The Forensic Records Society Read online

  For Sue

  by the same author

  novels

  The Restraint of Beasts

  All Quiet on the Orient Express

  The Scheme for Full Employment

  Three to See the King

  Explorers of the New Century

  The Maintenance of Headway

  A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

  The Field of the Cloth of Gold

  stories

  Once in a Blue Moon

  Only When the Sun Shines Brightly

  Screwtop Thompson and Other Tales

  CONTENTS

  By the Same Author

  The Forensic Records Society

  Credits

  A Note on the Author

  Also available by Magnus Mills

  The Forensic Records Society

  ‘I saw you!’

  We listened closely. The voice sounded slightly remote, as if it came from an adjoining room. It was followed by a fuzzy silence.

  James gazed at the turntable as it ground to a halt.

  ‘That’s Keith,’ he said.

  ‘You certain?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Roger?’

  ‘No.’

  He played the record through for the third time. This was the agreed number of plays, so he then removed it from the turntable and returned it to its sleeve. As he did so he gave the label a cursory glance.

  ‘Fabulous music,’ he remarked.

  I rose from my seat and went over to the window. Outside there was snow lying everywhere.

  ‘Do you realise,’ I said, ‘we were probably the only people on the planet listening to that?’

  ‘Surely not,’ replied James.

  ‘Just think about it,’ I continued. ‘They released it almost fifty years ago and it was a moderate success before disappearing without a trace. You never hear it on the radio these days, or anywhere else for that matter. The song was a deliberate joke: the lyrics are childish to say the least. They’re practically meaningless in English, let alone Chinese, French or Russian.’

  ‘Marvellous ensemble performance nonetheless,’ said James.

  ‘Of course.’

  I stood gazing through the glass. At any moment I expected to hear another record begin playing, but instead there was nothing. The room had fallen unusually quiet. A minute went by before finally I turned from the window and saw that James was deep in thought. He stared blankly at the Schweppes boxes and the laden shelves as if pondering some question of infinite importance.

  ‘What about the other pressing?’ he asked at length.

  ‘Different ending,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t count.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘nobody else is interested. Nobody listens. Not properly anyway. Not like we do.’

  James leaned back on the table. He had gone rather pale and was clearly shocked by my words.

  ‘It’s beyond comprehension,’ he murmured. ‘Think of all the people in all the towns and cities in the world: I can’t believe there isn’t somebody playing it somewhere.’

  I shook my head slowly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I can assure you that we’re quite alone.’

  Outside the window the sky was darkening. There was more snow on the way and it would soon be time to leave. However, in view of my recent revelation I was reluctant to abandon James just yet, so when he suggested making a pot of tea I agreed to stay a while longer.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to solve this problem before you go.’

  We adjourned to the kitchen and he put the kettle on; then the discussion resumed. It seemed that my chance observation had alerted James to a situation he’d never previously recognised, and now he was determined to do something about it.

  ‘I think it’s worth one last try,’ he said. ‘A final attempt to make contact with others who are like-minded.’

  I gave a shrug.

  ‘What do you propose,’ I said, ‘exactly?’

  ‘Well,’ said James, ‘there’s an idea I’ve been nurturing for a long time but never brought to fruition.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘We could form a society for the express purpose of listening to records closely and in detail, forensically if you like, without any interruption or distraction. There would be regular gatherings, and membership would depend on some kind of test to make sure people are genuinely interested.’

  ‘You mean a code of conduct?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said James. ‘We don’t want any charlatans.’

  He stirred the tea while I considered his idea.

  ‘Where will we hold these meetings?’ I enquired. ‘Up the pub?’

  ‘Good thinking,’ James replied. ‘Actually I hadn’t planned that far ahead, but now you come to mention it they’ve got a back room they don’t use, haven’t they? We could borrow that.’

  James had a sparkle in his eyes which he usually reserved for only his best records, and I had to admit the feeling was infectious. Was it really possible, I wondered, to connect with others like ourselves? There was only one way to find out, so we agreed to meet the same evening in the Half Moon.

  Prior to leaving home I flipped slowly through the whole of my record collection, searching for nothing in particular, but simply absorbing the endless assortment of labels, performers and song titles. I thought this would be a good preparation for my appointment with James. I’d left him working at his kitchen table with a pencil and paper, drawing up a list of possible formats for the proposed society. The project had evidently seized his imagination, and I was eager to lend as much support as I could. An over-arching grasp of the subject was therefore indispensable. At the same time I remained convinced that my original theory was correct: there were some records that were never heard on planet Earth unless I (or James) happened to be playing them.

  I completed my casual trawl of the boxes from A to Z before making a random selection: a black-and-white sleeve and a black label bearing the words PRODUCED BY BRIAN & MURRY WILSON. The sight of it made me smile to myself. This was a perfect example: not a rarity in the sense of scarceness (it probably sold a million copies in its day) but nevertheless a record that had largely been forgotten. The odds against somebody playing it at any particular moment were immeasurable. With this sobering thought in mind I returned it to its box.

