Mystery Tour

by Martin Edwards

  ‘So, now, instead of losing ten thousand quid, he’s going to make a few bob?’ McCusker said, polishing off his jam roly-poly and custard.

  ‘Yep, I reckon he’ll turn a profit of about five grand,’ the DS replied as he checked his notes.

  ‘Which means, altogether, he’s about fifteen thousand pounds better off?’

  ‘But surely you’re not suggesting it was worth killing someone for fifteen grand?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve met people who’d consider it for a lot less than fifteen thousand lids,’ McCusker said. ‘On top of which, those fifteen big ones could have been considerably higher if you take into consideration the entire tour. Tell me this, W.J., did you learn anything else from the promoter?’

  ‘Well, only that he felt Joey’s brother, Brian, was the real talent behind the band. Did you know he wrote “Skybird”?’

  ‘Yep, Litz filled me in on some of the band’s history. Did the promoter feel there was any bad blood between the brothers?’ McCusker said.

  ‘Apparently not,’ DS Barr replied. ‘He thought Harry had cultivated a battle between Joey and Brian just for the press mileage, but, according to him, Brian no longer held any grudge against his brother. In fact he was truly concerned over the helpless state Joey was in.’

  ‘Can we talk to Brian?’

  ‘Not until tomorrow morning. He’s in London.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The promoter, he’s now Brian’s manager. He had him over in London recording his first solo album. He spoke to him on the phone and told Brian what had happened to Joey. Brian confirmed he’d be arriving at George Best City Airport tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How long has he been there?’

  ‘For the last three weeks.’

  ‘Are you certain he’s actually in London?’

  ‘I thought you’d ask me that so I got the number of the recording studios from the directory and I rang him there.’

  ‘Right, good man,’ McCusker grunted, visibly pleased. ‘At least that’s one name we can strike from our suspect list.’

  ‘And how many names would that leave us with, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, we’d have to consider just about everyone else in this travelling circus. Then you’d have to add families and friends, plus the promoter. Yeah, the promoter, with his financial exposure, must be in the frame somewhere. Plus there’ll be other suspects we don’t even know about yet.’

  ‘Everyone except Harry Hammond of course…’

  ‘You reckon?’ McCusker asked, mostly with his eyebrows and a friendly smile.

  ‘Well, he was locked in his dressing room with Litz outside the door on guard when Joey was garrotted,’ Barr said.

  McCusker didn’t reply, appearing preoccupied.

  ‘It’ll take us forever to check the rest of them out,’ DS Barr offered, uncharacteristically downbeat.

  ‘Maybe W.J., but maybe not,’ McCusker offered, wandering off in search of the caretaker, Andrew Mulholland.

  4

  Eventually, the promoter officially asked McCusker’s permission for the concert to go ahead. By this stage it was six-forty and the doors were about to open. Joey Simpson’s remains had been removed from the premises and the majority of the audience, (baby-sittered up, where appropriate) were already on their way to the Ulster Hall. Apart from which, McCusker was cute enough to know that there was a bit of history taking place in their midst. Musicians, crew and fans alike would discuss the riddle he was trying to solve for many, many years to come – possibly for longer than the band’s name would survive. And anyway, McCusker had been well fed and was therefore disposed to be accommodating.

  DS Barr, for good measure, discreetly placed constables at the entrance and exit points, on Bedford Street, and on Linden Hall Street, to the rear of the venue.

  5

  As McCusker sat beside the caretaker, Mulholland, up in the back row of the balcony, he couldn’t help but be excited by the energy generated by 1,800 punters as they took their places in the auditorium. He was indeed experiencing first hand what Litz had described as the buzz of the audience. The detective could actually feel the collective energy of the people gathering around him with common cause – to celebrate the music of one of their favourite artists.

