‘Yes, I know,’ I said.
‘You see, the main problem is that the band did sign the contracts that are in dispute. They can’t get away from that. The fact that they were underage and took no legal advice means less than shit. Too bad.’
‘How much did they get ripped off for?’
‘Four mill., six mill., who knows?’
‘As much as that?’
‘Sure, they were big in the UK, big in the States. They were a young girl’s dream at the time. The record company released everything they ever did over there. Christ, if they’d released their underpants they’d have sold. Especially if they’d released their underpants.’ He gave a dirty laugh. ‘The band weren’t together for long, not as bands went then.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Four years, ‘65 to ‘69, but they sold a bomb and they all came out of it in the red.’
‘How come?’ I asked.
‘Contracts again. Wave a contract in some kid’s face, tell them that it’s now or never and nine out of ten sign. Sign in haste, repent at leisure. That’s the game. The deal was sixty-forty in the band’s favour. Sounds good doesn’t it?’
I shrugged.
‘Don’t you believe it. Mogul took their forty per cent from gross, the band got their sixty per cent from net. Two little words but such a world of difference. So imagine, income one hundred pounds, forty straight to Mogul, exes say, another forty, so each of the band collects a cool fiver. Now multiply that into the millions and see what you get. A very rich Mogul and only a reasonably well-off band.’
‘That would still be a lot of cash for each member,’ I pointed out.
‘Less tax, less big cars, less bigger houses, travel, hangers-on, women, drugs, equipment, roadies, tour managers, hotel bills. Do you want me to go on?’
‘I thought you said expenses came out of the original hundred.’
‘Only recording and promotion, not everyday spending and not touring, which is what they were doing nine or ten months of the year. So in fact the harder they worked, the more in debt they became.’
‘Jesus,’ I said.
‘And on top of that there was straight theft.’
‘How?’
‘Simple, really: management and record company connivance. Press up more records than are declared in royalty statements. The record company inform the management that they’ve sold half a million units; in reality they’ve sold one million. Think of the profit. It helps, of course, if the management own the record company or vice versa.’
‘And did they?’
‘Yes, but no one knew at the time. It was one of those shady little deals I told you about.’
‘So McBain and the rest of the band have a legitimate claim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we prove it?’
‘No.’
‘So I’m just supposed to take your word for it?’
‘Not entirely. There is someone else you could talk to.’
‘Who?’
‘An accountant, fellow name of Jack Kitchen, used to work for Mogul in the late sixties, looked after The Boys’ accounts, amongst others. He’s fallen on hard times lately. Tried to be a bit of a pop star himself apparently. Booze and women, you know the score.’
Only too well, I thought.
‘He was in way over his head and started dipping into company money. Not a good idea. When old man Diva found out, Kitchen got his nuts roasted, literally.’
‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
Kennedy-Sloane looked at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Never more so, old boy.’
‘And what does this bloke do now?’ I asked.
‘Not a lot. He started a few businesses of his own over the years, but his heart wasn’t in them. All he does now is accounts by mail. You know the sort of thing. If you’re self-employed he’ll fill in your tax form, do the VAT. Keep things straight. But he won’t handle cash. Most particular about that. Bottle’s gone, you see.’
‘Maybe I could use him myself,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you.’
‘You sound as if you’ve gone this route before.’
He smiled enigmatically.
‘Will he talk?’ I asked.
‘About the Divas? I don’t know. He might. Once bitten if you see what I mean. But he does hate them. Blames them for his downfall. He bears a grudge as big as a house. And he does know where some of the bodies are buried.’
‘So why didn’t he ever go to the authorities?’
‘He won’t have it. He’s terrified the Divas will come back and finish the job. But Kitchen is in severe financial straits at the moment, I do know that, and if you dropped him a few hundred quid he might be persuaded to confirm what McBain and I have been telling you.’
‘How do I get hold of him?’
Kennedy-Sloane fished an oblong of pasteboard from his handkerchief pocket and pushed it across the tablecloth to me.
‘This is he,’ he said.
I picked up the card. It was cheaply printed on substandard stationery. The address was on the wrong side of Wandsworth Common. I could see it now. A shop-front operation, all peeling paint and unwashed windows. A bit like mine really.
‘I’ll look him up,’ I said.
‘Do that. Tell him I sent you. He won’t see you otherwise. He’s a bit paranoid, I’m afraid. Just say it’s a favour for a favour. He’ll understand.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he said, and his look said leave it alone.
