Mystery Tour

by Martin Edwards

  Once he was close to the rocks, he realised squeezing through the crack wasn’t going to be that easy. He’d have to go in sideways and then twist left to get past the boulder behind. It was the first time he’d been unhappy about his wide shoulders. It was going to be tight. He took off his pack and left it with Gillian.

  In the end, once he hit on just the right angle, he went through fairly easily. He found himself in a low shelter formed by a huge flattish boulder lying across the others. He had to bend over to avoid hitting his head, and there was an unpleasant musty smell he couldn’t place. Maybe animals lived here. The far end was blocked by a pile of boulders, but light filtered between them.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he made out the remains of a fire at the far end; the gaps in the rocks had obviously been used as a chimney. Next to the fire was a pile of wood and another backpack, this one still closed. And behind it was something else.

  He knew at once what it was, what it had been.

  Moments later he was looking down at what remained of Claire.

  The hot, dry weather and the time that had passed had turned her corpse into a mummy, the skin blackened and pulled tight around her bones. As awful as this was, there was something still worse: gaping slashes where her breasts should have been.

  So he was right about the sangomas, he thought. The two women were abducted and brought here. But how had Gillian managed to escape?

  Part of Claire’s right leg had been removed too. And then he saw that there were bones matching the missing ones lying next to the fire.

  He felt the sudden urge to throw up. No, not here. Not with all that remained of his sister lying at his feet.

  That was when he heard the voices. Gillian was talking to someone, loudly, scared. The other voice much deeper, husky.

  Tom swallowed the bile in his throat as he rushed back to reach Gillian, cursing himself for leaving the knife in his pack. She’d warned him there was danger here, but he hadn’t listened.

  Now there was silence outside.

  ‘Gillian!’ he shouted as he forced himself through the crevice.

  He ripped his shirt in his haste, scraping his skin. Then he was out, blinded for a second by the full sun, and momentarily relieved to see Gillian waiting for him, right in front of the crevice.

  She was quite alone. When he saw her eyes and his hunting knife grasped in her hand, he knew how wrong he’d been about everything.

  She spoke in the husky voice. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. Gillian really liked you, but you shouldn’t have come here. And I’m so hungry.’

  Faster than Tom would’ve imagined possible, she plunged the knife deep into his throat.

  It took a few minutes before Tom stopped moving. When it was over, she easily negotiated the crevice into the shelter. With a half-smile at what was left of Claire, she kicked away the loose bones and lit a fire.

  The Riddle of the Humming Bee

  Paul Charles

  1

  The journey up from Cork had taken too long – much too long; and the four-and-a-half-hour drive had been a hot and sticky one. Harry Hammond meant to make a note (he was always meaning to make notes) to instruct his agent never to book the Humming Bees on back-to-back Cork and Belfast gigs again. The road from Dublin up to Belfast was as good as you’d get anywhere in the UK, but the Cork to Dublin section hadn’t improved since his father had started gigging with showbands in the sixties.

  Needs must however, and Hammond could only dream about the success that had so far evaded the band; success that might have brought them luxuries, such as a better level of on-the-road comfort, of course; but better hotels, too; better equipment, better vehicles, better venues, a better crew and better audiences. Better everything in fact.

  There was one thing that served as an effective antidepressant on the 250-mile journey, though: the power shower in the main artist’s dressing room at the 149-year-old Ulster Hall in Bedford Street, Belfast. Since Newry, Hammond had travelled with his eyes closed, not necessarily in search of much-needed sleep, but rather day-dreaming about peeling off his clingy, sweat-drenched clothes and stepping into the best shower he had ever experienced.

  When he reached the aforementioned dressing room, he resisted the temptation to dive straight into the shower, choosing instead to prolong the anticipation. He had his trusted life-long friend and roadie (a frogeyed, five-foot-four-inches-small native of Belfast called Litz) deliver to his dressing room his two guitars, his suitcase, his laptop computer and his personal deli tray from the catering rider. Then he escorted Litz back to the dressing-room door, instructing him, as usual, to stand guard outside while he locked it from the inside. In the distance he could hear the roadies as they noisily wheeled the heavy flight cases of equipment up the steep ramps and onto the stage.

