Notes on a Missing G-String, page 10
“I’ll say a little prayer for you. I’m just trying to remember…there must be a patron saint of feet.”
I waited.
“Ah,” she said, after a moment. “Google is our friend. Saint Servatius. I shall send him an extra special invocation.”
“Thank you,” I said. My mum’s religious leanings have got more pronounced as she ages. I suspect she’s hedging her bets for the afterlife, just in case. She’s seventy-six, but I expect her to be around ‘til at least her mid-nineties. Her side of the family is exceptionally long-lived.
I was overcome by an odd sense of relief. I’d done it. Arthur Braskey wasn’t going to be able to render me into a block of concrete for not meeting my £100 minimum.
I had a few more hours ‘til I was due at the club, so I drove home and went online to seriously look into what I needed to do if I wanted to become a licensed PI. To be honest, it was all a bit daunting. There were a lot of places offering introductions to the industry and “tasters” of what you needed to know. Suggestions for those who were thinking of a career in investigations (Seek training in legal matters as well as business, prepare a stellar CV, offer your freelance services to credit reference agencies, charities and banks, and above all, don’t expect adventure, excitement and romance!). And, of course, the Institute of Professional Investigators, who had a course—the course, which came with an IQ Level 3 Examination—that I would be required to complete before the UK government would even begin to consider granting me a license.
My academic CV was dismal. No college—I’m from the generation that went straight out to work at sixteen after graduating from the local Comprehensive, when university wasn’t the mandatory qualification it is now. I have three GCSE’s—English, Maths and Music. My passport says I’m a musician. That’s all I’ve ever been. Not a very good recommendation for someone wanting to embark upon a midlife career in professional sleuthing.
I tried to distract myself with the notes Arthur Braskey had provided with his invitation to the firewalk. One was a FAQ, the other a need-to-know document, and neither of them was particularly useful. I wanted to find out what to expect. Instead, I was advised to attend the training session beforehand, where all of my urgent questions would be answered in due course.
I googled firewalking and found some great photos and glowing reports…but nothing that actually explained how I ought to prepare, mentally and physically. You’d have thought I was trying to find out how the world’s most infamous magic tricks were performed…everywhere I looked had cagey references to the mysterious pre-event orientation, but offered up nothing by way of what actual knowledge was imparted to the participants in the process.
I eventually had to abandon my search.
It was time to go to work.
#
The red brick building that houses the Blue Devil is three storeys high. The club occupies the basement and the main floor and the top two floors are offices. It was built around 1838 and the club’s been occupying the premises, in one form or another, since about 1930.
The public side of the venue’s been upgraded and renovated a couple of times, but the dressing rooms are still tiny and old and windowless and a bit on the shabby side. I imagine, in 1838, they were probably used for storage. At least they have private loo’s, which were thoughtfully added when the club first moved in.
The dressing room walls are bare brick, painted white, and they’re lined with rows of framed photos of famous guest artists who’ve played at the club over the years. We have large mirrors and some good lights and the usual counter space, a sofa and some chairs, a small fridge (a nice addition—I keep a couple of bars of my favourite chocolate, Green & Black’s Organic Ginger, in there) and a rack for hanging jackets and other clothes, if required—though we usually show up in what we’re going to wear onstage.
At that particular moment, all four of us were having a conversation with our reflections.
“It was, as Ruby’s go, one of the best in recent memory.”
Rudy was letting me know what I’d missed earlier at our post-recording-session dinner.
“New chef?” I guessed.
“And a new and improved menu.”
“With new and improved prices,” Ken added, giving his hair a quick comb in the mirror. “Trev reckons we have a winner with those demo’s. They’re going out first thing in the morning.”
“Excellent news,” I agreed, glancing at Dave.
He looked terrible. There were deep shadows under his eyes and I knew he hadn’t been sleeping. Or eating properly. If it was possible for a man to appear truly haunted, he definitely met the criteria.
“Nothing new about Gracie…?” I asked, as carefully as I could.
Dave shook his head. “Honestly, Jason, I don’t know what else we can do. We’ve looked in all the places where we thought she’d go—where we know she always meet her mates, or goes shopping, or stops for something to eat.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
He’d been reluctant, the last I recalled. This time, he surprised me.
“Helen rang them. They had her check with all of her friends—nothing. They suggested we look at her emails, Facebook and Snapchat, all those things. Tabby knows her passwords but nothing’s been updated since she disappeared. And she hasn’t sent any messages. To anyone.”
“Well,” I said, “she may well have set up an email account that only a few of her closest friends know about.”
If it had been me investigating her disappearance, I’d have gone back to those friends and grilled them about that. But Dave hadn’t asked me—and I hadn’t offered.
“What about the guy you think she ran off with?”
Dave gave me a look. He was surprised—perhaps ashamed— that I knew about that.
“Helen doesn’t even know his name, Jason.”
“But Helen had words with her about him. How did she find out Gracie was seeing him?”
“She overheard her talking to him on the phone. She demanded to know what was going on. She has the right to know. Gracie’s fourteen. She has no business messing about with a bloke who’s nearly thirty. Helen took away her mobile but of course she’d already erased his number.”
