Читать книгу Dead Beat - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 9

We didn’t have to scramble for a parking place near the Apollo Theatre, since we live less than five minutes’ walk away. I couldn’t believe my luck when I discovered this development halfway through my first year as a law student at Manchester University. It’s surrounded on three sides by council housing estates and on the fourth by Ardwick Common. It’s five minutes by bike to the university, the central reference library, Chinatown, and the office. It’s ten minutes by bike to the heart of the city centre. And by car, it’s only moments away from the motorway network. When I discovered it, they were still building the little close of forty houses, and the prices were ridiculously low, probably because of the surrounding area’s less than salubrious reputation. I worked out that if I pitched my father into standing guarantor for a hundred per cent mortgage and moved another student into the spare room as a lodger, I’d be paying almost the same as I was for my shitty little room in a student residence. So I went for it and moved in that Easter. I’ve never regretted it. It’s a great place to live as long as you remember to switch on the burglar alarm.

We arrived at the Apollo just as the support band were finishing their first number. We’d have caught the opener if they hadn’t left the guest list in the hands of an illiterate. One of the major drawbacks to having a relationship with a rock writer is that you can’t put support bands to their traditional use of providing a background beat while you have a few drinks before the act you came to hear gets on stage. Rock writers actually listen to the support band, just so they can indulge in their professional one-upmanship with lines like, ‘Oh yes, I remember Dire Straits when they were playing support at the Newcastle City Hall,’ invariably to some band that everyone has now forgotten. After two numbers, I couldn’t take any more and I abandoned Richard in his seat while I headed for the bar.

The bar at the Apollo reminds me of a vision of hell. It’s decorated in a mosaic of bright red glitter, it’s hot and it reeks of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. I elbowed my way through the crowd and waved a fiver in the air till one of the nonchalant bar staff eventually deigned to notice me. At the Apollo, they specialize in a minuscule selection of drinks, all served at blood heat in plastic tumblers. It doesn’t matter much what you order, it all seems to taste much the same. Only the colours vary. I asked for a lager, which arrived flat and looking like a urine sample. I sipped tentatively and decided that seeing is believing. As I pushed my way back towards the door, I saw someone who made me stop so suddenly that the man behind me cannoned into me, spilling half my drink down the trousers of the man next to me.

In the chaos of my apologies and my pathetic attempts to wipe up the spilled beer with a tissue from my handbag, I took my eyes off the source of my surprise. When I managed to make my embarrassed escape, I looked over to the corner where he’d been standing. But it was now occupied by a threesome I’d never seen before. Gary Smart, brother and partner of Billy, had vanished.

I stared round the crowded bar, but there was no trace of him. He’d been standing with a tall, skinny man who’d had his back to me. I didn’t hear a word of their conversation, but their body language suggested a business deal. Gary had been putting some kind of pressure on the other man. It certainly hadn’t looked like a pleasant, concertgoers’ chat about which of Jett’s albums they liked best. I cursed silently. I’d missed a great chance to pick up some interesting info.

With a shrug, I drank the few remaining mouthfuls of my drink and went back down to the foyer. I checked out the tour merchandise just to see if there was anything among the t-shirts, sweatshirts, badges, programmes and albums that I fancied. Richard can always get freebies, so I usually have a quick look. But the sweatshirts were black, and the t-shirts hideous, so I walked back through the half-empty auditorium and slumped in my seat next to Richard while the support band ground out their last two numbers. They left the stage to muted applause, the lights went up and a tape of current chart hits filled the air. ‘Bag of crap,’ Richard remarked.

‘That their name or a critical judgement?’ I asked.

He laughed and said, ‘Well, they ain’t honest enough to call themselves that, but they might as well have done. Now, while we’ve got a minute to ourselves, tell me about your day.’

As he lit a joint, I did just that. I always find that talking things over with Richard helps. He has an instinctive understanding of people and how their minds work that I have come to rely on. It’s the perfect foil to my more analytical approach.

Unfortunately, before he could deliver his considered verdict on the Smart brothers, the lights went down. The auditorium, now full to capacity, rang with cries of ‘Jett, Jett, Jett …’ After a few minutes of chanting, wavering torch beams lit up pathways on the stage as members of Jett’s backing band took the stage. Then, a pale blue spot picked out the drummer, high on his platform at the rear of the stage, brushing a snare drum softly. The lighting man focused on the bass player in pale purple as he picked up the slow beat. Then came the keyboards player, adding a shimmering chord from the synthesizer. The sax player joined in, laying down a line as smooth as chocolate.

