Hunting for Crows

by Iain Cameron

  ‘Does Barry have any living relatives?’

  ‘Derek Crow, who I assume you’ve heard about.’

  ‘Henderson nodded.’

  ‘There’s him and a sister, who lives in Chichester, I think. Now you mention it, I don’t know if you’re aware, but Barry was rich. He started investing in web-based companies way back when people didn’t know what the internet was about. Some of them took off in spectacular fashion and made him millions. I don’t know if he left a will but if the money is split between the two siblings, his lazy sister who never did a day’s work in her life, according to Barry, will become a millionaire overnight.’

  SEVEN

  Dusseldorf, Germany - 1984

  Derek Crow strode across the stage, his face fixed in a stony stare. ‘What the fuck are you guys doing there?’ he shouted at two men, hunched over the rack that was holding Eric Hannah’s guitars.

  They turned, rabbits caught in the headlights.

  ‘Vee are trying to fix–’ one of them said in guttural English.

  A strong hand gripped Derek’s arm and steered him away from the mess of wires, a partially set-up drum kit, electricians hoisting lights, and roadies positioning speaker cabinets. It was Kurt Manneheim, Stage Manager for the band they were supporting, an Irish band called the Awakening, a tall, handsome German who spoke flawless English with an American lilt.

  ‘Derek what are you doing here? You should be relaxing with your friends. It is only two hours until the soundcheck; you should be saving your energies for then and the concert tonight.’

  ‘I just thought I would come over and see how things are going.’

  ‘Things are going fine. You have nothing to worry about.’

  He led him down a flight of steps at the side of the stage, down a dimly lit corridor and out through the emergency exit to the street.

  ‘I know this gig is the biggest your band has done, but there is no need to fret. We have everything in hand. Now please go back to your hotel and relax with your friends until the soundcheck.’

  He walked across the road from the Philipshalle to the Rheinbahn station, his mood nervous and black. He always felt tense before a concert, but then it was in front of two hundred people in Aberdeen or three hundred in Cardiff, not five-and-a-half-thousand bloody Germans in Dusseldorf. No wonder he felt nervous.

  The train swished into the open-air station on time, sleek, streamlined and itching to go like a tethered mountain lion, the very embodiment of Teutonic efficiency. He liked Germany. He liked the order he saw around the place, from street cleaners who appeared as if by magic at 6am, hotel staff who delivered food and drinks when they said they would, and the hotel maintenance team capable of returning any room back to its original configuration after a riotous end-of-show party.

  They even worked their magic on Eric Hannah’s room. Each night, he would screw at least two women, burn the bed covers when he fell asleep with a fag in his mouth at some ungodly hour of the morning, and break lamps, showers and televisions when he crashed into them in a booze or drug-fuelled haze.

  They were staying in the Excelsior Dusseldorf and far from finding the boys in their hotel rooms, relaxing on beds and preparing for the biggest concert of their careers, they were in the bar. As usual, Eric Hannah was at the centre of the action.

  ‘Derek, there you are. Where the hell have you been?’ Eric said.

  ‘I went out for a walk,’ he said, as they all shifted up and made room for him on a long, padded bench seat.

  ‘To the Philipshalle, to check on preparations, I’ll wager my favourite Gibson SG upon.’

  ‘You guys have nothing to worry about,’ Steve Minihan said in a Cork drawl, barely comprehensible after a few pints. His slow speech wasn’t the result of too much booze or an earlier bout of pill-popping, he always spoke each word as if it tasted good and a sentence was something to be savoured. ‘Our fellas have done this hundreds of times, and take it from me, it will work like a dream. All you guys gotta do is go out there and furkin’ play.’

  A glass of German lager appeared in front of him. He liked Germany, its organisation and efficiency, but he hated the beer. He liked the real ales of Sussex, Dorset and Derbyshire, but none of this light, amber-coloured stuff that tasted of nothing and made him piss twice as often.

