Sarah waited for a few seconds; then she gave Jules a wave, left the clothes stall, crossed to the tea tent — and saw Jess in a corner on an old draped sofa, sitting alone, phone in hand. She went over.
No sign of tears, but obviously shaken.
No way to do this that wouldn’t be awkward.
“Jess Miles?” she said.
The young woman looked up, suspiciously, almost hostile. “Yes?”
“Sorry. I’m Sarah Edwards.”
Sarah saw recognition dawn, as Jess stood. “Oh, right, yeah. Yeah. Today — been a bit — you know …”
“Don’t worry. I totally understand.”
“The fire. Then those threats. Kinda has me freaked me out, you know? I’m like … people wanting me … the band … dead?” The smallest of smiles. “That’s not cool.”
Sarah smiled back, trying to reassure.
“Jess, I’ve had a bit of experience with this kind of thing,” she said. “And, trust me — my friend Jack and I — we’ll get it sorted.”
“You will?”
Sarah nodded. “Now — how about I get you some more tea? And maybe some cake?”
Jess laughed. “Thank you. And yes — cake. Cake’s always good.”
“Right on it,” said Sarah, heading to the counter. Good move to get here early, talk one-to-one, she thought.
*
Jack rolled out from underneath the burnt-out Winnebago, then stood and brushed the grass from his clothes and the few strands sticking to his hair.
Been a while since he had done this kind of gritty investigating.
But he hadn’t found anything suspicious so far — apart from the fact that the truck’s extra battery for the living section seemed oddly to be disconnected. That didn’t make sense — but he couldn’t tie it into sabotage … yet.
He walked round to the front of the vehicle. The heat had been enough to twist the metal around the windshield, and the glass had all popped out and shattered.
He reached carefully into the cab, then underneath, to try and pull the lever that released the cover of the hood. But even with a strong yank, it was clear that the thing was jammed shut.
He searched around on the ground and found a short length of twisted metal — some part of the destroyed van. With some effort, he roughly pried open the hood.
He pushed it up as far as it could go, and then took out his flashlight.
The layout of the old Winnebago was familiar: way back, he and Katherine had hired a van much like this one to tour the Rockies. It broke down so often he’d learned his way around the engine.
And, unlike other modern vehicles that were more computer than combustion engine, this thing was designed to be accessible.
He reached in, located the fuel pump and the carburettor, and the metal-braided pipe that he knew from his experience carried the gas to the engine.
Bright light on it, Jack saw that the pipe was deeply blackened and oily with fire residue. Luckily, plenty of water had gathered in pools inside the truck from the attempts to put the fire out.
He spotted a bit of cloth on the ground … soaked it, came back to the pipe and wiped the soot away, revealing the shiny metal thread.
Then, carefully, Jack slid his hand deeper into the jagged space of the burnt-out engine, running his fingers along the pipe, holding the light in the other hand, looking for a leak, or maybe a hole …
He didn’t expect to find the pipe nearly severed.
He slipped his phone under the pipe and took a photo. Then he pulled his hand back, stood up, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his now grimy hands.
“Who the hell are you?” came a voice behind him.
He turned to see a young guy a few yards away — eyes burning, edgy.
“Name’s Jack Brennan,” said Jack, smiling and lifting his lanyard to show the magic AAA letters.
“The American cop, yeah?” said the kid, still aggressive.
“Ex-cop.”
A pause.
“What are you doing here?”
“Who’s asking?” said Jack, giving a bit of the edge back to the kid in front of him.
Two can play that game.
“Ryan Crocker. And you’ve been looking at my Winnebago? Or what the hell’s left of it.”
“Ryan,” said Jack, offering his hand. “Sorry. Seeing this, has to rattle you. Think me and you and your band — we got tea booked for later, no?”
Ryan didn’t take Jack’s hand. Instead: “So, like I just said … what are you doing?”
