Written in Dead Wax (46 page)

“Just about. Stony broke. Yes.”

“Well, you can share my money,” she said. “Whatever I’ve got stashed away.”

“I hope it’s not stashed in any bank account Hibiki can get his hands on.”

“Not anymore,” she said, and put a fist to her mouth to stifle a yawn.

“Did you just fly in?”

“From Omura, yes.”

“You must be knackered.”

“I’m not too bad,” she said. “Cold and damp, though. Can I have a bath?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Lovely,” she said, rising from her chair. “Lovely warm bath. Maybe we can have some coffee afterwards.”

“You bet,” I said.

She went into the bathroom and started the bath running. I heard the water rumbling into the tub and Nevada humming. After a few minutes she opened the door and steam escaped and the cats zipped in to join her. The door closed again, trapping the steam and warmth and noise. It was an ideal opportunity to grind some coffee beans without upsetting anyone. I was about to do so when the telephone rang.

I picked up the receiver and heard music. A piano playing, jazz in cascading angular lines. Then a voice. “Hello, Chef?”

“Ree?”

“Yeah. How are you?”

“I’m okay… I’m fine.”

“Good.”

We both fell silent for a moment. The music continued, unfolding in endless fluency. Intricate but brisk, delicate but punchy. “That sounds great. Is it vinyl?”

She laughed. “It’s not a recording, it’s the real thing. Somebody playing the piano. Do you like it?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Hawaii. You’d love it here. Nice coffee.”

“Are you on holiday?”

“Sort of.”

I said, “How did the search go?”

“The search?” she said.

“For Easy Geary.”

“Oh, that’s over.” The piano kept playing, primitive and raw yet urbane and modern.

“You found the grave.”

“No,” she said. “We were never going to find the grave.”

“Why not?”

“To have a grave you have to have a dead body.”

I suddenly realised why the music sounded familiar. I did the arithmetic in my head. It was possible. It was just possible. But it didn’t feel just possible.

It felt inevitable.

“Are you still there?” she said.

“Yes.”

“He plays pretty good for a guy his age, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to get over here,” she said.

A big thank you to Ben Aaronovitch, who encouraged me to write this book in the first place (and for insisting I put the cats in); to the invaluable Guy Adams who made the crucial introduction; to my editor, the wonderful Miranda Jewess for reading it and
getting
it; to Julian Friedmann for first seeing the potential; to Tom Witcomb for so skilfully crafting the deal; to Louise Bryce and Melis Dagoglu for tirelessly selling audio and foreign language rights; to Ann Karas for perusing—and enjoying—early drafts; to Peter Qvortrup for manufacturing and providing such magnificent audio kit; to the other Andrew—the London Jazz Collector—for being so damned helpful; to Tom Evans for technical and electronic wizardry above and beyond the call of duty; to Stephen Gallagher for loyalty, friendship and wisdom and to Ellen Gallagher, a chip off the old block if ever there was one; to Alan Ross for taking part in the story and for providing more records than I can count; to John Tygier for general hi-fi erudition and for loaning me his set of 300B thermionic valves when mine broke down. Greater love hath no man. And to all you crate diggers out there. Just remember, it might be in the next box…

Andrew Cartmel is a novelist and screenwriter. His work for television includes commissions for
Midsomer Murders
and
Torchwood
, and a legendary stint as script editor on
Doctor Who
. He has also written plays for the London Fringe, toured as a stand-up comedian, and is currently co-writing a series of comics with Ben Aaronovitch based on the bestselling
Rivers of London
books. He lives in London with too much vinyl and just enough cats.

COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS

His first adventure consisted of the search for a rare record; his second begins with the
discovery
of one. When a mint copy of the final album by ‘Valerian’—England’s great lost rock band of the 1960s—surfaces in a charity shop, all hell breaks loose. Finding this record triggers a chain of events culminating in our hero learning the true fate of the singer Valerian, who died under equivocal circumstances just after—or was it just before?—the abduction of her two-year-old son.

Along the way, the Vinyl Detective finds himself marked for death, at the wrong end of a shotgun, and unknowingly dosed with LSD as a prelude to being burned alive. And then there’s the grave robbing…

“Like an old 45rpm record, this book crackles with brilliance.”
David Quantick

“This tale of crime, cats and rock & roll unfolds with an authentic sense of the music scene then and now – and a mystery that will keep you guessing.”
Stephen Gallagher

TITAN
BOOKS.COM

This time the search for a rare record ensnares our hero in a mystery with its roots stretching back to the Second World War. Three young RAF airmen played in a legendary band called the Flare Path Orchestra. When a precious 78rpm record of their music turns up in the most unexpected place the Vinyl Detective finds himself hired to track down the rest of their highly sought-after recordings.

But, as he does so, he finds that the battles of the war aren’t over yet—and can still prove lethal. While fighting for his life, our hero unearths dark secrets of treason and murder, and puts right a tragic miscarriage of justice. If all this sounds simple, it’s only because we haven’t mentioned drive-by shootings, murderous neo-Nazis, or that body in the beer barrel.

“An enthralling mystery with a wonderful gallery of grotesques.”
Ben Aaronovitch

“One of the most innovative concepts in crime fiction for many years. Once you are hooked into the world of the Vinyl Detective it is very difficult to leave.”
Nev Fountain

TITAN
BOOKS.COM

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