Jazz and Die (4 page)

I
t was a sheet of lined paper torn from a school notebook, with a ragged serrated side edge. The writing was well formed, not illiterate. It seemed to be the same writing as on those earlier threats which Chuck had given me to read – but I would need to check.

I scrabbled in my shoulder bag for a specimen bag. The kind of thing a modern girl always carries about. Using a tissue, I picked up the tiniest corner and eased the sheet of paper into the plastic bag and sealed the top. DCI James might be interested. He might find some prints or DNA. DNA was so quick these days. No more waiting for six weeks for a result. They could do it in hours.

There was no point in telling Chuck. He was concerned enough. And he had his first big concert tonight. It would be jazz to blow your mind. What worried me was access to this top floor. It was too easy for anyone to get up here. There was a medley of musicians wandering about into each other’s rooms, staff of the hotel delivering room service, other guests finding themselves on the wrong floor, accidentally or on purpose, autograph books in hand.

I sent DCI James a text, saying I had some evidence he might want to see. I was not adept at texting but my style was improving. I didn’t do little sideways faces at the end or LOL. He’d know that a
JL
signature was not Jennifer Lopez.

The stalker could be in any of those hotel categories. I didn’t think there was a noun for a threatener. But there it was. I looked
it up on my laptop. Threatener did exist but no one ever uses the word these days. It was classified as archaic.

One of the signs of a jazz enthusiast was to wear a beard or a hat. I couldn’t manage a beard so I wore a real cowboy hat borrowed from my Latching shop. I could have sold it several times to Latching cowboys. If you were in a jazz parade then most women carried a highly decorated umbrella. You wouldn’t catch me spending time decorating an umbrella.

A crowd were already queuing to go into Marquee One for that night’s gig. Another steward spotted my badge and grabbed me. He looked frazzled, nice round face, brown haired, a bit on the heavy side. It looked like too many quick burger and chips lunches, washed down with a lager.

‘Thank goodness you’re here. Can you man this front entrance, please? Check everyone. Red wristband for tonight’s stroller or a single ticket purchased at the box office. Don’t let anyone in on any excuse. They will say anything.’

‘OK,’ I said dubiously. I was keeping an eye on Maddy. She was already in the tent, helping to set up the stage, manfully carrying in some of the percussion gear. Ross was playing with her dad’s band tonight. He must be good. The sound engineers were testing everything on site. Rows of uncomfortable grey plastic chairs sat in a semi-circle round the stage. Chuck didn’t like regimented rows so the layout was always changed for him. Lots of regular old-timers brought cushions to sit on.

I stood at the entrance, looking official. The evening was already cooling and the sky darkening. Street lights were coming on in the town below. The field was high above the shore line. No vertigo but I could see a couple of steep paths which might be tricky in the dark.

‘Wristbands or tickets, please.’

‘My husband has got mine and he’s already inside.’

An unlikely story, madam. I smiled at her. She had a set-hard face. ‘Then he will probably come looking for you, won’t he? Please wait outside.’

‘I’ve left my wristband at the hotel.’

‘Lucky you. You’ve got time to go back and get it.’

She agreed, reluctantly.

‘I’ve brought the wrong colour. I’ve got on a blue wristband.’

I checked with the chief steward, the heavyweight who was in charge. He said blue was tomorrow’s colour so her story sounded true. She had bought a weekend stroller. I let her in. She looked relieved and flashed me a big smile.

‘I’ll buy you a drink in the interval,’ she said.

Things were looking up.

It was a long time since I had heard any really good, authentic jazz. My trumpeter friend of old, who occasionally played at Latching, had vanished from the circuit. Please play ‘Here Comes That Rainy Day’, I thought. ‘Rainy Day’ is the lament they play for musicians who have died. It’s quite beautiful and always makes me cry even if I don’t know the musician. They could play it for me, one day.

Tonight’s big band concert was full of unexpected delights. They played ‘You Do Something To Me’ and ‘When Can I See You?’, both full of rhythmic energy. ‘Moonlight In Vermont’ is one of my favourites with its gentle, insistent swing. ‘Shake, Rattle And Roll’ had the tent flaps vibrating. ‘Watermelon Man’ finished the first half.

