London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Information gathering,’ she murmured.

  From the pavement there wasn’t much to see or hear. The lights in most of the windows on Jermyn Street were out for the night and not many of the buildings had basement premises. Only the presence of a bouncer loitering by the railings and a single orange streetlight over the entrance below announced the club to the world. As the door opened a girl burst out pulling a pink mohair wrap around her shoulders. A snatch of music escaped into the night air. It was a saxophone solo.

  ‘Is that Lindon Claremont playing?’ Mirabelle asked the bouncer.

  The man shrugged. His face divulged nothing and if he knew Lindon was in custody he did not show it.

  ‘Tone deaf, me,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t tell one from the other.’ He stepped back and gestured downstairs. Mirabelle paid at the desk where she was given a grimy ticket and waved into the club. Inside it was warm, dark and the music hit her in a wave. The saxophonist alone was loud, never mind what it might be like when the rest of the band started playing. Near the stage there were a few tables, mostly taken by couples drinking bottles of cheap plonk from shiny bucket stands. The ice had melted and the bottles bobbed in little black pools. By the bar a crowd of men stood with all eyes on the platform, which was lit by a bare lightbulb with such low wattage it looked yellow. Apart from that and a single bulb over the bar there was no light in the room. If anything the club was even darker than the street outside.

  Mirabelle waited until her eyes became accustomed to it. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly intense and the music was frantic. The beat made it both difficult to think straight and pleasant to move – like swimming almost. No one was dancing but one or two of the women were swinging in time. Mirabelle felt her fingers twitch as the saxophone player continued his solo. Everyone had such serious expressions. To one side four other musicians were listening, sitting intently by their instruments – a set of drums, a guitar, a bass and a piano. Then the drummer picked up the syncopated rhythm and they joined in one by one. The feeling in the room changed instantly. The audience burst into chattering life, waves of laughter cut through the music and people lit cigarettes in a flurry of tiny flames, briefly illuminating their faces in an orange glow.

  Mirabelle moved to the bar. A man with a thin moustache smiled grimly and drained the last of his pint. He straightened his tie before leaning in to shout over the music, asking if he could buy her a drink.

  ‘I was hoping to hear Lindon Claremont,’ Mirabelle shouted back, cupping her hand against her cheek.

  ‘Lindon Claremont? Plays saxophone? He’s usually over in Soho. I’ve never heard of him playing in here.’ The man’s face was shiny with sweat and he was trying to speak clearly over the music so that he sounded aggressive, punctuating his words by jabbing his finger towards the stage. ‘These guys are good,’ he shouted drunkenly. ‘The one on guitar is Len Williams. He’s only just back from Australia. He’s why I came tonight. I heard he’d be on. He’s amazing! If anything he’s got better since I last saw him, which must have been during the war. It was the Bouillabaisse in those days. There was just a crazy West Indian, some crates of booze and not much else. The music though! Christ! It feels like a hundred years ago!’

  He motioned to see if she’d like a drink, leaning in too close. Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She stepped back.

  Mirabelle moved away and shifting out of his line of sight, she motioned to the bartender. Someone here must know something about Lindon. The jazz world, she guessed, was tiny, and one in which Lindon’s arrest would be big news; if only she could find someone to talk about it.

  ‘Is Lindon Claremont on tonight?’

  The man’s fingers clenched uncomfortably. ‘Lindon doesn’t play up this end of town. If he’s on he’ll be over in one of the Soho clubs.’

  ‘Is he playing over there then, do you think?’ Mirabelle pushed.

  The bartender’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Lindon’s not regular anywhere, is he?’ he shouted.

  ‘I hadn’t heard of him on the circuit for a couple of days. I wanted to find him, you see. I was wondering where he’d got to.’

  The bartender weighed things up. ‘He got nicked, Miss,’ he admitted and then hurriedly added, ‘but I don’t know nothing about it.’

