Part 12 (1/2)
”You played and sang like that, and it was the first time?” Melody stared at him. ”Wow.”
”Yeah. That's why-” He brushed his fingers across the guitar strings in an impatient gesture. The bruise on his knuckles had darkened, and Melody noticed he didn't wear a watch. ”I don't know why I'm telling you this,” Andy went on, not meeting Melody's eyes as he picked out a silent pattern of chords on the frets. ”It's just-my mates-I can't talk to them.”
”Nick and George? You've been together a long time?”
”Ten years, on and off.”
Thinking for a moment, Melody decided she wasn't going to mention the fact that she'd spent the day looking for Nick and George. Or that she'd seen the CCTV footage. ”So you've been good friends.”
Andy nodded. ”They've been . . . like family, I guess. When there was no one else.”
”But you were arguing after the gig on Friday night. Before Tam picked you up.”
He stared at her. ”How-”
”We've been interviewing people. Trying to find anyone who saw Vincent Arnott leave the pub. So why did you have a row with your best mates?”
He shrugged again. ”It's been coming for a long time. I guess you could say that Poppy was just the catalyst. The band is finished. They knew it-we all knew it-but they're still p.i.s.sed at me.” He sighed. ”Can't say I blame them.”
”So it's your decision?”
”It's- It's just that I'm better than they are. I don't mean to sound like a total jerk. Nick and George are competent musicians. The band has been fun for them. Something to do until real life kicked in.”
”Or their parents kicked them out,” said Melody. At his startled look, she added, ”Tam gave me their home addresses. The properties aren't registered to them. So how do you manage?” She waved round the room. ”The flat. The equipment.”
”I've been doing session work since I was sixteen. It's my life, playing. And if you mean the guitars”-he gave her that sudden grin-”that's what guitarists do. Our downfall. We make enough to eat and pay the rent, if we're lucky, and then we buy guitars.” He waved at the workroom. ”If you're good with your hands, you learn to repair the ones you find in charity shops and car boot sales, or that other players have to sell to pay their rent.”
Something was nagging at Melody and she suddenly realized what it was. ”Andy, if you'd never played with Poppy before Sat.u.r.day, you had used the studio before, right?”
”No. Tam and Caleb set that up.”
”But when I mentioned the Belvedere Hotel, you knew immediately where it was. And what sort of place it was.”
”I didn't say I didn't know Crystal Palace. I grew up there,” he added with a grimace. ”I haven't lived there in years, but the place hasn't changed much, from what I can tell. It was Caleb who set up the gig at the pub, to see me play. A sort of audition. That's part of the reason Nick and George were so out of sorts.”
”Um, I'd say you were a bit out of sorts, too, if you hit a punter,” Melody reminded him, glancing pointedly at his hand.
Andy flexed his fingers, looking rueful. ”Yeah. That was pretty stupid. Believe me, I don't make a habit of it. But I don't like drunks. And I was already furious with Nick and George because they were deliberately sabotaging the set. w.a.n.kers. It was a lousy venue for anyone to really hear a band. I don't know why Caleb chose it, except that the management will let him put a band in on short notice.”
Was that what had given her the sense that he was withholding something yesterday at the studio? Melody wondered. He hadn't wanted to talk about the rift in the band in front of Poppy and Caleb-Caleb. Melody stopped short, feeling a prize idiot.
Caleb Hart was a regular at the pub. And she had been so focused on Andy, and so mesmerized by what she'd heard, that she hadn't shown Hart Vincent Arnott's photo. Hart hadn't shown any sign of recognition when she'd mentioned Arnott's name, but he hadn't actually denied knowing him, either. And even if he hadn't recognized the name, that didn't mean he didn't know Arnott by sight. He might even have seen him that night or on previous occasions.
”Andy,” she said, ”how well do you know Caleb Hart?”
”Caleb? I just met him on Sat.u.r.day. He came into the Stag on Friday night but I didn't see him. Fortunately he left before the end of the first set, so he didn't see me make a complete a.r.s.e of myself.”
”What do you know about him?”
”He manages and produces. Has some clout. You should ask Tam. They go way back.”
”I'll talk to Tam. But I think it's Caleb Hart I need to speak to first.” She glanced at the windows, saw that the only light now came from the glow of the sodium streetlamps. Checking her watch, she saw that it had gone six. ”d.a.m.n,” she breathed. The time had flown, and she hadn't even touched her tea. ”Andy, I've got to go. Sorry about the-”
”Oh, s.h.i.+t.” He was staring at the digital clock on his music center.
”What-”
”I've got a gig at the Twelve Bar tonight. Didn't realize it was so late. I need to be there to set up in half an hour.”
”The Twelve Bar?”
”Denmark Street. Guitar club. A complete dive, but every good guitarist in the business has played there at one time or another.”
”I can drive you,” Melody offered, feeling unaccountably guilty for having made him late.
”No, it's not far, and all I need is my guitar. I'll use the club amp.” Andy studied her, and for an instant she felt as immobilized as a b.u.t.terfly under gla.s.s. Then he nodded, as if he'd reached a decision. ”Come with me.”
”But-I should-”
”Come on. If it's Caleb Hart you want, I wouldn't bet on your chances of finding him at home on a Sunday night. Besides, where's your sense of adventure?” He c.o.c.ked his head and gave her a quizzical look. ”And if you don't know anything about music, you owe it to yourself to learn.” When he saw her perplexed expression, he laughed. ”Don't you think it's time you lived up to your name, Melody Talbot?”
Andy had put the acoustic guitar he'd played for her earlier in a case, then they'd bundled into their coats and walked round the corner of Hanway Place and into the throng of Oxford Street.
”That's my Hummingbird,” he'd told her, patting the case.
”Hummingbird?”
He'd smiled. ”The guitar. A Gibson Hummingbird, 1976. I have better acoustics, but there's something about the sound of this one that I like. They all have personalities, voices. Like people.”
”If you say so.”
”You'll see.”
They'd crossed Oxford Street at the lights, following the construction h.o.a.rdings until they came into tiny Denmark Street from the east, pa.s.sing the dark hulk of a church.
”The street of guitars,” said Andy as they reached the narrow entrance to a club with a sign over the door saying 12 BAR. Melody caught a glimpse of a printed flyer taped to the window, a monochrome version of Andy's face on pink paper with his name beneath it.
”Are you famous here?” she asked.
”It's a small world.”
The bloke on the desk by the door gave Andy an enthusiastic handclasp and Melody an a.s.sessing look. ”Who's this, then, mate?” he asked.
”Melody. Leave her alone, Ricky. She's new.”
”Have fun, then,” Ricky told her with a wink. ”And watch out for guitarists. They're dangerous.”
”Don't pay him any mind,” Andy told her as he led her to the back. ”He's just jealous.”