Death of a Cave Dweller (21 page)

Woodend shook his head. “No,” he said. “You're wrong about that. The real main point is that three days into the case, we still don't know enough to rule out
any
possibility, however wild it might seem.” He glanced down at his wristwatch. “Speakin' of which, it's about time you set out on your quest to find Eddie Barnes's girlfriend.”

“What about you, sir?”

“Me?” Woodend repeated. “I think I'll go down to the club an' see if I can sniff out any new leads.”

Mrs Pollard had generously given the Seagulls her permission to rehearse in the Cellar Club that morning, and for once Steve Walker had dragged himself out of bed at the same time as everyone else got up. Now he stood on the stage, the sleeves of his jumper rolled up to his elbows, a Park Drive cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“OK, let's try it again,” he said wearily.

Terry Garner stepped forward and played the opening bars of ‘Roll Over Beethoven'. Woodend, occupying his usual position just next to the bar, lit a Capstan Full Strength, and wondered whether this would be any more successful than the last three attempts.

They were half-way through the song when Pete Foster suddenly lashed out angrily with his foot and sent his microphone flying off the stage. The mike hit the floor hard, and sent the amplified sound of its own downfall bouncing around the vaulted roof of the empty club.

Paboom, paboom, paboom.

The other two guitarists stopped playing, and Billie Simmons gave his drum one last, lonely pound.

Steve Walker glared at Pete Foster. “What's the bloody hell's the matter with you this mornin'?” he demanded.

“Him,” Pete replied, pointing an angry finger at Terry Garner. “He's what's the matter. He's crap useless!”

“Come on Pete, you can't expect miracles – we've only just started playin' together,” Steve Walker said, slipping into the unaccustomed role of conciliator. “When we've had a bit more practice, it'll all work out.”

“It'll
never
work out, because he's just not good enough to be one of the Seagulls,” Pete Foster raged. “So you can say goodbye to any record contract we might have got. We'll never make a hit. We'll be playin' in grotty little clubs like this for the rest of our lives. An' all because you insisted on havin' a mate of yours in the bloody group.”

“It's all right for you lot!” Terry Garner said, speaking for the first time. “You're all safe enough!”

For a moment there was a shocked silence, and then Pete Foster said, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You try concentratin' on playin' when you know that by this time tomorrow you could be bloody well dead!”

Woodend felt the hairs on his neck tingle. The lad might not actually be in any danger, he thought, but there was no doubt in his mind that Terry Garner really believed that he was

By eleven o'clock, Bob Rutter had five cups of coffee swilling around inside him, and his feet were already starting to ache. And he'd still only scratched the surface, he told himself. There were countless more coffee bars to visit, and after he'd covered that ground, there were the pubs and the cinemas to check out. And the worst thing was, it might all turn out to be a waste of effort. Because perhaps Steve Walker was right, and Eddie Barnes's mum was wrong. Perhaps the young guitarist had indeed gone to his grave as a virgin.

As he tramped the streets, crossing yet another coffee bar off his list, Rutter found his mind turning to his own problems. He was very concerned about Maria, yet he didn't know what he could do about it. She had made it pretty plain that she was not going to be molly-coddled by him, and however hard it was, he'd have to learn to restrain his natural inclination to help her every step of the way.

But stopping worrying was another matter entirely, especially when he was away from London. Anything could happen to her when she was home alone. She might fall over. She might be suddenly taken ill. She'd admitted feeling dizzy a couple of mornings earlier. What if she had an even worse attack, and fainted? Of course, he knew all these things could happen to a sighted person, but the fact that she was blind seemed to make them all the more dangerous.

It was at a quarter past eleven that he entered Gino's Coffee Bar on Everton Road. Like several of the other bars he had visited, the booths were separated by bamboo poles, around which someone had winsomely entwined strands of plastic ivy. Rutter glanced at the shiny Italian coffee machine bubbling away behind the counter, and felt slightly nauseous. This time he would order a cup of coffee, he thought, but he'd make sure he didn't drink any of it.