  Around the large table were all the guys in the Crazy Crows: lead guitarist Eric Hannah, drummer Pete Grant, and bass player, Barry Crow, younger brother of Derek. In addition to the four Crazy Crows, were a couple of guys from the headlining band, the Awakening, Steve Minihan, their rhythm guitarist and Haden O’Rourke, the Irish band’s manager.

  Derek was pleased to see everyone taking it easy on the booze, sipping down a couple of pints, or litres as it was in this part of Europe, to calm the nerves. He started to relax and was laughing at a joke made by O’Rourke when the manager of the Crazy Crows, Frannie Copeland, showed up. As usual, he had a serious look on his face and chomped on a trademark cigar.

  ‘Hi Frannie, how are you doing?’ Derek asked. ‘You wanna join us for a drink?’

  ‘No, I won’t Derek, thanks. Can I see you a minute?’ He nodded towards the far side of the lounge.

  Derek left the noisy group, and after finding an empty table in the corner, they both sat down.

  ‘How are you feeling about tonight?’ Frannie asked.

  ‘Good. I’m a bit nervous as you might expect, but good.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Everybody will tell you, playing a big venue like the Philipshalle, you do it as if you’re playing a smaller one. Just imagine you’re in a small club in Bolton or Basingstoke and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sometimes all I can see are the first five rows because of the lights, so it wouldn’t matter how big the venue is.’

  ‘There you go then. But just remember, the fans are here to see the Awakening so don’t get pissed off if they talk amongst themselves and seem more interested in their beer or the person in the seat next to them, than you lot.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Frannie Copeland looked and behaved like the manager of a band, as he dressed in a suit, could talk the talk with record company executives, and chomped on a big cigar, giving everyone the impression he was very successful, and yet he was only a couple of years older than Derek. They met not long after the band formed in 1982 and by then, Frannie had ten years of the music business under his belt: scouting clubs for talent, organising and promoting tours, and managing several other acts, so he wasn’t a rookie like they felt themselves to be.

  ‘I spoke to Kingsley this morning.’

  ‘What, the guy at the record company?’

  ‘Yeah, the guy at the record company who’s been championing our cause. He told me the word on the exec floor is they all like the new album. That’s not bad praise for a first attempt.’

  ‘It’s good to hear. It might stop the bastards from dropping us.’

  ‘It might, but if you can’t halt the self-destructive behaviour of our Mr Hannah, you might leave him no option.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Take it how you like, Derek,’ Frannie said, his face impassive. He doubted he had ever seen the man smile, granted it was not an easy thing to do with a cigar in permanent situ. ‘Hannah is a brilliant guitar player and you guys could go places if you can keep him on the straight and narrow. You never know, next year you could be headlining venues like this all by yourselves.’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Don’t wish, make it happen but you need to see this as a final warning. Record companies nowadays will tolerate only so much bad publicity. What’s the point of paying for PR people and marketing guys to get you guys on the radio and in the newspapers, if it all gets undermined by one story in a tabloid about a trashed hotel room or one of you lot is photographed fighting with a cab driver?’

  He sighed; he knew it was true. The first album, Breakaway, was out and while a few reviewers were negative about the raw sound and hints about riffs nicked fr
om other records, many were full of praise for Eric Hannah’s guitar work and suggesting the best was yet to come. He was worried now, in case the carpet was pulled from under them before they even got started. He loved music, but hated the music industry and their faceless corporations.

  ‘I’ll speak to Eric again, but the problem I’ve got is he’ll walk if I piss him off. I know plenty of other bands that will take him.’

  ‘Are you telling me there are no better guitarists out there, because I could name you twenty off the top of my head.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean, but I think Eric’s got something special and he’s the one who’ll take us places. If I say to him, play me a new riff, he can make something up on the spot. How many in your twenty could do that?’

  ‘Yeah, but if his head’s not right, the only place he’s going to take you is back to the dole queue.’

