Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Five

  At noon the next day, I was back at Castle Gwyn, in the recording studio watching as Derwena sang her way through a sexy, bluesy number, ‘Got You in My Groove’. She was in fine form today, at her sassy best and I enjoyed her performance as she tore into the song inside the recording booth.

  Nerd and Woody were at the controls while Milton and Tim looked on with approval. All was serene in Castle Gwyn until a man walked into the studio. In his late thirties, he was tall and slender, with short, dark hair, dark eyes and a lean, deeply tanned face. He had a high-forehead, a thin nose and thin lips. He wore a sharp, dark blue suit with four buttons on each cuff, a crisp white shirt and a dark blue tie. The tie had a shield motif, running diagonally, and a Latin motto, possibly from his old school or one of his fancy London clubs. Gold cufflinks flashed from his shirt while a gold wristwatch encircled his left wrist. His shoes were black and highly polished. In fact, you could see your reflection in them. Indeed, the strip lights of the basement bounced off them as he strode towards Woody. The guitarist turned around and the music stopped. There was a pregnant pause and menace in the air. I had a nose for violence and now my nose twitched like the devil.

  I knew this interloper, at least by reputation. I recognised his face from his newspaper column. He was T.P. McGill, lover of antiques, Ancient Greece and all things Victorian. He was a gambler who would toss away money like confetti. Indeed, he had a reputation for walking up to beggars and burning fifty-pound notes in front of their faces just for the hell of it. His father made a bundle out of the 1980s privatisations and he had all the ‘right’ connections. Those connections helped to fuel his newspaper column, which specialised in vitriolic, exposé pieces. Many people were of the opinion that T.P. McGill wrote with acid, not with ink. McGill’s salacious revelations about the rich and famous were very popular despite a steady stream of lawsuits. In addition, he was a noted Lothario who would bed anything in a skirt. And, more to the point, it was rumoured that he’d had an affair with Derwena de Caro.

  “Who let this cretin into the building?” Woody was on his feet, looking for a weapon, for something to swing.

  “Calm yourself, squire; I’m here on business, not pleasure.” T.P. McGill had a plummy accent and a sickly smile. He adjusted his cuffs and gazed nonchalantly at Woody.

  “Get out!” the guitarist growled.

  “I’d like a word with Derwena.” McGill craned his neck, looking over the control panel to the recording booth. Derwena had removed her headphones and was gazing at the scene with some apprehension. She placed a thumb against her bottom lip and started to suck. Meanwhile, McGill smiled at Derwena. “Got five minutes, dear?”

  “I said, get out!” Woody walked up to McGill. He placed a hand against the journalist’s chest and pushed him. McGill continued to smile. He did not budge.

  “Tush-tush.” McGill mocked. “You’re not going to get violent, are you, not in front of witnesses?” He waved his right hand in a grand gesture, acknowledging our presence.

  Woody snapped. He picked up an acoustic guitar and swung it at McGill. The journalist took a step back and the guitar cleaved thin air. Woody took a step forward. He swung the guitar again. On this occasion, Milton tried to intervene, but Woody was so enraged he did not see him and the guitar caught the manager in the ribs. Milton went down with an “ouch” and Tim appeared from behind a stone column, fretting and fussing as he knelt at Milton’s side.

  “I thought that old hippies still believed in peace and love,” McGill grinned. Clearly, he was enjoying the moment. Clearly, Woody was not. The guitarist swung his guitar again and McGill ducked. Woody lost his balance as the momentum behind the guitar swing threatened to sweep him off his feet. He collided with the mixing desk and Nerd jumped to his feet, replacing Derwena in the recording booth. The chanteuse was looking on with fascination now, enthralled at the prospect of two men fighting over her.

  “Okay, squire,” McGill removed his jacket and draped it carefully over the back of a chair, “if that’s the way you want it. Put ‘em up.” He raised his fists, planted his feet and adopted a boxing pose. “Marquess of Queensberry Rules, eh?” He jabbed a fast right and a fast left, stopping short of Woody’s nose. “It’s only fair to warn you that I’m a black belt in judo and I was school boxing champion three years on the bounce.”

  Woody snarled before emitting a primeval groan. He swung his guitar again, missed McGill and collected a right boot on his behind as he stumbled, off-balance. Dropping the guitar, Woody fell to the floor.

  McGill circled Woody. A bead of sweat trickled down the journalist’s brow and he brushed it away with a casual flick of his index finger. “The Marquess wouldn’t approve of that,” he admitted, acknowledging his underhand tactics and the use of his boot, “but neither would he approve of your guitar swinging nor your guitar playing.”

  “Bastard!” Woody yelled. He ran at McGill and the journalist picked him off with a right hook to the jaw. Poleaxed, the guitarist lay on the floor, gazing sightlessly at the basement ceiling. “That’s the trouble when you hit someone with a glass jaw,” McGill shook his hand while clenching and unclenching his fingers, “it tends to hurt your fist.”

  I glanced across to Derwena. She had a strange look in her eyes, a look that said ‘my hero’ when she gazed at McGill and ‘oh Woody’ when she glanced at the guitarist. I received a few flashbacks from my own life and a feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach.

  “Maybe we should desist and aim for something more civilised.” McGill adjusted his shirt cuffs, pulling them down to his wrists. He picked up his jacket and threw it casually over his left shoulder. “How about something more refined, how about pistols at dawn?”

  Woody shook his head, as if to clear it. He noted that McGill was standing over him and he reached out, grabbing the journalist by the ankle. Woody bit McGill’s leg and the journalist howled. McGill kicked out, aiming for Woody’s head, but he missed. Sensing that McGill was off-balance, Woody seized his chance and tipped him to the floor.

