Chapter Twenty-Four

The next day Cassie pushed open the door of Honest Bob's vinyl store, and felt her stomach swoop. Her mother Kath had worked for Bob, the guy who owned the place, when she'd been just nineteen, before she'd met Callum and long before Cassie was born. Seven years later she was dead – murdered. The last time Cassie had been here she'd been trying to find out the truth about her mum's death; at least this time she was only here to get intel about the music industry.

In the café area she found Bob standing behind the coffee machine. ‘Hello, stranger,' he said, giving her a lingering up-and-down look that made her feel like a prize cow getting sized up at market. Creep .

Anyone else would've got her death stare on full beam but since she was here to pick his brains, she pasted on a girly smile.

‘I'm just making an espresso,' he said. ‘Want one?'

‘Thanks.' She smiled, going over to the corner table he indicated.

Guys of that generation seemed to think that women spent their lives craving the attentions of any male – even a fossilised old rocker like Bob, with his greasy-looking steel-grey hair scraped back in a ponytail. She'd read once that the euphemism for this unwanted attention was gallantry . It creeped her out.

In Camden's musical heyday, Bob's shop had been legendary: a magnet for punks, post-punks and goths, on the hunt for some rare import from New York, or even a glimpse of some famous musician. Her dad, who had once played in a band himself, never stopped boasting how he'd once chatted to Joe Strummer here in the nineties. The place had somehow survived the area's gentrification long enough to benefit from the resurgence of vinyl among a new generation.

Since she was last here a graffiti-style neon mural of Amy Winehouse had been painted on the wall – instantly recognisable from her trademark beehive and batwing eyeliner. As Cassie watched, a blonde-haired girl stepped in front of it with her boyfriend to snap a selfie – Scandinavians, going by their overheard chat. She understood the impulse to pay homage to a talent – but it was hard to escape the feeling that Amy the person was gone, leaving behind Amy the brand. A fate that no doubt awaited Bronte too.

As Bob arrived with their coffees, he followed her gaze. ‘Up until the nineties we used to get a few tourists, but nine out of ten of the customers back then were hard core musos. Now thanks to Amy, it's the other way round.' He leaned towards her confidingly. ‘I'm not complaining. The pilgrims will pay silly money for anything Amy-related. I can charge forty quid for a copy of Back to Black that goes for a tenner on eBay.'

She pulled a wry grin. ‘Pilgrims' was spot on. The T-shirts, posters and even mugs featuring the singer's heavily lined eyes were the equivalent of the badges and icons once sold to the faithful visiting a medieval shrine, while her Camden haunts and the house where she died were practically stations of the cross.

‘So business is good?' she asked.

‘Uh-huh' – resting his eyes on her face, lazily flipping his amber worry beads over his knuckles. Clack .?.?. clackety-clack . ‘But you're not here to talk business. What can I do for you, Kath's girl?'

‘It's about Bronte,' she said quickly, to head off any talk of her mother.

‘Ah.' His expression turning genuinely sad. ‘What a waste. She was another real talent.' He tipped his head towards the mural. ‘But they can't handle the pressure, these young girls.'

She took a sip of coffee to hide her expression. ‘You know the police have decided she was murdered now?'

He nodded. ‘I saw on the news. She wouldn't have made old bones anyway – like most proper artists she had a screw loose.' Spinning a finger at the side of his head. ‘And she had a taste for smack, like that boyfriend of hers.'

‘You know Ethan?' – picturing his sharp jawline and those big dark eyes.

A nod. ‘He comes in here now and again. Bought a rare pressing of a Django Reinhardt album for her not long ago actually.'

‘You could probably sell that story to some vlogger,' said Cassie darkly.

He frowned uncomprehendingly before saying, ‘Oh, you mean those ambulance-chasers on social media. I wouldn't give that lot the shit off my shoe.'

She felt a little surge of warmth towards him: he might be a Jurassic-era sexist but on this topic they shared the same instincts.

‘What did you make of him? Ethan.'

He shrugged. ‘Bog-standard guitarist for a minor league band who trades off his pretty-boy looks and bad-boy reputation. Not like Bronte. She was the real deal.' He pulled a dry smile. ‘And now she's dead she'll make everyone a lot more money.'

‘How so?'

Clack-clack went his beads. ‘Look, there was a good chance that Bronte's career would have crashed and burned. You know that EDM hit she had?' Seeing her uncomprehending look, he said, ‘Electronic Dance Music. What was it called?' His forehead creased as he tried to retrieve the name.

‘"Clean Break".'

‘Yeah, that's it. So the word is that her record company wanted her to cut ten carbon copies of that, but her heart was set on an album inspired by her Greek heritage, something to showcase that voice of hers. But Melodik wasn't having any of it – and her contract stopped her releasing her own stuff. The result: an ugly stand-off and no album.' He shrugged. ‘So, if she'd lived the chances were she'd have been a one-hit wonder and disappeared back into obscurity' – he waved a hand – ‘gigs down the Dublin Castle, tiny world music festivals in some muddy field. But dead, she could turn out to be a gold mine.'

‘How?'

‘Melodik will have recordings of all the songs she's been laying down since they signed her. Now they can take her vocals into the studio, layer 'em up with electronically generated drums and synth, set the machine to a hundred and thirty beats per minute and bingo – release an EDM album she would hate but which will sell like a bastard now she's dead.' He sent her a cynical wink. ‘And trust me, they won't be calling up any bouzouki artists.'

Seeing she wasn't convinced, he went on, ‘ Back to Black was a big hit when it first came out, sure, but in the four weeks after Amy died it became the biggest-selling album of the century . Sales before she died – about three million and steady. Sales today? Sixteen million and counting.'

‘Wow.'

‘Do you remember her posthumous album?'

‘Yeah, Lioness: Hidden Treasures .'

He made a dismissive face. ‘It was cobbled together out of unreleased demos and out-takes. Amy was a perfectionist, she'd've hated it. But here's the thing – it still went triple-platinum. I tell you, the suits at Melodik who are shedding crocodile tears over "poor Bronte" in public will be breaking open the champers in private.'