Jazz and Die (10 page)

The same charity shop was open. Maddy made a dive for the cocktail rail and came up with a couple of tops, one in gold lamé, the other a slinky blue folded satin. I tried not to look at anything.

‘How do you know if they’ll fit? They look very small.’

‘They’ll fit,’ she said dismissively. They both had miniscule straps. Maddy would be cold when the sun went down.

‘What about a cardigan?’ I suggested.

Maddy looked at me as if the word was obscene. ‘My gran wears a cardigan,’ she said.

We took refuge in a tea shop which advertised Cornish cream teas, – a bit odd for the county of Dorset. It was packed with holidaymakers in steaming raincoats. The girls were rushed off their feet, hardly giving anyone time to read the long menu. This was going to be our lunch.

‘Coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich,’ I ordered, not even looking at the list.

‘Strawberry ice cream and a can of coke,’ said Maddy. Her diet was certainly a weird one. ‘And two packets of crisps.’

I spotted a familiar white straw hat. Betsy Nicholls was sitting with a coven of animated cronies. I recognized a few faces even without their umbrellas. They were putting the world to rights, including Elsie Dunlop’s world. Or what had once been her world. They did not know that she still had some world of her own, even if it was motionless and dark.

‘Ross’s gig is the next big show,’ said Maddy, stirring the ice cream into pink mud. I wondered if it had ever seen a strawberry. ‘We mustn’t be late. I promised I’d help him get set up.’

My phone rang. I took it out of my bag. ‘Hello.’

‘I thought you’d like to know that Elsie Dunlop is showing signs. Moving a bit, eyelids fluttering. So that’s progress.’

‘That’s good news. I’m very glad,’ I said.

‘Is that your dishy detective?’ said Maddy, her eyes bright, sucking on the spoon. ‘The one you are sweet on?’

‘It is not and I am not,’ I hissed.

‘You’ve gone all soppy-faced.’

‘Will you leave me alone?’ That’s one thing I could pride myself on. My face never gave away my feelings. Maddy only said it to rile me.

‘Who are you talking to?’ James asked.

‘We’re in a tea shop, having coffee. It’s our lunch break,’ I said. ‘I’m with Maddy. She keeps interrupting. She’s a typical nosy teenager.’

Maddy started giggling. The impromptu singing had done her good. She was almost her normal age group.

‘So, did you find out what I wanted to know?’

My mind went blank. ‘What?’

‘I asked about Maddy’s school. You know, algebra and verbs and all that educational stuff.’

Turning my head away so Maddy couldn’t hear, I said, ‘Cowdry Park. It’s a private boarding school. Very expensive apparently.’

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, although I could still hear the faint bustle of the police station, numerous phones ringing, doors slamming, loud voices.

James sounded grim, almost threatening. I heard a sharp intake of breath and a rustle of paper.

‘The fifteen-year-old girl, the body found in Corfe Castle. She went to the same school, Cowdry Park. Don’t let Maddy out of your sight.’

‘I won’t,’ I said, ringing off.

‘Why was he asking about my school?’ asked Maddy, dipping crisps into ice cream.

‘It was probably a recommendation for one of his friends.’

The casual words could not disguise my fear. The same school. It was too much of a coincidence.

T
he nightmare suddenly got darker. If both girls went to the same boarding school, maybe there was a connection. It didn’t sound good. The girl who died had been fifteen and that was three years ago, so Maddy would have been around eleven when she disappeared. They probably didn’t even know each other. It could be an unfortunate coincidence.

Maddy was scraping out the last of her ice cream. She discovered a film of pink foam on her lips. She got up, scraping back the chair, reaching for her straw bag on the floor. She didn’t need to tell me where she was going.

I could talk now. I rang back DCI James. ‘Is there any significance to that?’ I asked. ‘It being the same school?’

‘It doesn’t seem much, but it’s something. One girl murdered. Another threatened. Same school. There has to be a link. The jazz festival?’

‘Maddy is in danger.’

