Jazz and Die (6 page)

‘You’re looking very worried,’ said Tom.

‘I am worried.’

‘I’m sure that young lady can look after herself. Ross wouldn’t dare try anything on and lose his spot in Chuck Peters’ band. It’s his big chance in the jazz world. He’ll go far.’

‘The cliff edge?’

Tom chuckled. ‘They’ve probably headed for the bushes.’

I didn’t say that Maddy was the one who wouldn’t care if Ross lost his place in the band. His career didn’t mean anything if she could get what she wanted. She was a determined young woman. She would get her claws into him, whatever the cost. He’d have a job fighting her off.

As if to back up my thoughts, I caught sight of Ross running downhill further inland, half sliding on the grass, his shirt flapping off his back. He was glancing back over his shoulder as he ran, panting, trying to keep his balance on the steep slope.

‘There he is!’

‘And there’s young Maddy.’

Maddy had emerged from a scrub of bushes, brushing leaves
from her clothes, trying to fix her hair. She started waving her fist at him, her face contorted.

‘I’ll make you pay for this, you bastard,’ she shouted, her words carrying on the wind. ‘Wait till my dad hears about this. You won’t last five seconds in his band if I tell him about this. And don’t you deny it. I’ll tell him.’

Tom looked at me and said one word: ‘Trouble.’

I sighed. ‘Double trouble.’

Maddy was a handful, no doubt about that.

M
addy didn’t notice Tom and I standing some way higher on the headland, two dogs leaping around. She rushed down the slope, slipping and sliding, but then her bulging straw bag flew open and a cascade tumbled around. She stopped to scrabble among the grass to collect her belongings.

It gave Ross the breathing space he needed. He fled down to the harbour seafront, hurrying through the stragglers, losing himself in the crowds.

The New Orleans bandsmen were packing up, making their way to the nearest pubs. Jazz is always thirsty work. The umbrella ladies were taking it easy, putting up their feet with cappuccinos at the harbour cafe.

‘Did you say you were keeping an eye on that young woman?’ Tom asked.

‘Sort of. She’s too young to be on her own all the time.’

‘You’ll need more than one eye.’

It was tempting to confide in Tom but not exactly a sensible move. DCI James might object if I took on board a civilian. Besides, the situation could become dangerous and I didn’t want to deprive Ant and Dec of their cliff walks.

‘I’ll see you around,’ I said, giving the dogs a farewell stroke. I couldn’t let Maddy out of my sight. She was on her knees, searching in the long grass.

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Tom, nodding.

Perhaps Mrs Lucas wasn’t around much to cook and that’s
why he lived on burgers.

I sauntered over as if I had appeared by accident. ‘Hi, Maddy,’ I said, letting the wind comb through my hair.

‘I’ve lost my best lipstick,’ she moaned. ‘It was brand new. Cost a bomb. Passionate Peach it’s called. I just love it and now I can’t find it. Hell’s bells. This isn’t my day. Ross and I have quarrelled and I’ll never speak to him again. He’s a mean, rotten so-and-so bastard. I hate him, hate him.’

She went on, mumbling incoherently, a waterfall of words.

I didn’t want to know what they quarrelled about nor did I correct her language. But I had a vague idea of the circumstances. Ross had been the one escaping down the slope, not young Maddy.

I did a bit of kicking around with the toe of my boot. The gods were on my side. Perhaps one of them suffered from vertigo on his cloud. I caught a glint of gilt and bent down. It was a fat, shiny lipstick case.

‘Is this your Passionate Peach?’

I was nearly knocked off my feet. Maddy hugged me ferociously.

‘Thank you, thank you, darling Jordan! You’re my best friend forever. It’s the most fabulous colour. Look, look.’

She unwound the gilt cover and showed me the barely touched lipstick. It was a sort of pink or sort of peach, whichever light it was held in.

‘Wow,’ I said, who only owned one lipstick, shade of a forgettable rose. ‘Fab colour.’

‘Isn’t it? I’m so pleased. Let’s go and have a coffee to celebrate. I feel like celebrating.’

I guess I felt like celebrating too and never said no to a coffee. Breakfast now seemed a long time ago.

‘Good idea.’

‘My treat.’

We strolled into town. Swanage was a pleasant seaside town, lots of souvenir, bucket and spade shops, the usual quota of charity shops, cafes and fish restaurants. The two chain
supermarkets were sited further back in the town with a couple of banks and travel agents on the way. I remembered I might need some sort of glam top if I got asked to a party. It wouldn’t hurt to have a glam top in my meagre wardrobe.

The town was packed with holidaymakers and jazz enthusiasts. They crowded the pavements and spilled onto the road.
No Vacancy
signs hung in every window of the guest houses.

