The Song Never Dies

by Neil Richards

  He again gave the rod a flick of his wrist, making the line fly out, moving so much more slowly than deep sea fishing, the big fish waiting, hundreds of feet down.

  Here — if they were here — the fish would be right at the surface.

  The fly hit the water.

  Again, a few ripples, and the fly sat on the water, patiently waiting.

  When — in a flash — it disappeared.

  The line stared running away off the reel, the spinning reel humming.

  Jack laughed. “Wow. Guess they are biting.”

  Now — another tricky part — getting the fish to circle back, letting it fight a bit, while Jack inexorably reeled in his line.

  Jack took a breath. Like all good things, this required patience.

  Until the fish was just below him, flapping around, making silvery waves in the morning light.

  He freed one hand from the rod and reached down for his net. Riley had his snout over the side, looking down at the reluctant ‘guest’ about to be brought aboard.

  Net ready, Jack went back to reeling in the line.

  The fish still flopping, tail kicking left and right in the air, but now the good-sized trout was over the railing. If it slipped off, onto the deck, Jack would still have a nice fish lunch.

  But it stayed hooked, and Jack brought the net under it.

  “Hey. Not too bad, eh Riley? I’d say we got ourselves a very nice—”

  Which is when, from the other side of the Goose, tied to the wooden mooring, Jack heard someone call out.

  “Jack Brennan? Mr. Brennan?”

  Loud.

  Riley didn’t bark at people — one of the things Jack really loved about his Springer. Smart and selective when it came to making noise!

  But the dog did turn to the bow, in the general direction of the voice.

  “Looks like we have company,” Jack said.

  And pausing only to work his fish off the hook, with net and fish in hand, Jack walked up to the bow, and around to see who was visiting The Grey Goose so early on a chilly spring morning.

  *

  Jack — still holding his net and its catch — looked down at the man, squinting into the sun as he looked up to the deck of the Goose.

  “Jack Brennan?”

  “Yes?”

  The man looked like a farmer — jeans, bulky, grey sweater, skullcap, mid 40s. Not someone Jack recognised.

  Bit of a gut, making the sweater tight.

  But then nothing about the man would have made Jack notice him.

  “My name’s Will Dumford. And my friend Pete suggested, well, um, that I come by.”

  “Pete?”

  “You know. Pete Butterworth. Was his farm where they found that Roman plate, the one—”

  Jack laughed. “Oh, yes. That was quite the discovery …”

  And attempted theft, Jack remembered.

  “Um, yes. Said you were a big help, and, well, do you think I could come up, have a chat?”

  Jack looked down at his net. He had his fish to be cooked.

  And now, with this man’s arrival, he had something else on his agenda.

  “Sure. Just about to make some more coffee. Come on up.”

  Jack turned around and headed into the wheelhouse and down into his river barge’s saloon as the man walked up a rickety plank and came aboard.

  *

  “Coffee okay?” Jack asked.

  “Very good. My wife — my Lauren — never makes it strong enough.”

  Jack nodded. “All my years hitting coffee shops. Grew to like my morning ‘cup of joe’ as dark and sludgy as can be.”

  Jack took a sip.

  He waited for Will to explain the visit, the man visibly nervous.

  Two hands locked on the metal cup of coffee. Looking around the dimly lit saloon, shifting in his seat.

  Whatever this was about, it wasn’t easy for the man.

  Jack threw him a lifeline.

  “So, Pete said you might want to talk to me?”

  Will nodded. Then, releasing his imprisoned cup, he leaned forward. “You see, Jack, a few nights ago there was a big ‘do’. Party at Alex King’s place.”

  “Alex King?”

  “You know. The band leader, singer of the group Lizard?”

  Jack didn’t know.

  Maybe the group never made it across the pond. But then Jack hadn’t bothered to stay current on rock ‘n’ roll once the 70s trailed off into a haze of glitter and grunge.

  That stuff — the pyrotechnics, the big shows, the outlandish outfits and costumes — was best left for kids.

  Jack — he liked his occasional night at the Met.

  “Big you say?”

  “Huge, we were.”

  That caught Jack by surprise.

  We?

  This Will did not look like someone who had once been a rock star.

  “You were in this group, Lizard?”

  Will nodded, smiled. “I was the drummer. Looked a bit different, back in the day, mind you. And when it all seemed over, the albums that never got finished, tours cancelled, everyone at each other’s throats. Well, me and my Lauren, we found a different kind of life right here in Cherringham.”

  Jack could relate to that.

  But he still didn’t have a clue why this guy was here.

  Riley stood by the steps up to the wheelhouse.

  Definitely overdue for his big walk.

  “Say. Was about to take Riley there out for a stroll. He loves running around the meadow, chasing … whatever. Want to come along? Continue while we walk?”

  Will nodded.

  “Yes. And thank you, I mean … what I’m thinking, may sound crazy.”

  Jack got up, took his jacket off the back of his chair.

  “Don’t be too sure about that. Heard a lot of crazy things in my day that, in the end, weren’t so crazy at all.”

  And he led Will Dumford up to the ramp and down off the Goose as Riley bolted ahead sending clusters of sleepy quail scurrying.

