Tell Me How It Ends

by V. B. Grey

Genres: World War II; Mystery

Synopsis

'A spellbinding read ... the glamour of early Sixties showbiz' LOUISE CANDLISH
'Mesmerising and powerful ... an extraordinary sense of time and place' ELLY GRIFFITHS
'A stylish and page-turning mystery' RACHEL HORE
'Gripping ... her portrait of Sixties London is terrific' ELIZABETH BUCHAN

Set in Sixties London, a gripping drama of past secrets revealed, of manipulation and revenge for fans of Daphne du Maurier and noir movies like All About Eve and A Star is Born

Delia Maxwell is an international singing sensation, an icon of 1950s glamour who is still riding high on the new 60s scene. Adored by millions, all men want to be with her, all women want to be her. But one woman wants it maybe a little too much...

Lily Brooks has watched Delia all her life, studying her music and her on-stage mannerisms. Now she has a dream job as Delia's assistant - but is there more to her attachment than the admiration of a fan? Private investigator Frank is beginning to wonder.

As Lily steps into Delia's spotlight, and Delia encourages her ambitious protegée, Frank's suspicions of Lily's ulterior motives increase. But are his own feelings for Delia clouding his judgement?

The truth is something far darker: the shocking result of years of pain and rage, rooted in Europe's darkest hour. If Delia thought she had put her past behind her, she had better start watching her back.

Release date: July 9, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Frank

London, April 1963

‘You’ve heard of Delia Maxwell?’

‘Who hasn’t?’ I replied.

My old friend Peter Jenks and I were sitting at a corner table in a Soho jazz club. He’d rung me earlier in the day and said there was something I might be able to help him with, so I’d driven over in my new green MGB, checked my name, Frank Landry, off the members’ guest-list and made my way down the narrow stairs to the low-lit basement. I had no idea why he’d begun by asking if I’d heard of his most successful recording artist, so I drank some of my beer and waited for him to explain.

‘She was supposed to come into the office last week to sign a big new contract.’ Peter kept his voice low, even though there was little chance of being overheard. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity for her, a real change of direction. We had champagne on ice, the works, but she never turned up. And now she’s not answering her phone and no one seems to know where she is.’

I assumed such temperamental behaviour was to be expected of such a big star. ‘Has she ever pulled a stunt like this before?’ I asked.

‘Never. She’s hard-working, professional, and this is something she really wants.’

‘I take it you’ve already checked the hospitals? Made certain she’s not ill or had an accident?’

‘Discreetly, yes,’ he said. ‘And I’ve spoken privately to a chap I know at Scotland Yard who looked into it for me.’

That brought me up short: Peter wasn’t easily rattled.

‘He checked with all the London morgues,’ he continued. ‘No unidentified remains match her description, although he warned me that, if a body goes into the Thames, it can sometimes be several days before it washes up. Anyway, there’s not much more he can do. He says she’s a responsible adult who has every right to go missing if she wants to.’

It was clear that this official response had done little to reassure him. I’d known Peter for nearly twenty years, ever since, fresh from school, we’d shipped out to Canada together for pilot training during the war. The thick glossy hair he’d once been so proud of was thinning and beginning to show some grey, but he’d kept his wiry runner’s physique. We’d stayed in touch after demob when I’d gone up to Oxford, then headed to the Far East to work for a rubber company, and he’d been the first person I’d looked up on my return a few weeks earlier.

He graduated from Cambridge, married his childhood sweetheart and went straight into RMJ Records, the classical-music recording company his grandfather had founded. He’d always been crazy about American music, so it was no surprise that he’d signed as many of his favourite jazz, blues, and country-and-western singers as he could. Thirteen years later, the once nearly defunct label was thriving and Peter was running the company. I guessed he’d take just as good care of his artists as he’d done of his men after he was made up to squadron leader at the grand old age of twenty-two, so clearly something more serious than an unsigned contract was bothering him.

