Ben Aaronovitch - Moon Over Soho

Daniel nervously tapped his fingers on his glass. “We were all watching this terrible band who were making a fist of …” He stared off in the direction of the last decade. “I can’t remember what it was.”

“ ‘Body and Soul’?” I asked.

“No,” said James. “It was Saint Thomas.”

“Which they were murdering,” said Daniel. “And Cy said, loud enough for everyone, including the band, to hear: ‘I bet any of us could play better than this.’ ”

“Which is not the done thing,” said Max. All three shared a sly smile at the transgression. “The next thing I knew we were sharing a table, ordering rounds and talking jazz.”

“As I said,” said James. “We coalesced.”

“Hence our name,” said Daniel. “The Better Quartet.”

“Were you better?” I asked.

“Not noticeably,” said Max.

“Worse, in fact,” said Daniel.

“We did get better,” said Max and laughed. “We practiced at Cy’s place.”

“Practiced a lot,” said Daniel and drained his glass. “Right, who wants what?”

They don’t do pints at the French House so James and Max split a bottle of the house red. I asked for half a bitter — it had been a long day and there’s nothing like Latin declension to give a man a thirst.

“Two maybe three times a week,” said Max.

“So you were ambitious?” I asked.

“None of us was that serious really,” said James. “It’s not like we were kids and desperate to make it big.”

“That’s still a lot of practice,” I said.

“Oh, we wanted to be better musicians,” said James.

“We’re wannabe jazzmen,” said Max. “You play the music to play the music, know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“Do you think he’s gone across the river for those drinks?” asked James.

We craned our necks and looked over at the bar. Daniel was bobbing among the crush, his hand raised with an optimistic twenty slipped between his fingers. On Saturday night in Soho going across the river might have been quicker.

“How serious was Cyrus?” I asked.

“He wasn’t any more serious than we were,” said James.

“He was good, though,” said Max and made fingering motions. “He had that whole sax-player thing going.”

“Hence the women,” said James.

Max sighed.

“Melinda Abbot?” I asked.

“Oh, Melinda,” said Max.

“Melinda was just the one at home,” said James.

“Sally, Viv, Tolene,” said Max.

“Daria,” said James. “Remember Daria?”

“Like I said,” said Max. “The whole saxophone vibe.”

I spotted Daniel struggling back with the drinks and got up to help him ferry them to the table. He gave me an appraising look and I guessed that he didn’t share Max’s and James’s envy for the women. I gave him a politically correct grin and plonked the drinks down on the table. Max and James said cheers and we all clinked glasses.

They’d obviously forgotten that I was a policeman, which was handy, so I phrased my next question with considerable care. “So Melinda didn’t mind?”

“Oh, Melinda minded all right,” said James. “But it didn’t help that she never came to any of the gigs.”

“She wasn’t a fan,” said Daniel.

“You know how it is with women,” said James. “They don’t like you to be doing anything they can’t relate back to themselves.”

“She was into that New Age stuff, crystals and homeopathy,” said Max.

“She was always nice enough to us,” said Daniel. “Made us coffee when we were rehearsing.”

“And biscuits,” said Max nostalgically.

“None of the other girls was serious,” said James. “I’m not even sure there was ever any hanky-panky as such. At least not until Simone anyway. Trouble with a capital T .”

Simone had been the first woman to come back to Cyrus’s house to watch the rehearsals.

“She was so quiet that after a while you forgot she was there,” said Daniel.

Melinda Abbot didn’t forget Simone Fitzwilliam was there and I didn’t blame her. I tried to imagine what would have happened had my dad brought a woman home to watch him rehearse. It wouldn’t have ended well I can tell you that. Tears would have just been the start of it.

Melinda, who obviously subscribed to notions of gentility unknown to my mother, did at least wait until everyone left the house before metaphorically rolling up her sleeves and reaching for the rolling pin.

“After that we were in a lockup that Max blagged off Transport for London,” said James. “It was drafty but a lot more relaxed.”

“Though terribly cold,” said Daniel.

“Then suddenly we’re all back at Cy’s place,” said James. “Only it’s not Melinda serving the coffee and biscuits anymore, it’s the gorgeous Simone.”

“When did this happen?”

“April, May, around that time,” said Max. “Spring.”

“How did Melinda take it?” I asked.

“We don’t know,” said James. “We never saw that much of her even when she was around.”

“I met her a couple of times,” said Daniel.

The others stared at him. “You never said,” said James.

“She called me, said she wanted to talk — she was upset.”

“What did she say?” asked Max.

“I don’t like to say,” said Daniel. “It was private.”

And so it stayed. I managed to steer the conversation back around to Melinda Abbot’s “mystical” hobbies but the band hadn’t really been paying attention. The French House began to get seriously crowded and despite the prohibition on piped music I was having to shout to make myself heard. I suggested food.

“Is the Met going to be picking up the bill?” asked James.

“I think we could stretch to some expenses,” I said. “As long as we don’t go mad.”

The band all nodded their heads. Of course they did, when you’re a musician free is a magic number.

We ended up in Wong Kei on Wardour Street where the food is reliable, the service is brusque, and you can get a table at eleven thirty on a Saturday night — if you don’t mind sharing. I showed four fingers to the guy at the door and he waved us upstairs where a stern-looking young woman in a red T-shirt directed us to one of the big round tables.

A pair of pale American students, who up till then had had the table to themselves, visibly cowered as we plonked ourselves down.

“Good evening,” said Daniel. “Don’t worry, we’re perfectly harmless.”

Both American students were wearing neat red Adidas sweatshirts with MNU PIONEERS embroidered across the chest. They nodded nervously. “Hi,” one of them said. “We’re from Kansas.”

We waited politely for them to elaborate but neither said another word to us for the ten minutes it took to finish their food, pay, and bolt for the door.

“What’s an MNU anyway?” asked Max.

“Now he asks,” said James.

The waitress arrived and started slapping down the main course. I had shredded duck with fried ho fun, Daniel and Max split egg fried rice, chicken with cashews, and sweet-and-sour pork, James had beef noodles. The band ordered another round of Tsingtao beers but I stuck to the free green tea, which came in a simple white ceramic teapot. I asked the band whether they played the Spice of Life often, which made them laugh.

“We’ve played there a couple of times,” said Max. “Usually the lunch spot on Monday.”

“Get much of a crowd?” I asked.

“We were getting there,” said James. “We had gigs at the Bull’s Head, the National Theatre foyer, and Merlin’s Cave in Chalfont Saint Giles.”

“Last Friday was the first evening slot that we’d scored,” said Max.

“So what was next?” I asked. “Record deal?”