Jazz and Die (11 page)

I steered Maddy away from the marquee, along the front and then up the hill to the hotel. It was a brisk walk and we needed the exercise. We’d been sitting most of the day, in one place or another. I was getting a square bottom.

DCI James phoned. He didn’t have to come and see me anymore. Just phone. I was probably on redial.

‘Elsie Dunlop has come round, a bit groggy after the surgery, but able to speak. Not too clear about what she remembers.’

‘That’s good news. Did she give you a description of her attacker?’

‘A bit vague, but it’s a description of some sort. It all happened so quickly she said.’

‘Male or female?’ I was thinking of the umbrella parade ladies and the rivalry between them.

‘Male, medium height, slim. She’s not sure about an age. He was not young, not old. She hardly noticed his clothes but remembers the cap. It was a flat cap made of brown tweed, pulled down low over his eyes.’

He heard my gasp.

‘Jordan? Jordan? What’s the matter?’

‘A flat brown tweed cap?’ I repeated. ‘A man was here this morning and most of the afternoon, in the marquee. He was drunk, tried to stop the show. We’ve just got rid of him, dumped him on the beach.’

‘What about him?’

‘He was wearing a flat brown tweed cap. He was medium height, slim, middle-aged. It could be the same person. Quite aggressive.’

‘I’m on my way.’

He was coming. James. He would make everything right.

I
t was creepy to think that the man who attacked Elsie Dunlop might have been in the marquee all morning, not thirty yards away from Maddy in the afternoon. If it was the same person. Elsie’s description, although not perfect, had a few similarities. We needed a lot more.

‘What was he doing in the marquee?’

‘He was drunk. He was shouting at Ross, the drummer. He was very angry. Tom and a couple of young lads hauled him out.’

‘It was a very angry person who attacked Elsie Dunlop. I’ll send Ruth round to get a couple of statements from them. They may be able to add some details to the description. Hair, eyes, tattoos. It all helps to build up a picture.’

For a second, I could not remember who Ruth was. Then it came to me. The Gorgon with thrashing serpent arms. I wondered how she would get on with the genial Tom Lucas. He might charm a smile out of her.

‘It’s Chuck Peters’ final gig tonight and then we’re having a farewell party afterwards. Would you like to come? It’s open to anyone.’

I couldn’t believe my own ears at what I was saying. All and sundry. The hoi polloi. He did not seem to notice or perhaps he didn’t mind.

‘Where is the party being held?’ I could hardly hear him.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to find out.’

‘Give me a call.’

‘You can bring a friend,’ I said desperately. I needed my head testing. If he brought the concrete, iron-laced Ruth, I would want to die on the spot.

He rung off.

I went to see if the dining room was serving anything but it was that oasis time in the kitchen between afternoon tea and dinner when the staff got a break. The dining-room manager suggested I order a sandwich at the bar.

‘Thank you, but no. I never want to see another sandwich.’

‘Room service?’

‘Maybe.’ I didn’t want to eat alone in my room. I needed people, company, noise pulsing around like a safety net. I picked up a house phone and keyed in Maddy’s room number.

‘Hi.’ She sounded eager, as if expecting a call from Ross.

‘It’s Jordan. Do you want to eat out? Everyone says the fish and chip restaurant on the front, opposite the museum, is the best in town. Ross might be there. He likes it, I’m told.’ Complete fabrication. The white lies tripped off my tongue.

‘Cool.’

‘We’ll walk down. I don’t want to drive. The party, you know.’

‘I’ll probably get a lift back.’ In a flash, she had planned her entire evening. It didn’t include me.

‘I’ll come up for you in twenty minutes.’

‘Make it thirty minutes.’

I’d forgotten the layers of make-up, the frosty lashes, six changes of clothes that preceded any public appearance. I went back to my room, showered, put on my best indigo jeans, the new silky black top with straps and covered it with a fleece. I could start stripping off if the party got hot. The slinky top looked cool, as Maddy would say.

Maddy was almost ready when I called for her. It was another ten minutes while she repainted her nails and let them dry. I watched the sun go down from her window, its rays painting the sea with liquid gold. Boats bobbed on the golden water like nuggets of precious metal. Halliards tinkled. Sunsets reflecting
on the sea have their own special glory.

‘Look at this marvellous sunset,’ I said. Maddy came over, waving her nails in the air. ‘Don’t you wish you were a painter?’

‘I can paint,’ she said. ‘I go to art classes.’

‘A painter and a singer, Maddy? You’re full of surprises.’

She looked pleased. I’d said something right. She had her new gold lamé top on, loads of flashy jewellery, long earrings. She was ready to go.

‘You’ll need a jersey.’

‘I’m young,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel the cold.’

