The Folksinger 2013

By Mike Scantlebury

Vlad Hugg is a new pop idol. He looks good, sounds good, and writes his own songs. Young girls love him. Boys want to be him. The sales of acoustic guitars have shot up. Why, it looks so simple. Just write a few catchy songs, strum your guitar and you too can be a hero. Well, Vlad Hugg may be a solo performer, but he has an army behind him, a veritable corporation of lawyers, guides, trainers, P.R. people and secretaries. Strangely, most of them appear to be Russian. This is what has attracted the attention of Melia and the Unit. Her boss has alerted her to a potential problem. Young Vlad may be a spy. But he seems so innocent! So, why do people around keep dying, mostly in strange circumstances? Then, when someone tries to kill Vlad, things really get interesting. Who is trying to settle what scores? Does it really go back to the singer's origins in Salford, the town where Melia's cousin was born. Is there a possible link? And are they both in danger?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244405267

Book preview

The Folksinger 2013

THE FOLKSINGER  2013

A Romantic Crime Fiction Thriller

by

Mike Scantlebury

(The scurriller of Salford)

The 'Amelia Hartliss Mysteries': Book 11

Copyright 2013 by Mike Scantlebury

Standard Copyright applies, which means that if you steal any words from this author (or me), I can guarantee Amelia Hartliss will come round round to your house and knock on your door-knocker till you give it up. (She's good at things like that.)

Cover photo: Phil Ochs, 1963. c. Kenneth Bowser

This title was written as part of 'National Novel Writing Month', November 2013, and was originally published in parts, as it was being written.

There are plenty of other books by the same author with the same heroine. Just wait until you get to the end of this one, and you'll find a full list.

Whoopee

CHAPTER ONE:   Breaking Down

The young folksinger came out confidently onto the stage to thunderous applause and faced his devoted audience.

It was the Bridgewater Hall in the middle of Manchester, not the biggest venue in the city, but the entertainer's management had chosen well: it was big enough to cause a stir in the music scene of the town - renowned for its huge variety of musical talent - and small enough to ensure it was completely sold out, full.

And the fans went wild. Vlad Hugg was young, good-looking, tall and rangy, with a ready smile and a quick wit. He spoke well at Press Conferences and he sang well on stage, with a raspy voice and an intimate edge. He made the girls swoon, and want to mother him. The boys, seeing the effect he had, wanted to be him. Sales of acoustic guitars had soared. After all, it looked so simple: buy a cheap guitar, write some catchy songs, and start singing, on street corners, if necessary.

You too could be a Folk Singer. Why not?

Melia and Liv were sitting in the middle of the first balcony, directly in front of the stage. They had a great view. Liv had scored them a couple of free tickets, seeing as how she had been commissioned to write the guy's 'official' biography. Having finished her postgraduate course at Salford University, she had been casting around for employment of some sort. She was lucky - they came to her, and the money was great. She still didn't see why they thought she could write - but maybe it was the local connection. She lived in Swinton, where the young singer came from, and though she was a little older than him, she could remember his older brother from school.

Melia was there on business, (although she told Liv it was her 'night off'). Well, she didn't want to worry her cousin. Liv knew that she worked for the British Security Services, based here in Manchester, and working out of North West Regional Office, covering the whole of the north of England. Maybe later she would explain her reasons for wanting to come.

Meanwhile, she could sit back and enjoy the music.

Melia like folk music. She blamed Mickey for that. For as long as she could remember, as long as she had known him and considered him a 'boyfriend', he had played the same kind of stuff on his stereo at home, and even in the days of tapes and cassettes, had that kind of music in his car. Especially Jimmy Hurlin. That was Mickey's obsession: he practically worshipped the guy. Okay, Jimmy was big in the 1970s, but he'd disappeared from public view by the time Mickey came to know his music. Was he that special?

Jim was a nice man, though, Melia was thinking. She knew that. A few months previously she had come to this same place, the Bridgewater Hall, and witnessed Jimmy Hurlin's comeback tour. In fact, she had been on hand to rescue him from kidnapping. She was now his friend, on the internet at least. Mickey was so jealous.

Vlad Hugg reminded her of the older man. Maybe the kid had studied Jimmy Hurlin songs, learned from them. He had obviously copied the previous singer's taste in clothes - simple, rough, uncreased and dowdy - and he had copied something of his attitude - confident, cocky, belligerent.

Vlad Hugg started crying.

Melia was stunned. He had looked so happy! Glad to be on tour, to arrive in Manchester, so close to his home town. Greeting a loyal, local crowd, he had seemed as cheerful as any entertainer ever was. Then he started singing, strumming his big guitar and launching into one of his more well-known numbers. It got a great reception; the applause was enormous. He didn't have to win over this audience - they were with him all the way.

So why the trouble?

