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

by Geoffrey West

  “I’m gonna be honest, Jack, okay?” she began when I’d finished. “First of all, if you take my advice, you’d best forget all that crap about imagining you’ve been seeing Van Meer when you know he was locked away, and worrying that you’re heading for a mental breakdown. I’ve talked to you tonight, when you’re under a heck of a lot of stress, and Steve Hollamby and I questioned you the other day, and, believe me, I know a thing or two about mental instability – I worked on a ward for psychiatrically disturbed patients briefly while I was training. You seem perfectly well balanced to me, Jack. You think rationally, your behaviour isn’t out of the ordinary at all. I’d go so far as to say you’re as clear and lucid as anyone else, and the very last thing you need is some psychiatrist putting you through the wringer. I don’t know why you hallucinated about seeing Edward Van Meer. Mebbe it wasn’t a hallucination, mebbe you’ve got a stalker? I don’t know what the explanation is, but there’s got to be one, and a perfectly normal rational one at that. Has this ‘Van Meer’ lookalike ever tried to harm you?”

  I thought back. “Someone pushed me from behind at the Mansh. And the car that mounted the pavement nearly ran me down.”

  “But you only saw the driver for a split-second, right? Not long enough to see him clearly?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Believe me, Jack, there’ll be a rational explanation, or else you’re misreading the situation. How many men are there in the world who are short and middle-aged, and wear a suit and spectacles? Thousands I should think. Just because you happen to have seen a man or men fitting the description in the places where you go, doesn’t mean they’re following you.”

  “Thanks Jane,” I said honestly. “I really needed to hear it. After what Melanie Deeprose said I wondered–”

  “Stuff Melanie Deeprose. From what you’ve told me about her, sounds as if her head’s so far up her own arse she can’t see daylight.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know what you gotta do now Jack?” She said at last, when we’d both had some more whisky. She balanced her thick glass tumbler on her knee, swirling the liquid round and round and staring at it for a few moments.

  “What?”

  “Build some bridges.” She stopped swirling the whisky, and took another long sip. “Make the best of what you’ve started. I reckon you made the right decision to forget all this crap about recent pop star deaths, or at least, put ’em on the back burner. The idea of anyone publishing a book about one organisation systematically liquidating its clients is as ludicrous as it is unlikely. People like conspiracy theories, of course they do, but this is just too wacky and crazy, and legally it’s a minefield that no publisher would dare touch. This friend of yours, Ken Taylor. He sounds like a right weirdo to me.”

  “Ken’s been a good friend.”

  “I’m sure he has. But he’s a sight misguided in his ideas, don’t you reckon? Strikes me as a bit of an obsessive. Okay, this Alfie Goldstein, the man who told you about the album Assassination that possibly never was, yeah he sounds like a pig, but that doesn’t mean he’s a lying pig – I think there’s a right good chance that there could have been an album called Assassination, and all this chasing around you’re doing is pointless. Sure, there may not have been records of the artist’s album-cover design, but that could simply mean that you couldn’t find them – there could easily have been another box of papers in the loft that you never found in that cliff-top house. You dislike Alfie Goldstein, but what the hell does it matter? You don’t have to work for him, you’ll never have to see him again.

  “But it matters a heck of a lot that you’ve fallen out with your editor at the publishers, this bloke Giles Mander. You’ve spent a lot of time and money writing practically the entire manuscript of Crash and Burn, and finding another publisher is probably next to impossible in this recession, so realistically Figaro Publications are your only chance. They believed in you, they liked the work you’d showed them up until the last chapter. Remember, they’ve paid you the advance, so they’ve lost out too. Can you not try and see things from Giles Mander’s point of view – as I say, build a few bridges? You told me he didn’t like your friend Ken Taylor and those two guys worked together for years, remember, they really know each other. Giles Mander has had his rival’s mate’s book foisted on him, so it’s no wonder he resents it and took the first chance he could to scrap the deal. But if you make Giles realise that you’re a reasonable person, there could just be a way back for you from this mess. You handled things all wrong. You pushed him too far, you said you had to uncover the Maggi O’Kane massacre scandal and you had to write the book that way. That was daft, Jack. You shouldn’t have pushed him like that, you gave him no opportunity to say, look hold on, let’s just think about this again. You should have been more laid back, more relaxed about it, more professional. Giles Mander may not be such a bad guy after all. Let him cool off a bit longer, then ask him again if he’ll reconsider Crash and Burn, written in any way he wants it. Lie about Maggi O’Kane’s death if you have to, it happened such a long time ago, does it really matter anyway? Sometimes in life you just gotta compromise. It’s foolish not to.”

