But that other thing, love, with all it implied of long-term relationships and marriage or at least cohabitation (though whether Mirabelle would let him get away with that, he wasn’t sure!), all that stuff was dangerous emotional territory where he was reluctant to let his thoughts stray too wide.
He made himself concentrate on the singing and felt guilty when he detected a lack of weight among the men in the lower registers. Not just vanity either. Biggest miss was Dildo Doberley, their star bass, whom he needed to check with about the pills in the Lady House loo.
But he really did think his own voice would have made a significant difference. Maybe.
Even without it, though, they got a good hand from this knowledgeable audience.
He joined in enthusiastically and was pleased to see that both Merv and Nye kept it going as long as he did.
‘Right, let’s take a look-see at this vehicle then,’ he said.
They turned away and started moving back towards the car park.
Merv’s hand suddenly gripped his elbow.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s a ghost.’
Joe didn’t reply. His heart had leapt into his mouth when he spotted it. A Morris Oxford, 1960 vintage, black paint possibly original, bodywork in fair nick. Someone had taken care of this baby.
It was to the untutored eye the twin of the car which had been Joe’s pride and joy till it had plunged into the pit beneath a broken cattle grid and been bombarded with falling masonry. Repair was proving problematical, involving as it did trawling the junkyards of England for authentic parts. Meanwhile, Joe was stuck with a loan car, the infamous Magic Mini whose swinging sixties pyschedelic paintwork made tailing a suspect even more difficult than Joe usually found it.
And now, here it was, like at the end of one of those old plays, finding someone you thought was dead wasn’t.
Nye Garage, long inured to satire and gobsmackery when customers realized the antiquity of his proposed hire car, was momentarily flummoxed when Joe ran his hand over the bonnet like a collector of porcelain assessing the glaze on a vase.
But he quickly recovered.
‘Real craftsmanship there, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Don’t make them like this any more.’
‘That’s because they couldn’t sell them if they did,’ said Merv, who’d learned out of friendship to be kind to Joe about his old wreck but saw no need to extend the courtesy to a Welshman.
‘See under the bonnet?’ said Joe.
Nye raised it with the flourish of a man who had nothing to hide. Which indeed he didn’t. Or not a lot, thought Joe, his expert eye checking the engine. And with what he could salvage from his own wrecked car …
‘There’s lovely, isn’t it?’ said Nye complacently.
‘Depends what you’re asking,’ said Joe, a savage ankle tap from Merv reminding him of the first law of negotiation, don’t look keen.
‘Well now,’ said Nye thoughtfully. ‘Tenner a day to a hero, how’s that sound?’
‘Sounds very fair. Very, very fair. What do you think, Merv?’
Merv, who had a very reliable eye indeed when it wasn’t fixed on an object of carnal desire, was thinking about sprats and mackerel.
Smart little sod’s worked out that once Joe gets in the driving seat, they’ll be into sales talk tomorrow, and then we’ll see how very fair his prices are!
But he knew how much the old Morris meant to Joe.
‘Yeah, sounds fair.’
Joe reached into his pocket and produced a roll of notes which he recollected were Wain’s only after he’d peeled off a twenty and handed it to Nye.
‘Lovely,’ said Nye. ‘Stirling, give him the keys.’
Only now did Joe pay any attention to the driver who proved to be an exact copy of Nye, reduced by a third. Hard to gauge his age, but probably thirteen or fourteen. Maybe the law was different in Wales. Most other things seemed to be.
He slipped into the driving seat. Felt good. He started exploring the controls while Merv wandered round the vehicle, idly kicking the tyres like he hoped he might put his foot through one of them. A man walking by paused and addressed Nye.
‘Come on, boyo,’ he said. ‘Germans next.’
Joe stuck his head out of the car window and said, ‘That the Guttenbergers you mean?’
The man, who was tall and thin and wearing a striped rugby shirt and a baseball cap, looked down at him. Joe had small charismatic conceit and rarely anticipated being made welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring on first encounter, but he felt the guy could have made a little more effort to conceal his unenthusiasm.
