The Music of Sound

by Ian Jarvis

  ‘Intriguing,’ murmured Quist. He recalled seeing the peculiar blood spray on the bedroom carpet. ‘Do they have any CCTV footage of Ramson entering the hotel?’

  ‘No. It’s crazy, but they’re entertaining the possibility that Rex may have killed Charlotte in some copycat fashion. The forensic evidence on Ramson and these signatures were never released to the press, but they think it’s possible Rex might have found out somehow, then got hold of a similar titanium blade and copied the trademark letter and cleaning manoeuvre.’

  ‘Rex wasn’t filmed as he left,’ said Quist. ‘So there has to be a blind spot in the street CCTV coverage. This Ramson could have entered and left the Balmoral the same way.’

  ‘Hang about,’ said Watson. ‘You say they caught this serial killer in France, so how come...’

  ‘He escaped,’ said McNulty. ‘The police were transporting him back to Britain when a masked team sprang him at Calais. A very professional job apparently. They jammed the police van radio signal, boxed in the vehicle, tasered the officers and got him out in seconds. He hasn’t been seen since, and he was a pretty big chap so it must be hard for him to hide.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ repeated Quist. ‘Yes, I recall the newspaper photographs. Ramson was obese and he’d certainly stand out.’ He stroked thoughtfully at his large nose. ‘Why would anyone go to the trouble of engineering this killer’s escape? What did they want with him, and if Ramson escaped in France, what was he doing in Edinburgh?’

  ‘More to the point,’ said Watson, ‘what was he doing in Rex’s bedroom? I can’t believe Rex has anything to do with this, but it’s also hard to accept that some escaped killer would randomly appear in his hotel room at eight-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Quist. ‘If Ramson is now in Edinburgh and he wanted to kill someone for sadistic enjoyment, he could find a far more appropriate and secretive location.’

  ‘So if Ramson killed her, why would Rex vanish?’ asked Watson. ‘Maybe he saw too much.’

  The detective drew on his cigarette. If that was the case, he felt pretty sure Rex would have contacted him. With their unique bond, Rex knew he could be sure of understanding and help. One thing was for certain, this Alistair Ramson couldn’t harm Rex. Titanium blades had no effect on werewolves and he was strong enough to fight off any attack. So where the hell was he and what was going on here?

  ‘You say Rex’s phone was deactivated?’ said Quist. ‘Do you happen to know where?’

  ‘Yes, the police can track mobiles by triangulating the phone masts. I don’t know how that works, but the last time Rex used the phone, it was in the Balmoral and they were just mundane calls to Charlotte and myself. He didn’t ring anyone else and didn’t receive any other calls. The signal was switched off there yesterday morning.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Quist stroked his nose thoughtfully. ‘So a girl was killed and Rex immediately vanishes, but not before he’s removed his phone battery and Sim card? If he wasn’t involved, why would he do that?’

  ‘He’s not the sharpest tool in the box,’ said Watson. ‘Would he think to do that, especially if he was in a panic?’

  ‘Something that’s puzzling me,’ said Quist. ‘You say this singer and her friend left Rex’s room at eight-thirty and they were the last people to see him? I remember our hotel bellboy saying Ligeia left the Balmoral with her people that same day. Are you telling me the police interviewed the girls and simply believed everything they said? We only have their word that they didn’t have anything to do with Charlotte’s death. I can’t believe the police would allow her to return to London so quickly.’

  ‘It’s Ligeia,’ pointed out Watson. ‘She’s a VIP with important things to do.’

  ‘I wonder if your policeman brother could let you have a transcript of their statements?’ asked Quist. ‘I’d like to know if Rex said anything relevant to them.’

  ‘I’ll ring and get them,’ said McNulty.

  ‘I need to check Rex’s movements too. Everywhere he went and the people he spoke to from his arrival in Edinburgh. The police will have checked the route of Charlotte’s car with the city CCTV and the number plate recognition system. Your brother could perhaps supply that information too?’

  McNulty nodded. ‘Again, that’ll be no problem.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Quist. ‘I’d also like to know where Rex met this singer Ligeia.’

