Death of a Cave Dweller (10 page)

The chief inspector sighed and lit up a Capstan
Full Strength. “You're gettin' philosophical,
Charlie,” he told himself, “an' the last thing
this case needs is a philosophical bobby in charge of
it.”

I
t was early evening. The postmen had gone home in anticipation of an early start the next day, and members of the various groups were, presumably, already sitting in back of ancient Bedford vans, jammed between amplifiers as they made their way to gigs in village halls and working men's clubs. Now, most of the customers drinking in the Grapes were young men with short hair, wearing suits.

Office workers, Woodend thought. Bank tellers and shipping clerks. He might have ended up as one of them himself, if it hadn't been for the war. Certainly it had always been his mother's deepest ambition to see him go out to work each morning dressed in a suit.

He imagined what she would say if she could have seen him now.
Why don't you follow the example of that nice young sergeant of yours, Charlie, an' smarten yourself up a bit?

He chuckled at the thought, then turned to the nice young sergeant in question. “What's our next move, lad?” he asked.

Rutter, who always matched his boss's pints with his own halves, lit up one of the cork-tipped cigarettes Woodend was always pulling his leg about.

“We know the Seagulls were the last group to perform the night before the murder, so it stands to reason that the amplifier was all right at that point,” the sergeant said.

“Agreed.”

“So the first logical step would be to question everyone who had an opportunity to meddle with the thing between then and the moment it killed Eddie Barnes.”

Woodend tilted his head to one side, and looked at his sergeant quizzically. “You might talk about questionin' everybody who was there, but you've already got a suspect in mind, haven't you, lad?”

Rutter spluttered into his beer. “How on earth did you know that, sir?”

“Because I know
you
,” the chief inspector said. “So come on, sunshine, spit it out.”

Rutter hesitated for a second, then said, “Rick Johnson.”

“Why him?” Woodend asked. “I'll admit he must have got a refund for the course he took at charm school, an' believe me, there's nothin' I'd like better than to see the wife-beatin' bugger locked up for a good long time – but that still doesn't make him a murderer.”

“Look, it probably didn't take too long to switch round the wiring on the amp, but the murderer still needed
some
time on his own to do it,” Rutter argued. “Now we know there were four groups playing that night, so how likely is it that the murderer – if he was one of them – would have got even a minute alone?”

“Not
very
likely,” Woodend admitted.

“So, the party breaks up at around one thirty, and everyone goes home. Everyone, that is, apart from Rick Johnson and his wife. And that's when the re-wiring is done.”

Woodend stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Does Johnson look thick to you?” he asked.

“I wouldn't bet on him to win Brain of Britain, but he doesn't strike me as stupid.”

“I agree with you there,” Woodend said. “So the question we have to ask ourselves is this – if he'd really wanted to kill Eddie Barnes, would he have chosen that method, knowin' that somebody was bound to reach the same conclusion as you just have?”

“It could be a big bluff. Johnson could have calculated that we'd never think he did it because he's such an obvious suspect,” Rutter countered, but without much conviction.

“Aye, an' maybe Eddie's death was no more than an elaborate suicide,” Woodend said dryly, “but it doesn't seem likely, does it?”

“No,” Rutter agreed. “But it didn't seem likely that a country vicar in Hampshire would have two bodies buried in the back garden of his rectory, either. Yet that's what we found, isn't it?” He checked his watch. “Mind if I go and make a phone call, sir?”

“Maria?”

Rutter nodded. “I like to ring her at about the same time every day. It gives her some kind of structure to work around.”

“Then you'd better not be late,” Woodend told him.

The chief inspector watched his sergeant head towards the public phone next to the toilets. He worried about Bob – worried rather more than he'd be prepared to admit. It was hard enough making your way in the police force, without needing to deal with the extra complication of having a blind wife. Yet the sergeant seemed to be handling it well enough – at least for the moment.