Jazz was changing. It was a marvellous confusion of complexity, genre-mingling. It was every kind of jazz that there had ever been, all mixed up. Harmonies, grooves and anti-grooves, funk, fusion and free-jazz. It was a ground-breaking sound; made my head spin.

Maddy wandered over towards the bar. She was probably getting something for Ross. Musicians get thirsty. I remembered seeing the great Maynard Ferguson drinking champagne throughout a whole concert at Wigan. It was a wonder he remembered what he was playing or could still stand.

I didn’t get that promised interval drink but I bought myself a cool lager. The marquee was hot, pulsing with heat under the canvas.

‘Hiya, Jordan. Are you enjoying it?’ Maddy asked, strolling
over. Tonight she was wearing purple tights, black shorts and a vivid skimpy sequinned top. Quite a dazzling outfit. It was a wonder Ross could keep his mind on the score.

‘Fabulous,’ I said, even though I had to stand. I was keeping an eye open for an empty seat. Stroller tickets could move onto one of the other venues. But no one ever left a Chuck Peters gig. So never a vacant seat.

‘Now you know that Ross can really play the drums. My dad thinks a lot of him. Did you hear those brush strokes? And his suspended time fills and cymbal patterns?’ Her eyes were glowing, brighter than the diamanté lashes.

She was talking a foreign language. But I nodded. ‘Great sense of timing,’ I added. ‘Spot on.’

Maddy seemed pleased. ‘He always plays inside a song.’

Inside a song? I had a lot to learn.

I was glad they didn’t play any Glenn Miller. Although he was a great musician, his compositions had been done to death. Not exactly the right phrase since he disappeared on a night flight during World War II and was never seen again. But there were some of his numbers I never wanted to hear again. (Do not mention a certain pearl necklace.) It was not fair to a great band leader, of course. But he did arrange masses of other music which no one ever seemed to play these days.

Mandy came back with a diet coke for herself, a lager for Ross and a can of orange juice for me. ‘OK for you, Jordan?’

‘You’re a star,’ I said, taking the juice. ‘Thanks.’

It was a step forward. We were going to get on.

Apparently I had other duties when the concert ended. Rubbish to collect in black bin bags. Straighten chairs. Collect lost property. Fogged by the music, people left everything behind, walking away in a cloud of sound. Coats, bags, drink were left under chairs. Excuse me, I am here to watch Maddy, but it was not difficult to do both. Ross’s gear took the longest to cart back to his van. No mistaking his van. It had
DRUMS
stencilled on each side, the
U
in the shape of a kettle drum. I bet sometimes he wished he’d learned to play the flute.

Chuck was, of course, surrounded by admirers. He sold and signed a pile of CDs. They had to make money somehow. He spotted me and waved me over.

‘Coming to the party? It’s at the Bull and Horn tonight.’

‘What about Maddy?’

‘She’s coming. She likes you, so thumbs up.’

It was going to be a long night. I felt tired already and the comfy bed at the Whyte Cliff beckoned. Last night I had slept on the floor of my new flat in a sleeping bag. Strangely, I already missed my new flat. It was so right for me and an unexpected dream after my two bedsits.

He was standing behind me. I knew without even looking. Did my shoulders have a sixth sense or was it because my hair knew that he had once touched it? Perhaps my hair remembered that moment, had stored the memory in its roots. It was DCI James, in a waterproof jacket that was glistening with rain. He waited until I had finished a bin bag collection.

‘I’ll take that outside for you,’ he said. ‘It’s started to rain.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got to follow Maddy.’

‘To the Bull and Horn. It’s a party. I’ll take you. A party sounds good. Then you can tell me about this riveting new evidence that has me leaving my real work.’

‘It’s another threat. Untouched, except by the writer. I found it pinned to Maddy’s bedroom door with Blu-Tack. There might be something on it.’

‘Did you get the Blu-Tack as well?’

‘Of course.’

‘Blu-Tack sometimes absorbs sweat. Useful.’

The chief steward came lumbering over. I liked him. He’d had a stressful evening with far too many people trying to get into the marquee but he had never lost his temper. The entrance couldn’t be closed because of people leaving to go onto a venue elsewhere. But he had made the overflow form an orderly queue. They didn’t mind. They could still hear the music outside, standing in the rain.

