“Chloe played the whole album on repeat every evening last term while she was revising for her exams.”
“The other songs this good?”
“Not a patch on it.”
“Interesting.”
Sarah sat down at the small wooden table and watched Jack cooking.
“No martini tonight?”
Sarah knew Jack’s routines well by now. And an early evening martini was usually compulsory on the Goose.
“Not yet. Got some plans for later.”
“I won’t hold you up then. Shall we see where we are?”
Jack nodded. “Dazed and confused, I’d say. Unless you’ve found out anything.”
The fishy smell was very powerful; then Jack gave the fish a shake in the frying pan.
Then he smoothly slid it onto a plate. Riley didn’t stir.
“Riley doesn’t seem too bothered?”
“Much more used to a nicely charred rib eye. Tried him on fish once — no sale.”
Jack leaned back to the drawers to the left of the stove, turned off the music, then fished out two forks.
He gave one to Sarah.
“Here. Take a bite. Caught it just this morning. Fresh from the river.”
In truth, Sarah wasn’t much of a fish eater herself.
But — as Jack squirted lemon over the fish’s crispy skin, head and tail disconcertingly still in place — she thought: how can I refuse?
And she followed Jack’s example, digging the fork in, and pulling up a piece of the white meat, and just a bit of the lemony skin.
When she tasted it …
Not bad!
“Hmm, tastes fresh … sort of a sweet taste.”
“Never bought fish from any stores back in Brooklyn. I mean, the day boats in Sheepshead Bay always came in loaded, everyday. Nothing like it. This, though …” he held his fork suspended with his second piece — “is a fine trout. Pretty tasty.”
“So …” she said, putting her fork down. She had her own dinner to get to for the kids. “What do you think of this lot? Alex King’s death?”
Jack looked away. His brow furrowed.
It was a look Sarah would best describe as confused.
“Well, doesn’t seem like anyone is telling the truth.”
She laughed at that.
“Tell me about it. They couldn’t act more guilty if they tried.”
He nodded. “But guilty of what? To be honest—”
Sarah smiled at that. “To be honest? I see you have adopted our very useful expression.”
Jack laughed. “When in Rome. But what evidence do we have of anything? That joint in the sauna? Could have been there for weeks. Lot of animosity and threats? Not much else.”
Sarah looked down at the plate, the fish half done.
She thought: I may have to expand my cooking repertoire. They do say fish is good for you!
“So, this early dinner. And no Grey Goose on the Grey Goose? You have plans?”
Jack grinned at that. “You might say that. Who haven’t we talked to?”
Sarah thought for a moment. There had been a lot of other people at the party. No way they could interview all of them.
“I don’t know … the other guests?”
“Think. They’re just guests. Though, as I like to say, never rule anything out. But I’m thinking of someone who was basically part of the band.”
Sarah thought for a moment.
Then she had it.
“The agent. That Carlton chap.”
“Right, Carlton Flame. Managing them as well, sounds like. The man putting them back together, getting the act on the road. Lot of money at stake for him.”
“Is he still in town?”
Jack nodded. “Yup. Talked to Sally at the desk of The Bell. Turns out he’s also staying there. Booked through till Saturday. He’ll be here for the memorial.”
“God, and that’s less than 48 hours away.”
“Right. Then everyone vanishes. Wouldn’t even be surprised if Gail King locks Kingfishers up and leaves Cherringham for a while.”
Now Sarah looked away.
“We don’t have much time.”
“When do we ever?”
Then Sarah turned back to him.
“So, tonight?”
“Well, you haven’t done any online digging into these people’s lives, right?”
“No. Not yet.”
“See what secrets you can find. Think you can work your magic?”
“After I get dinner on the table, I’ll do my best. Kids are going to be eating late tonight. And what will you be up to?”
“Sally also told me — well, I actually asked — if she knew where Carlton might be this evening. She told me. Couldn’t imagine him putting up with the soggy meals the hotel serves.”
Then Sarah too knew where Carlton Flame would be going.
For dinner. Tonight.
“The Spotted Pig?”
“He has a reservation for 7.”
“But you will be joining him?”
Jack nodded. “Not to eat. Just a few questions while he enjoys the best meal in Cherringham.”
Sarah looked at her watch, and stood up. “Not long from now. And I’d better dash. Let’s talk after I’ve done some searching.”
“I’ll call you as soon as Mr. Flame and I have had our chat.”
Sarah nodded. “Ask him about the song. He just might know something …”
“Sure hope so. Otherwise—”
Jack reached down and tried to offer Riley a bit of the fish, but he turned his snout at it.
“—we have nothing.”
“We’ll talk,” Sarah said, and then walked out of the Goose’s saloon, up onto the deck, the setting sun making the meadows look golden.
And despite Jack’s confidence … she wasn’t at all sure she’d find anything, about anybody, online.
Sometimes the magic didn’t work.
