Moon Over Soho Page 5

  “From the figures I have, I believe that two to three jazz musicians have died within twenty-four hours of playing a gig in the Greater London area in the last year.”

  “I take it that’s statistically significant?”

  “It’s all in the email,” said Dr. Walid.

  We hung up just as I reached the Asbo.

  To the tech-cave, I thought.

  THE FOLLY, according to Nightingale, is protected by an interlocking series of magical protections. They were last renewed in 1940 to allow the post office to run in a then-cutting-edge coaxial telephone cable to the main building and the installation of a modern switchboard. I’d found that under a dust sheet in an alcove off the main entrance lobby, a beautiful glass-and-mahogany cabinet with brass fittings kept shiny by Molly’s obsessive need to polish.

  Nightingale says that these protections are vital, although he won’t say why, and adds that he, acting on his own, is not capable of renewing them. Running a broadband cable into the building was out of the question and it looked for a while like I was going to be firmly mired in the Dark Ages.

  Fortunately, the Folly had been built in the Regency-style when it had become fashionable to build a separate mews at the back of a grand house, so that the horses and the smellier servants could be housed downwind of their masters. This meant a coach house at the back, now used as a garage, and above that an attic conversion that had once housed servants and later served as a party space for the young bucks back when the Folly had young bucks. Or at least more than one. The magical “protections”—Nightingale was not happy when I called them “force fields”—used to scare the horses, so they don’t extend to the coach house. Which means I get to run in a broadband cable, and at last there is a corner of the Folly that is forever in the twenty-first century.

  The coach house attic has a studio skylight at one end, an Ottoman couch, a chaise longue, a plasma TV, and an IKEA kitchen table that once took me and Molly three bloody hours to assemble. I’d used the Folly’s status as an Operational Command Unit to get the Directorate of Information to cough up half a dozen airwave handsets with charging rack and a dedicated HOLMES 2 terminal. I also had my laptop and my backup laptop and my PlayStation—which I hadn’t had a chance to get out of the box yet. Because of this there is a big sign on the front door that says NO MAGIC ON PAIN OF PAIN. This is what I call the tech-cave.

  The first thing I got when I booted up was an email from Leslie with the header Bored! so I sent her Dr. Walid’s autopsy report to keep her occupied. Then I opened up Police National Computer Xpress and ran a DVLA check on Melinda Abbot’s license plate and found that the listed information matched that on her driver’s license. I ran Simone Fitzwilliam as well, but evidently she’d never applied for a license or owned a car. Nor had she committed, been the victim of, or reported a crime within the United Kingdom. Or possibly all that information had been lost, inaccurately entered into the databases, or she’d just changed her name recently. Information technology only gets you so far, which is why coppers still go around knocking on doors and writing things down in little black notebooks. I Googled them both for good measure. Melinda Abbot had a Facebook page as did a couple of people with the same name, but Simone Fitzwilliam had no obvious Internet presence at all.

  I worked my way through Dr. Walid’s list of dead jazz musicians—all men, I noticed—in much the same way. They’re always doing clever cross-referencing stuff on the TV, and it’s all perfectly possible, but what they never show is how sodding long it takes. It was pushing midnight by the time I got to the end of the list and I still wasn’t sure what I was looking at.

  I took a Red Stripe from the fridge, opened the can, and had a swig.

  Definite fact number one: Each year for the last five, two or three jazz musicians had died within twenty-four hours of playing a gig in the Greater London area. In each case the coroner had ruled the death either “accidental” by way of substance abuse or by natural causes—mostly heart attacks with a couple of aneurysms thrown in for a bit of variety.

  Dr. Walid had included a supplemental file recording every person who’d listed their profession as musician and had died over the same period. Definite fact number two: While other musicians dropped dead from “natural causes” with depressing frequency, they didn’t seem to regularly die just after gigs the way the jazzmen did.

  Definite fact number three: Cyrus Wilkinson hadn’t even listed his occupation as musician but as an accountant. You never claim to be a freelance or artistic anything unless you want a personal credit rating lower than an Icelandic bank’s. Which led to definite fact number four: My statistical analysis was pretty much worthless.

