He looked at Sarah who pulled out her notebook and made as if to check it.
“Yes, three till eleven. That is right, isn’t it, Mr Welch?”
“Er, yeah, think so.”
And sure enough, Declan fell for it, and opened the door to let them in.
“Bloody hell! This is out of order,” he said as he shut the door and led them through to a dingy sitting room at the back of the house.
Jack followed Sarah into the room. His first thought on seeing the abandoned beer cans, stained sofa, piles of clothes and junk: Maybe we’ll do this standing.
But Declan swept a stack of biker and other more unsavoury magazines off a couple of chairs, and they both sat while he sprawled on the sofa and lit up a rollie.
“Witness?” he said, finally, puffing a ring of smoke up in the air, his face now showing a blotch of colour. “Witness to bloody what?”
“Thought you might have heard? Couple of accidents up at the festival, these last few days,” said Jack, taking out his notebook and pen. “Hoping you maybe might have seen something?”
“Me? Why the hell me? What do I know about any accidents?”
“The fire on Thursday night — the Unlost truck?”
“Oh yeah, I did hear about that.” Welch nodded as if his memory had been violently jarred.
“You didn’t see it?” said Sarah.
“From a distance. In the morning. When they put the damn fire out.”
“You didn’t go in the artists’ area?”
“You kidding?” said Declan, with a snort. “Don’t let my sort in there.”
“But you’re on the clean-up crew, no?” said Jack.
“Yeah, but they got special cleaners, for the special people.”
“So, you didn’t see it start burning?”
“No! I was back here, anyway, that night. Finished early.”
Jack took a minute to make a note.
“Anyone who can vouch for you being here?”
“You kidding?” said Welch. “What is this? You asking me about my — what they call ’em — ‘whereabouts’ now?”
“All routine, Declan,” said Sarah. “So … You were right here? Doing …?”
The question seemed to stump the burly man with bleary eyes. Then: “Playing a game. Online.”
“Oh, you got a computer here?” said Jack, thinking about the trolling and the threats to Unlost.
“PlayStation mate. Don’t do computers.”
“What about last night? The cable fire during the Unlost sound check?”
“Yeah, saw that,” said Declan, suddenly laughing. “Sparky time, wasn’t it?”
“You were close to it, maybe backstage somewhere?” said Jack gently, trying to lead him.
Welch’s eyes scrunched up at the suggestion.
“Nah. Was in the crowd.”
“But your pass?” said Sarah. “That does give you access to the stage?”
“Sure,” said Declan. “But only if there’s crap to get rid of.”
“But you are you saying that you didn’t go on stage last night?”
“Yes!” said Declan. Then Jack saw him look at Sarah more closely. “Wait a minute — I know you. You’re that detective woman, yeah?”
And before Sarah could answer, he turned to Jack. “And you’re the Yank cop, lives down on the river. You do stuff. Investigating?”
“Guilty as charged,” said Jack, grinning. The only way now, to make light of this.
“So, what the—?”
“Declan, you’re right. That’s who we are. Here’s the thing: someone’s trying to hurt the guys in Unlost, and we got a tip you might be involved. I know it doesn’t make sense, but we had to follow it up, that’s all.”
“Oh yeah? Bastid! Someone tried to fit me up? Who the hell-?”
“Sorry, can’t say that,” said Sarah.
“But why me?”
“Well,” said Jack. “Way we heard it, you and Jess Miles used to be an item, had a bad breakup.”
“Yeah, true enough. Ages ago. But that doesn’t mean I’d try to hurt her.”
“Really?” said Sarah. “Seems you and Jess were seen having a big fight yesterday.”
“What the …? This damn town, full of people sticking their noses in.”
“That not true, then?” said Jack. “About the fight?”
“We didn’t have a ‘fight’. We had a disagreement.”
“What about?”
“Heard she was badmouthing me. In interviews and stuff. Saying I stalked her.”
“And you didn’t?” said Sarah.
“I dunno. Went up to London a few times. Keep tabs on her and that … bloke. That Ryan. I was mad about her, and she made me mad, I couldn’t help it.”
Jack caught Sarah’s eye — this kind of response … so classic. He’d heard it so many times, from so many guys — and yet — it still made his skin crawl hearing it now.
“Anyway, I tried to tell her I was different now … she should forget it … move on.”
Move on? thought Jack. Jeez …
“Okay. We also heard you were asking around for their schedule, how to get on stage and stuff?” said Sarah.
“Yeah? Well, it’s not easy — like I said, when you’re just part of the cleaning crew — know what I mean? To talk to the stars?”
Jack was about to ask Declan how Jess could believe things were different now, when he heard the door open behind him, and a female voice.
“Dec? What’s this?”
Jack turned to see a woman in her twenties, in a T-shirt and not much else, hair bedraggled, tattoos to match Welch’s.
“Come back to bed, babe,” said the woman.
“On my way,” said Declan, and Jack watched as the woman walked over to him, picked up the tobacco pouch and lighter and left the room, not once even looking at Jack and Sarah.
