Zip Gun Boogie E-Book

Mark Timlin

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

The Sixth Nick Sharman Thriller For south London private detective Nick Sharman too many things have gone wrong lately. So when he's offered a job up west, with all the luxury of a posh Knightsbridge hotel chucked in, he doesn't refuse. Multi-million selling LA band Pandora's Box are in town to complete their latest album. A lot is riding on it being finished - their reputation and several million quid at least. But there have been a few strange accidents: some tapes got wiped, sending a whole lot of work down the drain, equipment's gone wrong or missing. And now one of the band is in hospital - spiked with something very deadly indeed. What Pandora's Box don't want is a bunch of London cops tramping around upsetting their creative flow, so they're relying on Sharman to stop the madman responsible who's proving more dangerous and imaginative with each attack. With the money he's offered and room service providing anything he orders, not to mention the allure of the mad, bad and beautiful lead singer Ninotchka, Sharman would be stupid to refuse the job - wouldn't he...?

Leseprobe

ZIP GUN BOOGIE

For south London private detective Nick Sharman too many things have gone wrong lately. So when he is offerd a job up west, with all the luxury of a posh Knightsbridge hotel chucked in, he doesn’t refuse.

Multi-million selling LA band Pandora’s Box are in town to finish their latest album. A lot is riding on it being on time – their reputation and several million quid at least. But there have been a few strange accidents: some tapes got wiped, sending a whole lot of work down the drain, equipment has gone wrong or missing. And now one of the band is in hospital – spiked with something very deadly indeed.

What Pandora’s Box don’t want is a bunch of London cops tramping around upsetting their creative flow, so they are relying on Sharman to stop the madman responsible, who’s proving more dangerous and imaginative with each attack. With the money he’s offered and room service providing anything he orders, not to mention the allure of the mad, bad and beautiful lead singer, Ninotchka, Sharman would be stupid to refuse the job – wouldn’t he…?

Mark Timlin has written some thirty novels under many different names, including best selling books as Lee Martin, innumerable short stories, an anthology and numerous articles for various newspapers and magazines. His serial hero, Nick Sharman, who appears in Take the A-Train, has featured in a Carlton TV series, starring Clive Owen, before he went on to become a Hollywood superstar. Mark lives in Newport, Wales.

About the Author

‘The king of the British hard-boiled thriller’

– Times

‘Grips like a pair of regulation handcuffs’

– Guardian

‘Reverberates like a gunshot’

– Irish Times

‘Definitely one of the best’

– Time Out

‘The mean streets of South London need their heroes tough. Private eye Nick Sharman fits the bill’

– Telegraph

‘Full of cars, girls, guns, strung out along the high sierras of Brixton and Battersea, the Elephant and the North Peckham Estate, all those jewels in the crown they call Sarf London’

–Arena

Critical acclaim

Other books by Mark Timlin

A Good Year for the Roses 1988

Romeo’s Girl 1990

Gun Street Girl 1990

Take the A-Train 1991

The Turnaround 1991

Zip Gun Boogie 1992

Hearts of Stone 1992

Falls the Shadow 1993

Ashes by Now 1993

Pretend We’re Dead 1994

Paint It Black 1995

Find My Way Home 1996

Sharman and Other Filth (short stories) 1996

A Street That Rhymed with 3 AM 1997

Dead Flowers 1998

Quick Before They Catch Us 1999

All the Empty Places 2000

Stay Another Day 2010

OTHERS

I Spied a Pale Horse 1999

Answers from the Grave 2004

as TONY WILLIAMS

Valin’s Raiders 1994

Blue on Blue 1999

as JIM BALLANTYNE

The Torturer 1995

as MARTIN MILK

That Saturday 1996

as LEE MARTIN

Gangsters Wives 2007

The Lipstick Killers 2009

Title

This one goes out to the one I love.

dedication

1

Tuesday morning, 11.55. Nothing doing. I’d read the papers and was sitting in my office, debating whether or not to go to lunch, when the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver. ‘Nick Sharman,’ I said.

‘I was talking to Mark McBain a few weeks ago,’ a male voice said in my ear. The accent was English, but with a strong American twang which placed it somewhere in the mid-Atlantic.

‘He mentioned you,’ the voice continued.

‘Did he?’ I said. ‘How is he?’

‘Good. You helped him a while back.’

It was a statement, rather than a question.

‘That’s right.’

‘I called him up this morning and we talked some more.’

