Hunting for Crows (14 page)

Emily Grant stood at the window watching as DI Henderson and DS Walters drove away. She knew they were up to something when they were standing outside, the DI’s lame phone excuse didn’t fool her. She had been an expert deceiver and liar herself for many years and could easily spot the trait in others.

Confident they wouldn’t be coming back, she resumed the task she had set for herself before they arrived and interrupted. No, it wasn’t reading
The Daily Telegraph
and enjoying a cup of coffee at a seat beside the kitchen table, as a better detective would have noticed the paper was dated last Friday.

She climbed the stairs to Pete’s bedroom and resumed her search of the cupboard. The house looked bereft of all things loose, frilly and pretty but it wasn’t as if she had taken everything; God-knows she would have liked to, but her new house in Henfield was too small. It was because Pete didn’t want to be reminded of their marriage and he was a tad OCD. This meant everything he didn’t want, use or like the look of had been neatly stacked in this cupboard, the one in the spare bedroom and in the cupboard under the stairs.

She’d had a good look through the cupboard under the stairs but she still had this one to do and the one in the spare bedroom. She got stuck into the task, pulling out boxes, emptying the contents, re-boxing the items, and putting the box back where it came from. A little voice was telling her to stop being so neat, as she could tip most of the stuff in a black bin bag or throw it in a skip. Pete wouldn’t care what she did, and in any case, whenever the house was sold, she would have to conduct the same exercise all over again.

She suppressed the little voice as she was looking for something specific and if she didn’t do this in a tidy and systematic manner, she would miss it. She plodded on for another twenty minutes before removing another box which was full of photographs.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she looked at pictures of her and Pete during the first years of their marriage. They had gone to Spain for a cheap holiday with Pete’s brother and his wife, and she picked up picture after picture of them hugging, kissing and looking at one another with love in their eyes.

This poignant reminder of how happy she’d once felt only served to bring forth a feeling lurking at the back of her mind. She didn’t love her new man, Greg, as much as she used to love Pete and she knew she never would. Perhaps selling the family house would be the catalyst she now needed to force her to turn her life around.

Twenty minutes later and no further forward in her search, she picked up her phone and called her daughter, Danielle.

‘Hi, Mum, where are you?’

‘Are you at home?

‘Yeah.’

‘What happened to college?’

‘Nothing. I’ve only got one lesson on a Tuesday afternoon, so I came straight home.’

‘Are you sure you’re not telling your dear old mum porkies and dossing off?’

‘Ha, ha, would I? Have you been drinking?’

‘Of course, but only black coffee.’

‘Very funny. Did you call just to give me hassle or was there something else?’

‘Something else. I’m over at Woodland Drive.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not doing a house clear of all your childhood memories.’

‘You better not be, you can’t do it without me.’

‘I know. I’m looking for your dad’s blue notebook.’

‘
The one with all his passwords?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you trying to get into his computer?’

‘Nope.’

‘Shame, as I know the password for it. What do you want the book for?’

‘Enough questions. Can you come over here and help me?’

‘Oh I dunno. I’ve got work to do.’

‘I didn’t see you doing any last night.’

‘Fair enough, but what’s in it for me?’

She sighed. ‘Your businessman father has taught you well.’

‘Of course.’

‘Let’s say, I make your favourite pudding for tea and if you don’t come and help, I’ll make you eat rice pudding.’

‘Argh, not rice pudding. You drive a hard bargain, missus. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.’

By the time Danielle arrived half an hour later, she was looking through the last box in Pete’s bedroom cupboard.

‘I’m upstairs,’ she shouted, when she heard the door slam shut.

Danielle clumped up the stairs with the same noise and lack of finesse as her father, but he’d been a fifteen-stone bulk while she weighed a little over half that and had a sylph-like figure. Until the age of thirteen, they couldn’t get her out of a dress, and now they couldn’t get her in one and out of the jeans she wore all the time, except for funerals, weddings and christenings.

