Robbie France’s BlogBroadcaster, Musician, Author

This link is to a PDF of a recent article in Costa Blanca News about Me, my new book and my work at TKO Gold. Take a look:

Link: Robbie France in Costa Blanca News

Hi Folks,

A special treat for you today: as promised, here’s an excerpt from my upcoming book, “Why’s & Wherefore’s”.

There’s a long story behind this novel, but that’s for another day. Right now, sit back and enjoy.

I’d love to get your feedback, by the way, either in the comments below or by using the Contact Me link above.

Love and Respect,

Robbie

P.S. There’s a fair bit of “forthright language” in this - just letting you know.

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PART 1.                          DONNA.

BERLIN. 11. 50 am. TUESDAY, JANUARY 12th

It was that kind of morning. Brass monkeys would have sung soprano, cars could be seen waltzing down the lesser maintained and therefore snow covered backstreets and huge icicles became life threatening objects when inevitably dislodged from the high apartment terraces around Kurfurstendam,  the trendiest, richest street in Berlin.

A young looking lady was being deposited by a ubiquitous cream coloured cab outside the Comfort Hotel on Kurfurstendam. She was quite stunning. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a full figure, usually well camouflaged by a host of fashionable, loose-fitting and almost always black clothes. But today she was cocooned in her silver ski jacket and had a blue cashmere scarf wrapped round her neck and face.
Her name was Donna Lowe and she had just scooped the biggest jackpot of her short but eventful career.

Eventful because of her meteoric rise through the ranks of  ‘Stoosh’ magazine, the most popular music mag on the worldwide market, overtaking the previous giants such as Billboard and Rolling Stone. Not to mention the ever burgeoning internet rags, instantly available on an ipod or laptop.

She was only twenty four and already had gone from ‘cub’ reporter to assistant features editor in a little over two years. She was also famous for never, as far as her rivals knew, ever sleeping with someone to get ahead. It was a trade ‘urban legend’. The topic of endless wine bar gossip.

What they, but more importantly she, didn’t realise was…she’d never have to.

The young lady glanced up and down the strasse.

She made a little promise to herself to go and inspect the designer clothes on offer in the most elegant stores at a much closer proximity when she would return to Berlin, hopefully in summer. She looked for a moment at the Berliners in their Audis and BMWs cruising by, trying to find a parking spot as close as possible to their designated port of call. Well, at least they had the roofs up on the convertibles.

On warmer days, Donna would amuse herself, sitting at the tables of the sidewalk cafes, stirring her coffee, watching the starlings drop calling cards over the plush interiors of the most expensive cars money could buy, while the occupants would boast of the wonderful air conditioning they had…and drive around with the top down.

Turning away from the kerb and avoiding the slipperiest parts of the pavement, she strode through the automatic double doors into the lobby, she felt the blast of the air conditioning on her face and flushed slightly. The sky blue swirls of some smoke were suddenly parted, Moses-like, before the automatic doors closed behind her.

In the corner of the lobby there was an argument being played out in front of all and everyone. A large Spanish business man was yelling in close proximity to the hotel manager’s face that it was his right to smoke his fine Cuban cigars anywhere, any place he seemed fit. And that there and then was such a place. The Spanish never adhered to nicotine phobia, unlike Germany. After the demise of Castro, the export of Cuban cigars was in full flow in a matter of months, in fact the whole of the island had undergone a huge renaissance.

Snowbound tourists milled around complaining about the weather and tried to decide the best options for sightseeing on this bitter Berlin day.

Donna had just about had enough of their moaning. From the arrivals lounge at Tegel, to the cab rank outside the airport, it had been a non-stop whinge about the cold weather.

Her eyes rolled upwards. Gimme a break!  She might have been a youngster, but had a world weariness about her which bordered on the cynical. Ms. Lowe went to the reception desk and checked in. She gave the young man her U.K. ID card which was swiped through the computer.

Hmmm. Nice uniform.  She liked uniforms. She also noticed the smell of the wet carpet. For all the German’s ingenuity, their Vorsprung Durch Technik didn’t cover their ability to mask musky floor coverings.

The concierge leaned over the counter and thrust two computer read-outs containing her messages into her hand. “There you are, Ms. Lowe. Your messages and card.”

