The Masked Band E-Book

Bernard O'Keeffe

• Herausgeber: Muswell Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: A DI Garibaldi Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 430

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Behind every mask lies a killer truth. Mick Jagger. Bob Dylan. Paul McCartney. David Bowie. Debbie Harry. They're icons. Legends. And together they form the ultimate supergroup - The Okay Boomers. It's quite some band and it's quite incredible to see them playing the Bull's Head in Barnes on a Sunday night. But all is not as it seems. Hiding behind lifelike masks are five local celebrities. Desperate to keep their identities secret, they are all unmasked when a body is discovered in the lead singer's garden the morning after their post-gig party. Who is the victim? Why was he wearing the lead singer's Mick Jagger mask? And why have all the other masks disappeared? Enter DI Garibaldi, a poetry aficionado with a penchant for country music and the Met's sole non-driving detective. As he investigates the five members of The Okay Boomers – a fading rom-com heartthrob, a high-profile comedian, a controversial TV pundit, a popular poet, and a national treasure – one thing becomes clear: behind every mask lies a killer truth.

Leseprobe

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THE MASKED BAND

Bernard O’Keeffe

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For Jo

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Contents

Title PageDedicationPrologue123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354AcknowledgementsAlso by Bernard O’KeeffeCopyright

1

Prologue

He stood swaying in the living room, knowing he was drunk but, more importantly, knowing he was in love.

That was what mattered.

In fact, it mattered so much that he thought maybe he should give her a ring to tell her.

Yes, that’s what he’d do. Impulsive, but romantic. She’d love it.

He reached for his phone, but the pocket of his jeans was empty. Strange. He always kept it there. He checked the other pocket. Wallet, but no phone. He took out the wallet, put it on the table and checked his jacket pockets.

Nothing.

He stood still, hands on hips, puzzled. Had he left it somewhere?

He checked his pockets again just to be sure.

Nothing.

What was it with him and losing things? First that package – not lost, exactly, but temporarily mislaid – and now his phone.

Where the fuck was it? 2

It could be anywhere. Literally anywhere. And if, by chance, someone had picked it up …

He smacked his forehead. If someone had picked it up? Of course someone had picked it up! And it was obvious who that someone must be. All he had to do now was give her a call to see if she had it.

And to tell her he loved her.

His hand was almost in his pocket again when he remembered the pocket was empty and he didn’t have what he needed to make the call – he was reaching for something he didn’t have because he didn’t have it …

He shook his head. Yes, too much to drink, but what the fuck – he was in love!

He steadied himself and took a few deep breaths.

Be logical. Be rational. What was the problem here? The problem was he wanted to give her a call to tell her he loved her, but he didn’t have his phone.

He took a few more breaths and then, as if from nowhere, a brilliant idea came to him.

The landline.

He picked up the handset and dialled her number. You hardly ever needed to remember numbers nowadays, just press the name in contacts, but her number was etched in his brain. Another sign that it was love.

He got ready to speak.

No luck. She wasn’t picking up. Unlikely she would be asleep, so why wasn’t she answering, especially if she knew she’d taken his phone by mistake?

Maybe she didn’t have it after all.

What should he do?

Another brilliant idea came to him. He walked over to a table, sat down, lifted the lid of his laptop and googled ‘how to locate my iPhone’. It took him some time to find 3the right search result but soon he had it – icloud.com/find-devices. All he had to do now was remember his username and password.

It took him about ten attempts (he couldn’t work out whether he was using the wrong password or using the right one but entering it incorrectly), but he got in eventually and there it was!

A green circle pulsed on the map, showing the exact location of his missing phone. As he thought – she’d picked it up by mistake and taken it to her friend’s. He hadn’t realised it was that friend but, yes, it all made sense now. He changed the map to satellite view to make sure. Yes, that was definitely it. His phone was sitting in her bag or her jacket pocket while she …

What would she be doing? He looked at his watch. Yes, it was late, but surely she’d still be awake – he’d only just got in himself and she’d have travelled about the same distance. Chances were she’d be chatting with her friend telling her about the great evening she’d had.

Could his phone wait until tomorrow? He took a few breaths and tried to work it out. The truth was it would wait until tomorrow. He didn’t need it that much. It wasn’t like he was addicted to it the way so many of his mates were and couldn’t bear to be without it. He could survive a few hours. And it wasn’t as though there was anything on it he’d worry about her seeing. Nothing incriminating – or, at least, nothing he couldn’t explain away. So, yeah, maybe he should wait until tomorrow.

Then another thought struck him. Surely she would have discovered that she’d picked his phone up by mistake and surely when she found out she would have …

He shook his head and laughed out loud. Surely she would have called him? She had his fucking phone! 4

What was he thinking of? He’d definitely had too much to drink.

He sat at the table, closed his laptop and held his head in his hands.

Then it came to him. Another brilliant idea. The best he’d had so far and one that refused to go.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed the right thing to do. He knew where she was. It was within easy walking distance and, what’s more, he did this friend she was staying with a favour recently: a big favour. And when he did that favour he did something else. He’d no idea at the time why he did it, but now it was going to prove useful. Very useful. The perfect way to spring a surprise.

He leaped up and headed out.

He ran the short distance, excited by what he was going to do. OK, it was rash and impetuous, but he was in love and he was drunk and nothing was going to stop him.

When he got there he was surprised to see so many lights on and to hear music and voices. Loud voices.