‘Why are you looking up here?’

‘I’m being a sentimental old fool looking through some of my old stuff; why do you think? It wasn’t where I thought it would be, in his study.’

‘Where did you look in his study?’

‘In the desk where he usually kept it, then the bookcase, and then filing cabinet.’

‘Did you check underneath his computer?’

‘Why would I look there?’

‘Because that’s where he put it to hide it from me.’

She followed Danielle downstairs. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this on the phone, it would have saved you the bother of driving over here?’

‘Because I wanted to find out what you were up to.’

‘I’m not up to anything. I’m trying to open your dad’s safe.’

‘Dad has a safe? Cool. What’s in it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t play coy with me.’ She lifted the computer and there was Pete’s little blue book. ‘You’re not having this until you tell me what’s in the safe.’

‘I don’t know what’s in it, do I? It’ll be full of important papers and such. And anyway, if it was chock-full of valuables, what do you care? He left the business to you. You’re loaded.’

‘True, I am. Let’s open it and see what’s there. Where is it?’

‘In the lounge.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Come with me and learn. Your old mother still has a few tricks up her sleeve.’

She walked into the lounge and stopped in front of two pictures painted by the artist, Joaquin, the only pictures hanging in the room.

‘Where is it?’ Danielle said.

‘Behind one of the pictures.’

‘Well, I…hang on. The pictures are the wrong way round.’

‘How do you know?’

‘In the bottom corner of the one on the right, it has the red and black stripes, while the one on the left, black and red stripes. Dad always had the red and black stripes on the left. You know how pernickety he could be about those things.’

She did. All through their marriage she experienced Pete’s funny habits, from the way he folded his clothes, ate his food or filed albums in his record collection; order and precision had to prevail. She often told him, at the risk of making him angry, that in another life he would have been a ready recruit for the SS.

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know what it means,’ Danielle said, her face displaying a puzzled expression. ‘Even if Dad was drunk and moved them to take a look at something, he would still put them back in the correct order before he went to bed.’

‘I think you’re right.’

‘Now,’ her daughter said, hands on her hips. ‘If you did manage to find the blue book all by yourself, how were you going to get one of these pictures down? I don’t know which one is hiding the safe, but they’re both big beasts.’

‘Now you mention it, they do look rather big.’ She slapped her daughter on the arm. ‘Good job you’re here. I’ll get a chair.’

She held the chair while Danielle climbed up and tried to unhook the painting. It was a simple enough job to do with a small painting, but even with arms outstretched and gripping both sides, she was finding it awkward to manoeuvre.

Somehow she managed to free it, and passed the painting to Emily. They were being careful not to damage it, but like all the items in the cupboards upstairs, she would not be taking them with her and if they couldn’t find a buyer, they would be junked.

Danielle stepped down to catch her breath. The safe could be seen now. Emily always knew it was there but never had cause to open it. Pete told her he kept private things in there and didn’t want her looking, but she was never tempted, even if she could have manhandled the big paintings by herself. In his will, Pete didn’t leave the business to her, but to their daughter and so she was hoping the safe contained something of value to tide her over until the house was sold.

Emily flicked through the blue book and found the code. Danielle climbed up again, and turned the dial on the front of the safe based on her promptings. With a cry of ‘Ta dah,’ from her daughter, the door opened. She reached inside.

‘It’s nothing but a load of papers and Dad’s passport,’ she said as she flicked though the pile she had extracted.

‘Pass them down.’

Emily looked through the papers and found the divorce papers, deeds for the house and other documents relating to the business.

‘Is there anything else in there?’

Danielle dipped her hand inside once again. ‘Nope, it’s now officially empty. It’s a big safe for not a lot of stuff.’

‘Are you sure it’s empty?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m an ‘A’ level student and not a ten-year-old kid. You look disappointed. What were you expecting, diamonds and gold?’

