Starburst (30 page)

“Well, if you’re ever thinking about getting a bit part in
ER,
you’d have to improve on that performance.”

Rene grinned at the woman. “Thanks for stepping in just then. I thought my cover was blown.”

The woman shrugged. “One good turn deserves another. Anyway, us comediennes had better stick together, isn’t that right?”

“Oh my word, is that what ye do too?”

“Aye, every day, every night.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Matti Fullbright.”

Rene took the hand and shook it. “’Ullo, Matti Fullbright. Listen, while ye’ve got an ’old of me ’and, d’ye think you could ’eave me back up onto me pins?”

“Aye, sure, but you’d better make it look as if you’re still a bit unsteady, just for authenticity’s sake, okay?”

Rene accomplished the upward movement and held hard to Matti’s hand as she weaved her body round once more.

“Right, you can stop that now,” Matti said, glancing around her. “No one’s taking a blind bit of notice. Listen, how d’ye fancy a nice cup of tea?”

Rene flicked her head to the side. “I’d really like that, lass, but I think I’d better get back to me flat. I’ve got to make sure of a few things.”

“Like if your young friend made it back there with the suitcase and violin?”

Rene smiled. “My, what intuition you ’ave, Matti Fullbright.”

“Can I ask what the hell all that was about?”

Rene bent down and picked up her handbag. “I can’t tell you right now, but believe me, we were both doing someone a good turn.”

“Aye, I’m sure you were,” Matti replied. “I didn’t like the look of that man from the moment he came into the hotel. He gave me the once-over as he walked past, and from the expression on his face ye’d think he’d just stepped in a bloody great dog’s mess. Took every ounce of my female gentility not to give him the finger.” She took hold of Rene’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll go out the front, so it don’t look as if we’re following in the path of the suitcase snatcher.” As they began to climb the stairs, Matti stopped and turned round. “Who’d give a damn anyway?” she said, surveying the people who criss-crossed the reception area. She shook her crazy mop of red hair. “Typical, in’t it? Ten minutes ago you were the centre of attention, and now not one person’s paying you the blindest bit of notice.”

Rene shrugged. “That’s an entertainer’s life for you.”

They turned and made their way up the staircase, both unaware that the person with the steel-rimmed spectacles and the belted mackintosh, who had been sitting out of sight on the other side of the staircase, had paid a great deal of notice to everything that had passed between them during the previous five minutes.

Halfway across Festival Square, Rene stopped and looked back at the imposing frontage of the hotel. “So what were
you
doing in that place? A bit posh for the likes of us, in’t it?”

“I had a meeting with my agent.”

Rene looked suitably impressed. “Really? My word, you must be at the top of the game.”

Matti stuck her hand into her blue canvas tote bag, pulled out a leaflet and handed it to Rene. “Come and see the show sometime. I’ll make sure it’s a freebie, all right?”

Rene glanced at the leaflet. “’Eaven’s sakes, you’re on at the Smirnoff Underbelly!” she said in astonishment. “That’s one of the top venues, in’t it?”

Matti shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I’ve been lucky. I was there last year and they asked me to come back.”

“You must be damned good, then.”

Matti reached out and squeezed Rene’s arm. “Come and see for yourself.”

“I will,” she replied, pushing the leaflet into her handbag, “and thanks again, lass, for yer help back there.”

“And likewise, thanks for my purse. See you around, I hope.”

And as Matti Fullbright strode off across the square, Rene let out a long, satisfied breath as she watched her go, realizing that her lonely existence in Edinburgh had taken a change for the better over the past hour or two. Jamie had
needed
her confidentiality and help that morning, and she liked nothing better than to feel
needed,
to take over, step into the fray, just like when that singer never turned up at Andersons Westbourne Social Club and she took to the stage for the first time. And then in meeting Matti Fullbright, with her peculiar zany looks and wild sense of humour, Rene realized that, for the first time ever, she had come across a person who was
just like her.

She smiled to herself as she saw Matti disappear out of sight. “Aye, see you around,” she murmured.

