Death of a Cave Dweller (15 page)

It was just after noon when he arrived at the Grapes, and already the place was filling up with postmen from the North John Street post office, knocking back pints of draught Guinness. Were these postmen troubled at how fast the world seemed to be moving? Did it bother them at all that although they had been born at a time when flying across the Atlantic Ocean was a novelty, they now found themselves living in an age when landing a man on the moon was more than a distinct possibility? Or were they just getting on with the life they had been given and enjoying their dinnertime pint? Probably the latter, Woodend thought. And maybe he would follow their example.

He was just ordering a pint of bitter when he noticed Billie Simmons sitting alone in the corner.

“Make that two pints,” he told the barman.

He took the drinks over to Simmons' table, placed one of them in front of the drummer, and sat down.

Simmons looked at the glass for a couple of seconds, then said, “Is that for me?”

“I've not quite got to the stage of drinkin' my pints in doubles, so it must be,” Woodend told him.

“It's the first time a copper's ever given me anythin' other than a clout round the head,” Billie Simmons said, blunting the harshness of his words with an ironic smile. He raised the glass in the chief inspector's general direction. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Woodend responded, raising his own glass. “So you're on your own then, are you?”

Billie Simmons made a great show of looking under the table. “Seems that way.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Steve's gone off for a drink somewhere else with Terry, Pete's gone off in a sulk, an' Jack's stopped pretendin' he's a real manager an' gone back to the shippin' office.”

“I take it that means that Terry Garner is goin' to be the Seagulls' new lead guitarist.”

“Of course he is. He was at school with Steve, you see. One of his pals. An' now that Eddie's dead, he's found himself suddenly promoted to the position of Steve's best pal.”

“Why do you always let Steve Walker get his own way over things?” Woodend asked.

Billie shrugged. “We need him. Pete might be the brains of the group, but Steve's the heart.”

“And what about you?”

The ironic smile played on Simmons' lips again. “Me? Hasn't anyone told you? I'm just the drummer.”

“Tell me about the girl who was in the dressin' room the night before Eddie Barnes died,” Woodend said.

“Girl?” Simmons repeated. “What girl?”

“The one that somebody had a quick session with on the sofa behind the curtain.”

Simmons' smile became a grin. “Oh, that girl,” he said. “I think her name was Mavis.”

“Had you seen her before?”

“A couple of times.”

“But not since?”

“No.”

“Who took her behind the curtain?”

“Steve.”

“So he knew her, did he?”

Billie Simmons shook his head. “No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He spotted her when were on stage. As were comin' off, he asked me if I knew what she was called.”

Woodend pulled out his cigarettes, and offered Billie one. “Who do you remember bein' in the dressin' room after the club closed?” he asked.

Simmons put his hand over his eyes, as if that would aid his concentration. “Let me see. All the Seagulls were there, an' so were Mike Finn an' his band. A couple of the Fantastics stayed behind. They had their manager with them. Jack turned up just after midnight, an' hung about until we needed drivin' home – like he usually does. Oh, an' a couple of Pete's mates were there an' all.”

“What were you all doin'?”

Simmons grinned again. “Apart from Steve, you mean?”

“Yes, apart from Steve.”

“It's like we told you in the club. We were talkin', smokin', drinkin', messin' about playin' a few tunes. It's what Steve calls ‘attendin' the University of Rock'n'Roll'.”

He had a way with words, did Steve Walker, Woodend thought. “An' all your equipment was where, exactly?” he asked.

“At the end of the dressin' room. Next to the curtain.”

“You know what I think?” Woodend asked. “I think that for anybody to have time to change the wirin' in Eddie's amplifier, somethin' must have happened to distract everybody else's attention. Can you think what that might have been?”

Billie Simmons blinked only once, but Woodend did not miss it. “Are you askin' me if anythin' unusual happened?” the young drummer asked. “Like a fire breakin' out in the waste-paper basket, or somethin' like that?”