The waitress who came across to take his order was well over thirty, but wore much the same kind of make-up as the girls applied to their faces while they were queuing up outside the Cellar Club. She gave Rutter a wide smile that came very close to being flirtatious, and asked him, with some ambiguity, what he fancied. The smile stayed in place even when he produced his warrant card and showed her the photograph he was carrying with him.

“Who is he?” she asked, as she peered at the picture in a way which told Rutter she should wear glasses, but was probably too vain.

“His name is – or rather was – Eddie Barnes.”

“That guitarist who got himself murdered?”

“That's right.”

“You know, when I saw his picture in the papers I thought that it reminded me of somebody,” the waitress said, “but it was so grainy I couldn't quite say who. This is a much better likeness.”

“So you knew him, did you?” Rutter asked, his pulse racing as it always did when he sensed he was about to make a breakthrough in the case.

“I wouldn't say I knew him,” the waitress replied. “But I've served him several times, poor little thing.”

“And was he usually alone?”

“No, as a matter of fact, he wasn't.”

“He came with his mates, did he?” Rutter asked, avoiding the temptation to lead her towards the answer he really wanted.

“Not his mates, no. He always came with a girl. It was the same girl every time.”

So Eddie's mother had been right – and Steve Walker had been wrong. Eddie had had a girlfriend!

Rutter's pulse went into overdrive. “Could you describe this girl for me?” he asked.

The waitress laughed throatily. “It's the boys that I notice, sweetheart, not the girls,” she told him. “Especially when it's a lad as good-lookin' as that poor kid was.”

“But surely you must have
some
idea of what this girl looked like,” Rutter urged.

“I think her hair was black,” the waitress said uncertainly. “Either that, or very dark brown.”

“That's not really very much help.”

“An' she was young,” the waitress said. “I do remember that. She was very, very young.”

It was nearly noon when Doctor Trevor Atkinson finally got off duty. He had been working practically non-stop for almost eighteen hours. His back ached, his eyes smarted and his head was pounding. On top of that, his nerves had been jangled by unexpectedly meeting that policeman from London in the
Mersey Sound
office. And it had been even worse when Woodend had come to the hospital. Even though he'd been expecting the big man to turn up once he'd been told Jack Towers had been admitted, it had still taken all his will-power not to make a dash for freedom when the chief inspector walked through the door.

What should he do now that his shift was finally over? he wondered. Go home and get the rest he so obviously needed? Or do what he always referred to in his head as
the other thing
?

He stood in front of the hospital, wracked with indecision. There was no doubt what the wisest thing – the safest thing – was. He could not get into trouble while he was lying in his own bed. And yet . . .

And yet he knew from experience that once the craving was in him, it didn't matter how tired he was, because he would get no rest unless he had at least
attempted
to satisfy it.

You spent seven years in medical school, he reminded himself. Seven long hard years when sometimes it seemed almost impossible to go on. But you did go on, are now you're a doctor. Are you really prepared to risk all you've worked for – all you've achieved?

He was horrified to find himself nodding that, yes, that was exactly what he was prepared to do.

You're a fool, he thought. A complete bloody idiot.

To reach his flat, where safety lay, he had only to turn to his left. With a sigh, he turned to the right and headed for St John's Garden.

Steve Walker had offered soothing words and promises to Pete Foster, the microphone Pete had kicked off the stage been retrieved, and the Seagulls were once again attempting to get ‘Roll Over Beethoven' right. And they were making some progress, Woodend thought – even to his untutored ear there was no doubt about that – but there was also no doubt that Terry Garner was still so nervous that if someone had tapped him lightly on the shoulder, he'd have jumped a mile.

There was a sound of clicking heels on the stairs, then Mrs Pollard appeared in the archway. She saw Woodend immediately, and without even a word to the group, she strode purposefully over to join him.

She did not look good, the chief inspector thought. Her brassy blonde hair seemed to have lost most of its sheen, her shoulders drooped slightly, and her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying.

