“So you think Steve’s daughter—Melanie—was kidnapped by people associated with Sir Ian?” Tich said, incredulous.
“There’s a connection,” she said. “I’d bet on it.”
Tich ordered another pint. “How so?”
“There’s some kind of movie interest in ‘Shades of Summer.’ It was the reason Lynda’s father was involved.”
Tich’s beer arrived. “Delco screwed Steve out of the songwriting royalties, to be sure.”
“They’ve been tied up in court for years.”
“Well,” Tich said, drinking, “the rest of us didn’t even have that. Steve wrote the songs. Sir Ian wasn’t paying us either. And when Steve took off, The Lost Chords died a slow, miserable death.”
“Sir Ian seems to be a piece of work,” she said.
“An understatement.” Tich ordered a scotch. He was done with beer. “Sir Ian screwed us and half a dozen other bands that made Delco rich. We’d play two gigs a day sometimes. I remember playing a telly program in Hamburg one afternoon, flying back to London for a concert that night. It went on like that for close to a year. All we saw out of it was a clothing allowance and living in posh hotels and all we could drink. No real cash. The real money never came. We were stupid, working-class kids who didn’t know any better, thought we’d made it because we could order room service. Steve was the first to put his foot down. He and Sir Ian started fighting over money.”
“So it began early, fighting with Sir Ian.”
“Oh, yeah. But he had us in a contract we couldn’t get out of.”
Colleen measured her next sentence. “You never bought that Steve’s behavior led to that girl’s death? Brenda Pike?”
Tich shook his head and drank. “Steve never touched drugs. Hated them, in fact. None of us really got into them much. Beer and whiskey—that was our poison. We were working-class lads from Andover. There weren’t that many drugs there when we started out.”
“So Steve didn’t give Brenda anything? You’re sure?”
Tich drank. “Not his style. And he didn’t have to, if that’s what you’re thinking. Birds threw themselves at Steve to the point of being a nuisance. He used to complain about it, if you can believe it. Said he never got a rest. None of us did.” Tich laughed, then caught himself. “Sorry, no offense.”
“None taken,” she said. “I’m a big girl.”
“Well, we were kids, weren’t we?” Tich slugged half a scotch.
“Do you think Brenda Pike might have overdosed herself?”
Tich drank, gave a shrewd shake of the head. “I saw her and her friend in the hotel bar that night, hoping to meet Steve. A pair of shy ones from the sticks. You could see it. Deer-eyed. Overwhelmed by the big city. I bought them a drink, tried to chat them up. They ordered bloody shandies.”
“Shandies?”
“Beer and lemonade—a kid’s drink. No way was she using hard drugs. She was just a starstruck kid.”
“So you bought them a drink?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t stick around, to be honest, when I saw they were schoolgirls, up to The Smoke for the day. Wasn’t my speed. I was a bit of a lad myself. Wasn’t about to waste my time—not when there were plenty of willing ravers to be had. We had just played a big show. There were birds falling out of the rafters.”
Colleen cleared her throat. “Someone said you saw Brenda Pike and her friend with the band’s roadie?”
A look of shock pulled Tich’s mouth open. “Who told you that, then?”
“I met Brenda Pike’s father earlier today. He said he came up to London after Brenda was found dead, trying to find out what happened. Some story about you … seeing the roadie … with Brenda …”
Tich’s face changed. She saw the shutters going down.
He drained his drink, stood up. He wobbled. “Thanks for the drink. Drinks.”
She put her hand on his forearm. “I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble, Tich.”
“Right. Sure.”
“No, I mean it. But if you saw something, you might be able to help me nail Sir Ian. Save Steve’s butt.”
Tich eyed her.
“Why let Sir Ian get away with what he did?” she said. “Screwed all of you over? What if he had that girl killed? To compromise Steve? Put him in his place? Get the rights to his music?”
