Free Jazz and Die by Stella Whitelaw Page A

for every kind of drink. Not exactly rocket science.
    The three barrels of beer were different local makes. Beer drinkers are connoisseurs. They don’t drink any old beer. Someone showed me how to work the pump to draw a pint up to a certain line on the glass. It was a skilled art, believe me. All that froth suddenly appearing. You had to stop before the foaming top became Niagara Falls. This was something new I could put on my CV: bar experience.
    It would help, if I had to get a job.
    I thought I was good at maths but when a punter ordered two pints, a red and a white wine, three cokes and a bag of crisps, my mental arithmetic was thrown. I got out my PI notebook and dedicated the back page to adding up mechanics.
    Every ten seconds I glanced at Maddy. They were playing ‘Lullaby Of Broadway’. Music to dance to. ‘My Blue Heaven.’ Any time, any day. ‘Poor Butterfly’ always made me want to cry. The saddest piece of music ever written.
    ‘Half a pint, miss. Local brew,’ said a deep-toned voice in my ear. ‘Don’t rush the draw. I don’t want a wet glass.’
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I hissed at him. The front of my shirt was damp and I was harassed.
    ‘What are you doing here? You are supposed to be guarding Maddy.’
    ‘I am guarding her. I can see her. I know where she is. She won’t move till Ross moves.’
    His half-pint was drawn with extra care. I didn’t want another sarcastic comment.
    ‘The DNA and prints on the note are confirmed. They match DNA and prints from my castle victim. The girl we found was also fifteen, a lot like Maddy: pretty, very modern, skimpyclothes. But she came from a decent family, was taking her GCSEs, an above-average student but not a tearabout. She was always home by a certain set time, except this once. Her family are still devastated. I want closure on this case.’
    DCI James leaned on the bar counter, sipping his half-pint. I pushed a bag of crisps in his direction. This was probably his lunch.
    ‘We don’t want Maddy to be the next victim.’
    I shivered, a chill running down my spine, like that moment on the headland this morning. I took another ten second glance at her. Maddy was leaning forward, her chin in cupped hands, mesmerized by the rocking percussion.
    ‘She’s in her usual trance,’ I said.
    ‘She could be knifed in a trance,’ said James.
    ‘She’s got a scream that would stop traffic,’ I said, remembering her shouted abuse at Ross.
    ‘I’m sure it would, if it was plunged into her ribs.’
    James leaned over towards me, his ocean blue eyes hard and glinting. ‘This is not like you, Jordan. A bodyguard guards a body. It doesn’t draw pints. Hang up your tea-towel and take Maddy a diet coke. Put it on my bill.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Right away, sir. And I’ll have a red wine.’
    It was an unidentifiable bottom of the house red but I needed the raw alcohol after that reprimand. Bright red liquid in a small plastic beaker hardly soothed my ruffled feelings. I abandoned the bar. No one seemed to notice. There was no queue now. I took the drinks down to the front and handed the can over to Maddy.
    ‘This is your lunch,’ I said.
    She nodded, hardly noticing it was me, her new best friend. She opened the can and began to drink fast as if dehydrated by the music.
    There was a spare chair at the end of the front row, next to the marquee flap. No one was sitting there because it was draughty. I could feel a chill wind round my legs as I sat down. It was lethal and uncomfortable. No wonder everyone had given it the cold shoulder, or cold bum. I drank some of the red stuff. It didn’t help;wet and weak, tasteless.
    The vocalist was singing Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Goodnight My Love’ when I heard the first pattering on the tent roof. At first I thought it was brush strokes, then I realised it was raining. After such a glorious morning, some sort of cold front had swept across the bay.
    A middle-aged woman leaned towards me, tapped me