‘Is she the type to go on a bender?’ I asked. ‘A lost weekend?’

‘Not Delia. The last time I saw her, she seemed fine, but this isn’t like her.’

‘Who’s the man in her life?’

‘There isn’t one. Or not that I know about, anyway.’

That she was discreet didn’t alter my hunch that there’d turn out to be a man at the bottom of this somewhere. Delia Maxwell was just too lovely for there not to be.

‘Any family?’ I asked.

‘Lost in the war. It’s not something she talks about.’

I summoned up what I could recall of Delia Maxwell. A cloud of white-blonde hair, cinched-in waist and wide-skirted, spangled dresses; black-and-white newsreel of her smiling for the cameras outside a premiere, white mink draped over a bright satin evening gown, diamond earrings glittering in the flashlights, and eyes full of suggestion and mischief. She was probably still only in her early thirties yet had been famous for a long time. She was always on the radio, singing with various orchestras, and more recently on television, too. My ideal woman was less showy, but Delia’s rich, silvery voice had a tender catch to it, and had often been a poignant reminder of home when I’d been out in Malaya or rattling around some other outpost of a fading colonial empire.

‘And no one knows where she is?’ I asked.

Peter shook his head. ‘No. Which is where you come in, Frank.’

Recognizing Peter’s boyish grin, I suspected I was about to agree to something rash. ‘You’re not expecting me to find her for you?’

‘Why not? You haven’t landed a permanent job yet, have you?’

‘No,’ I admitted. I’d been drifting since I got back, and he knew it. ‘Although I have had a decent offer from a rubber concern that’s opening up new estates in West Africa and wants a head of security.’

He frowned. ‘I thought you wanted to stay away from political hot-spots, to think about settling down at last.’

He was right. The struggle for independence in some African countries threatened to be as brutal as the Communist insurgency in Malaya, where I’d ended up working alongside British military intelligence as they ‘won hearts and minds’. I wasn’t sure I could stomach much more of that kind of trouble.

‘Stay in London,’ Peter cajoled. ‘Do a little discreet asking around for me. You can be our new head of security.’

I laughed. ‘Private eye, more like.’

But he saw that I couldn’t resist. And I was ready to settle down and take a job where I could sleep at night. I’d somehow missed out on what Peter had – a rewarding job, a home with wife and kids, and a place in a world where the worst that could happen was a chanteuse going walkabout.

‘Good man!’ he said.

‘So what was this big new contract Miss Maxwell was due to sign?’ I asked.

‘It’s to star in a movie.’ Peter lowered his voice again in spite of the bearded young men jamming on saxophone and double bass on the tiny stage. ‘We’re keeping it under wraps until the contract is signed, but it’ll be a major Hollywood motion picture, mammoth budget, the whole shebang.’

‘Surely that would mean you losing her as a recording artist.’

‘You obviously don’t appreciate how much money the album of a successful film musical makes.’ He smiled, although the tension didn’t leave his eyes. ‘In the movie she’ll play a singer, so the soundtrack is an essential element in the story.’

‘From crooner to movie star is quite a leap,’ I said. ‘Perhaps she’s simply taking some time to think it over.’

Peter shook his head. ‘If that were the case, she’d say so. She never lets people down. Look, I don’t mean to pry into her private life, but if she’s in any kind of trouble, I’d like to help. The American producers are only here for the rest of this week. They have to be certain she’ll be reliable. So far I’ve managed to make excuses, but I’m a hopeless liar and—’

‘That’s true enough,’ I said, with a grin.

He didn’t laugh. ‘Seriously, Frank, I can’t afford to be left with egg on my face. I really do have to find out why she’s fallen off the radar.’

At least a couple of good reasons came to mind, but I didn’t know the lady and he did.

‘I can’t honestly believe there’s any kind of scandal involved,’ he went on, as if guessing my thoughts, ‘but if there is, then I need to be the first to know. I can arrange for you to talk to her friends, and for her daily woman to let you into her house. She has a mews cottage in Knightsbridge. Most of all, I just want to be sure that she’s safe and sound. I’m very fond of Delia. Everyone is.’