Tich gave a heavy sigh. Sat down. Ran his meaty paw over his eyes. “Christ,” he said. “Christ almighty.”
She signaled the waiter for more drinks.
“It’s time to come clean, Tich,” she said.
Tich looked up. “Bloody Steve,” he said. “If he hadn’t bolted, I could’ve helped sort things out.”
“You saw your roadie with Brenda Pike.”
Fresh drinks arrived, a glass of white wine for Colleen and a double scotch for Tich. Tich waited until the empties were cleared away, then downed half his whiskey.
“Yeah. Saw them coming out of Ev’s room, heading for the elevator.”
“What floor?”
“Fifth, I think. Yeah, Fifth.”
“What were you doing?”
“My room was on the same floor. I was just getting off the elevator with a … well, a young lady I’d met. Anyways, I see Ev with the one country girl—Brenda—stumbling into the elevator as I’m looking for my room key. I thought she was just drunk, yeah? But I was in a hurry to get to my little private party.” He gave a frown of regret. “Didn’t think much of it at the time. I assumed Ev was taking her down to get a cab or something—you know. That’s the way it worked: if the roadies couldn’t get the girls in to see the band, they’d try and pick them up for themselves. Second best.”
“How drunk was she?”
“Very. Ev had to help her stand up.”
“On shandies?”
Tich looked up. “I know. In retrospect, I figure he might have slipped her something. She was smashed.”
“Did you say anything at the time?”
Tich took another swig of his shot, shook his head, sadly. “Should have. But I didn’t. Ev gave me a look though.”
“What kind of look?”
“What they call a prison yard stare, yeah? One that was warning me to my mind my Ps and Qs. And Ev could be a real bastard when he put his mind to it.”
“Tell me about this Ev,” she said.
“Ev Cole. Tall, blond, skinny. But mean. He and Steve came to blows, after Ev roughed up a female fan. Put her in the hospital. Fucking bully is what Ev was. Enjoyed it. Steve talked to Sir Ian, just the day before, told him he wanted Ev gone.”
“Do you think Sir Ian talked to Ev?”
“I’m sure he did. Steve was adamant. But now, I wonder if Ev and Sir Ian had something going on.”
Something jogged her memory: the night she had stopped by Steve’s in SF, with Steve waiting in the car. Lynda had been waiting, along with two thugs. One was tall. It made her think twice.
“Steve’s room was one floor up?”
“Right. Sixth.”
“So Ev could have been taking Brenda to Steve’s room?”
Tich nodded, glassy-eyed. “Steve was drunk as a lord that night. He’d had a big fight with Ian right before the show. Said he’d punched his lights out. We thought it was funny, but I could tell it was bothering Steve. Did a great show anyway but hit the bottle with a vengeance right afterwards in our dressing room. He got smashed quick, though. I remember that. Steve was exhausted. Well, he worked his arse off onstage, harder than the rest of us. We’d been touring for a year. He came back to the hotel that night, went straight to his room. Turned in early.”
“So if someone were to sneak a girl into his room, he might not have even noticed.”
Tich returned a glum nod. “Birds were always finding a way to get into your room. Especially Steve’s. One time in Oslo, he said he found a bird climbing into his bed after he’d turned in, but he rolled right over, went back to sleep, he was that knackered. The excesses of rock ‘n’ roll.”
“But in this
case …”
Tich’s eyes were red and watery. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Tich shook his head sadly. “I actually did. I recall speaking to the girl’s dad. Then I went to see Ian, yeah? But Steve had already bolted. Left the U.K. And Ian told me there wasn’t any point in pushing it.”
“Did you think of going to the police?”
Tich shook his head again. “Ian said it would hurt the band. Said he had plans to keep The Chords going, replace Steve. Never worked out, but that was the strategy, so he said. But you couldn’t replace Steve.”
“And your position was in jeopardy.”
