The Vinyl Detective - Noise Floor (Vinyl Detective 7) E-Book

Andrew Cartmel

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The Vinyl Detective Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 426

Beschreibung

The Vinyl Detective plunges into the world of electronic dance music in his seventh adventure. Expect laughs, LPs, cats and the return of fan favourites, Nevada, Tinkler, Stinky Stanmer and more. The Vinyl Detective enters the fraught and frenzied realm of electronic dance music. Lambert Ramkin aka Imperium Dart, techno trickster and ambient music wizard of the 1990s, has gone walkabout, disappearing from his rather palatial home in Kent. This isn't the first time he's pulled a vanishing act, but he's never been gone so long before and his wife — wives, actually; it's complicated — are worried and hire the Vinyl Detective to find the old rascal. They theorise that wherever the missing man is, he won't be able to resist turning up at a record fair somewhere in search of 12-inch white label acid house singles, which he collects compulsively. And no one knows the world of record fairs better than the Vinyl Detective. They're not wrong… But once our hero finds the wandering Lamb the trouble really begins — including terrifying mind-fucks with a side order of, if things break the wrong way, mass murder.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1: The Summer I Learned to Drive

2: Wandering Lamb

3: Quadrouple

4: Back Home

5: Eyes for you

6: Princess Satan

7: Church Sale

8: The Twelfth Possibility

9: Red Sunset Over Sea

10: Precision Audio Components

11: The Summoning

12: A Beard for the Beer

13: Postcard

14: Rave

15: Curtains

16: Nightfall

17: Doorbell

18: Whiskery Miscreants

19: Out in the Garden

20: One Question

21: House Guest

22: Invitation

23: Dessert

24: Death Threat

25: Command and Control

26: Village of Vinyl

27: Now Leaving

28: News Report

29: Spelling Optional

Acknowledgements and Notes

About the Author

Praise for the Vinyl Detective series

“One of the most innovative concepts in crime fiction for many years. Once you are hooked into the world of the Vinyl Detective it is very difficult to leave.” Nev Fountain, author of Geek Tragedy

“The Vinyl Detective is one of the sharpest and most original characters I’ve seen for a long time.” David Quantick, Emmy Award-winning producer of VEEP

“Hilarious and thrilling.” Ben Aaronovitch, author of the Rivers of London series.

“Cartmel has a gift for bringing you into his characters’ world and making you want to stay there which simply makes this a joy to read.” Blue Book Balloon Review

“Cartmel is getting a great tune out of the characters… Will have you chuckling out loud.” SFBook Review

“Character is what Cartmel does well… An entertaining detective story with a slightly different vibe.” The Dreamcage Review

“Crime fiction as it should be, played loud through a valve amp and Quad speakers. No digital writing here, it’s warm and rich. Every delicate pop and crackle adding character and flavour. Witty, charming and filled with exciting solos. Quite simply: groovy.” Guy Adams, critically acclaimed author of The Clown Service

Also by Andrew Cartmel and available from Titan Books

The Vinyl Detective series

Written in Dead Wax

The Run-Out Groove

Victory Disc

Flip Back

Low Action

Attack and Decay

The Paperback Sleuth series

Death in Fine Condition

Ashram Assassin

THE VINYL DETECTIVE

NOISE FLOOR

ANDREW CARTMEL

TITAN BOOKS

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The Vinyl Detective: Noise Floor

Print edition ISBN: 9781803367965

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803367972

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: March 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Andrew Cartmel 2024. All rights reserved.

Andrew Cartmel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Sarah Jane Docker, brilliant artistand revered collaborator.

PROLOGUE

Body Found in Woods

Kent Chronicle’s crime reporter Jasper McClew reports on a grisly discovery.

It’s a little-known fact that Kent is home to a fragment of Britain’s precious last surviving rainforest. This dense, ancient patch of stunning woodland, located adjacent to the beautiful tiny village of Nutalich, is home to many unique forms of life. But recently it was dramatically discovered to also contain a unique form of death.

Three young lads, brothers, were doing their regular workout, which involved a run through the wild, unspoiled woods, when they saw something that didn’t look right. “It was Dermot who first spotted it,” said Darra Bolsin (21). “That’s right,” confirmed Dermot Bolsin (21). “We saw it over between the trees and went to have a look.” It didn’t take long for the three young men to confirm the sinisternature of their discovery. It was Declan Bolsin (21) who used his phone to notify the police of their grisly find: the body of a middle-aged man, yet to be identified.

The three young men, non-identical triplets who are well known in the local area, were badly shaken by their gruesome discovery. Their manager, Julian Herald, hopes the experience won’t blight the lads’ chances of becoming a world-renowned boy band. “The Trippy-Lits are headed for the stratosphere,” said Julian. “But they can’t help but be upset by this terrible experience. We’ll get through it. But I hope whoever callously dumped that body there in the woods burns in hell,” he opined.

Music runs in Julian’s family. His father is electronic dance legend Imperium Dart.

1: THE SUMMER I LEARNED TO DRIVE

“You know what I always say?” said Tinkler. “I always say that a luxury car delivery isn’t a luxury car delivery until you’ve smoked a bong full of really smelly weed in the luxury car you’re delivering.”

He took out and brandished what was apparently a miniature bong—a squat cylinder possibly fashioned from Perspex, in an unearthly shade of neon blue.

“Wait, don’t you fucking dare,” said Agatha.

Because she was driving, Agatha’s attention was unflaggingly on the road ahead, despite Tinkler’s patently distracting presence beside her. But she did find time during her ironclad appraisal of the traffic situation to glance over at him with a look compounded of genuine outrage and just plain rage.

