onto the school campus and has been selling it to the other pupils.’

‘No! That can’t be right! You’ve got it wrong—’

‘She was caught, Mrs Klein. She had the drugs in her pocket and the other pupil told us that he was about to hand over money.’

Laura felt her protestations die on her lips, thinking about Chelsea’s nocturnal wanderings. Drugs? Chelsea? She found it hard to get her head around it. Her little girl …

‘Normally this would result in immediate expulsion and a referral to the police. I’m afraid you’ll need to come in and discuss the next steps.’

What followed was an exercise in humiliation, as she’d driven to the school and listened in shocked silence while the Head and a local family liaison police officer talked her through what they had discovered. All the while Chelsea had given sullen and monosyllabic responses while Laura had practically begged them to give her another chance, which eventually the Head had agreed to, as long as Chelsea made it clear she was prepared to cooperate.

‘We know your life has been far from normal, Chelsea, and we want to help,’ she said. At which point Chelsea burst into tears.

Now they were sitting in the kitchen. Susanna had made herself scarce, pretending she needed more milk, despite the fridge already groaning with plenty, all needed for Susanna’s seemingly never-ending cuppas.

Laura had made Chelsea a cup of hot chocolate, and she faced her over the kitchen table, determined to get to the bottom of it.

‘I told you Chels, I’ve seen everything with your dad – drugs, drink, women.’ She sighed. ‘And I’ve got no intention of letting you go down that path too.’

Chelsea sniffed tearfully. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘Why on earth do you think drugs are a good thing to do? Look at what all that stuff has done to our family. Do you really want to get kicked out of school?’

Chelsea didn’t meet her mother’s eyes. ‘Who cares about school? Besides, I didn’t have any choice.’

‘What do you mean, love? We all have choices. It’s not like you even saw the glamorous side that often …’

‘No, I mean they made me do it. They said they had something on Dad.’

‘Who did?’

‘These boys. They turned up on electric bikes and kept following me home, told me they knew my dad, who he was, and that they were going to tell the coppers about what they knew …’

Laura narrowed her eyes. What they knew?

‘They told me they wanted me to sell a bit of weed in school. And the thing is, Mum, it was quite easy and I sort of liked it. The other kids kinda looked up to me, I had more friends.’

‘People should like you for yourself Chelsea. We’ve always taught you that.’

‘You have, Mum, but Dad loved all the attention he got, and he was always taking something. He’s still alright.’

‘Alright?’ Laura’s mind was fizzing. ‘How can you say he’s alright? He’s a mess!’

‘Anyway,’ Chelsea shrugged, ‘they said they’d go to the police with what they knew.’

Laura grappled in her mind for what a thuggish street kid might have over her errant husband. He was not a paragon of virtue, but he was a man with very few secrets left to hide. Every bit of his life had been blasted over the tabloids, tell-alls by groupies, heroin dens, bankruptcy, until the supply was exhausted. Johnny Klein had no secrets left, but that wouldn’t stop people looking for more. Then something clicked, ‘You know what, love, I think they were just making that up. It’s called blackmail.’

Laura felt cold fury fizzle through her body. As if Chelsea hadn’t been through enough with Johnny as a dad. She thought back to the time when Chelsea had been abducted by that sick woman. Couldn’t life with Johnny ever bring them something positive? And now these ‘county lines’ drug dealers, or whatever they were, had targeted her daughter.

Well, she was going to stop it, one way or another, before Chelsea herself ended up a victim, Laura could just imagine the headlines then.

Chelsea had started crying again. ‘I just thought they’d do something to Dad, Mum. I thought it was the only thing I could do.’

‘You should have told me, love. But you have now, and I’m going to do something about it, I promise.’

Johnny Klein might not be able to keep his word, Laura thought, but she meant every one of hers.

***

It was late evening. The London streets were congested with traffic. The whole city was ablaze with car lights, street lamps and illuminated shopfronts. Johnny could barely make out Don’s Suzuki a hundred yards ahead of him as it weaved between the cars, but he reminded himself that he didn’t need to keep his eye on Don but rather on the Yamaha directly ahead. He could see Stripey hunched over his bike, the engine revving extravagantly, its brake-light flaring. At any moment, Stripey could effortlessly out-run the curry-delivering pisspot Johnny was pootling along on. But this was not a game that would be won by speed. As long as Stripey didn’t twig that he was being followed, he had no reason to jet off at high speed, so Johnny at least had a chance.

The three bikes worked their way in no great hurry through slow-moving traffic. Johnny lost sight of Don, so he fixed his gaze on Stripey, who wove his way between a line of cars and headed off down a side street. Johnny turned into the street, glimpsed Don far ahead turning left, and saw Stripey accelerate to keep up.

Shit! Johnny thought, I’m already lagging behind!

He pushed the scooter to keep up, turned left like the others had, and found himself back in dense traffic that was backed up due to roadworks. He ducked and bobbed between the vehicles, saw temporary lights up ahead on red, and made out Don, stationary, as he waited for them to turn green.

Where’s Stripey? Where the hell is he?

Johnny moved slowly towards Don, looking all about, but could make out no hint of the Yamaha. Had Stripey got wind that something was up and darted off?

The lights turned green, Don moved forward with the impatient line of traffic, and suddenly Stripey appeared as if out of nowhere, nosing the Yamaha in front of a van that blared its horn in rebuke. Don glanced around at the sound, saw Stripey, and then without warning turned hard right. More horns blared. Stripey revved angrily and darted right, going after Don – who suddenly emerged again, doubling back the same way he’d been going before, and shot off down a narrow alleyway. Johnny heard an enraged engine-roar, and the Yamaha went shooting by in hot pursuit. Johnny trundled off after them.

Down the alley, swerve the wheelie bins, sharp right, through a tight archway, back onto a main road. The scooter bounced hard, juddering Johnny’s spinal column and causing a flare of pain in his knee. The Yamaha’s rear light flickered and flashed ahead, suddenly soaring away to the left. Without looking where he was going, Johnny blindly followed it.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried out, finding that he was now barrelling into a pedestrian precinct filled with homeward-bound commuters. People leapt out of his way as he tore through the crowd.

‘Oi!’

‘Watch it!’

‘Wanker!’

Don turned hard right, Stripey tailing, and Johnny – bracing himself – recklessly followed suit.

In the next moment, he found himself inside the atrium of a brightly illuminated shopping arcade. People were screaming and scattering as the Suzuki and Yamaha chased each other around the place, dashing past Boots, spinning a hard U-turn outside of Pret, screeching perilously close to River Island, scaring the shit out of some poor sods in Wasabi. Johnny hit the brakes and stared as Don turned his bike and headed straight for the up escalator.

‘No … fucking … way …’ Johnny breathed as Don insanely hit the escalator and went roaring up it, scattering terrified people as he went.

And now Stripey showed he was no less a macho maniac than Don. The Yamaha came howling in like a fighter jet and tore at speed up the central staircase between the up and down escalators. He overtook Don and tried to block him at the top, but Don hit the gas and struck the Yamaha side-on, toppling it. Revving triumphantly, Don raced a full circuit of the first-floor balcony while Stripey struggled to right his fallen bike, and then with a mocking blare of his horn, Don shot back down the escalator to the ground floor. Without a pause, he raced past Johnny and back out through the main doors, vanishing in the thick traffic outside.

Not wanting to be seen by Stripey, Johnny pulled his scooter back into the large open front of an outdoor supplies shop, hiding behind the display tents. He heard the angry revving of the Yamaha, then saw Stripey come rocketing down the escalator, across the atrium, and out through the door in hot pursuit of Don.

Johnny revved his own little feeble engine to go after them – and at once found himself being grappled by a mall security guard. They tussled for a moment, Johnny urging the scooter forward and the guard fighting to unbalance it.

‘Fuck off, I’m busy!’ Johnny yelled, shoving the guard away and cruising off. He zoomed through the atrium, bounced bone-crunchingly across the pavement, steered blindly left and right as people bustled about him, and then found himself on a large main road that was nose-to-tail with sluggish traffic. He looked about wildly. No sign of Don, no sign of Stripey.

‘Damn it!’ Johnny growled, slamming his fist down on the handlebars.

And then he saw it – the Yamaha, with Stripey sitting very upright upon it, his helmeted head turning urgently this way and that. He cruised by, turned, cruised back again.

He’s lost Don, Johnny thought. My God, Don’s actually managed to give him the slip!

All those maniac manoeuvres in the shopping mall had actually worked! Maybe Don was less insane than he seemed.

The Yamaha’s engine issued a series of enraged howls as its rider vented his frustration.

He’s giving up, Johnny smiled to himself. He knows he’s beat. Now he’ll have to report back to whoever his boss is.

The Yamaha’s engine died down and Stripey moved off. Johnny followed. It was not a chase any longer but rather a sane and perfectly ordinary journey on bikes through London’s heavy commuter traffic. Johnny tried to orient himself as they moved across the city. They seemed to be going west. They passed King’s Cross, then Madame Tussauds, then ducked off the Westway before the elevated section and headed into Paddington, towards Lancaster Gate. They threaded their way through various unremarkable roads and came at last to a tall office building, its windows blazing with light. Stripey made for the entrance to the underground parking lot, scanning a security card at the barrier. The barrier lifted and Stripey disappeared beyond it. As the barrier came back down, it marked the end of the pursuit for Johnny. He couldn’t gain access to the underground car park, but he didn’t have to. He’d done it. He’d found them. This place, whatever it was, was the London HQ for the Yakuza members who had killed Rory and Belle.

Johnny killed the scooter engine, pulled the Motorola from his jacket pocket and called Don.

‘Still alive, Johnny?’ Don’s voice came through deadpan.

‘Barely. Don, you could have fucking killed somebody.’

‘Only shoppers and commuters, and who gives a shit about them? Anyway, mission accomplished, I’m parked up in Hatton Garden right now and there’s no sign of Stripey. Did you manage to keep up?’

‘Yeah, he’s just gone into an office building in Mayfair,’ Johnny said.

‘Address?’

‘Christ knows, I’m lost. Let me see.’

With the phone to his ear, Johnny clambered off the scooter and went prowling around the office building.

‘There’s a sign out front,’ Johnny said. ‘Says … Burgess Tower.’

There was a pause, then he came back and said: ‘Burgess Tower? That’s top-whack office space, very exclusive. And, it’s where that fella Hashido fell out the window.’

‘Hashido died here, at Burgess Tower?’

‘Took a dive from one of the penthouse suites.’

Johnny gazed up at the brightly illuminated head of Burgess Tower. It was a long, long way from way up there to the pavement down here. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the fall – the office window swinging open, Hashido’s body tumbling through the air, limbs helplessly thrashing, perhaps screaming as he fell, the ground rushing up, and then the terrible, shattering impact.

‘I don’t get it, Don,’ Johnny said in a low voice. ‘Hashido had offices in the same building as the Yakuza. That suggests Hashido was in with the Yakuza here, maybe even part of them. Why would they kill him?’

‘You’ve seen The Godfather, Johnny. You know what gangsters are like with each other.’

Johnny was trying to put all the pieces together. Hashido’s fall, the Yakuza, Nick Bloom’s demo tapes, the fire at the Velvet, Pete James. There was almost a meaningful picture there, but not quite. The one thing Johnny felt sure of, though, was that whatever dark and murderous business was going on here, Don wasn’t in on it. He was close to Pete, and Pete was certainly at the heart of all this, but Pete had not included Don in whatever the hell was happening. As much as such a thing was conceivably possible, Johnny felt sure he could trust Don. More or less. Up to a point. But there was no point taking extra risks when they were already in such hot water.

‘Fuck, this is so dangerous, Don. Hashido fell out of a window, Rory went up in flames, I was supposed to die right along with him. Don, this isn’t a game we’re involved with, this is serious.’

Don paused, and then said: ‘So what do we do next?’

‘First up, don’t let Pete know anything, not until we’ve figured something out.’

‘He’s the boss, Johnny, and he knows we’ve met up this evening.’

‘Tell him … tell him I’m still trying to track down Rory. Buy me a bit of time. I’ll call you when I’ve at least started to wrap my head around things. In the meantime, be careful. You don’t know who’s watching you or what they might do.’

‘I’ll certainly be staying the fuck away from any high windows,’ Don said.

Johnny hung up, got back to the scooter, and worked his way east, blindly at first, until he began to see signs that guided him. He headed down Great Portland Street, along Oxford Street, past Centre Point and towards Holborn, all the time trying to process the jumble of floating clues in his head, struggling – and failing – to slot them all together.

As he passed the illuminated dome of St Paul’s and passed along Cheapside, he found that his mind was turning repeatedly to Mike. Maybe Mike was the key? Maybe if Johnny confronted him and demanded he reveal everything he knew, the whole jumbled mess would suddenly fall into place. By the time Johnny was navigating his way around Liverpool Street Station and along Bishopsgate, his mind was made up. He would wring the truth out of Mike, even if he had to use branding irons and a medieval rack to do it.

He reached the head of Brick Lane. It was heaving, as ever. He slowed to a crawl, weaving through the self-absorbed couples and excited groups who milled about, oblivious to the through traffic. Up ahead, he saw the shining façade of Graceland with the face of Ravi gazing out from it. Mike was either up there, in the attic room behind Ravi’s eye, loafing and dozing, or else he was prowling Brick Lane, getting up to no good. If he was in, Johnny would confront him immediately; if not, he’d sit up and wait. One way or another, he’d get to the heart of things tonight, and then decide what to do about it tomorrow.

He pulled up along with the rest of the Graceland delivery scooters and as he dismounted he heard a man’s voice behind him say: ‘Any chance of an autograph?’

Johnny sighed, turned, opened his mouth to say Not now, not tonight, when suddenly he found himself being crowded by two very large uniformed coppers. They hustled him backwards against a wall. One of the officers spoke into the walkie-talkie attached to his stab vest: ‘Three-twenty to control, we’ve picked up our boy racer and will be bringing him in, over.’

‘Wait, wait, you’re making a mistake!’ Johnny protested. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

‘Really?’ one of the coppers grinned. ‘Just business as usual, is it, to go for a joyride through a pedestrian precinct and a shopping centre?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve just come straight back from seeing a mate. I haven’t been near any shopping centre!’

‘You ain’t so bright, are you? We’ve got multiple witnesses. Dozens of ’em. Plus the security guard. They’ve all given us the same address of the same Indian restaurant in Brick Lane.’

‘But … ’ Johnny stammered, until the copper pointed to the back of the scooter he’d been riding. The delivery box was emblazoned with Graceland’s name, address, website address, even its fucking email and phone number.

‘And you fit the description of the rider,’ the other copper added.

‘Bang to sodding rights,’ Johnny muttered, his shoulders slumping as he resigned himself to being nicked.

The coppers gripped his arms and forcibly escorted him to the waiting patrol car. Johnny shot a glance back at Graceland, saw Ravi staring down at him and wondered if Mike was observing his arrest from the window behind Ravi’s eye. Or maybe Mona was watching, wondering what the hell stupid mess Johnny had got himself tangled up in this time.

The rucksack was removed from his back. He didn’t protest, there was no point. One of the coppers checked out the contents.

‘Golden Oldie stuff?’ he asked, holding up one of the spools of tape that had already caused so much death and destruction.

‘A long story,’ Johnny said, resigned.

‘Well, we’ll have plenty of time to hear it at the station,’ the copper said, and with that they thrust him into the back of the patrol car.

21

Suspicious Minds

‘Well, well, well, Johnny Klein, we meet again.’

The door to the interview room where Johnny had been left waiting swung open to reveal a tall, stern-faced woman wearing a navy-blue trouser suit and a pussy-bow blouse, channelling Kamala Harris, with less of the laughter.

Johnny looked up, and at once recognised DS Lorna Thomas, the no-nonsense officer who had investigated the violent death of Ravi and gone on to arrest the man ultimately responsible, Karl Jones.

‘Are you on traffic duty now, then?’ Johnny asked drily.

‘Very funny,’ Thomas replied unsmiling, striding into the room and settling herself in a chair across from Johnny. ‘I’m not here about your little joyride through town this evening.’

‘I thought that’s what I was brought in for.’

‘You do seem to make a habit of coming to the Met’s attention, Mr Klein, but I’m not remotely interested in your scooter ride. I want to talk about something else.’

Johnny straightened in his chair, his muscles starting to tense as he sensed trouble coming his way. As ever.

‘So …’ he said carefully, ‘I’m not being done for driving a curry delivery scooter through TK Maxx?’

‘If you are, it’ll be somebody else’s job to see to it,’ Thomas said. She fixed him with a look, cocked her head slightly, and said: ‘At your age, Mr Klein.’

‘Every man has his motives,’ Johnny replied with more swagger than he felt. ‘Anyway, I thought you said you didn’t want to talk to me about that.’

‘You’re right, I don’t, and I haven’t got time for idle chit-chat either,’ Thomas said, and with great precision she arranged a few files and an iPad on the table between them, and then formally declared to the watching video camera the time and date and that she was conducting an official interview. Neatly folding her hands together and resting them on the table, she fixed Johnny with a hard stare and asked: ‘Mr Klein, what do you know about the Vauxhall Velvet Tavern?’

Johnny paused. Should he refuse to answer any questions until he had a solicitor present? That was surely his right. But at the same time, it smacked of guilt. Plus, he couldn’t afford a good one. He hadn’t been responsible for the fire that killed Rory and Belle de Jour – in fact, he’d damn near died in the flames right along with them. He had nothing to hide. His best bet was to convince DS Thomas that he’d had nothing to do with the attack on the Velvet – but at the same time, he felt it was best to play his cards close to his chest, not blab too much about the Yakuza and Pete and the demo tapes and all the rest of it, just in case it ended up stirring up more trouble in the long run.

‘I know the Velvet,’ Johnny answered slowly.

‘In what way?’

‘I went to a party there.’

‘Recently?’

‘Yes. The anniversary bash.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Why?’ Johnny shrugged. ‘Why not? A party’s a party. Do you need a reason to go to a party?’

‘Let’s keep my personal life out of it, anyway I’m always working,’ Thomas said archly.

‘All work and no play, Lorna? Well, parties are part of my working life – I’m a rock-and-roll legend, by the way.’ Johnny winked at her: ‘You should have gone into the music biz. That way you could’ve mixed the two.’

‘Yes, you’ve told me about your legendary status before … and it’s DS Thomas to you, Mr Klein,’ she corrected him.

The smart-arse charm wasn’t going to fly here.

‘Look, I have a friend from years ago,’ Johnny said. ‘Rory Bloom. I hadn’t seen him for years but ran into him again recently, and we hung out together for a couple of days.’

‘Where?’

‘A luxury villa in Saint-Tropez.’

‘Mr Klein, will you please just answer the questions?’

‘I’m not joking, Lorna.’

‘Johnny!’

‘DS Thomas. We went over to pick up a couple of old guitars for Pete James, who owns the place. He’s auctioning them off at Sotheby’s or something.’

‘So, you and Rory Bloom picked up these guitars from the south of France and then what?’ DS Thomas’s eyes were like steel.

‘We brought them back to London and delivered them to Pete and got paid a few quid. And that was that.’

‘And? What has this got to do with you going to a party at the Vauxhall Velvet?’

Johnny thought for a moment before opening his mouth, and said: ‘Rory had a connection to the Velvet. He mentioned there was a big celebration going on there and that I should come along. So I did.’

‘What was Mr Bloom’s connection to the Velvet?’

Johnny laughed.

DS Thomas raised an eyebrow: ‘Have I said something funny?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Johnny said, thinking of the last time he had seen Aurora. ‘It’s just … I’ve never heard anybody call Rory “Mr Bloom” before.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr Klein.’

‘“Mr Bloom” is also Aurora.’

‘Aurora?’

‘His drag name.’

‘I see.’

‘The Velvet’s run by another drag queen called Belle de Jour. They were an item.’

‘Were?’

Johnny stopped. He didn’t want to let on that he knew Rory was dead. In fact, he didn’t want to reveal that he knew the Velvet had been burned down, either. It just felt safer to play dumb about the whole thing. And after all, there was nothing to connect Johnny to the Velvet on the day of the fire. As far as the world knew, the last time he’d been there was for the anniversary party, along with masses of others.

Thomas kept her eyes fixed on him as she said: ‘You just said Rory was an item with the owner of the Velvet. Why the past tense?’

‘I … just meant him and Belle had been close for a long time.’

DS Thomas appeared to mull over this. Her sharp eyes seemed to bore into his own as if she could see into his shabby soul. ‘So, you were at the anniversary party. Did you go back to the Vauxhall Velvet at all after that?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Are you saying that you didn’t go back?’

‘I went there once, for the party, and that was it,’ Johnny said, now starting to doubt that lying was his best option. Maybe he should just come right out with it, say he was there when the place was attacked, and blame the Yakuza. But then what? He knew how the Yakuza treated people they had grudges against. Johnny did not want to find out what the Japanese mafia did to squealers.

DS Thomas pursed her lips. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

She lifted up the iPad and pressed the power button so it lit up to life. Scrolling across the screen for a moment, she clicked on a page and then handed the device to Johnny.

He took it from her and his heart sank as he looked at the picture. It was a Facebook post, from someone called Dougie Smith.

The post was a selfie of Dougie.

Captain America … the guy who gave me a leg-up.

