The Music of Sound

by Ian Jarvis

  She signalled to Gruner who raised his rifle and fired another dart into Rex’s flank. The wolf yelped and squirmed on its belly, the second dose of tranquiliser surging through its system. The black fur fell away as the drugged creature shrank in size and shapeshifted back into the form of a naked trembling man.

  The Sergeant had finally regained his composure. Squatting beside Rex, he drew back his muscular arm. ‘Here’s a little something for tossing me across the room back there and making me look bad.’ He smashed his fist into the young man’s face, breaking his jaw and dislodging three teeth.

  Happy fucking birthday, thought Rex, sinking into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 23

  The iconic Tower Bridge often springs to mind when the majority of people picture London; Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, or perhaps the colourful bustle and neon of Piccadilly Circus. Few think of the pastoral landscapes of woodland and leafy lanes surrounding Richmond and Kingston-upon-Thames. This is understandable, as both are remote from the metropolis and only became London boroughs after being poached from Surrey following the boundary changes in the sixties. Quist had located Charlington Hall on an internet map, complete with satellite views, and saw that it lay between these two small towns on the eastern bank of the meandering river. He’d lived in the capital several times over the years and had never looked upon London as a city, viewing it instead as a sprawling southern county made up of many towns and villages. Some of these he didn’t much care for, but he had a real fondness for the likes of Westminster, Highgate and Hampstead. Richmond and Kingston-upon-Thames were definitely high on his list of favourites.

  It had taken almost four hours to drive the 212 miles from York, with a brief service station stop to buy Watson a brunch of burger, crisps and sweets. It was now noon, the weather was bright and Quist had dressed in a casual tweed coat, shirt and tie, appearing quite smart next to his assistant who wore a denim jacket, jeans and sunglasses.

  ‘Real detective work again,’ enthused Watson, peering through the windscreen at the tree-lined Richmond lane. ‘We have the murder in Edinburgh, the mystery of Rex’s disappearance and big nutters threatening us at York station. Best of all, though, if everything goes well here, we might actually get to meet Ligeia.’

  ‘You need to reign in the excitement and concentrate upon the risk,’ warned Quist. The entrance to Charlington Hall was set back from the lane and, turning onto a semi-circle of gravel, he pulled up outside the gates. ‘Those nutters, as you refer to them, were ex-military. That means there could be danger here and we need to be careful.’

  ‘It’s only the other day you were saying I adapt instantly to hazardous situations.’

  ‘Well, let’s try not to put that to the test if we can help it.’

  The black iron gates hung between stone pillars and were operated electronically by a modern gatehouse. Two cars waited in front of Quist’s Ford and Watson watched as security personnel in tuxedos checked paperwork before allowing the visitors onto the driveway beyond.

  ‘It looks as if something is going on today,’ said the youth.

  ‘Indeed.’ Quist lowered his side window, straining to hear the exchange between the security and the closest vehicle. ‘They’re saying something about a garden party and a press conference.’

  The car drove through the gates allowing Quist to pull up beside the booth. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘We’re from Music Today magazine.’

  ‘Afternoon, Sir.’ The guard nodded curtly and held out a hand. ‘You’ll have the necessary documentation?’

  ‘Music Today,’ repeated the detective. ‘Are you telling me you aren’t aware of the situation? The paperwork never arrived and I understood you’d been notified.’

  ‘The passes were sent out three weeks ago, Sir.’ The large man smiled tightly. ‘Without a pass, you don’t get in.’

  ‘There’s obviously been a communication breakdown.’ Quist tutted with irritation. ‘I’m sorry, but I was informed this had been rectified over the phone. My editor contacted your employer, who said we’d be admitted. If you’ll just allow us to...’

  ‘Look, I’ll make it simple, pal,’ broke in the guard. He leant down, sticking his square jaw through the window. ‘Without a pass, you don’t get in. You turn this car around and fuck off right now. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Quist, sarcastically. ‘Perhaps you could be a little clearer?’

