Tonight, he sat in his dismal bedsit in a three-storey terraced Victorian worker’s house off the Walworth Road. His four walls housed a gas stove, gas fire, bed, table and chair. He thought about Stag in his luxury apartment. Several times in the past, when he couldn’t sleep because of the continual voice in his head telling him it was justice to kill them – that it was his right, that he was the victim, that his was the retribution they deserved – he’d walked through the night up to the Elephant & Castle, down to Nine Elms and along the Embankment, to sit lonely on a bench and watch the fifth floor windows of Stag’s apartment, now and again being bothered by a down-and-out after a fag or a few spare coins. He’d hear their pneumonia-based coughing in the shadows as they struggled to sleep in an old box or filthy sleeping bag; brothers in the same world, each having had some catastrophe throw them from normal life into the trash bin of discarded people; the bin Brown felt at home in now, sitting there alone with his repeated thoughts of revenge.
Chapter 5
A year Earlier
Maurice ‘Mo’ Jade had left the band in 2014 after thirty years as the drummer, or ‘banging the cans’ as Stag would humorously describe Mo’s musical input. He’d enjoyed those years, but the early days of non-ear protection had taken their toll on his tinnitus and in the end he’d had an implant to relieve the continual buzzing. The consultant had told him he was a fool to carry on drumming and to do so would cause increasing damage over time, probably resulting in total deafness. So, with two broken marriages behind him the life of an irresponsible wealthy bachelor on the loose appealed to Maurice Jade. An end to the continual touring and rehearsing appealed more – a time to unwind, to put the feet up and sample the good life; time to spend more time building up his Chinese porcelain collection. He had one of the best collections of the Jiajing period porcelain in the country, and yet he really didn’t know why he had such a collection. He wasn’t an expert, and had gotten the collecting bug after doing an ‘expert with a celebrity’ antiques program on TV, where he’d been ferried around Dorset for a week with two hundred pounds to spend buying antiques, guided by an expert; the idea being that they made more money when their wares were auctioned at the end of the week than the opposing team, and all profits went to a charity of his choice. In a classy antiques shop in Wareham he’d been really taken by a lovely goldfish vase, which was from the Chinese Jiajing period and priced at ten thousand pounds – far above what the program allowed. But money was not a problem for Mo, and two weeks later he was back at the shop on his own, and the vase was his.
And so, his love for the Jiajing period ceramics grew; and with online auctions making it far too easy for him to buy pieces while on tour shut in a hotel room anywhere in the world via his laptop, his collection grew as well. A lit and locked display cabinet in the lounge housed it, and of an evening when he was home, Mo would sit and wonder at the craftsmanship each piece showed. Now, if he retired, he could really learn more about the period and attend the sales himself; the Chinese market was soaring, but when you are on the road ten months of the year you don’t spend much money and the bank balance soars as well. Even after the alimony payments to the exes, Mo was still a wealthy man; and, of course, even in retirement the royalties would keep coming in from record sales, publishing rights, PRS and a host of other income streams that Solly had arranged. Mo had thought of leaving Revolution for some time, but the hearing issue was a perfect excuse as he’d get the sympathy of the rest of the band and the fans. Perfect!
And so, he had retired. His exit made double-page spreads in the NME and Rolling Stone, and he was interviewed solidly for a fortnight, warning up-and-coming musicians about the dangers of excessive noise levels. The back catalogue took a very healthy rise in sales as fans bought in order to have the ‘original line-up’ releases in their collections; even the now useless cassette tapes had a field day on eBay. And then it was over; a big farewell party thrown by the record company at The Dorchester, lots of hugs and tears – mostly of the crocodile variety – a few last words for the music press and MTV and then… peace.
He purposely hadn’t taken advantage of a free suite offered by The Dorchester, and Solly had booked him a room at the nearby Hilton. He knew that if he had stayed at The Dorchester he’d have been kept in the bar until daylight by his peers; and even then, when he finally got to go to bed, he would probably have had to fend off the groupies who always seemed to evade security and find the band’s rooms in whatever hotel they were in anywhere in the world.
In the next six months Maurice Jade, rock star became Maurice Jade, normal human being. He enjoyed living a life of quiet solitude in his country house on the Cornish coast near St Ives; the house was not a mansion, as was usually associated with rock stars, but a nice four-bedroom Edwardian rectory in two acres. His first act was to use the outside incinerator to burn his stage suits of brightly coloured sequinned silk, the leather trousers, the boots and the fake gold chains – you never wore real gold on stage in case the crazed fans got through the front of stage security men and got to you before you and the band could get off. He had his hair cut to normal length, and his body reacted to having decent food prepared by his housekeeper – or eating at one of the local restaurants – by gaining two stone in three months.