  And yet three jazz musicians a year—I didn’t believe it was a coincidence.

  But Nightingale wasn’t going to go for anything that flimsy. And he was still going to expect me to perfect scindere starting the next morning. I shut everything down and turned it all off at the plugs. That’s good for the environment and more important stops all my expensive gear from getting randomly fried by a surge in magic.

  I let myself into the Folly through the kitchen. The waning moon lit the atrium through the skylight so I left the lights off as I climbed the stairs to my floor. On the balcony opposite I glimpsed a pale figure silently gliding among the muffled shadows of the west reading room. It was just Molly, restlessly doing whatever it is she restlessly does at night. When I reached my landing the musty carpet smell told me that Toby had once again fallen asleep against my door. The little dog lay on his back, his thin ribs rising and falling under his fur. He snuffled and kicked in his sleep, hind legs pawing the air, indicating at least five hundred milliyaps of background magic. I let myself into my bedroom and carefully closed the door so as not to wake him.

  I climbed into bed and before I turned out the side lamp I texted Leslie—WTF DO NOW?

  The next morning I got a text back. It read: GO TLK BAND—IDIOT!

  THE BAND weren’t that hard to find—the Spice of Life had their contact details and they all agreed to meet me at French House on Dean Street, but it had to be in the evening because they all had day jobs. That suited me because I was still behind on my Latin vocab. I trolled over to Soho just after six and found them all waiting for me, propping up a wall peppered with pictures of people who had been famous just at the time my dad hadn’t.

  The Spice of Life playbill listed my lot as the Better Quartet, but they didn’t really look much like jazzmen to me. Bassists are famously steady but Max—really Derek—Harwood was an average-looking white guy in his mid-thirties. He was even wearing a diamond-patterned Marks & Spencer V-neck sweater under his jacket.

  “We already had a Derek in the band before last,” said Max. “So I went by Max to avoid confusion.” He took a subdued sip from his beer. I’d bought the first round and was feeling suitably gouged. Max was an integrated systems specialist for the London Underground—something to do with signaling systems, apparently.

  The pianist, Daniel Hossack, was a classically trained music teacher at Westminster School for the terminally privileged. He had receding blond hair, round Trotsky glasses, and the sort of sensible kindness that probably led to him being savagely lampooned by the spotty wits of the lower sixth—that’s year 12 in the new money.

  “How did you guys meet?” I asked.

  “I don’t think we met as such,” said James Lochrane, the drummer. Short, Scottish, belligerent, and taught seventeenth-century French history at Queen Mary’s College. “It would be more accurate to say that we coalesced—about two years ago …”

  “More like three,” said Max. “At the Selkirk Pub. They have jazz on Sunday afternoons. Cy lives down there so it’s sort of his local.”

  Daniel nervously tapped his fingers on his glass. “We were all watching this terrible band who were making a fist of …” He stared off in the direction of the last decade. “I can’t remember what it was.”

  “ ‘Body and Soul’?” I asked.


  “No,” said James. “It was Saint Thomas.”

  “Which they were murdering,” said Daniel. “And Cy said, loud enough for everyone, including the band, to hear: ‘I bet any of us could play better than this.’ ”

  “Which is not the done thing,” said Max. All three shared a sly smile at the transgression. “The next thing I knew we were sharing a table, ordering rounds and talking jazz.”

  “As I said,” said James. “We coalesced.”

  “Hence our name,” said Daniel. “The Better Quartet.”

  “Were you better?” I asked.

  “Not noticeably,” said Max.

  “Worse, in fact,” said Daniel.

  “We did get better,” said Max and laughed. “We practiced at Cy’s place.”

  “Practiced a lot,” said Daniel and drained his glass. “Right, who wants what?”

  They don’t do pints at the French House so James and Max split a bottle of the house red. I asked for half a bitter—it had been a long day and there’s nothing like Latin declension to give a man a thirst.

  “Two maybe three times a week,” said Max.

