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

by Geoffrey West

  “I only began to understand life after I’d left school.”

  “What was it like? Working on building sites.”

  “Hard at first. But I got to enjoy it. First it was labouring for anyone who’d have me, then I did more and more for this bricklaying firm, and I picked up the trade. Then I got in with a chippie and learnt a bit of woodwork too. Gradually I learnt this and that, bit of plastering, plumbing, you name it.”

  “How long were you in the building trade?”

  “About five years in all, I think. But in the end it wasn’t for me. I was lucky. Got accepted at Oxford as a mature student at 23. I think being that bit older than the others was the reason I worked harder. Had less time for socialising, was keen to do well.”

  “You told me that while you were working on building sites you were friendly with that Irish bricklayer guy, who introduced you to bare-knuckle fighting. Why did you do it?”

  I thought back to those far off days when I thought I was invulnerable, and craved excitement. “It was something totally different that I simply wanted to experience. It had an element of danger that I longed for. It was crazy, ridiculously dangerous, not to mention illegal. But it toughened me up, taught me how to fight hard and dirty – not that I imagined I’d ever need to fight for my life. It had all the basics of conventional boxing, but it was much more primeval, vicious, much more dangerous. I was a fool. I could have been seriously injured or killed. Or killed someone else by mistake.”

  “You’ve been around, Jack. Seen so much. Not like me.”

  “What was the use of it? It’s great to use your hands to do building, or even to fight another man as a sport, but sometimes you need to use your brain too. That’s why I was keen to go back to studying something. As you know I wasn’t exactly a high achiever at school, but university was a liberating experience. It was a miracle I got my PhD, a testament to hard work over brainpower.”

  Ken took off his spectacles and polished them on the dishcloth, the cigarette forgotten, burning alone amongst the ash in the saucer. “You’re pretty bright Jack, believe me. And you’re clever enough to realise your limitations. You’re a practical man, you’re a pragmatist. Whereas I’ve always been a bit of a dreamer.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Jack, on balance, are you satisfied that Maggi O’Kane was murdered? That she wasn’t a killer?”

  “More or less, though who the hell knows? I’d like Barry Kite to have been of sound mind so that he could have categorically stated there was no lost album called Assassination. I think it’s still possible that there was.”

  “But what if it was a cover-up and those guys at Clifftop Paradise were killers hired by Goldstein? And not local villains after someone else, after all?” he said.

  “Pretty grim thought. But Ken, enough about me. Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked, knowing there wasn’t.

  “Actually, there is.” He looked up and started polishing his glasses again, as if it was nervous reflex action. “What I need is a break. I just have to get away from the house, from Natalie, even the kids. If I don’t get away, God knows what’s going to happen. Just for a few days. I had this idea. Well, on the evidence so far, it looks to me as if Maggi O’Kane and her band were murdered, and more to the point, LoneWolf have invented an elaborate lie to try to stop you showing those photos to the police.”

  “There’s no proof at this stage.”

  “Let’s just say that Maggi O’Kane’s death was questionable. Well, as I told you, my contact at LoneWolf says that Lucinda Lee’s death in Paris last month wasn’t at all straightforward either.”

  “Right. But they haven’t even had the inquest yet.”

  “The postmortem’s inconclusive. She was supposed to have had a heart condition, but that was being controlled by various drugs.”

  “How exactly did she die?”

  “Choked on her own vomit.”

  “Was she alone?” I asked.

  “Yes. She had a boyfriend who was staying with her on and off, pleasant character by all accounts called Eden Langford. An ex-pop singer who’s now a theatrical producer. He was pushing for her to break with LoneWolf, so that he could manage her himself. Apparently he was also claiming that they hadn’t paid her what she was entitled to. During the week before her death she phoned friends telling them that her life had been threatened, because she was contacting other artists who were managed by LoneWolf, urging them to make sure their affairs were being handled properly. She was being a nuisance to LoneWolf, no doubt about that.”

  “Had she been drunk?”

  “The postmortem states that her blood alcohol levels were high, indicating that, yes, she was drunk. Very drunk.”

  “Choking on your own vomit is a common cause of death for drunks who collapse into a stupor.”

  “Of course,” Ken agreed. “But supposing there is something fishy about her death? Maybe there’s evidence that no one’s thought to look for. I’d like to go to Paris with you and see if we can find anything out.”

  “Are you sure it’s worth all this effort?” I asked.

  “I’ve still got contacts in the media and publishing. If we can find evidence that LoneWolf had anything to do with her death there’s a story we can sell. Newspapers would be interested. As I said, if we can find any other deaths they could have been involved in there could even be a book in it.”

  “But who’d look after the children?”

  “Natalie’s mum and dad are always asking if they can have them for a few days. They enjoy going down to Wiltshire too.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve thought of everything. But has it occurred to you, that if someone at LoneWolf is determined to stop me looking into the deaths of their artists, if you help me, you’d be at risk too?”

  He laughed genuinely for the first time that night. “Is it a deal?”

  “Sure.”

