Chapter 54
Todd picked up the post from the mat and went upstairs to the kitchen.
While the percolator did its job, Todd opened his mail. Bills, circulars and a letter addressed to Con. Instinct told him to open it.
YOU’RE BACK, BUT NOT FOR LONG. SATURDAY WILL BE THE LAST TIME YOU SING. THIS TIME THERE’LL BE NO MISTAKES. SEE YOU THEN.
He read it again.
‘Shit.’ He picked up the telephone. ‘Freddy, it’s Todd. Listen, I need some advice. You remember Con was receiving death threats through the post? Well, he’s had another this morning. I know, I can hardly believe it either. I’ll read it to you.’
Freddy uttered an expletive.
‘I know, I don’t like the sound of it either. Surely it’s got to be some creep using the past to frighten him? Should I tell him? You think so? I’m just concerned that if he knows, he might disappear again. Okay, will do. I know we can’t take any chances. Catch you later.’
Todd put the receiver down slowly.
‘Tell me what?’
Todd turned and saw Con standing in the doorway, arms folded.
‘Con, you’re not to worry.’
‘Tell me what it is, Todd.’
‘I’m afraid it’s another of those ridiculous letters you used to get years ago.’ He handed it to Con.
As he read it, Todd watched Con visibly shudder.
‘Don’t panic, Con, please. Freddy said we should contact the police immediately.
He suggested we let the media know too, broadcast how tight security is going to be at the concert.
If this creep is serious, he might be put off if he knows what a huge police presence there’ll be.
If you agree, I’ll call Scotland Yard now. Con?’
Con was holding the letter in his hand, staring out of the window.
‘Are you okay?’
Con didn’t reply.
‘Look, I know how devastating this must be, but there are ways to solve it. Let me call the police, Con. I’m positive this is just a stupid crank letter.’
‘Sure. I’ll take a shower.’
As the water cascaded over his head, Con wondered if he had been wrong to return.
He dressed and went downstairs. Todd was staring out of the window.
‘You called them?’
‘Yes. They’re sending someone round right now. You’ll have immediate twenty-four-hour protection. They’re going to liaise with the organisers of the concert this morning to discuss security.’
‘Good.’
‘Con, there is one other thing you should know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Helen McCarthy has just been released on parole.’
Helen was running very short of cash. The couple of thousand left in her account was slowly being eaten up.
At some point in the next couple of weeks, she would have to take her vintage Porsche out of the garage, replace the starter motor and give it a good wash and brush-up. She’d then try to find a buyer.
But she didn’t care if she was left homeless and penniless. Now she knew who had ruined her life, it was a case of putting the rest of the jigsaw together, presenting her evidence to the police, and finally clearing her name.
Four telephone calls had secured the information she needed. Anybody who said they were calling from the Inland Revenue was almost always put through, and given the details requested.
And now, at last, Helen was going to meet the person who had set her up so perfectly. She climbed into her rented Mini Metro and drove off.
London’s claustrophobic streets gave way to green fields on either side of the motorway, a road that had not been built when she had last travelled this way.
It took her a couple of hours of steady driving to reach her destination.
She passed through the gates and pulled up outside the crumbling Victorian building.
Helen turned off the engine. She took a lipstick out of her handbag and applied it slowly.
Then she climbed out of the car, locked it and walked towards the front entrance.
‘I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing. She left about a month ago. You say you’ve been abroad yourself?’
‘Away, yes,’ Helen nodded.
‘We always wondered whether she had any family. She never talked about them.’
‘No, well, we were never close.’
‘You don’t look anything like her, if you don’t mind me saying. There’s no sibling resemblance.’
‘Everyone used to say that,’ agreed Helen. ‘So you can give me her new address?’
‘Of course.’ The woman opened the file. ‘She went to what we call a halfway house. Care in the community is the thing these days, you know. The government doesn’t have the money to keep places such as this going any more. Here, I’ll write it down for you.’
‘How . . . how did she seem when she left?’
