by John Harvey
Holland listened as if it mattered, his gaze rarely leaving my face.
When I’d finished, he sat a full minute in silence, weighing things over.
‘I can’t do anything about the girl,’ he said. ‘Even if Neville did kill her or have her killed, we’d never get any proof. And let’s be honest: where she’s concerned, nobody gives a toss. But the other stuff, drugs especially. There might be something I could do.’
I thought if I went the right way about it, I could get Foxy to make some kind of statement, off the record, nothing that would come to court, not even close, but it would be a start. Places, times, amounts. And there were others who’d be glad to find a way of doing Neville down, repaying him for all the cash he’d pocketed, the petty cruelties he’d meted out.
‘One month,’ Holland said. ‘Then show me what you’ve got.’
When I held out my hand to shake his, his eyes fixed on my arm. ‘And that habit of yours,’ he said. ‘Kick it now.’
A favourite trick of Neville’s, whenever his men raided a club, was to take the musicians who’d been holding aside — and there were usually one or two — and feign sympathy. Working long hours, playing the way you do, stands to reason you need a little something extra, a little pick-me-up. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Men of the world. Just hand it over and we’ll say no more about it. Oh, and if you’ve got a little sweetener for the lads… lovely, lovely.
And ever after, if he walked into a club or bumped into them on the street, he would be into them for another fifty plus whatever they were carrying. Let anyone try saying no and they were sorted good.
Inside a matter of weeks I talked with two pianists, a drummer, a guitarist and three sax players — what is it with saxophonists? — who agreed to dish the dirt on Neville if it would get him off their backs. And finally, after a lot of arguing and pleading, I persuaded Foxy to sit down with Holland in an otherwise empty room, neutral territory, and tell him what he knew.
After that, carefully, Holland spoke to a few of Neville’s team, officers who were already compromised and eager to protect themselves as best they could. From a distance, he watched Neville himself. Checked, double-checked.
The report he wrote was confidential and he took it to the new Deputy Assistant Commissioner, one of the few high-ranking bosses he thought he could trust.
It was agreed that going public would generate bad publicity for the force and that should be avoided at all costs. Neville was shunted sideways, somewhere safe, and after several months allowed to retire on a full pension for reasons of ill health.
One of his mutually beneficial contacts had been with a businessman from Nicosia, import and export, and that was where Neville hived off to, counting his money, licking his wounds.
I was at the airport to see him off.
Three and a bit years ago now.
I took Tom Holland’s advice and cleaned up my act, the occasional drag at some weed aside. Tom, he’s a detective chief inspector now and tipped for higher things. I don’t play any more, rarely feel the need. There are a couple of bands I manage, groups that’s what they call them these days, one from Ilford, one from Palmers Green. And I keep myself fit, swim, work out in the gym. One thing a drummer has, even a second-rate ex-drummer like me, is strong wrists, strong hands.
I don’t reckon Neville staying in Cyprus for ever, can’t see it somehow; he’ll want to come back to the smoke. And when he does, I’ll meet him. Maybe even treat him to a drink. Ask if he remembers Ethel, the way she lay back, twisted, on the bed, her broken neck…
FAVOUR
Kiley hadn’t heard from Adrian Costain in some little time, not since one of Costain’s A-list clients had ended up in an all-too-public brawl, the pictures syndicated round the world at the touch of a computer key, and Kiley, who had been hired to prevent exactly that kind of thing happening, had been lucky to get half his fee.
‘If we were paying by results,’ Costain had said, ‘you’d be paying me.’
Kiley had had new cards printed. ‘Investigations. Private and Confidential. All kinds of security work undertaken. Ex-Metropolitan Police’. Telephone and fax numbers underneath. Cheaper by the hundred, the young woman in Easyprint had said, Kiley trying not to stare at the tattoo that snaked up from beneath the belt of her jeans to encircle her navel, the line of tiny silver rings that tinkled like a miniature carillon whenever she moved her head.
Now the cards were pinned, some of them, outside newsagents’ shops all up and down the Holloway Road and around; others he’d left discreetly in pubs and cafes in the vicinity; once, hopefully, beside the cash desk at the Holloway Odeon after an afternoon showing of Insomnia, Kiley not immune to Maura Tierney’s charms.
