Jazz and Die (5 page)

He laughed heartily and I managed to side-step his approach. I was not going to be saddled with him half the night. Maddy had appeared, wet and wistful, standing on her own at the edge of a crowd. The drummer was surrounded by admirers and he was drinking. Perhaps he was dehydrated, sweated a lot.

I went over to Maddy. Her make-up was a mess. Smeared lipstick and smudged mascara. Tears and kisses.

‘How about we both go to the ladies and tidy up? That rain can be the devil. I feel like I’ve been wrung out and hung up to dry.’

Maddy smiled wanly. ‘OK,’ she said. She was carrying a straw bag the size of a picnic hamper. We went into the ladies. It was pretty full. Women didn’t like the portable cabin loos at the marquees unless they were desperate.

Maddy found a space at a mirror and began to repair her face. It was a major make-over. I had to admire her dexterity. I rarely got beyond a quick application of mascara and lip gloss. She
could teach me a thing or two.

She was out in ten minutes, face flawless. I had washed my hands three times. She went straight for the group round the drummer. He had his sticks flying. He was playing a beat on anything, the chairs, the windows, the walls. The other musicians, who had brought along a trumpet or a saxophone, began to join in.

We were in for a long night.

The impromptu was dazzling. I hardly recognized anything. Maybe ‘Sugar Foot Stomp’. Maybe ‘Poor Butterfly’. They improvised whatever came into their head. I was mesmerized.

‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ It was big Tom Lucas. He was holding a pint of lager and offered me a glass of red wine. ‘Is this all right for you?’

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I needed that. It’s been a busy evening.’

‘It’ll be even busier tomorrow, or is it already today?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ye gods, look at the time, my wife will be chewing her nails.’

‘She doesn’t come to the gigs?’

‘No, she dislikes jazz. Fortunately she allows me my once-a-year indulgence at the festival. As long as I am home at a reasonable time.’

Oh dear, Tom Lucas, nice man as he was, was yoked to a jazz-hating female who wanted him home on time. Still, there was no harm in making his once-a-year indulgence as happy as possible.

‘So you must enjoy every moment,’ I said. ‘I’m around all weekend, so let me know when you want to skive off to listen to some other group. I can cope.’

Total exaggeration. I had no idea how I would cope and look after Maddy at the same time. Tom Lucas was obviously tied to a long marriage and jazz was his only escape. He had probably been good-looking when he was younger and he had a certain gentle charm about him. Something sweet that still clung to him.

‘That would be great, thanks. Where are you staying?’ he asked.

‘The Whyte Cliffside.’

‘Very posh,’ he said. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Great hotel. I’m lucky. Chuck Peters booked it for me.’ I was saying too much. It was the wine on an empty stomach. Tom looked interested.

‘You know him that well?’

‘I only met him today. It’s a long story.’

I had no idea what story I would tell him. I would have to think up something plausible if he probed me again. Maddy saved the day. The improvised gig had petered out. Everyone was tired. She was leaving, clinging to Ross’s arm. More smeared make-up? I had to follow them.

I gulped down my wine.

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Tom quickly. ‘It’s on my way home. Whyte Cliffside is quite a trek up the hill in the dark and some of the street lights go out at midnight. Cuts, you know.’

I saw Ross’s van leaving from outside the pub as I got into Tom’s car. It was heading towards the hotel. Tom’s car was a Honda, comfortable and clean. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to fight him off.

No, he was the perfect gentleman, trained and muzzled by the jazz-hating wife. He dropped me off at the end of the hotel drive and made a swift turn-round, one eye on his watch.

I checked that Maddy was safely in her room. I could hear her weeping. Her dad could sort that out in the morning.

My room, 410, beckoned with its warmth and comfort. I stood under a lukewarm shower for a few minutes, then sat on the bed stark naked, eating oatmeal biscuits. It was therapeutic.

I checked my phone for messages before I turned out the light. There was one from DCI James. It was blunt and to the point.

‘The DNA matches,’ it said. What did that mean? DNA of what? And what did it match?

T
he breakfast room was almost empty. No Chuck Peters, no Maddy, not a single bleary-eyed musician. I was the only jazz steward, apart from their normal guests. I had survived the night and emerged in one piece in the morning.