Mrs Armitage the housekeeper came in two days a week and cleaned and kept the place tidy for him. She was in her sixties and probably should have retired as well, but she wouldn’t hear of it. ‘When you retire, you seize up. When you seize up, you die – like a car stuck in a garage for years. No thank you!’ She cooked meals for him on those two days she was there, and made sure the fridge and freezer were stocked up with healthy microwave meals and the fruit bowl full for when she wasn’t. Maurice’s parents had died ten years ago, both within months of each other; Maurice was convinced his dad had died of a broken heart when his mother passed on. But at least he’d been able to give them the trappings of a good life in their last years – nice house, world cruises, anything they wanted, and a lot they didn’t. Mrs Armitage reminded Maurice of his mum, always fussing about him. Was he eating enough? Had he got his thermals on when it was cold outside? Did he want anything from the shops as she was going into Penzance later with Mr Armitage?
Mr Armitage was the male equivalent of Mrs Armitage – late sixties, and even at that age fitter than Maurice would ever be. He did the gardening and kept the shrubbery at bay; the shrubbery being half an acre of rhododendrons that some past occupant of the rectory had planted many decades ago, which now provided an ongoing battle for Mr Armitage to prune and cut back each autumn – a pruning that only seemed to spur the bushes on to get their own back by bursting out in an amazing and beautiful array of colour come the next summer. Mr Armitage was a magician in the garden, and Maurice had often told him so.
Maurice liked the Armitages, but he’d had to tell them some news that he didn’t want to tell them the week before. Maurice had done something that he had been meaning to do for decades – he had spoken to his son in America. Maurice’s first marriage had ended in divorce when he succumbed to the rock star life in the throes of the band’s early success and had an affair with an actress, who turned out to be a gold digger and sold the story to the media. His son was only six months old then, and the lawyers had come to a fairly amicable agreement that his wife – who was an American – would go back to live in the States with the boy, and Mo would have unfettered access in return for a whopping financial settlement that would make her secure for the rest of her days. The problem was that Mo hadn’t kept in touch. The continual touring and working had pushed his son into the back of his mind; but as he got older he began to feel guilty and had made some contact, if only on birthdays and Christmas by phone. Even when the band toured the States they had avoided each other by agreement; neither wanted to upset the mother who had a successful second marriage and two more children.
So, it was only when Mo had hung up his guitar and sat down to rearrange his post-rock star life t
hat he bit the bullet and made contact with his son, James – now a man of twenty-three and doing well in the financial area of business. They had met in New York a couple of times, and also in London when he was over for a banking seminar. James had extended his stay and spent a week with Mo at the rectory, which he’d fallen in love with. He told Mo how he was married, and that Mo was now grandfather to three little children under the age of eight, and how they’d absolutely love to come and stay at the rectory in their summer vacation.
This put Mo in a quandary. He had told the Armitages that he intended to move to a serviced apartment in London for his retirement, and that they would get the rectory as a thank-you for all their years of service. Now he had to tell them he was staying put, and had changed his Will to bequeath the rectory to his son, who was now sole beneficiary to his total estate. They’d taken it well, and he fully intended to make sure they were financially compensated for their loyalty; although he didn’t mention that to them, as his lawyer had advised he wait a while before making a further amendment to the Will. All in good time. He would look after the Armitages.
He did like them; in fact, he liked all of his neighbours in the village who nodded and smiled as they passed him by, occasionally exchanging a few words about the weather. What he really liked was that he was just accepted as Mr Jade at the Old Rectory. Nobody bothered him for autographs or anything else when he sat in the village pub with his real ale and read the local paper. They all knew who he was – but he was just Maurice, or Mr Jade.
Today he sat back in a recliner on the front patio, looking at the manicured lawn and flower beds and past them down to the blue ocean in the distance. Life was good. He was enjoying it: the slow pace, the lack of stress, the ability to do just as he pleased, when he pleased. But it wasn’t to last.
He heard the crunch of a car pulling up on the short, gravelled drive at the front of the house. Nobody was expected. Could it be one of the Armitages? Maurice pulled himself up off the recliner, and caught himself pushing his Raybans up onto his head before smiling and telling himself he wasn’t a rock star anymore. Pulling them off and dropping them onto the recliner, he made his way through the French doors and lounge to the front hall and opened the front door.
The Armitages found his body sprawled in the hallway two days later when they came to do their chores. The blood from the gaping head wound had congealed and turned nearly black. Mrs Armitage had fainted, and Mr Armitage – realising nothing could be done for Mo – had heaved her into a sitting position and brought her round before calling the police.
It was murder, obviously – but what motive? Only when the Armitages had regained their composure a little, and been attended by the medics who gave Mrs Armitage a calming sedative were statements taken. The motive was obviously the porcelain. Everything else was in place; everything except the Chinese porcelain. The display cabinet was smashed open and empty, and a broken bowl lay in pieces beside it. So that was it. The place was being robbed when Maurice Jade arrived home and caught the thief or thieves inside; a severe blow with a blunt instrument had ended his life then and there.
The house was cordoned off as a crime scene and Cornwall CID set to work to find the thief, or thieves. The house being off the beaten track, no public CCTV was available and none of the local neighbours had heard or noticed anything out of the ordinary. Jade’s insurance company had pictures of the missing porcelain and the Yard’s Art and Antiques Unit was notified, as were all the major dealers and auction houses. A year on, none had surfaced and no arrests had been made.