  5. A Suspicious Mind

  Jack had led Will on a meandering walk through knee high grasses, heading towards the far end of the meadow where the old church stood, crumbled, decaying, but still — Jack thought — good for another few hundred years, even without any tithing parishioners.

  Will’s story — about the party, about his suspicion, at first sounded far-fetched.

  But the more Jack questioned him, the less sure he was about that.

  “The police did all their usual enquiries and investigations?”

  Will nodded. “Yes. I mean, Alex’s wife, Gail King, told me that the police spent the whole day there. Gave me and the other blokes a call as well. Then Alan, you know the policeman, Alan Rivers?”

  “Know him well”, Jack said.

  “He told Gail that the Crime Scene team reckoned it was an accident, plain and simple. Late night swim … or rather, an early morning swim! Drugs of all sorts in old Alex. Some of them prescription.”

  “And some not?”

  Will nodded.

  “Me, I gave that up. Decades ago. New life for me. Like I mentioned.”

  Jack still had trouble seeing Will as a former rocker and party animal.

  “So an accident?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Like Brian Jones?” Jack said.

  “Hmm?”

  “You know, the Stones guitarist. Their original bandleader. Died in his pool.”

  Will nodded.

  Before his time.

  And Jack also knew there were theories that. That Jones’ drowning may not have been so accidental.

  Jack stopped.

  Riley was content to race back to Jack, give him a look and dash away again.

  But soon even Riley would be tuckered out, then it would be time for a snooze on his pillow on the aft deck of the Goose, sitting in the sun.

  “This has you bothered, hmm?”

  Will nodded. “I mean, that night. It all seemed to go wrong. Try
ing to set up the gigs, to start right up again. But everyone — fighting just like the old days. Nick, Alex. Chris Wickes doing his usual disappearing act.”

  Jack was immediately curious about that.

  About all of them.

  But he held those suspicions … for now.

  “And that Sarinda, just a girl really, flouncing around like she was some kind of teenage rock goddess.”

  “Not impressed, hmm?”

  “She’s a bloody creation of Nick.”

  “She’s what the argument was about?”

  “Alex said Nick shouldn’t have brought her. Said they’d ripped him off and he could prove it.”

  “Any idea what he meant by that?”

  “No.”

  “Must have gone over well.”

  “Too right. Then it all kicked off. Everybody yelling.”

  Jack looked away, thinking it all through.

  The people involved. The night. The drugs, the girl.

  The accusation.

  The tension.

  Then back to Will.

  “Your wife. She was there too?”

  Will nodded.

  A bit too quickly, Jack thought.

  Then the ex-drummer smiled. “She was really looking forward to the party. All glammed up and excited about the plans for a tour.”

  “Those all gone now?”

  But Will shook his head. “No. That’s just it, Jack. There are plans for a memorial gig for Alex down at the Ploughman’s. Right after the funeral this Saturday! Then, later on, a bloody tour. Like nothin’ changed!”

  “And for you … it has?”

  “Look, I’m just a regular guy. Run my country store, take care of the local farmers. It’s a good life. An honest life. And something about this, just doesn’t seem right. Know what I mean? I knew Alex. No way he would ever wander into his pool all messed up. The bloke had self-preservation instincts.”

  “A survivor?”

  “And me too, in my own way. Tried to live my life — this rest of it at least — with some … dunno … values. For my kids. For my own sanity.”

  Jack thought of his fish, now sitting on a plate in his fridge awaiting scaling and deboning.

  “And now you smell something rotten?”

  “Yeah. Guess so. Maybe I’m crazy.”

  Then Jack nodded. “And maybe Will … you aren’t. I have someone I work with—”

  “Right, right, that Sarah. My wife knows her, I think.”

  “Exactly. So I want to share all this with her. May need to talk to you again. Certainly got to talk to the band. If they’ll talk. See what they think.”

  “Meaning you’ll look into it?”

  Jack nodded. “Sounds like there’s a bunch of what we call ‘motives’ on the table. Could all have been an unfortunate accident at the end of a long night.”

  But maybe, Jack thought, just maybe it wasn’t.

  Impulsively Will reached out and shook Jacks hand. “Thank you! I’ll sleep better knowing you are checking things out. We got the memorial service in a few days. Right at St. James. As you say, might all be nothin’.”

  Jack whistled.

  Time to get Riley back.

  “Or — it might be something,” Jack added.

  And with Riley now at his heels, panting crazily, worn out from countless dashes, Jack led the way back to the Grey Goose.

  Time to call his other good friend.

  *

  The first time, Sarah actually went right past the rough gravel track that led into thick woods, and then beyond to some hills.

  She thought: Jack took his Sprite up there?

  Brave soul.

  And as she went up the unmarked, not-nearly a road, she guessed this had to be private property.

  Which meant that in driving up here to meet Jack she was trespassing.

  Though it was pretty unlikely that Alan would throw the book at them!

  She smiled at that. They had earned a lot of leeway with Cherringham’s finest.

  Not to mention that Alan was — well — fond of her. Even after all these years.

  And that with no encouragement from her.