Donna’s libidinous imagination was running wild when suddenly she was distracted by the wildly undulating Muzak playing on the Tannoys. An orchestral arrangement of ‘Wonderwall’. Muzak. One of those heinous musical crimes perpetrated by talentless, faceless people for the tone deaf masses. She’d already been subject to an horrendous rendition of Abba’s ‘Waterloo’ in the public conveniences at Heathrow earlier that morning.

Fancy fucking with Oasis like that. Donna was a bit of a softy when it came to the songs of the nineties.
She grimaced in the direction of the music, then returned her gaze to the concierge who was now staring at her.

“Sorry, Ms. Lowe. The system has been playing up all morning,” he said. Donna detected a northern england accent. Yorkshire or Lancashire maybe.

She promptly gave him two euros and a smile, then hurriedly made her way up the first flight of stairs to her room. She always stayed in room number five. Donna inserted the card into the door. Keys were definitely an old-fashioned oddity in a modern Berlin hotel.

“Fuck it!” she spat venomously as the card and it’s associated silicone chip resolutely denied access to her room, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”  Her remonstrations were clearly audible in the lobby.

The tourists didn’t need Berlitz to translate the four letter words emanating from the first floor. The concierge, who had recently been made two euros richer, smartly bounded up the stairs and let her in after turning the card round the correct way. He waited, but it seemed the milk of human kindness had soured somewhat.

He retreated after a pregnant pause and the door had been closed in his face, without further increasing his beer money for the night.

She flung her Chanel Ligne Cambon overnight bag onto one of the armchairs before opening the mini-bar. Having selected a Diet Pepsi, she flounced over to the phone, poured her Pepsi into a glass and dialled.

The young lady grabbed a remote. The TV fizzed into life. She surfed through the channels. MTV, CNN, BBC World, Sky News, then paused after finding the VIVA channels. Eurythmics’ ‘Sweat Dreams’. Great song! Great video!

“Hi! Yeah, this is Donna Lowe from ‘Stoosh’ magazine. Can I speak to the P.R. department? Marion. Marion Schleinitz, please? Sure, I’ll hold,” she said, head bouncing in time with music. “Hi, Marion! It’s Donna. Do you know what time the Three In Moscow interview can start?” she asked, untangling the phone cable before lighting her tenth cigarette of the day.

Not being able to find an ashtray in the room -well, she was on a non-smoking floor- she made do with her empty can.

It was now just after midday and time was slipping by. She had a return ticket booked on the seven thirty, evening shuttle from Tegel which she had to catch for London if she wasn’t to miss the match between Chelsea and Manchester United. It was the battle between two of the giants of the Euroleague. Donna Lowe was an avid Chelsea fan with an encyclopaedic knowledge of her club. The kick off was scheduled for nine thirty that evening. The second match of a ‘Super Monday’ football evening, the first game being between Juventus and Real Madrid.

Marion Schleinitz consulted her daily organiser. “Well, the guys have to inspect the production sound stage at around two o’clock. Then a meeting with PK, their manager. Live satellite interview with Sky News, erm…so probably around four thirty, would that be alright for you?” enquired the Public Relations lady from MBG records.

“Sure, that’ll be fine,” lied Donna. It would have to be. The chance to interview Henry Roberts, aka Dink, vocalist from the world’s biggest rock band, Three In Moscow, was too big a coup to give up. Even for Chelsea FC.

“Do you know where the production rehearsals are being held?” asked the PR lady.

“Kreutzberg. Near the open air market on Blücher Strasse.”

“That’s right. How did you know that? No one is supposed to know exactly where they are. Security is paramount, Ms Lowe. Please don’t divulge that address to anyone. okay? I’m sure you’re aware of the death threats we still get.” Marion’s nose was severely put out of joint, having realised security had been breached.

TIM had been the object of several death threats and the press was awash with stories concerning the continuation of their world tour. Where they were emanating from was anyone’s guess. The tabloids could take their pick from a number of  half-truths which have always been omnipresent in the music business.

Certainly, there was more than a hint of factuality in the story regarding a former member, who was booted out of the previous incarnation of Three In Moscow and never received credit or, more importantly, royalties for the first two big hits TIM had when they started to break bigtime. Plenty of people could verify that he had a major role in co-writing at least half a dozen of their songs. He just refused to take them to court. No one knew why. He just couldn’t be bothered to sue.

There was another source of aggrievement. God.