A tingling sensation at the back of his neck told him that someone was watching him. He turned round, and saw Steve Walker was standing at the bar. Woodend raised his index finger, and beckoned to the young guitarist. For a moment, Walker just stood there, looking sullen, then he made his way slowly across to the table.

“Yeah? What do you want?” he demanded.

“Just a talk,” Woodend said.

“What about?”

The chief inspector smiled. “Well, if you don't sit down, you'll never know, will you?”

Not without a show of reluctance, Walker lowered himself on to the stool opposite Woodend's.

“That was some kind of stroke that you pulled back in the Cellar Club,” he said.

“Some kind of stroke? I don't know what you're talkin' about,” Woodend replied.

“‘You're goin' to need a new guitarist, aren't you?'” Steve Walker said, in a fair imitation of Woodend's Lancashire accent. “You knew just what shit you were goin' to stir up, didn't you?”

“No,” Woodend replied honestly. “But I had a pretty good idea that I'd be stirrin' somethin' up.”

A grin appeared out of nowhere, filling Walker's face and blunting the aggression of his thin features.

“I suppose I can't blame you for it,” he said. “In your place, I might have done the same thing.”

Woodend signalled the waiter for two more pints. “You seem to have calmed down a lot since the last time I saw you,” he said.

The grin acquired a sheepish edge. “Yeah, well, when all's said an' done, Jack was right. We
are
goin' to need a new lead guitarist. An' we're goin' to need him soon. Eddie wouldn't have wanted the group to die with him. He cared almost as much about it as I do.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Woodend said.

“Seems to me you slipped in a couple of questions already. But go ahead. Ask me another.”

“Why do you call yourselves the Seagulls?”

That was clearly not one of the questions Steve Walker had been anticipating. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Just by the nature of his job, a bobby has to be curious,” Woodend told him. “But I was curious before I was a bobby. So indulge me.”

“The kind of music we play started in America,” Steve Walker said earnestly. “But we're not just copyin' the Yanks. The songs we write have a lot of us in them, an' a good part of what we are is Liverpudlian. If you listen to our songs – I mean really listen to them, get right below the surface – you'll hear the clankin' of the tram cars, the swish of the river, the hooters on the docks, an', most of all, you'll hear the screech of the seagulls, because they were here long before there ever was a Liverpool.”

“You're a bit of a poet on the quiet, aren't you?” Woodend said, an amused smile playing on his lips.

“I'm a rock'n'roller,” Steve Walker replied. “An' one day soon I'm goin' to be famous.”

“Well, you don't lack confidence, I'd say that much for you,” Woodend told him.

“Would you?” Walker countered. “I play my music because I think I'm good. I wouldn't do it if I didn't. Would you be able to do your job if you didn't think you'd catch the murderers?”

“Good point,” Woodend agreed. “Why don't you tell me a little bit about your manager.”

“Why would you want to know about him?” Walker asked, some of his aggression and suspicion returning.

“Truthfully, I want to know about him because, of the four of you, he's the one I really haven't got figured out.”

Steve Walker laughed scornfully. “You've talked to us once, and you think you know us, do you?”

“Let's just say I can sketch in the broad outlines.”

“Go on, then,” Walker challenged him.

Woodend took a sip of his pint. “Billie Simmons is an easy-goin' sort of feller. He might like playin' his drums, but he'd be just as happy drivin' a bus. Pete Foster's a different case altogether. He's not very sure of himself, is he?”

“Neither would you be if you had a mother like his.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin'. Forget I ever spoke.”

“Pete doesn't like trouble, because he's never quite convinced he'll come out on top,” Woodend continued. “An' he needs to get approval – you've only got to see the way he acts around your manager to realise that.” He paused. “How am I doin' so far?”

“Not bad,” Steve Walker admitted grudgingly. “What can you tell me about me?”

