Piece of My Heart (4 page)

“I’ll leave the speculation to you. As far as I’m concerned, he belongs to the coroner now. You can remove the body whenever Cartier-Bresson here has finished.”

Banks smiled. He noticed Peter Darby stick his tongue out at Glendenning behind the doctor’s back. They always seemed to be getting in one another’s way at crime scenes, which were the only places they ever met.

By now it was impossible to ignore the activity in the rest of the house, which was swarming with SOCOs. Thick cables snaked through the conservatory, attached to bright lights that cast shadows of men in protective clothing on the walls. The place resembled a film set. Feeling very much in the way, Banks edged out towards the conservatory. The wind was still raging,
and at times it felt strong enough to blow the whole frail structure away. It didn’t help that they had to leave the door open to let the cables in.

Detective Sergeant Stefan Nowak, the crime scene coordinator, arrived next, and after a brief hello to Banks and Annie, he set to work. It was his job to liaise between the scientists and the detectives, if necessary translating the jargon into comprehensible English, and he did it very well. His degrees in physics and chemistry certainly helped.

There are people who will stand for hours watching others work, Banks had noticed. You see them at building sites, eyes against the knotholes in the high wooden fences as the mechanical diggers claw at the earth and men in hard hats yell orders over the din. Or standing in the street looking up as someone on scaffolding sandblasts the front of an old building. Banks wasn’t one of them. That kind of thing was a perverse form of voyeurism, as far as he was concerned. Besides, there was nothing much more he could do at the house now until the team had finished, and his thoughts moved pleasantly to the candlelit pub not more than thirty yards away. The people in there would have to be interviewed. Someone might have seen or heard something. One of them might even have done it. Best talk to them now, while they were still in there and their memories were fresh. He told Winsome and Templeton to stay with Stefan and the SOCOs and to come and get him if anything important came up, then called out to Annie, and they headed for the gate.

2

Monday, September 8, 1969

W
hen Chadwick was satisfied that things were running smoothly, he called Rick Hayes over and suggested they talk in the van. It was set up so that one end was a self-contained cubicle, just about big enough for an interview, though at six foot two, Chadwick felt more than a little claustrophobic. Still, he could put up with it, and a bit of discomfort never did any harm when someone had something to hide.

Close up, Hayes looked older than Chadwick would have expected. Perhaps it was the stress of the weekend, but he had lines around his eyes and his jaw was tense. Chadwick put him in his late thirties, but with the hairstyle and the clothes, he could probably pass for ten years younger. He had about three or four days’ stubble on his face, his fingernails were bitten down to the quicks, and the first two fingers of his left hand were stained yellow with nicotine.

“Mr. Hayes,” Chadwick began. “Maybe you can help me. I need some background here. How many people attended the festival?”

“About 25,000.”

“Quite a lot.”

“Not really. There were 150,000 at the Isle of Wight the weekend before. Mind you, they had Dylan and the Who. And we had competition. Crosby, Stills and Nash and Jefferson Airplane were playing in Hyde Park on Saturday.”

“And you had?”

“Biggest draws? Pink Floyd. Led Zeppelin.”

Chadwick, who had never heard of either, dutifully made a note of the names after checking the spelling with Hayes. “Who else?”

“A couple of local groups. Jan Dukes de Grey. The Mad Hatters. The Hatters especially have been getting really big these past few months. Their first LP is already in the charts.”

“What do you mean ‘local’?” Chadwick asked, making a note of the names.

“Leeds. General area, at any rate.”

“How many groups in all?”

“Thirty. I can give you a full list, if you like.”

“Much appreciated.” Chadwick wasn’t sure where that information would get him, but every little bit helped. “Something like that must require a lot of organization.”

“You’re telling me. Not only do you have to book the groups well in advance and arrange for concessions, parking, camping and toilet facilities, you’ve also got to supply generators, transport and a fair bit of sound equipment. Then there’s security.”

“Who did you use?”

“My own people.”

“You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

“On a smaller scale. It’s what I do. I’m a promoter.”

Chadwick scribbled something on his pad, shielding it from Hayes in the curve of his hand. Not that it meant anything; he just wanted Hayes to think it did. Hayes lit a cigarette.
Chadwick opened the window. “The festival lasted three days, is that correct?”

