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in the upstairs room of his narrow little Victorian house in Putney, in the spare bedroom he had converted into a listening room. It was a small cosy room stuffed with records and hi-fi equipment. In pride of place on the wall was a framed Valerian album cover, the gatefold with the naked young woman and all the cats on it.
    Tinkler said, “The Beatnik poet of the tenor saxophone.”
    “He was a pianist, actually,” I said.
    Tinkler snapped his fingers, anxious to regain lost ground. “That’s right, I remember, a pianist. Easy Geary. Mid 1950s, West Coast. Sounds a lot like Monk.”
    “A lot more like Elmo Hope,” I said.
    “He was interesting.”
    He was more than interesting. A considerable composer as well as a pianist, Easy Geary had died the traditional tragically premature jazz death, long before he had revealed the full flower of his true potential. His music was raw, primitive, abstract and urgent, always hinting at a profound underlying complexity, as if he knew much more than he was letting on.
    Tinkler was nodding and smiling. “His arrangements were something else. So what’s this record?”
    “It’s called
Easy Come, Easy Go
.”
    “Cute. Never heard of it.”
    “There’s a good reason for that. It was released on an obscure little label called Hathor. They were a West Coast outfit like Nocturne or Mode or Tampa. Except Hathor went under in their first year of operation.”
    “Gee, why am I not surprised?” said Tinkler. “Nocturne and Mode and Tampa are all great names for a record label. And Hathor is a fucking terrible name.”
    “It was an ill-omened one, anyway. When they went bust the owner killed himself. They only ever issued fourteen LPs and this was the last one. They produced records in steadily decreasing print runs as the company slowly failed. By the time they got to
Easy Come, Easy Go
, they were only pressing tiny quantities.”
    “So that’s why it’s so rare. How much will they pay you if you find it?”
    “They’re offering me at least a five-figure finder’s fee.”
    “A five figure… I can’t even
say
it.” He went over to the mantelpiece and took down a small yellow enamelled box. It had a colourful swirling design of dragons on it.
    I said, “When the drug squad busts this place that will definitely be the last place they look for your stash.”
    “Don’t be snippy. Listen, if you find this record what’s to stop you just selling it yourself?”
    “What do you mean?”
    He sank back on the sofa and opened the dragon box. “If you find it, they’re offering to pay you a percentage of the market price, correct?”
    “Yes, I guess so.”
    “So why not sell it yourself and keep everything? The whole market price.”
    “Because that’s not what I agreed to do.”
    Tinkler chuckled as he started to roll his joint. “So the Vinyl Detective has a code of honour?”
    “Well, if you’re going to be sarcastic…”
    “Down these mean crates a man must dig,” he said. “Sorry, that
was
a little sarcastic. It’s all highly theoretical anyway, though, isn’t it? I mean, if this record is as rare as you say it is, you’re never going to find a copy.”
    I thought carefully for a moment about how much I should tell him. But Tinkler’s my friend and I knew I could trust him. “They’ve got some information,” I said.
    He paused in the process of licking the cigarette papers. “What sort of information?”
    “They have reason to believe someone has recently got rid of a copy. Put it on the second-hand market.”
    “Where?”
    “Somewhere in London.”
    “Oh well, best of British luck.”
    “Somewhere in south London.”
    “Like I say, best of luck.”
    “Southwest London.”
    He paused in assembling the joint and scrutinised me. “You know, that might actually be doable.” He grinned. “Have you heard this record?”
    “Never on vinyl. Just CDs. And never the whole thing. The CD reissues always omit one track.”
    “That’s kind of