Death of a Cave Dweller (12 page)

The chief inspector came to a halt right in front of a cafe which had its menu painted on the window. He sniffed the smells drifting out through the open door with gusto.

“This'll do champion,” he announced.

There were already a number of customers inside, mopping up egg yolk with bits of fried bread and drinking strong tea out of large pot mugs. Bob Rutter sat down at one of the rickety Formica tables and thought once more of the starched linen tablecloths and discreet service he could have been enjoying in the Adelphi Hotel.

Woodend ordered the egg-and-bacon sandwich he'd been lusting after, and when it was plonked unceremoniously on the table in front of him, he attacked it with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't eaten for days.

Rutter contented himself with buttered toast and, as he nibbled at it, he found himself wondering when would be the earliest time he could call his wife without it angering her.

“There's a murderer out there – probably not more than a mile from this very spot,” Woodend said, when he'd finished eating. “He knows we're lookin' for him, an' he's scared.”

“Or
she
knows we're looking for
her
, and
she's
scared,” Bob Rutter countered.

“You're right,” Woodend admitted. “My problem is, I'm still findin' it difficult to use ‘woman' an' ‘wirin'' in the same sentence. Anyway, do you mind if, for the present, I talk about him as if he was a man?”

“Go ahead.”

“He's out there, an' he's scared. I can almost smell his fear. I've got absolutely no idea what he looks like, or why he killed poor Eddie Barnes, but I'll tell you somethin' for nothin', Bob – no matter how frightened he is, he'll kill again if he has to.”

“What makes you say that? Instinct?”

“Aye, if you like.”

“Which has been wrong before,” Rutter pointed out.

“True,” Woodend agreed. “But there's been plenty of times when it's been right an' all.” He drained the last dregs of his large mug of tea. “It's time we were gettin' to work,” he continued. “I'm goin' down to the Cellar Club to talk to this Mrs Pollard who owns it.”

“And what do you want me to do, sir?”

“You take yourself down to the local nick an' have a look at this room which Inspector Hopgood's assigned us,” Woodend said. “He'll probably ask you if you think it'll do, an' when he does you're to say that it's absolutely bloody perfect, that you'd never – not even in your wildest dreams – have thought they'd give us such a wonderful room.”

Rutter grinned. “I'll probably tone that down a bit, sir.”

“Aye, that might be wise,” Woodend agreed.

“And once I've told them the room's satisfactory, what do you want me to do?”

“Scatter a few papers around the place, so it looks as if we're actually usin' it. Oh, an' have a look at their reports on the investigation they conducted before we arrived.”

“Should I be looking for anything in particular?”

Woodend shook his head. “I don't expect you'll find anythin' of much use – if they'd had any real leads to follow, they wouldn't have called us in. Still, you never know your luck.”

“Where will me meet up again?”

“How about in the Grapes, round about dinnertime?” Woodend suggested, standing up. “Take a taxi down to the nick at the long-sufferin' taxpayer's expense, if you feel like it.”

“I think I'll walk, sir. ‘Feel the rhythms of the place through the soles of my feet', as an old bobby I know I once said.”

His sergeant was smiling, Woodend thought, but he could see that it was an effort. He wondered just what had been said during the phone call to Maria to make him tense up so much. But no doubt Rutter would tell him when he was good and ready.

The door to the Cellar Club was closed, but when Woodend turned the handle, it swung obligingly open. As the chief inspector made his way down the stairs, he could hear a number of voices coming up from below. Once at the bottom, he could see who had been making the noise. The three surviving members of the Seagulls were standing on the tiny stage, and sitting on the hard chairs in front of it were several young men holding guitars. The auditions to find a replacement for the murdered Eddie Barnes were already under way.

Steve Walker placed his mouth close to the microphone. “Right, let's hear the next one,” he said, with weary resignation in his voice.

A boy wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket mounted the steps, and plugged his guitar into the amplifier.

