The Song Never Dies (6 page)

“No. We had the staff fill the place with candles. Cushions round the side. It was supposed to be another chill-out area.”

“Did you come down here at all?” said Jack.

“No.”

Again — the quick answer. Quick because it was a lie?

But why lie?

“What about other people?’ said Jack. “Pools at parties tend to be popular …”

Sarah watched him walk around the pool, carefully stepping over police tape that still marked out different sections of the building.

“Apparently not ours,” said Gail. “Everyone was busy drinking and arguing. Alex wasn’t found until seven the next morning.”

“Doesn’t mean nobody came down here,” said Jack. “I mean — they just might not have seen him.”

Sarah saw Gail flinch at the thought. Although she seemed largely unmoved by her husband’s death, maybe she was just very good at hiding her emotions?

“But, as far as you know, nobody saw him come down here?” said Sarah. “And nobody saw anyone in the pool?”

“So I’m told,” said Gail. “The police interviewed everybody, took statements. And that is what they told me.”

Sarah watched Jack crouch down and touch the water.

“Pretty cool,” he said. “Is it normally this temperature?”

“Alex liked it that way.”

“He swim laps?”

“Every morning,” said Gail. “Bit of a fanatic.”

“So he was a strong swimmer?” said Sarah.

“Very strong.”

“Even when he’d had a drink?” said Jack.

“I never saw him go in the water — anywhere — sea or pool — after a drink. And he never just had one drink.”

“Or after anything else?”

Gail hesitated at that. “Never under the influence. Of anything.”

For the first time, Sarah thought:
maybe she doesn’t buy the accidental death either.

She saw Jack open a door on the far side of the pool and disappear into darkness.

“Sauna and steam room,” said Gail.

Then her phone rang, the sound shrill, jarring. “Excuse me.”

Sarah watched her open the pool house door and step outside to take the call.

She walked round the pool and joined Jack. He was on his knees in the middle of the sauna, pointing the light from his mobile phone under the wooden slatted bench.

“Never, ever, trust the cops, even the good ones, to find all the evidence,” he said, shuffling backwards from under the bench then getting to his feet.

On his right hand he had a surgical glove. And in between his fingers he held a cigarette end.

Or rather, as Sarah realised when she got closer, the tail end of a joint.

“Not one of Alex’s, I suspect,” said Jack.

And as he held it up — Sarah could see why: the tip was pink with lipstick.

“Maybe Gail?” said Sarah. “But I don’t take her for a pot smoker — or a liar. At least so far …”

“Got a bag?” said Jack.

Sarah opened her handbag and took the little roll of sandwich bags she now carried everywhere.

Bought for school lunch packing. But perfect for evidence.

Jack dropped the joint into the bag and she zipped it shut. Then he took off the glove and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Doubt we can use it for evidence,” said Jack. “But it just might make somebody talk at the right time …”

“Find anything?” said Gail, coming back into the pool house.

“Don’t think so,” said Jack. “Guess we should get out of your hair.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” said Sarah. “Thank you.”

She saw Gail scrutinise them both — as if she might suspect they were hiding something.

“On the contrary,” she said. “It’s me who should be thanking you. It’s strange. You’ve made me think about all this in a different way. Will you let me know if you find out anything?”

“Of course,” said Jack.

In your dreams,
thought Sarah.
This case is now officially live. And while it is — we trust nobody.

On the way back to the main house, they passed another low building with windows set in the roof.

Sarah could see lights on inside, and she could hear music playing. Bits of tracks that played for a few seconds, then stopped.

“Is that the studio?” she said.

“Yes,” said Gail.

“Mind if we look around?” said Jack.

“I’d rather not,” said Gail. “Perhaps some other time? We’re clearing up in there right now.”

“We?” said Sarah.

“Staff.”

“Sounds like they know what they’re doing,” said Jack.

“Getting rid of old CDs, I imagine,” said Gail.

“Would be useful to take a look,” said Jack. “It would only take a minute.”

