Sea Leopard

'Thanks for your help.'

Hyde crossed the tarmac, rounded the coach, and showed his warrant card to the PC on duty at the door. The superintendent was apprised of Hyde's real capacity, but it was unnecessary for anyone else to know. 'Where are the dressing rooms?'

'Down the corridor, turn left. You'll see another bloke dressed just like me. And the press, and the bouncers and the hangers-on. Can't miss it.'

'Not your scene, this?'

'I'd rather be at the Villa, yobs and all.'

'They playing at home tonight?'

Too bloody true.'

'Shame.'

Hyde followed the corridor, and turned the corner into a crowd of pressmen and cameramen, carefully orchestrated outside the closed dressing room doors. Heat of the Day were back in business. Interest had to be stoked, and kept alight. Hyde pushed through the crowd towards the policeman on the door of one of the rooms. He waved his warrant card.

'Which one is Alletson in?'

'Who?'

'The short bloke with the wavy hair.“

'Uh — that one,' the PC supplied, indicating the other door, outside which two bulky men in denims and leather jackets stood, arms folded. Hyde wondered who, precisely, they were guarding. A press or publicity secretary was informing the cameramen that they would be allowed to take their pictures just before the band went onstage. Her announcement was greeted with a chorus of groans. Hyde showed his warrant card to one of the band's security men, who seemed to loom over him.

'Who do you want?' The question was wrong, and revealing. Again, Hyde felt his chest tighten with anticipation. The girl was in there.

'I'm not after his autograph.'

'So, what do you want?' Both of them seemed uncertain what to do.

'Just a security check. And I want to talk to Jon about after the concert. Getting away.'

'I'll ask him.'

'Don't bother. I'll talk to him.' He made to reach for the door handle. A large hand closed over his own, and he looked up into a face adopting aggression reluctantly, uncertainly. 'Don't be stupid,' Hyde said. 'It might be big trouble — will be big trouble.' The two men glanced at one another, then his hand was released.

'Easy, eh?'

'I'll take it easy — don't upset the artiste, right?' Hyde opened the door without knocking. The girl turned in her chair, alert, nervous, instantly aware of what he was and why he was there. Alletson was lying on a camp bed, and the keyboard player, Whiteman, was scribbling with a pencil on stave paper.

'Who the hell are you?' he asked. Alletson's voice provided a more nervous, knowing undertone.

'Trish — what is it?'

The girl simply stared at Hyde as he shut the door behind him. Whiteman, oblivious to the other two and their anxiety, added, 'Piss off, we're busy.' He glanced contemptuously at the warrant card. 'Autographs later,' he sneered.

'Miss Patricia Quin, I presume?' Hyde asked. The girl said nothing. Her face, however, was voluble with confession. Alletson got up lithely and stood in front of her.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'The lady in the case.'

Alletson took the warrant card, inspected it, then thrust it back into Hyde's hand. 'Harassment?' he asked.

'This isn't about smokes or shots, Jon-boy,' Hyde drawled. 'It isn't really any of your business. You get on rehearsing or composing or something.' Whiteman was standing now, just behind Alletson. Long blond hair, his frame bulkier with good living than two years before. He looked healthier.

'Why don't you piss off?'

'Why did they let you in?' Alletson demanded.

'They'd have been silly not to.'

'What sort of copper are you?' Whiteman was a Londoner. 'You're a bloody Aussie by the sound of it.'

'Too true, Blue. I'm the sort that wants to help her. Can I talk to her?'

'Not unless she wants to.'

'Stop it, Jon. It won't do any good.' Tricia Quin pushed to Alletson's side, and held his arm. 'Who are you?'

'My name's Hyde.'

'I didn't think it would be Jekyll — he was the goody, wasn't he?' Whiteman sneered.

'He was. Look, Miss Quin, I'll talk to you with your friends here, if you wish, as long as they can keep their mouths shut.' He looked steadily at Alletson and Whiteman, then continued. 'You are in danger, Miss Quin. It's stopped being a game. You know there are people after you?'

'You are.'

'No, not me. Not even my side.'

'What's he talking about, Trish?'

'What do you mean?'

'The men in Sutton, at your mother's house?' She nodded, fear flickering in her pale eyes. Cleverness, too. 'That wasn't us. Our bloke got kicked in the balls trying to look after you. You need protection — mine. Will you come back with me?'

She shook her head. 'No, I won't. I'm safe here.'

'I can't risk that, Miss Quin. We want you and your father safe. You could lead the KGB right to him.' She was shaking her head violently now. Her fair hair flopped about her pale, small face. She looked vulnerable, afraid but determined.

As if her shaking head was some signal, Alletson stepped up to him and aimed his knee at Hyde's groin. Hyde bucked backwards and the blow struck his thigh. Off-balance as he was, Alletson pushed him against a tall metal locker. Hyde, watching Tricia Quin move towards the door, jarred his head and shoulder against the locker, then slumped into the corner of the dressing room.

'Trish!' Alletson called, but the girl was already out of the door. Two hopeful flash-bulbs exploded. Hyde got shakily to his feet.

'You stupid buggers!' Hyde snapped, rubbing his shoulder. 'She's a menace to herself at the moment, as well as to her father. Christ — you stupid buggers!' He opened the door, and yelled to the PC on duty. 'Which way did the girl go?' Someone laughed.

Towards the hall.'

'Who is she?' someone asked.

'It'll be pot,' someone else answered. 'Poor bitch.'

Hyde forced his way through the press, jabbed uncomfortably more than once by the lens of a camera, then he was running. At the far end of the corridor, the door into the hall was open. He rubbed his thigh as he ran, his resentment against Alletson growing not because of the pain but because of the girl. Stupid bugger, silly bitch, he chanted to himself, grinding his teeth at the opportunity that had been spoiled. He had had the girl safe, for a moment. It was only a matter of getting her to his car, getting her to Aubrey — shit!

In the hall, lighting gantries were being pulleyed up to the ceiling, mirrors were being positioned for the light-show that the band used, and the roadies were still working furiously to rig and test the amplification equipment. Two grubby girls passed him without a glance, pushing one of Whiteman's electronic keyboards. Up the ramp and on to the stage. He was standing just below the stage. Lights, mirrors, amplifiers, instruments — and Tricia Quin picking her way delicately like a cat through the maze of boxes and wires. She must have taken the other turn in the corridor to enter on to the stage itself.

She saw him. Part of her slow and delicate passage across the stage was due to her continual backward