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

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Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1) Page 23

by Geoffrey West


  “Why didn’t anyone else see it happen?” I asked. “Yoko Ono was there.”

  Robert shook his head. “No she wasn’t. She was thirty feet in front of John when it happened. They both had their backs to the gunman, despite the fact that John had passed his killer, even made eye contact with him, just before it happened. It was 10.49 at night, dark, not many people around, even Chapman was so confused he barely realised the sequence of events – but luckily for everyone, he was convinced he’d fired all the shots. The building’s doorman, Jose Perdomo, had seen Chapman firing the shots, no one else, and he charged across and grabbed the killer’s right wrist and shook it, and the lunatic was so out of it, he just dropped the gun onto the ground. Afterwards Chapman claims to have fired all the shots. Apparently he had no memory of the alien shooter, who was behind him anyway. Possibly, probably, he didn’t realise what had happened.”

  “What about forensics?”

  “Chapman fired the other four shots, no question. His fingerprints would be on the murder weapon, powder residue on his fingers. So allegedly five shots were discharged from Chapman’s Charter .38 calibre Short-barrel Special. The gun’s chamber accepted six rounds and there was one un-discharged. But that would also apply if he’d only discharged four, as Maggi claimed, and it had only been loaded with five rounds to start with. This unknown secret service man slipped away soon after it happened, and nobody knew he was around.”

  “Except Maggi?”

  “Yes, except Maggi. When she told the police what she saw, she was sidelined, they didn’t listen, told her they’d get back in touch but they never did.”

  “But the special, hollow-point ammunition that Chapman used. One of the slugs in his body wouldn’t match the rest if it was a different kind of bullet. And even if the calibre and style of bullet was identical, wouldn’t they be able to tell it hadn’t been fired by the same gun, from striations caused by the barrel’s rifling under microscopic examination?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the spook was using the same hollow-point 38s? Maybe they never tested the slugs for matching the weapon’s rifling, because who would ever imagine there were two weapons involved? And, remember, the police were subordinate to the FBI, CIA or whoever was responsible for the fiasco. Any inconvenient forensic results that didn’t match what they needed could have been fudged or altered, or even lost. The truth, according to Maggi, is that in the state Chapman was in he actually thought he had fired all the shots, including that crucial second one. Maggi was determined to put the record straight, to tell the world about the American Security Service’s bungled involvement in Lennon’s death, but no one would listen.”

  “Did she have any evidence?” I asked. “After all, they simply had to deny it, write her off as some conspiracy theory crank.”

  “She said she had a photograph.” Robert riffled through the photographs that were on his lap and found the one that appeared to feature The Dakota building. “This is of The Dakota I think, but there’s no one recognisable here. But part of the job those killers were used for would be to search for the alleged photographs and destroy them. It was an empty manor house, way off the beaten track. They had plenty of time to search the place from top to bottom before the authorities got involved.”

  “But how would the American authorities get to hear that she was making these accusations?”

  He shrugged. “Maggi probably contacted several national newspapers. It would only need one of them to report what she said to someone in our government, and they could have passed it on. That’s the most likely thing.”

  It was getting cold and I was tired and depressed. Everything I had been through so far had come down to this squalid pathetic explanation; yet precisely because it seemed so absurd, its very absurdity gave it the ring of authenticity. No grand assassination scheme, no silencing of individuals by a giant corporation. Just a foreign government department covering up one of their botched operations. Or our security services working on their behalf, it didn’t matter which.

  Was it really so far-fetched? If you considered the ramifications of a monumental mistake like that on the part of a government agency, it was understandable that powerful people would be determined to keep it under wraps. There could have been an international incident about it, at the very least a huge shake-up in the secret service organisation itself, jobs at risk, heads that would have to roll, political ramifications. Discretion was absolutely vital.

  And Maggi had been talking to people, telling anyone who would listen about what she saw that night. Obviously she would have talked to the other members of the band, so they had to be silenced too.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision to come out and settle here.” Robert said, his breath streaming out in a cloud on the air into the beginning of twilight. “I miss England.”

  I heard some music from a nightclub tumble out from somewhere, a woman’s voice. Ironically she was singing John Lennon’s classic song Imagine.

  Robert Malachi-Brown sang along with the words. His voice was surprisingly soulful and melodious, wistful in its poignancy. A strange smile softened the hard crags of his awful ravaged face, so that you could almost see the vestige of beauty it must once have held, when he was young, innocent and happy.

  His singing ended. He wiped tears from his eyes. “I miss performing with a band. I miss music. I miss England.”

  “So why not come home?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Could do, I suppose. I never really fitted in here, but Trudy liked it, her family were here, she belonged. Ironically if I’d gone back a year or even two years after it had happened I doubt if anyone would have been after me. By that time it would all have been forgotten. The trouble is, you can never be sure. Agencies that operate outside the law hold all the cards, they know all the secrets, and you realise how insignificant you are, how a powerful person can rub you out with one phone call, and no one is the wiser. When Trudy and I heard the news about how they’d set up Maggi as they had, we were terrified. It wasn’t worth the risk of going back. We were loose ends who didn’t matter to anyone. An accident could easily have been arranged. If they were prepared to go to all that trouble to silence Maggi and the others…”

  Neither of us spoke for a long time. I felt drained and weary.