“That's it,” Woodend agreed. “Or somethin' like that.”

“No, there was nothin' out of the ordinary,” Simmons said, totally unconvincingly.

“Everybody says they want me to catch this murderer, but nobody seems willing to do anythin' to help me,” Woodend said impatiently. “If you know somethin', Mr Simmons, for God's sake spit it out.”

A look of uncertainty crossed the drummer's face. “I'm an only child,” he said. “My mum was nearly forty when she had me. My dad died when I was three. It wasn't easy for her, bringin' me up, but she always did the best she could, an' I love her to bits.”

“I'm not sure I know where you're goin' with this,” the chief inspector told him.

“The only thing Mum has always worried about is me keepin' my nose clean,” Billie Simmons said. “I think it'd just about kill her if I got into any trouble with the police.”

“Do you think you are in trouble with the police?”

“I could be.”

“What for?”

The hesitancy and uncertainty were still there on Billie Simmons' face. “When we were in Hamburg, we had a pretty wild time,” he said finally. “We were playin' in the club until the early hours of the mornin', an' then goin' on to parties after that. I never added it up, but we can't have got more than three or four hours' sleep a day, an' . . .”

He stopped suddenly, and stared into the middle distance. Woodend turned around, and saw that Bob Rutter had just come through the door.

Billie Simmons drained the half of his pint which remained in one quick gulp. “Look at the time. I have to be goin',” he said.

“You were just about to get somethin' off your chest, weren't you, Billie?” Woodend asked.

Billie Simmons shook his head. “No. You've got it wrong. I was just talkin' about the good old days in Hamburg. That's all.”

He rose to his feet and made a rapid exit.

Rutter slid into the chair the drummer had just vacated.

“Now that's what I call bloody good timin',” Woodend said grumpily.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“That lad, Billie, was just about to tell his Uncle Charlie somethin' very interestin'.”

“What about?”

“I've no idea, because he saw you with your smart suit an' neat haircut, an' he clammed up tighter than a duck's backside.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Rutter said.

“Oh, it's not your fault,” Woodend told him. “It was just unlucky you happened to come in at the moment you did.” He took out his cigarettes and lit one up. “So how did things go down at the local nick?”

“Inspector Hopgood's a lot happier now that we've given him something positive to do,” Bob Rutter said. “He's got half a dozen men out on the street asking Jack Towers' neighbours if they saw the man who pushed the poison-pen letter through the door.”

“That's good,” Woodend said. “Not only does it keep the bugger off our backs for a while, but he might actually find out somethin' useful.”

Rutter smiled, and in that smile Woodend thought he detected the slightest hint of a look of self-congratulation.

“I may just have found out a couple of useful things myself, sir,” the sergeant said.

“Oh aye? An' what exactly might these few interestin' things be, young Robert?”

“I've been checking on which of the people who might be involved in this case have criminal records.”

“And which ones do?”

“Well, for a start, there's Mrs Pollard.”

Woodend raised one eyebrow. “The brassy blonde? Really? What's she been up to?”

Rutter lit one of his cork-tipped cigarettes. “Recently, she's been up to nothing at all. But before she ever met her husband – which must have been back when Adam was a lad – she was on the game.”

“Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs!” Woodend said. But he was thinking: ‘Back when Adam was a lad.' Bloody hell, he makes her sound ancient, and she's younger than I am.

“She was nicked a couple of times for soliciting outside Lime Street Station,” Rutter continued, not noticing his boss's expression. “She's never actually done time, but she paid a few fines.”

“An' now she's a successful club owner,” Woodend mused.

“Leslie Pollard, her late husband, was a rag-and-bone merchant. Started with a horse and cart, but eventually bought his own lorry. According to an old bobby I talked to down at the station, most people who knew him thought he was a bit slow – especially when he decided to marry a woman who was well known to be a prostitute – but he can't have been that thick, can he, or he'd never have got enough money together to buy what eventually became the Cellar Club?”