A
lbert Dessuin flicked back the net curtain of his newly designated bedroom, situated now on the fourth floor of the hotel but still with the same wide panoramic view over Festival Square. Even through the diffusion of the curtain, it had been easy enough to single out the bumbling little figure with the loose-fitting multicoloured coat that threaded its way through the crowds and then turned down Lothian Road towards Princes Street. Letting go of the curtain, he took off his mackintosh and threw it onto a chair. He was not unduly worried by the way things had turned out. In fact, they could not have turned out much better.

This was contrary to the blisteringly angry mood he had been in when he had arrived back at the hotel an hour earlier. Whilst returning from the airport in the taxi, he had had time to mull over all the facts leading up to Angélique’s disappearance, and it had slowly begun to dawn on him that, from the start, she had been playing him along in a cruel and calculated game of deception, making him feel wretched and guilty for something that had never been his fault in the first place. She had orchestrated the whole affair, displaying her naked body in front of him like that, knowing that he had already admonished her for her sluttish behaviour. His reaction of fury was totally natural, one that came from a deep sense of protection for his protegée, but she had twisted his motives, using them as the very reason for which to walk away from him, from everything that he, Albert Dessuin, had bestowed upon her. And this story about her having cut her hand and returning to France was just another way in which she was trying to manipulate him, to put him off the scent and literally to blackmail him into keeping away from her by not disclosing the full story, which they both knew to be nothing more than a harmless row between them. Well, she had made a grave mistake. She certainly would not get rid of him that easily.

There was no chance of him ever being able to recognize the young man who took the suitcase and the violin, save for the fact that he had blond hair and was stockily built. He was undoubtedly one of those who had clustered around Angélique with their tongues hanging out at the post-concert reception, their eyes fixed on the glories that lay beneath her short dress as she sat on the bar, shamelessly crossing and uncrossing her legs. But then his instincts had been right about that red-haired girl. He had seen her the moment he had walked into the reception area on his return from the airport. She had been sitting on one of the sofas lining the walls of the hotel lobby, talking across a low coffee table to a dark-haired woman dressed in a sombre pencil-skirted suit worn over a cream cashmere polo-necked sweater. Beauty and the beast, he had thought to himself. He did not like red-haired girls. He had always thought them the unattractive product of recessive genes, and this one in particular had not one redeeming feature to speak of, with her wide-set eyes, her moon face and a nose which made her look as if she had walked at speed into a plate-glass window. And her dress sense had been almost offensive to the eye. Why would anyone choose to wear a pink scarf with hair that colour?

He knew she had never before laid eyes on the fat little woman who had foiled his pursuit of the young man. That’s why he had decided to hang around, out of sight but within earshot, after the melee had died down. He hadn’t been able to decipher everything they had said to each other in their brogueish accents, but he had understood enough and had heard every derogatory word she had had to say about him.

He walked over to the bed and picked up the thick copy of the Fringe show guide that he’d found on the display stand next to the reception desk. He opened it up at the index and ran a manicured fingernail down the first column, and then the second. He found what he was looking for halfway down. He memorized the venue reference number and leafed through the guide until he came to the correct page. “Hilarious Comedienne from Hartlepool” was the strapline above the photograph of the woman whose face he had first seen as she lay flat out on the carpeted floor of the hotel lobby.
Mon Dieu,
she must be bad, he thought to himself, if she can come up with no better advertisement for her act than that!

Creasing the guide open at the page, he spun it onto the desk and walked over to the minibar and took out a miniature of Scotch and a bottle of mineral water. It was really too early to start drinking, but what the hell! His plans had changed now. There was no reason for him to go off immediately in search of Angélique Pascal. He would take his time, let the heat die down. After all, the show was on every night in the Corinthian Bar.

Pouring himself a drink, he let out a short quiet laugh and raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Rene Brownlow. I’m sure in time you will prove very useful to me.”