Most days, the phone didn’t ring, the fax failed to ratchet into life.
‘Email, that’s what you need, Jack,’ the Greek in the corner cafe where he sometimes had breakfast assured him. ‘Email, the Net, the World Wide Web.’
What Kiley needed was a new pair of shoes, a way to pay next month’s rent, a little luck. Getting laid wouldn’t be too bad either: it had been a while.
He was on his way back into the flat, juggling the paper, a pint of milk, a loaf of bread, fidgeting for the keys, when the phone started to ring.
Too late, he pressed recall and held his breath.
‘Hello?’ The voice at the other end was suave as cheap margarine.
‘Adrian?’
‘You couldn’t meet me in town, I suppose? Later this morning. Coffee.’
Kiley thought that he could.
When he turned the corner of Old Compton Street into Frith Street, Costain was already sitting outside Bar Italia, expensively suited legs lazily crossed, Times folded open, cappuccino as yet untouched before him.
Kiley squeezed past a pair of media types earnestly discussing first-draft scripts and European funding, and took a seat at Costain’s side.
‘Jack,’ Costain said. ‘It’s been too long.’ However diligently he practised his urbane, upper-class drawl there was always that telltale tinge of Ilford, like a hair ball at the back of his throat.
Kiley signalled to the waitress and leaned back against the painted metal framework of the chair. Across the street, Ronnie Scott’s was advertising Dianne Adams, foremost amongst its coming attractions.
‘I didn’t know she was still around,’ Kiley said.
‘You know her?’
‘Not really.’
What Kiley knew were old rumours of walkouts and no-shows, a version of ‘Stormy Weather’ that had been used a few years back in a television commercial, an album of Gershwin songs he’d once owned but not seen in, oh, a decade or more. Not since Dianne Adams had played London last.
‘She’s spent a lot of time in Europe since she left the States,’ Costain was saying. ‘Denmark. Holland. Still plays all the big festivals. Antibes, North Sea.’
Kiley was beginning to think Costain’s choice of venue for their meeting was down to more than a love of good coffee. ‘You’re representing her,’ he said.
‘In the UK, yes.’
Kiley glanced back across the street. ‘How long’s she at Ronnie’s?’
‘Two weeks.’
When Kiley had been a kid and little more, those early cappuccino days, a girl he’d been seeing had questioned the etiquette of eating the chocolate off the top with a spoon. He did it now, two spoonfuls before stirring in the rest, wondering, as he did so, where she might be now, if she still wore her hair in a ponytail, the hazy green in her eyes.
‘You could clear a couple of weeks, Jack, I imagine. Nights, of course, afternoons.’ Costain smiled and showed some teeth, not his but sparkling just the same. ‘You know the life.’
‘Not really.’
‘Didn’t you have a pal? Played trumpet, I believe?’
‘Saxophone.’
‘Ah, yes.’ As if they were interchangeable, a matter of fashion, an easy either-or.
Derek Becker had played Ronnie’s once or twice,
in his pomp, not headlining, but taking the support slot with his quartet, Derek on tenor and soprano, occasionally baritone, along with the usual piano, bass and drums. That was before the booze really hit him bad.
‘Adams,’ Costain said, ‘it would just be a matter of babysitting, making sure she gets to the club on time, the occasional interview. You know the drill.’
‘Hardly seems necessary.’
‘She’s not been in London in a good while. She’ll feel more comfortable with a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on.’ Costain smiled his professional smile. ‘That’s metaphorically, of course.’
They both knew he needed the money; there was little more, really, to discuss.
‘She’ll be staying at Le Meridien,’ Costain said. ‘On Piccadilly. From Friday. You can hook up with her there.’
The meeting was over, Costain was already glancing at his watch, checking for messages on his mobile phone.
‘All those years in Europe,’ Kiley said, getting to his feet, ‘no special reason she’s not been back till now?’
Costain shook his head. ‘Representation, probably. Timings not quite right.’ He flapped a hand vaguely at the air. ‘Sometimes it’s just the way these things are.’
‘A little start-up fund would be good,’ Kiley said.