Delivering expensive cars was a good gig and, for a professional driver of Agatha’s calibre, a laughably easy one. And, for a car nut of her calibre, a fun one. But it did involve getting the car back to its owner without the costly leather upholstery reeking of illicit cannabis use.

But then she saw, as we did, that what Tinkler was holding wasn’t a bong at all, but rather a transparent and very trendy cylindrical bottle that contained a pretentiously packaged but otherwise blameless soft drink in an eerie shade of blue on which he was now feeding like a contented baby.

Tinkler lowered the bottle from his lips, gave Agatha a droll look and said, simply, “Got you.”

“Very funny, Tinkler.” Agatha fell silent as the light changed to green and she pulled away and slotted us into the traffic flow. Then she granted us her attention once more. “Look, I’m sorry to be dictatorial.”

“You’re not dictatorial,” said Tinkler, instantly at his most emollient.

Nevada and I also quickly concurred that Agatha wasn’t dictatorial.

“Well, good,” said Agatha.

“Maybe a little bossy…” said Tinkler.

“You want to know about bossy? I asked Nevada not to wear any smelly perfume.”

Nevada nodded. “She really did.”

“I really did,” said Agatha. “So the smell wouldn’t linger in the car.”

“Did this injunction on smelly perfumes dramatically narrow your choice of signature scent?” said Tinkler, swivelling around to look at Nevada with his big, and misleadingly innocent, puppy eyes. As usual when Agatha was driving anywhere, Tinkler was riding shotgun, and Nevada and I were in the back.

“It cramped my style,” said Nevada, “let’s put it like that. Most of my perfumes being smelly to one degree or another.”

“Sorry to be bossy,” said Agatha. “Or dictatorial, take your pick. But a lucrative gig delivering luxury vehicles is not to be sniffed at.”

“Literally,” said Tinkler.

“Also,” said Agatha. “No eating food in the car. And, come to think of it, no drinking either. Stop it immediately, Tinkler.”

“Too late. I’ve already consumed my beverage. But I can retrieve it if you like. Try and get it back in the container, out of my bladder and back into the container…”

“No, I think it’s fine where it is for the time being, thank you,” said Agatha. And then, as was customary when a complex driving situation loomed—in this case a junction that would have baffled most mortals—she fell completely and very reassuringly silent, all her concentration on the task at hand.

This task consisted of moving with consummate skill at an impressive rate of progress, ever forward through the most grisly traffic London could throw at her.

It was remarkable how Agatha spotted opportunities, changing lanes and darting in among the stream of vehicles. I commented on this as we settled into a new slot. “The trick is not to look at the cars,” she said. “You look at the gaps between them.”

“Very Zen,” said Nevada.

“It’s Agatha’s School of Zen Driving,” said Tinkler.

“The Clean Head School of Zen Driving,” Agatha corrected him.

Indeed, her shaved-head look did go well with any Zen side of this proposed project.

“Great distinctive offer,” said Tinkler. “And in a very crowded field.”

“Are you stoned again, Tinkler?” asked Nevada.

Tinkler turned in his seat to peer at us. “Explain once more that subtle distinction between ‘again’ and ‘still’?” he said.

“You’re depraved.”

Tinkler tutted. “I’ll give you debauched. Depraved seems at little harsh.”

“Actually, you know what, Tinkler?” Agatha smiled. “That concept of looking at the gaps instead of the cars…?”

“Yes,” said Tinkler eagerly, swiftly swivelling to look at her. “Please tell me more about your philosophy of driving.”

“It’s not my philosophy of driving,” said Agatha. “It was propounded to me one summer…” Suddenly her voice softened. “The summer I learned to drive. I was staying with friends of my parents in this little English village. It was a beautiful summer and a beautiful part of the world. My driving instructor and I drove down every winding country road, exploring, discovering all these little hidden places…”

“Your driving instructor?” said Nevada. Like me, she’d picked up on the change in the timbre of Agatha’s voice at the mention of this person and was keen to know more.

Tinkler seemed equally aware of this but, it has to be said, rather less keen to know more.

“Right,” said Agatha. “My driving instructor. He was the one who said to look at the gaps, not at the cars. It’s something Horatio always used to say.”

“Wait, your driving instructor was called Horatio?” Tinkler chortled. “He was called Horatio, and he was really Zen.”

“Did I mention how good-looking he was?” said Agatha.

Nevada leaned forward, grinning slyly as she leaned on the back of Agatha’s seat. “Did you have a thing for him?”

“A thing for Horatio?” said Tinkler, as though picking through ordure.

Nevada nodded. “It would not be unknown for a young lady to have a thing about her driving instructor.”

“Well, let’s just say that, had I had a thing for Horatio, it would have been entirely understandable,” said Agatha. “As I say, he was a handsome devil and staggeringly skilled behind the wheel.”

“Behind the wheel,” said Tinkler.

“Yes, he was dynamite behind the wheel. He supported himself through uni by doing summer jobs as a stunt driver in the movies.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate this guy?” said Tinkler, and we all laughed.

“Anyway, it was beautiful that summer, the summer I learned to drive. I’ll always be grateful to Horatio for that summer.”

“I don’t suppose old Horatio has tragically passed from this life?” said Tinkler hopefully.

“Nope, still very much with us,” said Agatha. “In fact, I must look him up.” She looked over at Tinkler, then smiled and winked. “Thank you for bringing his name up.”

“I didn’t bring his name up! And it’s a fucking silly name.”

