Cherringham--Killer Track

by Matthew Costello

  Jack saw Sarah put on a quick smile …

  “Learned anything? Well, maybe. Not sure. You two okay to chat a bit?”

  Jess turned to Ryan, who nodded.

  Not looking too chipper, Jack thought.

  Jack spotted two more metal folding chairs leaning against a nearby pole holding up the front of the big tent, grabbed them, and slapped them open.

  Again — he saw Jess shoot a look at Ryan.

  “Tea?” said Ryan. “Got all the comforts of home here!”

  “No need to bother,” said Sarah. “Just want to talk through some things. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  That, Jack saw, sent a small cloud over Jess’s face.

  Funny, he thought. The two of them looking worried, concerned — but in very different ways. Ryan brooding, his worry deep. Jess’s anxiety, easily on display.

  It felt almost harsh to drill deep with the questions to come.

  But there was no option, Jack knew.

  He turned to Sarah to start.

  14. Phoenix Rising?

  Sarah leaned forward, doing her best to keep her tone and body language all light. Though — she had to admit — it was hard to do that when the life of the person you were talking to could be at stake.

  And the first questions almost seemed as if they had nothing at all to do with the fiery incidents.

  “Jess, Ryan — we’ve been wondering about the song you play? “Phoenix”?”

  At that, Sarah saw Ryan look up from his tea cup. Jess’s eyes meanwhile were locked solidly on her.

  “Wondering what?” Ryan asked.

  “Well, Jack and I … I mean, we’re blown away by it. The music … so strong. But also the story it tells? That fire. Someone losing their life, right? The lyrics filled with so much emotion.”

  Neither Jess nor Ryan said anything, waiting for the probe to come.

  “And the two things that have happened to you? The van, then, last night, the guitar—”

  Sarah specifically didn’t say “Jess’s guitar”, and she wondered if either of them caught that.

  “Both involving fire.”

  Ryan finally nodded at this. “Yeah. Funny, isn’t it?”

  His bitter tone indicating, anything but “funny”. There was no question that whatever worry Jack and Sarah shared, so did Ryan Crocker.

  “So that song — ‘Phoenix’ — we wanted to ask you — who wrote it?”

  And there it was. The big question.

  Ryan answered quickly this time.

  “We both did. We write the songs together.”

  Sarah kept her eyes on Jess to see if what Ryan just said seemed true, at least as far as she might gauge from Jess’s reaction. But the young woman simply smiled.

  “Fact,” said Jess, “I think it was, um, me that had the idea for it, didn’t I?”

  Sarah saw her look at Ryan, and — after a pause — he nodded.

  “Yeah, think you did,” he said, then he turned to Jack and Sarah. “See, songs sometimes … someone kicks them off … like Jess with ‘Phoenix’. Then they just happen. In the moment. You know?”

  “Okay,” said Sarah. “And what it’s about? Can you tell me?”

  “About?” said Jess, as if the question didn’t make sense to her.

  “Yes,” said Sarah, with a shrug. “You know — is it about something. Something real? Something that happened?”

  “It’s a song,” said Ryan, quickly, as if he was explaining the obvious. “It’s not real. You know?”

  Sarah watched them both carefully, not buying these answers at all, but not able to put a finger on why.

  Maybe the song was about nothing. Maybe they did write the songs together.

  Probably what they tell all the journalists, she thought. No wonder Alfie felt like the odd man out, his brilliant guitar work notwithstanding.

  But having opened the door, Sarah now watched as Jack went further.

  “Really?” he said. “I mean, I stood there … heard that song … so powerful. It seemed so very personal and — for lack of a better word — real. Don’t quite understand how two people could come up with that.”

  Jack’s words brought a reaction from Jess. The girl instinctively grabbed Ryan’s hand, turned to him a bit. Sarah guessed she wasn’t about to change their “party” line.

  “That’s how it was,” said Jess, not wavering.

  Then Jack asked another difficult question.

