Jazz and Die (3 page)

It was awesome. Latching didn’t have cliffs. These sheer white cliffs had been there before the beginning of time. It was not hard to spot the caves and gullies of the rock quarries, where men and women had worked, blasting out marble for the pavements of London. The gulls were screeching overhead. They hoped we were going fishing. Cormorants perched on crops of rock, doing their own fishing.

I found Maddy easily because she was the only fourteen-year-old among a crowd of middle-aged and elderly music-loving passengers. She had blonde hair tied back in two ponytails. She was chewing gum. She did not look happy. I could see trouble ahead.

M
addy was wearing current teenager gear. Cropped blue denim shorts that could not have been any shorter. A bright red, sleeveless T-shirt, falling off one shoulder. Black ribbed tights and sloppy Ugg boots, in the middle of July. I ask you.

Her make-up was to the nines. She was even wearing sparkly false eyelashes in the afternoon. I was not surprised that Chuck thought his daughter needed a bodyguard. Her eyes were glued to the drummer. He was a lean young man with a mop of dark hair, all brushed forward so that the fringe hid his eyes. He kept his eyes down. Perhaps this was his way of hiding from the bevy of beauties who no doubt followed him around wherever he was playing.

He was drumming the rhythm with careless inattention. The music was good but I don’t think Maddy was listening. She was propped against the half-open door that led to the bows of the boat. There was a stiff wind blowing away the mugginess of the salon.

I went back upstairs onto the stern deck, pulling on my fleece. The skipper was giving a running commentary from the bridge.

‘Soon we shall be passing the Old Harry Rocks, a magnificent 150 feet tall white stack standing out to sea off Ballard Head. Here the rocks are 65 million years old, the Cretaceous world to you and me, folks. The smaller rock is called Old Harry’s Wife. There had been an earlier spouse but that rock disappeared without trace.’

You could tell he was reading from a script by his monotonous tone.

‘A marital dispute,’ said a passenger. Everyone laughed.

‘Old Harry is another name for the devil so it was not surprising. Now we are coming along to Studland Bay and you may be able to spot a few nudies.’

There was suddenly a rush of keen photographers. We passed Sandbanks, where millionaires build big houses facing the sea, and then Brownsea Island which is a nature reserve for animals who build their own more discreet habitats. Red squirrels, silka deer and lots of birds: I remembered learning about them in a BBC documentary.

‘We shall soon be boarding a pilot to take us through the narrow channel to Poole Harbour. It’s very shallow in parts and we don’t want to get stuck in the sand.’

Poole Harbour looked an interesting place with a jumble of buildings along the seafront. The boat did a tight turn at the far end of the harbour for the trip back. Poole Harbour deserved another visit, if I ever had time.

It had been a glorious afternoon, sailing with a background of jazz. Maddy had hardly moved, yet someone had given her a can of Diet Coke and she was drinking from it. I kept an eye on her red shirt. There was hardly a cloud in the sky and even the water seemed bathed in a golden light.

It was magic.

The magic was abruptly shattered. There was no premonition.

There was a loud grating, grinding noise, a crash and a jolt. I staggered back. The whole boat shuddered. The engines stopped. There was a stunned silence. Even the band stopped playing. Surely they should keep on playing? They obviously hadn’t seen
Titanic
. The band always played on.

A few passengers knew what had happened. They peered over the sides of the boat. We had gone aground near the Old Harry Rocks. The devil’s work? Was he still around? Was this his day off and he was bored?

There were several more jolts and crashes and grinding noises
as the skipper tried to manoeuvre the boat off the rocks with bursts of the engine. It didn’t move. I could see the jagged rocks below the choppy green waves.

Passengers began talking nervously. Some peered at the rocks. Maddy was talking to the drummer who had stood up to look outside. She was animated. Her day was made with a few minutes of his time.

The portly steward came bustling over to me. He had a clipboard in his hand.

‘Have you checked the lifejackets?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘You were supposed to check the lifejackets. That’s your job, to check all the safety equipment.’

‘No one told me. But there are plenty of lifejackets. Look, they are stowed away under the seats on the deck. Dozens of them.’

