The Music of Sound

by Ian Jarvis

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? Money well spent.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Once again, I was being sarcastic. One day you’ll pick up on it.’

  Watson was pleased to find the Balmoral’s traditional doorman wearing a kilt. The concierge held the door wide and they entered the elegant reception. The teenager’s wide eyes drifted from the polished marble floors and sparkling brass to the chandeliers and ornate splendour of the ceiling plasterwork. Quist gave one of his peculiar lopsided smiles and walked to the reception desk.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said, unbuttoning his overcoat. ‘We’d like a twin room, please.’

  ‘Certainly.’ The girl checked her computer. ‘We have external twin rooms with truly amazing views, or internal facing onto our central courtyard.’

  ‘External, please, and a high one. I suffer from terrarphobia.’

  The receptionist looked blank.

  ‘A fear of the ground,’ explained Quist.

  The girl peered at his feet

  ‘Er, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘It comes and goes.’

  ‘Top floor it is then,’ she said, sliding a registration card across the desk.

  Quist signed and watched as his credit card was swiped before picking up a complimentary evening newspaper. A teenage bellboy appeared, grabbed the detective’s bag and showed them through a gleaming brass door into the elevator.

  ‘Welcome to the Balmoral, gentlemen.’ The young man beamed from ear to ear. ‘My name’s Scott. That’s my Christian name, not my surname. I’m no relation to our famous author.’ Scott laughed quietly. He’d cracked this joke to dozens of guests and it was still as clever and funny as the day he’d thought of it.

  Watson nudged Quist. ‘What author?’ he whispered.

  Quist ignored the question. ‘Hello, Scott,’ he said. ‘This is a lovely place, but I understand you had some unpleasantness last night?’ He held out the newspaper he’d taken and gestured to the headline. ‘A murder?’

  ‘Oh, it’s best not to dwell on such things, Sir,’ said Scott. ‘You’re right; this is a wonderful hotel. We have everyone staying here. Royalty, ex-Presidents, Prime Ministers and countless film stars. Ligeia is our latest celebrity.’

  ‘Ligeia?’ gasped Watson. ‘You mean she’s here now? In this hotel?’

  ‘No, she left this morning. She gave a concert at the Murrayfield Stadium which I hear was quite something.’

  ‘Yes,’ broke in Quist, ‘but I was wondering about that awful murder?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to speak about it, Sir.’ Scott gave a sympathetic shrug as the doors opened and he led them out into a corridor. ‘We have to be very discreet. I’m sure you understand?’

  Quist pulled out three banknotes.

  ‘It was a young lady,’ whispered Scott, glancing around and swiftly pocketing the money. ‘She wasn’t a hotel guest, so I don’t know her name and the police haven’t released it. The cleaning staff found her body this morning in the room of a guest named Rex Grant.’

  ‘She was killed in his room?’ Quist felt his stomach lurch and closed his eyes. ‘Oh, dear God.’

  ‘Yes, he appears to have brought her back for sex and she stayed the night. The police aren’t telling us much. They must think we’ll shoot our mouths off.’

  Watson raised an eyebrow. ‘Perish the thought.’

  Scott snorted. ‘Mica behind reception thinks I’m a big mouth, but she’s no room to talk. She’s into threesomes and tells her friends all about it on Facebook.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Watson. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, there are some real perverts here. That other bellboy Lance is into married couples.’

  ‘Anyone into tromboning?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Rex Grant’s room,’ broke in Quist, testily. ‘You say that’s where the murder happened? Where is that?’

  ‘On the fourth floor; the floor below yours. The police have the area sealed off.’

  ‘Tell me...’ Quist swallowed dryly, dreading the answer to his next question. ‘How was the girl killed? What state was the body in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Scott gave him a peculiar look. ‘Apparently, there was blood, but I haven’t been able to speak to the cleaner who found her and, as I say, the police haven’t given away any details.’ He opened a door with a key card. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Did you meet this guest Rex Grant?’ asked Quist.

  ‘Yes, he seemed like a cool guy; he wore sunglasses indoors.’ Scott shook his head. ‘Who would ever have thought he was some murderer? And to think he screwed Ligeia too.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Watson, his mouth wide.