  “Thanks for being so honest.” I stretched and yawned, admiring the rippling water, the cranes across the majestic stretch of river, and wondering how soon I could get back to England. I’d had enough of raking up the past. Robert’s account of the reason behind what happened at the Mansh might be utter rubbish, or it could all be true. No one was left alive who knew for sure. And without examining all the police reports and witness accounts of John Lennon’s assassination I didn’t even know if what Robert had said Maggi claimed made sense. Surely Yoko Ono would have seen another gunman? Surely the other witnesses would have?

  But, as Robert had just told me, Yoko Ono had her back turned and was thirty feet in front of John, and I knew that after the first shots she’d run for cover. And if there had been other witnesses, perhaps they’d been dealt with, just as Maggi had been?

  “So Jack Lockwood, journo supreme. Can I trust you not to spill this story?” Robert asked. “I swear I just cannot handle the hassle if you stir things up.”

  “Yes. You can trust me.”

  “You won’t be tempted to write a tell-all exposé?”

  “I gave you my word. Besides, no one wants to know. I tried to expose the truth before and I was almost killed, and it’s possible that Maggi’s daughter Shelly may have been killed too, because of it.” But probably not, I thought, remembering Melanie’s admission of Shelly’s murder.

  “Shelly’s dead? Shit. That little blonde kid who was running around that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it happen?”

  I told him the headlines, and he listened and nodded grimly to himself. I asked him if it had been him who had made her hide in the cellar, but he said, no, that they’d h
ave taken the child with them, not left her there; in fact they weren’t even aware that Shelly had been there that day. He went on to say that if someone had pushed her into the cellar out of harm’s way, it could have been any of the band members. And giving the child the camera was possibly that person’s way of trying to tell the world what had happened, knowing that they weren’t likely to escape alive.

  “It’s unlikely Shelly was killed because of this, but who knows?” Robert said. “The ultimate irony is that you wouldn’t even make any money out of starting up this particular conspiracy theory, because, knowing the way covert government organisations work, the idea of covering up a huge blunder is so believable there wouldn’t even be any shock value. Besides, as I told you, this is all off the record. I’d deny everything I’ve just said. You’ve got no proof of anything.”

  “Except the photos.”

  “They could have been forged.”

  “Don’t you feel that, for the sake of history, eventually someone should know the truth?” I asked him. “I don’t mean me. Just someone.”

  “Stuff the truth. What the hell does it matter anymore, after all this time? Look at it this way: the FBI or CIA man, or whoever he was, did his best to save Lennon’s life, his intentions were honourable. Maggi’s band members were murdered, whether it was by Maggi or professional assassins, it doesn’t really make any difference, does it? They’re just as dead. And if it’s any consolation, clearing Maggi’s reputation needn’t be on your conscience. I can honestly tell you, she wasn’t blabbing about Lennon’s murder to right a wrong, like you or I might have been doing. She just wanted to show off, to draw attention to herself. That’s what she was like – she always had to be the centre of attention. Don’t get me wrong, she was okay, she wasn’t a bad person, but she was no saint either. Honestly Jack, Maggi wouldn’t care about her reputation. If anything she’d laugh about it. She was the kind of woman who’d rather be remembered for some shocking outrage than be completely forgotten. She was like that, she just had to be larger than life, and in death she’d want to be larger than death too. And, frankly, her music wasn’t the kind that goes down through the centuries, so, chances are, if this hadn’t happened she would have been forgotten by now.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Moody. Changeable. One moment she’d be on top of the world, making you feel like you were her very best friend, the next she’d be suicidally desperate, spreading misery wherever she went. When she was nice, there was no one like her, but when she was feeling down she picked rows, she caused arguments, she could be absolute hell. And what a temper she had. When she suspected Alistair of playing around she physically attacked him – she cracked his rib, broke his arm, she half killed him, she could be like a tiger.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “Yes.” He frowned to himself. “She was mercurial, she was kooky, she was half crazy sometimes. But underneath it all, I liked her.”

  “Right.”

  We stood up and shook hands.

  “So you’ll keep this to yourself?”

  “Yes. I won’t cause you any more problems.”

  Robert smiled. “If this was made public, and it came back to me, I tell you, I just couldn’t handle it man. Oh and there’s something I didn’t tell you. I had other reasons for getting out of England. I was on bail due to appear in court the week after I left the country – little problem of a heap of illegal substances found in my flat. No one ever bothered to follow it up – maybe it wasn’t worth the expense of tracing me. But if anyone official knew of my whereabouts my name might just be flagged up on a computer somewhere. It’s a bit of hassle I can do without – especially at my age.”

  “Of course, I understand that. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “You know, Jack, I hadn’t fully decided I was going to talk to you, but I made up my mind to trust you when I saw your face. There’s something sort of trusting and innocent about you isn’t there?”

  “I’ve always done my best to be a cynical bastard. Somehow I never got the hang of it.”