And I did by changing the subject. ‘So if everything you say is right, we’re talking multi-million pound fraud here?’ I said.
‘Better than that.’
‘How so?’
‘The rip-off went into building Mogul’s HQ in Euston. Before that they operated from a little office in Shaftesbury Avenue. The new building cost just over five million in 1969. And I suppose at a conservative estimate it’s worth, now, forty to sixty million.’
‘So the building belongs to the band?’
‘An interesting theory, but I don’t think it would stand up in court.’
‘But correct?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So in theory McBain – or his representative – could legitimately walk into the building and claim it for the surviving members of the band?’
‘Just try,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.
‘I just might.’
17
R
ight then the steak and Châteauneuf-du-Pape arrived. Kennedy-Sloane went through another rigmarole of tasting the wine. The waitress and I both breathed a sigh of relief when he declared it fit for human consumption.
I sipped at my glass. The liquid tasted fruity and coated my teeth with a slightly bitter film. But it was over twenty quid a bottle so it must have been good.
‘How long have you been in the investigation business?’ asked Kennedy-Sloane through a mouthful of Château-Briand.
‘Ten years with the police, six months on my own.’
‘And you’re based down in South London?’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘Yes,’ I replied nevertheless.
‘A most disagreeable part of the world if I may say so. Even the so-called up-and-coming areas are falling down. Full of the nouveau upwardly mobile and their delinquent hordes.’
‘It suits me,’ I said. I wasn’t going to defend the place. He was right, anyway. ‘But the BMWs are creeping in.’
‘Yes, these yuppies really are an unpleasant breed. It’s the first time for two hundred years that bloody office workers have been heroes. Any junior clerk who can drag together the deposit for an Escort convertible, a decent suit and a CD player thinks he rules the world. Personally I think I’ll throw up if I see another Next jacket.’
I checked my labels and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘I’m afraid Margaret has a lot to answer for,’ he went on.
‘I would have thought you’d have applauded yuppiedom,’ I remarked.
‘Not at all. It’s been hard enough to scrape a living for years without all these cockney yobs in striped shirts trying to muscle in.’
‘Is that why you went into the music business?’ I asked.
‘Not really. I singled it out years ago. There’s a lot of disposable cash in record companies and bands and I find that quite a lot of it can be siphoned through my company and make me an exorbitant profit on the way.’
‘And the music itself?’
He nearly choked on his sauté potato. He swallowed and looked at me in sheer amazement.
‘Music? What the hell has music got to do with the music business? I detest pop music. It’s a bloody abomination. If I never heard another pop record I’d be quite happy.’
‘Just the sound of cash registers ringing?’
‘Do I sense a tone of disapprobation in your voice, Nicholas? I’d be careful. Glass houses and all that. I loathe the music biz and all it stands for, and every penny I can extricate from it for myself I enjoy greatly.’
‘So I take it you don’t go and see the bands you work for?’
‘Christ, no. Gigs are the worst part. I mean gigs, what a stupid word. I never go unless I’m absolutely forced to. The places they hold them in make my blood run cold. Wembley Arena, for instance – Dachau with a sound system. Warm lager in plastic glasses and two ounces of gristle in a greasy bun.’ He laid down his knife and fork neatly and made a little grimace of distaste which could only be washed away with more expensive booze.
‘No sushi, eh?’ I asked with a little smile.
‘Very droll, Sharman.’
‘Why don’t you find another line of business? One that doesn’t give you heartburn.’
‘Ah, there’s the rub. I may hate the fuckers, but I’m good at what I do and I don’t rip them off for one penny. Everybody knows what it’s going to cost them out front.’
‘Really.’
‘Really. My charges are fair and I can sleep easy at night. There’s just one rule: no freebies. I charge for everything, including giving McBain’s private investigator crash business courses.’
I smiled again. Like I said, I was beginning to like the little bugger.
The waitress whisked away our empty plates and we finished up our glasses of red wine.
‘A bottle of Sauternes with the Roquefort, I think,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.
I was game. In fact I was well-pissed.
The waitress brought the cheeseboard and the bottle of sweet wine and we knocked it all back like troopers.
‘Some coffee and brandy,’ decided my host when our table was just a litter of dirty dishes. ‘By the way, I’ve got a little something for you.’
‘What?’ I asked through a mouth that felt as if it was made of rubber.
He produced the briefcase that he’d dumped under his chair at the start of the meal and placed it carefully in front of him on the table-cloth.
‘This,’ he said.
‘I’m none the wiser.’