“See?” said Declan. “Told yers. I’ve moved on. Jess Miles … I don’t give a monkey’s arse about her. Just wish she’d stop telling lies about me.”
Jack looked at Sarah, who gave him a nod. Looks like we’re done here.
“Okay, Declan,” he said, putting away his notebook and standing. “Seems like we were misinformed.”
“We’ve got your statement now, anyway,” said Sarah, getting up too. “So, you can return to work this afternoon.”
“We’ll see ourselves out,” said Jack. “No need to disturb you any further.”
He followed Sarah to the front door and out, down the cracked concrete pathway to the car.
“Fresh air,” he said as they stood by the car together.
“I need some,” said Sarah.
“What a creep.”
“I can think of worse words.”
“Me too,” said Jack. “We’ll need to check his story. Seems like he may have a motive despite what he said. Stalking Jess? No fan of Ryan? But I’m not sure he’s our suspect.”
“Much as I’d like him to be, I agree, Jack.”
Sarah unlocked the car door.
“So, then — who is?” she said.
“Right now — I don’t know.”
They both climbed in the car and sat for a moment, just staring out into the early morning sunshine.
“That song,” said Jack.
“Phoenix?”
“Yeah. Keeps going round and round in my head.”
“Me too.”
“Okay — and I keep thinking it’s important in some way. Like it’s connected somehow?”
“To the attacks?”
“Yep. Both attacks — fire, flames, sparks. Just like in the song.”
“And — as you tell me — no such thing as coincidence.”
“Exactly,” said Jack, then he turned to her. “You know anything about it? What it’s about?”
“Don’t think they’ve said. They usually put lyrics up online, but I haven’t seen any videos of that yet.”
“Maybe when we get to the festival you can ask the guys? Jess, Ryan … Alfie?”<
br />
“Sure,” said Sarah, starting the car and setting off. “I’ll get Chloe to trawl back through the interviews, see what she can find. What’s your plan?”
“Well, thinking … following leads? The stage manager — Becky — she was going to keep the cables back from the stage last night so I could take a look at them. Guess she’s first on my list today.”
“Good idea.”
As they drove through the square, Jack saw the Saturday market was now in full swing.
“Funny,” he said. “Normal life goes on.”
“Not for us,” said Sarah, as they pulled up at the junction and turned onto the main road that led to Cherringfest.
The threat of another attack so real.
And still, at what might be the eleventh hour, not a suspect in sight.
13. Leads and Lies
Jack stood in the wings of the big Valley Stage watching the crew set up for the first of the afternoon sets.
No sign of controlled chaos here — he could see the “machine” working smoothly: big risers on wheels floating in, each one carrying drum kits, keyboards and other gear. The whole thing organised so the bands could slide in and out one after the other, minimal time lost.
He saw Becky, the production manager, walk across the stage.
“Jack, perfect timing,” she said, shaking his hand. Then she nodded to the back of the stage. “Come on.”
He followed her down some scaffold steps into a quiet, grassy area where boxes of gear were stored in stacks.
Jack took in the space. Surprisingly peaceful. A refuge from the hustle of the stage.
“Okay. Nobody comes down here without my say-so,” said Becky, smiling. “About the only spot I can get a moment to myself. Even during a set — my quiet place.”
Jack nodded, and followed her to the rear corner of the stage.
“All right,” she said. “I talked to my team last night — the ones I had keeping an eye out for Unlost? First-timers, you know? Something I do. Anyway, I got them to pull the cables, like you asked.”
Jack watched her drag a big plastic crate out from under the stage, then lift the lid. Inside, he saw a dozen or so cables, rolled and tied. And one loose …
“The offending item?” he said, lifting it out.
“Yep. I pared the end for you. Take a look.”
Jack peered at the cable. Where it joined the jack plug, he could see a knot of wire had been stuffed between the bare ends.
“Wow. This … what it looks like?”
“Afraid so, Jack.”
“Someone deliberately shorted it?”
“And then some,” said Becky. “I peeled open a section — there — you see? They also pushed what look like metal filings right into the wire. I’m guessing to make the whole thing really burn, all that contact, shorting. They also cut the earth wire on the amp.”
“So … No question then; this was deliberate.”
“Totally.”
“And Jess Miles was the target?”
“Oh — I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Becky.
Jack looked up at her.
“But this was her cable, right? To her guitar?”
“Right. It usually is — according to my guys on the team. Seems that’s the way Unlost have been doing it all year. The way they were going to do it last night. But here’s the thing: when the band saw the stage setup, last minute they decided to switch guitars and amps around.”
Jack felt a surge of excitement — a feeling he knew from years past. That moment when you just knew that a case might be breaking open.
“What? So the— Jess didn’t play with her own guitar?”
“No. That’s just the thing. She played with Ryan’s.”
“Wait. Then whoever sabotaged this — they thought that Ryan would be playing it? Not Jess?”
“Correct,” said Becky. “That important?”
“Very,” he said. “I think it changes everything.”
Jack thinking. Unlost — not the target.