Then, suddenly, a stark white spotlight picked out Jett as he strode out of the wings, looking as frail and vulnerable as ever. His black skin gleamed under the lights. He wore his trademark brown leather trousers and cream silk shirt. An acoustic guitar was slung round his neck. The audience went wild, almost drowning out the musicians in their frenzy. But as soon as he opened his mouth to sing, they stilled.

His voice was better than ever. I’ve been a fan of Jett since his first single hit the charts when I was fifteen, but I find it as hard now to categorize his music as I did then. His first album had been a collection of twelve tracks, mainly acoustic but with some subtle backings ranging from a plangent sax to a string quartet. The songs had ranged from simple, plaintive love songs to the anthem-like ‘To Be With You Tonight’ which had been the surprise hit of the year, hitting the top of the charts the week after its release and staying there for eight weeks. He had one of those voices that has the quality of a musical instrument, blending perfectly with whatever arrangement flows beneath it. As a lovesick teenager, I could lose myself completely in his yearning songs with their poignant lyrics.

Eight other albums had followed, but I’d increasingly found less delight in them. I wasn’t sure if it was the changes in me that were responsible for that. Maybe what strikes a teenager as profound and moving just doesn’t work once you’re halfway through your twenties. But it seemed to me that while the music was still strong, the lyrics had become trite and predictable. Maybe that was a reflection of his reported views about the role of women. It’s hard to write enlightened love songs about the half of the population you believe should be barefoot and pregnant. However, the packed crowd in the Apollo didn’t seem to share my views. They roared out their appreciation for every number, whether from the last album or the first. After all, he was on home ground. He was their own native son. He’d made the northern dream a reality, moving up from a council flat in the Moss-side ghetto to a mansion in the Cheshire countryside.

With consummate showmanship, he closed the ninety-minute set with a third encore, that first, huge hit, the one we’d all been waiting for. A classic case of leaving them wanting more. Before the last chords had died away, Richard was on his feet and heading for the exit. I followed quickly before the crowds built up, and caught up with him on the pavement outside as he flagged down a cab.

As we settled back in our seats and the cabbie set off for the hotel, Richard said, ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. He puts on a good show. But he’d better have some new ideas for the next album. Last three all sounded the same and they didn’t sell nearly enough. You watch, there’ll be a few twitchy faces around tonight, and I don’t just mean the coke-heads.’

He paused to light a cigarette and I snatched the chance to ask him why it was so important that I be at the party. I was still nursing the forlorn hope of an early night.

‘Now that would be telling,’ he said mysteriously.

‘So tell. It’s only a five-minute cab ride. I haven’t got time to pull your fingernails out one by one.’

‘You’re a hard woman, Brannigan,’ he complained. ‘Never off duty, are you? OK, I’ll tell you. You know me and Jett go way back?’ I nodded. I remembered Richard telling me the story of how he’d landed his first job on a music paper with an exclusive interview of the normally reclusive Jett. Richard had been working for a local paper in Watford and he’d been covering their cup tie with Manchester City. At the time, Elton John had owned Watford, and Jett had been his personal guest for the afternoon. After City won, Richard had sneaked in to the boardroom and had persuaded an elated Jett to give him an interview. That interview had been Richard’s escape ticket. As a bonus, Jett had liked what Richard wrote, and they’d stayed friends ever since.

‘Well,’ Richard continued, interrupting my reference to my mental card index of his past, ‘he’s decided that he wants his autobiography written.’

‘Don’t you mean biography?’ Always the nitpicker, that’s me.

‘No, I mean auto. He wants it ghosted, written in the first person. When we saw him at that dinner, he mentioned it to me. Sort of sounded me out. Of course, I said I’d be interested. It wouldn’t be a mega-seller like Jagger or Bowie, but it could be a nice little earner. So, when he rang me up to invite us tonight and he was so insistent that you come along too, I thought I could read between the lines.’

Although he was trying to sound nonchalant, I could tell that Richard was bursting with pride and excitement at the idea. I pulled his head down to mine and planted a kiss on his warm mouth. ‘That’s great news,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Will it mean a lot of work?’

He shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s just a case of getting him talking into the old tape recorder then knocking it into shape afterwards. And he’s going to be at home for the next three months or so working on the new album, so he’ll be around and about.’

Before we could discuss the matter further, the taxi pulled up outside the ornate façade of the grandiosely named Holiday Inn Midland Crowne Plaza. It’s one of those extraordinary Manchester monuments to the city’s first era of prosperity. One of the more palatable byproducts of the cotton mills of the industrial revolution. I can remember when it used to be simply the Midland, one of those huge railway hotels that moulder on as relics of an age when the rich felt no guilt and the poor were kept well away from the doors. Then Holiday Inn bought the dinosaur and turned it into a fun palace for the city’s new rich – the sportsmen, businessmen and musicians who gave Manchester a new lease of life in the late eighties.