‘Then you could start checking names,’ he said, thrusting the clipboard at me. He was panicking. ‘Check that everyone is here.’

‘No one has fallen overboard,’ I said calmly. ‘I would have seen it happen. Or someone else would have seen and shouted out.’

Several scenarios flashed through my mind. Mayday. The skipper would radio ashore for lifeboats to come to our rescue. Was it my duty to see safe transfers into the lifeboats? Children first, so that would be Maddy. There were a lot of heavy ladies and elderly gentlemen to transfer. Would this include the double bass?

If the boat holed, water would start coming into the lower salon first. I would keep calm, helping passengers into life jackets. Maddy would help elderly ladies with the buckles. The crew would launch the orange rafts from the stern decks. Was it my duty to transfer again? I began to feel hollow with dread. A cold sweat swept over me.

I knew I could swim the distance ashore but over all those rocks, so sharp and visible under the waves? I didn’t know if Maddy could swim. She’d probably refuse to jump in on the grounds of losing her eyelashes in the sea.

There were a lot of scared faces now. They were facing watery danger. A couple of hours ago they’d been ashore, having a pub
lunch or fish and chips. Now an unknown hazard threatened their lives.

It was several years since I’d been a policewoman but the first thing we learned was crowd control. ‘Keep calm, please,’ I said, moving among them. ‘The skipper has everything under control. He’ll soon have us off the rocks. Nothing to worry about. Stay calm, everyone.’

I moved forward to the front of the salon. Maddy was shivering in her little red top. I took off my fleece and hung it round her shoulders. She pushed her arms into the sleeves. They were still warm.

‘Thanks,’ she said. The drummer had left her to talk to his band mates. She looked forlorn and desolate.

‘Soon be back to the pier,’ I said. ‘Not long now. I’ll look after you.’

‘My dad will be worried. I’ll have to phone him.’

I didn’t want her phoning her dad and alarming him. He’d think that she had been taken hostage by pirates. He’d have half the police force out.

‘Don’t phone him yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll only be a little late.’

A crackle came over the loudspeaker. It was the skipper at last with an announcement. ‘Would all passengers please go to the front of the boat, please. The front end is the pointed end, folks, the bows.’

He wanted us all to move forward. A shimmer of white-faced panic spread among our jazz enthusiasts. A woman started crying.

‘Like the
Titanic
,’ said a helpful joker.

There was a reluctance to move. Those on deck did not want to go down into the salon. They wanted to stay on deck. Many were elderly and the stairs were too much for them. I began to help them down the stairs. Maddy, to my surprise, began to guide a frail woman.

A woman in the salon was sobbing into her husband’s thigh. She was rigid with fear. I took her hand.

‘Everything is going to be all right,’ I said, full of confidence.
‘The skipper knows what he is doing. He’s shifting the weight of everyone aboard so that the boat will tilt forward and the stern will lift off the rocks.’

She didn’t like the phrase
tilt forward
. Nor did the other passengers. They imagined the bows dipping under the water with the extra weight, tipping the boat and waves rushing in through the salon.

I gave a running commentary as efficiently as possible as if it was an everyday occurrence and I’d done it many times before. The woman crushed the bones in my hand. It was crippling.

There was a sharp burst from the engine. ‘Now the skipper is doing a quarter turn forward,’ I said, not really having a clue. People seemed reassured. Then I felt a different movement. There was a buoyancy. The boat lifted.

‘Now he’s gone into reverse and we are backing out towards the sea,’ I said hopefully.

‘Thank goodness. God bless the skipper.’ It was a chorus.

I looked out of the nearest steamed-up window. We were backing out to sea. Old Harry, the devil, was further away. I didn’t want to see him again. The crew were inspecting the box that housed the propeller shaft. We were still not clear of the woods, or of the waves, as you might say.

As the boat moved clear of the rocks, there was spontaneous clapping from the passengers. The relief was tangible. Couples were hugging and kissing, laughing. Maddy was grinning. Many couples held hands for the slow two and a half miles back to Swanage landing pier. The skipper was not risking an engine breakdown. Perhaps the danger had healed rifts, reaffirmed lost affection.

