Vanishing Act

by Bill Kitson

  ‘It all sounds very dodgy,’ Charlie commented, with the blunt innocence of youth.

  ‘Extremely dodgy,’ I agreed, ‘but it’s not something that’s ever worried me. Not on the sort of money I was paid.’

  Eventually, I suggested we call a halt. ‘I think we ought to visit the former band members. We’ve got little or nothing from the files, perhaps talking to the guys who knew Crowther before he vanished will pay dividends.’

  ‘So where do we start? They’re not all exactly accessible. One of them lives in Australia. I can’t see Lew Pattison funding a trip down under simply to spend ten minutes talking to an ageing rock guitarist.’

  ‘OK, so we stick to the ones within striking distance.’

  ‘And what excuse do we give for talking to them? We can’t say we’re looking for a man who has been dead for nigh on seventeen years, can we?’

  ‘That’s a good point, Evie. We’ll have to think about that.’

  There was a prolonged silence. This is quite unusual in our house, except perhaps on Armistice Day. Eventually, Eve broke it. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Charlie and I listened.

  ‘We could tell them you’re an author, they can check that out easily enough. That establishes your credentials, especially if we throw in the bit about being a former TV correspondent. We could explain that you’ve been commissioned to write a series of articles about sixties pop groups, either the ones who didn’t make it, or the successful ones that split up. We could tell them it’s intended to be a sort of “where are they now”.’

  ‘That might work, but the first question they would probably ask is, who commissioned the series?’

  ‘We could say it was Lew Pattison.’

  ‘If we tell them that, the first thing they’d do is check.’

  ‘Then we forewarn him. Simple, really.’

  Charlie and I stared at her admiringly.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Aunt Evie. You’ve thought of everything. Once we’ve done that, what do we do? Two of the people from Northern Lights live in Leeds, and that’s where the eyewitness used to live.’

  ‘Who are the musicians who live there?’ I asked.

  ‘Pete Firth is one of them, he played guitar. He’s stayed in the music business, sort of. He works as a DJ at a disco close to Leeds city centre. The other is Jimmy Mitchell,’ Charlie told us after looking through the folders. He read aloud, ‘“Jimmy Mitchell, the bass guitarist, joined the army but was dishonourably discharged for fighting with another squaddie. He was later convicted of assault following a pub brawl and went to prison. After his release he returned to Leeds. He’s currently working as a mechanic in a garage.’”

  ‘Sounds like a nice boy. I’m really looking forward to meeting him,’ I said.

  Charlie grinned and turned to another file. ‘Not only that, but there’s a groupie who saw Crowther after the gig. If we can locate her, she has to be worth talking to.’ His enthusiasm was growing. ‘And if we’re going to Leeds,’ Charlie concluded, ‘what about the guy who used to be their drummer? He’s a vet now, based in Harrogate. His name’s Neville Wade.’

  ‘We’re probably better just turning up on the off-chance,’ I suggested. ‘A vet will often get called out on emergencies, so making an appointment would be difficult.’

  ‘Hang on, what’s all this “we” business?’ Eve enquired. ‘What makes you think you’ll be going with us, Charlie? And who’d speak to us with a teenager in the room?’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Evie. You can’t leave Charlie kicking his heels here. He’s missing enough fun already. Besides, he might pick up on something we miss.’

  ‘Yeah, Aunt Evie. You could say I’m on a work experience course.’

  Eve looked from me to her nephew and back. ‘And which of you is going to explain to my sister that we’re taking her son into possible danger?’

  ‘Whoa, who said anything about danger? All we’re going to be doing is talking to people in the most innocent circumstances. No way is there going to be the slightest bit of risk for any of us.’

  One of these days, I’ll learn stop making such rash predictions.

  ‘OK, who’s going to phone for the appointments?’ Eve’s question signalled her capitulation. Charlie grinned and gave me a thumbs-up sign, which fortunately his aunt didn’t see.

  Once we’d set up our cover story with Lew Pattison, the squabble over who should call the musicians was settled by Charlie. Eve had maintained that I should do it, as the author. My idea was that she should pose as my secretary.