  Chapter 12

  Quist paid the fare and watched the taxi drive away down the narrow cul-de-sac of Brodie Street in Edinburgh’s Old Town. He turned to look up at the ornate brick facade and wrought iron canopy of the Club 69 nightclub.

  ‘So this is where Rex and Charlotte met Ligeia,’ said Quist, lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s a wonderful old Victorian building. I wonder what it used to be?’

  Watson had more pressing things on his mind, things that totally eclipsed architecture. ‘Group sex with three girls,’ he gasped. ‘One of them was Ligeia, for God’s sake. Can you believe that lucky bastard?’

  The detective nodded. ‘Yes, I detected Rex’s scent in the hotel bed and three others, all female.’

  ‘You were sniffing his bedsheets?’ The youth eyed him curiously. ‘Oh, right. You never said.’

  ‘Strangely enough, it wasn’t something I felt like talking about.’

  ‘I imagine not.’ Watson guessed it wouldn’t be too hard to pick up scents with that nose. ‘Do you get up to, er anything else like that and not tell me?’

  Quist gave a lopsided smile and puffed his cigarette. ‘What do you make of this Alistair Ramson angle?’

  ‘The Hounslow Ripper who escaped in France? Weird, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Very weird, if you believe this obese character showed up from nowhere at eight-thirty in the morning, murdered a girl in Rex’s room and then vanished into thin air. One thing’s for sure, if this man did kill Charlotte Michie, it wasn’t a random act.’

  ‘I’d agree with that.’

  ‘Oh, well. Come along.’ Quist stamped on his half-smoked cigarette. ‘Let’s take a look at this place.’

  The door was unlocked and the pair strolled in, Quist marvelling at the painted ceiling and the Grecian columns. Cleaners were busily picking up broken glass and other garbage, and a middle-aged tubby man with long white hair and a kilt was auditioning a female group on the stage. Watson winced. The four pouting teenagers had bare midriffs, identical purple hair and an abysmal screeching act, their voices reminiscent of a deranged Evangelist attempting to baptise cats.

  ‘There you go,’ said Quist. ‘I imagine this music will be right up your street. Maybe they’ll sell you a CD.’

  The youth shot him a sarcastic glance. He’d never seen a nightclub with the main lights on and the bright electric bulbs didn’t do this place any favours. Watson had to agree with Quist about the Victorian exterior looking good, but coming inside was similar to turning over an attractive garden ornament to find a sickening mess of slugs below. He looked around at the filthy décor and trash, wondering why the cleaners weren’t wearing those fire service protective suits used at chemical spills.

  ‘Hello,’ said Quist, strolling over to the kilted man. He raised his voice to be heard above the female squawking. ‘I hope you don’t mind us walking in, but your front doors were unlocked. I wonder if you can help us?’

  ‘Andy McLeish,’ said the man, holding out a hand. ‘What can I do for you? Are you musical talent scouts?’

  ‘Bernard Quist.’ He shook with McLeish. ‘This is Watson. We’re actually conducting a private investigation into the disappearance of someone who was in here on Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Wow, you’re private eyes? Like Sam Spade?’

  ‘Consultant detectives. Are you the manager?’

  ‘I own Club 69.’ McLeish ran a hand through his mane of white hair. ‘They call me the Scotti
sh Stringfellow.’

  ‘Club 69,’ said Quist, hiding his derision. ‘Unusual name. I suppose the sexual innuendo will attract a certain juvenile clientele. However did you think of such a clever name?’

  ‘This is 69 Brodie Street.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I see you’re eyeing my kilt.’ McLeish grinned at Watson and shook hands. ‘I wear it for local colour; the punters love it. You say you’re looking for someone?’

  The teenager nodded. ‘A guy named Rex Grant who...’

  ‘Oh, the murderer? Yeah, the police have been here. Hang on a moment...’ He turned to the stage. ‘You’re too fucking loud. Turn your amp down, you silly bitches, or you’ll deafen everyone.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Watson.

  ‘An Edinburgh act,’ said McLeish. ‘They’re called Daddy Issues.’

  The youth peered dubiously at the girls. ‘Are these typical of your bands?’