Melia stole a glance at her cousin, but Liv was staring at the stage in disbelief. Her eyes were bulging and she seemed to be shaking her head from side to side. She couldn't believe what was happening!

Nor could many. When the singer stopped singing, people got concerned. There were murmurs from the crowd, expressions of support, sympathy. Some called out. Looking round, Melia could see that some of the girls had started crying too. What was going on? Was it the song? Was it a sad story?

As the grumbling grew, untidy looking stage hands came on and started helping the star off the stage. They carried his guitar and someone put an arm around his quaking shoulders. There was a roar from the crowd and some people clapped. There were shouts: they wanted him back. Girls yelled their fears and worries.

A man in a white suit hurried from the back of the stage and approached the microphone. A spokesperson? His manager? He started apologising, said that Vlad wasn't 'feeling well', and hoped he would be back soon. He begged people to be patient. Turning, he gave a sign and music started up, the young singer's latest album, booming gently from the speakers. He left people listening to that, and withdrew from any further communication. He departed the stage.

Melia grabbed Liv's arm.

What? she said. Liv knew more about this guy, did she understand what had just happened?

All around them, people were asking the same questions. Young people, old people. It was mostly couples, but it looked like some kids had brought their parents. That was the sort of entertainer he was, appealing to the whole family. He was lively, wholesome and tantalisingly rebellious. A handsome young man, he didn't offend anyone.

You know something, Melia said accusingly. Liv was looking guilty. Had they planned this?

No, she replied immediately. It's not that. It's -

Slowly, she set out her worries. Jimmy Hurlin had done the same thing as Vlad, years before.

Melia gasped. Well, she knew that the singer had had a breakdown in the '70s, left England and gone to live in America for many years. He came back occassionally, mostly incognito, playing a few clubs and Festivals, but then he'd embarked on a countrywide tour this year - that's why Melia had seen him. He was older, greyer, but still sang and played well, and had a loyal following, even after all those years. The Bridgewater Hall had been full for him too.

Can we get backstage? Melia demanded, wanting to take some action.

Liv reached into her purse and brought out two dog-eared tickets. Back Stage Passes, she said.

Of course, she was practically an employee. They would want her at the party, afterwards.

But I don't know how to get in there! she wailed.

Melia did. When she had been attending the Jimmy Hurlin concert, she had run into several young people she used to mentor, people who had secured jobs with the Security company that organised all the interference for events. They'd shown her round, and even taken her backstage, (which was useful when the hostage taker arrived for Jimmy Hurlin). But yes, she knew her way around. She could get to the right door: Liv's passes might get them through it.

It didn't.

Melia threaded her way to the back of the balcony, leading Liv down the stairs and up the side gangway of the ground floor, along the right hand side of the stalls. Nobody else was moving. They'd been given the impression that this was a temporary hitch, and their star might return. Even though time was passing, and they were fussing and worried, most hadn't actually left their seats. They were waiting for more information.

Melia took them around the side of the stage. There were Security guys in black uniforms all around, but she boldly stepped up to the first one and presented Liv's Back Stage Passes.

That's not good at the moment, one of the older ones told her.

Melia was frustrated. She didn't recognise the kid, which wasn't helping, and some of the bouncers seemed as confused and distraught as the audience.

It's for the after party, Liv admitted.

The man nodded. He wasn't being aggressive, but he had his job to do.

We've been told to block the door for now, he said. Look, Ladies, I don't know what the hell is going on, but there's twenty kinds of confusion back there. You're better off not being involved.

Melia nodded. She wasn't going to make a scene. You've got your orders, she agreed, knowing what that felt like.

Yeah, Mr Colouski was definite. 'No visitors. Not yet.' That's what he told me, personally.

Melia turned away, taking Liv's arm.

Her cousin was looking even more upset than before. She seemed agitated, out of sorts.

This is crazy, Melia, she hissed.

She pulled her cousin into a corner, against the side wall. She stared at her.

He called him 'Colouski', she said, tension in her face. That's not the name of Vlad Hugg's manager. It's the name of Jimmy Hurlin's manager, back in the 1970s!

Two hours later, the girls were back at Liv's house, in Swinton.

They realised they might as well leave. There had been several announcements, several 'updates', but gradually, after a while, everyone got the message: Vlad Hugg wasn't coming back.

People started drifting away, and the hall emptied, slowly. There was plenty of grumbling, complaining, with people realising that they had spent a lot of money to get there and hadn't had their money's worth. Still, a man in the foyer was handing out business cards. Email this address, he said, and we'll refund you everything you've spent.

It wasn't much compensation. People were really worried for the young singer: they wanted to hear he was all right.

Melia had parked her car under GMex, the big exhibition centre. Liv had come into town on the train - it was a direct line from Swinton. She thought she'd be going the same way back. Still, she was glad that her cousin had more forethought; ready for anything, that was Melia. A good woman to have with you in a crisis.