  I had misgivings, but I felt so sorry for Ken that I thought maybe a trip to Paris might do him good. And when he’d helped me as much as he had, the least I could do was return the favour.

  Suddenly a memory came back to me.

  “I’ve been thinking about our fishing holiday at Mousehole.”

  He nodded, beaming again.

  “Do you remember Miranda? Nikki Prowse’s sister? The girl I took out a few times?”

  “How could I forget? Long blonde hair. Lovely smile. Sort of retiring shy manner and a beautiful sensitive mouth.”

  “It always seemed strange that she just went off with that guy, the very day she’d arranged to see me.”

  Ken agreed. “Nikki was pretty cut up about it. He didn’t like the guy she went away with.”

  “I never understood it properly. The night before she’d been so enthusiastic about seeing me. Yet within hours she’d changed her mind, upped sticks and gone.”

  “That’s women for you. Changeable. Never stick to a single decision. You can never rely on them. God, I should know.”

  “How about going on Monday?” I asked. “Stay, say, three days?”

  “Sure. I’ll phone Natalie’s mum and dad now, and see if they’re free.”

  “Shouldn’t you talk to Natalie first? See how she feels about it?”

  “She’ll be glad to see the back of me.”

  * * * *

  The stress and all the driving of the last few days was taking its toll. As I drove home to Kent I resolved that on Monday I’d drive to Ashford International station, meet Ken there and leave the car, then we could take the Eurostar to Paris.

  It was hard to keep my eyes open as I turned off the main carriageway onto the road leading to my house, wishing I could make sense of what was going on in my life.

  Was it foolhardy to keep investigating these ancient deaths that nobody seemed to care about? Was it feasible that Ken and I were likely to be able to uncover murder and intrigue within a huge corporation, if indeed it existed in the first place? Would anyone take the risk of publishing such a tell-all expose, that
threatened to upset a great many important people?

  Maybe it was time I gave up investigating crimes from the distant past and found myself a proper job.

  As I got out of the car and walked up to my door I was so preoccupied that I didn’t see the figures huddled in the shadows until it was too late.

  I felt the sack being pushed over my head, while my hands were dragged behind my back and secured together with tape.

  Chapter 8

  HART BROKEN

  My legs were bound in a similar way, held tightly together and then I felt a mounting panic as they were hoisted up and I was hauled backwards until I was being carried horizontally, on my back. Fighting for breath, I twisted and fought, but it was hopeless with my limbs imprisoned as they were. The journey was only a few juddering, jerky yards until I heard the rattling clang and the heavy squeak of metal against metal, then a loud clang, just before I felt myself flung forwards, and my face smashed into steel. My feet were pushed from behind so I was forced to bend my legs. Then there was a crash as the door slammed shut behind me. I heard running footsteps, doors opening and closing. And a deafening roar and vibration under my jaw as the van’s engine fired.

  The smell of diesel and oil fought with that of hot steel and the taste of blood, where a tooth had clipped my gum. Trying to free my hands was useless, and even though I could flex my legs an inch apart they wouldn’t move any further. I tried to wriggle a tiny distance across the floor’s surface until I felt myself sliding forwards as the metal beneath me altered angle: the vehicle was descending a hill. We were moving fast, bumping along the pockmarked main road. I was being flung up and down, doing my best to shield my head from the cracks and bangs.

  Trying to think rationally. If my abductors were professional killers employed by LoneWolf, surely they’d have done the job by now, and used the van simply to transport my corpse? But who else would want to kidnap me? What for? I had no rich relatives who’d pay a ransom. I couldn’t think of any enemies I’d made recently, apart from Alfie Goldstein.

  What must have been only five minutes stretched like an eternity until finally the van jerked and creaked to a halt, rocking on its suspension. The same door-slamming as earlier, then crashing and clattering of metal behind me, before I felt myself grabbed by the heels and dragged backwards, out into the freezing air. Then there were hands repositioning themselves on my jacket and trousers and limbs, carrying me once again. New smells combined with the stench of saliva-soaked jute sacking: pinecones, damp moss, rain-soaked grass. I heard the crunch of foliage beneath my captors’ feet. No one spoke, apart from occasional grunted commands and sniffs.

  Without warning I was dropped, my shoulder and back crashing hard onto something soft and prickly, like twigs or foliage. They untied the sacking and pulled it from my head.

  My first impression was of moonlit trees overhead, then I saw my captors. Three men wearing balaclavas and gloves and dark clothes. My heartbeat eased a tiny fraction: if they’d intended to kill me they wouldn’t have bothered to conceal their identities. The smell of pine suggested I was in a forest clearing.

  The taller of the pair dragged off his woollen mask. As he knelt down beside me, there was something familiar about him. An older man with silver hair, flabby red cheeks, a bulbous red-veined nose and bulging eyes.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked, his face directly above mine. A surprisingly harsh, deep voice with a hard edge.

  “No.”

  “Well I know who you are, Jack. You’re Shelly’s lover boy aren’t you?”

  I realised where I’d seen him before. St Mary’s Art Centre, Shelly’s portrait of the older man, whom she’d told me was her father. Bigger than he’d seemed in the portrait, his breath was laced with the sweet aroma of brandy, but his salty sweat smell overrode everything. His eyes had a wild manic look in them that had been absent in the painting.