Something was happening.

What was it? Some kind of party? Had she gone off to a party without telling him?

Had she lied to him?

He shut the door gently behind him as he stepped inside and found himself in a side room off the entrance hall. He stayed there for a few moments, listening to the music, voices and laughter echoing from distant rooms as he worked out a plan of action. So what if someone was having a party? Why should that change anything?

He opened the door and put his head round. No-one was in sight so he crept into the hall.

It was then that he saw them.

What the fuck were they doing here? 5

And what the fuck was going on?

He heard footsteps. Someone was walking towards the hall. He looked around. There was no time to get back to the side room. What should he do?

He looked at them again and, as the footsteps came closer, he reached for one and ran upstairs. 6

7

1

Mick Jagger. Paul McCartney, Debbie Harry, Bob Dylan, David Bowie.

It was quite some band, and quite incredible to see them playing the Bull’s Head in Barnes on a Sunday evening.

The audience were loving it. Dancing along to the sixties and seventies classics with the words on their lips and smiles on their faces, none of them wondered what had brought this supergroup to the Barnes pub and none of them questioned why Bowie, who had died several years ago, was there at all, let alone why he was playing drums.

Mick Jagger put one hand on his hip and the other on his forehead as he looked out at the audience. “You having a good time?”

Cries of ‘yes’ came from the audience.

Had the crowd been able to see the man behind the Jagger mask – Jagger as he was on the Stones 1972 tour – had they been able to see beneath the wig of flowing locks and the Ossie Clark all-in-one jump suit, they would have recognised the TV celebrity immediately.

Jimmy Clark had been in the public consciousness for so long, and in such a range of roles, that it was difficult to say with any precision what he was best known for. His first 8appearances as a youthful graduate were on children’s TV but he soon moved into other areas. Before long he was a regular on quiz and panel shows, and soon he was hosting his own. And while doing this he was pursuing a writing career: a column in The Times followed by one in the Mail and a flurry of books (some destined for coffee tables or Christmas stockings, others, including a series of supernatural detective novels, for the remainder bin). Even now, in his mid-seventies, he was still making regular TV appearances – chat shows, more quiz shows, even the occasional documentary – and was a staple of many long-running radio shows where his plummy RP tones were instantly recognisable.

In short, there seemed nothing that Jimmy Clark couldn’t do, and nothing that he wouldn’t turn his hand to if there was enough money and publicity in it. And yet, despite a ubiquity that smacked of shameless self-promotion, most people loved him. Neither he nor his views may have been to everyone’s taste (he had stood, unsuccessfully, as a Conservative MP on two occasions), but his charm and his winning smile guaranteed that he was a figure who commanded a great deal of affection. A one-off. A unique. There was (to the relief of those for whom he wasn’t their cup of tea) only one Jimmy Clark.

“Can’t hear you,” said Jimmy from behind the mask. “Are you having a good time?”

More cries of ‘yes’. A few ‘take it off!’s.

“I still can’t hear you,” he said. “Are you having a good time?”

The cries of ‘yes’ seemed no louder than before, but Jimmy nodded as if they were.

“OK,” he said. “Time to introduce the band!”

He turned to the drummer and held out his arm. “On 9drums, and showing just how versatile a musician he is, David Bowie!”

From behind the Aladdin Sane mask with the red and blue lightning bolt flashed across the purple-washed face, underneath the spiky red wig and in the Yamamoto striped suit, Charlie Brougham looked at the audience with a dimple-chinned smile that no-one could see. Had he whipped off his mask he would immediately have been recognised as the actor who had played the floppy-haired hero in a string of British romcoms and classic adaptations, the man who had become synonymous with a certain kind of dashing, aristocratic English youth.

The floppy hair may have greyed and thinned, and recent TV and film appearances may have been as ageing philanderers rather than romantic leads, but Charlie liked to think, despite evidence to the contrary, that he was still very much in the public eye and a favourite of the gossip columns.

He gave a bow and a roll on the drums.

“On bass,” said Jimmy, “the one and only Paul McCartney!”

The audience turned to the Sergeant Pepper McCartney, neatly moustached in the Noel Howard bright-blue satin suit with fringed epaulettes and army insignia.

Behind the mask Craig Francis smiled.

There were very few poets who could consider themselves household names and Craig Francis was one of them. Emerging in the sixties as part of the movement so memorably described by The Times as ‘bringing poetry to the people’, he had been one of the earliest performance poets. Not for him obscurity or difficulty. You didn’t need a degree to understand a Francis poem. Nor did you need a dictionary. He wrote poems people could understand. Funny poems. 10Sad poems. Clever poems. But, above all, accessible poems. For some in the poetry world this was not a good thing – he and his ilk were debasing the noble calling. But for many others this was just what they wanted and they couldn’t get enough of it. Unusually for a poet, his collections sold. They may not have received favourable reviews but they struck a chord with the reading public. Soon, Francis was a regular on TV and radio, often asked to pen a topical response to what was happening in the news. And Francis was happy to oblige, becoming something akin to the nation’s alternative poet laureate. Some said he should have been the real one.

Craig bowed and raised his hand to acknowledge the cheers.

“On keyboards,” said Jimmy, “the one and only Debbie Harry!”

