The temperature had dropped as night had fallen, and standing in the hallway of his small terraced house, the telephone receiver in his hand, Jack Towers felt a shiver run through him.
He wondered how long the man on the other end of the line had been keeping him waiting. Two minutes? Three? Possibly even longer than that. But he knew that he had no choice but to hang on and wait until the all-powerful club owner was ready to speak to him.
“You still there?” a voice from the receiver crackled.
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Might have a slot for your lads next Saturday. Course, they’ll only be the openin’ act, so I can’t pay them more than a fiver.”
“A fiver!” Towers repeated. “A fiver’s peanuts. It’ll barely cover the cost of the petrol.”
“That’s really not my problem, Mr Towers,” the club owner said. “If the Seagulls aren’t willin’ to do the gig for that money, then all I can tell you is, there’s plenty of other groups that will.”
Towers pictured himself having to tell Steve Walker that he’d only managed to negotiate a five-pound fee for a Saturday night. He could already see the look of derision on the young guitarist’s face – could already hear Walker’s hurtful words buzzing in his ears:
Five quid! You expect us to play our guts out for one pound five shillin’s each? What kind of manager are you, Jack? Our cat could get us a better deal than that.
“The group’s got an audition with a record company in London in less than two weeks’ time,” Towers argued, trying his best not to sound desperate. “The man in charge has already heard a demo, and he thinks that they’re going to be the next big thing.”
“Well, when they are the next big thing, ring me up again an’ I’ll probably be willin’ to pay them more,” the club owner said tartly. “But for the moment, a fiver’s as high as I’m prepared to go. Do you want the bookin’ or what?”
If he could scrape together five pounds of his own, he could tell Steve Walker that they were getting paid ten pounds for the gig, Towers thought.
“Yes, we want the booking,” he said wearily.
“Right. I’ll see you on the night.”
Towers replaced the receiver on its cradle. Even for ten pounds Steve was not going to be happy about playing in yet another seedy club, he told himself. But a seedy club was better than no club at all. Besides, it would give the group the opportunity to practice with their new guitarist in front of a live audience. And practice was what they needed. If the truth be told, he was terrified that the lads wouldn’t be well enough prepared for the audition, and so would blow the one real chance they were ever likely to get. And what Steve Walker say then? Who would he blame for their failure? The answer was so obvious that it brought Towers out in a cold sweat.
He heard a soft plop behind him. He turned round towards the front door and saw that someone had pushed an envelope through his letterbox. He bent down to pick it up, noting as he did that the envelope was not the classy kind like Basildon Bond – which was what he always used for all Seagulls business – but instead was tatty, and so thin that it was almost transparent.
He held the envelope up to the light. There was no address written on it, but that was hardly surprising, since it was far too late for it to have delivered by a postman. He slit the envelope open, and took out the single piece of paper which lay nestled inside.
There was neither handwriting nor typing on the sheet. Instead, a number of words had been cut out of newspapers and magazines, then glued to the page.
It did not take him long to read the message, but even before he had finished it, he could feel the bile rising to his throat.
Who could have put together such a dreadful thing? he asked himself, as the hallway began to swim before his eyes.
A sudden thought hit him like a thunderbolt. Why was he just standing there like a bloody fool, he wondered, when whoever had put the letter together had probably also been the person who’d pushed it through his letterbox a minute or so earlier?
On legs which felt as if they were made of rubber, he staggered up the hall and flung open the front door.
There was a distinct chill edge to the air, but he didn’t even notice it. He glanced frantically up and down the road. The street lamps were shining brightly – far too brightly, it seemed to him, for his eyes to take. A row of dustbins stood lined up, ready for an early-morning collection. Further down the street, a neighbour he vaguely recognised was putting her milk bottles out on the step, and from across the road a stray cat stared wildly at him, then made a dash for freedom. But of the author of the vile message, there was absolutely no sign.