‘Yes?’ I said, hoping he’d get to the point.

‘I told him I was going to call you. He sends his love.’

‘That sounds like McBain.’

‘He said for you to call him soon.’

‘I will.’

‘Have you got his number in LA?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

My caller fell silent.

‘I presume that wasn’t the only reason you rang?’

‘What?’

‘To pass on McBain’s love.’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘I wonder if you could help us?’

‘Who’s us?’ I asked.

‘Pandora’s Box.’

‘Didn’t you have that album?’

‘That’s right,’ said the voice. ‘We had that album.’

The album in question was called Regrets, and until Michael Jackson came along with Thriller, it had been the biggest-selling long-playing record in history. ‘What kind of help?’ I asked.

‘I think someone tried to murder one of the band last night.’

‘Did they? I didn’t see anything about it in the papers.’

‘It hasn’t been in the papers.’

‘And who are you?’

‘My name is Roger Lomax. I look after things for the band.’

‘You’re the manager?’

‘They don’t have a manager. Just a dozen lawyers, a firm of accountants and me. That’s the way things go these days. Will you help?’

‘I don’t know what I can do.’

‘Find out who tried to kill him.’

‘What about the police?’

‘No police.’

‘Why’s that?’

There was a long pause. ‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. I’d rather talk to you in person. I assure you it will be worth your while. Can we meet this afternoon?’

I wasn’t doing anything. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘We’re staying at Jones’ Hotel in Knightsbridge. Do you know it?’

I didn’t, but I was a detective. ‘I’ll find it.’

‘Will you be driving?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you give me the registration number of your vehicle, I’ll make sure you’re cleared to park.’

I gave him the number.

‘The parking is at the back of the hotel,’ he told me. ‘Follow the signs, see the guy at the gate. Is three o’clock convenient?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll see you then,’ he said, and hung up.

I replaced the receiver and went to lunch.

2

The hotel was located in a leafy avenue in Knightsbridge. There are still quite a few if you know where to look. It appeared to consist of a whole block of tall terraced town houses knocked into one. It had a new, green-tiled roof, the bricks had been scrubbed clean, and the paintwork sparkled in the sun. I drove slowly past the front entrance at 2.45 that afternoon. There was a gent in a brown uniform dripping with gold braid and wearing a brown top hat standing by the revolving door at the top of the stone steps that led up from the pavement. I kept going until I saw an illuminated sign that read: hotel parking, and an arrow that pointed to an arched alleyway that cut right through the hotel and must have been used for carriages in the old days. Twin iron gates had been pulled back to allow entry.

I turned slowly into the whitewashed tunnel and the exhaust of the Jaguar boomed in its confines. The tunnel opened into a cobbled mews that ran parallel to the avenue. There was another sign that directed me to turn left along the mews. I passed between the back of the hotel, scarred with black-painted fire escapes and water pipes, and the front of half a dozen bijou residences that had once been stables and were now pied-à-terres with brightly painted doors and shiny-leafed shrubs in tubs outside them.

I braked to a halt in front of a metal barrier that broke a link fence topped with razor wire. On the left of the barrier was a small, half-glassed booth. Inside was a black guy in a brown uniform complete with peaked cap. He was leaning against the back wall, looking bored. Outside stood two big white geezers in lounge suits. One held a clipboard. The one with the board said something to the other, who was carrying a portable phone, and walked through the narrow gap between the barrier and the fence and up to the driver’s window of my car. I lowered the window all the way. There was a name tag clipped to the lapel of his suit. Under a multi-coloured logo that read ‘Premiere Security’ was typewritten ‘Jack’.

‘May I help you, sir?’

‘I’m here to see Roger Lomax.’

‘Your name, please?’

‘Sharman. Nick Sharman.’

Jack consulted the clipboard. ‘Have you any ID, sir?’

I passed him my driver’s licence and he read it without moving his lips and handed it back. He glanced down at the paper on his board and walked around the front of the car to check the registration.

‘Fine, Mr Sharman,’ he said. ‘Drive straight in, across the courtyard and down the ramp. Park on the first level, please. Go through the fire door and someone will take you to Mr Lomax.’

‘Thank you.’

He signalled to the black guy who pushed a button and the barrier lifted. I engaged low drive and the car bumped across the ramp between cobbles and concrete, slid smoothly across the courtyard, through an entrance two car widths wide, and into a sodium-lit tunnel that dropped sharply away in front of the bonnet of the car. The tunnel was neatly divided in two by a kerbstone set into the middle of the road. On my side, large white arrows pointed downwards; on the other side, the reverse. I let the Jaguar coast until the road levelled and a sign above me read: level one. I found an empty space and parked.