  ‘Yeah, she spent the night with him too, but as I say, I can’t tell you too much. We have to be very discreet.’

  ‘Of course, Scott.’ Quist gazed blankly. ‘Discretion is clearly your middle name.’

  ***

  Watson walked into the hotel room stunned. ‘Rex actually shagged Ligeia,’ he muttered. ‘That’s incredible.’

  ‘Incredible?’ snapped Quist, tossing his bag onto one of the beds. ‘What’s incredible is how you’re more concerned with that than the fact that this killing took place in Rex’s room. A girl was actually killed in his room on the full moon. This just gets worse.’ He gestured to the television. ‘Turn that music off, would you?’

  As in many upmarket hotels, the screen was displaying a welcome message and showing the guest facilities and restaurants to a backing of traditional Scottish tunes. Watson pressed the remote control, but instead of switching off, the set changed to a music channel. Well, talk about coincidence? Ligeia was performing in a concert. He decided against mentioning this to the anxious detective and, rather than switching off, he muted the sound and gazed enviously at the tiny singer. Unbelievable! Rex had actually shagged Ligeia?

  ‘This is terrible,’ muttered Quist, skimming through the report in the newspaper. ‘The murder has made it into this evening edition, but it’s far too early for the police to release any real information. I need to see where the killing happened and then take a look at this girl’s body.’

  Watson gulped. ‘You want to break into the morgue and check to see if she’s ripped up and half-eaten?’

  ‘I need to discover the truth, however horrific.’ Throwing down the paper, he shrugged off his overcoat to reveal a brown corduroy jacket. ‘The first thing is to investigate Rex’s room. According to our friend Scott the discreet bellboy, it’s on the floor below us.’

  Quist opened the bedroom window to peer down at the Waverley Station rooftops and the busy North Bridge away to his left.

  Watson joined him and stuck out his head. ‘Why didn’t you ask for a room near Rex’s?’

  ‘Ask the receptionist to put us close to the murder room? Was that a serious question? It’s safe to say they’ll be putting their guests as far away from there as possible.’

  ‘That’s right. The bellboy said the police have sealed off the area.’

  ‘Come along.’ Quist strode to the door and held it wide. ‘Let’s find out.’

  ‘Hey, this is more like it, Guv.’ Watson grinned. ‘Real detective stuff again instead of those divorces and benefit cheats.’

  The detective sighed. ‘I honestly wish I could share your excitement. Right now, all I feel is an ominous foreboding.’

  They walked to the elevator and descended one level. The doors opened and a uniformed policeman quickly approached.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the officer, holding up a hand. ‘This section is temporarily restricted. It’s just this northern side of the fourth floor. You can still access the opposite sides of the building using the other lift. I’m afraid it’s a police matter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have guessed.’ Quist gestured to the police cordon tape and the forens
ic people milling about. The Scenes of Crime Officer and his team appeared to be leaving one of the rooms and he noted the door number before closing the elevator. ‘Good night, officer.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘There’s only one way to do this,’ said Quist. Slipping off his corduroy jacket and hanging it over a chair, he leant through the open bedroom window and looked left and right to get his bearings. The vast rooftops of Waverley Station stretched out below, and theatres, galleries and museums glowed with amber floodlight. ‘I don’t like to transform when the moon is full, but I don’t have any choice.’

  Watson wasn’t listening and stared instead at the muted television that he’d left on. The Ligeia concert was still playing and the petite singer gyrated silently on stage. ‘Isn’t she incredible?’ he said. ‘I think this is the NEC concert from a couple of months back.’

  ‘Ligeia?’ Quist glanced at the screen and rolled his eyes. ‘She wouldn’t be my first choice if I wanted to relax with a little music. I don’t know much about her, but I presume she picked her name from Poe.’

  ‘Winnie the...’

  ‘Edgar Alan,’ sighed Quist. ‘Ligeia is a character in the Tomb of Ligeia. A classic.’

  ‘Oh right. She doesn’t have a surname, which is pretty cool, you’ve got to admit. Have you heard her hits?’