I had slept like a log. The bed was a tumble of dreams but all so fleeting that I could remember none of them. Morning light crept in, hanging on ropes. That first cup of tea, sipped in bed, was hot sweet nectar. I had obviously died and gone straight to heaven. Was an angel serving me? A jazz angel?

Another shower. I was living in the shower, a warm bath of memory. It was becoming my second home. I might turn into a mermaid. I ought to check for a tail.

In the dining room, I was shown to a window table by yesterday afternoon’s waiter and invited to help myself from a long buffet table. It was laden with goodies. My survival instinct prompted me to pocket cheese, biscuits and an apple in case of imminent worldwide disaster and starvation. Fortunately I had enough propriety to stop myself.

I took cranberry juice and a bowl of muesli and fruit back to my table. Same waiter hovered with a silver coffee pot. He had a thick head of dark hair, smoothly combed back. It was all so civilized.

‘If madam would like a cooked breakfast?’ He flourished a long menu. I was not a full English breakfast person. All that fried grease and meat. I went for a simple cheese omelette. This
would last me all day and it was going to be a busy one.

The omelette was perfect. It oozed golden grated cheese.

‘That looks lovely, thank you,’ I said.

It was not easy following Maddy around. I wondered if Ross would be joining the jazz parade at ten? Drums are not usually walked around the town down to the seafront. A few kettle-drums maybe to help everyone keep in step.

After his cryptic text message the previous night, I expected DCI James to contact me again that morning. I wanted to know what he meant. If the maniac threatening Maddy had a connection to the castle murder, then he was seriously dangerous.

I checked upstairs. Chuck Peters came to the door, bleary-eyed, unshaven, in a paisley silk dressing gown.

‘Maddy’s slipped out, gone to the umbrella parade,’ he groaned. ‘Sorry, Jordan, got to go back to bed. Catch a few more hours.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘A new head.’

I had on my trainers so I could run along the seafront. It had stopped raining. The speckled shore was all fresh and pristine sand, beach huts and paddle boats to hire with enticing names: Desiree, Ruby, Estelle. It was altogether different to Latching, which was an endlessly flat vista, always so clean and distant.

This was a small bay, with honeyed bands of sailing boats, swimmers already splashing around in the sea, the crescent shape of hills and high cliffs either side like enveloping arms. It was if a giant had scooped out some of the land with a shell and flung it into the sea.

The cordoned streets drew me towards the bus station where the parade would be assembling. The police had already stopped the traffic. People were lining the pavements, eager for a good view. I tussled through crowds, trying to find Maddy.

Maddy was with the umbrella brigade. She didn’t have a decorated umbrella but was standing close to Ross. He had brought along two cymbals. He was going to clash them with the New Orleans band, who were ready to lead the march. It was also a
fund-raising march, and volunteers roamed the pavements rattling their cans, in aid of the street children of Cambodia. The children who begged, ate and slept nights on the streets.

I’d seen a documentary film about these orphan children but did nothing about it. Another cause ignored. Now I put a fiver, one of the blue ones, in a can. Not a lot. I was ashamed of myself. I could have afforded a lot more. Instead I had spent the money on a high-rise flat and a yellow car.

The sky was a clear blue, not a cloud in sight. The sea was whispering to the waves. No rain today, surely?

The march started off, led by the grand marshal, resplendent in braid, silver-knobbed cane and top hat. Then came the New Orleans jazz band, followed by the umbrella mob, twirling their brightly decorated umbrellas. What did the band play? All the old stomping favourites. There was a drummer but he had a big bass drum slung round his neck, beating the tempo of the march.

‘Putting On The Ritz.’ ‘Sugar Foot Stomp.’ Maddy was safe enough, alongside Ross, who clanged his cymbals whenever there was a pause in the music. He was clear-eyed; no sign of a late party.

There was a big police presence. Streets closed to traffic, crowds to control, whatever else was threatened. Maybe a protest of some sort.

DCI James was suddenly at my side. I saw him put a tenner, one of the brown ones, in a can. He sidled up to me, grave-faced.

‘You got my text? The DNA matched. Don’t let Maddy out of your sight. She is in danger if it’s the same homicidal maniac.’

‘But you didn’t tell me anything.’