  “I offered to do just that.”

  “But the timing was all wrong. He’d already made the decision, his pride wouldn’t let him back out of it. There’s still a chance he could change his mind, if you approach him in the right way and don’t leave it too long. I’m not saying that you have to crawl, you can keep your dignity, but you just have to swallow your pride and talk to him.”

  “You’re right Jane.” Tiredness was overwhelming me and the affection I’d been feeling for Jane was turning into something else. I liked her face, I liked her lovely buxom figure, the long legs, and the way her chest filled out her tight tee shirt.

  I lay my hand on her arm. Quickly, she pulled it away, smiling as she went out of the room. She returned in a few moments carrying a blanket and pillow, putting them on the large sofa beside me.

  “It’s late, and I’ve got an early start in the morning,” she said, stifling a yawn. “And I don’t think you’re in any fit state to go home.”

  “Thanks Jane, I really mean it. Have you got a boyfriend?”

  “Is that any of your business?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry.”

  “As it happens, I’m married. Peter’s in London, on a management course.”

  I felt a surge of disappointment, but I wasn’t surprised.

  “Go to sleep, Jack. Bathroom’s first door on the left. Things will seem better in the morning.”

  I had the best night’s rest I’d had in ages. And I didn’t need to take the temazipam.

  * * * *

  The text that arrived on Friday morning was from Peter Barclay, the friendly young man at LoneWolf Productions, who’d been so sympathetic when Alfie Goldstein had jeered at me.

  Hi Jack, in case you still need background info about Maggi O’Kane and Border Crossing, I found details of their original manager, a guy in Bath called Don Chandos, who, apparently, is still managing bands, even though he’s long past retirement age. Here’s his number, and good luck... Don’t forget to send me that revue copy…

  I’d woken up at 9am on Jane’s sofa, to find a note beside me, telling me that she had gone to work, suggesting I foraged in her kitchen for breakfast, then slam the door shut after me when I left, and underneath there was her mobile number beside an X. I scribbled a thank you on the back of it, phoned for a cab that took me back home, and had a long bath, before changing into jeans and tee shirt and my battered leather jacket. Thank goodness the power was back on, had probably come back on sometime last night. I phoned Don Chandos, and he seemed a very friendly character, inviting me to see him anytime. I arranged to meet him on Sunday morning.

  After all, I wasn’t keen on staying in my own home, with Van Meer on the loose, so it made sense to use the time researching the early lives of Maggi O’Kane and Border Crossing, something I hadn’t been abl
e to find out about until now. I still hadn’t given up hope of finding another publisher for Crash and Burn. What’s more, Jane’s idea of approaching Giles Mander again was definitely worth a try. After all, I had nothing to lose.

  I phoned Ken to explain where I was going and what I had in mind, not mentioning my idea of approaching Giles again. I knew Ken wouldn’t want me to contact his old enemy, so what was the point in upsetting him? He kept me talking for a long time, going into details about Natalie’s latest doings, an argument they’d had last night. He was becoming more and more convinced she was having an affair with this character Rupert Pendry. He seemed almost obsessed about it, talking of having her followed by a private detective.

  Putting some more clothes into my suitcase, I made a start on my long drive around lunchtime.

  When the M2 turned into the A2 I stuck with it as far as the M25, continuing on and into Lewisham, South East London, then making my way north through Greenwich, across the Thames using the Blackwall tunnel, continuing on to Hackney. That was where I looked up a very old contact from my BIA days, when I worked with the Met on a case.