‘I think so. There must be another link, apart from the silver key-note bracelet. I don’t think Corfe Castle itself holds the answer. Although the murder was about the same time as the jazz festival, three years ago.’

‘Maybe the girl liked jazz or her parents did. Perhaps they came here. Did you ask them?’ There was a pause. I let him off the hook. ‘Can I have the girl’s name, please? I hate referring to her as the body in Corfe Castle. She deserves a name.’

‘Sarah Patel. She had an Indian grandfather but English-born
parents. He came over from Bombay, made a lot of money with a family hot curry recipe. Sarah was knifed with some sharp instrument then buried in the grounds of the castle. She was found because the torrential rain this summer had washed away the topsoil. An American tourist found her. They don’t get many visitors because it’s such a steep climb to the castle ruins.’

‘Not much of a souvenir,’ I said, immediately regretting the flippant remark.

‘On the contrary. Sarah had been missing for three years. At least her parents know where she is now. They can begin some sort of grieving. They are still doing forensic tests. Every detail helps. Very Patricia Cornwell.’

‘Maddy’s coming back now. Fresh lipstick. Passionate Peach.’

‘See if you can find out anything about Sarah Patel. But don’t alarm Maddy. We don’t want her running away.’

‘How’s Elsie Dunlop?’

‘Still unconscious but vital signs all improving. We live in hope.’

‘One bit of good news.’

He rang off. I tucked my phone into my shoulder bag. It would need recharging. A Post-it note on forehead would be necessary.

‘Ross is starting soon,’ Maddy reminded me. She was used to getting her own way. But this time I didn’t mind. A watery sun was peering out from behind a cumulus cloud as if uncertain of its welcome. A haze was rising from the sea. The marquee would not have dried out yet. The ground would take weeks even if the canvas dried.

‘Sure. We’ve got to get a good seat for this.’

‘Won’t you be stewarding?’ Maddy asked.

‘Maybe. It all depends on the rota.’

Enigmatic. It all depends on what rota? Nothing, actually. My life felt as if it was being washed on a wave, drawn this way and that by the moon. I did not seem to have any control over it. If I was the next one to get an umbrella in the chest, would anyone care?

There was already a queue waiting for the Ross Knighton
Ensemble, as he called himself this afternoon, but what exactly did he ensemble? Maddy wouldn’t wait in any queue. She ducked under a flap round the back and marched up to the stage. Ross already had his set in place and was testing the sound and acoustics.

‘You didn’t wait for me,’ she said.

‘You didn’t say you were coming.’

Usual teenage stuff.

‘I’ve made a list of requests,’ she said, bringing out a scrappy bit of hotel paper from her straw bag. ‘Will you play them?’

‘The programme is already arranged, babe. I don’t do requests until the end of the gig.’

It was a good start to the afternoon. I made a swift retreat. I could see that they were getting along swimmingly, even if it was deep water. It took me twice as long to get out under the flap. My long legs are not made for such manoeuvres. And the grass was wet. This was going to be a loud session. I wished I had brought some ear plugs. Drums I can stand, and even like, but not the excessive amplification.

Tom Lucas was in charge of this one. He waved to me. I picked my way over to the muddy canvas pathway, grateful for some adult conversation.

‘You’re not down on my list for this afternoon,’ he said.

‘I’m a stand-in, in case someone doesn’t turn up.’

‘Great. That’s what I like to hear. Glad to have you on board again. At least you know what you’re doing. Some of the stewards are less than conscientious. I guess they only volunteer for some free jazz.’

‘Jazz lovers will do anything for free jazz.’

Ross was warming up, getting his wrists loose.

I suddenly realized what I had said and retreated before Tom took that as an invitation to hear his CD collection while Mrs Lucas played Beethoven in the kitchen.

But he hadn’t noticed.

‘I haven’t had any lunch,’ he went on. ‘Can you take over the box office for ten minutes while I catch a sandwich from the bar
on the front? I won’t be long. I’ll show you the ropes. Ticket prices, strollers and single gigs here. We don’t take cards. Nothing half price until 8 p.m. this evening.’

‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘I used to run a shop.’ Used to run? When had I given up First Class Junk and sold the stock off? Never. It was all waiting at Latching for me. I couldn’t wait to get back, open up and take down the CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS sign. I’d flick around a few splodges of paint, blow off the dust. And I would need some new stock. The charity shops here might give up some treasures. Not so easy these days. Everyone was more alert to spotting scrimhaw or a Troika. Don’t mention Moorcroft.

‘Then you’re perfect.’

‘Enjoy your lunch, Tom. Give the pickled onions a miss.’

Now I was the Almighty Custodian of Money and Tickets. I got a proper chair and a table and a window in the marquee where people could stand and argue about prices. There was a lot of arguing about prices. It was a sign of the times. Everyone was hard up. As if the musicians played for half price on the last day.

‘But there’s only half a day left.’

‘And there are still eight different venues you can go to. The jazz goes on till midnight.’

‘I’ve got to catch the last ferry back. It leaves at 11 p.m.’

‘It’s a pity they don’t run a late ferry for the jazz festival. Someone ought to suggest it.’

Travelling around Swanage was a problem if you didn’t have wheels. The railway line had been closed by Dr Beeching and now steam trains only ran from Swanage to Corfe Castle and back, a round trip of ten miles.

This customer didn’t buy a ticket but stomped down into the town to find the free venues. I gave him a programme to cheer him up. There was a whole unsold box full of programmes. We were downhill. They’d be recycled tomorrow in some landfill.

The marquee was filling up, wristbands being checked. Maddy’s sequinned top was barely visible from where I was sitting. Tom’s sandwich had turned into more than a sandwich
and a lager or two. But I sold quite a few tickets to day visitors who turned up because of the improving weather. I was worth my weight in gold.

My stomach told me that the mushroom omelette had not tided me over a toasted lunch. I was not exactly growling with hunger but some small animal was prowling round inside. I found some soft mints in my bag. They would have to do.

‘Are you in charge now?’ Maddy asked suspiciously, strolling over.

‘That’s right. I’m in charge. Do you want to buy a ticket?’

‘I thought you were supposed to be looking after me.’

‘I am looking after you. I can see your sequins from any point on the planet. If you suddenly disappear, the tracking device I attached to your bag will alert me.’

She looked startled. ‘You’re kidding me? A tracking device?’

‘Go check,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘I bet you a packet of crisps that you can’t find it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Suit yourself. Have you got a good seat?’

‘Front row. Ross won’t let me sit on the stage.’

‘He wants it all to himself. It’s not surprising. After all, it’s his show. You might break into song.’

She grinned, remembering her morning’s triumph, sat on the edge of the table, swinging her legs. ‘I was good, wasn’t I?’

‘You were good,’ I agreed. ‘Great voice.’

‘Ross has never heard me sing.’

‘He has a treat in store.’

‘I’m going to sing at the farewell bash tonight.’

‘Then you will surprise everyone, including your dad.’

I could see it was going to be some party. I could wear my black silk top. It would go great with my best jeans and boots. Time to look with it, whatever with it meant these weird fashion days. Girls wore any mixture of clothes and called it fashion.

The marquee was crowded, especially as the weather was improving by the minute. No more waterproofs and Wellingtons. A few summer tops arrived, straps, halter necks, bare shoulders.
I was not into bare shoulders. Perhaps that’s where I had gone wrong with DCI James. Maybe he liked a bit of skin showing.

Ross could play. He had talent. He was going places, way out of Maddy’s reach. He would be playing in the Albert Hall when Maddy was still at school.

I felt sorry for Maddy. But what could I do? Girls got crushes. Her crush was on the wrong person. It wasn’t my problem. I was only supposed to look after her through the jazz festival.

Something was going to happen. I got this gut feeling. Don’t ask me what it was. I was glad when Tom came back and I could move away from the claustrophobic ticket sales booth. I didn’t care where I sat. If something was going to happen to Maddy, I had to be there on the spot, close enough to whisk her away to safety.