The crowd whooped and hollered. Underneath the brilliant blonde wig, behind the mask of Blondie’s lead singer, and wearing the white dress she wore on the cover of Parallel Lines, Hazel Bloom smiled as she raised her hand to acknowledge the cheers. She was used to performing in costumes but, until the formation of the band, she had never performed in a mask – or, at least, not a literal one. How she wished she’d been able to wear one in her early days when she was making her first tentative steps on the alternative comedy circuit. Whenever she remembered those heckles and the times she was gonged off at The Comedy Club, she was amazed she had survived. Women comedians might now be something close to the norm but it seemed not long ago that they were very much a rarity. She liked to point it out in her act, adapting the old Doctor Johnson gag (he wasn’t around to sue) that a woman doing comedy was like a dog walking on its hind legs – it wasn’t done well but you were surprised to find it done at all. It never got any 11laughs but back then not many of her jokes did. Not that jokes were the thing. It was all observational and politically correct. It was only when Hazel started to do impressions that her career really took off. Suddenly she was in demand and, to her surprise, the demand had not dropped off over the last four decades. She still performed on TV and radio, often as an impressionist in topical comedy shows but also, in a sign of her success, as herself.

“And last but by a very long way not least,” said Jagger, “on guitar, the legendary Bob Dylan!”

Loud cheers and renewed cries of “Take it off! Take it off!”

It was Blonde on Blonde Dylan, brown coat, scarf, and a shock of wiry hair.

Had Larry Benyon whipped off the mask the Bull’s Head crowd would have seen the face of the former professional footballer who had graced the nation’s TV screens for many years, most recently as a contributor to political debate. Quite how he had moved from professional footballer to the nation’s liberal conscience many found difficult to grasp. Even Larry himself couldn’t understand it. He had always regarded himself as more intelligent than the average footballer (the bar, or should that be cross bar, was admittedly low) and had always known that a career in sports presenting might suit his talents more than a career in management, but he had never imagined that his opinions on anything other than football might be sought or valued. Anyone viewing his first, stumbling, error-strewn appearance on the nation’s screens would be amazed that the rookie presenter would one day become an articulate champion of many worthy causes, an outspoken critic of perceived injustice and folly, someone who many (the Labour Party included) thought would make an outstanding MP. 12

Larry raised his hand, acknowledging the cheers, and spoke into the mike in a carefully disguised voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, as if he were introducing Wimbledon or the Cup Final, “let’s not forget the main man himself.” He held his hand out in the direction of Jimmy. “The one and only Mick Jagger!”

“Take it off! Take it off!”

“OK,” said Jimmy through his Jagger mask. “Here we go. One, two, three.”

Dylan played the opening chords of ‘Get off My Cloud’. Jimmy came in on the vocals and the audience started to dance again, joining in on the chorus, but changing the words:

“Hey (hey) you (you) take offa your mask!”

13

2

Doreen Amos knew she was in a for a busy morning as soon as she opened the door. The place usually needed no more than a routine clean, but there were times, and today was clearly one of them, when she let herself in to the huge seven-bedroom mansion to find the kind of mess you wouldn’t associate with the image her employer liked to present to his millions of fans.

In all the years she’d worked for him Doreen had been the soul of discretion. Not a word to anyone. Not a hint of anything untoward. But that didn’t mean she never speculated, and whenever she came across things – and people – that surprised her, she couldn’t stop herself wondering what he got up to when he was out of the public gaze.

That was one of the reasons why she always liked to announce her arrival. By the time she arrived at 8.30 on a Monday morning he would usually be at his desk and would often have already been there for two or three hours. At his age you’d have thought he might have started to take it easy, or at least treat himself to the occasional lie-in. But no. If he was at home he would, more often than not, be hard at work when she turned up. And he would always answer when he heard her – though, given the size of the house, 14and given that he worked in his study behind a closed door, she might have to call several times before he responded.

“Hello?”

It was the second time Doreen had called and there was still no answer, so she walked down the hall to his study. She was surprised to find the door open.

“Hello?”

There was still no response, so she put her head round the door. The room was empty.

Doreen walked back down the hall and went upstairs, giving another ‘hello’ when she reached the first-floor landing.

Still nothing.

His bedroom door was, as always, shut. She walked towards it and put her ear close, listening for movement, and as she did so she noticed that one of the other bedroom doors was slightly ajar. This was unusual. One of the few instructions she had been given when she started was that the bedroom doors should be shut at all times. She’d never asked why – it wasn’t her place to – but she’d often wondered why it was so important.

“Hello?”

She called again, edging towards the open door.

Nothing.

She paused outside the room and listened.

Nothing.

She gave the door a gentle push and it slowly swung back.

She tip-toed into the room, and sensed immediately that something was wrong.

The glass doors onto the balcony were wide open and in front of them a table lay on the carpet, the ornaments and photos it had held scattered around. A broken vase lay on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass. 15

Doreen looked at the door to the ensuite bathroom and slowly moved towards it. She crouched and put her ear close to the door.

She heard nothing.

“Hello?”

No answer.

She opened the bathroom door and put her head round.

Empty.

Closing the bathroom door behind her, Doreen went back to the balcony doors, stepped out onto the narrow platform and looked down.

It was then that she saw the body.

It lay on the gravel directly below the window, legs and arms splayed at odd angles, and Doreen knew instinctively that it was dead.

Her hands went to her mouth and she leaned over the balcony to look more closely.

She shuddered when she saw the face.