Melia was more laid-back about everything. She had seen men shot, hanged and tortured: why would a few tears faze her? It was upsetting for the dedicated fans, and probably disconcerting for Liv, who was now part of the 'Vlad Hugg bandwagon', with her literary commission. But it wasn't in doubt, was it? If anything, tonight's drama simply gave the authoress more to write about. She could start with this crisis, maybe. It would be a good opening chapter.

I need a drink, Liv said, heading for the kitchen.

She lived in a simple, semi-detached house, that had once been her childhood home. When her father died, he left it to his two children, so Liv stayed on. Her younger brother, Stan, was less often there; he had a steady girlfriend, or so he said, and spent many nights, and days, at her house. Liv knew little about her; she lived in Clifton, she said, under the impression that the girl was nice, but a little dim, not contributing much to the onward march of British society.

Stan, on the other hand, was on course to win a Nobel Prize one day. His contributions to the science of computer security were earning him international attention. He'd even been given a part-time commission in Melia's Unit, much to her surprise. She was a little embarrassed to have her kid cousin dropping in to Regional Office on an occassional basis. Luckily, he could do most of his work from home - or someone else's 'home'. All he needed was his laptop and an internet connection, he told her. He was happy that the government was paying his girlfriend's phone bill. He felt he was helping support her.

Liv too, was computer literate.

Melia looked at the set-up in Liv's front room, the forward part of the through-lounge. There was a computer on the side table, but something else: a projector. Liv came back in the room, bottle of red wine in hand, and fired up the machine. Her computer desktop was projected onto the side wall, huge and easy to read.

Vlad's manager is paying, Liv said, off-hand. She savoured the wine, pouring a glass for each of them. They were paying for this too, she observed ironically. It was good wine. Liv had good tastebuds, Melia had always known that.

Liv explained: Most of my research is on-line. I find it easier to sit on the couch there, glass of wine and keyboard on lap, and look at the results on the wall, large size. It's relaxing.

She encouraged Melia to sit beside her on the sofa. They had a glass of wine each, and Liv started tapping keys.

What's that? Melia asked, as pictures flipped across the screen.

Liv stopped, rewound. I've been sorting family snaps, Liv said, then lingered.

There were photos of her, her father and her brother. Then, occassionally, pictures of Melia with them. Melia had always lived in Manchester, across the river and ten miles away, but she spent many school holidays with her cousins. It was fascinating to see how all of them had changed over the years, matured.

Damn, we were good-looking teenagers, Melia said, feeling her age, now she was thirty.

It was true; Liv and Melia were a formidable pair of girls, pretty, good hair, good figures. When they'd gone out on the prowl, in their more lively twenties, they could attract any man they wanted.

Liv sniffed. She didn't have a boyfriend right then. In fact, she hadn't been in a relationship since her marriage to the Polish man split up. It was dreadful: he went back to Poland, ended up in jail, and died there. Melia had to help her get over that.

Melia, for her part, felt loved and secure in her relationship to Mickey. The only problem was that she seldom saw him - he was away on assignment so often. Heck, they were all getting old. It was about time he gave up the heroics and volunteered for tasks that were more sedate and more appropriate to his age group.

Pornography filled the screen.

What now? Melia yelled.

Liv looked embarrased, again. This is the reason that I got the job, she explained. Someone, no one knew who, had written a series of short novels about sexual shenanigans at Salford University, where Liv had been studying. After some investigation, it emerged that the author was none other than one of the younger students that Liv had mentored while on her Postgraduate course. Melia helped her find that out. No one believed them. The problem was that the escapades described mostly happened to a girl called 'Liv'. Enthusiastic readers assumed that it was all autogiographical. It was one of the things that made it so exciting, it seemed so illicit. The buzz had caused sales of the e-books to soar. Vlad Hugg's management noticed, and offered Liv the job of writing his life story. After all, she had two qualifications: she was local, and knew the Hugg family. Second, she was a proven and successful author. She needed the money. How could she confess they were wrong?

Liv reached over to a side table and picked up a dog-eared paperback. It was called 'The Folksinger'. It's a novel, Liv said, published 1974. It's the only book I know about folk singing, Liv said. I'm using it as a model; I'm copying the style.

The author was a man called David Helpner. Why don't you go and talk to him, Melia suggested.

Liv gave a strange look. He moved to Russia in the late '70s, she said flatly.

She went on to show Melia some of her research. Newspaper headlines flashed up onto the screen.

I collected this lot from around the time, she told her cousin. Melia gaped; yes, it was all there.

'Singer flees to USA', one headline shouted. Then, backing up, 'Hurlin breaks down', it said. There was a photo, Jimmy Hurlin being helped from the stage of the Royal Albert Hall in London. Melia gasped, a strange feeling of deja vu creeping over her. The picture could have been taken that night,