*   *   *

Soon, thanks to Agatha’s skill and daring behind the wheel, we were out of London and heading into deep countryside. “We’re in Kent,” said Agatha. “We’ve just officially driven into Kent.”

“I know,” said Tinkler. “I felt my IQ drop.”

“Now,” said Nevada, “while some might consider that a questionable or perhaps even offensive remark, Tinkler, I happen to know that you yourself grew up in Kent.”

“I suppose there’s no point denying it,” sighed Tinkler.

“No, there isn’t,” said Agatha. “Anyway, as I was about to say, it’s interesting that we happen to be talking about Horatio, because this is exactly the part of the world where he taught me to drive.”

“Horatio,” murmured Tinkler, followed by some sub-audible obscenities.

“Very near the place we’re delivering the car,” said Agatha. “Which, by the way, is a really beautiful house.”

“You’ve been there before?” said Nevada.

“A number of times, on jobs like this. Collecting their cars from the airport and bringing them down to the house, things like that. And where they live is virtually next door to this lovely little village called Nutalich.”

“Nutalich?” said Tinkler. “That’s a fucked-up name for a village, even in Kent.”

Nevada sighed. “Tinkler, you come from this region. You’re a home boy.”

“Well, Nutalich has the most amazing church,” said Agatha. “The architecture is incredible.”

“Okay,” said Tinkler, “if she talks any more about church architecture, please could someone have a defibrillator at the ready?”

“I’m just saying it’s worth a look,” said Agatha. “Since we happen to be out in this neck of the woods.”

“In this neck of the woods?” said Tinkler, adding a twang of yokel insanity to his voice. “Out in the dangerous backwoods of Kent, the four of us, thrown together by a quirk of fate.”

“If by a quirk of fate you mean delivering a car, while at the same time giving my friends a lift to the address they’re visiting,” said Agatha, “then yes.”

“Yes,” said Nevada. “It’s really useful that we all happened to have business in the same part of Kent.”

Tinkler turned back in his seat to look at me and Nevada. “So do you guys have Vinyl Detective business out here?”

“Yes,” I said.

“In the wilds of Kent?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the job?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” I said.

“Oh, so it’s like a job interview?” said Tinkler, dismissively.

“A very mysterious job interview,” said Nevada. She didn’t like our errand being so swiftly consigned to the mundane.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Tinkler. “How close together are these two addresses? The car-delivery one and the job-interview one? And which one will be the most fun to hang out at?”

“The one with me, obviously,” said Agatha.

“Yes,” said Tinkler. “But, my hopeless amorous obsession notwithstanding, we must also give due consideration to the possibility that maybe the other place—the place where the cat slaves are going…”

“We prefer the designation Team Vinyl Detective, if you don’t mind,” said Nevada. “It’s a little more dignified than ‘the cat slaves’.”

“Ha! More dignified…” said Tinkler.

“Only a little more,” said Agatha.

“And you did get that I meant you were the slaves of your cats, right? I was never suggesting the cats themselves were slaves, when obviously they rule the roost. You two are the slaves of the cats.”

“Yes, that did come across,” I said.

“Just checking,” said Tinkler. “Sometimes I’m too hip for the room.”

“Sometimes you’re too stoned for the room,” said Agatha.

“Most of the time,” said Tinkler. “Anyway, back to the crucial question. Where will I hang out? Which of our destinations will prove more entertaining? And, crucially, which one is the most likely to provide refreshments?”

“And how far apart are they?” said Agatha. “I’ll check.” She glanced back at us in the mirror. Or rather at Nevada, who’d made the arrangements. “What’s the postcode at your destination?”

Nevada told her.

“It’s the same postcode,” said Agatha, “so they’ll be close together. What’s the full street address?”

Nevada told her.

After a pause, Agatha said, “It’s the same street address. The same house where I’m taking the car.”

“We’re both going to the same house,” said Nevada.

“Yes.”

“We’re both going to the same place.”

“Yes.”

We were all silent for a moment.

“Is it just me,” said Tinkler, “or is that weird and just a little bit scary?”

2: WANDERING LAMB

“So we’re all going to the same address,” said Tinkler. “That’s definitely creepy.”

“It’s not creepy,” said Agatha. “We just didn’t realise it was the same place. And here it is.” Tall gates loomed in the headlights and she touched something on the dashboard, then the gates opened to reveal a big white house on a hill partially screened by lush greenery. The greenery and the house were on several levels, climbing a winding path up the black hillside.

The gates which had obediently opened in front of us consisted of tall vertical black struts topped with horizontal bars on which rested two words formed of elaborate wrought iron. On one gate it said: Noise. On the other: Floor.

As we drove in, the gates closed behind us. Agatha parked the car on a blue tarmac circle with a white circle inside it and a red dot at the centre—yes, a Mod roundel—in front of a white stucco garage. It was a big garage with two broad doors, one of which was open to reveal a gleaming new Mini parked inside. Agatha paused to examine this as we got out of our own vehicle, which was a Mercedes-Benz S-Class. I only knew this because she’d told us.

There were white stencilled letters on the blue circle at about two o’clock, which read Noise Floor, with a stencilled white arrow that pointed towards a gravel footpath that skirted around the side of the big hill on which, and into which, the house was built.

Stone steps led up from the garage, dug into the hillside, and cut through patches of flourishing greenery onto the next level.

And there stood a woman, awaiting our arrival. She waved to us. Night had fallen now and the many lights that shone around this big house were devoted exclusively to illuminating beguiling patches of shrubbery in the lovingly planned garden, turning them an intense luminous green.

But if you weren’t a particularly interesting plant, you were consigned to shadow. All we could make out of the woman herself was that she was waving.

