The Song Never Dies (10 page)

A grand piano and an upright stood in one corner.

Next to them, a massive extended Ludwig drum kit. He walked over to it and ran his hands along the cymbals.

This was just the kind of drum kit he remembered all the bands had when he was a kid.

When drum solos were obligatory and usually went on until people were begging for them to end.

Jack turned and took in the rest of the studio: stacks of speakers, amps of all kinds, pedals, mike stands, cables.

Beyond them, against one wall, a massive mixing desk stretched more than twenty feet across …

It was a rock and roll emporium.

This was the retro gear that Alex King was going to use to record Lizard’s next album. Not for him; the neat mics and laptops with back-ups that Jack imagined could turn any bedroom into a professional studio.

Jack stood in the centre of the studio, trying to work out how Alex King had actually
used
this space; where he worked, how he moved around it, where he sat, where — and where he could possibly have hidden the most important thing he felt he owned …

… the proof that he had written ‘The Song Never Dies’.

The key to a small fortune.

And the lingering question … was it a big enough fortune to kill for?

It took Jack just a few minutes more to finish searching the downstairs studio.

Nothing.

He checked his watch. Less than 30 minutes before the housekeeper might get back, and maybe another hour before Gail would return.

Time running out.

He climbed the steps into the upper office area.

At the top of the steps he stopped and looked around.

The office looked a total mess — as if someone had broken in and ransacked the place. CDs and empty cases littered the floor. Drawers stood open — most seemed to have just been tipped out at random, the contents strewn across chairs and sofas.

In one corner, he saw an executive desk piled high with papers and more CDs.

A big flat-screen TV sat in the corner, with all kinds of boxes plugged into it.

On a side table, Jack saw a professional CD player and amp, with speakers.

All the equipment was turned on, red lights glowing.

On one side of the amp, more stacks of CD’s. On the other, a pile of discarded discs.

Jack picked up a CD at random from the top of the stack. It had writing scrawled on it in black felt tip:

4
th
June 1994,
it read.
Zombies, mix 28, no synth.

He turned the volume down on the amp first, put the CD into the player, pressed play.

The track started — a few bars of heavy rock guitar, drums, vocals. Then it stopped. Then the same bars played again and again.

Jack guessed these were different takes, though he couldn’t tell much difference between them.

This was the music that had played when Jack and Sarah had talked to Gail out on the terrace.

Someone was clearly working their way through Alex King’s recordings
.

“Looking for something?” came a man’s voice from behind Jack.

He spun round, heart racing, to see Carlton Flame, standing facing him, halfway up the stairs.

Jack saw that he was holding a fire extinguisher. The hose was pointed right at him.

“We on fire?” Jack said, calm again.

“Who the
hell
are you?”

“Jack Brennan.”

“The cop.” Then with added disdain. “The American.”

“Ex-cop, Mr. Flame,” said Jack. “You wanna put that down? Could get very messy if it goes off in here.”

He watched as Carlton Flame climbed the rest of the stairs and put down the extinguisher.

Jack leaned with his back against the CD table.

“You broke in,” said Flame, watching him carefully. “Believe that’s against the law. Even in your country …”

“Correct,” said Jack. “And you’ve been looking for a song, I believe.”

“How very observant,” said Flame. “You
are
a cop.”

“And I’m guessing you didn’t find it,” said Jack, ignoring the sarcasm.

“You guess right.”

“Quite the mess,” said Jack, indicating the piles of trash strewn everywhere.

“Didn’t have time to be tidy.”

“Encourages me, hearing that,” said Jack.

“Why?”

“Because I know I’m dealing with an amateur. Pros are always tidy.”

“That a fact.”

“How long have you been looking?”

“Why do you want to know — and why should I tell you? You see,
I
didn’t break in here.
In fact, you want to give me a good reason not to call the police?”

“As far as I know Mr. Flame — I’m the only person right now who’s trying to find out what
really
happened to Alex King.”

