Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (27 page)

It was, perhaps, not surprising that Sidney should think in these terms for he considered himself to be something of a jazz aficionado. While he loved the concentrated serenity of choral music, and the work of Byrd, Tallis and Purcell in particular, there were times when he wanted something earthier. And so, on his rare evenings at home, he liked nothing better than to listen to the latest hot sounds from America coming from the wireless. It was the opposite of stillness, prayer and penitence, he thought; full of life, mood and swing, whether it was ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing’ by the Ralph Sharon Sextet or the ‘Boogie Woogie Stomp’ of Albert Ammons. Jazz was unpredictable. It could take risks, change mood, announce a theme, develop, change and recapitulate. It was all times in one time, Sidney thought, reworking themes from the past, existing in the present, while creating expectations about any future direction it might take. It was a metaphor of life itself, both transient and profound, pursuing its course with intensity and freedom. Everyone, Sidney was sure, felt the vibe differently, although he was careful not to use a word such as ‘vibe’ when he dined at his College high table.

Jazz was Sidney’s treat to himself, and today he was going to share his enjoyment by travelling to London with Inspector Keating to hear the Gloria Dee Quartet in Soho. They were to be Johnny Johnson’s guests as a thank you gesture after the business of the missing ring. Sidney had not felt it necessary to admit that the friend he was bringing was a policeman; nor had he told Keating that Johnny’s father was none other than the reformed burglar Phil ‘the Cat’ Johnson. He did not want to over-excite his friend.

Gloria Dee had come over from New York City and was already being tipped as the new Bessie Smith. She had the same dramatic presence, together with a voice that could range from supreme tenderness to gospel power. All the reviewers on the jazz scene had praised both the clarity of her diction and her incomparable phrasing and timing.

Sidney was glad to be so up to the minute in his appreciation of her talents but was nervous whether Geordie would like it. He had him down as a light opera man. He also worried that the inspector would be wary of Soho’s seediness.

However, as soon as they arrived in London, Keating seemed unusually cheerful. ‘Makes a change from our usual arrangement,’ he told Sidney as they left Leicester Square and crossed into Chinatown. ‘And it’s good to get out of Cambridge. It can feel a bit claustrophobic, don’t you think?’

‘I worry that you may find the club just as confined.’

‘Sometimes you worry too much.’

‘And remember, Geordie, we are
off duty
. I am not a clergyman and you are not a detective.’

‘We are never off duty, Sidney, you know that.’

‘Do you mean to say there’s no peace for the wicked?’

They climbed the stairs up to the club and handed their coats to Colin on the door. As they walked in, Sidney began to feel self-conscious. The club was crowded with men in sharp suits and thin ties who sat close to women in tight blouses, full skirts and dancing shoes. They were smoking and drinking, and mellow with the mood. Although Sidney was dressed in civvies – a grey flannel double-breasted suit with two-tone brogues – he still felt like a clergyman. He wondered whether he should have opted for a Homburg hat, or forsaken the tie which, he realised, was an episcopal purple, but it was too late to worry about that now.

Johnny Johnson greeted the two men and, after introductions had been made and the beers had been ordered, they sat down to await the evening’s entertainment. A young cocktail waitress with black harlequin glasses approached with a tray of cigarettes. Keating asked for a packet of Players while Sidney declined. As he did so the waitress smiled.

‘Stylish suit,’ she said.

Sidney was cheered. ‘I like your spectacles.’

‘Must make a change from all that clobber you have to wear on Sundays.’

‘How do you know I’m a priest?’

‘My brother pointed you out.’

Sidney guessed. ‘Are you Johnny’s sister?’

‘I’m Claudette.’

‘An unusual name . . .’

‘I think my parents wanted another boy but Claude’s a funny name too, isn’t it? People call me Claudie, Claudie Johnson. Sure you don’t want a cigarette?’

‘No, thanks. There are just the four of you then?’

‘Three. My Mum died when I was six. I’m Daddy’s girl. I’m sure he’ll come and say hello.’

Sidney worried that the inspector might recognise Phil ‘the Cat’, but hoped that a criminal who had done his time should be regarded as an innocent man in the eyes of the law.

He noticed that Claudette was so pale that her eyes appeared very dark. They were like a pair of jet earrings that had fallen in snow. ‘I’d best move on,’ she continued. ‘But you have a good evening, won’t you, gentlemen? Put the troubles of the world behind you. And if there
is
any trouble just come and find me.’

‘Trouble?’ Inspector Keating asked.

‘We get some funny types in here.’ Claudette leaned in so close that Sidney could smell her chewing gum. ‘Some of Dad’s old friends. Money in dark corners, that kind of thing. But if you stay by the bar and keep in the light you’ll be all right.’ Claudette gave him a little wink. ‘Stay cool, OK?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Inspector Keating looked alarmed. ‘I hope there’s not going to be any nonsense.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Geordie.’

He looked across to see Phil ‘the Cat’ Johnson coming over to greet them. Clearly his daughter had tipped him off. He was a large man with a pockmarked face and a belly like a barrel of beer. He called out to his friends by name as he approached, ordered up drinks and told jokes that he then ruined by laughing through the punch line. ‘Have another beer, Sid. I know what you did for our boy.’

‘It was nothing, Mr Johnson.’

‘You stuck up for him. That’s more than nothing. Who’s your friend?’

‘Geordie Keating,’ the inspector replied.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Geordie. You keeping this clergyman out of trouble?’

‘I’m doing my best. Sometimes trouble finds him.’

‘Well, I’m sure there won’t be any of that malarkey tonight. The singer’s a corker and the band are great. You both relax and, if there’s anything you need, just come and find me, all right? No one messes with me.’

‘I can’t imagine they do,’ Sidney observed.

‘They wouldn’t dare!’

