‘Yes.’
‘Who would want to murder them?’
Brockheimer laughed.
‘The list would be quite large. For a start, it could be a session musician who didn’t fit in and was sacked – and there’s been a few of them. Could be a record company that we didn’t re-sign with; a band like Revolution has record deals with many different labels all over the world, and we’ve chopped and changed over the years to get the best deals. Could be a tour promoter we’ve ditched in favour of better terms with a different one. There’s plenty of people who wouldn’t shed a tear at any of these deaths.’
‘I take it that the UK deaths – the robbery and the balcony fall – were investigated by the local police?’
‘Yes, ‘death by person or persons unknown’ and ‘accidental death’ were the coroner’s verdicts.’
‘And the one in Madeira who fell off a cliff?’
‘That came under the Portuguese police – ‘accidental death’ was their verdict. And they haven’t really got a history of doing a thorough investigation, have they?’
Gheeta raised her eyebrows questioningly.
‘Madeleine McCann?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean. I can’t comment on that. All I can do right now, Mr Brockheimer, is pull up the case files of the two UK deaths and the local force papers and take a look. Then I’ll have to get a second opinion from my senior officer, and he will make a decision whether or not to investigate further. And at present that’s as far as we can go.’
She took her notepad from her shoulder bag.
‘Now, let me have the names of the band members again, and a contact number for yourself.’
Gheeta put a coffee down in front of Claire, crossed the corridor into the office and put Palmer’s on his desk in front of him. He looked up from the papers he was reading.
‘Lovely job, thank you.’
He sat back in his chair.
‘How was your serial killing informant? Stood between two blokes in white coats, was he?’
Gheeta ignored the remark and pulled out her notebook as she sat at her desk.
‘Ever heard of a band called Revolution, guv?’
Palmer took notice and raised his eyes.
‘Yes, of course I have. Real strong rock band, very big a few decades ago – in fact, I’ve probably got a couple of their LPs at home in the back of the garage somewhere. On a par with AC/DC. I saw them at the NEC, supporting Status Quo.’
He smiled at the memory.
‘That was a good night. They must be getting on a bit now, though – more likely to lead a dog than a revolution.
He laughed at his own joke.
‘Only one of the original band members left now, guv. Three dead, and according to their manager, in suspicious circumstances.’
‘Drugs or booze probably – par for the course in rock-n’ roll. Put money on it.’
‘No, according to Solly Brockheimer…’
‘Who?’
‘Their manager, Solly Brockheimer.’
‘Cockney lad?’
She ignored it.
‘According to him, they were a very ordinary bunch of lads with no bad habits who stayed on the straight and narrow. It does seem a bit peculiar that three of them met unnatural ends though, doesn’t it? I might just take a look at it if you agree.’
‘How unnatural were their ends?’
‘One was killed while being robbed, one fell off his fifth-floor balcony onto railings, and one emigrated to Madeira and fell over a cliff edge, despite being a vertigo sufferer who wouldn’t go anywhere near a cliff edge.’
‘That’s three. I seem to remember Revolution was a four-piece band.’
‘Correct, one left; and Solly Brockheimer is very concerned for that chap’s safety.’
Palmer leant his chair back into what he unkindly called Perkin’s Groove, a deep rut in the wall caused by years of banging back against it that he had named after the maintenance foreman, Charley Perkins, who had given up repeatedly filling it in a long time ago. He put his hands behind his head and thought for a few moments.
‘Okay, take a look at it Sergeant. It does sound a bit funny, doesn’t it? See if all the reports on the deaths and forensics make sense; shouldn’t take too long. See if we can’t put Mr Brockheimer’s mind at rest.’
Chapter 7
Palmer drove home to his house in Dulwich that evening, thinking about the days thirty years ago when he and Mrs P. used to go to rock concerts and smiling at the recollection. Good old times. He was a true rock man, while she was more of a techno girl; so, a night with Status Quo or Twisted Sister had to be followed by a more sedate one with Ultravox or Kraftwerk.
He turned his Honda CRV into his short drive and caught sight of something from the corner of his eye.
‘What the…?’
