The End of the Roadie (A Mystery for D.I Costello) (17 page)

The front door of the house where Carla lived opened on the second ring of the bell and the two police officers found themselves face-to-face with a young woman. Earnest, large blue eyes peered at them from behind spectacles which she pushed further up her nose before speaking. “May I help you?” she asked. Angela performed the usual introduction and displayed her police identity badge. The woman’s eyebrows lifted above the level of her thick lens and she gave a little gasp. “Oh! I – er – I haven’t done anything. I didn’t go through the gate.”

Angela checked an immediate inclination to pursue an enquiry about the gate. “May we come in?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” said the woman, standing back. “As you’re the police, I suppose it’s all right.”

Angela had received many less welcoming invitations in her career. She stepped across the threshold, followed by Gary, and they were led through into same room where they’d last spoken to Carla.

“My name’s Shauna,” she said, going ahead of them. “I live here with Carla and Paige.”

“Nice to meet you, Shauna. What was that about a gate?” she asked, as Carla’s flatmate indicated seats for them.

The woman blushed. Angela noticed that she was rather spotty and her hair somewhat greasy. She wondered if bad grooming or unfortunate hormones could be the cause. “Oh, that,” Shauna said, sitting down after the two officers had done so. “I was up at Brendan’s house the other day, keeping a kind of vigil, you know. We’re all very concerned about how he’s faring with all this shooting business.”

“I saw quite a crowd there when I went up to interview him,” recalled Angela.

“Yes; well, there aren’t so many now. That makes it better in many ways. It’s nice to meet up with other fans and chat, but when there are just a few of us, we feel like… like there might be more chance of seeing him.”

The logic of this was lost on Angela. “
Did
you get through his gate, though?”

“Oh, no!” Shauna gave a giggle. “When I was up there, one of the others noticed that it was ajar. One of them went right up to it and peered inside. I was really scared. I couldn’t do anything like that. Anyway, his brother came and locked it very soon after that. But I did wonder; he might have made a complaint.”

“Oh, I see,” replied Angela. “The thing is, we were hoping to have a word with Carla.”

“I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment.”

“Ah. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Shauna shook her head. The way she did this, raising her eyebrows upwards and assuming a somewhat disparaging expression, gave Angela pause. She changed her mind about ending the conversation there and then, leaving a message for Carla to get in touch. “She didn’t tell you where she was going?” queried Angela, injecting a sense of conspiracy into her voice, wondering if Shauna would take the bait. She did.

“I don’t get told anything,” she said. “I just get to run errands. Paige gets all the inside info. I get the crumbs that drop from the table.” The resentful note was unmistakable. Angela settled herself in her seat and Gary took out his notebook.

“I presume you mean information to do with Brendan Phelan?” she said in her most inviting tone.

“Yes. I wouldn’t mind, but I was a fan before any of them.
I’ve liked him since he started. And this flat is in
my
name.
They
actually live here with
me
.”

But you’ll put up with it to maintain this very tenuous contact with Brendan, won’t you?
speculated Angela, silently. “We’re trying to get as complete a picture we can of how they all interacted with each other – you know – the backstage crew, the band, Brendan Phelan and his management team.”

“Doug Travers is his manager and Jack Waring works for him and takes care of the stage production,” said Shauna. “Do you want the names of the band and the crew?”

I wouldn’t be surprised if you could furnish me with all their collar sizes
, thought Angela, smiling at the young woman. “No, that’s all right, thank you, we’ve got all that kind of information. We’re really trying to get an angle on the relationships. Did Carla ever talk about the atmosphere backstage, for example?”

“She’d say things now and again, but I don’t think she picked up much gossip or anything like that.”

“I find that hard to believe; it’s quite an enclosed world, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but they minded their p’s and q’s in front of her because of the situation with Brendan.”

Beside her, Angela sensed Gary raise his head from his notebook, but she kept her eyes fixed on Shauna and allowed no surprise to appear on her face. “Ah yes! Can you fill me in about that?”