  “Takes practise.” He smiled, putting a friendly hand on my arm. “So what do you think of Hamburg?” We were looking out onto the river, where one of the ships was blowing its foghorn.

  “I haven’t seen much of it.”

  “Come back and have a holiday here sometime. I can show you the sights. All the old music haunts, the spiritual musical places of the 60s musicians. You can write another book all about it.”

  “Thanks, I’d like that. But not for a while. This whole business has depressed me, you know? I feel as if I’ve been dragging around a huge weight.”

  “Tell me about it. But one day you can fill your grandchildren in on this little gem, it might keep them amused if they believe you. Another thing to think about: the Lennon business could easily have gone one of three other ways. If the FBI man had managed to shoot Chapman, he’d have been a hero who’d saved Lennon’s life. If he hadn’t been there at all, Chapman might have remained frozen to the spot after the first shot went wild, catatonic with shock and unable to fire his gun again, and he’d have been quietly arrested. Thirdly, the most likely scenario, would be that Chapman might have shot Lennon after his momentary freeze-up, just as he’d always intended, and the FBI man’s actions made no difference at all. So what does any of it matter?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Lighten up Jack. You’re still a young guy. Doesn’t do anyone any good, digging around 30-year-old mysteries. Just get on with what’s happening now. Are you a professional journalist?”

  “No. Actually I’m a psychologist. A Behavioural Investigative Adviser. That’s like a criminal profiler. I used to work with the police.”

  “You don’t work with the police anymore?”

  “Not while I’m trying to con people into believing I’m a professional journalist.”

  What was that phrase that the poet T S Elliot used in his poem The Wasteland? Something about how the world would end not with a bang but with a whimper.

  That was how I felt. As if all my efforts to uncover the truth had ended in a vague hymn of jaded disappointment from an ex rock’n’roller who’d fallen on hard times. I had no idea how reliable his statement was, nor did it really matter. It drew a line under everything. It had the ring of truth, and right now, that was about the best I could hope for.

  What I didn’t realise then was that I should have been less concerned about the Maggi O’Kane fiasco and taking more notice of what was going on in my own life. If I’d known the terrible sequence of events that were about to unfold, maybe I could have done something to save myself.

  * * * *

  On Monday morning I was jet lagged and weary, following Friday’s meeting in Hamburg and my weekend return. Just when I was winding down mentally, feeling as if so many of the unanswered questions were being resolved, trouble arrived from an entirely unexpected direction. And it blew my world apart.

  I was busy writing the final chapter to Crash and Burn at the desk in my upstairs studio in Brookham. And was all too aware that Van Meer was still on the loose and might find me, but I’d faced the reality that I couldn’t hide forever. All I could do was make sure I always locked the door and kept my wits about me.

  I’d phoned Ken, and told him all about my experiences in Germany, and what Robert Malachi-Brown had said. Ken had been excited, keen to talk to journalists about it, as a way of getting publicity for the forthcoming book. I had to grit my teeth and explain to him that I had a new rapport with Giles, I’d agreed to writing the Maggi O’Kane massacre according to popular folklore, most definitely without any new sensational revelations. More to the point, I’d promised Malachi-Brown not to betray the confidence he’d had in me – he wanted to go on living a quiet life in Germany, and he was trusting me to keep quiet. Reluctantly Ken agreed not to say anything, but he was still anxious to see me. “John Lennon’s death!” he enthused. “Revelations like that will make money.” But I insisted that on no acc
ount could we possibly divulge anything to the media. I knew, also, that without the photos I had of the Maggi O’Kane massacre, no one was likely to believe such a fantastic story. I remembered that Ken had kept the negatives of the pictures as insurance in case mine were ever lost again, but I could hardly ask him to give them back. Ken hadn’t asked about my putative relationship with Jane, which I thought a bit odd. But I was glad, because I didn’t want to tell him about the latest disaster in my love life. It was too hurtful and depressing.

  On a more positive note there’d been sightings of Van Meer in Cumbria and Scotland, and it turned out that I wasn’t the only person he’d had a grudge against: he had an ex-wife in Carlisle with whom he had a score to settle. Now that I knew that Melanie Deeprose had been lying about visiting Van Meer, I could safely discount all the nonsense she’d told me about his determination to find me and disembowel me. It was far more likely that he’d devote his efforts into staying free, rather than attract attention by stalking me.

  The death of Melanie Deeprose warranted a few lines in the national press:

  Woman suffering from bipolar disorder throws herself off the roof of a department store in Dover. Melanie Gallica, 48, was being treated for acute depression in the weeks prior to her death. Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident, and the inquest will be held later in the year. Tragically Ms Gallica’s twin brother died only two years ago, as a result of a road accident. Ever since, Ms Gallica has been receiving treatment for mental problems…

  It was 10.30am when I had the phone call that changed everything.

  “Hi, is that Jack Lockwood?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Detective Sergeant Willow.” His words had a West-Country burr. “I was wondering if we could meet up, Mr Lockwood?”

  “Yes of course. What’s it about?”

  “It’s a delicate matter, sir. I’m investigating the death of a Miss Miranda Prowse? Her brother Nicholas Prowse said you knew her.”

 

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