The End of the Roadie (A Mystery for D.I Costello) (13 page)

Carla thought for a moment. “It was just a bloke,” she said, eventually.

“Dark? Fair? Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”

“Definitely not fat but he was sitting down so I couldn’t tell how tall he was. And I can’t remember the colour of his hair.”

Angela felt her energy level depleting. She rose. “You’ve been very helpful, Carla. We might need to speak to you again but you’ve given us some food for thought.”

“Not a problem,” answered Carla, jumping up from the sofa and going ahead of them to the door. “Glad I was able to help. It’s horrible for Brendan to have this upset going on around him. He needs to have it cleared up as soon as possible.”

Gary must have been flagging as much as Angela because neither of them said anything in the car until they were nearly
home again. Then: “What did you make of that, Gary?” asked Angela.

“I found it cloying; she’s so focused on Brendan. I’ve never come across that before. I mean, I know Maddie really likes Brendan Phelan and plays his music a lot, but she’s – well – she’s got a life. It doesn’t occupy her every waking hour. And the trouble Carla’s taking to get to sleep with him. That’s bizarre.”

“It’s not bizarre to Carla, Gary. The love she feels for Brendan is very real to her. But you’re right; there are fans and there are
fans
. OK, fan considerations aside. What do you make of the premise that Oliver ‘supplied’ Brendan with women – well, girl-like women, at least?”

Gary shook his head as if to clear it of some confusion. “That makes him sound like a bit of a kiddie fiddler and I can’t really compute that.”

“Me neither. From what I’ve read in the papers, and now having met him, Brendan strikes me as an intelligent, normal man whose romantic taste runs strictly to his female contemporaries, and I’m sure he didn’t need Oliver Joplin to provide them for him.”

“Rhetorical question?”

“Yes?”

“Carla thinks otherwise, which means…?”

“Oliver obviously recognized Carla’s not-so-well-hidden agenda and came out with this line about supplying women. Maybe he saw it from the start as a way to string Carla along and have her for himself.”

“Which is what happened.”

“Indeed, and she’s swallowed the story whole because she desperately wants to be one of the ‘women’.”

“I have no trouble buying that explanation. But it still leaves us with the fact that an odd relationship
did
seem to exist between Oliver and Brendan.”

“Yes.” Angela sighed. “And if we don’t think it was to supply underage-looking women we need to find out its true nature. But not tonight; I’m whacked. I’ll get Leanne to set up another interview with Brendan. She’ll love doing that.”

Most of the crowd keeping watch across the street from Brendan’s property had disappeared by the time Angela and Gary arrived the following morning. Just a few stalwarts hung on, staring with curiosity as their car drove through and disappeared out of sight of the road. As before, Desmond Phelan opened the door. “Ah, he’s out the back,” he said by way of greeting. “Follow me.”

“Out the back” in Angela’s experience meant a garden with a shed at the end, or possibly a small yard. “Out the back” in Brendan Phelan’s house involved a walk past a very inviting-looking swimming pool and across a vast velvety lawn to a structure the size of a small house in the shade of some trees. Even then Angela wasn’t sure they’d arrived at the end of the garden. Desmond led them into a tiny vestibule and opened a further door to a loud blast of music from within. As he went in ahead of them, Angela and Gary could see a very impressive sound recording console. Brendan, Terry Dexter and the other members of the band leaned over this, involved in some sort of discussion. Desmond went over and shouted in his brother’s ear and Brendan looked towards the door. He smiled, nodded and addressed those present. “OK, everyone, cop-time for me. Carry on; I’ll be back soon.” He joined Angela and Gary. “Good morning, Inspector Costello and – er – not inspector,” he smiled.

“Detective Constable,” grinned Gary, as Brendan led them back to the house.

“Ah yes, Houseman, wasn’t it? Any relation?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Gary. He looked, impressed, at
the other man. “My name has an ‘e’ in it. I don’t often get asked that question.”

“One of my teachers at school had a thing about the First World War poets. Housman and Kipling struck a particular chord with me.”

“Sorry to interrupt your – er – jam session,” said Angela. “I hate to disturb the creative flow.” They’d reached the kitchen now, a sumptuously appointed room. They skirted round a central island top with glistening marble, arriving at the hall they’d first entered on their previous visit.

“It’s not a jam session,” answered Brendan, mounting the stairs. “More editing. We’re redoing the arrangements to stuff I wrote a few years ago and haven’t used yet.” Angela turned her head and glanced at Gary, remembering Tilly Townsend’s frustration about the lack of recent output from Brendan.

Once in the living room, Brendan sank into the cream sofa, indicating the empty space beside him and the chair opposite. Angela sat down next to him. Gary took the other seat. “Have you come to arrest me?” His eyes twinkled and a smiled played around his mouth, but it contained the merest hint of uncertainty. Smiling back at him, with what she hoped was a reassuring expression, gave Angela the opportunity to look more closely at his face. She took in the lines of strain and the dark shadows under his eyes. She decided to pick up the gauntlet he’d thrown down.

