Jazz and Die (2 page)

I drove the sunburst car slowly along the seafront, getting the feel of it. The engine sounded powerful. I managed to work the unused card-entry system to the reserved car-parking space. The barrier arm rose and allowed me to drive into the car-parking area. I found the space, the number painted white on the tarmac, and parked with a sense of achievement. The leather upholstery was cream and soft, the dashboard more like aircraft controls than a car.

So far, so good. No funny feelings in the lift. But when I got out on the fourth floor, the vertigo swept back. It seemed even worse now that it was dark, faint neon lights along the walkway, one outside each front door. Yet I couldn’t see how far down there was to fall. My body had programmed itself to having vertigo.

I crept along, like a crab, facing the kitchen windows of the other three flats, trailing my hands along the brickwork, seeking something to hold onto. These flat owners would be alarmed at
seeing a pale-faced stranger peering in. Not a good relations exercise for making friends with new neighbours.

My phone rang. I’d changed the ringtone to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It sounded good, invigorating. Now it sounded loud.

‘Hello,’ I croaked.

‘How’s the window washing?’

It was DCI James, the man of my long-time unfulfilled dreams. The elusive detective who seemed to like me and then ignored me for weeks. But now he was phoning. I chalked up a bonus point.

‘I did t-ten seconds and then t-twenty seconds’ window washing.’

‘There you go. Where are you now?’

‘Marooned on the walkway. Two flats away from my front door. It’s dark. I can’t move. My legs have disappeared and I feel sick.’

There was a pause and I faintly heard the tapping of a keyboard and far-off voices. James was still in the CID office, working late. It must be a serious case, a major investigation.

‘I can’t come and rescue you,’ said James.

‘So? I shall have to stay here till they find me frozen stiff in the morning.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Jordan. No one freezes to death in July.’

‘Dehydration, then.’

My breathing slowed down a fraction. Talking to James had taken my mind off the vertigo for a few moments. He seemed to know what had happened.

‘Shall I talk you home?’ he said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. ‘Is there a rail? Put your hand on the rail.’

‘It’s wet. It’s wood.’

‘Is the rail firm, not wobbling or anything? No, so don’t look down. Look straight ahead towards your own door. Tell me what you have been doing. Start moving, one foot at a time. Left foot, now right foot.’

‘I’ve bought a car.’

‘Yesterday you rent a flat, today you buy a car. This is mega
investment time, Jordan. Have you won the lottery?’

‘It was necessary. I’ve needed a car since the ladybird was incinerated.’

‘Is this another ladybird?’

‘No, this is a wasp. She’s beautiful.’

‘A wasp?’ She heard his deep chuckle. ‘Does she sting?’

‘She’s sunburst yellow with hooded headlamps like eyes.’

‘And the petrol consumption? Keep moving.’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’

‘I bet you’ve bought a gas guzzler. She sounds an expensive lady. Where are you now?’

I found with amazement that I was almost outside my own front door. I fished in my bag for the key. I had not looked down once onto the darkened car park.

‘I’m right outside my own front door.’

‘Put in your key and open the door.’

It took some willpower to let go of the handrail and launch myself towards the door. But I made it. The key turned and the door opened to the hallway. I stumbled inside and leaned against a wall.

‘I’m in.’

‘There you are, Jordan, home and dry. Have you got your breath back? Are you listening? I’ve got a case for you.’

A case? James had a case for me? I must be dreaming. What was the opposite to insomnia? Whatever it was, I must have it.

B
ut I wanted to hear more. I needed a case. I needed some income after the marathon spending of the last few days.

‘So,’ I said, putting down my bag, ‘a case for me? That’s something new. When did you ever think I might be starving, living off crumbs that a seagull wouldn’t even consider?’

James ignored the tirade. ‘You like jazz, don’t you? Starting tomorrow, there’s a three-day jazz festival down here. They are busy putting up the marquees now on a field facing the sea. If I mention names, you’ll know them. All famous musicians. This is a top-class jazz festival.’