He braked hard and reversed out again, until he could see a large five-foot square poster board that was positioned on top of his front garden wall. The big beaming face of his next-door neighbour Benjamin Cohen exhorted him and anybody else looking at it to ‘Vote Benji!’ He parked in the drive and went inside the hall, greeted by the usual hefty butt to the midriff which was the welcome leap from his dog Daisy.
‘Steady on Daisy, you’ll have me over girl. You’re not a puppy anymore,’ he said, giving her a good patting. ‘You should be bringing me my slippers, not trying to knock me over!’
The tempting smell of a Mrs P. steak and kidney pie wafted into his nose from the kitchen. He hung his coat and trilby on the hall stand and went through to where she was pulling the culprit pie from the oven. She offered her cheek, and he gave it a peck.
‘That smells tempting.’
‘I take it you mean the pie and not me,’ she laughed. ‘Justin Palmer, admit it – you only married me for my cooking.’
‘Untrue, my dear – you were the prettiest girl in Peckham.’
‘Only Peckham?’
She gave him a false look of utter disappointment. Palmer pursed his lips and thought for a moment.
‘Okay, Peckham and… maybe Camberwell. But Janey Johnson lived in Camberwell, so it’s a close call.’
‘Would you like this pie on a plate or over your head?’
They both laughed as she filled his plate, and they sat down to eat.
‘Why is there a giant poster of Benji on the front garden wall?’
Next-door neighbour Benji was Palmer’s nemesis; a single male, aged late-fifties, a retired advertising executive with too big a pension to know what to do with, a pony tail, designer clothes, and a fake tan. Liked by all the local ladies of a certain age – and hated by all their husbands – he had a walk like David Suchet’s Poirot that made Palmer question his sexuality; not that he would ever say so out loud.
‘Benji is standing in the local council in the elections. He’s going to be a councillor.’
‘No chance.’
Palmer couldn’t imagine why anybody would vote for Benji.
‘ I am co-ordinating his campaign, and Dotty Watkins from the florist’s is handling Press and Media.’
Palmer laughed.
‘Press and Media? Who are you expecting, the Sunday Times and the BBC?’
He was going to say ‘more likely to get Gay Times’ but thought better of it. Palmer’s disregard of political correctness had landed him with a couple of reprimands from his boss, Assistant Commissioner Bateman in the past, over remarks he’d made about immigrant crime gangs in the East End, and the high percentage of muggings carried out by black youths; both statistically correct, but labelled non-PC by people who had never been mugged or robbed. He mimicked a female voice with an imaginary phone to his ear.
‘Hello, I’m Dotty Watkins from the florist. Can I speak to Robert Peston?’ Doesn’t really have the same ring to it as ‘Hello this is Satchi and Satchi’, does it.’
‘Thank you for your support,’ Mrs P. said with a withering look.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that neither o
f you have any experience of election campaigns, and you’ll be up against the Labour lefties and the Tory well-oiled party machine.’
‘Exactly, and local people don’t want either of them, do they? They want a councillor who is local and knows what local people want; not a political numbskull dropped in from some other area and quoting party policies like a robot. They want somebody who is on their level, treating each local concern with an open mind.’
‘I beg to differ, my dear. What local people in Dulwich want is three Mediterranean cruises a year and a brand new car every two years – and there’s only one local who has that: Benji.’
‘Well, like it or not, Justin Palmer, he’s got my support; and the support of the Gardening Club and the WI.’
‘He must be spreading bribes around. What’s he offering, a free half hour in his hot tub?’
‘No, he’s supporting the extension of the council allotments and making the library reading room and internet computers free to all local clubs.’
‘As I thought, bribery. I’ll have to have a word with the local Fraud Squad.’
‘You mark my word, Justin Palmer, that when Benji does get elected – and he will – there’s going to be a revolution in our local council.’
‘Ah, that reminds me. Do you remember going to the NEC many moons ago and seeing a band called Revolution?’
Mrs P. laughed.
‘Course I do. That was the time you tried a bit of headbanging and your glasses fell off and you trod on them.’
He ignored it and ran through the day’s events.