Suddenly, in the nineties, London was no longer the place to be. If you wanted a decent lifestyle with lots of buzz and excitement packed into compact city centres, you had to be in one of the so-called provincial cities. Manchester for rock, Glasgow for culture, Newcastle for shopping. It was this shift that had brought Richard to Manchester two years before. He’d come up to try to get an interview with cult hero Morrissey and two days in the city had convinced him that it was going to be to the nineties what Liverpool was to the sixties. He had nothing to keep him in London; his divorce had just come through, and a freelance makes his best living if he’s where the most interesting stories are. So he stayed, like a lot of others.

I followed him out of the taxi, feeling like partying for the first time since I’d come home. Richard’s news had given me a real adrenalin rush, and I couldn’t wait for the official confirmation of what he already suspected. We headed straight to the bar for a drink to give Jett and his entourage time to get over to the hotel.

I sipped my vodka and grapefruit juice gratefully. When I became a private eye, I tried to match the image and drink whisky. After two glasses, I had to revert to my usual to take the taste away. I guess I’m not cut out for the ‘bottle of whisky and a new set of lies’ Mark Knopfler image. As I drank, I listened with half an ear while Richard told me how he saw Jett’s autobiography taking shape. ‘It’s a great rags to riches story, a classic. A poor childhood in the Manchester slums, the struggle to make the music he knew he had in him. First discovering music when his strict Baptist mother pushed him into the gospel choir. How he got his first break. And at last, the inside story on why his songwriting partnership with Moira broke up. It’s got all the makings,’ he rambled on. ‘I could probably sell the serial rights to one of the Sunday tabloids. Oh, Kate, it’s a great night for us!’

After twenty minutes of bubbling enthusiasm, I managed to cut in and suggest that we made our way to the party. As soon as we emerged from the lift, it was clear which suite Jett had hired for the night. Already a loud babble of conversation spilled into the hall, overlaying the mellow sounds of Jett’s last album. I squeezed Richard’s hand and said, ‘I’m really proud of you,’ as we entered the main room and the party engulfed us.

Jett himself was holding court at the far end of the room, looking as fresh as if he’d just got out of the shower. His arm was draped casually round the shoulders of a classic Fiona. Her blonde hair hung over her shoulders in a loosely permed mane, her blue eyes, like the rest of her face, were perfectly made up, and the shiny violet sheath that encased her curves looked to me like a Bill Blass.

‘Come on, let’s go and talk to Jett,’ Richard said eagerly, steering me towards the far side of the room. As we passed the table where the drinks were laid out, a shirtsleeved arm sneaked out from a group of women and grabbed Richard’s shoulder.

‘Barclay!’ a deep voice bellowed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ The group parted to reveal the speaker, a man of medium height and build, running slightly to paunch round the middle.

Richard looked astonished. ‘Neil Webster!’ he exclaimed with less than his usual warmth. ‘I could ask you the same thing. At least I’m a bloody rock writer, not an ambulance chaser. What are you doing back in Manchester? I thought you were in Spain.’

‘A bit too hot for me down there, if you catch my drift,’ Neil Webster replied. ‘Besides, all the news these days seems to happen in this city. I thought I was about due to revisit my old haunts.’

Their exchange gave me a few minutes to study this latest addition to my collection of Journalists Of The World. Neil Webster had that slightly disreputable air that a lot of women seem to find irresistible. I’m not one of them. He looked to be in his late thirties, though a journalist’s life does seem to accelerate ageing in everyone except my own Peter Pan Barclay. Neil’s brown hair, greying at the temples, looked slightly rumpled, as did the cream chinos and chambray shirt he was wearing. His brown eyes were hooded, with a nest of laughter lines etched white in his tanned skin. He had a hawk nose over a full pepper and salt moustache and his jaw line was starting to show signs of jowls.

My scrutiny was interrupted by his own matching appraisal. ‘So who’s the lovely lady? I’m sorry, my love, that oaf you came with seems to have forgotten his manners. I’m Neil Webster, real journalist. Not like Richard with his comic books. And you’re …?’

‘Kate Brannigan.’ I coolly shook his proffered hand.

‘Well, Kate, let me get you a drink. What’s it to be?’

I asked him for my usual vodka and grapefruit juice, and he turned to the bar to pour it. Richard leaned past him and helped himself to a can of Schlitz. ‘You didn’t say what exactly you were doing back here,’ Richard pressed Neil as he handed me my drink. I tasted it and nearly choked, both at the strength of the drink and the impact of Neil’s reply.

‘Didn’t I? Oh, sorry. Fact of the matter is, I’ve been commissioned to write Jett’s official biography.’