  The shower still foremost in Hammond’s mind he had two tasks to complete before surrendering to the water-powered massage. He checked his emails (that took at least thirty minutes) and then he helped himself to about half the deli tray (that took perhaps another dozen minutes). Then he rang Litz on his mobile and said he was just about to step into the shower but could he – no please or thank-you – wheel in the wardrobe flight case as he needed a fresh change of clothes after his shower. He also instructed Litz to remove the deli tray. He didn’t seem to mind eating decaying animals, he just didn’t like the smell of them. He advised Litz that he’d already unlocked the dressing room so he could accomplish his chores. Litz completed the said tasks in five minutes. Apparently, though, Hammond hadn’t yet taken his greatly anticipated shower, because, a few minutes later, Litz heard the dressing-room door being locked again from the inside.

  Now there would be no distractions. In one of Hammond’s lyrics he’d written that anticipation was better than participation. However, for anticipation to exist there had to be participation. At long last it was time for him to partake of the bliss that was the Ulster Hall’s power shower. Taking off his clothes at this stage felt like shedding a coat of dead, tired skin. He wondered if snakes felt such elation while shedding theirs.

  He placed the freshly laundered towels by the shower door. He preferred to turn on the shower only when he was already standing naked in the shower tray. He just loved that initial blast of cold water, which would invigorate him before the water heated up to relax and recharge him.

  It felt every bit as glorious as he’d hoped it would. He closed his eyes, raised his head in the direction of the showerhead and let the high-speed jets of hot water dampen and then shrink his trademark bottle-blonde crown of curls away from his brow.

  He raised his hands to swish back his hair in an elaborate Tony Curtis DA. The water felt denser than normal. Come to think of it, it smelled different too. It smelled – and he had a quick chuckle to himself about this – it smelled like blood. He wondered for a split second if in his excitement getting into the shower he’d cut or grazed himself somewhere. Instinctively he grabbed his privates. Simultaneously he opened his eyes as his fingers moved to search his scalp for any leaking abrasion. The moment his eyes registered the crimson density of the water, he went into shock, collapsed into the shower tray and, in doing so, inadvertently suffered a minor cut to his forehead.

  In the meantime, the trusted Litz had been trying to enter his boss’s dressing room with his traditional post-shower cup of herbal tea. Unable to gain entry, despite eleven incessant minutes knocking on the door, the resourceful Litz, aided and abetted by the Ulster Hall caretaker, William Mulholland, eventually gained access. When Litz was assured his boss was OK, he and Mulholland headed off to discover the source of the crimson Nile.

  In the loft space above the artist’s dressing room, they discovered Barry ‘Joey’ Simpson, the Humming Bees’ lead guitarist, his body still warm, but face down in the five-hundred-gallon water tank.

  Joey’s days of running around the stage like someone possessed – while Hammond perfected his Jim Morrison static pose – had come to a very abrupt and very perm
anent end. Litz and Mulholland frantically tried to rescue Joey from the bloody water, only to find that he’d been garrotted by a guitar string. That same guitar string – a famous Ernie Ball ‘B’ string – was still embedded deeply in his neck.

  Those were the facts as relayed to McCusker by Litz and Hammond.

  2

  McCusker sent DS Willie John Barr to question the remaining members of the band and crew, plus their associated girlfriends, wives and partners.

  He didn’t know a lot about pop music or musicians, but he had heard quite a few stories about the legendary excesses of the catering rider, so he thought he might like to sample some of the alleged delights.

  Litz, as it so happened, was also feeling a little peckish, so a few minutes later, McCusker and the Humming Bees’ chief roadie joined various other members of the crew down in the basement of the Ulster Hall, where the tour caterers had set up camp.

  Considering what had just happened to one of the principals of their troop, McCusker felt they were all incredibly blasé. He figured they were either experiencing delayed shock or they were just acting the macho men they thought McCusker expected them to be.