Chapter 8
‘There you are, I knew I’d have one somewhere.’
Palmer gave a triumphant smile as he walked into the Team Room the next morning and proudly placed the Revolution LP – ‘Storm the Barricades’ – on the desk in front of Claire and DS Singh.
‘Box in the back of the garage labelled Rock. Full of memories.’
Claire picked it up.
‘Good looking lot, weren’t they? All that hair and leather.’
‘I thought there were four in the band, guv? There’s five in the picture,’ said Gheeta, pointing at the sleeve.
Palmer nodded.
‘There were only four; the other one must be your Mr Brockheimer.’
Gheeta took a closer look.
‘If it is he’s changed a lot over the years. Did you have long hair like that, guv?’
‘I wish. I don’t think Hendon Police College would have appreciated Cadet Palmer wandering in looking like Noddy Holder.’
‘Looking like who?’
‘Never mind.’
AC Bateman came into the room, with Lucy Ross from Press and Media in tow. He didn’t look happy.
‘Ah, there you are Palmer.’
‘Good morning, sir. Morning Lucy, haven’t seen you for a while.’
Lucy gave them all a smile, while Bateman gave them a perfunctory nod.
‘It seems you’ve embarked on a case that has no clearance.’
Palmer shook his head.
‘Have I, sir? I don’t think so.’
Bateman took the copy of the music paper Lucy was holding and spread it on the desk beside the Revolution LP.
‘Take a look – front page news. I see you’ve got their record as well.’
Palmer, Singh and Claire leant over to read the print. ‘REVOLUTION DEATHS, Murder suspected. Scotland Yard Serial Murder Squad take charge.’ It then went on to tell of Brockheimer’s meeting with DS Singh, and how ‘the serial murder squad were going to examine the deaths again.’
‘That story didn’t come through my department, Justin,’ said Lucy.
Palmer nodded and straightened up.
‘Or mine, Lucy. This Brockheimer chap came in off the street yesterday and told us about these suspicious deaths. That was the first we had heard of them. My Sergeant had a conversation with him and we said we’d have a look at the case files; and bearing in mind the coroner’s verdicts, it was unlikely we’d go any further. And that’s as far as we have gone; in fact, so far we haven’t even looked at the files. So that’s why I haven’t sent a clearance request up to your office, sir. There’s nothing to get clearance for yet.’
Bateman was disappointed; he wanted to put Palmer on the spot and hadn’t been able to. There wasn’t a lot of love between the pair of them, never had been; Palmer being an old school cop who worked the beat and worked his way up to CDS status, and Bateman getting a few bits of paper at university and being fast-tracked along the managerial rails to the top floor. You could almost cut the heavy silence as Palmer and Bateman eyed each other. Lucy finally broke it.
‘I had the paper’s editor on the phone asking for details and confirmation. I said we had no knowledge of it and it wasn’t an ongoing investigation, and where did the story come from? Apparently this Brockheimer chap was out of here and down to their offices double quick after he’d spoken to DS Singh; he’d already told the paper about his suspicions before he came here, and they had set the type and were ready to print as soon as he confirmed he’d met somebody from the Squad. Can I put out a denial?’
DS Singh looked at Palmer, who caught her gaze.
‘No, don’t do that. I think that we have a duty to Mr Brockheimer to at least take a quick look at the case files and let him know if we think further investigation is necessary. And it might well be,’ he added quickly. ‘It certainly seems a strange series of events.’
AC Bateman being the typical political creep who wanted to keep everybody on his side – especially at this time as there was the possibility of a Commissioner vacancy coming up soon – could see danger looming. His current superior had blotted his copybook with their political masters by denouncing the latest round of police budget cuts as ‘totally stupid’, so Bateman didn’t want to rock the boat of any of the other forces whose Superintendents had a vote on the next incumbent by Palmer putting his size elevens into their closed files and coming up with anything that wasn’t done correctly. He eyed Palmer, thinking ‘I’ll make this as difficult as I bloody well can.’
