cars, his previous relationships, his marriages, his children, an abstract of his pertinent activities.
“Nora’s his second wife,” he said, “and there’s no evidence here that she even knew Simon in 1966.”
Ian was studying the printout of Nora’s biography. “She’s got a brother. Would he be able to tell us?” He handed the page to his father.
“Potter Maynard,” Evan said, thoughtfully.
“You know him?”
“He’s an actor. We crossed paths years ago in California. God knows what he’s doing these days.”
Ian sat on the edge of the desk. “I have an idea who might be able to help,” he said.
His father glanced up at him.
“I can ask him…if you like.”
“No…I’ll do it,” Evan said. He checked his watch. “Meanwhile I’m late for an appointment with a pathologist.” He printed Simon Darrow’s file, and signed out of the computer. “And you have a funeral to go to.”
The small country church near Epsom was inadequate, really, to contain the overflow audience that had descended from London.
Audience was the only appropriate term, Ian decided, as he stood beside his car, with his camera and cassette recorder, pretending to be one of the media hounds. The churchyard and the narrow, hedge-lined lanes surrounding it had taken on the air of an all-star, three-ringed circus.
A circus demanded a Master of Ceremonies, and doing the honours that morning was a slick, silk-tied individual named Shane Brody. As the designated family spokesman, Shane Brody was fielding questions from the media congregating outside the church with the same degree of panache he’d have employed to conduct a press conference.
Passing through the centre ring at that particular moment was Simon Darrow’s daughter Tamara—Tiggy—an aspiring pop singer costumed for the occasion in a bright red sequined mini-dress and sunglasses.
“Where’s your mother, Tiggy?” somebody shouted, as the young woman made her way towards her limousine.
“She’s gone away where you lot won’t bother her.”
That was the response that appeared in the newspapers, at any rate. The actual quote, which Ian caught on tape, was rather more colourful, and quite unprintable.
Hurriedly, Shane Brody added: “Mrs. Nora Darrow is suffering from nervous exhaustion and has checked into a private hospital under an assumed name.”
“Switzerland, more like,” a member of the press standing beside Ian muttered, under his breath, as Tiggy climbed into her limousine, exposing an exquisite six inches of black suspender and top-of-stocking.
“What about Kevin? Where’s Kevin?”
“Tiggy’s brother is not able to be with us this afternoon.”
Kevin Darrow: last known address, Cardboard City, The Bullring, Underneath Waterloo Station, London SE1 . The photo Ian recalled seeing had been a grainy one, shot from far away, and greatly enlarged. He had the look of a wildman—long and tangled hair, four earrings, and a Nazi swastika tattooed on his left cheek.
The parade of stars continued—old friends from the BBC, craggy-faced singers from Sixties quartets.
“Oy!” somebody shouted, “There goes a nice bit of history,” and there was a general stampede over to a less-populated corner of the churchyard, where a tall, fair woman and her comfortable husband were trudging off towards a secondary parking area.
“Mrs. Emerson!”
The woman, surprised, glanced over her shoulder.
“You go on ahead, Ted,” she said, to her companion. “Won’t be long.”
The comfortable husband departed, and Angela Emerson, the first Mrs. Darrow, waited on the cinder path for her pursuers to catch up.
“Nice to see you here, Mrs. Emerson. Did you maintain a relationship with Simon over the years?”
“Not really. I just came to pay my last respects. That’s all. He was, after all, a part of my history, too.”
“You were his secretary when he was at Radio One, 1968?”
“1967.”
“Married him when? Same year? Didn’t last long, did
“Nora’s his second wife,” he said, “and there’s no evidence here that she even knew Simon in 1966.”
Ian was studying the printout of Nora’s biography. “She’s got a brother. Would he be able to tell us?” He handed the page to his father.
“Potter Maynard,” Evan said, thoughtfully.
“You know him?”
“He’s an actor. We crossed paths years ago in California. God knows what he’s doing these days.”
Ian sat on the edge of the desk. “I have an idea who might be able to help,” he said.
His father glanced up at him.
“I can ask him…if you like.”
“No…I’ll do it,” Evan said. He checked his watch. “Meanwhile I’m late for an appointment with a pathologist.” He printed Simon Darrow’s file, and signed out of the computer. “And you have a funeral to go to.”
The small country church near Epsom was inadequate, really, to contain the overflow audience that had descended from London.
Audience was the only appropriate term, Ian decided, as he stood beside his car, with his camera and cassette recorder, pretending to be one of the media hounds. The churchyard and the narrow, hedge-lined lanes surrounding it had taken on the air of an all-star, three-ringed circus.
A circus demanded a Master of Ceremonies, and doing the honours that morning was a slick, silk-tied individual named Shane Brody. As the designated family spokesman, Shane Brody was fielding questions from the media congregating outside the church with the same degree of panache he’d have employed to conduct a press conference.
Passing through the centre ring at that particular moment was Simon Darrow’s daughter Tamara—Tiggy—an aspiring pop singer costumed for the occasion in a bright red sequined mini-dress and sunglasses.
“Where’s your mother, Tiggy?” somebody shouted, as the young woman made her way towards her limousine.
“She’s gone away where you lot won’t bother her.”
That was the response that appeared in the newspapers, at any rate. The actual quote, which Ian caught on tape, was rather more colourful, and quite unprintable.
Hurriedly, Shane Brody added: “Mrs. Nora Darrow is suffering from nervous exhaustion and has checked into a private hospital under an assumed name.”
“Switzerland, more like,” a member of the press standing beside Ian muttered, under his breath, as Tiggy climbed into her limousine, exposing an exquisite six inches of black suspender and top-of-stocking.
“What about Kevin? Where’s Kevin?”
“Tiggy’s brother is not able to be with us this afternoon.”
Kevin Darrow: last known address, Cardboard City, The Bullring, Underneath Waterloo Station, London SE1 . The photo Ian recalled seeing had been a grainy one, shot from far away, and greatly enlarged. He had the look of a wildman—long and tangled hair, four earrings, and a Nazi swastika tattooed on his left cheek.
The parade of stars continued—old friends from the BBC, craggy-faced singers from Sixties quartets.
“Oy!” somebody shouted, “There goes a nice bit of history,” and there was a general stampede over to a less-populated corner of the churchyard, where a tall, fair woman and her comfortable husband were trudging off towards a secondary parking area.
“Mrs. Emerson!”
The woman, surprised, glanced over her shoulder.
“You go on ahead, Ted,” she said, to her companion. “Won’t be long.”
The comfortable husband departed, and Angela Emerson, the first Mrs. Darrow, waited on the cinder path for her pursuers to catch up.
“Nice to see you here, Mrs. Emerson. Did you maintain a relationship with Simon over the years?”
“Not really. I just came to pay my last respects. That’s all. He was, after all, a part of my history, too.”
“You were his secretary when he was at Radio One, 1968?”
“1967.”
“Married him when? Same year? Didn’t last long, did
Similar Books
