Free Jazz and Die by Stella Whitelaw Page B

on the shoulder, smiling. ‘You’re the steward who saved us all yesterday when the boat crashed onto the rocks, aren’t you?’
    ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly me on my own,’ I said modestly. ‘The skipper had a lot to do with it.’
    ‘Still, you kept us all from panicking. You were the only one with any sense. Silly lot.’ She nodded in agreement with herself and settled back to listen to the jazz. I remembered her. She had been the one crying.
    The band were tiring. I could feel that the energy had gone. Chuck Peters meandered among his musicians, indicating a change in programme.
    ‘We are going to end our session this afternoon with the perennial favourite “Sing, Sing, Sing” featuring our talented drummer, Ross Knighton.’
    Maddy’s face was bathed in adoration.
    I wondered if Ross could cope with this number. Long ago I’d heard the world-famous swing and jazz percussionist, Eric Delaney, play this number and he’d been ancient even then. He’d played everything on stage: the walls, the chairs, the lights, the microphones. It had been a performance to remember. As well as his drum kit, he’d had on stage a xylophone, glockenspiel, timpani, military side drums, tubular bells, Chinese gongs and tam tams.
    Ross handled it well. He was not yet a virtuoso performer but his technique and artistry was way above the normal bash and bang drummer. Maddy was entranced, as usual, never taking her eyes off him as he leaped around the set.
    The applause was deafening. Chuck went through the customary naming of each of his musicians so that they got their share of the applause.
    ‘That’s all, folks. See you again this evening, eight o’clock in Marquee One. Got your brollies? I think it’s raining.’
    That was an understatement. It was pouring, a steady relentless rain. The sky was dark with rain clouds. Stewards hurried out with lanterns to hang on the poles along the entrance so that no one slipped on the path. The wet grass could be treacherous.
    Ross was zipping up his kit into their waterproof bags. It was costly equipment and he never left it lying about. Maddy had apparently forgiven him and was helping stow away the sticks.
    Chuck was wiping and packing up his instruments to take along with him. He was due to play at another venue at four o’clock but first he wanted a quick liquid lunch and a steak sandwich. He said something to his daughter but she shook her head and flounced off.
    He looked around the marquee; spotted me. He grinned and waved.
    He hurried over, putting a folded twenty note in my hand. ‘Make sure Maddy gets some proper food inside her, will you? She won’t survive tonight’s partying on a packet of crisps.’
    ‘Sure,’ I said. My cheese omelette was already a distant memory. ‘There’s a great fish and chip restaurant right on the front, highly recommended.’
    ‘I know the place, the one on the corner? It serves round the clock. And get a taxi. You’ll be soaked in this downpour.’
    Maddy was valiantly helping Ross to carry his gear out to his van. I saw her disappear through the tent flap with some of the drum stands. Next I heard a scream. It was indeed a scream that could stop traffic.
    I ran outside, half blinded by the rain. Maddy was standing in the middle of the field, her arms outstretched in terror. She had dropped the stands. Huddled at her feet was a heap of black and white material and a seeping puddle of red.
    It took me a few seconds to recognize that it was a woman. It was the black and white umbrella woman on the street parade this morning. But now the sharp ferrule of the decorated umbrella had been planted into her chest. The seeping red was blood.

EIGHT
    I rushed over to the woman and knelt down onto the grass. I felt for a pulse in her neck. It was faint but it was there. I didn’t touch the umbrella.
    ‘Where’s your phone?’ I said to Maddy. I’d left my bag under the bar. But she was still screaming hysterically, unable to do anything except