Warhol's Prophecy

There was a picture of John Reginald Halliday Christie.

He had murdered nine women.

Gassed them. Raped them. Strangled them. Then hidden their bodies in the walls and garden of his house.

Famous.

Walker shook his head.

More titles.

Serial Killers

Hunting Humans

Deviant

Who Killed Hanratty?

A woman in her sixties ambled past him, glancing first at him, then at the books he was perusing.

She gave him a brief, distasteful look and hurried on towards the Romance section.

Walker smiled to himself, then headed for the information desk.

The young woman who sat behind it was sipping tea from a mug that bore the legend: I’M IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER BITCH.

She looked up and smiled as Walker approached.

‘I need some help,’ he said, grinning.

She nodded inquiringly.

‘I’m looking for some books,’ he told her.

‘You’re probably in the right place then.’ She ran appraising eyes over him, and smiled.

He smiled again, that infectious smile.

‘I suppose I asked for that,’ he said.

‘Which books?’ she prompted.

‘Well, I don’t actually know their titles,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Just the author. Her name is Caroline Hacket. Someone told me they’re crime non-fiction.’

‘Hacket,’ the young woman murmured as she punched in the surname, looking at her computer.

Walker stood studying her as she watched the screen. She was aware of his gaze.

‘This will only take a minute,’ she said. ‘It’s very thorough. It gives you date of publication, ISBN, publisher – everything really.’

‘Don’t worry too much about it.’

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she looked up at him, then back at the screen.

‘Hacket, Caroline,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Two titles. Do you want me to order them for you?’

‘Yes, please. What are they called?’

‘Well, you were right, they are crime books. One’s called Murderous Minds and the other is Fame and Foul Play.’

Walker smiled.

37

HAILEY SIPPED AT her mineral water as she glanced around the dining room of the Happy Brig.

It was what purists scathingly called a plastic pub, complete with reproduction horse-brasses on the artificially aged walls, and a huge fireplace stacked high with logs that would never feel flame.

She and Rob had visited the place two or three times, and always enjoyed the food there.

Today was no different. All that had changed was her companion.

She looked across the table at Adam Walker, who was finishing his steak, pushing the final piece into his mouth.

Hailey had been a little late arriving. Trudi from Waterhole’s press office had finally called her back, and their conversation had taken longer than expected.

She’d managed to persuade Trudi to set up a meeting between her and the band in a few days’ time, so that Hailey could speak to them in person about the forthcoming gig.

Trudi had seemed almost reluctant: fiercely protective of the band, adamant that only the lead singer and the drummer were available on the day Hailey requested.

Hailey had finally relented, weary of Trudi’s hip ravings and Americanisms. If she’d used the word ‘cool’ once, she’d used it a dozen times.

‘You must be excited at the thought of meeting them,’ Walker said.

‘I don’t know if “excited” is the word,’ Hailey told him.

‘They’re famous – big stars.’

‘Jim says they’re arseholes. And, from what I’ve seen of them on TV, I think he might be right.’

‘You shouldn’t say that about them, Hailey. No matter what they’re like, they’ve made it, haven’t they? People know them, look up to them.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I’d love to meet them, just to shake their hands. To tell them I admire what they’ve done.’ He smiled. ‘You never know, if they saw some of my artwork, they might like it enough to use it on an album cover.’

‘I could show something to them, if you like. See what they think.’

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘You’re not asking. I’m offering.’

‘I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that, Hailey.’

‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought you were. Please, Adam, let me take some of your work along to them. You don’t know what might happen then.’

‘They’d probably just laugh at it.’

‘Well, you won’t know until you let me show it to them, will you? Please. I’d like to do that for you.’

‘Don’t do anything out of pity, Hailey.’

She glared at him, irritation in her eyes.

‘Do you actually like their music?’

‘Not really, but I still respect what they’ve achieved. I admire anyone who succeeds, anyone who makes a mark. It doesn’t matter how they make that mark.’

‘Is fame that important to you, Adam? I mean, would you want it at any cost?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, these pop stars, film stars and people like that, they don’t have any privacy. Everything they do is put in the papers. They can’t even walk down the street without someone sticking a camera in their faces. Would you want that?’

‘It goes with the territory, doesn’t it? That’s exactly what annoys me with some of these stars. They want the money and the fame, but they aren’t prepared to put up with what goes with it. I would be, in their position.’

‘Perhaps you chose the wrong profession to become famous,’ she mused. ‘I mean, artists aren’t exactly up there with actors and musicians, are they?’

‘Picasso? Dali? What are they?’ he wanted to know. ‘They were famous, weren’t they?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘David Bailey? Herb Ritts? Photography’s a visual art, but they’re famous too, aren’t they? Christ, even dress designers are famous these days. Calvin Klein. Armani. Versace.’

‘And look what happened to him.’

‘It’s a risk you take when you become famous, Hailey. And I’d be prepared to take it.’

‘You’d risk your life for fame?’

He nodded slowly, sipping at his drink.

‘Even murderers are famous,’ he said slowly.