“Any idea where the Pikes might be?” she asked, after she got him to turn the music down one more time.
“I suspect they’ll be at evening Mass, Miss.”
“Know where the Pikes go to church?”
“St. Milburga’s. Only Catholic church in town.”
“St. Milburga’s,” she said, sitting back. “Try to keep this thing out of a ditch, please.”
They barreled back into Church Stretton.
“How well do you know the Pikes?” she asked.
“As well as anyone does. And that means not well.”
“They keep to themselves I take it?”
“That they do, Miss.”
“Did you know their daughter? Brenda?”
He turned dour as they pulled up in front of a small, whitewashed church with a red tile roof and miniature bell tower. A few cars were parked outside.
“Here you are, love. Two quid.”
She gave him a blue five-pound note, told him to keep the change. He liked that.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“It’s not my place to talk about Brenda, Miss. Sorry. The family has suffered.”
She got out and he thrashed off. So much for over-tipping. She walked down a neat winding stone path into a well-lit church with five rows of simple fabric-backed wooden chairs facing an altar that was so modest it resembled a shelf. Most of the chairs were empty.
A young priest in a white robe and burgundy stole was conducting prayer. He glanced up when Colleen sat down quietly in the last row, giving her a sideways look. Feeling sheepish, she scanned the churchgoers. There was only one older couple, seated by themselves in the second row. The woman wore a blue scarf and the man had a ring of white hair around a pink, bald pate. Both of them wore raincoats. Their heads were bowed. The other couple was younger, too young to have had a teenage daughter over ten years ago.
Out of respect, Colleen got up, exited the church, waited in the entry.
When service let out, she moved outside, in front of the church. The priest assumed a position at the door, quietly saying good night to the few people as they left.
He addressed the older couple, referring to them as Herbert and Maisie.
Brenda Pike’s parents.
Colleen waited until they were walking down the stone path, Mr. Pike holding his wife’s arm.
“Excuse me—Mr. Pike?”
He turned, eyed her furtively as he got keys out of his raincoat pocket.
“Yes?”
She introduced herself, using her real name. The American accent appeared to give him and his wife cause for concern. The woman’s light-blue eyes scoured Colleen coldly. Her pale skin was aged, almost white.
“Are you the woman who called my wife earlier today?” Mr. Pike said with a tone of admonishment. He had a soft country lilt to his voice.
Colleen said that she was.
“We have nothing to say to the newspapers,” he said. “We’ve had more than enough of that, thank you.” With that, the Pikes turned, headed to the street, Mr. Pike taking his wife’s arm. “Come on, love.”
Colleen went after them.
“Please,” she said. “I’m not really a reporter.”
They stopped, turned, eyed her.
Colleen took a deep breath. “I’m working with Steve Cook.”
Herbert Pike’s face solidified. “And what on earth makes you think we would have anything to do with him?”
Colleen drew closer, lowered her voice. “His daughter has been kidnapped.”
Shock registered on their faces.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Mr. Pike said. “But I don’t think it’s any of our business.”
“I’ve traveled all the way from the United States to try and get to the bottom of what happened all those years ago. I think there might well be a connection. Steve’s been charged with murder, but I know he didn’t do it. The same way I know he didn’t cause your daughter’s death.”
“And how could you possibly know that?” Mrs. Pike said in her soft voice. Colleen had her interest.
Colleen cleared her throat. “The death certificate, for one. The cause of death is unclear, still pending. But, more to the point, I think it might have something to do with the record company he worked for.”
“If that was the case,” Mrs. Pike said. “Then why did he up and run? Flee the country? Like a criminal?”
“He was a teenager,” Colleen said. “He was scared.”
“Our Brenda never touched a drug in her life,” Mr. Pike said. “She was a good girl. A good girl.”
Mrs. Pike sniffed, blinking quickly.
“I believe you,” Colleen said. “Surprising as it may seem, Steve Cook never used drugs either.”
