Cherringham--Murder under the Sun

by Matthew Costello

  The man in the flowery shirt — Len. No doubt about it.

  She froze the image, sat back and thought for a second. Who were all these people? They only had days to find out.

  Then, in the back of her mind, she heard Jack’s old advice: focus, go with the leads you have, work them through.

  So — back to her laptop, searching for “Tigz DJ”.

  It didn’t take long to track him down — music forums were great for answering questions like “anyone know whatever happened to …?”

  Within minutes, someone had come back to her. “Gave up the decks. Last I heard, sells crystals in Glastonbury.”

  A few more quick searches and she had Terence Grainger nailed. Owner of a shop on the main street called DreamCatcher.

  Glastonbury — just a couple of hours’ drive.

  She checked the time — nearly midnight. But she knew Jack would still be up. She picked up her phone, called him.

  “Jack. I’ve got something.”

  “Tell me.”

  She went through the details — the car, the name, Glastonbury. And the videos, the link to Sally and Len.

  “It’s a solid lead, Sarah” he said. “A good one.” He took a breath. “Finally.”

  “Gotta be worth a trip. He could be a witness. How about you? Ray any help?”

  “Maybe. A ‘Micky Hooke’. Might be him. Right age. According to Ray, dabbled in dealing in the late ’90s, making sure those who liked their coke got it. Set up a bunch of raves. Then put all the money into going legit, supposedly. Nightclubs. London mostly.”

  “Hey, great stuff, Jack. That’s two people we have now. Two angles on Len’s lost weekend.”

  “Maybe. We have to speak to both of them. No time to waste. Think you can locate Micky Hooke?”

  “Sure. In all those records — contracts for nightclubs, stuff like that — there’s bound to be a document with a signature.”

  “Really?”

  “Fingers crossed,” said Sarah. “Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll see what I can get on him: places he owns, phone, any records.”

  “Trip to London in the cards. And Glastonbury. Can you get away?”

  “For this? You bet. But no way tomorrow — I’m helping Grace go through all the arrangements for the reception at the Bell.”

  “Can’t be helped. Sunday’s not a day for rousing a club owner either, I guess.”

  “So — Monday?”

  “Monday it is.”

  “For the first time — I dunno — I’m starting to feel a bit hopeful.”

  “Me too. Maybe just a bit. But I’ll take it.”

  Sarah put down the phone and checked the time again.

  Nearly one. She’d hoped to catch Daniel before she went to bed. But probably too early to expect him home on a Saturday night.

  And way too late for her to be still up.

  She turned off everything and went into the kitchen to wash the last dishes.

  Just days to save the wedding.

  Everything depended on Monday.

  9. Hit the Road

  Jack turned east out of Cherringham, out to the winding road that led to the highway and London. Luckily not much traffic for a Monday morning.

  Sarah had called late the night before. She’d found a signature on a deed for a place on Wardour Street. Hooke’s first club. The signature matched the hospital visitor book.

  It was the same Micky all right.

  “Can I say … you are amazing?” Jack had said. “And was he ever arrested?”

  “Once, but by then Micky Hooke could afford a good lawyer. Charges dropped.”

  “One of those guys. Okay. Think I should call ahead?”

  “Not sure. I mean, you’ve always said there is something in surprise.”

  “That there is.”

  “Reactions unprepared. But who knows? He might not be in any of his clubs. Especially on a Monday morning. Wasted trip.”

  “And wasted time. That’s what worries me. But I’ll drop in anyway. Sometimes I believe in sheer dumb luck.”

  “In this case, let’s hope not too dumb.”

  As he pulled out onto the main road that led towards the M40, he wondered how Sarah was getting on right now. He knew she’d planned to leave early for Glastonbury to beat the traffic.

  Could DJ Tigz hold the key to getting Len out of jail?

  *

  Sarah parked her shiny new car carefully in a corner of the Glastonbury shoppers’ car park, and headed up the main street.