I was used to danger, but this unexpected danger, the uncertainty of being pitched into a watery disaster, had sharpened my awareness of life and our fragile hold. None of us know what will happen next.

‘It was the skegs you heard,’ the skipper told me when I climbed up to the bridge to get his viewpoint. ‘They’re steel blades, reinforcing the after end of the keel and the rudderpost.’

There was another cheer when the coastline of Swanage came into view and the spindly legs of the pier were growing closer. Passengers started to gather up their belongings. The band were also packing up. The drummer had the biggest load of equipment to carry off. He was zipping his drums into bags. Maddy was trying to help, putting his sticks into a zipped pouch.

As we docked, another cheer went up for the skipper and more clapping. There was not exactly a stampede to get off but it was obvious that solid mother earth was a magnet.

‘Sign here,’ said the chief steward, still glaring. He held out his clipboard. I wrote a barely legible signature. Not a word of thanks.

‘You did very well, my dear,’ said the other woman steward. ‘Kept everyone calm. Don’t worry about old Felix here. He’s a grumpy old soul till he’s got a few whiskies down him.’

I saw Maddy fly into the arms of a figure I knew well. It was Chuck Peters. He had come to meet his daughter. A short man, but full of vigour and life. A man who could make music from any instrument.

‘So you got back safely,’ said a voice I knew. A bolt of happiness shot through me. James had come to meet me. He stood back from the crowd, not rushing.

‘There were a few scary moments,’ I said.

‘We heard it all. The skipper radioed us to stand by with ambulances. But apparently, Florence Nightingale kept everyone calm and there were no casualties.’

‘She has a way of reappearing, even centuries later. But I didn’t have a single candle. Why are you here?’

‘You don’t know how to get to the Whyte Cliffside Hotel. There is a way along the beach and then up a steep path to the cliff top. Not your regular way, even without vertigo. The entrance is a couple of roads back and hard to find. I’ll take you but don’t expect this every day.’

‘What do I have to do this evening, being a steward?’

‘You keep close to Maddy. You are not there to act as a steward.’

‘Felix thought I was.’

‘No one knows.’

Great. I was there, wearing a steward’s badge, but I didn’t have to do any stewarding type things. I was there to be with Maddy. I was juggling several balls.

‘Chuck Peters wants to meet you this evening before the gigs start. His room is 520. Maddy won’t be there. She would hate the idea, apparently. But Chuck wants to meet you.’

‘He wants to meet me?’ I could have fainted. James started driving his car away from the pier entrance. It was his usual soulless black Saab. I sat back in the passenger seat, vowing to never go on another jazz cruise. Dry land for me from now on.

‘Six-thirty in his room. Look efficient. Wear your badge.’

‘I know why you are here,’ I said as he drove along the sea road towards the other side of the bay. Hills rose on all sides above the sea. ‘They were talking about it on the cruise. A girl’s body has been found at Corfe Castle. A girl who has been missing for three years. A cold case.’

There was a long pause as James negotiated an open-top bus coming the other way. It was a narrow road when cars were parked along the seafront.

‘Since you know that much, it was Corfe Castle. She was found buried in the grounds of the castle. At first we thought very old bones – centuries old – but then forensic dated her clothes fragments to Primark. That’s when I was brought in.’

‘How old was she?’

‘About fifteen, they think.’

‘Scary.’

‘That’s why you are here. There may be a connection.’

James took a steep left turn and drove uphill, then another right into a cul-de-sac. The front of the Whyte Cliffside Hotel was all that one could wish for in a five-star hotel. Automatic doors, manicured shrubs and plants, plenty of lighting, a foyer made of glass. My wardrobe seemed more and more inadequate.

‘What sort of connection?’ I asked, hoping the wasp was parked here safely with my luggage.

‘We think she had something to do with the jazz festival. She was wearing a silver bracelet of linked key notes.’

A
group of musicians apparently had a permanent booking for the whole of the top floor. They worked late, partied late and never got up for breakfast, so other guests staying at the hotel were not disturbed. The guests who were regular jazz enthusiasts and had a stroller ticket for the three days felt it was a bonus: they often caught sight of their favourite sax player or drummer.