  He turned away as a burly fellow pushed in and ordered two gins and tonics. Mirabelle loitered but the bartender studiously avoided catching her eye. When the gins and tonics were paid for, he deliberately moved to the other end of the servery and started polishing glasses.

  ‘Excuse me!’ She waved her hand, but he turned away clearly not willing to discuss the matter any further. How frustrating! Mirabelle tapped her foot to the rhythm. The music was infectious. She moved slightly towards the stage and hung around. A man beside her nudged her arm and proffered a cigarette straight from the packet. There weren’t many black men in Jermyn Street. Apart from the saxophonist and the bass player on stage, he was the only black bloke in the whole club. He was smoking Chesterfields. Mirabelle let him light her one.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed. ‘The barmen aren’t very friendly in here, are they?’

  The man nodded. He was dressed in a tight tan-coloured suit. The material had an unusual sheen. His hair was so short it was practically shaved and was slicked over with some kind of hair oil. Mirabelle could smell it – a tannin note on the smoky air.

  The man gestured towards the stage and shouted in a deep American drawl. ‘Benny got the beat. He’s one bad brother. You like music, lady?’

  ‘You’re a musician?’ Mirabelle guessed.

  ‘Yeah. I came to hear Len, and he’s good but he’s not good, you know? Benny’s the one holding it together up there.’

  Mirabelle took a deep draw on her cigarette. ‘I was hoping to hear Lindon Claremont play.’

  The man looked at her quizzically. ‘Here? You don’t know one joint from another, lady. Lindon got banged up. Not much loss – he’s more a shape in a drape than a hep cat. He don’t make love to that sax of his, know what I mean? They say he plugged some solid chick. That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He plugged a chick. Over in Soho. You want to ask at Mac’s Rehearsal Rooms.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Windmill Street, lady. I wonder sometimes if you English people really speak English at all!’

  ‘Do you think he did it? Lindon?’

  ‘What kind of question is that? Are you with the Babylon, lady, or you just crazy?’

  And with that he turned away.

  Mirabelle scanned the room. There was no one she could make out who was likely to know any more about Lindon, apart from the band. She attracted the attention of a man to her right and motioned to the stage. ‘What time do they finish playing?’

  ‘They only just started, love,’ he said, swinging his hips.

  ‘That’s Len Williams. With any luck we’ll be here well beyond midnight.’

  He slid his eyes down Mirabelle’s body and took a step closer. Mirabelle moved smoothly to one side before heading determinedly towards the barman. She’d give it one last try. The man didn’t move away quickly enough and she collared him.

  ‘I don’t think Lindon did anything,’ she shouted over the music. ‘I don’t care what people say. And I’m going to try to prove it.’

  The guy put down the glass he was cleaning. His skin was pockmarked and even in light this low Mirabelle could make out the brown stains on his teeth. When he shouted, he practically growled. ‘I wouldn’t get involved, myself,’ he said, his eyes hard. ‘God knows what happened to that girl.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘She’d been in here. She’d been everywhere. Danced like a snake! I didn’t know her name till I read it in the paper. I’d keep out of it,’ he shouted.
‘You’ll get into trouble, asking questions about that darkie. You best be careful. Lots of the boys are jumpy.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Stands to reason.’ He leaned over the bar to make his point. ‘Young boy gets into trouble and the police are looking for any reason to shut down jazz clubs. The law don’t like jazz clubs. No one wants anything to do with that kind of trouble, see. We ain’t had a raid here since 1947 and that’s the way we want to keep it – not like the boys in Soho. Nice lady like you ought to be heading over to the Feldman, if anywhere. Come here when you’re meeting a fella you can’t take home to your mother. Now, I suggest you leave it alone.’

  Mirabelle decided to push him a little further – after all, this man knew Lindon. Why didn’t he seem to care? Did no one feel responsible for the people around them any more?

  ‘I don’t think Claremont did anything. I think he’s innocent. That’s why I’m asking,’ she tried to explain.