“It was that bloody roadie of theirs,” Mr. Pike said. “I always thought he was the one who gave Brenda the drugs.”
That was news to Colleen. “What roadie was that?”
“Some wastrel. Some tall lout. I don’t know his name. But he was spotted with her in the bar the night before.”
“How did you learn this?” Colleen asked.
“Herbert did his best to get to the bottom of things,” Mrs. Pike said in her fading voice. “Brenda was a good girl. She went up to London to see the show with her girlfriend. They were picked up after the show by this roadie character, taken to the hotel bar. He promised the girls they’d get to meet the band, get them autographs. All rubbish. He was just trying to take advantage. Gayle—Brenda’s friend—left but Brenda stayed behind.” She shook her head angrily. “She was besotted with that silly pop star.”
“There, there, love,” Mr. Pike said, patting her arm. He turned to Colleen. “It was that roadie character who led our Brenda up to Steve’s hotel room.”
“Who told you the roadie took your daughter up to Steve’s room?” Colleen asked.
“The drummer overheard them in the bar, then saw them staggering around on the fifth floor later. That roadie got our Brenda drunk, took her upstairs to supposedly meet Steve Cook. I reckon that was part of his job—finding girls for them. That’s what they do, don’t they?”
“Tich, the drummer, told you this?” Colleen said. “Dave Simons?”
“Yes, that was his name. I went up to that hotel when the police called about Brenda. Found the drummer chap in the bar. Drunk as a lord, he was, not even lunchtime. But he told me what he saw: our Brenda with this roadie character, up on the fifth floor, the night she died.”
Steve’s hotel room had been on the sixth floor.
“Did you report this to the police, Mr. Pike?”
“Of course, he did,” Mrs. Pike said, louder now. “But they didn’t want to know. They thought it was all Brenda’s fault. They said girls threw themselves at Steve Cook. But our Brenda wasn’t like that. She was a good girl.”
Mr. Pike patted his wife’s arm again, spoke to Colleen. “And a lot of good that did when Cook pulled a runner and fled the U.K. Basically admitted guilt, then, didn’t he?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It was after 10 p.m. by the time Colleen’s train rolled back into Euston Station.
Thankfully, the rain had let up, but the air was wet, with a sharp bite to it. Colleen found a ubiquitous red phone kiosk, looked up the Hot Box in Soho, where the last newspaper clipping she’d read said that Tich, the drummer for The Lost Chords, worked as a club doorman. That was some time ago, but she had nothing else to go on.
There were no taxis to be had so she grabbed the tube over to Leicester Square, where the young and drunk were staggering around, waving blue-and-white football scarves and chanting how they were champions. It was a short walk north of Piccadilly to the club scene. The Hot Box was on Firth Street, amidst clubs that were equally noisy. Rock ‘n’ roll thumped out of Ronnie Scott’s as she walked by.
The Hot Box didn’t enjoy the same status. A smattering of club-goers stood out front of the double matt black doors leading to a cellar, smoking or glaring at passersby. Ind
ustrial-strength disco music pounded from down the stairs.
Colleen’s heart sank when she saw the doorman, a pale-skinned kid with acne and a spiky blond punk do. His shiny sharkskin suit was skintight, and his sneer was a warning. He would have been just starting primary school when The Lost Chords were top of the charts.
He gave her the once-over. She was pushing the age limit for a young scene. But she was female and well dressed.
“Two quid cover,” he said.
“How much for a little information?”
“Ah. I see we have a septic in our midst.”
“Say what?”
He eyed Colleen as if she were simple. “Septic tank—Yank.”
“Cockney rhyming slang,” she said.
“You got it, pardner,” he said in a poor imitation of an American accent.
She held up a blue five-pound note. “I’m actually looking for one of your coworkers.”
“Spit it out, then.” He took the note. Pocketed it.
“Are you always so erudite?”
“Depends what bloody erudite means, don’t it?”
“Tich,” she said. “Dave Simons?”
