Free The Late Greats by Nick Quantrill Page A

to go to. You indulge in more alcohol, drugs and women. You play your first gigs in America. New York City. Your dream has come true, but this is like starting again. No one knows you, but you don’t care. You stand in front of the microphone like a giant. You feel like Manhattan is yours. The bright lights of Times Square are all for you. You return to the UK. Your single, ‘Welcome to Hell’, makes the top ten. You’re a star. There’s no place for you to hide now.

 
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Lorraine left the cafe and headed to work, leaving me to finish my breakfast. I wasn’t sure what my next move was going to be, so I headed back to the office for another look through the printouts Sarah had prepared for me. There were no messages and my mobile was quiet. I searched around until I found the CD of New Holland’s third and final album. Glancing through the song writing credits, this was the one that saw Priestley take charge, contributing eight out of the eleven tracks. I only needed to hear the first two tracks to know the band was all but finished by then. Tasker was a spent force with a drug problem. I wasn’t surprised this was New Holland’s final album.
    Next, I logged onto the Internet and made another attempt to track down Tasker’s studio engineer. This time I Googled the studio and trawled the message-boards until I found a mention of the man I wanted. Michael Rusting. I wrote his name down. I’d ask Sarah to work her magic.
    I flicked through the folder of interviews and articles, which had been filed in chronological order for me. The lead interview to accompany the third and last album had been carried by a more highbrow music magazine. It was a million miles away from their early days as NME darlings. It didn’t make pleasant reading. Tasker and Priestley were jostling for position; the bickering embarrassing.
    I put the printout down, switched off the music and put my head down on my desk. I was tired. I wondered what Debbie would make of Julia. More importantly, I wondered what she would make of my behaviour. I’d stopped wearing my wedding ring quite so regularly. At first it was only the occasional day without it, more to see how it felt. Now it was more like second nature not to wear it. It was another step in the never ending process of moving on. It’d be nice if I could pick up the phone and talk to somebody about it. I was still in contact with Debbie’s sister, but her husband had never been a friend, more someone who was just there. I’d had good friends when I’d played rugby, but following my injury, I’d not kept in touch with them. I glanced at the photograph I had on my desk of myself diving over for a match-winning try in a mid-1980s local derby. I wondered what the rest of the players had amounted to. It was professional sport, but it certainly wasn’t Premiership football; they’d all be out there somewhere in the city, working day jobs to pay the bills, just like Keith Tasker. Sarah shook me awake. I’d fallen asleep.
    ‘You can’t leave it alone, can you?’ she said, taking in the information on my desk.
    I quickly came around. I conceded she was right, hoped she was more willing to help me now. I had to get to the truth. I explained about Lorraine’s affair with Tasker.
    ‘It’s not normal, is it?’ she said.
    I had no answer. It was weird. ‘Love moves in strange ways’ I said. ‘They’ve known each other for years’ I offered by way of explanation before telling her I’d spoken to Priestley’s wife earlier in the day.
    ‘Not the man himself?’
    ‘He was out walking somewhere.’
    ‘Must be hitting him hard.’
    ‘His wife was quick enough to tell me he had an alibi for last night.’
    ‘Did you ask for one?’
    ‘No.’
    She didn’t look impressed, but at least she was interested. ‘You think he was involved in Tasker’s death?’
    I stood up and stretched. ‘Why not?’
    She paused, like she was trying to justify an argument. I stopped