Dougie’s bearded features were plastered with a cheery grin and in the background Johnny could see himself on the other side of the gate of the Vauxhall Velvet. He looked puffy in the face, after exerting himself. But it was clearly him, and the post said:

Just gave Rock legend @JohnnyMarr a leg up. Help the aged!

Nice one, Dougie, thought Johnny. He looked at the time of the post, which clearly put him at the Velvet on the day and time in question.

Shit.

DS Thomas regarded him thoughtfully, and then said: ‘Are you aware that there was a fire recently at the Vauxhall Velvet?’

‘No,’ Johnny said bluntly. ‘A bad one?’

‘Yes, very bad. Why do you think I’m involved in the case? Two fatalities.’

‘Rory?’

‘We’ve identified one of them as the proprietor, Anthony Alex Armstrong, who, as you say, also went by the name of Belle de Jour. The second body, male, has yet to be identified. This picture puts someone who looks very like you, squarely at the location shortly before the fire, so if there is anything you want to tell me, now’s the time, Mr Klein.’

It made sense that Rory’s body had not been formally identified. No doubt there was little left of him after the blaze. And since he was in hiding at the Velvet, there would be no official record of him being there.

‘It’s Rory,’ Johnny said quietly.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘He was staying there with Belle. They had plans together.’

‘What sort of plans?’

‘A place in the sun. Ibiza.’

The beach, the sea, just watching sunsets together. Now they never would.

‘So, you’re telling me that Rory was staying with Mr Armstrong – Belle de Jour – at the Vauxhall Velvet?’

Johnny nodded: ‘What happened? Why did it burn down?’

‘We thought you might be able to tell us,’ Thomas said flatly.

‘Well, you won’t get very far asking me,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m just the idiot going up the wrong side of the road on a delivery scooter. I don’t do arson. Assuming that it was arson.’

‘We’re assuming nothing, Mr Klein. It’s an investigation.’

‘Good. So why am I under investigation? Yes, I was at the Velvet, but so were hundreds of other people. It was a party. And yeah, I knew Rory, but I’ve no reason to wish him any harm.’

‘And this picture?’ She pointed again at the iPad.

‘That’s Johnny Marr, not me.’

Thomas rolled her eyes. ‘You didn’t have a falling out when you were with him in the south of France?’

‘No.’

‘Why didn’t he fly back with you, then?’

DS Thomas reached into a file she had laid on the table and produced some photocopies from it which she pushed towards him. ‘Passenger manifests for flights in and out of Heathrow, Mr Klein. You flew out with Rory Bloom, but returned with a man named Michael Penfold.’

Johnny sat frozen. DS Thomas was toying with him. She’d seemed incredulous about him being in Saint-Tropez when she’d known all along not just that he’d been there, but the dates of his flights and who he had travelled with. Now his mind was racing, wondering what else she already knew. Johnny was caught in a game of cat and mouse, and he was currently feeling like the cat’s dinner.

‘Mike Penfold used to be the drummer in my band Klein,’ Johnny said.

‘We know,’ Thomas said, shaking her head slightly. ‘We’re the Met Police.’

‘Okay, I’m going to be straight with you, Lorna—’

‘It’s DS Thomas.’

‘I’m going to be straight with you, DS Thomas. When we were over at the villa, Rory did a midnight flit.’

‘A midnight flit? You mean he absented himself from the property unexpectedly and without giving prior notice?’

‘I mean he fucked the fuck off without a word, and left me there with more guitars than one man can carry and a three-day hangover,’ Johnny explained. ‘That’s why Pete sent Mike over to take his place.’

‘Take his place, as in bring back these guitars that were to be sold?’

‘Pete didn’t trust me not to fuck up.’

‘And before he disappeared, Rory had already invited you to this party at the Vauxhall Velvet?’ Thomas asked sceptically.

Johnny nodded helplessly.

‘And was Rory at this party? Did you see him there? Did you speak to him?’

‘No,’ Johnny said. And in a way, he wasn’t lying, because it wasn’t Rory Bloom he had seen but Aurora, and even the memory of that encounter had been blasted out of his mind by a dose of Rohypnol.

DS Thomas thoughtfully shuffled the files on the table and put them back in the plastic document holder. She paused for a moment, tapping her perfectly shellacked nails on the table. ‘While the Vauxhall Velvet was still on fire, paramedics were called and attended to a man matching your description, who was found unresponsive at the scene. He was taken to A&E, regained consciousness, and discharged himself against the advice of medical staff. Anything you want to tell me about that, Johnny?’

Johnny ran his hands through his hair and let out a long groan before resting his head on the table. It took him a moment before he lifted it again and his ice-blue eyes met DS Thomas’s calm brown ones. But the coldness was gone from them, and Johnny could sense a flicker of something else there. It looked a lot like victory. ‘I’m just sick of this bloody mess I’m caught up in that shouldn’t be anything to do with me!’ Johnny said, and he banged his hands down on the table.

DS Thomas didn’t react. She’d seen many such outbursts before in this very room. She sat back in her chair and said: ‘Tell me about it. Truthfully.’

‘Are you seriously building a case against me?’

‘Mr Klein, you seem to be doing rather a good job of that yourself. The things you say don’t add up. You’re nervous and defensive. And I’m linking you more and more directly to the victims of the fire, plus the crime scene itself. Any diligent officer would be remiss not to pursue a line of enquiry that had Mr Johnny Klein very much at its centre. You’re practically obliging me to build the case against you. Our paths have crossed before, Johnny, and trouble follows you around like a bad smell.’ She leant towards him. ‘If I was you, I’d be singing like the proverbial canary, Johnny.’

Johnny thought about this for a moment and decided that it was as fair an assessment of his current predicament as anyone could make. It was time to drop the bullshit. ‘I think Rory got mixed up with the Japanese mafia, possibly the same people who chucked that music promoter, Hashido, out of a window recently. It was nothing to do with me, but I was being paid by Pete James to find out what the hell was going on. I tracked Rory down to the Velvet. I was with him when they attacked the place – I’m assuming I was followed. They burst in, torched the place. I saw Belle de Jour die in the fire on the staircase. Me and Rory retreated to a bedroom and I jumped out the window. Rory didn’t get out – I think the smoke overwhelmed him.

‘And that’s the truth, Lorna – sorry, DS Thomas – I swear it. I didn’t burn down the Velvet and I didn’t kill Belle and Rory. Why the hell would I want to? It’s just another mess I’ve got tangled up in that I want to get out of. And if the Japanese mafia find out I’m still alive and have spoken to the police, then the next time you see me, it could well be on a mortuary slab.’

DS Thomas remained silent for a while, watching him, waiting to see if he had anything else to add. But Johnny was spent. She narrowed her eyes and gave a small shake of her head.

‘But I still don’t see how it ties in with your daft escapade on the scooter, which it must, because you just mentioned Aki Hashido, who fell to his death from his office in Burgess Tower … and you were there today, at Burgess Tower, on your little scooter. And before you ask, I can tell you that scooter had already been picked up on multiple recordings of it on CCTV heading west across the city. We slightly lost track of you in Paddington for a bit, but our team in surveillance did their jobs and pinned an automatic registration of your vehicle by three security cameras stationed around Burgess Tower. Now, why would you be so interested in the place where Aki Hashido died?’

‘I only went there because I was following one of the Mafia killers,’ Johnny insisted.

DS Thomas rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘You were following – on a scooter – one of the people you now claim you want to avoid, because they’re going to kill you? Mr Klein, why would you do that? The whole thing is simply unbelievable.’

‘It just … happened,’ Johnny sighed, realising she was right. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you that won’t sound like a bad rental movie from Blockbusters.’

‘Maybe there’s a reason for that.’

‘Yeah,’ Johnny said miserably. ‘Because my life’s a fucking mess.’

‘The number of times I’ve heard that in this job,’ DS Thomas said, as she gathered up her files.

22

Home

Johnny braced himself to be marched to a cell, but instead a uniformed officer guided him back to the front desk, where the duty sergeant returned his rucksack to him.

‘I’m free to go, then?’ Johnny asked, signing for the rucksack.

‘Orders from DS Thomas.’ The uniformed officer told him, ‘Reckons leaving you at large will give us the answers we need.’

‘But don’t go anywhere,’ the duty sergeant informed him. ‘You can take your bag and bugger off, pronto.’

Johnny slung the rucksack over his shoulder and said: ‘Best advice I’ve had in years.’

It was very late by the time he got back to Graceland. The restaurant was emptying out for the night. Johnny made his way past the last of the diners and headed towards his room, but before he got there he met Mona coming down the stairs towards him.

‘So there you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘You had me worried, Johnny. I was about to call the police.’

Johnny laughed wearily.

‘I’m serious!’ Mona protested. ‘Anything could have happened to you!’

He took her by the arm and guided her into a spare room off the main staircase, closing the door for privacy.

‘I just got picked up by the law,’ he told her in a low voice. ‘Me and Don pulled a bit of a stunt to find out more about the Yakuza, and we drew more attention to ourselves than I’d planned.’

‘I don’t understand. What kind of “stunt”?’

Johnny shrugged: ‘Well, you know, just sort of riding motorbikes through a crowded shopping arcade and … stuff like that.’

Mona stared at him blankly for a moment, and then said: ‘You’re cracked, you know that?’

‘More than you realise, but it wasn’t me, it was Don, and I … well … you know … Look, it doesn’t matter. The thing is, I got pulled in and questioned, but it turned out they were more interested in my involvement with the fire at the Velvet.’

‘But that had nothing to do with you!’

‘That’s what I told them.’

‘And did they believe you?’

‘Enough to let me go for now, pending further enquiries.’

Mona chewed her lip suspiciously. ‘That doesn’t sound like a resounding exoneration.’

‘I told them it was the Yakuza and left it at that. I don’t have a motive for killing Rory or Belle or anybody else … except Mike, perhaps, if he’s still hogging my bed up there.’

‘Not at the moment. Goldilocks is out prowling the East End looking for whatever the hell passes for entertainment in his grubby little world,’ Mona said. ‘Anyway, you haven’t been charged with double murder yet, so that at least is a result of sorts. Anything else?’

‘Yeah. It looks like the Yakuza have a strong connection with Burgess Tower in Mayfair.’

‘Burgess Tower …’ Mona mused for a moment. ‘The place where Hashido died? Was he part of the Yakuza, then?’

‘Fuck knows. All I do know is, three people have now died because of this,’ Johnny said, and held up the rucksack. ‘Demo tapes, Mona. Who the hell kills people over some old fucking demo tapes?’

Mona glanced over her shoulder, then stepped close, dropping her voice to an absolute whisper. ‘Johnny, I don’t trust Mike. He’s always asking me questions about where you are when you’re not around, and he keeps disappearing. I think he’s way more involved in this than he’s letting on.’

‘You might be right, Mona, but I’m feeling lost in all of this. All I know is that somebody, somewhere, has a lot of interest in the tapes in this rucksack. A lot.’

Mona took the rucksack from him and peered inside at the spools of tape.

‘Have you listened to them yet?’ she asked.

‘On what? I’d need a reel-to-reel tape recorder,’ Johnny said. ‘Got one?’

‘Of course not. It’s the kind of ancient bit of hardware I’d have thought you might be hanging onto, grandad.’

‘I did have one once, a rather nice Grundig. Chelsea used to play with it when she was a kid.’

Johnny was brought to a sudden halt by the thought of Chelsea, and the guilt at not being there for her sixteenth birthday party scraped down the back of his neck like a rake. Whatever the reason he wasn’t there, he had let her down badly, and not spoken to her once since then to apologise or explain. A huge tidal wave of shame crashed over him.

Johnny let out an exhausted sigh, ran his hands through the greasy mop of his hair, and said, ‘Mona, I’m fried. It has been a long, long day. I need to crash.’

‘Of course,’ Mona smiled. She pecked him on the cheek, wrinkled her nose and said sweetly: ‘You might want to hop in the bathtub, you smell like an old goat.’

Johnny trudged up to his room, thanking whatever lucky stars still shone for him that Mike wasn’t there. He could, if nothing else, have some privacy before his new roommate came rolling home pissed as a fart.

His urge was just to crash face down on the bed and pass out – but the thought of Chelsea was burning like a hot coal in his conscience. He couldn’t sleep until he had spoken to her. He owed her that. He could ring her right now, the girl was a real night owl like her dad, and she wouldn’t be in bed for hours yet.

Johnny slumped down on the bed, fished the Motorola from his pocket, and found that it was dead. He plugged it into the mains, then switched it on. After a few minutes he saw he had five voice messages. All from Laura. His throat tightened, sensing that something was wrong, very wrong.

‘Message one. Johnny, call me as soon as you can, it’s important.’

‘Message two. Johnny, if you still care about Chelsea, then pick up your damn phone and call me.’

‘Message three … Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Message four. Johnny, Chelsea’s in trouble and I am SICK of trying to get hold of you! RING ME BACK, YOU SELFISH BASTARD!’

‘Message five. Don’t bother, you shit, don’t bother EVER calling me or Chelsea again. You can rot in hell for all I care, and Chelsea doesn’t give a damn about you either! Whoever it is who’s more important to you than your own daughter, I hope she’s bloody worth it!’

Johnny lay on the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, wishing he could just vanish. He’d be doing everyone a favour if he ceased to exist. His heart thudded miserably. Then he picked up the phone, and dialled Laura’s number. It rang. Then, suspiciously quickly, it clicked through to answer-phone: ‘Hi, this is Laura, please leave your message after the beep and I’ll call you back.’

He hung up. He knew that Laura had rejected the call. Or else her mother had. They’d seen his name flash up when he rang and decided to block him. He’d had his chance. He’d had many chances. He had let everyone down once too often. They were done with him. He could picture them standing there, staring daggers at the phone, verbally assassinating him. Maybe Chelsea was there too, sneering at the sight of her so-called dad’s name as it came up on the phone, hardening her heart against him.

No more than you deserve.

He turned his head slowly and looked across the room at the rucksack on the chair in the corner. People had died because of the contents of that bag and right now, Johnny wished that he was one of them. The fire in the Velvet would have consumed not only him, but his guilt too. It would have been a sort of justice. He knew he was being melodramatic and self-pitying to think like this, but fuck it, if there was any soul on this planet granted full licence for melodramatic self-pity, it surely had to be a washed-up rock star.

The Motorola suddenly began tinkling. With a zombie-like movement, Johnny lifted it to his ear and said in a dead voice: ‘I know, and I hate me too.’

‘Well you sound like a bundle of laughs tonight, Dad,’ Chelsea said brightly.

Johnny sat up sharply, now clutching the phone tightly: ‘Chels! Chels, I, I, I’m sorry, I, we had a, I had a, there was a—’

‘Slow down! Are you on drugs?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘I suppose your ordinary life is weird enough already. Listen, Dad, I blocked your call just now. I didn’t want Mum to know you were calling. That’s why I’ve rung you back. I’m up in my room, Mum’s downstairs …’

‘Chelsea, you don’t know how good it is to hear your voice!’

‘You could’ve heard it in person, if you’d bothered to show up to my party, like you promised.’

‘I know, I know,’ Johnny said. ‘… Something came up, something completely unexpected.’

‘Same old story,’ Chelsea said flatly.

‘I know, Chels, and you have every right to hate me for it.’

‘Hate you? Dad, stop being such a drama queen.’

‘But … I made you a promise … and I broke it …’

‘Yeah, as per, because that’s what you’re like, Dad,’ Chelsea said, sounding so matter-of-fact about it that Johnny could imagine she was casually drying her nails while chatting. ‘And Mum wants to kick your arse. And Nanna wants to kick whatever’s left of it when Mum’s done. But I don’t.’

‘You don’t?’

‘Not at all. Because I get it now. You just can’t help being the way you are.’

Johnny opened his mouth to say something, but found he had no words. This was it, the moment he had dreaded. The moment he knew would come if he didn’t do better. The moment he always thought was a couple more broken promises away. He had lost the trust of his daughter. She didn’t trust him to keep his word, she wasn’t even angry that he didn’t, she just accepted him as he was: broken. He stayed still as a deep sadness filled him. Then, all at once he realised he was talking not to Chels, his little girl, his little princess, but to an equal. He pushed down his sadness, strangely proud that she had outgrown him, and plastered on something resembling a normal expression.

‘If I got upset with you every time you let me down, it would be a very negative experience for me,’ Chelsea said calmly. ‘And what good would that do? It would be stupid. And I’m too old for all that now. So, the way I see it, the important thing is to be positive. And to do that, I need to accept that you are who you are. Mum’s struggling to do that. But we all have our own journey.’

‘I don’t know where you get all this emotional maturity from, Chels, but it’s certainly not me.’

‘No, nor Mum neither, the way she’s been kicking off,’ Chelsea said, keeping her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I’ve been following this influencer on TikTok and she’s helped me to see that I need to focus less on you and more on myself. Let’s face it, someone needs to be the grown-up around here. Anyway, I just wanted you to know, Dad, that whatever Mum may have been telling you, I’m fine.’

‘She hasn’t been telling me anything,’ Johnny said. ‘She’s been trying to, but I, um, missed all her calls.’

Chelsea laughed, and it was infectious. Johnny felt his mood lift for the first time in what felt like months. ‘Of course! What else!? You were probably in some sort of stupid incident and couldn’t get to your phone, most likely?’

‘More right than you can know.’

‘I knew it!’ she said. ‘Well, next time you speak to Mum, she’s going to tell you all sorts of wild stories about me. I just want you to know that I’m okay. But I need to tell you my version, before she tells you hers.’ She spoke with such self-assurance that Johnny actually felt unsettled by her.

‘What wild stories is she going to tell me, Chels? Are you free tomorrow? I want to see you.’

‘Not at the house. The atmosphere here is … toxic. Tell you what, let’s meet for coffee at the Black Cat Café before school. You know the place I mean?’

‘I know it. Coffees are on me, princess.’

‘That’s if you even show up,’ Chelsea said, firmly but gently.

‘I’ll be there. I’ll be there.’

‘That’s what you always say.’

‘I mean it.’

‘You always say that, too.’

‘And I mean it,’ Johnny said. ‘Do you still have my old Grundig?’

‘Um … your old what?’

‘The old reel-to-reel tape recorder you used to play with. Do you still have it?’

‘Oh, that! It’s up in the attic. I haven’t used it for years, it’s heavy.’

‘Can you manage to get it, and bring it with you tomorrow? It’s important.’

‘Well then, if it’s important to you, then I’d better make sure I bring it,’ Chelsea said, her voice laced with sarcasm. ‘I wouldn’t want to let you down, not if it’s important to you.’

‘I deserve that,’ Johnny managed to say. ‘Okay, I get your point. Thanks, Chels. I do love you, you know.’

‘I love you too, Dad. See you tomorrow – the Black Cat – eight o’clock sharp.’

‘Eight?! Can’t we make it later?’

‘Dad, I’ve got school,’ Chelsea said, like she was explaining it to a child. ‘How about after school? I’ll be there – with the tape recorder.’

‘Thanks, princess. I’ll be there too. I promise. Sleep tight, princess.’

‘You too, Dad. Night.’

Johnny hung up, and within moments he had sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep.

23

Hard Day’s Night

When Johnny finally awoke, he found he was sharing the bed with Mike, who was dressed in only in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and saggy Y-fronts. Mike must have crawled in while Johnny was comatose, and now he was snoring like an asthmatic pig. Johnny leapt out of the bed like a flea.

He staggered into the bathroom, freshened up with a few splashes of cold water, scraped a razor blade over his chin, combed his hair with his fingers, changed his clothes, and was just pulling his trusty old cowboy boots back on when he heard snorts and farts coming from the bed. Mike grunted, coughed, sniffed, and sat up, looking bleary-eyed.

‘Hey man,’ he said vaguely, yawning widely and absentmindedly scratching his balls through the Y-fronts.

Johnny looked at him in disgust and said: ‘Mike, you know there’s an art to making a success of communal living?’

Mike leant to the side expelling a fart more freely, then said, ‘God, I caned it last night. I met this bird who was good for a few quid, and so we hooked up—’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Mike. And I don’t want you to forget that you’re only staying here. This isn’t your permanent address. You don’t live here. You’ve got to start thinking about making other arrangements.’

‘I am, I will,’ Mike said airily, waving Johnny’s concerns away as though they were flies. ‘I’ll sort everything out.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s exactly the sort of shit I say.’

Johnny stamped his boots into place, got up, and checked the contents of his rucksack. The demo tapes were still safely inside.

‘What you got in there?’ Mike asked.

Johnny hesitated, suddenly feeling reluctant to share with Mike that he had the demos. Mike had never been the most trustworthy guy, and this situation Johnny had found himself in was big. Big and dangerous. Johnny couldn’t be taking risks right now.

‘Something for Chelsea.’

‘Oh right, you seeing her today?’ Mike asked, appearing to be more interested in hunting for his trousers than Johnny’s answer.

‘Yeah, I’m taking her out for coffee in Highgate this afternoon. I … got her a birthday present.’

‘Coffee, eh? Anywhere special?’

‘The Black Cat. It’s a nice place, near where she goes to school.’

But Mike seemed to have reached the limits of his capacity for small talk. He now wasn’t even pretending to listen but was slouching towards the toilet in his pants, dragging his trousers after him.

Johnny had no inclination to hang around to witness whatever was about to happen next. He shouldered the rucksack and headed for the door, but Mike paused and suddenly called out to him.