“Do you know that they've gone and arrested Rick?” she said, without preamble.

“Yes, I do know,” Woodend replied.

“He didn't do it.”

“Didn't do what? Didn't kill Eddie Barnes? Or didn't attack Jack Towers down by the docks?”

“He didn't do either of them things.”

“He's got a history of violence, you know,” the chief inspector said, playing devil's advocate.

“He's had a bit of trouble in the past through being hotheaded,” the club owner conceded. “But now that he's older, and he's got a wife to look after, he's calmed down a lot.”

“Interestin' phrase that – ‘in the past',” Woodend said reflectively. “When does the past end an' the present begin, Mrs Pollard? As far as you're concerned, the dividin' line would seem to be about a month ago, when he attacked Eddie Barnes in a pub.”

The club owner bit her bottom lip. “Maybe he had his own good reasons, for that.”

“For example?”

“I don't know,” Mrs Pollard said – and Woodend was almost sure she was lying. “But my . . . but Rick wouldn't just have gone at him without cause. I'm sure of that.”

On the stage, the Seagulls had finally laid Beethoven to rest. “Right, the pubs must be open by now,” Steve Walker said, unstrapping his guitar. “Let's go an' get a drink.”

“We need to practice some more,” Pete Foster protested.

“Then we can come back this afternoon, can't we?” Steve said, leaning his guitar against the wall.

For a moment, it looked as if Pete Foster would continue to argue, then he shrugged his shoulders as if to say: What the hell? It doesn't matter how long we rehearse, we're not going to get any better.

The four young men headed for the exit, with Steve Walker and Terry Garner leading the way.

Mrs Pollard watched them go, then put her hand imploringly on Woodend's arm. “You have to get Rick released,” she said.

“I'm here to investigate the murder of Eddie Barnes,” Woodend told her. “Rick Johnson's been arrested for an assault on Jack Towers. That's a matter for the Liverpool Police to deal with.”

“But there must be
something
you could do about it? Isn't there?” Mrs Pollard begged him. “After all, you're from Scotland Yard, and that makes you important. They'll
have
to listen to you.”

After their exchange the night before, Woodend thought it unlikely that Inspector Hopgood would ever listen to anything he had to say again, but there was something pathetically touching about the brassy blonde's pleading, and he didn't have the heart to turn her down outright.

“Make me a nice strong cup of tea, Mrs Pollard, an' we'll talk it over,” he said.

The club owner ducked under the counter flap. “He really is a good lad,” she said. “I know he doesn't always show it, but underneath all that scowlin', there's a heart of gold.”

“How did he meet his wife?” Woodend asked.

Mrs Pollard shrugged her shoulders. “How do any young couple meet? I don't see either of them as regular church-goers, so it was probably at a dance or in some pub.”

“I notice you call them a young couple,” Woodend said, “but he must be at least eight years older than her.”

“Seven and a half,” Mrs Pollard replied defensively.

“Still, she was very young to be gettin' herself married. I'm surprised her parents allowed it, given that they must have known about Rick Johnson's reputation as a troublemaker.”

“What's Rick's marriage to Lucy got to do with anythin'?” Mrs Pollard demanded.

“Probably nothin',” Woodend conceded. “I was just curious about it, that's all.”

Mrs Pollard put her hand on her hip. “Look,” she said, “you'll probably find out about it from somebody else, so you might as well get it from me. They had to get married. They found out Lucy was pregnant, and Rick did the decent and proper thing and stood by her.”

“So they have a baby?”

Mrs Pollard shook her head sadly. “No, Lucy lost it when she was four months gone.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Woodend said.

The club owner sighed. “These things happen, I suppose. Will you see what you can do about Rick?”

“I can't do anythin' to help him directly,” Woodend told her, “but I will have a talk to him an' see if I can persuade him to help himself.” He leant slightly forward. “If you really want to do what's best for him, you could start by not messin' up his marriage.”