  “You see, what Sarah and I have been wondering is: does the song maybe have something to do with whoever is doing this? And more importantly, why they are doing it?”

  For a second nobody said anything.

  A small breeze made a loose part of the tent billow like a sail, then quickly deflate. The nearby grass, cut short but with some few patches still inches high, also rustled. Clouds gathering. The night, as had been forecast, was due to turn stormy before the festival ended.

  Ryan put down his tea cup.

  “So you think that song has something to do with why someone wants to attack the band?”

  And when Jack didn’t answer right away, Sarah was ready — as gently as possible — to correct that impression.

  “No. Not the band.” She paused. “You, Ryan.”

  “See,” said Jack. “Here’s what we’ve discovered …”

  *

  It only took a few minutes, Sarah noted, for Jack to connect all the dots for the two young performers so they could see that Ryan was indeed the target. The accidents no accident at all.

  Jess clutched her boyfriend’s hand tighter.

  Ryan, for his part, forced a cheeky grin. “Well, isn’t that just something?”

  “Oh, Ryan — this is horrible.”

  “We also think,” Jack said, “that there will be another attempt. Maybe even tonight.”

  Ryan shook his head at that. “We get to play Cherringfest, our big breakthrough, and now some maniac wants to go spoil it? Because of a song? Real great, isn’t it?”

  Something not right about Ryan’s response, Sarah thought.

  “So, Ryan,” said Jack, “that’s why we wondered if there is anything you can tell us that might point to the reason why?”

  “Beats me. Never thought I’d end up being someone’s bloody target.”

  Jack stood up. Sarah always trusted Jack’s sense of when to end chats like these.

  Timing, he told her, could be everything.

  She also stood, following Jack’s lead.

  “Well, okay then,” said Jack, “if something does occur to you, you will let us know? Meanwhile, we’ll keep looking into things. We’ll be staying till the festival ends tonight, after your closing set … watching everywhere. Which I suggest you do as well. Take nothing for granted.”

  “Should make for a nice relaxed show,” Ryan said, his grin fading.

  “We’ll do our best for you, Ryan. Know that. And we’ll keep digging.”

  “Digging. Yeah. Like you’re hunting for treasure?”

  Right, thought Sarah, except treasure’s not the goal here.

  Information. Links. Motive.

  She wanted to ask Ryan about his childhood in London — but couldn’t figure a way to bring up the subject without it looking like she was suddenly digging into his personal life.

  Digging for treasure, as he put it.

  Then, as Jack took a step away, Ryan’s demeanour suddenly seemed to shift a bit, and he took a step closer to Jack, who towered over the young, wiry performer.

  “Hey, I don’t mean to seem unappreciative. You looking into things? Keeping a watchful eye and all that? Thanks. Mean it.”

  “We’re glad to do it.”

  And with that, Sarah took one last look at Jess who also seemed as if she maybe had something to say … but didn’t.

  Just that ever-more worried look in her eyes.

  And Sarah walked with Jack, away from the couple and the elaborate tent.

  With Sarah curious: Jack cut the chat off for a reason.

&n
bsp; Why?

  15. Countdown to Showtime

  Jack turned to Sarah. “So … I have a couple of questions for you.”

  “I was about to say exactly the same thing.”

  “First: what do you make of that — what just happened? And second: whatever do we do now?”

  “Well, you do know how to ask the right questions. As to next steps, I was rather hoping you had some rabbit in your hat, all set to pop out?”

  They had passed out of the artists’ area, and she could see the festival was in full swing. On the far side of the field, another band was playing on the big stage and the crowd swayed and cheered in the warm afternoon.

  Here by the food stalls, while the giant tiger-head puppet hadn’t made its dramatic appearance, someone in giant stilts was stalking the area, tilting his striped stovepipe hat to the kids who stared up at him.

  All of it, giving Sarah a sense of the hours beginning to race by.