We waved back. “That’s the lady who does the gardening here,” said Agatha. “She’s very nice.”

“Is it her house or does she just do the gardening?” said Nevada.

“Sometimes I think one thing, sometimes the other,” said Agatha.

We started up the steps. As we got closer and the woman emerged from the darkness, we saw she was middle-aged, stocky, with a halo of curly grey hair around her benign, smiling face.

She wore a black-and-blue check work shirt and faded ankle-grazer jeans, which had been patched at the knees with bright red material. Over her shirt she wore a sleeveless padded vest in khaki with a military look that was ameliorated by the gardening gloves and chrome secateurs stuffed into its pockets. Her sockless feet were shod in tennis shoes. Not great for gardening, I thought. Though maybe they helped her move spryly up the steep hillside.

“Hello,” she said. “Hello, Agatha.”

“Hi, Poppy,” said Agatha. She performed the introductions, ending with Tinkler. “He’s just along for the ride,” she said.

“But I provide valuable entertainment value,” said Tinkler.

“You can’t have valuable value,” said Nevada.

“I can,” said Tinkler.

“Well, let’s all go up to the house,” said Poppy, whose cheerfulness seemed admirably undented by the arrival of these bickering strangers.

As we started up the steps, we saw a tall young man, very blond and very thin, walking down towards us. Poppy paused, so we paused too and waited for the young man to descend to our level. He gave us a dismissive glance and then, without preamble, addressed Poppy. “I thought that crap was going to be cleared out of the studio. I need to use the studio and it’s full of crap. It’s still full of crap.”

“In fairness, Julian,” said the woman, “it’s mostly your crap.”

“I need to use the studio,” repeated Julian. “And you said it would be cleared out in two or three days.”

“What I actually said, Julian, is that, if you were to put your mind to it, you could get it cleared out in two or three days.”

“Ah, Christ,” said Julian and kissed his teeth as he shoved past us and headed down to the driveway.

“Rude boy,” murmured Tinkler, loud enough for us to hear but too low for Poppy. Not that it would have mattered, judging by the way she sighed.

We resumed our walk up to the house.

*   *   *

The house was dazzling in the glare of the spotlights that shone on it from the garden. It rose against the night sky in an imposing white rectangle with dark windows dotted across its face. The front door was at ground level instead of having steps leading up to it, which gave a cosy feeling quite at odds with the otherwise austere splendour of the façade. We went into an alcove which did feature steps, going up a metre or two.

Facing us at the top was a narrow band of wall with the framed front page of a newspaper hung in a position of prominence. To the left of this was an open door that led into the house.

But of more immediate interest was that framed front page. It was from one of England’s more reprehensible tabloids, and featured a headline that blared Rave Star Orgy Cult. Further perusal of this fascinating piece of journalism was cut short as we followed Poppy through the open door, though Tinkler did pause to take a picture of it with his phone.

We walked into a high-ceilinged room that was so huge I thought at first it occupied the entire ground floor, in an open-plan design with a staircase on the far side. Then I saw there were doors in the wall at the back and realised that more rooms lay beyond it. This really was a big house.

The floor in here was tiled with terracotta squares, but these were mostly concealed by vast oriental rugs, evidently antiques. Or maybe they’d just seen plenty of hard use. Dispersed over the carpets was a lot of furniture, all matching, fashioned from dark wood and pale cream fabric. But the room was so large that it could accommodate all this stuff and still feel sparsely furnished, open and airy.

I liked the place immediately.

“Oh dear,” said Poppy, patting anxiously at the pockets of her vest. “I don’t have my glasses. Just let me get them. Back in a moment.” She went out through one of the doors in the back of the room, leaving us alone.

“Are they trying to sell us this house?” said Tinkler.

“What are you raving about?” said Agatha.

“The smell of fresh baked bread.”

It was true. I hadn’t consciously realised it until now, but the place smelled wonderfully of baking. And it was also true that this was a recommended stratagem if you were trying to sell your home to someone. Full marks to Tinkler. For once.

We all took a deep breath. “I only wish we could afford to make them an offer,” said Nevada. “The cats would love this place.”

Somewhere deep in the house, music started to play. Pounding electronica. “Aphex Twin,” said Tinkler knowledgably.

Agatha evidently liked it. She started swaying to the beat.

“Would you care to dance, mademoiselle?” said Tinkler.

“Not with you, thank you,” said Agatha. “Now, if Horatio was here…”

Breath moved through Tinkler’s mouth in the faintest of whispers. Nevertheless, the words “Fuck Horatio” were faintly audible under the thumping techno.

Poppy came back in. She was, as promised, now wearing spectacles. She had also removed her vest and exchanged her tennis shoes for canvas slippers with rope soles that scuffed across the tiles and fell silent as she reached the carpet. Under one arm she carried a folded pale pink shape. “Oh,” she said, “please do sit down.” She herded us over to a low rectangular table. I’d thought it was some kind of serving area, perhaps for drinks, but now I realised it was a desk.

She took the pink object from under her arm and unfolded it, revealing it to be a copy of the Financial Times, Britain’s only pink newspaper. Carefully spreading it over the cream fabric of the chair’s cushion, presumably to protect it from her dirty jeans, she sat down on it, positioning herself behind the desk. Nevada and I took chairs in front while Agatha and Tinkler settled close together on a small sofa nearby. For all their squabbling, they were very comfortable in each other’s company.

Poppy opened a drawer on her side of the desk and took out a pen, a large diary and what I realised with a happy little pang of recognition was a chequebook. Nevada saw this too and she gave me a quick smile. Money. Or at least the prospect of it.