“I was the drummer. No one even knew my real name. I could be easily replaced, the way The Beatles got rid of Pete Best, hired Ringo. I’m a meat-and-potatoes drummer. As long as Steve was there, I was golden. We’d been mates since we were kids. But Ian could’ve easily found someone who could play rings around me.” He gave Colleen the saddest of looks. “Playing with The Chords was the best thing ever happened to me. To all of us. It was all I had. Before we hit it big, I worked in a bloody butcher’s. Never even got my O levels. I had nothing else. I was nothing without The Chords.”
And Sir Ian leveraged the situation.
She felt for Tich.
“What about when The Chords failed to regroup?” she said. “Did you think about going to the police then?”
“What was the point? Steve was long gone, gone to Brazil, and Brenda Pike was still dead. We all went our own separate ways. I had to look out for myself.”
She could see that. “What about Ev?”
“Ian did get rid of him—officially. But I heard he still used him for dirty deeds, off the books, yeah? There was always a need for someone like that in the music business. I heard Ev moved to the U.S., Los Angeles, working for various and sundry people.”
That caught her by surprise. “LA? Really?”
“True enough.”
Now it made sense. Ev had possibly been there the night she went to Steve’s and found Lynda waiting. She’d left Steve in the car. Lynda had had two knuckle draggers with her. In plain sight.
She let the shock subside, took a sip of wine, pieced it together.
“Thanks so much, Tich,” she said. “This has been a big help.”
“Some bloody help. I was a coward.”
“Well, you can set it straight, now. I can look into what it would take to get the case reopened. You can make a statement.”
She saw him take a cautious breath. “You reckon?”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder in the U.S. It’s the same here.”
He gave a watchful look. “It would open up a can of worms.”
“Think what it would mean to Brenda’s parents. It would mean a lot to Steve.” She took a breath. “It would mean a lot to me.”
He gave a final nod, finished his drink in one gulp.
“You’re right,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I should have bloody done it, twelve years ago. Well, better late than never.”
“Bloody hell!” Ian’s wife said as the phone rang on Ian’s side of the bed. “Not again!” Her pear-shaped body turned over in a huff, away from him, yanking the covers over her head.
Thirty years of married bliss had not softened her.
Ian sat up as he fumbled the ringing phone off the cradle from his bedside table. He’d just managed to fall asleep. He squinted at the clock in the semi-darkness. Past one a.m.
“Can’t you take that in the other room!” Eloise barked. Her pink curlers practically glowed in the night-light. Captivating.
Ian covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand. “It’s work!”
She grunted as she yanked the pillow over her head. Hidden from view.
Small mercies, Ian thought.
He uncovered the phone, spoke. “This best be Reggie,” he said.
“Some of us are still working.” In the background, Ian could hear muted street noises, from outside the call box where Reg was obviously calling from.
“Just tell me what you’ve got, Reg.”
“She just left the restaurant.”
“What restaurant would that be?”
“Star of India. She’s been having a few with your old pal, Tich.”
Really, Sir Ian thought. “Tich Simons?”
“He’s just left. She’s flagging down a taxi as we speak.”
So she managed to get hold of Tich. On top of the trip to Church Stretton, where the Pikes lived, the parents of that dead girl, Ms. Aird’s little story of wanting to buy “Shades of Summer” was fast resembling pure fiction. If Aird was even her real name.
“Good work, Reggie. Follow her. Find out where she’s staying. I want to know who she is. Really is. Don’t be afraid to flex a bit of muscle to find out, eh?”
“Got it, chief,” Reggie said, excited now. This was the kind of work Reggie did best. “She’s just flagged a taxi.” The phone clicked off, leaving a dial tone in Sir Ian’s ears.
Ian nodded to himself.
“Are you bloody done now?” his wife said, raising the pillow. “I’d like to get some sleep—if you don’t mind.”
