Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

“Well, I have to be going,” said Rachel.

  “Surely not, dearie. We’re just getting started.”

  “I I have to go and meet the band now,” she said.

  “Ah, the band. Coloured players I’ve heard?”

  “That’s right,” she said, wondering if this might suddenly become a problem. “We’ve heard great things about them.”

  “As long as they can play sweet as well as hot. I sang with Duke Ellington’s boys one night, you know, in New York. Man, that’s a band that knows how to play it sweet when they want to. Gorgeous boys. Really lift a singer up, they do.”

  “I’m very much looking forward to seeing you perform tonight.”

  “As the actress said to the bishop.”

  The girls giggled. Benny Orphan cackled, feeding off their adoration.

  Rachel smiled politely and left with Abe. She realized now why it was such a good idea to bring the girls along. Something told her Benny Orphan wouldn’t find a few hours in the company of the Benacre Street Boxing Club nearly so appealing. Poor Henry really had thought of everything.

  — 38 —

  ABE DROVE THE CHARABANC back to New Street Station where they waited half an hour. Another ten boys from the Benacre Street Boxing Club shuffled onto the platform and hung around. She recognized two of them from her evening at the social club with Henry.

  Again the shudder every time she thought of him.

  Poor Henry was lying on a hospital mortuary slab somewhere.

  When the steam engine rolled in and deposited its passengers, Lester Johnson and his band were easy to spot. Everyone on the platform looked twice.

  How strange, she thought, that it was still a time where you would see a black man and find it unusual. These people would go home tonight and say to their family, you’ll never guess what I saw today. And yet she knew from her studies that black people had lived in Britain in significant numbers for centuries.

  She pushed forward and greeted Lester Johnson with a smile. He was tall, lean, handsome, and had a confident smile. They were all dressed in sharp suits with kipper ties and homburg hats, and she thought of the newsreels she’d seen of the Empire Windrush.

  “Hello there,” she said. “You must be Lester. I’m Rachel. Welcome to Birmingham.”

  He shook her hand and bowed. “Good day, ma’am. We’re honoured to be here.”

  She realized her pretence of being American might unravel and reminded herself to tell Charlie not to mention it later.

  Lester was courteous and leonine and carried an air of authority that seemed to cow everyone around him. The boxing club boys gathered as the rest of the band spilled onto the platform, humping their instrument cases and overnight bags. A couple of them helped with the larger bags, but the rest were still furtively checking the human traffic on the platform. Rachel realized they wanted to keep their fists free.

  “Oh, there’s something I have to tell you, ma’am,” said Lester.

  Abe butted in. “Can it wait for a while? We need to get you out of here and onto the coach. Parking restrictions, I’m afraid.”

  They filed out of the station and piled onto the coach. It set off down the back streets of Digbeth on the three-minute journey to Hurst Street.

  “What was it you wanted to tell me, Lester?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m afraid our pianist has fallen ill. Can you find a replacement?

  Rachel couldn’t hide the shock in her face. How was she going to find a replacement pianist now?”But they won’t know your music.”

  Lester patted his briefcase. “I have all the sheet music here. He won’t need to improvise, just accompany. We’ll be playing sweet, not hot.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

  The coach pulled up outside the fish and chip shop and they climbed the steps to the social club.

  Manny greeted them warmly, shaking the hand of every band member and ushering them to tables where they were offered drink and food.

  The band looked pleased with the gig, their bright smiles lighting the room. A large crowd had turned up to see them and they were overwhelmed with curious conversation.

  Rachel took Lester to one side and explained the band would be here for a few hours, just to relax and then they’d be taken to their hotel in Moseley where they could check in, and then straight to the hall for a couple of hours before the concert.

  No one mentioned Henry’s murder, and if Lester found the arrangements and the presence of so much muscle suspicious, he said nothing.

  Manny pointed her to his office where she could use the phone. Charlie’s number at the Prince was pinned on the wall. She wondered how the hell people organized anything in the past without cell phones.

