Tie Die

by Max Tomlinson

  “That’s fine,” she said. “It all gets added to my bill.”

  If she ever got paid.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Delco Records’ Head Office was located on Denmark Street, Britain’s Tin Pan Alley, tucked away on the edge of London’s West End. If Colleen thought San Francisco was foggy, she had just found a sister city in the United Kingdom, where thick vapor wafted down the narrow street, dampening all it touched, like soft rain. It was early morning and the three- and four-story buildings echoed with traffic. Wet sidewalks clattered with quick footsteps, punk rockers with Mohawks and chains intermingled with bowler-hatted businessmen. Colleen’s head was light and hazy after her first international flight and she breathed in the wet morning air and blinked away the jet lag. She held a collapsible umbrella over her sensible blue business suit, having changed quickly at the bed-and-breakfast she had checked into that morning in nearby Tottenham Court Road.

  She took a moment to get her bearings, taking in the iconic street with its 17th-century buildings that once housed London’s well-to-do and was now the center for the U.K.’s thriving music industry. Every famous band that had come out of Britain had spent time on Denmark Street, wrangling deals with agents, recording in one of the many sound studios nestled cheek by jowl with music publishers and shops. The Stones. Bowie. Elton John. The British Invasion began here. And, of special interest to Colleen, The Lost Chords.

  She walked the length of the short street, past music stores, the legendary Giaconda Café, until she located a narrow limestone and brick entryway that would have been at home in a Dickens novel. Brass plaques listed the various offices in the building. Amidst signs for a Swedish film distribution company and Top Tier Modelling agency, she found what she was looking for: Delco Recording and Publishing Ltd, 2nd Floor. The words were interspersed with the engraving of a phonograph.

  She made her way up lopsided stairs to a hallway of offices. Delco’s were down the end of a long musty hall that needed a fresh coat of paint and new carpet.

  The waiting room was in distinct contrast to the exterior of the building: muted tones, indirect lighting, and sleek modern furniture. At one end of a leather sofa sat a stocky man in his mid-twenties with short dark hair like a brush and heavy sideburns, and just a hint of eyeliner. He wore a purple shirt that bulged with muscles, two-tone pants, suspenders, and Doc Marten shoes with thick soles. He was reading a copy of the Sun newspaper.

  At reception, behind a collection of telephones, sat an emaciated young woman in a sleeveless black top, with pale white skin and cropped peroxide hair. Gigantic black hoop earrings and mascara completed the look. She was audibly chewing gum. She gave Colleen a dour non-smile as Colleen approached the desk.

  “Sir Ian Ellis, please,” Colleen asked.

  “Appointment?” the girl said in a sharp Cockney accent.

  Colleen replied that she didn’t have one.

  “Sorry,” the girl said in a tone that strongly suggested she wasn’t. She plucked a business card from its holder and handed it over with an extended little pinky. “Demos go to the address on the card. Don’t include return postage as items will not be returned. If there is any interest, you’ll hear from us. You will not be contacted otherwise.” Her recited spiel suggested she had delivered it many times before. She snapped her gum.

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Colleen took the card, produced one of her own more creative business cards, listing her as Carol Aird, Artist Management Consultant. “I’m only in town for a day, on my way to Rome, and I was hoping to have a word with Sir Ian. I have a client interested in licensing.”

  The girl took Colleen’s card. “Who did you say your client was?”

  “I didn’t. And I can’t, at the moment,” Colleen said. “But let’s just say one of his movies was nominated for Best Musical Score.” Colleen raised her eyebrows.

  The girl’s tone changed immediately. “One moment, please.” She picked up the phone, pushed a button, turned her back on Colleen as she conversed in low tones. Colleen wasn’t the best at deciphering subsonic Cockney, but the phrase American film consultant rang clear enough. The receptionist got off the phone, spun back around with a smile that was as genuine as the warm, nonexistent sunny day outside.

