Paparazzi by Jo Fenton (e reader manga .TXT) 📗

them at a gig in London. They were supporting an act I was checking out with a view to a contract. That band was shite, but there was something about Troy Cassidy, and his band were pretty talented too. I approached them at the end of the night and invited them to come along here the next day. We had a chat about terms and stuff. They were supposed to sort themselves out with a manager, but they’ve not got round to it yet, so I’m sort of managing them as well as producing their album. They could really use a manager right now though. Troy’s destroyed about the loss of his wife. He was besotted with her. Refused to do any publicity that involved him with stunning models. Said Linda wouldn’t like it, and that’s not what he was about.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Course. Why else would a bloke turn down the opportunity to photoshoot with a bunch of hot girls? I wasn’t asking him to screw them, just to take a few photos, but he said he couldn’t do it, so we rounded up some motorbikes and leather instead. He seemed pretty cool with that.”

“What can you tell me about the rest of the band?”

“As I said, talented lads. All quite good-looking – got to take that into account really – kerb appeal matters. It sells records if the girls fancy them. Harry Pollard – he’s the guitarist – is the one the girls go really gooey about – even more so than Troy. My secretary says it’s his floppy hair and dreamy blue eyes. Don’t quite get it myself, but I can see he’s a draw. Takes the music seriously though. They all do actually. Respect them for that. Not all the kids do – so many these days are just after fame and fortune. You know what it’s like – it’s all about celebrity. So it’s great when we come across a band who can write their own stuff, and who care about the music. Real, proper artists.”

“What about the others?” I check my notebook as I’m jotting things down throughout the meeting. “Zach and Gaz? Is that right?”

“Yeah. Zach Finch – he plays keyboards and sax. The dark, quiet, moody type, but he’s a nice bloke most of the time.”

“Not all the time?”

“Like I say, he’s a bit moody. Likes his own way.” Vic looks thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell me something. He glances at me, and I keep my expression interested but otherwise neutral. Experience has shown that it’s a good way to get people to reveal more information. “To be honest, I think he had a bit of a thing for Troy’s Linda. Some days you’d think he hated Troy, then he’d pull himself together and be fine for a while.” He hesitates. “If it had been Troy who’d been killed, I’d stick Zach up there as your number one suspect, but I don’t reckon he’d have hurt a hair on her head.”

“How about Gaz? Sorry, I don’t know surnames.”

“Gaz is Gareth Edwards. Tall, skinny, ginger lad with a gleam in his eye and a strong sense of mischief. He’s the drummer, prankster and optimist in the band. I’d say he’s also the glue that holds them together. You know, talks Zach round from his strops; keeps Harry on the straight and narrow when he looks like being distracted; supports Troy through those low confidence times that all artists go through. Gaz is a good lad. Very level-headed.”

“Does Harry often need to be kept on the straight and narrow?”

“Hard to say really. I’ve only known them a few weeks. We’ve met a few times, including a five-day stint when they were here in London recording the new album. We got ten tracks laid down – all great. Pretty fast too. Like I said, you know when you’re dealing with professionals. They just got on with the recordings. Did as many takes as needed, without throwing wobblers like some kids do. There were just glimpses here and there – mostly towards the end of each day, when people were getting tired. You could see that John would have walked out at four with half a job done, when Troy stopped for a phone call with Linda. And Harry would flirt a bit with the production assistants between takes. Gaz would pull them back together, tell a few jokes, threaten to put frogs between the bedclothes if they didn’t sort themselves out. All good-humoured, but you could tell how much this meant to him.”

“You don’t think it meant the same to the others?”

“Zach cared a lot; you could see he did. They all did. But when the jealousy took hold, he was a friggin’ nightmare. Harry – like I said – he was also a pro. You could see music meant the world to him, but he was also excited by the whole process. And I reckon he wanted it to be fun. Not just hard work.”

“What about Troy?”

“Focussed, hard-working and energetic. But then, it got to about four every day, and he’d want a break to chat with his wife and kid, and that’s when it all went a bit… tits-up.”

“Thanks. That’s really useful.”

“Are we done now?” He looks at his watch, and I check mine too. It’s just gone five. “Parents’ evening at school tonight. I said I’d be home in time.”

We finish with a few pleasantries about the joys or otherwise of meetings with teachers at school, as I get my coat back on. He passes me a business card.

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with. Poor bugger. I hope you catch his wife’s killer.”

“Thanks. We’ll do what we can. I’ll call you if I think of any other questions.”

***

Forty-five minutes later I’m sitting with Dan at his kitchen table, looking across at a pleasant park in North London. He and Gray have bought a lovely modern, ground-floor apartment in a