  “So you were ambitious?” I asked.

  “None of us was that serious really,” said James. “It’s not like we were kids and desperate to make it big.”

  “That’s still a lot of practice,” I said.

  “Oh, we wanted to be better musicians,” said James.

  “We’re wannabe jazzmen,” said Max. “You play the music to play the music, know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think he’s gone across the river for those drinks?” asked James.

  We craned our necks and looked over at the bar. Daniel was bobbing among the crush, his hand raised with an optimistic twenty slipped between his fingers. On Saturday night in Soho going across the river might have been quicker.

  “How serious was Cyrus?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t any more serious than we were,” said James.

  “He was good, though,” said Max and made fingering motions. “He had that whole sax-player thing going.”

  “Hence the women,” said James.

  Max sighed.

  “Melinda Abbot?” I asked.

  “Oh, Melinda,” said Max.

  “Melinda was just the one at home,” said James.

  “Sally, Viv, Tolene,” said Max.

  “Daria,” said James. “Remember Daria?”

  “Like I said,” said Max. “The whole saxophone vibe.”

  I spotted Daniel struggling back with the drinks and got up to help him ferry them to the table. He gave me an appraising look and I guessed that he didn’t share Max’s and James’s envy for the women. I gave him a politically correct grin and plonked the drinks down on the table. Max and James said cheers and we all clinked glasses.

  They’d obviously forgotten that I was a policeman, which was handy, so I phrased my next question with considerable care. “So Melinda didn’t mind?”

  “Oh, Melinda minded all right,” said James. “But it didn’t help that she never came to any of the gigs.”

  “She wasn’t a fan,” said Daniel.

  “You know how it is with women,” said James. “They don’t like you to be doing anything they can’t relate back to themselves.”

  “She was into that New Age stuff, crystals and homeopathy,” said Max.

  “She was always nice enough to us,” said Daniel. “Made us coffee when we were rehearsing.”

  “And biscuits,” said Max nostalgically.

  “None of the other girls was serious,” said James. “I’m not even sure there was ever any hanky-panky as such. At least not until Simone anyway. Trouble with a capital T.”

  Simone had been the first woman to come back to Cyrus’s house to watch the rehearsals.

  “She was so quiet that after a while you forgot she was there,” said Daniel.

  Melinda Abbot didn’t forget Simone Fitzwilliam was there and I didn’t blame her. I tried to imagine what would have happened had my dad brought a woman home to watch him rehearse. It wouldn’t have ended well I can tell you that. Tears would have just been the start of it.

  Melinda, who obviously subscribed to notions of gentility unknown to my mother, did at least wait until everyone left the house before metaphorically rolling up her sleeves and reaching for the rolling pin.

  “After that we were in a lockup that Max blagged off Transport for London,” said James. “It was drafty but a lot more relaxed.”

  “Though terribly cold,” said Daniel.

  “Then suddenly we’re all back at Cy’s place,” said James. “Only it’s not Melinda serving the coffee and biscuits anymore, it’s the gorgeous Simone.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “April, May, around that time,” said Max. “Spring.”

  “How did Melinda take it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know,” said James. “We never saw that much of her even when she was around.”

  “I met her a couple of times,” said Daniel.

  The others stared at him. “You never said,” said James.

  “She called me, said she wanted to talk—she was upset.”

  “What did she say?” asked Max.

  “I don’t like to say,” said Daniel. “It was private.”

  And so it stayed. I managed to steer the conversation back around to Melinda Abbot’s “mystical” hobbies but the band hadn’t really been paying attention. The French House began to get seriously crowded and despite the prohibition on piped music I was having to shout to make myself heard. I suggested food.

  “Is the Met going to be picking up the bill?” asked James.

  “I think we could stretch to some expenses,” I said. “As long as we don’t go mad.”

  The band all nodded their heads. Of course they did, when you’re a musician free is a magic number.

  We ended up in Wong Kei on Wardour Street where the food is reliable, the service is brusque, and you can get a table at eleven thirty on a Saturday night—if you don’t mind sharing. I showed four fingers to the guy at the door and he waved us upstairs where a stern-looking young woman in a red T-shirt directed us to one of the big round tables.