‘You will be, but I suggest you open it in the loo.’
‘Is that a joke?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so. McBain sent it round via that lumpen roadie of his. Though why he calls him that I don’t know. He hasn’t been near a road for years.’
‘In the loo,’ I said.
‘Good idea.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, stood up, picked up the case and headed for the gents.
The case was black leather and heavy. The loos were black marble and very grand. It took me nearly five minutes to work out how to switch on the taps in the basins. It was all most civilized and designed for the thrusting big banger in a hurry. In a hurry to mess his mind up. There were lots of flat, mirrored chrome surfaces.
I ran my finger along one and found just a slight powdery residue on the tip when I looked. I shrugged. It was none of my business.
I took the case into one of the stalls and locked the door. I closed the toilet seat and sat down with the case on my lap. I clicked open the brass catches with my thumbs and opened the lid. Inside was the .44 Magnum McBain had shown me in his bedroom. It was tucked snugly into a heavy El Paso leather shoulder holster with elasticated back straps and a neat little loop to anchor it to your trouser belt. The gun was unloaded but there was a box containing six hollow point shells. Attached to the holster was an envelope. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. On it was written:
This is for any elephants you might meet.
Take it with you.
I’m serious.
Love ya,
MM
Love ya, I thought. Fucking hippy. I closed the case and left the stall. I washed my hands and went back to the table. Kennedy-Sloane had hardly noticed I had gone. He was into a bottle of brandy and winning.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Not for me.’
‘I’ll just settle up then.’ He carelessly tossed a gold Amex card onto the bill.
Sweet, I thought, well sweet.
The bill got paid, the rest of the brandy got drunk and somehow we got out of the place.
Outside on the pavement we shook hands.
‘Do you know what’s in the case?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t got a clue,’ he replied, ‘but those things don’t have safety-catches so I’d leave the chamber under the hammer empty.’
‘But you haven’t got a clue.’
‘That’s my story.’
‘And you’re sticking to it.’ I finished his sentence for him.
‘That’s right,’ he said with a drunken grin. Then his face got serious all of a sudden. ‘Are you really going to take the Divas on?’ he asked.
‘Why the hell not?’ I asked with a drunken grin of my own and hailed a black cab that was passing. The driver thought that Tulse Hill was in Russia. At least he seemed so reluctant to take me there, that it might just as well have been. I finally convinced him that there was no passport control on the way and he agreed to take me home. I waved to Kennedy-Sloane from the back window as we drove down Ludgate Hill. The cabbie got lost twice around Stockwell but we finally made it. I tipped him low too and he swore at me as he pulled away from outside my flat with a screech of rubber and a roar of diesel.
18
I
telephoned Jack Kitchen as soon as I got to the office the next day. When I told him who I was and why I was calling he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic.
‘Another one,’ he said.
‘Another what?’
‘Another one of McBain’s chancers who thinks he can put the bite on Charlie Diva. Beware, he bites back.’
‘So I’m not the first?’
‘Not by a mile. McBain’s wasting his time. He’ll never see a penny.’
‘So there is a penny to be seen, is there?’
Kitchen shut up like a clam. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ he asked.
‘Look me up in yellow pages.’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
He didn’t reply.
‘A bloke called Christopher Kennedy-Sloane put me on to you.’ I passed on the message I’d been given, verbatim. I could almost feel him relax down the phone.
‘It’ll cost you,’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you now that it’s a waste of money.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I said. ‘How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘For a chat?’
‘For ten minutes of my valuable time. And there are conditions. Come on your own, nothing in writing, and I go when I feel like it. Now do you still think it’s worth it?’
‘It’s McBain’s money,’ I said. ‘Will you give me a receipt?’
‘No.’
‘Fair enough. Where and when?’
‘I’ll be in the pub next door to my office at twelve. Bring cash.’
‘How will I -’ He put the telephone down on me. ‘– Know you?’ I said to the dead receiver.
I took five hundred from McBain’s advance and put it in a plain envelope. I drove down to Wandsworth to the address on the card that Kennedy-Sloane had given me. It was just as I had pictured it. A terrace of rundown shops, half for sale, half unsaleable, with a nasty little boozer tacked on the end. Warm beer, stale sandwiches and a dirty look from staff and customers alike as a welcome.
I sidled through the door and looked around. The bar was about as lively as a mortician’s retirement home.