“And her mates don’t know his name either?”
“They claim they didn’t even know she was seeing someone. She’s never had any boyfriends.”
I didn’t say anything. I doubted Gracie was as innocent as her dad believed.
“Kids can be loyal to one another for all the wrong reasons,” I said.
“The police suggested we go out and physically look for her. Which we’ve already been doing, night and day. But once you’ve eliminated the obvious…what then?”
“I could offer some suggestions,” I said. “You won’t like them.”
Dave gave me another look. He was desperate.
“Chances are,” I said, carefully, “this guy she’s been seeing is in it for the money.”
“She hasn’t got any money. We’re not all blessed with your kind of musical pedigree.”
“Dave,” I said. “That’s not what I meant.” There was no other way to say it. “He may have her working for sex. He may be pimping her out.”
I knew he didn’t want to think about that. And it was a hell of a thing to suggest just as we were about to go onstage.
But Dave surprised me again.
“Helen told me the same thing. I think she must have been talking to Gracie’s brother. You learn a lot about the other side of life in the army.”
“That should be your next step, then,” I said. “There used to be a lot of activity along Edgware Road and around King’s Cross, but that’s all disappeared now. It’s all gone online and into private brothels and massage places.” I paused and nodded vaguely in the direction of Roly Barfield’s club. “You should probably start here. In Soho.”
There was a brief light in Dave’s eyes—very brief—and then it was replaced by that gaunt look again.
“Thanks, mate,” he said. “Next steps.”
Before we went out to play, I tackled Ken to see if he wanted to sponsor my firewalk. It didn’t feel right asking Dave. And after Ken had stopped laughing, he pledged £50—“For the sheer pleasure of witnessing you trying to hot-foot it over a bed of burning embers.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I tried to sleep after the taxi dropped me off at home after the show, but I wasn’t remotely tired. I spent a good hour lying in bed, thinking about what was going to happen that evening. Actually it was more than thinking—my thoughts had turned into pure, unadulterated fear.
I had no idea why I was so terrified. Hundreds, thousands, of people had done charity firewalks and none of them had ended up in hospital with third degree burns. None that I’d ever heard about, anyway.
But they weren’t involved with Arthur Braskey.
And they hadn’t nearly been killed in a fire aboard a cruise ship and they hadn’t lost their life partner to arson before that.
I’d gone for counselling. I’d needed it after the Sapphire sank, and chatting with a professional who understood what I’d gone through went a long way towards helping me come to terms with that and with losing Em five years earlier. I’d resolved the anger, the sense of helplessness, the nightmares about drowning and burning. I thought I’d been mended.
Why, then, was this one brief evening playing such havoc with my confidence?
I remembered what my wonderful psychologist had asked during our very first meeting.
“How do you usually deal with things which have upset you or caused you unhappiness or undue stress?”
It was an easy answer—something I’d always done automatically, without even thinking.
“I play my guitar,” I said.
I rolled out of bed and woke up my computer and put on Pat Metheny. Still Life (Talking) from 1987. It won a Grammy for Best Jazz Fusion. It’s got everything—jazz, folk, pop—and it’s one of his most accessible albums. And that’s what makes him my hero.
I got out my hollow-body Phoenix and plugged it in to a little amp I keep under my computer desk and played along to “Last Train Home”, which I’ve always loved. It’s so familiar—it’s been everywhere: a Christmas commercial, a film, TV and radio theme, even an ad for bedding.
It was this last iteration which I hoped would work its magic on my restless imagination. And it did…eventually. I finally got to sleep around dawn, and stayed asleep until two in the afternoon.
I got up and had something to eat. I can’t even remember what it was—scrambled eggs with cheese, probably, smothered in HP Sauce. And then, at precisely 5 p.m., as promised, Arthur Braskey’s blue Mercedes pulled into my road and the driver rang me on my mobile to let me know he was waiting downstairs.
I thought Braskey had been cutting it close sending his driver around with just an hour to spare before I was due to attend the orientation. Little Brickford was in Hertfordshire, to the north of London, inside the Green Belt, but just far enough away that any delays enroute would absolutely guarantee I’d be late.
“Mind if I smoke?” I asked.
“Not at all, Mr. Figgis.” The driver was silver-haired, respectable-looking. Someone’s grandfather. The same guy who’d been behind the wheel earlier when Braskey’d followed me down Frith Street.
I lit up, and wondered if Little Brickford was actually where Grandad’s boss lived. To distract myself as we slid through Islington, I tried to imagine his house: something hideously ultra-modern hidden away behind a high wall of hedges, probably built on the grave of an ancient character cottage he’d had bulldozed when he’d bought the property. An indoor pool. A huge kitchen with every conceivable convenience. Did he have a wife? A partner? A friend with benefits? Perhaps he employed a cook. Absolutely a gardener. And, of course, someone to look after the pool. And a housekeeper to keep the eight bedrooms—and their ensuite loos— presentable.