Nine
Despite his intermittent nagging worries about his wife, Bob Rutter found he really enjoyed his first night’s sleep in the Adelphi Hotel. Luxury, he decided, as he shaved in his en suite bathroom the following morning, was something he could very easily become accustomed to. And there was more luxury to come, he thought as he stepped out of the lift – a breakfast eaten off fine china plates, coffee poured from a silver-plated pot, crisp white tablecloths and napkins.
It was not to be. “You know what I really fancy for me breakfast?” Woodend asked him, when they met in the lobby. “An egg-an’-bacon buttie, smothered in thick brown sauce. An’ since I reckon I’ve got as much chance of gettin’ one of them in this poncy place as I have of bein’ elected Pope, why don’t we go an’ find a decent, honest cafe?”
With a regretful sigh, Rutter followed his boss out on to the street. On the corner a newspaper vendor, wearing a cloth cap and a heavy muffler, was bawling out the day’s headlines.
“Read all about it! Russians put the first man in space! Read all about it!”
Woodend stopped and bought a copy of the Daily Sketch. “So, the Comrades have got there first,” he said. “Well, the Yanks won’t like that – especially not that President Kennedy of theirs.”
“It’s a tremendous achievement, isn’t it?” Rutter said enthusiastically, as they walked along the street.
“I suppose it is,” Woodend replied, sounding unconvinced. “But where’s it all leadin’, that’s what I want to know? They’ll be wantin’ to go to the moon next, though God only knows why – the place is about as desolate as a Butlin’s holiday camp on a wet Thursday in March.”
The chief inspector came to a halt right in front of a cafe which had its menu painted on the window. He sniffed the smells drifting out through the open door with gusto.
“This’ll do champion,” he announced.
There were already a number of customers inside, mopping up egg yolk with bits of fried bread and drinking strong tea out of large pot mugs. Bob Rutter sat down at one of the rickety Formica tables and thought once more of the starched linen tablecloths and discreet service he could have been enjoying in the Adelphi Hotel.
Woodend ordered the egg-and-bacon sandwich he’d been lusting after, and when it was plonked unceremoniously on the table in front of him, he attacked it with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn’t eaten for days.
Rutter contented himself with buttered toast and, as he nibbled at it, he found himself wondering when would be the earliest time he could call his wife without it angering her.
“There’s a murderer out there – probably not more than a mile from this very spot,” Woodend said, when he’d finished eating. “He knows we’re lookin’ for him, an’ he’s scared.”
“Or she knows we’re looking for her, and she’s scared,” Bob Rutter countered.
“You’re right,” Woodend admitted. “My problem is, I’m still findin’ it difficult to use ‘woman’ an’ ‘wirin’’ in the same sentence. Anyway, do you mind if, for the present, I talk about him as if he was a man?”
“Go ahead.”
“He’s out there, an’ he’s scared. I can almost smell his fear. I’ve got absolutely no idea what he looks like, or why he killed poor Eddie Barnes, but I’ll tell you somethin’ for nothin’, Bob – no matter how frightened he is,
he’ll kill again if he has to.”
“What makes you say that? Instinct?”
“Aye, if you like.”
“Which has been wrong before,” Rutter pointed out.
“True,” Woodend agreed. “But there’s been plenty of times when it’s been right an’ all.” He drained the last dregs of his large mug of tea. “It’s time we were gettin’ to work,” he continued. “I’m goin’ down to the Cellar Club to talk to this Mrs Pollard who owns it.”
“And what do you want me to do, sir?”
“You take yourself down to the local nick an’ have a look at this room which Inspector Hopgood’s assigned us,” Woodend said. “He’ll probably ask you if you think it’ll do, an’ when he does you’re to say that it’s absolutely bloody perfect, that you’d never – not even in your wildest dreams – have thought they’d give us such a wonderful room.”
Rutter grinned. “I’ll probably tone that down a bit, sir.”
“Aye, that might be wise,” Woodend agreed.
“And once I’ve told them the room’s satisfactory, what do you want me to do?”