“Twenty-two Whitfield Street,” Colleen said to the cabbie.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said, turning off Tottenham Court Road down Goodge, taking the first left on Whitfield. A narrow side street. The rain had let up momentarily. The cab pulled over to the curb across from a small park, the diesel engine rumbling away. Colleen paid him, got out in front of her B&B with her folded-up umbrella. The cab trundled off down Whitfield.
A long day.
Which might become longer, she realized, when she heard the puttering of a motor scooter come around the corner off Goodge, down her street, otherwise empty now. Turning her head discreetly, she saw the driver, a man wearing a silver helmet, goggles, and big military parka with a fur-lined hood down around his neck.
The same guy who had been in the phone booth across the street from the Star of India when she left the restaurant fifteen minutes ago. The same silver Vespa he was riding now had been parked by the phone booth, the helmet on the seat. And she thought she had seen a comparable scooter leaving Euston Station when she returned from Church Stretton. She hadn’t been sure then but now, late at night, on this desolate street, there was no doubt.
Her nerves jangled with apprehension.
Her thoughts traveled back to that morning with Sir Ian. She had told him she was staying with friends but hadn’t said where. She recalled the young guy sitting in the waiting room of Delco Records, reading a tabloid. Same size and stocky build as the rider of this scooter.
She wouldn’t go into her B&B now and reveal her location.
She turned instead, headed back up Whitfield, toward him. The racket of the two-stroke engine bounced off the buildings and reverberated across the park. He drew closer. She gripped the closed umbrella tightly, even though it was starting to sprinkle again.
He shifted down. Maybe thirty feet away. Watching her. Moonlight reflected off his goggles as he followed her.
The same guy who’d been in the waiting room.
She looked down, moved away, into the narrow sidewalk, as he passed her.
She picked up the pace.
Behind her, she heard him slow down, make a U-turn, stop for a moment, and she heard a clatter, then she heard him come back up behind her.
The plastic umbrella handle became slippery in her hand.
The putt-putt-putt grew closer.
She spun back around, facing him.
He was moving a few miles per hour. Something long was sticking out of the right side of the handlebars, held in place by his hand while he worked the throttle.
A tire iron.
“Excuse me,” he said, coasting up to her. “Do you live around here? I’m a bit lost.”
“I do,” she said quietly, not wanting to give away her accent, although he no doubt knew who she was. But
he didn’t know she was onto him, most likely.
“Great.”
Eat or be eaten.
She leapt out as he came to a stop, swinging the umbrella backhand. Not too classy, but she needed the advantage. His mouth dropped open, and he tried to veer away. She had him by surprise, though.
She connected, hitting him in the neck, just below the helmet. He shouted, trying to keep the scooter upright, but she hit him again, harder, getting him in the face this time, and his hands rose in defense. She kicked the scooter with her heel and the scooter tumbled, but he was quick enough to jump off and skitter back into the street, out of the way.
The scooter lay on its side between them, engine whining.
He raised the tire iron, ready, a grimace on his face.
“Right, then,” he said.
She flipped the umbrella to her left hand, her right hand diving into her pocket, coming out with her keys, which she flipped between index and forefinger. Umbrella and keys. More than a match now. She stood sideways, one leg in front of the other, eyeing him.
The motor scooter continued to whine.
“Ian sent you,” she said.
He said nothing, waiting for an opportunity to strike. His nose was bleeding. The engine continued to drone.
A front door opened down the street.
A fat man appeared in a robe.
“What the bloody hell’s going on?” he shouted. “People are trying to sleep.”
“This man tried to attack me,” she shouted. “Call the police.”
There was a pause. “I’m calling the police.” The door shut.
Her attacker was growing nervous. He didn’t want to run, leave his bike behind. She didn’t really want to talk to the police. Not so far from home. Not with a record.
But she knew what she needed to know about Sir Ian. He’d had her followed. He was complicit.
“Have a nice day, asshole.” She lowered the umbrella, crossed the street at an angle, leaving her attacker. She ducked into the park.
Tie Die Page 21
