“Don’t encourage her, Tinkler.”
“I’ll join you in a minute. Number eighty-seven, isn’t it? I’ll be right back.” Nevada gave me a quick kiss and then was gone. Tinkler and I walked in the other direction, along the brow of the hill, towards number eighty-seven. The houses were crowded together, narrow and quaint, with miniature gardens that had mostly been paved or covered with concrete. Our destination had a sad little square of grass outside with a yellow ball lying on it. The paint was chipped and flaking on the wrought iron gate, which creaked and clanged and presumably alerted the owner, because he was at the door to greet us before we could ring the bell.
Charles Gresford-Jones opened the door and smiled and waved.
On the photograph his name had been unhelpfully, and inaccurately, rendered as ‘C.G. Jones’. If I’d known what he was really called I might have been able to track him down. That didn’t matter now, though. Gerry had phoned him up and made the introductions for us. Gresford-Jones was wearing a maroon-checked sleeveless vest over a black turtleneck sweater, a neatly creased pair of blue jeans and a scuffed old pair of bedroom slippers. It was as if in his dress-style he was torn between bohemian and nerd. He had a narrow, deeply seamed face and a few wisps of dark hair densely streaked with grey. There were liver spots on his thin white hands. But on the whole he was, like Gerry, fairly well preserved, despite being headed for a hundred years old. It was as if, having survived the horrors of the war, nothing could now kill them.
He waved us indoors and we followed him inside, doing an intricate little dance in the tiny hallway to make enough room to close the door behind us. We went through to the parlour, which was a little more spacious. There was a sofa, two armchairs, a bookcase, half of which was devoted to books and half to CDs, and a fairly serious-looking hi-fi system. Being a musician, he probably wanted music to sound like music, or as near as you could get with CD.
“Gerald rang and said to expect you. It was pleasant to hear from him; it’s been a while. We used to see quite a lot of each other at the squadron reunions. But we both stopped going.” He smiled at us. “They’re a bit of a depressing business these days. So few of us left, you know.” His smile faded a little. “Gerald said there was going to be three of you.”
“Yes, my girlfriend spotted a vintage clothes shop and couldn’t resist the allure.”
“Oh, yes, Bernadette’s. She’ll find something in there. Do sit down.”
Tinkler and I each chose an armchair. The room was shabby but comfortable, and gave the impression that the objects in it were appreciated and cared for, if none too tidily. There was fresh paint on the window surround—a less than perfect job—and I surmised that the cushions on the sofa and chairs had recently been refilled, because there was a shallow pile of white stuffing still lying on the carpet by the window, glowing in the sunshine.
I nodded at the Pioneer CD player and amplifier that were stacked on wall shelves beside my head. “Are those the Tom Evans modified models?”
His eyes lit up and any reserve in his manner dropped away. “Yes, that’s right. Don’t they sound marvellous?” I agreed that they did and he sank down onto the sofa and relaxed. We were now brothers in hi-fi. “I don’t have room for a large system in this tiny place, but I do quite well. I miss teaching, though. I used to have access to the music room of course.”
“You taught music?”
“Naturally. One of the few ways a musician can earn a living.”
“My friend here went to your school.”
He glanced at Tinkler, and nodded politely. Another bond of fraternity. “Oh really, an old boy? Many years after my time, I fear. Yes, we used to have a lovely system in the music room when I was there. Vinyl, of course. Played on Quad speakers.”
“I’ve got a pair of Quads,” I said.
“Of course you do. I would, if I had the room. And we had Quad amps and a superb Thorens TD 124 turntable.” He sighed. “I often wonder what became of that turntable. I actually went back to the school one day and asked about it. They said they still had it somewhere, in a cupboard. But then they went and looked and it was gone.” He sighed, mourning the loss of the Thorens.
My gaze was wandering around the room and came to the pile of stuffing on the carpet in the square of sunshine. I suddenly realised it wasn’t a pile of stuffing at all. It was a cat.