Shauna shifted to make herself a little more comfortable. “I’m sure it’s all right telling you – you’re the police, after all. It’s a
mega
secret, of course, because if the papers got hold of it, well – phew! You can imagine.”

“I can,” agreed Angela, playing the sense of conspiracy for all she was worth.

“I mean, she’s been discreet, but we could tell she was seeing
someone; only she wouldn’t say who, at first. Paige and I really had to prise it out of her. We thought maybe a band member or one of the crew. She was really secretive but we kept on and on at her. You could have knocked me down with a feather when she finally came out and told us who it was. Paige and I were absolutely beside ourselves. Never in a million years would we have guessed it would be… him.” She paused and gazed at the police officers, gauging the effect of her words.

“Brendan Phelan.” Angela very deliberately made it a statement.

“Yes! They’re secretly engaged. They’re waiting for the right moment to go public with the news.”

Angela paused. She’d come across some bizarre things in the course of her career up to that point, and this notion wasn’t the craziest. “What about Tilly Townsend?” she asked.

“Well, that shows what a super person Brendan is,” replied Shauna. “I mean, he couldn’t help falling for Carla, and obviously, he wants to follow his heart; but he recognizes that he owes it to her – to Tilly, that is – not to just dump her unceremoniously. That’s partly why they’re keeping it a secret for the moment.”

“I see,” nodded Angela, thinking she very probably did. “And when do Carla and Brendan actually get to – er – go out?”

Shauna gave a smirk. “Stay in, more like, if you see what I mean. She’d text Paige that she wasn’t coming straight home from the show, and we’d look at each other and we’d know what that meant.”

“So when did this romance begin?” asked Angela.

“It all kicked off towards the end of the tour, so it’s still a new situation. She told us, though, of course. Obviously I wish I was in her shoes but, well, it’s still very exciting to be in the know.”

Angela nodded absently as she and Gary looked at each other. She could tell they were thinking the same thought. If they substituted Oliver for Brendan, this story confirmed they were right in assuming Carla to be the woman Oliver’s neighbour heard him taking up the stairs.

Angela rose to go. “You’ve been very helpful, Shauna,” she said. “We won’t wait for Carla right now. Depending on how we get on, if we need to speak to her again we’ll phone beforehand next time.” She smiled. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Alex stepped off the bus, made his way along the street and after about two minutes’ walk, turned in at a front gate. His ring at the bell brought a child’s feet running along the passage inside, and a familiar voice called out, “Hang on, Tyrone, I’m coming.” The door opened and he found himself looking at Kay, one child by the hand and a younger one perched on the other hip. “Hi, Alex,” she said and turned, leaving him to follow her into the house and shut the front door behind him. She was sitting at the kitchen table when he joined her. The eldest child went back to playing with a small, cheap Transformer toy, while the younger child busied herself with a tiny tricycle.

“How are you doing?” he asked, as he sat down opposite her.

She shrugged. “How do you think?”

“Are you all right for money?”

Fury flared behind her eyes and he winced. The anger died as quickly as it had arisen. “Sorry, Alex, it’s just that Olly always said that.”

“I know. I was trying to – well, we were partners… I was trying to…”

She nodded. “I know.” A brief silence ensued, broken when the eldest child asked for his favourite DVD. Kay took him into the front room, followed quickly by his little sister, and
was back within a few minutes. “That’ll keep them amused for all of ten minutes, if we’re lucky. The kettle’s just boiled; want a cup of tea?”

Alex nodded and she went over to the kettle. “I’m trying to see you right,” he said. Kay turned away from what she was doing, looking questioningly at him. “You know,” he continued, “I’m not your brother, but we were partners, him and me. I know how he supported you.” Kay raised an eyebrow and turned back to her task. “I mean, I know
how
he supported you,” he repeated. A cautious note had appeared in his voice and his eyes followed her every move.

“Oh yeah?” she queried.