  Her Rav-4 bumped its way steadily up the hill. The car should be fine, she assumed, still, it made for a bumpy ride.

  Until the trees parted, and the road — still mostly a rocky path with ruts made by heavy rains — kept climbing upwards.

  To what looked like a lovely hill that could be — she thought — the highest spot in Cherringham. When the track abruptly ended, she saw that Jack had pulled his Sprite off to the side, parked on a grassy spot, bright green with spring’s urgency to get things up and growing.

  Jack stood a few feet away, looking on, probably having heard her struggling up.

  And he had Riley with him.

  Who immediately started bouncing up and down like a toddler eager to see a parent coming home.

  Sarah stopped, braked, and got out of her 4x4.

  “Morning, Sarah,” Jack said with a smile.

  She shook her head and grinned back. “Yes, it is, and can you tell me, a Cherringham native, exactly where we are now?”

  “This hill? Not sure it has a name. None I could find, anyway. Quite the view, hmm?”

  Sarah turned around. The top here was largely treeless save for a few poplars that dotted the rim of the hill.

  From here, she could not only look down and see the now-glistening Thames winding its way past Cherringham, and the town itself — a picture postcard view — but turning around, on a clear day like this, rolling farms stretching as far as she could see, with winding roads leading to other villages … and those distant villages themselves looking in the distance like pastel impressionistic paintings.

  She turned to Jack.

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “Thought you’d like it.”

  “And I’ve never even been here. I doubt any of my friends in the village have either.”

  “Pity.”

  Another head shake from her. Jack was not getting it.

  “Because this place, that so-called road you had me climb, is all private property. We are trespassing, Jack.”

  Riley had come up to Sarah and, with his snout, nudged at Sarah’s hand for a head scratch.

  She loved that dog almost as much as Jack did.

  Smart, dependable. And what a free spirit to see racing around, chasing birds, and yelping at the sun!

  Jack walked over to her, eyes narrowed quizzically.

  “Hang on. I thought in this country people had right of passage through property, estates, and all that? You told me—”

  “Yes, you can take footpaths through property. But going on a private road? Bringing cars up here?”

  Jack smiled. She guessed he probably knew that.

  “Oh.”

  An impish look in his eyes, his wrinkles only adding to the effect of his grin. “I will try to remember that. Won’t we boy?” he said also reaching down patting Riley.

  “But now that we are here,” she said, doing another 360 degree survey, “it is beautiful. Care to tell me what you asked me up here for?”

  Jack nodded, then pointed in the general direction that was slightly east of Cherringham.

  “Discovered this on one of my, um, rambles. And knew it would be the best place to see that.”

  Sarah followed the line made by Jack’s arm and pointing finger.

  “See that place? That mansion? That is Alex King’s.”

  And she could see the expansive property so clearly from up here.

  Alex King.

  Cherringham rock ‘n’ roll royalty, she knew.

  Never a fan herself. Lizard. Stadium rock. Screaming guitar crescendos. Not her cup of tea.

  “I see. Some view.” She turned to him.

  Already suspicions bubbling up in her mind.

  “Terrible what happened,” she said.

  Jack looked at her. The slightest of nods.

  Then, as if he knew she was waitin
g for it …

  “Maybe …”

  6. The Leader of the Band

  Sarah listened as Jack described Will Dumford’s visit. She knew his wife, but only as an acquaintance, with Lauren a few years ahead of her at school.

  She vaguely remembered that Lauren had married the Lizard drummer.

  Lived the high life for a while.

  Not unlike me, she thought.

  But that was before she and Will returned to the village and began a considerably more quiet life.

  One thought she had: Lauren never seemed terribly happy with her lot.

  Not active in local things at all. Just a nod when Sarah said ‘hi’ to her at Tesco’s.

  Must have been quite an adjustment.

  Riley had started exploring the boundaries of the hill. Darting down a few feet then coming back.

  She half expected him to return with a baby rabbit locked in his jaws. Jack had told her that, sweet as Riley was, such events were not uncommon.

  “But has Will got any evidence? Foul play? Something to make you — or anyone — think it wasn’t just a very rock and roll accident?”

  Jack shook his head and looked away.

  “No.” A quick look back at Sarah. “But since when has that stopped us?”

  She laughed at that; he was right about the times they’d got involved, just mucked about to see if the official story was the true story.

  And in so many cases, it wasn’t.

  “He did say that he knew Alex. Stayed in touch when Alex went to LA. Different lifestyles, of course. And Will said there was no way the guy would wander into the pool house alone, all wobbly. Get into the water. Said something interesting …”

  “Hmm?”

  “Said you don’t get to be an old rocker like Alex without some survival skills.”

  “As in self-preservation?”

  Another nod from Jack.

  It was always so — what, compelling, interesting? — to see Jack react to the ‘facts’ of an event, as if in his mind’s eye he could see holes everywhere.

  He turned to Sarah. “And the fact that everyone was at each other’s throats—”

  “Even though the goal was to get back together, get back on the road, make some money.”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s odd, right? Lot of grudges — serious grudges. Over money, over lives changed. The girl — Sarinda. In the heat of the moment—”