‘Only one set of Krauts here that I know of,’ he said brusquely, and turned and hurried away.
In retreat, he scratched at Joe’s memory. One of the guys exiting from the bar at the Goat as he entered last night …?
‘Wasn’t he in the pub last night?’ he said to Nye.
‘Was he?’ said Nye innocently. ‘Don’t recall.’
‘You were there then,’ said Joe. ‘Thought I saw your van. And I’m sure I saw you and your friend heading out the back door as I came in the front.’
It wasn’t a guess, he realized as he said it. He really was sure.
‘Oh yes?’ said Nye. ‘Now why should we want to do that?’
It didn’t sound altogether a rhetorical question. More like Nye Garage really wanted to know if he had an answer. Which he didn’t. Not yet.
‘Don’t know,’ said Joe. ‘But if I think of something, I’ll get in touch.’
‘I’d appreciate it,’ said the Welshman. ‘I’m off now. Don’t want to miss the Germans. Enjoy the car, Joe.’
He hurried away towards the competition field.
Joe got out of the car, torn between his desire to hear the Guttenbergers and his eagerness to put the Morris through her paces.
Merv viewed him fondly and said, ‘Joe, do me a favour. You start thinking about buying this heap, let me be your negotiator, else Nye No-neck is going to take you to the cleaners.’
‘This ain’t no heap,’ said Joe indignantly. Then, recognizing his friend’s real concern, he added, ‘And I can do my own haggling, but if you want to stand behind me looking mean and moody, I’d appreciate it.’
He strolled slowly round the car, feeling already the pride of ownership. He stooped to peer beneath the chassis. Bit of work needed, but he wasn’t at all unhappy with what he saw. It would be good to say goodbye to the Magic Mini and once more drive the mean streets of Luton in the discreet style proper to his calling.
A distant outbreak of applause broke through his reverie. The German choir must be taking the stage.
Merv said, ‘So are we going on a test run?’
‘I’ll just hear this lot first,’ said Joe. ‘Coming?’
Merv, who, good-looking colleens apart, had no real interest in choral performance, yawned and said, ‘You’re a real glutton, Joe. OK, one more won’t hurt.’
They set off back towards the competition field. As they approached, the first notes of the singing came to them, borne on the clear air. Sounded very classy, thought Joe. Very classy indeed. Maybe we’ll get them on feeling. Welsh were big on feeling. Singing the sadness, like that guy Matthias had said.
Then suddenly the notes changed and didn’t sound so classy any more.
Merv, whose great height gave him a view of the stage, said, ‘Thought this was all about warbling, Joe. Didn’t know they allowed dancing as well.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ demanded Joe.
Then he pushed through the people standing by the field entrance and saw for himself.
For a moment he thought Merv was right and the Guttenbergers were swaying from side to side like Deep South gospel singers.
Then he realized it wasn’t the singers who were swaying but the stage. And the noise they were making was no longer just musical discord but an outcry of alarm and fright.
The scaffolding frame must have come loose. The shifting weight o
f the choristers as they reacted to its movement was making things worse. A couple of them jumped off the front, crashing into the flower urns and scattering earth and pot shards and torn blossoms over the VIPs.
Now the scaffolding collapsed completely and a universal shriek arose, from singers and spectators alike. Several of the former grabbed at the canvas awning for support. Their weight tore it loose. Down it billowed to cover the ruined stage and the figures still on it like a great shroud, stifling their cries. There was, it seemed to Joe, a split second of utter stillness and silence, but it may have been just in his imagination. Then spectators surged forward and began to drag the canvas away.
Joe and Merv joined them. It was a natural instinct. But not for everyone.
Nye Garage was standing there like a sea rock, letting the tide of people wash around him. And moving away from him against the tide was the man in the rugger shirt and baseball cap.
