A Darker Shade of Blue

FAVOUR

Kiley hadn’t heard from Adrian Costain in some little time, not since one of Costain’s A-list clients had ended up in an all-too-public brawl, the pictures syndicated round the world at the touch of a computer key, and Kiley, who had been hired to prevent exactly that kind of thing happening, had been lucky to get half his fee.

‘If we were paying by results,’ Costain had said, ‘you’d be paying me.’

Kiley had had new cards printed. ‘Investigations. Private and Confidential. All kinds of security work undertaken. Ex-Metropolitan Police’. Telephone and fax numbers underneath. Cheaper by the hundred, the young woman in Easyprint had said, Kiley trying not to stare at the tattoo that snaked up from beneath the belt of her jeans to encircle her navel, the line of tiny silver rings that tinkled like a miniature carillon whenever she moved her head.

Now the cards were pinned, some of them, outside newsagents’ shops all up and down the Holloway Road and around; others he’d left discreetly in pubs and cafes in the vicinity; once, hopefully, beside the cash desk at the Holloway Odeon after an afternoon showing of Insomnia, Kiley not immune to Maura Tierney’s charms.

Most days, the phone didn’t ring, the fax failed to ratchet into life.

‘Email, that’s what you need, Jack,’ the Greek in the corner cafe where he sometimes had breakfast assured him. ‘Email, the Net, the World Wide Web.’

What Kiley needed was a new pair of shoes, a way to pay next month’s rent, a little luck. Getting laid wouldn’t be too bad either: it had been a while.

He was on his way back into the flat, juggling the paper, a pint of milk, a loaf of bread, fidgeting for the keys, when the phone started to ring.

Too late, he pressed recall and held his breath.

‘Hello?’ The voice at the other end was suave as cheap margarine.

‘Adrian?’

‘You couldn’t meet me in town, I suppose? Later this morning. Coffee.’

Kiley thought that he could.

When he turned the corner of Old Compton Street into Frith Street, Costain was already sitting outside Bar Italia, expensively suited legs lazily crossed, Times folded open, cappuccino as yet untouched before him.

Kiley squeezed past a pair of media types earnestly discussing first-draft scripts and European funding, and took a seat at Costain’s side.

‘Jack,’ Costain said. ‘It’s been too long.’ However diligently he practised his urbane, upper-class drawl there was always that telltale tinge of Ilford, like a hair ball at the back of his throat.

Kiley signalled to the waitress and leaned back against the painted metal framework of the chair. Across the street, Ronnie Scott’s was advertising Dianne Adams, foremost amongst its coming attractions.

‘I didn’t know she was still around,’ Kiley said.

‘You know her?’

‘Not really.’

What Kiley knew were old rumours of walkouts and no-shows, a version of ‘Stormy Weather’ that had been used a few years back in a television commercial, an album of Gershwin songs he’d once owned but not seen in, oh, a decade or more. Not since Dianne Adams had played London last.

‘She’s spent a lot of time in Europe since she left the States,’ Costain was saying. ‘Denmark. Holland. Still plays all the big festivals. Antibes, North Sea.’

Kiley was beginning to think Costain’s choice of venue for their meeting was down to more than a love of good coffee. ‘You’re representing her,’ he said.

‘In the UK, yes.’

Kiley glanced back across the street. ‘How long’s she at Ronnie’s?’

‘Two weeks.’

When Kiley had been a kid and little more, those early cappuccino days, a girl he’d been seeing had questioned the etiquette of eating the chocolate off the top with a spoon. He did it now, two spoonfuls before stirring in the rest, wondering, as he did so, where she might be now, if she still wore her hair in a ponytail, the hazy green in her eyes.

‘You could clear a couple of weeks, Jack, I imagine. Nights, of course, afternoons.’ Costain smiled and showed some teeth, not his but sparkling just the same. ‘You know the life.’

‘Not really.’

‘Didn’t you have a pal? Played trumpet, I believe?’

‘Saxophone.’

‘Ah, yes.’ As if they were interchangeable, a matter of fashion, an easy either-or.

Derek Becker had played Ronnie’s once or twice, in his pomp, not headlining, but taking the support slot with his quartet, Derek on tenor and soprano, occasionally baritone, along with the usual piano, bass and drums. That was before the booze really hit him bad.

‘Adams,’ Costain said, ‘it would just be a matter of babysitting, making sure she gets to the club on time, the occasional interview. You know the drill.’