A track called “Would You Believe?” on their latest album was decried as “little more than atheistic claptrap,” by the ultra right wing in America. “This feeble attempt at music is  designed to corrupt our youth and turn them against our lord,” they would prattle on. Not realising that it was they themselves turning any wavering soul against the church.

The Christian fundamentalists had had a field day since the event now known simply as  ‘The Brink’, and recruitment was marginally increasing. However, the Crimplene suits, the Brylcream hair, the Sensodyne smile, the chequebook oratory, all failed to persuade the Three In Moscow fans to turn their backs on their heroes.

TIM’s European leg had been put back by six weeks because of difficulties with the stage set encountered in the States. Then the London Astoria debacle. TIM had requested two months postponement of the German dates to iron out the ongoing problems with the stage set. They got what they wanted. They always got what they wanted. Hence Donna Lowe’s presence in Berlin.

“I’ll be as discreet as the next man, or woman,” Donna continued. “Just make sure that I get the interview with Dink. Bye.” Donna hung up the phone, started to undress and headed for the shower.
Clothes. Make-up. Hair. She wanted to be absolutely perfect.

By three o’clock she felt ready. Donna ordered a cab at reception. She was nervous. Who wouldn’t be?, she thought to herself.

Dink, the singer with TIM was the most sought after personality in the entertainment world.

She’d casually mentioned her ambition about interviewing Dink to her mother Patricia, over dinner at her mum’s favourite restaurant, the Park Lane Nobu a month earlier. They’d met to discuss the Christmas arrangements. Although Patricia lived in Oxford and Donna had a townhouse in Fulham, they saw each other almost every week. Patricia had raised Donna alone and she idolised her beautiful, bright daughter.

Within a fortnight of the dinner at Nobu, her editor informed her that she had been granted an audience with Dink. Donna wanted so badly to find out how, and why, she had become the chosen one, but in the end she held her tongue and simply basked in the glory of being the only western journalist to be allowed to speak to the vocalist with TIM for nearly two years.

She got into the cab. All the modern traffic devices, such as remote traffic light sensors for the buses, pressure pads at certain intersections, were rendered totally useless after a few inches of snow. Tail backs, accidents, the occasional case of road rage. Perfect entertainment for the passenger of a taxi. If that passenger wasn’t in a hurry.

So after battling her way through Berlin traffic and having endured the driver’s Turkish dance music blaring out of the Blaupunkt, she arrived at the address she’d been given. Donna was stopped at the main entrance to a huge warehouse.

Her press pass was inspected  by a surly security guy with no neck and acne. His feather cut hair style, (still popular with many Germans, especially those from the old ‘East’ Germany), his satin padded jacket, oversize ski pants and array of bulky rings adorning chubby, powerful fingers made her cringe inwardly. The guard looked her up and down and after a moment he tilted his head sidewards and said the first word he’d uttered for more than two hours. “Okay.” She could smell brandy on his steamy breath. A glance behind him confirmed her suspicions. There was a thermal flask placed on one of the window ledges, amidst the hard, frost covered piles of antique pigeon droppings.

Donna opened the large metal door which seemed to be the only entrance to the front of the building, closed it with a loud, reverberating boom and walked down a cold, dimly lit corridor which led her to two brown hessian sheets hung over the makeshift entrance into the inner sanctum of the sound stage. She parted them. “Jesus H. Christ!” she whispered. What was outwardly a large derelict looking warehouse had been transformed into an amazing temple of rock ‘n’ roll excess.

She’d arrived just in time to hear Pete Ellory, the TIM tour manager, thanking the road crew over the PA system.

The problems encountered Stateside seemed to have sorted themselves out and the atmosphere was jovial. Confident. The sound guy, Eddie, was walking around the huge sound system checking the position of the ‘top end’ speakers.

Still, there was no sign of the group. Just drum roadie, Dikka Jones, keyboard tech Pete Carr, and guitar tech ‘Teabag’ fooling around on stage. One of the things that made this crew so good was their ability to do the all-important sound check in place of their bosses. All the crew were good musicians and knew exactly what their respective bosses required, vis-a-vis monitor set-up, lighting preference and the like.
Three In Moscow simply turned up, played, did the encore, signed a few autographs, then left for the nearest party or club. No nonsense.

Ellory noticed Donna, came down off the stage and bounded towards her enthusiastically, like a gun dog trying to please it’s master.

Pete Ellory was in his early thirties and had been with the group from the start.