  ‘Well, at long last Joey’s gone to play with Hendrix in heaven,’ the only roadie not dressed in denim began. His (apparent) daily wardrobe was a fading grey-black romper suit. He wore his long brown hair parted in the middle and flowing down to mix with his moustache-less goatee beard. He was seated at the head of the table, acting as though he’d been holding court before McCusker and Litz had arrived.

  ‘Aye Urry, just as long as Jimi doesn’t expect Joey to tune his guitars,’ replied the crew member sitting closest to McCusker; he was dressed head to toe in black, and had a ‘Dougal’ hairstyle.

  They all fell about laughing at that one. Urry looked at McCusker, checking to see how their irreverence was going down with the detective. McCusker laughed casually even though he didn’t get the joke.

  Needing no further encouragement, Urry continued. ‘Aye and as long as Jimi doesn’t leave Joey alone with any of his women they’ll get along fine.’

  ‘Well, from what I’ve read about Jimi and what I know about Joey, they’re both going to be pushed when it comes to standing each other a pint when they visit heaven’s version of the Crown Bar,’ Litz said, looking at McCusker, who was pretending to be preoccupied by his soup.

  ‘Yeah,’ Urry continued. ‘In the Humming Bees, Joey got the glory and scored the birds and Harry Hammond got to count the money and sweat a lot.’

  ‘Aye,’ Litz sighed loudly, ‘I’ve never known a man who sweated so much as Harry Hammond. As long as I’ve known him he’s been in need of a shower. If he hadn’t needed all those showers he’d be as big as Ed Sheeran by now.’

  ‘Did they get on well?’ McCusker asked, feeling he’d gone as long as he could without contributing to the conversation.

  Litz, Urry and the two other crew members not so much laughed as offered their own version of a four-part, out-of-tune harmony of Frankie Howerd’s tittering.

  ‘Now then, Mac,’ Urry started, pulling on his fingerless gloves, ‘we should start to pack the gear away.’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you,’ Litz interrupted as Mac searched in vain for his gloves, ‘Harry is talking about going ahead with the gig, and the entire tour for that matter, as a … a … tribute to Joey.’

  ‘You’re fecking kidding?’ Urry said, spitting out the words.

  ‘No way,’ Mac screeched.

  ‘Typical,’ the remaining crew member offered meekly.

  By now they were all on their feet.

  ‘You can definitely count me out,’ Urry said.

  ‘Aye, I’m with Urry,’ Mac offered in what sounded like a habitual soundbite.

  ‘OK, fair play to you. But before making any rash decisions, tell me this: how much wages are you owed?’ Litz asked, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Right lads,’ Urry said, visibly changing gear, and moving away from the table, ‘the rest of this equipment won’t get set up by itself now, will it?’

  In a matter of seconds they were all gone, leaving McCusker and Litz at the table by themselves.

  ‘Whose band is this?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘It was originally formed by Joey and his brother Brian. In the beginning it was an Everly Brothers kind of act, with just the two of them. Joey’s real name is Barry, and when they were growing up, they were allowed to rehearse in their parents’ sitting room on condition they were very, very quiet,’ Litz began and dropped to a whisper for the last few words. ‘In fact they were so quiet their dad christened them the Humming Bees – you know B for Brian…’

  ‘…and B for Barry,’ McCusker added seamlessly.

  ‘And it stuck,’ Litz continued. ‘Brian was an excellent songwriter but he had no stomach for the road, so Barry changed his name to Joey and recruited Harry, a mate of mine who lived close to Barry and myself. Harry learned all of Brian’s vocal parts. They found another three musicians, kept the name and, before they knew it, they’d secured a record deal with EMI. The first album consisted entirely of Brian’s songs; it received incredible reviews and the band had a reasonable first flush of success. Then, for the second record, Harry started to write some songs, at first with Joey, but then by himself.’

  ‘How were his songs?’

