Death of a Cave Dweller (7 page)

Rutter frowned. “So you're not really as confident as you sounded a few minutes ago?”

“Well, of course I'm not sure,” Woodend replied. “Detection's hardly a science at the best of times. It's not like workin' in a laboratory, when the only thing the rats are interested in is food, an' there's only two or three ways they can get it. Murderers' minds are much more complicated than that. So I'm never confident I'm goin' to get a result. An' when I say that, I'm talkin' about a result in the straightforward cases – which this one obviously isn't. But one thing I am sure of – we'll have more chance doin' it my way than if we behaved like the good little bobbies Inspector Hopgood wants us to be.”

“So what line do you think we should be taking?”

“I won't know until I've had a root around an' stirred things up a bit,” Woodend admitted, “but if you're askin' me to put my money on anythin', I'd say we should start by lookin' for a motive.”

Inspector Hopgood returned, still looking flushed. “I've spoken to my Chief Super, sir,” he said, “and he says the last thing he wants to do is inhibit your investigation.”

“I'm pleased to hear it,” Woodend said. “Now would you like to tell me what strings are attached?”

“No strings, sir,” the inspector replied unconvincingly. “But the boss did mention in passing that he would appreciate it if you'd keep him up to date with developments.”

“A very reasonable request,” Woodend said easily. “Tell him to rest assured that as soon as they
are
any developments to be reported, he'll be the first to know about them.” He checked his watch. “The club should be just about closin' now. Time for us to make a move.”

“You're going back to the Cellar?” Hopgood asked.

“I am if my sergeant made the phone call I asked him to make. Did you, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” Rutter replied, deadpan.

Hopgood was slowly piecing things together. The quiet conversation the sergeant and the chief inspector had had in the doorway of the Grapes before Woodend went off to the club. The fact that Rutter had excused himself, saying he wanted a pee, and had been gone for nearly five minutes.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be at all! If anybody was to keep anything from anybody else, it should be him keeping vital facts from Woodend and Rutter, so he could conduct his own investigation. Yet despite the fact that the Scotland Yard men had been in Liverpool for only a couple of hours, they were already blind-siding him.

“So you made the call, Sergeant, but you didn't think to tell Inspector Hopgood about it?” Woodend asked innocently.

“Must have slipped my mind, sir,” Rutter confessed.

Woodend shook his head. “These young lads we have to work with,” he said to Hopgood. “They've no idea how to a proper job, have they? I blame it on the army. You used to go in a boy an' come out a man, but they seem to handle the conscripts with kid gloves these days.”

Hopgood wasn't fooled for a second – but then he suspected that Woodend hadn't wanted him to be.

“Would you like to tell me about the phone call
now
, sir?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh aye. That list you gave us down at the Chandler's Arms is already provin' very useful. I asked the sergeant to phone the Seagulls' manager at work, an' tell him to round up his lads an' meet us in the club as soon as it was closed for the afternoon. Did you succeed in that mission, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So that's what we're doin', Inspector. We're goin' back to the club to talk to the Seagulls.”

He should never have given them the bloody list, Hopgood thought. He should have made them come to him for every name and every address that they required. But how could he have known that the stories they told about Woodend in the canteen were only a pale imitation of the real thing?

“I suppose I'd better come with you and make the introductions,” the inspector said, trying to sound casual.

Woodend drained the last few drops of his pint. “Thanks, but that won't be necessary,” he said.

“It's no trouble.”

“I'm sure it isn't,” Woodend agreed. “But I'm equally sure that a hard-workin' bobby like you can find better things do with his time than tag around behind me. Besides, bein' questioned by two policeman is intimidatin' enough for most people – even if one of them is no more than a lad. There's no point in completely overwhelmin' 'em with three.”

“As you wish, sir,” Hopgood said, ungraciously.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Woodend replied. He turned to Rutter. “Before we leave Liverpool, you really must remind me to have a word with the Chief Super about how co-operative Mr Hopgood's been.”

Hopgood watched the two Scotland Yard men leave
the pub. They had won this particular round, he told himself, but
if he had anything to do with it, the hand raised in victory at
the end of the contest would be his.

T
he typists and shop assistants who had been gyrating to the beat of Mickey Finn and the Knockouts had drifted back to their desks in the typing pools and their positions behind department-store counters, and without them to fill up the space, the brick-vaulted Cellar Club seemed achingly empty. Not that it had been entirely abandoned. Rick Johnson and his wife were sitting on a couple of the hard chairs facing the stage, talking in low and urgent tones, and four young men were standing by the snack bar, looking very ill at ease.

“We'll be with you in a couple of minutes,” Woodend called to the men at the bar. He turned to his sergeant. “We'll go an' have a look the murder scene first, shall we?”

They walked up the side of the middle tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the arched ceiling. Once they had mounted the small stage, Woodend swung around to face the back of the club.

This was almost the last thing Eddie Barnes ever saw, he thought – a cramped, sweaty cave of a place, full of adoring female fans.

There was no door separating the dressing room from the stage, just a jagged gap in the wall, where the bricks had been knocked out.

Woodend sighed. The fellers who had built this place, back in Charles Dickens' day, had taken pride in their work, even though they knew that it was only going to be used for storage. The ones who had modified it – to make it into a place for people – hadn't been bothered to make more than a botched job of it. And they said progress was
always
a good thing.

Bending his head to avoid banging it, Woodend stepped through the gap. The dressing room itself was longer than it was wide, and was illuminated by a single, naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Near the door was a cupboard which contained the disc jockey's turntable and records. Beyond that were several rickety chairs and an equally rickety table. The whole place stank of sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

“Ah, the glamour an' magic of show business,” Woodend said, almost to himself.