  “Please take a seat, Ms. Aird. Sir Ian is just finishing up a call with a client.”

  Colleen thanked her, sat down, straightened her flared polyester slacks over her knee. The young man flipped a page of his newspaper, folded it back. A moment later, an inside line buzzed, and the young woman answered, hung up, stood up.

  “This way, please.”

  She led Colleen down a creaky hallway lined with gold and silver records going back over the years, to a carved mahogany door that shone despite the semidarkness. The woman gave two gentle knocks, opened the door.

  “Miss Aird, sir.” She went in, set Colleen’s business card on the desk, came out, showed Colleen in, shut the door behind her.

  Colleen stood in a chilly room with a rustic beamed ceiling. The wood floor, covered in part by a red battered Persian rug, had probably not been level for centuries. The drapes were heavy burgundy velvet and the desk and furniture belonged in an antique store—or museum. Bookcases with impressively bound tomes lined the walls, along with more gold and platinum records, imposing documents, and photographs of Sir Ian Ellis over the years with many of Britain’s entertainment elite. She spotted a young Paul McCartney in one black-and-white photo.

  Sir Ian Ellis fit the room like one of the well-placed artifacts. In his seventies, his craggy red face and white handlebar mustache gave him a supercilious look that suggested a person born to privilege. His eyes were red and guarded, squinting behind wrinkles of skin. He wore what was most likely a school tie, dark blue with light-blue diagonal stripes, and a herringbone jacket with patches at the elbows. His desk was relatively neat, one or two folders side by side on his blotter, one open, which he closed as he stood up.

  “Ms. Aird,” he said in an accent as elegant and crisp as his French cuffs. He didn’t come around to greet her, but waved Colleen to a leather guest chair. “Please.”

  She sat down.

  “Filthy weather,” he said.

  She agreed.

  “Where are you flying in from?”

  “New York.”

  “I simply love your accent.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said.

  His eyes twinkled as she crossed her legs—the dog. He sat down behind his desk, nodded at a cut crystal decanter full of amber liquid on a sideboard. “A little something to ward off the chill?”

  Not at ten in the morning. “No thank you.” She continued to feed the smile.

  He examined her nondescript business card. “And you are with …?”

  “I’m an independent agent, consulting with Jason Wood on a particular assignment.” Jason Wood was a huge, worldwide talent agency, and it was safe to say one represented them. It would take an age to find out she wasn’t. “My client is working with a small boutique production company through them. He has an interest in a song from one of your old artists for his movie—a musical set in London’s swinging sixties.”

  “I see.” Sir Ian’s face registered musical as if she might have said bubonic plague. A step or two below his tastes, no doubt, which probably ran to Gilbert and Sullivan.

  “May I ask who your director is?”

  She gave a soft shake of the head. “All I can say is that he’s a B-Lister knocking hard on the A door. Of course, if things gel, we’ll all be the best of friends.”

  Sir Ian gave a crafty grin, sat back, and steepled his bony fingers. “And what song is he interested in for this—ah—musical?”

  “‘Shades of Summer,’” Colleen said, watching Sir Ian’s face closely. “I believe it’s by a group you once managed.”

  She met Sir Ian’s stare, which became hard and icy.

  She had hit a direct broadside. She was on the right track. She watched him recover.

 
“How interesting.” Sir Ian gave a theatrical sigh. “But that might take some doing.”

  “I understand someone else might be after it, too. I’ve been asked to make enquiries.”

  Their eyes met again. “You are very well informed,” he said. “Yes, there was a mention in Variety.”

  “I wanted to make a move before anything was finalized.”

  He continued, “Then you’ll perhaps also know there’s a copyright issue over ‘Shades of Summer.’ I’m actually in the process of straightening it out.”

  And had been for over a decade. “My client hinted I can go as high as six figures,” she said.

  Sir Ian raised his eyebrows. “Pounds?”

  She gave a light laugh. “I believe it was dollars, but I’m sure the number is negotiable.”