Surely not. It couldn’t be. What would he be doing here? And, more importantly, why would he be lying dead on the gravel?

She leaned further out and then saw something else. Another man. But this one was alive.

He looked up at her.

“I’ve called the police,” said Doreen’s boss.

16

3

Whenever Garibaldi introduced himself he had a habit, after giving his name, of adding, “As in the hero of Italian unification and as in the biscuit. You know, the ones we used to call squashed flies.” Not everyone got the historical reference, but most (especially those of a certain age) got the one about the biscuits.

But making a Garibaldi biscuit gag was one thing. Dressing up as one, he had discovered to his horror, was another thing entirely.

What on earth had possessed him?

Why hadn’t he thrown on a red shirt and a pair of breeches and come as Giuseppe Garibaldi? That would have been the smart thing to do. But no. He’d squeezed himself between two cardboard box sides peppered with clumps of raisins and come as the biscuit.

He’d always hated fancy dress parties. They may have been forgivable in your youth, the kind of thing you did when you were a student, but for a fully grown adult to send an invitation asking you to come dressed as something to do with your name was nothing short of embarrassing. Not as embarrassing, perhaps, as accepting it, and definitely not as embarrassing as turning up to it dressed as a fucking Garibaldi biscuit. 17

And then, when he’d turned up, who was there to greet him? A trio of country singers, no less. And not just any trio. The trio. Dolly Parton. Linda Ronstadt. Emmylou Harris.

That was the first big surprise.

The second one was that no-one else had dressed up. No-one at all.

As soon as he realised, Garibaldi rushed to the loo to try to get out of his gear. But when he got there it was locked and no-one answered when he called out and banged on the door. He tried to pull the cardboard off him as he stood outside, but it wouldn’t shift. What had been held on by tied bandages now seemed to be secured by glue. It just wouldn’t come off.

He had no choice but to return to the party.

When he went back into the room the crowd parted on either side of him to make a walkway. He looked down it and there, on a stage at the end of the room, stood Dolly, Linda and Emmylou, carrying guitars and waving at him to come and join them.

“Garibaldi!” said Dolly. “Come and sing with us!”

He looked at the people on either side of him. They were clapping and cheering and urging him forward.

“Sing with you?” said Garibaldi. “But I can’t sing!”

“Everyone can sing,” said Linda.

“But what’s the song?”

“It’s your favourite,” said Emmylou. “Come on up.”

Garibaldi looked around. The crowd were urging him to join the singers and it seemed he now had no choice. He walked forwards slowly and climbed onto the stage where the three singers stepped back, encouraging him to stand in front of them, facing the room.

“What’s the song?” said Garibaldi, turning to them again. 18

“The Garibaldi Song,” said Emmylou, as she started to strum.

“The what?”

Dolly and Linda joined the strumming and all three started to sing – perfect three-part harmony.

My currants ain’t squashed flies

They taste so sweet – unlike your lies

Like Garibaldi’s country let’s be one

Let’s make love and have some fun

Yeah my name’s Garibaldi, take a bite.

Have a taste of me tonight.

Garibaldi looked at the party guests. They were all facing the stage and singing along.

“The next verse is yours,” said Dolly, stepping forward and giving him a nod.

“But I don’t know the words,” said Garibaldi, smiling awkwardly at the expectant faces.

“One, two, three.” Emmylou gave another nod and stepped back.

Garibaldi took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Words came out but he couldn’t hear them. He had no idea what he was singing.

“Jim?”

He turned to the three singers behind him. Had one of them called him?

“Jim?”

It was louder this time, but he could see that the voice had come from none of the singers.

“Jim?”

It was above him now. Someone was speaking over his head. 19

“Are you all right?”

He looked up. Rachel was leaning over him.

“Why are you talking about biscuits?”

Garibaldi rubbed his eyes. The party was over. The singers had gone. And a touch of his body reassured him that he was no longer dressed as a Garibaldi biscuit.

Another anxiety dream.

“Biscuits?” he said. “What was I saying?”

“It sounded like, ‘I’m a biscuit, take a bite. Have a taste of me tonight’. But it wasn’t very clear.”

“Was I really talking?”

“Yeah. Talking, singing. I’m not sure what it was.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I’d stopped.”

“You haven’t done it for a while. Is everything OK?”

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Monday? What time?”

“8.30.”

“8.30! Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“It’s half-term.”

He’d completely forgotten. He sometimes struggled with days of the week and occasionally lost track of the month, but when it came to school holidays he had no chance. They came with such frequency it was impossible to keep up.

Garibaldi yawned, rubbed his eyes and stretched. “Half-term. Of course it is.”

“So I was thinking,” said Rachel, “maybe we could go out somewhere tonight?”

“Sure. What do you fancy?”

“There’s some jazz at the Bull’s Head.”

Jazz at the Bull’s Head. Garibaldi’s heart sank.

One of the things that had attracted him to Rachel had been her love of country music – more specifically, the way 20she had picked up one of his Townes Van Zandt CDs the morning after they first slept together, nodded her approval and announced that she’d always been a great fan. Since then Garibaldi had discovered that her musical taste, like his own, stretched well beyond country. Folk, rock, blues, even a bit of classical – these were areas of taste where there was considerable overlap. Jazz, though, had for a long time remained a genre about which Rachel was considerably more enthusiastic than him. He enjoyed Kind of Blue and A Love Supreme but that was about as far as he went. When it came to the contemporary stuff Rachel liked he remained to be convinced.

