Death of a Cave Dweller (20 page)

“Yes, you do,” Doctor Atkinson countered. “As long as you've got the money to pay for it.”

“So it's a private room, is it?”

“That's right.”

“An' how does a shippin' clerk manage to get enough money together to afford a private room?”

The doctor smiled. “He doesn't, of course. But there was one available, and I thought that, since he was only going to be here for a short time, we might as well give him all the comfort we could.”

“If you're like that with everybody, I must remember to come here myself the next time I'm sick,” Woodend said, then, noticing the doctor was looking a little sheepish, he added, “but it's
not
like that with everybody, is it?”

“No,” the doctor admitted. “It isn't.”

“So what has humble Jack Towers done to merit gettin' such special treatment?”

Doctor Atkinson smiled defensively. “I know all doctors are supposed to be as square as anything in their choice of music,” he said, “but the fact is, I happen to be a really big fan of the Seagulls. So, naturally, when someone told me that Mr Towers was their manager, I took that extra bit of care. It was the least I could do after all the pleasure they've given me. And who knows – when they finally hit the big time, Mr Towers might just remember me and send me a front-row ticket for one of their concerts.”

“Aye, maybe he will,” Woodend agreed. “I can see why you're so enthusiastic about them – I've become a bit of a fan myself over the last couple of days. I like most of the stuff they do. But do you know what my favourite song of theirs is? Would you like to have a guess?”

The doctor smiled weakly. “I've worked far too many hours on this shift to have any brain left for playing guessing games,” he said.

“All right, I'll tell you,” Woodend said genially. He took a deep breath, like a compère who is just about to announce the winner of a beauty contest. “My absolute favourite is ‘Lime Street Rock'.”

“It's one of my favourites, too,” the doctor agreed.

“You've got to hand it to that Steve Walker, he certainly does know how to put a song together, doesn't he?” Woodend asked.

“Yes, he certainly does,” Atkinson agreed.

Woodend gave the other man a second questioning look. “Well, I'll wish you good night, then, doctor,” he said, “though I've no doubt we'll be seein' each other again.”

Woodend gave a parting smile to the pretty sister, and stepped through the main entrance out into the night air. There was a slight chill in the atmosphere, and even though it was nearly the middle of April, he suspected that there might be a ground frost the next morning.

The police car which had brought him to the hospital was still parked down the road where he'd left it, but now there was a uniformed officer standing beside the bonnet.

Bloody Hopgood! Woodend thought. What's that bugger doin' out at this time of night?

The chief inspector stopped to light a cigarette and collect his thoughts. Hopgood's appearance on the scene might have brought some helpful information, but Woodend very much doubted it. What was much more likely, especially after the stroke he had pulled earlier, was that the local inspector was about to stick his nose just where it wasn't wanted.

Woodend took a deep drag on his Capstan Full Strength, and walked up to the car.

“Good evenin', Inspector Hopgood,” he said. “Or maybe it would be more accurate to say, good mornin'. What can I do for you?”

Hopgood smirked. “I think that it's more a case of what I can do for you, sir,” he said complacently. “While
you've
been in there talking to Jack Towers,
I've
been very busy out on the street. I've already cleared up the little matter of who assaulted Mr Towers, and I think it's also highly likely that I'm about to hand you your murderer on a plate.”

“Tell me more,” Woodend said.

“The way I see it is this. The murder could have been carried out by anybody who knew a little about electrical wiring, so it could have been committed by a woman, or even an old-aged pensioner. But . . .” he held up his right index finger “. . . the attack on Jack Towers had to be carried out by a man – a very strong, very violent man. Are you following me?”

“Aye,” Woodend said. “By some miracle, I do seem to be keepin' up with you.”

“So the question I asked myself was, ‘Who amongst Towers' acquaintances has a reputation for violence?'”

“An' the name you came up with was Steve Walker's?”

Inspector Hopgood's grin broadened. “No, the name I came up with was Rick Johnson's. In case you've forgotten, sir, he attacked Eddie Barnes in a pub just a few weeks before the murder.”