Bristol 1989

Derek Crow tumbled out of bed and fell on the floor with a thump. He loved touring but hated how he couldn’t remember which bed he crawled into the previous night and whether it butted up against the wall or not. This one obviously didn’t.

He looked at the girl occupying the other side of the bed through bloodshot eyes. She looked fast asleep, just as well as he didn’t look or feel his best this morning. God knows how many pints of ale and vodkas and coke he’d downed, and then they smoked some weed Eric brought back from Germany.

The gig they did last night at the Colston Hall in Bristol was up there in the top five of Crazy Crow gigs, but borne out of yet another big argument between Eric and Danny. Their constant bickering got on his nerves but if it ever had a positive side, last night was it. They played many songs from the new album and while sometimes playing new material often went down like a lead balloon, as the fans came to hear the old favourites, last night they loved it. They shouted and screamed out the lyrics, giving Danny a special thrill as he’d penned a couple of them.

He left sleeping beauty to her slumber and wandered down to the restaurant to satisfy his strong craving for food. Unlike the other members of the band, Barry possessed an iron constitution and no matter what he got up to the previous evening, he could always make it down for breakfast. Sure enough, when he walked through the reception area, he found Barry in a quiet corner, enjoying a cup of post-breakfast coffee and reading a newspaper.

‘Morning bro,’ Barry said looking up as he approached.

‘Morning Barry, how are you?’ he said slumping into the seat. ‘In fact, don’t answer that as I saw you neck down a couple of pints before you headed upstairs with a gorgeous bird with long black hair.’

‘I’d rather spend the night shagging a lass like her than getting drunk like you lot. Plus, it means I feel a lot better for it in the morning.’

‘I can’t argue with you there.’

Derek called over a passing member of the hotel staff. She was aged around nineteen with her hair scraped back in a severe pony-tail revealing a pretty, unblemished face. It was a good job Barry was stuck behind a table, as she looked his type.

‘Can I order a coffee tray like his, and is there any breakfast food left?’

‘Oh my God. You’re the singer from the band I saw last night, the Crazy Crows. Can I just say, you guys are bloody brilliant? My friend Melissa and me had the best night watching a band we’ve had in years. She’ll be thrilled and jealous as hell when she finds out I’ve met you.’

For the last five years, he could stand naked like a mannequin in a shop window in Oxford Street and nobody would bat an eyelid. A combination of releasing a well-received album, their fourth, and playing as many gigs as their promoter could book, had elevated them onto a whole new plane.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. You’ll need proof to show to your friend.’

She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘You could use my notebook.’

‘Nah, you want something more personal.’ He looked over at his brother. ‘C’mon Barry, sign that clean napkin.’ He signed it and passed it over and Derek did the same. In seconds, it disappeared into a pocket of her apron.

‘Thanks a lot. Now what would you like? I could get you a sandwich.’

‘How about a toasted sandwich?’

‘Can do. Would you like bacon, ham or fried egg?’

‘One bacon and one egg and a couple of rounds of toast as well, I’m starving.’

‘Coming up,’ she said as she turned away and rushed off, not so much to assuage his ravenous hunger but to alert the other restaurant staff as to their presence, and to hide the napkin in her locker.

‘I fear the days of sitting unnoticed in the corner of a place like this are coming to an end,’ Barry said. ‘Are you ready for it?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said as he helped himself to the remaining nuts in Barry’s little bowl. ‘Is anybody?’

‘I like not being recognised, not being pestered by autograph hunters and folks with their bloody flashing cameras.’

He crunched the nuts. The first few bites tasted of toothpaste, his earlier attempt to get rid of the shitty quagmire in his mouth, and like a slow intro, the sharp, salty flavour came crashing through.

‘I guess we’ll all need to get used to it. In a way, it’s what we’ve all signed up for.’

‘Aye, maybe you’re right. Can I talk to you about last night?’