  ‘Trust me Frannie, I’ll sort it.’

  ‘I do trust you Derek, but the trust is wearing thin.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We all better get down to the soundcheck. I’ll go over to reception and see if the car’s here.’ He eased his thickening frame out of the seat. ‘Get over there,’ he said nodding at the table where the band were sitting, ‘and pull everyone together.’

  Derek walked back to the noisy group feeling energetic and full of purpose, despite the sober warnings of their manager. All thoughts of being dropped and record company hassles were cast from his mind, as it was close to time and for him, that was the best part of doing a concert: the anticipation of what was to come.

  ‘Right guys, it’s time to go. The car will be here in a minute.’ He looked around at the faces. ‘Where’s Eric?’

  ‘He went outside to get some air,’ Barry said. ‘At least that’s what he said, ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Cheers, Barry. I’ll go out and get him. I’ll meet you guys at Reception.’

  He walked out of the hotel but Eric was nowhere to be seen. He walked along the street and crossed an alleyway at the side of the hotel. He peered down the alley, the stonework of the buildings black from recent rainfall, and there was Eric Hannah, about half-way down, talking to someone.

  He headed towards them. When the two men saw him coming, they turned in surprise and pulled their arms into their bodies as if they had something they didn’t want him to see.

  ‘Who the hell’s this?’ Eric’s stocky companion said.

  ‘It’s ok, Fredrick. He’s a mate. We’re cool.’

  ‘Ah, good. Maybe he wants some of this too.’ He opened the satchel at his side and Derek could see exactly what the two of them had been doing.

  ‘What the fuck are you up to, Eric?’ Derek said, his face red. ‘This is the biggest gig of our careers and you want to screw it up by taking dope and getting out of your fucking head?’

  ‘Nah, nah, Derek it’s not what you think.’

  ‘No? Well, I don’t care, I’m not having any of it.’ He turned towards Hannah’s companion and pushed him hard in the chest. ‘Get the fuck out of here you druggy scum. We don’t want your sort around here.’

  Some of his produce fell to the ground, small packets of powder, wrapped in cellophane and taped together. He kicked the packets in the direction of the dealer.

  ‘And you can take this load of shite with you.’

  ‘We are not finished yet,’ the dealer said. ‘He owes me money.’

  Derek turned to Eric Hannah and grabbed his arm in a strong grip.

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  He opened his hand and Derek removed the four or five packets he was holding and threw them at the dealer.

  ‘There’s your stuff. Now clear off, he owes you nothing. C’mon Eric,’ he said taking hold of his arm, ‘we’ve got a soundcheck to do.’

  They turned and Derek pushed Eric up the alley. Seconds later, he heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw a blade coming towards him. He pulled back and the slash missed his face, but cut a slice through his favourite leather bomber jacket. His anger returned big style.

  The dealer squared up to him with an evil look in his eye as if he wanted to kill him. The guy sprang forward with a straight jab, which he side-stepped. As he passed to the side, Derek locked his big mitts together and brought them down on the back of the guy’s head, like wielding a two-handed axe. The druggy collapsed in a heap and dropped the knife. Derek kicked it away.

  The guy made to get up but before he could, Derek booted him in the balls and punched him in the face. He slumped down on the damp pavement, the blood from his face seeping into a small pool of rain, discolouring it.

  He turned to Eric. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

  ‘Christ almighty, Derek,’ he said, his face like a five-year-old who had just dropped his sweets in the mud. ‘I was starting to like the guy.’

  EIGHT

  It was early, not yet seven o’clock, when DI Henderson walked into Sussex House. After dumping his document case in his office, he entered the small kitchen at the side of the CID offices to make a coffee. Surprise, surprise DS Walters was standing there and not only had she cleaned out the coffee machine but it was bubbling away making a brew.

  ‘Morning sir, how are you today?’

