‘Mervyn Hammond you obviously know already. That’s Reggie Rickard, OnTarget’s manager.’
Reggie Rickard gave a brief nod in Patrick’s direction without meeting his eyes. He was a small weedy man with thin brown hair who looked as though he needed a good wash. Patrick thought you’d never guess that he represented the biggest band on the planet. He more resembled someone who you would call to get rid of a wasp’s nest in the attic.
Tris Kent pointed across to the other side of the table. ‘Lauren Greene, senior publicity manager for Gideon, Graham Burns, OnTarget’s social media manager, and Kazuo Yamada, head of A&R.’
Carmella had discreetly taken Patrick’s Moleskine and was writing all this down as Patrick nodded at them all.
Lauren was a stocky woman dressed in flowing layers of the sort of cotton that Patrick thought was probably labelled ‘organic’, and Graham Burns looked exactly like all the hipster guys who frequented Shoreditch and Brick Lane these days. Carmella said that they were called D.H. Lawrences because they all sported bushy beards, slicked-back hair, and wore baggy cords and checked shirts. Burns even had a tweed waistcoat on and although his hair was dark brown, his beard had a distinctly gingerish hue. Patrick mentally labelled him The Fashion Victim. Kazuo Yamada was a tubby Japanese man of indeterminate age in a too-tight T-shirt.
‘How can we help you, then, Detectives, er . . . ?’
‘Lennon and Masiello. We want to talk to you about OnTarget’s online community.’ The room fell silent, all eyes on him. ‘You’re already aware that Rose Sharp and Jessica McMasters were both fans, but that alone isn’t what interests us. I understand nearly every girl under sixteen in the world is a fan. What interests us is that both were keen users of OnTarget forums and social channels.’
‘Like, as you say, a large proportion of teenage girls around the world.’
Patrick wished he could tell them about the perfume sprayed into the girls’ wounds, along with the fact that they now knew, thanks to Martin’s continued investigations, that both girls had been using apps or the Internet on their phones shortly before their deaths. Martin had worked out that both girls spent 82 per cent of their time online engaged in ‘OnTarget-related activities’. If they had met their murderer on the Internet, the chances were they had encountered him – or he had found them – somewhere in the OnTarget universe.
But all he could say was, ‘There are other details that I’m unable to reveal at this time that make us believe the two girls’ interest in OnTarget was almost definitely a factor in their deaths.’
Mouths dropped open around the desk and Graham Burns shook his head with what could have been sadness or frustration.
Patrick addressed Mervyn Hammond. ‘I’m concerned about this Sun article. If there’s any way at all you can use your influence to prevent it from being published, we would greatly appreciate it. The last thing we want is to engender a sense of panic among OnTarget fans and their parents. We’ll release a statement to the press when the time’s right, but for the moment, the less the public knows, the better. It brings out all the copycats and attention-seeking weirdos.’
Tris looked pained. ‘Believe me, that’s the last thing we want too. It’s what we’ve been discussing for the last hour. It’s hardly good for the band’s reputation, is it?’
Mervyn still appeared very put out. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about the article. The editor thinks this OnT story is juicier than anything else I can offer at the moment.’
‘Who would be in charge of monitoring the OnTarget forums and the social media activity?’ Patrick glanced at Carmella’s notes. ‘I assume that would be you, Mr Burns?’
Graham Burns leaned forwards earnestly, brushing his foppishly floppy hair behind one ear. ‘That’s in my remit, yes. The official forum is hosted on a site that we own, though we use a specialist agency to monitor and track all the social activity and online mentions, of which there are many. And I mean many. Somebody tweets about OnTarget every second. Add to that all of the stuff going on across Facebook, YouTube, Tumblr, et cetera, and the noise is . . . intense. We’re talking about a community of many millions globally. Last time a new video was released, the servers almost melted and it was viewed on YouTube 600 million—’
Patrick held up a hand, fearing he was about to be buried beneath a landslide of stats.
‘Let’s talk about the official forum first. Is there a private messaging system within it?’
‘Yes, of course. But we can’t access PMs.’
‘You must be able to.’
Burns pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid not. Privacy is a big thing among teenage girls.’
‘Except when they’re sharing semi-naked photos on Instagram,’ Mervyn said, guffawing. Patrick noticed Lauren Greene shifting uneasily from one chunky buttock to the other.
‘I could check if the two girls ever communicated privately on the forum,’ Graham said. ‘I just won’t be able to access the content of the messages.’
‘That would be useful, thanks.’
Burns left the room, smiling obsequiously at Mervyn Hammond on his way out. He looked like a right lick-arse, thought Patrick.
‘So, OnTarget are pretty . . . massive, then?’
Reggie, the band’s manager, cleared his throat and recited a long and boring list of statistics about sales figures and chart-topped territories. He had a strange way of emphasising random words.
Carmella was scribbling frantically and looked relieved when Reggie ended with, ‘Tour of the US and Canada planned for summer. You could say massive, yeah.’
Mervyn Hammond had said nothing since confirming that he couldn’t do anything about the Sun article. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you can do to help us with the newspaper, Mr Hammond?’ Patrick asked him.
He shrugged and re-crossed his legs, showing a flash of red silk sock. ‘Sorry, Detective. Don’t the police have any powers?’
‘If only, Mr Hammond. If only.’
Mervyn smiled his oily smile. ‘They might be interested in a profile of the cop who’s out to catch the killer. Could be useful . . .’
He slid an embossed card across to Patrick who stood up, ignoring the card and turning away from the PR man. He had finally encountered someone he liked even less than Winkler.
Patrick and Carmella left the room, both glad to escape the curt silence. Hattie was typing furiously at a desk on the other side of the room, looking up at her screen and pausing, as if something there had grabbed her attention. Her fingers fluttered over the keyboard.
Patrick wandered over to her desk. ‘Where can we find Graham Burns?’
Hattie jumped like Patrick had sneaked up behind her and popped a balloon in her ear.
‘Shit. Sorry . . . Graham? Oh, he’s right behind you.’
Patrick turned to see the social media manager coming towards him across the lobby.
‘Any joy?’ Patrick asked. ‘Did Rose Sharp and Jessica McMasters ever message each other?’
‘Yes.’ Graham had that excited air people get when they think they are helping the police solve a tricky puzzle. ‘They exchanged several messages last year.’
‘But you really can’t access those messages? That’s incredibly frustrating, Mr Burns.’
Graham looked over his shoulder and said quietly, ‘Well, it’s possible that, if I dig deep, I could find something . . . It goes against policy, but . . .’
‘That would be extremely helpful.’
‘No problem, Detective.’
Yep, he really was an arse-kisser, Patrick thought.
Patrick handed him a business card. ‘Here’s my number. If I’m not around, you can talk to any member of my team. I’ll need your contact details too.’