‘Oh, I forgot. I’ve got a message,’ he said. ‘I spoke to Don.’

Johnny’s ears pricked up. He worried for a moment if Don had said something about their arrangement. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. That auction’s coming up.’

‘What auction?’

‘The one with the guitars we brought back from the south of Spain.’

‘South of France,’ Johnny corrected him. ‘Christ, I’d forgotten all about those bloody guitars.’

‘Well, Pete’s flogging them for charity at Sotheby’s, and we got invites to the party afterwards. We’re on the list, Johnny-boy.’ Mike grinned, his teeth yellow. ‘It’s gonna be quite a bash, apparently. Celebrities. Bands and stuff. You know, the whole works.’

Johnny thought for a moment, then said, ‘Sounds like something Chelsea would like.’

‘Bet she would.’

Would a star-studded night out at an after-auction bash at Sotheby’s make up for missing her birthday party? Johnny made a mental note to run the idea past Chelsea when he saw her later.

‘I’ll leave you to it, Mike,’ Johnny said, and hurried downstairs.

He found Mona making herself a coffee in the main kitchen. She looked him up and down.

‘You going to get yourself freshened up?’ she asked.

‘This is me freshened up,’ Johnny said.

Mona looked at him blankly, then said quietly, ‘Riiiiight …’

Johnny drew closer and dropped his voice: ‘I’m going to hide the demo tapes, somewhere safe where no one will think to look for them.’

‘Can you tell me where?’

‘I could, but I won’t. Maybe later.’

‘What’s brought this on?’

‘I don’t know, a hunch,’ Johnny said. ‘You said last night you didn’t trust Mike. I think you may be right not to. There’s … something about him that … God, I don’t know what it is, just a feeling.’

‘He’s brought a lot of trouble with him already,’ Mona said quietly. ‘I think we’re right to be wary.’

Johnny nodded: ‘Better safe than sorry. So, I’m going to hide the demo tapes. But before I do, I’m going to listen to them. Chelsea still has my old reel-to-reel. We’re going to meet up this afternoon.’

Mona glanced past Johnny’s shoulder, anxious that Mike might be lurking about, eavesdropping.

‘It’s okay, he’s still upstairs,’ Johnny assured her.

‘Let’s take this conversation somewhere else anyway,’ Mona replied. ‘Like you said, better safe than sorry.’

She tipped away her coffee and led Johnny out of Graceland and into Brick Lane. She hooked his arm with hers and together they turned along Fashion Street with its Moorish arches, crossed the bustle of Commercial Road, and ambled aimlessly around the giant enclosed space of Spitalfields Market with its row upon row of stalls. As they walked, Johnny recounted his adventures of yesterday: how he had teamed up with Don, how the Yakuza had trailed them, how he had ended up at Burgess Tower, and then his arrest in connection with the fire at the Velvet.

‘This whole business is insane,’ Mona said at last. ‘Where’s it all going to end?’

‘I don’t know,’ Johnny shrugged. ‘I’d like to think that now the police are involved, they might begin to clear this whole thing up and it’ll all be over, but I don’t believe it.’

‘Me neither.’

‘What I do know is that Rory believed Pete James stole some of his biggest hits from Nick Bloom. If it’s true … “Night After Day”, “One False Move” … these were platinum sellers, Mona, they were massive. Rory said it killed Nick that Pete betrayed him, and now Rory’s dead too. So here I am, stuck with these demo tapes. And somewhere, somehow, this whole feud between Pete and Rory involves the Japanese mafia and that guy Hashido who fell out the window.’

‘If we understood how Hashido was connected, I think we’d make sense of everything,’ Mona said.

‘I agree. But I have no idea how we’d find that out. And that means we’re stuck with being tangled up in this fucking nightmare until … until …’ Johnny couldn’t find the words. He threw his hands up.

‘Then I suggest we keep our heads down,’ Mona said. ‘No more adventures, Johnny. No more burning buildings. No more motorbike chases.’

‘Sounds good to me, Mona, except …’

‘Except what?’

Johnny sighed, and said: ‘I’m thinking about Mike. I could easily believe he’s got himself messed up with all this and got in way over his head … maybe not even deliberately, but just by being a tit. If he’s got himself tangled up in this, he’s gonna keep attracting trouble.’

‘We’ll kick him out of Graceland,’ Mona said firmly. Then she corrected herself: ‘I’ll kick him out.’

‘Can’t we help him find somewhere else to go first? I mean, we can’t just leave him on the street.’

‘Tell him to throw himself on the mercy of Pete James. Pete’s a bloody millionaire.’

‘There’s a reason he’s a millionaire and it’s got nothing to do with him handing out free flats.’

‘And I don’t hand out free flats either,’ Mona said. And then she squeezed Johnny’s arm: ‘Except in special cases.’

‘You’re one in a million, Mona.’ Johnny winked at her, and he kissed her forehead.

***

They took a walk down Bishopsgate and had lunch near the Thames, then Johnny said goodbye to Mona and took a bus out to Highgate. He found the Black Cat Café and hung about there waiting for Chelsea. When he spotted her trudging up the road towards him, lugging the old Grundig reel-to-reel along with her, his heart leapt.

‘You made it!’ they both said in unison, and laughed.

They found a nicely secluded table in a booth near the back. Chelsea sorted them out with drinks, then they sat together, facing each other over the tape recorder, which sat on the table between them.

‘So why have you made me drag this all the way here?’ Chelsea asked, tapping her spoon against the body of the Grundig.

Johnny said nothing, but produced a spool of tape from his rucksack.

‘Do you still remember how to thread up a tape?’ he asked.

Chelsea gave him a look that said Stupid question, of COURSE I do, and proved it by hooking up the spool. She plugged in the recorder, then produced the ancient pair of in-ear headphones that had originally come with the player.

‘They still work,’ she said with a smile, dangling the headphones in front of him.

He plugged in the headphones. He fitted the left earpiece into his own ear, whilst Chelsea fitted the right one into hers.

‘It’s like an iPhone party!’ she giggled. ‘What are we going to listen to, Dad?’

‘Something old,’ Johnny said, and he depressed the heavy ‘play’ button on the face of the Grundig.

The spools began turning. Together, sharing the headphones, their heads almost touching, Johnny and Chelsea listened. They heard some static, a few bumps and scrapes as somebody made last-minute adjustments to a chair. Then a few acoustic guitar notes played, testing the tuning of the instrument. All was as it should be. A cough, a sniff. Silence. Then … music. Arpeggios on the guitar, working their way through a sublime succession of chords. Chelsea didn’t seem to recognise those chords, but Johnny did. It was ‘Night After Day’, Pete James’s first big hit. But it wasn’t Pete playing here, nor was it Pete’s voice that began to sing. It was Nick Bloom, whose youthful voice was much sweeter and more innocent than Pete’s ever was, just as his guitar playing was more delicate.

Evening falls,

The moment that you’re gone.

No one calls,

And no one tries to bring the dawn.

The sound of passing cars was picked up in the background. This evidently wasn’t a studio recording. It had probably been done in Nick Bloom’s living room. An infant Rory was likely nearby, listening to the music and doing his best to stay silent while Daddy sang and played.

I think of what I shouldn’t have said to you

And the reasons you wouldn’t stay.

Starlight flickers away,

Night after day.

Nick Bloom worked his way through the first verse and chorus, then sang meaningless sounds instead of words for the second verse:

Dallum-dah,

De dallum dee-dah-do.

And ballum-bah,

Be-ballum bingo biddley-bo.

When Chelsea frowned at this, Johnny said: ‘It’s because he hadn’t worked out the lyrics for this bit yet.’

The chorus returned, and then, as is the way with rough demos, the song just petered out. Nick marked its conclusion with a single jabbed chord, and said: ‘That’s it, Pete.’

Pete James’s voice answered: ‘Beautiful. It’s beautiful, Nick.’

Nick: ‘You really like it?’

Pete: ‘I love it, man. We’ll mix it, get some backing vocal on there, lay down an eight track.’

Nick: ‘Yeah, I think it’s a good song, just needs someone to get behind it, y’know, sort of—’

But at that point somebody must have hit the ‘stop’ button because the recording cut out. Johnny switched off the reel-to-reel, and he and Chelsea removed their earpieces. Johnny let out a low whistle. If the rest of the tapes were the same as this one …

‘So what was all that about?’ Chelsea asked.

Johnny looked at her very seriously, and said in a low voice: ‘Chelsea, you’re not a little child anymore. I know that. You’re an adult now. I can trust you.’

He removed the spool of tape and put it back in the rucksack with the others, then handed the rucksack over to Chelsea. She hesitated, looking confused and uncertain.

‘Hide these tapes at home,’ he told her. ‘Somewhere safe where Mum won’t find them. Don’t tell anybody. Not a soul. Just keep them safe, and keep them secret, and one day I’ll be back for them. Can you do that for me?’

Chelsea stared at him intently for a few seconds, narrowed her eyes, then at last said: ‘It’s not illegal, is it?’

Johnny shook his head. ‘No, I promise.’

She took the rucksack from him.

‘Total secret,’ Johnny reminded her.

‘I get it.’

The tapes were safer with Chelsea than in his room back at Graceland. If Chelsea had them, Mike wouldn’t be able to get his hands on them. And if any more trouble came down on Graceland, the tapes would be secure.

‘You’re a superstar, Chels,’ Johnny told her. ‘And to say thank you – and to make up for missing your party – I’ve got a gift for you. An invite.’

‘To what?’

‘Somewhere special. A gala night out. Celebs will be there. An exclusive party at Sotheby’s.’

‘At what-er-by’s?’

Johnny laughed. She was emotionally mature, sure, but she was also still just a school kid.

‘Google it when you get in,’ he smiled. ‘It’ll be a big night out, I promise. And it’s my way of saying I …’

Chelsea raised her hand to cut him off in mid-sentence: ‘Dad, most sixteen-year-olds don’t want their parents at their birthday party – something Mum and Nanna don’t seem to get – so stop saying sorry, it’s getting annoying!’

‘I wasn’t about to say that. I was about to say, it’s my way of making it up to you, Chelsea.’

She looked at him for a few heartbeats, and then, in a hurt voice, she said: ‘Oh, so you’re not sorry, then?’

Johnny was dumbfounded for a moment, until a sly smile spread across Chelsea’s face. She was running rings around him these days. He felt strangely proud.

‘What’s going on with your mum at the moment, Chelsea? What is she so worried about?’

Chelsea avoided his eyes, and stared into her drink.

‘Come on, you told me she had got it all wrong?’

Chelsea hesitated for a moment, and appeared to be weighing up what to say. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t freak out and don’t tell Mum what I’ve told you.’

‘Chelsea …’

‘Deal or no deal, Dad.’

He realised there was little chance he could outfox her. ‘Okay Chelsea, but if you’re in danger, then the deal is off.’

‘Okay, I’ve been in trouble at school for selling weed.’ She looked at him ruefully.

Johnny felt a spike of parental outrage. ‘Drugs? What the fuck?!’

‘You were always doing drugs! I heard Mum saying once that you’d snort Persil if it would get you high. I found a crack pipe in the downstairs loo once. Mum told me it was a bit from my chemistry set. I didn’t even have one!’

Johnny felt himself flush red. ‘Things were different. It was the rock-and-roll lifestyle,’ he blustered.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it was because these boys told me they had something on you.’ Chelsea looked upset now. ‘I know they were only saying it to get me to do what they wanted, but I should have told someone. I know that, but only because Mum is so upset and worried. I don’t care about school.’

For a moment Johnny had an urge to flee. He was no good at this sort of thing, having always left it to Laura, but he owed it to Chelsea to do better, and fought the urge to change the subject. ‘You have to finish school, Chels, no matter what you think about it. Don’t end up like me. I’m the worst example you could have in life, and drugs is only the half of it.’

‘I said I would try, but those boys … well, they won’t give up that easily. And you know, Dad, it wasn’t hard selling drugs, it was easy, and people looked up to me. It made me feel … well, better about myself.’ She looked haughty for a moment. ‘It boosted my self-esteem.’

Johnny took a deep breath and prayed to the god he didn’t believe in to help him out here.

‘Drink, drugs … I don’t know how to explain it any better, love. You think it’s giving you something, but it’s just taking bits of you away, it hollows you out.’ He was almost afraid to ask the next question. ‘Are you taking any of this yourself?’

Chelsea shrugged. ‘A bit of weed, that’s all. Everyone does it now.’

Johnny thought about what he could possibly have to offer that would make a difference right now, that wouldn’t make him sound like every other self-righteous grown-up. What had he really learned from all the wasted years? ‘Chelsea, all you can do is listen to that voice inside you, the one that tells you what’s right and what’s wrong. I spent my whole life ignoring it and sometimes I still don’t listen, but it’s never wrong.’

Chelsea nodded. ‘I think I know what you mean … but what about Mum? She’s going mad, watching me every minute.’

‘Your mum just cares about you, and she has good instincts.’

‘She doesn’t understand everything. I can’t believe she was ever young.’

I’ve made her old and jaded beyond her years.

‘Try her, Chelsea, and she might surprise you.’

They drank their coffees together, and chatted about Chelsea’s life, and Laura, and just ordinary things, and Johnny realised how deeply he missed all this. He was pleased that she still trusted him enough to tell him about what had happened, but he was in no position to play the high-handed father.

When Chelsea checked the time and said she had to get back, Johnny didn’t want to let her go.

‘Seriously, Dad, I need to get home, or Mum will come looking for me,’ she said, carrying the Grundig with her as she left, the rucksack secured on her shoulders.

‘I’ll walk you.’

‘It’s only ten minutes, Dad, even lugging all this stuff. I’ll be fine. And anyway …’

‘I know, I know. You mother’ll kick off if she sees me.’

‘She’ll calm down, if I stick to the agreement. We’re both working on things,’ Chelsea said.

‘God, Chels, you sound like a psychiatrist.’

‘Does that make you feel defensive?’

‘You’re doing it again!’

Chelsea grinned. ‘I know, I’m enlightened. Look, the party sounds great, I’m up for it. When is it?’

‘I’ll find out,’ said Johnny.

He watched as she headed off back along the street, making her way home. At the corner she turned. She couldn’t wave because she was clutching the reel-to-reel with both arms, but she smiled. Johnny smiled back. Then Chelsea disappeared from view, taking those damned demo tapes with her.

Now that those tapes were away from him, he felt like a weight had lifted. Not entirely, but at least in part. Strangely, he felt safer. And he felt renewed and refreshed by his meeting with his daughter. Buoyed up in a way that he was not at all accustomed to these days, he strode along the pavement, heading for the bus stop.

‘Johnny?’ a voice asked from behind him. ‘Johnny Klein?’

Feeling better than he had in years, Johnny turned to face the fan with a smile.

A fist rammed into Johnny’s stomach like a piston, knocking the air out of his lungs. As he fell to the pavement, he saw that the fist belonged to an enormous Japanese man in an immaculate grey suit. Johnny doubled up in agony, unable to breathe, but before he’d even processed what had happened, huge hands grabbed him roughly, rammed a cloth bag over his head, and hurled him into the back of a van, which then took off with a screech of tyres.

24

Man in Black

For what felt like hours, Johnny lay crunched up in a foetal position, his stomach blazing with pain, fighting to get air into his lungs. When at last he began to drag in noisy, groaning breaths, he became aware of heavy weights pressing down on his body, his legs, his ankles. He could see nothing with that damned bag on his head, but the more oxygen he got back into his bloodstream, the more his reeling senses sharpened – enough at least for him to comprehend that he was on the hard floor of the van, being pinned down by heavy feet in heavy shoes. When Johnny tried to lift his head, a heavy blow warned him to stay down. He obeyed.

The van rocked and bounced as it tore through the streets. Where the hell in London it was now, was a complete mystery. Johnny could do nothing but lie on the floor, blind, helpless, willing the pain in his abdomen to recede. His greatest fear in that moment was not for himself but for Chelsea. Was she lying right beside him, bagged and beaten just like him? He fought the urge to cry out her name – after all, if she was safe, uttering her name would only put her in danger. With every scrap of willpower he could muster, he forced himself to remain still and silent.

It was clearly the Yakuza who had him. And given what they had done to Rory and Belle and, presumably, Hashido, Johnny could not bank on the prospect of getting out of this alive. He found himself thankful that if this was indeed the end for him, then the last time he had seen Chelsea she’d been smiling at him, she’d been happy that he was her dad, not resentful and hurt. But damn it, damn it, if only he could say the same about Laura. He ached to have one final chance to apologise to her, to tell her he was sorry about all his failings, how he had let her down over and over again; to see her face one last time, to kiss her, to feel the warmth of her body against his own, even if it were just for ten seconds, five seconds, one second, a blink of an eye.

The van lurched and came to a stop. Hands clamped themselves around Johnny’s arms and neck, and he was hauled roughly to his feet. The bag remained secured over his head, so as he was forcibly marched out of the vehicle he stumbled and staggered. He felt hard concrete under his feet, sensed suddenly that he was being propelled through a doorway, heard the acoustics change as he entered an interior space.

Focus, he told himself as he was shoved and dragged along. Focus on staying alive, nothing but that, just staying alive.

They seemed to be taking him along a straight corridor, then through heavy doors that clanked loudly as they opened, then down a narrow set of metal stairs.

Just focus on staying alive. You will not die here. You will not die today.

The mantra echoed through his brain – you will not die, you will NOT die – growing and growing in strength and certainty, but still he felt his nervous system crackling with terror, his heart pounding, his body bracing for some terrible act of violence.

Without warning, he was thrust into a hard wooden chair and heavy hands on his shoulders pinned him down. The bag was roughly snatched from his head. At last, Johnny could look around and see where the hell he was and who the hell had brought him there.

He had expected to find himself in some sort of concrete bunker, with harsh lights blazing into his eyes, meat hooks dangling from chains, ghastly and ambiguous instruments of torture arrayed about him. But no, not at all.

Johnny was in a large, sleek office. The floor was a chessboard of black-and-white marble squares that seemed to have been lifted straight out of a Vermeer. The walls were all sleek grey, decorated with framed prints of Japanese watercolours, each one illuminated by its own perfectly positioned down-light. Venetian blinds masked the windows, allowing only a hint of daylight to intrude between the slats. At the far end of the room stood a desk that appeared to be fashioned from polished granite. Computer screens glowed from its surface, their light revealing the figure of a slim man seated at the desk. The man stared thoughtfully across at Johnny, one hand resting against his chin, the other toying idly with a Mont Blanc pen on the desktop.

Warily, fearing that it might provoke a retributory blow if he moved too much, Johnny dared a glance to his left and then to his right. He was flanked by large Japanese men, two of whom had their hands on him to ensure he stayed seated. The men did not look at him, but all had their eyes fixed on the slim, sharp-boned man behind the desk, who at that moment spoke in a low, measured voice: ‘I am Shi.’

Johnny swallowed hard, and said: ‘Hi, Shi. I’m Johnny.’

At once, a fist came powering in from nowhere and slammed into the side of Johnny’s face. It was like being struck with a brick. A white flash momentarily obscured his vision, and for several moments his brain felt like it was spinning inside his skull. Slowly, he recovered his wits, though his face now throbbed like a bitch.

‘Mr Shi! Mr Shi!’ snapped a Japanese-accented voice very close to his ear.

‘My mistake,’ Johnny rasped. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, Mr Shi.’

‘You’re being ironic,’ Shi said quietly, and now he stood up. He was dressed all in black, the very embodiment of a tech billionaire or crypto-king, in loose chinos and a polo-neck sweater. ‘No matter. We have business to resolve, you and I. Today. Tonight. Right here.’

‘Okay, fine, Mr Shi,’ Johnny said, trying to sound both calm and respectful. He was determined to do anything and everything he could not only to avoid another skull-cracking like the one he’d just endured, but also to get out of here alive. ‘What would you like from me?’

SMASH! This time, the blow struck him from behind, just above the nape of his neck. Johnny’s head shot forward, and had he not been pinned into his seat, he would have gone sprawling on the expensive marble floor.

‘No questions!’ that unseen voice barked in his ear. ‘No questions!’

‘I ask the questions,’ Shi said softly, and very slowly he came out from behind the desk and walked forward, his hands casually in his pockets, his eyes fixed on Johnny. ‘You understand the organisation of which I am a representative?’

‘I think so,’ Johnny said quietly.

‘And you understand the dishonour that has been done to that organisation?’

Bracing himself for yet another thump, Johnny said: ‘No, I don’t understand.’

‘No? I find that surprising. You are aware of Mr Hashido, are you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are aware of the manner in which he died?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Clarify, Mr Klein.’

‘I mean that … well, I know that he fell from a window, or was pushed out, but … I don’t know why, or who did it, or … anything.’

‘You know surely that Mr Hashido was murdered on account of certain sound recordings, isn’t that so?’

‘I’d guessed as much.’

‘Guessed. Why guessed?’

‘I’m just an errand boy, Mr Shi. I’m paid to go here, go there, fetch this, do that. I don’t know the finer details of what I’m paid to do. I know that there are tapes, recordings of songs from decades ago, and I know that …’ Johnny broke off, turned to one of the huge heavies looming over him, and asked: ‘Am I allowed to keep answering like this or am I going to get lamped again?’

The heavy ignored him, but Mr Shi said, ‘Keep talking.’