Crocker’s reaction was kind of off. After all, Jack and Sarah were here to help.
Not the way Ryan Crocker seemed to be taking it.
“Well,” said Jack, trying to be patient. “I’m checking out your vehicle here, you know, to see if your little fire last night was an accident.”
Ryan didn’t immediately respond. Then, looking over the burnt-out hulk as if it might have secrets to be revealed, he said: “And was it? An accident, I mean?”
Jack had to wonder: in Ryan’s shoes, would he prefer to believe it was an accident?
Jack took out his phone again, scrolled through to the picture of the severed pipe, showed it to Ryan.
“I’m no expert — but it looks to me like someone intentionally cut through your fuel pipe, probably with a hacksaw. So … an accident? I’d say impossible.”
At that grim assessment, Jack could see Ryan’s face, even his stance, change. Bad news for anyone to absorb.
“You were in the driver’s seat?”
“Yeah, I was,” said Ryan.
“You’re one lucky guy. For all intents and purposes — you were sitting on a bomb.”
Jack saw Ryan step back from the phone now, clearly rattled.
“Y-you mean — somebody tried to kill me?”
Jack took a breath. “Maybe the whole band, if you all had been there.”
“I’m usually the driver. Still, Jess could have been with me. Would have—”
Ryan looked away. That thought probably too horrible.
“Ryan, with this being almost certainly intentional, I have to tell you something now. Not easy to say.” Jack gave a small smile. “Or hear.”
Ryan turned back to Jack. Whatever anger he had felt, now replaced with shock.
“You see, in my experience, when someone tries something like this and they don’t succeed? They likely try again. Whether it was you or your bandmates they wanted to hurt. Or maybe—” even harder words “—kill. So, you were there. Why don’t we talk through what happened yesterday and see if between us we can figure just who that person might be?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”
“And also — and this is so important — why?”
As Jack said that, he watched Ryan Crocker carefully for a tell.
A sign that the young musician knew who his potential murderer might be, or what a possible motive might be.
But all he saw Ryan do was take a deep breath as if clearing his head. A quick nod.
Then: “Ask away.”
6. Tea for Two
Sarah watched Jess pour her herbal tea, the aroma strong.
Then she slid the plate of carrot cake across the lace cloth, squarely into the middle of the low table between them.
“Looks delicious. But way too much for one,” she said, cutting it in half.
Jess smiled and took her slice.
“I’m sure. Thanks. Lately, I’ve lost track of mealtimes,” she said. “In fact — time in general.”
“You been on the road for a while?” said Sarah.
“I’ll say! About three months now. Since April, we were playing so many clubs, universities, bars — small stuff, really. Then, out of nowhere, the EP — our very first record — just took off, went crazy! Suddenly got booked here, and now all the festivals want us. The big venues too!”
Sarah pushed her plate back. “So, you’re going to find this funny, but we already met.”
“We did?”
“You w
ere a year or two older than my daughter Chloe. And you played at her prom.”
“Really? That right?” said Jess, smiling. “Cherringham High School — feels like a lifetime ago!”
“Tell me about it!” said Sarah, and they both laughed.
“Actually, I do remember you. Not just the detective stuff. Couple of web designs you did back then? Really something. I liked them a lot!”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“You’re running the festival website, aren’t you?”
“Trying to. It’s pretty hectic.”
“I like what you put up on there about us, Unlost.”
“You do? To be honest, most of it — your PR guy Zak sent me.”
“Oh him? Yeah, well.”
Bit of a scowl from Jess at the mention of the PR guy’s name.
Wonder why? thought Sarah.
“Not impressed?”
“Let’s just say he doesn’t appreciate the more subtle things we do with our music.”
Sarah nodded. Not my role here to agree.
“Okay,” said Jess, suddenly serious. “You gonna do the detective thing now? Er … interview me, like in the TV shows?”
“Dunno. Maybe we can wait until the others get here?”