12. Not quite the Spotted Pig
Jack had to park his Sprite in the car park, down where the High Street led out to the net of roads that circled Cherringham.
Village must be busy tonight, Jack thought. People converging on the pubs, the Pig probably fully booked.
Hint of summer to come in the night air.
And as he walked up the hill, with still a bit of deep blue sky ahead, some puffy white clouds above, the days finally growing long again …
… he thought of how he’d approach Flame.
He only knew of agents by their reputation.
The word ‘agent’ summoned descriptions like avaricious, sneaky, ambitious.
All traits that Jack might find useful in his chat.
He got to the Pig, the place as always looking so inviting from the outside. But he didn’t go straight in.
Parked right outside the restaurant, Jack saw a big black Range Rover Sport.
He walked round the vehicle and checked the plate.
Thirty years a cop — Jack had a good memory for plates.
Almost unconsciously he’d stored the number of the Range Rover that had mysteriously appeared at Kingfishers when he and Sarah had visited Gail King.
This was the same vehicle.
He stepped back onto the pavement but stayed in the shadows, outside the square of light that spilled from the Spotted Pig out onto the street.
From there, Jack could see into the whole restaurant. The place was full.
No surprise there — even midweek.
But a well-built man sat alone at a small table by the front left window, his back to the street. Even this close to the window, Jack knew that out here in the darkness he would be invisible to the diners.
But he could see every detail he needed to make an ID.
The guy wore jeans and a dark, pin stripe jacket. Cuffs with red-jewelled links. And on one wrist — what looked like a Rolex.
But the clincher was the long, grey ponytail with a silver guitar clasp that Jack saw reaching half way down the man’s back.
Not your average Cherringham look on a Thursday night out.
There was no doubt about it — this must be Carlton Flame.
A second chair faced the lone diner.
Jack was just about to walk into the restaurant when he saw a figure approaching from further up the High Street.
A figure he recognised.
Gail King.
Jack casually pulled the collar of his coat high and crossed the street, staying in the shadows.
He watched Gail enter the restaurant and go straight to Flame’s table.
Flame stood, embraced her.
And Jack watched them kiss on both cheeks. Not a lover’s kiss.
But looking like more than acquaintances?
Friends?
Allies?
Jack watched for a couple of minutes more as the two sat and leaned in close, talking.
Then he turned and headed back down the street.
It was still early — and he wanted to do some thinking.
He also needed to eat — that fish hadn’t been much more than a starter.
As he passed the Ploughman’s, he saw they had their new Spring menu out.
Top of the list, a burger with the blue cheese dressing which — last summer — he’d had a hand in formulating with Billy’s new young cook.
Not quite the Spotted Pig, thought Jack.
But then again, at the Spotted Pig they don’t pull pints of Guinness like Billy does.
Jack opened the pub door and went into the welcoming light, his stomach already growling in anticipation.
*
It turned out — Sarah discovered — that after whipping up a quick macaroni cheese, with a big salad, that it was just for her and Daniel.
Chloe was out studying and having a sleepover at her good friend Lucy’s.
Still, it gave her a good chance to catch up, one on one, with her son’s life. Apparently, his class was planning a mini-Shakespeare festival.
“Sounds like fun,” Sarah said.
Daniel, as he always did, wolfed down the macaroni. “Will be, if we can have some,” he grinned, “sword fights and tournaments. Not just doing scenes from the plays!”
“I’m sure you will make the best argument for that very thing.”
He nodded. His plate empty, Daniel stood and — unexpectedly — also took Sarah’s plate.
“I’ll clean up, mum. I know you have some Jack stuff to do, right?”
She smiled at that.
Jack stuff.
“I do indeed.”
“You can get on with it. I’ll sort these.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, surprised at her son’s initiative as she went out to the living room, to the small desk where her computer awaited.
And just as she began to wonder — How’s Jack getting on? — her mobile rang.
Jack.
“Hey Sarah.”
“Jack. You at the Pig? Doesn’t sound like it …”
“Country and Western night at the Ploughman’s.”
“Aha.”
“Spotted Pig didn’t work out quite how I expected.”
Sarah listened as he explained what had happened.
“Anyways,” he said. “I’ve been sitting down here over a beer doing some thinking.”
And Sarah knew when Jack said that things were beginning to step up a gear.
“Go on.” she said.
“First, there’s a few extra people I think you need to check into tonight. Carlton Flame and Gail King. See what photos you can find of the two of them together.”
“You onto something?”
“Just closing down bases. Same with Lauren Dumford — and Sarinda.”
“Pictures?”
“More history. Gossip. Trying to get a handle on who they really are.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and check the money side too, can you? For all of them? Loans, mortgages, debts, credit ratings. That possible?”
“Not legal, Jack. But sure — possible.”
“I’ll take possible. Also, that song. Can you find out who actually wrote it? Like — officially? Copyright, maybe?”