  Outside, the night sky was heavy with impending snow. I put my coat on and headed for the Half Moon, arriving at nine o’clock precisely. James was already there, sitting at the counter with a pint of Guinness.

  ‘There’s one for you in the pump,’ he announced.

  George was occupied behind the bar, but when he noticed me he gave me a nod and began filling a glass.

  ‘Have you asked him yet?’ I enquired.

  ‘No,’ said James. ‘I thought I’d wait until it was a bit quieter.’

  The place was fairly busy. In consequence it wasn’t until almost ten that we managed to have a word with George. He worked hard during the intervening hour, but he must have detected a conspiratorial air between James and me because he kept glancing in our direction. Finally, during a brief hiatus, he came over and spoke to us.

  ‘What are you two scheming about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well,’ said James, ‘we were wondering if the back room would be available on Monday evenings?’

  ‘Might be,’ said George. ‘Depends what for.’

  ‘We were thinking of starting a forensic records society.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ George leaned in closer and lowered his voice. ‘Police work, is it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘We mean records to listen to.’

  ‘Music?�
�

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a dartboard in the corner,’ said George. ‘Isn’t that enough entertainment?’

  ‘It’s not quite the same,’ I replied.

  ‘Or you may like to try a game of chess.’

  James ignored this distraction and stuck doggedly to his brief.

  ‘Doesn’t have to be Mondays,’ he said, ‘but we thought it might help improve trade on a quiet night.’

  ‘Oh, did you now?’ said George.

  Despite his bluff response, I could tell he was faintly intrigued by the proposition, especially when he realised he might sell more beer. By the time James had outlined exactly what he envisaged he’d won the publican over. He told us we could have the back room free-of-charge for a trial period of three months. There was only one proviso:

  ‘You won’t play them too loud, will you?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ affirmed James. ‘It’ll be connoisseurs only. We’re not interested in excessive volume.’

  It was tempting to qualify this last statement (the question of loudness was entirely relative) but in the event I decided to let it go. After all, there was little point in upsetting the apple-cart at this early stage. Having reached agreement, James delved into his inside pocket and produced a large sheet of paper, folded in four.

  ‘I’ve prepared an advertisement,’ he disclosed, opening up the document and laying it on the counter. The notice was hand-drawn in red and black felt tip:

  FORENSIC RECORDS SOCIETY

  MEETS HERE

  MONDAYS 9PM

  ALL WELCOME: BRING THREE RECORDS OF YOUR CHOICE

  Apparently James had taken it upon himself to decide the formula. I was slightly surprised that he hadn’t bothered to consult with me, especially as it was supposed to be a joint project. On the other hand, I had to admit he’d devised an impressive blueprint.

  ‘I thought three goes per person would provide a nice balance,’ he explained. ‘Not too many and not too few. Records would be played in strict rotation, of course, which should ensure a degree of variety. Obviously there will be no comments or judgement of other people’s tastes. We’ll be here simply to listen.’

  ‘Forensically,’ said George.

  ‘Correct.’

  I thought I saw a rather sad expression cross George’s face when he turned away, as if he’d just heard some unfortunate news. I had no notion what might have caused this, but I made a mental note to be careful in future to treat him with kindness and sympathy.

  Meanwhile, James went and pinned the notice on the wall.

  ‘By the way,’ I said, when he came back, ‘what are we going to play them on?’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that,’ he answered. ‘I’ll bring along my red portable.’

  James was the owner of three portable record players (including a model that was powered solely by batteries); he also possessed a 4-speed auto-stacker and a conventional deck with a forty-watt amplifier and twin speakers. I’d never known him take any of this equipment beyond the sanctuary of his own home, and again I was impressed by his dedication to the fledgling society. I only hoped that he wasn’t going to be disappointed. I’d seen a couple of people idly watching him while he pinned up his notice, but as yet nobody had actually gone over to see what it said. Still, there was plenty of time yet: today was only Thursday.

  ‘Will you require any sandwiches?’ asked George, when we departed the pub at half past eleven.

  ‘Probably not for the first meeting,’ said James, ‘but we’ll have a look at the attendance and let you know.’

  I was pleased to note that James retained some degree of realism.

  Outside it was snowing. We said goodnight and went our separate ways, and as I wandered home I began to consider the options that lay ahead. It struck me that I seldom had the opportunity to impose my choice of music upon other people (except James), especially under such exacting conditions. James had specified that there would be no ‘comments or judgement’ but, even so, the clinical format made close scrutiny inescapable. Presumably this was why he insisted on using the term ‘forensic’. (He later informed me it derived from the Latin forensis: ‘in open court’.) I knew from experience that James was an impartial listener who always kept his own counsel. Indeed, I’d witnessed him sit through the entire length of records which he thoroughly loathed without showing the slightest emotion. Such generosity was rarely reciprocated, of course, and I wondered what we were letting ourselves in for. James and I would certainly adhere to the rules, but could we enforce them on others? Only time would tell. In the meantime I realised I was going to have to be careful when I made my selection.