  ‘Guilt and innocence is one for the judge and jury, innit? He didn’t play here. Nice enough lad, but he’s none of our business. If you want to pursue it you need to go to Soho.’

  Mirabelle shook her head. She wasn’t going to get any more here tonight. ‘All right.’ She squeezed her way back to the door.

  The air outside was refreshing after the smoky atmosphere. Her ears rang from the music, and she shook her head.

  The doorman stared at her. ‘You all right, Miss?’ Jazz occasionally overcame the ladies.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Mirabelle snapped. She could do without his solicitude.

  Soho was about a mile away. The walk would do her good.

  Chapter 7

  It’s not always the cold girls who get the mink coats.

  As she headed up Shaftesbury Avenue, Mirabelle couldn’t help thinking it would never have been like that during the war. People would stick their necks out for justice and, more than that, they shared an empathy with anyone who found themselves in a fix. During the Blitz people risked their lives for complete strangers. They took in waifs and strays. They stood up for what they thought was right. During the war anyone who knew Lindon Claremont and believed him innocent would have been on his side.

  She was amazed at how busy the city was and how many cars there were. At the traffic lights a queue of four identical Morris Minors sat revving their engines waiting for the signal to change. Rolls-Royces and Bentleys with chauffeurs waited outside the theatres. Paperboys were stationed on the street corners selling the last of the evening editions. Buses you could scarcely see into because of the thick fug of cigarette smoke flashed past, like clouds encased in red metal. The walk took less than fifteen minutes. The streets of Soho were packed with people. Windmill Street housed several pubs, restaurants and coffee shops in its narrow ramshackle buildings, most of which had survived the Blitz intact. London had rebuilt faster than Brighton, and Mirabelle noticed there were hardly any gap sites in this part of town. The city seemed to have healed itself, yet it had lost some of its wartime camaraderie.

  There was no sign of Mac’s Rehearsal Rooms – not a notice or a light. Mirabelle checked the basements and the shadowy doorways, remembering that the Jermyn Street club had hardly advertised its existence and that Mac’s was an underground place and might be even harder to find. Most of the basement lights were out and the lower floors appeared to be restaurant kitchens or storerooms. There was no sign of a jazz club anywhere.

  Mirabelle walked up one side of the street and down the other, listening. Windmill Street was relatively quiet, and the people going in and out of doors didn’t look like jazz types – not judging by what she’d seen at the Jermyn Street club. There was nothing for it but to ask. She sized up the premises that were open and made a decision, going into a café where three bored girls sat smoking cigarettes. Cups and saucers and a solitary grey teapot sat on the table. They turned hopefully but seeing Mirabelle went straight back to their conversation.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a jazz club along here – Mac’s Rehearsal Rooms?’

  The youngest girl eyed Mirabelle’s outfit carefully. Mirabelle was aware that the dark green coat and the Sash of tweed they could see underneath it must make her look like a governess. By contrast the girls were wearing an array of brightly coloured tops in shades of orange and pink. They sported jaunty matching scarves tied at an angle and vivid matt lipstick. In the dark foggy night and the down-at-heel café they practically glowed.

  ‘You’re not exactly dressed for jazz,’ one of them said.

  She had a point. Mirabelle sighed. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I didn’t change.’

  ‘Well, it’s not on tonight anyway, love. You’ll need to go to Feldman’s. Feldman’s is better for you in any case.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The girl stared at Mirabelle. ‘It’s smarter, you know. More proper. For the older crowd.’

  The girl’s candour made Mirabelle smile. The other two looked away, trying not to laugh as their friend dug herself into potential trouble.

  ‘I see.’ Mirabelle sank into one of the bench seats and out of nowhere a thin waiter with a crumpled white apron came to take her order.

  ‘A strong coffee, please, with milk. And whatever these ladies would like.’

  The waiter didn’t need to ask. The girls shifted in their seats to face Mirabelle, all smiles. She had known they were working girls from the minute they opened their mouths. Their reaction to simply being bought a cup of tea confirmed it.