  ‘We don’t have a pass, Guv,’ explained Watson, helpfully. ‘He won’t let us in without...’

  Shaking his head, Quist slammed the car into reverse and pulled away from the gate.

  ***

  From the internet satellite views Quist had studied, he knew the grounds of Charlington Hall extended down to the Thames. After leaving the front gate, he’d driven to nearby Richmond and called at one of the small companies who rent motor launches. Entering from the road was clearly out of the question and, short of parachuting in, this appeared to be the only option. Sleek and white, with a windscreen, four seats and a steering wheel connected to a rear outboard, their boat purred along the river, cruising past huge houses and gardens.

  ‘How much do these places cost?’ muttered Watson, sprawling in the passenger seat. ‘Fifteen million? Twenty million? Who the hell lives in them?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Quist. Puffing on a cigarette, he steered around a small island, scaring two screeching coots into the reeds. ‘Probably bankers and hedge fund managers. Maybe footballers and elderly rock stars. These days, it could even be rappers and teenage software tycoons.’

  The teenager laughed. ‘There’s supposed to be some sort of recession, but no one seems to have told these bastards.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful part of the world to live,’ said Quist.

  ‘I suppose,’ snorted Watson. ‘If you’re into trees and water.’

  ‘Not enough loud pubs and clubs for you?’ The detective glanced at him. ‘The area is steeped in history. Hampton Court Palace is just upriver from here.’

  ‘Are you trying to get me giddy and overexcited? Yeah, remind me to add that to my must visit list. Speaking of what’s upriver, do you know how fast this thing can go? There’s a bit of a clue in the name speed boat.’

  ‘It’s actually a motor boat.’

  ‘It’ll still motor along much faster than this.’

  ‘We don’t want to get ourselves noticed by speeding. We’re just two chaps out for an afternoon jaunt on the water. A garden party for the press means Charlington Hall will be filled with strangers. If we can only manage to sneak in from the river, we should be able to blend with the crowds and look around.’

  ‘And hopefully find Rex if he’s there.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Quist tossed his cigarette stub into the water. ‘Those guards on the gate reminded me of the thugs at the railway station; they looked to be ex-military types. After my phone was tracked and they were sent to question us in York, I knew the kind of people we’d probably be dealing with. To be honest, I wasn’t sure about bringing you along.’

  ‘Hey, I can look after myself. I’m a big boy.’ Watson grinned. ‘Some girls say very big. Anyway, the garden party comes in handy again, doesn’t it? No one is going to do anything to us with a load of journalists and television news people there.’

  ‘That’s true,’ admitted Quist.

  The river curled past a small wood and the grounds of Charlington Hall appeared on their left. A rhododendron thicket grew along the banking with a white marquee beyond this. Recalling the satellite view, Quist decided the tall row of shrubbery had been planted to screen buildings of some sort from the water. Luckily there was a jetty near the huge tent with steps leading up to the lawns and, luckier still, there were no security staff or other people watching. Killing the motor and drifting up to the pier, Quist jumped out and had just finished tetheri
ng the boat to a post when two large characters in tuxedos hurried down the steps.

  ‘Shit,’ whispered Watson. ‘We’ve got a welcoming committee.’

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ demanded one of the men.

  Quist sighed. ‘I’m tying up my boat,’ he said. ‘I believe mooring is the correct nautical term.’

  ‘This is private property,’ snarled the security guard. The pair marched along the jetty and loomed aggressively over him. ‘Get back in, turn around and fuck off right now. Do you understand?’

  ‘Your colleague on the front gate imparted almost identical advice.’ The detective nodded. ‘You obviously attended the same etiquette class.’ Stretching out his arms in an exaggerated yawn, he snatched both their heads and swiftly cracked them together. The unconscious pair crumpled into an untidy heap on the wooden boards.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ hissed Watson, shocked. He lowered his sunglasses, looking around to ensure no one had seen, then watched as the men were quickly dragged along the pier and dumped out of sight beneath a weeping willow.