‘Hardly seems necessary.’

‘She’s not been in London in a good while. She’ll feel more comfortable with a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on.’ Costain smiled his professional smile. ‘That’s metaphorically, of course.’

They both knew he needed the money; there was little more, really, to discuss.

‘She’ll be staying at Le Meridien,’ Costain said. ‘On Piccadilly. From Friday. You can hook up with her there.’

The meeting was over, Costain was already glancing at his watch, checking for messages on his mobile phone.

‘All those years in Europe,’ Kiley said, getting to his feet, ‘no special reason she’s not been back till now?’

Costain shook his head. ‘Representation, probably. Timings not quite right.’ He flapped a hand vaguely at the air. ‘Sometimes it’s just the way these things are.’

‘A little start-up fund would be good,’ Kiley said.

Costain reached into his suit jacket for his wallet and slid out two hundred and fifty in freshly minted twenties and tens. ‘Are you still seeing Kate these days?’ he asked.

Kiley wasn’t sure.

Kate Keenan was a freelance journalist with a free-ranging and often fierce column in the Independent. Kiley had met her by chance a little over a year ago and they’d been sparring with one another ever since. She’d been sparring with him. Sometimes, Kiley thought, she took him the way some women took paracetamol.

‘Only I was thinking,’ Costain said, ‘she and Dianne ought to get together. Dianne’s a survivor, after all. Beat cancer. Saw off a couple of abusive husbands. Brought up a kid alone. She’d be perfect for one of those pieces Kate does. Profiles. You know the kind of thing.’

‘Ask her,’ Kiley said.

‘I’ve tried,’ Costain said. ‘She doesn’t seem to be answering my calls.’

There had been an episode, Kiley knew, before he and Kate had met, when she had briefly fallen for Costain’s slippery charm. It had been, as she liked to say, like slipping into cow shit on a rainy day.

‘Is this part of what you’re paying me for?’ Kiley asked.

‘Merely a favour,’ Costain said, smiling. ‘A small favour between friends.’

Kiley thought he wouldn’t mind an excuse to call Kate himself. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll do what I can. But I’ve got a favour to ask you in return.’

The night before Dianne Adams opened in Frith Street, Costain organised a reception downstairs at the Pizza on the Park. Jazzers, journalists, publicists and hangers-on, musicians like Guy Barker and Courtney Pine, for fifteen minutes Nicole Farhi and David Hare. Canapes and champagne.

Derek Becker was there with a quartet, playing music for schmoozing. Only it was better than that.

Becker was a hard-faced romantic who loved the fifties recordings of Stan Getz, especially the live sessions from the Shrine with Bob Brookmeyer on valve trombone; he still sent cards, birthday, Christmas and Valentine, to the woman who’d had the good sense not to marry him some twenty years before. And he liked to drink.

A Bass man from way back, he could tolerate most beer, though he preferred it hand-pumped from the wood; in the right mood, he could appreciate a good wine; whisky, he preferred Islay single malts, Lagavulin, say, or Laphroaig. At a pinch, anything would do.

Kiley had come across him once, sprawled along a bench on the southbound platform of the Northern Line at Leicester Square. Vomit still drying on his shirt front, face bruised, a cut splintering the bridge of his nose. Kiley had pulled him straight and used a tissue to wipe what he could from round his mouth and eyes, pushed a tenner down into his top pocket and left him there to sleep it off. Thinking about it still gave him the occasional twinge of guilt.

That had been a good few years back, around the time Kiley had been forced to accept his brief foray into professional soccer was over: the writing on the wall, the stud marks on his shins; the ache in his muscles that never quite went away, one game to the next.

Becker was still playing jazz whenever he could, but instead of Ronnie’s, nowadays it was more likely to be the King’s Head in Bexley, the Coach and Horses at Isleworth, depping on second tenor at some big-band nostalgia weekend at Pontin’s.

And tonight Becker was looking sharp, sharper than Kiley had seen him in years and sounding good. Adams clearly thought so. Calling for silence, she sang a couple of tunes with the band. ‘Stormy Weather’, of course, and an up-tempo ‘Just One of Those Things’. Stepping aside to let Becker solo, she smiled at him broadly. Made a point of praising his playing. After that his eyes followed her everywhere she went.

‘She’s still got it, hasn’t she?’ Kate said, appearing at Kiley’s shoulder.

Kiley nodded. Kate was wearing an oatmeal-coloured suit that would have made most other people look like something out of storage. Her hair shone.

