Hunting for Crows

by Iain Cameron

  It was a lovely old-fashioned boozer in an age when they were all being converted into gastro pubs, wine bars and bistros, with dark oak panelling, a big ornate wall mirror and long bar with a good range of ales; none of that modern lager crap. With the lads settled around a table in the corner, Derek hauled Eric up to the bar to help him carry the drinks.

  It was nearing the end of lunchtime and the pub was busy with suits from nearby offices filling bodies with the drug of their choice to help them navigate their way through a dull afternoon. Loads of drinkers were smoking, but at least the pub wasn’t filled with it, as the doors and windows were open on account of it being a warm day, and a refreshing breeze wafted inside. Everyone in the band smoked, but Derek couldn’t stand a room full of stale smoke.

  Standing behind a bloke being served, he pulled Eric towards him by the lapels. ‘Why the fuck did you pull a stunt like that in the studio?’

  ‘What d’ya mean? Get your hands off me.’

  Derek released him from his grip. ‘You know bloody fine what I mean: you mouthing off to the world and his uncle that you’ve got a problem with Danny playing in the band.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem.’

  ‘Yes, you fucking do. You’re always on his case–’

  ‘What can I get you, gents?’ the barman asked. He was tall, blond and Australian.

  Derek gave him the order and turned back to face Eric. ‘You’ve been bending my ear for months saying you’ve got too much to do, as each of the songs has a long guitar solo and by the end of a gig your hand is aching. Then, if you bust a string or your effects pedal goes on the blink, the sound’s screwed and there’s always a tuning delay when you change guitars. Now, when I finally bring someone in, someone who can help fill out the sound and give you a break from long solos, someone who even Ronnie Rogan thinks is a major addition to the band, you go fucking ape-shit. Explain it to me mate, because I don’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe I don’t feel important in the band anymore. I mean, when it was just you singing and me playing guitar, it was like we were joint front men, both of us in the limelight.’

  ‘So, now you’re having to share some of the limelight with Danny. I don’t have a problem with it, why should you?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not only that, he’s got a bigger slice of the new album. On some tracks I’m like the Yeti, a rare sight.’

  ‘Bollocks Eric, you appear on every track, but it’s true you don’t play many of the long guitar solos you used to. What did Ronnie call it, ‘a snappier sound’ and I think it makes it more memorable. The public seem to think so as well, look at the single, it’s selling well and Ronnie thinks the new album is good.’

  ‘I dunno…’

  ‘I’m not fucking lying to you. If you remember what that new producer Sam Schweinsteiger said–’

  ‘What, the hippy Yank?’

  ‘Yeah, the hippy Yank. He said the secret of good guitar playing is to make every solo memorable, not a long solo that people are waiting to finish so they can get back to the tune–’

  ‘That’s Grant’s drum solos you’re talking about. My playing is never boring.’

  ‘You know what I mean. When you think of Whisky in the Jar or Zeppelin’s Kashmir, you remember the guitar part as much as the song. That’s where we wanna be.’

  ‘I dunno, I’m still not happy having Danny around. It’s disrupting the balance.’

  ‘Bollocks, I don’t think it is and neither do the other guys. Listen mate, you better get used to it, because Danny’s going nowhere. He’s joining the band full-time.’

  The barman returned. ‘That’s three pints of lager and two pints of best. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Derek said, ‘throw in four packets of roasted peanuts and half a dozen bags of crisps: three salt and vinegar and three smoky bacon.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Derek. A big day out at the BBC and you treat us to a pint and a packet of smoky bacon crisps.’

  ‘Whatd’ya mean?’ he said picking three pints up from the bar in his big mitts and heading for the table in the corner. ‘It’s your treat, mate, you’re paying.’