“I hadn't forgotten actually,” Woodend told him. “Even my ale-soaked brain cells are capable of retainin' a
few
facts.”

“Anyway, having worked that out, I took a couple of my lads, and we went to pay young Master Johnson a call,” Hopgood continued enthusiastically. “It was after one o'clock when we got there—”

“Which would make it about half an hour before you got round to phonin' me, wouldn't it?” Woodend said pointedly.

“Yes, sorry about that,” Hopgood replied, not meaning a word of it. “I had actually intended to ring you earlier, but with everything else which was going on, it slipped my mind.”

“I'm sure it did,” Woodend said dryly. “So, you took a couple of your lads round Rick Johnson's house just after one o'clock. An' what did you find when you got there?”

“The rest of the street was in darkness, as you might have expected, but there was still a light on in Johnson's kitchen. I sent one of the lads round the back, in case he made a run for it when I knocked on the front door, but as it turned out there was no need. As bold as brass, Johnson answered the front door himself.”

“Hardly the act of a guilty man.”

“You'd never have said that if you'd seen the state of him.”

“Why? What was the matter with him?”

“He had a black eye, and there were a couple of bruises on his face.” Hopgood wagged his index finger again, as if he were giving Woodend a lesson in criminology. “Now this is the point. Did Jack Towers say anything to you about getting in a few punches himself before he went down?”

“Aye,” Woodend said. “That's another fact I amazin'ly seem to have retained in this thick skull of mine.”

“Well, then, we're forced to the obvious conclusion that that it was Johnson who attacked Towers.”

“Why?” Woodend asked.

“Why what, sir?”

“Why on earth would Rick Johnson ever want to beat the crap out of Jack Towers?”

For the first time, Inspector Hopgood looked a little uncomfortable. “I don't know that, yet,” he admitted. “But I've got him sweating it out in the cells even as we speak, and it can only be a matter of time before he comes clean and tells me everything I want to know.”

“There's lots of ways that a feller can get himself a black eye,” Woodend pointed out. “He could simply have been in a fight in a pub. As you so kindly reminded me a few minutes ago, Inspector, it wouldn't be the first time that's happened. He's got a record of violence.”

“That's very true,” Hopgood agreed, the complacent smile returning to his face. “But if he'd been in a fight in a pub, he would have admitted it when I made it plain that I was arresting him for the attack down by the docks – because that would have been his alibi.”

“An' what did he
actually
say?”

Hopgood sniggered. “He claimed that he'd walked into a door. I told him I didn't believe him – not unless the door's name was Jack Towers. Anyway, we've got him now, and I'm confident that by breakfast time he'll have confessed to beating up Jack Towers. Then I'll hand him over to you – and you can get him to confess to killing Eddie Barnes as well.”

“It's not his style,” Woodend said.

“What isn't?”

“Ringin' up somebody an' pretendin' to be a frightened man with some important information. Lurin' people into dark alleys, then attackin' them without warnin'. Rick Johnson's the kind of feller who wants you to know exactly who it is who's duffin' you up. Bloody hell, he nearly took a pop at me in the Cellar Club – in front of half a dozen witnesses. I just can't see him havin' either the inclination or the patience to lay a trap.”

Hopgood frowned. “I wonder if you'd be saying that if you'd been the one who arrested him,” he said, almost under his breath.

“Just what are you suggestin' by that remark, Inspector?” Woodend asked, lighting up another Capstan Full Strength.

“Nothing, sir. I'm just saying.”

“Cards on the table,” Woodend said. “Tell me what's on your mind, an' I promise you there'll be no comeback.”

Hopgood hesitated for a second. “With respect, sir,” he said in a tone which suggested that he had very little respect at all, “I think you resent the fact that we might have caught your murderer for you.”

Woodend's eyes narrowed. “Is that right?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. It is. I'd even go so far as to say that I think you'd rather have no murderer under arrest at all than have one who you've got to through the Liverpool Police.”

