Hunting for Crows

by Iain Cameron

  ‘We need to get the steps.’

  They walked out the back door and when he got over the untidy state of the garden, he could see two sheds. A large, well-maintained shed at the back, looking like a smart summer house, and a smaller tatty shed behind it.

  ‘What do you use the big place for?’

  ‘Did you know my husband was a musician?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, this was his rehearsal space.’

  ‘I’ll take a look in there later. Let’s get the steps.’

  He carried the aluminium stepladder back to the bedroom and Mrs Hannah placed them close to a large, dark-varnished wardrobe and climbed up. It was rude to stare, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her beautiful legs, the dress creeping up to mid-thigh as she reached for something at the top of the wardrobe.

  She stepped down holding a small case and handed it to him. It looked old and tatty.

  He placed it on the bed and undid the zip.

  ‘This is where you found two gold bars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t find any more?’

  ‘No,’ she said with a steely stare. He was a student of Neuro-Linguistic Programming, NLP for short, a methodology to help him understand not only what people said but how they said it based on facial expressions and body language. Her face didn’t exhibit one trace of a lie and in fact, her expression was saying to him, ‘Are you doubting me?’

  ‘Aside from the two gold bars, you found nothing else?’

  ‘No,’ she said, as emphatic as before.

  Henderson climbed the ladder to made sure there weren’t any more bags with gold up there, but he didn’t see any.

  Everyone was still busy upstairs and Henderson, looking for something to do, picked up the shed keys and walked out the back door, this time without the delectable Mrs Suzy Hannah in tow. He opened the door of the big shed but his glance through the window didn’t prepare him for the sight which confronted him; a grown man’s paradise and no mistake. Guitars tastefully strung along the wall, a fridge stocked with beers, a television hung from another wall, and a sofa, a comfortable place to sit down and enjoy it all.

  Against one wall stood a tall cupboard which he opened, half-expecting it to be full of gold, disappointed to see it was crammed with music paraphernalia; pick-ups, cables, bits of old amps, music books, but alas nothing that glittered. A beautiful Oriental rug caught his eye. It covered a large section of the wooden floorboards, a red dragon surrounded by a variety of Chinese symbols, but the mystical image was sullied with numerous cigarette burns and what looked like beer stains.

  He pushed the settee back and rolled up the carpet. To his disappointment, there was no hatch leading to a gold vault, and going by the booze fridge and his luck, if there was one, it would likely be a spiral wine cellar. He sat on the settee and slumped back, resigned to his position as the spare part in the search party for the rest of the morning.

  The sun poked through a cloud and rays of bright light, filtered by tall trees, forked through the window. A ray touched his face, warming it. He closed his eyes and enjoyed its pleasant glow, the only source available inside the unheated rehearsal studio of a dead musician on a cold day.

  He sat there for three or four minutes thinking about Eric Hannah playing in here, before easing himself up from a slouch and rubbing his eyes. He then noticed some of the floorboards weren’t the same shade as the surrounding floor. Keeping his eye on the spot in case he lost it, he bent down. He pulled out his key ring and eased the small screwdriver attachment between the boards. The board moved as if they weren’t stuck down and he found the same thing happened on three sides of the discoloured area.

  Utilising a bit of logic, he reasoned that if Eric Hannah built it, he must have had an easy method of opening it. He rummaged through the cupboard again and found two flat pieces of metal that appeared to be likely candidates. At first glance, they looked the same as all the other guitar accessories, a sort of powder black, but even with his limited musical knowledge, he couldn’t think they would be of any use on a guitar or sound system.

  He eased both pieces under the floorboards and pressing one with his good hand and the other with his knee, lifted a hatch. When there was enough space to fit in his hand, he let go of the metal plates and lifted the hatch. It was hinged on one side and he pushed it until it stood perpendicular with the floor.