“OK. Let’s do that,” he said, trying to sound keen.

“But I’m open to suggestions.”

Garibaldi smiled. A week of no school nights and Rachel was open to suggestions. Things were looking up. “I’m easy,” he said. “And I’m all yours.”

“Great.”

Garibaldi’s phone rang on the bedside table.

He looked at the screen. Deighton.

“You know that ‘all yours’ thing?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I might have spoken too early.”

21

4

Garibaldi cycled along the High Street past the Sun Inn and Barnes Pond into Church Road, took a left at the Red Lion traffic lights and headed up Castelnau towards Hammersmith Bridge. Ever since the bridge had been closed to traffic the road had been quiet, but today it was busy. Police cars and a forensic van were parked outside a cordoned-off house on the eastern side and a crowd of onlookers had gathered on the pavement opposite. Garibaldi locked his bike to some railings, took off his helmet and walked towards Gardner, who was standing beside the cordon tape in a forensic suit.

“Morning, boss.”

“What have we got?”

“A body underneath an open window at the back of the house.”

“Don’t tell me. Did he fall or was he pushed?”

“Could be. But there are a couple of odd things about it.”

“Tell me.”

Gardner turned to the house. “First thing is, this is no ordinary house.”

Garibaldi looked at it. It seemed ordinary enough to 22him, or as ordinary as a multimillion-pound mansion on the favoured side of Castelnau could ever seem.

“Or should I say,” said Gardner, “no ordinary owner.”

Garibaldi raised his eyebrows.

“Jimmy Clark.”

“Jimmy Clark?”

“Yeah. He called it in,” said Gardner. “Found the body this morning in his back garden.”

“What do we have on him?”

“Clark? He’s—”

“Not Clark. The body.”

Garibaldi shook his head. Did Gardner do it deliberately?

“Male. Probably late twenties, early thirties.”

“ID?”

“Not yet.”

“Phone?”

“Nothing. No cards or wallet. Nothing on him at all apart from his keys.”

“You said there were a couple of odd things. First is this is Jimmy Clark’s house. What’s the second?”

“The second is he’s wearing a mask.”

“Who? Jimmy Clark?”.

“No. The victim.”

“A mask?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of mask?”

Gardner hesitated.

“Are we talking a sex thing here? Is it that kind of mask?” He could already see the headlines.

“When you say sex thing …” said Gardner.

“Do you want me to spell it out?”

“I know how to spell it.” 23

Garibaldi looked at his sergeant, unsure whether she was joking.

“This mask,” he said. “What kind of mask is it?”

“Mick Jagger.”

“What?”

“It’s a mask of Mick Jagger.”

“What’s he doing in a Mick Jagger mask?”

“We don’t know. Seems there was a party here last night.”

“What kind of party?”

“No idea.”

“And have we taken this mask off to have a look at him?”

“Yeah.”

“And …?”

“As I said, no ID or anything. No idea who he is.”

“Where’s Jimmy Clark?”

“He’s inside. Pretty traumatised.”

Garibaldi took out his card, showed it to the uniform on the cordon, pulled on a forensic coat, cap and shoes and went into the house. He followed Gardner into the entrance hall and reception room where SOCOs were at work and through the French windows that opened onto the garden.

“Morning, Doc,” said Garibaldi to the figure crouched over the body.

“Ah,” said Martin Stevenson, looking up.

“What have we got?”

“What we’ve got,” said Stevenson, “is a dead Rolling Stone.”

He moved back from the body to allow Garibaldi a closer look. Garibaldi crouched down.

“Must admit,” said Stevenson, “it’s a first for me. Never had one in a mask before.” He held up a transparent bag which contained the mask and turned the face to Garibaldi. “Good likeness, don’t you think? Jagger as he was, of 24course. Not as he is now. But quite an impressive piece of kit. Must have cost a bob or two.”

“The cleaner looked out,” said Gardner, “and was absolutely convinced Mick Jagger was lying dead on the gravel. She took some persuading that he wasn’t.”

Garibaldi turned and looked up at the window. “Did the cleaner find him?”

“No,” said Gardner. “Jimmy Clark did.”

Garibaldi moved closer and looked down at the corpse. Jeans. Trainers. Shirt. Fleece. It could have been anyone. Any young man. He thought of Alfie.

“Is it as obvious as it seems?” He pointed up at the window.

“Too early to tell for sure, but his injuries seem compatible with a fall from height.”

“Not that high, is it?” said Garibaldi.

“High enough. Especially if you land on your head, which it seems is what happened.” Stevenson crouched down beside the body. “It also looks like he’s been in some kind of fight.” He pointed at the face. “Here, just below the eye, there’s redness, as if someone’s hit him.”

“And there are signs of a struggle in the bedroom,” said Gardner.

“So,” said Garibaldi looking up at the open window, “he could have been in a fight up there and fallen out.”

“Could have,” said Stevenson. “We’ll have a better idea when we’ve had a look at him.”

Garibaldi looked down at the body. “Poor sod.”

It was always a shock. Not just to confront another life gone but to consider the way it went and what would follow its departure. The grief. The pain.

And, in suspicious cases like this, the questions. 25

*

Jimmy Clark never looked like this on TV.