But now Sarah saw the hard-nosed TV presenter and producer emerge: the one that had made this fortune and married the rock star.

“I said you had fifteen minutes, and I have given you way beyond that. Right now, I have a million things I should be attending to, so if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, no problem,” said Jack. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Really appreciate it,” said Sarah. “I know how hard it must be for you.”

They walked to the back of the house, then Gail gestured for them to go round the side of the house to the car park rather than go through.

“You’ll find it’s quicker that way,” she said. “Goodbye.”

Ten minutes ago we were all friends,
thought Sarah.

Now she wants us out of here — fast. Why?

“And as I said, please let us know if you find anything.”

Then Sarah watched her turn and walk across the terrace and disappear into the house.

As she and Jack walked round to their cars, she saw a big Range Rover Sport that hadn’t been there when they arrived.

“Jack,” she said, nodding at the car.

“Staff?” said Jack. “I think not.”

She opened the door to her car — then stopped.

“You going to go see Nick Taylor, then?”

“Grab a bite to eat first, I think,” said Jack. “Good luck with Lauren.”

“Thanks,” said Sarah. Then she nodded back towards the house. “You think she’s hiding something?”

“Don’t you?” said Jack.

“I’m sure of it. Though I don’t see her as a killer.”

“Me neither. But something’s been going down here …”

“She definitely didn’t want us in the studio.”

“My guess … someone was in there she didn’t want us to meet. The driver of the Range Rover, I’d bet.”

“Worth a second visit?”

“Definitely,” said Jack, climbing into his little sports car. “Anyhow, I’d better get back and feed Riley. See ya later, Sarah.”

“Call me when you get home,” she said.

Then she watched him fire up the engine and head off fast down the drive to the automatic gates.

An instinct made her turn.

At one of the upper windows, she saw Gail King looking down at her.

Then the face was gone.

She climbed into her car and checked the clock.

Just time to get home to make the kids some lunch,
she thought.

Then back to the office.

The investigation continues … and just where would it lead?

*

Jack pulled up in the centre of Bourton-on-the-Hill and checked the address for Nick Taylor’s rental that he’d written in his notepad.

48 High Street. Should be just ahead …

He decided to walk.

Bourton turned out to be little more than a row of honey-stone cottages, a pub, and a village shop.

But in the afternoon sun, it had a pleasant sleepy feel. He locked the car and headed up the gentle hill, tracking the house numbers. The little terraced cottages gave way to larger stone houses, set back in formal gardens, with tall walls and iron gates.

Jack guessed which house was number 48 when he was still fifty yards away: rock and roll blasting. He could feel the thud of the bass in his chest.

Nick Taylor certainly wasn’t going to make any friends round the quiet village.

Jack reached the house, pushed open the gate, went down a central path through pretty flowerbeds, and up to the front door.

The music was so loud, he wondered if Nick would even hear him as he hit the brass knocker on the oak door hard.

But the door opened fast — and Jack saw a girl step out into the porch in front of him, as if she’d been fired from a gun. The music from inside was so loud it made Jack step back.

“What time do you bloody call
this
?” she shouted, almost spitting the words. “We rang you lot an hour ago!”

Jack took in her punk shirt, silk dress, clunky shoes, triple nose piercings, and knew instantly who this must be.

“Sarinda,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Where’s our bloody
pizza
?”

“You ordered from Domino’s, huh?”

“Yes!”

“Think you’ll have to wait a while. I passed the bike a mile or so out of the village — and he was going the other way.”

Jack watched this crucial information filter in.

Then he saw the girl turn and call into the house: “Nick! You’ll have to call them again! Nick — call the bloody pizza people, will you?”

“Guess he can’t hear you. The music — no?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Sarinda. “Who the hell are you then anyway?”

“Friend of Will Dumford,” said Jack, figuring Will’s name wouldn’t start an argument. “Dropped by to have a chat with Nick.”