“Why would I arrest you?” she asked.

Brendan tried for nonchalance with a shrug but the burst of laughter that came out at the same time held a faint note of hysteria. “Oh, you know – I was conveniently placed, after all.”

“Not for shooting Oliver Joplin in the back of the head,” replied Angela. Brendan’s response intrigued her. She made a note to go through every possible sequence of the event with
Gary, later. Her words had the desired effect; she saw Brendan relax.

“So, what’s it to be today, then?”

“I want to ask you more about the conversation you were having with Oliver just before the shot,” she said, smiling into his eyes; strongly reminded, once again, of Patrick.

The tension returned immediately. Angela could almost feel his mouth go dry. As if in confirmation his tongue came out and he moistened his lips. “It’s just what I said before,” he said. He attempted a cheery smile but it didn’t go with the slight crack in his voice.

“We’ve been speaking to a few people and it seems that several of your team are puzzled by the relationship between you and Oliver.”

“Relationship? You must be mistaken! They must be mistaken!” His voice had gone up a whole octave. He coughed as if to cover the rise in tone.

Angela felt sorry for him. She could see his natural inclination went towards honesty. He would never cut it as a liar. “Several of the people who work with you spoke of Oliver engaging you in conversation from time to time – separately and specifically. And by your own admission you and he were talking together outside the theatre when the shooting took place.”

Brendan gave an uncertain smile. “I told you about that already.”

“Yes.” Angela flipped back the pages in her notebook. “You were taking him to task about his attitude, something you’d normally leave to your production manager but you said you’d decided to man up.” Angela smiled at him. She didn’t want him to think she was being sarcastic.

Brenda waited a moment before speaking. Angela sensed he wanted his voice to come out at its normal pitch. “That’s it,” he said eventually.

Angela decided to let him have the benefit of the doubt for the moment. “So what were these other occasions all about, when you and he were seen having these little chats?”

Brendan, relaxed, gave a tentative smile and emitted a small “Pah!” The nonchalance returned with greater strength. “Oh, you know, Inspector. Olly was the longest-serving member of the crew. He liked to do a bit of the old pals act in front of the others, give them the impression that he was ‘in’ with me in a way they weren’t. There’s a hierarchy backstage just as there is in any other organization.”

“But he didn’t have any special relationship with you?”

“Not at all – he was just a crew member, and not, as I think I’ve indicated, one of the most valuable ones.”

Angela prepared a fresh page in her notebook. “If that’s the case,” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice, “why did you continue to employ him?”

The hands lying along Brendan’s thighs balled into fists and the knuckles whitened. He flicked a glance to her, saw that she had noticed, and tried to straighten them out, but they refused to cooperate. “Oh, you know how it is,” he said, making a very good attempt at keeping his voice normal. It nearly worked. “You get used to someone. It can be easier than breaking in new crew.”

Angela looked at him. She was very gentle but firm. “I don’t think that’s quite how things were, is it?”

Brendan shot up and all but hopped across the room. He came to a stop before the tall window looking out towards the Heath. He swivelled round to face them then, his eyes darting from one to the other, the fear unmistakable. “I didn’t kill him!” he shouted, his voice up again. He moved from one foot to the other, agitation showing in every sinew.

Angela remained very calm. “We’re not accusing you of murdering him,” she said. “But there’s something here you’re
not telling us. It would be helpful if we could eliminate it from the enquiry.”

Brendan took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. “It’s not relevant,” he said finally, in a near-normal voice.

“I think I should be the judge of that,” replied Angela.

Tears started in Brendan’s eyes. “I’ll be ruined,” he croaked, barely able to get the words out.

“Brendan, we’re investigating a murder. If this has nothing to do with the case it won’t be mentioned again, but we do need to eliminate it.”

Brendan’s whole body sagged. He nodded in defeat. He came back and sat down next to her on the sofa. “Brother Xavier was right. When I was at school I thought a monk must be naive, not a clue what the real world’s like; but I was wrong. He had the right of it then and he’s still right.”

“Did this, whatever it is, begin when you were at school?”

Brendan shook his head. “No, years after I’d left. It’s been even worse since it all came out about the late Jimmy Savile and what he was really up to. And now there are all these other cases, some of them total nonsense, as you know. And that man, Oliver Joplin, was the monkey on my back for the past eight years.”

Angela nodded, getting an idea of where this was leading. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“In the beginning – yes.” Brendan steadied himself with a deep breath. “In the beginning there was a young pop star. He was doing very well, his songs were very popular and he had thousands of fans, most of them young women, many of them imagining themselves in love with him.”

“Yes, I remember your meteoric rise to fame.”

Brendan’s worried expression softened for a moment. “Yes. It sounds like a cliché but that is how it happened.” He looked at her. “The trouble is, my fame outstripped me. I got left behind.”

Angela was puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I could fill a theatre with thousands of girls – but could I hold one in my arms?”