“Scatter a few papers around the place, so it looks as if we’re actually usin’ it. Oh, an’ have a look at their reports on the investigation they conducted before we arrived.”
“Should I be looking for anything in particular?”
Woodend shook his head. “I don’t expect you’ll find anythin’ of much use – if they’d had any real leads to follow, they wouldn’t have called us in. Still, you never know your luck.”
“Where will me meet up again?”
“How about in the Grapes, round about dinnertime?” Woodend suggested, standing up. “Take a taxi down to the nick at the long-sufferin’ taxpayer’s expense, if you feel like it.”
“I think I’ll walk, sir. ‘Feel the rhythms of the place through the soles of my feet’, as an old bobby I know I once said.”
His sergeant was smiling, Woodend thought, but he could see that it was an effort. He wondered just what had been said during the phone call to Maria to make him tense up so much. But no doubt Rutter would tell him when he was good and ready.
The door to the Cellar Club was closed, but when Woodend turned the handle, it swung obligingly open. As the chief inspector made his way down the stairs, he could hear a number of voices coming up from below. Once at the bottom, he could see who had been making the noise. The three surviving members of the Seagulls were standing on the tiny stage, and sitting on the hard chairs in front of it were several young men holding guitars. The auditions to find a replacement for the murdered Eddie Barnes were already under way.
Steve Walker placed his mouth close to the microphone. “Right, let’s hear the next one,” he said, with weary resignation in his voice.
A boy wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket mounted the steps, and plugged his guitar into the amplifier.
“I’d like to do a song called ‘Some Other Guy’,” he said into the microphone. He turned his head in Steve Walker’s direction. “That’s all right, isn’t it? You do know that one?”
“Do we know it?” Walker asked scornfully into his own mike. “Of course we bloody know it. Let’s get this straight. We’re not just some tinpot group of beginners. We’re real musicians, kid. We’ve played the Star Club in Hamburg. When you’ve been on stage for eight hours a day, every day, like we have, you learn every song that’s ever been written.”
The young guitarist looked chastened. There’d been no need for that, Woodend thought – no need at all to broadcast to the whole club that he thought the lad was a prat even before he’d played the opening bars.
The chief inspector’s glance took in the rest of the club. The pale, thin Jack Towers was standing at the far end of the tunnel, nervously sucking on a cigarette. He must somehow have managed to get a morning off work from the shipping office. Either that or he’d called in sick.
Just beyond the harassed manager, standing by the snack bar, were Rick Johnson and a middle-aged woman with hair which, even in the poor lighting, Woodend could see was a brassy blonde. The two had their heads close together, as if they were having a serious discussion, and for one brief moment the woman put her hand on Rick Johnson’s arm.
The group had started the number. Even to Woodend’s untutored ear, the hopeful guitarist seemed to be making a mess of it – but that was hardly surprising after the way Steve Walker had unsettled him.
As Woodend made his way across the back of the club, Jack Towers seemed to notice him for the first time, and stepped directly into his path. The manager’s eyes were red, and there was stubble on his chin. He looked as if he had spent a very bad night indeed.
“We’ve got to have a talk, Chief Inspector,” the manager said. “It’s very important!”
It had not been part of Woodend’s plan to speak to Towers again until he had more background information, but there was an urgency in the man’s tone which suggested he was going to be very insistent.
“Give me half an hour,” Woodend said. “As soon as I’ve had a chat with Mrs Pollard, I’ll get back to you.”
“This won’t wait,” Towers said.
Woodend sighed loudly. He was beginning to see what Steve Walker meant when he said that Towers sometimes got so far up his nose that he just felt he had to lash out.
“There are very few things in this world which take any harm for waitin’ half an hour to be dealt with,” the chief inspector said. “Listen to the audition, Mr Towers. That’s what you’re here for.”
But then Towers wasn’t really interested in the music, he reminded himself as he walked towards the snack bar. When the Seagulls had first noticed their soon-to-be-manager, he hadn’t been swaying with the beat as everyone else had, but just standing there, stock-still.