Johnny swallowed, then went on: ‘I know that Pete James had those tapes, and that Rory Bloom stole them from him – or stole them back, depending on how you look at it. I know that your people broke into the Velvet and ki— I mean, I know that Rory died in a fire at the Velvet, and that … that the tapes went up in flames along with him.’

Johnny’s heart was in his mouth saying that last line. It was a lie. Would Shi know that it was a lie? If he did, Johnny was likely as good as dead. But if Shi believed him, perhaps that would play in Johnny’s favour. After all, if Shi wanted those tapes but believed they no longer existed, then Johnny was surely of no more interest to him.

‘The tapes were destroyed?’ Shi asked. ‘How do you know?’

‘I was there.’

‘I know, but what did you see?’

‘Rory had the tapes in a rucksack. I … saw him burning, and the rucksack burning, and … then I jumped out the window to escape.’

‘You saw the tapes burn?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you saw Rory burn too?’

‘Absolutely.’

Johnny hoped he was coming across as credible. He’d learned enough about lying in his fifty-odd years to stick as closely to the truth as possible. Rory was dead, even if he hadn’t seen him die with his own eyes. It was just a tiny step away from the truth to say that he’d been holding the rucksack with the tapes in it rather than pitched it out the window. All in all, Johnny’s story was consistent and believable. And hopefully it would save his neck.

Mr Shi came closer, positioning himself barely two feet away from Johnny and scrutinising him. It was like being stared at by a panther. Johnny forced himself to remain motionless.

‘It would seem,’ Mr Shi said in that low, emotionless voice of his, ‘that the death of Hashido has been paid for. Rory killed him, and now Rory himself has been killed. One death balances the other. And the tapes have been destroyed. This whole affair was over those tapes, but now they are no more. The slate has been wiped clean. Business has been concluded.’

Johnny remained totally immobile, hardly daring even to blink in case it in some way elicited another bout of violence from his captors.

Mr Shi nudged Johnny with his foot, almost as if testing to see if he was still alive, then turned and strode smartly back to his desk.

‘You spent time in a police station the other night,’ he said, his back to Johnny. ‘What story did you give them?’

‘I didn’t have much of a story to tell,’ Johnny said. ‘Like I said, I don’t fully understand this business, just bits and pieces. I had no idea that Rory killed Hashido. I told the police that Rory was dead.’

‘And how did you tell them that Rory died?’ Shi asked, his back still to Johnny.

‘They know there was a fire, it was in all the news,’ Johnny said.

Shi reached into a desk drawer and removed something. Whatever it was, Johnny heard it click. When Shi turned around to face him, Johnny saw that Shi was holding a pistol.

‘The truth, Mr Klein,’ Shi said, glaring at him. ‘What did you tell the police about the fire?’

Johnny’s eyes were fixed on the pistol. He could not look away from it. He found that he was starting to shake.

‘I … I told them … I …’ he stammered.

‘The truth, Mr Klein.’

‘I told them the Yakuza did it.’

Had he signed his own death warrant with that admission? If so, then he’d had no choice. What else could he say that Shi would believe? It was obvious that Johnny had seen exactly who attacked the Velvet, and that he would have no reason to keep that information from the police.

Mr Shi nodded to himself, then strode back over and pressed the gun against Johnny’s cheek.

‘You told the police it was us,’ Shi said.

‘Wasn’t it?’

Shi dragged the barrel of the gun across Johnny’s face, then pushed it against his lips, using it to force his mouth open. Johnny tasted the cold metal of the pistol on his tongue. He fought, with every fibre of his being, to suppress his shaking, but he could not.

There was a long, long pause, an agonising moment of terrifying silence. Then Shi spoke.

‘I believe you, Mr Klein, when you say you are nothing more in this matter than an errand boy. And now that the police are involved, your death would be nothing more than an added inconvenience to us. For that reason, I will let you live tonight. You will forget everything. You will forget the tapes. You will forget Rory. You will forget me. And I advise you, Mr Klein, to do a very, very good job of forgetting, because if I am given reason to suspect that your memory is just that little bit too reliable, and that your tongue is that little bit too loose, and that your life is that little bit too troublesome to our organisation or to myself …’

Shi pushed the gun in hard enough to make Johnny gag. Then, slowly, he withdrew it and retreated back to his desk.

‘We understand each other, Mr Klein,’ Shi said.

‘Yes,’ Johnny was barely able to force the word out, but wanted to make sure he sounded like he meant it.

‘That wasn’t a question,’ Shi told him. ‘That was a final warning.’

Shi gave a minute hand signal, little more than the twitch of a finger. At once, the cloth bag was thrust back over Johnny’s head and he was dragged from the room. He felt himself being marched blindly back up the metal staircase and along corridors, then thrown into the back of the van and bounced about as it weaved its way through the London streets.

Time passed.

The van stopped up. Strong hands hauled Johnny upright and dragged him out. The bag was pulled from his head.

The first thing Johnny saw was the huge face of Ravi, looking down at him from the façade of Graceland. He was in Brick Lane. The Yakuza had brought him home, to his very front doorstep. It wasn’t a courtesy, of course, but a reminder. A reminder that, if needs be, they knew exactly where to find him.

Still shaking, and feeling he was about to shatter into a million pieces, Johnny stared mutely up at Graceland. He heard the van doors slam behind him, and then the engine start again as they pulled away, but he did not turn to look.

He had survived. And the Yakuza had not once mentioned Chelsea. They had no interest in her, had not connected her to any of this, perhaps did not even know that she existed. They had not used threats against her as leverage over him.

Chelsea was safe. It was over.

‘Thank God,’ Johnny muttered, putting his hands over his face in relief, and was surprised to feel the hot wetness of his own tears coursing down it.

25

End of the Line

Johnny and Don met on the Millennium Bridge, that shining walkway that spans the Thames between the dome of St Paul’s and the imposing brick tower of Tate Modern. The wind was gusting along the river, causing Don to scowl and shrink behind his coat collar, but Johnny welcomed it. It felt cleansing, as if it was blowing away all the filth and violence and death of the last few days.

‘Let’s get inside,’ Don groused. ‘I can’t talk out here.’

They headed south over the grim, sludgy waters of the Thames and ducked into a coffee shop where they could tuck away in a corner by themselves, relatively undisturbed.

‘So,’ Don said when they were settled, ‘you said you have things to tell me. So tell me.’

‘First, I want my money,’ Johnny said flatly. ‘Five grand, like you promised. I’ve done everything that I was asked to do, and more.’

Don shrugged and nodded: ‘No argument from me on that one, Johnny.’

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an envelope and passed it to Johnny.

‘It’s all there,’ Don said.

‘For once, I trust you, though fuck knows why,’ Johnny said, slipping the envelope into his own coat without even counting what was inside.

‘Now we’ve got the unseemly matter of money out of the way, let’s get down to the nub,’ Don said. ‘Fill me in.’

‘As far as you and me are concerned, Don, this whole matter is now closed. Pete ripped off Nick Bloom; Rory stole from Pete the demo tapes that proved Pete took advantage of his dad; it seems that Rory tried to use the music promoter Hashido to exploit those tapes, but something went seriously wrong between them. For some reason – Christ knows why – Rory shoved Hashido out of the window, but Hashido was heavily involved with the Yakuza, who took Hashido’s death very personally. They wanted revenge on Rory and to get their hands on the tapes. That’s why they came after me and Mike and you. They figured that at least one of us would have those tapes, but they didn’t know who. And the way I see it, they probably started to suspect that we were all working together, handing those tapes around like we were playing pass-the-parcel, so that nobody else could get a hold of them. Maybe they even intended to blackmail Pete themselves – after all, Pete would pay very good money to keep those tapes quiet. They followed me to the Velvet and burned it down with Rory inside, and they didn’t give a damn that they barbequed poor Belle de Jour at the same time.’

Don listened carefully to all this, his face unreadable.

‘Well,’ Johnny went on, ‘yesterday evening the Yakuza caught up with me. I was invited to the office of Mr Shi.’

‘The big boss?’ Don asked.

‘Maybe, I don’t know. We had what the Krays used to call a friendly little chat.’

Don drew in a sharp intake of breath and Johnny paused, allowing the realisation of what that meant to sink in.

‘And what did you … chat about?’ Don asked.

‘I told him the tapes had been destroyed in the fire at the Velvet and that seemed good enough for him. Rory’s death had paid for the death of Hashido, and the tapes were now out of the picture, so everybody could forget about them. Mr Shi drew a line under the whole damn business – on the condition that we all draw a line under it too.’

‘Holy shit. No argument from me,’ Don said gruffly.

‘If we all just forget the whole thing, it’s over for us,’ Johnny said. ‘Tell Pete that. He’s off the hook. He’s off all the hooks – nobody can blackmail him now, nobody can ruin his reputation by proving his career was all built on stealing, and he’s not going to find himself wearing a pair of concrete boots courtesy of the Yakuza.’

Don nodded, and said: ‘Thank fuck.’

‘Now you run along back to your owner like a good little boy and tell him all that, Don,’ Johnny said coldly, getting to his feet.

‘Hey, no need to get shitty with me, Johnny-boy.’

‘I saw Rory and Belle die because of your lord and master Pete James. I had a gun shoved down my throat because of him. And Chelsea – my daughter – could have been sucked into all this, all because of that thieving piece of shit. Pete James is not my favourite person. And you stink of him, Don.’

‘You’re in no position to get on your moral high-horse with me, Klein. You take Pete’s money just as readily as I do!’

‘Yeah, I do. And it makes me sick to my stomach.’

‘If it offends you so much, you can hand it straight back. Nobody’s forcing you to take it, Johnny.’

‘Don’t be such a fucking idiot,’ Johnny sneered with genuine contempt. ‘The world forces me to take it. This life forces me to take it. I’m this close, Don—’ And Johnny held up his finger and his thumb a fraction apart. ‘I’m this close to sitting in a shop doorway along Tottenham Court Road with a fucking McDonald’s cup, asking for spare change. You think if my balls weren’t so fucking squeezed, I’d take a single penny from Pete James?’

‘To be honest with you, Johnny, I think you would,’ Don said, and now any warmth that had developed between them recently had completely evaporated. Don was now smirking, toying idly with his coffee spoon. ‘You can give me the big speech about “nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen”, but you’re a grifter at heart, Johnny. Like me. Like Pete. Like everyone else in the business. This is the music industry, Johnny. You’re never more than six feet from a rat.’

‘Bollocks. I saw Rory die because of Pete James’s con.’

‘And what was Rory but a con artist? He conned his way into Pete’s Saint-Tropez villa, he conned those demo tapes, and the only thing that stopped him grifting those tapes was that he wound up dead. So spare me the sermons, Johnny. You’re standing there with five grand of grift in your pocket, and when Pete James clicks his fingers, you’ll come trotting back for more. And don’t try and tell me you won’t.’

‘Tell yourself that, Don. If that’s what helps you sleep at night.’

‘Have it your way,’ Don shrugged. ‘Guess I’ll just have to tell Pete you’re no longer interested in that free invite to the Sotheby’s party.’

Johnny opened his mouth to say that Pete could shove the party up his arse – and then stopped. Chelsea. He’d promised that party to Chelsea. He’d promised it because he’d broken his previous promise to attend her party. Now he was going to have to break the promise he’d made to make up for breaking his previous promise.

Fuck.

‘Something wrong, Johnny?’ Don asked, amused by Johnny’s sudden silence.

‘I’m going to that party, Pete James or not,’ Johnny managed to say at last.

‘But I wouldn’t want you to accept something from Pete, Johnny – not given your moral purity.’

Before Don could say anything else, Johnny turned and strode out of the coffee shop. Stomping east along the south bank and then across Southwark Bridge, he paused to let the wind buffet him. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then another, then another. But it didn’t help. He still felt like crap. The money in his pocket felt contaminated. The Sotheby’s party felt like a humiliation. When he opened his eyes and gazed around at London, the whole sprawling city felt claustrophobic, like a trap that had closed around him, like an impossible maze that had swallowed him up and from which he could never escape.

He worked his way north, through the red elegance of Leadenhall Market and beneath the cool curves of the Gherkin until he reached the warm and homely mess of Brick Lane. In Graceland, he found Mona in her little workroom, tapping away at her laptop. At the sight of him, she smiled. A broad, genuine, human smile, with no guile. It was the perfect antidote to his encounter with Don.

‘I missed you last night,’ she said brightly. ‘What were you up to?’

‘Oh, nothing special, just having a gun shoved in my mouth by the Japanese mafia. You know, the usual. And y’self?’

Mona stared at him, wide-eyed and horrified.

‘It’s okay, Mona. The Yakuza are done with us. Finished. What they wanted from me were the tapes. But I told them the tapes had gone up in smoke along with everything else in the Velvet. So that’s that. They’ve lost interest in us, and we’re free of them.’

‘To hell with them, what about you, Johnny! What did they do to you?!’

‘Nothing serious, just threatened to blow my brains out.’

‘That’s pretty bloody serious!’

‘It was a warning. They were putting the frighteners on me. If they’d wanted to kill me last night, they’d have done it. But it was more trouble for them to dispose of me as a corpse than just to scare the shit out of me and send me on my way. Now the tapes are gone, it’s all over and done with.’

‘The tapes aren’t gone, though. You’ve got them hidden somewhere.’

‘Yes, but they don’t know that. The Yakuza think they’re destroyed, Don thinks they’re destroyed, and when Don speaks to Pete, then Pete will think they’re destroyed. As far as the world is concerned, those tapes don’t exist anymore.’

Mona frowned thoughtfully, and said: ‘So, what happens next? Are you going to keep those tapes hidden? Or are you really going to destroy them? Coz if you ask me, I think the best place for those damn tapes is at the bottom of the Thames.’

‘I’ve been thinking this whole thing through,’ Johnny said. ‘Those tapes are like a silver bullet as far as Pete James is concerned. If they got out, they’d finish him. That’s why he was so frantic to get them back. But now he believes he’s no longer in danger. And the Yakuza will back off. That means I can bide my time. I can wait for the dust to settle. And when it has settled, I can …’

‘You can what, Johnny? Blackmail Pete James the way Rory tried to do? Because that didn’t work out too well for him.’

‘I’ll think of something. Pete James isn’t going to get away with what he did to Nick Bloom, and I won’t let Rory and Belle die completely in vain. Those tapes can achieve some sort of justice.’

‘Justice?’ Mona asked. ‘Is that what you really want? Or is it just a chance to extort money out of Pete James?’

Johnny threw his head back in exasperation. ‘Oh sweet Jesus, Mona, you sound like Don!’

‘I want to know, Johnny. There’s more important things in life than money.’

‘Oh, that’s easy for you to say! I mean, look at me! I’m kipping in a spare room, scrounging cash to keep myself off the street!’

‘Yes you are! But at least it’s not dishonest, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!’

‘Like fuck there isn’t.’

Mona got angrily to her feet. ‘You’re doing what you have to do to survive. And if it’s not what you’d choose to do, well that makes you no different from ninety percent of the rest of us. Running errands for Pete James is work, Johnny, even if you hate it. It’s work. But blackmailing Pete James over his past isn’t work at all. It’s … it’s beneath you. It’s the kind of thing Pete would do, not you. You’re better than that.’

‘And if I’m not?’ Johnny asked. ‘What then?’

Mona glared at him, upset, angry, frustrated, and said: ‘Then you won’t just lose me, which perhaps you wouldn’t give a shit about anyway, but you’ll lose Chelsea!’

At that moment, Mike stuck his head around the door, and through a big dopey grin said: ‘Oh dear, lovers’ tiff, is it?’

‘Fuck off!’ Johnny and Mona snapped at him in unison.

‘Right-ho,’ Mike said reasonably, and vanished.

Johnny and Mona were alone again, glaring at each other.

‘I don’t want to lose you, I’ve lost enough already,’ Johnny said quietly.

Mona sighed, and closed her eyes for a moment before looking at him more softly. ‘I don’t want to lose you either. But I don’t want to see you sink to the level of blackmail.’

‘I won’t. But I can’t just let this whole matter rest as it is. Pete James needs to be held accountable, one way or another.’

‘Then we’ll figure something out, Johnny. I can break this as a story. I can make it go very public. If you want us to make money out of it, let’s do it as investigative journalists, not blackmailers.’

‘For the time being, I don’t want to do anything. The whole thing has to blow over first. God knows, we don’t want to stir up trouble with the Yakuza again. Let’s just sit on it. We have the tapes, and nobody else knows. The time will come.’

‘The time will come,’ Mona repeated quietly, and reached out to give him a tight hug.

‘Hey, I got an idea,’ Johnny said, releasing himself from her and taking her by the hands. ‘The Sotheby’s auction and the party afterwards. Me and Mike have invites. I’m taking Chelsea as my plus one, but why don’t we tag you along with Mike?’

‘You want me to be Mike’s significant other?’ Mona asked, horrified.

‘Well, only in terms of the invite. Think of it like a sham wedding to get a green card.’

‘With Mike?! I’m still not sure about him, Johnny.’

Johnny thought back to earlier and Mike asking where he was meeting Chelsea. Could Mike be caught up in all this? Then he remembered the farting ball-scratcher in his room.

Nah.

‘It’s just to get you through the door!’ Johnny laughed. ‘Pretend to be his sister or something.’

‘His sister!’

‘Or his daughter.’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Or his nurse,’ Johnny suggested. ‘We’ll tell everyone Mike’s not in a fit state to be let out without a qualified medical professional.’

Mona was laughing now, shaking her head incredulously: ‘Oh God, Johnny, why can’t a single thing be simple with you?’

‘Come along to the party, Mona. I want you there. Mike’ll bugger off looking for birds as soon as we get in, so you’ll be shot of him. And you’ll finally meet Chelsea. It’ll be fun. God knows, I think we’ve earned some fun, after all of this!’

‘Okay, I’m in,’ Mona smiled. ‘You’re right, and even with Mike there, how bad can things go wrong? I mean, really?’

26

Glam Rock

On the day of the big charity auction at Sotheby’s, Johnny waited for Mona in the main restaurant area of Graceland. The place was all set up for the evening customers but at this time in the afternoon it was deserted.

Mona strode in, dressed in a simple but very elegant trouser suit, that fitted her perfectly.

‘What do you think?’ she grinned at Johnny, and gave him an extravagant twirl.

‘You look fantastic,’ Johnny said, admiringly.

‘Just fantastic?’ Mona teased. She fussed with her outfit and asked: ‘It’s not too formal, is it?’

‘No, not at all,’ Johnny replied. Then he added: ‘God, I don’t know. All I know is, you look good enough to eat.’

Mona put her hands on her hips and gave him a wry, lopsided grin: ‘Main? Or dessert?’

But then the moment between them was shattered by the sudden arrival of Mike, barging into the restaurant and declaring in a loud voice: ‘Right, you guys, I’ve got an announcement!’

‘You’re moving out!’ Mona said sarcastically.

‘No,’ Mike said, and Mona’s face fell. ‘I spoke to Don earlier today. Pete James is sending a chauffeur-driven limo to pick us up and take us back.’

‘I can get there by bus,’ Johnny said sourly.

Mike looked at him horrified: ‘Johnny-boy, don’t be such a carrot!’

‘A limo there and back would be nice,’ Mona put in, nudging Johnny’s arm.

‘I don’t like it,’ Johnny insisted. ‘It’s a power play. Pete wants to show that when he drops crumbs from his table, I’ll eat them.’

Mona put in: ‘This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say in my entire life, but I think Mike’s right, Johnny. Think of the limo as a tip.’

‘A sweetener!’ Mike added.

‘A bonus,’ Mona nodded.

Johnny sighed. ‘I can see that if we put this to the vote, then I’ve had it. Unless I get Chelsea’s vote too – then I might just manage a stalemate.’

‘My vote on what?’ It was Chelsea’s voice coming suddenly and unexpectedly from the door.

Everyone turned – and Johnny was dumbfounded for a moment. She had come to Graceland to be taken to her promised celebrity party, but she had arrived not as Johnny’s little princess but looking every inch a sophisticated young woman. She wore a hot-pink cropped two-piece outfit. The top skirted her belly button, showing what looked suspiciously like a fake-tanned stomach, and the matching satin pencil skirt hugged her newly arrived curves, while her hair cascaded over her shoulders in large curls. She looked just as her mother had done when she was young, with the addition of Johnny’s ice-blue eyes. If he was the emotional sort, he would have been dabbing at his own ice-blues at this point.

‘Hubba hubba!’ Mike said suggestively, bursting Johnny’s proud fatherly bubble. Johnny jabbed his ribs with an elbow sharply and Mike drew his tongue back in and said more appropriately, ‘Hello, Chelsea. You look nice, love.’

Grinning, Chelsea gave him a turn, and said: ‘I remember you, Mike. I was only little, last time I saw you.’

‘Not so little now,’ Mike said, and Johnny jabbed him again.

‘Are you Mona, my dad’s girlfriend?’ Chelsea said, matter-of-factly, and Johnny wasn’t sure what to say. Was Mona his girlfriend?

Echoing his thought before he could answer, Mona pulled a face. ‘Not exactly, but it’s lovely to meet you at last,’ she replied. ‘You look stunning!’

‘I had to get changed at a mate’s. Mum had me wearing a lamé prom dress.’ Chelsea rolled her eyes.

