The Old Silent

It was not frost, for on my skin

I felt siroccos crawl.'

Jury stopped and there was a brief silence on Macalvie's end.

'In the margin there's a little notation, 'a desert wind, hot.' ' Jury paused. 'You know a band called Sirocco?'

'Yes…'

'Have you read the latest London Weekend or Time Out?'

'I'm fully booked. I have an opening to attend in the Haymarket, front-row tickets for Derek Jacobi. Then there's Wembley Arena and Jimmy Page. And I always catch Michael Jackson. Hell no, I haven't read them.'

'The name of the band used to be Bad News Coming. Then they changed it; Alvaro Jiminez said they wanted a new identity, or something. Sirocco was Charlie's idea. It was also Charlie's idea to change the tour date for the Odeon. Sirocco was supposed to do a concert in Munich first. Do you know how hard that is? To rearrange tour dates? The manager went through hell.'

'Why'd they change it? Not that any of this means sod-all because I know where you're headed and you're wrong.'

'No, you don't know where I'm headed, Macalvie. I'll get to that in a minute. Do you know their tunes? Or do you only listen to Elvis?'

'I've heard a few of their cuts. Weren't we playing one on the way to Cornwall?'

' 'Yesterday's Rain.''

'Don't sing to me. The poetry was enough.'

'The words wouldn't mean anything to you unless you'd seen a Magritte painting called 'Empire of Light.' There's a print hanging in-never mind, only that it was one of Nell Healey's favorite paintings. The words to that song are extremely resonant of both Cornwall and that painting.'

Macalvie sighed. 'At least Denny has a few bones to fool with.'

'I talked to Charlie Raine. I went to the Odeon, took him to a pub for some lunch. He knew about the Healey case-'

'As does half the country.'

'The kid's been out of England, Macalvie. With all he's got to do, why would he be so taken up with this case? He knew every detail. More than that, he thought I'd come to the Odeon because I knew who he was. He got the concert date changed because he wanted to be here.'

'Um-hmm.'

'Meaning?'

'We're back to the Unknown Kid, the third-party solution, or… oh, let me guess. Next you're going to tell me the skeleton in that grave was-'

'Toby Holt.'

Macalvie's silence was so total that Jury could hear, from across the room, the black cat's twitchy little snores coming from the sedan chair.

'Toby Holt. Brilliant. Aren't you forgetting one crucial piece of evidence? Toby Holt was run down by a lorry five weeks later. Owen Holt identified the body.'

'Who said he was telling the truth?'

'Why in hell wouldn't he?'

'Ten thousand pounds. A trust fund set up for Toby's schooling by Nell Healey. You didn't know about it; you were taken off the case.' Jury told him what the Holts had said. 'You know how the odds go down every day, every hour a kid is missing that he'll ever be found. It's not that coldblooded-'

'Just a tad illegal, for Christ's sakes. And how do you know this?'

'I don't, yet. But I think I will after I talk to Owen Holt.'

Jury heard a drawer open, slam shut. Macalvie was getting out the paper cups. 'It wasn't your case, Macalvie.'

'Obviously. It never got solved.'

'The lead guitarist, Charlie Raine.' Jury paused. 'I think he's Billy Healey.'

In that cat-pad, quiet voice Macalvie used when he was really disturbed, he said, 'Jury. Billy Healey is dead.'

'I was afraid you'd say that. Listen-'

'No. I'd rather talk to Denny. At least he serves wine.'

'Listen: say I'm crazy-'

'No problem.'

'Security at those concerts is nil. It's only laid on to keep the peace. The loudmouths, the beer-guzzlers, the snorters, the ardent fans. Wiggins has rounded up a few men who aren't on rota.'

'Are you telling me you think someone's going to try to off your boy in the middle of a concert with-hell, you've seen too many Hitchcock films.'

Jury was getting impatient, but still kept his voice low. 'Come on, Brian, goddammit, I'm not talking about the London Symphony or the Royal Albert Hall. This is the Hammersmith Odeon, and these aren't people who toss on their gowns and tails to make sure they're seen. These are fans. These are people who don't eye the box seats to see if there's someone they've missed who's wearing a coronet. These are fans who plunk down ten pounds to see some of the greatest musicians in the world and they listen-'

'You should be reviewing for Juke Blues. Okay, okay, I get the point. There's so much noise you couldn't even hear Gilly if she was standing next to you. So you want reinforcements. Yeah, so go ahead. What time tonight?'

'Eight.'

'Wonderful. That's all of six hours to round up whoever's stupid enough to buy this act and get them there. Great. Except it isn't Billy Healey, Jury.'

'So what've we lost?'

'Probably our jobs. Not that that means anything.'

Jury could almost hear the grin. 'Thanks. I'm sending photos of six people on the wire. One in London, five here. One in particular. There's a mass exodus to London from West Yorkshire.'

The silence lengthened until Jury wondered if Macalvie had rung off.

'And did you tell Nell Healey that you think her son's alive? That he turned out to be famous, which is what that bastard of a husband always wanted?'

Jury didn't answer.

'Billy Healey was a pianist, Jury, not a guitarist.'

For Macalvie, that was pretty weak. 'He could play anything put in his hands, according to several people. And I imagine Charlie plays keyboard, though he said 'not much.''

'Like your theory. Psychologically it's lousy, Jury. Here's a kid who doesn't get in touch with his much-beloved stepmother for eight years.'

'If someone tried to bury you alive, I imagine you wouldn't be too eager to take a chance on being found.'

'So Billy Healey somehow becomes a hot, young guitarist in New York. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.' The phone slammed down.

Jury sat there with the dead receiver knowing Macalvie had serious doubts about his own theory and thinking of Plant's list.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Jury replaced the receiver and thought of Plant's hot, young, New York writer.

Poss.