by Mark Timlin
‘The boss man’s paranoid,’ he said. ‘But it’s a living. Where are you taking me for lunch?’
‘It’s your manor, pal,’ I replied. ‘You tell me.’
‘Are you holding?’
‘As much as we need.’
‘Luigi’s then. Just down the street. Best food in the area. And the best prices. I can only afford to go there on someone else’s tab.’
‘Lead me to it,’ I said.
So he did.
When we were the right side of a couple of martini cocktails, Chas asked me what was happening, and I told him the whole story. There was no point in being coy.
‘This is all off the record right now,’ I said later, after we’d eaten, ‘but if anything occurs you get the green light first on it.’
‘It’s a great story,’ he said. ‘But I’ve heard it all before. You’d be amazed how many times people see Elvis these days. Even round here.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s the story I’ve been hired to investigate. That’s why I want to go through the cuttings here. I want to try to dig out some names. Someone who can confirm or deny that Harrison is dead.’
‘Don’t you think someone would have done it by now?’ Chas asked. ‘If he is alive there’s a few bob to be made out of it.’
‘God knows. I’m clutching at straws, Chas. But I’m being well paid for the gig, and I intend to go down every alley I can find. Whether they’re blind ones or not.’
‘Well, let’s have some coffee and a brandy each,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take you to the morgue.’ He grimaced as he said the word.
‘Don’t worry, Chas,’ I said. ‘You’re probably right. It’s just some lunatic with a bee in his bonnet. A wind-up. A hoax. Nothing’s going to happen.’
‘I remember the last time I got involved in one of your cases,’ he said. ‘Something certainly happened then.’
‘That was different. Anyway you’re not getting involved. Just doing an old friend a favour.’
‘You’ve convinced me,’ he said, as I signed the credit-card slip for our meal. ‘Come on back to the factory and I’ll introduce you to Amy.’
Amy was Amy Brough, a chubby brunette of about thirty, with bitten-down fingernails, who looked like she’d kill for a cigarette. She was the dayshift on the microfilm files at Wapping. Queen of all she surveyed from nine to five.
Chas introduced us and I shook her podgy little warm hand.
‘Nick’s a freelance doing research on an article about Jay Harrison for the Sunday mag,’ he lied.
‘Jay Harrison from Dog Soldier?’ she asked.
I nodded. Surprised that she knew. But then, why shouldn’t she?
‘I’ve got a CD of theirs at home,’ she volunteered. ‘They’re great.’
She went over to the computer that sat on top of her desk and punched ‘Harrison, Jay’ into the keyboard. The screen burst into life in a snowstorm of white letters and numbers on a black background. I looked over her shoulder as it scrolled off the entries for him. There were literally hundreds, starting in 1967 and going right up to the present day.
‘Christ,’ I said.
Amy said, ‘Popular bloke. Do you want to see the entries for the band too?’
‘Not now,’ I replied. ‘Just him.’
She scrolled back to the first entry. It was dated 20 February 1967. ‘That must have been when his band got started,’ she said. ‘I was four.’ She let the screen roll. The entries increased year by year until 1972, when there was a blizzard of them around April time. ‘And that was when he died,’ she said. She knew her stuff, did our Amy. I bet she owned a copy of Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits too. ‘But of course you’d know that, writing about him,’ she said, turning round and looking up at me.
I nodded, and she turned back and let the scroll continue.
As the seventies went up the entries got fewer, then increased around the mid-eighties until eighteen months or so ago when there were entries for almost every day. ‘That was when the film came out,’ she explained. ‘Dog Soldier. I saw it. Did you?’
I nodded.
‘Like it?’
I shook my head. ‘Not particularly,’ I said.
‘I did. I got it out on video. I thought the actor who played Jay Harrison was dishy.’
I smiled at her, and she blushed slightly. ‘So what period are you particularly interested in? For the article?’ she asked.
‘The early years,’ I said. ‘Up until his death.’
‘I think I’ll leave you two to it,’ Chas interrupted. ‘Come and see me before you go, Nick.’
I nodded and said, ‘I will. Thanks for your help.’ And he left the room.
‘Right,’ said Amy. ‘There’s a machine over there. Pick any one,’ and she pointed to the bank of green-screened boxes lined up on a table by the wall. ‘I’ll sort out the films for you.’
It took me hours to go through the entries I wanted. The first was a small item about a new rock band from Los Angeles who were getting a lot of interest from the psychedelic community there. The lead singer being a beautiful, charismatic, young, ex-film student called Jay Harrison. Then Dog Soldier signed to Lifetime Records that summer after a bidding battle between them, Elektra and Warner Brothers. Their first single was rush released within a few weeks of the signing, and the band went into the studio to record their debut album, to be simply called Dog Soldier. The first single dented the US top forty, and was immediately followed by their first big hit, ‘Just Do It’, which broke into the top three in the autumn of that year. The album came out in November, and was number one by Christmas. Meanwhile ‘Just Do It’ was a worldwide success, and in November reached the top spot in Britain, where the album was also a massive hit.