  A pair of pale American students, who up till then had had the table to themselves, visibly cowered as we plonked ourselves down.

  “Good evening,” said Daniel. “Don’t worry, we’re perfectly harmless.”

  Both American students were wearing neat red Adidas sweatshirts with MNU PIONEERS embroidered across the chest. They nodded nervously. “Hi,” one of them said. “We’re from Kansas.”

  We waited politely for them to elaborate but neither said another word to us for the ten minutes it took to finish their food, pay, and bolt for the door.

  “What’s an MNU anyway?” asked Max.

  “Now he asks,” said James.

  The waitress arrived and started slapping down the main course. I had shredded duck with fried ho fun, Daniel and Max split egg fried rice, chicken with cashews, and sweet-and-sour pork, James had beef noodles. The band ordered another round of Tsingtao beers but I stuck to the free green tea, which came in a simple white ceramic teapot. I asked the band whether they played the Spice of Life often, which made them laugh.

  “We’ve played there a couple of times,” said Max. “Usually the lunch spot on Monday.”

  “Get much of a crowd?” I asked.

  “We were getting there,” said James. “We had gigs at the Bull’s Head, the National Theatre foyer, and Merlin’s Cave in Chalfont Saint Giles.”

  “Last Friday was the first evening slot that we’d scored,” said Max.

  “So what was next?” I asked. “Record deal?”

  “Cyrus would have left,” said Daniel.

  Everybody stared at him for a moment.

  “Come on, guys, you know that’s what would have happened,” said Daniel. “We’d have done a few more gigs, somebody would have spotted him, and it would be It’s been fun, gu
ys, let’s not lose touch.”

  “Was he that good?” I asked.

  James scowled down at his noodles, then stabbed them a few times with his chopsticks in obvious frustration. Then he chuckled. “He was that good,” he said. “And getting better.”

  James raised his bottle of beer. “To Cyrus the Sax,” he said. “Because talent will out.”

  We clinked our glasses.

  “You know,” said James. “Once we’re done here, let’s go find some jazz.”

  SOHO ON a warm summer evening is alive with conversation and tobacco smoke. Every pub spills out into the street, every café has its customers outside at tables perched on pavements that were originally built just wide enough to keep pedestrians out of the horse shit. On Old Compton Street fit young men in tight white T-shirts and spray-on jeans admired one another and their reflections in the shop windows. I caught Daniel pinging his radar off a couple of tasty young men checking themselves out outside the Admiral Duncan but they just ignored him. It was Friday night and after all that gym time they weren’t getting into bed for anything less than a ten.

  A tangle of young women with regulation-length hair, desert tans, and regional accents slid past—female squaddies heading for Chinatown and the clubs around Leicester Square.

  The band and I didn’t so much proceed up Old Compton as ricochet from one clique to the next. James nearly fell over as a pair of white girls ticked past in stilettos and pink knit mini dresses. “Fuck me,” he said as he recovered.

  “Not going to happen,” said one of the girls as they walked away. But there was no malice in it.

  James said he knew a place on Bateman Street, a little basement club in the grand tradition of the legendary Flamingo. “Or Ronnie Scott’s,” he said. “Before it was Ronnie Scott’s.”

  It wasn’t that long since I’d been patrolling these streets in uniform and I had a horrible feeling I knew where he was going. My dad’s been known to wax lyrical about a youth misspent in smoky basement bars full of sweat, music, and girls in tight sweaters. He said that in the Flamingo you basically had to pick a spot where you were prepared to spend the night ’cause once things kicked off it was impossible to move. The Mysterioso had been designed as a deliberate re-creation of those days by a pair of likely lads who would have been the quintessential cheeky, cockney barrow-boy entrepreneurs if they hadn’t both been from Guildford. Their names were Don Blackwood and Stanley Gibbs but they called themselves the Management. It had been a rare weekend shift when me and Leslie didn’t end up on a shout to the street outside.