  Sir Ian pursed his lips. She was surprised he wasn’t drooling. “Where are you staying, Ms. Aird?”

  “With some friends in Camden Town.” She didn’t need him calling her modest B and B or hunting around for some fictitious hotel.

  Sir Ian adjusted the perfect knot of his tie. “Let me make a phone call or two. When do you leave for Rome?”

  “Tomorrow. The 8:50 flight out of Gatwick.”

  “I’ll call you tonight—if that’s fine with your friends.”

  “I’m actually out with a client tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I get back to New York—in a few days.”

  He gave a little nod. “Perfect.”

  She stood up.

  Their eyes met again. His were cold, calculating. Malevolent.

  Yes, he was one to keep your eye on.

  When the American woman had left, Sir Ian stroked his mustache into place, then picked up the phone. Dialed the front desk.

  Vicki, the receptionist, answered, smacking gum, as usual.

  “Vicks,” Sir Ian said. “That woman that just left here—Ms. Aird? Tell Reggie I want to know where she goes.” Pause. “I know it’s raining. Tell him to get after her now before he loses her. And stop popping that gum in my ear, please.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was still raining as the black London cab dropped Colleen off across the Thames at The National Archives. She dashed inside and asked for the reference section. A soft-spoken gentleman pointed her across the tall round foyer under a glass and iron domed roof.

  After a good deal of searching, she found Brenda Pike’s certified copy of Entry of Death on microfiche, date April 15th, 1966. Two days after her body was found in Steve Cook’s hotel room bed. Nude, of course. The EOD listed Brenda’s home address as 2671 Ludlow Road, Church Stretton, a small town southwest of London. But what was curious was the cause of death, as determined by Doctor James Ledgwick, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons: pending investigation. That was twelve years ago. The status seemed to be lost in limbo.

  The tabloids Colleen had read at the public library in SF stated Brenda Pike had died of a heroin overdose, supposedly delivered by Steve Cook. A single needle mark was found in her right elbow. She was right-handed, which suggested the shot had not been self-administered. No drugs or paraphernalia were found in Steve’s hotel room, and he had been adamant that he never used drugs. One bandmate stated that Steve never used drugs and loathed them. “He had his hands full with booze and birds.”

  She recalled reading in SF that Brenda Pike’s death was listed as “Death by Misadventure.” The uncertain cause of death was a concern.

  While she was there, Colleen researched articles on The Lost Chords, and former band members. One had died several years ago of an aneurysm, another lived with his aging mother in the town of Andover, and the drummer, whose nickname was Tich, now worked as a doorman in a London club. How the mighty had fallen.

  Armed with a stack of ten-pence coins, Colleen left the National Archives, erected her folding umbrella against the rain, and found her way to a red London telephone kiosk.

  She dialed Doctor Ledgwick’s practice on Harley Street. A very polite young woman informed her that Dr. Ledgwick was on sabbatical in Southeast Asia and was expected to return by end of year. When Colleen asked about a death certification Dr. Ledgwick had signed off over a decade before, she was told no one would be readily available to help her. She was free to leave a message that would hopefully be returned eventually. She did, giving the number of her answering service in the United States.

  She scratched that item off the list.

  She called directory assistance, asking for Nev Ashdown’s telephone number in Andover. Nev was the former guitarist with The Lost Chords who lived with his mother. But no telephone number was available.

  She did the same for Dave Simons, aka Tich, the Chords’ drummer who worked in London as a doorman. She got a phone number this time, a North London number, and called. The number had been disconnected. She sighed, crossed that out.

  That left her Brenda Pike’s family, if any, in Church Stretton. Once again, she called directory inquiries, got a number for Herbert Pike, Brenda’s father.

  She called. A woman with an almost inaudible, soft voice answered. She was so excruciatingly polite Colleen couldn’t quite believe it.

  Colleen explained she was doing research for an upcoming article in the New York Times and had a few questions.