‘Right then, before you even ask for those files from any other force Chief Superintendent, I need a request from you to open the investigation, and on what basis you have reached that decision; then, and only then, I’ll request the case files from the appropriate force through the correct channels. Understood?’
Palmer nodded.
‘All by the book, sir.’
‘Correct, all by the book.’
Bateman nodded to each of them and left.
‘Sorry Justin,’ Lucy said apologetically. ‘My boss went bananas at Bateman when this broke; we didn’t realise it was all conjecture by this Brockheimer man. I’ll put a release out that Brockheimer has spoken to us, but that no decision has been made and no case reopened. That should pour a bit of cold water on the flames. Is that the band?’
She bent over to look at the LP cover on the desk.
‘Good-looking lot, weren’t they?’
‘The governor was a fan,’ DS Singh said, with a nod towards Palmer.
‘No, really!’ Lucy feigned surprise. ‘Never had you down as a rocker, Justin; more of a Mod. You know, Crombie overcoat and a Vespa; bank holiday punch-ups on Brighton beach?’
Palmer ignored the remark.
‘He had a Twisted Sister as well,’ Claire added, causing the three ladies to collapse in laughter.
Palmer raised the palms of his hands in front of him to bring order.
‘Alright, alright, calm down. Twisted Sister was the name of a band – they had a massive hit called ‘We’re Not Gonna Take it’, and now I’m not gonna take any more of this from you three, so back to work. Thanks, Lucy; let me know how it goes in case Brockheimer turns up again. If he does, I’ll read him the riot act.’
Lucy Ross bade her farewells and left. Palmer took a deep breath.
‘Right, I’d better sit and work out an investigation request to get Bateman to ask for those case files.’
Ghee
ta looked at Claire with a guilty look as she spoke.
‘Do you mean these files, guv?’
Claire tapped her keyboard and the case file from the Hammersmith CID investigation into the death of Stag George scrolled down the screen, followed by the Cornish CID Maurice Jade file, and the Portuguese Madeira Force file on the death of Frank Moss, translated into English. Palmer gave a false frown that turned into a smile.
‘I won’t ask how those files came to be on our computers.’
‘No sir, best not to.’
‘But I would like a printout of them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He rose and walked through into his office, the clicking of the printer audible behind him.
Palmer had pulled in many favours to get Gheeta Singh transferred to his unit, after his HOLMES program had suffered a glitch that had made it practically useless and the IT unit had sent her to repair it. Not only had she repaired it, but she had added a few of her own programmes that had linked it to the European Interpol database and the USA Ergonomic database; both of which were thought to be one hundred percent secure by their operators. Palmer was impressed and talking to Singh had realised what a bonus to his department her knowledge would be. And so it had been; five mainframe computers were established in his Team Room with 64-inch screens on the wall above them, as well as normal-sized desk screens. All his team had had Gheeta’s bespoke app installed on their work mobiles, and could interface with the Team Room and pass information to and fro on an encrypted Wi-Fi IPS through any of three major networks; the SIM cards were altered to provide GPS tracking of the phones and therefore their users twenty-four seven. The IT that Gheeta had at her fingertips now gave the squad a window into most of the UK and European databases that they were ever likely to need; totally illegal of course, but Palmer used the mantra ‘ask no questions, get no answers’, and purposely ring-fenced himself away from Gheeta’s cyber domain so that if it did all come tumbling down, he could express total ignorance.
The more Palmer read the case files, the more his copper’s instinct told him something was wrong. It was all too easy to put the obvious conclusion to each death: Stag George had just happened to lean too far over the balcony wall and fallen; Frank Moss had fallen down a cliff although he got vertigo on a pavement kerb; and Maurice Jade didn’t appear to put up a fight with an intruder stealing his prized possessions. And in Palmer’s limited experience of antique theft, it was very unusual for porcelain or china to be lifted except if stealing to order; more likely to be gold or silver, which could go into the smelter and ‘disappear’. He put in a call to George Gregg at the Arts and Antiques Theft Unit. Yes, Gregg remembered the case, and they had a list of the stolen items and pictures that had been provided by Jade’s insurance company; and no, not one of the items had turned up anywhere in the time since.
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 20