Chapter Thirty

Waking up in a fenced-in parking area, the sun hidden from view by the surrounding buildings, Sorcha was grimly aware that she was in danger of losing the plot. She’d set out to have a very specific discussion with Jake, and had now spent at least three hours in his company without so much as mentioning her reason for being there. There was at least nothing about his flat which was likely to distract her. It was understated and modern, and felt oddly uninhabited. Had it not been for the heap of mail which he had picked up from the concierge on the way in, it would have felt more like a holiday rental, or part of a hotel.

When they had first got there, Jake busied himself with the kind of domestic stuff that she could barely tolerate in her own home. She’d let him get on with it, and positioned herself on a sofa which had a panoramic view of Greater Manchester, fiddling with her Blackberry so that it didn’t look as if she had nothing to do. All of its buttons were in the wrong place, and only the fact that very little had come through since she had left the office the previous evening kept her from thumping it, but it served its purpose.

When he eventually stopped fidgeting about and went to join her, Jake seemed to sense the key change. She had his full attention as she told him about the call with the youth centre, although he gave out few clues as to how he felt about it. Even when she had finished, he deflected it back at her by asking what she thought it all meant.

“I really don’t know, pet, partly because I don’t know enough about the people involved. It could all just be crazy coincidences, but if it isn’t and there’s money involved then the most likely answer is blackmail.”

Jake still gave little away when he asked her why, and she felt her confidence waning again.

“It might not be – I gave up on detective fiction at around about the second PD James, so I’m probably way off the pace, hun. But it is at least possible that either Marty was blackmailing your Dad, or your Dad was blackmailing Marty. In which case I would be guessing it was the former, as I can’t imagine anyone would bother blackmailing Marty King for just five grand a month.”

Jake knew that was true: one of the clips of Marty which TV producers seemed particularly fond of was an interview which he had given shortly after he had signed what had been at the time the most lucrative record deal ever. After five or six minutes of reasonably sensible discussion about how he saw his career developing, Marty had suddenly burst out laughing, announced that he was just talking crap, and that the truth of it all was that he was “filthy, filthy rich”. The outburst had been rounded off by a neatly demonic cackle.

“But then a multi-millionaire blackmailing someone like your Dad doesn’t really make any sense either, unless Marty was doing it to deliberately try to hurt your Dad, or to hurt you.” Jake didn’t react to that, which she took as an indication that it was a possibility that he had already considered often enough that it no longer surprised him, “I don’t know Marty, but I get the impression that he can be a bit … odd or erratic, whatever you want to call it. But I still can’t imagine that he’d do something like that unless your Dad had done something to hurt him; and I have no idea what that might be.”

Jake was fiddling with the TV remote, without switching it on, but knew that the time had come to tell her what was on his mind.

“I wish I knew Dad better. I mean, you think that you’ve got to know someone, spent a load of time with them and stuff, and it’s actually your Dad that you’re talking about, and then you start thinking and you realise that you don’t know them at all.” He paused, seemingly unsure of what he was saying. Sorcha wasn’t at all sure where he was heading, but let him carry on.

“I mean, I have almost no idea what he was doing for almost twenty years. He’s told me stuff; stories, you know. But if you ask me what he was doing, who he was with, all of that normal stuff, I don’t have a clue.” He looked up at her, aware that what he was about to say was likely to sound peculiar, “I’ve even been wondering if he could have taken Mart, first time around; and I feel kind of guilty for even wondering it.”

Sorcha was relieved that she wasn’t going to be the first to suggest it to him, but knew that she had little comfort to offer on that score. She was also frustrated that he didn’t know more, but knew that it would be unfair to say so.

“Is there anyone who does know more about what he was doing during that time? Anyone who could fill in some of the gaps?”

The suggestion made Jake look bashful.

“That’s kind of why I dragged you up here. You see, I’m sure me Mam knows a whole lot more, but it’s kind of hard for me to ask her. I mean, I reckoned if you were with me I was less likely to chicken out: that I’d actually get round to asking her stuff.”

Sorcha wasn’t quite sure which bit of that statement worried her most.

“Isn’t your Mum going to think it odd if you show up with a total stranger in tow, and then start quizzing her, pet?”

“No, she’ll be fine with it. Well, she’ll be fine with you being there: she kind of got used to always seeing me with other people around when the band was going first time, back in the day.” He wished that they hadn’t used that as a song title: it always felt odd when he fell over it in every-day conversation, “I’m not sure what she’ll have to say, though. Despite what he did, she still feels really close to him, you know: she’s been going frantic this past week, with him missing and everything.”

