The Song Never Dies Read online

  “Something could have happened …”

  A nod. “Not a crazy idea, right?”

  Sarah always took it as a mark of pride that Jack, who she knew was one of the NYPD’s most highly decorated detectives, would ask her opinion about such things.

  That had even made Sarah start to look at herself differently.

  Sure — she was a web designer, graphic guru, mum to two wonderful (for now!) kids.

  But also … this.

  “You want ‘in’?” she said.

  “ ‘In’?” Jack laughed. “Guess I do.”

  Riley barked, standing at the edge of the hill, snout pointing at some discovery.

  “Please let it not be a rabbit …” Sarah said.

  “You never know,” Jack said.

  Then she looked at Jack. “I trust your instincts.”

  “Could be—”

  “I know. Nothing.”

  He grinned at that.

  “So where do we start?”

  “Well, there’s the widow.”

  “Gail King. Quite the star in her own right.”

  “Yup.”

  “And the band. Wrote down their names. Nick Taylor has himself a rental some miles away, but Chris Wickes is staying in the hotel until the memorial Saturday.”

  “A window of opportunity, then.”

  Then Sarah said: “What about Lauren?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Will’s wife. She was there. You got Will’s story. But maybe we should hear what she saw that night.”

  Another squint, Jack maybe having missed that. “Yes. Absolutely. And that agent. Carlton something or other. Imagine he’ll be around as well, especially if they plan to get on the road …”

  “Without their ‘King’.”

  “And there’s the girl — Sarinda. You busy at work? We may not have a lot of time …”

  “No. I’m good. Summer projects have yet to kick in. And the kids are both heads down for exams next month.”

  “So, where would you start?”

  Sarah smiled. Jack testing her detective skills.

  She turned to the view east, to Cherringham, to the King mansion sitting amidst what had to be one of the prettiest stretches of land in the area.

  “It’s got to be the crime scene. If it is a crime, of course.”

  “Agree. What do you say we check out the mansion together? It’s a big place.”

  “Good plan. Then split up?”

  “Got an address for Nick Taylor, in Bourton-on-the-Hill. Never been there.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely. But not as lovely …”

  “…as Cherringham,” Jack finished, grinning.

  “I can drop in on Lauren Dumford this afternoon. You think she knows Will already talked to you?”

  “He didn’t say. But he didn’t look like the kind of guy to go out on a limb.” With a loud whistle, he called Riley back from his wandering, and Sarah started back to her Rav-4.

  “Going to be fun driving down …” she said over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Jack said.

  And as always, she knew he wasn’t just talking about the bumpy road down the hill.

  *

  A monster’s head — some gruesome mythological beast with fangs and glowing eyes — served as the door knocker to the King mansion.

  It was odd to have been spying on it just minutes earlier and now to have driven up a long driveway, through automatic gates and right up to the front door.

  Sarah waited as Jack pulled up next to her car at the front of the house, then joined her at the porch.

  “You lead, I’ll follow,” he said.

  She nodded. They’d played double act with a grieving widow more than once — and Jack said Sarah always handled the situation better.

  She raised the knocker, imagining it was, well, a lizard of some kind. It made a deep, ghostly rapping noise as she slammed it against a golden metal plate.

  She also saw a button to push, probably for a more conventional doorbell. But a neat calligraphy message above the bell, also engraved on the same golden metal, said: ‘For Deliveries Only’.

  All others — Sarah guessed — were encouraged to bang the monster’s head hard to summon someone to the door.

  They waited. A minute passed.

  “Nobody home?” she said, turning to Jack.

  “Place this size — someone’s always home,” said Jack.

  Then, just as Sarah had convinced herself that they ought to retreat and rethink the plan, the door swung open.

  And there stood Gail King, TV presenter, bubbly personality with sparking eyes.

  Except this morning her eyes were doing anything but sparkling. Her hair looked as though she had just rolled — literally — out of bed. She wore a shimmering, silky, vaguely kimono robe.

  “Yes,” she said flatly, no bubbles on offer.

  Sarah took a breath. A retreat no longer possible.

  “Mrs. King, we were wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk with us, and—”

  “‘Bout what?”

  On the plus side, the door hadn’t yet slammed shut. But Sarah was early into the conversation.

  “About what happened at the party, the accident, your husband—”

  “Oh, bloody hell … not the police again with all your stupid questions, I have told you people—”

  Sarah put her had up. Smiled.

  “No, Mrs. King. We’re not with the police. I—”

  “God. Not more bloody press? I have told you lot to bugger off, get off my property or I’ll have you arrested.”

  Sarah shook her head.

  With two categories eliminated, the TV presenter looked genuinely confused.

  Sarah knew that in — her early years — Gail King had done some bona fide journalism. Exposing holes in the country’s mental health system, for one.

  But then came the glamour and the glitz, and probably easy work and lavish pay of reality TV beckoned.

  Still, that journalist’s instinct might still be there.

  Dormant. But there.

  “We were asked by a friend if we could, well, look into what happened the other night. Make sure things make sense, that nothing was overlooked by—”

  Gail King’s eyes narrowed. “A friend? Let me guess, a suspicious friend?”