‘Well done, lass,’ he said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. ‘Don’t know what I would have done without you. The other steward on the rota didn’t turn up. They do that, you know, say they’ll do a duty and then go and listen to something else they fancy at another venue.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll always help you out. It’s been a pleasure,’ I said. ‘Great jazz. Music for the soul.’

‘Tom Lucas,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘Are you coming to The Bull? I’ll buy you a drink.’

Tom Lucas was at least twenty years older than me and twice my weight, but he was tall with it and moved easily. And he had an open, generous face with pleasant grey eyes. His brown hair was heavily flecked with grey. No oil painting but looks weren’t everything, as the magazine agony aunts are always telling lonely females.

‘I’ll see you there,’ I said, zipping up my fleece. I wasn’t going to miss out on a lift with James. Besides, I had to give him the threatening note.

Tom Lucas wasn’t leaving yet. The marquee had to be secured for the night. Alcohol securely locked away. A couple of youths had brought sleeping bags and were spending the night in the tent. Nothing was safe these days but the boys thought it was a great lark. They’d listen to music half the night.

It was a fine steady drizzle. I hoped James’s car was not too far away or I would be drenched. Thank goodness for my boots on the wet grass. I’d seen lots of women in open sandals. The cowboy hat was like a miniature umbrella, keeping some of my hair dry. But rain dripped off the brim like Aussie corks.

‘I don’t suppose you know where the Bull and Horn is?’ James asked.

‘I don’t know where any of the pubs are. You’re the police. Surely it’s the first thing you learn anywhere. The trouble spots.’

‘Just testing.’

He was teasing me. It made a change. He was usually so serious and remote that I wondered if he had any normal social feelings at all. Perhaps he was glad to see me. He could hardly
relax with his new colleagues when he had this castle murder to solve.

I closed the car door, glad to be out of the rain. It was persistent stuff. Maybe Dorset rain had a relentless quality left over from its Jurassic days. Latching rain seemed softer unless it was blowing a force seven gale.

I opened my shoulder bag and gave James the specimen bag. He read the threatening words through the plastic.

‘So it’s more of the same. Did Chuck show you the others?’

‘Very similar, although the countdown has changed. If that is a countdown.’

‘Don’t take any notice of that. He probably got it off a television show. I’ve seen other examples of a countdown time factor being used to increase the tension.’

‘It’s effective. It works.’

He asked me a few other things about Maddy: what she was like, what was her relationship with the drummer. He drove carefully through the rain. The street lights were awash with haze, gutters splashing with rain running off the steep streets.

‘Adoration from a distance, I think,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe he’s interested in her. She’s useful to have around as a besotted little slave, carrying stuff.’

‘Watch him as well.’

‘Sure, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. Hadn’t you noticed?’

He drew up outside the pub. It had only been a few minutes but still I liked being with him in close dark confines. I turned to him, imaging the clear profile, the firm jutting chin, the bold nose and curving mouth. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

‘I think one admirer is enough for you to cope with tonight,’ he said, meaning Tom Lucas. ‘You go in and enjoy yourself. But remember you’ve a long day ahead tomorrow. Jazz starts with the ten o’clock parade from the bus station, then it is relentless non-stop jazz till the last gig at midnight.’

And I was tired already.

I said good night to James and got out of the car, stepping
straight into a puddle. Water splashed up my legs. The pub was all lights but it looked solid and workmanlike, loads of red brick and beer signs. Rows of wet benches sat outside on the pavement but they were empty of their normal clientele.

I went inside, shaking the rain off my cowboy hat. The bar was packed. I couldn’t see a face I knew. No sign of Maddy. They did say all the pubs were in walking distance but that could be wishful thinking.

‘Hey ho, here comes a new face,’ said a voice close beside me. ‘It makes a change to have a new steward, instead of all the old faithfuls. So where do you hail from, little lady? Texas?’

‘South of West Sussex,’ I drawled.

‘Did you come on your horse?’

I’d been lassoed by the joker from this afternoon’s steamer trip. I recognized the voice and the tireless joviality. There was nothing wrong with a jolly soul but I was too tired to respond or be receptive.

‘Yeah, he’s tied upside outside,’ I drawled. ‘I’ve come in to buy him a bundle of hay.’