Nye looked back and his gaze met Joe’s. Then Joe turned his head to watch the long man go by. As he retreated he removed his baseball cap and scratched his head. He was completely bald. And seeing that Yul Brynner silhouette in retreat threw a switch in Joe’s memory.
Here was the source of that half-recognition, and the explanation of the man’s lack of enthusiasm when they met face to face just now. It wasn’t just the possible glimpse at the Goat that was confirmed either, though he felt sure he’d been there too.
He turned to meet Nye’s gaze again and share his recognition with him.
Impossible maybe to stand up in court and swear to it, but Joe would have put cash money on Nye’s friend being the unhelpful fellow he’d seen driving the farm buggy over the hill from Copa Cottage on the night of their arrival.
Chapter 13
Good news was no one was seriously hurt. Enough strains, sprains, cuts and bruises to pack the St John Ambulance tent, but no breakages.
Bad news was the Guttenbergers were seriously disgruntled. Even while the rescue operation was still under way, their executive organizer, whose title in German almost outstretched Llanfair-pwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysilliogogogoch, was telling an untypically subdued Dai Bard that this was the worst-organized festival since time began, that the Guttenbergers had withdrawn as from now, that they would be expecting substantial immediate compensation without prejudice to any further claims that might be made via the European Court, and that they would be using their not inconsiderable influence to ensure that the first Llanffugiol Festival was also the last.
His English was excellent, his voice was loud, and pressmen up to fifty yards away were able to take notes without difficulty.
As the confusion subsided, Joe spotted Beryl talking to a St John Ambulance man who looked ancient enough to have bandaged Owain Glyn Dŵr.
He guessed she was offering help, but not very successfully, it seemed.
‘Thank you, my lovely,’ the old man was saying, ‘but I think we can manage without any outside help. Amateurs can cause more harm than do good, if you’ll forgive my frankness. Besides, it’s not half as bad as it might have been. Strong people these Germans. Like my da used to say in the war, need to shoot the buggers twice to make sure they’re dead.’
Beryl said sternly, ‘It’s not just injuries, they’ll all need treating for shock.’
‘Shock, is it?’ said the old man sceptically. ‘Oh yes. Lots of that around these days. Time was when all shock meant was England had scored a try. Don’t you be worrying your pretty head, dearie, just concentrate on your singing. Daresay this won’t hurt your chances at all, will it? It’s an ill wind, as my old da used to say when Cliff Morgan missed touch.’
He patted her arm and wandered away leaving Beryl looking furious.
Joe said, ‘Who the shoot’s Cliff Morgan?’
‘Don’t know and don’t want to know if he’s anything to do with that stupid git and his old da,’ she exclaimed.
‘You mad ‘cos he talked about your pretty head?’ said Joe. ‘Well, he’s right.’
‘Don’t go gallant on me, Joe. No, it was that crack about not hurting our chances. As if anyone would do something like this to hurt another outfit!’
‘Some people round here take things pretty serious,’ said Joe. ‘And he’s right, isn’t he? I mean about our chances if the Guttenbergers pull out.’
She looked at him disbelievingly.
‘Joe, you’d better give up on the heroics, it’s affecting the way your head works.’
She strode away, magnificent in retreat.
Order was being re-established. Dai Bard was talking earnestly into the ear of the German organizer as he made a tour of his injured troops. Joe got the impression it was more like oil being poured on leaping flames than troubled waters.
Leon Lewis had put in an appearance at some point and was concentrating his attention on the VIPs. He looked as ever totally unflustered by what had happened.
The crowd around the collapsed stage had thinned, though several onlookers remained to savour the heady brew of near-disaster, murmuring that it could have been much worse in that tone which has almost as much of regret in it as relief.
What struck Joe as he joined them was the relative neatness with which the framework had folded. He walked slowly round it, stooping occasionally to touch the nuts and bolts which had failed to hold it together.
‘Now that’ll be handy when we’re dusting for prints,’ said a voice.