They had formed in Cambridge. Not at Cambridge, as some of the press had misleadingly written, they just happened to live there. Ellory had been their first roadie and was responsible for driving the band and their gear around the pubs and clubs in the area. Those early days were good fun. Trying to squeeze recording time out of studio owners for peanuts. Going from pub to pub playing their infectious brand of well played original material. They’d hopped on the industry bandwagon which was rolling away from all the drum loop, computer assisted keyboard dross, towards a more intelligent style of music.

Not the old ‘Brit Pop’ sound, with droning guitars and equally droning vocals with juvenile drum patterns. These were optimistic, up beat, well played songs.

Several bands had secured major record deals with this new genre, but it was soon apparent that Three In Moscow were way ahead on all fronts. Great songs. Good musicianship. Good production. And Dink.
They’re first single was a huge success. ‘Violets and Violins’ had been lifted from their debut album, ‘First Past The Post” and was hailed as the possible beginning of a ‘new music revolution’. The reviews read like their mothers had written them.

The tricky ‘second album syndrome’ was feared, but instead, ‘Kelvin Grove’ followed and outsold the first album by several millions. These were no ‘one hit wonders’. Three In Moscow were here to stay. Internet sales through the MP3 and MP4 outlets alone were in the millions.

“Hi! I’m Pete, Three In Moscow’s tour manager,” he gasped.

“Hello, I’m…”

“Donna Lowe, I know. Marion phoned. How the fuck did you get this interview? Dink’s not the most…er…accessible guy in the world when it comes to European journalists, you know,” said Ellory in his moany whine.

“Well, must be my good luck. I’ve no idea whatsoever why. I just want the story. Pure and simple. Job satisfaction and all that.” She didn’t like him. Donna was usually right in her initial opinion of a person, and she definitely didn’t like him. He reminded of her of a praying mantis with dandruff. All bug-eyes and exaggerated arm movements.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Dink is in his dressing room with PK at the moment. Wait here and I’ll find out where he wants to do it… the interview that is, okay?” And with that, he slid away towards a corner of the cavernous warehouse, specially converted for TIM’s rehearsals. Not two minutes later, he appeared from one of several caravans which were being used as makeshift dressing rooms with the man.

Dink was the rock star of his era. Just under two meters tall, short tousled black hair, green eyes, three diamond studs in his right ear, one gold earring in his left. High, perfectly shaped cheek bones enveloping a cute pointy nose. Not Charles Atlas, but muscular in appearance, he had created the image which had been imitated by dozens of front men all over the world, hoping to catch a record company’s eye.

“Dink, this is Donna,” and with that perfunctory introduction Pete Ellory took his leave.

“Hi! Nice to meet you,” he grinned.

She breathed in. Cologne. Expensive cologne. She’d smelt it before, but couldn’t remember where. “Well, Donna. I read the piece you did on Steely Dan before we released ‘Green Earrings’. I thought it was great. I suppose you know we like Steely Dan?” His eyes flashed, like a switchblade in the moonlight.

“No, not really,” replied Donna, too quickly. She’d been rumbled. Embarrassingly so. She’d done a retrospective article on Steely Dan, the American group renowned for their musicianship and sometimes abstract lyrics. She knew he knew. “Well…yeah, I heard you were a fan of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker,” she admitted.

Donna had an inside tip-off that ‘Green Earrings’ was to be TIM’s new single and she thought there might be some valuable Brownie points accrued if someone could go through the archives and gently point out the article to Dink. She thought it was one of the reasons he’d condescended to do the interview. In fact, it had nothing to do with it.

“Mmm, I think there’s more to you than meets my eye, Donna. Come on, let’s have a drink,” said the singer. He smiled, showing off his cute dimples and taking the starstruck reporter by the hand, he led her to the hospitality tent set up behind the mixing console.

The mixing desk was one of the new state-of-the-art Soundcraft PMD 8000 series. Fully computerized, digitally linked with total MIDI linked com ports. Next to the desk was the lighting console. It was about the size of Donna’s living room, but more expensive.

Two operators were checking the focus-rites on stage left and speaking via remote microphone to the ‘trogs’, the lighting designer’s stage crew. This was a big organization.

She began to notice the place had a rather pleasant odour of the new, low-irritant smoke pellets, which had replaced the old, throat-rasping, oil based smoke machines. This gave the entire warehouse a smell not unlike joss-sticks.