  ‘This is nothing,’ Mulholland said, noticing McCusker’s reaction to the buzz. ‘You should have been here on New Year’s Eve in 1959 when the Royal Showband had almost five thousand people gathered in here. That was quare craic, I’ll tell you. Aye, I remember seeing them walking down through the choir seats, which were packed with punters. The band members were mobbed before they were able to take their positions on stage. Another great night was March the fifth, 1971, when Led Zeppelin took to that there stage in front of you and performed “Stairway to Heaven” for the first time anywhere in the world. And then there was Rory Gallagher; oh boy, he was on fire every night he played here, either with Taste or with his own band when Taste split up. Rory loved this city, and this hall in particular. Aye, I’d watch him from up here and, be jinkers, I’ll tell you something, there were some nights I was convinced he was going to physically rise up in front of those giant organ pipes at the back of the stage there.’

  McCusker followed the caretaker’s stare down to the stage, which was now packed with roadies, including Litz, Urry and Mac, all wandering about doing their last-minute checks and rechecks.

  ‘Has there ever been…’ the rest of McCusker’s question became inaudible because the house lights went down and the roar of the audience went up as Harry Hammond, with the surviving members of the Humming Bees, sauntered onto the stage.

  Harry Hammond, dressed all in black, wrapped himself around the centrally positioned microphone stand. The keyboard player started to play very solemn (synthesised) organ chords. This signature introduction to what was one of their hits was enough to send the fans into another tizz. Hammond wailed like a banshee, and a few lines later the band kicked in, at which point McCusker gave up all hope of deciphering the lyrics. He wasn’t even sure why he tried; it wasn’t as if he expected to find any clues therein.

  Following the third of their stadium-style rock anthems, Hammond silenced the crowd with his first direct words to them of the evening:

  ‘This one’s for Joey!’

  The drummer immediately counted the band in to a tune even McCusker recognised: ‘Skybird’, the Humming Bees’ biggest hit.

  The roof of the Ulster Hall was lifted off its proverbial rafters as the audience’s singing easily drowned out even the band’s amplified sound.

  McCusker’s attention was fixed on the stage and proceedings there. Hammond was, as Litz had predicted, ‘sweating buckets’.

  As the band reached the part where Joey’s trademark searing guitar solo would normally come in to take the song up another notch or two, the arrangement broke down. Obviously the Humming Bees, in their Joeyless state, hadn’t rehearsed anything to fill this gap.

  But then an amazing thing happened. Just as the band’s sound was about to disintegrate into a chaotic mess, the audience with one voice started to sing, as best they could, the notes of the missing solo. The keyboard player quickly cottoned on to what was happening and a few bars later he was leading the audience through the correct melody.

  The spell was broken when the caretaker screamed in the detective’s ear, ‘If you want to attend to those chores you mentioned earlier, now would be a good time, because I’ve got a pile of stuff I’m going to need to do shortly before the concert comes to an end.’

  Twenty minutes later, McCusker was back in his original seat. The concert seemed to have sagged quite a bit during his absence. He went into a bit of a trance and pretty soon started to think about Barry ‘Joey’ Simpson’s demise.

  If the reaction on the stage below was anything to go by, Simpson’s bandmates seemed to be doing better than OK without him.

  But, McCusker wondered, who could have murdered the unfortunate musician?

  His brother perh
aps? Maybe Brian Simpson had just bided his time and was now taking his revenge for losing out on the Humming Bees’ publishing and royalties honeypot. That was before you even considered the ultimate betrayal by his brother and his former girlfriend as a possible motive. Perhaps Harry Hammond, who’d already legally taken ownership of the band and their income, still (emotionally) needed to be the main man on stage? But surely Harry had been locked – not to mention, guarded – in his own dressing room at the time of the murder?

  Then there was the promoter on the verge of a financial bloodbath. Had he found a rather lethal way to reverse his fortunes? And then, considering all of this, was there a chance that the ever-trusted Litz, in his endeavours with street-smart Miss Morrison, had decided to eliminate the competition once and for all? Or could the aforementioned promoter, this time in his role as Brian Simpson’s manager, have decided that he could help his budding artist’s interests by derailing the Humming Bees? Could Brian also have been involved in this scenario? He did, however, appear to be conveniently away in London exactly at the time of the murder.