“Yes. We started late Friday afternoon and wrapped up today in the wee hours.”

“What time?”

“Led Zeppelin played last. They came on shortly after one o’clock this morning, and they must have finished about three. We were supposed to wind up earlier, but there were the inevitable delays–equipment malfunctions, that sort of thing.”

“What happened at three?”

“People started drifting home.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“There was nothing to keep them here. The ones who had pitched tents probably went back to the campground to grab a few hours’ sleep, but the rest left. The field was pretty much empty for the cleanup crew to start by dawn. The rain helped.”

“What time did it start to rain?”

“Must have been about half two in the morning. Just a brief shower, like.”

“So it was mostly dry while this Led Zeppelin was playing?”

“Mostly. Yes.”

Yvonne had arrived home at six-thirty, Chadwick thought, which gave her more than enough time to get back from Brimleigh, if she had been there. What had she been doing between three and six-thirty? Chadwick decided he had better leave that well alone until he had established whether she had been there or not.

Given a time of death between one-thirty and five-thirty, the victim might have been killed while the band was playing, or while everyone was heading home. Most likely the former, he decided, as there would have been less chance of witnesses. And possibly before the rain, as there was no obvious trail.
“Are there any other gates,” he asked, “in addition to where I came in?”

“No. Only to the north. But there are plenty of exits.”

“I assume there’s fencing all around the site?”

“Yes. It wasn’t a free concert, you know.”

“But no one would have had any real reason to go through the woods?”

“No. There are no exits on that side. It doesn’t lead anywhere. The parking, camping and gates are all on the north side, and that’s where the nearest road is, too.”

“I understand you had a bit of trouble with skinheads?”

“Nothing my men couldn’t handle. A gang of them tried to break through the fence and we saw them off.”

“North or south?”

“East, actually.”

“When was this?”

“Saturday night.”

“Did they come back?”

“Not as far as I know. If they did, they were quiet about it.”

“Did people actually sleep in the field over the weekend?”

“Some did. Like I said, we had a couple of fields for parking and camping just over the hill there. A lot of people pitched tents and came back and forth. Others just brought sleeping bags. Look, why does all this matter? I’d have thought it was obvious what happened.”

Chadwick raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I must be missing something. Tell me.”

“Well, she must have got into an argument with her boyfriend or something, and he killed her. She was a bit away from the crowds, there by the edge of the woods, and if everyone was listening to Led Zeppelin, they probably wouldn’t notice if the world ended.”

“Loud, are they, this Led Zeppelin?”

“You could say that. You should have a listen.”

“Maybe I will. Anyway, it’s a good point you’ve raised. I’m sure the music might have helped the killer. But why assume it was her boyfriend? Do boyfriends usually stab their girlfriends?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…I mean…who else?”

“Could have been a homicidal maniac, perhaps?”

“You’d know more about that than I do.”

“Or a passing tramp?”

“Now you’re taking the piss.”

“I assure you, Mr. Hayes, I am taking this very seriously indeed. But in order to find out who might have done this, boyfriend or whatever, we need to know who she is.” He made a note, then looked directly at Hayes. “Maybe you can help me there?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“Oh, come off it, laddie.” Chadwick stared at him.

“I don’t know who she is.”

“Ah, but you
did
see her somewhere?”

Hayes looked down at his clasped hands. “Maybe.”

“And where, perhaps, might you have seen her?”

“She may have been backstage at some point.”

“
Now
we’re getting somewhere. How does a person get to go backstage?”

“Well, usually, you need a pass.”

“And who hands those out?”

“Security.”

“But?”

Hayes wriggled in his chair. “Well, you know, sometimes…a good-looking girl. What can I say?”

“How many people were backstage?”

“Dozens. It was chaos back there. We had a VIP area roped
off with a beer tent and lounges, then there were the performers’ caravans, dressing rooms, toilets. We also had a press enclosure in front of the stage. Some of the performers hung around to listen to other bands, you know, then maybe they’d jam backstage and…you know…”

“Who were the last groups to play on Sunday?”

“We kicked off the evening session with the Mad Hatters just after dark, then Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin.”

“Were they all backstage?”

“At one time or another, if they weren’t onstage, yes.”

“With guests?”