‘Oh, better than when she arrived. This was the one place she seemed to feel secure. As a matter of fact, she was very excited when she left. She went on and on about this Music for Life concert. As soon as she heard about it, she sent away for a ticket.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it arrived just after she left. I posted it on to her. Oh, she did love her music, but of course you probably know that.’
‘After so many years of being out of touch, I don’t feel I know her at all. Were there . . . were there any bands or records she liked in particular?’
Helen nodded as the woman gave her the answer she knew she would hear.
‘And there was one song in particular she played over and over on that tiny little tape recorder of hers.’
‘Which one was it? Maybe I could buy her a new copy as a present for when I see her.’
‘Umm, I’m not very good on pop, especially not sixties pop. I prefer country myself. I think it was one of the later ones, just one of them singing. It was different from their earlier stuff.’
‘Was it called “Losing You”?’
‘Er, yes, I think it was, but I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Oh well, if you do remember, you could always let me know. Listen, I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’ Helen stood up.
The woman handed her the address printed out on a sheet of paper. ‘Send her my love when you see her. After all these years, I’ve become fond of her. Looking at her, you’d never think . . . well . . . such a tragedy, really. Goodbye, dear.’
Helen stopped at a motorway cafe to eat and mull over the conversation. She bought a newspaper and flicked through it over her bland cheese and lettuce sandwich.
‘Plans for tomorrow’s concert are going well,’ report the organisers. ‘As each hour passes we’re getting more and more bands offering to turn up and sing for Africa.’
Of course, having so many superstars under one roof is causing a security nightmare, especially as it was reported yesterday that Con Daly, newly returned from his self-imposed exile, has received a death threat, citing the concert as the target point.
‘It’s probably a crank, but we are taking the threat seriously as Mr Daly has been threatened before,’ said a spokesman at Scotland Yard. ‘I’d warn anyone out there who is thinking of causing trouble in any way that the security operation will be the tightest seen in years.’
Helen’s blood ran cold. She swallowed.
‘Oh, God.’
‘Testing, testing, one, two, three, four, five, bananas, apples, Bob’s balls.’
The voice boomed through the huge loudspeakers as Johnny, the concert organiser, shepherded The Fishermen onto the vast Wembley stage.
‘So, guys, Tina will be at the front while your gear is moved into place. When she’s finished, you step onto the stage, which will be in complete darkness.
I’ll announce you to a major dramatic drum roll, then the stage will move forward automatically.
When the crowd eventually calms down, which we reckon could take as long as ten minutes, you begin your set. Okay so far? Con?’
Con had wandered to the front of the stage and was looking across the stadium.
‘Sure.’
‘At the end of the set, the spotlight will fall on you, Con. You begin the first verse of “Losing You” while we organise everyone backstage to come out and join you for the final verse. I’d be prepared for at least three encores.
No one will want it to end. We’ll eventually bring it to a close by going via satellite to New York. Okay?’
Everyone nodded.
‘Good. Now, you’re scheduled for three this afternoon. I can only give you forty-five minutes to rehearse; we’ve thirty bands to give practice time to and you’ve got fifteen minutes longer than most.’
‘That’ll be fine, Johnny,’ said Todd.
‘Good. You must excuse me, but I have a million things to see to. Hang around for as long as you want. There’s tea and coffee in the urns over there.’
Johnny waved and set off across the stage.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Freddy. ‘Go and get a bite to eat? There’s a couple of hours until rehearsal time.’
‘My tum tells me grub is in order,’ said Ian. ‘There’s a good Indian down the road. It does a mean vegetable curry.’
‘Fine,’ said Freddy.
‘Jesus, he’s become precious,’ Todd commented to Con as they filed off the stage.
‘Derek Longthorne, telephone call for you.’ The voice came booming over the loudspeaker.
‘This way, Mr Longthorne.’ A PA appeared on the stage beside him.
‘Catch us up at the Bombay Palace, Derek,’ Freddy called.
‘Will do.’
Fifteen minutes later Derek practically skipped into the curry house and sat down next to Todd.
‘We ordered for you. That is, we ordered most things on the menu. You look happy. Win the pools, did you?’