  It had been years since she’d been here, but she could see that the little high street was still dominated by “alternative” shops, as if the ’60s had never ended.

  Crystals, therapies, spiritual healing from around the globe — if life wasn’t working out for you, this hippy town promised to fix it for sure.

  Ten o’clock — most places open, but not many shoppers out and about.

  She walked up past the shops then checked her phone for the location, turned down a narrow alleyway, and there — sandwiched between an incense store and a magic bookshop — she saw “Dreamcatcher”, all swirly Indian script on the front, and decked out inside like a forest glade, albeit with a hoarfrost of decades of dust on everything.

  The door stood open — she went through and took in the place. It was like stepping back to her youth.

  Sitars met whales on the store soundtrack. Incense burned from various positions, making the air thick. On the walls, she saw, yes, black-light posters and poems writ large, arcane symbols, signs and runes everywhere.

  And on the tables and displays — stacks of colourful crystals and smooth stones.

  But no sign of anyone in here.

  She went over to one of the tables, picked up a piece of jagged white crystal.

  “Selenite,” came a solemn voice from behind her. “It’s wonderful for activating your higher chakras.”

  She turned to see a man in his fifties. Round glasses, tinted a light purple. Greying hair pulled back in a tight bun. Face lined.

  “Establishes connections with your Guardian Angel.”

  But that face was still recognisable from the YouTube videos Sarah had watched — albeit maybe more peaceful looking now than in those frenetic days of Ibiza ’90.

  “Think I’ve already found my angels,” she said, smiling. “Two kids I love and good friends I wouldn’t swap for the world.”

  She saw the man nod.

  “Then you are one lucky human,” he said slowly. “There are many who spend a lifetime seeking — and not finding.”

  “How about you?” said Sarah, almost reluctant to break this spell, but knowing she had no choice. “You found yours here, Tigz?”

  “Um, I’m sorry?” he said, as if he’d misheard — but Sarah had already seen the flicker of alarm in his eyes.

  “Long way from spinning the decks in Ibiza to selling crystals, is it not?”

  At this she saw him pause, his shoulders dropping.

  “What the hell do you want?” he said, his guru-like air gone in a flash. “I’m guessing it’s not inner truth or enlightenment?”

  “Maybe, a different kind of truth.”

  “Oh yeah?” he said.

  “I need to talk to you — about Len Taylor. And Sally Hayes. And about what really happened that July weekend in San Antonio, 1990.”

  “Whoa! That’s quite a list,” he said, not moving, not breathing, the shop still, just the sitar droning on, the incense smoke slowly drifting by as if eavesdropping.

  It felt to Sarah as if her words had almost turned this man to stone, to crystal itself. Then she finally saw him breathe in again.

  “All righty then,” he said. Then he walked over to the shop door, shut it and swung the closed sign around.

  “Through here,” he said, pulling aside a silk curtain that led to a back office, so that Sarah could go ahead of him. “You got ten minutes.”

  Nobody saw me come in here, Sarah thought. Jack’s in London. What if this guy is the one who
killed Sally?

  I don’t have a choice.

  *

  Jack left his precious MG in the Soho car park, trying not to think about the unbelievable cost of the ticket — dinner in the Spotted Pig would be cheaper!

  He headed down Brewer Street then straight on, until he reached the corner of Dean Street.

  Years back, he and Kath his wife used to visit London every year from NYC, loving the place and staying out late as much as they could.

  Although he knew the city was always changing, his internal map from those days was still pretty functional. Some of their favourite places — the pubs, the restaurants, the cafés — were still there.

  Funny how I can still navigate by pubs, he thought.

  To the right — though the stores were all different now — was The French House. And up there — the way he was heading — was Quo Vadis, one of Kath’s favourite restaurants. Still open — amazing.

  He carried on, heading north using Sarah’s directions, until he hit a narrow alleyway and turned down it.

  He passed a few boutique stores, a few small offices, and there — just as she’d said it would be — he saw a red door, and a small sign in swirling brass letters that read, “Carnival”.