“So you and me — we can help each other. That what you’re saying?”

“Maybe. From the number of CDs, I’d guess you’re only half-way through looking, right?”

Jack watched as Flame wearily sat on one of the sofas and folded his arms.

“God. Not even that.”

“You doing it for Gail?”

“Huh? You kidding? I’m doing it for
me
.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“I find the song — I get rich. Period.”

“How rich?”

“Do the math,” said Flame. “‘The Song Never Dies’ — should be the song that never stops giving. Sarinda’s version has earned millions worldwide.”

“Sarinda’s version,” said Jack. “So you think Alex wrote it?’

“I
know
he did. He sang it to me back in the day.”

“When?”

“’92. In a bathroom in the Chelsea Hotel. New York.”

“The Chelsea Hotel? Home to legends, living and dead. So what’s the problem? Can’t be that hard to prove …”

“Oh, but it is,” said Flame. “In those days, I was the only one who wasn’t stoned twenty-four-seven. The band — they were hopeless. Never knew where anything was. Always losing stuff. Always trashing stuff. Set fire to the tour bus — twice. Flooded three studios. Killed a camel once, if I remember rightly, though
that
gig was a complete blur.”

“Thought you said you weren’t stoned?”

“Only because I was too pissed to get stoned.”

“So what you’re saying is that there’s no record of the song’s creation?”

“No
record
? Very funny. No, Mr. Brennan, there is no ‘record’. No tape, no CD, no scribbled lyrics. Nothing. At least, nothing so far that I can find.”

Jack gestured to the pile of CDs.

“On the bright side — you’re still only half way through this lot.”

“I’m more of a glass half empty kind of guy, Mr. Brennan.”

“You think Alex really did have proof?”

“That’s what he told me. What he told Nick too.”

“You think Nick killed him for it?”

Jack watched Flame shrug.

“High stakes. All those royalties that should have been going to Alex. You’re the detective. You tell me — anything’s possible right?”

“Be bad news for Nick …”

“Too right! Lot of money for Nick to pay back into the Alex King estate.”

“A lot of money for you to collect, I imagine,” said Jack.

“Correct. Always got my cut …”

“How much of Lizard do you own?”

“Twenty percent. And twenty percent of Alex King. Which means — twenty percent of every damn song he ever wrote.”

Jack nodded. “Worth spending a few days listening to CDs then.”

“Pretty good daily rate.
If
I find it.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” said Jack.

“And what the hell are you going to do?”

“Search around a bit myself. You mind?”

“Be my guest. Though Gail won’t be happy. And you won’t find anything.”

Jack walked over to the desk in the corner, while Flame went back to the CDs.

He sat in Alex’s big leather chair and surveyed the room.

Would Alex have just put the recording in with all the other CDs?

No way.

It was too special. Chances were it wasn’t even in the studio. It would be in the house somewhere. In a safe, maybe.

Though if Gail and Flame were in cahoots — she wouldn’t have him searching down here if she knew it was in the house.

So maybe it is in here. Or maybe they’re not as close as they let on,
he thought.

He opened a few drawers in the desk. Just a jumble of paperwork.

He closed the drawers and looked around the room again, trying to settle into the purpose, the meaning of the place.

What did Alex do up here?

The sofas. Music player. A mini-fridge with beers.

The TV.

A place to sit back and relax.

Jack looked at the TV, its little red light bright. Dolby system. DVD player. Two — no, three — set top boxes. A DVR.

He got up and went over to the TV.

He felt it.

Warm.

He looked closely at the TV’s boxes. Their lights were off.

He felt them.

Cold.

He looked back at the TV.

A set of cables was plugged into the side.

Jack remembered how — when his daughter was little back in NYC — he and Kath would plug in their new video camera in the side of the machine after every holiday and run through all the day’s video.

Happy times …

But nobody used connectors like that anymore.

Unless
…

He looked over at Flame. The guy was bent over the CD player, his back to Jack.