“I think you're drawn to victims,” Woodend said. “Eddie Barnes may have become your best mate, but the main reason you got to know him in the first place was because he needed your help. An' I'm willin' to bet that he's not the only one you've protected over the years.”

Steve Walker was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. “You're makin' me sound like a saint,” he said awkwardly.

“No, not a saint,” Woodend replied. “Just a lad who needed help himself at one time – and didn't get any.”

Walker gave him a hard, assessing stare. “You're not stupid, are you?”

“Sometimes I do manage to get things right,” Woodend agreed. “So, now that we've finished dissectin' the Seagulls, why don't you tell me a little bit about Jack Towers?”

Rutter had a finger in the ear which was not pressed against the telephone receiver, but with all the noise in the pub, hearing what his wife had to say was still not an easy business.

“So how are you feeling?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Maria replied. “Joan Woodend came to see me this afternoon, and we went for a walk in the park. It was lovely. When you can't see, you notice sounds and smells so much more.”

Her words would probably have fooled anyone else, but Rutter picked up a false note in them.

“You're sure you're OK,” he persisted.

“Yes.”

“We had this agreement,” Rutter reminded her. “We said, right from the beginning, that if anything was bothering one of us, we wouldn't keep it a secret from the other.”

There was a pause, then Maria said, “I think I've had a touch of 'flu, but I'm over it now.”

“'Flu?” Rutter repeated. “What were the symptoms?”

“The usual ones. Giddiness. A nagging headache. But like I said, I'm over it now.”

Rutter had suddenly developed a pounding headache himself. “I'll catch the next train back to London,” he told his wife.

“And what good would that do?” Maria asked, a hint of anger creeping into her voice.

“I . . . I could look after you, until you feel better.”

“Don't you ever listen?” Maria demanded. “I'm already feeling better! Tell me the truth, Bob – would there have been any talk of catching the next train back if I wasn't blind?”

“I suppose not,” Rutter admitted guiltily.

“We had another agreement,” Maria said. “Before I accepted your proposal, I made you promise that we'd lead as close a life as we could to any other married couple. Do you remember that?”

“I remember.”

“Keep that promise,” Maria urged him. “Stop being so protective all the time. I can't breathe because of it.”

“I only want to—”

“You want to treat me like a helpless kitten,” Maria cut in. “Well, I'm too old to be a kitten, and I'm far from helpless.” She paused. “I love you, Bob. I always will. But unless things change, I can't see this marriage of ours lasting.”

“So you want to know about Jack, do you?” Steve Walker asked Woodend. “Anythin' in particular you'd like to hear?”

The chief inspector shook his head. “Just say what comes naturally. The details aren't important. I just want to build up a picture of the man.”

“The first time I noticed him was in the Cellar Club,” Walker said. “He was standin' at the back of the room, near the coffee bar, watchin' us. Understand what I'm sayin'? He wasn't boppin' to the music like everybody else in the place. He was just watchin'.”

“I think I'm gettin' the idea.”

“He'd gone by the time we finished our set, an' I never expected to see him again. But he was waitin' in the street when we slipped out to the pub, like he'd known that was just what we were goin' to do – so maybe he already knew more about us than we realised. Anyroad, he asked us if he could buy us a drink.”

“An' you, of course, said yes?”

Walker's grin was back in place. “We had enough money for four halves, an' he looked like he was willin' to shell out on pints. What would you have done in our place?”

“I'd probably have said yes.”

“Once we were in the pub, he made small talk for a while, sayin' how much he liked the music we played, an' how he thought that we had real talent. Then he started to feed us this line of crap about how he had all kinds of contacts in the record business an' how he was a mate of a couple of the big promoters. You should have seen the look on Pete's face. He was over the moon.”

“But you weren't?”

Walker shook his head. “You've met Jack, haven't you? Would you ever mistake him for somebody with important connections in the music world? I didn't know he was a shippin' clerk back then, but I knew he had to have some kind of minor clerical job.”