  McGill scrambled to his feet. The smile still played around his lips, but the look of total confidence was now absent. He brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead, then squared up to Woody again.

  “My-my,” McGill muttered, “we are the animal, aren’t we?”

  Woody drew his right fist back as far as it would go. He delivered a roundhouse right, and it connected with McGill’s jaw. McGill jerked his head back and a hairpiece shot from his head and landed at my feet. I stared at the hairpiece. What do the social graces say about hairpieces landing at your feet? Should you turn away and pretend that you haven’t seen the furry creature? Should you surreptitiously kick it under a cabinet? On the other hand, should you stoop and retrieve the toupee and hand it back to its embarrassed owner? Not for the first time in this case, I felt out of my depth.

  “You’re finished!” McGill spluttered angrily. “I’ll make sure that you’ll get not one favourable review for your new album.” McGill retrieved his hairpiece and placed it on his head, askew. His face was red, from his exertions, from anger and from embarrassment. “I’ll be back. I will talk with Derwena. And you, Woody my old son, will not stop me.”

  “Just try it, sunshine.” Woody thrust out his bloodied chin, exuding confidence and machismo, “next time I’ll be swinging my electric guitar.”

  In a huff, T.P. McGill left the recording studio.

  Meanwhile, Derwena was swooning over Woody, examining his hand. “You’re all bruised. Oh, what have you done to your hand, my sweetness?”

  “Badges of honour.” Woody kissed his bruised knuckles. “For my lady. I hope they stay there forever to let the world know that Woody Larson protects his woman.”

  “Oh, Woody. You’re a hero!” Derwena draped herself over the guitarist. She was wearing a purple and white number today, a similar design to yesterday’s dress – ankle-length, sleeveless, with thin straps ove
r her shoulders. I guessed that the dresses helped her to get into the mood for singing. She rubbed Woody’s knuckles, tenderly, then kissed them. “Maybe when the bruises fade you can replace them with tattoos that look like bruises.”

  “For you, sweetheart,” unwisely, Woody attempted a Humphrey Bogart impersonation, “I’d have bruises tattooed on my arse.”

  “Oh, Woody,” Derwena swooned, “I love you.”

  Woody winced. He examined his fingers, flexing them, as though playing an imaginary guitar. “Better get some cream on these knuckles. I don’t want my fingers to stiffen up, interfere with the way I play guitar.”

  With Derwena clinging to his arm, Woody left the recording studio.

  Meanwhile, Milton was propping himself on to his elbows, the faraway look in his eyes and the confused expression on his face suggesting that he was still seeing stars.

  I adjusted my shoulder bag, then squatted beside Milton. “Are you okay?” I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Help me up,” he moaned. Tim and I took an arm each and we guided Milton to a leather armchair. Milton removed his silk handkerchief and dabbed his brow. He was sweating profusely and his skin was very pale. “A sherry, Tim, if you will.”

  Tim disappeared, up the stairs into the castle to fetch the medicinal sherry.

  “I think he’s broken my ribs.” Gingerly, Milton prodded his left side, exploring the area that had taken the full force of the swinging guitar.

  I looked across the floor to the damaged guitar and shook my head. “What was that all about?”

  “McGill and Derwena had an affair awhile back. It’s over now. Woody forgave her. He wrote ‘One Man, One Woman’ as their make up song. Personally, I think McGill gets bored. He calls on Derwena from time to time just to wind Woody up.”

  “Could he be the stalker?”

  Although it pained him to do so, Milton shook his head. “McGill is more direct. I don’t see him hiding in any bushes or shadows for anyone.”

  Milton was still fingering his ribs when Tim returned with a glass of sherry. The manager tilted his head back and swallowed the fortified wine in one gulp. “Another, please, Tim.” Milton extended a quivering arm, holding up his empty glass. “Better still, bring the decanter.” Then he closed his eyes and eased his head into the soft leather of the chair.

  As Tim scurried up the stairs, I ran a sympathetic eye over Milton. He was clearly in pain and suffering with his ribs. But a nurse, I am not, and I felt a need to get away from the claustrophobia of the castle. So I squatted beside Milton, and shared my thoughts.

  “Listen, Milton, I’m grateful for this gig or at least I’m grateful for the money, but I could be sitting around here for days and be none the wiser about the stalker. We need to establish if he’s real or a figment of Derwena’s imagination. Ideally, I need to talk with someone who understands Derwena’s mind.”

  Milton opened his eyes. He stared at me with a measure of perception. “Like her shrink?”

  Now why was I not surprised to learn that Derwena had a therapist? “She’s seeing someone?”

  “Dr Storey, the eminent psychologist. She sees him every week.”

  “Can you arrange a meeting with Dr Storey?”

  Milton sat up. His mind was working and, temporarily at least, he’d forgotten about his bruised ribs. “I tell you what,” he suggested, glancing at his wristwatch, “I’ll phone Dr Storey and ask if you can take Derwena’s slot this afternoon.”

  I sensed that Dr Storey would be reluctant to talk about his client, as I would be, if questioned about one of my clients, but it was worth a shot.

  Tim returned with a decanter of sherry. Milton sampled a glass, then climbed carefully to his feet.

  “I think I need a lie down,” the manager declared, and while leaning on Tim’s shoulder, he shuffled from the studio. At the stairs, he paused and glanced over to me. “When you get ten percent of Derwena you get ten percent of everything.”

  I smiled and nodded. Ten percent, eh. It’s a damn good job you’re not on a higher percentage.