  ‘Fuck, no. These tarts aren’t that bad. We get a few semi-famous bands like Glaswegian Queef playing here and...’

  ‘But none as famous as Ligeia?’ broke in Watson.

  ‘You heard about that, eh?’ McLeish nodded. ‘No one was more surprised than me. We don’t get many famous faces in here. I think the Proclaimers were the last celebrities.’

  ‘The Scottish duo?’ said Watson, amazed. ‘I like their stuff.’

  ‘Yes. Well, we had one of them in anyway, and to be honest, it was just an emergency visit to use our toilet.’ McLeish led them away from the stage to a quieter spot near the bar. ‘Aye, Tuesday was a good night. Ligeia’s entourage had hired Bentleys. People saw them parked outside here and knew someone big must be in. It really drew the punters.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ said Quist, ‘I can’t believe one of the richest pop stars in the world would come here.’

  ‘You and me both,’ admitted McLeish. ‘But Ligeia was fascinated with the place. She kept walking around and showing her friend things.’

  ‘Her friend? Rex Grant?’

  ‘No, some dumb bird she had with her.’

  ‘Dumb as in stupid...’ began Watson.

  ‘As in she couldn’t speak,’ laughed McLeish. ‘Not thick dumb. Normally we wouldn’t let any weirdos like that in here. They might creep out our clientele, but hey, anyone who a top star wants to bring in...’

  The detective hid his disgust.

  ‘Ligeia could have brought in a wheelchair if she wanted,’ continued McLeish. ‘The doormen have orders to keep out gimps, retards and suchlike, along with the fatties and ugly birds...’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Quist, deciding he’d better interject before he punched the man. ‘So you’re aware that Grant was here? Do you remember how long he stayed and who he might have spoken to?’

  ‘I don’t recall seeing him on the night. I was too busy watching Ligeia, but since finding out we had a killer in, I’ve watched his visit from the moment he walked in. We filmed everything on our CCTV.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Quist. ‘Everyone has cameras installed these days which simplifies investigations for people like us. Could we see the footage?’

  ‘You could if the police hadn’t taken it.’

  ‘Not so simple then,’ said Watson.

  McLeish shrugged. ‘You didn’t miss much. He arrived with that redheaded dyke who was killed, danced for a few minutes with Ligeia and her dumb pal, then took them to the bar for a drink. A Lobo cocktail, according to my barman.’

  Quist closed his eyes momentarily, cringing inwardly.

  ‘The barman and Ligeia are the only people he spoke to. I hear he took all three back to his hotel to rattle them and then killed the lezzer the following morning. I wonder why he didn’t kill Ligeia and the dumb bird too?’

  The detective shuddered. ‘You say Ligeia was showing her friend things?’

  ‘Memorabilia from the old days.’ McLeish nodded to a sepia-tinted print. ‘That, for example. There’s the place at the turn of the last century, back when it was the music hall.’

  ‘Ah.’ Quist nodded. ‘This was the famed Edinburgh Apollo?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve wanted to rip out the columns and that painted ceiling, but it’s a listed building. They won’t let me change the structure or the décor up there.’

  ‘Really?’ Quist smiled derisively. ‘Yes, the authorities have some strange ideas.’

  Watson felt his feet sticking to the floor. Presumably there was a carpet down there, but it was concealed by years of spilled drinks, dried vomit and chewing gum. He decided this twat ought to forget about changing the structure and perhaps think about changing his cleaners.

  ‘Hey, is that weed?’ shouted McLeish, pointing to two of the girls who were lighting up on stage. ‘What the fuck have I told you? No drugs in here, you silly slags. You do your drugs around the back with the bouncers.’

  He marched away to reprimand the group and Quist turned to Watson.

  ‘Delightful man,’ he said. ‘He really is charm personified.’

  ‘He’s wasted running this place,’ agreed the teenager. ‘He ought to work as a therapist for the disabled and depressed.’

  ‘I see you’ve noticed the carpet?’ said the detective, watching as his assistant moved his feet. ‘The furnishings aren’t much better. They’re filthy, threadbare and ripped with knives. Look at the barman smoking as he cleans the glasses.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s hardly the Ritz.’

