The Late Greats (17 page)

I wasn’t sure if I believed him. ‘Tell me about Lorraine Harrison’ I said.

He smiled. ‘I wondered how long it’d take you to find out about that.’

Priestley picked up his water again. I didn’t like it. It was a stalling tactic. I could see him working out what he wanted to tell me.

‘It was a private matter’ he eventually said.

‘There’s no such thing at the moment.’

He put his bottle down and explained how they’d argued over her. ‘I assume you know she was seeing Greg?’

I nodded. ‘She’s told me.’

‘They go way back. I had a stupid crush on her. That’s all. I wouldn’t have embarrassed her by making a move.’

‘I think it was more than that.’

Priestley took a deep breath and toyed with his water. Drummed his fingers on the mixing desk. He looked away from me after nodding his agreement. ‘I’m not happy, Joe. It’s like I’m living a lie out here.’

‘Your marriage?’

He nodded. ‘I owe Carly everything. She saved me when I was a mess. She’s a great woman who sorted me out when I needed it the most. I owe her everything.’

‘But you don’t love her?’

‘No.’

We sat in silence. I already knew his wife was protective and it was obvious she was in charge of their relationship.

Priestley sipped at his water before continuing. ‘I always had a thing for Lorraine, but Greg got there first. Story of my life. I suppose I was always too shy to do anything about it. It was never the right time. You know how it is with these things? And then the band moved down to London, so that was that. I didn’t see her again for years until I heard about her website.’

‘Did you approach her?’

‘No.’

‘Did you argue with Greg about her?’

‘She deserved better than him.’

‘Did you argue over her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Recently?’

He nodded. ‘He always knew I had a thing for her. He used to enjoy rubbing my nose in it, letting me know he had what I wanted. He told me he was seeing her again.’

‘What did you about it?’

‘Nothing. I did nothing. What could I do? I’m not stupid. I knew she was only interested in Greg. It was always that way.’

‘But he wouldn’t let up about it?’

‘He was very keen to let me know he’d won.’

‘How did it make you feel?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve already told you I didn’t kill him. Don’t try to twist my words.’

I stood up, unsure whether I felt sorrow or pity for him. ‘If you didn’t kill Greg, you’ve got to give me something’ I said. I looked him in the eye. ‘You’ve lied to me once before.’

‘I explained that, but it doesn’t change anything. I’ve still got nothing to give you. The cards will have to fall where they fall.’

‘It doesn’t give you an alibi, does it?’ I decided to leave him to his recording. He’d argued with Tasker about Lorraine Harrison. Priestley said it himself: she deserved better. I wondered if their argument had spilled over into violence and how it had finished. And he’d lied to me. Even if he was toeing Major’s line about the reunion, he’d still lied. ‘You must have seen somebody on your way to Paull’ I said. ‘Passed a petrol station or something?’

Priestley picked his guitar back up and turned away from me. ‘What’s the point?’

I called Julia to bring her up to date with my movements. As I’d headed back towards Hull, I’d dropped in at the garage where Jason Harrison worked. I wanted to check out his alibi. The garage was on an old industrial block, out towards the eastern edge of the city, not far from Paull. The area was deserted and decaying. It wasn’t the sort of place which attracted passing custom. You went there for a purpose. The businesses which could afford it had relocated, leaving behind several empty units and those which obviously didn’t have any real need to move. It was maybe ten miles away from Siobhan’s boutique, but it felt a world away. I’d had to wait in my car until I saw Harrison leave for a break.

I told Julia what Harrison’s boss had told me. ‘They did go out for a drink’ I said. ‘They went into town, had a couple of pints, planned to get a curry to round the night off. Same old story.’

‘So his alibi stands up?’ she said.

I smiled. ‘Not quiet. His boss said when they got onto the subject of family, Harrison started to get a bit agitated. He went off on one about Tasker and how sick he was of the man. He got himself really wound up about it and then disappeared, leaving his boss stood by himself in the pub.’

Julia got it. ‘Early in the evening, was it?’

‘Correct.’

‘So, theoretically speaking, he would have had time to get to the studio?’