  People with nice tidy alibis always attracted McCusker’s attention.

  He tuned back into the concert again as it neared the end. In truth, the Humming Bees hadn’t managed to revisit the ecstatic heights they had achieved during the performance of ‘Skybird’. The band was clearly aware of this, because they encored with the same song.

  Fifteen minutes later, the hall had emptied and McCusker was still sitting alone in the balcony, watching the crew break down the equipment. He felt there were few things in life as sad and lonely as a post-gig empty venue. In the moments prior to the doors opening, when the auditorium was also empty, there was anticipation about the magic that was about to happen. The air would be so thick you could cut it with a knife. After the performance, however, the atmosphere was heavy with the regret that it was all over; the magic moments were gone forever.

  All these thoughts brought McCusker neatly back to the Humming Bees’ lyric: ‘Anticipation is always better than participation’.

  Since McCusker had visited Hammond’s dressing room mid-set to have a good old look around, including spending thirty minutes on his computer, he was now thoroughly enjoying anticipating the events that were about to unfold in that same dressing room.

  6

  McCusker, accompanied by DS William John Barr, entered the star dressing room. They had to push their way past the liggers and well-wishers lucky enough to have secured coveted backstage passes. The death of Joey Simpson did not seem to have dampened the postgig proceedings. This troubled McCusker greatly, but he’d also have to admit to being particularly taken by the number of great-looking women present, the majority of whom seemed to be wearing skin-tight jeans tucked into knee-high stiletto boots.

  Never liking to be the centre of attention, McCusker whispered something in DS Barr’s ear. The young DS showed none of his superior’s reluctance for the spotlight.

  ‘OK, OK, we’re going to need this room cleared immediately,’ he barked at the top of his voice. When it became clear that the thronging mass was intent on ignoring him, he stood up on a plush leather chair, stuck two fingers from each hand under his tongue and gave one of the loudest wolf-whistles McCusker had ever heard.

  ‘OK. Everyone apart from band, crew and promoter, out now!’ Barr ordered.

  The two constables on guard at the door helped clear the room of the guest list, all of whom seemed to be working on the age-old principle that the only place worth being backstage was the place you weren’t meant to be. Pretty soon, though, McCusker had his less public room. The only person missing was chief roadie, Litz.

  McCusker went over to speak to Urry and Mac discreetly, and they immediately sauntered off, Urry walking away like John Wayne making his final triumphant exit at the end of a movie.

  ‘OK, let’s all make ourselves comfortable while Urry and Mac find Litz,’ McCusker said.

  Harry Hammond looked at his watch several times, not once clocking the time. The promoter, Peter Kane, kept staring at his mobile, checking and sending texts.

  Hammond eventually asked the question that was on everyone’s mind: ‘Do you really think Litz murdered Joey?’

  ‘I’d say not,’ McCusker replied confidently.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Hammond said, forcing a smile. ‘I mean, I know for a fact he was outside my dressing-room door all afternoon.’

  Hammond’s sweat rate still hadn’t slowed back down to normal, so he used a non-stop supply of tissues to remove the irritating film of sticky, salty moisture from his brow and neck. He immediately discarded the soiled tissue into the ever-filling wastepaper bin by the side of the fridge. McCusker quickly put a single plastic glove on his right hand, removed the latest tissue and carefully placed it in an evidence bag, which he sealed, marking up the location, date and time on the label.

  ‘Sorry; why did you do that?’ Hammond said, half laughing.

  ‘Just collecting evidence,’ McCusker replied.

  An embarrassingly long minute later Urry and Mac returned, nonchalantly wheeling a flight case between them. When they’d wheeled the flight case over to beside Hammond’s wardrobe on wheels, Urry said, ‘We couldn’t find Litz anywhere, Inspector; he seems to have vanished. Very strange if you ask me. Is this the flight case you wanted?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ McCusker replied.