  “I really don’t think they were ready for the idea that Ryan was the intended victim,” said Jack.

  “Agree. Both of them looked genuinely rattled by that.”

  “Guess it’s one thing to have someone hate your band.”

  “Another to want you dead, personally.”

  “And — don’t know about you — but I got the feeling they both have something they’re not telling us.”

  “Definitely. But why?”

  “Why? Yes. Big question.” Jack said. “But there must be a way to find that out.”

  “Before someone gets seriously hurt?”

  “Certainly do hope so.”

  “Okay. What do we do?”

  “Let me ask you something first: you buy that they wrote ‘Phoenix’ together?”

  Sarah looked to the right, where a stall-holder was unpacking vintage clothes, some looking like items she herself wore a mere twenty years ago.

  Fashions change — not so much.

  “Well, no. I don’t buy it at all. My money’s on Ryan.”

  “Me too. And yet, he wants that kept hidden for some reason.”

  “And whatever event inspired it.”

  “Yup,” Jack said. “Wish we had days to unravel this.”

  “Instead of just hours.”

  He nodded. “Think you and Chloe can keep hunting? See if we can unlock Ryan’s past?”

  “Well, like I said, we seem to have hit a dead end. But yeah — we’ll keep going. And you?”

  Jack rubbed his chin. She rarely saw him look, well, stymied. But now, that look …

  “I want to find Becky. Get that list of people who had all-areas’ access: artist area, stage, everywhere. And the log of who went into the artists’ area — and when.”

  “And track them all down?”

  He laughed. “I know. Tough. Depending on how many, it could take forever. But there’s some people whose stories still feel hazy to me. The Lizards? That Petersen guy? Even Alfie …”

  “Oh, and let’s not forget Declan Welch. Not sure we got the whole truth from him either.”

  “Yeah, you’re right — worth another shot.”

  “And when the music begins? When Unlost take the stage? If we still have nothing …?” At that, she saw Jack wince.

  “Been in that situation before. That feeling … knowing something bad might be coming. And the only thing a cop can do is to simply be out there. Looking everywhere, at everyone. For any sign of something being wrong.”

  “And hope you have good eyes.”

  “Right.”

  Sarah nodded. The light breeze from before had picked up. She didn’t need her weather app to tell her there was going to be rain later. Maybe even a nasty storm.

  She knew from other festivals — this field would quickly turn into a boggy mess. And that would make everything for this night even more challenging.

  “Okay, we better get cracking,” she said.

  And with that, she left Jack, and headed to the press tent, hoping that somehow she’d uncover secrets about Ryan Crocker, about “Phoenix”, and about who, right here at Cherringfest, was planning something bad.

  *

  Jack texted Becky, and got an email back with the list of people who had access-all-areas passes, and the log of visitors in and out of the artists’ area.

  Damn.

  Hundreds of them. And page after page of data from the security gate.

  Even forgetting how many people there were, there was also the question of how would Jack find them, scattered over the sprawling grounds.

  He headed over to one of the tea tents, put in an order for a pot of tea and some scones.

  Then he found himself a corner sofa with a good view of the stages, took out his notepad and phone, and planned the task ahead.

  This was going to be old-school detective work. The kind of thing he would have put a full team on back in the day, pounding the phones.

  He looked across at the big Valley Stage. Under a grey, darkening sky, the lights were now full-on as another band kicked off to the massive audience. Flags waving high, people on each other’s shoulders, everyone into the early-evening music.

  He’d asked Becky for a running order, which he now opened on his phone: he could see that Unlost’s slot was coming closer.

  Couple of hours maybe?

  Time running out.

  He opened the list of names, started at the top and began phoning. At first, most of the calls went to voice mail, everyone either busy or just ignoring an unknown call.

  But slowly, as the pile of scones went down, and the refills for his teapot came and went, asking one person, then the next, he started to track a few down. Some quick questions.

  See anything suspicious the other night? Any idea who might want to see Unlost go down in flames?

