Laughing Boy

by Stuart Pawson

  “Did you take any still photos of her?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised. She was a good-looking girl, didn’t you ever offer to take her picture?”

  “No.”

  “You took the video at a barbecue.”

  “Thath right.”

  “When?”

  “One thummer, about two yearth ago.”

  “And you gave her a copy, next time you saw her.”

  “I thuppothe tho.”

  “Did you keep a copy for yourself?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  He was standing slightly behind me, and by tilting my head I could see his reflection in the glass of one of the higher tanks. His visage wasn’t clear enough for me to read what he was thinking, but if he’d tried to bash me over the head with a jar of ants’ eggs I’d have seen it coming. One of the discus, rooting about at the bottom of the aquarium, took in a mouthful of gravel and spit it out again.

  “What about Graham’s new girlfriend? Have you taken any pictures of her?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a professional model, I believe.”

  “Ith she?”

  “Mmm. Have you seen her?”

  “Onthe or twithe.”

  “A cracker, don’t you think?”

  “If you like that thort of thing.”

  I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t fighting back. He’d had ample opportunity to demand why I was asking all these questions but he was totally compliant, if somewhat unforthcoming. Unless he was cleverer than I thought. He might have had a room upstairs wallpapered with stills of Colinette from the video, and candid shots of Graham’s mother and new girlfriend, blown up to life-size, but he knew there was no way I could get in there to find it.

  “And don’t you like that sort of thing?” I asked.

  “She’th a tart,” he replied.

  “Well,” I said, twisting round to face him. “What’s wrong with being a tart? We all like to see a nice brassy tart with big bazookas, don’t we?” He was wearing the same pullover as before, and now I could see that it was hand-made. The knitter had looked for a pattern that incorporated steam locomotives, but all she’d been able to find was Thomas the Tank Engine. “Like Graham’s mother,” I went on. “She’s like that, isn’t she?”

  “Thome might think she wath.”

  “Did you ever photograph her?”

  “No. Except at the barbecue. She wath on the video.”

  “Are you married, Mr Ferriby?”

  “Divorthed.”

  “How long were you married for?”

  He hesitated before replying, and I saw that he was either blushing or feeling sick. The light from the tanks cast a pale green glow on to everything, including our faces, and as I watched him he turned from a delicate shade of sage to deep viridian.

  “Not long,” he whispered, looking away from me. That made two of us.

  “Graham says he caught you snooping round the house,” I said.

  “He’th lying.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. I watered the planth in the conthervatory, thath all. I never went anywhere elthe in the houthe.”

  “So why did he hit you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “Maybe he wanted to cover thomething up. He’th into all thorth of thingth. He’th a bad one, he ith. Why don’t you athk him?”

  “I will, Mr Ferriby,” I said. “Rest assured, I will.”

  Back at the office I made some notes while eating the ham sandwich I’d bought. Neville Ferriby was definitely worth a closer look, I’d decided, and wrote out an interview request form. I’d let two of the others go see him, and tell them to be less circumspect than I had been. If they caught him indoors they could have a little snoop round while he made coffee, or one of them could use the loo, that sort of thing. I wanted to know about his marriage, his sex life, who knitted his jumpers and what he meant when he said that Graham Allen was a bad ’un.

  After that I watched the video again. I counted about twenty different faces and decided that we needed to speak to every one of them. Maybe Graham could put names to them all. The longest sequence was of an overweight man in a striped apron, presumably Mr Allen senior, almost self-immolating as he doused the barbecue with lighter fluid, and the next longest was of a woman in a leopard print blouse making a production out of eating a sausage, her eyes never leaving the camera. His wife, I assumed. The sound was turned down low, but not so low that I couldn’t hear Una Paloma Blanca in the background. No wonder they needed to placate the neighbours.