The kid grinned as he rubbed his nose. “You’re bloody kidding, right?”
“I wish. I heard he works here.”
“Last year, he did. Before he got the sack.”
“He was fired?”
“Yeah, that’s what the sack means. Don’t they speak English in America?”
“Not the King’s English. Why did Tich get the sack?”
The kid made a quick drinking motion with his hand, extending his thumb and little finger.
“Drinking on the job,” Colleen said.
“Comes with the territory, love. But Tich couldn’t handle the punters when they got rough after he’d had a few. Which happened most days. It was more the other way around. So Tich got the boot.”
“Any idea where I can find him?”
The kid looked her in the eye. “Possibly.”
They continued to stare at each other for a moment.
“Oh, right.” Colleen dug out another five-pound note, held it up surreptitiously. It disappeared.
“You’re learning, darlin’,” he said.
“So where can I find Tich? Not that I’m not enjoying this scintillating conversation.”
“Pushing pints at The Queen’s Head.” The kid nodded to his left. “Round the corner.”
When Colleen got there, she wasn’t sure Her Majesty would appreciate having her name on the pub where Dave Simons, aka Tich, supposedly worked now. It might have been a fine place in its day, but a lot of beer had been spilled on the threadbare rugs since the turn of the century. The paint and woodwork were in a sorry state. You could smell the restroom from the front door. There were sparse upgrades, which included inane, ringing slot machines and a tinny jukebox, which was playing “Blondie.” If you were to look up “dive” in the dictionary, a picture of The Queen’s Head pub might well appear.
The same went for the clientele. Unlike other clubs and pubs in Piccadilly that aspired to being part of some sort of scene, The Queen’s Head looked more like the last stop before A.A. Grim-faced drinkers, mostly men, lined the bar, no one looking too prosperous. Two questionable women sat at the end of the bar in miniskirts and high heels. One was black with a dramatic afro, the other pale white the way only English girls could be, with harsh red lipstick to contrast it. Ladies of the night. They gave Colleen a quick once-over as she entered, then dismissed her when they realized she wasn’t competition.
But it was the barman that drew Colleen’s interest.
He was the same man on the cover of that album. The one who once beat the skins with The Lost Chords. But that was about forty pounds and ten thousand drinks ago. Tich—Brit speak for “tiny,” so named because he had been a large man to begin with—had lost most of his hair. Wisps of his once brown mane now curled a sweaty crown. His face was big, red, and puffy. He wore a nondescript white shirt that was tight on him and the sweat was more related to his body processing alcohol than the temperature of the bar, which was cold and damp. For a man who was about thirty, he was in poor shape indeed. He was drawing pints of foamy bitter, pulling a long wooden handle, which he set down in front of a couple of punk rockers who had to fish through their change in order to pay. He checked the coins and dropped them in a cash register that probably came with the place, slammed the drawer, and turned back around, where he picked up a smoldering cigarette from a full ashtray. He took a despondent puff that seemed to define his situation.
He noticed Colleen.
“Hello, love.” He tucked his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and put his meaty hands on the bar. “What’ll it be, then?”
It had been a long day. “Johnnie Walker Black,” she said. “Make it a double.”
He pursed his lips in admiration at her choice, turned to the suspended bottles where he squeezed out two shots from the dispenser. He set the glass in front of her with a remarkably delicate motion. “I assume you won’t be wantin’ to ruin that with ice.”
“You got it,” she said, getting out a red twenty-pound note that caught his eye. “Join me?”
Nothing like buying a drink for a drunk to cheer him up. “Don’t mind if I do.” He measured himself a double shot. He tapped his glass against hers. “Ta, love.”
She sipped hers. His was gone in two quick swigs.
She fished out a cigarette. He lit it for her. She thanked him.
“You’re American,” he said, sipping from a pint of beer he kept under the bar. “No prize for guessing that.” He gave a weary smile.
“And you’re Tich Simons,” she said.
“Whoa. I am no longer incognito.”
“I’ve got your album.”