‘Correct.’ I ended the call, threw my mobile onto the passenger seat and drove off.

I wanted to know more about the Bilton brothers. The ring road was as busy as ever, heading to the estate’s shopping centre. Several of the shops had closed permanently, shutters down, covered in graffiti. I walked into the newsagent’s. The man behind the counter physically backed away from me when I mentioned Bilton by name. He told me he wasn’t prepared to say anything. The shop was dirty, tired and anything of value was kept behind the till. The sign on the door said he was open until ten p.m., so I could only guess at the level of trouble he had to contend with.

I left and walked down the arcade of shops. Spotting the library, I went in and headed straight to the notice board. I found what I was looking for; a flyer for a forthcoming Neighbourhood Watch meeting. I leaned forward to read it. The group was meeting next week to discuss a course of action. The flyer gave the name and address of the group leader. I made a note of it.

Betty Page’s house was to the north of the estate, a disorientating five minute drive through symmetrical housing along identikit roads. It had been a while since I was here, playing rugby on the large playing field as a boy. There hadn’t been many reasons to come back to the area over the years.

I explained I was a Private Investigator and she let me straight in. Betty Page was well into her sixties and clearly very house-proud. Nothing was out of place. Immaculately tidy. The air in the house was stale. It looked like she never opened any windows. The number of locks and bars she had on them was staggering. What depressed me most was how flimsy they were. They wouldn’t stop anybody. She settled me down and disappeared to make drinks. I passed the time by looking at the photographs on her mantelpiece. They portrayed three generations of her family. The way she quietly crept back into the room took me by surprise.

‘My husband, Ernest’ she said, pointing to the photograph I was looking at. ‘He died seven years ago.’

I put the photograph back in its place. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

She passed me my coffee. ‘You never get over it properly.’

‘I know.’

She didn’t press me. She sat back down in her chair and asked what she could do for me.

‘Do you know a man called Trevor Bilton?’ I asked, getting straight down to it.

‘Of course I do.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘What do you want to know?’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘This used to be such a lovely place to live, especially when me and Ernest first moved here. We all moved together from Hessle Road when they pulled a load of the old houses down.’ She laughed, shook her head. ‘It was supposed be an improvement. Move people out of what they called the slums. Biggest mistake they ever made. These were decent people who worked and instilled some manners and discipline into their children. Now it’s the complete opposite and it’s people like Trevor Bilton who are to blame. He’s made life for everyone around here a misery. You know what the do-gooders are like. Nobody nipped his behaviour in the bud when they had a chance. Did you know his brother is a worker on the estate? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, I really don’t.’

I agreed with her. ‘It’s a bit unusual’ I said. ‘What’s Gary like?’

‘I often deal with him at the Community Centre where he works. He’s not a bad lad, really, which is more than can be said for his brother. At least he’s trying his best to make things better around here. Problem is, these kids don’t think there’s anything better for them. They idolise Trevor, but they don’t see that they’re the ones taking all the risks. They can’t see the truth.’

I looked around the room, letting her continue.

‘Their parents don’t care’ she said. ‘Bilton and his like rule this place at the expense of us decent folk. The kids are out of control, setting fire to stolen cars, posting dog muck through doors, you name it. Even the fire brigade are too frightened to come out here unless the police will escort them.’

‘What do the police have to say?’

She laughed. ‘They tell me they can’t do anything. They’ve got no proof, but we all know that he directs things from the pub, and if he’s not there, he’s gambling on the horses. He’s a man of habit and he thinks this is his kingdom.’

‘I bet your viewpoint hasn’t made you popular around here’ I said.

‘I don’t care. Somebody has to say, it’s time to put a stop to it. We can’t have people too scared to leave their own homes. Enough’s enough. It’s not how it should be. It’s not a community anymore and I’ll keep shouting until the police do something.’ She struggled to her feet and picked up a folder from her bookshelf. She took out a photograph of Trevor Bilton. ‘They keep telling me they need evidence, so I take photographs.’ She passed me one. ‘You can keep this. It’s a copy.’ She moved across to her mantelpiece and looked at the neat framed photographs she had on display. ‘If my Ernest was still alive, he wouldn’t stand for this kind of thing either, I can tell you.’