An emaciated and strangely flattened white cat. There was no sign of breathing or any other movement. It was in the posture of a sleeping cat, but it didn’t look like it was sleeping.
It looked like it was dead.
“I was just about to eat,” said our host. “Since I was expecting you, I made provision for guests. Would you like some sardines on toast?”
“No, that’s fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll have some,” said Tinkler. I remembered the huge stacked plate he’d addressed himself to in Gerry’s kitchen. Could he conceivably be hungry again? It didn’t seem humanly possible. Yet he appeared perfectly willing to send this frail ancient fellow off to cater for him.
“Tinkler, for Christ’s sake,” I murmured.
“What? I’m hungry. I’ve been burning calories.”
“When?”
“While driving.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It’s brainwork. The brain burns a surprising number of calories.”
“Not yours,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Gresford-Jones with the brisk manner of a man who had spent many decades concluding arguments between bickering schoolboys. “I’ll prepare sardines on toast for two, then.” He glanced at me, a little reproachfully I thought. “If you change your mind later, there’s plenty. I was planning to provide for three of you.” He went out.
As soon as he was gone I looked at Tinkler. “A Thorens TD 124 turntable,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Yes,” he said. He had seemed strangely uninterested during our hi-fi discussion. Elaborately detached, in fact. “Just like the one you’ve got,” I said.
“I suppose so.”
“You never did tell me where you got that.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Tinkler, did you steal your turntable from your old school?”
“My lips are sealed. What’s the statute of limitations on turntable theft, anyway?” Suddenly Tinkler noticed the pile of white fur. “Is that a cat?”
“I think so.”
“Is it dead?”
“I think so.”
There was the metallic clang of the gate opening. From the back of the house Gresford-Jones called, “Is that your lady friend? Could you let her in?” I went to the door and opened it. Nevada smiled at me and stepped in. I sensed something behind the smile, though.
“Find anything?” I said.
“A couple of decent items. And there was a really lovely Hermès scarf.”
“Was it silk?” I said. “Or silk-cashmere?”
“The latter,” she said. “But it’s all academic, because some vile little teenage slut beat me to it.”
So that’s what was bugging her. I led her into the parlour and let her take the armchair where I’d been sitting while I perched on the arm of the sofa. “What a shame.”
“They’re like that around here,” said Tinkler.
“My god, is that a cat?” said Nevada, staring at the thing on the floor.
“I think it once was.”
“Is it dead?”
“It didn’t seem polite to ask.”
Tinkler got up and went over and sniffed the air above the recumbent white form. “No tell-tale odour of corruption.” He bent over and prodded the cat.
“Tinkler, don’t touch it!”
He prodded it again. It didn’t respond. There were no signs of life. Tinkler shrugged. “Maybe it’s been stuffed. By a taxidermist.”
“Wouldn’t he have had it stuffed in a more lifelike pose?”
“Maybe this is a lifelike pose.”
“Good point.”
“Where has he gone?” said Nevada, looking around the place. “Charles Gresford-Jones?”
“To get us sardines,” I said.
“And toast,” said Tinkler.
Gresford-Jones came back carrying a tray. He had, as promised, brought sardines on toast for himself and Tinkler. And an unopened tin of sardines on a big white plate. I introduced him to Nevada and she reassured him that she didn’t need any sardines. Tinkler had meanwhile seized his plate and begun to eat with enthusiasm hard to credit in one who had so recently gorged himself. Our host seemed, if anything, gratified. He daintily consumed a small mouthful of his own serving, then turned to the tin on the plate. He set the plate down on the floor by the sofa and began to open the tin.
At the sound of the sardines being opened, the apparently dead cat suddenly rose to its feet and approached us. It moved in a strange angular dance, making abrupt shifts of direction. It was like Charlie Chaplin pretending to be drunk. Tacking thus, it came across the room and slumped down again, its chest across the white plate and its face nose down in the contents of the tin, which were a bright, shocking red. The cat began to eat enthusiastically, its whiskers jutting from the tin on either side of its small face.
