Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1)

by Geoffrey West

  “So what might happen if an artist found out he’d been swindled?” I was thinking aloud. “What could he do?”

  “Very little. As a rule, the artist in the early stages of his career is so grateful for the agents’ help that he’d never dream of rocking the boat. Later on, he’s in the habit of doing as he’s told, and doesn’t give the money a thought, assuming that because he’s always working, it just goes on coming in. I’ve often wondered if Mum might have suspected that her management company, LoneWolf Productions, were ripping her off and confronted them about it. Maybe she told other musicians on their books what was going on.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s certainly a possibility.”

  “LoneWolf have gone from strength to strength over the years. I know, because I was told that Grandpa went into it all, in fact he went to London to see them, because he thought there were irregularities about the way they handled my mother’s money.”

  “Can I talk to your grandfather?”

  “Unfortunately not. He was killed in London in 1987. A hit-and-run driver whom they never caught. Strangely enough it wasn’t long after Granddad had started asking questions about LoneWolf’s activities. I don’t know why he waited seven years before investigating like that – maybe he needed that time to think things through. It’s funny but I always wondered if there was a connection between him asking questions and the accident. Then Grandma died a couple of years ago. There’s no one left.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She picked up the photographs and stared at each one all over again, frowning with the effort, not saying a thing. When at last she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “These were taken in The Mansh?”

  “I’ve only seen it derelict, as it is now, but, yes, it certainly looks like the same building to me.”

  She stared closely. “Oh God.” She closed her eyes. “I’ve never seen any pictures of the place. Yet I think I know it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I must have been there.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve always had this memory, this nightmare that I’ve never understood – you know when something seems so vivid in a dream, yet you’re sure it’s not a dream, it’s a memory...”

  “Go on.”

  “This is what I saw – or thought I saw. Not seen from this angle, of course. But from underneath these people, from a child’s viewpoint. I remember that window in the wall, the pattern of the wallpaper. And voices. A voice calling my name...”

  She was crying, the track of tears dissolving her mascara into irregular weeping smudges. “All this time I was sure it was a dream, something I concocted because of all that happened, all the horrible things I’d been told, some kind of trick of the mind. And of course I’ve never been inside that damned place to my knowledge, so how could I know it wasn’t make-believe? But if I’ve never been there, how could I recognise that gargoyle on the window? Or the picture on the wall?”

  “Can you remember anything else?”

  She frowned, concentrating, then shook her head slowly.

  “It always ends there, with someone calling me. Although, wait a minute, there is more, if I can only remember.” She frowned, forcing her recollections, straining to think. “I think, yes I think someone’s pushing me, pushing me away from everything. And I’m running free, scared stiff and alone. There’s a door and some steps. Steps leading downwards...”

  “The cellar?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you realise, if that’s true, then someone must have come in and found you in the cellar?”

  “Or I climbed out later on.”

  “There’s another possibility.” I said quietly. “Someone found you there, before the police arrived, and took you to your grandparents’ house. If that’s the case, it means there was someone else, apart from the killers, who knows what went on.” I sat back realising that my revolting coffee was already cold.

  “That ties in with what Granddad once said.”

  “What?”

  “He once told me that he thought there was a survivor who witnessed everything. He wasn’t in Maggi’s band, he was a friend, apparently, another musician whom no one outside their circle knew was there at the time. He’s supposed to have been there at some stage, seen what was going on, and allegedly run away, too upset to ever admit to being there.”

  “Too upset, or maybe too scared?”

  “Maybe both,” she said.

  “But if there was a survivor who went to ground, how did your granddad know about him?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t really take much notice at the time, simply wanted to forget about my past, put it all behind me. All I can remember is Granddad said that the man had a German girlfriend.”

  Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. I thought of the diary I had that was written in German. Geertrud Altmeier’s diary. So presumably Geertrud must have been the girlfriend of the mysterious survivor.

  “Shelly, would you consider doing something for me?”

  “What?”

  “Undergoing hypnosis. There’s just a chance that in a light trance you might remember something else.”

  “If there’s a way of clearing Mum’s memory, I’ll do anything. Look, I have to get back to the gallery now, and I’m tied up all weekend.” She fished out a card from her shoulder bag and gave it to me, writing her mobile number right across the top. “But let’s do it soon. Give me a call. Is next week possible for you?”

  “Sure. Thanks a lot, Shelly, I really appreciate your help.”

  “The only thing is, I’m not sure it’s a good idea. It’s a superstitious thing really. See it from my point of view, Jack. What my mother did has ruined my life. Every time I’ve tried to establish the facts, something awful seems to happen. Last time I asked questions, I had a serious car accident.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  “Was it? Or was it Mum’s bad luck rubbing off on me? Ever since I can remember I’ve felt this shame, and the fear that if Mum was a crazed killer, I might have inherited the same mental weaknesses.”