Dink watched her as she took in the enormity of the surroundings and the size of the workforce needed to put Three In Moscow on-stage. Ms. Lowe was trying to appear totally nonplussed, but Dink could tell she was impressed. He’d heard Donna Lowe was impossible to get, but he fancied his chances. After all he was the singer. They entered the tent.

“Champagne, Donna?” he enquired, sliding the sleeves of his black, Roz Taylor designed shirt up to his elbows, exposing his apricot coloured skin and numerous Krakow silver bangles. The shirt was worn ‘tails out’ over a pair of equally black Armani pants. A pair of plain biker boots. He looked spectacular. She could hardly take her eyes off him. When she did manage to, it was to survey the grandiose catering on hand. Every drink known to man seemed to be on offer. The tent was a hangover waiting to happen.

“Yes. That’s fine, Dink. Er, are we doing the interview here or in the dressing room?”

“Oh, the ‘dressing room’! A bloody caravan!” he snorted, disdainfully. “Do you want to do an interview in a caravan, Donna? It’s not very inspiring is it? No. I think we can do something a little better than that. What about meeting me for supper at my favourite restaurant?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “How does ‘L’Olivio’ at nine thirty sound? Have you been there?” Dink was in full flow. ‘L’Olivio’ was one of the most chic restaurants in Berlin. And ridiculously expensive.

“Well, I have a shuttle back to London at seven thirty, so I have to be quick. But. I would like to do a serious piece on you and the guys,” she said. She was being chatted up massively. She liked it on one hand, while feeling a little cheap on the other.

However, Donna thought she could handle the situation. Get the article sorted, play him along and get the hell out. Later, there’d be time to give him a full guided tour of her body, but never mix work and pleasure, even if it was Dink from Three In Moscow.

“What’s so important in London? Surely it can wait,” blurted Dink, pouring another glass of Veuve Cliquot. He wasn’t used to being rejected like this, but strangely the more she resisted his advances the more intriguing he found this young reporter.

“Well, I don’t want to have a ‘wam-bam thank-you mam’ interview. I think verbal foreplay is so important… don’t you?” Donna pouted. She thought she had him. He was getting  drawn into a heavy flirting contest, both of them old hands at the game.

“Oh, sure. I think foreplay is very important….” At that moment two minions barged into the marquee to see what goodies they could abscond with. Dink scowled towards them and they turned on their heels. “But I can’t possibly miss dinner with the president of  MBG,” he continued. “You sure you won’t change your mind? ‘L’Olivio’ with someone else picking up the tab? Should be one hell of an evening and of course you’d be my special guest.” He looked at her with those famous doe eyes and he thought he’d won.

“Nah. Let’s do it in the caravan…the interview that is,” smiled Donna.

“I don’t think so. ‘L’Olivio’, my hotel room, anywhere but a fucking caravan.” He was playing ‘pop star’ and that told Donna she nearly had him at checkmate. They always pulled rank when they couldn’t get their own way. So fucking typical, she thought. She wanted this interview, but not in exchange for being treated like a sperm receptacle. She tried another tack. Another gambit. If worst came to the worst, she would have to forego the Chelsea game after all.

“Look, Dink. I know you don’t give interviews every fucking day,” she said putting her empty glass down on a table and playing with one of the roses on display next to the assortment of cheeses and cold cuts. The life of a rock star. Veuve, yellow roses, the finest wines and food. Tough life. But now she had to show him she wasn´t some cheap groupie to be used and thrown away like a used tissue. No. Donna Lowe was smarter than that.

The mutual attraction was evident and she could play hard to get. “But I don’t appreciate being fucked around either…”

“Language, young lady!” mocked Dink and he smiled at her with that mouth. “Let’s compromise. I’m sure we can meet at a later date and do a proper interview…foreplay and all. What about the weekend after next in London. You get the exclusive, I get to know you a lot better. Everybody’s happy.” The tension eased noticeably. An honourable draw.

“Hmm…London? Ten days? It makes my deadline look tighter than I’d wish, but after all… shit, what the hell. It’s a date…”

“It’s not a date, Donna,” countered Dink. “Besides, I love a tight deadline,” he whispered, nuzzling his mouth to her ears.

