Paparazzi, Jo Fenton [books under 200 pages .txt] 📗

make myself a coffee and sit in the kitchen thinking. How am I going to tell him about White Knight? Joanna’s name hasn’t been mentioned since he came out of hospital. How will he react? Common sense tries to assert itself. He’s had a stent put in and he’s taking medication to prevent another heart attack. He should be safe now, regardless of any stressful news. But then I recall the image of him clutching his chest, his face as grey as stone, as he looked at Joanna. The memory brings a wave of nausea. Maybe I’ll see how he is later.

My phone pings. A text from Joanna.

‘The ad’s in. Going live tomorrow.’

‘Wow. That was quick. Well done.’

‘Thanks. The Knight owes me £30.’

‘Sure. Make sure you log it. How’re your accountancy skills?’

‘So-so. Yours?’

‘Rubbish. Sorry!’

Joanna sends me a couple of emojis in reply, showing she’s okay with that and it’s funny. We’ll have to muddle through. Matt’s great with money, but I’m sure as hell not going to ask him.

I flick idly through the News channels on my phone, looking for anything that might be suitable fodder for us to investigate. There are a few missing persons, but the police are best placed to deal with those, unless anyone approaches us directly.

Popping upstairs to check on Matt, I see he’s still asleep – snoring softly. I creep downstairs again and go into the lounge where he was sitting earlier. I’m about to turn on the TV, but there’s a ping. Temptation is too strong for me, and I pick up his phone from the coffee table. A text is showing on the home screen.

‘RT: How are you doing? Shocked to hear the news. Take care. Don’t worry about the drop. We’ll sort it without you for now. KL is back from leave.’

Who the hell are RT and KL? I put the phone down. The message has disappeared now. It flashed up only for a few seconds. I try a couple of obvious PIN options, but don’t want to lock it with too many wrong attempts. It doesn’t seem right that I shouldn’t trust my husband, but recent events have eroded trust as well as confidence.

Feeling guilty, I put the mobile back on the table and turn on the TV, flicking through the channels and eventually locating an old episode of Doctor Who. It’s one I’ve seen before, and I get a bit bored. I collect my phone from the kitchen and start surfing the net again. My eye is caught by a headline:

“Manchester band, Troy’s Tigers, have just been signed by EMI to do an album.”

Below the headline: “The band has been playing regularly at Band On The Wall in Swan Street. They were working in London on Saturday night and were unaware of the presence of the EMI scout. Lead singer, Troy Cassidy, says they are ‘over the moon’...”

I don’t know why this catches my attention. I’m not particularly into music other than classical, and the occasional bit of 80s pop. This article has given me goosebumps. I glance at the photo – taken by a P Ellsworth. Troy Cassidy is a good-looking guy of around thirty years old, with long wavy black hair and a hint of stubble.

I shiver. This has happened before. On several occasions in the past, I’ve seen something occur – an incident, or a news article, or I’ve heard a comment. The goosebumps and shivers have appeared, and within a few days, the subject of the article has been involved in a case that’s landed on my desk. Not always the victim of a murder, but usually associated with a serious crime.

On an impulse, I share the article with Joanna, via WhatsApp, with a brief explanation of why it might be significant.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. I know it’s weird.’

‘Not at all. I believe in premonitions and that sort of stuff. It’s strange but credible. I’ll see if I can find out anything more about them.’

‘Great. Thanks. I’ll look too. Different angles, different results. Who knows what we might turn up?’

I spend the next hour searching for anything I can find about Troy and the band. There are lots of musical references, with lists of gigs past and present, and of the songs. They have obscure titles and are mostly in the category of ‘Heavy Rock with a Soul twist’, whatever the hell that means.

I’m deciding whether to call the paper that published the article to see if there’s any additional information, when I realise I have no idea why I’m searching, and whether I would know a significant clue if I fell over it.

Cheryl’s arrival home from school puts a lid on my research for the time being, but after asking her about her day, I drop it casually into the conversation while I put the kettle on.

“Have you ever heard of a band called Troy’s Tigers?”

“That’s really weird,” she says, getting her favourite mug out of the cupboard and adding a herbal tea bag.

“What’s weird?”

“Mia was just mentioning them today. She saw them at Band On The Wall with her boyfriend the other week. She said they were amazing, and apparently they’ve just been signed with some huge record label. It’s weird that you asked about them. You never follow music.”

We sit down with our hot drinks.

“I found the article about it on the local news. It just caught my eye. The lead singer looks nice.” I show her the picture.

“Wow. Yeah, he’s hot. Bit young for you, Mum.”

“Cheeky mare! I didn’t mean it like that.” It’s nice to have a bit of banter with her, particularly after all the worry of the past week. But even before that, my mood has been too wobbly, and anxiety has been at the forefront of everything.

It’s very odd. Between the text on Matt’s phone, and worry about how I’m going to tell him I’m going into business with the woman who nearly killed him, I should feel awful. But for some strange reason, introducing Joanna and White Knight into