Jazz and Die (9 page)

He was so easy to get along with. Where was the custodial Mrs Lucas while he was jazzing around? I had no way of finding out. And he was almost a different generation. At least twenty years older than me, but did that matter these days? He was young at heart. This music made it so. Jazz rejuvenates the soul.

I eased away. I wanted to ambush the white straw hat before she moved to another venue. But she was glued to the music. I kept half an eye on her. I had to leave room for the unexpected.

I sidled up to Maddy. ‘Going for a pizza with the boys afterwards?’

‘You bet. But my dad’ll be mad at me if you don’t come too. You can drive.’

So I was her chauffeur now as well.

The jazz was coming to an end. They played an encore, then another. ‘Foggy Day In London Town’, then ‘Misty’. The audience wouldn’t let them go. Their hands must be sore from clapping.

The white straw hat was moving. I scribbled my phone number down on a page from my notebook and managed to put it in her startled hand. Her eyelashes were as black as soot, rimmed with eye-liner. She had frizzled white-gold hair.

‘It’s about umbrellas,’ I said quickly. ‘Please ring me.’

She nodded, bemused, and hurried out. Obviously going to catch one of the later venues down town. There was no stopping her.

So that was decided. I went along with Maddy as specified. She was revitalized. She jived, she danced, she sang, her curled hair bobbing about. The pub served huge pizzas, piled high with pepperoni, peppers and three kinds of cheese. I took a slice, big enough to last me a week. It was delicious, filling. Tom put a glass of house red on the table.

‘Not sure what you would like, Jordan. Is this all right? I can change it.’ He was certainly out of practice. Hadn’t he said the same thing last night?

It was a fun party. The musicians were playing again. Did they ever stop? It was improvised jazz, soaring round the crowded room. Where did they get the energy? I was dead tired. I wanted to sleep. Any minute now my ears would shut down. Maybe I would hibernate.

I found myself a corner seat, almost cushioned. Nothing on which to rest my aching body. I didn’t want to talk to Tom, however nice, or Maddy or Ross or the incredible Chuck Peters. My head was already giddy with sleep.

‘So, sleepy-head, is this how you spend your working time?’

I could barely open my eyes but I knew that deep voice.

‘You’re supposed to be the one working,’ I croaked. ‘Not me.’

‘I am working. Maddy is my chief witness. My only witness.’

‘So? Go get another statement.’

‘You’re still wet. Didn’t you dry off at the hotel? You’ll get
pneumonia.’

‘Maybe a severe illness will rate a substantial bonus.’

DCI James had half of lager in front of him. He was still on duty. He was looking at me with a strangely wistful expression. ‘Did you let it be known around that Miss Dunlop had died in hospital?’

‘Not me. Quite a few people seemed to know already. Why?’

He shifted along the seat towards me. His waterproof jacket was hardly wet. He slid his arm along the back of the bench, almost brushing my hair. It was like electricity touching moisture, setting off high voltage. I could catch the whole of my life in his arms.

‘Because, Miss Sleepy Private Investigator, between you and me, happily it isn’t strictly true. It was a tactic. She is still unconscious and under guard. But if the attacker thinks she’s died, he’ll feel safe now and might come out into the open.’

‘So none of us are safe? And I’ll have to take extra care of Maddy. He’s on the loose, still here at the jazz festival. It could be anyone.’

James nodded gravely. ‘It could be anyone. Even your new admirer.’

‘I don’t want an admirer. I’m done with men.’

‘All of them?’

I
could see the sense of this. If the attacker thought Elsie Dunlop had died then she could not give the police a description, a clue, a motive, an account. He would consider himself off the hook, untraceable.

‘My new admirer, as you call him, has a name. He is Tom Lucas and he was working in the box office when Elsie Dunlop was attacked.’

‘How can you be sure? You say you have eyes in the back of your head. You are supposed to be watching Maddy.’

‘My head swivels.’

James looked amused. ‘It certainly does. One of your main attractions.’