He looked up to find Dirty Harry in the person of DI Ursell looming over him.
‘Why’d you want to do that, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘You a racing man, Mr Sixsmith? If so, you’ll know that when an odds-on favourite trips over the first hurdle, everyone starts shouting fix.’
‘This isn’t a horse race,’ he said mildly.
‘No. Tell that to your friend running the book. Interesting to see his odds on the Germans,’ said Ursell.
Interesting also to see that somehow the man had observed his encounter with Nye Garage. And perhaps most interesting of all to observe that, though still far from conciliatory, the man’s manner had modified a lot from the life-in-general-and-amateur-tecs-in-particular-make-me-sick impression he gave at the hospital.
The change was underlined by his next remark.
‘So how are you feeling, Mr Sixsmith? Looking a lot better than when I saw you yesterday.’
‘Feeling a lot better,’ said Joe. ‘Nice hospital, but can’t say I was sorry to be out of it.’
‘I know how you feel,’ said Ursell with some passion. ‘I hate that bloody place. Just the smell of it makes me want to puke. Try to hide it, but I daresay it shows.’
This was close to an apology, thought Joe.
‘Just a touch,’ he agreed. ‘You got here quick. Better service than we get back home.’
‘You say so? Thought you got pretty good service yourself, Mr Sixsmith.’
That sounded significant, but Ursell didn’t give him time to think about it, going on, ‘In fact, I was here already.’
‘For the singing?’
‘No, I’m a Tom Jones man myself. Duty, Mr Sixsmith. Little case of arson, or have you forgotten?’
‘Not likely to forget,’ said Joe. ‘How is she?’
‘The same. Critical but stable is how they put it.’
‘I hope she makes it. Any word on who she is, how she got there?’
It struck him that if Ursell said yes and gave him chapter and verse, this could be the three easiest investigative fees he’d ever earned.
‘Not a thing. You got any new ideas, Mr Sixsmith?’
Joe checked for hidden sarcasm, found none, and said cautiously, ‘You’ll have covered all the obvious things.’
‘Like?’
‘Like checking out the folk with access to Copa.’
‘The Haggards, you mean? Oh yes, I’ve been looking very closely at the Haggards. Maybe too close for comfort.’
This again sounded significant. And again Joe had no idea what it signified.
‘Mr Lewis?’ The policeman turned so that he was looking at Lewis, who was ushering the VIPs towards one of the admin. tents, doubtless to be treated for shock with injections of champagne. Morna Lewis was with them. Her gaze turned towards the wrecked stage and met Joe’s, but her pale face gave no sign of recognition.
‘Need to be careful there, Mr Sixsmith, saying anything that sounds like casting aspersions on Mr Lewis,’ continued Ursell. ‘Big man round here, highly regarded, friends in high places, same lodge as Mr Penty-Hooser, our DCC, God bless him. Need to be a very brave investigator who started poking round the High Master, I tell you. Need a very good excuse indeed before someone in my line with a career to think of could take a step in that direction. You look like a man who might have found a good excuse or two in his time, Mr Sixsmith. I daresay you’ve left quite a trail of cut corners behind you.’
There was definitely something going on here, but Joe was a blind horse when it came to subtle nods and winks.
He said, ‘I’m only here for the singing, Inspector. You want the best brambles, you ask a local rabbit, that’s what my auntie always says.’
‘That would be the picturesque old lady? Wise woman. Gather you had the chance to sample some of the brambles for yourself last night, Mr Sixsmith. Little bird told me you had a drink down the Goat before going off to dinner at the Lady House. You’re a popular man.’
Little bird? Great clacking beak! thought Joe, wondering whose.
He was getting a vague sense of the direction he was being nudged in. Not that he altogether trusted his vague sense, which in the past had led him further astray than a Tilbury tart. Nudge would have to come to push then shove before he let himself be moved.
‘People have been very kind,’ he said. ‘And it’s been nice to meet some of the locals, see some of the sights.’
Singing the Sadness Page 14