The Song Never Dies (9 page)

“But you will be joining him?”

Jack nodded. “Not to eat. Just a few questions while he enjoys the best meal in Cherringham.”

Sarah looked at her watch, and stood up. “Not long from now. And I’d better dash. Let’s talk after I’ve done some searching.”

“I’ll call you as soon as Mr. Flame and I have had our chat.”

Sarah nodded. “Ask him about the song. He just might know something …”

“Sure hope so. Otherwise—”

Jack reached down and tried to offer Riley a bit of the fish, but he turned his snout at it.

“—we have nothing.”

“We’ll talk,” Sarah said, and then walked out of the Goose’s saloon, up onto the deck, the setting sun making the meadows look golden.

And despite Jack’s confidence … she wasn’t at all sure she’d find anything, about anybody, online.

Sometimes the magic didn’t work.

Jack had to park his Sprite in the car park, down where the High Street led out to the net of roads that circled Cherringham.

Village must be busy tonight, Jack thought. People converging on the pubs, the Pig probably fully booked.

Hint of summer to come in the night air.

And as he walked up the hill, with still a bit of deep blue sky ahead, some puffy white clouds above, the days finally growing long again …

… he thought of how he’d approach Flame.

He only knew of agents by their reputation.

The word ‘agent’ summoned descriptions like avaricious, sneaky, ambitious.

All traits that Jack might find useful in his chat.

He got to the Pig, the place as always looking so inviting from the outside. But he didn’t go straight in.

Parked right outside the restaurant, Jack saw a big black Range Rover Sport.

He walked round the vehicle and checked the plate.

Thirty years a cop — Jack had a good memory for plates.

Almost unconsciously he’d stored the number of the Range Rover that had mysteriously appeared at Kingfishers when he and Sarah had visited Gail King.

This was the same vehicle.

He stepped back onto the pavement but stayed in the shadows, outside the square of light that spilled from the Spotted Pig out onto the street.

From there, Jack could see into the whole restaurant. The place was full.

No surprise there — even midweek.

But a well-built man sat alone at a small table by the front left window, his back to the street. Even this close to the window, Jack knew that out here in the darkness he would be invisible to the diners.

But he could see every detail he needed to make an ID.

The guy wore jeans and a dark, pin stripe jacket. Cuffs with red-jewelled links. And on one wrist — what looked like a Rolex.

But the clincher was the long, grey ponytail with a silver guitar clasp that Jack saw reaching half way down the man’s back.

Not your average Cherringham look on a Thursday night out.

There was no doubt about it — this must be Carlton Flame.

A second chair faced the lone diner.

Jack was just about to walk into the restaurant when he saw a figure approaching from further up the High Street.

A figure he recognised.

Gail King.

Jack casually pulled the collar of his coat high and crossed the street, staying in the shadows.

He watched Gail enter the restaurant and go straight to Flame’s table.

Flame stood, embraced her.

And Jack watched them kiss on both cheeks. Not a lover’s kiss.

But looking like more than acquaintances?

Friends?

Allies?

Jack watched for a couple of minutes more as the two sat and leaned in close, talking.

Then he turned and headed back down the street.

It was still early — and he wanted to do some thinking.

He also needed to eat — that fish hadn’t been much more than a starter.

As he passed the Ploughman’s, he saw they had their new Spring menu out.

Top of the list, a burger with the blue cheese dressing which — last summer — he’d had a hand in formulating with Billy’s new young cook.

Not quite the Spotted Pig,
thought Jack.

But then again, at the Spotted Pig they don’t pull pints of Guinness like Billy does.

Jack opened the pub door and went into the welcoming light, his stomach already growling in anticipation.

*

It turned out — Sarah discovered — that after whipping up a quick macaroni cheese, with a big salad, that it was just for her and Daniel.

Chloe was out studying and having a sleepover at her good friend Lucy’s.

Still, it gave her a good chance to catch up, one on one, with her son’s life. Apparently, his class was planning a mini-Shakespeare festival.

“Sounds like fun,” Sarah said.

Daniel, as he always did, wolfed down the macaroni. “Will be, if we can have some,” he grinned, “sword fights and tournaments. Not just doing scenes from the plays!”

“I’m sure you will make the best argument for that very thing.”

He nodded. His plate empty, Daniel stood and — unexpectedly — also took Sarah’s plate.

“I’ll clean up, mum. I know you have some Jack stuff to do, right?”

She smiled at that.

Jack stuff.

“I do indeed.”

“You can get on with it. I’ll sort these.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, surprised at her son’s initiative as she went out to the living room, to the small desk where her computer awaited.

And just as she began to wonder —
How’s Jack getting on? —
her mobile rang.

Jack
.

“Hey Sarah.”

“Jack. You at the Pig? Doesn’t sound like it …”

“Country and Western night at the Ploughman’s.”

“Aha.”

“Spotted Pig didn’t work out quite how I expected.”

Sarah listened as he explained what had happened.

“Anyways,” he said. “I’ve been sitting down here over a beer doing some thinking.”

And Sarah knew when Jack said that things were beginning to step up a gear.

“Go on.” she said.

“First, there’s a few extra people I think you need to check into tonight. Carlton Flame and Gail King. See what photos you can find of the two of them together.”

“You onto something?”

“Just closing down bases. Same with Lauren Dumford — and Sarinda.”

“Pictures?”

“More history. Gossip. Trying to get a handle on who they really are.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and check the money side too, can you? For all of them? Loans, mortgages, debts, credit ratings. That possible?”

“Not legal, Jack. But sure — possible.”

“I’ll take possible. Also, that song. Can you find out who actually wrote it? Like — officially? Copyright, maybe?”

“I guess so. Also artists get payments — I think there’s an organization that logs all that. I’ll try to track it down, maybe get into their database.”