  The two shots of Colinette were a few minutes apart. In the first she was facing the camera, as if asked to pose for a few seconds. She was wearing shorts and a skimpy top that showed her bare midriff and a healthy cleavage. Ferriby held the shot for too long and after a few seconds Colinette looked embarrassed and turned away. I rewound the tape a short way and froze the picture. By holding a plastic ruler diagonally across the screen I could draw an imaginary line from the top left to the bottom right corner. Then I repeated the exercise with the other diagonal. The two lines intersected at the exact spot Neville Ferriby had been focussing on, bang in the centre of Colinette’s breasts. I fast-forwarded to the shot where she was walking away from the camera and repeated the exercise. This time the two imaginary lines crossed right in the middle of her bottom.

  So what did that prove? That Neville Ferriby, wearer of Thomas the Tank Engine pullovers, was a healthy, heterosexual male after all? Probably, I said to myself as I ejected the cassette.

  I was making coffee when Mike Kaprowski rang and we talked for nearly half an hour, mainly about Tim Roper and his band. During the Vietnam War he was accused of inciting anti-government feelings with his song lyrics, and there had been some rioting after three or four of his concerts. Policemen had been injured and two fans were stabbed to death, but all that was in the past. Tim and his band, along with Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, Neil Young and a whole galaxy of similar luminaries, were finally forgiven. They were now regarded as part of that marvellous hotchpotch of tastes, colours and opinions that made up the Land Of The Free, and indulged like talented but wayward children. Their files had been re-classified and in a hundred years or so would be destroyed, without prejudice. Tim would be an all-American boy again.

  After a long silence I said: “But there’s nothing in there to suggest he might incite an impressionable fan to murder?” What there could possibly be I couldn’t imagine.

  “’Fraid not, Charlie. There’s not much at all. Let me see… Yeah, just as I thought. There’s only one date on the file, and that’s the one when it was opened. August third, sixty-nine.”

  “He died on Thanksgiving Day that year,” I said.

  “Fourth Thursday in November,” Mike told me. “The file doesn’t even have that little fact recorded.”

  “What? His death?”

  “No.”

  “Anything suspicious in that?”

  “Nah. He was low priority – this was a just-in-case file, is all. Covering our asses in case he made it big-time.”

  “The website says he was being investigated by the CIA and died under suspicious circumstances.”

  “Yep, I guess it would, just like for Elvis, Lenny Bruce, Grandma Moses and a whole mess of others.”

  “Mmm, sorry about that. OK, Mike, thanks for your efforts. I didn’t know what to expect but we’re clutching at any passing straw we can.”

  “Slow down, old son,” he said. “This is not the end of the trail. I’ve done a little investigation of my own and have something for you. The drummer with the band was called David Zekolwski…”

  “Zeke,” I interrupted.

  “You got him. OK, so according to the website his wife gave birth to a son, called Theo, in the summer of ’69.”

  “Hence ‘Theo’s Tune’.”

  “The same. Having a DOB made it easier to trace him than
any of the others. Young Theo Zekolwski is now the big shot vice-president of Glancing Spear Productions, over there in Hollywood, and will be happy to talk to you about his pa and The LHO. I just caught him at home and he says he’ll be in the office for a couple of hours after lunch. Got a pen handy?”

  I put a corned beef casserole in the microwave and jogged to the top of Beacon Hill again. It wasn’t getting any easier. After a shower and the casserole I jotted a few notes and at ten o’clock I rang California. Mental arithmetic told me that he’d be thirty-one years old. Time flies. After a grilling by his secretary she put me through and I found myself listening to the cafe au lait voice of the inspiration behind Theo’s Tune.

  “Theodore Zekolwski here, Inspector,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  I didn’t know if he had any musical talent but he could have done ‘Coward Of The County’ anytime. “Thanks for finding time to talk to me, Mr Zekowlski,” I began. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the group your father played the drums with back in the Sixties – The LHO – and about Tim Roper, their lead singer. Are you familiar with them?”

  “Sure, I know all about them, but I’m intrigued by your interest, Inspector, and I haven’t forgiven you yet for putting the FBI on to me.”