“Abner likes the sardines in tomato sauce,” said Gresford-Jones, nodding with approval as the cat hoovered up the gory mess. With astonishing speed the tin was empty and left, like the plate, sparklingly clean. When Abner finished licking the last drops of sauce, he turned and went back to slump down in the patch of sunlight again.
“We have two cats at home,” said Nevada. She looked at me. “We should try feeding them sardines, dear.”
“If we did, they’d probably sue us.”
“How old is Abner?”
Gresford-Jones considered. “Well, I’ve had him for several years and he must have been hanging around for a good long while before that.” He shrugged, as though the calculation was just too difficult. “Now, I understand you have a photo?” I handed him the picture and he nodded. “I have a copy of this upstairs.”
“Our client might be very interested in any memorabilia you have,” said Nevada. It seemed as if, by mutual unspoken consent, everybody had decided to get down to business.
“Excellent. And you would like to hear my reminiscence of events?”
“Definitely,” said Nevada. “Do you mind if I record it on my phone?” She looked at me. “I should have thought of doing this when we talked with Gerry Wuggins.”
“Yes, you should.”
“I’ll do it when we go back. For our second visit. This evening.”
“Do you suppose they’ll still have that food?” said Tinkler. He’d finished his sardines. Nevada took out her phone, but our host shook his head.
“No, no, I will record everything and make a copy for you.” He took out a serious-looking microphone and set it up on a small table in front of us. A cable ran back from the microphone to some black boxes I hadn’t noticed, stacked in the corner beside the sofa. It looked like some kind of solid-state recording system. I remembered again that he was, or had been, a professional musician. He adjusted the microphone so it was in the middle of our small group. His manner was all business now. He looked at us.
“I understand that I am to be paid for these recollections?”
“That’s right,” said Nevada. “And as I’m sure my other half here was just about to remind us, we are also looking for any records of the Flare Path Orchestra.”
I said, “Any 78s, V-Discs, anything.”
He nodded. “Yes, I have one for you.” I felt a hollow thrill of excitement. But the old bastard obviously wasn’t about to elaborate further at this point. Instead he said, “Just speak in your normal voices and the mike should pick you up all right. Who’ll start? Well, shall I? I am, or was, LAC Charles Alan Gresford-Jones.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Nevada. “What does LAC mean?”
“Leading Aircraftman.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Tinkler. “But what does a leading aircraftman do? We were talking about it earlier. Does he lead the aircraft?”
“I was a rigger,” said Gresford-Jones with exaggerated patience. “I looked after the airframe on the Lancasters.” He was starting to get a little annoyed with the interruptions. He obviously had a prepared speech that he wanted to get through. “Do you mind if I start again? I am Leading Aircraftman Charles Alan Gresford-Jones. I was proud to serve in Bomber Command in the RAF during World War Two. I was also proud to serve with the Flare Path Orchestra, as bass trumpet and latterly deputy leader, arranger and orchestrator. The Flare Path Orchestra or FPO came into being in the following way…”
I glanced at Nevada. We were obviously in for the long haul here.
“We were a direct riposte to the American Glenn Miller Band, which was performing in England at the time. This was the so-called Army Air Force Band. You see, the US Air Force did not become a separate service—like the RAF—until 1947. However, in itself, Army Air Force is a misnomer. It was originally designated the Army Air Forces Technical Training Command Band. But the word ‘Technical’ was dropped in 1943, because of the merging of Technical Training Command and Flying Command.”
It sounded like he could go on in this vein indefinitely, so I said, “What was the music like?”
He blinked at me like a man coming out of a trance. Despite having carefully arranged the microphone to pick up all of our voices, he seemed nonplussed that anyone other than himself had dared to speak. “The music? Why, they were the greatest swing band in the world.” He glared at me. “Do you know what swing music is?”
I said, “Dance music with a big injection of jazz.”