  TWENTY

  Leafy Surrey made a welcome change from freeze-your-bollocks-off Brighton. It was his first time in Farnham and it looked a quiet, sleepy place, full of important bankers and solicitors who worked in the city by day, leaving their pill-popping and gin-guzzling wives at home to screw the window cleaner and the postman for a bit of excitement. They were disgusting creatures, women. What was the point? He flicked the toothpick over with his tongue in one movement; five minutes one way, five minutes the other.

  He stood outside a big, rambling detached house in Shortheath Road; even in the dark he could tell it had been neglected, and any lustre it had once enjoyed among its fellow neighbours had long since faded. It was a dark, leafy road with plenty of high hedges and overgrown bushes, making it easy for him to slip into the driveway and disappear around the back of the house.

  Eric Hannah owned a couple of clothing shops selling jeans and leisure shirts, but like the house, the business had been neglected and it could make far more money with a smarter guy than him at the helm. It hadn’t been hard to find him. If Hannah wasn’t having a kip in the back office of his shop in Farnham, as he didn’t often venture out to see any of his other shops, he would be occupying a bar stool in The Slug and Lettuce, a few doors down from the shop, or chatting up the barmaid in his local, The Horse & Groom, at night.

  As he anticipated, the lock on the side gate was busted. He pushed the gate open but it started to squeak. He waited until a car drove past and shoved it hard; easy peasy. Standing close to the kitchen window he could hear a ding-dong argument going on inside. His wife was furious with him for something.

  He might have guessed, Hannah was going out tonight to spend another night down at the pub, and by the tone of her voice, it sounded as though she was getting fed up with it. He could see her through the window, her face lined and angry, but not the anger built through decades of grief, as they had been married less than ten years.

  It had taken her a while but now she was starting to realise that the handsome Lothario who once wooed her with his witty one-liners, a cheeky smile, and raucous tales of derring-do, was nothing more than a drunken, empty loser. Anyone else not preoccupied with their failing talent and fading good looks could turn this howling banshee into a compliant and dutiful wife, willing to attend to her man’s every need, and eager to bring up his children in a manner to make them both proud. Instead, he chose to ignore her and the children.

  He made his way back out to the road and walked over to the van. He was thoughtful, not about this guy, but the next one. He was last on the list and for a very good reason. He was the top dog and they wanted him to suffer, watching on as each of his buddies died. Ah, what a shame.

  Number four required a great deal of thought as there always seemed to be people around him, but the problems weren’t insurmountable for a man of his calibre, it just needed a little more planning. Soon, number three would be out of the way and he could concentrate on the big finish. He liked that, the big finish. What then? He would have to find another client to work for; but perhaps there was no need, maybe his reputation would be made on this one and now they would come to him.

  He started the van and, humming his favourite song, drove away.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The head office of Crow Enterprises, the tanker and parcel distribution business owned by Derek Crow, was located in an unassuming, low-rise building in Dartford. DI Henderson and DS Walters drove past the petrol tanker depot a few blocks down, which might seem far enough away for the office workers to feel safe if it ever blew up, but Henderson wasn’t so sure.

  ‘It’s not a nice part of London this,’ Walters said, looking around as she stepped out of the car. ‘It’s all concrete and roads with no trees or grass.’

  ‘I know what you mean, but distribution companies love it here
as they’re close to the M25, and somewhere over there,’ he said pointing out towards the east, ‘is the M20 down to the Channel Tunnel. In any case, I’m not sure we’re still in London. This might be Kent.’

  She nodded towards the head office building in front of them. ‘I thought you said this guy was rich?’

  ‘He is, lives in a big house in St. John’s Wood and owns a villa in Corfu or somewhere in Greece. Look at the cars outside. One’s a Bentley and the other’s a Porsche, they don’t come cheap. C’mon, let’s go in and see him.’

  She shrugged and followed on.

  A few minutes later, they were seated opposite Derek Crow, his desk between them. It wasn’t the most palatial office Henderson had ever seen, but a notch or two above their initial impressions outside.

  ‘I must admit,’ Crow said, ‘I was surprised when you called me and told me the police were interested in the deaths of my brother Barry, and Peter Grant. I thought both men died in accidents.’