  “Well, someone who thought there was a lot of bickering that night, and—”

  “Bickering? That what they called it? At each other’s throats, they were.”

  “And yet — you’re totally sure that your husband wandered to your pool house? That he had an accident?”

  The woman didn’t say anything then.

  Sarah had to wonder, did Gail King want the band to go on, get back on the road?

  Generate income …

  Despite her husband’s death.

  Not out of the question, she thought.

  “It’ll just be a few questions. We’re just trying to put everyone’s mind at ease.”

  A slight nod. “Definitely a few. Trust me. And you better ask them fast, Ms.—”

  “Sarah Edwards. And this is my colleague, Jack Brennan.”

  “Fifteen minutes. Then — if you don’t mind — I have quite a few things to attend to.”

  At that moment, the TV personality’s gaze moved past Sarah and Jack. Out to the beautiful rolling property behind her.

  Her life has been transformed, Sarah thought.

  She guessed that the woman would be talking since it might appear odd not to, especially if there were suspicions out there.

  What better way to put them to rest?

  Then, with Sarah noticing that Gail King was in bare feet, the woman backed away, opening the big door wide so Sarah and Jack could enter the dead rock star’s home.

  7. The Party’s Over

  “Wait in here,” said Gail, opening the door to what looked to Jack like the sitting room.

  He followed Sarah into the room then watched as Gail disappeared back into th
e house.

  “Can’t really blame her being pissed off,” said Sarah, sitting down. “Place must have been crawling with journos all week.”

  Jack stayed standing and looked around the room.

  The mansion was built on a grand scale, but this room felt homely — three sofas ranged around a wood-burner. Portraits and photos on the walls. Soft colours.

  Through the windows, he could see into the back garden — terraces, a fountain, barns.

  “Quite a place,” said Jack.

  “She does lifestyle stuff on TV,” said Sarah quietly. “I guess between them, they’re not short of a bob or two.”

  “I’ve ordered us some coffee,” said Gail, appearing again at the door. Jack saw that she had got dressed — jeans, white t-shirt, Converses.

  Elegant. Casual.

  She headed for one of the sofas and dropped onto it.

  “This must have been a very difficult week,” said Jack, sitting on the sofa opposite.

  “It has, Mr. Brennan. Jack — isn’t it? I gather from my housekeeper that you two are quite the famous detectives in these parts.”

  “I wouldn’t say famous,” said Sarah.

  A young girl appeared at the door with a tray of coffee cups. Jack watched her place it gently on a coffee table in front of them then slip away.

  No shortage of staff, thought Jack. This operation must cost a pretty penny.

  “Help yourselves,” said Gail.

  Jack took a cup and sipped. It was good coffee — very good.

  “So two questions,” said their host. “What makes you think that what happened to my husband wasn’t an accident? And more to the point — who hired you?”

  “Nobody hired us,” said Sarah.

  “Oh really?” said Gail. “You do this for charity?”

  “We don’t charge a fee,” said Jack. “Usually.”

  “We take on a case if we feel the police have missed something.”

  “How very noble,” said Gail. “So what good Samaritan asked you to investigate my husband’s death?”

  Jack caught Sarah’s eye — tell her? She shrugged — why not?

  “Will Dumford,” said Jack.

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Gail.

  “Surprised?” said Jack.

  “Will Dumford? Wouldn’t say boo to a goose … I’d have thought.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Spoke to him on the phone a few times. Met up with him finally in the village last month when Alex got it into his head to re-form the band.”

  “And …?” said Jack.

  “Not what I expected. Most drummers throw TVs out of hotel windows. These days I’d be surprised if Will Dumford could even get the window open.”

  She doesn’t pull her punches, thought Jack.

  “You weren’t around when Lizard were touring?” he said.

  “God, no,” said Gail. “I don’t look that bloody old do I?”

  “Sorry,” said Jack. “I wasn’t sure when you and Alex got together.”

  “Long after he’d finished playing. I met him on a TV show. My TV show.”

  “Then you and Alex are quite … recent?” said Sarah.

  “Married three years ago.”

  “What about the other band members — you know them?”

  “Not really. Met them with Alex in the last few weeks. Chris. Nick.”

  “How about Lauren?” said Sarah.

  “Will’s wife?” said Gail. “She came to the party. Seemed nice enough.”

  Jack drank some more coffee. This was slow work.

  “You haven’t answered my first question,” said Gail. “What makes you think Alex was, what, murdered?”

  “We didn’t say he was murdered, Mrs. King,” said Jack.

  “Murdered, suspicious — same thing.”

  “Will said that Alex would never go swimming if he’d been using drugs. And the police tests seem to indicate he had a lot in his system. Plus — in the hours before his death — he had some pretty nasty arguments with people.”

  “With that Nick Taylor, you mean?”

  “You know about that?”

  “God. Of course.”

  “You know what they were arguing about?” said Sarah.

  “Haven’t a clue,” said Gail.

  Too quick, thought Jack. She knows … and she’s not telling.

  “Guys in bands — they’re always fighting, aren’t they?” she continued.