‘What, was your performance in the sack not up to its usual high standard? Has she made a complaint about you to hotel management?’

‘Don’t be daft, there’s fuck all wrong wi’ me or my tackle. I’m talking about the concert.’

Here we go again. Barry could be a bit of an old woman and at times Derek thought him unsuited to playing in a rock band and touring, as he wanted to nit-pick every performance, reminding him too much of the production manager in the meat packing factory where he used to work. Derek, you sang out of tune there; Eric never plays the same riff twice; Pete hits the snare too hard. It sounded like a scratched record, the needle jumping back, time after time to the same part of the song.

Relief came ten minutes later when the food arrived, as he didn’t need to look at his brother and feign interest. Fame did have its compensations as the plate was crammed with food. Between two slices of thick, toasted bread he could see numerous rashers of bacon, a fried egg between two more, and at the side, a couple of sausages, hash browns and dollop of baked beans. To crown it all, a little bowl of tomato sauce.

‘That stuff will set you up for the day,’ Barry said, ‘or give you a bloody coronary.’

‘I’m too young to die,’ he said tucking in. ‘I’ll take the first one.’

*

Sometime after midday, the rest of the band appeared and shuffled towards a large people carrier. Last night, the roadies had packed all the equipment and taken it to a storage facility in South London. Now, with a four-day gap in the touring schedule, they headed to a house in Dorset rented by their manager Frannie Copeland, in the hope they could come up with some ideas for the next album, and to indulge in some much needed R&R.

It was a peaceful journey, with those who hadn’t made breakfast dozing, only capable of making stupid comments, and those with food in their bellies awake and enjoying the green, rolling countryside. The house wasn’t far, seventy-odd miles, and Derek took the wheel. Barry offered to do it but he had a well-deserved reputation for lapses in concentration, his mind elsewhere, compiling a list of all the women he’d rogered in the last week or thinking up another entry for his ‘on the road’ rock diary.

They arrived at the holiday house around three o’clock in the afternoon, and in tribute to Frannie’s organisational abilities and his largesse with their money, a local shop had delivered four boxes of groceries, including loads of booze.

It was only a short break, not enough time to go home, although only Pete was married, but plenty of time to catch up on sleep and to do some song writing. At the back of Frannie’s mind, it was an attempt to try and cool the animosity between Eric and Danny, free from the pressures of concerts and away from easy access to coke and weed, drugs that were making Eric paranoid and unpredictable.

The house lay a couple of miles outside Weymouth at Osmington Mills, a large family place with six bedrooms and a massive country kitchen. They used the spare bedroom to store all the equipment they’d brought with them: three acoustic guitars, a couple of practice amps, and bongo drums so Pete could play without sticks.

If he asked one of their fans to use one word to describe Barry, they would call him, ‘solid’ or ‘dependable’, or if he asked Eric, ‘boring.’ In his mind, Barry was ‘cohesive.’ He acted as the band’s peacemaker, a man who did what he could to keep things together, and while everyone else went off for a kip, he cooked the evening meal.

By eight, everyone was milling around, drinking beers and chatting. Thirty minutes later and around the big table in the spacious kitchen, they all tucked into the cook’s speciality, Spag Bol with a little twist. It contained chilli and peppers, plenty of each.

‘Fuck me it’s hot,’ Eric said after incautiously scooping a large dollop into his mouth. ‘Pass me the water. I think I’m gonna melt.’

Derek raised a wine glass. ‘Fellas, a toast.’

‘What are we celebrating?’ Eric said. ‘You making your way through a full concert after playing all the right chords?’

‘Listen to you, Mr ad-libber over there,’ Pete said. ‘The amount of times I have to pull you out of a hole when you lose your place in a song.’

‘Listen fellas,’ Derek said, still holding his glass aloft and banging a knife on the table to quieten them. ‘I spoke to Frannie while you lot were still in bed…’ He paused.

‘He told me he’s seen the latest NME album chart.’