  He had a reputation as a tough negotiator and for all Henderson knew, he was also a good poker player, but he was a ham actor; Henderson could see he was lying. In his position, he would be worried too.

  ‘After a full police inquiry and two post-mortems, it’s a view any rational man would be forced to take, but even you would have to admit, Mr Crow, losing two members of the same band is a high loss rate by anybody’s standards. We think the situation is worthy of further investigation, not least to ensure that you and Eric Hannah are not in any sort of danger.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern. I guess even the police need to cover all the bases.’

  ‘If I can make a start,’ Henderson said. ‘I’d like to ask you about the early origins of the band, how you started, how you got your first break.’ Henderson had explained to Walters in the car that he intended doing this, not as a trip down memory lane for a nostalgic ex-roadie, but to try and uncover the names of anyone the band might have upset in the past.

  Derek Crow ran fingers through a thick, swept-back mop of greying black hair, a bit different from the days when it was greasy, curly and ran past his shoulders.

  ‘I joined a couple of bands while still at school, and when I left, I played a few gigs at night and worked in a meat processing factory during the day. My brother, Barry, was with me playing bass and when the drummer and guitarist walked out in a strop, Barry suggested we take a look at Eric Hannah. Eric was good and agreed to join us and it turned out he knew Peter Grant, so he brought Pete in to play drums.’

  ‘The four of you just clicked?’

  ‘Yeah, we did. Eric was the kind of guitarist you only see once in a while, intuitive, eager to learn and he could play anything you asked him. After three months of solid rehearsals above a pub in Brighton, we played our first gigs and soon after, we scored a recording contract.’

  Henderson heard the door open behind him and in walked Crow’s secretary, Helen, carrying a tray of coffees and a number of chocolate biscuits. No wonder Crow was a tad on the porky side.

  ‘Where did I get to? At the start, we had a good following around Sussex and Kent which was the reason we got our album deal, and after that we branched out and toured the UK and parts of Europe. The Germans and the Danes seemed to like us. We made four albums and even though the first three are pretty good, it wasn’t until the fourth, Black Saturday, that we really cracked it. That album is a diamond. I was so proud of it at the time; I still am.’

  ‘It’s a good record and deserves more recognition.’

  ‘Too true. I imagine your next question is going to be why did we pack it all in?’

  Henderson nodded.

  ‘I’ve asked myself the same thing many times, I assure you. I mean, where would we be if we’d toughed it out? In fact, even if we didn’t make another album as good as Black Saturday, all you have to do is pick up The Sunday Times to realise that a lot of the bands around then are back touring and making a good living.’

  ‘So why did you pack it in?’

  ‘What did the record company say, due to musical differences or some crap like that, we all went our separate ways?’

  ‘Yes, but everyone at the time knew different.’

  Crow stared into space for a moment. ‘When Black Saturday came out there was a lot of bickering going on within the band. It was mainly Eric, as his mood would change like the weather, more often than not about Danny Winter and usually with a head full of dope or booze. And then… and then Danny died. It was on the night when, if you can believe it, we were celebrating Black Saturday’s entry into the album charts.’

  Henderson waited for more.

  ‘I couldn’t go on after that. One minute I could see exactly where we were heading, I had it all planned out, and the next everything seemed to fall away like sand through my fingers. It screwed me up big time, I can tell you, and it screwed with Eric too. He went on a bender and we didn’t see him for three weeks.’

  ‘Some of the old newspapers I looked at,’ Walters said, ‘blamed Eric for Danny Winter’s death.’

  ‘Yeah, they did and for a time I did too. Looking back, I can see now it was an accident, pure and simple.’

  ‘Why didn’t you replace Danny with another keyboard player?’ Walters said. ‘I’m sure there must have been plenty of others around.’