  It revealed a space three-foot-by-three-foot square and a couple of foot deep, lined in wood. His breath was coming in short gasps and his heart thumping a crazy beat, a better stimulant than standing close to the delectable Suzy Hannah. At the bottom of the space, a grey, musty blanket was spread out as if covering something. He reached down with a trembling hand and lifted the blanket.

  Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Nought. His heart fell; he was convinced it would be here. He heard a noise behind him but it wasn’t DI Ken Long coming to gloat as he’d found the gold in the loft, but Mrs Hannah.

  ‘Where are they?’ he said. ‘The gold; the gold bars.’

  ‘I showed you where I got them. At the top of the wardrobe.’

  ‘I don’t mean two gold bars, your husband’s stash.’

  ‘The only stash he ever kept in here was his dope. He thought I didn’t know about it, but I did.’

  He stood to face her. ‘Where have put them?’

  She looked at him, steady as an oil tanker. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He tried to look through her deception but his NLP training wasn’t helping; she was good.

  ‘I know there was gold in there,’ Henderson said. ‘Forensics will prove it.’

  ‘Well it’s not there now, is it?’

  ‘I can see that. So where is it?’

  ‘If there used to be gold in there as you say, my recently deceased husband must have spent it.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for an instant. I think you took it.’

  She gave him a long, slow look and reached over to his injured arm and rubbed his discoloured hand gently. ‘You’re not sure, are you, Mr Detective?’ She said, looking up into his eyes. ‘If you want to find out, you’re just going to have to prove it, aren’t you?’

  FORTY-SIX

  2 Months Later

  At the corner of Lower John Street and Golden Square in London, a man stopped walking and stood to the side to rest on his stick. Derek Crow didn’t injure his ankle aboard the Baltic Star, but fell out of bed when he took a dizzy turn and damaged ligaments in his leg.

  He was tempted to stay where he was, leaning against the wall and have a well deserved cigarette, after negotiating the Underground from St John’s Wood all by himself, but a voice in his head told him not to. Doctor Said, a Pakistani heart specialist came to see him as he lay helpless between the crisp clean sheets at the hospital. In his hand, he held x-rays allegedly of his insides, but Derek reckoned they belonged to some poor unfortunate and were used by the good doctor to scare the rest of us.

  Doctor Said sat at his bedside and banged on about visceral fat and the hidden dangers of eating rich food and the only way he could get rid of him and return to watching Wanted Down Under, was to take the proffered leaflet and agree to adopt his diet plan. Like a bad penny, he kept returning and Derek realised his lack of mobility made him a target for numerous evangelistic medical staff who roamed the corridors and wards of the Sussex hospital like bees looking for nectar.

  He hobbled on, the cigarettes staying put inside his jacket pocket. In fact, he didn’t need a jacket as away from the shadows of the buildings in Lower John Street, he was bathed in the warm sunlight of a beautiful May morning. If he could find a way of carrying his jacket while walking with a stick he would, but it would leave him without a hand free to stop him falling if another dizzy spell came along, or to prevent him colliding into some hurrying pedestrian, too engrossed in a text to notice him in their path.

  He had taken the Underground this morning as he no longer employed Don Levinson as his driver a
nd personal protection specialist. After leaving hospital two weeks ago, Don went home to convalesce and currently moved around with the aid of a pair of crutches. One of Derek’s first acts on regaining his marbles was to instruct his HR Director to find Don a management job within the company. He was now being paid an enhanced salary and one day, in perhaps three or four months time, he would take his place behind a shiny new desk.

  He pushed open the door to a building and climbed the stairs. Ten minutes later, he took a seat in a comfortable chair with mug of hot coffee at his side while watching the late morning DJ on Planet Rock, Paul Faraday, do his stuff. He’d been in dozens of radio studios before, mainly in Holland and Germany, but none in the last twenty years, except two interviews he did for the Radio 4 Today programme inside their radio van, parked outside his house.