  She dialled the heavy apparatus, finding it difficult to push the numbers round with her fingertip, and then feeling increasing impatience having to watch the dial wind all the back after each one. Eventually, she heard Charlie’s voice through the fuzz at the other end.

  “Benny Orphan’s at the Grand. The band are at the social club. All safe. Just one problem.”

  “I knew there’d be at least one.”

  “Lester’s pianist is ill and he wants us to find a replacement. What are we going to do?”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Hello? Charlie?”

  “I know a local pianist,” he said. “Lives in Kings Heath. Don’t think he’s ever played jazz before, though.”

  “They’ve got sheet music here.”

  “Hmmm. He’s more of a classical chap. I think he knows his way around popular song. He can probably tinkle his way through a foxtrot.”

  “Will he be good enough?”

  “He’ll have to be. I’ll go and get him. Good work, Rachel. You’re quite amazing.”

  She felt her heart flutter as he hung up and sudden music erupted from the next room. The band had taken out their instruments and launched into Blue Minor.

  Manny came in with a big smile on his face. “Just wanted to say. Our friend at a certain factory in Moseley. He should be hearing all about today’s schedule round about now.”

  “Good,” said Rachel. “Let’s hope it works.”

  — 39 —

  THE BAND PLAYED AN impromptu concert and it seemed that half of the Jewish quarter had climbed the stairs to see it.

  Then they ate fish and chips and knocked back a few pints. The band members were all beaming, feeling like royalty. Only Lester looked worried, checking his pocket watch.

  “We’ll be going soon,” said Rachel, trying to smile away his worry.

  “Oh, don’t mind me, miss. I’m never quite comfortable until we’re playing the first tune to the audience.”

  Rachel looked across with surprise when one of the old Jewish gentlemen approached her. She’d seen him playing chess earlier. He walked up to her and stared.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “You were a friend of Henryk Kertész,” he said. “You were there when he died?”

  She nodded and choked back sudden tears. “Yes. Just after.”

  He gripped her hand and squeezed it. A tear fell from his face onto her wrist. “Such a tragedia. I was just now told the news. Such a great man. We are from the same town. Debrecen.”

  Rachel placed her other hand over the old man’s. “I didn’t know him long,” she said. “But I already miss him a great deal.”

  The old man smiled and nodded. “He had that effect on people. Such a tragedia.” He shook his head some more and shrugged and let go of her hand.

  “You’re Hungarian too?” she asked.

  “Igen,” he said.

  “He said something to me I didn’t understand. It was the last thing he said, actually. I think it was Hungarian.”

  “What it was?”

  “It sounded like see ya, daily bab. I think that was what it was, anyway.”

  The old man stroked his chin. “Délibáb,” he whispered. “Strange.”

  “What does it mean?”

 
; “Well, szia, means goodbye, or even see you. But délibáb is a... oh, what it is? Like when you are in the desert and you see the things that are not there?”

  “A mirage?”

  “Igen! The mirage. I don’t know why he would say that to you. Perhaps he think you are not real?”

  She nodded and tried to smile. “Perhaps I misheard him.”

  “Oh, Délibáb is also a character. From the mythologia. She was a mortal girl. The Wind King loved her but she didn’t love him. She loved his brother, the Sun King.”

  “The Wind King?” she said. “Szélkirály?”

  His eyes lit up with delight. “You know Hungarian?”

  She shook her head. “Henry said this word to me. He told me about the Wind King.”

  “Ah. So he joke that you are Délibáb. He was always the joker. Now it makes sense.” The old man nodded, squeezed her hand once more and then walked away.

  It was late afternoon before they all got back in the coach with the ten bodyguards from the boxing club and another ten to bulk the numbers. She told Lester they were just getting a lift to the venue ahead of time, and the bandleader nodded, as if nothing was unusual.

