Cherringham--Killer Track

by Matthew Costello

  “Yes. Especially about you.”

  “Oh no. Not the NYC detective thing.”

  “Face it, Jack,” Daniel said, “You’re a legend.”

  Jack laughed.

  “Right,” Sarah added. “So — any thoughts?”

  Jack took a moment. Nodded. And even without knowing any of the real details, he did — in fact — have some thoughts.

  “Let’s eat — and talk.”

  *

  Sarah sat down at the saloon table of the Goose, and served the salad.

  “Engine fire in an old Winnebago?” Jack said. “Guess that kind of thing does happen.”

  “I was told that the van isn’t that old.”

  She could have sworn that she spotted a flicker of suspicion in Jack’s eyes.

  “But that threatening post? ‘Unlost will die’?” He took a breath, then shot a smile at Daniel, who was hanging on every word. “Not good.”

  “Right,” Sarah said. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Me too,” said Daniel as if already they were in on this together.

  Sarah had yet to explain to Jack why she had brought Daniel along.

  “So, my publicity work — nearly done, wrapping up. Couple of online interviews set up. Chloe all good to handle it from the office.”

  Jack finished her thought: “Sounds like you got time to look into it?” he said.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  Jack nodded. “You know, I hear that festival right from here. Seems like it gets louder every year: booming sounds, guitars wailing, drums. But — dunno — festival like that … That kind of problem? Maybe best left to their own security?”

  But Daniel quickly jumped in. “Jack it’s going to be amazing. Really. Great bands. You can help. And I can help you guys.”

  Jack turned to Sarah, now quizzical.

  “Er, you know Daniel got a job as a runner this year?”

  Daniel spun round to show the word “CREW” on his T-shirt.

  “Crew, huh?” said Jack. “Sounds like a rung up from last year’s dish-washer job.”

  Daniel nodded eagerly. “Oh, it is, tell me about it. Anyway, what it means is I can be all over the grounds. That would be useful, right?”

  Then Sarah added, “And I can arrange an all-areas pass for you, Jack. Then, you and I, we can go wherever we like, talk to whomever we want.”

  Jack still didn’t seem convinced.

  “Gotta say, big rock festivals? Not quite my speed.”

  “Things are a bit different over here, Jack. Whole families come. Great food, lot of fun stalls and activities. Even playgrounds for the kids …”

  “And maybe—” he looked at Daniel, measuring his words “—someone with a mighty big grudge against one band?”

  Sarah waited.

  Knowing — of course — the answer to come.

  “Okay, the two of you. You convinced me. I’m in. Where do we start?”

  *

  In his MG, Jack followed Sarah and Daniel out of the village and then up onto the main highway that led out to the Repton Estate.

  Top down, sunny afternoon — this was still one of his favourite drives: the rolling hills, crops still unharvested, disappearing for miles into a heat haze. The only difference this afternoon — the constant road signs indicating the different turnings for the festival: deliveries, artists, campers, day tickets.

  After a few minutes, he saw Sarah take a turn marked “Press”, and he followed her off the main road and down a fenced lane that he guessed must be a back way into the enormous Repton Manor Estate.

  Down into a valley, then up the other side, and there, laid out like some kind of medieval camp, a half mile away, he saw the festival: a beautiful blur of colour against the green and brown fields.

  Hundreds of flags everywhere, colourful tents, stalls, food vans. To the side were sprawling parking areas, already looking full, with lines of security fencing snaking up and over the hill. And in the centre, dominating everything, was a massive stage.

  Jack could see a band already playing on it, the music echoing to him in waves, and a crowd in front of it, arms aloft, waving.

  For a second, he was taken back forty years to the Ritz — the re-purposed ballroom on 11th Street in Manhattan that hosted some of the greatest acts in rock and roll.

  But this experience?

  He already suspected that it was going to be way different.

  5. Access All Areas

  Jack pulled up next to Sarah’s car by a line of big white tents, and climbed out.