Alex took a deep breath. He was no longer in the pub with that man in the smart clothes and superior attitude. He could assert himself here. “You could get him for it, you know; child abuse.”

Alarm flared in her eyes as she put a steaming cup down in front of him. “Through the proper channels, you mean?”

“Yeah, why not? It happened, after all. And there’s a lot of it going on now – being sorted, I mean. Ever since all that stuff came out about Jimmy Savile and the way he carried on. All sorts of things are coming out, people being accused, and that; some of them are going to court. You must have seen it on the news.”

“Yes, but a court case? All those questions? I don’t like the thought of that. And they’re not all found guilty, are they?”

“No, well, they haven’t all done anything, have they? Some people are ready to make all sorts of accusations against a celebrity if they think there’s money in it for them. That’s bound to happen. But it’s different with you. You know you’d be taken seriously. You’d have a good case, I reckon.”

“I… I don’t think I’d be able to cope with the ordeal of it,” she replied in the manner of one repeating a well-worn line
she’d learned. “I just used to let Olly handle it.” She paused and looked at him. “He wanted to spare me any further hurt. He said it would be too humiliating.”

Again, it sounded like a quotation. Looking at her, Alex wondered about her relationship with Olly. When the dead man had told him Kay would do anything he told her to, he didn’t really believe him. But now he began to wonder. Olly had told him she’d been a bit fearful at first, had a couple of scruples, even, but Olly had brushed them aside. “It’s no skin off Brendan’s nose,” he’d said to her. “He’s loaded. He can easily afford to stump up. It won’t make any difference to him.” After that, she’d made no further protest and just got on with following her brother’s lead. Alex saw her expression soften as she looked at him. “I was only a kid, remember,” she said. “If you’re his business partner…?” She let the implication hang in the air.

He smiled and picked up the thread. “I thought you’d say that. I’m OK with it. It makes sense doing it this way. I mentioned to Olly once or twice about going through the proper channels, but he insisted all the court could give you would be compensation. They can’t heal the trauma, that’s what he said. It’s not like they can make the thing un-happen. And
his
way of getting compensation was more efficient.” He nodded to emphasize his point. “Yeah. I know Olly looked after you.”

“That’s right,” she said. “He looked after me.” She smiled and relaxed, apparently pleased he’d arrived at the place where Oliver had left off. “So…?”

“Already made a phone call, didn’t I?”

“Yeah? How did it go? What did he say?”

“What could he say? He didn’t argue, that’s for sure.”

A shrewd look appeared in Kay’s eyes. “How are you going to get the money? It’s not like you’re on his crew.”

Alex made a business of blowing steam away from his cup before answering. That thought had occurred to him, but he hadn’t yet come up with an answer. “Just you leave that to me,” he replied, wallowing in the approval and trust he felt emanating from her. It was a nice feeling after his encounter in the pub.

“How much are you going to ask for?”

Alex was emboldened now. “I won’t be asking, Kay. I’ll be telling, remember.”

“Yeah, ’course. So…?”

Alex took a slurp of his tea. This was a thin-ice moment. “The same,” he said eventually.

“Right,” said Kay, nodding in a knowing manner and trying to hide any hint of a further question in her voice.

A brief, awkward silence ensued in which it occurred to Alex, for the first time, that Oliver had most likely not passed all his ill-gotten gains on to his sister, in spite of his avowal that he was doing it for her.

“Oh,” Kay said. “Where are my manners? I didn’t even offer you a biscuit.”

Alex beamed. The moment had passed. “That’d be great, ta,” he answered. He leaned back, satisfied with himself. He’d make sure Kay got a fair whack, but this could turn out to be a nice little earner for him.

The management at the Apollo agreed for two officers to come and take the required photographs. An assurance of minimum disruption to the work of the theatre was given, and Derek had just enough time to dash out, buy a disposable razor and shaving gel, and spruce himself up before Gary called out it was time to go. He was still trying to slick his hair down while popping mints into his mouth as he passed through the incident room.