“No, let’s do it. Sooner the better, right?”
“Okay,” said Sarah, smiling taking out her notebook and pen. “Got my official notebook all set.”
She let her smile fade a bit and flipped to a new page. “Why don’t we start with you telling me what you know about the threats?”
“Are they threats?” said Jess. “I mean — they’ve not been sent to us directly, they’re just posts on our site, mostly on stupid social media. Kinda shrugged it all off. Could be just some idiot troll.”
Sarah nodded. “You think that?”
“Sure. We get bad stuff sometimes. I mean, our lyrics — the stuff I write, Ryan writes — it’s about what we feel, think. Some of it political, you know? In the way that — everything is political.”
“But this latest is different, no? Unlost will die? Then your van catching fire. Happened at the same time, from what I hear. That true?”
“True.”
A cloud had come over Jess’s face, as if realising the possible implications of that.
“Okay, so then let’s say it’s not just trolling, and somebody really does want Unlost to die … or disappear.”
Jess grimaced and shivered at that. “Ugh. Not a nice thought, that.”
“No, not at all. Scary even. But if it is a real threat — can you think of anyone who might be behind it?”
Sarah saw Jess shrug as if she had no idea. But then, the silence and a look to the side indicated otherwise.
“Lizard for instance?” said Sarah.
“No. Come on. That’s just—”
“Hang on. They think you bounced them off top spot. Nick Taylor and Ryan nearly came to blows. You guys are the upstarts, the young contenders. They’ve been round the block. Can’t sit well.”
“So, like, we’re just stupid kids and they’re out to scare us?”
“Maybe.”
Jess shook her head.
“I don’t buy it. We’re not enough of a threat. Sure, they could be a bit pissed off at us … but death threats?”
Sarah waited, took a sip of tea.
“Okay then. If not them, who?”
“I dunno. Really! Some crazy fan? That stuff happens, doesn’t it? Stalkers, weirdos.”
“Guess so. But I imagine it doesn’t usually come out of nowhere, like last night. Tends to build. But a thing this … could be someone you know.”
Sarah paused, knowing that Jess didn’t know that her argument with someone earlier had been seen.
Now to see what she would say.
“Someone maybe … even here at the festival?” said Sarah.
She watched the young singer carefully as she took this in. But in response — though more slowly now — another shake of the head.
What’s she hiding? thought Sarah. Not even a mention of the angry tattoo guy?
“Sorry. I can’t think of anyone,” said Jess, shrugging.
Another small prod. “You sure?”
“Course I’m sure!” said Jess, and now there was a quick flash of annoyance in her eyes. “I’d tell you if I thought of anyone, all right?”
“All right,” said Sarah.
The question had clearly hit a nerve. Time to move onto safer ground for a while.
“Okay. Got it. Sorry — had to ask. So, let’s get some background. Why don’t you tell me how you guys first met?”
“Right. Alfie and I met at music college in London,” said Jess, clearly happy with the change of tack. “First year, the two of us started playing gigs — pubs, clubs, you know? Real dives, most of them. Anyway, one night this local guy Ryan turns up, we get talking, play a bit together, and the rest, well, you know …”
Sarah made notes, the interview nicely back on track.
“I read some of the press stuff,” said Sarah. “They made a big thing out of you and Ryan getting together.”
“Well, sure. It’s an easy story, isn’t it,” said Jess, with a shrug.
“Easier than writing about the music?”
“Fits all their stereotypes. Rough street kid falls for posh Cotswolds girl.”
“And … kinda true?” said Sarah.
“Maybe.”
“Also … lots of stories about Ryan in the early days, boozing, fights …”
“He had it tough growing up,” said Jess, and Sarah saw the flash in the girl’s eyes again. Bit of anger at the question? “A lot of people do, you know? Maybe I didn’t … you didn’t. But for some — like Ryan — that’s the life they get, and they have to deal with it, however they can. Not their fault. Never their fault.”