  ‘Why not take it in turns?’ Charlie asked. He looked through the files again. ‘There are plenty to go at. Two of the former members of Northern Lights are in or around Newcastle, as well as the ones in Leeds. Steve Thompson, the other vocalist and saxophone player now works as a bouncer in Newcastle. There’s also the other guy, Tony Kendall.’

  Eve made the first call, to Pete Firth. As she was talking to him, Charlie remarked, ‘It’s lucky Mr Pattison has all their details. Why is that? Do you know?’

  ‘I think it’s to do with sending them royalty cheques. Every time someone plays one of Northern Lights’ records on the radio, the musicians on it will be entitled to a share of the royalties.’

  Eve ended her call and reported her success. Just how successful she’d been we were not to discover until we arrived in Leeds.

  She handed me the receiver and I tried to contact Jimmy Mitchell. I was nowhere near as lucky. After I put the phone down, Eve asked, ‘How did it go?’

  ‘There was no reply. Let’s try the Newcastle ones instead. I’ll start with the mysterious Tony Kendall.’

  Like my previous attempt, my call was a short one, but this time the line had been discontinued. ‘It may be disconnected,’ I suggested, ‘we could go to the address just in case.’

  I handed the phone to Eve. ‘You try Thompson. You seem to have more luck than me.’

  Chapter Three

  Charlie appeared next morning sporting a shirt and tie beneath his sweater and clutching a notebook and pen. ‘Got to look the part,’ he informed us as we climbed into the car. Eve shook her head and sighed.

  The journey to Newcastle proved to be a waste of time and fuel, or so I thought at the time. Steve Thompson, the former sax player turned bouncer, provided little fresh insight into Crowther’s character, his disappearance, or the reason he committed suicide. I sensed a deeper feeling of anger and resentment in Thompson, directed at Crowther.

  The closest I got to a meaningful response was when I asked Thompson, ‘Don’t you think it curious that Crowther committed suicide when the group such a success?’

  Thompson’s reply, although not in itself informative, was accompanied by an expression that I couldn’t identify. Eventually, I realized it was one of guilt and shame, but for what reason, I had no idea. I decided on an outlandish way to try and find out the underlying emotion.

  ‘If he did commit suicide, that is.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting Gerry Crowther was murdered, surely? That’s crazy. Why would anyone want to kill him?’

  ‘Crazy, possibly, but why would he want to kill himself? He had everything to live for.’

  ‘That idea’s laughable. You should be locked up. Or is this going to be a work of fiction?’

  ‘No, I merely put it forward as a possible alternative.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Thompson stammered, his eyes reflecting his anger. ‘Of course he bloody topped himself.’ I wasn’t sure, as he spoke, whether Thompson was trying to convince me or himself. Something in his eyes told me we’d outstayed our welcome. I thanked him and we took our leave.

  ‘What did you make of him?’ Eve asked as we drove towards the address Pattison had given us for Tony Kendall, one of the guitarists who had lost his place in the original line-up.

  ‘I wouldn’t trust Thompson further than I could throw him. What’s more, I’m convinced he’s hiding something.’

  ‘He didn’t like it when we asked about Crowth
er. It made him very uncomfortable.’

  We reached the address and stared in dismay at a large expanse of overgrown, weed-filled grass. ‘What’s happened?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘At a guess I’d say this is slum clearance. It’s a shame there hasn’t been any redevelopment. One thing for certain, we’re going to have to look elsewhere for Kendall.’

  Having failed to gather information in Newcastle, we hoped for better in Leeds. What we got was more than we bargained for. Eve insisted Charlie stayed home. The trip of the previous day had left him tired and she was concerned that he was not as fit as we thought.

  The disco where Pete Firth worked was near the city centre. When we arrived he was waiting in the foyer. Firth was thirty-nine years old, but his appearance suggested someone older. The mane of black hair that had been a sixties’ trademark, was tied into a ponytail which was liberally streaked with grey. The boyish good looks female fans found dangerously attractive were now etched with lines, suggesting that life had not been easy for the former guitarist. I wondered how much the ageing process had been accelerated by Firth’s drug habit.