It was increasingly clear that Poppy wasn’t just the gardener around here.

“Now…” she said. “Agatha, we already have your bank account info, don’t we?”

“Yes, Poppy,” said Agatha from the sofa.

“Yes, Poppy,” piped up Tinkler in an identical chirpy voice.

Agatha punched him on the knee, but he appeared unrepentant.

Poppy smiled indulgently as she made a note in the diary. It seemed Tinkler had charmed her. He did occasionally have that gift. “Just send us your updated invoice,” she said, “and we’ll make a transfer to you, as usual. And thank you for delivering the car.”

“My pleasure,” said Agatha.

Poppy was now looking at me, holding the chequebook in one hand and tapping it on the desk. “But, if you don’t mind,” she said, “we’ll make your first payment by cheque. A bit old-fashioned I know, but—”

“Nothing wrong with a cheque,” said Nevada promptly. “And they’re very secure. Totally unhackable.”

“Well, that’s what I think,” said Poppy, smiling at her. Tinkler wasn’t the only one with a gift for charm. “Right, so it’s agreed,” she said, looking at me. “We’ll give you an initial down payment on your eventual fee in the form of a cheque.”

“Eventual fee for doing what?” I said.

This seemed to give Poppy pause, as if she hadn’t been prepared for the question. She stared down at the desk as though the answer might be there, perhaps written on a Post-it note for her. Then she looked at us again, pensively. First at me, then Nevada.

“You see,” said Poppy, “my husband, and I’m using that term loosely, has a tendency to wander off.” She paused for another moment as if expecting us to pour scorn and opprobrium on her. When we didn’t, she tentatively continued. “And he’s wandered off once more.”

“Is he…?” said Nevada. And, remarkably, all of us instantly understood what she was getting at.

“Oh no, not at all,” said Poppy. “Quite the contrary. He has full command of all his faculties, despite having poured drugs into his brain in preposterous quantities over many years.”

At the mention of drugs, and in preposterous quantities, I sensed Tinkler suddenly taking an interest.

Nevada leaned forward in her chair. “When you say he wanders off…”

Poppy placed both hands palms-down on the desk and pressed on them as though bracing herself for impact. “He becomes… bored with his domestic situation.”

“Ah,” said Nevada.

“And looks for consolation—and stimulation—elsewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nevada.

“Oh, we’re quite used to it. And normally I wouldn’t even be talking to you, it’s such a commonplace occurrence. But, this time, he’s been gone rather a long while, and we have begun to worry about him.”

“Okay,” I said. “But…” I could see Nevada out of the corner of my eye, looking at me and willing me to keep my mouth shut. As she had done on other occasions in the past. And, also as on those occasions, I went on to say what I felt compelled to say. “The thing is, Poppy, while I am in business as the Vinyl Detective, I am not a real detective. I don’t find people—”

“He has before,” said Nevada. “He has found people before.”

This was true enough.

“Nevertheless,” I said, “what I really do is find records. If you have a missing-persons issue, and that’s apparently the case here, then you should really go to the police.”

“You do find records, though?” said Poppy.

“Yes.”

“So you’re a record hunter?”

“Yes.”

“So you go to those things, don’t you?”

“What things?” I said.

Poppy shrugged. “Record fairs, boot fairs, jumble sales. Second-hand shops. Places where they sell old records.”

Perhaps Nevada was a step ahead of me, because she had started to grin. “Yes, he does,” she said. “He certainly does.”

Poppy nodded. “Then you’re ideally situated to look for Lambert, and to find him. Because those are the places he is likely to be found.” She looked at me. “You are the ideal man for the job.”

“He certainly is,” said Nevada.

“Is… Lambert… a record collector, then?” I said.

“Yes.”

“What sort of stuff does he collect?”

“Tedious electronic dance music of the era.” Poppy nodded, her eyes tilted upwards, to indicate that an example could still be heard playing in the background, an insistent, distant pounding. “Music of his era. Which is to say the 1990s. The more tedious the better. And esoteric and highly collectable. Including his own stuff.”

“His own stuff?” I said.

“His own records.”

“He was a musician?”

“He still is,” said Poppy. “Theoretically. Though god knows it’s been long enough since he went into the studio.”

“What’s his name?” I said.

“Well, his name is Lambert Ramkin, but the name he records under is Imperium Dart.”

“Oh my god,” said Tinkler suddenly. “Imperium Dart, of course. I thought it was Aphex Twin.” He made a vague gesture as if trying to point at the invisible music in the air.

Poppy smiled a thin smile. “Yes, it appears that someone, either Jacquetta or Selena, thought it was a good idea to greet your arrival by playing you a selection of his greatest hits.”

We all fell silent for a moment and listened to the music, its insinuating beat hammering away in some other room, deep in the house. “By the way, for god’s sake don’t tell him that. If you find him. When you find him. Don’t tell him he sounds like Aphex Twin. Unless you want to get him angry. Very angry. Because there’s no quicker or surer way of getting him very angry than telling him that.”

“Okay,” I said.

“They used to play Laser Quest together. They were quite chummy. But very competitive. And Lambert always resented the fact that Aphex has been more successful. Or at least that he perceives him as being more successful.”

“What’s Laser Quest?” said Agatha.

Poppy looked at her. “Do you know what paintballing is?”

“Sure.”

“It’s like that, except with lots of sci-fi trappings. ‘Laser’ guns instead of paintball guns, that kind of thing.”

“Ah.”

“Very popular back in the day. Very much a boy’s thing.” Poppy looked at me. “In fact, that might be one more place for you to look for him. If you can bring yourself to attend such a thing.”