I had to admit I was intrigued. Delia Maxwell was too glamorous to be the girl next door, but I couldn’t remember hearing any dirt about her. Maybe her absence was a ploy to win a better deal, or she simply had cold feet. Meanwhile her true reasons for dropping out of sight remained a mystery.

Peter caught my eye and punched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘I knew you’d go for it,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been my wingman. Let me get you another beer.’

The next morning, as I climbed out of my car, Delia Maxwell’s daily woman was waiting on the doorstep. She greeted me and held up a set of keys.

‘Good morning, sir. Door’s open, but Mr Jenks telephoned and said to let you have these so you can lock up. I’m all done here, so, unless you need me, I’ll be off.’

I thanked her and, judging that she wasn’t the type to gossip to a stranger about her employer, told her she could go, yet she remained, clutching her handbag in front of her with both hands.

‘Miss Maxwell has always been very good to me,’ she said in a rush, ‘and it’s not like her to go away without letting me know, so I can cancel the milk and everything. I do hope nothing bad has happened to her.’ She walked quickly away.

I looked around. Although Delia’s home was tucked away behind the busy thoroughfare of Knightsbridge, I was surprised to find the cobbled mews less smart than I’d imagined. Only a few of the upper windows had fresh curtains or boxes with greenery and spring bulbs coming into flower, and some of the garage doors were in need of a lick of paint. I pushed open her unlocked front door. In spite of Peter’s assurances, I wasn’t all that keen on snooping around an unknown woman’s house, and yet I had to confess, now the moment was here, I was as curious as any gossip columnist to see inside the home of an international singing star.

I’d spent an hour over breakfast reading the magazine spreads and yellowing newspaper columns that Peter had sent over. They had been compiled by a press-cuttings agency and included dozens if not hundreds of photographs of Delia Maxwell, often on the arm of a handsome actor, racing driver or minor aristocrat. Each picture was accompanied by a description of the singer’s clothes, shoes, hair and jewellery, along with details of where she had just dined or whose party she was about to attend. Yet the few sparse responses from Delia revealed only her favourite colour, her ideal holiday destination, or the venues of a forthcoming tour.

When I came across some early speculation about her background there was no attempt to contradict even the most far-fetched of stories, not even when each fresh account cancelled out the one before. She was a Russian émigrée, a barefoot Sicilian contessa, who had learned to sing with a band of roving gypsies, a runaway Greek orphan, who had grown up in poverty, and yet was simultaneously the loving little sister who had never got over the loss of three handsome brothers, all of them wartime resistance heroes. What all the stories captured, however, was that a hint of tragedy lay behind the alluring images.

Although I had found nothing in the press cuttings to hint at why she might choose to vanish – or why anyone would wish her harm – what so many photographs confirmed was that, even captured unawares, Delia was truly beautiful. Not pretty but with the kind of fine bone structure and generous eyes and mouth that would still be striking in old age; the kind of beauty that could indeed belong to a Greek goddess or a wild gypsy girl. The kind of beauty that, in my somewhat limited experience, a woman might too easily hide behind.

I climbed the steep staircase that rose straight from the front door to the living quarters over the double garage. At the top there was a narrow corridor with four doors opening off it and a further even steeper staircase leading up again at the far end. It was hardly the extravagant interior I had been expecting.

I opened each door as I went by and looked in: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and what appeared to be a dressing room. I felt uncomfortable lingering in the bedroom and didn’t like to disturb the accumulation of pots and potions that adorned the vanity table in the dressing room. In any case, I could see no sign of violent disarrangement or hasty departure.