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to. I’m investigating a murder,” I told him, “and the only decent information we have about the perpetrator is that he appears to be an LHO or Tim Roper fan. He’s sent us a series of notes with quotations that we have identified as being from Tim’s lyrics. Would you say that Tim had cult status over there?”

  “In a very minor way, among just a few hard cases. My father had only told me the barest details about the band, but when I discovered that Tim had shot himself – did you know he shot himself…?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “OK, when I learned it I thought he might be a good subject for a piece of hagiography – we produce mainly TV documentaries here at Glancing Spear. You know the sort of thing – lots of Sixties music, leave it hanging in the air about his death, bring the surviving members back together to give their opinions. It’s a pet project of mine so I’ve done the research, but it’s only at the idea stage, so far.”

  “You said surviving members…”

  “Yeah. Dad’s still alive, that’s for sure. He bought a Chirpy Chilli franchise with what he made out of The LHO and ended up with twenty. Peter Tontino – he was their sound engineer – died of an overdose back in the Seventies and Oscar Livingstone is an MIA. Carlo and Eddie are still in the business, up and down the West Coast.”

  “MIA?”

  “Missing in action. He went to Vietnam and never came back.”

  “I see. Three dead out of, what, six? That’s a dangerous place you live in.”

  “It was the lifestyle, I guess, and the war. I imagine life assurance wasn’t easy to come by.”

  “No. Tim’s supposed to have shot himself. Are you happy with that?”

  “Completely. They’d had a big row on stage the night before and Tim had stormed off. The band finished the set without him. Next morning he sat in his father’s Buick and blew his brains out with a revolver he found in the glove compartment. I’ve seen the photographs, Inspector, and they look just like that’s what happened.”

  “No conspiracy theory, CIA involvement and all that?”

  “Not at all. They probably had a file, like they had on everyone with left wing or anarchic leanings – this was not long after the McCarthy era, remember – but I don’t think they went round shooting minor rock musicians.”

  “Some of Tim’s lyrics were a bit strong, wouldn’t you say? They were bound to attract attention. Did he have a weirdo following?”

  “Possibly, but that’s show business, Inspector. I asked Dad about them and he said they would rehearse with one set of words, which were not too controversial, but when it came to the concert Tim would sing something completely different. Claimed he just made them up as he went along. Dad said the rest of them didn’t mind – the audiences liked it and they were only doing it for the money and laughs. I think he meant sex but he wouldn’t admit it.”

  We chatted for a while about the song lyrics and he mentioned the names of several shows that Glancing Spear had produced, but I hadn’t heard of any of them. I told him what sort of stuff I listened to and he recommended a couple of names. I’d long abandoned the idea that I might learn something useful, but I was fascinated listening to Theodore Zekolwski’s velvet voice and these insights into the world of Sixties rock music. If only I’d stuck at the guitar lessons…

  “So how come ‘Theo’s Tune’ is credited to Blue Coyote?” I asked.

  “Oh God! That song has dogged me all my life. If only you knew. It was a commercial thing, I imagine. Tim knocked it up especially for me but didn’t want it including in The LHO repertoire. It wasn’t their style, something like that.”

  “Did your father tell you what the row was about when Tim stormed off the stage?”

  “No. I’ve mentioned it but he shakes his head, pretends he can’t remember.”

  “Right. Well, thanks for your time, Mr Zekolwski. Do you mind if I call you again if I need anything else?”

  “Not at all, Inspector, and drop by if you ever happen to be in this part of the world. Good luck with the investigation and let us know when you catch him – maybe there’ll be a story in it for us.”

  “There’ll be a story in it, that’s for sure, but we’ve to catch him first.”

  “Well there you go – technical adviser. You’ve paid for your trip already.”

  “I like the sound of that. Thanks a lot.”

  “Just one small thing, Inspector. I take it that you’ve seen the website?”

  “Yes, we have. That’s where we found the lyrics and everything else we knew about The LHO. I’ve asked our technical people to try find who the author is but they haven’t come back to me yet.”