Rick Johnson had noticed Woodend’s approach and was about to beat a hasty retreat, but before he left, Mrs Pollard took the opportunity to touch his arm again. Woodend added that fact to the dossier on Johnson which he was already building up in his mind.
Close to, the owner of the Cellar Club did not look quite as brash as she had from a distance. True, she had the sort of hard features which said she would not stand for being messed about, but beneath that steely exterior Woodend guessed there lurked a soft heart.
“You’ll be Mrs Pollard,” he said.
“And you’ll be Chief Inspector Woodend, all the way from London,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”
“A cup of tea would hit the spot.”
“I’ve got something a bit stronger than tea under the counter,” the woman said, winking a heavily made-up eye.
“It’s a bit early in the day for me,” Woodend told her.
“It’s a bit early in the day for me, too,” Mrs Pollard replied, “but when you’ve had a murder in your own club, I think you’re entitled to it.”
She lifted the flap, stepped behind the counter, and filled the kettle.
The group had just reached the end of ‘Some Other Guy’. “Right, let’s have the next one up here,” Steve Walker said.
His audition over – his chance blown – the guitarist in the leather jacket made his way down the steps, his head bowed.
“Give your name an’ address to our manager,” Pete Foster said into the mike. “He’s standin’ over there. We’ll be in touch if we need you.”
He was only trying to be kind, Woodend thought. But Pete Foster’s kindness was very different to that shown by Steve Walker. Pete spread it thin, so that everyone got a share, while Steve lavished his – in huge dollops – on a few, carefully selected people.
Another young hopeful had already mounted the stage and was standing in front of the mike.
“What’s yer name?” Steve Walker asked disinterestedly.
“Phil Rourke.”
“An’ what song do you want us to do?” Steve asked. “Better make it somethin’ easy,” he continued, casting a brief, contemptuous look at the leather-jacketed youth who was giving his name to Jack Tow
ers, “’cos it’s well known we can only play a few tunes.”
“I’d like to do ‘Lime Street Rock’,” Phil Rourke said.
The effect of the words on Steve Walker was instantaneous. He seemed to swell with rage, and for a moment Woodend feared that he would club the newcomer with his guitar.
“What’s the matter?” Pete Foster asked.
“What’s the matter?” Steve Walker repeated. “He wants to play ‘Lime Street Rock’ – that’s what’s the matter!”
“Well, why shouldn’t he? It’s a good song.”
“It’s Eddie’s song. Eddie wrote it.”
“I know Eddie wrote it, but it’s no good to him now, is it?”
The two young men glared at each other across the stage. At this point, the manager should step in and take charge, Woodend thought, but Towers was staying where he was – probably afraid to cross Steve Walker when he had a mood on him.
“Listen, I can do ‘Please Don’t Tease’ instead,” Phil Rourke said, the expression on his face clearly showing that he suspected what everybody else already knew – that as far as Steve Walker was concerned, he had blown the audition before it even started.
“Yeah, do that one instead,” Pete Foster told him, and before Steve Walker had time to say anything else, he began the count-in to the song. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”
“My husband had plans to turn this place into the smartest restaurant in Liverpool,” said a voice behind Woodend, and he turned to see that Mrs Pollard had placed a cup of tea at his elbow.
“A restaurant,” Woodend replied, noncommittally.
“A smart restaurant,” Mrs Pollard emphasised. “Just look at the place! He must have wanted his bumps feeling for imagining, even for a minute, that the crème de la crème of Liverpool society would ever come all the way down here for their fish-and-chip suppers.”
Woodend found himself liking the woman, and chuckled. “But you had other plans,” he suggested.
“I had no plans at all until my Les went and got himself killed,” the woman replied.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Mrs Pollard shrugged. “No reason why you should. He tripped up, and banged his head on the kerb. Other men can fall off high buildings and live to tell the tale. My Les plunged five feet seven inches to his death.”
Death of a Cave Dweller Page 9