Jack swung the big TV round on its base quietly and followed the cables with his hand.

He could just reach, down into the darkness behind the set, where all the cables and plugs became tangled in the usual knot.

On the floor — right behind the TV — stand he felt something.

A camera. Big and heavy for a video camera.

It was warm. Still turned on.

He lifted it out.

Swung the TV back into place.

Looked over, and checked on Flame. He hadn’t seen a thing.

Jack put the camera in his lap, hidden from Flame by the big desk.

He looked down at it. He knew the model so well.

Sony, 8mm digital.

A relic. Made in the early 90s.

There could be plenty of reasons why Alex King might want to play back an old tape from those long ago days.

But Jack had a suspicion he knew the real reason.

The song.

He looked across at Flame. No need to tell him about the tape right now. But how to get the camera out of here?

No, the thing was way too bulky.

Without taking his eyes off Flame, he ejected the tape with one hand and slipped it into his pocket.

Then Jack quietly slid open one of the desk drawers, put the camera in it, and gently slid the drawer shut.

“Guess I’ll leave you to it,” he said, getting up.

“Nothing there, huh?” said Flame, turning round. “See. I told you.”

“You were right,” said Jack. “But it’s always best to check.”

He headed to the stairs, then turned.

“You going to the memorial service?” he said.

“No,” said Flame. “I’ll be down at that pub, making sure the audio guy sets up the sound system right.”

“Still looking after the band, huh?”

“Looking after my investment, Mr. Brennan. The Alex King memorial gig? Lizard reunited, live at the very first venue they ever played? Priceless.”

“I’ll see you there then,” said Jack.

“I’ll let Gail know you were here.”

“I thought you would.”

Jack turned and went down the stairs.

He might not have solved the murder.

But if the tape in his pocket was what he thought it was then a lot of people were going to get very rich — or quite poor — very soon.

“This seat taken, ma’am?”

Sarah looked up from her laptop to see Jack standing, grinning down at her.

“I guess you’re going to take it anyway,” she said.

She watched her American friend sit, then lean back in his chair smiling at her.

Sarah knew that Jack always loved meeting here at Huffington’s tea rooms — the only place he’d found locally that made anything remotely resembling a real chocolate brownie.

“How was the vicar?” he said.

“Reverend Hewitt sends his regards,” said Sarah.

“And Gail King?”

“I don’t think she suspected anything. We went through tomorrow’s service. It’ll be a small family affair.”

“Apart from the fans outside?”

“To be honest, they’re more likely to be Sarinda’s fans, soon as they hear she’s planning to attend. I hear that the Ploughman’s will be impossible to get into. And they’re setting up a Jumbotron for everyone outside.”

“Quite the event for Cherringham …”

Sarah closed the laptop, pushed it to one side, then lifted her coffee and took a sip.

She knew that look on Jack’s face.

“So, Mr. Brennan,” she said. “You’ve cracked it, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. Some of it. Not all of it. But I think … maybe.”

Sarah looked around the little tearooms.

The lunch rush hadn’t started yet, and there were still plenty of empty tables — which meant they could talk without being overheard.

“Well, come on,” she said. “Don’t leave me like this.”

“You go first,” said Jack. “You said you had something.”

“Okay,” said Sarah. “But I have a feeling it’s not going to live up to what you have.”

“Like I said, all I have is a ‘maybe’.”

“Hmm. Okay. Let’s start with Gail King. Big house — big debts. Even rumours that she and Alex put the house up against income from the tour.”

“But how does she gain from Alex dying?”

“Exactly. In fact, she needs that song desperately — which I guess is why she’s in with Carlton.”

“Agree.”

“Good,” she said. “Next — Nick Taylor. I checked the official register for the song — he and Sarinda split the royalties fifty-fifty. Music and lyrics by the both of them — song registered just two years ago. And boy, does Nick ever need that money. He’s already spent most of it — studios in the States, couple of boats, houses. He’s barely ahead …”