  The next few days dragged by slowly, but at last Monday evening rolled into view. I arrived at the Half Moon early (eight o’clock) and headed directly for the back room to help James with his preparations. I discovered him trying to manhandle a large round table towards the centre of the floor.

  ‘Grab hold of this, will you?’ he said, by way of greeting.

  The two of us moved the table into position underneath a light bulb, then we began placing chairs around it. It was the first time I’d been in this room and as I glanced about I noticed a small, unused bar in the corner, complete with three beer pumps.

  ‘I didn’t know they served drinks in here,’ I remarked.

  ‘They don’t,’ said James. ‘Haven’t for years.’

  A number of tables and chairs were stacked in the other corners, and the room had a definite ‘forgotten’ feel about it. Still, the sight of James’s red portable was most cheering. He’d had the forethought of bringing along an extension cable too, and once he’d plugged in we were all set to go.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

  ‘Five past eight.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right,’ he announced, ‘we’ll get a couple of pints and await our guests.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You don’t think we should have a trial run then?’

  James stood regarding me with a look of mild astonishment on his face, as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘The purpose of these meetings is to raise the art of listening to a higher level. That’s why we booked this room in the first place: otherwise we might as well go and listen to a jukebox in some crowded dive. The whole idea is to play records under controlled conditions according to a strict timetable. A trial run would completely dispel the sense of occasion we’re hoping to engender.’

  At that moment a bearded man stuck his head round the door, with a pint of beer in one hand and a flat, square package in the other.

  ‘Not too late am I?’ he asked.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact you’re early,’ James replied. ‘Starts at nine.’ His tone of voice was not quite imperious, but it was not far off it either.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the man, withdrawing swiftly.

  ‘Steady, James,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to drive them all away before we start.’

  James said nothing and busied himself tidying up the chairs (which were already tidy). Meanwhile I went out to get some drinks. The bearded man had taken up position beside the bar, so I acknowledged him with a nod before ordering two pints of Guinness. The clock now said eight fifteen and it seemed rather unfair to leave him out here on his own for three-quarters of an hour. Nonetheless I had no desire to overrule James. This was our inaugural evening and the society wouldn’t exist officially until nine o’clock. Until then the newcomer would simply have to wait. I glanced around the pub in search of other potential candidates but there were none to be seen; therefore he faced a lonely vigil. After paying for the beers I gave him a second nod and returned to the back room.

  ‘Many out there?’ James enquired.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘just that bloke who looked in.’

  ‘Ah well, we’ve got plenty of time yet.’

  My place at the table was indicated by three records lying in a
neat little stack. I sat down and began reading the labels on both sides. James had a similar stack, and I was tempted to ask him what he’d brought along. In view of his earlier remarks, however, I sensed this would be considered inappropriate. Until the appointed hour, then, all was to remain under wraps.

  At five to nine we’d almost finished our pints, so James went out to buy another round. When he returned he had the bearded man in tow. His name was Chris and despite being kept waiting in the wings his enthusiasm was undaunted.

  ‘This is great,’ he said. ‘Just what I’ve been searching for.’

  Nobody else had turned up, apparently, and at the stroke of nine James went and closed the door.

  ‘Latecomers will not be admitted,’ he said. ‘Now, Chris, would you like to get us started?’

  Looking a little abashed, Chris handed over his first choice. James peered closely at the pink label but passed no comment. He placed the record on the turntable, turned the volume halfway, and we spent the next two and a half minutes listening to ‘The Universal’.

  While it was playing both James and Chris stared solemnly at the revolving disc. Neither showed any reaction to the barking dog which accompanied the opening bars, the sudden appearance of electric guitars in the middle section, nor the jokey trombone at the end. They just sat listening in reverential awe. The red portable was equipped with an automatic stop switch, and when finally it clicked off nobody spoke for several long moments. Finally Chris broke the silence:

  ‘“That’s the sea in the trees in the morning.”’

  It was all he said, but we knew exactly what he meant.

  My turn came next, so I handed over a copy of ‘Promised Land’ and James did the honours. Again he and Chris sat solemnly at the table as the record played, and again there was a long silence afterwards, broken this time by a soft knock on the door.

  ‘Oh, who’s this?’ said James. ‘It can’t be too loud: we’ve only got the volume halfway.’

  I went to the door, opened it by the merest inch and looked out. There was a short unlit passageway between the back room and the main part of the pub, and standing in the gloom was a man in a long, leather coat. It was purple in colour (or possibly maroon) with matching buttons and gigantic lapels. The man was clutching a small square box.