  Pattison’s background notes gave an air of authenticity to my cover story. Although we knew the answers beforehand, Eve scribbled furiously on her pad. Whether she was transcribing Firth’s answers or writing a shopping list it certainly made us look the part.

  I asked Firth about Northern Lights, eventually broaching the subject of Gerry Crowther as a preamble to the key questions surrounding his disappearance.

  ‘Crowther should have gone it alone.’ Firth’s voice was a deep growl. ‘He was more suited to a solo act than as part of a group. Don’t get me wrong, he was a brilliant musician and songwriter, but he was a complete misfit, an out-and-out loner. The problem was, I don’t think he’d the guts to try it as a soloist.’

  ‘You didn’t get on well with him?’

  ‘None of us did. Crowther didn’t try to make friends. He never hung out with the guys and despite what you saw on stage, he’d no social skills. Onstage Crowther was totally different. Fans thought the sun shone out of his arse. They didn’t know that it was all an act. Once the curtain came down he switched the act off. It was almost as if he’d exhausted himself performing and couldn’t be bothered any more. He rarely went for a beer with the lads. He’d sit in the coach or limo waiting to go back to the hotel.’

  Firth grinned and cast a sly glance at Eve. ‘Some nights Crowther would have to wait for a long time, if one of us had found a tasty bit of crumpet to help us relax. That was his fault. I for one had no sympathy.’

  ‘You say he often didn’t go back to the dressing room? Was that what happened the night he vanished?’

  I saw his expression change as soon as I mentioned Crowther’s disappearance. He became guarded, withdrawn almost, and for a long time I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said at last. ‘At the time I couldn’t fathom out how he managed to get out of that place without anyone seeing him. Mind you, my head wasn’t always too clear in those days!’

  ‘Now you’ve had all this time to think about it, have you any ideas as to how he could have done it?’

  Firth’s reply was swift, as if he’d been waiting for that particular question, and glib enough for it to have been rehearsed. That could have been for our benefit, or possibly the fact that he’d been asked the same thing many times. ‘I’m not sure, maybe he paid one of the security men to look the other way. Who knows, and to be honest, who cares?’

  ‘One thing I’m not clear about. Did you all go straight to the dressing room once the set ended?’

  ‘Yes we did, we were exhausted. Besides which, some of us had made arrangements with fans to meet up at our hotel. I think you can guess why.’

  That seemed to be it, but then Firth had second thoughts. ‘No, wait, hang on there. Nev didn’t go straight to the dressing room. He never did, but it was so much a part of the routine that it slipped my mind.’

  ‘That’s Neville Wade, the drummer?’

  Firth nodded. ‘Nev was paranoid about his drum kit. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch it, even the roadies who’d been with us for ages. Nev always insisted on packing it himself before he loaded it on the van. He did it that night and then joined us in the dressing room.’

  I moved on, changing the subject before Firth realized the possible importance of his remark. ‘Do you think committing suicide was in character? It seemed a bit odd, with the group doing so well, and Crowther being hailed as a genius.’

  ‘I don’t know. Crowther wasn’t the sort you could get close to. Maybe it got too much for him. The music industry is littered with the corpses of performers who couldn’t handle fame and success. All I know is that Crowther had been acting weirdly for some time and that night in Newcastle ended things, not only for him, but for Northern Lights and the rest of us. If you ask me, I’d say that was Crowther being selfish right up to the end, but that’s only my opinion.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to the fan who saw Crowther near the Tyne Bridge that night. Julie Solanki, I think her name was. The reports I read mentioned that she came from Leeds, but I checked the phone book and there’s no one of that name listed nowadays.’

  Firth grinned at me. ‘Ah yes, Julie Solanki. You looked under the wrong name, that’s why you couldn’t find her. You should have looked under the name Julie Firth.’

  ‘You married her?’

