Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘Actually, it’s Jishnu, that’s his given name. He left that behind when he became a DJ.’

‘OK. Jishnu Patel, then. Do you have an address for him? Date of birth? Family details? Anything that would help us track him down?’

‘I can tell you exactly where Joshu is right now,’ Stephanie said wearily. ‘Believe me, this is nothing to do with him.’

6

When I think back to that first encounter with Joshu, I can’t help seeing the final act foreshadowed in every aspect. That need always to look like a big man. The way he filled the gap between his reality and his fantasy with drugs. His failure ever to step up to the plate and be a man.

But I’m running ahead of myself. Once I’d realised Scarlett was telling the truth and I didn’t need to be scared witless of the pillock with the pistol, I could see Joshu for what he was. As far as I was concerned, right then he was nothing more than an irritating distraction. I’d started to build a rapport with Scarlett then he’d slouched in and broken the mood. I knew I couldn’t creep any further into Scarlett’s confidence with him there. It was obvious even in those few moments. She only had eyes for him and he only had eyes for himself. My sole function in this triangle was to big Joshu up, and I didn’t need to bother with that just yet. I wanted to hear from him, but not before I had a clearer idea of how he might be useful to making Scarlett’s story work. The only thing I could do now was lay down a timetable.

‘Let’s sort out when we can meet,’ I said, setting off for the changing room. Scarlett followed and so, disconcertingly, did Joshu. I closed the curtain on the cubicle firmly and tried to ignore his attempts to turn the situation into a sexual encounter. ‘Not now, babe,’ Scarlett kept saying amid the scuffles and moans.

When I emerged he had her against the wall, his hand between her legs. ‘Have you got your diary handy?’ I said briskly.

He cast a dirty look over his shoulder. ‘Listen to you. “Have you got your diary handy?”’

‘You need to work on your impressions, innit,’ I said, dropping into his patois.

Scarlett giggled and ducked out from under his arm. ‘I got it in the kitchen,’ she said, grabbing a luxurious towelling robe from a hook on the wall as she passed Joshu, flirting a little wave at him. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll be there in a minute.’

Joshu’s scowl lifted and he slouched after her, turning back to target me with a self-satisfied sneer. As I followed Scarlett down the hall, he peeled off and disappeared up a shallow flight of stairs.

We settled on three blocks of three days’ interviewing time, built around Scarlett’s schedule of public appearances, product promotions and meetings with TV executives and brand managers. She’d certainly learned how to turn racism and homophobia to her advantage.

‘Before we meet again, there’s one thing I need you to think about,’ I said.

‘What’s that, then?’

‘How do you want to be presented? What do you want them to think of you? What impression of you should they take away? You need to be clear about that before we start, so I can focus the direction of our conversations.’

‘You mean, like, I want them to think I’m an ordinary Northern lass? Or, like, I’m lucky and it could be them next? That sort of thing?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. Because although I’m just presenting what you tell me, the way I present it can make a huge difference. In a way, I have to think of you like a character in a book. So I need to make the feel of the book consistent. As if it was a novel. That’s why I need to know how you want the world to feel about you after they’ve read it.’

She grinned. ‘You’re a very smart lady, Stephanie. What are we going to call this book, then?’

We. I liked that. In spite of Joshu, we’d made real progress. Scarlett considered me on her side, in her camp. That was half the battle. ‘Did you have any ideas?’

I wasn’t expecting much. ‘What about “Scarlett: My Story”,’ she said. I’d been right.

Time for a touch of tact and diplomacy. ‘Well, it’s not going to breach the Trade Descriptions Act. But I think we can do a bit better than that. “Scarlett: My Story” will attract your fans. No doubt about it. But I want to get people picking it up who really don’t know much about you. So we need to intrigue them. I was thinking, maybe something like “Fishing for Gold”? How does that sound?’

She looked dubious. ‘But how will they know it’s about me?’

I grinned. ‘Your face’ll be all over the cover, love. There won’t be any room for doubt whose story it is.’

Scarlett still wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m gonna have to sleep on it.’

‘No problem. So, are we solid, you and me? You think you can stand having me around long enough to get this done? There’s no going back once we’ve started, you know. We’ll be tied by a contract.’

‘I think so.’ She laid a hand over her stomach, as if she was swearing on her baby’s life, then cocked her head to one side. ‘You won’t let me down, will you, Steph?’

If I’d had any inkling of what I was committing myself to, I would never have said what I did. ‘The people I write about become my friends, Scarlett. And I don’t let my friends down.’

7

There was no sign of Joshu when I pitched up at the hacienda four days later. Maggie and George had nailed each other to the wall over the contracts, Biba from Stellar Books was shouting about the deal all over the trade press and the tabloids were already sniffing around the serialisation. In my world, it doesn’t get much better than that.

This time, I drove myself to darkest Essex. Clearly my car was low status; the duty paps didn’t even stir as I pulled up to the gate. Scarlett buzzed me in and I parked in the same garage slot we’d used on my first visit. The red Mazda convertible I’d noticed before was still sitting in the far bay. It didn’t look as though it had moved. Scarlett was riding high; she only had to drive herself if she wanted to.

I found Scarlett in the kitchen, leaning on the range with a mug cradled against the top of her belly. This time, the joggers were black, the muscle T-shirt white. When I walked in, she was yawning luxuriously, unselfconsciously revealing the glitter of gold-crowned molars. Clearly she’d always lived in a world where nobody ever covered their mouth. ‘Hiya,’ she said through the end of her yawn. ‘Fuck, I stayed up so late last night.’

‘Were you partying with Joshu?’ I said. Not that I was interested. But part of my job is making conversation, bridging the gaps between me and the clients.

She snorted scornfully. ‘He’s up in Birmingham. Some new club opening. Needed the king of cool to scratch and scribble and stutter for them.’ She giggled. ‘It sounds like somebody’s granddad, doesn’t it? Like some old fart that’s lost his marbles. Scratching and stuttering. No, there was a Wife Swap marathon on and I got sucked in, watching all them hopeless pillocks trying to fit into somebody else’s life.’

‘It’s the bitching and the niggling we watch for.’ I have to admit, I’ve got a soft spot for Wife Swap too. ‘It’s car-crash telly. I’m holding out for the night somebody’s kid slaps the invader.’

Scarlett giggled again. I could imagine how much that was going to irritate me over nine days of interviews. Sometimes the clients have incredibly irritating verbal tics or physical twitches that drive me crazy. The only way I can deal with it is to keep an hourly tally and set little mental bets with myself.

‘If it was me, I’d totally turn them on their heads,’ she said, pushing off from the cooker and heading for the kettle. ‘Brew?’