He picked his way between the chairs to a small, stained sink. It didn't take a detective to work out that the lads who played in the groups used this more as a toilet than for washing – the smell of urine provided all the evidence anyone would need.

Guitars and amplifiers were heaped up in a pile next to the sink, and beyond them was a curtained-off area. Woodend drew the curtain back, and found himself looking down at a battered couch.

“Looks like they have all the comforts of home in here,” Rutter said, over his shoulder.

“Aye, a real little palace all right,” Woodend replied.

The two policemen climbed down the steps again, and Woodend walked over to Rick Johnson and his wife.

“Why don't you slip out and have a cup of coffee?” he suggested. “Half an hour should be long enough.”

Johnson jumped slightly, as though he'd been so wrapped up in his conversation he hadn't even heard the chief inspector's approach.

“If we want coffee, we can get it here,” he said.

Woodend shook his head disbelievingly. “Don't play thick with me, lad. You know what I meant. I want you out of here, so I can have a private conversation with the Seagulls.”

“I'm not supposed to leave the club unless the door's locked behind me,” Johnson said.

“What? Worried about burglars when you're leavin' two bobbies inside?” Woodend asked. “Trust me, lad, the place'll be safe enough.”

“I've got my instructions,” Johnson said stubbornly.

“I think we'd better go, Rick,” his wife told him. “After all, if this policeman wants to—”

“Keep your trap shut, Lucy!” Johnson said angrily.

The woman – the girl! Woodend couldn't think of her as a woman, even if she was married – looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together on her lap. Her brown hair, which curled in to cover her cheeks, shifted slightly, and the chief inspector saw the bruise under her right eye.

Woodend thought of his own daughter again, and felt a sudden anger rising from the pit of his stomach.

“Have you been knockin' your wife about, Mr Johnson?” he demanded roughly.

“What's that got to do with you?” Rick Johnson said, jumping to his feet and thrusting out his chin aggressively.

“Go on, take a swing at me,” Woodend said softly. “I'd really like you to do that.”

“Why? So you can summons me for assault?”

Woodend shook his head. “No. Because it'll give me just the excuse I'm lookin' for to knock you flat on your arse.”

“You an' whose army?” Johnson sneered.

“Sir . . .” Rutter said, putting his hand on Woodend's arm.

The chief inspector brushed the hand away. “You stay out of this, Bob,” he warned. “This is between him an' me.” He turned his attention back to the doorman. “I'll tell you somethin' for nothin', Johnson. You might get the better of me, but you won't find it as easy as beatin' up a kid like her.”

The two men stood glaring at each other, Johnson with his fists bunched, Woodend watchful and tensed. It seemed as if they would be like that for ever – until, perhaps, they had turned into stone – then Lucy Johnson said, “Rick didn't hit me. I walked into a door.”

Woodend was struck by how vulnerable her voice sounded. It was almost, he thought, like the cry of an injured kitten.

“You heard her!” Rick Johnson said. “I didn't hit her. She walked into a door.”

“Well, you'd better make sure she doesn't walk into any more,” Woodend told him. He forced his body to relax. “But to get back to the other matter, I'm goin' to have to insist you leave the club now. I'll square it with Mrs Pollard.”

Johnson looked down at his wife, then put his hand on her arm and half-assisted, half-pulled her to her feet.

“Half an hour,” he grunted. “That's how long we've got to be out of the club, isn't it?”

“Half an hour,” Woodend agreed.

He watched them head for the stairs, Johnson with his arm around his wife's shoulders, then he and his sergeant made their way across to the snack bar. The four people waiting for them there were the three surviving members of the Seagulls and their manager, Jack Towers. The manager was wearing a blue suit, but the group members, he noted, were all dressed in black turtle-necked sweaters, imported American bluejeans – and brown boots with metal studs in the heels.

“It was good of you all to make the time to see me at such short notice,” Woodend said.

One of the Seagulls, the one with the sharp features and quick, intelligent eyes, snorted.

“I don't know how things work down in London, but up here in Liverpool, when you're told the filth want to see you, you always manage to find the time,” he said. “Unless, of course, you talk with a posh accent or live in one of them big houses in Blundellsands. Then, for some strange reason, the police don't seem to bother you at all.”

“Aye, they do say posh people can get away with murder, don't they?” Woodend replied. “But it's not true. Nobody gets away with murder. Not if I can help it.”

“Well, I'm sure that's a great comfort to us all. But it won't bring Eddie back, will it?”

The young man was angry, Woodend thought, but beneath that anger lay a deeper pain. “I don't think I caught your name,” he said.

“That's probably because I never told it to you.”

“Would you like to tell me now?” asked the chief inspector, refusing to be rattled.

“It's Walker. Steve Walker.”

The one who called the shots, Woodend reminded himself – the one who'd taken young Eddie Barnes out drinking with him whether the dead guitarist had wanted to go or not.

“Would the rest of you mind telling me who you are?” the chief inspector asked.

“I'm Jack Towers, the manager,” said the man in the suit.

He was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, Woodend decided. He was tall and skinny, wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, and had pale sensitive features. He probably found the abrasive Steve Walker very hard to handle at times.

“You're a shippin' clerk, aren't you, Mr Towers?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jack Towers agreed reluctantly, almost as though he considered working in a shipping office some kind of crime. “But that's only temporary. As soon as the boys take off . . .”

“So were you workin' at your desk at the time that Eddie Barnes was murdered?”

“No,” the manager said. “I was right here. I always try to catch the boys' performances.”

“Jack thinks if he's not there to watch over us, we'll fall apart,” Steve Walker sneered.

“We need Jack,” said another member of the group, a boy who was probably the same age as Walker, but had not yet quite lost his puppy fat. “He stops us from goin' off the deep end.”

Towers rewarded the young man's support with a short, nervous smile. “Thank you, Pete.”