  “What kind of article, if I might ask?” the woman said.

  “A story on the darker side of British pop culture in the sixties.”

  “Oh, I see.” There was a discernible silence, broken by the clicking of the phone line as it measured out another few pence. “Well, if your article is related to Steve Cook, I’m afraid we’re not interested.”

  Colleen swallowed, then responded. “I understand your reluctance, Ms. Pike, but I feel it’s so important for our readers to get all sides of the story. And I’m not sure yours has been properly told. The tendency is to focus on the superficial.”

  “We are not interested,” the woman said, more firmly now. “Please do not call again.” And with that she hung up.

  Colleen let out a breath, hung up, left the phone booth, lit up a cigarette. Blew smoke into the wet morning air.

  Not much to go on. Except that Sir Ian was guilty of something and Brenda Pike’s cause of death was technically uncertain.

  Grasping at straws.

  It took a while to find a free cab but when she finally flagged one down, she asked the cabbie how she might get to Church Stretton. He drove her to Euston Railway Station.

  The train to Church Stretton meant changing at Crewe, on the way to Liverpool, and then heading south. It was a three-hour journey but, if nothing else, she could catch up on her sleep, perhaps rid herself of some of the jet lag.

  “Church Stretton?” Sir Ian said, leaning back in his office chair, phone to his ear. “Are you sure about that, Reggie?”

  “That’s what I overheard the man at the ticket counter say. Change at Crewe. She’s on the nine-oh-five return.”

  “I hope you don’t have plans for tonight, Reg. I’ll need you there at the station when Ms. Aird returns from Church Stretton. Follow her. Find out where she’s staying. Don’t lose her. Keep me posted. And be discreet.”

  Reg sighed on the other end of the line.

  “It’s what I pay you for, lad,” Sir Ian said. “If she goes out later, I want to know where, and who she meets.”

  “Right,” Reggie said in a voice that did little to mask its annoyance.

  “I might need you to give her a little warning, Reggie.”

  That seemed to cheer Reg up. He liked that sort of thing. He grunted an acknowledgement.

  “Good boy,” Sir Ian said, hanging up.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  By the time Colleen’s train arrived at Church Stretton, late afternoon had descended into rainy evening. No taxis were available outside the station. The small town may not have had that many to begin with.

  It was like stepping back in time when she got to the high street, something out of a PBS Sunday night program where genteel characters lived their lives w
ith a stiff upper lip. All that was missing was Winston Churchill on the wireless.

  Colleen had learned that no taxis didn’t mean there wasn’t a ride to be had. She stuck her head into a red telephone kiosk outside the station and checked the cards pinned and taped on the wall above the phone. She found a local minicab, dialed the number. Someone would be there in five minutes. She went out, stood under her umbrella, smoked a cigarette, and waited.

  It was more like fifteen minutes before a black Ford Cortina swerved up, blaring with punk music.

  The driver was a man in his thirties with an orange crop that looked like he’d done it himself under medication. He wore grannie-style sunglasses even though it was dark and a jacket that dripped with chains and reeked of motor oil. The cassette player featured buzz saw guitars and a vocalist screaming about kicking out the Tories.

  She gave him the address on Ludlow Road. She pretty much had to shout over the music.

  “You want the Pikes, do you?” the cabbie asked.

  “I do.”

  The driver hurtled through the picturesque town of Church Stretton, heading south, bouncing along a dark, rainy country lane, talking the whole time in a cluttered accent over the music.

  “Can you turn that down, please?” she said, tapping his shoulder, making him jump far more than she thought warranted. The car jerked into a skid for a moment, before it righted itself.

  He pulled up to a small pebbledash-fronted cottage. No lights were on and the driveway was empty.

  Colleen paid the driver, told him to keep the change. “Please wait for me,” she said. “I think I might need a ride back.”

  She rang the doorbell, got no answer.

  She returned to the cab, where the music was blasting again. The government was apparently the enemy of the British workingman.