I was in room 410, the floor below the musicians. Unless the hotel had well-insulated walls, I would hear their late arrivals. But maybe I would be with them, my eyes on Maddy, making sure she was safe.

‘I’ve never stayed in a big hotel before, apart from a Travelodge, and you know what they’re like.’

‘This has five stars,’ said James, getting into the lift.

My room earned every one of those five stars. The bathroom was a joy in itself, gleaming white shower, big bath, free toiletries, four different-sized fluffy towels. I wandered round, touching everything. And instant hot water, not like the bathroom that went with my previous bedsits. Luke-warm had been its middle name.

The double bed was covered in a cream and blue stitched quilt with matching cushions. Cushions on a bed, for decoration, I ask you. I had more hanging space and storage drawers than I had clothes. There was a comfy armchair and a desk at the window. There was a hospitality tray on the desk, not just regular tea and coffee, but hot chocolate, a bottle of still water, biscuits, even
herbal teas. And it was all mine. Perhaps I should move in.

‘Don’t forget you are here to work,’ said James, following me, carrying my two travel bags. He’d seen me eyeing the hospitality tray.

‘I’m seeing Chuck Peters at 6.30 p.m.,’ I repeated. I put my alarm clock by the bed, ignoring the digital timepiece already in place. I would never be able to work out all the buttons and instructions.

James put down my bags. ‘I may drop in at one of the gigs tonight,’ he said. ‘It all depends.’

He turned and left me before I could thank him for carrying my bags up. At least that meant that the wasp was safely in the hotel car park. I felt I ought to go and check but I was drawn to the window. I was high up because the hotel was on a cliff, but my feet were anchored to the carpet and there was no trace of vertigo. Was I becoming cured?

There were chairs and tables scattered on the lawn below that stretched to the cliff edge. I might not feel so safe down there. Guests were sitting, reading, drinking, dozing in the late afternoon light.

It was so different from Latching. Swanage Bay was full of yachts and surfers and motorboats – a busy, busy scene – whereas the English Channel had a few trawlers and liners so far in the distance binoculars were needed. Across the bay loomed more rolling hills, green and verdant, very walkable. I wondered if Maddy liked walking. Probably only if the drummer came along too.

The phone on the desk rang.

‘Miss Lacey?’ I knew the voice instantly. I’d been to his concerts at the Pier Pavilion. His vocal cords were raspy from years of blowing, sometimes singing his lyrics, a bit like Rod Stewart.

‘Hello, Mr Peters,’ I said. I had to control my voice.

‘As it’s such a pleasant evening, I wondered if you’d like a drink on the lawn? The weather changes a lot at Swanage. Could be torrential rain tomorrow. We’ll find a private table somewhere
where we can talk.’

‘I’d like that,’ I said, swallowing. I was going to have a drink with the famous Chuck Peters. I was about to enter a period of good fortune.

‘What shall I order for you?’

I had no idea. I would have drunk mud happily in his company. ‘A white wine, please, if it’s not too early.’

He laughed, a raspy laugh. ‘It’s never too early.’

He put the phone down.

I had to test the shower. It was perfect, standing in a waterfall of warming dew. I washed my hair in free shampoo. The biggest towel wrapped right round me. There was a hairdryer, firmly attached to the wall so guests could not take it home as a souvenir. As if I would.

At 6.25 p.m. on the dot, I went downstairs and found the way out through the veranda doors from the glassed-in lounge. I spotted Chuck Peters immediately, sitting at a far table. He was a short, burly man, with dark hair cut into disobedient tufts. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, which often fell off when he was playing. He already had a glass of cold beer.

I hurried across the velvety grass, not looking at the cliff edge. He got up when he saw me. He had a big grin on his face. His front teeth were distorted in level and shape from blowing horn for so many years.

‘Miss Lacey?’ he said, holding out his hand. It was long and slim with musician’s fingers. ‘Come and sit down. Your wine is coming now. I didn’t want it to warm up.’

‘Hello, Mr Peters. I am not going to embarrass you by saying that I am a great fan, even though I am.’

