Death of a Cave Dweller (8 page)

This was Pete Foster, then, which meant that the third member of the group, who had a dour expression which was almost comical, had to be Billie Simmons, the drummer.

“There's two things I'd really like to know,” Woodend said. “The first is why Eddie didn't get a shock the second he plugged his amplifier in.”

Steve Walker shook his head almost despairingly. “The only thing that was live was the bass control,” he said. “An' Eddie had no need to touch that until somethin' went wrong, did he?”

“Didn't he?”

“Of course not. It was already set at the right level.”

“All right, I can see that now,” Woodend said. “So let's go on to my second question – when could the amplifier have been tampered with?”

“This is a waste of time. We've already told the local bluebottles everythin' we know,” Steve Walker said.

“I'm sure you have,” Woodend replied. “An' I'll be lookin' at their reports – when I get round to it. But me, I'm the sort of feller who likes to get everythin' straight from the horse's mouth. I expect that you're a bit that way inclined yourself, Mr Walker.”

Steve Walker did not deny it. Instead, he lit a Woodbine, took a deep drag on it, and said, “The equipment was workin' perfectly when we played our gig the night before.”

“And where did you play this gig?”

“Here. In the Cellar Club. It was what Mrs Pollard calls ‘The Battle of the Bands Night'.”

“The Battle of the Bands Night,” Woodend repeated. “So you weren't the only ones performin'?”

Walker shook his head. “No. There were three other groups on with us – Len Tooley an' the Aces, The Fantastics, an' Mickey Finn an' the Knockouts,” he said. “We were the ones who closed the show,” he added, with just a hint of pride.

That would explain all the people down on Inspector Hopgood's list, Woodend thought. Four groups. That meant at least sixteen people who had access to the dressing room. But wait! Eddie Barnes's equipment couldn't have been tampered with until after he played the last set, and if the other groups had already buggered off by then . . .

“Did you all leave the club at the same time?” he asked.

“More or less. Apart from Rick an' Lucy Johnson. They stayed behind to lock up.”

“An' what time would that be?”

“About half-past one.”

Woodend whistled softly. “Clubs in Liverpool do seem to keep pretty late hours.”

“The
club
closed at eleven,” Steve Walker said disdainfully, as if he thought Woodend should already have known that. “But that wasn't your question, was it? You asked what time we left, an' I told you that was around half one.”

“What were you doin' in those two an' a half hours?”

Steve Walker shrugged. “Messin' around with the other groups, like we always do on Battle of the Bands Night.”

Damn, Woodend thought. “So the other groups stayed on when they'd finished their sets?” he said.

“I would have thought that was pretty obvious, even to you,” Steve Walker replied.

“Would you care to be a little more specific about what you mean by messin' around?” Woodend asked, ignoring Walker's tone.

“We chewed the fat for a while, told a few jokes, then a few of us had a jam session.”

“Was Eddie Barnes part of the jam session?”

“Not that night.”

“But on other nights?”

“Eddie used to join in,” Pete Foster said, “but for the last couple of weeks he's been . . .”

“Been what?”

“It's hard to say exactly. He was still serious about his music, but he didn't seem to be enjoyin' it as much.”

Now that
was
interesting, Woodend thought, filing it in his mind as something to come back to later.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “The equipment couldn't have been tampered with until after you finished playin' at eleven, so the murderer had to get at it either before you left the club at half-past one or in the mornin'. Who's here in the mornin's?”

“Wouldn't know about that – you see I'm usually in bed until about eleven thirty,” Steve Walker said, with a grin which showed another side of his character. “You'd better ask Rick.”

Yes, Woodend thought. There were a number of things he'd like to ask Mr Rick Johnson about, when he got the chance.

“Do you know if anyone had threatened Eddie Barnes?” he asked.

The four young men exchanged rapid, uneasy glances. “Not exactly threatened
him
, as such,” said Jack Towers, regaining the initiative which he had earlier lost to Steve.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, a few nasty things have been happening recently, but they've been directed against the whole group, rather than just Eddie.”

“Such as?”

Towers took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and handed them around. His hand was trembling, Woodend noted.

“It was just annoying little things, really,” the manager said, as if he now wished he'd never brought the matter up. “Somebody – and we've no idea who it was – rang one of the venues I'd booked, pretended to be me, and said we couldn't make it that night. When we turned up, we'd already been replaced by another group. Another night we came out of a club in Birkenhead and found all the tyres on the van had been slashed.”

“Tell him about the rat,” Steve Walker said.

Towers sighed. “A few days ago, Eddie found a dead rat in his guitar case,” he admitted reluctantly.

“But it wasn't
just
dead, was it?” Walker persisted.

“No, it wasn't just dead,” Towers admitted. “It had a string noose tied around its neck.”

“A noose!” Woodend repeated. “And what do you think was the point of that?”

“I don't really know,” Towers said. “Somebody's idea of a sick joke? An attempt at revenge?”

“Revenge for what?”

From the unhappy expression on his face, it was obviously a question Towers would rather not have answered.

“The lads are . . . er . . . very popular in Liverpool, especially with the girls,” he said. “I suppose it's possible that one of those girls' boyfriends might have misunderstood the situation.”

“Or understood it only too well,” Walker said, and the other two Seagulls sniggered.

“So Eddie Barnes was a bit of a one for chasin' the girls, was he?” Woodend asked.

“No, he wasn't,” Steve Walker said hotly. “The rest of us will poke anythin' that's willin', but Eddie wasn't like that. He was a romantic. He believed in true love, an' he was waitin' for the right girl to come along. A lot of good it did him! At least when I die, I won't go out a virgin.”

“Is that what Eddie did?” Woodend asked. “Go out as a virgin? Are you sure?”