I would have replied if I could think of a retort, but I couldn’t think of one. It would come to me in the middle of the night.

We walked down to the restaurant on the front. Families were packing up on the beach, going back to their guest house accommodation or their caravan, taking a few ounces of sand with them. The council had to import fresh sand onto the beach every year to replace the lost kilos.

The restaurant was busy and we had to wait for a table. People eat fish and chips at any time of day these days. It was an instant feast, loved by eighty per cent of the population. Maddy was touring the restaurant with her eyes, looking for the dark floppy hair she most wanted to see.

‘He’s not here.’

‘Probably gone for a pint first.’

She agreed for once. ‘Oh, yeah. A pint first.’

‘It’s a man thing.’

She nodded. She was only fourteen.

I caught sight of movement. A couple were gathering their belongings; empty plates on the table, screwed up napkins. A window table. It was perfect. I would be able to see the sea. ‘Over there,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s grab it.’

Maddy was there in a flash. She put on her prettiest smile. ‘May we have your table?’ They were enchanted. A young girl with good manners.

‘Of course, my dear. We were just going.’

We were in the seats before they had a chance to get cold. I
handed Maddy a menu. It was printed and laminated, so the food never changed.

‘Scampi and chips. A Pepsi,’ she said without even looking at it.

A tired-looking waitress came over, pad in hand. ‘And I’ll have haddock and chips and a glass of your house red.’ Nothing posh here.

‘Large or small?’ she drawled.

‘Medium,’ I said.

‘We don’t do medium.’

‘Large then, please.’ I wasn’t sure if she meant the fish or wine. We could always give the fish to the birds. I’d have to drink the wine. I would force myself. ‘You’ve had a busy day?’

‘It hasn’t stopped. Like a swarm of starving locusts since eleven o’clock this morning. You’d think there was a famine on.’ She thawed a fraction. ‘I’ll see if they can do a medium.’

‘Thanks.’ Wine or fish? I wondered.

She disappeared into the steamy kitchen.

When the fish came, it was fresh and succulent, golden batter glistening, the chips a good fat size and cooked to perfection. Even Maddy tucked in for once, though she took bits of batter off and pushed it to the side of her plate.

It was fish to dream about, freshly caught in the bay. DCI James would be in seventh heaven, again. He loved fish and chips, his favourite at Maeve’s cafe in Latching, where we often met and ate together. I felt quite homesick for the steamy cafe and Mavis’s raunchy banter. I would be home soon and back into my routine. I would have a lot to tell my friends, Mavis and Doris.

‘Do you remember a girl at your school called Sarah Patel?’ I asked between mouthfuls. Maddy nodded, her mouth full.

‘Sarah? The girl who disappeared? Yeah, we all remember her. Such a fuss. We had to hang flowers on the gate in remembrance, and teddy bears and letters. Everybody was being questioned when we all knew she had gone off with one of the teachers. She was fifteen, I ask you, old enough to know her own mind.’

I was surprised. No mention of murder. Nothing about a body
buried in the grounds of Corfe Castle. It was merely the usual kind of mad, under-age elopement.

‘So who was the teacher?’

‘Not sure. Art, I think. It’s usually art, isn’t it? Long untidy dark hair and cords, quite a dish. Our new art teacher is a frumpy old geezer, dyes his hair blond to look younger. Sticks it up with gel. He can’t even paint.’

‘Do you know anything about this younger art teacher that Sarah was keen on? Can you remember anything about him?’

Maddy screwed up her face. ‘Nope, nothing. He played jazz CDs during his classes. Some of the girls complained. That’s all.’

‘He played jazz? He liked jazz? Is that unusual for a teacher, to play jazz during his classes?’

She looked surprised. ‘It’s not a contagious disease, is it? Lots of different kinds of people like jazz. You like jazz.’

‘No, but it does mean that they might have come to the jazz festival here, Sarah and this teacher, three years ago. Was your dad playing?’

‘Yes, of course he was. He’s a regular.’

‘Did you come?’

‘Probably, I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything three years ago.’

‘Did you see them here together? The art teacher and Sarah Patel?’

‘I have no idea. I was eleven. Give us a break. I’m not wonder woman with a photogenic brain. I might have seen them, I might not.’

I let Maddy enjoy the rest of her chips but she had given me food for thought. If the art teacher thought that Maddy had recognized him and Sarah together, here at the jazz festival, that might be the motive for the malicious and threatening notes.

DCI James needed this new information. I wasn’t great on texting but I had another go. I texted him, in words of one syllable, that Sarah Patel might have eloped with her art teacher, that he liked jazz, that Maddy had been at the same jazz festival.

But that she could not remember seeing them.