  Tonight, after midnight, there would probably be a queue out here, and a burly guy at the door with massive arms, the old velvet rope barring the way as if something fantastic was on the other side of the door.

  All for twenty quid.

  He tried the door. Locked.

  Makes sense, he thought. But he spotted a buzzer, and pressed it.

  And waited.

  He waited so long, that he thought, Maybe nobody’s home? Place closed Mondays?

  Which is when the door opened just a few inches. Young girl, he could see, blond hair, ultra-dark red lipstick, gum chewing in progress.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi. I’m looking for Micky Hooke. Wanted to talk to him for a few minutes.”

  And to Jack’s relief the girl didn’t say that he wasn’t here.

  “Yeah. Wot about?”

  “Got some sad news. About an old friend. Think he’d want to hear.”

  The girl nodded, the request probably out of her normal purview. She slid her phone out, pressed a button.

  And the girl turned away from the door, which was still open a bit, as she spoke so that Jack couldn’t hear her.

  Then the girl turned back. “Okay. He’s busy. But can talk to you for a minute or two.”

  And she opened the forbidden red door wide, and led Jack down some dark and dank stairs.

  *

  “All right. Tick-tock. What’s this about?” said Tigz, leaning back on the small couch in the tiny office.

  “Sally Hayes,” said Sarah, sitting opposite.

  She watched Tigz as he took this in. Like he was maybe trying to remember.

  Or more likely — pretending he couldn’t.

  “Sally Hayes … hmm. Oh yeah — gotcha. Kid who got drowned? Fell off a cliff, whatever. That’s her, right?”

  “That’s what people thought?”

  “Far as I remember. Why? What’s up? Bloody long time ago that was.”

  “Turns out, she didn’t drown. She was murdered.”

  Sarah watched him carefully. He didn’t register any surprise — though this should surely have been big news to him.

  “That right? Well, there you go. Dangerous times, dangerous places, eh? That’s why I got out. Moved on.”

  “Onto crystals, not crystal meth, hmm?”

  At this she saw his eyes narrow.

  “Look. What’s going on here?” he said. “Just who the hell are you?”

  “I’m helping a friend of mine — Len Taylor. That ring a bell too?”

  “Len Taylor? Wow. There’s a name I’ve not heard for a while.”

  “He was a friend?”

  “Acquaintance, more like. Same line of work, you know? Guy was ‘somebody’ once upon a time. So, Len … he sent you here? Why’s that then?”

  “Because he’s been arrested for Sally’s murder.”

  “Whoa. Bad karma that. He do it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “And you reckon I can help?”

  “I think so.”

  “Sorry. Why me? Nuffin’ to do with me, you got that? I never knew the girl. Hardly even knew Len.”

  “Oh really?” said Sarah. And she took out her phone, opened the picture of Tigz and Sally together, held it up.

  For a second, she saw Tigz’s composure wobble. His frown — a tell.

  “Oh … that her?” he said innocently, then shrugged. “Lot of girls in Ibiza that summer.” He made a sloppy grin, immediately distasteful. “Good times.”

  Sarah sat back. Time to cut to the chase.

  “Being around all these crystals,” she said, nodding towards the shelves. “Bad for the memory, are they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seems like you’ve also forgotten your trip with Micky Hooke to the hospital in Oxford that same year? Maybe to put the frighteners on Len. The guy you hardly knew.”

  Now she saw Tigz react. He moved on the couch — squirmed.

  “I don’t know any Micky damn Hookes. Never heard the name. And what do you mean — frighteners? Think it’s time you got your—”

  “Hang on. Memory again, I guess? Seems you took Micky in your smart BMW to the hospital, Terence,” she said, using his real name. “We’ve got the proof. It’s in the file we’re all set to give to the police.”

  “What? One more bloody time. Who the hell are you?”

  “Len didn’t kill Sally Hayes. And we’re going to find out who did. Now are you going to help? Shall we start this little chat all over again? Or leave it to the cops?”