  The flight case was identical to the four-foot cube already in the room, except that one had been stencilled with ‘Humming Bees, Belfast’, then, in smaller letters underneath, ‘H.H. Wardrobe’; whereas the other – the new arrival – had been stencilled ‘Humming Bees, Belfast’, then in smaller letters, ‘Band. Dressing Room’.

  ‘OK, we should start,’ McCusker announced. ‘Litz seems to have been unavoidably detained; perhaps he’s with Janet Morrison.’

  Hammond tried to appear as if this hadn’t registered, making it even more obvious that it had.

  ‘Mr Harold Hammond I’m arresting you for the murder of Mr Barry Simpson. I have to advise you that anything you say…’

  The remainder of McCusker’s caution was lost amid Hammond’s moans, groans, protests and the noise of the members of the band and crew all trying to talk at the same time. Nonetheless, McCusker completed the caution by the book. Urry made a fist-first dash towards Hammond, only to be thwarted in his efforts in the final second by the ever-alert DS Barr.

  ‘Oh, come on, Inspector,’ Hammond spluttered. ‘It couldn’t possibly have been me. I was in here in my dressing room. The door was not only locked but also guarded by Litz. On top of which, Joey was my mate, my fellow band member – my song-writing partner. What motive could I possibly have for murdering him?’

  When McCusker refused to reply, Hammond, looking like he’d been saving his trump card, added, ‘What possible proof could you have?’

  ‘Well Mr Hammond, in the middle of all that you would appear to be asking three good questions. One, what was your motive? Two, how did you commit the murder? And three, what’s my proof that you did in fact commit said murder? So, if everyone would like to settle down again, I’ll deal with your questions in that order.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea, Inspector,’ Hammond said. ‘In the meantime Urry, ring for my lawyer. I feel a very expensive lawsuit coming on.’

  ‘From the look in the detective’s eyes, I have a funny feeling that even Perry Mason couldn’t get you out of the shit this time,’ Urry replied.

  ‘Peter?’ Hammond pleaded with his promoter, who avoided eye contact with the singer.

  ‘Let’s start with the motive,’ McCusker announced in a louder voice. ‘I’d a wee go on your laptop during your concert, Mr. Hammond.’

  ‘That’s private,’ Hammond protested.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ McCusker offered dismissively. ‘I didn’t go into any of your personal files; we can have the experts do that later with the proper warrants. In the meantime I just wanted to Google a few topics. It
really is incredible what you can find out there in cyberspace.

  ‘Anyway, I Googled “Humming Bees”, and you know what? There were over eight hundred thousand documents filed on the subject. Eventually I found a site, one of the fans’ chat rooms, which had been enjoying quite a bit of activity of late. There I discovered that one of the original two Humming Bees – Joey’s brother, Brian Simpson – is currently in a studio making his first album.’

  ‘That’s hardly headline news – Eddie Mcllwaine had it in his column in the Saturday Telegraph at least two months ago,’ Hammond snapped.

  ‘Fair point, Mr Hammond, fair point,’ McCusker continued, unfazed. ‘But the other information I uncovered in the same chat room might not be such common knowledge; and that was that Brian was forming a band to tour in support of his album and that Joey had agreed to join them. Is that right, Mr Kane?’

  ‘Yes,’ the promoter replied. ‘But not only that; what you should also be aware of is that the only reason Brian agreed to make an album was because Joey was going to put the band together and lead it for his brother.’

  The crew looked troubled – obviously unaware of this news.

  ‘Mr Hammond, from what I gather from the chat rooms,’ McCusker continued flawlessly, ‘the fans seem to agree that even if you could have survived Joey leaving the Humming Bees, you most definitely could not have survived him teaming up with his brother again. The possibility of such an eventuality had the Humming Bees’ fans positively buzzing with excitement. There was absolutely no doubt where their allegiance lay.’ McCusker stopped talking as though to allow that fact to sink in.