if you want me.’
Muddy Abraham sat down at the table opposite Barnard, putting his saxophone carefully into a case which he pushed under the table. ‘So how can I help you, Sergeant,’ he said, the southern American drawl in no way diminished by almost twenty years in Britain, although Barnard guessed that he looked significantly different from the young GI who must have crossed the Channel from the south coast to Normandy in 1944. His eyes were bloodshot, his jowls loose and his skin an unhealthy colour like chocolate kept too long. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have something like that so close. Poor kid.’
‘Did you know her?’ Barnard asked, but the musician just shrugged.
‘How do I know?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know what she looked like. There’s always a lot of young girls hanging out aroun’ outside here at night. Stan Weston doesn’t like them coming into the club but now and again they come in with some guy and he doesn’t notice. Jail bait most of them. There seems to be something about musicians that brings them in.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘It’s not just the Beatles, you know, who pull the girls. Though the ones who hang about here are usually a bit more savvy than that. Generally a bit older, too. Jazz goes back further, much further that this new stuff, even this side of the pond. The club don’t let them inside, the kids. But it’s difficult sometimes to know how old a girl is, ain’t it? Or what she’s up to.’
Barnard reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph which he passed across the table.
Abraham took it and stared, almost transfixed, by the black-and-white image of a young girl’s face, eyes closed, half-turned away from the camera. ‘She dead?’ he asked quietly.
‘Her face wasn’t too bruised,’ Barnard said. ‘It was possible to take a picture at the post-mortem.’
The musician nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said slowly. ‘I seen her. I guess a lot of people round here have. She’s been hanging around for a while. Seemed like a nice kid.’
‘She was on the game. A tart,’ Barnard said.
‘That’s a shame, man,’ Abraham said. ‘That sure is a crying shame, a young kid like that.’
‘It happens,’ Barnard said flatly. ‘You haven’t used her services?’
Abraham did not look shocked but shrugged massively. ‘I have a lady, man. I don’t need to be sleeping with no bits of girls who should be in school.’
‘OK,’ Barnard said. ‘But if not you, who? She wouldn’t have been hanging around unless some people weren’t taking an interest in her. Stands to reason.’ Abraham nodded but looked uncertain.
‘I don’t know that, man,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask around.’
Barnard did not believe him, but did not want to push him too hard right now. He did not really think that the musician was a likely murderer and he did not look the type to quit a good job and run. ‘Do you know her name?’ he asked instead of pushing harder.
Abraham shrugged again. ‘I never spoke to the girl, man, but I think I heard her called Jenny.’
‘Probably not her real name anyway,’ Barnard conceded. ‘But at least it gives us something to use if we ask the other girls on the street.’
‘How was she killed, man?’ Abraham asked.
‘We’re keeping that to ourselves for a while,’ the sergeant said. He glanced round the dimly lit club, only the lights over the tiny stage and the much bigger bar area casting a glow over the tables. Within hours the place would be packed and smoky and throbbing to the music a self-selected clientele often came miles to hear. And round the edges would hover the Soho locals, the tarts and con men, dealers in dope and fake booze, looking for a mark and, occasionally, surfacing from the sludge, dealers in death who had been crossed in business or even in love and arrived looking for revenge. Barnard had long ago ceased to be surprised by what emerged on his patch, but something about DCI
Muddy Abraham sat down at the table opposite Barnard, putting his saxophone carefully into a case which he pushed under the table. ‘So how can I help you, Sergeant,’ he said, the southern American drawl in no way diminished by almost twenty years in Britain, although Barnard guessed that he looked significantly different from the young GI who must have crossed the Channel from the south coast to Normandy in 1944. His eyes were bloodshot, his jowls loose and his skin an unhealthy colour like chocolate kept too long. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have something like that so close. Poor kid.’
‘Did you know her?’ Barnard asked, but the musician just shrugged.
‘How do I know?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know what she looked like. There’s always a lot of young girls hanging out aroun’ outside here at night. Stan Weston doesn’t like them coming into the club but now and again they come in with some guy and he doesn’t notice. Jail bait most of them. There seems to be something about musicians that brings them in.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘It’s not just the Beatles, you know, who pull the girls. Though the ones who hang about here are usually a bit more savvy than that. Generally a bit older, too. Jazz goes back further, much further that this new stuff, even this side of the pond. The club don’t let them inside, the kids. But it’s difficult sometimes to know how old a girl is, ain’t it? Or what she’s up to.’
Barnard reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph which he passed across the table.
Abraham took it and stared, almost transfixed, by the black-and-white image of a young girl’s face, eyes closed, half-turned away from the camera. ‘She dead?’ he asked quietly.
‘Her face wasn’t too bruised,’ Barnard said. ‘It was possible to take a picture at the post-mortem.’
The musician nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said slowly. ‘I seen her. I guess a lot of people round here have. She’s been hanging around for a while. Seemed like a nice kid.’
‘She was on the game. A tart,’ Barnard said.
‘That’s a shame, man,’ Abraham said. ‘That sure is a crying shame, a young kid like that.’
‘It happens,’ Barnard said flatly. ‘You haven’t used her services?’
Abraham did not look shocked but shrugged massively. ‘I have a lady, man. I don’t need to be sleeping with no bits of girls who should be in school.’
‘OK,’ Barnard said. ‘But if not you, who? She wouldn’t have been hanging around unless some people weren’t taking an interest in her. Stands to reason.’ Abraham nodded but looked uncertain.
‘I don’t know that, man,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask around.’
Barnard did not believe him, but did not want to push him too hard right now. He did not really think that the musician was a likely murderer and he did not look the type to quit a good job and run. ‘Do you know her name?’ he asked instead of pushing harder.
Abraham shrugged again. ‘I never spoke to the girl, man, but I think I heard her called Jenny.’
‘Probably not her real name anyway,’ Barnard conceded. ‘But at least it gives us something to use if we ask the other girls on the street.’
‘How was she killed, man?’ Abraham asked.
‘We’re keeping that to ourselves for a while,’ the sergeant said. He glanced round the dimly lit club, only the lights over the tiny stage and the much bigger bar area casting a glow over the tables. Within hours the place would be packed and smoky and throbbing to the music a self-selected clientele often came miles to hear. And round the edges would hover the Soho locals, the tarts and con men, dealers in dope and fake booze, looking for a mark and, occasionally, surfacing from the sludge, dealers in death who had been crossed in business or even in love and arrived looking for revenge. Barnard had long ago ceased to be surprised by what emerged on his patch, but something about DCI
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