  ‘He’ll bring biscuits, you know. If he’s got any.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Good. Tell me, do you know a sax player by the name of Lindon Claremont?’

  The girls oohed and aahed.

  ‘The nigger what killed the deb, you mean?’

  The waiter put a plate of raspberry wafers on the table, a fresh pot of tea and a frothy coffee made with copious amounts of milk. He did not loiter.

  ‘Yes,’ Mirabelle said, ‘that’s exactly who I mean though I wouldn’t use the word nigger. It isn’t kind. This is your patch, isn’t it? I’m trying to find out what happened that night. I don’t suppose you know?’

  One of the girls picked up a biscuit and another started pouring the fresh tea.

  ‘You ain’t a copper, is you, Missus?’

  ‘Friend of a friend, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re the friend of a coloured fella who used to play at Mac’s?’

  ‘Nah,’ one of them corrected the other, ‘she’s a friend of the deb, ain’t you?’

  Mirabelle took a sip of coffee to give her strength. It was scalded but it helped. She fervently wished she hadn’t let Eddie buy her another whisky sour. It was only just after ten o’clock.

  ‘So,’ she ignored the question, ‘did you ever meet him? Lindon Claremont?’

  ‘Love,’ said the girl in orange, ‘I done more than that. He’s a customer, he is.’

  Mirabelle grinned. The girl had probably been trying to shock her but that was all to the good. ‘So I’ve come to the right person.’

  ‘Oh no.’ The scarf around the girl’s neck fluttered as she shook her head. ‘I never talk about me fellas. Not even to my aunties or nothing. Not even to my mum.’

  Mirabelle reached into her purse, pulled out a ten-bob note and laid it on the table. ‘Give it a try,’ she said. ‘I’d like to hear anything. Small details can be very important. Do you think he did it?’

  ‘Are you press?’

  Mirabelle shook her head as the girl sized up the money and then picked up the note slowly before deftly popping it into her purse.

  ‘I was a bit surprised when I heard they nicked him,’ she said as she bit into one of the biscuits. ‘He didn’t seem the type. Bit useless, really.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought, too,’ Mirabelle said, brushing some crumbs from her lap. />
  The girls gawped.

  ‘Oh, I’m not a …’ They started laughing.

  ‘Thank gawd for that,’ the youngest girl said.

  ‘He doesn’t have a temper, Lindon. That much I do know,’ the older one continued. ‘He ain’t a beater or a slasher or nothing like that. No temper.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘A few months. Most of them nig nogs … Is nig nogs okay?’ Mirabelle shook her head solemnly. Above the table a picture of the King smiled down and from further up the café another one of Winston Churchill smoking a cigar and making the famous ‘V’ symbol was stuck up on pins. Both had been roughly cut out of magazines and mounted on card.

  ‘Well,’ the girl continued, ‘whatever you call them, mostly they don’t use white girls. There’s plenty of our blokes like a bit of chocolate. Best of both, you know. But Lindon was unusual for a darkie. He liked white skin. I charged him a bit extra to be honest, ’cause it’s kinky, ain’t it? He liked the contrast, he said. He liked the idea.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘So he might have been attracted to Rose, then?’

  ‘I’m sure! Did you see the picture in the paper? She was pretty enough. But, Lindon, he’s shy that way. Sweet. I don’t reckon he’s got a bad bone in his body – not really. He’d eat you out of house and home, let you buy him a drink – he’s a talker. With talkers it’s all going on in their head. But I can’t see him kidnapping someone or hurting them. He’s not that way. Once when he saw a bruise on me he got proper upset. That’s what I mean – he was sweet. Said he didn’t like to think of me getting bashed around and that. And he never laid a hand on me. If anything, he was too gentle.’

  Mirabelle noticed that the only other customer in the café – a scruffy, very elderly man in a worn coat – was listening intently. She tried not to catch his eye.