On screen he had the chisel-jawed looks and the winning charm of a fading matinee idol. Always cool and controlled, he gave the impression in whatever he was doing – hosting, quizzing, opining, playing – that all was right with the world, that things were OK in a quaint, almost old-fashioned way.

Now, unshaven and shocked, he seemed someone else entirely.

“How long will this take?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Garibaldi.

“I have things to do,” said Jimmy.

“I’m sure you do, but I’m sure you also appreciate that with a dead body in your garden, you might need to change your plans. Perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened this morning: how you found it.”

“I’ve already told you.” Jimmy pointed at Gardner. “I told her everything.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell it again. And you’ll also, of course, have to give a formal statement.”

Jimmy Clark gave a slow nod. “I can’t tell you how shocked I am. I mean – I don’t even know who he is. Do you?”

“Not yet, no,” said Garibaldi. “Nor do we know why he was wearing a Mick Jagger mask.”

“Ah, yes,” said Jimmy. “The mask.”

“Bit strange, isn’t it?”

“It is, yes, but – look, detective—”

“Detective Inspector Garibaldi. As in …”

Garibaldi stopped himself. This was neither the time nor the place – even if it was the kind of joke Clark might make himself.

“Look, Inspector, before I take you through the events of 26this morning, there’s something I think I need to tell you. I know absolutely nothing about this man or what happened to him. I have no idea how he got into the garden and I have absolutely no idea how he died, but when it comes to the mask …”

Clark gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes and puffed out his cheeks – the kind of would-you-believe it expression he often wore on TV.

“The thing is, that mask is mine.”

“It’s yours?”

Garibaldi saw new headlines.

“Yes. I was wearing it earlier in the evening.”

“You were wearing a Mick Jagger mask?”

“I was performing in the Bull’s Head. Look, I need to tell you this but before I do, can you let me know what’s going to happen—” he pointed towards the garden “—out there?”

“Your house is now officially a crime scene, Jimmy. We don’t yet know what happened to the man in your garden, but until we do we have to treat it as a suspicious death. Scenes of Crime Officers will be here for some time.”

“OK, well it’s like this.” Jimmy took a breath and looked from side to side before clearing his throat and addressing Garibaldi and Gardner as if he were talking to camera. “Yesterday evening I was performing in a band at the Bull’s Head, a band called the Okay Boomers. There were five of us, and – look, do I have to tell you this? I mean, is there any way this can be kept quiet?”

“Kept quiet?” said Garibaldi. “We can try, but a man has been found dead in your garden in a Mick Jagger mask that you claim is yours. Might be difficult to keep a lid on it, don’t you think?”

“I just think the others need to know. They need to know what’s happened.” 27

“The others?”

“The band. They were all here last night – we came back here after the gig.”

“For a party?”

“For a few drinks.”

“Who else is in this band, Jimmy?”

“I suppose you have to know.”

“You suppose right.”

Jimmy took a deep sigh. “There were five of us. Larry, Hazel, Craig and Charlie. And me, of course.”

“Could we have their full names?”

“Of course. Larry Benyon, Hazel Bloom, Craig Francis and Charlie Brougham.”

Garibaldi struggled to hide his surprise.

“We were all wearing masks,” said Jimmy. “I was in a Mick Jagger mask and the others—”

“You were in masks?”

“Masks and costumes. We didn’t want anyone to know who we were. We wanted to keep our identities hidden. I can explain it all.”

“I’m sure you can, but before you do, let me get this straight. The band were all here last night after your gig?”

“That’s right.”

“And this band, the Okay Boomers, had played at the Bull’s Head wearing masks?”

Jimmy Clark nodded.

“I see. So you were wearing a Mick Jagger mask, and the others …?”

“Larry was Bob Dylan, Hazel was Debbie Harry, Craig was Paul McCartney and Charlie was David Bowie.”

Garibaldi scribbled down the names. “And these masks …where are they?”

“Well, as you know, the Jagger mask is outside in the 28garden. As for the others, they’re on a table in the hall, together with the costumes. I keep them after every concert.”

“Every concert? You mean you’ve done this before?”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Several times.”

“OK,” said Garibaldi, “so these other masks, the ones you wore yesterday. Could I have a look at them?”

“Of course.”

Jimmy got up and walked to the door. Garibaldi looked at Gardner, gave a disbelieving whistle and looked at his notes to check he hadn’t been imagining what he’d just heard.

“I don’t believe it!” said Jimmy coming back from the hall. “They’re not there. The masks. They’ve gone!”

29

5

DCI Deighton stood at the front of the incident room.

Behind her on the board were two photos: one of the supine corpse in Jimmy Clark’s garden in a Mick Jagger mask, the other of the dead man’s face with the mask removed.

“This morning,” said Deighton, “the body of a man was found at the house of Jimmy Clark, TV celebrity. Clark himself discovered the body at 8.00 am lying on the gravel by his lawn below an open first floor balcony window. No ID and we have yet to confirm the cause of death, but early indications suggest it may have been caused by a fall from the window. Marks on the face and body also suggest he may have been in a physical confrontation. Until we have the pathologist’s report we won’t know anything for sure but it looks as though the deceased was involved in a fight or struggle before falling or, as the old cliché would have it, being pushed. But there’s something very odd about this victim. When he was discovered he was wearing a mask.” Deighton turned and pointed to the picture on the board. “A Mick Jagger mask.”

Garibaldi sensed the room’s raised eyebrows.