“I'd like to do a song called ‘Some Other Guy',” he said into the microphone. He turned his head in Steve Walker's direction. “That's all right, isn't it? You do know that one?”

“Do we know it?” Walker asked scornfully into his own mike. “Of course we bloody know it. Let's get this straight. We're not just some tinpot group of beginners. We're
real
musicians, kid. We've played the Star Club in Hamburg. When you've been on stage for eight hours a day, every day, like we have, you learn every song that's ever been written.”

The young guitarist looked chastened. There'd been no need for that, Woodend thought – no need at all to broadcast to the whole club that he thought the lad was a prat even before he'd played the opening bars.

The chief inspector's glance took in the rest of the club. The pale, thin Jack Towers was standing at the far end of the tunnel, nervously sucking on a cigarette. He must somehow have managed to get a morning off work from the shipping office. Either that or he'd called in sick.

Just beyond the harassed manager, standing by the snack bar, were Rick Johnson and a middle-aged woman with hair which, even in the poor lighting, Woodend could see was a brassy blonde. The two had their heads close together, as if they were having a serious discussion, and for one brief moment the woman put her hand on Rick Johnson's arm.

The group had started the number. Even to Woodend's untutored ear, the hopeful guitarist seemed to be making a mess of it – but that was hardly surprising after the way Steve Walker had unsettled him.

As Woodend made his way across the back of the club, Jack Towers seemed to notice him for the first time, and stepped directly into his path. The manager's eyes were red, and there was stubble on his chin. He looked as if he had spent a very bad night indeed.

“We've got to have a talk, Chief Inspector,” the manager said. “It's very important!”

It had not been part of Woodend's plan to speak to Towers again until he had more background information, but there was an urgency in the man's tone which suggested he was going to be very insistent.

“Give me half an hour,” Woodend said. “As soon as I've had a chat with Mrs Pollard, I'll get back to you.”

“This won't wait,” Towers said.

Woodend sighed loudly. He was beginning to see what Steve Walker meant when he said that Towers sometimes got so far up his nose that he just felt he had to lash out.

“There are very few things in this world which take any harm for waitin' half an hour to be dealt with,” the chief inspector said. “Listen to the audition, Mr Towers. That's what you're here for.”

But then Towers wasn't really interested in the music, he reminded himself as he walked towards the snack bar. When the Seagulls had first noticed their soon-to-be-manager, he hadn't been swaying with the beat as everyone else had, but just standing there, stock-still.

Rick Johnson had noticed Woodend's approach and was about to beat a hasty retreat, but before he left, Mrs Pollard took the opportunity to touch his arm again. Woodend added that fact to the dossier on Johnson which he was already building up in his mind.

Close to, the owner of the Cellar Club did not look quite as brash as she had from a distance. True, she had the sort of hard features which said she would not stand for being messed about, but beneath that steely exterior Woodend guessed there lurked a soft heart.

“You'll be Mrs Pollard,” he said.

“And you'll be Chief Inspector Woodend, all the way from London,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”

“A cup of tea would hit the spot.”

“I've got something a bit stronger than tea under the counter,” the woman said, winking a heavily made-up eye.

“It's a bit early in the day for me,” Woodend told her.

“It's a bit early in the day for me, too,” Mrs Pollard replied, “but when you've had a murder in your own club, I think you're entitled to it.”

She lifted the flap, stepped behind the counter, and filled the kettle.

The group had just reached the end of ‘Some Other Guy'. “Right, let's have the next one up here,” Steve Walker said.

His audition over – his chance blown – the guitarist in the leather jacket made his way down the steps, his head bowed.

“Give your name an' address to our manager,” Pete Foster said into the mike. “He's standin' over there. We'll be in touch if we need you.”

He was only trying to be kind, Woodend thought. But Pete Foster's kindness was very different to that shown by Steve Walker. Pete spread it thin, so that everyone got a share, while Steve lavished his – in huge dollops – on a few, carefully selected people.

