IN a delightfully tactful way, I was warned John Edgecombe only occasionally touches down on this planet and sadly his spaceship hadn't landed the day I phoned him.

He was probably somewhere up there floating in a world of his own having smoked several spliffs too many.

Despite being assured he was at home and having checked the number twice, his phone just rang and rang and rang.

"Never mind," said the PR man. "Try next month. You've got to appreciate John's one of the old fashioned jazzmen. He likes a joint. So sometimes he's in, sometimes he's out."

And today he was out.

But who is John Edgecombe?

Well, come with me back to the days of the 1960s and the biggest political scandal of them all.

The Profumo Affair, as it came to be called, had it all - top Government Ministers, call girls, Russian spies, East End gangsters, sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

In the middle of it was John Edgecombe, a bit player in life, who was suddenly thrust into the world spotlight by having the bad luck, or good luck, depending on how you see it, to be Christine Keeler's boyfriend at the time.

His jealous gunshots at her apartment door, blew the whole scene wide open and set in motion a chain of events that were eventually to bring down Harold Macmillan's Conservative Government.

Amid all the dirty dealing, threats, violence and cheating, John Edgecombe was the only person in the whole sordid, but quite splendid, saga, to go to jail.

He served five years of a seven-year sentence for possessing a gun with intent to endanger life.

Now, rather a long time later, John has written a book, telling his side of the story.

According to the publicity handout accompanying Black Scandal (Westworld International £6.99), part of the action takes place in Worcester.

That's why I was trying to speak to John Edgecombe.

I had visions of bodies being dropped into the concrete foundations of M5 bridges or tales of sex and debauchery at secluded country mansions.

Incidentally, the latter could have been a runner, since I once did an interview with a strippergram girl who said her strangest gig had been at a party in a large country house in Worcestershire, where she was wheeled into the dining room on a trolley, stark naked but covered with cream and maraschino cherries.

The birthday boy, whom she recognised as a Crown Court judge, then had to lick up all the cherries while keeping his hands behind his back. After he'd run out of steam, all the other guests, men and women, had a go too.

Sadly, none of this appears to have involved John.

As far as I could gather, his Worcester connection was down to the fertile mind of a marketing agency.

Stripped bare, it probably amounted to a trip along the M5 on his way to a jazz night in Kidderminster.

"After being released from prison, John launched a successful career as a jazz promoter," said the PR man.

"I'm sure he organised a concert or two in your area. Although if you ask him, he'll probably say 'no', because he won't remember."

Incidentally, John's book contains an instructive passage on how he ran his jazz clubs.

"Every club needs security bouncers on the door. Security costs money, but I came up with an idea to solve this one.

"I let in some of London's most notorious criminals for free.

"They were big spenders who just wanted a place to drink and if fights broke out, they would be quick in regaining order. That way there was no hassle."

One newspaper described the club in Rotherhithe, called The Edge, as "Quite the most atmospheric new jazz place in London."

It stayed open exactly a year.

All that was post-Keeler and for those who can recall the times, John Edgecombe's book is a nostalgic read, still capable of shining light into dark corners, even after all these years.

He was a drug-dealing Antiguan immigrant, who first met Christian Keeler when he offered to provide the dope for her housewarming party.

Three weeks later, he moved in and the pair lived together, John discreetly leaving the apartment while Christine Keeler entertained her clients.

"One time, one of them arrived early and I couldn't get out, so I hid in the wardrobe. I couldn't see clearly who it was, but I could hear all right. I later learnt it was Profumo," the book reveals.

The Keeler-Edgecombe arrangement ended when they had to flee the flat to escape Lucky Gordon, a small time Jamaican gangster with a grudge.

Christine, by then well into high society in every possible way, moved into the Regent's Park apartment of a wealthy solicitor.

John got mad and went round to 17 Wimpole Mews, the home of osteopath Stephen Ward, where he found Keeler. When she refused to come out, he discharged a Luger pistol into the door and wall.

"I wasn't trying to kill her," he says. "The bullets went nowhere near her".

But the fertiliser hit the fan, big time.

"What was always regarded as a sex scandal is now revealed for the first time ever as a carefully masterminded plot to overthrow the Conservative Government, involving high-ranking officials and organised crime bosses," trumpets the press release accompanying Black Scandal.

That may be so, but proving it could be another matter.

As the last paragraph in the book says, "Here I am, sitting here aged 69, still smoking my dope and diggin' jazz.

"If I could get back all the money I've spent on dope, I'd be a millionaire. But an old dog don't change his ways and I'd rather be stoned than rich.

"The bell will toll for us all one day and just in case God doesn't have a joint rolled for me in Heaven, I'll take one of my own up."

Did John Edgecombe ever visit Worcestershire? Your guess is as good as mine - or his.