  ‘Exactly. Her singing leaves me cold, but Ligeia is undoubtedly the biggest thing in the music world. What on earth was she doing in this rundown toilet of a club?’ He walked over to the old posters pointed out by McLeish, now framed in armoured glass to protect from thrown beer glasses. ‘The Edinburgh Apollo Music Hall. So she was showing these to her friend? Why do you suppose they interested her?’

  Shrugging, Watson looked at the drawings and read the text. They advertised acts from a century ago.

  Billy Doyle. A Silly Song and Laughter.

  Sally Songbird. The Scottish Nightingale.

  Flinty Flanders and his Musical Dog. Never a Dull Moment.

  ‘Hey, I bet you used to watch this stuff back in the day?’ drawled the teenager, grinning at the illustrations, especially the old man with a howling spaniel on his lap. He couldn’t have sounded more sarcastic had he tried. ‘Fuck me! That’s what you called entertainment and you have the nerve to say today’s television shows are crap.’

  ***

  Sitting on a bench in Waverley Station, Quist stared at his phone and looked up to see Watson returning with a cheeseburger and a carrier bag of crisps and sweets for the journey.

  ‘Our train’s due any minute now, Guv,’ said the youth. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Not really.’ Quist pocketed his mobile. ‘I rang McNulty for the phone numbers of Rex’s family. I’ve spoken to them all and no one has any idea where he is.’

  ‘Right.’ Watson sat beside him. ‘And we know it’s pointless trying his phone again if he’s deactivated it. I really don’t understand what’s going on. If he had nothing to do with this murder, why did he run? Why didn’t he talk to the cops?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ murmured Quist.

  ‘I thought he might have rung you by now. He knows he can trust you.’

  ‘I suspect he can’t ring. I also don’t believe he ran.’ The detective took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘My initial concern was that Rex had succumbed to his lupine urges and killed that girl in wolf form. The worry didn’t allow me to think straight, but I’m now satisfied that he didn’t, and we both know there’d be no other reason for him to harm anyone.’

  ‘True. He’s a bit of a dickhead, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘The forensic evidence is interesting, isn’t it? The letter R cut into Charlotte Michie’s chest and the
titanium blade point to this escaped murderer Alistair Ramson, the Hounslow Ripper. McNulty said the police think Rex may have been a warped fan. He might have read about the Ramson murders and copied his methods...’

  ‘Which we know is absolute bollocks.’

  ‘Exactly. I find this story of Ramson’s escape in France highly intriguing; I’ve just been reading the old news reports on my phone and McNulty was correct. A professional group freed him from police custody. They sound like a police SWAT team or a military outfit. If this Ramson character was in Edinburgh and killed the girl, perhaps he took Rex for some reason and he was the one who deactivated the phone.’

  ‘You mean Rex saw the murder and...’ Watson frowned. ‘But if the killer wanted to get rid of a witness, he’d have killed Rex, not kidnapped him.’

  ‘Killing Rex isn’t so easy these days, but you’re right. Why would he take him?’

  ‘How about a sweet to help you think?’ Watson chomped his cheeseburger and rustled his bag under Quist’s nose. ‘Or a vegetarian crisp?’

  Quist shook his head. ‘As I pointed out to McNulty, Alistair Ramson escaped two months ago. If he wanted to kill for pleasure, he could do it anywhere: behind a pub or down some back alley. He wouldn’t enter a hotel at that early hour and murder someone in a stranger’s bedroom. If he was the murderer, he must have known Charlotte spent the night there and he killed her for some specific reason.’

  ‘Maybe, but again, why take Rex?’

  ‘I don’t know, but there’s another peculiar fact. The girls who spent the night in his room were the last people to see Rex and the victim, apart from presumably the killer. I asked McNulty to contact his policeman brother and find out about the interviews with Ligeia and her friend. I was hoping they might contain relevant information. He sent me their statements as an attachment.’

  Watson smiled. Attachment - it had taken a while, but his boss was finally picking up the technological jargon. ‘Her friend’s statement can’t have been very long,’ he laughed. ‘She was mute.’