Angela and Leanne watched him disappear before turning to each other and exchanging smiles.

“Mints?” queried Angela. “How close does he think he’s going to get?”

Leanne gave a good-natured shrug. “He’ll be lucky if he even sees her. They’re only going to take pictures outside the stage door, after all. But if he gets even a scintilla of a chance to meet her, he wants to be prepared.”

Angela laughed. “A scintilla is all you need sometimes.”

The report on the murder weapon appeared in the incident room just after lunch, but did nothing to further the investigation. Every gun owner connected to the case handed their firearms in to the ballistics department. All had been checked. The gun that killed Oliver Joplin wasn’t among them. Angela placed the report in the case file, glad to tick
firearms
off her list. A nasty experience with a gun on a recent case had moved her from mere disinterest in them to decided antipathy. She looked up to see Rick coming towards her with some papers in his hand.

“It looks like your theory’s holding up,” he said.

“Pull up a chair. What theory’s that?”

Rick dragged a nearby chair across and sat down next to her, putting the pages on the desk in front of her. “The ticketing scam one. The lab people got into Oliver Joplin’s computer and they’ve printed up what they found.”

“Oh, good, let’s have a look.” Angela’s eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger. “Yikes! It’s a ticket for one of Brendan’s shows at the Apollo.” She bent closer. “I must say it looks the business.”

“Yes, it seems completely authentic.” Rick turned the page over to reveal a similar one.

“The O2 Centre?” queried Angela. “Oh look, that’s for the concert Brendan cancelled because of the shooting.”

“Yes, and there are others,” replied Rick, rifling through the top pages and setting them to one side. “They cover all the gigs from the entire tour.”

“Are there any for other artists or shows?”

“No, he seems to have kept things close to home.” Angela looked quizzically at him. He smiled. “Seems a bit like fouling your own doorstep, is that what you’re thinking?” he asked.

“It did cross my mind. It’s either that or a case of sticking with what you know,” she replied.

“I wonder how they worked it?” he mused.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did the person buying a ticket from them download it, or was it sent to them?”

“It would be sent to them, wouldn’t it? When Patrick and I have ordered tickets for things, we set it all up online and then received the tickets through the post.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be like that, does it?” Rick smiled at her. “When was the last time you went abroad on holiday, or took a train anywhere?”

Angela thought for a moment. “Last year we – oh, I see
what you’re saying. You’re right. With the last few trips Patrick and I took, we printed up our own tickets and presented them at the check-in desk.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Oliver had things set up in the same way.”

“It’d save on printing costs and on postage, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, seemingly; and the bogus ticket agency wouldn’t need to have any stationery, either.”

“And if he thought he was being rumbled, it would be very easy to close the site down. Have we found the site he used?”

“Yes. It looks like he set up this website here, look,” said Rick, picking up another one of the pages.

“‘Concert Sales’,” read Angela. “He didn’t knock himself out trying to think up a catchy name for the business, then. So I suppose the punter accessed the site and went through an ordering process.” She looked at the remaining pages.

“There’s nothing there,” said Rick, interpreting her look. “But there must have been some sort of program. You know what it’s like. The customer has to put in the date, the venue, the price range, seat preference, stalls or circle, all that stuff. The lab people couldn’t find anything like that in the computer.”

Angela rubbed her chin with her forefinger. “Silly question, but I’ll ask anyway; I don’t suppose anybody’s overlooked the presence of a disc in the computer, or a memory stick?”

Rick gave a small laugh. “No such luck. And we didn’t find either anywhere in the flat.”

“Just that suspiciously empty drawer you told us about.”

“I reckon it must have been cleared of something.”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. So what have we got here? Oliver Joplin doesn’t seem to have been the gregarious centre of a large and lively social circle. If the indications are anything to go by, it’s just him and this chap
with the hawk tattoos, whose mugshot was stuck to Kay’s fridge. I think I’ll be paying her another visit before too long.”