Fresh fish was the top dish of most restaurant menus, it seemed. Local fishermen downloaded their catches in the early morning. The menu boards were enticing. DCI James would be in seventh heaven. He loved fish and chips with a big dollop of tomato sauce. It was always his first choice.

We sat on the front at a cafe near the new cinema, bathed in sunshine. I had a straightforward latte, no extras. Maddy had something more complicated and a cheese bagel. She had skipped breakfast.

‘Would you like to take a look round the charity shops?’ I suggested. ‘We’ve got time before the first gig or are you giving them a miss after this morning?’

‘No, I’m going to my dad’s. One o’clock in Marquee Two. But we’ve got time for a quickie shop crawl. I love shopping.’

The first charity shop was useless. It was a muddle. Too old, too dated, dusty, creased and overpriced. And the assistant was snooty which, as a seasoned shop owner myself, always puts me off.

‘Are you looking for anything special?’ she asked, looking down her nose.

‘Have you got anything special?’ I asked.

Maddy giggled. She was already halfway out of the door. She didn’t like it either.

The next charity shop was a delight. Clothes were hung in sizes, colours and occasion. I went straight to the black rail. Black was right for any party. Maddy started combing the most recent summer gear. I bought a silky black tunic top with simple plaited straps instead of sleeves. Maddy bought two T-shirts, one a bright blue with a polar bear on an ice floe and the other a kaleidoscope
of razzle-dazzle sequins. No missing her on a dark night.

‘Come on. Marquee Two. We’ll just make it,’ I said before Maddy started on the rail of swimwear. ‘We ought to hurry.’

‘We must come shopping again,’ said Maddy happily. ‘I’m sick of all my clothes. They stink. I’m going to dump them.’

I wasn’t sick of any of my clothes. I didn’t have enough to feel that any of them deserved such a fate. But I loved the new silky top. I now wanted an occasion to wear it, to show off my tanned shoulders, preferably with James around. The Latching sun had been kind to my skin. Even with my tawny hair, I never got burnt. I didn’t stay out long enough, half dressed, in the sun.

A few clouds had gathered in the sky, like uncertain mourners wondering if they were at the right funeral. They hovered over the bay, casting shadows where before had been sunlight. I shivered, glad of the waistcoat.

Maddy darted into the marquee. She had a musician’s pass despite not playing a single note. No one could deny Chuck Peters’ daughter free admission. No one could deny her anything. The public were already filing in, showing the correct colour wristband, armed with cushions and sandwiches. There were plenty of stewards around so there was nothing much for me to do.

I tried to look inconspicuous, picked up a programme to read, cruising around. Names were beginning to be familiar.

Maddy was already in her usual place at the side of the stage. She had not offered to help Ross carry in his drum kit. She was giving him the cold shoulder this afternoon.

‘Do you know how to draw a pint?’

A steward I had never seen before, short, dark and wiry, rather harassed, had appeared from nowhere. He was flapping a list.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, helpfully.

‘The barman hasn’t arrived. We need another hand at the bar. There’s a queue and the customers are getting ratty. These are the prices.’

‘I can do prices,’ I said, leaning heavily on my shop experience.

‘Then you are the perfect person,’ he said, beaming. Did all jazz stewards have wonderful smiles? It must be the music
infecting the soul. ‘Someone will show you how to draw a pint.’

I eased round to the bar at the back of the marquee. I could still see Maddy, sitting cross-legged at the side of the stage. It was a makeshift sort of bar with three barrels at the back and a cool cabinet with bottles of white wine, soft drinks and water. The red wine was already out on the counter. There were different sized plastic glasses for every kind of drink. Not exactly rocket science.

The three barrels of beer were different local makes. Beer drinkers are connoisseurs. They don’t drink any old beer. Someone showed me how to work the pump to draw a pint up to a certain line on the glass. It was a skilled art, believe me. All that froth suddenly appearing. You had to stop before the foaming top became Niagara Falls. This was something new I could put on my CV: bar experience.

It would help, if I had to get a job.

I thought I was good at maths but when a punter ordered two pints, a red and a white wine, three cokes and a bag of crisps, my mental arithmetic was thrown. I got out my PI notebook and dedicated the back page to adding up mechanics.

Every ten seconds I glanced at Maddy. They were playing ‘Lullaby Of Broadway’. Music to dance to. ‘My Blue Heaven.’ Any time, any day. ‘Poor Butterfly’ always made me want to cry. The saddest piece of music ever written.

‘Half a pint, miss. Local brew,’ said a deep-toned voice in my ear. ‘Don’t rush the draw. I don’t want a wet glass.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I hissed at him. The front of my shirt was damp and I was harassed.

‘What are you doing here? You are supposed to be guarding Maddy.’