Johnny was stunned, not just by how grown-up Chelsea looked this evening, but by how grown-up she behaved. And, more importantly, there was no sense of hostility towards Mona. Instead, she seemed completely cool about her. Perhaps she was just glad that somebody was keeping her dad out of trouble. Or maybe she was even resigned to the fact that her mum and dad’s marriage was over. Whatever it was that was going on inside Chelsea’s mind, Johnny wished he had some of it himself.

‘You’ve caught us in the middle of a debate, Chelsea,’ Mona said. ‘We need your vote on whether to go to Sotheby’s by public transport or by chauffeur-driven luxury climate-controlled limo.’

‘Err,’ Chelsea said, tapping her chin as if deep in thought. ‘One: my dad’s a pop legend, and two: these shoes ain’t walking anywhere.’ She stuck out a foot, displaying her very high heels, and said: ‘They’re already killing me.’

‘Three-to-one for the limo!’ Mike grinned. ‘Sorry, Johnny, but that’s democracy. Mona, you going to go and get yourself ready?’

Mona looked at him icily: ‘I am ready.’

‘Oh,’ said Mike. ‘Right. Of course. You look … a million bucks.’

‘Maybe you should get changed before the limo arrives, Mike,’ Johnny said.

Mike looked down at himself: ‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?’

‘An Iron Maiden T-shirt with bits of yesterday’s bhaji on it?’

Mike feebly tried to pick the dried food off.

‘Go and find my uncle,’ Mona ordered him. ‘He’ll lend you a shirt. A clean one.’

‘I haven’t worn a clean shirt since I got married to my last ex-wife,’ Mike said.

‘Mike, just do it,’ Johnny told him flatly, and gave him a shove to send him on his way.

Thanks to Mike’s stupid comment, Mona was now self-conscious about how she looked. She excused herself and headed off to make adjustments, even though both Johnny and Chelsea insisted she looked great as she was.

‘Now we’ve got a moment alone,’ Johnny said in a low voice when Mona had gone, ‘tell me, how’s your mum? And your nanna?’

‘Mum’s okay. Nanna’s away, some coach trip around Yorkshire.’

‘Your mum knows you’re with me, right?’

‘Oh yes, I told her exactly where I was going.’

‘And how did she react?’

‘She pulled a face.’

‘A face?’

‘Yeah,’ said Chelsea simply. ‘But she let me come.’

‘Well, when I send you home in a chauffeured limo, your mother will have nothing to moan about.’

Johnny kissed the top of her head, then, in a whisper, he said: ‘That rucksack with the tapes in it …’

‘Safe.’

‘Where?’

‘Under my bed.’

Johnny felt a wave of anxiety pass through him at the thought of those tapes sitting right under his daughter’s bed, and what some people seemed prepared to do to get hold of them. Those tapes had the stink of violence and death about them, and he suddenly felt a strong sensation that he was doing the wrong thing.

‘I’ll take them back from you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll come over to see your mum, and … straighten things out …’ He thought about the five grand he’d been paid from Pete James. ‘… and I’ll take her out somewhere. Both of you. Somewhere nice. But we’d better crack on. The auction’s at six. I’m going to send you back to Highgate in the limo by eleven.’

‘That early?!’ Chelsea exclaimed.

‘Yes, that early,’ Johnny said with great authority. ‘Eleven at the latest, otherwise your mother will kill me. The limo can come back and pick up me and Mona and Mike later and bring us back here. And then tomorrow I’ll come over to Highgate – on the bus.’

Mona reappeared in a glamorous white outfit that Chelsea told her looked ‘sick’.

The understated, sleek black limo appeared and they all climbed inside, Mike now in his borrowed shirt, and they glided west across the city, along Chancery Lane, through the bustling labyrinth of Soho, and at last into Mayfair. Sotheby’s, with its austere white façade and blue awning, looked grander and more impressive than ever, buzzing with a throng of limos, celebrities, city high-rollers, elite music collectors, and jostling press photographers. Chelsea bounced about in her seat, shamelessly rubbernecking to catch sight of the famous faces.

The limo pulled up and they emerged into the throng. Cameras flashed at them as a chorus of voices yelled out: ‘Johnny! Johnny Klein! Hey, Johnny!’

‘And Mike, you bastards!’ Mike yelled back, posturing and pouting like he was a teenaged idol again, roaring through life with the world at his feet.

As Johnny pushed his way through the photographers, he glanced back to see where Chelsea was. She had hooked onto Mona for support to get through the crowd.

They followed the surge into the auction room and found somewhere to sit. The place was packed. Johnny caught sight of a few celebs: Rod Stewart and Penny Lancaster were there; Simon and Yasmin Le Bon waved at him across the room; he even caught sight of his old squeeze Jackie, who was looking stunning in a plunging leather cat-suit that left nothing to the imagination. But Johnny kept his head firmly down, avoiding eye contact. A complicated triangle was the last thing he needed right now.

Chelsea kept craning her head this way and that to gawp at the celebs. The room filled up, and they took their seats. Johnny realised they had lost Mike, but swiftly the auction began. A parade of music memorabilia began to appear – John Bonham drumsticks; a rough hand-written page of the lyrics to ‘Imagine’ written by John Lennon; even a small glass vial containing a fully authenticated Sid Vicious bogey.

Once that had sold to some mug for five grand, the two guitars Johnny and Mike had brought back from Pete’s villa in Saint-Tropez appeared: the red Gibson and the 1959 Fender Stratocaster.

Johnny craned his neck to get a good look at them; they had survived in one piece, thankfully. They were beautiful objects and for a moment he thought of the pleasure he’d have, taking hold of one again and feeling it thrum into life beneath his fingers. The first real guitar he had bought for himself with his signing fee had been a 1959 Strat …

He felt a shift in the crowd and a whisper of ‘It’s him!’ Briefly thinking they might mean him, his reverie was broken by the sight of Pete James taking to the stage to a ripple of excited applause, which quickly built to a standing ovation. Johnny remained in his seat, feeling a stab of annoyance at the sight of his old music pal and sometime employer.

Frenemy. Wasn’t that the word they used these days?

He thought of Nick Bloom, and his son, Rory.

Bastard, more like.

Pete gave off the impression of being embarrassed by the attention, pretending to look humble, but Johnny knew he was revelling in it.

He was joined onstage by the auctioneer. ‘Tell us why you are selling these classic guitars today, Pete.’

Pete then went on a boring spiel about how it was time to let someone else experience their magic and all that crap. Johnny knew that Pete had dozens of guitars in his collection that he would never get around to playing anymore, and this auction was likely more an exercise in making more money than giving them a new lease of life.

‘Give us a song, Pete!’ someone shouted from the crowd. Pete pretended to ignore it. But the clamour was increasing, and it was only a moment before the entire room was chanting, ‘Give us a song!’

Pete held his hands out to the crowd to quell them, Jesus-like, and said, ‘If I started playing them now, I’ll never sell them. But there’s another guitar hero here. How about we get him to give us a few chords? Oi, Johnny Klein, get up here.’

Johnny stayed in his seat while the entire room swivelled their heads towards him. He was aware of the hushed mutterings, most people probably thinking he looked a bit worse for wear these days, and he silently cursed Pete as he heard someone whisper, not quietly enough, ‘I thought he was dead?’

‘Come on Johnny, up you get!’ Pete hailed him over, and Johnny risked a glance at Mona, and he was disappointed to see her eyes smiling in encouragement, before she gave him a nudge.

‘Go on, Dad,’ Chelsea said.

It was a conspiracy.

He stood, and the ripple of chatter became polite applause. Johnny took the stage and Pete handed him the Strat. Pete smiled condescendingly at Johnny, looking pleased with himself, as if to say, ‘See what a nice bloke I am? Letting you have a few small crumbs from my table of fame? Then you can go and crawl back under your rock again.’

I’ll give you something to smile about.

Johnny plugged the Strat into the amp that had magically appeared next to him, enjoying the screech of feedback as he did so. He thrummed the strings a couple of times, to a few whoops and cheers. Good, at least it had been tuned recently.

He turned to the crowd and felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins that only playing live onstage could give him. He regarded the expectant faces, catching the eye of his ex, Jackie, who pouted just that little bit more, her hand flitting to her chest as she pulled the zip of her leather jumpsuit down a tad lower to show off her ample cleavage. There was a glow in Mona’s eyes as she proudly looked on. God, this feels good.

‘Here’s a little song you might all know …’ He looked at Pete – the patronising smile was still in place. ‘“Night After Day” …’ The crowd went wild, whooping and cheering again. ‘You might know this as a Pete James song, but he had a little help with it, didn’t you, Pete? …’ Pete’s smile was wavering uncertainly now. ‘This one’s for Nick Bloom!’

As he crashed into the opening chords, it was his turn to give Pete a sardonic grin, who turned ashen, alive to what Johnny was alluding to. But Johnny’s audience were only interested in holding their phones aloft to capture the performance, so he leant full throttle into the song, lending it a blast of Klein energy that he had forgotten he possessed.

As he let rip on the final riff, the audience were ecstatic, and Johnny revelled in it for as long as he could, only noticing that Pete had left the stage when he caught sight of him leaving the auction room with his phone to his ear, no doubt phoning Don in a panic.

Johnny picked his way through the back-slapping crowds, to retake his seat. Mona was smiling, but there was a tinge of anxiety there too. ‘You sure you know what you’re doing, Johnny?’ she asked.

‘Fuck it,’ he shrugged.

They watched as the guitars were now held aloft and solemnly presented to the audience like religious relics, and then the bidding finally began. It started at five hundred for the pair, but soon sailed past one thousand, one-five hundred, two thousand, three thousand, four. Bidders in the room dropped out, leaving only the telephone bids.

‘Twenty thousand pounds. Twenty-five thousand pounds. Forty thousand … Seventy thousand.

‘We are now bid at one hundred thousand pounds, going …’

SMACK! The auctioneer’s hammer came down.

The room erupted into applause. Chelsea clapped delightedly. Mona less so. And suddenly, unexpectedly, Johnny thought to himself that despite everything, in that very moment he was happy, and it was a happiness that could be neither bought nor sold.

It won’t last …

When the auction was over, there was a crush for the party. Mike appeared, claiming to have missed the whole auction because he’d wandered off to the wrong part of the building. Live music started up. It was a loud, buzzy evening, full of celebrities and wannabes and even a few nobodies. Chelsea seemed to revel in every second of it. When Johnny told her it was time for the limo to take her home, she groaned and pouted and pleaded for just another hour, thirty minutes, five! Johnny refused. Eventually Chelsea could see he was implacable, and so she relented, giving Mona a farewell hug, trying to wave to Mike (who didn’t notice because he was preoccupied with trying to chat up a rather well-known daytime TV presenter), and then hooked her arm in Johnny’s as they headed back outside into the cold night air.

‘Did you have a good night?’ Johnny asked, as they strolled arm-in-arm towards the waiting limo.

‘About the best,’ Chelsea said. Then she pecked him on the cheek: ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘See you tomorrow, princess,’ he said as she climbed into the backseat of the limo. Johnny bent down to see into the driver’s seat, but it was partially obscured by tinted glass, and he couldn’t get a good look at the driver’s face, though he was sure it wasn’t the same one who had driven them on the way. To the driver he said: ‘Drop her off at Highgate, then come back for the rest of us – okay?’

The driver nodded. ‘Sure,’ And with that he pulled away.

Johnny caught a last glimpse of Chelsea waving at him from the rear windshield, and for some reason he could not understand, he suddenly wanted to run after her, almost as if he couldn’t bear to see her disappear into the night. He wanted to keep her close and never let her go.

He told himself to get a grip and pushed the thought away as he waved back, and then headed inside to rejoin the party, but not before one last look at the retreating back of the vehicle carrying its precious cargo.

Mona was waiting for him. ‘She’s a good kid, Johnny.’

‘The best,’ he answered. ‘She deserves better.’

‘We all deserve better,’ Mona said, ‘but sometimes we want a little bit of the bad stuff.’

Johnny turned to her and saw the unmistakable look of lust in her eyes.

‘Mona … look, I’m not sure we—’

She stilled him with a kiss which took his words, and this time there was an urgency to her passion that couldn’t be mistaken.

Despite himself, Johnny felt the rush of desire shoot through him. Maybe it was the hit of getting back onstage again, or the lingering thrill of getting one over on Pete James, but at this moment he wanted what was right in front of him.

‘Let’s get back to Graceland right now, we don’t need to wait for the driver,’ she said.

‘What about Mike?’

Mona narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve told him to fuck off and sleep on someone else’s sofa.’ As she pulled him in hard for another kiss, she whispered, ‘Tonight, Johnny Klein, you’re all mine …’

27

The Morning After the Night Before

Johnny awoke the next morning with his arm around Mona, and silently thanked God it was her next to him and not Mike. She was still fast asleep, snuggled against him. He pulled her closer, revelling in the sensation of a warm and loving woman next to him.

Warm and loving? Johnny thought to himself. Is that the way to describe how I’m feeling right now?

It was hard to say. All he knew for sure was that this was the first morning he could remember where he hadn’t woken feeling braced for some kind of impact.

Taking care not to disturb Mona, Johnny carefully disentangled himself from her, got dressed, and headed downstairs to Graceland’s big kitchen to scrounge some breakfast. He took the Motorola with him to see whether Chelsea had left him a message to say she was back home safely. Checking the phone, he saw that there was indeed a missed call from Laura’s number and a voice message. Johnny smiled to himself. As he snapped on the kettle to brew up a coffee, he wedged the phone between his shoulder and his chin to hear Chelsea’s message.

But it wasn’t Chelsea’s voice that came through but Laura’s.

‘Johnny, it’s me. Look, I’m fine with Chelsea staying the night over at your place, but you should have told me. I was waiting up for her to get home. And tell her from me, she needs to answer her mobile!’

Johnny frowned. He checked the time Laura had left her message. She had called at just gone 2 a.m. At once, Johnny felt an icy cramp in his stomach. He remembered this feeling from Chelsea’s eighth birthday, when she was kidnapped. This couldn’t be happening again! Chelsea should have been home long before 2 a.m. It had definitely been 11 p.m. when she had left.

Anxiously, Johnny dialled Laura’s number. She must have been sitting by the phone waiting to hear something, because she picked up right away.

‘Chelsea?’

‘It’s me. Have you checked in Chelsea’s room? I sent her home in a limo last night.’

‘She’s not here. Johnny, she’s not here.’

‘But … she has to be!’

‘I keep ringing her mobile, but it’s always switched off,’ Laura said, her voice becoming tight with panic. ‘Oh God, Johnny, where is she? Where is she?!’

Johnny’s head was reeling. This made no sense. The limo driver who collected Chelsea was one hired by Pete, wasn’t he? Then he remembered it wasn’t the same one who had collected them at the start of the evening.

And then he recalled that coldness he’d sensed in the driver when he had pulled away from Sotheby’s, that inexplicable feeling of unease he had experienced as he watched Chelsea wave to him from the rear windscreen. An instinct deep within had tried to alert him to the fact that something was wrong, that Chelsea was in danger. But he hadn’t listened to it and then he and Mona had jumped in an Uber right after Chelsea had left.

He had never checked that she’d got back in one piece.

You selfish git.

‘Right, Laura, first thing: don’t panic,’ Johnny said, sounding firm and resolute even though he himself was panicking. ‘Stay right by the phone. Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to make some calls and I’ll get straight back to you.’

‘What calls?’ Laura asked frantically. ‘Who are you going to call? What the hell is going on, Johnny?’

‘Just stay by the phone!’ Johnny ordered her, and hung up.

His hand was shaking as he punched in Don’s number.

Don picked up: ‘Thank you for calling the grifters’ helpline. If you want grifting advice, press star …’

‘Shut the fuck up, Don, and tell me where Chelsea is!’ Johnny roared at him.

‘Just north of Battersea.’

‘Do I sound like I’m in the mood for this shit?! Someone has taken my daughter and you and Pete James are to blame for this. If it hadn’t been for those fucking tapes, none of this would have happened!’

‘Whoa, Johnny, take a step back,’ Don said, sounding genuinely flustered. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s happened?’

‘Chelsea is gone, and I don’t know who has taken her! You need to help me get her back, Don. This is all Pete’s fault! It was your fucking limo!’

‘Johnny, I swear to you, I don’t know anything about that,’ Don said firmly. ‘Take a breath and calm down. What’s this about the limo?’

‘I ain’t calming down till I’ve got my little girl back, you piece of shit!’ Johnny was shaking with rage, gripping the phone in his fist as he bellowed into it. ‘The limo was meant to take Chelsea home last night, but it never did. The driver – your driver – was supposed to take her. Do something, Don!’ Johnny yelled. ‘Do something!’

‘Like what?’

‘Speak to Pete! Right now!’

‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘Then fucking find him!’

Don made some flustered noises, then said: ‘Look, just leave it with me for a bit, let me see what I can do.’

‘I want you to know, Don, that if anyone touches one hair on that girl’s head, I swear to God, I swear to God I’ll—’

‘Sit tight,’ Don interrupted him, and hung up.

Enraged, panicked, half out of his mind, Johnny almost smashed the Motorola into shards on the hard tiled floor of the kitchen.

‘Johnny, what’s all the shouting about?’

It was Mona, dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt. She padded into the kitchen looking confused and concerned.

Johnny was glaring and snorting like a bull. With a violent gesture, he swept an array of metal pans from a worktop, sending them clattering noisily across the floor.

‘I’ll kill Pete James!’ Johnny hissed through his bared teeth. ‘I’ll kill him!’

‘Johnny! Stop behaving like a maniac! What the hell’s happened?’ Mona demanded.

‘Someone’s taken Chelsea. That limo driver didn’t take her home last night. God knows where she is.’

‘Shit.’ Mona said, her face a mask of shock. ‘Johnny, we need to do something quickly.’

‘I know, I know!’ Johnny breathed, panting hard, dragging his hands over his face like a man caught forever in a nightmare. ‘I can’t think straight!’

‘Well you’ve got to!’ Mona snapped. ‘You’re no good to Chelsea acting like a lunatic!’

She was right. He knew that she was right. But his heart was pounding, his thoughts were spinning, his whole nervous system was firing wildly.

‘Now listen,’ she said. ‘Let’s assume you’re right. The reason’s bound to be something to do with those effing tapes, right?’

‘I … I …’

Mona slapped him, not too hard, but enough to bring him to his senses.

‘It’s got to be to do with those tapes, right?’ she insisted.

‘Yeah.’

‘Good. Now, you told Don that the tapes had been destroyed in the fire. And Don presumably passed that on to Pete, agreed?’

Johnny nodded.

‘So if Pete’s involved, it’s because he didn’t believe you. He must think those tapes still exist, and that you’ve kept hold of them.’

Despite his panic, Johnny forced himself to stay focused on what Mona was saying. She was making sense. ‘After what happened at the auction, he knows I must have listened to them, anyway.’ He felt a cold stab of fear pierce his chest. ‘But … shit … Chelsea’s the one who’s got the tapes!’

Mona stared at him, open-mouthed, and said: ‘You gave the tapes to Chelsea?’

‘I didn’t want to keep them here, because I don’t trust Mike.’

Johnny thought back to when he was in the room with Mike. ‘Mike could have known that I still had the tapes. He was in the room with them before I gave them to Chelsea.’

‘And he disappeared at the auction, Johnny. People are dead because of those tapes! You should never have given them to Chelsea!’

‘Maybe Pete has got nothing to do with it. Mike asked me where I was going before I met Chelsea, and it was after then that they picked me up and threatened to kill me.’

‘Fuck,’ Mona said, almost to herself. ‘If Mike found out, could he have told the Yakuza? There isn’t much I’d put past him.’

‘Mona, we have to do something!’ Johnny yelled. ‘All I care about right now is Chelsea!’

‘Right, then let’s get her back!’ Mona said fiercely. ‘Where are the tapes?’

‘Under Chelsea’s bed. That’s where she told me she’d stashed them.’

‘Then we need to head over there straight away and get them. Is that shitty car of yours working?’

She was referring to the beaten-up old Porsche 911 that Pete had given him a while back. It was stored in a garage around the back of Graceland.

‘Yeah, I’ll get it fired up right now,’ Johnny told her.

‘Do that. And Johnny?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re no use to Chelsea with your head like scrambled egg. Try and stay calm.’

She hurried out and raced back upstairs. Johnny pulled on his cowboy boots and his leather jacket, checking he had his keys.

Just as he was about to leave, he remembered something and stopped in his tracks. He quickly walked to his bed, dropped to his knees, and retrieved the discarded Yakuza’s gun from underneath. It was covered in dust and mouse droppings but it was otherwise just as it had been left. He shoved it inside his jacket pocket, then bombed it downstairs and headed around to the back entrance across the yard to the lock-up garage. He opened the roll-up door and jumped into the Porche. Slotting the key into the ignition, he whispered: ‘Don’t let me down.’

Luckily, it must have been listening, as it purred into life at the first turn of the ignition key. Johnny gunned the engine to clear the exhaust, then coasted out of the garage. He pulled up at the intersection of the driveway and Brick Lane, waiting for Mona.

The Motorola rang. It was Don.

‘Start talking!’ Johnny barked at him.

‘Shut up and listen, Johnny. I just spoke to Pete. Not only did he deny having anything to do with what’s happened to Chelsea, he freaked out. I’ve never seen him so terrified. He’s jumpy as hell and completely paranoid.’

