An Ocean Apart (37 page)

Jennifer made a move to follow him, then stopped and turned back to David. “You could have beaten him, couldn't you?”

“Sorry?”

“Come on, you know what I mean. You could have beaten Russ, couldn't you?”

David smiled and began to waggle his head from one side to the other. “Well … maybe.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Well, I just thought that it might not be, erm…”

“Diplomatic?”

“Yeah, that sort of thing.”

Jennifer flicked at a piece of grass with the toe of her tennis shoe. “Well, it's totally un-American, but nevertheless a very kind thing to do. My life would've been hell on Monday morning if Russ had lost.”

David nodded. “Yes, well, I guessed he might not take it in the best spirit.”

Jennifer laughed quietly. “You guessed right.” She folded her arms and once again looked down at her feet as she smoothed over the grass with her shoe. “Well … I suppose I'll see you next week then.”

“Yeah, okay.”

She turned and made her way back to the steps, and David watched her as she stretched her long legs out to take them effortlessly two at a time. Then, giving Dodie a whistle, he set off across the lawn towards the garden shed.

Chapter
  
TWENTY-TWO

It was apparent from the outset that Jennifer's “mad Irishman” description of Gerry Reilly could not have been more apt. As David sat in convoy behind Gerry's ageing Maserati at the top of Barker Lane, Gerry suddenly pulled out into a non-existent gap in the traffic, causing a Chevrolet pick-up truck to slew dangerously to the side of the road and the driver to thump the heel of his hand on the horn. He then put his foot down so hard on the accelerator that smoke belched from its squealing tyres, and by the time David eventually managed to turn out himself, the car was a mere speck of red at the far end of the main street. Consequently, David found himself having to drive the Volkswagen harder and faster than it probably had ever been driven before in his vain attempt to catch up.

Two miles east of Leesport, David had practically given up all hope of ever seeing Gerry or the Maserati again, but racing round a tight right-hand corner, he came across the car parked at the side of the road, and he reckoned that it had probably been just good fortune that Gerry had actually looked in his rear-view mirror and realized that there was no sign of the Volkswagen. As he slowed, Gerry took off again, this time at a more gentle pace, and within one hundred yards he signalled to the right and pulled off the road. David followed him down an overgrown and rutted driveway, eventually coming to a halt outside a large weather-beaten barn. Gerry jumped out of his car and came round to open up David's door.

“This is very kind of you, David. I had a go at putting the console in myself last night, but just about did in my back and the bloody equipment at the same time!”

David got out and pulled up the top without securing it in order to prevent Dodie from jumping out, and followed Gerry towards the double doors at the front of the barn.

“Two of us should manage fine, though. It's just a question of slotting the new one in and connecting up.”

He unlocked the small door that was set into one of the larger ones, and ushered David inside.

The front half of the barn had been converted into a huge open-plan room, the centre of which was adorned with a clutter of old sofas and chairs gathered round a large rough-hewn oak table. To one side, a kitchen stretched along the wall, separated from the sitting-room by a long breakfast bar, while the dining area was tucked away at the back of the room underneath a balustraded upper deck, upon which David could just make out the top of an enormous double bed. The whole place smelt strongly of old cigarette smoke and beer, as if it had been the scene of a wild party the night before.

Gerry went over to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer, and levering off the tops with the handle of a spoon, held one out to David.

“No use getting hot and bothered over the task, is there?”

He took a swig from his bottle and gestured with his hand for David to follow. He walked over to a door behind the dining-table and pulled it open, then pushed open a further door and flicked on a bank of switches, flooding light into the recording studio. It was only half the height and three quarters of the width of the living area, the front part being divided from the smaller back section by a soundproof wall, in the centre of which was a large double-glazed viewing window. The room that they stood in was filled with musical equipment: two keyboards, a set of drums and a variety of guitars haphazardly strewn about on metal floor-stands, each of these being connected to a large input box below the viewing window by an entanglement of leads.

Through the window, two large Anglepoise lamps cast a speakeasy light over the gaping hole in the middle of the desk.

“Sorry about the mess everywhere,” Gerry said, picking his way through the equipment. “The boys were in rehearsing last night, and didn't leave till about three this morning. They're not what you call very house-proud.”

David followed Gerry's path through the instruments. “What kind of recording do you do?”

Gerry laughed. “Anything that makes a bit of money. Generally groups, but we do a few jingles for radio stations and the like, just to fill in the downtime.” He held open the two doors that led into the control room. “That's how I met Jennifer, actually. I've done a couple of things for her company over the past year.”

He walked over to the corner of the room and carefully pulled away a dust-sheet to reveal the new mixing console. “There she blows.” He stood back to admire it. “Isn't she a beauty?”

David nodded, not really knowing if she was a beauty or not, but reckoning that if looks were dependent on the number of knobs and LCD screens that this machine had, then it certainly would be worth a wolf whistle or two.

“Right, David,” Gerry said, squeezing his way in behind the console and edging it out from the wall. “If you could just get your hands in below, we'll get it up into its place.”

David rid himself of his bottle of beer and bent down and levered up the console, and with a few manoeuvres around the room to get into the right position, they slotted it down on the desk.

“That's it! Perfect! Thanks a lot, David.” He walked round to the back of the desk and picked up a handful of leads. “Now all I have to do is get all these bloody wires stuck into the right holes.”

Retrieving his beer, David leaned against the ledge on the viewing window and watched as Gerry began pushing jack-plugs into their corresponding ports. “So, is it all different types of music that you produce?”

“Yeah, suppose so. I mean, I'm lucky enough to have been in the business for some time now, so I get groups seeking me out to produce for them. That's really why I moved out here to Leesport.” He grinned at David. “Actually, to blow my own trumpet a bit, I've come to be known as the Pied Piper in the trade, seeing that I'm luring all the groups out here away from the studios in the city!”