  Sarah waited, while Tigz seemed to ponder this.

  “All right,” he said. “Okay. Bloody cops. No one needs that crap. So — what do you want to know?”

  “I want to know exactly what happened that weekend,” she said. “The weekend Sally disappeared.”

  She watched him wipe his forehead with his hand, then nod to her.

  And Sarah took out her notebook and pen.

  Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.

  10. That Weekend

  Jack looked around club. Only white lights on, the bar and tables being wiped down, some guys behind the bar, checking bottles.

  Probably marking levels.

  A scattering of tables in one spot — the metal chairs upside down, squatting on top.

  Save for one table, at the back. Two tables, actually, with papers and envelopes spread out, smoke from an ashtray streaming upwards.

  And a man, pen in hand, watching him approach.

  Micky Hooke, Jack thought.

  Feeling rather amazed that here was maybe a link to Len, that summer on Ibiza. Maybe with a key to what actually happened.

  And also, the secret of that hospital visit.

  But despite the grim setting, Micky Hooke smiled.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice, deep, gravelly — a smoker’s voice. “What can I do to help you? Lily said something about an old friend?”

  Jack approached the desk, stopped. Looked down at the seated club owner.

  “Mr Hooke, I’ve got news of someone you knew, years ago. Someone in trouble.”

  Hooke nodded, eyes looking genuinely curious.

  “Right. Who’s that and what’s the trouble?”

  “Len Taylor. Just been arrested for murder.”

  And at that, Hooke’s eyes went wide.

  “What? You kiddin’ me? Lenny Taylor? Good God.”

  Then — unexpectedly — the man gestured to one of the chairs. “Pull up a seat. Tell me about it.”

  *

  Sarah listened as Tigz told his story, jotting down the key details in her notebook.

  “That weekend — it was like the absolute best. You know? Amazing. Me and Len were both booked to play Pulse—”

&nbs
p; “Pulse? What was that?”

  She saw Tigz look at her like he was having to explain the Beatles to his mum.

  “Pulse was the biggest gig in town. Right on the beach. Ten thousand people going crazy, through the night. Rain machines, foam, massive lighting rigs, speakers like mountains. You name it! And when you were on the decks — all those kids in the palm of your hand — oh wow. The word ‘rush’ doesn’t even capture the half if it.”

  Sarah could see him lost in the memories.

  “Okay. Pulse. You and Len. What happened?”

  “Yeah, right. So, Friday night, I warmed them up, big long set. Got ’em hot and dancing. Then Len took ’em through till dawn. Awesome.”

  “You were the support act?”

  “Well, not really. I dunno.”

  Tigz … maybe not the brightest stone in the crystal shop, Sarah thought.

  “What about Sally? Was she there that night?”

  “Yeah … Friday night … oh yeah, she was there. Life and soul, know what I mean? Her kinda party, that night was.”

  “Got it. And what happened Saturday?”

  “Saturday? Saturday — ha! — that was for sleep. Maybe hit the pool. Then when it got dark, drop some pills, head back to the beach for round two. Even bigger crowd.”

  “Same question — was Sally there?”

  “Yeah. She and Len — big item … together like. Both of them, even earlier that night, well out of it.”

  “Drugs?”

  “You bet. The word ‘no’ wasn’t really in Len’s vocabulary in those days. Tequila shots too. They were all over the place. I finished my set, looked at Len and thought — damn — he might be too wasted to go on. But they got him sorted somehow. Probably some speed set him right.”

  “You stayed for his set?”

  “Yeah, right through. Dunno how he did it but — gotta tell you — it was awesome.”

  “You saw Sally, with him?”

  “Oh yeah. She was up on one of them stages, dancing. Wild.”

  “And after?”

  “Um, after all that … the show … I, um, crashed.”

  For the first time, Sarah noticed a moment of uncertainty in Tigz’s story.

  “Where?”

  “Where?” he said. “I dunno. On the beach. Back at the house maybe.”

  “This house — that the finca with the pool?”