  ‘There were, but Danny was special and it would have been hard if not impossible to replace what he gave us. If Eric was a once in a blue moon guitarist, Danny Winter was a once in a green moon keyboard player. In the end, losing Danny and with Eric out of his head most of the time, I couldn’t see a future for the band, so I decided to pack it in. Barry felt the same.’

  ‘Maybe with hindsight it wasn’t such a bad decision,’ Henderson said, casting his eyes around the office. ‘You haven’t done badly.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. I look at some of these old rockers, and I’ve even been to a few concerts, and I ask myself, why do they still do it? I mean, some of them must have bills to pay like the rest of us, but I know for a fact some of them don’t as they’re worth millions.’

  ‘Does a part of you still fancy it?’

  ‘You bet. There’s a buzz you get on stage when all the band are playing in synch and you’re really rocking. Nothing comes close, not in business, drinking, sex, you name it.’

  ‘With the recent death of your brother, Barry, and now, Peter Grant, do you think there’s a connection?’

  He sat back in his chair to consider, no doubt thinking how he could respond without sounding too much like a fruitcake. ‘I didn’t see Barry that often, once a month or so, but Pete and I were in regular contact and often went out for dinner. I’ll miss them both. I know Barry loved animals, but would he jump in the river after his dog? I’m not sure, I suppose it’s possible. As for Pete, it was a freakish accident that killed him and no mistake, but I don’t pretend to understand it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  He sat forward, a worried look etched on his face. ‘In our early albums, we used a certain amount of imagery and sorcery in our songs, copying the likes of Marillion and Genesis. As a result, we attracted a few witches, wizards and all manner of weirdos to our concerts and it’s possible one of them might have taken exception to a lyric or something we said in an interview. But if you’re thinking someone has put a curse on the band, I don’t believe that sort of stuff exists.’

  ‘I agree, because if someone was taking exception to your lyrics, why stop at the Crazy Crows? Why not target all the other bands doing much the same thing?’

  ‘That’s a bloody good point, Inspector,’ he said as if warming to the theme. ‘Why us? Black Sabbath and Yes were into way more airy-fairy stuff than anything we ever did.’

  ‘Can you think of anybody you might have severely offended or got on the wrong side of, either when you were in the band or starting your tanker business?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not with the Crazy Crows. Sure, we had the usual wrangles with record companies, managers and promoters, but nothing major an
d nothing that would last for over twenty-six-years. In business, I guess I’ve made a few enemies with trade unions and competing companies. I started this business from scratch and I guess I’ve trod on a few toes and put a few noses out of joint along the way.’

  It was Henderson’s turn to warm to the theme. ‘You went from a couple of tankers to operating a fleet of over fifty with two fuel depots in the space of five years. That sort of growth is pretty meteoritic in anybody’s book.’

  Derek seemed to grow in stature at the last comment, or was it Henderson’s imagination? ‘I started out with some money I saved when I was in the band, and working with an uncle who was a tanker driver for guidance I bought a couple of tankers. I got lucky when I won the distribution contract with one of the oil majors early on and the choice was either to stay on the horse or fall off. I rode my luck a few times but when the contract went well, others followed.’

  Henderson could see a crack opening up here. Did he borrow money from people who now wanted payback, or had he been involved in something nefarious back then to generate the cash, which was now coming back to haunt him? ‘It still must have taken a major capital investment.’

  ‘The Black Saturday album sold well around Europe and if you can believe it, in Japan and Korea. I wrote most of the songs so I got a big chunk of the royalties. I used that money in combination with a couple of bank loans and re-mortgaging my house. I’m making it sound easy but I assure you it wasn’t.’

  It sounded too corporate brochure for Henderson’s liking. Perhaps he had told it so many times that he was starting to believe it himself, but in Henderson’s mind it didn’t ring true.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to do you or any of the other band members harm?’ Walters asked. ‘Have you or they received threatening letters or abusive phone calls, for example.’

  ‘I know I haven’t, and even though I can’t speak for the other guys, I’m sure they would have told me if they did.’