‘You didn’t mind me calling you?’ Kiley said.

Kate shook her head. ‘As long as it was only business.’ Accidentally brushing his arm as she moved away.

Later that night — that morning — Kiley, having delivered Dianne Adams safely to her hotel, was sitting with Derek Becker in a club on the edge of Soho. Both men were drinking Scotch, Becker sipping his slowly, plenty of water in between.

Before the reception had wound down, Adams had spoken to Costain, Costain had spoken to the management at Ronnie’s and Becker had been added to the trio Adams had brought over from Copenhagen to accompany her.

‘I suppose,’ Becker said, ‘I’ve got you to thank for that.’

Kiley shook his head. ‘Thank whoever straightened you out.’

Becker had another little taste of his Scotch. ‘Let me tell you,’ he said. ‘A year ago, it was as bad as it gets. I was living in Walthamstow, a one-room flat. Hadn’t worked in months. The last gig I’d had, a pub over in Chigwell, I hadn’t even made the three steps up on to the stage. I was starting the day with a six-pack and by lunch-time it’d be ruby port and cheap wine. Except there wasn’t any lunch. I hardly ate anything for weeks at a time and when I did I threw it back up. And I stank. People turned away from me on the street. My clothes stank and my skin stank. The only thing I had left, the only thing I hadn’t sold or hocked was my horn and then I hocked that. Bought enough pills, a bottle of cheap Scotch and a packet of old-fashioned razor blades. Enough was more than enough.’

He looked at Kiley and sipped his drink.

‘And then I found this.’

Snapping open his saxophone case, Becker flipped up the lid of the small compartment in which he kept his spare reeds. Lifting out something wrapped in dark velvet, he laid it in Kiley’s hand.

‘Open it.’

Inside the folds was a bracelet, solid gold or merely plated Kiley couldn’t be certain, though from the weight of it he guessed the former. Charms swayed and jingled lightly as he raised it up. A pair of dice. A key. What looked to be — an imitation this, surely? — a Faberge egg.

‘I was shitting myself,’ Becker said. ‘Literally. Shit scared of what I was going to do.’ He wiped his hand across his mouth before continuing. ‘I’d gone down into the toilets at Waterloo station, locked myself in one of the stalls. I suppose I fell, passed out maybe. Next thing I know I’m on my hands and knees, face down in God knows what and there it was. Waiting for me to find it.’

An old Presley song played for a moment at the back of Kiley’s head. ‘Your good-luck charm,’ he said.

‘If you like, yes. The first piece of luck I’d had in months, that’s for sure. Years. I mean, I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there, staring at it. I don’t know, waiting for it to disappear, I suppose.’

‘And when it didn’t?’

Becker smiled. ‘I tipped the pills into the toilet bowl, took a belt at the Scotch and then poured away the rest. The most I’ve had, that day to this, is a small glass of an evening, maybe two. I know you’ll hear people say you can’t kick it that way, all or nothing, has to be, but all I can say is it works for me.’ He held out his hand, arm extended, no tremor, the fingers perfectly still. ‘Well, you’ve heard me play.’

Kiley nodded. ‘And this?’ he said.

‘The bracelet?’

‘Yes.’

Forefinger and thumb, Becker took it from the palm of Kiley’s hand.

‘Used it to get my horn out of hock, buy a half-decent suit of clothes. When I was sober enough, I started phoning round, chasing work. Bar mitzvahs, weddings, anything, I didn’t care. When I had enough I went back and redeemed it.’ He rewrapped the bracelet and stowed it carefully away. ‘Been with me ever since.’ He winked. ‘Like you say, my good-luck charm, eh?’

Kiley drained what little remained in his glass. ‘Time I wasn’t here.’

Standing, Becker shook his hand. ‘I owe you one, Jack.’

‘Just keep playing like tonight. Okay?’

The first few days went down easily enough, the way good days sometimes do. Adam’s first set, opening night, was maybe just a little shaky, but after that everything gelled. The reviews were good, better than good, and by midweek word of mouth had kicked in and the place was packed. Becker, Kiley thought, was playing out of his skull, seizing his chance with both hands. Adams worked up a routine with him on ‘Ghost of a Chance’, just the two of them, voice and horn, winding around each other tighter and tighter as the song progressed. And, when they were through, Becker gazed at Dianne Adams with a mixture of gratitude and barely disguised desire.

Costain didn’t have to call in many favours to have Adams interviewed at length on Woman’s Hour and more succinctly on Front Row; after less than three hours’ sleep, she was smiling from behind her make-up on GMTV; Claire Martin prerecorded a piece for her Friday jazz show and had Adams and Becker do their thing in the studio. Kate’s profile in the Indy truthfully presented a woman with a genuine talent, a generous ego and a carapaced heart.

All of this Kiley watched from a close distance, grateful for Costain’s money without ever being sure why the agent had thought him necessary. Then, just shy of noon on the Thursday morning, he knew.

Adams paged him and had him come up to her room.

Pacing the floor in a hotel robe, sans paint and powder, she looked all of her age and then some. The photographs were spread out across the unmade bed. Dianne Adams on stage at Ronnie Scott’s, opening night; walking through a mostly deserted Soho after the show, Kiley at her side; Adams passing through the hotel lobby, walking along the corridor from the lift, unlocking the door to her room. And then several slightly blurred and taken, Kiley guessed, from across the street with a telephoto lens: Adams undressing; sitting on her bed in her underwear talking on the telephone; crossing from the shower, nude save for a towel wrapped round her head.

‘When did you get these?’ Kiley asked.

‘Sometime this morning. An hour ago, maybe. Less. Someone pushed them under the door.’

‘No note? No message?’

Adams shook her head.

Kiley looked again at the pictures on the bed. ‘This is not just an obsessive fan.’

Adams lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into her lungs. ‘No.’

He looked at her then. ‘You know who these are from.’

Adams sighed and for a moment closed her eyes. ‘When I was last in London, ’89, I had this… this thing.’ She shrugged. ‘You’re on tour, some strange city. It happens.’ From the already decimated minibar she took the last miniature of vodka and tipped it into a glass. ‘Whatever helps you through the night.’

‘He didn’t see it that way.’

‘He?’

‘Whoever this was. The affair. The fling. It meant more to him.’

‘To her.’

Kiley caught his breath. ‘I see.’

Adams sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. ‘Virginia Pride? I guess you know who she is?’

Kiley nodded. ‘I didn’t know she was gay.’

‘She’s not.’ Tilting back her head, Adams blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘But then, neither am I. No more than most women, given the right situation.’

‘And that’s what this was?’

‘So it seemed.’

Kiley’s mind was working overtime. Virginia Pride had made her name starring in a television soap in the eighties, brittle and sexy and no better than she should be. After that she did a West End play, posed nearly nude for a national daily and had a few well-publicised skirmishes with the law, public order offences, nothing serious. Her wedding to Keith Payne made the front page of both OK! and Hello! and their subsequent history of breaking up to make up was choreographed lovingly by the tabloid press. If Kiley remembered correctly, Virginia was set to play Maggie in a provincial tour of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

But he didn’t think Virginia was the problem.

‘Payne knew about this?’ Kiley said.

Adams released smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Let’s say he found out.’

One image of Keith Payne stuck in Kiley’s memory. A newspaper photograph. A tall man, six four or five, Payne was being escorted across the tarmac from a plane, handcuffed to one of the two police officers walking alongside. Tanned, hair cut short, he was wearing a dark polo shirt outside dark chinos, what was obviously a Rolex on his wrist. Relaxed, confident, a smile on his handsome face.

Kiley couldn’t recall the exact details, save that Payne had been extradited from Portugal to face charges arising from a bullion robbery at Heathrow. The resulting court case had all but collapsed amidst crumbling evidence and accusations of police entrapment, and Payne had finally been sentenced to eight years for conspiracy to commit robbery. He would have been released, Kiley guessed, after serving no more than five. Whereas his former colleague, who had appeared as a witness for the prosecution and was handed down a lenient eighteen months, was the unfortunate victim of a hit-and-run incident less than two weeks after being released from prison. The vehicle was found abandoned half a mile away and the driver never traced.

Payne, Kiley guessed, didn’t take kindly to being crossed.

‘When he found out,’ Kiley said, ‘about you and Virginia, what did he do?’

‘Bought her flowers, a new dress, took her to the Caprice, knocked out two of her teeth. He came to the hotel where I was staying and trashed the room, smashed the mirror opposite the bed and held a piece of glass to my face. Told me that if he ever as much as saw me near Virginia again he’d carve me up.’

‘You believed him.’

‘I took the first flight out next morning.’

‘And you’ve not been back since.’

‘Till now.’

‘Costain knew this?’

‘I suppose.’