  The coach rattled south to Moseley. Everywhere they drove, pedestrians did a double take at the sight of so many black men in a coach. Coming up Alcester Road through Balsall Heath a group of girls waved and laughed excitedly.

  Abe drove straight through Moseley village and parked up outside the Alcester Lodge Hotel. They got the band inside quickly, the bodyguards checking up and down the street, but everything was quiet. Rachel couldn’t hide her worry. The band in Hurst Street surrounded by bodyguards was safe. Here it felt more out in the open.

  The band checked into their rooms. Sheila Sutton on reception recognized Rachel and blushed, no longer acting the snob now that she realized Rachel was the person filling her hotel for the night.

  Rachel remembered confronting Danny in the bar. She scanned the guest book as the band members signed in and noted Danny had left yesterday morning.

  She remembered the strange gust of wind that had blown through reception, papers scattering. He is Szélkirály. Where was he now? What was his plan? What was he going to do tonight?

  The thought of a tornado sweeping across the Institute dance floor made her shudder. She must tell Mrs Hudson. If only they would show up.

  Once they’d checked in and deposited overnight bags in their rooms, she rushed the band back to the coach and they drove back through Moseley village, on past the Prince and down the hill to the Institute, right next to the tram depot.

  They climbed the steps and went straight in through the open door. She was about to tell one of the bodyguards to stand guard on the door but as soon as the band were inside, they closed it and slid the bolt across.

  The giant hall was lit dimly and seemed like an enormous warm cave. The band walked across the dance floor to the stage, their two-tone shoes clacking on the parquet.

  A man was slumped in a chair, feet up, reading a book. Rachel walked over to him and it seemed he didn’t hear her till she was standing right over him. He jumped up and closed the book. Sherlock Holmes.

  “Oh, hello there,” he said, rising and holding out a hand. “I’m Tony. Tony Pratt. The pianist.”

  He filled out a tweed suit and wore jam jar bottom glasses. She’d have put him at fifty but knew he was probably more likely thirty.

  “Do apologize,” he said. “Can’t put it down. I do so love a good murder mystery. Don’t you?”

  She cringed, thought of Henry. Smiled. Nodded.

  Tony Pratt rapped his knuckles on the book. “Conan Doyle. He lived in Birmingham, you know. Worked as a doctor in Aston 35 years ago. Fascinating, eh?”

  “Have you played jazz before, Tony?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Not your actual jazz, no. More of a classical man, myself. But I hear you’ve got sheet music so I can just play the notes, eh?”

  Lester Johnson came over and introduced himself. “We should go through a few numbers. Give you a feel for it?”

  “Righto,” said Tony, following them to the stage. “I have to say, this is a turn up for the books. Didn’t expect this to be happening today.”

  Tony Pratt climbed the stage and shook the hand of every band member. He sat at the upright piano and ran through some scales. Lester handed him the scores.

  “Stompy Jones,” he said.

  The band kicked in. A fast swinger. Tony’s hands were a blur on the keys and sweat began to dot his forehead. He looked like a man running for a bus just at the point he realizes he’s not going to catch it.

  When they finished, Tony took his jacket off and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “Goodness me. That was rather fast.”

  “Let’s try Doin’ the Uptown Lowdown.”

  Tony scrambled for the right pages and the band started without him. He joined in as soon as he could. It was even faster than the last one.

  Rachel watched aghast, but Lester caught her eye and winked. He was testing him out. They stormed through it without vocal.

  Tony reached for his handkerchief again. “I say, are they all going to be this fast?”

  “You’re doing great, Tony,” said Lester. “We’ll be much slower for the concert. Just blowing off the cobwebs, that’s all. Now, let’s try Stars Fell on Alabama.”

  Tony found the music. “Ah. Slowly. Very good.”

  Rachel checked her watch and signalled Abe. It was time to take care of the Blackshirts.