  ‘I shouldn’t feel too sorry for them,’ said Quist opening their jackets. ‘From the slight bulging in the material beneath their left armpits, I deduced they were armed.’ He tossed two Glock automatics into the river. ‘They can’t have known handguns are illegal in Britain.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His assistant grinned nervously. ‘The authorities ought to tell people these things.’

  ‘No need for these either.’ Both guards sported communication earpieces and, tugging them out, Quist threw their radio sets into the water, before shrugging his tweed jacket straight, adjusting his tie and climbing the steps to the lawn. ‘Come on. Try not to appear furtive. We’re members of the press, remember, and we’re here by invite.’

  Watson followed, nervous excitement quickening his heartrate as he saw the small groups of people chatting, smoking and drinking champagne on the lawn. The majority, he guessed were inside the large marquee. He strolled casually between them with Quist, gazing at the tent. Any bigger, he decided, and he’d expect to find trapeze artists and lion tamers inside. Charlington Hall stood beyond the marquee, larger and much grander than the houses he’d seen along the river.

  ‘Wow, just look at that,’ he whispered. ‘I’m betting the owners of this place will be no strangers to croquet, butlers and offshore tax havens.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Quist. ‘But it would appear the press conference is being held in the tent.’

  ‘Let’s check it out,’ said Watson. They headed for the marquee entrance, then spotted the security personnel and stopped. ‘Shit! They have metal detectors.’

  ‘Unfortunately, they do,’ murmured Quist. He watched the burly men running handheld scanners over the entrants, then glanced down as his assistant pretended to fasten his trainer. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hiding my SAS knife down my sock,’ whispered Watson, winking. ‘They won’t find it there.’

  ‘You brought that stupid thing?’ Quist sighed and shook his head. ‘Metal detectors are the least of our worries. The guards on the front gate mentioned security passes and all the people going into the tent have them hanging around their necks.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ called out one of the staff. ‘The press conference is about to begin. If you’d all like to make your way inside, please.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Watson.

  ‘We do this.’ He led Watson around the side of the tent, pressed his ear to the fabric at various points and listened. ‘The sound is muffled here,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘There’s evidently something between this section of canvas and the crowd inside. Make a peephole so I can check, would you?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With what?’ Quist closed his eyes. ‘How about the SAS knife?’

  ‘Oh, suddenly it’s not so stupid, eh?’ Smirking, Watson cut a two-inch slit and waited as the detective peered through.

  ‘I was right,’ said Quist. ‘Slice it open right here so we can get through.’

  Watson cut a waist-high slit and returned the knife to his sock as Quist wriggled through the opening. The pair appeared in the tent behind a stand of tall display boards, erected to show advertising stills for the new Ligeia album. They shuffled along the rear of them, emerged around the side of the exhibit and quickly mingled with the crowd, the teenager slipping off his sunglasses.

  A stage had been erected at the end of the tent with a vast blow-up photograph of the new album behind. Shane Guevara, Red Globe’s Entertainment Director, sat on this raised platform with Colonel Adler, but Watson only had eyes for the petite girl in the sparkly white mini dress who sat between them. His mouth became dry, he trembled with nervous excitement and his heart raced. He was in a tent with Ligeia. He was in a fucking tent with Ligeia, standing a mere twenty feet from her.

  ‘Do me a favour, Watson,’ murmured Quist, glancing at him and hearing his panting. ‘Try not to faint.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘Yes, the Music of Sound is the new album,’ said Shane Guevara. Gesturing to the enormous photograph of Ligeia that served as a stage backdrop, he smiled excitedly at the marquee tent audience. ‘We can see the cover right here and it’s a stunning picture, isn’t it? Audio specialists claim that all sound contains a form of music if we listen hard enough, but with Ligeia’s voice we don’t need to listen too hard.’