The chief inspector took a deep drag on his cigarette. “So that's how you see me, is it?” he asked. “In your eyes I'm the sort of feller who's so bloody self-important that he wants all the credit for solvin' every crime he investigates – whether or not he deserves it?”

“You asked me for my opinion, and I gave it to you.”

Woodend shook his head slowly from one side to
the other. “You really are a bloody fool, aren't you,
Inspector Hopgood?”

T
he next morning, the people of Liverpool woke up to find that frost had formed a shimmering sheen on the early-morning pavements. Everyone took the usual precautions. Drivers drove to work slower than usual. Old people, fearing a fall, took cautious footsteps. And children, their satchels on their backs, attempted to slide all the way to school. Then the sun rose from behind the high civic buildings, and quickly vanquished its old foe.

Woodend and Rutter sat in the cafe near Lime Street Station, the chief inspector munching his way through an egg-and-bacon buttie, the sergeant contenting himself with a lightly boiled egg.

“The problem with this whole bloody case is that while I can see a logical solution, I somehow can't bring myself to accept it,” Woodend said. “You know what I mean, lad?”

Rutter shook his head. “No, sir, I'm not sure that I do.”

“Right,” Woodend said. “Let me talk you through it. The note Jack Towers found on his doormat said, ‘Which one will die next? Get out of Liverpool while you have the chance.' The feller who attacked Towers down at the docks last night said virtually the same thing. So it seems to me that the same man was responsible for both the letter an' the attack.”

“Agreed.”

“An' that fact turns the whole investigation on its head. You see, up until now, we weren't sure whether the letter-writer was a crank or not. But once we've found out he's not just full of piss an' wind, we have to accept that he was probably also the man who killed Eddie Barnes.”

“Go on,” Rutter said encouragingly.

“Which means that Barnes was killed because he was a Seagull, not because he was Eddie. An' the only reason I can come up with for anybody wantin' to hurt the Seagulls is jealousy. Somebody else wants what they've got. An' that's where I have my problem – because they haven't got a lot. Certainly not enough for anybody to risk life imprisonment tryin' to get it off them.”

“Maybe the attack on Towers had no other purpose than to create an elaborate smokescreen,” Rutter suggested.

Woodend stopped munching, and looked intently at his sergeant. “Go on,” he said. “I'm listenin'.”

“Say the theory that Steve Walker killed Eddie Barnes because he felt betrayed by him is actually what really happened,” Rutter argued. “Now Walker's not stupid, is he?”

“Far from it.”

“And because he's not stupid, he'll have realised that we were bound to find out about Eddie's plans to leave the group eventually, isn't he?”

“Very probably.”

“And where does that leave him? As a prime suspect! So he needs to put us off the track, and he does it by writing a note to Jack Towers which he hopes will lead us to think that
all
the Seagulls are in danger. But even then he's not entirely happy, because he's still not sure we're convinced about the threat to the group. That's why he beats up Towers. To convince us.”

“He's big enough an' hard enough to have hurt Towers,” Woodend said thoughtfully. “An' he could certainly have carried off that ‘scared feller on the telephone' act. But I still don't see him as our murderer.”

“I think that part of your problem in that may be that you like the lad,” Rutter asked cautiously.

For a second, the notion astounded Woodend, and then he began to see that his sergeant was right. Almost without noticing it, he
had
come to like the abrasive, kind-hearted Steve Walker. But he mustn't let that influence the way he carried out his investigation.

“If your instinct tells you Walker's our man, we'll go for him with both barrels blazin',” he told his sergeant.

“You're misunderstanding me, sir,” Rutter replied. “I only used Walker as an example. I could have used Pete Foster or even Billie Simmons just as easily. The fact is that anyone in the club that night could have done what I just suggested Steve Walker might have done. The main point I was trying to make is that we should be looking for a man who killed for a personal motive, not a potential serial killer driven by jealousy.”