He finished his lager and got up, stretching his legs. It had been a long day. I didn’t know where he was staying or if he had accommodation. Perhaps the Gorgon was giving him bat-proof roof-room in her house. Once she had shaken the snakes out of her hair.

‘You’re leaving,’ I said.

‘That’s what it looks like.’

‘I found one umbrella parade woman with a white straw hat. She’s phoning me.’ I mentally added, ‘I hope.’

‘Good on you.’

Where had he got that from? Had he been to Australia in the few weeks I hadn’t seen him? His life was a mystery to me. I knew, of course, about the tragedy of his ex-wife and the children.
He had eventually told me, when he could put the distress into words. He knew all about grieving.

‘Nothing concrete yet.’

‘Phone me when you have some names. Don’t stay on late here. Tomorrow will be another full day. And don’t drink any more and drive or I’ll have to book you. You’ll lose points.’

‘Is that a promise? My licence is clean.’

I went over to Maddy. She was drinking juice. At least it looked like juice. You can add vodka to anything. It was the perfect disguise. ‘Time for bed,’ I said.

‘Don’t be a spoilsport. The night is young.’

‘It’s not night. It’s already the morning.’

‘I could have danced all night,’ she warbled, out of tune.

‘You won’t be looking your best for tomorrow. Ross has his special gig. Are you planning to miss it?’

She did a re-take. She had forgotten about his solo spot. It was unusual for a percussionist to take the stage. There might be some other musicians, whoever cared to turn up and add a few notes. He had a lot of friends.

‘OK. You can drive me. I don’t want to go with Ross.’

‘Good on you,’ I said. Where had I got that from? ‘Let him simmer on a slow burner.’

She grinned and nodded. ‘You bet. I like that.’

‘He’ll think you’ve gone home with another young man. There are a few others around. Have you noticed?’

It was still raining. But the wasp was watertight and moved like a dream. Maybe she knew I needed careful handling and responded with similar restraint. The same parking space was still vacant at the hotel. The wasp slid in, almost gratefully, as if she was the rightful owner.

‘Back tomorrow,’ I promised her as I got out into the rain.

‘Are you talking to your car, Jordan? You’re mad.’

I made sure Maddy reached her room safely, checked it over, heard her lock the door behind me. The rest of the floor was quiet. Very few of the musicians had returned yet. They had stamina.

My own room, a floor below, was again a haven. I fell into it,
threw off my clothes, tumbled into bed, wrapped myself in the duvet. All I wanted to do was sleep; catch a dream or two.

‘Sunny Swanage’ was how the Tourist Office advertised it. And yet it was still raining the next morning. The marquee would be flooded by now. I looked out of the window, rags of last night’s mist swirling over the bay. A few dog owners were being taken for a compulsory walk along the sand.

The organizers of the jazz festival must be biting their nails. They relied a lot on the day-tripper, the casual ticket sales. The weekend stroller tickets were a reliable source of income but they needed a few hundred more punters with ready money. The musicians still had to be paid current rates.

The jazzmen didn’t mind. They got paid whether they played to a dozen punters or 200. They enjoyed playing jazz. It was their life. They would have played for nothing, only don’t tell anyone. It was their life blood, the notes coursing through their veins.

My jeans had dried off and I had a long-sleeved black T-shirt to wear under the suede waistcoat. A skinny coating of warmth. The same waiter served my breakfast coffee.

‘Would you like an omelette this morning?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Cheese, mushroom or ’erb?’

‘Mushroom, please.’ I could do ’erbs myself, any day. I thought of my new kitchen awaiting my culinary skills. That was the second best thing about this flat. A proper kitchen with worktops and cupboards with shelves and doors that opened and closed. The first best thing was always the glorious view. I wondered if the sea at Latching was churning with this wind and rain. It seemed a million miles away along the coast, on another far planet.

I saw a smack of blue appearing in the sky. Was the rain being chased away to another county?

‘Is it going to rain all day?’ I asked the waiter, making small talk.

‘Oh yes, all day. You stay in hotel and drink wine, I promise.’

‘Are you Spanish?’ I asked. ‘You have a Spanish look.’