Another young hopeful had already mounted the stage and was standing in front of the mike.

“What's yer name?” Steve Walker asked disinterestedly.

“Phil Rourke.”

“An' what song do you want us to do?” Steve asked. “Better make it somethin' easy,” he continued, casting a brief, contemptuous look at the leather-jacketed youth who was giving his name to Jack Towers, “'cos it's well known we can only play a few tunes.”

“I'd like to do ‘Lime Street Rock',” Phil Rourke said.

The effect of the words on Steve Walker was instantaneous. He seemed to swell with rage, and for a moment Woodend feared that he would club the newcomer with his guitar.

“What's the matter?” Pete Foster asked.

“What's the matter?” Steve Walker repeated. “He wants to play ‘Lime Street Rock' – that's what's the matter!”

“Well, why shouldn't he? It's a good song.”

“It's
Eddie's
song. Eddie wrote it.”

“I know Eddie wrote it, but it's no good to him now, is it?”

The two young men glared at each other across the stage. At this point, the manager should step in and take charge, Woodend thought, but Towers was staying where he was – probably afraid to cross Steve Walker when he had a mood on him.

“Listen, I can do ‘Please Don't Tease' instead,” Phil Rourke said, the expression on his face clearly showing that he suspected what everybody else already knew – that as far as Steve Walker was concerned, he had blown the audition before it even started.

“Yeah, do that one instead,” Pete Foster told him, and before Steve Walker had time to say anything else, he began the count-in to the song. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“My husband had plans to turn this place into the smartest restaurant in Liverpool,” said a voice behind Woodend, and he turned to see that Mrs Pollard had placed a cup of tea at his elbow.

“A restaurant,” Woodend replied, noncommittally.

“A
smart
restaurant,” Mrs Pollard emphasised. “Just look at the place! He must have wanted his bumps feeling for imagining, even for a minute, that the
crème de la crème
of Liverpool society would ever come all the way down here for their fish-and-chip suppers.”

Woodend found himself liking the woman, and chuckled. “But you had other plans,” he suggested.

“I had no plans at all until my Les went and got himself killed,” the woman replied.

“I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

Mrs Pollard shrugged. “No reason why you should. He tripped up, and banged his head on the kerb. Other men can fall off high buildings and live to tell the tale. My Les plunged five feet seven inches to his death.”

“So what gave you the idea for startin' up the club?”

“I was stuck with a useless hole in the ground which I didn't know what to do with, and then I noticed that all the office and shop girls were spending most of their dinnertimes in the record shops. Put the two things together, and you've got the Cellar Club.”

“You seem to have made a nice little business out of it, anyroad,” Woodend said.

“Oh, I'm not complaining.”

“Can I ask you about the night before the murder?”

“Be my guest,” said Mrs Pollard, reaching under the counter and pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label.

“Who went into the dressing room?”

Mrs Pollard was suddenly very cagey. “We gave the local bobbies a list,” she said.

“I know. An' I've got it in my pocket. The question I've got to ask is, is it a complete list?”

“As far as I know,” the club owner lied.

“Look, I'm here to find a murderer – an' for no other reason,” Woodend said. “I'm not in the least concerned about the fact that you've got booze on unlicensed premises . . .”

“That's just for personal use,” Mrs Pollard protested.

“They could still do you for it, luv,” Woodend told her, “but like I said, it's not my concern. Nor am I goin' to worry my head with anythin' else the local bobbies might get upset about – like you runnin' a disorderly house. So why don't you tell me about the girls?”

“How did you know about them?” Mrs Pollard gasped.

“The couch,” Woodend told her. “It was a dead give-away, especially with that curtain.”

The club owner grinned ruefully. “When the boys asked if they could put it in there they said it was so they could grab a bit of shut-eye between sets, but I wasn't fooled for a minute. How the hell could anybody sleep with all the noise going on a few feet away from their lug-holes?”