  “Okay, first we need to get you signed in,” said Sarah, coming over with Daniel. “We’ll go through the Press Tent — should be already sorted for you.”

  “Catch you later, Jack,” said Daniel, grinning, hurrying away, radio in hand. “Think my shift’s about to start.”

  Jack gave him a wave, saying to Sarah: “Looks like Daniel’s in his element.”

  “Beyond excited.”

  Sarah led the way into a giant tent filled with desks, TV monitors, and comfy areas he guessed were for interviews. The place was packed, and buzzing, people nodding and smiling at Sarah as they threaded through the crowd — a constant chatter, and in the background the sound of the music, now much louder.

  At a line of desks, it took just a minute for Sarah to pick up a wristband and a lanyard with “AAA” marked on it.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are to get one of those,” said Sarah, grinning at him. “Access all areas — means you’re someone very important.”

  “That a fact?” said Jack. “Think I got the rock star looks? I mean, classic rock?”

  “Hmm. More … hip media exec, maybe?”

  “Really? You just wait till I dig out some of my old T-shirts. I still have an original CBGB shirt, albeit with a hole or two.”

  “CBGB? That place is mythical. Wouldn’t have figured you for a punk rock fan?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. There are still things about me that you don’t have a clue about.”

  Sarah laughed, then took his arm and led him towards the side of the tent that he guessed must lead into the festival grounds.

  But then a man stepped in the way: tall, black jacket and jeans, black T, pure white trainers.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, putting a hand on Jack’s arm which made him bristle for a second. “Sarah — ’fraid I’m not seeing anything on the official media about last night?”

  “Zak,” said Sarah. Jack saw her flip into professional “you’re pissing me off, but I’m going to smile about it” mode. “Um, I’m right in the middle of something, can I catch you in a minute?”

  This Zak — someone Jack took an instant dislike too — nodded so slowly. “Right. Well, what happened last night is news. Good or bad, it’s bloody news, and your media and website should be shouting it out. Especially since it had a happy ending, eh?”

  The man grinned at Jack, who didn’t return the favour.

  He saw Sarah take a deep breath. “Ten minutes, Zak, and I’ll see you back here, we’ll talk. Okay?” said Sarah. Then, giving Zak the sweetest of smiles, she took Jack’s arm again and led him out into the sunshine, leaving the PR guy standing alone, watching them go.

  “The way he talked to you? Remind me never to get into your line of business,” said Jack.

  “It’s not always like that. But that guy? Yes — a total pain. Zak Petersen, PR for Unlost — and most of the other bands here this weekend — including Lizard. Remember them?”

  Jack and Sarah had been involved with Lizard a few years back.

  “Do I ever. Would have thought that Lizard had vanished by now. Hey, I’m sorry you’ve got to answer to that jerk.”

  Another laugh from Sarah. “Me too!”

  Now, as they cleared the tent, she stopped. Crowds of people milled around them, couples, singles, groups, families, kids on shoulders, even brand-new parents with strollers.

  “So — you taking it all in? What do you think?” she
said, and Jack looked around.

  “I dunno. Nothing like I ever saw back in NYC, at the big music festivals on Randall’s Island; those were equal parts ganja and music. This, well, it’s more like your cosy school ‘fêtes’, but with adults playing the part of the kids. Times a hundred though. One giant crowd, but all seems peaceful and happy enough.”

  “Yup. Festivals these days — most of them — have turned into big family events. Least in the daytime. Later — gets more full-on, of course.”

  “Not surprised.” Jack nodded, feeling less at sea than he’d expected.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he said. “Assuming, you do have one of those handy things?”

  “That I do. First — I want you to look over the van that went up in smoke. Then, I’m thinking we talk to the guys from Unlost, see if they have any idea who might want them … dead.”

  “Right. Not an easy conversation. They happy talking to us?”