D
esperate to get away from the vicinity of the hotel as quickly as possible, Jamie had bundled himself and Angélique’s luggage into a passing taxi and slumped down into the seat beneath the level of the rear window, expecting to hear at any moment the ominous sound of a police siren threading its way through the traffic towards them. He was actually quite amazed he had got this far. Because of Rene’s extraordinary outburst in the hotel, he knew that Dessuin had caught sight of him before he had even left the place. Under normal circumstances, he was sure he could have outpaced the man quite easily, but burdened with the suitcase and violin, he thought he would have had the Frenchman breathing down his neck before he’d even reached the street. Maybe Rene had managed to set up some kind of diversion, but he couldn’t imagine how. There had only been a moment for her to react.

By the time the taxi dropped him outside his flat, Jamie was beginning to have serious concerns about the comedienne’s welfare, realizing now that it had been both unwise and unfair to have involved her to such an extent. It would have been pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain in the hotel foyer that her coming over all faint at the very moment when he was making a run for it with the suitcases was more than coincidental, and he was convinced she would now be closeted in some back office at the hotel being interviewed not only by the police, but by a very interested Albert Dessuin as well. And if that was the case, then not only would she be forced to identify Jamie as the “mastermind” behind the bag snatch, but also Angélique’s whereabouts as well.

Having paid off the taxi, he let himself in through the entrance door and ran up the stairs, his heart in his mouth as he tried to work out his next move. Maybe he should ring Gavin straightaway and tell him what had happened. At least then, if the police did come to arrest him, Gavin would have had time to prepare some sort of defence for him and get him out on bail. He wasn’t too sure what police procedure would be. Or maybe he should hang fire for twenty minutes or so, just in case Rene came back by herself.

He entered the flat and hurried over to the telephone. He couldn’t risk waiting for Rene. He picked up the receiver and began to dial the number of Gavin’s law firm, but just before he hit the fourth digit he stopped, his finger poised in mid-air, and stood listening to the low reverberation of voices coming from the sitting room. He slowly replaced the receiver as he heard Angélique speaking a long, drawn-out sentence before it was answered by the lower and much more resonant tones of a male voice. Jamie let out a sigh of relief, realizing it could only be his solicitor, and he walked quickly along the hall passage to the door of the sitting room and threw it open.

“Gavin, thank goodness you’re—”

Angélique and a heavily built middle-aged man in a gabardine raincoat were sitting on one of the sofas, their mouths frozen in mid-conversation as both looked round in surprise at his sudden entry, the man’s ballpoint pen still hovering above a spiral notepad.

“What’s going on?” Jamie demanded, his eyes ablaze with both concern and distrust for the man. “Who are you?”

Angélique quickly uncurled her feet from underneath her and stood up. “It’s all right, Jamie. This is Harry Wills. He is a journalist who is an acquaintance of mine. It was he—”

Jamie shook his head, never taking his eyes off the man. “I told you not to let anyone into the flat. What the hell’s the point of me trying to hide you away if you allow any Tom, Dick or Harry into the place?”

He knew as soon as he had said it, it was the wrong metaphor to use. Angélique frowned at him and unwittingly capitalized on it. “Who is Tom and Dick?”

“This is not a joke, Angélique.”

Harry Wills flipped over his notebook and stood up. “I’m sorry, this is my fault. You’re absolutely right. I should never have come round without giving you both some warning.”

“How did you find out she was here, anyway?” Jamie asked abruptly.

“If you will just listen to me for a moment, Jamie, I shall tell you,” Angélique said, her voice rising in frustration at his hostile attitude. “It was Harry who wrote the story about me having cut my hand and leaving the country. I suggested his name to Gavin, and they both met to work out what should be written in the newspapers. Harry knows what has happened, Jamie. He is helping us, along with Gavin.”

The explanation did little to lighten the thunderous expression on Jamie’s face as he glanced from one to the other. “Well, that’s just great. Maybe it would have been an idea to let
me
know about all this as well.”

Angélique bit at her bottom lip in an effort to stop smiling at his moody reaction. She walked over to him and gave the sleeve of his corduroy jacket a tug. “I am very sorry. It was very bad of me not to tell you, and I promise I will not overlook such a thing again.”