I checked my watch. I still wear one—a lovely old Rolex Explorer my dad gave me when I was in my twenties—though many people I know have abandoned them and rely on their phones to tell them the time. You need a watch when you’re performing. When you chat, or make jokes, or meander off into impromptu musical explorations, you need to know when your gig time is up and you need to get offstage.
Holloway and then Highgate, negotiating heavy rush hour traffic. I was on my third ciggie. I know people who are OCD about being late. They’ll arrive an hour before they’re due somewhere because the idea of being delayed, even for two minutes, terrifies them. I’m not one of those. But why couldn’t Braskey have sent his driver to collect me half an hour earlier?
Relax, I tried to tell myself. This is beyond your control. You’re with his driver, for fuck’s sake. If anyone’s going to get a finger chopped off as punishment, it’ll be him, not you.
It was twenty minutes to six and we were somewhere near Elstree on a tiny tree-lined lane, barely wide enough for a single car, when Grandad glided to a silent stop and turned around to apologise.
“Sorry, Mr. Figgis. Hopefully only a small delay.”
It was my worst nightmare come true.
I opened the window and poked my head out. The lane was blocked by an accident. A car had hit a tree and crashed back onto the road, landing on its roof. A rescue crew was trying to extricate the driver while paramedics were tending to the passenger, who had been thrown clear but was in a very bad way. Lights were flashing. The police were in attendance, and ambulances.
“Can you turn around?” I asked, desperately.
“Not enough room,” Grandad said. “And three cars behind me.”
They must have come out of nowhere. Our road, ‘til then, had been deserted.
I got out of the car, treading out my cigarette with the sole of my trainer.
“Could you possibly reverse down the lane?” I asked each of the drivers, in turn. “I’m in a bit of a dire situation and I need to be in Little Brickford in…” I checked my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
They were agreeable.
The last driver—a young woman with a sullen-looking boy in the passenger seat—put her Range Rover in reverse and pressed the accelerator and drove for about ten feet—then stalled.
“Fuck,” she said, quite audibly, echoing exactly what I was thinking.
She tried again. The motor turned over but wouldn’t catch.
She kept at it. I was afraid she was going to drain the battery. Nothing.
“Sorry,” she said, with a hapless shrug. “I’ll have to ring AA for a tow.”
The Mercedes was boxed in. I briefly considered recruiting the other drivers to push the bloody Range Rover all the way back to the closest driveway, which I reckoned was about a quarter of a mile. But now there wasn’t time.
I ran up to where the accident was. The police car was on the other side of it. I collared one of the constables.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I need to get to Little Brickford. Quickly.”
He gave me a withered look. “Not a lot I can do, son. As you can see.”
“Could you possibly give me a lift?”
“In a word, no.”
“It’s a matter of life and death,” I said, desperately.
“And this isn’t?”
It was true. And I was stupid for even thinking it. The driver of the accident car was still trapped and was bleeding from a head wound. I didn’t even know if he was conscious. His female passenger was being loaded into one of the ambulances—which was also on the other side, with the police cars.
I thought of pleading with the ambulance guys for a lift but realized in almost the same moment that they’d be speeding towards the A&E at the nearest big hospital and detours through tiny market towns to drop off demented musicians were not an option.
There were no other cars on the other side of the accident. The little lane was deserted.
I pulled out my phone and consulted Google Maps and saw that I was still a good 3 km away from Little Brickford. I could just about manage it, if I ran.
“I’m going on foot,” I said, to Grandad. “Can you let Mr. Braskey know I’ll be there as soon as I can?”
“Certainly, Mr. Figgis. I’ll explain the circumstances. I’m sure he’ll understand. Perhaps he can find someone willing to come out and collect you.”
“That would be extremely helpful,” I said.
I’ve never been a runner. I was on my school football team when I was a kid, but that was forty years ago. Jogging’s never appealed to me, and if I do any exercise it’s usually just a long leisurely walk. I love walking. I don’t love running.
My body reminded me of that after about two minutes. I was wearing trainers, which helped, but my lungs and my legs could only function on adrenalin for a limited amount of time before they surrendered to advancing middle age and stopped cooperating. I slowed to a brisk walk—I knew I could manage that—and began to rehearse in my mind the words I would use to plead with Arthur Braskey to spare my livelihood, if not my life.
Based on what Grandad had promised I half-expected to be met by a bemused vicar on a Moped or a minder with a scar on his face in an old black Rover…but neither of them materialized. Par for the course. It was half past six by the time I got to the outskirts of Little Brickford and found my way to the venue, which was a very large garden attached to a very ancient pub, The Cock and Maggot. It was pitch black outside and although a forecasted rain had held off, the night air felt decidedly damp.
Good, I thought, looking for Arthur Braskey. The more humidity the better. Perhaps they won’t be able to light the fire.
Locating my host turned out to be more difficult than I’d supposed. Nobody seemed to know where he was. I found someone who was attached to the firewalk’s organizers, who informed me that I’d missed the orientation but if I looked to my left I’d be able to see all of the participants coming out and if I wanted to join the well-wishers I was welcome to line up behind the rope and cheer them on.
