But neither of us could come up with an alternative. In desperation, I hit Google. There were a couple of top ten London club lists, and I took a look at them. ‘Found it,’ I yelped, turning the laptop round to show Leanne. ‘Paramount. The thirty-first floor of Centre Point. Windows all round, it has to look good in daylight. It says there are amazing views down Oxford St and across central London. There’s a dance space where we could have the memorial bit. They do food too. It’s perfect, Leanne.’
She looked dubious. ‘I don’t think he ever did a gig there. I’ve never been there with him.’
‘That doesn’t matter. It’s a club. That makes it a tribute to his working life.’
‘It’ll cost an arm and a leg. Look, there’s a review that says the drinks are really expensive.’
I laughed. ‘Do you seriously think Scarlett’s going to be paying for it? By the time Georgie’s sold the rights to Yes! and some shitty TV channel, we’ll be in profit. Trust me, Leanne, this is the answer.’
Luckily both George and Scarlett agreed with me. We had a week to arrange the memorial service, and though I say it myself, we did a fantastic job. The guest list was a showbiz editor’s wet dream. Everyone who wanted to be perceived as anyone was there, along with a full complement of paparazzi and red-top columnists. Scarlett had taken our words to heart and she’d spent most of the week resting in her room. On the day itself, the make-up artist was first to arrive at the house. Thanks to her subtle work, Scarlett managed the perfect combination of fragility and radiance, walking through the crowd to the podium holding Jimmy’s hand, head held high. He looked heart-breaking, bewildered in a scaled-down black Nehru jacket and black trousers.
A couple of Joshu’s more articulate and respectable friends spoke about his professional life then Scarlett reduced the room to tears with her personal eulogy. ‘Joshu was the only man I’ve ever known who stopped the breath in my lungs. The first time I saw him, he was behind the decks under the arches at Waterloo. The way he moved, the smile on him, the
glitter in his eyes, it was like he had a spark inside him that nobody else had. I knew right then he was going to be mine.’
Never mind that the glitter and spark had probably been from cocaine; nobody in that room could have doubted that she truly loved him.
‘But loving Joshu came with a price tag. He had a head full of dreams, and it was like one life wasn’t ever going to be enough for him. Being a DJ wasn’t enough. He wanted to go beyond that, to become a record producer, to make films, to change the way people saw the world. Sadly for me and Jimmy, just being a family man wasn’t ever going to be enough for him either. Joshu had a big heart and he needed more than a simple life could offer. I couldn’t hold him down. I had to let him spread his wings, even though it broke my heart into little pieces.’ Scarlett drew in her breath and quivered on the edge of tears, then gathered her boy to her. Jimmy clutched at her dress, peering out at the crowd with wide, sad eyes.
‘The one thing that was enough for Joshu was being a dad. For all his faults, for all his frustrations, he loved his boy. He’d have thrown himself in front of a bullet for Jimmy. If there was one thing that Joshu loved without a second thought, one thing he would never have turned his back on, it was his son. And that’s how I know what happened to Joshu was an accident, not a suicide, as some journalists who know nowt have tried to suggest. Joshu would never, ever have taken himself away from Jimmy. He might have had enough of me. He might have had enough of you lot. But he would never, ever have had enough of Jimmy. So let’s raise a glass to my beautiful Joshu. Let’s remember all the times he made us glad to be alive. To Joshu!’
It was irresistible. I didn’t think there could be anyone in the room unmoved by Scarlett’s words. From my position by the podium, I looked round the room, my own gaze misted with brimming tears.
And that’s when my breath stopped in my lungs for all the wrong reasons. There, at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, was the man I’d spent so much time, money and energy escaping from. With a triumphant, ironic smile on his face, Pete Matthews tipped his finger to his forehead in a mocking salute.
What was it Faulkner said? ‘The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.’ Once I’d struggled to understand that. Now I knew exactly what it meant.
39
The rest of the memorial passed in a blur for me. As soon as the formal part of the afternoon was over, I thought I’d try to escape without Pete spotting me. But I could feel his eyes on me, following me round the room. Although this wasn’t my crowd, I knew enough of the media to attempt to use them as stepping stones to get across the room to an exit where I hoped I could make my getaway. But every time I looked up, there he was, on the fringes, stalking me as he’d done so efficiently after I’d walked away from our relationship.
Then I saw the one man who might possibly save me. Over by the buffet, his back to the impressive view of central London, Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides was using his height advantage to scan the room. I wasn’t sure what he was doing there. But I was sure I could take advantage of his presence one way or another.
I weaved through the press of bodies, air-kissing a few of Scarlett’s TV colleagues on the way. Nick looked mildly amused as I finally pitched up beside him. ‘Are you here to give me grief for gate-crashing?’ he asked.
Bemused, I shook my head. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because I understand you organised this—’ He waved a hand at the room, where the noise of chatter was rising incrementally, like the volume on one of Joshu’s sets. ‘—and I wasn’t on the guest list.’
‘I didn’t do the guest list,’ I said. ‘That was Scarlett and her agent. I hardly know anyone here.’ Apart from the bastard across the room whose eyebrows are drawn down in a dark frown now I’m talking to you.
‘Damn, I gave myself away.’ He pursed his mouth in a self-mocking expression.
‘Why are you here?’ It occurred to me that his presence was a little puzzling.
He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass and shrugged. ‘Call it curiosity. I don’t often get the chance to have a window on this world. I like to take my chances when I can.’
‘If this was an episode of Poirot, you’d be here because you didn’t think Joshu’s death was an accident.’ I was teasing him, but he showed no response at all. Not a quirk of humour or a flash of seriousness. Just a blank.
‘But it’s not an episode of Poirot,’ he said. ‘And I’m a nosy copper who had nothing better to do on his afternoon off. How’s the not-quite-widow taking it?’
‘Harder than I’d have expected. She put on a good show of being over him, but it turns out she wasn’t. Trust me, there’s nothing fake about her grief. She’s genuinely stricken. Partly it’s on Jimmy’s account. But she still had feelings for Joshu.’
Nick nodded. ‘She’s lucky to have you to take care of something as major as this.’
‘I cracked the whip, that’s all. It was other people who did the nitty gritty.’ An idea was nibbling at the edge of my mind. ‘I’m quite good at getting people organised.’ I tried to project a winning combination of tentative and sexy.
‘I imagine you are,’ Nick said, not quite meeting my gaze.
‘For example.’ I shifted so that I had my back to the window. If he wanted to keep eye contact with me, he would have to move round, putting Pete firmly in his line of sight. ‘You mentioned that you’re a gatecrasher. But you’re not really. If you had asked to come, we’d have been happy to give you an invitation. In your case, it’s a technicality. But there are people here who are definitely not welcome. And someone like you would be doing Scarlett a huge kindness if you were to escort them off the premises. For example.’