My interest was stirring. I had never been to a top-class jazz festival but it was something which excited the music in my blood. ‘So?’

‘One of the top musicians has brought his teenage daughter along with him. She turns the pages or cleans the instruments. But he came to the station this morning because he’s been getting threatening letters. Someone is threatening to abduct his daughter during the festival. He wanted me to put twenty-four-hour observation on his daughter.’

I was beginning to see the light. Not the song.

‘This is not something I can do,’ James went on. ‘I don’t have the resources and the evidence is flimsy. Besides, I have a murder investigation going on. But I thought of you.’

‘Is the father willing to pay for this twenty-four-hour bodyguard?’

‘Yes, though when I tell you who he is, you’ll probably do it for nothing, just for a seat at his concerts.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Chuck Peters. And his daughter is fourteen-year-old Maddy Peters. He’s willing to pay.’

Chuck Peters. I would have given my right hand for a seat at one of his jazz concerts. He was a multi-reed player, played everything – trumpet, sax, trombone – with spine-chilling skill. He was a world-class musician. He could reach a top F. He’d played in the Albert Hall, on the Jools Holland show, New Orleans, all over the world.

‘Have you mentioned me?’ I could hardly get the words out.

‘I have recommended you. I told him you were the best. How about that cruise that you went on as a bodyguard? A great success.’

It could hardly be called a great success, since I had been set up, but I was not going to argue with James.

‘Can you get down here by tomorrow afternoon? The jazz festival starts Friday afternoon with a cruise on a steamer to Poole Harbour. Maddy is going on it.’

‘I don’t know the way,’ I faltered.

‘Can’t you read a map?’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Take the coast road. Point your yellow wasp towards Littlehampton, Southampton, Bournemouth, then take the ferry across to Studland Bay and straight down to Swanage. I’ll meet you at the bus station.’

‘I thought you said you were in Hampshire.’

‘Dorset. Swanage is in Dorset. You’ll love it. The Jurassic Coast is awesome. Dinosaur bones and fossils all over the beach. Call me when you arrive.’

He rang off. It was all happening too fast. My furniture was being delivered tomorrow morning. I had to unpack and then pack again. I needed some sleep. Driving the wasp all that way would be getting to know her. I hope she liked me at the wheel.

I surfaced from a tumbled sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor.
Sleeping on a floor was nothing new. Locked in a windmill, in a cave, on the floor of an empty hotel, in my car. This was almost luxury because there was a normal flushing bathroom along the hallway, not a hole in the ground.

I was out early since I had to get clothes and essentials from the shop. The walkway did not seem so bad this morning, and anyway I was in such a rush there was no time to think about vertigo. In an hour, I was back, laden with stuff from my bedsits. A few clothes, mugs, food, toiletries. I had a mania for washing my hair.

The postman was on the walkway, clad in his red and yellow jacket. ‘Hi, there,’ he said. ‘You moving in?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not used to the height yet.’

‘I’ve been on a lot worse,’ he said. But he walked along with me, stopping to put mail through letterboxes. ‘Sorry, only junk today.’

I was at my door and I had not noticed so company helped. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Take care,’ he said, going onto the one flat further from me. I had not met any of my neighbours yet. I’d had no neighbours at all next to my late bedsits. This was a plus, if I ever saw them.

Now I could make coffee, in a mug. Muesli in a bowl. Sort out what I was taking with me to Swanage. I did not have much in the way of clothes, mostly jeans and shirts and sweaters. I had one dress, given to me years ago, but it was way out of fashion now. If Chuck Peters threw a party, I would have to go shopping.

The wasp had a reasonable-sized boot behind the two front seats. No seats at the back. It would take a couple of travel bags. I put my anorak on top. It was bound to rain. I realized that DCI James had said nothing about accommodation. I’d worry about that when I got there.

My furniture arrived at 9 a.m. on the dot. It didn’t take long for the two men to haul the lot inside. A four-foot pine bed and mattress, a white chest of drawers, a three-seater pale green tapestry sofa which they had to haul up the stairs as it wouldn’t fit into the lift. Two bookcases, CD player and a desk and chair. I had
acquired quite a few new pieces since the cruise. Several heavy boxes of books.