Costain reached into his suit jacket for his wallet and slid out two hundred and fifty in freshly minted twenties and tens. ‘Are you still seeing Kate these days?’ he asked.
Kiley wasn’t sure.
Kate Keenan was a freelance journalist with a free-ranging and often fierce column in the Independent. Kiley had met her by chance a little over a year ago and they’d been sparring with one another ever since. She’d been sparring with him. Sometimes, Kiley thought, she took him the way some women took paracetamol.
‘Only I was thinking,’ Costain said, ‘she and Dianne ought to get together. Dianne’s a survivor, after all. Beat cancer. Saw off a couple of abusive husbands. Brought up a kid alone. She’d be perfect for one of those pieces Kate does. Profiles. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Ask her,’ Kiley said.
‘I’ve tried,’ Costain said. ‘She doesn’t seem to be answering my calls.’
There had been an episode, Kiley knew, before he and Kate had met, when she had briefly fallen for Costain’s slippery charm. It had been, as she liked to say, like slipping into cow shit on a rainy day.
‘Is this part of what you’re paying me for?’ Kiley asked.
‘Merely a favour,’ Costain said, smiling. ‘A small favour between friends.’
Kiley thought he wouldn’t mind an excuse to call Kate himself. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll do what I can. But I’ve got a favour to ask you in return.’
The night before Dianne Adams opened in Frith Street, Costain organised a reception downstairs at the Pizza on the Park. Jazzers, journalists, publicists and hangers-on, musicians like Guy Barker and Courtney Pine, for fifteen minutes Nicole Farhi and David Hare. Canapes and champagne.
Derek Becker was there with a quartet, playing music for schmoozing. Only it was better than that.
Becker was a hard-faced romantic who loved the fifties recordings of Stan Getz, especially the live sessions from the Shrine with Bob Brookmeyer on valve trombone; he still sent cards, birthday, Christmas and Valentine, to the woman who’d had the good sense not to marry him some twenty years before. And he liked to drink.
A Bass man from way back, he could tolerate most beer, though he preferred it hand-pumped from the wood; in the right mood, he could appreciate a good wine; whisky, he preferred Islay single malts, Lagavulin, say, or Laphroaig. At a pinch, anything would do.
Kiley had come across him once, sprawled along a bench on the southbound platform of the Northern Line at Leicester Square. Vomit still drying on his shirt front, face bruised, a cut splintering the bridge of his nose. Kiley had pulled him straight and used a tissue to wipe what he could from round his mouth and eyes, pushed a tenner down into his top pocket and left him there to sleep it off. Thinking about it still gave him the occasional twinge of guilt.
That had been a good few years back, around the time Kiley had been forced to accept his brief foray into professional soccer was over: the writing on the wall, the stud marks on his shins; the ache in his muscles that never quite went away, one game to the next.
Becker was still playing jazz whenever he could, but instead of Ronnie’s, nowadays it was more likely to be the King’s Head in Bexley, the Coach and Horses at Isleworth, depping on second tenor at some big-band nostalgia weekend at Pontin’s.
And tonight Becker was looking sharp, sharper than Kiley had seen him in years and sounding good. Adams clearly thought so. Calling for silence, she sang a couple of tunes with the band. ‘Stormy Weather’, of course, and an up-tempo ‘Just One of Those Things’. Stepping aside to let Becker solo, she smiled at him broadly. Made a point of praising his playing. After that his eyes followed her everywhere she went.
‘She’s still got it, hasn’t she?’ Kate said, appearing at Kiley’s shoulder.
Kiley nodded. Kate was wearing an oatmeal-coloured suit that would have made most other people look like something out of storage. Her hair shone.
‘You didn’t mind me calling you?’ Kiley said.
Kate shook her head. ‘As long as it was only business.’ Accidentally brushing his arm as she moved away.
Later that night — that morning — Kiley, having delivered Dianne Adams safely to her hotel, was sitting with Derek Becker in a club on the edge of Soho. Both men were drinking Scotch, Becker sipping his slowly, plenty of water in between.
Before the reception had wound down, Adams had spoken to Costain, Costain had spoken to the management at Ronnie’s and Becker had been added to the trio Adams had brought over from Copenhagen to accompany her.