‘It’s on your face, lady. No need to say it. Just enjoy the music. Any requests, tell me. It would be a pleasure. Ah, here’s your wine.’

A waiter came over with a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and two glasses, a bowl of nuts and a dish of carrot sticks. He was in his thirties, dark-haired, Spanish-looking.

‘Thank you,’ I said. He nodded and smiled.

‘The service is the tops. That’s why I always stay here. That and a decent bed.’ He was pouring out a glass of wine for me and pushed it towards me. ‘Those hills over there are a world heritage site. Dancing Ledge is fabulous. I ought to write a piece called Dancing Ledge.’

‘Thank you.’ I didn’t seem to know any other words. ‘Dancing Ledge would be a great title.’

Chuck reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a wedge of paper. It was time to talk business. ‘I’ve been getting this stuff for the last six months. I’m at my wits’ end. Maddy is the love of my life. I’ve shown them to the police but, of course, show-business people get a lot of strange mail. It might be a weirdo. Have a look at them, Miss Lacey.’

‘Jordan, please.’ At least I could remember my own name. I sipped the wine, which was heavenly, and leafed through the papers. They were not exactly letters. They were blunt threats to harm Maddy in different ways, with a specific countdown. Someone was counting time, marking off days. I could see the threats were perilously nearing zero.

‘Zero is this weekend, the Swanage jazz festival,’ said Chuck, the words snagged in his throat. ‘You’ve got to do something, Jordan. Catch the bugger before he hurts my Maddy.’

‘I’ll never leave her side, I promise,’ I said. ‘I’ll be like a stick of glue.’

‘She’s a bit rebellious, y’know,’ he said. ‘Typical teenager. No mother to take care of her. Been doing what she liked for years.’

I didn’t ask about Maddy’s mother. This wasn’t a good time. I’d find out later. Meanwhile I was going to have my work cut out, sticking to a rebellious teenager who would rather be with a certain mop-haired drummer.

‘Does she come to all your gigs?’

‘She never misses. Always has, ever since she was a toddler.’

I smiled at Chuck Peters, remembering. ‘I saw her come up on stage once in her pyjamas, to say good night to you, while you were playing. She must have been about five or six. You never
even stopping playing, but ruffled her hair, gave her a pat and she went off into the wings.’

‘She doesn’t do that now. Happy days. You’ve a steward’s badge so you can go in and out of all the shows. No problem. We have a suite upstairs with adjoining bedrooms. But I can’t keep a check on her all the time.’

‘Nothing will happen to Maddy while she is in my care,’ I said. ‘And I’ve good friends in the police who will come the instant I call.’

‘DCI James? He told me you were once in the police force but prefer being a private investigator. So you’ve a good solid background of detective work.’

I wouldn’t say a good solid background but there have been successes. And occasionally reward money. Most of which I had now spent on a flat I couldn’t reach without vertigo and a classy car that was a fuel alcoholic.

‘Your fee,’ he went on. ‘I’ll pay whatever you say. The accommodation is naturally in the package, so don’t worry about that.’

‘A few of your CDs would be nice,’ I said modestly.

‘Negotiable.’ He grinned. He reached down onto the lawn. ‘This is your fleece, I think? Maddy said it belonged to a red-haired steward. She thought you did good on the jazz cruise. Keeping everyone calm. So she likes you already.’

‘It might not last. I can be strict if I think she’s doing something foolish.’ Like going off at midnight with the drummer.

‘You can be as strict as necessary. A firm hand wouldn’t hurt her. I’m feeling more confident about this now that I have met you. Like the gear. Wish Maddy would wear more clothes.’

I had to laugh. I was in my best indigo jeans, a pale blue long-sleeved denim shirt that was fringed, cowboy boots. My almost dry hair was tied back with a ribbon. Too wet to plait.

Chuck stood up. I didn’t get up as I was taller than him. ‘Gotta go. Got to go through my pad, decide what we are going to play. The first night is always important. Keep the wine. Take it back to your room. They won’t mind.’

‘Thank you,’ I said again.

I sat back in the chair, drinking in the last of the sun, swallowing gulps of ozone fresh air and white wine, nibbling a few carrot sticks. No lunch.