  “I’m Adrian Hart. Shelly’s husband.”

  I said nothing, waiting and hoping I’d get through this business alive.

  “Did she tell you she was divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Footloose and fancy free?” He waited in silence, glaring at me. “And you had sex with her?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re telling me you went back to our house with her and never made a move?”

  “We never actually—”

  “—Shut your mouth! I don’t want to hear it.”

  He stood up, turned around for a moment, then came back again. He kicked me in the groin. The force of the blow drove the breath out of me. There was a slow, ghastly spreading tide of agony, as I fought to breathe. He bent down on his haunches, dragged me up by the lapels and punched me in the face, then let me drop back down. Memories of my fist-fighting days sprang alive as the vicious jolt sang through my brain. The hard rebarbative buzzing in your ears that you never forget, the stinging accompaniment to those long seconds of agony. The instinct of survival came back to me: grit your teeth, spit blood, but never lose your nerve.

  “A few slaps like them’s nothing compared to what some of you S & M perverts get up to, is it?”

  He kicked me again.

  “Met her at that club, did you? She told me it was an art group that met in the evenings. Then she started coming home with all the cuts and bruises. Even then it took me weeks to twig what was going on.”

  He kicked me in the stomach, and I retched, bringing up sour tasting bile.

  “She wanted something more, she said. Excitement. Something I certainly couldn’t give her. So she went out and got it wherever she could, the dirty little bitch.”

  “I wasn’t. I didn’t—”

  “—Didn’t what?”

  “Do those things to her.” I managed to choke out the words, gagging on the coppery tang of blood.

  “You wanted to fuck her though, didn’t you? You told the coppers as much. Course they didn’t give me your name, but I’ve got a lot of mates on the force. Few quid here and there buys you lots of information.”

  He knelt down and grabbed a handful of my hair and used it to wrench my head upwards.

  “They found her in bed with a plastic bag fastened around her head, so as to look as if she’d topped herself. But someone killed her. Shelly wouldn’t have done it that way. She tried once before – a wrist job – but it wasn’t a serious attempt. Police reckon someone killed her and tried to make it look like suicide.”

  I said nothing, just coughed and choked, trying to ignore the pain that washed over me. “Ever wondered what it feels like to be choked to death, Jack? Must be something like this!” With that he yanked my head even higher so that my neck felt stretched to breaking point.

  “So what do you know?” he yelled, his face so close I felt his spittle splattering against my cheek.

  “Nothing.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Still holding my head by the hair with one hand he took a piece of my cheek between his finger and thumb and viciously twisted it sideways, dragging the skin so my mouth stretched open into an involuntary snarl. I felt the drool and tears running down my chin.

  “The coppers said you couldn’t have killed her,” he shouted. “But you know something about what happened. You gotta know something!”

  “I don’t. I swear.”

  “Ever wondered what it feels like being castrated?” he said slowly. “I saw it done to a guy once. They sawed off his privates with a hacksaw blade, then they watched him bleed to death. If I did that to you, I bet you’d talk then, wouldn’t you?”

  Time seemed to stand still. He let go of my hair and my head dropped to my chest. He knelt there beside me for a long time.

  “So tell me Jack, What the fuck do you know about it?”

  “Nothing. I only met her that day.” My voice was barely a croak, my throat feeling as if it had been ripped apart. “At the art gallery. I d-don’t know her friends, her colleagues, nothing. If I had any idea who killed her I’d have told the police.”
<
br />   “But I can be much more persuasive than the police. I can do things to you that you can’t begin to imagine in your worst fucking nightmares.”

  He grabbed my hair again and gave it another jerk. Stared into my eyes.

  Then he let go.

  His voice broke when he eventually spoke. To my amazement he was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I wish it had been you that killed her, Jack Lockwood. Then I could have enjoyed killing you. Only the police reckon you’ve got an alibi.”

  My head was slumped forward in defeat. There was nothing to say.

  “But you were with her that night, one of her last nights before it happened. You were one of those filthy bastards that used her!”

  He kicked me in the chest, and I keeled over backwards, coughing and retching, my vision blurred by tears and sweat, the taste of blood and soil everywhere, a burgeoning panorama of pain.

  He pulled me upright by the hair again, right fist drawn back to punch me in the face.

  Then a strange thing happened. As if the energy seeped right out of him, his fist dropped and he let go of my hair. He stood up and leaned forwards, hands on his knees as he panted, sniffing away the tears. Still bent double, he pulled a large butcher’s knife from his pocket, holding its point in front of my face.

  “Say your prayers, Jack. It’s time to end it.”

  He drew himself up to his full height and stepped back a few paces. For a long time, he stared down at me, shaking his head slowly as if he was making a decision. Then, suddenly the knife-arm drew back above and behind his head as he took aim. There was a second’s delay. Then a macabre swooshing sound as the dagger flew through the air. A ker-chunk noise as the knife’s tip embedded itself into the soil one inch away from my stomach.