Walker's anger, which seemed never to be very far below the surface, burst forth again. “Of course I'm bloody sure,” he said. “He was my best mate. We didn't have any secrets from each other.”

“Steve's right,” said Pete Foster, who Woodend had already marked down as the peacemaker of the group. “If Eddie had been goin' out with any girls, we'd have known about it.”

The interview was somehow losing its momentum, Woodend thought. It was time to put the cat among the pigeons and see who flew where.

“So what happens now?” he asked innocently.

“Now?” Towers repeated, as if he had no idea what the chief inspector was talking about.

“With the group,” Woodend explained. “I mean, you're goin' to need a new lead guitarist, aren't you?”

Billie Simmons and Pete Foster exchanged another hurried glance, but, Woodend noticed, Steve Walker had his eyes fixed, firmly and intently, on their manager.

Towers shifted awkwardly. “I've . . . I've already put an advertisement in the newspaper,” he admitted.

“You've done what?” Steve Walker demanded, his voice so high that he was almost screaming.

The manager held out his hands in what was either a gesture of supplication or helplessness.

“It had to be done,” he said feebly. “The group has to have a lead guitarist, Steve.”

“I know we need a new lead guitarist,” Steve Walker said. “But we don't have to have one
yet
. Not before Eddie's even cold in his grave. Don't you have any respect?”

Jack Towers puffed nervously on his cigarette. “I'm sorry that Eddie's dead,” he said. “Really sorry. But we have to be practical. We've been cancelling gigs all over the place. Everybody understands us doing that for a few days, but it can't go on indefinitely, or all we've worked for will have gone down the drain.”

It was evident from the look on Steve Walker's face that that had been the wrong thing to say.

“All
we've
worked for!” he repeated. “What have
you
done? We're the ones who've written the songs. We're the ones who get up on the stage night after night – singin' till we're hoarse, playin' our instruments till we've got blisters on our fingers. All you have to do as our manager, Jack, is pick up the phone an' make a few calls.”

“You're not bein' fair to the man, Steve,” Pete Foster said.

Another bad move, Woodend thought. But with Walker in the mood he evidently was in, was there any such thing as a good move?

“So, you think I'm not bein' fair, do you?” Walker ranted. “Well, let me tell you somethin', Pete – it's not a fair world. If it was, Eddie would be standin' with us right now.”

“Look, Steve,” Jack Towers said, “I was keeping it as a surprise, but I suppose you'd better know now – I've managed to get you an audition with a record company in London, two weeks from today.”

Woodend quickly glanced from face to face. Billie Simmons' expression told him that the announcement came as news to the drummer, but Pete Foster's look said that he had known about the audition for a while.

As for Steve Walker, his face was still blazing with anger. “How long have you known about this?” he demanded.

Towers shrugged. “A few days.”

“And why the bloody hell didn't you tell
me
about it?”

“I was going to – but what with Eddie dying like that . . .”

He'd been holding it back as a surprise, Woodend thought. Waiting for the right moment to produce it like a rabbit out of a hat – the right moment to show Steve Walker just what a good manager he really was. “Anyway, the fact is that you
have
an audition with a record company,” Jack Towers continued. “
Now
do you see why we need a new guitarist as soon as possible?”

“There was a time when I'd have been over the moon to get news like that,” Steve Walker told him. “An' do you know what it means to me now? Absolutely nothin'! Bugger all! In case you three have forgotten it, Eddie was our mate. We went through a lot together. An' now, even though he's only been dead a couple of days, you're all acting as if he never existed.”

“We can't throw away the group's chances just because Eddie's dead,” Pete Foster said quietly.

“Can't we?” Steve Walker screamed back at him. “Well, maybe you can't, Pete, but just watch me.”

Elbowing his way between the others, he strode furiously across the room and disappeared through the archway. Those who remained were silent for some seconds, then Pete Foster said, “He'll be back.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” Jack Towers said worriedly.

“The Seagulls are the best chance any of us have of ever bein' famous,” Pete told him. “Steve knows that as well as I do, an' he wants to be a success – perhaps more than any of us.”

Woodend lit a cigarette, more to be doing
something than because he needed a smoke. He knew that the scene
he had just deliberately engineered would have been bound to
happen sooner or later anyway, but now, looking at the expression
of devastation on Jack Towers' face, he couldn't help
but feel guilty.

T
he black police Humber, which was parked in the canyon between the two blocks of tall Victorian warehouses, seemed almost as if it had strayed into the area by mistake, but the uniformed inspector standing next to it – and watching Woodend's approach with something very much akin to suspicion – looked as if he were on familiar territory.

“Aye, an' that's the trouble – whatever else is wrong with him, he does know his patch,” the chief inspector muttered to himself as he approached Hopgood. “An' though I don't want to use the bugger – it'd be like usin' a sledge hammer to crack a walnut – I may not have any choice.”

With what looked like a considerable effort on his part, Hopgood forced a half-smile to his face. “Did you learn anything interesting from talking to the Seagulls, sir?” he asked.

“Oh, I learned a hell of a lot that was
interestin
',” the chief inspector told him. “I'm just not sure yet whether I've learned anythin' which might help me to solve this case.”

“And now you want to go and see Eddie Barnes's parents?”

“That's right.”

“Might I ask why, sir? They're not likely to have murdered him now, are they?”

Woodend sighed. How could he ever hope to explain the way he worked to this stolid, unimaginative bobby?

“I want to understand the dead lad better,” he said. “I want to find out what made him tick.”

“I see,” Hopgood said – though it was plain that he didn't. “Shall I come with you?”

“I don't think so,” Woodend said. “I prefer to be alone when I'm dealin' with grievin' parents.”

“Please yourself, sir.”

Hopgood tapped on the window of the Humber, and beckoned. The door opened, and a tall, thin constable with sandy hair got out.