Dying for Millions by Judith Cutler

shut. ‘Fortunately they checked first before issuing the story.’
    â€˜Bastards,’ she said. ‘Absolute fucking bastards.’
    At this point Ian returned, jiggling the flask in a polythene bag. He caught the full force of the inspector’s invective and blinked, without apparent approval, but she noted his care with the flask and smiled, her whole face lightening as she did so. She took it from him and, holding the cap through the polythene, unscrewed it and sniffed. Her nose wrinkled attractively, Andy grinned. But his expression changed rapidly when she held the flask out to him.
    â€˜What the hell’s Sam put in there?’
    I slid sideways to sniff too. I’ve never been very impressed with Andy’s concoctions, but this one smelt downright peculiar.
    Stephenson screwed the top back firmly. ‘I think I’d like to have the contents of this examined, Mr Rivers. Just in case.’ Her voice was cold and official once more.
    â€˜I’d be very grateful,’ he said, smiling as if she were doing him a favour.
    But this time her face didn’t soften.

Chapter Eight
    It was all over. The last rapturous yells, the last wild applause, the last blown kisses. The stewards had pulled in the last bucketful of money for Andy’s Foundation – this time it would be shared, as he’d told the fans, with the injured roadie’s family, so they’d been extra-generous with their donations.
    â€˜Birmingham, I love you!’ Andy had called for the last time.
    And for the last time the stage plunged into darkness around him.
    The official fan club had booked one of the smaller Music Centre halls for the party, and had decorated it to look like a giant tent – as if Andy’s connection with Africa were more in the nature of a safari than a life-saving commitment. When he and his party – including Ian and me – went in, it was pitch black. Then the lights blazed up and there, in the centre of the room, her mouth taped ostentatiously, was Ruth.
    Andy ran to her. The room boomed with applause, catcalls and cheers. When, clutching a glass of champagne, I eventually made my way over, she had discarded the blue sticking-plaster and was flourishing a note pad and thick pen. ‘Drove up this afternoon,’ she wrote. ‘Heard the concert. Brilliant!’
    He hugged her again.
    â€˜Roadie?’ she wrote.
    â€˜Still alive. Just,’ Ian said, clearly entranced.
    It couldn’t be by her looks: Ruth was no bimbo, and I reckoned that anyone could have identified her as a teacher at a hundred paces. On the other hand, the obvious intelligence of her eyes made her attractive, and I’d always envied her long, elegant hands. She’d got a good figure too: worked with weights and cycled a lot down in Devon. Just now she was wearing jeans, like most of us, and a silk shirt which by its very lack of ostentation – and there were some very showy garments indeed there tonight – declared its exclusive origins. She tried not to take much money from Andy – she’d been earning about three times my salary anyway when she gave up her job as the head of a mega-comprehensive school. I suspect she’d been a very good head: Labour shadow cabinet parents had queued up to send their children there, and, if they’d had any sense, Tory ministers would have done the same. Now she was bringing her administrative skills to bear on the Foundation. She drew a respectable salary from it, largely so she could make it public knowledge and prevent whispers.
    Everyone worked very hard to make the party go with a suitable bang. There was a corner set aside for the roadies’ and musicians’ children: a climbing frame, a net full of plastic balls for them to wriggle through, quantities of Lego and Duplo, and a lovely wooden train. There were even a couple of women – proper nannies, according to Jonty – to look after them, so the