I had to give them a decent tip because of the sofa. And they reassembled the pine bed without being asked. I suppose I looked tired or helpless.

By ten I was out again, packing the wasp with bodyguarding necessities. I’d need torches, batteries, my personal alarm, camera, phone charged. I couldn’t believe that I was actually going to meet Chuck Peters. He was one of the best. I had some of his CDs.

In the euphoria, I’d almost forgotten that I would also be seeing DCI James, if he had the time or inclination. Perhaps the Swanage sea air would generate more romantic feelings than windy Latching. He seemed to like it there.

I drove the wasp out of the car park as if I had lived there for years. The barrier arm rose perfectly. It was a steep and winding slope through the multi-storey car park down to street level. The multi-storey was already filling up. I was glad I did not have to use it. The ramps were always full of dark muffled sounds and echoing shadows. Creepy.

The wasp trusted my slightly erratic driving with patience. The gear box looked different. I stopped at a Little Chef for coffee and to fill up with petrol. The coffee was good, the petrol expensive. She was a thirsty lady.

The coast road was straight and easy at first. I took the A27 to Littlehampton, bypassed Bognor Regis and onto Portsmouth. Then it was motorway, the M27 to Southampton, where I knew I would get lost and I did. Finding a signpost for the A31 to Bournemouth was a relief. I began to relax.

It took some time, though, wandering around Bournemouth’s residential streets, to find the ferry terminal. So many lovely old houses had been knocked down for retirement flats and nursing homes. Eventually I joined a long, steep, downhill queue and jolted up the ramp and drove onto the ferry. I was amazed to see it was pulled by chains from either shore, no machinery or anything.

‘Where do I pay?’ I asked.

‘When you get off, miss.’

The ferry was packed tight, crowds of holidaymakers, lorries, an open-top bus. The schools had already broken up. Several kids clustered round the wasp, admiring her. She was quite an eyeful.

‘What kind of car is this, miss?’

‘Is it a James Bond car? Has it been in a film?’

‘Can it do stunts, like shoot out guns or flames?’

It was only a ten-minute ride on the water and I didn’t have time to make up the entire history of the wasp, although I was getting quite a few ideas. Mike hadn’t told me much about her past, so there was no harm in elaborating.

I only got back into the driving seat in time before I was beckoned off. Lots of kids waved to me. I handed over cash at the pay-desk. There were different rates for the size of vehicle. But I had probably saved that much in petrol, instead of taking the long land route via Wareham to Swanage.

Sandbanks was a vast expanse of sand with scattered holidaymakers in caravans and tents. Sand dunes and grasses waving in the breeze, windswept trees giving shade. A great holiday spot.

The Dorset scenery was lovely. Rolling hills and endless glimpses of the sea. Corfe Castle was a gaunt ruin atop a steep hill, lots of history but not much castle left. Perhaps I’d get to see it one day. I liked ruined castles especially when the stones talked to me.

The winding tree-lined road was going steeply down towards Swanage which was surrounded by more hills and headlands. So unlike Latching, which was miles of flat, flat, flat.

I drove slowly along the seafront. It had a promenade, but it was a narrow pavement unlike the wide expanse of Latching. There were beach huts on the sand and more beach huts on part of the road which was blocked off for cars. I had to drive back into the town, passing several white marquees already erected on a field above the seafront. It began to look exciting. Marquees mean music.

The jazz festival was getting ready to start. I hoped I was in time for the jazz cruise. I could see that there was a sketchy sort
of pier, maybe Victorian, at the far side of the harbour. Nothing like our Latching pier which had a theatre pavilion and an amusement arcade. This pier was a plain structure purely for pleasure boats and steamers.

I found the bus station and a car park, slid the wasp into a vacant spot. ‘Thank you,’ I said, switching off. The engine died away. It always paid to be polite to a car.