“It’s a mask that Jimmy Clark was wearing on Sunday 30afternoon when he performed in the Bull’s Head with a band called the Okay Boomers. They all wore masks and costumes and behind those masks were, wait for it …four other celebrities. Larry Benyon. Hazel Bloom. Charlie Brougham. And Craig Francis.”

Deighton paused, allowing the team to take it in.

“Difficult to believe, I know, but it seems that after the concert this band all went back to Jimmy Clark’s. All five of them – and some of their partners — were there until late. Then this morning the man was found. Jimmy Clark claims never to have seen him before. So what we have is a secret masked celebrity band and a suspicious death at the house where the band were having a party. Once this is out, God knows what will happen.” Deighton raised her eyebrows. “Any questions?”

Gardner’s hand went up. “If the mask was Jimmy Clark’s, what was it doing on the victim’s face?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Deighton. “There will obviously be a close forensic examination of the mask. Whether that throws up an answer I can’t say.”

“Do we know what kind of party it was?” said DC Hodson. “I mean celebrities, showbiz …”

“Yeah,” said DC MacLean. “Like the one where that bloke was found in the swimming pool. Whose was it?”

“I have no idea what kind of party it was,” said Deighton, “but we’ll need to find out.”

“And we have no evidence that this is murder?” said DC MacLean.

“Not yet. We’re treating the death as suspicious.”

“This band,” said Gardner. “All sounds a bit weird, doesn’t it? A whole load of celebrities wearing masks and costumes. A bit like The Masked Singer.”

“The what?” said Deighton. 31

“The Masked Singer,” said Gardner. “It’s a TV show. There are these singers and …”

She cast a nervous glance round the room, as if considering whether displaying her intimate knowledge of the peak time Saturday evening TV show would do much to enhance her reputation.

“Yes?” said Deighton. “There are these singers …?”

“There are these celebrities who come on in costumes and wearing a mask and they sing a song and you, I mean the panel, they have to guess who they are.” Gardner looked round the room again. “I’ve only seen it, you know, in passing.”

“I’ve no idea whether it’s like that,” said Deighton, “not having seen it myself.”

“I spoke to Jimmy Clark about the band,” said Garibaldi, jumping in to rescue Gardner. “The masks and costumes were a way of keeping their identities hidden. The Bull’s Head’s pretty small and if word got out that that lot were playing there together you can imagine what would happen.”

“Still sounds a pretty odd thing to do,” said Gardner. “Famous people doing stuff like that. Asking for trouble, isn’t it?”

“Exactly,” said Garibaldi. “And that explains the disguise. Each of them wore a mask of a big pop star from back in the day. Larry Benyon was Bob Dylan, Hazel Bloom was Debbie Harry, Charlie Brougham was David Bowie and Craig Francis was Paul McCartney. Jimmy Clark, as you already know, was Mick Jagger.”

“How do you sing through masks?” said DC Hodson. “Must be really uncomfortable.”

“Jimmy Clark told me at great length,” said Garibaldi. “Seems he’s unable to tell anyone anything in any other 32way. He says the masks were no ordinary masks. Made at great expense – no surprise there, given the Okay Boomers’ collective wealth. Specially moulded to fit each of them with ventilation, space to breathe. You name it, they had it.”

“If the others are like Jimmy Clark’s mask,” said Gardner, “they’ll be very convincing. Clark’s cleaner saw the body from the open window and she was convinced a young Mick Jagger was lying dead on the gravel.”

“So where are we on this?” said Deighton, turning to look at the two pictures on the board behind her. “Not very far is the answer. We’ve launched a house to house on Castelnau. We’re checking Jimmy Clark’s CCTV and other cameras. But it’s all pretty thin at the moment. No ID. No phone. So we need to keep an eye on missing persons. And we also need to talk to the Okay Boomers.”

“There’s one other thing about these masks,” said Garibaldi. “And that’s that they seem to have disappeared. Not the Jagger one, that was on the body, but Clark can’t find the others. It may be nothing, but on the other hand …”

“Exactly,” said Deighton. “On the other hand. We keep an open mind and we assume nothing.” She looked round the room again. “Right,” she said decisively. “Let’s …”

“Let’s get on it,” said Garibaldi, finishing the line under his breath.

33

6

“You know those Hollywood tours when you get to see all the stars’ houses?”

Garibaldi looked at Gardner from the passenger seat. “What about them?”

“This is a bit like one of those, isn’t it?”

Garibaldi laughed. “I don’t think so. This is Barnes, not Hollywood.”

“But all these celebrities …”

“Yeah, all these celebrities. Well, let’s hope they can tell us something, because at the moment we’ve got nothing.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to be positive, haven’t you?” said Gardner.

Ever since she had taken up with Chris, ‘positive’ had become one of Gardner’s favourite words. Never had Garibaldi known his sergeant so upbeat, and although he felt nothing but sceptical derision for her new man’s self-improvement claptrap he had the good sense to keep his opinion to himself and enjoy Gardner’s new-found happiness. The bad days of Kevin (who cheated on her) and Tim (who made her feel inferior) seemed a distant memory, and, while stopping short of believing her claim that Chris could be The One, Garibaldi was glad for her. 34

“So that’s where they played, eh?” Gardner pointed at the Bull’s Head as they drove past it onto Barnes High Street.

“Yeah,” said Garibaldi. “Famous for its jazz.”