“I’m being quite serious, actually,” Jamie mumbled.

Angélique pulled a long face, stood to attention and gave him a brisk salute. “I quite agree, and I am now taking it very seriously, don’t you think?”

Jamie smiled reluctantly. “Oh, get lost,” he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the hall. “Your suitcase and violin are out there.”

“Oh, ce n’est pas vrai!”
Angélique exclaimed. She jumped forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before rushing out into the hall.

Jamie turned to the journalist when she had left the room. “Sorry about the misunderstanding.”

Harry Wills waved his notebook dismissively. “No bother. Anyway, you were quite right to question my presence here. You’re obviously doing a good job of looking after her.”

Jamie shrugged off the compliment. “Were you doing an interview?” he asked, nodding towards the notebook.

“Not about immediate events, I can assure you, and anyway, nothing will get printed until this whole situation has rectified itself.”

“Well, we’ve a long way to go before that happens,” Jamie murmured ruefully.

“What makes you say that?”

Jamie pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and took a backward step to glance along the hall, just in time to see Angélique beam him a broad smile as she disappeared into her bedroom with the suitcase and violin. He closed the door of the sitting room with a shove of his foot and turned to the journalist. “Listen, Dessuin’s figured out that the story about Angélique returning to France is untrue. He knows she’s still in Edinburgh, and by now he could very well know she’s here in this flat.”

Harry Wills’s expression showed immediate concern. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I’ve just seen him booking himself back into the Sheraton Grand. What’s more, he saw me, or at least the back of me, when I took Angélique’s cases.”

“You took the cases from in front of his eyes?” the journalist asked incredulously.

“No, they were actually sitting behind him. I reckon I would have got away with it, only…well, let’s just say he turned round at the wrong time.”

“But he didn’t follow you?”

“No, for definite.”

“Then what gives you reason to believe he might find his way round here?”

Jamie told him briefly of Rene’s involvement in the suitcase snatch and his uncertainty as to what had happened to her. When he had finished, Harry Wills stood in silence, slapping his notebook rhythmically against the side of his raincoat.

“Well,” he said eventually, “this poses a bit of a problem for us all, doesn’t it?”

Jamie felt almost angry at this ridiculous understatement of facts. “Of course it poses a problem—especially for me! I could well get arrested for what I’ve just done.”

Harry waved a hand at him. “I don’t think you need worry about anything like that happening. If the worse comes to the worst, then we’ll tell the true story. Remember the only reason we’re in this situation is because Angélique wanted to protect Dessuin’s name. My instinct tells me the man will do his utmost to avoid involving the police, just for that very reason.”

Jamie stood for a moment considering the journalist’s logic before breathing out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, that would make sense, wouldn’t it?” He clicked his fingers as a thought came into his head. “But wait, we’re forgetting about Rene. If Dessuin knows she was helping me, then he’ll surely find out from her where I’m living, or even if he
doesn’t
question her, he could still just follow her around here.”

“Would there be any reason for Dessuin to think she
might
have been helping you?”

Jamie blew out a derisive laugh. “God, yes! She would have been as well having a notice hanging round her neck saying,
‘Hey, look at me! I am the thief’s number-one accomplice’!
”

While Harry looked thoughtful over this new predicament, Jamie heard Angélique in her bedroom play a cautious scale on her violin. Although the notes were clear and resonant, the speed at which she played them seemed falteringly pedestrian. Nevertheless, Jamie knew it was a major achievement and a boost to the violinist’s shattered confidence, and if he hadn’t been so concerned with the seriousness of the situation, he might well have felt like letting out a whoop of triumph there and then.

“Is there anyplace you and Angélique could lie low for a couple of days?” the journalist asked.

“Here in Edinburgh, d’you mean?”

“No, preferably away from the city.”

Jamie looked dubious. “I’m not sure. I’m meant to be writing Fringe reviews, but I suppose I could get out of that. What about my tenants, though?”