‘My mother was Spanish. But she met a handsome Englishman who was on a Thomson holiday. No more late-night Sangria.’

I had to laugh. This waiter was amusing. A bit like Manuel
in Fawlty Towers,
only younger, taller and with better English.

My phone rang. It was a woman. I didn’t recognize her voice or her name. Her voice was suspicious.

‘It’s Betsy Nicholls. Betsy Nicholls. You asked me to phone you. Last night, remember?’

‘Ah, the umbrella parade? You have a wonderful umbrella. Fantastic decorations. It must have taken hours.’

I could hear her thaw over the phone. ‘Yes, it did take hours, my own design, and nearly got ruined in the rain. What’s this all about? Why do you want to speak to me? Is it about Elsie?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. I’m so sorry if she was a friend of yours.’

‘Elsie was not exactly a friend. More of a long-time rival. She’s won the prize for the best umbrella three years running. It’s about time someone else got a look-in. Though, of course, not this way.’

Could this be a motive? Surely not? But sometimes feelings do run high.

‘I need some of the names of the other ladies in the umbrella parade. Can you help me? I’d be very grateful.’

‘What for? Are you police?’

‘No. It’s to eliminate people from their enquiries. A few names, please, and where they are staying, if you know.’

‘Most of us are staying at the Elysium Bed and Breakfast, two roads back from the front. We always gather there. We book it every year.’ She began reeling off a list of names. I scribbled them down in my notebook. It sounded as if they booked a lot of twin doubles or perhaps they shared family rooms, being friends. It saved money to share a room.

‘Thank you very much, Miss Nicholls. You’ve been most helpful. Let’s hope we have a drier day today.’

‘My umbrella’s ruined. It’ll have to be completely renovated.’

‘You may get a brilliant new idea.’

‘I’ve got several already. I need the time.’

My omelette arrived. I took a few mouthfuls before phoning DCI James. Omelettes get cold so quickly. It was creamy and delicious. The chef was a genius.

‘Unpaid slave reporting,’ I said when he answered his phone. He was probably already at his desk with a mug of lukewarm brown coffee and a couple of doughnuts. His eating habits were dreadful. He would die young. That’s what the scaremongers said.

I reeled off the names while I could still read my writing.

‘Thanks, Jordan. You’re a treasure. The Elysium B&B? Sounds like a heavenly guest house.’

I refused to laugh. My melting mushroom omelette was more important.

‘Did you find out where Maddy goes to school?’ he went on.

‘Completely slipped my mind,’ I said.

‘Well, slip it back in,’ he said and rang off.

Maddy appeared in the doorway of the dining room. She was wearing the sequinned T-shirt she had bought yesterday, totally unsuitable for the weather. She searched, as if for a friendly face, and caught sight of me. She came over to my table, swinging her straw bag. She never moved an inch without it.

‘Hi, can I join you?’ She sat down without waiting for an answer.

‘I thought you were going to have room service?’

‘Sick of room service. I want to see some life.’

The half-empty dining room was hardly life but she was looking at the buffet table with normal teenage greed. Buffets always have that appeal. Help yourself to as much as you can carry. It was universal.

‘Help yourself,’ I said.

She sauntered over to the buffet and poked around the selection. No crisps, popcorn or cereal bars. She helped herself to a strawberry smoothie, two warm croissants from the hot tray and a chocolate spread. It was a start.

‘Where are we going this morning?’ she asked.

‘There’s a local youth big band playing at ten o’clock.’

‘They’re school kids.’ She dismissed them. ‘No big deal.’

‘We could look in and see if they are any good.’

‘If you like. I don’t care. Then we could go shopping.’

I supposed a lot of shops would be open, even though it was a Sunday. They needed the holiday trade these days.

‘Great idea,’ I said, thinking of the wasp. ‘I need some polish.’

She looked at her sparkly mauve nails. ‘Yeah, I need some polish too.’

We decided to walk down the hill into town while there was a break in the rain. The fresh air would sharpen our senses. It had rained heavily in the night and the uneven road and pavement was a waddle of puddles. More rain ran down the gutters, drains overflowing with swirling debris, echoing ye olde London and Dickensian streets.