  But, not surprisingly, the random interviews revealed nothing.

  He hoped that Sarah was faring better.

  *

  Sarah sat back in the metal chair inside the tent.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder — and turned to see Daniel.

  “You okay, Mum?”

  Sarah forced a smile. “Yes. If you can call ‘very worried’ okay.”

  Daniel smiled. “They gave me some time off so I can watch some of the bands. But then I thought, I can help you, maybe?”

  She patted her son’s hand. “Thanks Daniel. The way things are going, I need all the help I can get.”

  “How about I get you a cup of tea, Mum. You’ve been at this for like hours.”

  “You’re a star. Thanks.”

  With a smile, Daniel went over to where flasks of hot water and coffee sat waiting.

  Sarah watched him, thinking, Amazing. He could be watching his favourite bands but instead he’s chosen to come over here, to help me …

  “You ever leave this computer?” came a voice at her side.

  She turned to see Zak Petersen, peering at her screen.

  “Research,” she said, pointedly tilting the laptop away from him a little.

  Petersen grinned. “Oh. ‘Research’ is it? Or, should I say, investigating?”

  She looked up at him. Maybe the PR guy wasn’t so bad. More importantly, maybe he could even help.

  “Okay, you got me,” she said, with a shrug. “Guilty as charged. I’m trying to get backstory on Ryan Crocker — but it’s like he arrived on the planet aged twelve. No history. No family. Nothing.”

  She saw that Zak’s grin had quickly faded. Something about this worried him.

  “And you need this information, why?”

  “Because, well, we think the attacks on the band might be somehow connected to Ryan’s past.”

  Petersen nodded at this, not revealing anything.

  Not yet, Sarah thought.

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It is. In fact, we think there might be another attack tonight, if we don’t stop it first.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  Petersen pulled up a folding chair next to hers, leaned in. “All right. This just b
etween us, yeah?”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “Damn. Okay. Sure,” he said, looking around to check they weren’t being overheard. “It’s just, I promised Ryan I wouldn’t ever pass this information on. And, yeah, I know, hard to believe the PR guy, huh? But — true fact — I actually do keep my promises.”

  Sarah waited, feeling like this could be the break they needed.

  “You’ve been looking for information about Ryan Crocker, yes?” he continued.

  She nodded.

  “Let me guess — in South London?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, here’s the thing. Before Ryan was removed from his family and fostered in London at the age of eleven, he lived in Manchester.”

  “What?” said Sarah, not quite believing.

  “Place called Stretford, I believe. And oh — his name wasn’t Ryan Crocker. It was Terrence Ryan. Terry.”

  Sarah felt everything fall into place.

  “So that’s why all my searches hit a dead end?”

  “Yep,” said Petersen. “You’re looking in the wrong place. And for the wrong name.”

  “But, hang on — why hide his past? Why keep it secret?”

  “Ah well. You’re the detective, Sarah.” A bit of a grin came back. “You tell me.”

  Sarah saw him glance up at one of the TV monitors displaying the different stages. “And now — I have an appointment with a cold beer before the Unlost set. Looks like they’re doing their sound check already …”

  Sarah watched him go, then swivelled fast to her screen, cleared her recent searches and entered “Terrence Ryan”, “Manchester”, “Trafford” — and a range of years.

  And instantly the screen filled with results.

  16. The Real Phoenix

  Sarah leaned into her laptop, working fast, as Ryan Crocker’s life in this Manchester suburb slowly revealed itself.

  It wasn’t hard to find his address on the local records — living with his mum, and maybe a stepfather. Moving around a lot before settling in one street, one block of flats.

  Then, newspaper reports of football successes — local teams, (amazingly) even trials for Manchester United — the little kid maybe heading for a great future.

  But within the space of a few weeks — it seemed he started heading downhill fast. A new address, then another. Mum gone. A report of Dad being arrested and charged with domestic violence and resisting arrest.