“If he only scammed the Brendan Phelan concerts, is it worth Gary trawling the crowds at Brixton tonight, or Jim doing Wembley?”

Angela nodded. “They still ought to go. You’re quite right, from this it looks unlikely we’ll see this man. But Stanway’s bound to ask if we checked, and I’d rather be ready with an affirmative answer.”

“Fair enough; that makes sense. Besides, when you work a particular circuit you get to know the others doing the same thing. Who knows? This bloke might have friends or contacts among the other touts. He might turn up to see them anyway.”

“Good point,” agreed Angela.

“The rest of these pages are emails,” said Rick. “They might tell us something.”

“OK, let’s have a look.”

“A lot of them are to do with buying tickets. Some of them are irate.”

“Angry customers, no doubt,” said Angela. “OK, leave these with me, please, Rick. I’ll go through them and see if they can tell me anything.”

Much to Derek’s disappointment, Barry Grieves met him and Gary when they arrived at the Apollo, and led them straight round to the stage door. They never even had the chance to pass through the auditorium and see whoever might be on stage rehearsing. They could hear, though. As they followed the front-of-house manager along the corridor, they couldn’t mistake the identity of the strong-voiced alto rejoicing to be with her “may-yan”. Derek inclined his head towards the sound as they progressed, a dreamy expression on his face.

“Ah, this is one of my favourites,” he said, half-turning to
Gary as they walked. “She sang this at the Grand Ole Opry last year.”

Gary, about to remark on the number of diphthongs he could hear, looked at his colleague’s face and bit back the comment. He was sure it would come across as sarcastic and he didn’t want to mar a good working relationship.

“Has your van arrived yet, do you know?” asked Barry, as he led them through a door leading to a dim passage. Georgia Pensay’s voice faded as the door swung shut behind them.

“I’ve arranged for it to be here by now,” replied Gary, looking at his watch. “I’ll need to supervise the parking so it’s in exactly the same place as the one on the night in question.”

“Just through here,” said Barry, opening yet another door into what Gary recognized as the passage leading out to the stage door.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Gary. “We’ll need to borrow a couple of those crates – er – flight cases. Would that be possible?”

“We don’t keep any here,” said Barry.

Gary stopped, looking very puzzled. “But – aren’t the flight cases where all the equipment for the show is stowed? There were a couple outside the stage door on the night of the shooting. We’ll need them for the reconstruction.”

“Oh yes, that’s what they use for transporting the equipment,” confirmed the manager. “Virtually every artist who performs here brings their equipment packed into flight cases. So once they’ve finished it all gets packed up and taken on to the next venue.” He left a brief pause. “That’s the point.”

“Ah, I see,” said Gary. “I should have thought of that. All your equipment belongs to the theatre. It’s at home, so to speak.”

“Quite.”

“Er…” began Derek. Both men turned to him. Gary
noticed the delicate flush that had worked its way up from his neck. “Perhaps – er…” he coughed. “Perhaps Miss Pensay… er, her concerts here are part of a national tour, aren’t they?” Gary hid a smile at Derek’s diffidence. He knew without a doubt the singer was in the middle of a tour of the British Isles. He could probably have reeled off the complete itinerary, if pressed to do so.

“It’s worth asking, I suppose,” answered Barry. “I’ll take you round to where you can get into the auditorium. You’ll find a cowboy sitting a few rows back from the stalls. You can’t miss him, he’s in full regalia, buckskin jacket, rhinestones. He might even be wearing his Stetson. He’s the tour manager. He’s the one to ask. But I do stress the importance of being very quiet.”

“I quite understand,” said Derek. His flush had deepened to crimson. Barry nodded Gary towards the stage door and left him to go and check on the van. Looking as though he was about to receive first prize in a competition, and surreptitiously slipping another mint into his mouth, Derek followed the theatre manager back the way they had come.

