Part 17 (1/2)
”That's a deal.” She smiled and he felt he'd been given a reprieve. ”I'll make lemonade and sandwiches for later then, shall I?”
The scent of the geraniums grew stronger at dusk. Nadine had tended them until they'd begun to spill over the pots and trail onto the steps. That night she wore a white dress, and in the dimness the red blossoms looked like dark blood splashed across her skirt.
She'd brought a candle as well as the promised lemonade and sandwiches, and after they'd eaten, Andy played in the flickering light.
He'd been working on a version of Dave Brubeck's ”Take Five,” but this was the first time he'd tried something so difficult in front of Nadine. After the first few bars he forgot his nervousness and lost himself in the notes.
When he'd finished he looked up and grinned. ”It needs the rhythm part.”
”How did you learn that?” Nadine sounded awed and Andy fingered the strings on the old Hfner, suddenly shy.
”Just listening. One of my dad's old records.” He couldn't afford new CDs, although he occasionally picked things up at charity shops and jumble sales.
”Andy,” Nadine said slowly, ”you say 'just listening' as if anyone could do that. You know that's not the case, don't you?”
He shook his head. ”I got some guitar books from the secondhand shop, so I know what the chords are called. But the songs in the books are stupid. It's more fun to listen to things I like and try to make what I play sound the same.”
Nadine was silent for so long that he was afraid he'd sounded a complete t.o.s.s.e.r. ”I watch music videos, too,” he added, ”so I can see how the real guys do it. But listening is better.”
”Andy . . . ” This time it was Nadine who gave a little shake of her head. She'd pulled her thick chestnut hair up to cool her neck in the heat, but a loose tendril swung with the movement. ”You have a gift,” she said, as serious as he'd ever heard her. ”And there's no one to-” She stopped, and he somehow knew that she'd been about to tread on territory they both avoided-his mum.
Nadine noticed things-how could she not, living next door? She knew the hours his mum worked, knew Andy did the shopping and the cooking and made sure his mum got to and from work every day. And although he never said, he suspected she knew that there was never quite enough money to get through the week.
Often she'd just happen to have sandwiches or biscuits for him, or she'd say she'd made more than she could eat for dinner, no point just throwing it in the bin. And he knew she kept an eye on him when he was home alone at night, which he found weirdly comforting.
But once, when she'd hesitantly asked if it might help if she talked to his mum, he'd felt such panic that he'd shaken his head and bolted into the flat. It had been two days before he'd spoken to Nadine again, and she hadn't brought it up since.
He didn't want the two halves of his life to come together. His mother didn't approve of Nadine, although he wasn't quite sure why. And Nadine-he didn't want anyone, especially her, to know how bad things really were with his mum. It made him ashamed. And afraid.
Nadine stood, suddenly. ”I'll be right back. Wait for me.”
He sat obediently as the minutes ticked by, watching the last of the light fade over the distant city below, playing little bits of things he'd been learning, a Django Reinhardt song, the first few bars of Bert Jansch's ”Angie.” He'd begun to think he'd said something wrong and Nadine wasn't coming back when he heard the soft click of her door latch.
When he looked up, he saw that she was cradling a flat, rectangular guitar case against her chest.
Sitting down, she laid the case across her knees and stroked its surface with her fingertips. ”You need a better guitar.” Her voice was hoa.r.s.e, as if she'd been crying, but her face was concealed in shadow. She slid her hands over to the three latches and flipped them up, but still didn't open the case. ”This was my husband's,” she said. ”I haven't opened it since he-died. But it's doing no one any good sitting in my cupboard. I want you to have it.”
”But-”
”He found it in a car-boot sale. He was so proud of it, though he only messed about with playing. He hadn't any real talent, but he recognized it when he saw it. I think he'd have wanted this”-she patted the case-”to go to someone who deserved it.”
”But I-”
”Shhh.” She pushed open the lid, lifted out the guitar, and handed it to him. ”See? It suits you.”
Andy could only stare at the thing he held in his hands. ”It's-”
”A 1964 Stratocaster. Fiesta red. Marshall had it valued. Everything's original-headstock, body, the pickups. There's an amp, too. You can get it tomorrow.”