  ‘Agh you know,’ Litz said with a shrug of his shoulders so effective that McCusker knew immediately. ‘However, they still had one song of Brian’s left from the first batch. It was one they’d always done live but for some reason it never made the first album. Anyway, they recorded it for the second album. It was called, “Skybird”…’

  ‘I know “Skybird”…’

  ‘Everybody knows “Skybird”,’ Litz chuckled, ‘but they don’t have to listen to it every bleedin’ day of their lives, like the crew and I do. It was a big hit and made the second album a very respectable seller. And guess who had the majority of the publishing on that one? … Harry of course. Joey had a few co-writes, so he was making a few bob, but he was spending more than he was earning living the lifestyle … Let’s just say he was rather fond of self-induced chemical imbalance. So much so that didn’t he only go and shag Brian’s girlfriend while under the influence? I don’t think the brothers have spoken since.’

  ‘So Joey ran out of money?’

  ‘Well, not before Harry persuaded him to sell his share of the band and the publishing company they’d formed for the first album.’

  ‘Causing resentment?’

  ‘It wasn’t as blatant as that,’ Litz replied, ‘I mean, not to those of us on the outside. Harry is a very cautious and considered man. He plans all his moves with great care and attention. He’d have made sure not to be seen to be taking advantage. On top of which, Joey had a hunger he was preoccupied by. He would boast about wanting to be the prettiest corpse in the graveyard. I had the feeling he always hoped that Ash or Snow Patrol would steal him away, so he could sell his soul and share their glory. But until then he seemed content to do Harry’s bidding.’

  Litz went quiet for a while clicking his tongue a few times.

  ‘What? You remembered something else?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Well, it could be something and it could be nothing, but I did get the impression there was someone sniffing around him over the last few months.’

  ‘As in wanting to steal him?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Litz replied blankly, ‘he was just a wee bit more content than normal, so it was either another group wanting him or he was off chasing a new bit of skirt.’

  ‘Is Harry married?’ McCusker began, distracted as a pretty catering assistant replaced the empty soup bowls with plates of sausages and champ.

  ‘No,’ Litz replied quickly; then mumbled, ‘he’s very keen on Janet though.’

  ‘Janet?’

  ‘Ah yes, Janet Morrison,’ Litz continued, his eyes lighting up again. ‘We’ve both known her since we ran around together up on Cyprus Avenue as kids. S
he’s not really serious about Harry. She always makes sure she has a mate around when she’s with him. You know, safety in numbers and all of that?’

  ‘Aye, I know what you mean. So you’re still fond of her yourself then?’

  Litz looked at McCusker with a mixture of hurt and respect in his eyes. ‘She’s definitely not interested in anyone involved in all this travelling around with this auld rock and roll carry-on. But, then again, I’m not going to want to be doing this for ever, now am I?’

  3

  DS W.J. Barr joined them at the dinner table, and Litz used this interruption to go and attend to some duty or other.

  When he’d left the room, McCusker said, ‘Right DS, what information did you manage to pick up for me?’

  ‘Well, let’s see,’ DS Barr started, playing with his tie as he read from his notes. ‘This was a short-notice booking and hadn’t been selling too well. The promoter, a Peter Kane from City Concerts, said the band was already in decline and it was costing him dearly. He said he was paying them ten grand. The tickets were priced at £17.50 and he would need to have taken over twice the box office just to break even!’

  ‘But, surely, if he couldn’t at least cover his costs he shouldn’t have agreed to do the show?’

  ‘Well, I asked him about that and he said the agent blagged him that, with all the cruise ships now visiting the city, the band would benefit from tourists. On top of which if he hadn’t done the concert, Wonderland, another promoter in the city, would have stepped in just to have a chance to work with the act.’

  ‘So, he was happy to lose money to protect his relationship with an act he openly admits were on the wane?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

  ‘How much could he have lost?’

  ‘Well, that’s another funny thing, up to an hour ago, the ticket sales were under five hundred, so he reckoned he was going to lose about ten grand. Then Joey was murdered and Harry decided he still wanted the show to go ahead, “as a tribute to Joey”.’ DS Barr raised his right eyebrow as he mentioned the word ‘tribute’. ‘Now it’s all over Radio Ulster and the box-office phones are going crazy. The promoter predicts the show will be completely sold out before the doors open.’