He paused while he tried to find fault with this definition, reluctantly failed to do so, and continued. “We didn’t want the Yanks stealing all the thunder.”
“Or all the women,” said Tinkler. But he ignored this.
“So the powers-that-be decreed that the RAF should muster a band to give them a run for their money. And thus the Flare Path Orchestra was born. It was the brainchild of Colonel Lucian Honeyland, DFC, affectionately known to those who had the privilege to serve under him as Lucky.” He paused for a moment, lost in his memories. “We used to say that we were the lucky ones, to be under his command. In any case, our Colonel Honeyland, like Glenn Miller, had been given carte blanche to pick the finest musicians available anywhere in the service. So we ended up with some very distinguished players. And, like the Miller organisation, we were very much an arranger’s band. We had the great Daniel Overland writing charts for us, and my own humble efforts, and then, of course, there was Johnny Thomas.” His voice trembled oddly as he spoke the name.
Gresford-Jones paused for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, “Which brings us to the murder.”
“The what?”
“The murder. It’s rather odd that you asked me about it, because—”
“We didn’t ask you about it.”
“I’m sorry?” He blinked at us. “Didn’t you? I thought that was specifically what you wanted me to discuss.”
“No. But do go on.”
7. GILLIAN GADON
“As I mentioned,” said Gresford-Jones, “I was one of the arrangers in the Flare Path Orchestra.” He sighed rather forlornly, as if he was running out of steam before he’d even properly begun his narrative. “I have to be honest and tell you that I wasn’t remotely of the stature of the other two. Danny Overland, an Australian, is world renowned for his work. He’s recorded with Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones, Jack Jones, Matt Jones, I mean Matt Monro, Frank Sinatra—I should really have started with Mr Sinatra, shouldn’t I? The biggest name in the list. Imagine arranging and conducting for Sinatra. I believe that was at the Sands in Las Vegas. And Tony Bennett, I think, and Mel Tormé, I believe…”
Nevada gave me a look. I knew what she was thinking. Our host was in serious danger of wandering off-topic here. Hardly surprising, given that he was a nonagenarian, spry or no
t. I wondered if I should try and get him back on track.
Nevada was starting to look impatient. Tell us about the fucking murder, was the subtext there.
“And the third arranger for the Flare Path Orchestra was, of course, Johnny Thomas.” Again there was something tremulous in his voice when he said the name. “If he had lived he might well have achieved a success comparable to that of Danny Overland.”
I said, “If he’d lived?” Gresford-Jones stared at me, unblinking.
He nodded. “That’s right,” he said mildly. “He was very gifted. It was genuinely a tragedy.”
“What happened, exactly?”
“Well,” he said, “you remember I was telling you about the Glenn Miller band? At the time, here in England, their radio broadcasts were huge. Listened to by millions. But, it was decided by our powers-that-be that Major Glenn Miller shouldn’t have all the running, and consequently we—we being the Flare Path Orchestra—were pitted against him in a Battle of the Bands.”
I remembered that I owned some of those Miller broadcasts, immortalised on vinyl, and realised that I was in danger of becoming interested in his long-winded tale.
Gresford-Jones began to smile a nostalgic smile. “And so it came to pass that we were scheduled to play against the Miller organisation in the grand inaugural Battle of the Bands at the Corn Exchange in Bedford.” The smile faded and the light in his eyes dimmed. “And that was the first time she turned up.”
“Who turned up?”
“Gillian Gadon. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was trouble.”
* * *
“She was in the audience that night and made a point of coming to meet the orchestra afterwards. In fact she followed us onto the band bus. Sometimes girls did. It was quite a scandal, what went on.”
“That’s what Gerry told us,” said Nevada.
“Yes, he would,” said Gresford-Jones dryly. “He had more than his share of participation in such goings-on. Anyway, this particular girl started turning up at all of our performances. And she threw herself at various band members.” There was a petulance in the way he said this that suggested he hadn’t been among the lucky targets.
Victory Disc Page 7