‘Well, you must recognise these boys,’ Carmella said, jerking her head towards the larger-than-life photograph of OnTarget. The four members were dressed in matching but different coloured suits, standing with their arms folded and self-important scowls on their faces. Patrick thought they looked like junior school kids – if junior school kids had tattoos, thousand-pound suits and artfully sculpted facial hair.
‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered, and Carmella poked him in the ribs.
‘Come on, you old fart,’ she said. ‘I mean, you old fart, boss.’
They approached a smiley young receptionist in a crop top with a bird’s nest of fake blonde and pink dreadlocks piled in a massive bundle on top of her head. Through her glass desk, Patrick could see a diamond belly bar winking at him, drawing attention to her flat midriff.
‘Morning,’ he said, holding out his badge. ‘I’m DI Lennon and this is DS Masiello. We need to talk to someone connected to the band OnTarget, the A&R director or a publicity director perhaps.’
The receptionist gaped at him, then snapped into action, swivelling on her chair to a computer monitor on the desk’s return, scrolling busily down a list of names and extension numbers, muttering as she did so, an expression of intense concentration on her round, babyish face. Patrick wasn’t sure whether she was talking to herself or to him. It was kind of sweet how seriously she clearly took her job, though. He felt foolish for requesting someone in A&R because of course in no way had OnTarget been ‘nurtured’ or ‘discovered’. They were as manufactured as a tin of biscuits, selected from the most addictive ingredients of competitors on a TV talent show.
The girl slapped her forehead. ‘Duh, why am I looking through the address book? They’re all upstairs in the first-floor meeting room – not the band, of course, but everyone involved in their campaign. Their manager’s here as well. And Mervyn Hammond.’
‘Excellent,’ said Patrick briskly. ‘What time did the meeting start? Wait – did you say Mervyn Hammond, the PR guy?’
Everyone knew who Mervyn Hammond was, the celebrity publicist who had made a name for himself that was almost as big as that of his biggest clients. He graced the tabloids and TV chat shows on an almost monotonously regular basis.
The girl peered at her computer, and Patrick noticed how she wrapped her arms protectively around her body when talking about Hammond. ‘Yes, the one and only. Um . . . it started at nine thirty. Mervyn and Reggie, the manager, haven’t come out yet, so it’s probably still going on. Would you like to wait and I’ll let them know you’re here? That’s Kerry, Mervyn’s security guy, over there; do you want me to ask him . . . ?’ She gestured towards a belligerent-looking brick shithouse in a cheap suit loitering near the leather sofas.
Patrick glanced over at the man, noting the aggressive way his enormous thumbs were stabbing at the tiny buttons of a BlackBerry. ‘No, that’s fine. We’ll find our way up, thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’
She blushed and fiddled with a dreadlock until her phone flashed to indicate a call, at which she swivelled back towards her screen. ‘GoodmorningGlobalSoundsMusicLottiespeakinghowcanIhelpyou?’
As Pat and Carmella walked up the stairs, they exchanged small grins. Some people just made you smile, thought Patrick. He could see the shaven, wrinkled scalp of the security guard’s head, and that the man was playing Candy Crush on his phone.
‘Why does Mervyn Hammond need security?’ he mused out loud.
‘Perhaps the guy’s really just a driver,’ said Carmella as they pushed open the fire door through to the first floor.
‘Could be . . . That’s OnTarget’s label,’ said Patrick, nodding at the brass plaque on the door etched with the words ‘GIDEON RECORDS’.
Carmella looked confused. ‘I thought Global Sounds was their label?’
‘That’s the company. It used to be a label, but now it’s the parent company. It bought out a load of smaller labels including Gideon.’
‘Oh,’ she said, none the wiser.
The office inside was huge and open-plan, not unlike a swanky version of their own office at the station, with half a dozen people seated at desks in the centre, and smaller meeting rooms and offices around the edges. Dance music blared out from wall-mounted speakers and Patrick made a face. ‘Couldn’t work with all this noise,’ he said to Carmella.
‘Ever thought of going on that TV show Grumpy Old Men?’ she replied.
Patrick laughed at her blatant lack of respect for him, then arranged his features into a sombre expression as a rake-thin woman in her thirties approached them. She had black wiry hair scraped back into a Croydon facelift and half a dozen chunky bead necklaces that looked as though their purpose was to weight her down and prevent her from floating away.
‘Can I help you?’
They showed their police badges again and Patrick explained why they were there. The woman glanced over at a roomful of people behind another glass wall who were chatting worriedly. They reminded Patrick of lizards in a tank. ‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘I’m Hattie Parsons, PA to the MD. They’re all in there,’ she said, pointing a bony finger.
‘What’s the meeting about, could I ask?’ Patrick thought he could tell already, by the expressions on their faces. He was right.
‘Er . . . it’s a sort of PR crisis meeting for OnTarget – they’re our biggest band. They’d probably welcome your feedback in there, actually. The Sun is about to run a big article about those girls who were killed being OnTarget fans. Obviously this could be a bit of a nightmare for the band, PR-wise.’
Patrick sighed heavily. ‘Bit of a “nightmare” for the girls and their families too, don’t you think?’
Carmella frowned at him, an expression that said it’s not her fault. Hattie was blushing as though it was her fault and her hand flew to her neck to fiddle with the beads.
‘OK. We’ll pop in, then. Thanks for your help.’
‘Would you like coffees?’ Hattie asked nervously. Carmella declined on both their behalf, although Patrick could have mainlined an espresso. He had barely slept last night after the less-than-ideal sex with Gill. They had lain like corpses next to one another for hours, both of them knowing the other was awake and yet neither acknowledging it.
Patrick pushed open the meeting room door and ushered Carmella in. Hattie Parsons followed. Six surprised faces looked up at them, conversation immediately stilled.
‘Sorry to interrupt. I’m DI Patrick Lennon and this is DS Carmella Masiello. We’re investigating the murders of two girls and I understand that you’re discussing this at the moment? We’d like to join you.’
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair for Carmella and took the remaining spare one next to her. The five men and one woman around the huge walnut table looked at them as though they had just beamed down from outer space.
‘Carry on,’ said Patrick mildly. ‘Don’t mind us.’ He took out his Moleskine notebook and a pen.
Mervyn Hammond – instantly recognisable with his shock of curly dyed black hair, like a clown’s wig – placed both his palms flat on the table. A small bag of nuts lay opened before him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, belligerently. ‘But this is a private internal meeting. This is most irregular. Of course we’re happy to help you with your enquiries, but we’re discussing publicity damage limitation here; it’s not going to be of the slightest interest to you types . . .’
‘That’s for us to decide, Mr Hammond,’ said Patrick, noticing a flicker of smug pleasure at being recognised cross the man’s florid face.
‘It’s fine, Mervyn,’ said the blond, hearty-looking man next to him, reaching across the table to give Patrick’s and Carmella’s hands a bone-squeezing shake. ‘Let me introduce you to everyone. I’m Tris Kent, managing director of Gideon Records.