The girl rolled her eyes, then turned without answering and went storming back into the house, leaving the door open.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Jack, and he went in after her.

He shut the door behind him then looked around.

The hall tidy — kitted out like a rental, with a solid table and chair, thick anonymous carpet.

A hallway disappeared into the house.

Jack smelled tobacco smoke.

And above the tar and nicotine, the powerful smell of pot.

There was no sign of the girl so Jack went down the hall, heading towards the music.

He figured that was where he’d find Nick Taylor …

At the end of the hall, past tasteful watercolours of Cotswold scenes, and ornate wall-lights, he came to a door that opened into a living room.

Jack stood in the doorway and took in the room.

Ahead of him, a guy sat at a long dining table, his back to the door, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. In front of him, on the table, Jack saw a couple of laptops, a mini-keyboard and two big speakers, all connected with cables.

To one side, a stack of guitars leaned against the wall.

As the man tapped away at the laptop, the music pounded out of the speakers, louder even than the clubs back in New York that Jack sometimes had to visit on police business. Places where heavy drugs and music seemed to mix.

To his right, the girl was now lying on a sofa, flicking her fingers at her tablet. She looked up at him, sighed, then got up, went over to the guy at the table and talked into his ear.

The man turned quickly, looked at Jack, then hit a key on one of the laptops.

The music cut.

Jack’s ears hissed in the sudden silence.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” said the man.

“Name’s Brennan. Jack Brennan. Friend of Will Dumford.”

“Oh, like that name should open doors with me? Do me a favour.”

“You are Nick Taylor, yes?” said Jack, smiling. Then he turned to the girl, “And Sarinda?”

“I thought he was the bloody pizza guy,” said Sarinda ignoring Jack. “He’s just some old geezer.”

Ouch,
Jack thought.

Sarinda — what a charmer.

“What the hell do you want?” said Nick.

And Nick — mighty antagonistic.

Jack nodded to an empty chair by the table.

Time to engage,
thought Jack.

“May I?”

Nick just stared — and Jack sat.

“I’ve been over at Kingfishers,” he said. “Talked to Gail King. And I think she’s starting to think that maybe things aren’t so clear-cut about Alex’s death. Same with Will.”

Jack smiled.

He figured it would be interesting to see how Nick reacted to that little embroidery of the truth. It was also a way of finding out who was talking to whom.

And maybe even reveal Nick’s take on the evening in question.

“Bollocks,” said Nick.

“You don’t agree with them?”

“Course not.”

“What do you think happened, Nick?” said Jack.

“Idiot had more than he could handle — he always did. Then he just went for a swim and passed out. Bloody obvious.”

“People tell me he never went swimming unless he was sober.”

“They’re wrong. Obviously.”

“You sound very sure.”

“Ten years we played and toured together. Lived in each other’s pockets.”

Sarinda lay stretched out on the couch, disinterested.

“Even shared the birds as well … back in the day.”

“Close then? So you knew him better than, say Will … or even his wife …?”

“Look mate, there’s stuff I know about Alex even he didn’t know.”

“That’s a good line,” said Sarinda from the sofa. “We should use it in a song.”

“Yeah, cool, sure,” said Nick, nodding at her. Then he turned back to Jack. “What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

Jack watched him reach for a tobacco pouch on the table and start to roll a cigarette.

Or maybe a joint.

Time would tell.

“Doing a favour.” Another smile. “Guess you’d say that I’m investigating Alex’s death.”

“You’re no cop.”

“I was. And now I work privately.”

“Who’s bloody paying you?”

Jack shrugged.

“Look, I just need to ask you a few more questions. Then I’m out of here. That work for you?”

Jack watched him lick the papers deftly, then tweak the end of the cigarette, pop it between his lips and light it.

“Five minutes, pal. I’m working on Sarinda’s next big song.”

Sarinda perked up at that. “Going to be even more humungous than ‘The Song Never Dies’.

Humungous.

Hard to believe this near teenager was such a singing sensation.

Must be quite the tune.