Read Written in Dead Wax for Free Online Page B

the North End Road when she suddenly announced, “We are being followed.”
    I had been going through the few records I’d found, trying to study their covers in the glow of the passing streetlights. She was sitting opposite me in the dark back of the cab, perched on the fold-down seat and peering intently out the rear window, watching London go past in the night.
    “Oh, come on,” I said.
    But she turned to the driver. “Excuse me, but I think that car is following us.” This was greeted with silence. She added, “Can you take some evasive manoeuvres, please?” More silence. “I’ll make it worth your while.” A disgusted sigh, then the clicking of the indicator as we took a sharp turn, then another turn, then another.
    Then our driver said, “You’re right. We’re being followed.”
    I felt a cold irrational chill on the back of my neck. We were streaking along dark streets through Fulham Broadway. The brightly lit shop windows looked inappropriately cheery.
    “What do you want me to do?” said our driver. In the back we looked at each other. We were rolling towards Putney Bridge.
    Miss N. Warren said, “We can’t lead them back to your place. Where shall we go?”
    I said, “I have an idea.”
    * * *
    I had phoned ahead, so I wasn’t entirely surprised to discover that Tinkler had his hair neatly drawn back in a ponytail. He was also wearing a clean shirt, his face looked freshly scrubbed and there was a suspicious odour of aftershave in evidence. He held the door open for us and said, “Miss Warren. I’m so pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
    “This is Jordon Tinkler,” I said. They shook hands.
    She said, “Jordan like the glamour model and the breakfast cereal?”
    “No,” he said, “it isn’t spelled with an ‘a’. It’s spelled with an ‘o’.”
    She chuckled. “How unusual.”
    “It isn’t that unusual,” said Tinkler, a little stung. “There was a very good midfielder who played for Birmingham called Jordon Mutch.”
    “Oh, the Birmingham midfield, of course.”
    I had to admire the way she’d managed to put him on the defensive within about three seconds of stepping through the door. Tinkler ushered us upstairs. “Thank you for letting us take refuge here,” she said. “We won’t bother you for long.”
    “Oh, no bother,” said Tinkler, opening the door of his listening room. A waft of warm air flowed out to greet us. The amp was on.
    Miss N. Warren went in and sat down on the sofa, glancing at me as I joined her. “He has more light bulbs on his system than you do.”
    “They’re not light bulbs,” I said. “They’re valves. Thermionic valves.”
    “In America they call them tubes,” added Tinkler. “Vacuum tubes.”
    “Well, they certainly warm the room up nicely,” she said.
    “It’s because my amp is OTL. Output transformerless.”
    “What does that mean?”
    I said, “It means it delivers a very pure sound, but if you get a spike in the DC your loudspeakers explode.”
    Tinkler snorted. “Like that’s ever happened.” But I noticed that he began to double-check the output valves. Meanwhile, N. Warren was searching through her shopping bags. She handed one to me.
    “Here you are,” she said.
    “What is it?” I opened the bag and took out a dark blue jacket lined with silk printed in a winter camouflage pattern.
    “It’s a Paul Smith jacket. Try it on.” I did as I was told. It was perhaps a little long in the sleeves, but otherwise a perfect fit. In fact it was very nice. She watched, nodding with grave approval as I walked around in it. Tinkler caught my eye and gave me a look.
    She noticed the look and said, “If I’m going to accompany him on crate-diving expeditions, then he’s going to have to look presentable.”
    “Crate-diving,” said Tinkler. “I like it. Now how about I fetch us all some snacks?”
    She said, “Only if you can provide something containing a great deal of salt or sugar, and fat of course,