Sorcha was feeling ill at ease at the thought of getting caught up family stuff: she didn’t do families as a matter of principle, particularly not mothers, and this sounded like it could get messy. She said what she thought she ought to say, in the hope that he wouldn’t notice that she was in danger of being quite seriously freaked out.

“Would you rather head over there now, if you’re worried about her?”“She’s babysitting Si’s kids tonight. She’s fine.” Jake sensed that Sorcha was uneasy, but wasn’t sure why. “So long as you don’t try to tell her that I’m a teetotal vegetarian when she sticks roast beef and a beer in front of me, tomorrow will be fine too.”

Sorcha was going to point out that she had no idea that he was either teetotal or vegetarian; before realising that it wasn’t strictly true. She’d come across comments to that effect on the internet, and in something in one of the tabloids; but didn’t know whether to acknowledge that she’d read them or not. The conversation ground to a halt, and this time she was only too aware that it was entirely her fault. Somewhere in the distance some rather tinny music started playing: Jake looked embarrassed and jumped to his feet, heading back into the kitchen. She heard fragments of a phone conversation, but not enough that she could figure out what was going on.

When Jake returned to the sitting room, he looked apprehensive.

“That was Duncan. From the band.” He said it as if it was a question, but didn’t wait for an answer, “He’s coming here, now. Sounds like he’s been in some kind of fight.”

Sorcha didn’t need a second hint of an invitation to leave: she immediately stood up and went to find her bag.

“It’s OK, pet. I can make myself scarce: just tell me what I need to do to get a cab.”

When she said it, she wasn’t wholly sure whether she was intending to head for the hotel or straight for the station: given the time, she’d have to pay for the hotel room anyway, but the prospect of putting herself well out of range of an encounter with Jake’s mother was sorely tempting. But it was immediately apparent that it wasn’t the right reaction: Jake just didn’t understand why she was going, and seemed wounded when she told him that she’d booked a hotel room. The conversation which followed was prickly, almost angry in places, and Sorcha found herself wishing that she had the balls to just turn and leave.

At the point when Duncan arrived, she and Jake had reached a thoroughly miserable stand-off. Duncan lumbered into the sitting room area, before throwing himself down into one of the chairs, swearing to himself and anyone else who happened to be in earshot as he did so. Sorcha found herself staring at him more than she meant to: he had not had the beard when she had seen him on stage, and his hair had been quite a lot shorter. He had also not had scratches up his arms and across the unnecessarily low V-neck of his T shirt; or the bruising on the side of his face, which seemed to be beginning to make his right eye close up. She wasn’t sure if she would have recognised him, and was even less sure that she wanted to know what had happened.

“Is there ice in the kitchen?”

Sorcha had addressed the question to Jake, but it was Duncan who reacted; leaping back out of the chair as if it had just stuck something long and sharp up his backside, and then staring at her as if she was about to start pulling his fingernails out.

“Who the fuck are you? Christ, Jake. You should of told me you weren’t alone, you prick. Fucking hell.”

Sorcha didn’t dare introduce herself, as she had no idea whether Jake had any intention of actually letting Duncan know who she was. Jake was also silent: he was afraid that if he said the wrong thing Sorcha would turn and walk out. Duncan was left staring first at one of them, then at the other, and wondering why the hell everyone he knew had decided to pick the same evening to be so fucking weird. Then, very slowly, he realised that he’d seen the girl before; or at least pictures of her. He looked at Jake with an expression of frank incredulity, before turning to Sorcha.

“You’re that girl from the hotel, aren’t you? The one with all the blood.” Jake could almost hear him thinking “and the knickers”; it was nothing short of a miracle that he managed not to say it out loud, “What the fucking hell are you doing here?”

Sorcha stepped forward, holding out her hand in the hope that she could bring things onto a slightly more formal footing.

“Sorcha Brompton. It’s good finally to meet you.”

Duncan stared at her hand as if it was likely to be booby-trapped, before carefully looking her up and down, and then up and down again. She had no idea how long she had to tolerate his behaviour before it would be acceptable to take a swing at the other side of his face.

“Christ. You’ve lost a fuck of a lot of weight.”

Jake looked appalled, and moved towards Sorcha as if to plead with her. She took a deep breath, and winked at him, before smiling at Duncan as convincingly as she could.

“Thank you. It’s actually one of the lesser-known benefits of sustaining potentially life-threatening injuries from high-velocity encounters with low-flying pop stars.”

Duncan stared more, and hoped that Jake would translate.