I switched off the engine and all I could hear was my own blood pounding through my head and the ticking of the engine as it began to cool. I opened the driver’s door and stepped into chilly air that smelled of oil and petrol and cellulose. There was an orange exit sign above a grey-painted fire door about fifteen yards from where I’d stopped. I locked the door and dropped the keys into my pocket and looked at the six cars in the parking bays adjacent to mine. Six white Porsche 911 SE cabriolets, each one with a cream soft top. Beautiful. I figured there was close on half a million quid’s worth of automobiles parked there. And the numberplates were PB 1 to 6 inclusive. Not a bad life, I thought, being a rock star. Mind you, I wouldn’t have swapped any of them for my E-Type, old as it was.

As I stood there looking, the door under the sign burst open and two men and a woman came into the parking garage. One of the men was short, in his mid-forties, dressed in denim jeans and shirt, scuffed baseball boots, a down-filled waistcoat and a blue baseball cap, with NY printed on the front in yellow. Thin salt and pepper hair sprouted from under the cap, and down below his shoulders. The man with him wore a lounge suit like the guys on the gate. He looked like them too, but sans name plate. The woman was tall and blonde, about thirty and pretty good-looking under the artificial light. She was dressed in a short, spangled, red evening dress, even at that early hour. It was cut low at the back and front and exposed a mile of tanned flesh. The geezer in denim made straight for my car. ‘Great motor,’ he said. His accent was English tinged with American, just like Roger Lomax’s. ‘Want to sell it?’

‘No.’

‘Go on, you gotta. I’ll give you twenty grand.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’ He sounded like someone who was used to having his every wish fulfilled. ‘Thirty.’

‘No,’ I said again.

‘Tell him, Pat,’ the guy in denim said to his male companion.

His companion shrugged, and I almost heard his muscles creak.

‘It’s up to him,’ he said. ‘It’s his car.’

‘Fifty grand,’ said the guy in denim.

That was so far over market value as to be a joke. ‘No,’ I said. ‘And I’m late. Thanks for the offer.’ I body swerved around the trio and made for the door. I pulled it open and two more huge geezers were standing in the tiny foyer. Again, both were wearing name tags. This time the portable phone was lying on a chair next to the lift door. The smaller of the two men held a clipboard. His tag read: ‘Ronnie’.

‘Sir?’ he said.

‘Nick Sharman to see Roger Lomax. I’ve an appointment with him at three.’

Ronnie didn’t have to consult his clipboard. Apparently the word was out. ‘Yes, Mr Sharman,’ he said. ‘Are you armed?’

‘No,’ I said back, and I wasn’t.

‘You won’t mind if we check?’

I did, but I knew I wouldn’t get past these two if I said no.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’

The bigger of the two, who was extremely big, believe me, and whose name tag read ‘Big Phil’ just to drive the point home, gave me a quick and thorough search. He shook his head at his partner. ‘Thank you, Mr Sharman,’ said Ronnie. ‘My colleague will show you the way.’

So that’s what they called them now.

Big Phil pressed the button to summon the lift and the door opened immediately. ‘This way,’ he said and ushered me inside. It had recently been swept and sprayed with perfume. It was a bit different to most car-park lifts. My guide pressed the button marked 1, and the lift sped upwards. He aimed his stare at a spot two feet below the top of the lift door and kept it there. I stood behind him and aimed my stare at the suppurating boil between his hair-line and his stiff white collar and kept it there. I can play tough too. We were both silent during the short journey.

A bell rang, and the lift doors opened on the first floor as bidden. Big Phil stood to one side to let me out first. I found myself in a vaulted hall tastefully furnished in what was supposed to be Chippendale but probably wasn’t. The hall walls and ceiling were painted dusty pink and carpeted with a matching shag pile that was so thick it could have concealed a machine-gun nest. Big Phil walked me across the carpet to double doors with a discreet sign reading: bar.

‘Mr Lomax is waiting for you inside,’ he said and pushed the doors open for me. I entered but he didn’t follow. The room was in almost complete darkness. The only illumination was the oasis of light that was the bar itself. Behind it two barmen were conversing in muted tones, both polishing already gleaming glasses. Hidden speakers were playing Verdi at a volume so low as to be almost inaudible. I always reckon you get the muzak you pay for. I walked through the darkness and approached the bar. ‘Mr Lomax?’ I said with a question mark attached.