I had become so bewitched with Latching, I had forgotten that there were other wonderful places along the UK coast. And this was one of them. The Purbeck Way. The Jurassic cliffs. Chuck should write a song about the Dancing Ledge. Maybe I’d think up some lyrics.

I sat till the sun chilled my skin and I had to shrug on the fleece. Time to find Maddy and work out how I was going to follow her. I had not asked Chuck if she knew about the threats. Probably not.

The first evening programme of the festival was so complicated, I wondered how I was ever going to keep Maddy in sight. Five different venues. Some needing stroller tickets, some free. The pub ones were free. Buy a drink instead.

The drummer was the magnet. If I worked out where he was playing, then it would be easier to follow Maddy. She might think I was competition. Hard cheese. I was ten years older than him. I searched through the programme. The drummer on the cruise quartet was Ross Knighton. He was also in Chuck Peters’ band. Now there’s a surprise. And tonight was a tribute to Louis Armstrong. I could not believe my luck. If DCI James was also there, then I would have stumbled into happiness.

I would take the wine back to my room. No one would be bothered. Perhaps rules were lax while the jazz festival was on. Jazz is different. Jazz is a release of the soul. Not many people know that.

Perhaps Chuck Peters ran up a big bill.

I ran into Maddy outside the lounge, still clutching the bottle of wine. She looked at me, her eyes flashing.

‘Has my dad paid you to follow me?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Sort of,’ I said. I said nothing about the threats. ‘He’s worried about you.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said.

‘That’s great. Good for you. But he doesn’t know what you are doing. I know what it’s like, being young and infatuated by a musician. It happens all the time. I’ve been there, got the T-shirt.’

For a second, she relaxed and grinned. It was a breakthrough. She obviously realized that I was not going to stop her doing what she wanted to do.

‘My remit is to make sure you get back to the hotel safely,’ I went on. ‘Is that unreasonable? You can spend as much time as you like watching Ross banging the life out of his drum kit. I shall maintain a certain distance as I have concerns about damage to my hearing.’

‘And you won’t interfere?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘I promise.’

‘That’s all right then.’ It was a grudging acceptance.

‘I’ll give you my mobile phone number. So if you feel you need my help in any way whatever, you can call me.’

I wrote the number on a plain card, not one of my business cards. Maddy would not welcome the news that I was a private investigator. She thought I was one of the volunteer stewards.

I needed to check out her room but I could hardly follow her upstairs. A drip of icy water on my T-shirt came like an answer. The ice was melting in the wine bucket.

‘Fancy finishing this in your room?’ I suggested. ‘Nowhere in public as you are underage for alcohol.’

‘I’m fourteen.’

‘That’s still underage. If you’ve any lemonade or soda water, we could make spritzers.’ The French did it, didn’t they? Diluted wine for their children.

‘OK.’ She was tempted. ‘Sounds cool. Come on up.’

The top floor showed signs of occupation by a different race. Doors were not closed, people stood chatting in the corridors, instruments lay around. There was strumming on a guitar. It was alive, thriving. None of the stillness and propriety of the other floors.

Maddy’s room was furnished a lot like mine but it had a
connecting door to the sitting area and her father’s bedroom next door. Her room was also incredibly untidy. Clothes, towels, magazines, cosmetics tossed around, on the bed, on the armchair, on the floor. She’d brought enough clothes for a month’s stay. She went into the bathroom and came out with two glasses.

‘Will these do?’

‘Perfect.’

The diluted white wine loosened Maddy’s tongue. She chatted about hating school, needing new clothes and a lot about the amazing Ross Knighton. He was wonderful. He was a great drummer. The greatest new star on the jazz scene. He was so good-looking. All I had to do was nod and agree.

‘He’s terrific. Wait till you hear him play,’ she went on, her eyes glowing.

Eventually I tore myself away from the eulogy of praise and left with the empty bottle and bucket. I needed some real food. A few carrot sticks were not exactly sustaining. It was going to be a long evening.

As I closed the door behind me, a piece of A4 paper fluttered to the floor. It had been stuck to the door with a lump of Blu-Tack. I picked it up. The writing was in a thick black felt tip. It read: