Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel Read Free Book Online Page B

just recently bought a big collection of records. There was a lot of jazz in it, he said. He hadn’t finished sorting through it yet, so who knows what it might contain?”
    “Well then, for god’s sake, let’s go and have a look at this collection.”
    I sighed. “That’s not going to happen.”
    “Why not?”
    “Jerry was killed in his house. The records are in his house. It’s a crime scene. The police are crawling all over it and they won’t let anyone in for at least a week.”
    She said, “Well, as soon as we can get in there, we must.”
    “Yes,” I said, “that should definitely be my first order of business, now that my friend is dead. Rifling through his record collection.”
    “Are you going to stir that?” she said.
    “Oh, sorry.” I finished stirring the coffee and handed her a mug.
    She blew on it and took a sip. “Still, it’s a pity. Not being able to check if the record is there.”
    I shrugged. “Actually the real pity is not having access to Jerry’s reference books. He definitely had some information about the Hathor record label. He was going to go home and look it up for me.”
    She set her coffee aside. “What did you say his name was again?”
    “Jerry Muscutt.”
    She nodded, as if it meant something to her.
    * * *
    In the back of the cab she sat as far away from me as possible. “You stink of whisky,” she said.
    “You don’t have to come.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I could look for the record on my own. I’m a big boy.”
    “Oh no,” she said. “I couldn’t do that.”
    “Why not?” I remembered what Tinkler had said. “Because you don’t trust me? Because you think I’ll find the record and keep it for myself?”
    “No,” she said. She shot a nervous glance at our driver. She’d made good on her promise to hire the young woman with the shaved head. But the driver, sealed away on the other side of the glass, seemed appropriately oblivious to our conversation. “Of course not. Of course I don’t think that.”
    But she didn’t convince either of us. I said, “Why don’t you just look for it yourself?”
    “You’re not making any sense. Look, you’re just despondent about your friend, and that’s understandable. Plus it doesn’t help that you’ve had a skinful. But we have a job here and we have to do it.”
    “We.” I sighed. I was coming down from the whisky and everything looked bleak. We were driving through Strawberry Hill, along the narrow curving Waldegrave Road. The entrance to St Mary’s University flashed by on our left. Our driver, whom I’d begun to think of as Clean Head, was making good time.
    Nevada said, “Besides, without you, where would I start? I mean, I’d never think of going to exotic places like Surbiton to seek out fascinating institutions like this, what did you call it? This record fair.”
    “Don’t get your hopes up,” I said.
    * * *
    The record fair was a monthly fixture, held at a church hall near the tall, elegant white art-deco railway station, which to my mind was the best thing about Surbiton. Well, that and the charity shops. The record fair was in a small building in the courtyard of an old redbrick church, situated opposite a pleasant little park.
    I got the taxi driver to drop us on the far side of the park so we could stroll across it in a leisurely fashion and appreciate the greenery. However, I don’t think my power-walking companion even noticed it, as she strode implacably forward, focused intently on the grey rectangular building ahead. There was a poster on a sandwich board outside which said RECORD FAIR, THIS WAY !
    “Why did you tell me not to get my hopes up?”
    “It’s a record fair,” I said.
    “And?”
    “And everything that ends up here has already been picked over by dealers.” I held the swinging door for her and we entered. “It would be a miracle if we found something really special.” It was chilly in the hall despite a battered ancient chrome electric heater which was