Read Online Dying for Millions by Judith Cutler - Free Book Online

head: there was nothing to say. And then I remembered my jacket. That bloody mess of rag. ‘I’m sorry. In the pocket.’ I pointed. ‘My keys—’
    He slid his hand in, held out two bunches. ‘You won’t want your jacket, will you, miss.’
    â€˜Andy, you have to tell the police now,’ I said, making tea – there was a supply tucked discreetly beside a cupboard that turned out to be a fridge. I stirred in sugar and pushed the cup and saucer into his hands.
    â€˜It was an accident! The man was on a high gantry. You know how they forget about harnesses.’
    I gave him the sort of look I usually reserve for thick students.
    â€˜Andy, listen. Someone has been telling you that they want you dead. The cars – the obituary – someone dies on your set—’
    He put down the cup and saucer, dreadfully genteel, and walked to the window that overlooked the covered mall. Down there, the water clock told us that it was three-thirty. And for the first time I noticed that Pete Hughes’s blood had spattered Andy’s jeans.
    â€˜It was a fucking accident. What I have to do now is decide whether or not to go on with the show.’
    There was a scratch at the door, and Jonty slipped in silently, as if in the presence of death. He made straight for the fridge and found a miniature whisky which he downed it as if it were cold tea. Then he looked more closely at Andy. ‘One of these wouldn’t do you any harm, either,’ he said. ‘And for Christ’s sake get those bloody jeans off.’ As he realised what he’d said he bolted for the bathroom.
    I caught Andy’s eye and nodded. ‘Just step out of them. Where’s your dressing-gown?’
    â€˜Over there.’
    I threw it. ‘As soon as Jonty’s finished spewing I suggest you get in there too – shower, have a bath, whatever. Make you feel better. Then you can think about the gig.’
    â€˜Thought already,’ he said, turning his back and slipping off his jeans. ‘Got to go on, hasn’t it? OK, the punters’ll know there’s been an accident, and there won’t be a more subdued bunch of roadies in the western hemisphere, but the trust’s been promised its share of the takings, and that guy’s family can have my own share. Scrub the party afterwards. The food can be given to the homeless.’
    â€˜Better phone Ruth, in case the media pick up anything and exaggerate it.’ His mobile phone was on the table near me: I tossed it over and pointed to the dressing room. ‘It’s more private in there.’
    But he tapped the number where he was, peering like a fugitive between the grey vertical blinds at the mall and its water clock.
    I busied myself with tea for Jonty, which he drank as tentatively as other people tackle neat whisky, told him what Andy had decided, and took myself off to check on Karen.
    Whoever designed and equipped the Music Centre had a sense of social order that Mozart and Haydn would have recognised. Most of the Centre is luxurious: the auditorium itself is sumptuous in wood and plush. The backstage regions, however, have all the glamour of a public lavatory, elegance having been abandoned for functional concrete, metal stair-rails and cold blue paintwork – apart from the areas that international artists might be expected to see, of course. So the corridors and stairs Andy and his entourage trod were carpeted and well-lit: those frequented by the roadies and caterers were reminiscent of a run-down, thirties-built NHS hospital. There was an irrepressible rumour that the Music Centre management had tried to ban members of the Midshires Symphony Orchestra from public areas like bars while they were in their working clothes – their working clothes being evening suits and long black dresses. I wondered what the management made of the jeans-and-trainers uniform of Andy’s crew.
    After the cups of tea, there