Dying for Millions by Judith Cutler Page A

mothers could let their hair down. At first people were predictably subdued, but the crush, the lavish provision of food – there had been, so Sam said, two teams of caterers competing to demonstrate their supremacy – and copious quantities of booze had guaranteed that if things could warm up, they would. And they did.
    Karen brought her mother over to say thank you. Mrs Harris was probably about seven or eight years older than me, putting her in her mid-forties. She had a white blouse that aspired very hard to be posh, with a lot of gold chains lurking in the frilly neckline. Her skirt was shorter than I’d have expected, but she had very good legs, although they might have been improved by the absence of her shoes, which were much too low cut at the front in relation to the height of the heels. The poor woman was blushing painfully, as if I were someone important; I could hardly hear her husky whisper.
    â€˜Does he know – you know – lots of other stars?’
    â€˜I suppose so. But he doesn’t name-drop very much.’
    â€˜Would he know people like – like Cliff? Or BarryanRobinanMaurice?’
    I couldn’t work that out, so I was pleased to spot Andy in host mode. So Mrs Harris and daughter were photographed one on each side of him, his arms round their shoulders, as he gave each of them a professionally affectionate kiss.
    Ian spent most of his time with Ruth, whom he plied with champagne as if it were medicinal. By the time he’d finished, her note pad was full of scribbled comments on brands of dry sherry. I fended off the attentions of Phiz, and instead had a quick flirt with Jess, the extremely handsome black drummer. I caught a whiff of Duck’s breath before he found me. In fact, things were going so well I completely forgot to miss Chris.
    Then I found Griff by my side, looking serious. I followed him out into the quiet of the mall.
    â€˜I want Andy out of here,’ he said. ‘Pete’s died.’
    I shook my head to commiserate. Then I looked at him. ‘What’s the connection?’
    â€˜They want to do a post mortem. There are symptoms that might suggest something other than an accident. Something to do with his pupil dilation. You know what that means, Sophie?’
    â€˜Drugs?’
    â€˜Right. Now, Pete was a good clean guy.’
    â€˜So where did he get the drugs? Hang on. Andy’s flask goes walkabout; Pete dives off the gantry: Andy’s flask is found, and the contents smell distinctly odd. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
    â€˜Let’s just say I shall be very interested in the results of the PM on Pete and on the analysis of Andy’s flask.’
    â€˜So will the police,’ I said. ‘So how do we protect Andy? Presuming that if the juice was spiked it was intended for Andy.’
    â€˜I think we have to assume it was. What I’ve been thinking is this. They know where he lives in Devon. They may have twigged where he stays in Brum. I’d like to get him and Ruth off up north to a place run by a friend of mine. Like a safe house. Ruth’s brought clothes and things for them both. I phoned her,’ he added. ‘And no, she didn’t come up in her Merc. A friend of mine drives a tatty old Lada. Apparently.’
    I found I was beginning to like Griff. Then I wasn’t so sure.
    â€˜Just to make sure they get away clean and easy, like, I’d like you to drive Andy back to yours as usual. Only it won’t be Andy, see – it’ll be a look-alike. And you’ll find your car inside the building – in the unloading bay. I just wanted to make sure no one got their grubby little fingers on it.’
    â€˜Who will the look-alike be … No!
No!
Don’t even begin to contemplate it! Phiz does
not
share a car with Sophie. Still less does he occupy Sophie’s spare room.’
    â€˜He does look remarkably like Andy – from the back at least,’ Griff