‘I suppose,’ Becker said, ‘I’ve got you to thank for that.’
Kiley shook his head. ‘Thank whoever straightened you out.’
Becker had another little taste of his Scotch. ‘Let me tell you,’ he said. ‘A year ago, it was as bad as it gets. I was living in Walthamstow, a one-room flat. Hadn’t worked in months. The last gig I’d had, a pub over in Chigwell, I hadn’t even made the three steps up on to the stage. I was starting the day with a six-pack and by lunch-time it’d be ruby port and cheap wine. Except there wasn’t any lunch. I hardly ate anything for weeks at a time and when I did I threw it back up. And I stank. People turned away from me on the street. My clothes stank and my skin stank. The only thing I had left, the only thing I hadn’t sold or hocked was my horn and then I hocked that. Bought enough pills, a bottle of cheap Scotch and a packet of old-fashioned razor blades. Enough was more than enough.’
He looked at Kiley and sipped his drink.
‘And then I found this.’
Snapping open his saxophone case, Becker flipped up the lid of the small compartment in which he kept his spare reeds. Lifting out something wrapped in dark velvet, he laid it in Kiley’s hand.
‘Open it.’
Inside the folds was a bracelet, solid gold or merely plated Kiley couldn’t be certain, though from the weight of it he guessed the former. Charms swayed and jingled lightly as he raised it up. A pair of dice. A key. What looked to be — an imitation this, surely? — a Faberge egg.
‘I was shitting myself,’ Becker said. ‘Literally. Shit scared of what I was going to do.’ He wiped his hand across his mouth before continuing. ‘I’d gone down into the toilets at Waterloo station, locked myself in one of the stalls. I suppose I fell, passed out maybe. Next thing I know I’m on my hands and knees, face down in God knows what and there it was. Waiting for me to find it.’
An old Presley song played for a moment at the back of Kiley’s head. ‘Your good-luck charm,’ he said.
‘If you like, yes. The first piece of luck I’d had in months, that’s for sure. Years. I mean, I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there, staring at it. I don’t know, waiting for it to disappear, I suppos
e.’
‘And when it didn’t?’
Becker smiled. ‘I tipped the pills into the toilet bowl, took a belt at the Scotch and then poured away the rest. The most I’ve had, that day to this, is a small glass of an evening, maybe two. I know you’ll hear people say you can’t kick it that way, all or nothing, has to be, but all I can say is it works for me.’ He held out his hand, arm extended, no tremor, the fingers perfectly still. ‘Well, you’ve heard me play.’
Kiley nodded. ‘And this?’ he said.
‘The bracelet?’
‘Yes.’
Forefinger and thumb, Becker took it from the palm of Kiley’s hand.
‘Used it to get my horn out of hock, buy a half-decent suit of clothes. When I was sober enough, I started phoning round, chasing work. Bar mitzvahs, weddings, anything, I didn’t care. When I had enough I went back and redeemed it.’ He rewrapped the bracelet and stowed it carefully away. ‘Been with me ever since.’ He winked. ‘Like you say, my good-luck charm, eh?’
Kiley drained what little remained in his glass. ‘Time I wasn’t here.’
Standing, Becker shook his hand. ‘I owe you one, Jack.’
‘Just keep playing like tonight. Okay?’
The first few days went down easily enough, the way good days sometimes do. Adam’s first set, opening night, was maybe just a little shaky, but after that everything gelled. The reviews were good, better than good, and by midweek word of mouth had kicked in and the place was packed. Becker, Kiley thought, was playing out of his skull, seizing his chance with both hands. Adams worked up a routine with him on ‘Ghost of a Chance’, just the two of them, voice and horn, winding around each other tighter and tighter as the song progressed. And, when they were through, Becker gazed at Dianne Adams with a mixture of gratitude and barely disguised desire.
Costain didn’t have to call in many favours to have Adams interviewed at length on Woman’s Hour and more succinctly on Front Row; after less than three hours’ sleep, she was smiling from behind her make-up on GMTV; Claire Martin prerecorded a piece for her Friday jazz show and had Adams and Becker do their thing in the studio. Kate’s profile in the Indy truthfully presented a woman with a genuine talent, a generous ego and a carapaced heart.