He blushed, redder than the high blood pressure that was part of his makeup. “Not too many of those around anymore. Long out of print.”
“It’s too bad. You guys were great.”
He gave a genuine smile now. “Thank you. Yeah, I reckon we were as well. But I bet there’s even fewer copies of that album floating around the U.S. than here. We never really cracked America. Never got to tour. It was all over too soon.”
“I’ve got the original Delco U.K. version. In glorious mono.”
He nodded. “Nice.”
“And personally autographed by Steve Cook.”
He gave her a blink. “Get away.”
“Steve lives in San Francisco.”
“Yeah, I heard he moved there. After …”
She didn’t bother to let him finish a sentence he wasn’t going to. “He did.”
Now he gave her a look of real surprise. “Do you know Steve, then?”
She nodded as she took a puff, followed it up with a sip of scotch. “I do. And now I know you—sort of.”
Now it was Tich’s turn to light up another cigarette, a stubby little thing from a blue and white striped box of ten. Player’s No. 6.
“Well, you know more about Steve than I do, love. We never heard another bloody word from him after he pulled a runner on us.” Tich shook his head. “Left us all in the bleeding lurch.”
“He might have had a reason.”
“Oh, you reckon? He could’ve stuck it out, taken his lumps. That would have been a way to do it.”
“Maybe he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of going to jail.”
Tich shook his head as he looked at her. “If he’d stood by us, we’d have stood by him. We had a rule as a band—we backed each other up, regardless. We were all in it together, even though Steve was the draw. But no, he scarpered off. I knew Steve since I was six years old. He didn’t even say goodbye.” He frowned.
“Feel like talking about what happened?”
“Not here, I bloody don’t.”
“What time do you get off work?”
“Fuck it, love. Water under the bridge.” He walked away to serve the two ladies at the end of the bar, one who had been impatiently waving her
empty wineglass at him.
“Cockney Rebel” came on the jukebox. Colleen downed her whiskey, held her empty glass up for Tich to see, since that seemed to be the way it was done. He ignored her.
At ten to eleven he rang a bell. “Last orders,” he grunted. A flurry of activity at the bar kept him busy for the next ten minutes.
She held up her empty glass again.
“Bar’s closed,” he said.
“Come on,” she said. “For an old fan.”
He served her without a smile. “One pound.”
She pushed two one-pound notes at him. “Join me.”
“No,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Now that surprises me.”
“Well, nobody’s asking you.”
“Look,” she said. “I’m sorry if I hit a nerve. But I really want to hear your side of the story.”
“But you’re not just some fan who’s tripping down memory lane—are you?”
She sipped her scotch, relishing the afterburn. “Nope. I am not.”
“What’s the deal, then?”
She took a breath. “I’m trying to help Steve. His ex-wife was murdered. His daughter was kidnapped. He’s in jail. Again. He didn’t do this, either.”
A look of round-eyed shock encompassed Tich’s face. “Christ almighty.”
“He doesn’t even know I came over here. He never wants to talk about what happened back in ’66.”
Tich frowned. “Yeah, that sounds like Steve.”
She checked her watch. “I hear there are some decent Indian restaurants around here. Where you can drink after hours, if you order food. I haven’t eaten all day, unless you count two double scotches.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m buying.”
He looked at her, gave a deep sigh. “Star of India, round the corner. I’ll meet you there. I need to clear the place out, lock up, yeah?”
She didn’t feel great about enabling Tich’s drinking, but Melanie Cook took priority. And she suspected Tich would find his next drink just fine without her help anyway.
Half an hour later they sat across from each other in a small, dimly lit Indian restaurant amongst a boozy clientele downing curries and Tandoori and washing it all down with pints of beer. Indian music buzzed from shrill loudspeakers while a busy wait staff shouted orders to the kitchen. Colleen put away a lamb Vindaloo that scorched her tongue in a good way while Tich drained pints of lager. She brought him up to speed with Steve’s case while she ate.
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