  ‘’Course I did, I wasn’t going to let any other bloke get his mitts on her. I know a good thing when I see it. Besides, I’d got her pregnant and there was the kid to take care of.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘If you want to talk to Julie, she should be home now. It’s only a few miles up the road.’

  Having persuaded Firth to ring his wife, we set off to meet her. Half an hour later we were seated in the living room of a small terraced house on the outskirts of Leeds.

  Julie Firth had withstood the passage of time better than her husband, I thought. The walls and other surfaces were covered with photos: of Julie, Pete, and their children, and of Northern Lights. Among the photos were publicity shots of the band, both as a whole or individually. One of these caught my eye.

  ‘Who is that?’ I asked, pointing to the figure.

  ‘Billy Quinn, the guitarist. Even Pete says Billy was a genius. Mind you, Pete could say that. There was no chance of him being jealous of poor Billy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Julie coughed delicately, before looking at Eve. ‘You’d be safe alone in a bedroom with Billy’ – she gestured to me – ‘but you certainly wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re saying Quinn was a homosexual?’

  ‘And how! Of course it had to be hushed up in those days, until the law changed.’

  I looked again at the image. Quinn was seated on a stool, the sort popular with kitchen manufacturers and singers alike. Looking closely, there was a hand resting on Quinn’s shoulder. I wondered if the image had been culled from a larger one. Pattison had sent us a lot of material, but some of Julie’s collection was new to me.

  I gestured to another frame. ‘I haven’t seen that photo before. Do you mind if I take a look?’

  Julie nodded, and she and Eve continued chatting quietly. Although my attention was on the photo, I could hear Eve asking about Julie’s family, obviously intending to put her at ease. The image that had attracted my attention was of Gerry Crowther. He was seated at the keyboard, his face half-turned towards the camera. I examined his features closely, noticing something that hadn’t been apparent from any of the other images I’d seen of him.

  ‘What a waste,’ I said as I replaced the frame. ‘His death more or less ended Northern Lights, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Northern Lights died the night Gerry Crowther did. Even if they’d tried to continue, there was no chance after what happened to Billy.’

  ‘I’ve heard he was killed, but nobody seems willing to give me details.’

  ‘That’s probably because of the circumstanc
es. Mind you, it’s almost all rumour. The story is that Billy went out on a blind date. He was assaulted and stabbed to death.’ She stared fixedly at me as she said ‘assaulted’.

  ‘You mean he was raped?’

  ‘Yes, but like I said, it was all hushed up. I think Lew Pattison made sure of that.’

  I decided to change tack. ‘You were close to the group. What did you make of them?’

  Julie’s answer revealed a total lack of self-consciousness. ‘Apart from Pete, you mean? Neville Wade and Gerry Crowther were two of a kind. Neither of them mixed much with the others. Nev was usually too preoccupied with trying to get his leg over. But then I guess you could say that about most of them, with the exception of Crowther and Billy Quinn. I couldn’t work Gerry out. He didn’t seem interested in girls. Billy wasn’t either, of course, but that was for quite different reasons.’

  ‘OK, what about the other group members?’

  ‘I went out with Jimmy Mitchell once, before I realized what a waste of space he was. Not only that, but I think I was too old for him.’

  I raised my eyebrows in question and Julie nodded as she continued, ‘Added to which, he’d a vicious streak in him. But he did introduce me to Pete and that was that. Pete couldn’t keep his hands off me, and I didn’t try too hard to stop him. I’ve no illusions about Pete, but in spite of his failings, and mine, we’ve been together a long time now.’

  ‘What binds you?’ Eve asked. ‘Is it true love?’

  Julie laughed. ‘You could call it that, coupled with the fact that I threatened to cut his cojones off if I ever caught him with another woman.’

  ‘I can see how that would concentrate his mind. Returning to the night of the Newcastle gig, you were the last person to see Crowther alive, weren’t you? Did you have any idea of what he was planning to do?’

  ‘Of course not; it didn’t cross my mind until it was too late. I’m sure he recognized me, even though he turned and walked away, but that was typical of Gerry. I thought perhaps he was going to meet someone and didn’t want me to know who it was.’