‘The DNA matches items found at Corfe Castle. You don’t need to know any more.’

‘You’ve no idea how difficult it is. I can’t keep track of her. She is besotted by this young drummer.’

‘Then follow the drummer and you’ll be following Maddy. Where’s your umbrella? Join in the march.’

I don’t know what made him do it. Perhaps it was the joyful New Orleans music, throbbing the air. But James put his arm
round my waist and drew me close. I could hardly speak, hard against him, breathing in the scent of his skin.

‘But spare some time for me, Jordan Lacey, private investigator. It’s pretty lonely down here in the wilds of Dorset. Too many ghosts in the castles.’

Then he had gone. What did he mean? Ghosts in the castles? He’d vanished into the crowds like another dark shadow. Work always came first for James And my work must also come first, guarding this wayward lass.

The drummer, Ross Knighton, looked almost presentable in daylight. It was all that floppy hair and shadow of an unshaven chin. But his jeans and T-shirt were clean. That’s always a big plus. He took little notice of Maddy, prancing at his side. She was fourteen. He was in his early twenties. She was a baby in his eyes, even with the false lashes and provocative clothes.

I sidled up to him. He might like older women. But my job was not to put Maddy’s pert nose out of joint. He might be intrigued by the idea of a threesome, in a platonic way. If we were both protecting Maddy, it could make life easier. I felt sure he was not the writer of the threatening letters. He probably couldn’t even write straight. He grinned at me, wondering where he’d seen me before.

‘Hi, Ross,’ I said, in a break in the music. We had reached the harbour where the New Orleans band were going to play a free concert for forty minutes or so. The musicians were milling about, arranging themselves for the gig. A flotilla of small boats were tied up, advertising trips to the Jurassic cliffs or to go fishing.

‘Hi,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over me. ‘Like the hat.’

I was in my cowboy outfit again, plus fringed suede waistcoat against any chilled air. Maybe when I was sixteen or seventeen, I would have gone for the Ross type. But I don’t remember being sixteen or seventeen. Had I skipped those years?

‘I’m a steward,’ I said, pointing to my blue badge. ‘And a friend of Maddy Peters. Perhaps we could be useful to each other.’

I was not quite sure what I meant, but it was a start. Ross raised a dark eyebrow, wondering. I suppose I looked ancient to
him. Nodding thirty might be ancient in his eyes.

‘If you could keep her out of my hair for five minutes. There are other birds I fancy at this festival,’ he said, combing his fringe back with his fingers.

It was not exactly the answer I expected, but I knew what he meant. Maddy had drifted off to buy ice-cream cones from a stall. She sure was trying hard to capture his affection. She was wearing tight washed-out and torn jeans this morning and a festival T-shirt. She looked almost normal.

‘This could be a mutual arrangement,’ I said hurriedly. ‘If you keep an eye on Maddy when I don’t know where she is, then I will keep her occupied other times so that you have the freedom to chase … other jazz enthusiasts.’

‘Sounds good,’ he said, unwrapping a slice of gum. ‘So what’s in it for you?’

‘A set of Chuck Peters CDs.’

Apparently that was the right answer. Chuck was his hero. He would do anything for Chuck as long as he could play in his band. Ross was not ready to start out on his own. One day he would be a top percussion star, but not yet. Maybe even play at the Albert Hall at a promenade concert. It was his dream.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘So this is just for the festival? You keep an eye on Maddy some of the time and keep her out of my way. And I’ll do the same for you if you’ve lost track of her? Sounds fair, even when I can’t prise her off me. She’s like a dying lobster, clinging with all claws. I’ve got scratch marks. Sometimes she smells as bad.’

‘She wears a lot of cloying perfume.’

‘It stinks.’

‘Here comes your ice cream.’

‘I hate ice cream. You have it. Buy me a beer.’

But he did take the stick of chocolate off the top before handing the cone to me. It was synthetic white stuff swirled up to a stiff point. Tasted like cold shaving cream. Perhaps it could be used for both.

A crowd was gathering, sitting on the harbour wall or buying
coffees at the cafe where they also got a seat for the price. A bit early for lunch from the seafood bistro. It was licensed so I got Ross a can of beer. It was the best I could do to consolidate the arrangement.

‘It’s probably revolting,’ I said, handing it over. Maddy shot me a jealous look. ‘Don’t recognize the brand. Maybe it’s a local brew.’

‘It’ll do,’ he said carelessly, flicking it open.

I sat at a distance from the band, making sure I could watch Maddy. The good humour had returned to her young face now that I had backed off. The harbour seafront had railway lines set in the cobble stones. Once the quarry men had hauled their carts of rough stone along these lines to the waiting ships. They were historic, preserved. People walked on them now, not noticing that they walked on history.

New Orleans jazz is not my favourite. I can only take so much. I prefer big band jazz with all its changes of mood and tempo. The umbrella brigade were still twirling their decorated umbrellas. Their arms must be aching. They’d walked a long way to the harbour in unsuitable shoes. Other parts of their anatomy must be aching too. They were tough ladies.

My ears suddenly registered a difference. There were no clashing cymbals. I ran towards the crowd, jostling through people, but both Ross and Maddy had gone. The gap in the band had closed in. The brass were playing ear-piercingly loudly. It blew through my head.

‘Have you seen Maddy?’ I asked some of the players. They shook their heads, their eyes glued to sheets of music clipped to their instruments. ‘Have you seen Ross anywhere?’

But one of the umbrella ladies had eyes in her head. ‘They went off up the headland,’ she said, nodding towards the rising sweep of hill westwards past the bandstand.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Smashing umbrella,’ I added. It was black and white stripes decorated with red and gold tassels. Her dress and hat matched. It was quite an eye-catching outfit. ‘You look great.’

I raced towards the headland, past the tall Greek columns that had been scavenged from the streets of ancient London, and brought to Swanage as ballast in the quarry boats. It was a steep climb up the grass sward. The pair of them could be anywhere. There were dozens of worn paths going off in different directions, half hidden by shrubs and wild brambles. The band might have been a hundred miles away but still the brass sound carried. I could almost make out a tune but couldn’t put a name to it.

A bulky figure in a windcheater was walking towards me, two light tan Labradors romping around his feet, enjoying the freedom of the grassland, the wind blowing through their silky coats. I recognized him. It was Tom Lucas, the number one steward from last night’s concert.

‘Hi there, Jordan, enjoying these lovely views?’ he called out. ‘All free gigs this morning. Our work starts at one o’clock prompt. Where did the rota say you should be?’

Time had been kind to him. He had such a sweet smile, strong teeth and pleasant voice. No wonder Mrs Lucas stamped her ownership, accepted the jazz.

The dogs came rushing over to me, scenting a friend. ‘Hello, boys,’ I said, giving them my hand to sniff before I ventured to stroke them. I’m always scared of dogs. I’ve seen too many injuries from bites in my WPC days.

‘They’re friendly,’ said Tom. ‘They won’t hurt you.’

‘I’m always careful. In case I’m not welcomed.’

‘You’re welcomed. They like you. They’re called Ant and Dec.’

The dogs were a little overweight like their master. They didn’t get enough walks. I wondered if Tom had a job with long hours that kept him within four walls or perhaps Mrs Lucas overfed them. Too many doggy treats.

‘I’m looking for Maddy,’ I said. ‘Chuck Peters’ daughter. I think she was with Ross, the drummer.’

‘Are they up here?’

‘Someone saw them coming this way.’

‘Oh, I know the chap. Wild and windy hair. No, I haven’t seen them. They haven’t come this way. Be careful, Jordan, the path
veers very close to the cliff edge up here. The council ought to put up a fence.’

Very close to the cliff edge? Fear rose in my throat. Supposing there had been an accident and Maddy had gone over and Ross was scrambling down to rescue her? I would have to look.

Vertigo. It all came rushing back, my acute vertigo outside my new flat. The dizziness, the sickness, the trembling legs. What could I do? I could hardly ask Tom to look when he had two lively dogs, Ant and Dec, to look after. I could hardly ask him to hold onto my belt while I peered cautiously over the cliff edge, white faced and sweating.

I wished I was up here to enjoy the view of the bay for it was a glorious sight, fresh and windy. The air was sweet, tinged with wild flowers, sea-thrift and clover, and salt blown up from the turbulent sea below was blowing through my head. I could hear it thrashing on the rocks. No sand or sailing boats here, only cliff falls.