‘I am guarding her. I can see her. I know where she is. She won’t move till Ross moves.’

His half-pint was drawn with extra care. I didn’t want another sarcastic comment.

‘The DNA and prints on the note are confirmed. They match DNA and prints from my castle victim. The girl we found was also fifteen, a lot like Maddy: pretty, very modern, skimpy
clothes. But she came from a decent family, was taking her GCSEs, an above-average student but not a tearabout. She was always home by a certain set time, except this once. Her family are still devastated. I want closure on this case.’

DCI James leaned on the bar counter, sipping his half-pint. I pushed a bag of crisps in his direction. This was probably his lunch.

‘We don’t want Maddy to be the next victim.’

I shivered, a chill running down my spine, like that moment on the headland this morning. I took another ten second glance at her. Maddy was leaning forward, her chin in cupped hands, mesmerized by the rocking percussion.

‘She’s in her usual trance,’ I said.

‘She could be knifed in a trance,’ said James.

‘She’s got a scream that would stop traffic,’ I said, remembering her shouted abuse at Ross.

‘I’m sure it would, if it was plunged into her ribs.’

James leaned over towards me, his ocean blue eyes hard and glinting. ‘This is not like you, Jordan. A bodyguard guards a body. It doesn’t draw pints. Hang up your tea-towel and take Maddy a diet coke. Put it on my bill.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Right away, sir. And I’ll have a red wine.’

It was an unidentifiable bottom of the house red but I needed the raw alcohol after that reprimand. Bright red liquid in a small plastic beaker hardly soothed my ruffled feelings. I abandoned the bar. No one seemed to notice. There was no queue now. I took the drinks down to the front and handed the can over to Maddy.

‘This is your lunch,’ I said.

She nodded, hardly noticing it was me, her new best friend. She opened the can and began to drink fast as if dehydrated by the music.

There was a spare chair at the end of the front row, next to the marquee flap. No one was sitting there because it was draughty. I could feel a chill wind round my legs as I sat down. It was lethal and uncomfortable. No wonder everyone had given it the cold shoulder, or cold bum. I drank some of the red stuff. It didn’t help;
wet and weak, tasteless.

The vocalist was singing Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Goodnight My Love’ when I heard the first pattering on the tent roof. At first I thought it was brush strokes, then I realised it was raining. After such a glorious morning, some sort of cold front had swept across the bay.

A middle-aged woman leaned towards me, tapped me on the shoulder, smiling. ‘You’re the steward who saved us all yesterday when the boat crashed onto the rocks, aren’t you?’

‘Well, it wasn’t exactly me on my own,’ I said modestly. ‘The skipper had a lot to do with it.’

‘Still, you kept us all from panicking. You were the only one with any sense. Silly lot.’ She nodded in agreement with herself and settled back to listen to the jazz. I remembered her. She had been the one crying.

The band were tiring. I could feel that the energy had gone. Chuck Peters meandered among his musicians, indicating a change in programme.

‘We are going to end our session this afternoon with the perennial favourite “Sing, Sing, Sing” featuring our talented drummer, Ross Knighton.’

Maddy’s face was bathed in adoration.

I wondered if Ross could cope with this number. Long ago I’d heard the world-famous swing and jazz percussionist, Eric Delaney, play this number and he’d been ancient even then. He’d played everything on stage: the walls, the chairs, the lights, the microphones. It had been a performance to remember. As well as his drum kit, he’d had on stage a xylophone, glockenspiel, timpani, military side drums, tubular bells, Chinese gongs and tam tams.

Ross handled it well. He was not yet a virtuoso performer but his technique and artistry was way above the normal bash and bang drummer. Maddy was entranced, as usual, never taking her eyes off him as he leaped around the set.

The applause was deafening. Chuck went through the customary naming of each of his musicians so that they got their share of the applause.

‘That’s all, folks. See you again this evening, eight o’clock in Marquee One. Got your brollies? I think it’s raining.’

That was an understatement. It was pouring, a steady relentless rain. The sky was dark with rain clouds. Stewards hurried out with lanterns to hang on the poles along the entrance so that no one slipped on the path. The wet grass could be treacherous.

Ross was zipping up his kit into their waterproof bags. It was costly equipment and he never left it lying about. Maddy had apparently forgiven him and was helping stow away the sticks.

Chuck was wiping and packing up his instruments to take along with him. He was due to play at another venue at four o’clock but first he wanted a quick liquid lunch and a steak sandwich. He said something to his daughter but she shook her head and flounced off.

He looked around the marquee; spotted me. He grinned and waved.

He hurried over, putting a folded twenty note in my hand. ‘Make sure Maddy gets some proper food inside her, will you? She won’t survive tonight’s partying on a packet of crisps.’