  ‘It’s pretty much impossible to avoid them. They constantly play her music on the radio, and every other car that drives past seems to have her album blaring from the window. They were playing the album over and over in the pub yesterday when we were with the benefit cheat.’

  Watson nodded and turned up the volume.

  ‘The public never cease to amaze me,’ said Quist, watching the singer. ‘I suppose it’s all to do with clever marketing and media promotion. They go crazy over this girl, yet she sounds so average.’

  ‘What?’ Watson turned to him, shocked. ‘Her album Water Music has broken all previous sales. It’s officially the biggest seller of all time. You don’t think she’s the most wonderful thing you’ve ever heard?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Watson. It’s all marketing hype and you’ve allowed yourself to be wooed by it. She reminds me of those karaoke singers on the television talent shows. Pleasant enough in an amateur sort of way, but decidedly mediocre.’

  ‘I can’t believe you. Talk about having no taste? Her new album is out next week - the Music of Sound. Her voice actually speaks to your soul.’

  ‘Good lord! I can’t believe you just said that.’

  ‘Just listen to the lyrics.’ Watson closed his eyes, repeating the words as she sang. ‘The months go by, my music keeps me sane, my love. Whoo, yeah, I’m going out to buy this right now.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s safe to say you’re a bit of a fan.’ Quist shook his head, incredulous. ‘Don’t you already have this first album Water Music?’

  ‘Um, yes, but...’ Watson gave a puzzled shrug and laughed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Why would I buy it again?’

  Quist regarded him curiously, then dismissed his thoughts. ‘Anyway, to far more important things.’ He leant out through the window again. The moon shone brightly above Arthur’s Seat, the extinct volcano that looms over Holyrood. ‘We’re on the top floor overlooking North Bridge and Rex’s room is on the floor below, but on the other side of the hotel facing Princes Street.’

  Watson was still staring at Ligeia. ‘She’s gorgeous,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t help getting horny whenever I see her.’ He turned from the television and saw that Quist had quickly undressed and was pulling down his underpants. He peered blankly at the naked man. ‘But sometimes the horny feeling doesn’t last very long.’

  Removing his signet ring and wristwatch, Quist handed them to his assistant for safekeeping. The youth looked at the RQ initials; the letters had been engraved in the 1780s, back when his employer had been the human Richard Quist.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ groaned Watson, beginning to tremble. ‘Here we go.’

  Taking a deep breath, the detective clenched his teeth, shuddered and bent double, a mass of thick dark fur sprouting to cover his expanding back. He shook his head, pointed ears emerging and his face elongating into a large hairy muzzle. Watson stepped back, wincing to hear the sickening sound of bones snapping and crunching as they changed and lengthened. The room temperature dropped alarmingly as Quist grew in furry bulk and height, until finally the human had vanished and a huge black wolf stood on two legs in his place.

  ‘Shit, I’ll never get used to seeing that,’ croaked Watson, his throat and mouth dry. He gaped at the enormous creature with its glowing amber eyes and, despite the heating, he saw his breath cloud on the air. ‘You say it sucks up energy or something when you change?’

  ‘Yes,’ growled Quist. ‘The lupine transformation drains the natural energy from the surrounding atmosphere. Corporeal energy is transformed into esoteric, ethereal energy.’

  ‘Well, there’s my science lesson for tonight. Thanks for that and the free laxative.’

  The wolf wagged his tail and grinned, the yellow eyes sparkling and razor teeth glinting in the wide mouth.

  ‘No, don’t smile like that, Guv. It doesn’t exactly help.’ Watson stared warily, unable to prevent himself shivering. ‘I thought you don’t like to transform when the moon’s full?’

  ‘With the police keeping everyone away, I can’t access Rex’s room by conventional means. That’s why I requested a high bedroom. I’m black, so no one should see me climbing over the roof. I’m much faster and stronger in this form too. I can leap further if needs be.’

  ‘You’re hoping to get in from the outside?’

  The wolf nodded. ‘The SOCO team were leaving the crime scene when we called down there. Hopefully they’ve finished their work and it will be empty.’