The band toured Europe, stopping off in England to play the Roundhouse in Chalk Farm. I remembered the night well. I’d wanted to go, but my old man had put the block on it. Dog Soldier made a rockumentary for Granada TV, played a free concert in Glasgow, then split the country leaving a welter of unpaid hotel bills and assault and battery charges. No wonder I’d liked them so much at the time.
Then the cuttings got more interesting. Harrison wandering the streets of Los Angeles late at night stark naked. A rumour about Harrison marrying a white witch in Las Vegas, and consummating the union in the open air at the Joshua Tree, which was later proved false. Harrison almost crashing the band’s private jet after insisting that he could fly after taking a massive dose of acid. Tales of drunkenness, cruelty and drug excess on tours of America. And as the success of the band grew, the stories of Harrison’s overindulgences got worse. He was arrested for violence against women, for drunk driving, for assaulting the police, for possession of drugs, and finally the famous arrest on stage in Houston in 1971 for using profanity in public and for indecent exposure.
It was a great story. Harrison had got drunk and stoned prior to the gig, copped hold of a young girl backstage, got hassled by a policeman who was picking up some extra cash moonlighting as security for the promoter, had a fight with the guy, who’d then gone off to get a load of his pals to wait at the front and side of the stage and give Harrison a smack when he came off after the set. Harrison had sussed out what was going on and enlisted the aid of the thirty-thousand-strong crowd of stoned hippies by cursing the pigs over the PA, whipping out his wedding tackle and pissing all over the cops out front, and screaming that he’d been beaten by the local law prior to the concert. The crowd had promptly trashed the place, doing half a million dollars’ worth of damage in the process, while Harrison and the young girl got away in the excitement to a local motel where they’d been arrested later that night for trying to burn the place down. Rock and roll, or what? Maybe I’d missed my vocation.
But looking at the photos that accompanied the stories, I wasn’t so sure. During the five-year period, sixty-seven to seventy-two, Harrison aged twenty years. His once-beau
tiful face bloated out, and he grew a full beard to hide it. And his skinny body grew fat and unhealthy. The newspaper stories told of vast ingestions of booze and soft drugs, and hinted at worse. Coke and smack seemed to be the favourites, and from the pictorial evidence, I believed them.
After the arrest in Houston, things seemed to quieten down for a while, and there were several short reports that he was living in London with his latest girlfriend, preparing material for the new Dog Soldier album. Then a load of rumours about the band splitting as Harrison made no effort to return to America. And finally, in 1972, he died. And that was where I came in, as we used to say.
Not that all this information was set out as neatly and chronologically as that. I had to scrounge a pad off Amy and she lent me the pencil that poked out of the bouffant hairstyle that seemed in danger of slipping off one side of her head. I think she thought it was weird that the journalist I was supposed to be had no paper or pen with him, but she didn’t mention it.
By the time I’d finished it was past five, my eyes were sore and I had a sharp pain in my right temple.
What I didn’t have were any names from the period Harrison had spent in London.
I tore out the pages I’d written on in the notebook, gave Amy back her pencil, closed down the microfilm machine and thanked her for her assistance. Then I went off and found Chas.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
I shook my aching head. ‘Not really. I’ve filled in a lot of background, but nothing specific about the time he spent here.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not your fault. And without your help I would have wasted days, instead of a couple of hours.’
‘Fancy a quick one?’ he asked.
‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’m knackered, mate. I’m going to head off home. We’ll make it another time, yeah?’
‘What married life will do to a man,’ he said teasingly. ‘But then I don’t blame you. If I had someone like Dawn waiting, I’d be straight home after work myself.’
‘I’ll catch you later, Chas,’ I said. ‘Give us a call and come over one night.’
‘Will do.’
And we made our farewells and I left.
Of course I got caught up in the rush hour, and it took me more than an hour to crawl back to Tulse Hill. When I went into the flat, Dawn was sitting with a drink in her hand watching the news on TV, and I could smell something good in the oven.
‘Hiya, babe,’ I said as I collapsed on to the sofa beside her. ‘I missed you.’
‘Had a nice day at the office, dear?’ she asked, ignoring my comment. Dawn never forgets.
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘Very funny. And in a word, no. A waste of time. What are you drinking?’
‘G and T. Want one?’
‘Not many. Make it a large one.’
She got up and went into the kitchen where I heard the rattle of ice cubes followed by the clink of a bottle on a glass, and she came back carrying a cool-looking glass of clear liquid with a slice of lemon nestling next to the ice. I took the glass from her gratefully and sunk half its contents in one.
‘So how was your day?’ I said.
She grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said. ‘I found him.’
I looked at her in amazement. ‘Who, Jasper?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘His son?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘His grandson. Jasper died a few years back, and his son, Jake, a year later. But after about thirty calls I turned up Clive Cousins.’
‘Did he work for the firm?’
She nodded. ‘When he was at school he worked for them on Saturdays and in the holidays.’
‘Was he there in seventy-two?’
She nodded again.
‘Did he see the body?’
This time she shook her head. ‘No. He wasn’t allowed to. He wanted to see the dead pop star, but the casket was brought in sealed. Jasper and Jake did the business at the flat.’