I had to duck my head to negotiate the tight bend of the next flight of stairs, which opened into a surprisingly large room with huge windows on three sides looking out over a cityscape of brick chimneys and haphazard slate roofs. Smoke curled into a cloudy blue sky and a cat stared at me, unblinking, from where it lay curled in a sunny corner of an adjacent roof. It was a nostalgic view. During my absence abroad, gleaming new office blocks and high-rise hotels had replaced the bomb damage, creating a London I sometimes barely recognized. But here there were no tall buildings close enough to overlook the space, making it feel oddly private, given how tightly packed in it was among the surrounding streets.

The room was easily big enough for a party. The decor was lovely, and no doubt expensive, yet not at all in the sumptuous, flashy style I had expected. Nevertheless, this must be where, according to the press coverage, Delia entertained visiting American movie stars and world-famous entertainers, who all coveted an invitation to her home. She was renowned, I had read, for her omelettes.

The wooden-framed sofas, chairs and a comfortable-looking daybed were flamboyantly curved but upholstered in plain grey-and-white-striped fabric. The style reminded me of something middle-European, perhaps Viennese. Beneath the windows ran low lines of built-in shelves crammed with books and records. A modern upright piano stood against the single wall, its white lacquered top scattered with sheet music. Above it hung paintings and drawings, all of different sizes and in unmatched frames. In one corner, at an angle, a wide desk was piled neatly with unopened post. In another I saw a spanking new stereo console. Pale spring sunshine streamed in, yet I could imagine how at night, with the lamps lit and the curtains drawn, the room must feel warm and intimate. Not a place, it seemed to me, that anyone would be in a hurry to leave.

Something made me walk across the cream-coloured rugs to select an LP from a shelf. I tipped it out of its sleeve, set it to play on the turntable, and took a deep breath as Delia’s silky voice spilled into the room. I was transported back to a dinner-dance in Kuala Lumpur and the first time I ever held Evelyn in my arms. I closed my eyes, giving way to longing and regret. The effect of the music was so potent it was all I could do not to glance over my shoulder to make sure the singer wasn’t standing in the doorway.

Pulling myself together, I went to the desk and flipped through the pile of letters. Nothing struck me as odd and I wasn’t yet ready to start steaming open Delia’s private correspondence. A framed photograph on top of the desk caught my eye. I knew the man in it from some of the captioned images in the press cuttings. Although he’d died about three years ago, Conrad Durand had been the musical and theatrical impresario who’d launched Delia’s career and managed all her affairs.

The man in the photograph had thick grey hair and a square Slavic face. He looked easily old enough to be her father. The picture had been taken outdoors, although the background was out of focus. He was gazing directly into the lens and smiling, his eyes crinkling against the sun, smoke from his cigarette half obscuring one side of his face. In most of the newspaper images his expression had been grave and watchful, and I wondered if it was Delia he’d been smiling at behind the camera. I looked away and, surveying the room once more, realized there were no other photographs and, other than on her record sleeves, no images at all of Delia herself.

It was an orderly room, yet also untidy in a lived-in sort of way, which strengthened the impression that its owner had just stepped out and might be expected back at any moment. As the poignant chords of ‘My Hidden Heart’, one of her most famous numbers, began to play, I went to look at the bookshelves. She seemed to have eclectic tastes, ranging from recent green paperback crime novels to older hardbacks, including several recipe books, some recent, some with Hungarian titles. I’d learned from the snippets I’d read that Conrad Durand had been Hungarian. Had they perhaps lived here together, or had she inherited and kept some of his books?

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

The music had prevented me from hearing anyone on the stairs, and I spun around, my heart pounding with shock.

Framed in the doorway was not Delia but a young girl, little more than a teenager. There was something balletic in the upright way she stood, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her unbuttoned khaki trench coat – indeed, the flat pumps she wore, with tapered black slacks and a matching roll-neck sweater, looked like ballet shoes. She had short dark hair, arresting grey-green eyes and an extremely fierce expression. ‘Who are you?’ she repeated.

‘My name is Frank Landry,’ I told her, still breathless from the unpleasant sensation of being caught out. ‘Peter Jenks has asked me to look into Delia Maxwell’s disappearance. Who are you? I wasn’t aware that anyone else had keys.’