  ‘Stunned is the best description. You’re more often than not tucked up in bed or looking like a half-shut knife at this time of the morning.’

  She busied herself trying to find clean mugs and testing the milk for freshness, not a job for the faint hearted. ‘Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.’

  ‘You don’t fool me, Ms Walters. There wouldn’t happen to be a new boyfriend on the scene?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘If there is a new boyfriend, doesn’t it mean the opposite, more late mornings because…’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘We’re still at the ‘getting to know you stage’, if you must know.’

  ‘What I was trying to say is, you might be needing more sleep as this liaison could involve you in more socialising with late nights and parties.’

  She gave him a sceptical look and handed him a mug. ‘No more speculation, I’ll tell you all about it when I’m ready.’

  A few minutes later they headed downstairs and into a small briefing room. The four heavily-kitted individuals allocated to this operation were already seated there and after introductions, Henderson walked to the front of the room.

  ‘The target this morning is this building here,’ Henderson said, pointing to the brightly lit screen behind him, currently displaying a photograph of a large warehouse. ‘This warehouse is located at the back of Potter Farm, a cereal farm two miles south of Burgess Hill. The farm and the warehouse are owned by a man called Tristan Hunt and we don’t know if he is involved, but we do know he rents the building to a Chinese businessman.’

  Henderson stopped to take a drink as his mouth was parched. The previous night he went out with his girlfriend, Rachel, for a curry in Hove and it must have contained more garlic than he realised.

  ‘We believe there is a cannabis nursery in this location for two reasons,’ Henderson continued. ‘One, a nark with his nose close to the drugs business says there is, and he’s been reliable in the past. Two, EDF, the local electricity supply company, identified a high infra-red signature when they made a pass over the premises in a helicopter equipped with a thermal imaging camera.’

  ‘No chance it could be something more exotic, sir,’ one of the coppers said. ‘Like Aloe Vera or some new tea?’

  ‘Need something smooth for your rough skin, do you Alex?’ said another.

  They all laughed.

  ‘I can’t think it might be something else, because if it is a legitimate business, why would they need to by-pass the electricity meter?’

  ‘True.’

  Henderson spent the next few minutes discussing door entry, covering the exits, and chasing down and arresting everyone there, including the owner, Tristan Hunt. He and Walters would interview him at the site and make an assessment of his culpability, but if tenants were
growing dope on his property he would need either to be a saint or a cabinet minister to escape arrest.

  ‘I think I’ve covered everything. Are there any questions?’

  The raid team travelled to the farm in an unmarked blue van, and to ensure everyone arrived at the same time Henderson told them to follow his car. It was a grey morning, thick clouds blanketing much of Sussex with no sign of the sun lurking behind. Last night, heavy rain pounded the seafront and they’d got soaked coming out of the curry restaurant, now it left the leafless trees all around looking damp and feeling sorry for themselves, dreich, as his father in Fort William would say.

  Twenty minutes later, Henderson turned into the farm, the unmarked van following close behind. His fear in approaching a place like this was not in discovering it was empty, or that the people inside were growing something else, as he believed the intel to be sound, but in not finding anyone at home. He didn’t know a lot about cultivating cannabis but he assumed most plants could look after themselves, so he was steeling himself just in case this time they were unlucky.

  He needn’t have worried as three vans were parked close to the large, brick-built building. After the raid he would take a closer look in each of them, as it was likely they were used for carrying seeds and fertiliser, and to find something else would only strengthen the case against them. The police vehicles came to a halt and everyone got out and ran towards the entrance. One of the team disappeared around the back to look for and cover any other exits.

  The door appeared to be locked from the inside and without waiting to knock and give the occupants time to scarper, the door banger rushed up to the front. Two bangs later and the door swung loose. Henderson piled in behind the running officers and once through the heavy PVC curtain, his senses were assailed by the intense brightness and the heat and the humidity of the heavy, moisture-soaked air.