  Later that afternoon, an hour after I’d parted with Shelly outside the Kiss and Tell café, I saw Van Meer again. It was just for a fleeting moment. I was at Victoria railway station, crossing the main concourse towards the exit for the underground. And there he was. Standing beside the newsstand, watching me. As always happened, I ran towards him, but as soon as he saw me he was gone, melted into the crowds, as if he’d never been there at all.

  * * * *

  The underground train lurched sideways as I stood hanging onto the strap, sending me and the tall black man beside me hurtling almost to our knees. His conspiratorial smile froze as we smelt the fire.

  At first I’d thought the carriage’s unexpected stop was a temporary impediment to my plan to take the tube to London Bridge, then the train home to Brookham. Outside the window the words OXFORD CIRCUS laughed at me, the truculent face of Tom Cruise advertising his latest film on the white-tiled wall beyond the glass, seemingly an inch from my nose. The fire was a faint cloying acridness on the air. Which got much worse after the swoosh-clonk-banging sound of the opening doors.

  Someone screamed. The movement and bustle caused a girl beside the open door to almost fall into the gap between platform and floorboards, but at the last second she was hauled back to safety, muttering her terrified Thank Yous. Immediately afterwards those nearest the door began to spill out on to the platform, everyone else following. I was a few feet from the exit when we were plunged into blackness.

  A few were crammed onto the narrow platform, the rest of us trapped in the carriage.

  “What the hell?” someone yelled.

  “Electrics tripped out – we’re lucky the doors opened in time.”

  A forest of mobile phone displays came alive, illuminating the faces of other commuters, their clothes, and our feet shuffling forwards. We were moving with a single purpose, as everyone
instinctively realised the urgency of escape.

  The phones lit our way as we stumbled on. Wafts of smoke were carried along in the air, and I felt a wave of heat stroke the throng of people, a caress of sheer terror. I could only catch fractured glimpses of the arms and legs and torsos of those around me, packed tightly together as we were. At last we were on the platform, and I was crushed up beside a man with designer stubble and powerful aftershave, and a short-haired fiftyish woman whose red face was slick with perspiration. Both of them were as concentrated as I was in following the crowd along the platform to the exits.

  At first it was a faint whiff of heat, then it became intense: hot and sweet, the horrid choking acridness of burning rubber and melting plastic. I had been in the last carriage, and behind the train, presumably somewhere in the blackness of the tunnel beyond, the sparking and flashing that happened as an everyday occurrence took on a morbid significance.

  As we continued along a right turn, I was relieved to see the ‘Way Out’ sign above my head. People were walking faster now, jostling against each other in their haste, anxious to escape, like the crowded rats that we were.

  “We’re going towards the fire!” someone shouted.

  “It’s the only exit. There’ll be a way through.”

  The random shouting was largely ignored, as everyone’s instinct told them to stick with the crowd, and head for the main escalator hall, which was obviously the only route to daylight and freedom. And our trust was rewarded when up ahead I saw the powerful beam of a flashlight, that splintered into a million fractured glints in the tiles along the circular walls to my right. Behind the beam I caught a glimpse of a peaked hat.

  “Everything’s under control,” called out the official voice. “No one run, please, everybody just move along here to the stairs!” he called. “The escalators are out.”

  The smoke was thicker here. All around me people were coughing, holding handkerchiefs to their faces to filter out the choking fumes. I did the same, following the stream of frightened humanity, heart beating wildly, but clinging on to the belief that the official knew what he was talking about. We just had to make it to the stairs, then surely it would then be just a question of a long climb up to safety. Round an archway, my heart instantly lifted: there was dim lighting, flickering and weak, but better than our sepulchral mobile-phone-lit crush.

  It should have worked out fine. But suddenly the smoke drifted out more thickly, temporarily fogging out the minimal light. In a second the orderly procession disintegrated into a frantic dash. I felt myself smashed up against the wall, my face knocked against the tiling so hard that I saw stars for a few moments, felt the hot wet warmth of flowing blood. The laptop I’d been carrying was lost underfoot. When I could see again it was apparent that I wasn’t the only one who’d come to grief. Up ahead someone had stumbled and missed their footing, tripping and falling below the forest of feet. I could see the figure several yards away, being trampled underfoot, his hand clutching at the air desperately.

  I fought my way towards him, just in time to catch his lapels and haul him upright. He was an elderly man, stunned, barely able to walk. We were knocked sideways by the crowd, but managed to get up again. Then we shuffled along together with the crowd, my left arm tight around his waist, holding him against me. He stumbled and collapsed shortly afterwards, almost dragging me to the ground with him.

  Just as I felt myself sinking with him, someone took his weight from the other side.

  “Got you mate,” called out the man who was helping. The three of us somehow managed to battle our way through a tunnel to a bigger area, the old man now totally unconscious. Over in the far corner I could just see the main escalators, where the smoke was coming from. Beyond the pall of billowing fumes I could just make out the sight of a crowd of people that was thinning to a single stream, all heading towards the other side of the large area. And yes, thank heavens, they were moving up some stairs!