“Terrific.”

“You think the song’s important?”

“Am beginning to. Hence, my next question.”

“Hmm, I’m listening.”

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“In the office. Pitching for the golf club website deal.”

“Sounds important. Think you can get away for an hour?”

“If I have to.”

“Don’t want you to get on the wrong side of the golf club. Place like Cherringham, that could get dangerous.”

“I won’t,” said Sarah, laughing. “You going to tell me what you have planned?”

“Sure …”

And Sarah listened as Jack explained how they were going to attempt to crack open what he now clearly thought was indeed a case.

Jack leaned forward across the still-warm hood of the Sprite and focussed his binoculars.

Kingfishers appeared bright and clear in the twin lens of his Swarovski special. Purchased for his new hobby of bird-watching, he realised he’d now used them more often for spying on suspects than catching glimpses of the elusive Red Footed Falcon.

And from up here on the hill — where he’d met with Sarah just days ago — he could see the whole estate: roads in and out, and even a hidden route down to the house, following the tree-lined edges of the fields.

The perfect vantage point.

Slowly he scanned the house, gardens and outbuildings.

A couple of cars — a Mercedes and an old Ford — were parked on the gravel out front, and he could see figures moving occasionally in the downstairs windows of the house.

Jack guessed that the Mercedes belonged to Gail King.

The Ford — that must be the housekeeper’s. Some discrete questioning at the Ploughman’s last night had revealed that — right now, with only Gail to look after — Kingfishers was being run by a skeleton staff.

Which suited Jack just fine.

He checked his watch, then took out his phone and dialled Sarah.

“Jack.”

“Nothing moving. So far …”

“She must be running late.”

“You don’t think the vicar changed the time of the meeting?”

“No, he would have phoned me. Does it look like anyone else is in the house?”

“Just the housekeeper.”

“Not much we can do about her.”

“I’ll just have to keep my head down. Ah, wait a minute …”

Jack slipped the binoculars back up to his face: the front door of the house opened and Gail King hurried out, and climbed into the Mercedes.

“Gail’s out. On her way.”

“Great.”

“Gives you a couple of hours, Jack. That’s the best we could do.”

“It’ll be enough. By the way — what do I owe the good Reverend Hewitt?”

“He said your occasional presence in church would be payment enough. And if not that, then a donation to the roof fund.”

“The roof it is then,” said Jack. “Text me the second she heads back here, okay?”

“Will do. Oh, and Jack, I found a couple of interesting things online …”

“Sounds good — meet for lunch, huh?”

“Usual place. See you there.”

Sarah hung up.

Jack put the phone away, then raised the binoculars again and trained them on the house.

Sarah’s plan — to suggest a joint meeting with her, the vicar and Gail to finalise the publicity for the memorial service tomorrow — had worked. The vicar was an old friend of Sarah’s father, and knew what she and Jack did in their spare time.

More than once he’d helped them out — as long as his role didn’t require any dishonesty or anything remotely immoral.

Heaven forbid.

Luckily, the vicar had seen the benefit of setting up such a meeting with Sarah and Gail at short notice — and given the
delicate
reasons for it, had agreed to suggest that he
only
had space in his diary for a ten o’clock start.

The question was — would the housekeeper now do her regular shop in the village?

Sarah felt she would. Jack was not so sure.

But then …

Jack saw the door open again, and the young woman who had served them coffee appeared clutching empty shopping bags. He watched her climb in the car, start it up, and head off.

He checked his watch and set its alarm.

To be safe — one hour.

He’d need be quick.

He put the binoculars back in their case, and headed across the track and into the field that sloped down towards the house.

*

Ten minutes later, Jack was standing against the pool house wall, carefully scanning the formal garden and the back of Kingfishers.

No sign of movement in the house. And no sound coming from any of the outbuildings.

Were there alarms? He couldn’t see any tell-tale cables or boxes on the wall of the studio.

Funny. There must be a lot of expensive gear in there. Why not install an alarm?

Then again — if the studio users had a tendency to imbibe, maybe Alex King had decided not to confuse their brains overmuch with codes and key fobs.

Jack edged along the pool house wall until he reached the studio then walked along the wall to the door.

He checked his watch again: he had about forty-five minutes — no more.

He tried the handle.

Locked
.

No surprise there.

He reached into his pocket and took out his velvet roll of lock picks. A present back in the day from a pal in New York who owed Jack a favour — and who’d given him lessons in how to use them as part of the repayment.

Taking out one of the picks, he worked it into the lock and started to tease the thing open.

Click.

Click …

One more tweak — and he felt the tumblers clear.

He tried the handle, and now it opened.

With one look around to make sure the coast was clear, he opened the door quickly, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

*

Silence. And total darkness.

He took out his cellphone and flicked on the light.

He knew the building had roof windows — so the switches for the shutters must be here somewhere …

Safer than turning on all the lights — there was no way of knowing how visible they might be from a distance if somebody did come by the house.

He ran the light over the facing wall, where he saw all the switches in a long array.

Then — nicely labelled — he saw the switch panel for the window shutters.

He pressed the buttons — a sliding, creaking sound came from above as, along the whole length of the building, the shutters slid back and sunlight flooded the converted barn.

Jack looked around the room.

The ground floor was clearly the main recording studio. At one end he saw an open door that led into a small kitchen area.

At the other, Jack saw a set of open stairs that led up to a mezzanine: through a smoked glass balcony rail, he could see a desk, sofas, and a TV.

He walked into the middle of the studio area.

It was like he’d stepped back into the 90s. Once, he investigated a break in at the famous Electric Lady studios in New York.

This studio felt just like that.

Along one wall, he saw a line of guitars — Fenders, Gibsons, Gretsch — all the names familiar even from his days watching bands back in NY.