Finally, he looked up at her, past feeling any shame for the tears in his eyes. ”But I can't possibly-”
”Yes. You can. Just play, Andy.” She touched one of the geranium blossoms. ”No one has been kind to me except you. Think of it as red for red.”
It was an ugly building, one of the postwar concrete blocks that had filled the bombed gaps in the East End. Two stories, with graffiti covering sections of the street-level wall, although on a closer look Kincaid realized that it was not ordinary tagging but quite well-executed street art.
He entered the double gla.s.s doors at the far end to find that appearances were once again deceiving. Caleb Hart's office had an expensively fitted-out reception area that sported an equally decorative receptionist. On the wall above her desk a stylized logo read HART PRODUCTIONS.
”Can I help you?” asked the receptionist, and her tone told him immediately that this was not a place where the uninvited walked in off the street.
”I'd like to speak to Mr. Hart.” Before she could utter the refusal forming on her lips, he added, ”My name's Duncan Kincaid. Tell him I'm a friend of Tam Moran's.” He was glad he was no longer wearing a Scotland Yard suit-he doubted it would have cut any ice here.
”I'll just check,” she said, with a minute degree of thaw, and left her desk to disappear into what Kincaid a.s.sumed was the inner sanctum, rewarding him with a view of very long legs in a very short skirt.
A moment later she reappeared. ”Caleb says he'll see you.”
It was hardly gracious, but Kincaid considered himself lucky to have got past the guard dog.
”Thanks.” He gave her his best smile, although he suspected it was wasted.
The man who came out of the inner office to greet him was tall and slender, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and gla.s.ses. Kincaid thought he looked more like a teacher than a record producer, although unlike Tam, his clothing was trendy and obviously expensive. Black s.h.i.+rt, black silk jacket, designer jeans, high-topped boots. Kincaid felt shabby and altogether too GAP by comparison.
”Roxy says you're a friend of Tam's,” said Caleb Hart, shaking his hand. ”You've just missed him by an hour.”
”Actually, I've just had lunch with him. That's why I'm here.” Kincaid glanced round as Hart offered him a chair, not in front of his desk, but in a very retro-contemporary conversation grouping on the other side of the room. Gold CDs and posters of bands-some of whom Kincaid recognized-were mounted on the walls and shelves, but like Hart's clothing, the display was tastefully done.
Wondering if he had taken Tam's excitement seriously enough, Kincaid's interest rose a notch. ”Tam asked me if I'd have a word with you,” he continued. ”He told me about the video with Andy Monahan and your singer.”
”Her name is Poppy. Poppy Jones,” said Hart, looking puzzled and a little impatient. ”But I'm not sure how I can-”
”Mr. Hart, just so there's no misunderstanding. I'm Tam's friend, and I know Andy. But I'm also a police officer. I wanted to make it clear, however, that I'm here in an entirely unofficial capacity.”
Blanching, Hart said, ”If Monahan is in some sort of trouble and Tam hasn't told me-”
Kincaid held up his hands. ”No, it's not that. As far as I'm aware, Andy Monahan hasn't done anything wrong. But Tam said the police questioned Andy about a man who was verbally abusive to him in the pub on Friday night.”
”The man who was murdered? Or at least I'm a.s.suming he was murdered-the detective who came to the studio was a bit cagey.”
”Exactly. His name was Vincent Arnott. Tam took Andy back to London immediately after the band finished their second set that night, so Andy can't have been involved in Arnott's death. But as Andy was the last person known to have spoken to the victim that night, Tam's anxious to clear up anything that might potentially cause him adverse publicity.”
”As am I,” Hart said fervently. ”But I still don't see how I can help you.”
”When Tam was telling me what happened, he said that the pub in Crystal Palace-the White Stag, I think?-was your regular. So I thought perhaps you'd seen Arnott before. If he'd behaved that way on previous occasions, it would make his encounter with Andy Monahan less . . . notable.”
”Ah.” Hart looked thoughtful. ”I didn't recognize the name, and the detective didn't show me the photo. Tam didn't describe him to me.”