  “Apparently. I’ve been working with — oh here she is …”

  Jack turned to see a woman heading their way, phone in one hand, headset on — the crowd seeming to unconsciously part as she came through.

  “Sarah,” said the woman, then she turned to Jack.

  “Mr Brennan?” she said, holding out her hand to shake.

  “Jack.”

  “Becky Wade. Head production manager. I gather you’re investigating last night’s fire?”

  “Something like that, not officially,” said Jack, not wanting to go into details. “Just trying to help.”

  “Good. ‘Help’ I can use.”

  He liked this woman straight away: no messing about, clear gaze.

  “Okay then — I’ve got five minutes before the next band hits the big stage. Come with me, I’ll take you to the van. Then four o’clock I’ve arranged for Unlost to meet you both in Mother O’Riley’s Tea Tent.”

  “Mother O’Riley?”

  “Don’t ask,” said Becky. “I have to say though — the cakes are so good.”

  “Jack,” said Sarah, looking up from her phone. “I’ve got to do a quick meeting. Why don’t you hit the van — I’ll catch up with you later at the tea place?”

  “Sure,” said Jack.

  “Right then,” said Becky. “Follow me.”

  Jack gave Sarah a quick nod — as if signalling here I go — then turned and followed the production manager through the crowd.

  *

  As they walked around the back of the big stage, on their way to the artists’ area, Jack took in the hectic activity.

  Stacks of gear in crates, big trolleys loaded with equipment, and then other giant bits — who knew whatever they did! — set on wheels, surrounded by cables, instruments. And all of it being moved around by different crews of men and women in T’s and jeans.

  In a word, hustling.

  “Wow. This is like an army on the move,” he said.

  “Looks like total chaos, doesn’t it?” said Becky. “But it runs on rails. Pretty smooth. Mostly.”

  “And you’re in charge of this?”

  “So they say. My main job to get the bands on stage with the right gear, at the right time.”

  They reached a security check at the entrance to a field full of Winnebagos, VW vans and tents. Jack waited while the woman on duty checked his lanyard.

  “How easy is it to get in here, I mean—” he held out his “AAA” pass “—without one of these?” he said, as he and Becky carried on into the artists’ area.

  “Near impossible. Only people with an artists’ clearance or an all-areas pass — like you — have access. Got reasonably good security so they’re on top of that.”

  “And I suppose there’s a list of those people, yeah?”

  “Of course. Festival office will have the name of every one with access.”

  Jack looked around to the perimeter of the area.

  “What about the fences? They secure?”

  “Guess they could be cut,” said Becky. “I mean, they’re not electrified or tied to any alarms. But our security guys checked this morning and there were no signs of a break-in.”

  She paused for a second, voice lowered: “So — are you working with the assumption that last night wasn’t an accident? That it was arson?”

  Jack shrugged: “Or worse. Close call for that band member.” He smiled. “As for now, not ruling anything in or out.”

  He saw Becky absorb this.

  Probably not what she wanted to hear, Jack thought.

  They carried on and Jack looked up at the power outlets dotting the area.

  “What about CCTV?”

  “Yup. We have a couple of cameras at the entrance, others scattered around,” said Becky. “But people in this section — the artists — really don’t like cameras on them, you know?”

  “Sure, makes sense,” said Jack. “But can I see the feeds you do have, you think?”

  “No problem. I’ll arrange it for you.”

  “Great. You never know,” he said. “By the way — I heard there was a bit of fight yesterday? Between Lizard and Unlost?”

  “Wouldn’t actually call it a ‘fight’,” said Becky. “Just boys — one of them pretty old — shouting at each other, the way rock stars do.”

  “So — in your opinion — not serious?”

  That question gave the stage manager pause.

  “Okay, er — you see, we changed the running order. Tomorrow night’s headliner act dropped out at the last minute. Lizard thought they should get the slot. They weren’t happy. They made that known. End of story.”

  Jack nodded as they walked.

  I bet that’s not the end of the story, he thought.