‘Shit. And they’re both dead. I don’t believe this. Everybody involved in Harrison’s death is brown bread. What else did… what was his name? Clive?’ – she nodded – ‘say?’
‘He said he’d see us tomorrow at his house. He’s intrigued by the whole thing. He was a fan of the band at the time, and he badgered his father and grandfather to let him see the body, but they wouldn’t.’
‘He sounds like a right morbid sod.’
She shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’ve made an appointment to see him tomorrow at ten.’
‘Where?’
‘Highgate.’
‘He lives there?’
She nodded for a fourth time.
‘Coincidence,’ I said. ‘Harrison is buried at Highgate cemetery. After we’ve seen Clive I think we’ll take a look at the grave. From what I can gather it’s become quite a shrine. Maybe we’ll learn something there.’
‘Like what?’
‘God knows. Maybe he was beamed up by aliens to a starship. Maybe they’re still around.’
‘Maybe they are.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do tonight. What are you cooking? I’m starving.’
‘Chicken casserole.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I’d better take a look at it.’ She got up and went into the kitchen and I watched her hips roll as she walked. I got up and joined her to get a refill of my glass. We stood close together and I could smell her perfume. She was wearing a black dress that stretched tightly across her bottom as she bent down to open the oven. ‘Dinner will be in half an hour,’ she said as she closed the oven door and straightened up.
I moved closer to her and put my hands on her waist.
‘Did you really miss me today?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m getting used to having you around, I suppose.’
‘Like the furniture?’
‘No.’
She smiled.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I said.
‘What about it?’
‘Having to get up early.’
‘So you’re sorry now, are you?’
‘That’s right. I don’t suppose you’re still feeling greasy, are you?’
‘Could be. There’s only one way to find out.’
I slid my hand down and tugged at her skirt until it rode up her thighs, and I pulled it up higher until it slid over her hips. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
‘Well?’ she said breathlessly as I gently explored between her legs.
‘I’d say yes,’ I said.
‘And I’d say you were right.’
And she put out her hand and turned the oven down to its lowest setting.
11
Clive Cousins’s house was about halfway up Highgate Hill not far from the famous suicide bridge at the Archway. It was big and old and set well back from the road in overgrown grounds. The pointing was in need of renewing and the slate roof was sway-backed and delicate-looking. I parked the Chevy on the empty drive in front of the closed doors of the double garage, and Dawn and I got out of the car and walked up to the front porch.
It was one of those funny old days you get in London from time to time. Well warm and muggy, as if a thunderstorm was hiding somewhere, just waiting to pop up and drench all the unsuspecting souls who’d gone out into the morning heat without a coat.
I rang the bell beside the front door at exactly ten o’clock. It was very quiet where we stood. The trees in the front garden soaked up the traffic noise, and left us in a well of silence that could have been a hundred miles away from civilization.
‘House of Usher,’ I said, and I saw Dawn shiver and I pulled her close. She looked up at me and smiled, and I smi
led back.
I saw a shape behind the cloudy glass panels of the door and with a jerk it opened to reveal a tall, youngish geezer with a shock of long, dark hair, dressed in a T-shirt and old jeans.
‘Clive Cousins?’ I said.
‘That’s me,’ he replied. ‘You must be the detectives.’
‘That’s us,’ I said. ‘Thanks for seeing us.’
‘It’s a real pleasure, believe me. I’ve never met any private detectives before. Come on in.’
He stood back, and we went inside the hall, which was dark and dusty, and he led us through to the back of the house, and into a comfortable-looking room with French windows opening on to a garden that stretched away to a line of tall trees.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Excuse the mess. I don’t get many visitors these days. Coffee? Tea?’
‘Coffee,’ said Dawn, and I nodded assent. He went out of the room and we heard his footsteps recede down the uncarpeted hall.
‘Some place,’ said Dawn.
I agreed with her, and as she sat on the sofa in front of the dead fireplace I took a wander round. There was a big table next to the windows which held a state-of-the-art word processor and printer, a load of pens and notebooks, and a brimming ashtray. One wall was taken up with bookcases that held a thousand or more luridly covered paperback crime novels. I took out one. It was called The Turnaround. I’d never heard of the author.
As I replaced the book, Clive Cousins came back into the room carrying a large wooden tray with a coffee pot, cups, saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of assorted biscuits on it.
He put it on the table, asked our preferences, and poured out the drinks.
When we were all sitting down, he said, ‘So what’s all this about Jay Harrison?’
I told him some of the story. Not all of it. I put it to him that someone was trying a con on Lifetime Records.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘That’s amazing. It would make a great plot.’
I looked at him quizzically.
‘That’s what I do,’ he explained. ‘Write detective novels. Hence all those,’ and he waved at the shelves full of books.
‘Sometimes I need a plot and I rip one off from some old potboiler from the fifties, dress it up, and Bob’s your uncle. Petty larceny. But I’m sure the people who wrote those wouldn’t object. Most of them weren’t past a bit of petty larceny themselves.’ And he smiled to himself at the thought. ‘Hence the fact that I was intrigued to meet you two. I use private eyes a lot in my books, and, like I said, I’ve never met one in real life. I’m afraid research isn’t my strong suit.’