‘What’s he got to be terrified about?!’

‘The Yakuza, that’s what!’ Don said. ‘That limo driver, he doesn’t work for Pete. He just used a random company. We don’t know who the hell he was! But Pete obviously thinks whoever the guy was, he was taking orders from the Yakuza. Now Pete’s convinced the Yakuza are coming after him.’

‘But why would the Yakuza take Chelsea?’

‘Maybe they thought that they were collecting Pete, not Chelsea? It’s a move in the game, Johnny. It might not make sense at the moment, but in time it’ll become clear. At the moment, all I can tell you is that Pete’s convinced that it’s not you or Chelsea who’s the ultimate target – it’s him. He’s practically packing a suitcase to take the first plane out of the country. The Yakuza must think he has the tapes and they’re somehow going to get at him via you. Christ, I don’t know, Johnny. None of this makes sense to me either.’

As Don was speaking, Johnny was sinking deeper and deeper into his seat. Mona had just managed to get him to focus his thoughts, but now Don was throwing them into chaos again. Who was the enemy here – Pete? The Yakuza? Was it Don? Was it Mike?! Johnny felt like he was lost in a maze, being attacked by invisible entities whose motives he could not comprehend. But none of it mattered. Only Chelsea mattered.

‘If the Yakuza have got Chelsea,’ Don said, ‘then your best place to look for her is where they are.’

‘Burgess Tower,’ said Johnny. ‘Where Hashido died.’

‘Yep,’ Don said simply. ‘Good luck, Johnny.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’

Before Johnny could curse him to hell, Don hung up.

At that moment, the passenger door flew open and a fully dressed Mona jumped into the car. Johnny hit the gas and the Porsche lurched forward into Brick Lane.

‘New information,’ Johnny said as he drove. ‘Don thinks Chelsea’s being held by the Yakuza.’

‘He what?!’ Mona gasped, and she covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh my God … Johnny, don’t you think we should call the police?’

‘It’s too late for the police, Mona. I’m going to give them what they want. We’ll get the tapes from Chelsea’s room, take them to Burgess Tower where the Yakuza have their base, and make the exchange. All I want is my daughter back. After that, I don’t give a shit.’

‘But what if it’s a trap, Johnny? What if … what if the moment they’ve got the tapes, they kill Chelsea, and you, and me, just to ensure nobody says anything. They’ve killed two people already, Johnny. They won’t hesitate to kill more.’

Johnny had no answer to give her. He remained silent, weaving through the London traffic, heading for Highgate, thinking only of his daughter.

28

Roadrunner

They pulled up just a stone’s throw from the Highgate house.

‘Want me to come in with you?’ Mona asked.

‘No,’ Johnny said sharply. Then, more softly, he said: ‘Thanks, but I don’t think that would be a good idea right now. Laura’s going to be apeshit.’

‘So are you.’

‘I’ll handle it. Just stay put, I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Johnny leapt out of the car and hurried to the front door. He hammered on it, and Laura opened it almost immediately. She looked utterly exhausted. Half-dressed and her hair in disarray, her pretty elfin features were pale, and her eyes were glazed, as if she were in shock.

Johnny moved forward to hug her, but she pushed him away.

‘No,’ she said weakly, and drifted like a sleep-walker back over to the telephone.

‘Has anyone rung?’ Johnny asked.

Laura slowly shook her head. ‘Sitting and waiting like this, not knowing where she is or what’s happening to her … it’s hell.’

She sat herself back down by the phone and stared at it. Despite her stillness, Johnny could see her jaw muscles clenching over and over again.

‘I need something from Chelsea’s room,’ Johnny said.

Johnny ran up the stairs and into Chelsea’s bedroom. The sense of her overwhelmed him – her clothes, her make-up, her books, her posters. Details struck him with an almost unbearable sensation of pain – crumpled pyjamas left discarded on the floor, hairs trapped in a hairbrush, a heap of schoolbooks, her make-up everywhere from when she’d got ready last night. It struck him that she’d already been missing for an entire night … they could have done anything to her … He shut his eyes and forced himself to ignore his spiralling fears and just keep going. He clambered under the bed, shoving his way through dusty boxes, orphaned shoes, a hockey stick, and all manner of crap. He found the old Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder, and dragging it aside, he reached behind it and grasped the rucksack. He pulled it out and checked inside. The tapes were still there.

Racing back downstairs, he was confronted by Laura at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’m calling the police.’

‘No, I’m going to get her back,’ he said.

When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper: ‘I don’t think I can ever forgive you for this.’

‘Laura, this isn’t the time for this. All that matters is Chelsea, and I’m going to get her back, I promise.’

Laura’s voice was like that of a wraith. ‘I’ve seen what your promises are worth, Johnny.’

Johnny gritted his teeth and fought to keep his temper in check. Any anger he may experience, any white-hot rage, had to be directed at the bastards who had taken Chelsea, not towards Laura.

‘Where is she? I don’t know where my baby is, Johnny. She’s been disappearing at night. I don’t know who my little girl is mixed up with.’

‘What? No, Laura, this isn’t anything to do with those drug dealers, this is something else, something to do with … me.’

‘You knew about that? And you didn’t think to tell me?’

‘She couldn’t talk to you!’

‘You bastard!’ Laura’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘I have single-handedly brought that girl up while you lived the life of a wasted rock star, and almost drove us to the brink. I’ve had to be the bad guy to keep her straight while you swan around with your little girlfriend.’

‘Laura!’ Johnny shouted. ‘I’m in agony over this as much as you are. Damn it, Laura! They don’t want Chelsea, they want what’s in this rucksack!’

Laura’s eyes were narrowed to slits. ‘They?’ she said. ‘You know who “they” are?’

‘I … I think so.’

‘Who?’

Johnny hesitated. He couldn’t tell Laura that he believed the ‘they’ who had kidnapped Chelsea were ruthless criminals with a track record of extreme violence and murder.

‘Who?’ Laura repeated. Her voice sliced through him with cold rage.

‘I don’t have time, I’ll explain later,’ Johnny said. ‘You’ll just have to trust me.’

Laura screamed. She grabbed a heavy vase from the bookcase, which came hurtling towards Johnny and smashed against the wall.

‘This doesn’t help Chelsea!’ Johnny yelled.

‘How do you know what’s good for Chelsea?!’ Laura howled at him. ‘What do you know about anything?!’

And now she had sunk to her knees, crying uncontrollably, her hands over her face. Before he quite realised what he was doing, he found himself striding over to her, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders, and hauling her to her feet. His face was now inches from hers.

‘You’re going to get it together, Laura!’ he shouted. ‘Chelsea’s life depends on both of us keeping our shit together, so that’s what we’re going to do! You’re going to stay here by the phone. Anyone calls, anything happens, you let me know at once. I’m going to find the fuckers who’ve taken her, give them what they want, and bring her home to you. You got that?’

She looked at him, her pale cheeks streaked with tears, and for a moment Johnny thought she might gouge his eyes out. But instead she nodded.

‘You’ve got the hardest job out of the two of us,’ Johnny told her, and with that, he could spare no more time, and so he strode out, hurrying back to the Porsche and jumping behind the wheel.

Johnny dumped the rucksack into Mona’s lap. ‘Keep good hold of that. Chelsea’s life depends on it.’

Mona didn’t need to ask how it had gone; his face said it all. He fired up the engine and hit the gas. The Porsche roared forward. Johnny headed south, weaving recklessly through the opulent labyrinth of Belsize Park, cutting across sluggish traffic along Finchley Road, and completely ignoring Abbey Road studios as he raced over its iconic crossing. Ploughing on, they began to glimpse the ominous heights of Burgess Tower up ahead. Drawing closer, Johnny swerved the Porsche into a random driveway – to hell with hunting for a goddamn parking space – and grabbed the rucksack from Mona.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Get her back, what do you think?’ Johnny snapped back. ‘Stay here. Mind the car.’

He threw open the car door, jumped out, and went marching across the street towards Burgess Tower. He gripped the rucksack containing the tapes tightly in his fist. Approaching the tower, he saw the sloping driveway down which the Yakuza motorcyclist had disappeared following their chase across London. Above the entrance of the underground car park was a security camera, pointed right at Johnny. He guessed – no, he knew – that this was one of the Yakuza’s eyes, observing anyone who dared to come close to their domain. They could see him. They would be watching him right now.

Good, Johnny thought, as he strode up to the camera and positioned himself squarely in front of it. I want them to see.

He held up the rucksack, thrusting it towards the unblinking eye of the camera.

‘Here!’ he shouted, and shook the rucksack fiercely. ‘It’s all here!’

He waited. Nothing happened. So he shook the rucksack again.

‘This is what you want! And you know what I want! So we swap!’

Still, nothing.

‘I know you can see me—’ He broke off, because his Motorola suddenly began to sing from his jacket pocket.

Johnny grabbed the phone and slammed it to his ear: ‘I’m here.’

‘Dad.’

‘Chelsea! Oh my God, are you okay? Where are you? What’s happening?’

‘Dad, don’t talk, just listen,’ Chelsea said, her voice shaky. ‘Drive west.’

But Johnny’s mind was racing: ‘Are you okay? Tell them I’ve got the tapes, I’ll bring them the tapes, they can have the fucking tapes, just—’

‘Dad, stop talking,’ Chelsea intoned blankly. ‘Drive west. You’ll get another call.’

And the line went dead.

Gripping the rucksack tightly, Johnny ran back to the Porsche and jumped inside.

‘What happened?’ Mona asked anxiously.

‘I just got a call from Chelsea,’ Johnny said as he started up the engine. ‘Whoever’s got her is getting her to call me with directions. We’re heading west.’

‘West to where?’

‘No fucking idea,’ Johnny said, manoeuvring the Porsche past Burgess Tower and heading for Bayswater.

Mona clutched the sides of her head. ‘Argh! I’m getting dizzy trying to make sense of this!’

‘You and me both, Mona,’ Johnny said grimly. ‘And I don’t think that’s an accident.’

‘What do you mean? Somebody wants us confused?’

‘Why not? Whoever’s got Chelsea is making damn sure they cover their tracks. Confusing the hell out of us puts them at a constant advantage. And it keeps them safer. We can’t ring the law, we can’t tip anyone off about who’s got Chelsea or where she’s being held. This whole thing’s a smokescreen.’

‘And a pretty good one too,’ Mona said, ‘unfortunately … This is so weird,’ she said as they headed into Bayswater, making for Shepherd’s Bush. ‘The Yakuza think the tapes have been destroyed, so there’s no reason for them to come after you. And Pete James thinks they’re destroyed too, so he’s got no motive. Everybody who might use Chelsea as a hostage to get those tapes back believes those tapes don’t even exist! So who the hell are we dealing with?!’

‘I’m beginning to suspect somebody,’ Johnny said quietly.

‘Who? Jesus, not Mike, surely!’

‘No, not Mike. I’m starting to suspect a Scottish bastard.’

‘What Scottish bastard?’

‘Don,’ Johnny said.

‘Don? But why? Didn’t you tell Don the tapes got burned up in the fire at the Velvet?’

‘Yep. I did. But if he believed what I told him, why’s he been following us all the way from Paddington?’

Mona frowned and turned around to look: ‘Where? I can’t see him.’

‘He’s trying to keep his distance so we don’t notice, but he’s a clumsy tit. He’s trailing us. There he is, look!’

‘That big guy on the bike? Yes, yes, I just caught a glimpse of him. God, do you really think he’s the one who took Chelsea?’

‘He’s Pete James’s gopher. He would have been the one to arrange the limo to take us to and from the auction last night. That means he could have assigned the driver without Pete James knowing anything about it. That driver could have been anyone.’

‘So, Don arranged for the driver to kidnap Chelsea? Yes, I see how that could work. Hey, Johnny, do you think Don wants the tapes so he can blackmail Pete James? Is that his plan?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ Johnny said.

Mona glared through the rear window, then caught another brief glimpse of Don on his bike twenty or so yards behind them. ‘What a shit.’

‘You better believe it,’ Johnny said.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ Mona asked.

‘Just west, that’s all I know.’

‘And how far west is west?’

‘Mona, I don’t know!’

‘Well, how will we know when we’re—’

Mona’s question was pre-emptively answered by Johnny’s phone pinging. This time, it wasn’t a call, it was a text.

‘Read it for me,’ Johnny said, chucking the phone to Mona.

‘It just says: Acton,’ she said. ‘So, we’re still heading west.’

‘And Don is still tailing us,’ Johnny added. ‘Damn it, Mona, we’re not just being toyed with here, we are being right royally fucked about! I’m going to try and lose him.’

In a rage, he stamped on the gas, recklessly overtook a VW Polo and missed an oncoming Transit van by barely an inch.

‘Just get us there alive, Johnny!’ Mona shouted at him. ‘We’re no good to Chelsea if we end up as strawberry jam along the Uxbridge Road!’

29

On the Road Again

As they reached Acton, another text told them to head north towards Wembley. Then before they reached Wembley, another text told them to veer west again towards Harrow.

‘We’re being taken out of town,’ Johnny muttered as he gripped the wheel and glared at the road ahead.

‘I think we have lost Don,’ Mona added. ‘I haven’t seen him for miles.’

‘Fuck him, whatever he’s doing,’ Johnny growled.

From Harrow, they were directed to head on to Pinner, then suddenly north to Bushey, and beyond that towards Radlett. The city had given way now to wider, greener expanses.

‘We’re out in the sticks,’ Mona said, peering about.

‘Secluded,’ Johnny said darkly. ‘Cut off. Isolated. Just the place to hold a hostage.’

The phone pinged.

‘Where to now?’ Johnny asked.

Mona read the message: ‘It says: White Horse car park.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, how the hell am I supposed to get there?’

Mona shrugged hopelessly. She started to take her phone out of her pocket to check Google Maps, but then Johnny furiously slammed on the brakes. Mona dropped her phone and had to scrabble around for it by her feet. ‘Johnny, for fuck’s sake!’

The Porsche screamed to a halt in some leafy road flanked with expensive houses. Up ahead, there was a parade of picturesque shops.

‘I’ll get directions,’ Johnny said, leaping out of the car and leaving the engine running, and he marched heedlessly along the road and burst into a twee little post office, like a gunslinger barging into a saloon. The middle-aged lady sitting behind the counter leapt halfway out of her skin.

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘are you a robber?’

‘The White Horse!’ Johnny shouted.

‘You mean, the public house that does the lovely lunches?’

‘If that’s what it is, then yes.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is the post office.’

Johnny strode towards her and through gritted teeth snarled: ‘Tell. Me. Where. It. IS!’

‘Oh, it’s easy from here,’ the lady said politely. ‘Along the high street, left at the Waitrose – they have very nice toilets at the Waitrose – go past the church, and then it’s just along from there.’

Without another word, Johnny turned sharply and charged back out again, just catching the lady demurely saying, ‘What a rude man,’ behind him. As he strode outside, he suddenly saw a sleek black Mercedes cruising slowly along the high street. The windows were blacked out, completely hiding whoever was inside. Johnny moved towards it as it approached. There must be dozens of expensive cars like this in this wealthy neighbourhood – was it just some local going about their daily business? Or was it something else, something connected to Chelsea? Was her kidnapper in that car right now, smiling out at him from behind the blackened glass? Was Chelsea in there? Jesus Christ, was she in the boot?

A surge of emotions overtook Johnny. Recklessly, he charged at the Merc. But at once it sprang forward with a fierce engine-growl, accelerating ferociously so that it ripped straight past and hurtled away around a corner. Johnny stood in the middle of the street, gazing after it, listening to the sound of its engine retreating. He only moved when a car appeared behind him and beeped at him to budge.

Feeling in turmoil, Johnny headed back to the Porsche and climbed behind the wheel.

‘Did you see the Merc?’ Mona asked.

Johnny nodded. ‘I don’t know what to make of it, though.’

‘It didn’t feel right,’ Mona whispered.

‘I know what you mean. I reckon we might find that Merc waiting for us at the White Horse.’

‘Did you get directions?’

‘Yep.’

He nosed the Porsche forwards, along the high street, then left at the supermarket. The spire of a church appeared up ahead, and then they saw the sign for the White Horse pub. It was a small place, very discreet, but with a large car park that consisted of what seemed to be a paddock around the back. Several cars were parked up here, none of them Mercs.

‘This must be the place,’ Mona said. ‘Goes back a long way.’

‘I bet that’s why they picked it,’ Johnny said, edging the Porsche towards the rear of the car park. ‘Nice and private.’

‘What do they want, Johnny? A simple handover – Chelsea in exchange for the tapes?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

He reached the far end of the car park, pulled up, and killed the engine.

‘I suppose we wait,’ Mona said, handing the Motorola back to Johnny.

He was restless, shifting in his seat as he peered about, looking for any sign of movement.

‘Perhaps you should call Laura,’ Mona suggested. ‘She’ll be frantic for news.’

But at that moment, the Motorola began to ring. Not a text this time, but a call.

‘Hi, Dad,’ Chelsea said, her voice small and shaky.

‘Hi, princess,’ Johnny replied, forcing his own voice to be as reassuring as he could. ‘You okay?’

‘Yep.’

‘Good. Tell whoever needs to know that I’m at the White Horse.’

‘He’s at the White Horse,’ he heard Chelsea say, and she was answered by a muffled voice from somewhere nearby. ‘Okay Dad, you need to take the footpath that leads from the rear of the car park.’

‘Yes, I can see it. It heads across some open ground and then into some woods.’

Chelsea relayed the description to her captor, who replied with more muffled noises. Then she said: ‘Apparently that’s the one, yes. Bring the tapes. Come alone.’

‘Where? Where am I going?’

‘You’ll see for yourself.’

‘And when I get there, I hand over the tapes and you come back home with me, yes? That’s the deal, right?’

But Chelsea didn’t give an answer except to start crying softly.

‘Chels, it’s okay, I’ll be right with you,’ Johnny said in a low, warm voice.

Chelsea sobbed, snuffled wretchedly, and then the line went dead.

Johnny stared at the phone for a moment, his stomach tight, his blood cold.

He gripped the rucksack. ‘You’ll have to stay here. It’s just me who’s to go.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Just wait.’

‘And what if there’s some kind of trouble?’

‘Don’t call the law, no matter what happens.’

‘Johnny, are you sure about that?’

He nodded: ‘I think the best thing is to keep this whole thing calm and quiet. Whoever we’re dealing with just wants these tapes. I don’t want them spooked, and I certainly don’t want them thinking we’ve double-crossed them. I want to come back here with Chelsea and for all of us just to go home and forget any of this ever happened.’

Mona looked at him very intently, her brow knotted with concern. She seemed about to say something, but Johnny could find no words either, so he merely reached out and cupped her face with his hand for a few seconds.

And then he was off, clambering out of the Porsche and walking quickly towards the start of the footpath. It cut in a more-or-less straight line across an overgrown field that seemed to have been left untended. Up ahead, it disappeared into a wide expanse of woodland, beyond which – who could say?

Securely fastening the rucksack to his back, Johnny began trudging along the path. Halfway across the abandoned field he stopped suddenly, feeling strangely like he was being watched. He glanced back and saw Mona standing in the car park. She waved, and he raised his hand in return. But as he turned away and continued walking, that feeling of being watched crept over him again, and he didn’t feel it was on account of Mona.

Don’t get jumpy, he told himself as he moved along the path. A crow cawed at him from close by, startling him, and he almost leapt out of his skin. Jesus, Johnny, what did I just tell you about getting jumpy!

He made it across the field and reached the edge of the wood. Here he stopped again, peering ahead. The trees were close together, and there was wild bushy undergrowth everywhere. The footpath snaked away into the wood, hemmed in on all sides by greenery.

He walked as quietly as he could up the path, following its twisting route between the trees. Eventually, the trees gave way to a wide clearing, revealing a gravel road. It swept towards a small, single-storey house. A studio? And Chelsea’s prison.

Johnny headed towards it. All the curtains were closed. There was no sign of life.

Stopping ten yards from the front of the house, Johnny called out: ‘It’s me.’

Nothing. The only sound that came back to him was the lonely cawing of crows.

‘I’ve got what you want. Give me back my daughter and you can have the tapes.’

Still nothing.

Johnny sighed heavily. Whatever game was being played, he was still on the back foot, and whoever was playing it evidently wasn’t going to let it end quickly, or simply.

‘Okay,’ Johnny said wearily. ‘Have it your way. I’m coming in.’

And then, his heart already beginning to pound anxiously, he strode towards the building.

30

Back in the Studio

At last Johnny reached the front door of the cottage.

‘Hello?’ he called out. ‘You want me to come in?’

He reached out and nudged the door. It was ajar, and swung inwards an inch. He pushed it again, this time opening it the whole way, and took a tentative step inside. With all the blinds and curtains drawn, the place was gloomy, but the daylight coming through the door illuminated it enough for him to see that the entire ground floor of the house had been renovated into a single room, partitioned with soundproof glass. On one side of the glass were mixing desks, on the other side were microphones, guitars, amps, even a drumkit. It was a recording studio, just the sort of thing that a music legend could afford to have, but there was no sign of any musicians, or of Chelsea.

Johnny moved carefully through the recording studio. Was there something he was expected to do? Was there some sort of message or sign left out for him that he was supposed to find? He crossed to the mixing desk and cast his gaze over it, but it was just the usual complex array of faders and switches, so he headed into the large recording booth. The guitars and mics and other musical paraphernalia were all exactly what he would have expected to find in a studio.