  “Will said there might have been a problem with a girl singer — Sarinda?”

  “Oh yes,” said Gail. “The little … singer. Nick’s protégé.”

  “Protégé?” said Jack.

  “Since Lizard broke up, Nick’s tried every which way to hang onto the coat tails of any new talent breaking through. Produce them. Tour with them. Manage them.”

  “And she’s such a talent?” said Jack.

  “You’re showing your age Mr. Brennan. Sarinda B — to use her full stage name — has had more downloads in a month than Lizard had record sales. The perfect bedroom balladeer. Got her own YouTube channel, every product she endorses goes viral. I even had her on one of my shows.”

  “‘The Song Never Dies’” said Sarah. “Now I remember. That’s her song, isn’t it? Every time I turn the car radio on it’s playing.”

  “It’s a good song,” said Gail. “No. It’s a great song.”

  Jack shrugged.

  They can have their song. I have my opera.

  “Will told me that Alex didn’t want her at the party,” he said.

  “Really?” said Gail, smiling. “Ha, I can imagine that. That’s Alex all right.”

  “Didn’t like other people taking the limelight?” said Jack.

  “Didn’t like younger people taking the limelight.”

  “Ah,” said Sarah.

  “But that’s hardly a reason to kill him,” said Gail. “Is it?”

  “No,” said Jack. “Guess not.”

  “And you don’t have any other evidence.”

  “No.”

  Jack waited. He sensed she wasn’t finished.

  “And yet, you still think there’s something suspicious about his death?”

  Jack looked at Sarah.

  “We do.”

  He turned back to Gail. She seemed to be making up her mind, weighing up the pros and cons.

  “And I believe that you are wasting your time. So now, maybe—”

  “Mrs. King, do you think we could take a look at the pool?”

  Jack saw her frown. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed Sarah looking at him.

  The question had to be asked.

  “I haven’t been down there since … since it happened.”

  “I can understand that,” said Sarah.

  “So … yes.” She took a breath. “Perhaps now would be the time. I’ll fetch the key …”

  “That would be good, thank you,” said Jack.

  He watched Gail stand up from the sofa and head out of the door.

  “Tell you what, I wasn’t expecting her to say ‘yes’,” he said.

  “Me neither,” said Sarah. “Guess you get your crime scene after all.”

  *

  In the darkness, Sarah watched Gail press a button at the side of the pool. She heard an engine whirring up in the roof of the pool house. First shutters then the whole glass roof slid back to let in the light.

  “Was that open on the night of the party?” she asked Gail.

  “No. We had the staff fill the place with candles. Cushions round the side. It was supposed to be another chill-out area.”

  “Did you come down here at all?” said Jack.

  “No.”

  Again — the quick answer. Quick because it was a lie?

  But why lie?

  “What about other people?’ said Jack. “Pools at parties tend to be popular …”

  Sarah watched him walk around the pool, carefully stepping over police tape that still marked out different sections of the bui
lding.

  “Apparently not ours,” said Gail. “Everyone was busy drinking and arguing. Alex wasn’t found until seven the next morning.”

  “Doesn’t mean nobody came down here,” said Jack. “I mean — they just might not have seen him.”

  Sarah saw Gail flinch at the thought. Although she seemed largely unmoved by her husband’s death, maybe she was just very good at hiding her emotions?

  “But, as far as you know, nobody saw him come down here?” said Sarah. “And nobody saw anyone in the pool?”

  “So I’m told,” said Gail. “The police interviewed everybody, took statements. And that is what they told me.”

  Sarah watched Jack crouch down and touch the water.

  “Pretty cool,” he said. “Is it normally this temperature?”

  “Alex liked it that way.”

  “He swim laps?”

  “Every morning,” said Gail. “Bit of a fanatic.”

  “So he was a strong swimmer?” said Sarah.

  “Very strong.”

  “Even when he’d had a drink?” said Jack.

  “I never saw him go in the water — anywhere — sea or pool — after a drink. And he never just had one drink.”

  “Or after anything else?”

  Gail hesitated at that. “Never under the influence. Of anything.”

  For the first time, Sarah thought: maybe she doesn’t buy the accidental death either.

  She saw Jack open a door on the far side of the pool and disappear into darkness.

  “Sauna and steam room,” said Gail.

  Then her phone rang, the sound shrill, jarring. “Excuse me.”

  Sarah watched her open the pool house door and step outside to take the call.

  She walked round the pool and joined Jack. He was on his knees in the middle of the sauna, pointing the light from his mobile phone under the wooden slatted bench.

  “Never, ever, trust the cops, even the good ones, to find all the evidence,” he said, shuffling backwards from under the bench then getting to his feet.

  On his right hand he had a surgical glove. And in between his fingers he held a cigarette end.

  Or rather, as Sarah realised when she got closer, the tail end of a joint.

  “Not one of Alex’s, I suspect,” said Jack.

  And as he held it up — Sarah could see why: the tip was pink with lipstick.

  “Maybe Gail?” said Sarah. “But I don’t take her for a pot smoker — or a liar. At least so far …”