The taller of the barmen said, ‘On the upper level, sir, in the first booth.’ He pointed with one hand and I turned and allowed my eyes to get accustomed to the twilight and squinted in the direction he’d indicated. The bar area, which was huge and empty, was lined with screened-off booths. Tables and chairs were spaced across the floor just far enough apart for privacy. In the far corner of the room a pair of dark wood steps led to an area that resembled a large stage. At the back of the raised area were three more booths. The interior of the right-hand booth suddenly flared with light as whoever was sitting there struck a match and lit a cigarette. Roger Lomax I presumed and surfed across more shag pile, this time of a much darker shade, up the steps and across to the booth. I saw two dark eyes glitter in the reflection of the coal of the cigarette as they watched me approach.

‘Roger Lomax?’ I asked.

‘Nick Sharman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good afternoon, thanks for being so prompt. Come and join me.’ Off the phone, his mid-Atlantic accent was more pronounced, and it grated on my ears.

I slid into the booth. It was pitch dark except for the firefly of red at the tip of his cigarette. He must have read my mind. ‘Would you like a little light?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’

He turned and reached to the back of the booth and found a switch. A single dim bulb in a glass shade struggled to illuminate us. ‘Is that better?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He was sprawled across all three seats opposite me, with his back supported by the wall. The way he was sitting, I couldn’t tell if he was tall or short. I guessed he was between thirty and thirty-five with real thick, real long, black hair that he kept pushing out of his face with big, strong-looking hands. On the third finger of his right hand was an extravagant silver and turquoise ring. Even in the faint light he looked tanned and fit. He was dressed in a black shirt and a black jacket that was patrolled with a design in jet beads that reflected the light. In front of him was a glass the size of a small soup tureen filled with a pale liquid, two packets of Marlboro Lite, a book of hotel matches, an ashtray and a shiny brown foolscap folder with the hotel name embossed in gold upon it. The ashtray was already full to overflowing.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

‘Thanks.’

‘What’ll you have?’

I pointed at his glass. ‘What’s that?’

‘Daiquiri.’

‘That’ll do.’

I didn’t see the gesture but the barman did. He must have had eyes like a vulture. He appeared at the booth within seconds. ‘Mr Lomax?’

‘Two more of these,’ said Roger Lomax, gesturing at his glass.

‘And make a big jug. This could be a long afternoon.’

The barman exchanged the full ashtray for an empty one, nodded and left.

‘Did you have any trouble getting in?’

‘No, it was very efficient.’

‘Good.’

‘You have excellent security here.’

‘After what happened to Trash, I thought we needed some.’

‘Trash?’ I asked.

‘Danny. Danny Shapiro. We call him Trash. He used to collect garbage for the city in New York. Nearly everyone in the band and crew’s got a nickname. It’s a game we play. Anyway, after what happened I called up the firm that does our tour security in Europe. They rent out heavies by the yard.’

‘They’re very polite,’ I said.

‘They’re paid to be. But they have another side to them.’

‘I can imagine. Don’t the other guests object?’

Roger Lomax smiled. ‘There are no other guests. We’ve taken the entire hotel for two months.’

I can’t say I wasn’t impressed. ‘You like a little elbow room then?’

‘Not really. This is just a small place. There’s only thirty-six apartments in the hotel, and twenty-five are being used by us right now. We always like a few spare for emergencies. We carry a large entourage of camp followers. We always stay here when we’re in London. The management are very understanding and the staff discreet and obliging.’

As if to prove his point, the barman returned with two more huge glasses on a silver tray. He slid them in front of us and vanished without a word. ‘I see what you mean,’ I said.

‘That’s nothing, believe me.’ I did, but didn’t ask for details. ‘This is a rock ‘n’ roll hotel,’ he went on. ‘An upmarket one, it’s true, but rock ‘n’ roll through and through. It’s owned by someone who understands the business, used to be in it. The manager doesn’t have to justify his existence to a conglomerate. The people here are prepared to overlook a little high spirits, supply food and booze at all hours. The bars stay open until the last person leaves. They don’t mind a few extra people staying over some nights. There’s a tennis court, olympic-sized swimming pool, Nautilus gym, snooker and pool rooms in the basement. They’ll even go so far as to redecorate if someone objects to the colour scheme in their suite. At a price, of course. A very high price. Refuse to pay and you’ll never get a reservation again.’