He looked around at each of the expectant faces.

‘Our new album, number four if anyone’s counting…’

‘Get on with it, Crow,’ Eric shouted.

‘Our new album,
Black Saturday
has shot into the album charts…’

They banged their cutlery and glasses on the table and whooped.

‘Wait for it, boys, at number seventeen.’

A big cheer rang through the rafters.

‘Fuck me,’ Eric said, ‘we’ve made it at last.’

‘The trick now,’ Danny said, ‘is to find a way to stay there.’

‘What do you know rookie? You’ve only played with a couple of two-bit outfits who were lucky to get a gig above a pub.’

Derek could sense an argument brewing so he said, ‘Does anybody know if Fast Eddie got hold of the new kit we ordered?’

‘I’m still waiting for a new hi-hat,’ Pete said. ‘The last one got bent at the gig in London.’

‘I need a new phaser pedal,’ Eric said, ‘as that new roadie, Bill whatshisname broke my old one. I don’t think I’ve seen a replacement yet.’

‘You could still play with the broken one, Eric,’ Barry said, ‘no one would know the difference.’

‘Fellas, fellas,’ Derek said. ‘Knock it off. It’s the first night, let’s see if we can behave for once.’

‘I’ll get you back later, young Crow,’ Eric said, an evil glint in his eye.

They talked equipment for a few minutes when Pete, who often didn’t say much in these get-togethers as they were loud and raucous said, ‘I’ve written a new song.’

‘Great news, Pete,’ Derek said. ‘Where is it? Did you bring it with you?’

‘Yep.’

‘Let’s get the gear,’ Eric said, ‘and give it a try out.’

‘Maybe we should tidy up first,’ Barry said, ‘if you all wanna eat in here in the morning.’

‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ Eric said, ‘I’m getting my guitar.’

They brought the gear into the living room, a large space which occupied about a third of the ground floor, but the acoustics were crap, the soft furnishings soaking up the sound, deadening it. It was a surprise to hear Pete had written a song, but he shocked them all by playing the melody on the baby grand piano, kindly left by the owners for their use. His playing was basic but he did enough for them to hear the tune, and once Danny had listened to it a few times, he took over.

Somebody picked up the wine bottles from the table and brought them over and with glasses re-filled, they got down to the serious business of adapting the song for the band, as it was a good song and fitted well into their existing repertoire. There were plenty of examples of drummer-singers, like Ringo, who did the occasional turn for the Beatles, and Don Henley, who sang on most of the Eagles’ big hits, but Pete was a lousy singer and didn’t sound good, even in his own bathroom, so Derek didn’t ask him.

They worked until two in the morning, alternating between Pete’s new song and one Derek had brought with him. It ended up being a terrific session, as everyone concentrated on their work and nobody sniped at one another or zoned out due to drugs. The number of empty beer cans and wine bottles lying around the lounge suggested booze played a large part in the creativity, and when someone suggested a walk on the beach to clear their heads, they all trooped outside.

The narrow route to the beach took them past several houses set back from the road, all shrouded in darkness, the occupants safely tucked up in bed. It ended at a car park overlooking the cliff, and beside it stood a quaint old pub, The Smugglers Inn.

The path down to the shore felt steep and loose rocks made it slippery underfoot, but they were all so pissed it wouldn’t hurt even if they did fall. With only the glow of the moon the beach looked spectacular, with a long line of golden sand, the cliffs towering above, dark and mysterious, and the sea twinkling and moving with the restlessness of the planets, making a leisurely plopping noise, increasing in volume the lower they went.

‘I’m glad I don’t live around here, Pete,’ Derek said after they removed shoes and socks and walked barefoot across the sand.

‘Why? Don’t you like the country and all this peace and quiet?’

‘I like it fine, but my songs would start to sound like Victorian love poems; I keep thinking of lines like ‘The majestic power of the sea’ and the ‘Foreboding shadow of the cliffs.’’