“I guess so. Also artists get payments — I think there’s an organization that logs all that. I’ll try to track it down, maybe get into their database.”
“Terrific.”
“You think the song’s important?”
“Am beginning to. Hence, my next question.”
“Hmm, I’m listening.”
“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”
“In the office. Pitching for the golf club website deal.”
“Sounds important. Think you can get away for an hour?”
“If I have to.”
“Don’t want you to get on the wrong side of the golf club. Place like Cherringham, that could get dangerous.”
“I won’t,” said Sarah, laughing. “You going to tell me what you have planned?”
“Sure …”
And Sarah listened as Jack explained how they were going to attempt to crack open what he now clearly thought was indeed a case.
13. Serious Business
Jack leaned forward across the still-warm hood of the Sprite and focussed his binoculars.
Kingfishers appeared bright and clear in the twin lens of his Swarovski special. Purchased for his new hobby of bird-watching, he realised he’d now used them more often for spying on suspects than catching glimpses of the elusive Red Footed Falcon.
And from up here on the hill — where he’d met with Sarah just days ago — he could see the whole estate: roads in and out, and even a hidden route down to the house, following the tree-lined edges of the fields.
The perfect vantage point.
Slowly he scanned the house, gardens and outbuildings.
A couple of cars — a Mercedes and an old Ford — were parked on the gravel out front, and he could see figures moving occasionally in the downstairs windows of the house.
Jack guessed that the Mercedes belonged to Gail King.
The Ford — that must be the housekeeper’s. Some discrete questioning at the Ploughman’s last night had revealed that — right now, with only Gail to look after — Kingfishers was being run by a skeleton staff.
Which suited Jack just fine.
He checked his watch, then took out his phone and dialled Sarah.
“Jack.”
“Nothing moving. So far …”
“She must be running late.”
“You don’t think the vicar changed the time of the meeting?”
“No, he would have phoned me. Does it look like anyone else is in the house?”
“Just the housekeeper.”
“Not much we can do about her.”
“I’ll just have to keep my head down. Ah, wait a minute …”
Jack slipped the binoculars back up to his face: the front door of the house opened and Gail King hurried out, and climbed into the Mercedes.
“Gail’s out. On her way.”
“Great.”
“Gives you a couple of hours, Jack. That’s the best we could do.”
“It’ll be enough. By the way — what do I owe the good Reverend Hewitt?”
“He said your occasional presence in church would be payment enough. And if not that, then a donation to the roof fund.”
“The roof it is then,” said Jack. “Text me the second she heads back here, okay?”
“Will do. Oh, and Jack, I found a couple of interesting things online …”
“Sounds good — meet for lunch, huh?”
“Usual place. See you there.”
Sarah hung up.
Jack put the phone away, then raised the binoculars again and trained them on the house.
Sarah’s plan — to suggest a joint meeting with her, the vicar and Gail to finalise the publicity for the memorial service tomorrow — had worked. The vicar was an old friend of Sarah’s father, and knew what she and Jack did in their spare time.
More than once he�
��d helped them out — as long as his role didn’t require any dishonesty or anything remotely immoral.
Heaven forbid.
Luckily, the vicar had seen the benefit of setting up such a meeting with Sarah and Gail at short notice — and given the delicate reasons for it, had agreed to suggest that he only had space in his diary for a ten o’clock start.
The question was — would the housekeeper now do her regular shop in the village?
Sarah felt she would. Jack was not so sure.
But then …
Jack saw the door open again, and the young woman who had served them coffee appeared clutching empty shopping bags. He watched her climb in the car, start it up, and head off.
He checked his watch and set its alarm.
To be safe — one hour.
He’d need be quick.
He put the binoculars back in their case, and headed across the track and into the field that sloped down towards the house.
*
Ten minutes later, Jack was standing against the pool house wall, carefully scanning the formal garden and the back of Kingfishers.
No sign of movement in the house. And no sound coming from any of the outbuildings.
Were there alarms? He couldn’t see any tell-tale cables or boxes on the wall of the studio.
Funny. There must be a lot of expensive gear in there. Why not install an alarm?
Then again — if the studio users had a tendency to imbibe, maybe Alex King had decided not to confuse their brains overmuch with codes and key fobs.
Jack edged along the pool house wall until he reached the studio then walked along the wall to the door.
He checked his watch again: he had about forty-five minutes — no more.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
No surprise there.
He reached into his pocket and took out his velvet roll of lock picks. A present back in the day from a pal in New York who owed Jack a favour — and who’d given him lessons in how to use them as part of the repayment.
Taking out one of the picks, he worked it into the lock and started to tease the thing open.
Click.
Click …
One more tweak — and he felt the tumblers clear.
He tried the handle, and now it opened.
With one look around to make sure the coast was clear, he opened the door quickly, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
*
Silence. And total darkness.
The Song Never Dies Page 7