Private Oz (Private 7)

“Promo for the suits. Even stars as big as Micky need to lay on a show for the execs and the sales guys.”

I nodded. “Weird choice of venue.”

“Oh, we like to be a bit different!”

There was a sudden hush as the strains of a famous classical piece Johnny couldn’t put a name to flowed from the speakers either side of the stage. A man wearing a cream linen suit and a Micky Stevens T-shirt walked out stage right, radio mic in hand. It was Graham Parker.

“Ladies and gentlemen … welcome.” His voice was deeper and softer than Johnny had imagined. He smiled at the crowd, pointed at someone at the front, laughed good-naturedly. “Thanks for coming along. It’s a sort of celebration of Micky’s birthday tomorrow, but the real party’s at The Venue – and, of course, you’re all invited. Now … Micky’s well and truly wired and he is RARING TO GO! So, please, give it up for my boy … Micky Stevens.”

The lights died, the entire stage turned black. A drum rhythm started and a bass guitar came in. Then the lights burst on, thousands of watts of color. And there was Micky Stevens dressed entirely in white, crouched, microphone in hand. He screamed and the music came crashing in.

The crowd, lubed on expensive champagne and free cocaine, went wild. The song rocketed along, growing more and more powerful as it went.

Johnny had seen videos of Micky Stevens of course. His latest song already had a million hits on YouTube, but seeing him live and only fifty yards away was something else. He looked round and saw Mel nodding appreciatively. Then he turned back to the stage, hardly able to believe how the demure shy character he’d met at Private could transform himself into this massive personality, this rock god parading in front of them.

Chapter 78

I’D NEVER SEEN Darlene so excited. “What’s happened? The latest copy of Forensics Now arrive early?”

She gave me a phony smile and tilted her head to one side. “Just got back from the house in Bondi. There’s a second body in the garden.”

I stood up. “Really?”

“A man. From the level of decomposition I’d say he’s been dead two maybe three months. Severe facial disfigurement, multiple stab wounds. Sound familiar?”

“But it’s a totally different MO … a male victim. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ve taken samples. Police Forensics are all over it. There must be some link. Has to be the same killer.”

I must’ve looked shocked, or at least deeply concerned because Darlene said, “There’s some other news.”

“That’s good.”

“I think I have something on this killer.”

I came round my desk and we sat on the sofa. Darlene had a file in her hand. “Something was niggling me about these crimes.”

“Yeah, you said something in Sandsville … Yasmin Trent’s murder.”

“It came to me a couple of hours ago.” She pulled a test tube from the pocket of her lab coat and held it out.

I took it and lifted it to the light.

“A strand of hair?”

“Specifically, bleached blonde hair. Found on Elspeth Lampard’s blouse.”

“Not one of hers? She was blonde.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve just had it under the scope. A particular bleach was used. Every brand is very slightly different. This is a cheapie, slightly higher peroxide level than the more up-market dyes. Doesn’t sound like the sort of stuff a woman like the victim would use. Also, see how a good third of the hair is dark? The woman this hair came from doesn’t keep up with her color. She let it grow out. Again, doesn’t fit Elspeth’s profile.”

“I don’t see …”

“Okay … the thing bothering me was that when I first arrived at the scene of Yasmin Trent’s murder I ran off a couple of hundred shots on my camera and must have subconsciously noted a strand of blonde hair lying across the dead woman’s arm. I was distracted by something and had to talk to one of the cops for a couple of minutes. By the time I got back, the Police Forensics guys were packing up, and I set to work.”

“You’d forgotten about the hair?”

“I don’t think I really registered it consciously.”