You’re a mess. A total mess. You measure time in terms of the wait to your next drink. Coming up with the third album is like torture. The lure of the road has gone. You’re sick of seeing the same towns, the same countries, the same venues. The relentless monotony. Kane tells you it has to be done. It’s what pays your wages. You’re beyond caring. Priestley is effectively running the band. He’s still sober, still splitting his time between Hull and London. He can deal with the things you can’t. You know the songs you’re writing are shit. You know the songs Priestley’s writing are the best he’s done. You’re angry and jealous. You can’t express your despair in any other way. You lash out. Kane keeps the band together. You get up on stage night after night and sing the words Priestley has written. You hate it. You spit the words out. You can see the crowds are thinning out. Times have changed. Newer bands are now the darlings of the music press. You hate it. You know you’re yesterday’s news. You know the band is finished. You know you’re finished.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I decided
to go home for some rest. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. The cupboards were still bare, so I made my signature dish of pasta surprise. The surprise this time was that the only thing I had to go with the pasta was some carrot. I tried to concentrate on the rolling news as I ate, but I was too distracted. I was nervous ahead of the meeting with Trevor Bilton and Siobhan. I left my flat, collected Julia from her hotel as agreed and drove across Hull towards the pub. My earlier visit to see him went unmentioned between us. I suspected neither of us wanted to dwell on it. Not at the moment. This time the car park was quiet. No teenagers. I locked up and we headed into the bar. Despite it being early evening, it was still busy. Some had clearly been in the place most of the day, some had just arrived and were settling in for the night. Bilton’s men were in their usual positions. No live music tonight. One stood at the foot of the stairs, one stood at the bar. I nodded to the closest one and told him we were expected. Eventually we were allowed up the stairs. Bilton sat in the corner of the room. He looked up as we walked across to him.

‘Got my money?’ he asked Julia. He didn’t take his eyes off me.

Julia passed it over.

‘Do I need to count it?’

‘I shouldn’t think so’ I said.

‘Think I’d trust you?’

‘It’s Julia’s money.’

He counted it anyway and put it in his back pocket. We followed him over to the corner of the room, towards a large curtain.

‘Behind there’ he said.

Five minutes later we heard Siobhan enter the room. It felt childish being hidden behind the curtain and it made me want to laugh. I glanced at Julia and smiled. She was thinking the same thing. We heard Bilton and Siobhan discuss why she was there. Julia nudged me. It was our cue. I nodded to her and stepped out into view. Siobhan looked confused. Bilton headed towards the door, leaving us to it.

‘Bastard’ she shouted at Bilton’s back. I introduced Julia, making sure I mentioned she was a journalist.

I waited until he’d left. ‘We just want to find out who killed Greg’ I said. ‘Nothing else. Whatever else you get up to is your business. We’re not interested in that.’

‘I knew something was wrong.’

‘Them are the breaks’ Julia said.

‘This is blackmail.’

I smiled. ‘Not really.’

‘She’ll write a story if I don’t talk to you.’

I took three chairs off the stack and put them down next to each. ‘Shall we?’

Siobhan hadn’t wanted to stay in the pub, and having nowhere else to go, we headed to my flat. I washed out the cafetiere and started to brew a fresh pot. Siobhan and Julia sat in the front room. I joined them and looked out of the window.

‘You’ve got the same depressing CDs as Greg’ Siobhan said, flicking through the pile of cases on the coffee table.

I turned around and smiled.

She put the CDs down. ‘I was doing it because I felt numb’ she said. ‘I’ve lost Greg and no one cares about me.’

I moved away from the window and sat down. ‘Have you spoken to Greg’s parents?’

She shook her head. ‘His mother never liked me.’ She looked like she was going to start crying. ‘Only on the phone a couple of times, but nothing more than that. ‘

‘Right.’

‘He was cheating on me, yet it still hurts. I keep telling myself what a bastard he was, but it doesn’t make any difference.’