Derek shook his head. ‘No, nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. Just an old friend who wants to come along tomorrow, that’s all.’
‘Sorry, love, I haven’t seen her for two weeks. She’s not a prisoner, you know. She can come or go as she pleases.’
It was no more than Helen expected.
‘Thank you.’
She walked away from the crumbling terraced house and climbed into her Metro. She felt exhausted. She’d go home, take a shower and try to decide whether she had enough evidence to convince the police.
But there was still no motive . . .
She was turning right into the mews when she saw the police car parked right outside her front door. Heart pounding, she reversed onto the busy road, signalled left into the next street and turned off the engine.
The murder threat on Con’s life . . . they suspected her. If she went home now, they’d probably take her in for questioning and keep her in until the concert was over and it was too late.
Helen rubbed her forehead in frustration. The police were obviously not an option.
She’d have to go it alone.
‘Oh, Jesus, where to now?’ she cried.
There was something she needed from inside her house if she was to stand any chance of finally proving her innocence.
At midnight, Helen saw the police car turn out of the mews.
They’d either given up or were changing shifts.
She started the engine, reversed the car along the street and backed out dangerously onto the main road, finally pulling into the mews.
Leaving her car near the entrance, she climbed out and ran to the front door.
She panted upstairs and into her study, rifling through the top drawer until she found what she was looking for.
It was old, but the logo hadn’t changed and it would help.
She grabbed the plastic wallet with her recently gathered information and slipped the pass inside.
Throwing the wallet into her handbag, she went to her bedroom and took hold of the smart suit and matching shoes she’d purchased earlier in the week.
She grabbed her holdall and threw the clothes in, adding some make-up from the top of her dressing table.
Helen raced downstairs, slammed the front door behind her and ran to the car.
She had driven no more than a hundred yards when she looked in her wing mirror and saw the police car turning back into the mews.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she set off in the direction of central London.
Todd’s door buzzer rang at ten past two. Sleepless at the thought of tomorrow, he was up immediately. He ran downstairs to speak through the intercom.
‘Yeah?’
‘Detective Sergeant Pearson here, Mr Bradley. Sorry to disturb you but can I come in? I need a word with Mr Daly.’
‘Sure.’
Con was standing behind him, stark naked.
‘We have a copper that wants a word with you. Go and preserve your decency and I’ll let him in.’
Todd ushered the policeman up the stairs and into the sitting room. Con emerged in a pair of jeans.
‘Sorry about the hour, gentlemen, but we have good news.’
Both men watched him silently.
‘This afternoon a woman was noted hanging around outside this house. One of our surveillance team watched her for a while and then questioned her. She became quite obnoxious and refused to show the officer the contents of her handbag. She was arrested and taken down to the station. In her handbag we found this.’
Pearson pulled out a piece of paper, the familiar newspaper lettering filling one side, and placed it on the table.
SEE YOU TOMORROW FOR THE LAST TIME.
‘The woman told us that Mr Daly and herself had at one time been lovers, and then Mr Daly had dumped her for his wife.’
‘What? Sorcha and I were together from the first moment I arrived in London,’ murmured Con.
‘Quite, sir. On further investigation, we discovered that the woman in question has been in and out of mental institutions for the past twenty-five years. She’s a manic depressive with a history of petty crime. She confessed to sending all those threatening letters to your Hampstead house.’
‘So you think this is your woman?’
‘Absolutely, Mr Daly. Her fingerprints match up to those on the letter she sent you last week, and on the ones we have on file from seventeen years ago.’
‘Do you think she would have tried something tomorrow?’
‘Who can tell? Anyway, the point is, she is now safely under lock and key and you can relax.’
‘Excellent news, isn’t it, Con?’ said Todd.
‘That it is,’ he said.
Pearson stood up. ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye and let you gentlemen sleep for what’s left of the night. And my best wishes for tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’ Con stood up and shook his hand. ‘And thank you for all your hard work on my behalf. I’m sorry to waste police time.’
‘Not at all. It’s what we’re here for.’
Todd saw the policeman out. Con stood by the window and looked outside into the dark, wondering why he didn’t feel more relieved.