‘For Christ’s sake, show yourself! You can’t play these stupid games for ever. At some point you’re going to have to—’

There was a sound behind him, a click. Johnny spun around and saw that the door to the booth had been pulled shut.

‘What the fuck?!’

Johnny ran to the door but it was locked. He was sealed in the recording booth. He banged on the glass partition, shouting threats and obscenities, but he knew from his own experience just how soundproof that Plexiglas was. He could yell his head off and nobody in the mixing room would hear a thing.

Through the glass, he saw a shadowy figure lurking near the mixing desk. The figure moved over to a control panel and hit a button. Above Johnny’s head in the booth he heard the white-noise hiss of the intercom switching on, the communication lifeline between the booth and the mixing room.

A harsh voice in a ham eastern European accent intoned over the intercom: ‘Velcome, Mistah Bond, I’ve been expecting you.’

A light came on in the mixing room, illuminating the figure who stood outside the booth.

Johnny stood and stared, speechless with shock, as Mike, his old drummer, stood facing him through the glass, wearing a cheesy grin.

‘It’s gonna be okay, man,’ Mike said with a shrug and an apologetic smile. ‘None of this is as bad as it looks, yeah?’

‘You!’ Johnny said, the rage welling within him. ‘Mike, it was you? Was it you who arranged for Chelsea to be kidnapped, so you could get hold of these tapes?’

Mike grimaced at that. ‘Johnny, you make it sound so awful. Keep your wig on, man.’

‘What are you talking about, you piece of shit? Why are you doing this?’

‘Look, I knew, Johnny,’ Mike said. ‘I knew the tapes were in that rucksack. And I knew you were giving them to Chelsea for safekeeping, even though you told me it was a present for her. I’d looked in that bag when you were kipping, Johnny. I’d done my homework, y’know?’

‘Is that why you insisted on the limo to take us to the auction?’

‘Exactly. It’s cos I’d arranged to … well, you know.’

‘Kidnap my daughter,’ Johnny said icily.

Again, Mike cringed. ‘Nah, that was a mistake. I wasn’t expecting to “kidnap” Chelsea, Johnny – that’s an unkind word. I thought it was going to be you and Mona in there too, but you sent Chelsea back alone and then slipped away for a bit of slap and tickle with your little friend, didn’t you? Isn’t Mona young enough to actually be your daughter too, Johnny? Naughty, naughty!’

‘She’s in her thirties,’ Johnny said, annoyed at himself for being riled.

‘And you’re what? Sixty?’

‘Fifty-six!’

‘Funny how you think I’m the perv, Johnny, me old mate. Anyway, you left Chelsea to fend for herself and I borrowed her, that’s all, just for a bit, so we could get you here.’

‘Why didn’t you just steal the tapes from the rucksack?’

Mike shifted awkwardly. ‘Well, you know, that was a plan, but … not to put too fine a point on it, I fucked up.’

‘You fucked up?’ Johnny said blankly.

‘I went out on the lash and pulled a bird, and I got a bit distracted, so by the time I got back to Graceland you were already taking the tapes away to give to Chelsea. I sort of missed my moment, really. You know how it is when you’ve had a few and some bird drops her knickers.’

‘So you’re stealing these tapes? You’re fucking me over, Mike. I vouched for you, saw that you had a roof over your head, gave up my fucking bed for you – and you repaid me by kidnapping my daughter!’

‘Nothing’s gonna happen, Johnny, no one’s gonna get hurt! And I’m gonna get good money for this. You’d do the same.’

Enraged, Johnny struck his fist furiously against the soundproof Plexiglas. ‘Don’t you DARE say that! I would never have sold you out like you’ve done to me!’

‘I ain’t sold you out, Johnny-boy, I’ve just played you for a bit of a kipper. It’s all gonna be alright in a minute. You’re gonna hand over the tapes and then we’re all gonna go home with Chelsea.’

‘We?’

‘Well, yeah.’

Johnny stared at him incredulously.

Mike said, ‘You’re not gonna throw me out on the street just over this, are you?’

Johnny fought to retain control of his temper, and said, ‘Look, you’ve got me trapped in here. Well fucking done. Now get Chelsea here, and then let us go. You can have the fucking tapes and sell them to the highest bidder, or whatever it is you’re going to do. I’m done with them!’

Mike looked at him with surprise. ‘Oh, I’m not the brains behind the operation. I’m just the – what d’you call it? – the middle-man.’

‘What?’

Mike pulled out an expensive-looking smartphone from his jacket pocket. He faffed about inexpertly with the phone, managed at last to send a text, waited, got a reply. ‘Chelsea will be here in a minute.’

‘With who?’

‘Hey, Johnny, don’t this bring back memories?’ said Mike, ignoring his question. ‘Being in a recording studio again! And look at me, twiddlin’ the knobs!’

He played with the faders on the mixing desk. ‘We belong here, Johnny. In places like this – recording studios, stages, stadiums. Even in the van, out on the road! That’s us, Johnny. That’s home.’

‘Not anymore.’

‘Course it is! Think about it, Johnny – getting back to cutting some tracks – releasing a new album – taking it out on tour. We’ve still got that magic, why not use it? Think of the wonga. We wouldn’t have to grub like monkeys for Pete chuffin’ James no more! We’d live like kings … like we used to … like we were born to.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Mike,’ Johnny grunted.

‘What’s the matter with you, Johnny? Do you want to live in a shitty bedsit over a curry house? You can kiss goodbye to all that. For Christ’s sake, Johnny, you don’t have to stay just because of your bird. You can bring her with you!’

‘I told you to shut it!’ Johnny snapped. ‘You’ve just kidnapped my daughter, and you want me to go on tour with you? Jesus! I’m never going back to that old life. I’m done with it, and I’m done with you. I’ve seen what it did to you, what it does to everyone.’

‘Makes ’em rich,’ Mike said.

‘It fucks ’em up!’ Johnny shouted back. ‘Look at you! Look at me! You call us “rich”?’

‘Not today. But if we get the band back together, we will be.’

‘Fucking mañana! It’s raining today but tomorrow’s always gonna be a blazing fucking scorcher. We both know that tomorrow doesn’t come in this business, Mike, and that you lose everything – everything – trying to get there. So you’ve got my answer: No, I don’t want to team up with you again, I don’t want to cut an album, I don’t want to go on the road. And when I get Chelsea back and get the fuck out of this place, I never want to have to see your stupid, gormless, traitorous face ever again.’

But at that moment Mike seemed to react to a noise coming from outside.

‘What’s going on?’ Johnny demanded.

‘Car’s pulling up,’ Mike said.

Johnny felt his nervous system crackle, his muscles tighten, his sinews stiffen. He felt like a boxer, hyped up and eager to go, sitting in his corner of the ring, waiting to be unleashed by the bell. He paced about his prison for a moment, then pressed his hands against the Plexiglas, peering out. Through the half-open front door he saw a large, black Mercedes with black tinted windows pass by.

‘I’ve seen that black Merc before,’ Johnny said.

‘Black Merc?’ Mike said. ‘That’s not the car I’m expecting. Should be a silver Bentley.’ He frowned and headed over to the front door and peered out.

A silver Bentley? Gears started whirring in Johnny’s mind. There was only one person he knew with a silver Bentley.

‘Can’t see!’ Mike called out. ‘Must have gone round the back.’

And with that, he headed outside to check.

The second he was alone, Johnny at once tried to force open the door of the recording booth. He barged it with his shoulder. He tried to shatter the lock with a kick. But damn it, it was solid. He was well and truly trapped in here.

He caught rapid movement through the glass. It was Mike, bolting back through the door and into the mixing room like a frightened cat. He looked about wildly, his eyes wide, panicking. Manically, he was babbling to himself: ‘He said if I needed it, I’d find it in the … I’d find it in the … I’d find it in the …’

‘Mike, what the hell’s happening?’ Johnny cried out.

Ignoring him, Mike blathered: ‘I’d find it in the … I’d find it in the … SECOND DRAWER DOWN!’

Mike lunged at a desk drawer, wrenched it open, and grabbed something from inside. When he turned, he was brandishing a handgun.

‘Mike! Mike!’ Johnny bellowed, battering his hands helplessly against the glass.

But Mike didn’t seem to hear him. He rushed back to the door, flinched, then waved the gun about, yelling: ‘It’s not me you want! Stay back! Just let me fuck off out of here. I haven’t seen nuffin’, I won’t say nuffin’!’

A series of sharp pops came over the intercom. Johnny saw Mike silhouetted in the doorway against the daylight. He jerked forward, almost doubling over, then seemed to be knocked back by an invisible uppercut. Then he fell to the floor, unmoving.

Breathing hard, Johnny stood in the recording booth and stared in horror through the glass. Mike lay motionless. Then a hand reached out and took the gun from him. More hands appeared, dragging Mike outside and out of sight. There was a pause, then a single sharp crack came through the intercom. Johnny’s heart froze. He understood what he had just heard.

There was another pause. Then movement. Three men came through the door, dressed in immaculate dark suits and each one carrying a pistol. They moved around the mixing room, then drew closer to the Plexiglas partition. That was when Johnny saw their faces, peering back at him. He recognised them as the Yakuza, all of them. And the one closest to him he recognised at once.

‘Mr Shi …’ Johnny muttered.

Mr Shi looked at him, raised a finger to his lips – shh – then lowered that finger and, with great care and even finesse, pressed a button on the console. The hiss of white noise coming through the intercom fell silent.

He was trapped – entombed – with three ruthless killers standing only feet away from him, and Mike lying dead or dying outside. But where was Chelsea? Was she about to be brought unwittingly into the heart of what Johnny now saw was a slaughterhouse?

31

Deep Water

Swiftly, professionally, the two Yakuza heavies checked the house while Shi himself sat in a chair at the mixing console and made himself comfortable. He waited, calmly examining his nails, until the heavies reported back to him. Johnny, sealed into the soundproof booth, couldn’t hear a word they said, but whatever it was, it clearly satisfied Shi, as he nodded curtly and, unhurriedly, got to his feet. He indicated towards the door of the booth. One heavy strode up and unlocked it. The door swung open, and Shi stepped slowly into the booth, keeping his eyes on Johnny as he approached.

‘So, Mr Klein, you lied to me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Destroyed in the fire, you said. And then you turn up at our building, waving them at the security camera and shouting … and the next thing we know, you run away, and we have to tail you to this place. All very odd, Mr Klein.’

‘I turned up at your place because I thought you’d taken my daughter,’ Johnny said.

‘And why would I do a thing like that?’

‘I was wrong. Someone else took her.’

‘The man who owns this place,’ Shi said, more of a statement than a question.

‘No, yes … Look, Mr Shi,’ Johnny said. ‘You’re right that I lied to you about the tapes. They weren’t destroyed. I have them right here in this rucksack. But I can’t give them to you.’

‘Oh? And what makes you think I need your permission to take them?’

‘Because they’re not tapes anymore, Mr Shi. They’re ransom. For my daughter.’

‘Ah, I see, family,’ said Shi, still drawing closer.

‘Not just family. She’s everything to me. Those tapes aren’t for you.’

‘That’s not for you to say, Mr Klein.’ And with great calm and self-assurance, Mr Shi held out his hand. Behind him, the armed heavy stood in the mixing room, staring blankly at Johnny, silently making it clear to him that he was in no position to bargain, let alone give orders.

Slowly, stiffly, Johnny removed the rucksack from his back, holding it by the straps. His eyes darted from Shi to the heavy and back again, over and over.

‘No, Mr Klein, you couldn’t make it to the front door in time,’ Shi said, as if reading his mind. ‘You’d simply join that man who is lying round the back, waiting to be disposed of.’

‘I think he was just scared. You shouldn’t have killed him.’

‘Then he shouldn’t have blocked the doorway toting a gun at me,’ Shi said mildly. ‘Look, Mr Klein, one body’s easier to dispose of than two, but if that’s what’s required … Personally, I have other business to attend to, so my time is short. Give me the bag, Mr Klein. Now.’

Johnny’s shoulders sagged. He nodded defeatedly. With a sigh, he offered the rucksack to Shi.

The moment Shi’s fingers grasped the strap of the rucksack, Johnny made his move. It was all or nothing. But Chelsea’s life depended on it, so he saw no other option.

He lunged forward, getting his left arm around Shi’s neck and clamping it tight. At the same moment, he pulled out the gun that he’d been carrying inside his jacket, and jammed the barrel against the side of Shi’s head.

At once, the heavy in the mixing room took a step forward, brandishing his own weapon, but Shi called out something in Japanese, and the heavy froze. Johnny pressed his pistol harder against Shi’s skull, to make the point that he was more than prepared to blow his brains out.

‘We have ourselves an old-fashioned stand-off,’ Shi said, sounding mildly amused.

‘I won’t risk my daughter’s life,’ Johnny hissed in his ear. ‘Not for you, not for anyone. I don’t care what happens to me, and I give even less of a fuck about what happens to you – all I want is my little girl.’

‘I too have a daughter.’

‘Then you know where I’m coming from.’

‘Indeed,’ Shi said, and he sounded sincere. ‘I see you in a different light now, Mr Klein. That night we “invited” you to our offices and had our little chat, I thought you were just another weak little man scared of being hurt. I deal with many such individuals. You could say it’s my trade. And I believed you were so weak and so scared in that moment, that you would have betrayed anyone to me, just to save yourself. But now … well, now I see you were holding out against me. Lying to me. Besting me, we might say – for the sake of your daughter’s life, even at the cost of your own. You needed to keep those tapes to buy her safety, when you could have so easily used them to buy your own.’

Johnny said nothing. Shi was misreading the situation. Chelsea had been safe at home in Highgate that night. But Shi didn’t know that.

‘And now,’ Shi went on, ‘even here, outnumbered and disadvantaged, you do not abandon your quest. You make a desperate move to save your daughter, regardless of the danger to yourself. Mr Hashido would have greatly approved of you.’

‘So what happens next?’ Johnny hissed.

‘Oh, what happens next is what always happens,’ Shi said casually. ‘We make a deal.’

‘Whatever that deal is, I keep the tapes – and you fuckers don’t kill me.’

‘I rather assumed those would be your terms, Mr Klein. However, whatever you may think, I do not act alone. If you were to kill me, someone would take my place, and their mission would be to avenge my death, as we were compelled to do the same for Mr Hashido. We must observe strict protocols. I agree to your terms, but in return, you owe us a favour. Shall we say that perhaps one day in the future, you will be able to assist us?’

Johnny got the message. If he shot Shi, they’d come back for him, and maybe Chelsea too. But agreeing to this, then they’d still have a hold on him, and could call in the favour anytime. Was that something he was prepared to do?

Get Chelsea back and live to fight another day, JK.

‘It’s a deal,’ Johnny said quietly, and removed the gun from Shi’s head and released him.

Shi stepped away, straightening his shirt collar then calmly running his hands over his hair. He seemed not remotely perturbed by being held at gunpoint. But then, he was a man who was well used to extreme violence. To Shi, it was part of the job, not the terrifying occurrence that it was to Johnny. Guns, threats, and the disposal of dead bodies was all in a day’s work for the Yakuza.

Johnny backed up, gripping the rucksack in one hand and the gun in the other. This moment was even more dangerous than the instant when he’d lunged at Shi. If Shi decided to double-cross him now, he was dead. Yes, he might let off a few wild shots before he went down, but he had no hope that the heavy standing like a statue in the mixing room wouldn’t despatch him the same way he had Mike.

‘You can relax, Mr Klein,’ Shi told him. ‘I find it is the best way, then you can think about the situation in hand.’

‘Lucky you,’ Johnny muttered.

Shi shrugged: ‘I have my methods for dealing with interesting encounters. But enough of this. Our business here is concluded.’

He gave a curt hand gesture to the heavy, who bowed briefly and stomped out of the house. Shi remained, very calm and collected, his hands in his pockets, idly casting his gaze around the mixing room with its many desks and consoles.

‘So much Japanese equipment,’ he smiled.

‘Best in the world.’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you going to do with Mike?’ Johnny asked.

‘Mike?’

‘The man you shot and dragged round the back.’

‘We’ll process him,’ Shi said matter-of-factly.’

The blacked-out Merc appeared outside the front of the house, a heavy at the wheel. Shi turned, headed towards the front door, then paused and looked back at Johnny and said: ‘Let me share a life-lesson with you, Mr Klein. It is quite a simple matter to stay perfectly relaxed when a man has a gun pressed to your head. Shall I tell you the secret?’

‘Sure,’ said Johnny.

Coolly slipping on a pair of jet-black sunglasses, he said: ‘Safety-catch.’

And with that, he left.

Johnny looked down at the gun in his hand. He was not familiar with firearms. But Mr Shi, of course, was. He must have spotted, lightning quick, that when Johnny pulled the gun from his belt, the safety-catch was still on. And the sneaky bastard had played along like he believed his life was in danger! Was it all just a game for Shi? For amusement? Perhaps. But it was certainly no game for Johnny. Mike Penfold was now a bloody corpse, and Chelsea was still being held captive.

Johnny watched the Merc tearing away. Was Mike’s body in the boot? Most likely. Who could say where it would end up? Inside the concrete foundations of a new building project, perhaps, or weighted down at the bottom of the Thames.

‘Bye, Mike, you silly fucker,’ Johnny heard himself whisper.

With the Merc gone, Johnny was alone. Now all he had to do was sit and wait. He located the safety-catch on the handgun and clicked it off. Grimly, he thrust the gun back into his belt, renewed his grip on the straps of the rucksack, and waited.

This time, he knew exactly who he was waiting for, and he was ready.

32

Face Off

He didn’t have long to wait before he heard the sound of an engine approaching. He looked out the front and saw a silver Bentley coming down the road. The Bentley parked up. Johnny retreated into a corner, away from the door, so that he could not be seen. But as a result, he couldn’t see the Bentley. He heard the engine fall silent, a door opening and closing, and he made out a familiar male voice saying: ‘You can’t get out, it’s locked.’

He must have been speaking to Chelsea. He’d locked her inside the car. Johnny felt his blood boiling with rage, but he forced himself not to succumb to it. He needed to keep his wits about him, not give in to his instincts.

Footsteps approached. Johnny peered around a corner.

He saw Pete James stepping warily through the front door, his long hair, dyed bright chestnut, hanging in messy straggles about his face and across his shoulders. Far from the wiry, good-for-his age, rock legend Pete imagined himself to be. Johnny had a moment of grim satisfaction that James looked like an elderly and tragic parody of his younger self. Pete was holding a gun, a pistol, his finger hooked in readiness around the trigger, while looking like he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Johnny recalled what Don had told him: He’s jumpy … paranoid … he reckons somebody’s trying to kill him.

‘Mike?’ Pete called out.

‘He’s dead,’ Johnny said.

Pete flinched, aiming his gun wildly this way and that.

‘Johnny!’ he snapped. ‘Get out in the open or I’ll shoot!’

‘I’ve got a piece too, Pete,’ Johnny told him, and he emerged into the light, pointing his handgun at Pete.

The two of them stood there, each one training his gun on the other.

‘Fuck it, Johnny, what the hell are you doing out here anyway?’ Pete demanded.

‘Waiting for you, Pete, what else?’

‘You’re not supposed to be out here, not in the mixing room, you’re supposed to be in there,’ Pete said, pointing at the recording booth. ‘I told Mike that! I told him!’

‘It doesn’t matter what you told Mike anymore. Like I said, he’s dead.’

‘But … I just spoke to him …’

‘They shot him, Pete. The Yakuza. They turned up, Mike panicked and grabbed a gun, they didn’t like that, so they shot him.’

‘The Yakuza …’ Pete whispered, his face turning even more ashen. He glanced around, flinching, as if he expected Mr Shi and his heavies to come leaping out.

‘They’re not here anymore,’ Johnny explained. ‘I cut a deal with them.’

Pete’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Johnny. Convulsively, he began chewing his lip. He was seriously wired.

Johnny saw a chance to push a psychological advantage, so he went for it: ‘Mr Shi. You know that name? He runs the Yakuza in London. Our paths have crossed a couple of times, me and him. I wouldn’t say we were close, but we’ve reached a level of mutual understanding …’

‘What the fuck are you talking about, Klein?’ Pete snapped.

‘If I wasn’t on good terms with Mr Shi, I’d be dead right now, like Mike, and the tapes would be in the hands of the Yakuza. But as you can see, I’m very much alive … and the tapes are right here.’

He held up the rucksack.

‘Give that to me,’ Pete ordered.

But Johnny shook his head: ‘First, you throw that fucking gun on the floor.’

‘You throw your fucking gun on the floor!’

‘Pete, you’re not getting it, are you? Anything happens to me, you’ll pay for it. The Yakuza will come for you. And there’s nowhere you’ll be able to hide where you’d be safe. Not in London, not out here, not in Saint-Tropez. I’ve told them everything about you, all the places you own, all the bolt-holes you’d run to. But even if you tried escaping somewhere new, they’d get you. Jesus Christ, you could go to fucking Tibet and they’d come up the Himalayas after you! You know that already, don’t you? That’s why you’re so scared. That’s why you’re hiding.’

Pete was listening with his mouth hanging open, his eyes wild with panic. Johnny’s words were hitting home.

Good. Excellent.