There were two or three lethargic drinkers at the bar and all the tables were empty except one. A husk of a man sat hunched up in a chair in front of it with a half-empty pint glass and a half-f ashtray in front of him. He was wearing a suit that would never come back into fashion no matter how long he hung on to it. Cheap checked material with lapels like Concorde’s wings and bell-bottomed trousers. He was smoking an untipped cigarette as if his life depended on it, or his death. He looked as if he’d fallen on hard times in about 1975 and hadn’t recovered yet. I walked over to the table and he looked up.
‘Mister Kitchen,’ I said.
‘That’s me,’ he said through a cloud of smoke and a coughing fit.
‘Nick Sharman,’ I said. ‘I called you.’
He didn’t stand or offer his hand, but I didn’t care. This wasn’t social.
‘Drink?’ I asked.
‘Pint of bitter.’
‘Any one in particular?’
‘It doesn’t matter, they’re all lousy in here.’
Good start, I thought.
I ordered his pint and, bearing in mind what he had said, a bottled lager for myself. The barman took the bottle from the cold shelf but as I picked it up it was warm to the touch. I didn’t bother saying anything. What would have been the point? I paid and took the drinks over to the table. Kitchen didn’t thank me.
‘Have you got the money?’
I nodded.
‘Let’s have it.’
‘Let’s talk first,’ I said. I felt an irrational urge to annoy the man.
His attitude changed and a whine came into his voice. ‘How do I know you’ve got it?’
I took the envelope from my pocket and held it under the table and opened the flap so that he could see the bundle of notes.
‘All right?’ I asked.
‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly and lit another cigarette.
‘Tell me about Mogul,’ I said.
‘This is confidential, right,’ said Kitchen. ‘Like I said, I don’t sign papers, I don’t say anything in front of witnesses and I don’t accept summonses to appear.’
‘No summonses,’ I agreed. ‘No hidden tape recorders. No nothing. Just the story and the dough is yours.’
‘All right, where do I start?’
‘At the beginning,’ I said. ‘That’s usually a good place.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The beginning would be good.’ And so he started. ‘I went to work for Mogul in ’67. I was working in the accounts department at Decca. I met a bloke called David Hemple. He’s dead now. He was a chartered accountant and managed a couple of bands. I did some work for him at the weekends. Then he signed a band to Mogul and I started doing more and more work for him until eventually I was earning more than my day job. Hemple got an office in Mogul’s old building and I went to work there too. Then Hemple had a run in with Charlie and quit, and Charlie offered me a full-time job. I took it like a shot. I was married with a couple of kids and the money was good, very good, and the perks were good too.’
‘Such as?’
‘Car, I signed my own expense sheets. Trips abroad. Women, booze.’ He smiled at the recollection and I saw that one of his front teeth was missing. ‘I built my own little empire. I would have been all right but I just spent too much money. I was on the booze heavily too.’ He looked in disgust at his pint. ‘Brandy was my tipple then, and only the best. Then I got involved with a woman. You know what I mean.’ He gave me a conspiratorial look which I didn’t take as a compliment. ‘And then I got caught with my fingers in the till.’
‘Police job?’ I asked.
‘No. Not the Divas. No police. They have better ways.’
I didn’t ask for details. ‘And the accounts you were working on, for Mogul. Were they bent?’
‘Double bent. I saw what Diva was up to and I thought that I could do the same. The trouble was it got out of hand and we almost killed the golden goose.’
‘Which was?’
‘The bands of course.’
‘The Boys?’
‘Sure, and the rest, but we ripped McBain off something shocking. He was The Boys really. The rest of the band were a bunch of berks. But McBain could write songs and play the guitar. I was a fan see,’ he said wistfully.
‘But you still knocked him.’
‘I’m not proud of it, it was the only way to keep my head above water. But Charlie Diva knocked him more.’
‘How?’
‘Every way from Christmas. It was daylight robbery and the poor bastard was so out of it all the time he didn’t have a chance.’
‘And if we went to court? Made the accounts public. They must still have records, even going back that far.’
Kitchen was starting to get agitated. ‘I already told you. No courts.’ He looked around in panic. ‘Just give me the money and leave it. You’re wasting your time. Plenty of others have tried but Diva scared them all off. I don’t know why McBain is bothering again. He should let sleeping dogs lie.’
I could see there was no point in pursuing the matter, and I could recognise blind terror when I saw it. The Divas were shaping up to be a right pair of scum-sucking bastards. I handed over the package and Kitchen stuffed it into his pocket. He finished his drink and left me to finish mine. But it was too warm and I left it.
I followed him out of the pub two minutes later and for all the impression I had made I might never have been there.