A tall figure emerged from an unmarked car. I had not seen him for weeks but a rush of emotion threatened my throat. That dark crew-cut, tinged with grey. His weather-beaten face, strong jaw, blue eyes like the ocean depths. He walked over, didn’t smile, opened the driver’s door.

‘You took your time,’ said DCI James, his eyes roving over the interior.

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘We’ve been tracking you. A bright yellow car is hard to miss. Radar picked you up at the ferry. You’ve certainly acquired a beauty but hardly the right car for a private investigator. Nothing anonymous about yellow.’

I was not going to be drawn into an argument. The wasp and I were mates. We were going everywhere together. I didn’t need anonymous.

‘Am I too late for the jazz cruise?’

‘They are waiting for you.’ He took a blue laminated badge out of his pocket. It was on a silver chain. He hung it round my neck. ‘You’re an official jazz steward. It will take you anywhere. You can get in anywhere that Maddy goes.’

‘Does she know I’m guarding her?’

‘No. She’s a normal fourteen-year-old and would be pretty stroppy about it. It’s up to you to make friends with her. Get in my car and I’ll take you down to the harbour. You’ll need a fleece. It can be pretty blowy out at sea.’

‘What about my wasp?’ I hesitated.

‘Give me the keys. I’ll get one of my constables to drive it away. Don’t worry, he does know how to drive.’

‘Where am I staying?’

‘At the Whyte Cliffside Hotel. I’ve booked you a room with a view of the sea. Many of the musicians are staying there, including Chuck Peters and Maddy. It’s within walking distance of the marquees and the pubs.’

‘It’s not high up, is it?’

James relaxed for an instant, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. ‘No vertigo, Jordan. I promise. But the hotel gardens do go down to the cliff edge so keep away from them. You’ll hear the sound of bees in the honeysuckle and crickets at night. Nothing to be alarmed about. You’ll like it.’

It was a long time since I had sat in a car beside James. I could smell his aftershave and the cleanliness of his skin. Even his clothes seemed familiar although I had not seen them before. He knew his way around the town. There were several complex one-way streets. Quite confusing.

‘What’s this major investigation you are here for?’ I asked. I could see the pier gates ahead and at the far end was a white-painted steamer, tied up. ‘Is it important?’

‘You don’t want to know, Jordan. It’s not nice. You stick to the jazz festival and guarding young Maddy. Leave me to worry about my case.’

He stopped at the gates and I got out, the steward’s badge swinging against my sweater. I didn’t have a clue what a steward did. I hoped someone would tell me. But I wasn’t the last person to board the steamer. There were several women hurrying along the walkway, waving their tickets.

‘Don’t worry, ladies,’ I said, flicking my steward’s badge at them. ‘I’ll make sure you get aboard.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’ They were all overweight, short of breath. ‘We didn’t realize it was such a long walk to the pier.’

There were two other stewards waiting at the steamer gangplank, checking tickets, marking off the numbers. One of them, a thick-set gentleman in a navy waterproof coat, glared at me.

‘You’re late,’ he said.

‘Traffic,’ I said sweetly. ‘All those confusing one-way streets.’

‘We couldn’t set sail till you arrived. We have to have the right
number of stewards on board for the number of passengers.’

‘Health and safety,’ explained the other steward, a pleasant woman with crisp-cut white hair. ‘In case there’s an emergency.’

‘Everything by the book,’ I said. ‘You are absolutely right.’ I flashed around several of my high-voltage smiles. I always went to a good dentist.

I could hear the sound of music already. It was traditional jazz from New Orleans, not quite my scene, but pulsing music just the same. I was instantly at home, my feet tapping, my body swaying to the rhythm. This was going to be a job after my own heart. Now I had to find Maddy and make friends with her so that she would get used to me being around.

The steamer was easing off the pier, backwards, its engines thrashing. Some of the passengers had gone down into the salon where the four-piece band had set up its instruments and amplification. There was also a bar and a coffee counter. But a lot of the passengers preferred to sit on the stern deck outside so that they could see the famous Jurassic cliffs and the soaring coastal scenery.