For The Death Of Me

12

When I started out at the bottom of the ladder of the business that’s made me rich and famous, I had a London agent. We parted company after I made the switch to movies from voice-overs for TV ads, but there were no hard feelings on either side. Sylvester ‘Sly’ Burr got me good money for the sort of work I was doing, but when the time came he had the sense to recognise his limits, and the integrity to admit to them. Nowadays the very fact that I used to be a client of his is worth a large mention on his website.

I called him early doors the next morning: I knew he’d be there, for his office is above his flat in Earls Court and he likes to be at his desk for eight, to deal with the morning mail, read the red-tops for headlines. . the more salacious the better. . involving his artist roster, and escape from Mrs Burr.

‘Oz, my boy!’ I could almost see him beam. Sly’s a bit of a caricature (if I was making a film of his life, I’d probably cast Ron Moody in the lead) and that includes an avuncular fondness for his clients, present and past. I’ve never heard him badmouth anyone, even though he exists in a world where figurative stilettos in the back are considered normal behaviour. He might be a sharp guy around a pound coin, but he made me plenty of them.

I’d have liked to chat for a bit, but I didn’t have time, so I got straight down to business. ‘I need to trace someone, Sly,’ I told him.

‘One of mine?’

‘Not as far as I know. I don’t know who his agent is, but you’re the best search engine I know, so I thought I’d run the name past you. Sandy Wilde: he’s Australian, described to me as a singer rather than an actor, with credits on television down under and in musicals in the UK.’

I waited as his brain clicked into gear. Sly never forgets a name and he has a terrific showbiz database, much of which he carries in his head. ‘Wilde, Wilde, Sandy, not Marty, not Kim,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Yes, yes, yes, I’ve got him. Big geezer, good voice, good dancer; bats for both teams.’ That took me a little by surprise: it was Sly’s way of saying that Wilde was bisexual. ‘I can’t remember who he’s with, though. You got a part for him in something you’re doing?’

‘No, I’m more concerned with something he’s got a part in. I want to trace someone through him.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Female.’

‘In the business?’

‘Not as such; this lady seems to collect actors.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Madeleine January.’

‘January, January. Mmm.’ Sly went back to pondering. ‘I know ’er,’ he exclaimed, with a small cry of triumph. ‘She works for the Billy Dorset Agency. A year or so back she tried to poach one of my lads, Barton Mawhinney. He was giving her one and she thought he’d follow her across the street when she asked him, but he stayed loyal. When he told me about it, I had a word with Billy. He wasn’t too pleased; there’s still some honour in our business, Oz.’

‘I’m glad to hear it: there’s less in Hollywood, I can tell you.’

He chuckled. ‘Hollywood, eh? Who’d ’ave thought it? Good for you, son, I’m really pleased, the way you’ve made it. How are things panning out with your new guy? You still happy with him?’

‘Look at my credits, Sly. What do you think?’

‘Yeah, of course you are. Look, leave this with me, I’ll have a word with Barton and with Billy Dorset, see if he’s still seeing her, and if she still works there.’

‘Thanks.’ I’d been hoping he’d offer to do that. ‘When you do, though, don’t let slip to anyone that it’s me who’s looking for her.’

‘Worry not, my son.’ He paused. ‘But what will I say? I’ll need some kind of story.’

‘Don’t say anything unless you’re asked. But if you are, tell her that Ewan Capperauld asked if you knew where to find her. Tell her that a journalist’s been looking all over Edinburgh for her.’

‘A journalist? Is that true?’

I smiled. ‘It is, Sly, in a manner of speaking.’