‘This is going to ruin my boots,’ Maddy complained. Her Ugg boots were having a rough time. She’d probably buy a new pair this morning. I took a bet on it.

The youth big band was tuning up in the only useable marquee. The grass inside squelched underfoot. Stewards were putting down more rough matting, straightening chairs, checking wristbands.

‘Need any help?’ I asked.

‘All under control, thank you.’

The youth big band were hardly kids, they were mostly fifteen or sixteen years old. Maddy looked fractionally more interested in the taller boys. They all wore navy blazers, white shirts and red ties, even the girls. It was a smart outfit.

‘We’ll listen to a couple of numbers and then we’ll go,’ said Maddy, slumping into a chair. She opened a can of Pepsi and a packet of crisps.

The band leader began with a long introduction about how they had been formed from several schools in the county, where and when they rehearsed, etc. I could sense Maddy shutting off. Then they began to play, several well-known standards, nothing difficult. Some of the brass was too loud, not quite on the note. They were nervous, couldn’t take their eyes from the sheet music.

‘I can’t stand this, Jordan,’ said Maddy, fidgeting. ‘Time to go.’

I could hear the rain starting to patter on the marquee like tiny feet. The thought of getting wet again was abysmal. ‘One more number,’ I said.

The band leader was making an announcement. ‘Unfortunately we are without our vocalist this morning. She has a sore throat and doesn’t want to strain it.’

Maddy snorted. ‘Sore throat. They always say that. Cold feet, more likely.’

‘But as we have rehearsed the number, we will now play it. That old favourite, “As Time Goes By”, ladies and gentleman.’

The old favourite was slower and more melodic so the band was making a better job of it. Though playing slow is not always easy. It takes a lot more control.

Maddy got up. I thought she was leaving. But instead of going to the exit, she was going up onto the stage. She spoke to the band leader, who was busy conducting, and took a mike from him. I froze with apprehension.

‘A kiss is just a kiss,’ Maddy began to sing. She was in tune. Her voice had a faintly husky quality, quite unique for a fourteen-year-old. She had all the confidence in the world, singing as if she sang every day of her life with a big band. Had her mother been a singer? Did Chuck Peters know his wayward daughter could sing?

There was thunderous clapping at the end of the song. Some of the band members were clapping too. Maddy looked around, flushed with pride. The conductor spoke to her, giving her some loose sheets of music.

‘I know all of these,’ I heard her say. I sat back with relief. It didn’t look as if we were leaving yet. It was still raining.

The disconsolate look had gone from her face. She didn’t always want to be Chuck Peters’ daughter, in the wings, listening to her father play or waiting hand and foot on Ross. She wanted to be up there, singing, being herself.

She sang the classic ‘Moonlight In Vermont’ and then the up-tempo ‘You Do Something To Me’. A little bit of nerves beginning
to show but it was to be expected. I wondered if she had sung in front of an audience before. ‘I’ve Got A Crush On You’, which I knew was Gershwin 1928, finished her debut.

She came back and sat beside me. She was trembling, licking her lips. I could sympathize. ‘You’re very good,’ I whispered. ‘Well done.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Do you want to go now?’

‘No. They’ve asked me to stay and get to know some of the band afterwards. They seem pretty cool. They’re serving lemonade and cakes.’

Who could resist lemonade and cakes?

At some point, I had to prise Maddy away. She had almost signed up her life to the youth band. She had agreed to sing with them tonight at the farewell concert.

‘I need more clothes,’ she said. ‘For tonight’s farewell.’

I thought she had enough clothes for a six-month safari of the Sahara Desert.

‘Where do you go to school?’ I asked in an empty moment.

‘Cowdry Private. It’s a very posh boarding school, fees cost thousands. Dad thinks it’ll turn me into a lady. Fat chance.’

I had to agree with her. Fat chance.

We went on to another gig, then another, different venues, tramping around, getting wet. My head was spinning with jazz. I like jazz, always have, but sometimes non-stop is more than any human can cope with. It was blowing through my head, occasionally with crescent-shaped pain.