“Do you believe he’s guilty?”
Kris laughed, his chest rising up and down with the force. “I’m not a detective.”
“No. But you were his friend. You built your brand on having this ultimate bond—best friends, brothers, joined at the hip almost. To sever all ties on the moment of arrest brings an assumption that you think he could have committed the crime?”
Pause. No answer.
Fletcher scribbled another note on his pad—refusal. “Was your friendship real?”
“Excuse me, what was your name again? Fletcher?”
Nodding, Fletcher crossed his wrists and gave his pen a break.
“With all due respect, Fletcher.” Kris’s voice broke from its cordiality into something far snappier. Instinctive. “I lost two people close to me. Tallulah was also my friend. Her death caused an unfillable void in my heart. Nothing can replace that, and my friendship with Jackson has been irrevocably strained.” He wiped his jacket lapels, swiping imaginary crumbs to the floor. “Now do you have any further questions for your piece on my TV show, or are you quite finished?”
“He’s asked me to write his biography.” Fletcher wasn’t sure why he admitted that. He just couldn’t let the chance go to find out more about Jackson from the one person who would know him inside out.
Kris stared at him for a moment, then broke out into a laugh. “He’s asked you?”
“Aye.”
“You’ve seen him?”
Fletcher nodded once.
“Where is he?”
“I can’t disclose that.”
Sinking back the chair, Kris folded his arms and held Fletcher’s gaze. “Why you?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
Kris’s gaze raked over him to the point it was invasive, then he gave a snarling curl of his lips when he said, “I can see why.”
Fletcher flicked his gaze to Cam whose silence had him forgetting he’d even been there. Cam shrugged.
“Is he paying you?” Kris asked, forcing Fletcher’s attention back on him.
“I can’t disclose that.”
“I’ll pay you not to write it.”
“What?”
Kris stood. “I’ll only give you this advice once, and this is completely off the record. Stay away from Jackson Young. How he’s managed to escape even a manslaughter charge is testament to the lengths he can go to manipulate people. Tallulah trusted him. She loved him. She fell hook, line and sinker for a man who wouldn’t know truth if it spat on his face.” He buttoned up his jacket, threw a smile the hatch’s way, then turned back to Fletcher. “Congratulations, Fletcher Doherty, if you’ve entered into an agreement with Jackson Young, then you’ve just been attached to strings. And his puppets don’t fare too well.”
Before he could watch Kris storm away, Fletcher stood. “So, off the record, do you think he did it?”
Kris slapped a palm to the swinging doors leading to Studio Two, then paused and glared over his shoulder. “Tell Jackson to try harder. He’s being too obvious.”
Fletcher furrowed his brow and glanced down at Cam, hoping for some insight. Cam stood and slid a hand onto Fletcher’s shoulder as the doors slapped closed.
“Stars, mate. None of them talk sense.”
“Sure.”
“But maybe he’s right.” Cam nodded to the slapping of swinging doors. “Jackson, behind the rolling camera, was a mess. They used to stock his dressing room with a selection of drinks. They’d be empty by the end of rehearsals. Maybe he’s not the best bloke to get into bed with.”
“I’m not planning on sleeping with him.” Fletcher snapped, the blood surging through his veins to pound in his neck.
“I meant metaphorically.” Cam stepped back. “I know you, Fletch. Unlike the rest of us mortals, you only sleep with people you’re in love with.”
The unspoken hovered in the air until Cam angled his head for Fletcher to follow him out. He gathered his bag, tucking his phone and notepad into it, wondering if he’d failed his first attempt at being a proper journalist. Kris wouldn’t speak with him again after this. He should have prepared the questions, at least, rather than relying on his knee-jerk reaction.
And he wasn’t sure who he’d failed more—London Lights, Tallulah Payne, Jackson Young.
Or himself.
Chapter twelve
Bad Choices
Sobbing put an end to Jackson’s visit.
Not his own, thankfully. But from those arriving as part of a funeral procession to put a fresh one into the ground. He’d stayed in the bracken, unable to make himself hover any nearer to her gravestone. He kept his helmet on the entire time, too. As Derek had used to say to him, one can never tell who might be hiding in the bushes.
Except he was now, of course.
Her grave was what she would have wanted. Solid white granite, a rose carved on the edge and letters written in smooth, black gloss—
Here lies Tallulah Payne. Beloved daughter and friend. Taken from us too soon.
And she had been.
He didn’t lay flowers. But he spoke to her in his head. Apologised, for what it was worth. Which would be nothing. And hoped that at least seeing her final resting place would put some closure on the past. Or help to trigger the memories and figure out what the fuck had happened the last night he’d seen her alive.
The grave was covered with so many bouquets—mounds and mounds of colourful flowers that reflected her bright personality. She had been a beacon of light for him, regardless of how the media had portrayed her as some victim and slave to his overbearing demands. Some had gone so far as to call her a fame whore.
If only they knew the truth.
Some of the wreaths were from relatives, probably from her father and step-mother, and the rest from the public. He couldn’t bring himself to read any of the messages. He was sure there would be a few pointed remarks about him. About why she’d let herself fall prey to such an evil monster. It burned in his chest that people could think that way about him.
Yes, he’d been a mess. Yes, he’d been a fuck-up. Yes, he’d ruined her life.
But he hadn’t ended it.
He needed the chance to explain his side of things.
Before turning to flee, something glistening in the sun’s rays caught his eye. A piece of sparkling metal draped over the stone rose. A piece of jewellery. Curiosity outweighed caution. He tugged off his helmet, snuck out from the bushes and edged closer, one eye on the procession entering the cemetery. They were all preoccupied, so he allowed himself the indulgence and stood beside the granite gravestone. A necklace was hooked around the carved rose, hanging down toward her name and rattling against the stone in the breeze. He slid his palm behind the pendant and lifted it up for a better look. In his hand lay a gold embellished lotus flower.
Dropping it back as though it were on fire, he sucked in a fierce breath, rammed on his helmet and stalked out of there. His feet hit the ground with every thump in his temple. Even the rumble of the diesel growl from his Kawasaki couldn’t mask the heightened drumming of his pulse. Twisting the handle, he sped out of the City of London Cemetery and battled the roads to Hell.