‘Everything costs.’

‘This is true. So we can just come in here and pull up the drawbridge and party, you know what I mean?’

‘Not really.’

‘You will.’

‘If I want to take the job.’

‘Why shouldn’t you?’

‘Let me ask you a question first – what makes you think someone tried to murder your man? What exactly happened?’

‘This is confidential, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘He took some bad cocaine.’

‘Bad? How?’ I asked.

‘The worst way. It wasn’t coke at all. It was smack. He OD’d.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Now you see what I mean about murder?’

I nodded. ‘When did this all happen exactly?’

‘Last night. Well, this morning to be precise. Three a.m. We got the hotel doctor. He got Trash to the Cromwell Hospital. They cleaned him out. It was a close call. He’s still there, under guard. He’ll be out in a couple of days and back to work.’

‘Where did the stuff come from?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘How come?’

‘He’s a coke freak. To the max. He’s got Charlie stashed all over the shop. The guy would hide coke in his baby’s diapers, if he had a baby.’

‘Do you know who was here in the hotel when it happened?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got a guest and room list in here.’ He tapped the brown folder in front of him.

‘That’s not what I asked,’ I said. ‘Do you know exactly who was in the hotel this morning? Who Shapiro was with? What everyone’s movements were?’

‘It’s confused. There was a party going on.’

‘Someone must know who was there.’

‘People were coming and going. You know how it is.’

‘Yeah, I know how it is. But what the hell do you want me to do?’

‘Find out exactly what did happen.’

‘An accident maybe?’

‘Not the first.’

‘No?’

‘No. Some tapes got wiped in the studio. A lot of work went down the drain, and a lot of cash. And other things – small things, equipment going missing. Nothing much on its own but…’

‘It could be coincidence.’

‘It couldbe. Find out for me. Ask around.’

‘Have you considered that people here might not want to help me? I’ve got no authority. Get the police in, it’s not too late. They’ll probably smack your wrist for being tardy, but so what? I’m sure you’ve had worse. People tend to answer their questions.’

‘No police.’

‘You keep saying that. Why not?’

‘When I spoke to McBain about you, he said you weren’t stupid.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Then join the dots. The last thing I want is the police poking around in here. This is a great big money factory. The band earn a lot, a fuck of a lot. We have less than a month to finish the new album. It’s all scheduled. The record company reps have sold it into the shops. Ads have been booked in the trades. More importantly, the week it’s due out is a very quiet one for releases. It’s the optimum date for it to go to number one, worldwide, first week. Lots of editorial space has been earmarked for interviews. Christ, there’s a six-month copy date on some of the glossies. The interviews are in, and I don’t intend for them to come out and no new product in the stores. Two TV documentaries are scheduled for the week of release, one here, one in the States. The publicity machine has started to grind, and once started it’s hard to stop. If we miss the date it won’t be fatal, but we will lose maybe a couple of million unit sales worldwide. We don’t need those sales but we sure want them.

‘A month ago Keith Pandora’s mother gets ill, very ill, maybe terminal. She can’t be moved and he insisted on coming home. She’s the only mother he’s got and he wanted to be here, just in case. Now as it happens we’re playing five nights at Wembley Arena two months from now.’ He tapped the table top for emphasis. ‘That’s at the start of the World Tour that’ll keep them on the road for months. Up to, including and long past the album release date. So you see time is tight. What we do is cancel our studio time in LA, buy time in London, which won’t be easy at short notice, believe me, and book this place for two months. We’ve already got it reserved around the week we’re at Wembley. In fact, it would be cheaper to buy the fucking place at the rates we’re paying.’ He shuddered at the thought.

‘You have no idea what it’s costing us to suspend work on the album.’ He gave me a look of such pure sincerity as he spoke that he almost had me believing he gave a damn. Almost.

‘I’ve hired a sound stage at Shepperton for live rehearsal, and brought over key road crew. I’ll fly the rest over in time for the concerts and maybe pick up a few here. Representatives of the lawyers and accountants have come over with us and they’re working from suites on the third floor. So what we’ve done in essence is move Pandora’s Box’s base of operations from Los Angeles to London.

‘See, these people are different. I know them. I know their drinks and drugs of choice. Who they’ve fucked and who they’d like to fuck. I even know what make of tampons the girls favour. I should do, I’ve had to buy them enough times. This is our world. It’s a closed world and we look after our own business. Clean business and dirty business. We get away with a lot. The punters expect it. What I don’t need is a bunch of London cops tramping around in here. It upsets the creative flow.’