Yes, Kiley thought, I bet he did.

Adams drained her glass and swivelled towards the telephone. ‘I’m calling room service for a drink.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You want anything?’

Kiley shook his head. ‘So have you seen her?’ he asked when she was through.

‘No. But she sent me this.’ The card had a black-and-white photograph, artfully posed, of lilies in a slim white vase; the message inside read ‘Knock ’em dead’ and was signed ‘Virginia’ with a large red kiss. ‘That and a bottle of champagne on opening night.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

Kiley thought it might be enough.

Adams ran her fingers across the photographs beside her on the bed. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘Why? Why these?’

Some men, Kiley knew, got off on the idea of their wives or girlfriends having affairs with other women, positively encouraged it, but it didn’t seem Payne was one of those.

‘He’s letting you know he knows where you are, knows your every move. If you see Virginia, he’ll know.’

Adams’ eyes flicked towards the mirror on the hotel wall. ‘And if I do, he’ll carry out his threat.’

‘He’ll try.’

‘You could stop him.

Kiley wasn’t sure. ‘Are you going to see her?’ he asked.

Adams shook her head. ‘What if she tries to see me?’

Kiley smiled; close to a smile, at least. ‘We’ll try and head her off at the pass.’

That night, after the show, she asked Becker back to her hotel for a drink and, as he sat with his single Scotch and water, invited him to share her bed.

‘She’s using you,’ Kiley said next morning, Becker bleary-eyed over his coffee in Old Compton Street.

Becker found the energy to wink. ‘And how,’ he said.

Kiley told him about Payne and all Becker did was shrug.

‘He’s dangerous, Derek.’

‘He’s just a two-bit gangster, right?’

‘You mean like Coltrane was a two-bit sax player?’

‘Jack,’ Becker said, grasping Kiley by the arm, ‘you worry too much, you know that?’

The following afternoon Adams and the band were rehearsing at Ronnie’s, Dianne wanting to work up some new numbers for the weekend. Kiley thought it was unlikely Payne would show his hand in such a public place, but rang Costain and asked him to be around in case.

‘I thought that was what I was paying you for,’ Costain said.

‘If he breaks your arm,’ Kiley said, ‘take it out of my salary.’

Kiley had been checking out the Stage. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was already on the road, this week Leicester, next week Richmond. Close enough to make a trip into the centre of London for its star a distinct possibility. He sat in the Haymarket bar and waited for the matinee performance to finish. Thirty minutes after the curtain came down, Virginia Pride was sitting in her robe in her dressing room, most of the make-up removed from her face, a cigarette between her lips. Close up, she didn’t look young any more, but she still looked good.

‘You’re from the Mail’ she said, crossing her legs.

Kiley leaned back against the door as it closed behind him. ‘I lied.’

She studied him then, taking him in. ‘Should I call the management? Have you thrown out?’ Her voice was still smeared with the southern accent she’d used in the play.

‘Probably not.’

‘You’re not some crazy fan?’

Kiley shook his head.

‘No, I suppose you’re not.’ She took one last drag at her cigarette. ‘Just as long as you’re here, there’s a bottle of wine in that excuse for a fridge. Why don’t you grab a couple of those glasses, pour us both a drink? Then you can tell me what you really want.’

The wine was a little sweet for Kiley’s taste and not quite cold enough.

‘Are you planning to see Dianne Adams while she’s in town?’ Kiley said.

‘Oh, shit!’ A little of the wine spilled on Virginia’s robe. ‘Did Keith send you?’

‘I think I’m batting for the other side.’

‘You think?’

‘He threatened her before.’

‘That’s just his way.’

‘His way sometimes extends to hit and run.’

‘That’s bullshit!’

‘Is it?’

Virginia swung her legs around and faced the mirror; dabbed cream on to some cotton wool and wiped the residue of make-up from around her eyes.

‘Keith,’ Kiley said. ‘You let him know about the card and the champagne.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Just like you let him know about you and Dianne…’

Virginia laughed, low and loud. ‘It keeps him on his toes.’

‘Then shall we say it’s served its purpose this time? You’ll keep away? Unless you want her to get hurt, that is?’

She looked at him in the mirror. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want that.’

His phone rang almost as soon as he stepped through the door. Costain.

‘Why don’t you get yourself a mobile, for fuck’s sake? I’ve been trying to get hold of you the best part of an hour.’

‘What happened?’

