Sam's Song

  Chapter Ten

  I was sitting in Derwena’s bedroom, in a high-backed wicker chair, drinking coffee. I was on my second cup. Derwena was on her fourth and she was just about with me. I’m sure that I read somewhere that paramedics give naloxone to people who have ‘over-indulged’ on drugs. I kept paracetamol in my bag for PMT and headaches, but no naloxone. A cold shower and coffee would have to do.

  I leaned forward, to get Derwena’s attention. “You okay?” I asked. It was a stupid question, but there you go.

  “Yeah.”

  “Must have been one hell of a party?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You went there after the radio station?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think you can reply with answers longer than one word?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Still at the party?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Maybe we should phone someone, get them over here.”

  “Forgot the number.”

  “In the phone book?”

  “Ex-directory.”

  “Can you remember anything about the party?”

  Derwena’s eyes rolled. She allowed her head to sink back into a fluffy pillow. Then she placed the back of her left hand against her forehead and lapsed into deep thought. Her coffee cup rattled in its saucer and I extended an arm to steady it. She took a sip of coffee and, with more vitality than she’d shown all morning, she opened her eyes and replied, “There was some drink, drugs. Maybe sex.”

  I frowned. “Maybe?”

  She shrugged a frilly, pink shoulder. “Sex is like that, don’t you find, sometimes you remember, sometimes you don’t.”

  “Er, maybe I’m being weird here, but I think you should remember.”

  “Really?” She shot me a quizzical glance. She looked genuinely surprised.

  “Anything else happen at the party?”

  “Yes!” Her eyes were like saucers now and she was wide-awake. “Troutbeck turned up.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. Like the rest of me, my hair was still damp from the shower. “Who the hell’s Troutbeck?”

  “Troutbeck Phineas,” Derwena explained. “T.P. – T.P. McGill.”

  How wise to go with the initials.

  “There was an incident. Troutbeck got into a fight with Woody. Woody floored him.” Derwena put her left hand over her mouth. Her coffee cup overturned in its saucer but, thankfully, it was empty. I took the cup and saucer from her and placed them on the bedside table. “Oh, Troutbeck!” Derwena exclaimed. “I must go and see him! I wonder if he’s hurt.”

  Derwena staggered to the edge of the bed, where she met my restraining hand. “I think you should rest,” I advised.

  She pushed past me, showing surprising strength. “I must see Troutbeck!”

  I shrugged. I knew a fait accompli when I met one. “You know where he lives?”

  “Of course.” Derwena gave me a withering look. “We were lovers, you know.”

  Lightly, I tapped my forehead with my fingers. “Somehow that slipped my memory.” I glanced at the bedspread and the remains of a varied, yet interesting, meal. “I tend to be forgetful when I’m surrounded by vomit.”

  Derwena stared at the bedspread. She wrinkled her nose. “Did I do that?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered in a small voice.

  I picked up my jacket and slipped into it. Then I threw my bag over my shoulder. “Apologise to your maid, because as sure as hell, Samantha isn’t cleaning that up.”

  Derwena pouted. Maybe I was being too harsh. She was looking for Florence Nightingale and I was coming on like Cruella Deville. I felt sorry for her, so I walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Solicitously, I asked, “Do you think you can dress yourself?” Please say yes.

  “I’ll try,” Derwena replied, her voice still small, uncertain.

  Then I watched in painful fascination as she struggled into her knickers. How can underwear like that possibly be comfortable?

  Suffice to say, it was Samantha to the rescue. Again. “Lean on me,” I instructed. “Now the right leg goes in there, and the left leg goes in there, and the pattern tends to repeat itself until you’ve got yourself dressed. Got it?”

  Derwena frowned. She was concentrating hard. Getting dressed required a mountain of effort. “It’s difficult,” she complained.

  “Maybe we should go back to bearskins and caves.”

  “Huh?”

  I left her question hanging in the air and watched as she zipped up her sequined pink and black halter-neck dress. The dress was wrinkled and she was overdressed for the early afternoon, but that’s Derwena de Caro. At least, she left the tiara on her pillow.

  Derwena’s high-heeled shoes were a problem, and a broken ankle waiting to happen, but I helped her slip into them. From a wardrobe, she produced a raincoat, grey and plain, disappointingly drab when compared to the rest of her apparel, and arm-in-arm we walked to my car.

  At the car, I paused. With a suspicious frown, I asked, “You’re not going to be sick, again, are you?”

  Derwena gave me a wan smile. She shook her head. “I’m fine now. Honest.”

  I returned her smile. Maybe, stripped of the false name, the alcohol, the drugs, the trappings of the music industry, I’d like the person behind that wan smile.

  Derwena offered instructions and I drove into Cardiff, towards the Bay. T.P. McGill rented a flat overlooking the Bay, one of his many love nests dotted throughout the country.

  It was a grey, overcast, late-autumn day. The clouds were heavy and would produce rain later. Nevertheless, for now, I’d dried out after my experience with Derwena and the shower. Moreover, Derwena was becoming more compos mentis – I read a lot, okay – as the afternoon wore on.

  I parked my car in a side street and we approached a ten storey whitewashed building. The building was located on the waterfront with a splendid panoramic view of the Bay. A lift took us to the top floor and T.P. McGill’s apartment. Derwena rang the doorbell. There was no answer. She tapped her foot impatiently while I glanced along the corridor and through a glass panel. I admired the dark-grey sky and the slate-grey water – after spending over thirty winters in Wales, you tend to develop an appreciation for all things grey.

  “This is ridiculous,” Derwena moaned. Then she dipped her fingers into her raincoat and removed her purse. From her purse, she extracted a key. “I forgot to give it back,” she smiled.

  With key in hand, Derwena opened T.P. McGill’s door. She was about to bound into his flat, when I held out a restraining hand. When you’ve been snooping around for as long as I have you tend to sense when all is not well. And I had that sense now. It was a feeling akin to someone winching me into a corset when the corset is already way too tight.

  “Trouty, it’s me!” Derwena trilled. We listened hard, but there was no reply.

  Quickly, I took in the scene – an open-plan lounge-diner with a modern kitchen, a balcony and French windows. The French windows were closed and apparently locked. A short passageway led to three doors, presumably two bedrooms and a bathroom. The living space contained white leather furniture, a huge wall-mounted television set, a large seascape by an artist I didn’t recognise, a pale cream carpet and a large glass table with a vase of chrysanthemums positioned in the centre. Nothing had been disturbed; everything seemed in its place. The wall lamps were on. The afternoon was closing in, but it was not dark enough yet for artificial light. A laptop computer sat on a large desk. The computer was open, and flickering lights suggested that it was in ‘sleep’ mode.

  “Out of my way!” Derwena had had enough. She pushed past my outstretched arm. “Trouty, where are you?”

  Derwena was wa
lking towards a bedroom while I was walking towards the computer, to investigate, when I heard her scream. I ran to Derwena’s side and she turned and buried her face in my shoulder. Her shoulders were shaking and she was threatening to become hysterical. I glanced over Derwena’s shoulder into the bedroom. Cold showers, coffee, not even naloxone, would help T.P. McGill now – because he was lying in the middle of his plush bedroom carpet with a bullet through the middle of his forehead.