  ‘Are you sure about this? The outside of the building’s lit by floodlights.’

  ‘Which cause dark shadows.’ Quist shoved his large furry head through the open window and checked that no one was watching from North Bridge down to his left. ‘Now is as good a time as any; the moon is behind cloud.’

  ‘Good luck, Guv.’

  Switching off the bedroom light, the wolf held up his front paws, the bones crackling as taloned fingers sprouted. He climbed out and quickly scaled the ornate façade, snatching hold of ledges and sinking his claws into crevices between the sandstone blocks.

  Watson leant out to watch in disbelief. ‘Fuck!’ he whispered. ‘You look like Spider-man in a mink coat.’

  Quist reached the roof with its hotchpotch of pitches, dormers and chimney stacks, and dropping low, he bounded across on all fours, jumping ventilation ducts, lantern lights and pipework. The Balmoral clock tower soared two-hundred feet above Princes Street and arriving at the base, he crouched like a shaggy gargoyle to look around. His eyesight was enhanced in lupine form and from here he could see over Leith and Portobello to the Firth of Forth, the wide estuary that opens into the North Sea. He watched the melancholy winking of the lighthouses and gazed thoughtfully at the twinkling streetlamps of Abedour in distant Fife.

  He should never have bitten Rex and passed on the lycanthropy. Yes, the bite had saved his life, but because of his actions, another life had been lost. An innocent girl had died and he was responsible.

  Quist shook himself. He needed to stop agonising, concentrate on what he was doing here and not be seen. The moon emerged from behind the cloud and he moved back into the shadows of a dormer window. A night breeze ruffled his fur and he lifted his muzzle to sniff the air, all the time fighting the powerful lunar urge to throw back his head and howl.

  The huge creature looked down as vehicle horns began honking in the busy traffic below. A van had pulled out of a side street and a texting girl in a car had run into it. Quist heard a volley of foul language and smiled, knowing all eyes would be on the minor collision and this was the i
deal moment to make his move. He glanced over the edge, checking where the ledges and balconies were situated, then bounded swiftly along from the clock tower, counting the dormers as he passed. It was fortunate that the hotel exterior was an elaborate mass of baroque décor - the fancy protrusions were ideal for pigeons, roosting starlings and climbing werewolves.

  ‘Three, four, five,’ he growled. ‘Here we are.’

  The wolf dropped over the side, grabbing one of the ledges below and clambering onto it. He peered through the closest window to ensure it was the correct room and winced; the blood on the carpet was something of a giveaway.

  Wait a moment. Quist raised a bushy lupine eyebrow. As far as he could make out, there didn’t seem to be much blood. This was a good sign.

  Thankfully the room was empty, but the window was locked and he turned before breaking in to check that he hadn’t been seen leaping from the roof. No one on the street appeared to be looking up, save for one wide-eyed child staring in utter amazement. Before he could stop himself, Quist had given a little wave, then grinned guiltily and leant back into the shadow of a balcony. The frightened boy tugged at his mother’s coat, yelling something about a werewolf, and was rewarded with a smack across his head for being a lying brat.

  Pushing up the sash with supernatural strength, Quist snapped the lock, jumped in and quietly closed it. Switching on the lights was unnecessary; the street lamps outside provided adequate illumination and these dim conditions were no problem with his nocturnal vision. With eyes glowing yellow, he padded around on all fours, sniffing carefully and checking the entire room. No other wolf scents were present, which came as a huge relief, and so did the single pool of blood. Quist had seen grisly werewolf kills before and they certainly didn’t look like this. No one had been torn apart here - there were no arterial splatters or visceral mess, just a few gravitational droplets in the carpet fibres and a small congealed pool where the corpse must have lain. He snuffled around, picking up the scent of the female cadaver.

  The wolf glanced to his right and spotted another tiny patch of blood on the floor near the bedroom door. He padded over, sniffed and studied the unusual spray; it looked to have been blown through a straw. Had someone wiped a knife clean as they left, casting off the blood in this peculiar little jet pattern? The urge to taste it suddenly overwhelmed him and his hungry wolf tongue snaked out.