  “I can help you there. She’s a woman called Shiralee Weston, lives in a trailer in Desert Springs.”

  “Wow, thanks. That’s a big help.” I asked him for a spelling and wrote it down. “Who is she, do you know?”

  “Yeah. Apparently she was a neighbour of Tim’s parents and they were very close. I think there was possibly some involvement between her mother and Tim’s father. They grew up together and Shiralee had a mighty crush on Tim. Now she keeps his memory alive with the website.”

  “It sounds as if we need to talk to her.” If she ran a fan club we needed the names of any British members. Names, and addresses. I liked the sound of that. Perhaps we were getting somewhere at last.

  “I’d hurry, if I were you,” Theodore said. “She sits all day listening to LHO tapes and stuffing herself with ice cream and doughnuts, like the queen ant in a termite colony. Hasn’t been out of the trailer for five years. When she dies they’ll have to dismantle it from around her.”

  “Good grief. Have you met her?”

  “Not personally. One of my research staff tracked her down, via the neighbours, and he had that pleasure. She claims to be Tim’s ex-girlfriend, the love of his life wallowing in guilt for not saving him. She’s intelligent, though – manages the website. I’d guess she’s the source of all the CIA nonsense.”

  “Right, thanks. One last thing: what does LHO stand for?”

  “LHO?” His voice lightened, went up an octave to put him about level with Johnny Cash. “Don’t you know?”

  “No.”

  “OK. They all went to school together in La Habra. That’s a district of LA. They played in the school band and kept the name when they left and turned professional. LHO was The La Habra Orchestra.”

  “It can’t be done,” Dave declared as he walked across the office, a plastic lunch box in one hand, his jacket dangling from the other.

  I was seated next to Pete Goodchild with my feet on a spare chair. I swung them down to make room for him, saying: “What can’t, Old Son?”

  Pete said: “He
tried the thing that could not be done – and found he could not do it.”

  “The walk,” Dave replied. “I’ve just run up and down the back stairs four times and I’m knackered.” He wiped the back of his hand across his brow and offered it as proof. “The steps are all wrong. If you take them one at a time they’re too small and two at a time is too much. We’ve really taken something on with this, Charlie.”

  I patted him on the knee. “That’s what makes it worth doing. Pacing yourself, David, that’s the name of the game. Remember that we won’t be carrying anything, we can wear shorts and Tshirts, and we’ll arrange for certain off-duty PCs – those nice rounded ones with long hair – to ply us with refreshments throughout the twenty-four hours. It’ll be fun. A party, you’ll see.”

  “Were you out training over the weekend?”

  “I might have been.”

  “No wonder you’re so smug.”

  It was the Tuesday of Easter week and I’d stood the team down for Monday. Normally I would have done a walk somewhere, probably with Dave and Jeff, but the foot-and-mouth had closed all the footpaths and I’d settled for a couple of solo jogs to the top of Beacon Hill. We were still tracking down and interviewing the owners of vehicles captured on various video cameras, but the main line of enquiry was happening over in America. Her ISP had confirmed that the Tim Roper website was owned by Shiralee Weston, but our technical people hadn’t been able to break into it or find any membership lists. So I’d set the FBI on to her. If they couldn’t do it electronically they’d go round and scare her skinny. All I could do was wait.

  I picked up Dave’s lunch box and opened it at one corner. “Anything nice?” I asked, suddenly feeling hungry.

  “Smoked salmon,” he replied, taking it from me and clicking the lid closed again.

  “I don’t like smoked salmon. I like my salmon cooked.”

  “It’s not for you.”

  “Right. So where’ve you been until now, apart from running up and down the back stairs?”

  “Ah!” he said.

  “What does ah! mean?”

  “It means ah! wouldn’t you like to know.”

  I turned to Pete. “Peter,” I began. “I have to put up with him because we go back a long time, but if you ever become as obstructive as he is, you’re sacked. Understood?”