“Hopefully, it would only be for a few days. I’m sure they could fend for themselves during that time.” He paused, seeing Jamie still vacillate over making a decision. “I’d strongly recommend the idea.”

Jamie shrugged his shoulders. “In that case, I suppose we could go to my parents’ place in East Lothian.”

“That would be good,” Harry said, nodding his approval of the idea, “and then while you’re away, I’ll stick myself outside your flat and keep an eye out for Dessuin turning up here.”

“Really? Would you mind doing that?”

Harry laughed. “I was an investigative journalist for a good number of years, Jamie, so I’m quite used to spending many a lonely hour sitting in my car outside people’s houses.”

Jamie stared at the man for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Harry replied.

“Why are you willing to give us so much help? Surely, with the festival on, you’ve got a hundred better things to be doing with your time?”

Harry sat his sizeable bottom down on the arm of a sofa. “Quite simply because I have absolutely no time for Albert Dessuin. He happens to be one of the most discourteous human beings I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“You
know
him?”

“Let’s just say there have been numerous occasions over the past few years when I’ve been party to the more unpleasant side of his nature. Ever since Angélique Pascal left the Conservatoire in Paris, I have been trying my damnedest to get a personal interview with her and Dessuin has always been there to thwart my attempts.” He clicked the top on his ballpoint pen. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” Jamie replied with a smile.

“Okay, so what I suggest is that if there’s been neither sight nor sound of the man over the next few days, then I’ll give the all-clear for you both to return to the flat. Do you have a number I could contact you on?”

Jamie reeled off the number of his mobile and the journalist wrote it down before slipping his pad into his coat pocket and getting to his feet. “Right, you and Angélique should get yourselves ready to go as soon as possible.”

“Which brings us to another problem,” Jamie said tentatively. “I don’t have wheels.”

Harry pushed back the folds of his raincoat and delved into a trouser pocket. “In that case,” he said, taking out his own mobile phone, “I think it’s time we involved Gavin Mackintosh.”

The sound of the front door slamming shut had both men looking questioningly at each other. Jamie walked over to the sitting room door, opened it a fraction and squinted down the hall. “Oh, hell! It could be too late!” he exclaimed quietly, glancing round at Harry. “It’s Rene.” He opened the door fully to see the comedienne stagger exhaustedly along the passage towards him.

“Glad to see ye made it back,” she said, taking off her coat as she walked past him into the sitting room and dumping it, along with her handbag, onto a chair. She gave a quick nod of greeting to Harry Wills before flopping herself down onto a sofa and kicking off her shoes. “I am absolutely dead beat,” she puffed out, awkwardly pulling a stockinged foot up across her knee and giving it a rub. “That’s far too much excitement for one day.” She glanced up at Jamie and Harry, who had now come to stand side by side in front of the fireplace, observing her closely, trying to work out from her demeanour whether they had an imminent problem to face. “So, aren’t you going to introduce me to yer friend, Jamie?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry; this is Harry Wills.”

“Nice to meet ye, ’Arry,” Rene said, holding out the hand with which she had been rubbing at her foot. She then thought better of it and just waved it at him. “Let’s just forgo that formality.”

“Rene, what happened?” Jamie asked, eager to ply her for information. “Why didn’t Dessuin come after me?”

“Because I set up a diversion, just like ye asked me.”

“How?”

“I pretended to faint right in ’is path.”

Jamie pulled his hands across his head in desperation. “Oh, God. What did he do?”

“He gave me a kick in the ribs, and then flew through the air and fell with a thump to the floor.”

“Okay, but what happened then? Were the police called? Were you questioned at all?”

Rene closed her eyes tight as if in deep concentration. “I think the answer to that is, nothing, no, no,” she replied before resuming her foot massage. “It was all a bit odd, really. I was lying on the floor with me eyes closed, pretending to be out for the count, when some girl—I think it was probably the receptionist—asked if she should call the police, and the Frenchman went all sort of panicky and said he didn’t want them involved. He said he knew who ye were and ’e’d sort it all out later.”