“Ah!” said Angela, then remembered. “But you have a girlfriend, surely?”

Brendan gave a bleak grin. “And a model of patience she is, I can assure you. I’m talking about eight years ago. Fame was still a new thing and a bit scary, if the truth be told. But I had my impulses and my energy, just like any other young man. The trouble was, I didn’t feel comfortable with the women who made themselves available, you get me?”

“You’re talking about groupies.”

“Yes. Olly was someone who watched people. He could tell you all about the weaknesses of the entire crew and the band. I mean, I know this now; I didn’t then. He came up to me this one time. I thought he was genuinely sympathetic. We were at a party, the end of the first major tour. It had gone way better than we could have hoped and I think we were all on a high. The drink flowed and the air had a slight tinge of wacky backy, and you could barely move for well-wishers. I think that’s when it first struck me. Everybody either had a partner on their arm or was busy chatting someone up – and there’s me in the corner doing a lonesome man act. The truth is, I suddenly realized I felt very, very frustrated and quite fed up.”

“I see,” said Angela, who was beginning to, very clearly.

“The next thing I knew, Olly is at my side wanting to know if ‘there’s anything he can get me’. He said it in a very particular voice. I knew exactly what he meant immediately. I trusted him; I didn’t have any reason not to. I just said, ‘I don’t like the groupie scene’ and he assured me he knew a respectable, clean young woman who knew how to be discreet, and he could vouch for the fact that she was no groupie. My goodness, that man knew when to choose his moment. I
barely hesitated. The party was in a private room of a hotel. He led me upstairs to one of the bedrooms and there she was. I was so desperate, I didn’t even stop to think at the time that he must have planned it all. She looked about nineteen or so, a sweet face, nicely dressed, make-up not garish and she was neither gobby nor gushing. Olly went out and closed the door and we didn’t waste much time.”

“What was her name?”

“Kay.”

Angela’s head shot up from her notebook. She and Gary looked at each other. “Kay?”

Brendan had been watching them. “Yep. Kay. You might have met her in the course of your investigation so far.”

“Kay? You don’t mean Kay, Oliver’s sister?”

“Yep. The very same. She mentioned it later that evening. That’s what brought me to my senses, but it was too late by then. We’d already done it twice.”

“So how did Oliver become the monkey on your back?”

“Ah yes, Inspector, you’ll like this. Talk about a honeytrap. Two days later he turned up at my house with a little girl. She was wearing a school uniform, short white socks, a boater, and her hair was in two neat plaits. Beyond thinking she looked a bit familiar, I barely recognized her.”

“Oh yes!” responded Angela, realizing what was coming next.

“You’ve got it. This was the same girl,
sans
make-up and a slinky grown-up woman’s dress.”

“How old was she really?”

Brendan shuddered. “Fourteen.”

“Oh my goodness.”

A sob escaped him. “I just wouldn’t, not if I’d known, I’ve got sisters myself. I… I… I
swear
, Inspector, I thought she was of age.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Angela. “Let’s try another tack. When you went with her, you thought she was of age because she seemed to be. When you next met, how do you know she was actually a schoolgirl, just because she dressed like one? I mean, anyone can put on their old school uniform and look demure.” She looked at Gary and could tell that he, like her, was remembering Madeleine prancing about the living room in her old school clothes.

Brendan gave a mirthless smile. There’s no mistaking it. At the time I had sex with that girl, she was fourteen.”

It wasn’t a proper answer but Angela decided to leave it for the moment. “I see what you mean about the monkey on your back.” She looked across at Gary to bring him in and move the interview along.

“So, these conversations the others witnessed here and there?” he began.

Brendan nodded. “Oh yes, he was a clever one, Olly. He managed not to be too greedy. A thousand, or fifteen hundred – never more. Every now and again he’d make it known that he wanted a bung. I had no choice but to comply and he knew it, not if I want to avoid having my name dragged across all the headlines denouncing me as a paedophile.”

Angela didn’t say anything, but her mind was full of questions.
What kind of brother sets up his fourteen-year-old sister for sex? Or was she a willing party? Many girls that age would be sexually active. A lot of pop stars’ groupies would fall within that age group. But even so, fourteen? At that age, she might find a date with a famous man exciting – but for sex and nothing else? Was she a victim as much as Brendan?
She thought back to the woman they’d met in the house in Peckham. She’d seemed confident and assured, the house and the children has been clean, tidy and well looked-after. But that told her nothing. It would be naive to assume that the lives of all abuse victims fell apart.

There was no point in continuing without a concrete answer to her previous question. “How can you be sure,” she asked, “that she was only fourteen?”

A bleak look appeared on Brendan’s face. “Totally sure. He had that covered,” he said. “He showed me her birth certificate. Gave me a good long time to read it, as well, hold it in my hands, feel it, check its authenticity. And then he left me with a copy.” He cocked his head to one side of the room. “It’s in a drawer over there. There’s no escaping the fact. She was underage.”