  “All right, there’s the van,” said Becky, pointing to the far fence where Jack could see a blackened, charred hulk.

  “Whoa. Some fire, all right,” said Jack.

  “Was pretty scary apparently. I was catching up on sleep. Didn’t hear about it until this morning.”

  “That where it happened? Seems a long way away from the action?”

  “Ah no. Security towed it there from its pitch this morning. People complaining. The smell and all.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Jack made a mental note — he wanted to know exactly where the fire had started.

  He heard Becky’s walkie-talkie make a high-pitched squawk.

  “Duty calls. You happy to take it from here?” said Becky.

  “Sure. And thanks for your help.”

  “No problem. Maybe catch you for a beer at some point. Let me know if you have any more questions. Or … suspicions? Though I’ll warn you, me finding time to grab a beer? I say that a lot but events always seem to just conspire against it.”

  Jack laughed. “Don’t worry. I used to be a cop. Been there.”

  Becky paused and Jack saw her smile, like she was assessing him again. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, gave it to him.

  “Business card.” She grinned. “Yeah, old-school, I know. But, look, if you think there’s something going down here I should know about, just call me, okay? That’s my personal mobile there. Anything to help.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  “And also, if you do fancy that beer,” she said, turning to go. Over her shoulder she said, “I should say — that theoretical beer.”

  Jack laughed and nodded, then watched her hurry away back to the stages. Then he turned and walked over to the burnt hulk of a Winnebago, parked up against the fence.

  It was no longer smouldering, but the acrid smell of burnt plastic and rubber, reminded him of so many car wrecks and house fires, back in the day.

  Some of them — a lot of them — arson.

  If this one had been arson then there could be tell-tale signs — many of which, though not an expert in the area, he knew.

  He took out his notebook, pen and a small flashlight, and started to investigate the carcass of the vehicle.

  *

  Sarah worked her way along the line o
f stalls, one or two run by local friends, all now open, on her way to the tea place, trying hard not to be distracted. She’d been coming to the festival for years and always spent hours in this section — amazing Indian fabrics, handmade pullovers, candles, throws, silks …

  A wonderful bazaar.

  But now that she was actually working here — it seemed she wouldn’t get the chance.

  She took a short cut through the therapy and wellness area — one group doing yoga, the massage chairs all full — and then she spotted Mother O’Riley’s Tea Tent. It was all chintz, cute sofas and lace tablecloths, mismatched Victorian cups and saucers, ancient teapots, and, right out front, rows of homemade cakes and biscuits.

  Her supposedly urgent meeting back at the Press tent had been postponed, but she’d come over anyway, feeling she just might grab ten minutes peace and quiet before Unlost turned up.

  As she approached the tea tent through the growing crowds, she recognised Jess Miles, standing to one side, talking to a man who had his back to Sarah.

  She was about to approach, when she realised from the body language this was no friendly chat.

  Sarah dropped back, pretending to be interested in some dog bandanas hanging from a rail outside one of the stalls. She recognised the owner, Jules, from the village and gave her a smile, then turned to peer at the unhappy pair through the clothes rails.

  The guy wore a CREW T-shirt — but he looked older than Daniel. Mid twenties maybe, cropped hair, and tattoos sprawling on both arms. What they called “sleeves”. One arm was a swirl of red — a devil-like creature with horns. The other arm — a different figure, the colours a mix of white and purple.

  An angel, Sarah guessed.

  The guy and Jess were clearly arguing — his finger jabbing the air at her, inches away from Jess’s face, while she kept backing away towards the side of the tent. Sarah could see her also talking agitatedly to the man, but too low to be heard.

  Real anger there. Intense. Personal.

  Then Sarah saw the guy raise a fist to Jess, letting it hang in the air threateningly before he turned sharply and strode away.

  Jess stood rigid, shaking, hand to her face, clearly upset. After a minute, Sarah saw her take a deep breath and walk into the tent.