“Oh! Sorry! Of course it’s not a date,” said the reporter sarcastically. She placed the glass down on the table and opened her small, elegant bag and withdrew her electronic organiser in readiness. “Okay, let’s see…the 22nd. Yep. That’s fine…” Dink turned away from her and went to leave through the large plastic flaps of the tent.

He had his back to her when he said, “Good. That’s settled. I’ll have Pete rearrange the interview for London. The gig’s not ‘til Saturday night.” He turned and gave her his eyes. Both barrels. “We’ll have a ball. I hope you like Mexican.” And with that the deal was done.

Either side could claim victory in reporting back to their cronies. Dink could report back to the rest of the guys that he was going to “fuck the living shit” out of Donna Lowe once they were in London, and she in turn could justify the day’s expenses to her editor,  pleading it was Dink’s idea to postpone. “ It’s better for the article! More in-depth.”  Blah, blah, blah. The rock business. It was always thus.
Donna Lowe and Dink met in London.

They ate Mexican.

They went back to Dink’s hotel room.

They did the interview.

They dropped a couple of ‘4’s and adjourned to the bedroom.

They made love. Dink offered Donna another ‘4’.

He dropped one at the same time.

They began to make love again.

Then it all went horribly pear shaped.

“Oh, no, no, nooo!” cried Donna. She was kneeling on all fours as Dink took her from behind. With his Mount Rushmore sized ego, he naturally assumed the girl was in the full throes of orgasm, when she suddenly fell face forward onto the pillows. The girl who had been lively and atheletic for over an hour, suddenly seemed limp and lifeless. Dink was not best pleased.

“Move back, sweetheart. Back, Donna! Donna! What’s wrong?” He turned her over. A trickle of vomit oozed from the right corner of her mouth. Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head. He panicked.
“Donna!” Dink jumped off the bed, knocking over a full bottle of beer on the floor in the process, his penis still erect. Fuck!

He stretched her out on her stomach, placed her arms by her side and turned her head to face the sliding doors which led to the terrace. Donna Lowe was dead.

“Fuck this for a can of piss!” he yelled, grabbing the phone and dialling Pete Ellory’s room. He looked round for her handbag. The room appeared to be closing in on him.

The TV was pulsing out Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s ‘Relax’ on the MTV channel.

The irony was totally lost on him.

He’d dimmed the lights and the flashing of the video only seemed to confuse him more.

That’s an idea! he thought. Maybe there was an epilepsy notification card in her purse. The evening was turning into a nightmare. The last ‘4’ he’d dropped was taking effect, so his mind was starting to clear.
“Pete! Get up here, now!” he snapped and hung up.

How was this going to look in the papers? ‘Award winning journalist found dead in rock star’s room,’  he imagined the tabloid headlines.

Minutes later Ellory arrived. “What’s fucking up? I was half asleep…” he began to protest.
“I’ll tell you what’s up,” hissed Dink, grabbing him by the front of his vest and yanking him into the lounge room before slamming the door behind them. “That’s what’s fucking up!” he yelled, pointing at the body lying on the bed. Ellory could just about see the open eyes and vomit smeared mouth and chin of the naked girl through the dimness of the bedroom.

“Oh, Jesus.” Sometimes Ellory had a marvellous economy with words.

“Yes. Too fucking right, Pete. She’s OD’d or something,” moaned the rock star, now with head in hands. He’d grabbed a towel, thrown it around his waist and was sat on the chair near the writing desk.
After a brief pause, Dink jumped up and carefully searched through Donna’s belongings.

Nothing.

Ellory ran into the bathroom and looked through Donna’s make-up bag, hoping to find a syringe. Anything to explain the disaster unfurling before them.

Nothing.

He walked back into the bedroom. The rock star was stood in front of the window, hands clasped behind his head.

“We’ll have to call the cops, Dink,” said Pete resignedly.

“Fuck! This is great, just magic! The bitch is dead, I’m fucking buzzing like a motherfucker and you want to call plod! Where did you get that shit from anyway? Fucking Battersea Dog’s Home?” he said, turning to face the tour manager.

“Shut the fuck up! Now! Do you understand? Now!” Ellory’s veins in his skinny neck were bulging. He’d put up with crap from Dink for years, but now wasn’t the time to toady and kowtow to the man paying his wages. He realised that if Dink went down, so did everyone around him.