“Do they still do it?” said Agatha. “Laser Questing?”

“Oh yes.”

“Okay…” I said.

“Okay we’re taking the job?” said Nevada, turning to look at me. “Or okay, you’re about to offer some further infuriating prevarication?”

“Only if asking where he was last seen counts as an infuriating prevarication.”

“We’re taking the job!” said Nevada joyfully.

“Well, he was last seen here, at home,” said Poppy. “But his last known location was actually Heathrow Airport.” She glanced at Agatha. “Where you picked up the car.”

“He left the car at the airport?” I said.

“Yes. He drove it there, parked it in the long-stay car park and then effectively vanished.”

“But if he’s left the car at the airport he could have flown anywhere,” I said. I could see Nevada was torn between disappointment at the potential terminal nature of this complication, and the possibilities it might offer for overseas travel on an expense account.

“I don’t think so,” said Poppy.

“Why don’t you think so?”

“Because that’s not why he drove to the airport. He went there because he was attending a record fair in one of the adjoining hotels.”

That made sense. I actually remembered that record fair out at Heathrow. It was one of the big ones.

“Now, about your fee—” said Poppy.

“This is where my manager needs to step in,” I said.

Poppy looked taken aback. “Oh. Who is your manager?”

“I am,” said Nevada happily, hitching her chair closer to the desk.

I left the two women to haggle, and went over to the sofa to join Tinkler and Agatha. They rose up as I approached and we all wandered around the room together, putting a tasteful distance between ourselves and the sordid financial negotiations unfolding at the desk.

“Imperium Dart, eh?” said Tinkler.

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Agatha.

“Well don’t tell him that, for god’s sake,” said Tinkler. “When you meet him. Or that he sounds like Aphex Twin, apparently.”

“Okay,” said Agatha. “So you think I’m likely to meet him?” She addressed this question to Tinkler, but was looking at me.

I was thinking about the job. A missing-person situation. What was I getting myself into? What was I getting all of us into?

“Well, I’m sure he’d want to meet you,” said Tinkler. “Who wouldn’t?”

“There is that,” said Agatha. “Isn’t this a fantastic house?”

“Isn’t it just,” I said, dismissing my worries for the time being.

“And a very cool flying saucer,” said Tinkler.

“Are you tripping?” said Agatha.

“Not just at the moment.” Tinkler pointed to the window at the back of the room. We approached it and looked out and down at the very large back garden that spread below us. It consisted of a neatly mown and well-maintained lawn, a big and rather poorly maintained swimming pool with a lot of leaves and twigs and other debris floating in it, a low, white concrete bunker of a building with Noise Floor Studios painted above its doors in black art deco lettering…

And, yes, a flying saucer.

The flying saucer was located between the pool and the tennis court. It was about the size of a large car and stood above the ground on spindly but apparently sturdy legs, with a ladder running up to it. Illuminated by four lights spaced around its perimeter, it had a brilliant gleaming silver fuselage with bright red highlights, and its shape was that of a classic UFO from a 1950s science fiction movie. The fact it was just some kind of extraordinary garden decoration, or rich person’s toy, rather than a real extra-terrestrial craft was confirmed or at least suggested by the large Day-Glo yellow smiley face painted on it.

“I want one,” said Tinkler.

“So do I,” said Agatha.

“You’d never fit it in your flat,” said Tinkler.

“Or your house,” said Agatha.

They both turned and looked at me. “Why are you looking at me?” I said.

“Because you’re the only one in this assemblage of wastrels with a garden big enough to accommodate a flying saucer,” said Tinkler.

“Only just,” I said. “And I don’t think my other half would countenance it.”

We turned and looked back at the haggling duo at the desk. The fact that Poppy had now opened her chequebook and Nevada was sitting back and smiling seemed to indicate the bartering was reaching its conclusion, and a satisfactory conclusion at that. So Agatha and Tinkler and I went back to the sofa. It was a small sofa, so I perched on the arm and let the lovebirds sit on it.

Poppy signed the cheque with a flourish, set her pen aside, ripped the cheque out of the book with a particularly satisfying sound of perforated paper popping, and handed it to Nevada.

Just then, as if summoned by this action, a woman came down the stairs.

Blonde, with a long, rich spill of straight hair that fell to her elbows, she was tall and would have been dangerously skinny if not for her full breasts and hips. Very tight lavender jeans clung to her long, slender legs and contrasted strikingly with her baggy black sweater, which hung down low on one side to expose a pale bare shoulder and a black tank top.

They contrasted even more strikingly with the green rubber wellington boots she was wearing.

At first sight she appeared to be in her twenties but, as she drew closer, I revised this estimate upwards by a decade or two. Her face was smooth and unlined, but it was the sort of smoothness and lack of lines that seemed to have been achieved through considerable artifice. Her mouth was wide, her lips a vivid red, contrasting with her pale blue eyes.

She came into the room, gave us a dismissive glance that was oddly familiar, then turned to Poppy and said, “Is the Mercedes back?”

“Parked outside.”

“About time,” she said, and headed for the door.

“Are those my wellies you’re wearing?” said Poppy.

The blonde answered this question with another question. “How petty can you get?”

Then she disappeared out the front door, leaving it wide open.

“Rude bitch,” murmured Agatha to me.

Poppy sighed and got up from her desk, clearly heading for the door to close it. “Let me,” said Nevada. She went and shut the door on the sound of tyres suddenly shrieking on tarmac down below. We all winced. The poor Mercedes.