Something did happen but it wasn’t what I expected. A man in the fifth row was starting to talk rather loudly, beating his fists as if he was holding drumsticks.

‘Call that playing?’ he shouted. ‘Just cos you got fancy hair and a posh name. You don’t know nothing about the drums. Get off the stage, kiddo.’

‘Hell’s bells. He’s drunk,’ said Tom, wearily. ‘He’s been in the same seat since this morning. I bet he’s got a couple of vodka bottles in that bag. Both empty ones.’

‘Shall I ask him to keep quiet?’

‘Get off the stage! You’re a disgrace, young upstart! You know zero-minus about playing the drums. Go back to your playpen.’

The man was waving wildly and people were turning round and shushing him. This made him even more belligerent. He was ready to start a war.

‘I can play better than you. Just watch me!’ He began banging on the backs of chairs. People scattered, getting out of his way.

I had dealt with a lot of drunks during my time in the force, most of them amiable and prone to singing bawdy songs, but it was still not my favourite occupation. Tom Lucas was bigger than me and a couple of young stagehands were easing forward.

The drunk was scruffy-looking, brown tweed cap crammed on
his head, in a shabby grey anorak still damp from this morning’s rain. I hadn’t seen him before. He must have had a wristband or a day ticket to have got in, or had he picked a moment when the door steward’s attention was diverted and slipped in?

Tom Lucas was speaking to him quietly. Several more people moved away, looking alarmed. They were standing against the canvas sides of the marquee.

‘No, I won’t be quiet! No, I won’t come outside!’ he shouted. ‘Leave me alone. You ain’t got no right. Take your hands off me.’

‘A little fresh air?’ Tom suggested.

Maddy was peering around, distracted. She looked worried and then she looked at Ross. He had noticed the rumpus but was playing through it. A bit louder if anything, as if he was bashing the man’s brains out.

‘Call this jazz? It’s a disgrace. I want my money back.’

The man was stumbling over chair legs, grabbing at anything in sight. I whipped outside, ran down to the convenient flap and ducked under. I went straight over to Maddy.

The two stagehands moved in and were physically hustling the drunk out of the marquee. He was protesting fiercely but they were two big lads and he didn’t stand much chance. He could hardly stand anyway.

His protests got fainter as they led him off the field and launched him back onto the seafront. He could go practise his drumming skills on a deckchair. The seagulls wouldn’t mind.

The audience settled back, relieved that peace had been restored. Not exactly peace. Ross played even more loudly and everyone applauded with enthusiasm. He played several encores. No one wanted him to go.

‘He’s marvellous. He’s the tops. I love him, I love him.’ Maddy was beside herself with emotion, hardly able to sit still. ‘Ross, Ross, I love you,’ she wailed.

Ross wasn’t even looking at her. He was joking with his mates, gathering up sheet music and beginning to pack his gear. A crowd of admirers gathered round the stage, wanting to chat with him. Maddy was talking to his back.

‘Ross, Ross!’ she cried out. She skirted round the stage so that he would see her more clearly. ‘You were wonderful. It was marvellous.’

‘Hi, Maddy.’ He waved.

‘Fab show.’

I kept out of the way, collecting up empty cans and bottles.

‘Thanks, babe.’ He turned his back on her. I felt for Maddy. It was such an obvious put-down. She did not seem to be perturbed. She looked flushed and happy, dancing about, clapping her hands. She had resilience in her bones.

‘Do you want to go back to the hotel?’ I asked. ‘Change of clothes, something to eat, before the rest of tonight’s gigs and the party bash?’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she sang.

‘Let’s start walking. Ross has plenty of helpers.’

‘But he might need me.’

‘He doesn’t need you, you can see that. Save your strength. Come on. I’m sure your hair needs washing.’

She nodded in agreement, combing her fingers through today’s corkscrew style. ‘My hair. It’s a mess. I could do with some streaks.’

‘No time for streaks.’