No Dink. No Three In Moscow. They’d be history. Pete Ellory didn’t like that idea. “Look boss,” he said, gently. “Don’t blame me. My man does the best gear in London. Always has done. We’ve got to call the cops. Unless you’ve got any other suggestions?”

“Alright, Pete. You’re the expert at clearing up messes. Work something out. Please. I feel like a…” and he paused to search for the right word. He couldn’t find one. Ellory had the perfect one in mind, but bit his tongue. “This isn’t my fault, but you can bet your life the press is going to have a fucking field-day with this,” he said walking around the foot of the bed, gesticulating towards the body.

Just because he’d plied her with booze, given her two tabs of ‘4’ and intended ‘shag the shit’ out of Donna all night, didn’t warrant the singer feeling remotely responsible. All he wanted was for her to be out of his room, the whole thing cleared up, so he could carry on with his perfect life, as though nothing had happened.

“Alright! Alright!” yelled Ellory. “I’ll make some calls…but no guarantees!”

“Thanks, Pete,” sighed Dink. He wandered back to the full length windows and peered out over the rooftops and shopfronts of suburban Knightsbridge, then briefly turned and glanced at the body of the beautiful Ms. Lowe. Then, and only then, the panic started to metamorphosise into the more uncomfortable feeling of guilt. Whether or not Ellory heard him, Dink muttered in his direction. “I owe you, Pete.”

The singer ruffled his hair and tried to compose himself. “Just say…er…just say we didn’t know she was high or anything. She came here to do an interview and threw herself at me. Before I knew what was happening we were in bed screwing.”

Bastard, thought Ellory. The tour manager had supplied the ‘4’ to Dink, and his now deceased bedmate, with enough of the drug to last a month. If the police became interested in the whereabouts of the supplier, Ellory wondered how long the pop star would take to spill his guts.

He picked up the phone while Dink raced around the rooms, picking up half drunk bottles of champagne and beer, pouring the remains down the sink and flushing the remaining tabs of ‘4’ down the en suite toilet bowl.

Job done, he sat on the settee which adorned the long wall of his suite. A print of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ was above his head. Pete Ellory looked over from the phone table and noticed the appropriate juxtaposition. This is gonna cost you, mate, he thought as he asked the duty officer at Knightsbridge police station to send someone around immediately. Once that conversation was over, he dialled another number and talked in hushed tones to someone at New Scotland Yard.

Dink stared at her through the bedroom’s large, open doors. He couldn’t understand. He’d done exactly the same drugs as her and was fine. What’s going on? Maybe the death threats. Fuck knows.

The police arrived. So did the coroner’s wagon. It drove Donna’s body away to the morgue. They took statements from Pete Ellory, who swore the girl was fine when he last saw her and Dink together. The interviewing copper was an old friend of the tour manager, so the atmosphere was as relaxed as you could get under the circumstances.

Dink’s statement said basically the same thing. A concoction of fact, half truths and downright lies to corroborate each other’s desperate stories.

They were having dinner, one thing led to another, they ended up in bed. All true. And very believable. The post mortem recorded finding quantities of ‘4’ in her blood, but the police obviously couldn’t link that with Dink. After all, ‘4’ was the most popular drug in the world. Readily available, anywhere.

The press had a feeding frenzy for a week or so and then the whole thing faded into fish wrap paper, quietly.

Three In Moscow went ahead with their London gigs at the Wembley Arena, dedicating the Wednesday night show to the memory of Donna Lowe, “our good friend.”

But it didn’t go quietly with Donna’s mother.

Not just her mother, but more sinisterly, a man sat behind a desk. He was not a happy man. And that meant trouble.

There had been a whispering campaign regarding the exact identity of Donna’s father all through her short life. Surely now he’d show his face. The funeral, perhaps. But it wasn’t to be.

Patricia had decided on a proper funeral. No quick cremation for her beloved Donna. The ceremony took place at the family grave, in Richmond-Upon-Thames.

The mourners included Patricia, her family and a few of Donna’s close friends. They stood around the freshly dug grave under umbrellas, dressed in the customary black. Sleet slammed into their tear stained faces. Crows sat on bare branches, their mournful squawks penetrating the cold air. Patricia had to be held up by two of her cousins. Such was her grief, she seemed to be on the verge of fainting.

Whilst sobs from the Richmond gathering rose into the heavens, tears from a man fell onto an elegant, leather framed blotting pad.

The father wasn’t there. He had planned his response already.