After a little manoeuvring, with the help of the uniformed driver, the van stood in the correct position as far as Gary could remember it. He’d just begun to wonder how Derek had fared when the stage door opened and the “cowboy in full regalia” stepped through into the alley. Barry Grieves had only referred to the man’s mode of dress. He hadn’t mentioned the pleasant smile and the affable manner.

The cowboy smiled. “Mornin’. I’m told y’all want to do some ree-construction here.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Gary. “I’m sure you heard about that dreadful event.”

“Sho’ did,” affirmed the man, with a slow nod. “Awful business. So y’all want a flight case, right?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“OK, let’s get that dang thang out here.”

Gary blinked. Dang thing… thang – it actually rhymed. “Er…” he said, “There were two around at the time. Both about the same size. This big.” He sketched out the size and shape with his hands.

Another slow nod. “OK. Well, I left your man at the side of the stage. I’ll have him and Chuckie bring them through. Georgia’s about to take a little break, so it won’t disturb her none.”

Gary thanked him. He smiled at a mental picture of Derek, glued to the side of the stage, hardly able to believe his luck in being so close to his heroine.

Chuckie, when he arrived, was every bit as pleasant and obliging as his employer. The flight case he wheeled out was more or less identical to the one in the alley at the end of Brendan’s concert. After a few moments Derek followed with another, very similar. His colour had returned to normal but there was a very faraway look in his eyes.

Now he was here, the events of that night came back vividly to Gary. He remembered his nervousness at coming upon a serious crime, and the relief he’d felt once he’d made contact with Angela, and once another officer had appeared on the scene. He even recalled, with a smile, the magic show of which the whole tableau had reminded him. Whistling a cheery melody, he took on the role of Jack Waring. He wheeled the case through the stage door, positioning it next to the one already there. Under his direction, Derek took photographs throughout, except when Gary made them swap places so that he could see he’d set the scene properly. Gary was completely unaware he was whistling until Derek pointed it out to him, asking about the tune.

Gary stopped and thought for a moment. “What tune?” he asked.

“The one you’ve been whistling.”

Gary shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I bet it’s the one Jack Waring was whistling the day we went to see him at the warehouse. Angela’s been humming it as well.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Derek. “It’s very catchy. Have we finished here, then?”

Gary looked at Derek with a quizzical expression. “Why? Are you in a hurry?”

Derek blushed. “It’s just that these cases are stored in a particular place at the back of the stage, and Georgia Pensay will be back from her break soon. So it’s probably a good idea to get them stowed away before then, so we won’t disturb the rehearsal.” In spite of the blush, Derek made a very creditable attempt at sounding matter-of-fact. Gary hid a smile. He had no doubt Derek’s main motive was to be on stage when the chanteuse arrived, just so he could drink in the sight of her; but he didn’t begrudge him the opportunity.

“Yes, I reckon we’ve got enough here,” he replied. “You might as well put the cases back now.”

“OK,” said Derek, suppressing his pleasure at the prospect. He pushed at the case and it slewed round on its castors and moved off in the wrong direction. “Oops,” he said, righting it.

“Yessir,” remarked Chuckie, who’d been watching the action. “They can run away from you when they’re empty.” He went over and pushed the other case in through the door after Derek. Gary thanked the uniformed driver of the van for his assistance and watched as the vehicle backed carefully through the gates out onto the street.

Their conversation in the car all the way back to the incident room was completely one-sided and contained only a single topic. Derek waxed at length and lyrically about the
voice, the looks, the style, the everything of Georgia Pensay. Gary listened politely as he concentrated on driving, grateful that all he had to do was to nod here and there, saying “Really?” and “Wow!” on occasion. Country music was not his first choice in entertainment but he liked quite a few of its offerings. They were halfway there before he realized that something was nagging at the back of his mind. Something having a bearing on the investigation had occurred to him during the reconstruction, of that he was certain. He went through every detail of it in his mind. He thought back carefully over the events of the actual murder scene again. But try as he might, the significance of what he’d seen eluded him.