‘What was the art teacher’s name, the one that Sarah liked and maybe eloped with?’

Maddy screwed up her face. ‘Dunno. Hal? Sam? Joe? I can’t remember. Roger something, that’s it. Like in old Spitfire flying movies. Roger!’

I nodded. ‘That’ll do for now. But if anything does come back to you, will you tell me?’

‘Roger! If it’s that important.’

She was beginning to fidget. She could only sit still for so long.

‘No, not that important,’ I said hurriedly. I didn’t want to alarm the girl.

I wondered when I would get back to the charity shops. I’d seen a round copper tray that would look good displayed properly and a couple of late eighteenth-century porcelain figures that would sell in Latching. There were some Disney Wade animals that were made for my shop window. Money was jingling in my pocket. The wasp could go home laden with loot. She wouldn’t complain.

And the museum shop sold semi-gem stones. I’d seen bowls of rose quartz and white quartz. I wouldn’t mind another piece of rose quartz to hold when the going’s rough. I had only spent a few minutes in the museum but was enchanted by Swanage’s history. There was so much from the Jurassic days to the quarry industry, to all the London stone brought back as ballast and installed around the town, even some old black bollards with dates on them that were once used to stop carriages driving on London pavements.

Perhaps I would stay on a day after the festival, browsing and shopping. Chuck Peters had only employed me for the duration of the festival, hadn’t he? I guess I ought to check.

There wasn’t a chip left for the greedy seagulls but some batter that had not been eaten. I scooped it into a paper napkin.

‘It’s for the seagulls,’ I explained. ‘Better slightly cold batter than fresh fish.’

I left the waitress a decent tip. I was getting generous in my old age.

We walked back along the empty seafront. Maddy was easy-going for once. Shops and cafes were closed. We climbed the steep road to the field with the marquees, one still cordoned off with scene-of-crime tape.

The working marquee was filling quickly. Tom Lucas was relieved to see me. ‘We need help, Jordan,’ he said, indicating the jostling crowd at the entrance. ‘Get them in line, can you?’

Police crowd control voice needed. I remembered mine. ‘Stay in line, please. No crowding. Room for everyone.’ Maddy had disappeared inside, straight for the stage, Ross and her father. She might have wanted to be close to her father after all the Sarah Patel talk.

I recognized lots of regulars after three days. The wristband routine was merely a lift of the wrist now. The last show was so popular, it was going to be standing room only. I’d be lucky to hear the music from outside. But I didn’t mind. I was here to work, not listen to jazz, however brilliant it might be.

At some point we closed the entrance. There was no room anywhere. Every seat was taken. People were sitting on the ground in the aisles, others standing at the back, in front of the bar. Punters had to fight their way through to the bar. You could die of dehydration before you reached it.

I found Tom. He looked weary, drawn. Perhaps he had been up at dawn, walking Ant and Dec. ‘We can’t let any more in. It would be dangerous,’ he said. ‘Health and safety, you know.’

‘They are already sitting in the aisles which is against fire regulations,’ I said. I didn’t have the energy to move the people sitting on the floor. ‘But I won’t let any more in.’

‘Well done, Jordan. Keep the entrance closed. Only let people out, but no one will go while Chuck Peters is playing. The box office is closed now so no more tickets for sale. I’m going to get myself a beer, if I can get to the bar. Can I get you something?’

He looked so hopeful that I could not refuse. ‘A white wine would be lovely, thank you.’ I knew it would be ridiculously low in alcohol, probably 4.5 per cent, from a box, more like lemonade with a dash. A clear liquid with a slight fizz.

Tom Lucas was one of those forlorn men, locked in a suffocating marriage. But at least he had these three days of freedom to look forward to every year.

‘Stay here, Jordan. You can sit on my desk. Not a good view but at least you can hear the music.’

That was kind. I was tired. I had had so many injuries to my back in the past, my spine hardly knew how to stand up. I could see Maddy’s gold lamé top. She was sitting on the edge of the stage, flashing her nails. She looked ecstatically happy. Ross must have smiled at her.

Don’t ask me what Chuck Peters played. It was like being shot to the stars in a rocket. One standard after another, taken to extremes, rendered new and inspirational. I could not believe what I was hearing. The audience were cheering themselves hoarse.

I wanted to tell Maddy, ‘Your dad is a genius!’

I knew Chuck was a genius. No one else could extract such emotive sound from a tube of brass and some finger levers. This job had been an unexpected bonus. I was being paid to listen to jazz. I was being paid for a few days away from vertigo.

It materialized out of the air, the idea. It was a daft idea but the younger musicians were all for it. They were keyed up, hot and sweaty from playing their hearts out. They wanted to cool off. A swim seemed an ideal way and the sea looked inviting.