  An ‘armourer’ is a person who hires out a weapon to criminals who are planning a job – whether it be a robbery or hold up, not normally a killing, as the ideal situation is that the gun is borrowed merely for show, not to be used. If by some mischance it is actually used, it’s up to you to permanently get rid of the weapon and you lose your hefty deposit. Because of this failsafe all the weapons are ‘clean’ and cannot therefore be linked to any prior robbery or illegal enterprise. Some of the guns are deactivated weapons that have been reactivated by a specialist engineering company, others have been obtained by various other illegal ways. Balancing the risk of being arrested and imprisoned for carrying a weapon illegally against being murdered by Van Meer was a no-brainer, and after completing my business with armourer Bill Tobasco in his upstairs flat, I came downstairs and out into the area behind Bill’s newsagent’s shop counter and out into the street.

  I’d been lucky enough to obtain an extraordinarily powerful Ruger ‘Blackhawk’ revolver, designed for using .44 magnum cartridges. The large, heavy, long-barrelled revolver and a box of magnum shells, was wrapped up in the Daily Mirror and concealed in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. It was the same kind of weapon I’d owned and used many years before, prior to the change in the law, which made it illegal for anyone to own or use a handgun. In those days I’d had a licence to own a pistol, provided it was kept in a secure cabinet at home and only used at my registered gun club’s premises.

  Why had I asked for one of the most powerful handguns in the world, designed to fire extremely hard-hitting magnum shells rather than ordinary rounds? It was because I knew that I needed something that would be effective at long range, and at close quarters would have the stopping power of a cannon. A less powerful weapon might wound Van Meer, delay his retaliation but not necessarily stop it, whereas a magnum shell would do the business quickly and permanently because one chance was all I was likely to get. Balanced against the plus points was the fact that such a powerful handgun, in the hands of anyone unused to it, would be hard to control. Even when you held such a pistol two-handed, its massive recoil and blinding flash was such that it was likely to send a novice’s aim way off target.

  Of course it was one more burden, one more thing to worry about, an inevitable lengthy jail sentence for doing what I’d done if I was caught. But the security of knowing I had the means to despatch the monster who would undoubtedly kill me if he could, compensated for the fear of discovery. It was a heavy, vicious death-dealer, the most powerful weapon I could find.

  I had a late lunch in a pub in Croydon, then I phoned Jane.

  “Thanks for all you did yesterday,” I began. “You helped me to see things clearly.”

  “Where are you now?”

  I pictured her face, the serious expression, the smile in her eyes.

  “On my way to Bath. I’m taking your advice. I’m going to finish off Crash and Burn, then try and appeal to Giles to change his mind. There’s this guy, Don Chandos who can give me some information about Maggi’s early life. It’s near The Mansh too, so it might be an idea to take another look around there.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I wish you were coming with me.”

  “So do I. It beats the delightful pleasure of watching six hours of CCTV tape hoping to pick out a robbery suspect.”

  “I really enjoyed last night. You must have been sick of hearing about my troubles.”

  “You needed a friend.”

  There was a short pause. I hesitated, then weighed in with what I wanted to say.

  “Jane, I just want you to know, I really wish that I could see you again soon. And I wish I’d met you before you were married.”

  “So do I,” she said. “If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be in the middle of a bloody awful divorce right now.” Her tone was light, as if she was making a joke of it. “Listen, I enjoyed last night too. I’d really like to do it again.”

  “So would I.”

  “Then ring me soon, yeah? Next time maybe we can have some fun.”

  All of a sudden the world seemed a brighter place.