“I hope she’s not driving in those boots,” said Agatha.

“Don’t worry,” said Poppy. “She’ll have taken them off and she’ll be driving barefoot.”

“Barefoot’s not a bad idea,” allowed Agatha.

“Selena always says she’d go driving naked if she could.”

“Really?” said Tinkler, his eyes big as saucers.

“Yes. Because she says it would make her feel ‘free’.”

“Has she ever done it?” said Tinkler. “Gone driving like that, I mean? Naked, I mean?”

To change the subject, though not entirely, I said, “Is Selena by any chance related to Julian?”

“Mother and son.” Poppy delivered this clipped utterance as if it was a withering indictment. Perhaps it was. She added, “I was wondering where my wellies had got to.”

Then, apparently hearing a sound that none of the rest of us had detected, she turned around and stared at the back of the room.

Sure enough, a door opened in the rear wall and another woman came in.

It would have been difficult for this person to present more of a contrast with Selena. A lack of green wellies was just the start of it. The newcomer wore yellow clogs, loose golden harem trousers and a baggy sweater striped liked Neapolitan ice cream, under an apron which bore the slogan, Men Throw Punches—Women Throw Pies.

Her inky black hair was cut short in a pageboy style. She appeared to be in her forties, but it was hard to say. Her skin was smooth and unlined—not, in this case, because of any artificial intervention but because she had cherubic, Rubenesque features with plump pink cheeks that were now gleaming with moisture.

The reason for that glow was obvious, since a flood of very warm air flowed through the door with her, carrying on it that wonderful scent of baking. The same smell was coming from the large blue platter she held, heaped with golden rolls dusted with flour, clearly fresh from the oven as they were literally steaming.

“Holy Christ,” murmured Tinkler, a man driven by his stomach as much as by parts further south.

“This is Jacquetta,” said Poppy.

“Hello, everyone,” said Jacquetta, striding into the room and bringing her fragrant baked goods with her. “Do you mind if I pop these down here?” Without waiting for a reply, she set the platter on the desk, as Poppy hastily moved her chequebook, diary and pen out of harm’s way.

“Would anyone like some home-baked ciabatta rolls?” said Jacquetta.

The disingenuous nature of her question was demonstrated by the fact that Tinkler had already sprung from the sofa and thrown himself towards the desk and the heap of steaming rolls. Managing to maintain some semblance of decency, just about, he refrained from snatching one up and said, “May I?” like a well-trained child, at the same time aiming his big puppy eyes at Jacquetta.

“Wait.” This word was voiced with such sudden steeliness that it took a moment to realise that plump, inviting Jacquetta had uttered it. “I’ve forgotten something.” She hurried back out the way we came.

We all stood there in silence, Agatha and I having abandoned the sofa and joined Tinkler, and Nevada and Poppy having risen from their chairs out of respect for the baked items. Our little group looked down at the pile of golden rolls and inhaled their scent and felt the warmth that emanated from them. It was almost a consecrated moment. Then Jacquetta came bustling back in. She was carrying another platter, this one smaller. On it were two glass bowls, one containing a golden-green liquid, the other dark brown.

“Sorry, I forgot these,” said Jacquetta. “Olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. And you’ll need these.” She took a stack of paper napkins from under the platter and set them on the desk beside it.

“Tinkler will need those,” said Nevada, taking a roll and daintily tearing it open.

“Tinkler will probably need to be hosed down afterwards,” said Agatha, selecting one for herself.

“Tinkler will respond to those insults after he’s eaten,” said Tinkler.

I took a roll myself, and Jacquetta watched us eat with an eager smile. At close range I could see she had a white smear of flour on her nose. It looked rather becoming. “Was that Selena I heard, roaring away?” she said.

Poppy nodded, licking balsamic vinegar off her fingers. “As soon we got the Merc back, she went haring off.”

Jacquetta clucked her tongue. “What a pity. If I’d known, I would have served these sooner.”

“Isn’t she gluten-intolerant this month?” said Poppy.

Jacquetta shrugged. “It’s impossible to keep track.”

“Well,” said Poppy, “I’d better get back to the gardening.”

“In the dark?” said Nevada.

“Watering,” explained Poppy. “I try and get it all done in the evening, but I started late today.” She wiped her fingers on one of the paper napkins and then shook hands with us. “Lovely to meet you all.”

“Especially me,” said Tinkler.

Poppy winked at him. “If you’re not careful I’ll make you help with the watering.”

“Oh, please don’t do that,” he said.

Poppy smiled and went out.

“Well, we’d better call for our ride,” said Agatha.

“Wouldn’t anyone like to see the kitchen?” said Jacquetta.

“My god, yes,” said Tinkler, and she led him out.

Agatha busied herself on her phone. “Can we give you some money?” said Nevada.

Agatha glanced at her. “What for?”

“The ride back to London. It won’t be cheap.”

“It won’t be cheap,” agreed Agatha. “But it’s paid for as part of my fee for bringing the Mercedes down here.”

“In that case,” said Nevada, “I withdraw my earlier offer.”

The two women chuckled as Agatha put her phone away. “All done?” said Nevada.

“Yup. He should be here in a few minutes. Did you get a decent score for your fee?”

In reply, Nevada showed her the cheque and Agatha was making approving noises when Tinkler and Jacquetta came back.

“You should see the kitchen,” said Tinkler.

“Maybe another time,” I said. “Our ride will be here in a minute.”

“I suppose it’s someone local,” said Jacquetta.

Agatha nodded.

“I hope it’s not one of Julian’s friends,” said Jacquetta, her smooth brow wrinkling momentarily with concern. She looked at the platter, still heaped with food. “Aren’t you going to have any more ciabatta rolls?”