“Seems a pretty good position to be in. Where were you beforehand?”

“I had a small place in the Village, but it just got too expensive, so I bought this place about a year ago. I thought at first it might be a bit of a white elephant, because I found out after I'd bought it that no insurance company would cover me for putting all this equipment into a wooden building.” He gestured with his hand around the room. “So I had to brick up the bloody lot in the inside. That's why it's so much smaller than the other part of the barn, that and the soundproofing, of course. It cost me an arm and a leg, I can tell you.”

“And obviously the bands are quite happy to make the trip all the way out here?”

“Well, it was a bit of a gamble, but yeah, they seem to love it! They book into a bed-and-breakfast in Leesport, and then, because most of the work is done in the evening or at night, they head off to the beach during the day, or the more sporty ones play tennis or golf at the country club.” He looked across at David and raised his eyebrows. “It's quite funny, actually. The club has a strict dress code, and you can imagine the kind of clothes these guys turn up in to play their games.”

David chuckled. “And they get away with it?”

“I've never actually witnessed what happens. I think it's better if they don't know who the culprit is who's bringing them here in the first place, but yeah, usually there's someone there who knows of the band, or their children know of the band, and they get to bend the rules a little. I think they try to get them out on the course or onto the courts before the old duffers come along and get the chance to complain.” Gerry juggled with a handful of leads, shaking his head from side to side as he made a silent calculation as to where they should go. “Look, would you mind just holding on to these for a minute?”

David pushed himself off the ledge and took hold of the leads, while Gerry went round the other side of the desk and squatted down on his haunches to study the confusion of inputs on the patch-bays below.

“So most of the groups that you produce are quite well-known?”

“Yeah, you could say that. The lads here at the minute are popular on the sort of rock/folk circuit over here. Dublin Up, they're called. Ever heard of them?”

“No, can't say I have. I'm afraid that I gave up my musical career some time ago.”

Gerry looked up at him. “You played, did you?”

David made a noncommittal gesture with his head. “Well, sort of. I had a group at university, but I've really done little since then.”

“What instrument?”

“Lead guitar.”

“Good for you!” Gerry said, swapping round two inputs on the lowest patch-bay and straightening up in front of the desk. He flicked a couple of switches on the console and feedback screeched through the two massive speakers behind David. Gerry quickly twisted two knobs and the noise subsided to a loud hum. He pointed through to the recording floor next door.

“That's the Gibson live. Do you want to have a go?”

David turned to look through the window at the bright blue guitar in the centre of the floor.

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all. Just give me a second, and I'll join you.”

David laid down his handful of leads on the desk and pushed open the two doors. He picked up the guitar from its stand, slung the strap over his neck, and pulled out the plectrum that was stuck between the strings, creating a tuneless thwang that rang through the speakers as he did so. He played a couple of chords to make sure that it was in tune, then went through a couple of lead runs to get his fingers accustomed to the feel of the guitar. At that point, Gerry pushed open the doors and came through.

“Bert Jansch, yes?”

David smiled at him. “Oh, well, couldn't be that bad if you recognized it.”

“Bad? I tell you, there's many a lead guitarist nowadays who couldn't do better!” He picked up a semi-acoustic Ovation from one of the stands and sat down on a leather-padded chrome stool. “Christ, you're some man for a gardener, aren't you? First tennis, then the guitar. What else do you do?”

David shook his head. “That's about it, I'm afraid. You happen to have witnessed the sum total of my talents in one day!”

“Thank God for that!” Gerry exclaimed, plucking at the strings of the guitar and adjusting the knobs on the machine head. “It's quite enough. Any more and you'd be making me feel humble.” He played three quick chords. “Right then, David, that's it! The night is young, so let's get stuck in.”

Chapter
  
TWENTY-THREE

Duncan Caple walked across the empty car-park at Glendurnich, turning his key-ring over in his hand to find the one that unlocked the front door of the office. It was seven o'clock on Monday morning, and even though the distillery throbbed with activity, having been in operation throughout the weekend, the office was completely deserted. He pushed the key into the lock and opened the door, and walked briskly to his office.

Placing his brief-case on the desk, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, at the same time pressing one of the autodial numbers on his telephone. While waiting for it to connect, he clicked open the locks of the case and took out a thick typed document. He sat down and began leafing through it as the distorted ringing sounded out from the telephone speaker.

After the tenth ring, he leaned forward with a silent curse, and was about to end the call when it was answered.

“Hullo?”

Duncan quickly picked up the receiver. “John? It's Duncan.”

“Duncan! You just caught me. I was on the way out to the car. How are you getting on? I was going to call you today, but I never quite know when to ring.”

“I know. Sorry that I haven't been in touch, but I just wanted to get this document ready before I made contact.”

“So you've got it then?”

“Yup, and it looks good, though I say it myself. Giles has done a wonderful job in selling the idea, as has Keith with the figures. It all looks very convincing, even though it is fairly simplistic, but there again, it has to be put in such a way that all the distillery workers can understand what's going on. Having read it through in its entirety, I would have thought that we'd more than a fair chance of pushing this thing through to fruition.”

“Bloody wonderful, Duncan! Well done! You'll let me have a copy?”

“Yes, I'll get one couriered down to you today.”

“Great! So have you any idea as to when you're going to move on to the next stage?”

“Well, where are we today?” He pulled his desk calendar towards him and flicked over the page to look at the next month. “Right, it's the fifteenth of June, so … I think to be on the safe side, John, I would really like a month to get everything ready. I want to make damned sure that this whole thing succeeds, as I'm sure you do, and I just don't want to push it any harder than I need to. So … let's see now … how does Friday, the seventeenth of July, sound to you?”