  The nodding crowd laughed, but Watson didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear the Entertainment Director, he hadn’t heard the short welcoming speech or the first three press questions; he was too busy staring open-mouthed at Ligeia to hear anything. Cross-legged, relaxed and smiling sweetly, the petite singer sat on her white leather chair beneath the bright stage lighting. Quist was more interested in the two people seated behind the microphones on either side of her: Guevara and the attractive dark-haired woman on the right. Ligeia’s manager wore a smart indigo suit and black satin patch over her left eye. So this was Irana Adler, the person who sent the two heavies to question him in York?

  ‘Ligeia, are you looking forward to the American tour?’ enquired a journalist in the crowd.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Adler. ‘The first concert is in Miami and then Ligeia flies to San Francisco. The launch party for the new album will be in Los Angeles next Saturday. America excites her greatly and she’ll be living there from now on.’

  ‘Where in the States?’ asked a voice.

  ‘Near the ocean in Los Angeles,’ said Adler. ‘Ligeia loves the ocean.’

  Quist looked around with bemused interest. The press obviously didn’t mind the girl’s manager giving banal answers to their questions. They seemed thrilled just to have Ligeia sitting close like this for their flashing cameras. Maybe her silence was supposed to add to her mystique.

  ‘Your British fans will be so sorry to see you go,’ called out another reporter. ‘We like to feel you belong here, like the Beatles and the Stones. When are you leaving us?’

  ‘As you know, Ligeia plays the O2 at ten o’clock tonight,’ said Adler. ‘We fly to Miami immediately afterwards. She can’t wait to perform there and meet all her American fans.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ shouted a female journalist. ‘We love you, Ligeia.’

  Adler laughed and nodded. ‘Ligeia loves you too. Could we have another question about the new album, please?’

  Quist raised a hand and Adler gestured in his direction. ‘Ligeia, you’re a wonderful artist,’ he said. ‘Everyone is fascinated by your amazing voice.’

  The singer peered at him, frowning slightly.

  ‘We’d all love to hear you answer these questions yourself. How do you feel about someone constantly speaking for you as if you’re their puppet?’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Adler nodded to one of her security, who moved quickl
y through the crowd towards the detective. ‘The term gutter press springs to mind,’ she said. ‘I wonder if we could have a more relevant question about the Music of Sound?’

  Ligeia’s eyes narrowed as she searched her memory. ‘Hello again,’ she said, smiling warmly at Quist.

  A large man in a tuxedo appeared behind the detective and snatched his arm. ‘You’re leaving,’ he grunted. ‘Now.’ He noticed there was no security pass around Quist’s neck. The black youth beside him also lacked identification and he grabbed his denim jacket. ‘Come on, both of you.’

  ‘But I didn’t say anything,’ pleaded Watson. This character appeared to have been hired from the same Rent-a-Thug agency as the huge men policing the front gate and the ones on the pier. ‘Can’t I just stay here and watch Ligeia?’

  The pair were brusquely marched to the exit as Adler continued to answer press questions. Quist glanced back to see the Colonel staring at him as she spoke.

  ‘Where are your passes?’ snapped the security guard. He pushed them both out of the tent and poked the detective’s chest. ‘They’re supposed to be hung around your neck.’

  ‘We’ve already been through this,’ sighed Quist. ‘We’re from Music Today magazine and our passes didn’t arrive. We brought all the other documentation and showed it to your colleagues on the front entrance.’

  ‘So show me this paperwork.’

  ‘It’s still at the front gate, along with our identification.’

  The guard scowled. ‘That doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘Well, I’m obviously unfamiliar with the rules here,’ said Quist, ‘but how else would we have been allowed in?’

  ‘I need to check this.’ The man turned to leave. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Oh, well done, Guv,’ whispered Watson, glaring. ‘Yeah, brilliant work. There I was, less than twenty feet from my all-time favourite pop star and you managed to get us thrown out in the first five minutes.’

  Quist took two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress and handed one to Watson. ‘Here you go,’ he said, sipping the drink. ‘Mmh, it’s rather good, but I’m afraid it isn’t lager.’ He lit a cigarette and frowned thoughtfully. ‘Hello again? What did Ligeia mean by that?’