That no arrests had been made for Maurice Jade’s murder wasn’t surprising when you knew Peter Brown. Peter Brown planned everything to the smallest detail, and always thought things through from every angle; churning and turning them over in his mind for weeks before taking any action. He knew all about Mo’s porcelain collection, and that gave him the idea of making his revenge murder look like a robbery that had gone wrong. The robber was after the porcelain, of course he was, and the owner had come home halfway through; a fight had ensued, and… Perfect, just perfect.
It was the perfect crime scenario to keep the police off his scent. It was all worked out in his mind on the fateful day he motored down to Maurice Jade’s Cornish retreat to put the plan into action. But it didn’t quite work out as he had planned it.
Chapter 6. Present Day
‘Who?’ DS Gheeta Singh said into the internal phone on her desk in the Serial Murder Squad office at the Yard. ‘Brockheimer? I don’t know anybody called Brockheimer. What’s it about? Okay, I’ll come down.’
She stood and edged out from behind her desk in the cramped office she shared with her boss, DCS Justin Palmer.
‘If you are going out, bring us back a coffee,’ Palmer said, without raising his eyes from the documents he was reading laid out on his desk. ‘Reading all these reports makes me tired. I need a caffeine boost, as you ‘young things about town’ say.’
‘That’s a fallacy, guv. Coffee doesn’t do anything of the sort. Anyway, the coffee out of our machines here is more likely to kill you than boost you.’
‘It’s free.’
‘Be honest, you wouldn’t pay for it, would you?’
‘No.’
He raised his head.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Apparently there is a chap called Brockheimer in reception who wants to report a possible serial killing. He asked for the person who runs the Serial Murder Squad, so the duty officer rang me.’
She smiled a cheeky smile at Palmer.
‘Don’t get too cocky, Sergeant. The guys on the front desk know not to bother me with the nutters – that’s why you got the call. No sugar in mine.’
Gheeta took her shoulder bag off the hat stand and left the office. Across the corridor in the Squad’s Team Room, their civilian computer clerk Claire was tapping away at one of the keyboards in front of a bank of six computers. Gheeta poked her head round the door.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please,’ Claire said. ‘I reckon another day and this video recognition program of yours will be up and running and able to link to our other scanners. It’s bloody brilliant. Where did you get it from?’
‘I wrote it.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No, it’s quite simple and straightforward really. All the code I used is already in use in other recognition programmes. Don’t tell the governor, but I copied this from the FBI Aregen program. I just had to tweak it a bit to suit our needs.’
‘Hacking into the FBI computer systems is probably a federal crime in the USA; they could extradite you for doing that.’
‘The governor would never let them do that.’
‘True.’
‘Right, I’ve got to see somebody in reception and then I’ll be back with the coffee.’
She took the lift down from their office floor to the ground floor, where the duty officer indicated a portly, well-dressed middle-aged man in an expensive suit under an Abercrombie overcoat sitting on one of the waiting area chairs. Gheeta introduced herself.
‘Hello sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Gheeta Singh from the Serial Murder Squad. How can I help you?’
Solly Brockheimer stood and shook Gheeta’s outstretched hand. Dhe sat down in the chair next to him and put on her ‘I’m really interested in what you are saying’ face and waited.
‘You’ll think me a fool,’ Solly said with an embarrassed laugh. ‘But you know when something gets into your head and won’t let go until you do something about it? Well, I’ve got one of those gremlins running round and round in my head at the moment, and he won’t leave me in peace.’
He took a deep breath before continuing.
‘I think there are a series of murders being committed.’
He looked at Gheeta as though expecting to be kicked out of the Yard then and there.
‘Go on.’
She smiled encouragingly and noticed how Mr Brockheimer relaxed.
‘I�
��m in Artist Management – I look after pop groups and the like, and one of my major clients is a band called Revolution. Have you heard of them?’
‘Yes, a bit before my time though. Seventies rock band, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, and they still are. Still selling out big arenas, and with a new lease of life with music downloads and all that internet streaming stuff. A whole new fanbase has appeared.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘They are dying. One by one the band members are dying, but in suspicious circumstances – well, I think they are suspicious.’
He looked away in embarrassment.
‘This must sound daft to you.’
‘Not at all. Go on.’
‘Well, there’s only one of the original line up of the band still alive. One was killed in a robbery at his house about a year ago, and one apparently toppled over his fifth-floor balcony and landed on railings a month ago.’
Gheeta winced at that image.
‘And I learnt just last week that one who retired some time ago to Madeira fell over a steep cliff and died – and I know for a fact that he had vertigo and wouldn’t go within a mile of a steep cliff. We even had to sedate him when we used to fly out to gigs. So that only leaves one original member, and I’m getting very worried for him. Does all that sound silly?’
Gheeta thought for a few moments.
‘No, not at all. You’re saying that they all died, but none of natural causes.’
‘Yes.’
‘And all fairly recently?’
‘All within the last two years.’
‘So how does the band keep going with its members dying off?’
‘Oh, that’s easy; we just hire in session musicians for the tours. As long as there’s a nucleus of the original band in the line up, the fans keep coming.’
‘And Revolution is down to one original member now?’
LOOT & I'M WITH THE BAND: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series by B.L.Faulkner. Cases 5 & 6 (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad cases Book 3) Page 19