“Can I have a bag to take home?”

“Tinkler!”

“I don’t see why not.” Jacquetta went out again, presumably to get Tinkler a bag for his rolls.

“Tinkler,” hissed Nevada and Agatha in unison.

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get,” said Tinkler complacently.

3: QUADROUPLE

When our ride arrived, Poppy came inside to announce it. We said our goodbyes to her and Jacquetta, and walked down the steps through the dark garden, Tinkler carrying his bag of swag. “Did you steal enough food?” said Agatha.

“It’s not stealing if it’s freely and willingly given,” said Tinkler.

Long before we reached the bottom of the steps, we saw the vehicle waiting for us. It was a black London cab. Agatha stared at it. “One of your comrades?” said Nevada.

“Not really,” said Agatha. “It looks like someone’s bought an old London taxi, but that doesn’t mean they’re officially licensed.” Agatha herself was officially licensed, although she drove a black cab only infrequently these days. “And heaven help them if they try and pretend they are.”

It wasn’t until we got to the bottom of the steps that we saw our driver, who had been leaning on the far side of the cab. He studied us with measured coolness and insolence as we approached. He was wearing a powder-blue Adidas tracksuit and had dark hair, cropped short on top and shaven at the sides, and a tiny and rather tentative moustache. All in all, he looked about fifteen years old. Agatha apparently thought so too because she insisted on seeing his licence.

Luckily for him, and I suppose for us, he had this with him and, after a pointedly prolonged inspection, Agatha handed it back to him. We got into the back of the cab while our driver surged into the front, slamming his door violently shut.

Agatha smiled. “Declan is annoyed at me.”

Of course, having studied his licence she now knew his name. And Declan really was annoyed. He revved the engine and sent us charging forward with such abruptness and speed that the gates, which opened automatically at our approach, hardly cleared the sides of the cab as we shot through.

“That would certainly teach us a lesson,” said Agatha dryly, “scraping the paint off the side of his own cab.” Then she pressed the button that enabled communication with the driver. “Declan,” she said sweetly.

“What?” replied Declan, considerably less sweetly.

“Could we please drive back by way of Nutalich?”

“We’re going that way anyway.” It sounded like Declan regretted this fact but that there was no way around it.

“Good. Thank you.”

But Declan had already cut off communications with us. Agatha leaned back and stretched. “It’s nice to be a passenger for a change.”

“Even with Declan driving?” I said.

“Not so much with Declan driving, true. But at least you guys will be able to see Nutalich. I want you to see the church. It’s fantastic. No remarks about defibrillators, Tinkler.”

“Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would be fine too,” said Tinkler. “Providing it’s you or Nevada.” He looked at me. “Not you. No offence.”

“None taken.”

We all sat back and relaxed as the cab hurtled through the night. It was nice to sit here in the darkness, four old friends packed close together with the smell of Tinkler’s pilfered rolls teasing our nostrils.

In this part of Kent, the roads were narrow and winding, and thickly forested on either side. But Declan was throwing us along them rather more quickly than I was comfortable with. Then a sign flashed up ahead of us, a streak of white against the greenery with heavy black letters, which read Nutalich. Agatha pressed the button to communicate with the driver. “Declan, could you slow down as we go through here so I can show my friends, please?”

Declan murmured something inaudible though no doubt uncomplimentary, but grudgingly slowed down.

The forest thinned out on either side of us and became meadowland, and then we were crossing a narrow brook on an old grey stone bridge. The dark, quiet water gleamed briefly on either side of us and then we were in the outskirts of Nutalich.

The lovely rural village seemed to rise from the land itself. What I thought was a hedge on one side of us was actually a thatched roof, sweeping up from the bridge and the brook to form a snug brown covering for the pale wooden front of a large wayside inn. There was a gravel parking area outside and it was full of cars, which rather spoiled the ancient sense of the place.

A sign that hung on a tall wooden scaffold beside the road read Bird in Flight and depicted an abstract modernist bird, yes, in flight, in the manner of Picasso or Miró. Clearly this wasn’t your average pub and this wasn’t your average village.

Across the road from the pub was a house with a thatched roof, which looked like a miniature replica of the pub itself. We passed more houses on both sides of the road, each one distinctive and different, all of them striking. Some appeared timelessly antique, others modern and even futuristic. None of them looked cheap.

Just when I thought the village consisted of nothing except a single road with homes on either side—plus that essential pub, of course—our headlights revealed that it split into two. Each section of road curved around to ultimately form a big circle. We were in the heart of the village now and in the circle at the centre of the roads was a village green with a duck pond and a large shed on it.

Lining the roads were shops of every variety—grocers, butchers, restaurants, fishmongers, bookshops, a comic shop, a shoe shop, a post office, antique shops and boutiques. Even a charity shop or two, which made my heart beat faster. There were also four more pubs. And every single one of these businesses was architecturally distinctive and appealing.

“This really is a lovely place,” said Nevada.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Agatha.

Tinkler pretended to be snoring, but it was clear even he was impressed.

Once we were past the big circle, the two roads converged again into a single thoroughfare. We drove along this and saw more shops on either side, followed by more houses, and then clearly we were heading out of the village. Although I’d only spent a few seconds passing through the place, I felt a strange little pang of regret to be leaving it behind.

“The name Nutalich is from the Celtic for ‘flying bird’, eun itealaich,” said Nevada.

“You speak Celtic?” said Tinkler.

“No, but I possess a small portable device called a smartphone. How was my Celtic pronunciation?”