  * * * *

  I stayed the night in a Travelodge on the motorway, slept in late and took the remainder of the journey slowly, arriving in Bath on Saturday evening. Even though I had so much to worry about, I had the strange feeling that I’d turned some kind of corner in my life. The lights were on inside Bath Abbey, and as I crossed the Abbey Churchyard beside the windows of the Pump Room, I reflected that for the past day I hadn’t thought once about Edward Van Meer. There was something magical about the yellowness of the lights inside the Pump Room, the glimpse of regency splendour of the huge chandeliers, the contrast to the darkness outside, and the cold crisp tang to the air. Most of the shops were already decorated for Christmas, and there were colourful festive lights in the streets. I hadn’t realised that the holiday was so close.

  The guest house I’d found was comfortable enough for a good night’s rest and on Sunday morning I walked the few hundred yards to Don Chandos’s office in Walcot Street. It was an unprepossessing premises between a small garage and a Chinese takeaway, built in the beautiful and ubiquitous golden stone. Don himself appeared to be in his early 70s, tall, broad and thick set, with his mane of snowy hair tied up in a pony tail, a friendly smile and a firm handshake. He wore a thick colourful jersey, white with a bold pattern of red zigzags, and I noticed his stubby fingers as he rolled a cigar between them, prior to sticking it into his mouth and lighting up.

  I recorded his account of Maggi O’Kane’s early career in a rundown part of Bristol, and the club that Don had started in Bath in 1965, that had in those days been ‘really rocking man’. Don waxed lyrical about Maggi’s talent, then told me more about the other members of the band. Alistair Norbury, Maggi’s lover as well as Shelly’s father, and Duncan Macrae, both appeared to be a good reliable musicians and likeable characters, much as my research had already indicated. However Ben Frensham, the bass player, was according to Don, ‘an abusive foul-mouthed bastard’. Don told me about several unpleasant incidents concerning Ben’s rough treatment of female groupies. On one occasion police had been called because one of Ben’s girl fans had been seriously beaten, allegedly by her idol. The case had never come to court because LoneWolf had offered money to the girl and her parents for dropping the charges. Don’s opinion was that Ben’s appalling behaviour was tolerated by the others because he was such a good musician.

  The veteran band manager hardly paused for breath, and I had the impression he was enjoying talking about the old days.

  I showed him the photographs of the massacre, and told him Alfie Goldstein’s explanation for them.

  He took a long time, staring at each in turn, before holding one up to the light.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You could be on to something.”

  “Have you ever heard of an album that they were
planning to make, called Assassination?”

  “Assassination?”

  “Alfie Goldstein told me that Maggi had this idea for an album of that name, and she wanted some pictures of her band being murdered, for the artist to base his album sleeve designs on.”

  “Yeah. It’s possible.”

  “Have you heard of this album that they never actually made?”

  “Called Assassination?”

  “Yes.”

  “No mate. But then I was in the States during all of 1980. Was out of touch with what was going on here. But what you told me about Barry Kite, searching his records for details of the job, that doesn’t mean a thing. Barry was just one of a number of artists who worked for bands who wanted album sleeves designed. There were lots of others. In fact.” He frowned for a few moments, trying to remember something. “Yeah. I know. Baz wasn’t even in the country in the late 70s and early 80s – he was running a wine bar in Spain. It went bust, in fact, I think his wife met someone else and stayed out there. All very sad. And now he’s got Alzheimer’s you say? Shame that. I liked old Baz. It’s a real shame.”

  * * * *

  I’d talked to Don for most of the morning and part of the afternoon, and I felt that excited glow when you know you’ve captured some useful information. So much of the past weeks I felt as if I’d been trailing around, chasing my tail, achieving virtually nothing. Now I had the final facts to fill the blank slots in the Maggi O’Kane chapter, so I only had to add them to the rest, write up the massacre according to pop legend and Crash and Burn would be finished. But first I had to know if there was any point in doing so.

  Deciding it was a lucky day, I gritted my teeth and dialled Giles’s home number and managed to catch him. To my surprise he was quite friendly, and actually invited me to drop in to see him next morning at around 11am. He kept saying things like, “We’ve been feeling bad about what happened, we really should talk things through properly.” After I’d hung up, again I thought about Jane. It had been her idea to build bridges with Giles, and, judging by Giles’s agreeable manner, it looked as if it might possibly pay off.