‘You can’t stop them coming for you, Pete. But I can. Only I can stop it. Without me, you’re a dead man walking. So I suggest you drop that gun and start cooperating.’

Pete’s mouth twitched as if he were about to say something, but no sound came. And then his whole body seemed to sag and deflate. In the next moment, his pistol clattered to the floor.

‘Kick it over here,’ Johnny ordered him. He’d seen people say that in movies.

Pete obeyed.

‘Now we go and get Chelsea,’ Johnny said.

Still shaking and flinching, Pete nodded and stumbled back outside, Johnny following him with his own pistol aimed right at him. Pete fumbled the car keys from his pocket, dropped them, picked them up again, dropped them once more. He was going to pieces.

As Pete groped about for the keys, Johnny glanced across at the Bentley. Chelsea’s anxious face was visible in the rear window, her hands pressed against the glass.

‘Just get those fucking keys, Pete!’ Johnny snapped.

‘I’m trying!’ Pete whined back, and now he had the keys in his hand and was unlocking the Bentley.

The rear door flew open and Chelsea burst out, still dressed in her evening wear from the auction at Sotheby’s, her hair unkempt, her mascara smeared and smudged down her cheeks. She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face in his chest. For a moment he was taken back to the time she’d been abducted as a young girl, and as mature as she had sounded to him recently, in this moment she was just a little girl again, vulnerable and afraid in a world of hostile grown-ups, needing her dad to protect her.

I got her back, Johnny said to himself, hugging Chelsea close to him with his free arm.

‘I didn’t plan to take her,’ Pete wheedled. ‘It was just when you pulled that stunt at the auction, I knew you must know about the tapes, and then Mike told me that he knew you had them. I told him that I’d give him a lot of money to help me get them back, but it went wrong, because it was Chelsea in the limo, not you. It was Mike that fucked that up, as usual.’

‘Well, he’s paid the price, I hope you’re happy,’ Johnny said grimly. ‘You okay, princess?’ he asked Chelsea quietly.

He felt Chelsea’s head nodding against his body.

‘No one touched you?’

She shook her head.

‘Good,’ Johnny said. ‘We’ll get going, then.’

‘Wait, Johnny, I … I want you to listen to me …’ Pete stammered. ‘It was all a mistake. An accident.’

‘You don’t kidnap somebody by accident, you arsehole.’

‘No, no, not Chelsea. Hashido. Mr Hashido. I didn’t mean to kill him. It just sort of … happened.’

Johnny felt like he’d swallowed a brick, but did his best to keep his face impassive. Surely it was Rory, not Pete, who’d killed Hashido? Or at least, that’s what Mr Shi and the Yakuza believed. That’s why they’d gone after Rory and burned down the Velvet. And it’s why they’d considered the matter closed after Rory was confirmed dead.

‘I went to see Hashido,’ Pete was saying. ‘Up in his office. I told him about Nick Bloom’s demo tapes, that they were … that they were awkward for me, that I didn’t want them getting out into the public. I knew Hashido, he’d always been a big mover in the music world, but I also knew he had underworld connections and I figured I could pay him to sort it all out – you know, either put the frighteners on Rory not to go public with the tapes, or else … or else do something more permanent.’

‘You nasty bastard,’ Johnny said in a flat tone.

‘I was in a corner!’ Pete protested. ‘Those demos could finish me, Johnny! They couldn’t ever get out! I told all this to Hashido, said I was desperate, that I’d make it worth his while if he spoke to the right people and made the whole thing go away. But … but he …’

‘But he what, Pete?’

‘He said no. He called me dishonourable.’

Of course. Even amongst the murderous Yakuza there was a respect for honour. Johnny owed his life to that fact. Pete’s betrayal of Nick Bloom, and then of Nick’s son Rory, all for his own personal gain, would have struck Hashido as deeply shitty, and he would have valued his own self-worth too highly for it to be tarnished by having dealings with the likes of Pete James.

‘We got into a fumble, just a little tug of war,’ Pete said. ‘He fell against the window. It wasn’t locked properly, or it was faulty or something. He fell. He fell, Johnny. I didn’t mean him to. But his associates think I murdered him intentionally.’

No they don’t, Johnny thought. They think it was Rory who was in Hashido’s office that night. They think it was Rory who turned up, trying to get Hashido to publicise the demo tapes, that it was Rory who fought with him, that it was Rory who pushed Hashido out of the window. The Yakuza have no interest in Pete James at all.

But Johnny wasn’t about to let him know that. Quite the opposite.

‘They want revenge, Pete,’ Johnny lied. ‘They want your head on a fucking plate.’

‘I know!’ Pete howled, and he fell to his knees, wringing his hands. ‘I’m done for, Johnny!’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Put a word in for me, Johnny-boy! Speak to them! Make them see it was all an accident! I’m begging you, Johnny! Get me off the hook! I don’t want to die, Johnny!’

‘Money,’ Johnny said.

‘Money?’

‘They’ll want money. A lot of money.’

‘I’ve got a lot!’ Pete said desperately. ‘How much? Just tell me how much!’

Johnny thought for a moment, then said: ‘The villa.’

‘The villa?’

‘Yes. Complete ownership of the villa in Saint-Tropez, along with everything in it. That should cover it.’

‘Sure, sure, no problem at all!’ Pete gabbled. Sweat was pouring off him. ‘I can do that. I can do it today. I can call my solicitors, it can all be arranged, I’ll do it now, I’ll do it right now, this minute!’ With shaking hands, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, and said: ‘You want me to transfer all rights to the villa over to Mr Shi, yes?’

‘Of course not, you plank,’ Johnny said, his arm still tightly around Chelsea. ‘You transfer the rights over to me.’

‘To you? But … but …’

‘Security. Don’t want Mr Shi’s name being brought into this. You just bequeath the whole thing over to me, and I’ll arrange things with Mr Shi. Discreetly.’

‘Oh, yes, I see, I get it!’ Pete nodded frantically. ‘Nice and quiet. Yes, of course.’

He began scrolling through his phone for his solicitor’s number.

Pete looked so pathetic that Johnny could barely stomach to look at him.

The bigger they come, the harder they fall.

‘Tell you what, let’s take the precaution of locking you in the sound booth to do that,’ Johnny ordered him, indicating towards the studio. ‘I want to talk to Chelsea in private.’

‘Sure thing,’ Pete said, and he headed towards the front door. But then he paused and looked back and said: ‘But what about the tapes?’

‘I keep them until the business with the villa is concluded,’ Johnny said.

‘Oh come on, Johnny, we can trust each other better than that!’

‘Like fuck we can.’

Pete looked like he was going to say something, then he thought better of it and shut his mouth instead. He went inside the house. Johnny gently released Chelsea, followed Pete inside, locked him in the sound booth, then went back outside to her. Don could rescue his boss. Johnny was done.

‘Chelsea?’ Johnny asked gently, as she huddled up in his leather jacket.

‘Can you walk back through the woods?’

‘You’re joking,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘In these shoes?’

33

Breathe Out

Johnny emerged from Graceland and stepped into Brick Lane. Unusually for him, he was up early, rather than his standard leisurely rock-and-roll rising at midday. He couldn’t sleep in, his mind was active and restless. His thoughts were spinning. He needed to get his head in order. He needed some fresh air – a commodity in short supply here in the traffic-clogged East End – and, even more, he needed some halfway decent coffee.

Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he set off, letting his feet guide him. His thoughts returned to Pete James. Johnny pictured him there, outside his isolated studio, grovelling for his life, believing his only hope for survival lay in paying off Mr Shi and the Yakuza. Ownership of Pete’s luxury Saint-Tropez villa was being transferred. As far as Pete was concerned, Johnny was just the middleman in this transaction, merely the name on the deeds that would protect Mr Shi from scrutiny, a cover for a criminal. In reality, there would be no hand-over to Shi. The villa would come to Johnny. It would be his. He was, at least in terms of property ownership, rich. Very rich. Or would be when the transfer of the deeds was complete.

As Johnny strode along Brick Lane, drifting vaguely and without much conscious effort towards Whitechapel High Street, he recalled carrying Chelsea back through the woods on piggy-back to save her feet, just as he would have done on the rare occasions when he would carry her upstairs to her bed when she was a child.

They hadn’t spoken a word as they followed the footpath back to where Mona was anxiously waiting by the Porsche in the White Horse car park. But despite the silence between them, they had somehow managed to convey to each other everything they needed to.

Mona had smothered them both in hugs, and then made sure that Chelsea rang Laura to let her know the nightmare was over. Laura broke down. The waiting and waiting, alone in Highgate, had taken an emotional toll. Now, all that dammed-up emotion was pouring out.

‘I’m fine, Mum, I’m absolutely fine,’ Chelsea said, over and over. ‘Do you want a word with Dad?’

No, she didn’t. She didn’t want to see him either. She just wanted her daughter back.

Johnny had driven the Porsche back to Highgate, pulling up outside Laura’s place. As Chelsea opened the car door to get out, she paused, trying to find something to say, but the atmosphere between her and her dad was suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.

‘Get some rest, Chels,’ Johnny managed to say, just to break the silence. ‘And tell your mum …’

He broke off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. But he didn’t need to. Chelsea was almost grown up now; she’d know what to say to Laura. Better than Johnny would, that was for certain.

Chelsea nodded, shot a glance at Mona, half smiled, then climbed out, shutting the door behind her.

‘She’s still trying to process what she’s been through,’ Mona said quietly. ‘But she’s strong, and she’s young. She’ll recover.’

Johnny said nothing. He watched Chelsea make her way to the front door of the house, which flew open immediately. He caught a brief glimpse of Laura, tear-stained and ashen-faced, engulfing Chelsea in her arms and sweeping her inside. Then the door shut. He’d try and sort it out with Laura, but now was not the time.

Later, he called DS Thomas.

‘Called to confess to the Brink’s-Mat robbery, Mr Klein?’

‘Not exactly.’ He told her about the boys who’d threatened his daughter.

‘County lines gangs are a problem everywhere,’ she told him. ‘The Camden team have got this issue very much on their radar, but I’ll make sure they know to keep an eye on the school, and your daughter.’

‘Thanks, Lorna.’

‘That’s DS Thomas to you, Mr Klein.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And Johnny, try and stay off my radar for a while, won’t you?’

These thoughts played out in Johnny’s head as he reached the bustle and grime of Whitechapel High Street. Other memories came to him too, mainly of Mike Penfold. Strangely, the memories of Mike that came back to him most readily were very old ones, back when they were all young. He could see a twenty-one-year-old Mike battering away at a drumkit like he was possessed, smoking and swigging beer at some seedy bar after a gig, laughing wickedly as he stank out the tour bus and enraged his bandmates with a succession of lavish farts, or just passing out in some departure lounge somewhere. Any or all of these memories were better than the most recent memory he had of Mike being knocked to and fro by bullets before falling lifeless to the ground.

Mike was gone. No one was looking for him yet, but Johnny assumed when they did, he’d go the way of many other rock disappearances – another mysterious vanishing fuelled by drink and drugs. Either that or Johnny would get another visit from DS Lorna Thomas. He had time to think about his alibi, anyway.

Chelsea was home. And Johnny? Johnny was now the owner of a luxury villa in one of the most exclusive enclaves in the world – or he would be soon.

‘I’m rich again,’ Johnny muttered to himself. He waited to see how it made him feel. He wasn’t sure. He seemed only to feel … nothing. Maybe – like Chelsea – he was still processing. Maybe in time this strange numbness would give way to elation, or relief, or … or something.

On the far side of the High Street, an older woman with oversized sunglasses seemed to be waving to him from Altab Ali Park, even though it was an overcast and grey day. He didn’t recognise her; who knew, maybe she’d been a fan, or even a groupie. Maybe Johnny had banged her, way back in the day. Maybe Mike had too. And now, like him, the years had caught up with her. An old fan waving to an old ex-pop star.

He felt reluctant to acknowledge her, and yet felt duty-bound to do so. He raised his hand in a polite gesture.

I’m rich again, he found himself thinking. It had become a sort of mantra in his head. I’m rich again, I’m rich again, I’m rich …

And what would this wealth get for him? Would it win back Laura? Would she and Chelsea move out to Saint-Tropez with him? Would they all live happily together in a fairy castle by the sea? Is that what he wanted? Would he simply sell the place and liquidate it into cash? And then what?

And what about Mona? He hadn’t told her yet about the deal he’d struck with Pete, mainly because he knew how she’d react. She would not be happy at all. She’d see that villa as the spoils of blackmail, that he’d put himself at risk once more. And she had already made her feelings about that kind of thing more than clear to Johnny. Once he told her about the villa, she’d end things with him, disgusted that he’d grift off another man’s terror. Maybe Laura would feel the same way too. And maybe, once she had emotionally recovered from her ordeal, Chelsea would as well.

I’m rich, I’m rich, he thought. But all he felt was a cold, sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been rich before. He knew that the one thing money can certainly buy you is unhappiness. Was he about to purchase that unhappiness for a second time?

The woman in Altab Ali Park was still waving at him. Then Johnny realised that she wasn’t waving, she was beckoning him. He saw her lips move: Come here, come here!

Almost under a spell, he made his way across Whitechapel High Street and headed into the little park. It was only as he approached the woman that he was able to see her more clearly. Then, he realised what had drawn him to her.

Johnny stopped dead, staring, his jaw hanging open.

‘You …’ he muttered, in shock.

The woman nodded behind her dark glasses.

‘What shall I call you?’ Johnny asked.

‘I’m Aurora today. But you can call me Rory if you want to.’

Aurora was dressed immaculately in a woollen calf-length coat with a faux-fur collar, but she was understated, just a face in the crowd.

‘I’ve been hanging around Brick Lane trying to catch up with you,’ Aurora said. ‘I knew I’d see you eventually.’

‘But …’

Aurora spoke quickly. ‘I’d have broken my neck jumping from the window like you did. So I pulled down the ceiling ladder on the landing and darted up into the attic. I got out through a skylight at the rear and slid down a drainpipe. I watched the Velvet burn.’

‘But … they found two bodies in the wreckage.’

‘Yes, they did. One was Belle.’ Her voice caught and her eyes shone wetly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Johnny said, sincerely.

Aurora continued, ‘But the other person wasn’t me. As you can imagine, I’ve been keeping an eye on the news. The second body has been identified. Some funny little fella who lived with his mother. A music fan, apparently.’

‘A music fan? When there’s music fans about, they tend to make themselves known to me, shouting out my name and coming up for autographs and …’ Suddenly, the penny dropped. Johnny remembered the man in the T-shirt. ‘Captain America. I met him. His name was Dougie. He helped me over the fence so I could get in. My God, he must have seen the Yakuza attacking the Velvet and rushed in to help. That’s awful.’

‘Yes,’ said Aurora. ‘It’s all so terribly sad – what happened to him, what happened to Belle, what happened to the Velvet. And what happened to my dad.’

‘Your dad,’ Johnny said. ‘Of course. That’s why you’ve been trying to track me down. You want your dad’s demo tapes back.’

‘What else do I have anymore?’ Aurora shrugged. ‘I’ve lost everything, including the one person left who meant anything to me.’

‘You still want to blackmail Pete James with those demos?’

‘I hate him. You still have them, I take it.’

Johnny sighed wearily. This nightmare of the demo tapes seemed to be never-ending. He’d thought it was all over, but here it was again, like a killer in a slasher movie that won’t go down, no matter how many times you think they are dead.

‘Well?’ Aurora pressed him anxiously. ‘You do still have them, don’t you?’

Johnny nodded sadly and said without enthusiasm, ‘Yep. I’ve still got them.’

‘And you’ll give them back to me, won’t you?’

‘Rory, this fucking merry-go-round has got to stop.’

‘It stops when I get what was due to me from that cheating, thieving, murdering bastard, Pete James!’ Aurora snapped. ‘That’s when it stops! Now are you going to give me those tapes back or not?’

Johnny fixed Aurora with a look, thought, took a breath, and at last said: ‘No. I’m not.’

‘You piece of shit, Johnny …’

‘I’m not going to give you the tapes, Rory. Fuck the tapes. To hell with the tapes. I’m not going to give them to you, I’m going to destroy them, once and for all. They’ve brought nothing but death and misery. They’re like a curse, Rory.’

‘They’re all I have!’ Aurora cried.

‘No, they’re not,’ Johnny said in a calm, level voice. ‘I can give you something better than those damn tapes. I can give you the villa.’

‘The what?’

‘Pete’s villa in Saint-Tropez. It’s a long story and I don’t have the energy to go through it all here. Just take it from me, I can see that the villa is put into your name. It’ll be yours. You’ll have taken it from Pete James and claimed it as your own. Or as your dad’s own, if that’s how you want to see it. Take it, Rory. You wanted Pete James to pay – well, he’s paying. Sell the damn place, it’s worth millions, probably ten million. Move to Ibiza and buy your little shack on the beach. God knows, Rory, you can buy the whole fucking beach while you’re at it. But just take it. Fall in love again. Move on. And let’s all draw a line under this whole stinking mess.’

Aurora fell silent.

‘You’re going to take the villa, and you’re going to move on, Rory,’ Johnny said gently. ‘Let me know how to get hold of you. I’ll see that the deeds for the villa come to you.’

After a very long pause, Aurora said: ‘I’m staying with Barry.’

‘Barry?’

‘Barry the tour bus driver.’

But of course. Mike had been staying with their old tour bus driver before washing up at Graceland. Poor Barry evidently operated as a sort of orphanage for all of Klein’s various waifs and strays. Johnny took Barry’s address from Aurora.

‘Soon,’ Johnny said, ‘you’re going to be very rich.’

Aurora seemed no more thrilled about the prospect than Johnny himself had been.

‘Belle,’ Aurora said sadly. ‘And my dad.’

‘You’ll just have to be rich on their behalf,’ Johnny said.

‘Yes, Johnny. I suppose so.’

There was an awkward silence between them.

‘And what about Pete?’ Johnny asked at last.

‘What about him?’ Aurora said in a low voice.

‘Almost your whole life, you’ve been looking for the chance to get your revenge on him. Are you still looking?’

Aurora squinted up at the sky, seemingly deep in thought, and very pensively muttered the one word, as if trying to work out its meaning: ‘Revenge …’ Aurora took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and said: ‘Pete’s got away with it – stealing my dad’s career. But Dad’s gone now, so I can never put that right. And now Belle’s gone too. I don’t know anymore what sort of revenge would have any meaning, Johnny.’

‘I do,’ Johnny said quietly. ‘At least, I think I do.’

‘Oh yes? Tell me.’

‘Take the Saint-Tropez villa. Be happy. Your dad would have wanted that. And Belle. So do that for them. Be happy, live your life, and forget Pete James ever existed. And anyway, he’ll spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder, expecting to get bumped off by the Yakuza. I doubt he’ll ever sleep easy again.’

Aurora thought about this for a few moments, then looked Johnny in the eyes and said: ‘You’re probably right. I’ll think about what you said … in the south of France … or somewhere.’

And with that, Aurora turned and began walking away.

Johnny turned towards Brick Lane, never once glancing back at Aurora. He had just given away God alone knew how many million quid’s worth of luxury real estate – and he realised that he felt great. Or at least, he felt way better than he did before. Was he mad? Probably.

As he reached Graceland, he saw Mona. She caught sight of him and smiled as brightly as the sun.

‘Hey, early bird, wanna treat me to breakfast somewhere?’ she grinned as she hooked her arm through his.

She didn’t know about the villa. And now she never would. But she would have approved of what Johnny had just done. He knew that she would have told him, unequivocally, that he’d done the right thing.

‘I’ll take you for a fry-up with all the extras,’ Johnny said, kissing her cheek. ‘But, um …’

‘Always a but with you, Johnny!’ Mona laughed. ‘What’s the but this time?’

‘The but is … well, that I’ll have to ask you to pick up the bill. I’m temporarily a little strapped.’

Mona rolled her eyes. ‘What else is new?’ she said as she swept him with her in the direction of Todd’s greasy spoon.

As he strolled with her, feeling the side of her body pressed against his own, Johnny reminded her, ‘Mona, I’ve told you before, real rock stars never, ever carry cash …’

Acknowledgements

I would like to say thank you to Issy Lloyd, Lauren Li, and Darcy Dickson at Insanity for everything they do for me, they are the best!!

Also, Kate Bradley and everyone at HarperCollins for making this book possible and for all their hard work!

Keep Reading

Did you enjoy The Fall?

Make sure you’ve read Martin’s first book, The Game.

A FALLEN ROCKSTAR. ONE LAST CHANCE FOR REDEMPTION.

People used to scream Johnny Klein’s name.

Now he’s lost the fame. The marriage. The money.

When he’s offered one more throw of the dice, he grabs at the chance. But instead, Johnny’s dragged down into East London’s dark underbelly, and forced to face the dark corners of his past.

JOHNNY THOUGHT HE HAD NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE. HE WAS WRONG.

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About the Author

Martin Kemp is a founding member of the iconic 1980s band Spandau Ballet. His subsequent award-winning acting career has encompassed stage, screen, TV and radio.

Martin is married to Shirlie Kemp and they have two children, Roman and Harleymoon. Martin lives in Hertfordshire with his family and pets. The Fall is his second novel.

Instagram logo. @martinjkemp

Twitter logo. @realmartinkemp

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Also by Martin Kemp

Ticket to the World: My 80s Story

The Game

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