“Are there any suspicious circumstances surroundin' his death?” the chief inspector asked.

Rutter shook his head. “He was coming out of the pub with some of his mates last thing one Saturday night. All the witnesses said he'd had a fair amount to drink, and he simply lost his balance. It was just hard luck for him that he hit the kerb badly. He had a brain haemorrhage and died on the way to hospital.”

Woodend nodded. “You said you'd been lookin' at criminal records in the plural. Who else have you got somethin' on?”

“Rick Johnson.”

“Ah, your favourite candidate for toppin' Eddie Barnes,” Woodend said. “I already know about him. He's been inside for GBH, hasn't he? Eighteen months he got, if I remember correctly.”

“That's right. Eighteen months,” Rutter agreed. “Then, of course there's Steve Walker.”

“Has
he
got a record?”

“He's never actually been charged with anything, but he's no stranger to the police station. From what I could gather, he doesn't need much an excuse to start throwing punches.”

“Yes. I'd already got the impression that young Steve has a bit of a temper on him.”

Rutter's smile was now definitely self-congratulatory. “Do you know what's
really
interesting, sir?” he asked.

“No, I don't,” the chief inspector said dryly. “Why don't you enlighten me, lad.”

“The last time Rick Johnson was in any trouble with the police was about a month ago. He got into a fight with another man in a pub. According to eyewitnesses again, it could have turned quite nasty if a third chap hadn't appeared and broken it up. Anyway, the constable on the beat walked Johnson down the local nick, where they knew him well, and where he would have been charged right then and there – but for one thing.”

Woodend sighed heavily. “I know you like to spin your stories out, lad,” he said, “an' I'm sure you'd be a big hit on the music-hall circuit. But you have to admit, this is a bit long-winded even for you.”

Rutter grinned, sheepishly. “Sorry, sir. The reason that Rick Johnson wasn't charged with the assault was that the victim went down the police station himself, said it was all his own fault, and insisted he'd give evidence to that effect if the case ever got to court.”

“So?” Woodend asked.

“So the man Rick Johnson attacked – apparently for no reason – was Eddie Barnes . . .”

“Really?” Woodend said.

“. . . and the man who split them up before any real damage could be done was Steve Walker.”

“Now that
is
interestin',” the chief inspector agreed.

W
oodend stood in the doorway of the Grapes, looking at the little drama which was unfolding just across the road in front of the Cellar Club. There were two participants. One of them was Rick Johnson. The other was a smaller man who was probably around the same age as the bouncer. He was wearing blue overalls, and from the oil stains on them it seemed likely that he was some kind of mechanic.

For someone who often thought with his fists, Rick Johnson seemed to go in for a lot of intense conversations, Woodend thought. First there had been the one with his wife on the hard seats in front of the Cellar Club stage; then the one with Mrs Pollard, during which she'd managed to touch his arm twice; and now here he was in deep discussion with a man who was a complete stranger to the chief inspector.

The smaller man was reaching forward, and poking Johnson in the chest. The doorman angrily brushed his arm aside. For a couple of seconds, it looked as if they would both start throwing punches. Then the smaller man turned and strode furiously away.

Woodend walked across the street, aware that Johnson's eyes were on him, feeling the other man's hostility even from a distance.

“That feller a mate of yours, is he?” he asked the doorman when he was close enough to speak without shouting.

“No, he isn't,” Rick Johnson replied sulkily.

“But you're obviously acquainted with him.”

“Yes, I know him. He's a troublemaker. That's why, when he asked if he could get into the club, I told him he couldn't.”

“Funny that he should try to get into the club at all in overalls, isn't it?” Woodend asked. “Most of the lads wear suits.”

“He said he only had an hour for dinner, an' he didn't have time to go home an' get changed,” Rick Johnson told him. “An' said that I wouldn't have let him into the club whatever he'd been wearin'.”