Ryan Crocker — very much so.
But why?
*
Sarah sat back from her computer screen and ran a hand through her hair. She looked around the Press tent — the place had been sleepy when she got here, the big Saturday-night performances still ahead.
But now — starting to fill up — a reminder that Unlost were just hours away from their big set.
And, right now, it felt like she was running out of time.
So far, her online searches to see if the Unlost members had any secrets, had revealed nothing new. She had the thought that maybe there were no secrets. Which would leave her and Jack with a killer — maybe out to strike again this very night — but outside of Alfie or Declan’s jealousy, not a motive in sight.
She’d found plenty of information — background, small news stories, awards in school for Alfie and Jess. Most of it was publicly available — but some required more unorthodox search engines and skills she had picked up during her messy divorce, years ago.
She didn’t ever tell him the details of these techniques. Some … not terribly legal, and she was pretty sure he’d rather not know.
But strangely, she’d found nothing for Ryan growing up, not until he showed up aged twelve in a high school, in one of the toughest areas of London.
And from then on — there was no shortage of information: a whole series of suspensions for fighting and alcohol in school. And even worse out of school — theft, more fights, dealing.
Yet, before that sudden flurry of trouble? Nada, as Jack would say.
It was as if Ryan just didn’t exist as a child.
What am I missing, she thought?
She saw a text pop up on her screen.
Chloe. She’d been searching too, back at the office. Maybe she’d had more luck?
Mum. Nothing doing. Just the usual PR stuff.
Sarah hit the keys fast.
Same here. Keep going — okay?
Chloe fired back just as fast: On it!
As Sarah put her phone down on the table, a hand on her shoulder made her jump.
She spun around to see Jack standing behind her chair.
“Got a minute?”
“Oh yes. Sad to say. Not accomplishing very much here.”
He nodded to the tent exit. “Take a little walk? Talk?”
Which meant, she knew: Jack had learned something.
*
Outside, Sarah saw the clouds overhead gathering — slowly, to be sure. The bright summer weather threatening to change.
She walked with Jack through the growing crowd, people already hitting the lunch queues, music drifting across from a band playing on the Valley Stage.
And as they walked, Jack told her about what he had seen: the guitar cables and the amp. And whose guitar it really was that exploded into flames.
It took only a moment for Sarah to make the connection. And when she did, she got a chill.
“Hang on. That means that the band isn’t the target?”
“Yup. No doubt now. Ryan Crocker is.”
They stopped next to a stall selling everything from handknitted sweaters to beeswax candles of every shape and colour, and Sarah took a deep breath. “You think we should tell him?”
The question made Jack pause.
“Sure. Soon. But first, we need to know more about the song? “Phoenix” and the story of a fire.”
Jack started walking again, turning back to the stages, towards the artists’ area.
“Ryan’s in danger. That I’m pretty sure of. But … I can’t shake the feeling that there are things they know that they haven’t told us.”
“What? You think they’re lying?”
“Maybe not outright. But — for some reason — keeping secrets.”
Sarah told Jack how Ryan’s history was so elusive.
“That right?” he said. “You know — I’m seeing a pattern here. And it’s making me damned afraid what might happen tonight.”
> “Me too, Jack.” And they kept walking, heading towards the fenced-in artists-only area.
Where they hoped they would find Ryan and Jess — and some answers.
*
At the entrance gate, Jack watched the security guard scan their passes, and — with a nod — let them in. Then he realised something, stopped, and turned.
“These scans,” he said, “they get logged somewhere?”
“I guess so,” said the guy. “All connects up. Goes to a computer somewhere.”
“And that means everyone who comes in and out is recorded?”
The guard thought about this for a few seconds.
“Well … depends what you mean by ‘everyone’.”
“Uh-huh? Explain that for me, would you?”
“Busy times, lots of people come through. Sometimes people get missed. Know what I mean?”
Sarah nodded. “So, you’re saying, if you know them — trust them — you just wave them through?”
“Me? I don’t do that, of course,” said the guard, suddenly defensive, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if that sort of thing happens. Maybe.”
Jack looked at Sarah, and they moved away.
“For a second there, I thought we might have a shortcut through the lists of passes,” said Jack.
“I’m afraid this case is turning out to be very low on shortcuts,” said Sarah as they carried on walking through the site. “But still worth getting the logs.”
All around, musicians sat either chatting or noodling around with their instruments, but with a palpable tension in the air. Pre-show jitters, Jack guessed. The big night to come soon, at a very important festival.
With the Unlost van a burnt-out hulk, the festival had set up Jess and Ryan with an elaborate tent, compete with a small wooden patio, and a canvas overhang in case of rain.
“There they are,” Sarah said, pointing to where Ryan and Jess sat at a small table, a cup and saucer in front of each of them as if they were just a young domesticated couple relaxing at home.
As Jack and Sarah approached, Ryan looked up quickly, tea cup cradled in his hands as if warming him.
He nodded, and Jess was quick to stand up.
“Jack, Sarah. Have you—?”
Cherringham--Killer Track Page 9