The room began to fill with more people and more smoke, so much so that Sidney worried whether he would actually be able to see Gloria Dee when she came on stage; but, as soon as she emerged from the darkness, his anxiety melted away.

The first chord sounded on the piano, followed by a walking bass and light drum accompaniment. Sidney did not think he had ever been so exhilarated. Gloria smiled at the audience, shook her body to the rhythm, and began to sing ‘All of Me’.

She stood at a microphone, only yards in front of him. Her white satin dress accentuated her dark skin and she wore ribbons in her hair. Her voice was like honey, like molasses, like Guinness, like whisky, like wine. She stretched out the vowels of the lyrics, each one a different piece of elastic, and sang little pieces of scat in between the lines, so that it sounded as if she was singing in a language Sidney had never heard before. She was unpredictable, flirtatious, sensual and sad. She sang ‘That Ole Devil Called Love’, ‘T’Aint Nobody’s Business if I Do’, ‘You’re My Thrill’, and the daring number: ‘Judge, Judge, Lordy Mr Judge, Send Me to th’Electric Chair.’

Inspector Keating leaned over. ‘She’s quite a girl.’

Sidney thought that this, truly, was heaven. Gloria then sang a song that she said she had composed when the band was on tour in Paris. It was after the explosions at Bikini Atoll in March and she had been thinking about the atomic bomb.

‘Four minutes

Just four minutes to Midnight

Four minutes

I just want four more minutes with you

‘If the world ends

Then the world ends

But all I need

Is those four minutes

With you . . .’

Gloria hummed the next verse and then introduced her band as they took it in turns to play a series of riffs: Jay Jay Lion on piano, Tony Sanders on drums and Milo Masters on bass. Even though he was, he knew, in London, Sidney tried to imagine he was in uptown Harlem, hanging around at the bar with a load of musicians until the last song was sung and the last toot was tooted.

‘Hit it, Tiger Tony,’ cried Gloria and there then came the moment that always let the side down: the drum solo. Why were jazz fans so partial to this? Sidney wondered. It was like a sneeze, he decided. You could always tell it was coming but you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Tony Sanders did his best but it was still a drum solo. The only bonus was that Gloria Dee wandered out into the audience, singing scat, standing next to Sidney’s table, nodding her approval at her drummer’s industrial enthusiasm.

Sidney was so excited when he realised that Gloria was close that he dared not look. He only needed to know that she was near. The mingled scent of sweat, gardenia and the heady tuberose of her perfume filled his nostrils. Sidney now knew what the word ‘intoxicated’ meant. He wanted this moment, with whom he now thought to be one of the greatest jazz singers in the world by his side, to last for ever. This was what it meant to be alive, Sidney decided, in
this
place, at
this
time and listening to
this
music.

Then everything changed.

A girl screamed, her voice piercing the treble line of the music. A man shouted for help. There was a crush for the doors. The house lights came on. The drum solo stopped.

Phil Johnson barged through the crowds to the back of the club. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

His daughter, Claudette, was lying motionless on the floor outside the Ladies.

‘What happened? Somebody tell me what’s going on?’

A frightened girl backed against the wall. ‘I just found her.’

‘Did you see her fall?’

‘I don’t know what happened.’

Phil knelt down beside his daughter. ‘Fetch Amy,’ he shouted. ‘Bring some water. She’s out cold.’ He put his arm under his daughter’s head and tried to lift her up. Then he noticed the marks on her neck. ‘Bloody hell, what’s this? Claudie, wake up; wake up, I say.’

There was no waking her.

She appeared to have been strangled.

Phil Johnson was talking to his daughter. ‘Who’s done this? What’s happened? My little girl, my poor little girl, what have they done to you, Claudie? Get up . . . come on darling . . . get up. Is there a doctor here?’ Then he shouted out. ‘Is anyone a doctor?’

Keating was already on the case. ‘Get me the telephone,’ he said. ‘Call an ambulance. Then Scotland Yard. No one must leave.’

Most of the customers stood up from the tables and crowded around to see what had happened. The barman and doormen tried to persuade them back to their places while keeping an eye on the exit.

There was nothing for them to go back for: no music, no drink, no conversation. The house lights were on: the late-night atmosphere had evaporated.

‘Oh no,’ said Sidney, ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no.’ He looked down at the girl’s neck and could already see the bruising. There were fingernail marks under the left angle of the jaw, crescent-shaped abrasions on the skin. He wondered who on earth could have done such a thing. ‘Money in dark corners,’ Claudie had said to him. What had she meant by that?

A queue formed for the telephone. People could already tell that they were in for a long night. Gloria Dee was poured another drink. ‘The poor baby. What’d she got mixed up in? It don’t make no sense.’

Sidney wondered whether he would have been more alert if she had not been singing so close to them. Both he and Keating might have seen something, intercepted somebody or been able to avert disaster. But Gloria
had
been standing next to them. And now Claudette was dead. The murder had probably taken less time than it did to smoke one of her cigarettes.

Half an hour later Inspector Williams arrived with men from Scotland Yard. He was a big, burly man who looked like a rugby player. He made straight for the manager.

‘I hear there’s been trouble, Johnson.’

‘It’s my daughter. Some bastard’s got to her.’

‘Keep everyone inside. Cover the exits.’

Keating was by the body.

‘Who are you?’ Williams asked.

‘Inspector George Keating. Cambridge police. I was in the audience at the time.’

‘On duty?’

‘Incognito.’

‘See anything?’

‘Nothing conclusive.’

‘Everyone still here?’

‘There’s an exit by the bar that we secured. The fire exit is behind the stage. Apart from that there’s a small window in the toilet but no one could get through that. It’s just as well there wasn’t a fire.’

‘They should close this place down. So, as far as you know, the murderer is still in the building?’