  In the days of the band, studio gear was large, the desks were cluttered with kit and the studio was alive with harassed assistants as they cued CDs and searched boxes of tapes for jingles. In contrast, Paul was seated on the opposite side of a tidy table, his face partially obscured by three computer screens and above his head, a fat microphone positioned to pick up his every word.

  A few minutes later Paul leaned towards the mike and said. ‘You’ve been listening to Ain’t No Love in The Heart of The City by Whitesnake. This is Planet Rock and today, I have a very special guest with me; Derek Crow of the Crazy Crows. Welcome to Planet Rock, Derek.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me here, Paul.’

  The third guy in the room, Hal, the sound Engineer gave Derek the thumbs-up to indicate that he sounded fine, necessary as Derek had put on large headphones and couldn’t hear himself speak.

  ‘As I’m sure everyone is aware now, as the case was all over the media for weeks, Derek was stalked by a pair of vicious criminals who killed three members of the Crazy Crows band; Barry Crow, Peter Grant and Eric Hannah. So, how are you now Derek? Have you recovered from your ordeal?’

  ‘Just about. I looked a sorry sight a month or so back with a swollen face and strapped ribs, but I’m back to normal. The face you see today is as good as it gets.’

  ‘Ha. Derek, you probably know, I go to a lot of gigs and when news of Barry and then Eric’s death filtered out, many bands were asking themselves if they might be next. I came across plenty of nervy musicians, I can tell you.’

  ‘I was asking myself the same question. Although it did strike me odd at the time, why it was only the Crazy Crows being targeted. If it was an attack against rock bands from the same era, or only those singing about black magic or devil worship, it’s possible some of them might have become involved as well, but thankfully it wasn’t.’

  ‘Perish the thought. Let’s talk about the music. The Crazy Crows made four albums over the seven years you guys played together, Breakaway, The Long Road, Tropical Storm and Black Saturday. I don’t know if you’re aware, but judging by the amount of texts and emails I receive every week, you’ve still got a lot of fans out there.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘A couple of weeks back, we ran a poll to find out our listeners’ favourite Crazy Crows track. Before I tell you what they’ve selected, I’d like to put you on the spot. What’s yours?’

  He paused for a moment. ‘I think I would pick Bad Luck from Black Saturday. It just feels like a complete song to me. Sometimes when I’ve finished a song and we record it, I often feel like I should have added a phrase or taken out a word, but not with Bad Luck. It feels, you know, finished.’

  ‘It’s a great song but it wasn’t the top choice of our listeners. The favourite Crazy Crows track of Planet Rock listeners is…’ Paul paused and played a ticking jingle, ‘ Forked Lightning, from Tropical Storm.’

  ‘I can’t disagree, it’s a great choice.’

  ‘Tell us something about the song, Derek.’

  ‘It came to me one night when me and the rest of the band were in Brighton. After a gig at the Dome, we joined about thirty others for a barbeque on the beach. It was a beautiful summer’s night, and about midnight and with little warning, a storm erupted out at sea, sending huge forks of lightning into the sky. It was so powerful, it lit up ships in the Channel, we could see clearly Brighton’s two piers and hundreds of people were watching it from the promenade. I sat down on the pebbles and wrote the song in about half an hour.’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  He cued the record and seconds later, Eric Hannah’s familiar guitar riff came ripping through a couple of small speakers hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘You’re doing great, Derek,’ Paul said. ‘Do you feel ok?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, I’m enjoying myself.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. When the track’s finished, I’d like to talk a bit more about the case, if you’re ok with it.’

  ‘Yeah, no problem, ask away.’

  ‘Cool. Enjoy listening to your singing.’

  In truth, it sounded like someone else was singing. He had done so much since leaving the band, setting up the tanker business, working with the Prime Minister and now this vendetta with Mathew Street, the band was becoming a distant, albeit pleasant, memory. A few minutes later, as cracks of real forked lighting faded out, recorded by Eric in Antigua when the weather in Brighton refused to play ball, Paul resumed talking.