“You been to any there?”

“A bit.”

“Not much of a jazz fan myself,” said Gardner, turning down Station Road and taking a right into Vine Road.

Garibaldi was about to ask why, but the barriers at the two level crossings were up and they had soon pulled up on the gravel drive of a large house set back from the road.

Discussion of their shared aversion would have to wait.

Even though he had kept himself in shape and looked exceptionally lean and fit for a man in his sixties, it was difficult to think of Larry Benyon as a professional footballer who had performed at the highest level. Whenever Garibaldi had seen him play on TV he had always seemed large and even in his subsequent screen incarnations, first as a sports presenter and more recently as a political pundit, he hadn’t seemed as small as he looked in the flesh. Maybe that’s what TV did to you – made you larger than you actually were. From what he’d learned in his few dealings with the famous it seemed an appropriate metaphor.

“Thank you for finding the time,” said Garibaldi.

“No problem,” said Larry. In jeans, jumper and trainers, he sported close-cropped greying hair, a goatee beard and fashionably large glasses. He was trying to appear relaxed but Garibaldi could tell that a visit from the police had unnerved him.

“We understand that you were performing with Jimmy Clark and some others yesterday afternoon in the Bull’s Head.” 35

Larry threw back his head and laughed. “So our cover’s blown! Is that what this is all about?”

“Not quite, Larry We also understand that after this event you were at a party at Jimmy Clark’s house in Castelnau.”

“That’s right—” Larry broke off and looked from Garibaldi to Gardner. “Has something happened? Is Jimmy OK?”

“Jimmy’s fine,” said Garibaldi. “But the same can’t be said for the body that was found at his house this morning.”

“A body?”

“A man was found dead in his garden.”

“What? I mean …who is he?”

“The victim has yet to be identified.”

“What happened?”

“We’re not sure. He may have fallen from a window but we’re treating his death as suspicious.”

“I don’t understand. I—”

Larry looked around the room. He started to speak several times but stopped himself, as if he couldn’t think of what to say.

He turned back to Garibaldi and Gardner, his expression one of wide-eyed innocence. “How does this involve me?”

“We’re not saying it does. We’re just trying to find out a few things. You see, there was something very odd about this man when his body was discovered this morning.”

Garibaldi paused, examining Larry Benyon’s expression in the silence that followed.

“What was odd about it?”

“The man was wearing a mask. A Mick Jagger mask. To be more specific, Jimmy Clark’s Mick Jagger mask, the one he was wearing on stage at the Bull’s Head when he performed with the Okay Boomers.”

“What the f—?” 36

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“I don’t believe it. That’s crazy. I mean, what—?”

“Did you see anything unusual at the party?”

“Like a man in a Jagger mask being thrown out of a window?”

Garibaldi fixed him with a steely stare. Benyon may have been regarded as the nation’s liberal conscience, but he’d already taken against him.

“Look,” said Larry, in a tone that suggested he realised his comment had been misjudged. “This is obviously a terrible thing. Absolutely awful. And I will, of course, help in whatever way I can.”

“What time did you leave the party, Larry?”

“You don’t think I’m involved, do you? I don’t know anything about this.”

“We’d just like to know what time you left.”

“I can’t remember exactly. When we finished the gig we all came back to Jimmy’s, had some drinks and a bite to eat. I must have left at about one.”

“Tell me, Larry, who was at this party?”

“What? You want all their names?”

“That would be helpful.”

“It was the band—”

“The band,” said Garibaldi. He took out his notebook and pencil. He always liked to jot things down. It made people nervous and he learned more from nervous people. “Just remind me again of who was in it, could you?”

“I don’t believe it!” Larry waved his hands in front of him, like a ref turning down a penalty claim. “We were only doing it for a laugh. We didn’t want anyone to know who we were. That was the whole point!”

Garibaldi waited, pencil poised. “The band, Larry.”

“OK. Well it’s Jimmy.” 37

“Jimmy Clark?”

Larry nodded. Garibaldi knew it was Jimmy Clark, in the same way that he knew who else was in the band, but asking for information and confirmation of details was another way of establishing his authority. In his experience, the more important the person he was interviewing, the more he needed to do it.

“And there was Hazel, that’s Hazel Bloom, Charlie Brougham, Craig Francis. And me.”

Garibaldi jotted down the names. “So the band were at the party. Is that all?”

“Some partners were there as well.”

“Partners. I see. Could you tell me who they were?”

“Jimmy’s wife wasn’t there, she was away, and Hazel’s husband wasn’t there either, but Charlie’s girlfriend and Craig’s wife were there. I …I don’t have a partner.” He paused. “At the moment,” he added, making it sound as though he was merely taking a temporary break, an actor resting between jobs.

“And these partners were at the Bull’s Head?”

Larry nodded.

“So they obviously knew all about the Okay Boomers, the whole set up.”

“They did, yes. It was just us and our partners. The whole idea was to keep our identities hidden.”

“I see,” said Garibaldi. “And it’s remarkable that you managed it. How many times have you played?”

“That was our fifth.”

“And no-one else had found out?”

Larry smiled. “It seemed not. We were pretty pleased. We decided right at the beginning that as soon as we were unmasked we’d stop. So I guess that time has come. No more masked band. Shame.” 38

Garibaldi leaned forward. “I think the suspicious death of a young man is a higher priority for us at the moment than the future of your masked band.”