  Somewhere halfway across the concourse, I lost my new friend, and the injured man slumped once more, and was now a dead weight. The tide of people surged around me, pushing and shoving me aside. I bent down and tried to push him across my shoulder in a fireman’s lift. I managed in the end and stumbled onwards, bent double with the weight. Now there were actual fragments of burning debris in the air and waves of searing heat wafting across over our heads. With the man over my shoulder, and clinging for my life to the rubber handrail, I finally made it to the top of the stairs.

  When the crowd of people surged past me, knocking me sideways.

  Everything went black.

  * * * *

  I woke up in bed, to see the face of a nurse leaning across me. She told me I wasn’t badly hurt, but they’d brought me into hospital because I was unconscious, for observation.

  “We couldn’t find any identification on you,” explained the doctor when he arrived at my bedside later on. I’d already checked the pockets of my suit, finding them empty, apart from my mobile and the three twenty pound notes I keep in my jacket’s inside pocket for emergencies. The first thing I’d done was to phone the bank to cancel my credit cards. And I still had my wristwatch, the one Ken had bought me on our Cornish holiday, telling me it would ‘bring me luck’.

  I remembered the man who’d been very close to me and helped the old man briefly before unaccountably vanishing. I wondered how many other people had lost their wallets, jewellery and phones that evening. As well as my wallet with its credit cards and driving licence, my laptop, with all the data I’d gathered on Maggi O’Kane, had disappeared, and when I’d checked my pockets just now I’d found no trace of the photographs I’d recovered from the camera at The Mansh, or the precious diary. I had no proof at all that Maggi had been murdered. All I could hope was that the pickpocket might have dropped them, realising they were of no value, and that someone might hand them in to the police, since they were still in the envelope from Tony Woodley Photography, and, from the serial number, anyone could contact him to find out their rightful owner. The laptop? There was a chance it might be handed in, but, again, it was unlikely. My work was backed up at home, but the irreplaceable photographs and negatives, bedrock of my proof there’d been a miscarriage of justice, had probably gone forever, as had the diary.

  “But we found someone’s details in your pocket,” the doctor continued. “A business card of a person called Shelly O’Kane, with a mobile number handwritten on it?” continued the doctor, handing the card to me. “We phoned her, hoping she was a friend, and she identified you from our description.”

  “That’s kind of you.” I sat up in bed, feeling a monumental headache surge through my brain.

  “You’ve had a nasty bang on the head, but we can’t find any fractures,” he said cheerfully. “When you’re ready, get dressed, go home and get some rest. You’ll have an almighty headache for a few hours. Just take some painkillers.”

  “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

  “No problem. By the way, if you live alone, you really need to have someone stay with you tonight – in cases like this there can, rarely, be unforeseen concussion dangers for the first 24 hours.”

  “Thanks.” I decided that my best plan was to phone my friend Ken Taylor, although the prospect of staying with him for the night wasn’t pleasant: I’d never seen eye-to-eye with his wife Natalie, and suddenly descending on them might cause Ken some problems. No, I decided I’d take a chance and just get home as best I could.

  “I’ll tell your friend she can see you now.”

  “My friend?”

  “Shelly O’Kane – the person we phoned? She’s come to see how you are.”

  Shelly came in to the ward as I’d completed dressing.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said, hardly able to conceal my surprise. “There was really no need.”

  “It’s the least I can do. You live in the wilds of Kent and you’re alone in London.”

  The headache was throbbing so badly I felt faint.

  “I reall
y appreciate you coming, Shelly. But I’ll be able to get a cab to the station and take the next train home.” I stood up, and the wave of pain was so intense I had to sit down again. Shelly came beside me and helped me get comfortable.

  She shook her head. “You’re in no fit state to travel.”

  “I’ll be all right—”

  “—No you won’t. Come on, let me help you to my car, we’re going back to my house. You’re staying with me tonight. No arguments.”

  * * * *

  Home was a large detached house in Hampstead. Shelly helped me up the steps to the door, into the wide, yellow-walled living room, then made me comfortable on the large sofa. The dark wood tables and chairs, the oil paintings on the walls and the sumptuous upholstered sofas spelt the opulence and taste of someone much older than the woman beside me. On the wall were a pair of crossed swords, presumably some kind of ceremonial items, or perhaps antiques, like the flintlock pistols arranged on shelves in the glass cabinet in the corner. In a corner of the room there was a lovely old full-size grandfather clock.

  I phoned Ken on my mobile, explaining what had happened, and telling him about meeting Shelly and how kind she was being. “Kind?” he’d said. “Sounds as if she fancies you.” “No,” I’d replied, “Nothing like that – she’s just helping me out.” After protesting that it would have been fine to stay with him, we wound up the conversation, with Ken advising me to think carefully before getting entangled with another woman, reminding me that I was still in a fragile mental state, and “Not to go rushing into another doomed relationship.” He offered to give me a lift to the station in the morning, and I gave him the address to collect me from.