Fletcher suddenly thought of Heston.
Had that been a honey trap?
He glared up at Diego once more. The Italian winked.
“That night, she came to me. She begged me for a way out.” Kris pressed the glass to his forehead. “She wanted to leave him but was fearful of his reaction. He wasn’t stable and Tules made him look stable. I said I would help her. I said I’d talk to him, but not until after the awards ceremony. I couldn’t do it before then. Could you imagine? Us receiving that Best Presenting duo when we were in the midst of a rift?”
Fletcher chewed his bottom lip, guessing what was about to come.
“So I said I would be there in the morning. That we would deal with it together. Like the family we were.”
Kris propped the glass onto the fireplace mantel and met Fletcher’s gaze. “She must have told him before I was there, because, her death, the way she died, the way she allowed herself to be strangled… that’s the hallmarks of Jackson Young. You need only look as far as Alex Young to know that.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Decisions, decisions
Jackson didn’t care anymore.
Wandering the streets of London, hands in pockets with rain splashing onto his face as though washing off his disguise and revealing the true him, he was a nobody. A nothing.
Blank slate.
He didn’t bother trying to conceal his identity and ignored the looks of surprise that trailed after him as he looped and careened through the pedestrians along Piccadilly towards… who the fuck knows where?
He craved a drink. A line. Anything to course through his veins, cloud his judgement and block out the overriding feeling of hopelessness.
He hailed a cab, caring less that the driver recognised him and ended up back at the B&B. He rammed Fletcher’s laptop into his holdall, shoved it on his back and trundled into the reception.
“Paid up.” Jackson threw a bunch of notes at the bloke behind the desk.
“Leaving so soon?” the owner asked, standing to inspect and count how many of Lizzie’s faces he was going to get to pocket for himself. He was disappointed. Jackson knew it.
Everyone always wanted a bit more out of Jax.
“My position here has been compromised,” was all Jackson was prepared to say.
“Not by me.”
“Maybe not. But thanks. For…being discreet.”
“My pleasure, Mr Mouse. Tell all your friends about us.”
Jackson ignored him and left, and prayed he had enough petrol in the Kawasaki’s tank as he tore out into traffic.
One unfocused drive later, he eased off the accelerator as he swerved the bike into the suburban street in Chiswick. Colworth Avenue was a closed-off estate. Leafy and full of trees with private gardens for the exclusive of tenants only.
He hovered the bike near the entrance, keeping hidden in plain sight. Outside broadcast vans and paparazzi chasers congregated outside his home. Any flicker of movement from within the grounds and they’d all come to life and scurry to the border. Covered head to toe, Jackson couldn’t be recognised, but any movement toward his house and they’d pounce on him like cockroaches on faeces.
How the fuck was he meant to get into his own house?
There wasn’t even a back entrance. All gardens had the highest of walls and no possible way to scale over. The only chance he had was if someone else came in or out and took the media’s attention away from him. A man on a crappy old bike from ten years ago, wearing tatty clothes and a shitty helmet wasn’t going to draw attention over a possible celebrity sighting.
He waited. And waited.
And so did the media.
When everything appeared hopeless, Jackson came to the conclusion he had to take drastic measures. He fished out his burner phone, squinted to make out the news crew name from the first van, then dialled a number. Several tries at finding the right place, he was through.
“Your team outside Colworth Avenue?” he asked, disguising his voice. “They might want to try code six-nine-six-nine to get into Kris Sharpe’s residence. Yeah he’s a perv.”
He hung up and shoved the phone into his back pocket. Then, elbows on handlebars, he watched with morbid fascination and gluttonous satisfaction.
It took a while. There was a kerfuffle, whispers spreading before one brave soldier made her way to the gates. She looked this way, then that, then pressed keys on the pad and, hey fucking presto, was granted access. The lemmings all rushed forwards, cameras being hoisted onto shoulders, tape recorders checked, hair flattened as they all made their way to Kris’s front door and set off that teeth-shattering ding dong.
Jackson smiled.
Vultures. The lot of them. He slid off his bike, then pushed it slowly through the entrance. The media were all too busy crowding around Kris’s front door to notice him, waiting for their soundbite to open up and shove microphones in his face and snap the photo that would make the evening news.
Taking his chance when he could, Jackson dumped his bike in the bushes that separated his property from Kris’s and legged it to his own front door, praying to whoever was listening that no one had changed the locks.
They hadn’t. He was in, the slamming door echoing along the vacant entrance hall.
Home.
Bittersweet home.
* * * *
Fletcher startled at the doorbell. Twisting in his seat, he peered out of the bay window. A horde of reporters all gathered on the doorstep, some he recognised from his many episodes of doing the same. His heart leapt at the possibility that he wasn’t alone here. That these might be his rescuers.
“Who the fuck let them in?” Kris stamped over to the window and shut the blinds.
“Might be a time to change the code, no?” Diego said, dipping away from his perch. The two other heavies stood straight, waiting for instructions.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Kris paced the room, scraping back his hair with frustrated fingers. He then stopped, and glanced down at Fletcher. “Get rid of him,” he demanded in an authoritative tone that contrasted with his earlier hospitality.
“Me?” Fletcher asked, flicking his gaze from the Italian to Kris.
“Take him next door until this quietens down.” Kris was speaking to Diego and not him, staring blankly through Fletcher as though he wasn’t there.
What the feck was this?
“Just ignore it,” Fletcher said. “They’ll get bored eventually. Or go out and say no comment. Or tell them I’m an exclusive.”
Kris gave him a look that said it was time for him to shut his mouth.
“Levarsi.” Diego motioned for Fletcher to stand.
He did, confusion and fear stabbing his gut. “Why next door?” he asked but all hospitality had disappeared and in its wake was the Diego from the car.
Kris didn’t even bat an eyelid at him. He just sat, head in his hands.
“Kris?” Fletcher attempted to get back his attention. Something didn’t feel right. Just because the reporters were knocking on his door, it didn’t mean he should be discarded. But Diego grabbed is arm and shoved him forward. “I don’t underst—”
“Out the back way,” Kris mumbled into his hands, cutting Fletcher off.
“Yes, boss.” Diego gripped Fletcher tighter and hauled him away from the window, around the sofa and through the back. He managed a glimpse behind him to see Kris stand, compose himself then head out to the front door with a bouncer either side of him.