She ignored my question. ‘Disappearance? Can’t she simply go away for a few days without everyone making such a fuss?’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘No, but I don’t see why her record company has to set the hounds on her. Who said you could come poking around in her house?’

‘Miss Maxwell was supposed to sign an important contract last week,’ I said. ‘People are concerned about her.’

‘Oh, that,’ the girl said. ‘Well, maybe she just wants a life of her own.’ She walked calmly over to the stereo console and lifted the arm. The music stopped and the room fell quiet. ‘Maybe she’s tired of being a money machine for other people.’

I tried not to smile at her youthful indignation. I noticed that her upper lip protruded slightly over the lower, a small imperfection that seemed simultaneously wilful and faintly comic. With her cropped hair and black garb, I guessed the kid saw herself as one of those coffee-bar beatniks who liked to argue about existence while listening to Juliette Gréco.

‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me who you are?’ I suggested.

‘Lily Brooks. I’ve been helping Delia pack up and get everything in order before she leaves for Hollywood.’

‘So you know about that?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’ She held my gaze with a coolness I wouldn’t have expected in one so young. I found it oddly offensive.

‘Well, since you must know where things are, perhaps you can help me so that I don’t have to go poking around,’ I said, equally cool. ‘Could you check whether she’s taken her passport, chequebook, a suitcase, or any other essential items?’

‘She keeps her passport and chequebook in here,’ Lily replied, walking over to the desk and opening a drawer. She held up one and then the other for me to see before returning them to their places and shutting the drawer. ‘Her suitcases will be downstairs.’

Once Lily had left the room I went to the desk and took out the passport, wanting to make sure that Delia Maxwell’s was the name written by hand in the paper window on the cover. It was. I flipped through the pages and saw stamp upon stamp from all the foreign countries she had visited, presumably on tour. Many of the readable dates were close together, suggesting a pretty punishing schedule. Being Delia Maxwell looked like hard work.

I then flipped through the stubs in the chequebook and saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. The last two stubs hadn’t been filled in, but it wasn’t uncommon to tuck a couple of blank cheques away in a pocket or handbag rather than carry around the whole book. It wasn’t uncommon for blank cheques to be stolen, either.

Lily returned promptly. ‘So far as I can tell, all Delia’s suitcases are still here,’ she said, glancing suspiciously at my position beside the desk. ‘The only things that seem to be missing are her toothbrush and face cream.’

‘Does she have a car?’ I asked.

‘Delia doesn’t drive.’

‘When were you last in contact with her?’

‘She telephoned early on the morning she was due to sign the new contract and told me not to come in that day because she had too much else to do.’

‘She didn’t mention anything about going away? Or leave a note for you?’

‘No. She simply hasn’t been here.’

‘And she didn’t sound upset or frightened when you spoke?’

‘Not at all. Why should she?’

Lily’s gaze was expressionless and I couldn’t fathom what was going on in her head.

‘I’ve never met Miss Maxwell,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you tell me about her?’

Lily frowned as she pushed her hands back into the pockets of her trench coat. ‘They all believe that they care about her, but what they really care about is keeping the show on the road. They won’t let her stop.’

‘And you think that’s what she’d like to do?’

‘Yes, except she feels responsible, because so many people depend on her and have a stake in her career. But what about what she wants?’

The girl spoke with fervour but her defiance only made her appear childish.

‘So what does Miss Maxwell want?’ I looked around. ‘Seems she already has pretty much everything that most people wish for.’

‘How does anyone decide what they really want?’ she asked in return. ‘After all, isn’t it often when you’re right on the brink of getting something you’ve always dreamed of that you start to doubt whether it was ever what you really wanted in the first place?’ A scornful smile curled the edges of her mouth and she lifted her chin in challenge. ‘What if she’s discovered there’s more to life than being number one in the charts or even being a movie star? Isn’t she allowed to choose what she wants?’