“There were a lot of people.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know…maybe fifty or so. More. That’s including roadies, managers, publicists, disc jockeys, record company people, agents, friends of the bands, hangers-on and what have you.”

“Did you keep guest lists?”

“You must be joking.”

“Lists of those who were given passes?”

“No.”

“Anyone keep track of comings and goings?”

“Someone checked passes at the entrance to the backstage area. That’s all.”

“And let in beautiful girls without passes?”

“Only if they were with someone who did have a pass.”

“Ah, I see. So our victim might not have been issued a pass for herself. In addition to beer, were there any other substances contributing to that general sense of well-being backstage?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I was too busy. Most of the time I was running around like a blue-arsed fly making sure
everything was running smoothly, keeping everyone happy.”

“Were they?”

“For the most part. You got the occasional pillock complaining his caravan was too small, but on the whole it was okay.”

Chadwick jotted something down. He could tell that Hayes was craning his neck trying to read it, so he rested his hand over the words when he had finished. “Perhaps if we were to narrow down the time of death, do you think you’d be able to give us a better idea of who might have been backstage?”

“Maybe. I dunno. Like I said, it was a bit of a zoo back there.”

“I can imagine. Did you see her with anyone in particular?”

“No. It might have been her or it might not have. I only got a fleeting glance. There were a lot of people. A lot of good-looking birds.” His expression brightened. “Maybe it wasn’t even her.”

“Let’s remain optimistic, shall we, and assume that it was? Did the girl you saw have a flower painted on her right cheek?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not even sure it
was
her. Lots of girls had painted flowers.”

“Perhaps your security team might be able to help us?”

“Maybe. If they remember.”

“Was the press around?”

“On and off.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a matter of give and take, isn’t it? I mean, the publicity’s always useful and you don’t want to piss off the press, but at the same time you don’t want someone filming your every move or writing about you every time you go to the toilet, do you? We tried to strike a balance.”

“How did that work?”

“A big press conference before the event, scheduled interviews with specific artists at specific times.”

“Where?”

“In the press enclosure.”

“So the press weren’t allowed backstage?”

“You must be joking.”

“Photographers?”

“Only in the press enclosure.”

“Can you give me their names?”

“I can’t remember them all. You can ask Mick Lawton. He was press liaison officer for the event. I’ll give you his number.”

“What about television?”

“They were here on Saturday and Sunday.”

“Let me guess, press enclosure?”

“For the most part, they filmed crowd scenes and the bands performing, within strict copyright guidelines, with permission and everything.”

“I’ll need the names of television companies involved.”

“Sure. The usual suspects.” Hayes named them. It wasn’t as if there were that many to choose from, and Yorkshire Television and BBC North would have been Chadwick’s first guesses anyway. Chadwick stood up, stooping so he didn’t bang his head on the ceiling. “We’ll have a chat with them later, see if we can have a look at their footage. And we’ll be talking with your security people, too. Thanks for your time.”

Hayes shuffled to his feet, looking surprised. “That’s it?”

Chadwick smiled. “For now.”

It was like a scene out of Dickens painted with Rembrandt’s sense of light and shade. There were two distinct groups in the low-beamed lounge, one playing cards, the other in the midst of an animated conversation: gnarled, weather-beaten faces
with lined cheeks and potato noses lit by candles and the wood fire that crackled in the hearth. The two people behind the bar were younger. One was a local girl Banks was sure he had seen before, a pale, willowy blonde of nineteen or twenty. The other was a young man about ten years older, with curly hair and a wispy goatee.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked towards the door when Banks and Annie walked in, then the card players resumed their game and the other group muttered quietly.

“Nasty night out there,” said the young man behind the bar. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a pint of Black Sheep,” said Banks, showing his warrant card, “and DI Cabbot here will have a Slimline bitter lemon, no ice.”

Annie raised an eyebrow at Banks but accepted the drink when it came, and took out her notebook.

“Thought it wouldn’t be long before you lot came sniffing around, all that activity going on out there,” said the young man. His biceps bulged as he pulled Banks’s pint.

“And you’ll be?”

“Cameron Clarke. Landlord. Everyone calls me CC.”

Banks paid for the drinks, against CC’s protests, and took a sip of his beer. “Well, Cameron,” he said, “this is a nice pint you keep, I must say.”