  — 40 —

  CLIFFORD WAITED OPPOSITE the gates of Braddock’s and thought about how he was going to kill Julie Hickman. It was night already and yet still afternoon. He crushed another cigarette under his foot and resisted the urge to light a third. He ought to cut down. The adverts said they were good for you, scientists said so, but the Führer didn’t smoke and he had to admit they made him short of breath.

  He felt excitement stirring deep inside.

  If only his man at Kings Heath police station had been able to tell him earlier that they wouldn’t be pursued for the murder, Julie Hickman would still be here in Birmingham.

  Her initial excitement over the event had turned sour and paranoid. The giddy sexual glee as they’d run through the park, much to his disappointment, had turned to terror once they’d reached his house. They had cowered behind his curtains for a few hours, expecting every knock at the door, every footfall in the street to be the police.

  He had wanted Julie to stay, but she had paced his parlour saying Oh God, what have I done? again and again and rushed home before dawn, packed a case and caught the first train to her aunt’s in London.

  She was going to do something stupid. Something like return and confess everything to a policeman. He wondered if arsenic might work. Perhaps too slow. She might confess before she croaked. Perhaps he should simply strangle her. Hang her. Make it look like a suicide.

  It had to be done quickly, though. He ought to go to London and find her. Just as soon as this business was over. He would catch a train from New Street this evening.

  First, though, he had to deal with Benny Orphan. He was determined to see it through. If these reds thought they could bring a Jew warbler and some darkie minstrels to Moseley, they had another think coming.

  He heard the hoot of the klaxon inside and saw the men come filing out, quickstepping their way to their weekend with smiles on their faces.

  Harold saw him as he crossed the road but didn’t stop. Clifford walked alongside, trying not to skip.

  “What do you want? I’ve told yer all I know.”

  “You know what I want, Harold. It’s time to show what you’re made of.”

  “Haven’t got time. Got to get changed and out on a date.”

  “There isn’t going to be any concert, Harold. Or haven’t you worked that out yet?”

  “I know that, Einstein. But there’s supposed to be a bloody concert, and I’m supposed to be taking my future wife to the bloody thing, so what’s it go
nna look like if I don’t bother going because I knew the singer was gonna get crippled?”

  Clifford risked a chortle. “Always an excuse from you when it comes to the crunch.”

  Harold stopped and turned. The threatening jab in the chest again.

  “Any more of your lip, Clifford, and you’ll find out what a crunch feels like. I ain’t scared of no one. Now I’ve told ya where they’re gonna be, and this is the second time I’ve done ya this service. So why don’t you run along and do what you’re supposed to be best at, eh?”

  Clifford stopped and watched Harold stalk up Newport Road.

  He stamped his foot and marched up the steep slope of Church Road, cursing every step. By the time he reached the top he was huffing and puffing.

  Needed to do exercise more. Perhaps send off for one of those Charles Atlas chest expanders. The coming storm needed its foot soldiers.

  He walked along Woodbridge Road, past the station, and on past Lukers, trying not to stare too hard. A few girls were hanging around outside, giggling, clutching autograph books. Evidently, Harold Ogborne had blabbed to more than just his Blackshirt friends. Clifford walked on, fists clenched, wanting to punch someone.

  The others were waiting in the Fighting Cocks in their usual corner of the bar. Thankfully no one was wearing their Blackshirt uniform. There were a few of them you wouldn’t put it past, they were so stupid.

  They looked nervous, sweating, and he realized it wasn’t the coming action that worried them.

  “Don’t you worry about last night,” he said. “My colleagues in Her Majesty’s constabulary will not be chasing any of us over this.”

  He ordered a round of cheap brandies for them all and by the time the barman brought it to their table on a tray, another man had entered.

  The men looked up to him, desperate for solace, and they found it in his smile.

  Constable Davies didn’t look the same in normal clothes. You would never recognize him.

  “Tell them,” said Clifford.

  “No evidence,” said Davies. “They’re not even going to investigate the witness statement. No proof it was you lot.”