“Sure,” said Sarah, “I get that. And I agree with you. Life’s not always fair.”
She realised this interview was on the edge of slipping away from her, and she leaned forward.
“Jess, if this all feels too personal, well, I’m sorry. But if Jack and I are going to help you, I have to ask you these questions.” She looked Jess straight in the eye, waiting, hoping she hadn’t misjudged her. “And also — you have to trust me.”
Then Jess finally nodded, sat back.
“Okay,” said Jess. “Right. Sorry. Rant over.”
Sarah watched as Jess took a deep breath.
“You see … me and Ryan … our relationship … all those stories … I get defensive. Maybe sometimes too much.”
Sarah smiled.
“It’s all right. I understand. You just tell me what you feel you can, and it won’t go beyond me and Jack.”
And, as if to prove that point, Sarah pointedly folded the notebook closed and put it away in her bag.
“So — tell me again about how you met,” she said.
*
Jack walked with Ryan across the artists’ area, past Winnebagos and campervans of all sizes. Some had doors open, people sitting at tables in groups, eating, chatting, sharing beers.
The atmosphere loose, friendly, carefree.
“You lose a lot of stuff in the fire?” said Jack.
“Not really. Luckily, we’d unloaded all the gear backstage. Alfie’s got his car here. We were just using the van for sleeping.”
“So, how did you cope last night?”
“They found us a tent. Just over there.” He pointed, and Jack saw a handful of tents in the far corner. “You know — one of those ‘glamping’ things? Place to sleep — it’s all we need.”
When they finally reached the black, scorched grass where the truck must have caught fire, Ryan went quiet.
Jack looked at him, the young guy wiping his brow, edgy, clearly not happy standing here. Maybe reliving what had happened.
“You sure you’re okay?” said Jack as they both stood, taking in the scene.
“Yeah,” said Ryan, taking a deep breath. “What you told me. Thi
s being — maybe deliberate? Kinda changes things — you know?”
“Sure,” said Jack. “Natural to feel that way.”
Some instinct told Jack that there was a lot more going on here — in Ryan’s reaction — than he was owning up to.
“So, you going to bring in the police? Last night nobody seemed bothered much. Those security guys, they think: yeah, just kids being careless.”
Jack thought about this. Turn this whole area into a crime scene? Maybe shut down the festival? And even then, not catch the culprit? No. Made more sense for he and Sarah to look into things … maybe under the radar of whoever did it.
Meanwhile …
“Okay — here’s the big question — can you think of anyone who might want to harm you guys?”
“No,” said Ryan, shaking his head. “Not a clue.”
Ryan’s response had been quick, but Jack felt — having watched him carefully — that he was telling the truth.
He turned back to the blackened grass. Slowly, he started to pace across it.
“What are you looking for?” said Ryan.
“Dunno really. Just anything unusual.” He paused, took in the whole area. Just a hundred yards away he could see a big, sleek Dreamliner, the word LIZARD painted from one end to the other within the shape of a lizard.
In there, he guessed, was Nick Taylor. At some point, Jack knew he and Sarah needed to talk to all the members of Lizard.
“I did hear, by the way, that you made some new pals yesterday,” said Jack, nodding at the luxury truck.
“Oh, those guys? They’ll get over it. They won’t be around much longer. More like dinosaurs than lizards.”
Ryan sprouted what Jack knew they’d call over here, a cheeky grin.
“And Unlost will?”
“Oh yes,” said Ryan, and Jack could see the steely certainty in his eyes.
Music business? You’re gonna need that confidence, he thought.
Back to the grass. Jack caught sight of something glinting. He reached down, took out his pen, and hooked something up out of the blackened mess.
The crushed remains of a glass tea light holder. The tea light itself empty of candle wax — just the wick and foil container. He held it up so Ryan could see.
“You use these? Keep any in the truck?”
Cherringham--Killer Track Page 4