‘So does murdering one of the band.’

‘Exactly,’ he said, without a trace of irony. ‘We need someone who knows a little bit about the business.’

‘I don’t.’

‘McBain says different. He says you’re cool. I’ve known him a long time, and what he says goes with me. So will you take the job?’

I didn’t answer. ‘Attempted murder is serious,’ I said.

‘Look, Nick, I can’t even be sure it was attempted murder. Maybe Trash did get things mixed up. It happens. But I swear to God I’ve never known him take horse. Maybe it was just someone’s idea of a joke that went wrong. I just want a clue without calling in the law. We may be able to get away with a lot, but we’re still vulnerable. Three of the band and most of the crew are American. I don’t want anyone busted and deported. That would bring the album to a halt and my career with it. Do me a favour, Nick, say you’ll help. Here’s that list of everyone booked into the hotel. I’ve spoken to them and they’re prepared to talk to you. Well, most are. They’re pretty spooked about Trash, all of them, whatever front they put on.’

‘He’s that important?’

‘At the moment, yes. You see there’s only one track on the album left to do and it’s written by him, sung by him, and all the guitar parts are his. The bass and drum tracks were laid down at the weekend. We need him for the lead guitar and vocal parts and time’s getting short. And we can’t go without him.’

‘You have a month.’

‘A month to finish one track is nothing for this lot. The album after Regrets took three years to record and that only had nine tracks on it. A month is fast work, believe me.’

He fell silent and so did I. I sipped my drink and lit a cigarette. ‘So where exactly do you fit in?’ I asked finally.

‘I was wondering when you’d ask. I’m the man. I look after the money factory. I procure things and smooth the way, and when things go wrong I grease the palms so that things go right again.’

‘Do they go wrong a lot? You seem to have all the bases covered.’

‘Are you kidding? Just look at the mess we’re in now. In this business, things always go wrong. It’s the only constant you can count on. I’ve been in the industry for twenty years. I started as a gofer for Jack Barry at The Marquee. I did a couple of Reading festivals, then joined Family as a backline roadie.’

‘What?’

‘I looked after the onstage amps and stacks. I went to the States with them twice, and stayed. I worked for Capitol Records as a plugger. What I was really doing was supplying cash and coke to the FM stations on the West Coast. Then I joined Atlantic, did the same. Then I got promoted to special projects.’

I looked at him.

‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘I did one tour with Zeppelin before Bonzo died, then tour-managed Elton John, and when he stopped touring in eighty-one I hitched up with The Box. I’ve been with them ever since.’

‘You come from London?’

‘Originally. East End through and through… at least, I was. I went back for the first time in years a couple of weeks ago. Shit, man, they’ve ruined that part of town. It was never all that great, but now …’

‘Times change,’ I said. ‘And governments. Anyway I thought you’d have been a Tory, with all this.’ I gestured round the bar.

‘American citizen now. Straight Democrat ticket. That’s another reason I don’t want any deportations. I might be first.’

‘It sounds like you have a good life.’

‘It is. I’m very well paid. Very. And I have an expense account that means I never have to touch my salary. I have absolute control over a bank account that contains enough funds to make your eyes water. I carry every major credit card, all the bills are covered, and I don’t have to supply receipts. I have an apartment in Beverly Hills and shop on Rodeo Drive. I have a very beautiful woman who lives in that apartment whom I haven’t seen for months and might not see again for another six, or maybe longer. She’s probably balling the world. I know I am. I have the choice of eighteen cars. I travel first class. Soon, I’m sure, my shit won’t stink. For a boy from Plaistow, who never lived in a house with an inside toilet until he was fifteen, I reckon that’s not bad.’

‘Not bad at all, so why are you so pissed off?’

‘Sorry, Nick. Sometimes I ramble. Too many of these.’ He tapped his glass.

‘Me too,’ I said. And it was true.

‘So listen, I’ve got a suite for you,’ he said. ‘It’s very pleasant, second floor, on the corner with a view of the square.’

‘Do you think I’ll approve of the colour scheme?’

‘I hope so. Does that mean you’ll take the job?’

‘I don’t know.’

