parked outside, less conspicuously, an unmarked silver Ford Focus, with two police officers from the Close Protection Unit inside.
And the surest endorsement of all for any establishment with high aspirations, a large cluster of paparazzi crowded the pavement outside and some, with long lenses, across the street. Accompanying them were outside broadcast units from both local television stations and Southern Counties Radio, along with a growing crowd of excited onlookers, as well as a cluster of Gaia fans, several holding record sleeves, CD booklets, or copies of her autobiography. A number of them were dressed wildly, in homage to some of their idol’s more outlandish stage appearances.
Bourner was excited too. High-profile celebrities were good for his hotel’s image. And, with luck, he might get Gaia’s autograph himself! For the next month this place was going to be fizzing with excitement. Brighton had its share of star visitors, but rarely the calibre of the one they were expecting at any minute.
After the vile weather of yesterday, there was a clear sky, and beyond the promenade on the far side of the busy road in front of him, the flat sea was deep blue. Brighton looked its glorious best; a fitting welcome for the star.
Suddenly a convoy of three black Range Rovers swept into the drive and pulled up in front of him, in perfect synchronization, leaving a large gap between each of them.
Bourner stepped forward towards the first one, through a strobing blaze of camera flashlights. But before he reached it, the front and rear doors opened, and four scowling heavies emerged. All of them were north of six feet tall, wearing identical black suits, white shirts and slim black ties, with headsets hooked over their ears and wrap- around sunglasses. None of them seemed to have a neck.
A matching set of besuited giants emerged from the second car. From the third climbed a white man in his mid-thirties, of average height, dressed in dark suit and tie, accompanied by three hawk-eyed, power-dressed women, also in their thirties, the doorman estimated.
‘Hello, gentlemen!’ he said to the first group.
One of them, who made King Kong look like a circus midget, peered down at him and in a thick American accent said, ‘This The Grand?’
‘It is indeed, sir,’ Colin Bourner said breezily. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’
The white man in the sharp suit strode up to him. He had slick, jet-black hair and spoke out of the side of his mouth with a whiney accent. He reminded Bourner of one of his favourite old Hollywood movie stars, James Cagney. ‘We’re the advance security team for Gaia. Can you take care of the baggage?’
‘Of course, sir.’
A bunch of bank notes was pressed into his palm. It was only later, when he checked them, that he realized they totalled ?1,000. Gaia had a policy of tip big and tip early. There was no point in tipping on your last day, in her view. Tip on your first, to make sure you get good service.
Instead of entering the hotel, the eight bodyguards lined up, four either side of the revolving doors.
Moments later there was a cheer from the crowd across the road and another eruption of flashes. A black Bentley saloon swept into the driveway and, clearly pre-rehearsed, pulled into the space between the first and second Range Rover, right in front of the doors.
Colin Bourner leapt forward but was outflanked by four of the bodyguards who got there before him, blocking his view, and opened the rear door of the car. They were joined by another two. The star and her six-year-old son stepped out to a barrage of flashlights and shouts from the paparazzi: ‘Gaia!’ ‘Gaia, over here!’ ‘Gaia, this way!’ ‘Gaia! Hi!’ ‘This way, Gaia!’ ‘Gaia, darling, over here!’
She was dressed in an elegant camel two-piece, and smiling; the little boy in baggy jeans and a grey Los Angeles Dodgers T-shirt was scowling. Her flaxen hair glinted in the sun as she turned and gave a sunny wave to the photographers and the crowd across the road. Moments later she vanished from view as the security guards closed around her, cocooning her and the boy and sweeping them through into the hotel lobby, past more hopefuls clutching record sleeves and CD booklets, and straight to the lift.
None of the entourage paid much attention to the gaunt, cadaverous-looking man in a drab, grey sports jacket over a plain cream shirt, who was reading a newspaper and apparently waiting for a friend or a taxi.
But he was paying a lot of attention to them.
46
‘Did you fall off your bicycle?’ Angela McNeill asked, clutching a file folder in her hand.
Eric Whiteley, seated in his tomb-like back office, was in flustered mood. Things weren’t going right today, at all. He had meant to come in even earlier than usual, so that he could leave the office early, but instead, for the first time in all the years he had worked for this accountancy firm, he had arrived late.
And now he was being interrupted while eating his lunch – which was something he hated. He considered eating a private function.
His tuna mayo sandwich, with sliced tomato on wholegrain, and one bite taken from it, lay in its opened wrapper on his desk. The Twix bar, apple and bottle of sparkling water lay beside it. In front of him was the front page of the
‘No, I did not fall off my bicycle; I’ve never fallen off my bicycle, actually, well not for a very long time.’ He eyed his meal, anxious to return to it.
This woman was new to the firm. A professional book-keeper, widowed two years ago, she had been trying for some time to strike up a friendship with Eric, the only single man in the firm. She didn’t find him attractive, but she sensed he was lonely, like herself, and that perhaps they could be occasional companions, go to plays or concerts. But she could not figure him out. From the brief conversations they’d had, she knew he wasn’t married, and he didn’t appear to have a girlfriend. But she didn’t think he was gay, either. With her finger she traced a line down her cheek, mirroring the mark on his face. ‘What happened?’
‘My cat,’ he said, defensively.
Her face brightened. ‘You have a cat? So do I!’
He glanced down at his sandwich again, hungry because he had missed breakfast, and wished she would leave. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘What kind of cat?’
‘One that scratches.’
She grinned. ‘You’re funny!’ She squeezed her way through the narrow gap between the filing cabinets and his desk and put the folder down. ‘Mr Feline asked if you could do the monthly management accounts on Rawson Technology as soon as possible. Any chance of looking at them today?’
Anything for peace, he thought. ‘Yes.’ He nodded.
But she didn’t leave. Instead she said, ‘Do you like chamber music? There’s a concert on at The Dome on Sunday and a friend gave me some tickets. I just wondered – you know – if you weren’t doing anything?’
‘Not my thing,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’
She glanced down at the newspaper. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Gaia fan?’
He was silent for some moments, thinking about a reply that would get rid of her. ‘Actually, I love her, I am a huge fan.’
‘Seriously? So am I!’
Inwardly he groaned. ‘Well, there we go, who would have believed it?’ he responded.
She looked at him through fresh eyes. ‘Well, well, you’re a dark horse, Eric Whiteley!’
Inside, he was tightening with irritation. How could he get rid of this bloody woman? He gave her a thin smile. ‘We all have our guilty secrets, don’t we?’
‘We do,’ she said. ‘That’s so true. So true. We do, don’t we?’
He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone!’
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I promise. Our secret!’
She left the room and he returned, relieved, to his sandwich. He flicked through the pages of the paper. On the fifth page the headline caught his eye. Sussex murder mystery on Crimewatch.
He read the article slowly and intently while he finished his lunch. Then he returned to the front page story.