‘Keith Payne came to the club, walked right in off the street in the middle of rehearsals. Couple of his minders with him. One of the staff tried to stop them and got thumped for his trouble. Wanted to talk to Dianne, that’s what he said. Talk to her on her own.’

Kiley waited, fearing the worst.

‘Your pal, Becker, all of a sudden he’s got the balls of a brass monkey. Told Payne to come back that evening, pay his money along with all the other punters. Miss Adams was an artiste and right now she was working.’ Costain couldn’t quite disguise his admiration. ‘I doubt anyone’s spoken to Keith Payne like that in twenty years. Not and lived to tell the tale.’

‘He didn’t do anything?’

‘Someone from the club had called the police. Payne obviously didn’t think it was worth the hassle. Turned around and left. But you should have seen the expression on his face.’

Kiley thought he could hazard a guess.

Later that evening he phoned Virginia Pride at the theatre. ‘Your husband, I need to see him.’

The house was forty minutes north of London, nestled in the Hertfordshire countryside, the day warm enough for Payne to be on a lounger near the pool. A gofer brought them both a cold beer.

‘Hear that,’ Payne said. ‘Fuckin’ birdsong. Amazing.’

Kiley could hear birds sometimes, above the noise of traffic from the Holloway Road. He kept it to himself.

‘Ginny says you went to see her.’

‘Dianne Adams, I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any trouble.’

‘If that dyke comes sniffin’ round…’

‘She won’t.’

‘That business with her and Ginny, a soddin’ aberration. All it was. Over and done. And then Ginny, all of a sudden she’s sending fuckin’ champagne and fuck knows what.’

‘You want to know what I think?’ Kiley said.

A flicker of Payne’s pale blue eyes gave permission.

‘I think she does it to put a hair up your arse.’

Payne gave it a moment’s thought and laughed. ‘You could be right.’

‘And Becker, he was just sounding off. Trying to look big.’

‘People don’t talk to me like that. Nobody talks to me like that. Especially a tosser like him.’

‘Sticks and stones. Besides, like you say, who is he? Becker? He’s nothing.’

Swift to his feet for a big man, Payne held out his hand. ‘You’re right.’

‘You won’t hold a grudge?’

Payne’s grip was firm. ‘You’ve got my word.’

The remainder of Dianne Adams’ engagement passed off without incident. Virginia Pride stayed away. By the final weekend it was standing room only and, spurred on by the crowd and the band, Adams’ voice seemed to find new dynamics, new depth.

Of course, Becker told her about the bracelet during one of those languorous times when they lay in her hotel bed, feeling the lust slowly ebb away. He even offered it to her as a present, half-hoping she would refuse, which she did. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘And it’s a beautiful thought. But it’s your good-luck charm. You don’t want to lose it now.’

On the last night at Ronnie’s, she thanked him profusely on stage for his playing and presented him with a charm in the shape of a saxophone. ‘A little something to remember me by.’

‘You know,’ she said, outside on the pavement later, ‘next month we’ve got this tour, Italy, Switzerland. You should come with us.’

‘I’d like that,’ Becker said.

‘I’ll call you,’ she said, and kissed him on the mouth.

She never did.

Costain thanked Kiley for a job well done and with part of his fee Kiley acquired an expensive mobile phone and waited for that also to ring.

Three weeks later, as Derek Becker was walking through Soho after a gig in Dean Street, gone one a.m., a car pulled up alongside him and three men got out. Quiet and quick. They grabbed Becker and dragged him into an alley and beat him with gloved hands and booted feet. Then they threw him back against the wall and two of them held out his arms at the wrist, fingers spread, while the third drew a pair of pliers from the pocket of his combat pants. One of them stuffed a strip of towelling into his mouth to stifle the screams.

Becker’s instrument case had already fallen open to the ground, and as they left, one of the men trod almost nonchalantly on the bell of the saxophone before booting it hard away. A second man picked up the case and hurled it into the darkness at the alley’s end, the bracelet, complete with its newly attached charm, sailing unseen into the deepest corner, carrying with it all of Becker’s new-found luck.

It was several days before Kiley heard what had happened and went to see Becker in his flat in Walthamstow, bringing a couple of paperbacks and a bottle of single malt.

‘Gonna have to turn the pages for me, Jack. Read them as well.’

His hands were still bandaged and his left eye still swollen closed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kiley said and opened the Scotch.

‘You know what, Jack?’ Becker said, after the first sip. ‘Next time, don’t do me no favours, right?’