Just then the door of the bar opened and a woman came into the room. She walked over to the bar and said something to the barmen. One reached down and touched a switch, and recessed lights in the ceiling and walls winked on. It wasn’t the Blackpool illuminations but at least you could see to count the fingers on your hand.

I looked over at Lomax. ‘Isn’t that Ninotchka?’

He nodded. ‘None other.’

I checked the woman out. She didn’t look much from a distance, but she was a bona fide, 22-carat rock star with a capital R and a capital S. Apart from the success she’d had with Pandora’s Box she’d released several solo albums which had charted, and had three top ten singles in her own right. She’d been in two movies, one Oscar-nominated, and had by all accounts fucked enough famous geezers to qualify for a double-page spread in the Guinness Book of Records.

The barman mixed her a drink, and when he passed her the glass she made towards us. She was wearing a chamois leather suit with a short jacket and a long, full skirt that revealed a hint of white petticoat at the hem. The jacket was unbuttoned over a silk camisole top with lots of lace detail, and by the way her nipples poked through the thin material, and jiggled as she walked like two tiny loaded pistols, nothing underneath. Her high-heeled, lace-up boots matched the colour of her suit to perfection. She was wearing a lot of tom. About fifty narrow silver bracelets on each wrist, silver rings on every finger including a twin of the one Roger Lomax wore. Around her neck was a silver and turquoise necklace and in one ear was an extravagant earring of silver and bright blue feathers, more than six inches long. Her hair was dusty blonde, and tied back so that just a few wisps hung around her ears. She was tanned golden, and the shade of lipstick she wore set off the tan to perfection.

‘Do you always have to sit in the dark, Roger?’ she asked. ‘I swear you were a vampire in a previous life.’ She had a real American accent and played it to the gallery, which was me.

‘Ninotchka, this is Nick Sharman,’ said Roger Lomax. ‘He’s an old friend of Mark McBain’s.’

‘Wow, how did you manage that? McBain’s as hard to tie down as smoke,’ she said, generating about ten thousand watts of pure California girlism.

‘I managed,’ I said, and offered her my hand.

Her jewellery rattled as she took it. Her grip was strong and dry.

‘Nick Sharman, this is Ninotchka,’ Roger Lomax finished the introduction.

What do you say? I’ve seen your tits in Playboy.I’ve seen you all sweated up, frolicking with some butch geezer in your last video. I saw your arse in the movie when you were supposed to be screwing Jack Nicholson. I said none of those things. ‘How do you do?’ was all I said.

‘You Englishmen are so polite,’ she said back. ‘At first.’ And gave Roger a dirty look. I sensed there was unfinished business there, and I didn’t want to know about it.

Up close, and even in the half-light of the bar, Ninotchka was showing signs of wear and tear around the edges. Hard boozing wear and tear, hard living wear and tear. But on her it looked good. Besides, she looked as if she could care less.

She sat down and helped herself to one of Lomax’s cigarettes. ‘What do you do, Nick?’ she asked.

‘He’s a private cop,’ Lomax answered for me. ‘I’ve asked him to find out who spiked Trash.’

‘You don’t look much like Dick Tracy.’

‘I’m not,’ I said modestly.

‘You going to ask me some questions?’

‘Maybe. I haven’t made up my mind whether to take the job or not.’ But I was beginning to.

‘Wanna take me to dinner tonight?’ she asked.

That sort of offer you don’t get from that sort of woman twice in a lifetime. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said, almost tripping over my tongue.

‘I’m in the Mayfair Suite. Corny but true. Pick me up at seven. I get too hungry for dinner at eight.’ And she started half singing, half humming The Lady is a Tramp as she finished her drink, stood up and left us.

I looked at Lomax and he looked back at me and I don’t think he liked what he saw. ‘Seems like you’ve taken the job then?’

‘Seems like it.’

‘I’d be very careful there if I were you, Nick. You’re just her type, I know it. I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen. She’ll give you her full attention, ignore everyone else. She’ll only speak through you. She’ll ask your advice on everything, and take it. You’ll choose her clothes and her next single. She’ll buy you the complete Gaultier summer collection. You’ll be walking around three feet off the ground. Then she’ll cut you off at the knees, brother. She’ll chop off your dick, spread it with mustard, put it in a roll and gobble it up. You’ll be castrated, and you’ll probably hand her the scalpel, you’ll love her so much.’

‘Sounds like the voice of experience.’

‘You’d better believe it! I told you, I know what tampons she prefers. I’m giving you the good word, Nick. Just like I wish someone had done to me.’