‘Delia Maxwell is free to do whatever she likes,’ I said mildly. ‘But it’s also true that she isn’t someone who can simply disappear and not expect people to ask questions.’

Faced with the girl’s disdain, the argument sounded feeble even to my ears. What justification did I have to meddle in the affairs of a woman I’d never met? I was close to apologizing and slinking out of the house, like the trespasser she so obviously thought I was. Loyalty to Peter prevented me – as well as my refusal to be put in my place by such a slip of a girl. It struck me then how neatly Lily had managed to sidestep my questions, using her display of childish outrage to distract me. Whether or not it had been her conscious intention, there was something in her attitude that made me question how much she was holding back.

Gowns by Celeste occupied the ground floor of a narrow townhouse in Mayfair. I gave my name to an attractive young assistant who disappeared to summon the proprietor from a basement workroom. As far as Peter was aware, Celeste Burns was Delia Maxwell’s oldest and closest friend, and I was curious to learn what insight she could offer into the star’s disappearance.

As I waited, I took a look around. The two interconnecting rooms were embellished with gilding, mirrors and lavender velvet: Delia’s signature costumier must know her own clientele, yet even to my eyes this pampered interior seemed hopelessly out of date. Perhaps it spoke of Delia’s loyalty that she had not yet abandoned Gowns by Celeste for one of the trendy new boutiques opening in Chelsea.

Celeste soon appeared. She looked about my age, late thirties or perhaps a few years older, neither plain nor pretty, but with a neat figure and elegantly dressed. Clearly she had the skills to present herself to best advantage. She gave me a shrewd up-and-down look and asked how she could help.

‘My name is Frank Landry,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘Peter Jenks has asked me to speak to you concerning Delia Maxwell.’

She shook my hand, then nodded to her assistant, a signal for her to disappear. ‘And why has Peter sent you?’ Celeste asked, with a slightly mocking smile.

I returned the smile. ‘He and I go back a long way, so I guess he trusts me with the security of his artists. He’s becoming a little anxious about Miss Maxwell’s whereabouts.’

‘Her whereabouts?’ Celeste was immediately taken aback. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Miss Maxwell missed an important meeting last week,’ I explained, surprised that she – unlike Lily Brooks – didn’t already know.

‘But she’s all right?’ she asked anxiously.

‘As far as we know.’

‘Delia was due to come in two days ago for a final fitting,’ she said. ‘The dress is for an event when she’s due to receive a special music award. I assumed she was too busy with the film producers to let me know she couldn’t make it. But you’re saying that Peter Jenks doesn’t know where she is, either?’

‘That’s correct,’ I said, wondering if Celeste’s reluctance to get in touch about a missed appointment suggested that Delia might in fact be more client than friend.

‘I see.’ She gestured to one of the carved French sofas. ‘Do sit down, Mr Landry.’

‘Can you tell me when you last spoke to Miss Maxwell?’ I asked.

‘Last week. I’d also made her a new suit – she’d wanted something special to wear for her signing – and I rang to check she was happy with it.’ Celeste took a seat opposite, crossing her shapely legs. ‘You said Delia missed a meeting, but she did go ahead and sign the contract, didn’t she?’

‘No, not yet.’

This increased her concern. ‘But you know all about it?’ she asked, shooting me another penetrating look. ‘How important it is?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s partly because the American producers are leaving on Friday that Peter’s asked me to try to find out why she’s gone silent.’

‘It makes no sense at all,’ Celeste said. ‘Delia is simply dying to make that movie. It’s a fabulous opportunity for her.’

‘She hasn’t expressed any doubts to you about it?’

‘None at all.’ She sounded shocked. ‘Why would she? She’s been really excited. She enjoyed the screen tests, has been taking acting lessons, and talks all the time about moving to California. She can’t wait for it to be officially announced. Are you sure nothing terrible has happened?’

‘Peter’s made enquiries with hospitals and the police,’ I said. ‘We . . .