  ‘You’re listening to Planet Rock and in the studio today is Derek Crow of the Crazy Crows. Derek, one aspect of the terrible incident that happened to you and the other members of the Crazy Crows, and still has a lot of people talking, is what happened to the gold? If you can believe it, people with metal detectors are out every weekend scouring fields near Eric Hannah’s former house.’

  ‘Ha, they’re wasting their time. It’s true, Eric did have a lot of gold at one time, but the police conducted a thorough search of his house and garden and found nothing.’

  ‘So what do think happened to it?’

  ‘Eric must have been more generous than I or anyone else thought and either gave it away to friends or spent it.’

  ‘There you have it, all you fans of metal detectors and lovers of conspiracy theories. Derek Crow says there isn’t any gold there, so stop wasting your weekends and stay at home and listen to Planet Rock. Derek, we know Eric’s wife Suzy was hounded by reporters and camera crews and she got so fed up, she left the country. Have you heard from her? How’s she doing?’

  ‘She’s doing fine. She’s moved to the Caribbean, but I won’t tell you which island for obvious reasons. She is buying an old dilapidated hotel and plans to turn it into a luxury spa retreat for rich travellers. She’s promised that the bar will be called Hannah’s Retreat in Eric’s memory. A fitting gesture, I believe, for a man who spent so much time warming a bar stool.’

  ‘Good luck Suzy. This dovetails nicely into the next track which features some fine guitar playing by Eric. Derek, can you please introduce the title track from the Black Saturday album.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  About the Author

  Iain Cameron was born in Glasgow and moved to Brighton in the early eighties. He has worked as a management accountant, business consultant and a nursery goods retailer. He is now a full-time writer and lives in a village outside Horsham in West Sussex with his wife, two daughters and a lively Collie dog.

  Hunting for Crows is the fourth book in the DI Henderson series, the calm Scottish detective with the hidden ruthless streak.

  Acknowledgements

  In writing a book about a rock band, I needed to go no further than plunder the memories of a misspent youth, attending concerts by Genesis, the Rolling Stones and Thin Lizzy. I have read many books on the subject too, not just band biographies with tour dates, album lists and the ‘sexploits’ of a wild lead singer, but also those focussing on other people on the tour. Of particular help were: It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll by Jo Wood for the wives’ story, Roadie: My Life on the Road With Coldplay by Matt McGinn for the roadies, and Life by Keith Richards for the guitarists.

&nb
sp; It is often assumed a book is written by one person but that’s only partly true. I would like to thank my wife, Vari, for meticulous proof-reading; Zoe Markham, for peerless editing; Bob Carter, for making me delete words, sentences and chapters if I strayed too far from the story; Peter O’Conner, at BespokeBookCovers.com for designing such a great cover; and to family and friends for championing the Iain Cameron cause, their influence goes way beyond simple advertising.

  It only remains for me to thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read this book. I hope you enjoyed reading the book as much as I did writing it.

  The Story So far

  The first three books in the DI Angus Henderson series.

  One Last Lesson

  The body of a popular university student is found on a golf course. DI Angus Henderson hasn’t a clue as the killer did a thorough job. That is, until he finds out she used to be a model on an adult web site run by two of her lecturers.

  Driving into Darkness

  A gang of car thieves are smashing down doors and stealing the keys of expensive cars. Their violence is escalating and all are fearful they will soon kill someone. They do, but DI Henderson suspects it might be cover for something else.

  Fear the Silence

  A missing woman is not what DI Henderson needs right now. She is none other than Kelly Langton, once the glamour model 'Kelly,' and now an astute businesswoman. The investigation focuses on her husband, but then another woman goes missing.

  For information about characters, Q&A and more, see: www.iain-cameron.com

  I can also be contacted:

  mailto:admin@iain-cameron.com