by Iain Cameron
He got out, tucked the gun into his trousers and ambled towards the van, whistling. Any rational man would now take off and put as much distance between himself and a gunman as he could, and hallelujah, his mark did just that. He climbed into the van and set off after him, but there would be no screaming tyres or the smell of burning rubber; it didn’t do to attract attention. In any case, he wouldn’t get far.
On the fast dual carriageway, he soon caught up with him as the van was fitted with a four-litre engine and powerful enough to overtake if he wanted to, but that wasn’t part of the plan. It took a while for the target to realise he couldn’t lose the van no matter what he tried to do in his crappy old BMW. Where did he think he could run to on this road, Winchester?
If his assumptions were correct, he would turn off as soon as possible and try and find the nearest police station. With the next major junction less than a mile ahead, one so important it needed its own name, the Coxbridge Roundabout, he was confident he would turn off there. He increased speed, causing the BMW in front of him to drive faster.
Like a couple of boy racers, they hit the slip-road at eighty-five miles an hour and immediately he stamped on the brakes of the van. Big carbon discs gripped the wheels, slowing the van rapidly, but when the brake lights of the BMW glowed, the car didn’t slow. It rocketed towards the roundabout, shot across the road, and with the inside lane temporarily blocked by cars taking the left turn, slammed into the back of a lorry edging its way round.
In the rear view mirror, he could see the blazing BMW lighting up the morning sky, thanks to all the extra fuel he’d bought at the supermarket before loading the booze. If the crash didn’t kill him, the fire would. Humming his favourite song, he pointed the van in the direction of London and turned up the radio.
TWENTY-EIGHT
GrooveTime Music Studios occupied one half of a converted Victorian warehouse in Narrow Street in the Limehouse district of East London. Once the home of rope makers, tea merchants and even earlier, lime kilns that gave the area its name, most of the old warehouses were now apartments and large living spaces for urban professionals, or light commerce for new, lighter industries, such as music, television programming, software and PR.
DI Henderson pressed the buzzer on the door and waited outside with DS Walters for a couple of minutes as a bitter wind whipped around the buildings, lifting litter and blowing leaves towards them at head-height.
Back in Sussex, Henderson had left DS Gerry Hobbs in charge of the Lanes jewellery heist. Following Eric Hannah’s death in a car fire at the weekend even the ACC was persuaded that something more than coincidence had killed three former members of the Crazy Crows. He was no doubt influenced by sensational newspaper stories suggesting the Prime Minister’s ‘favourite businessman’ was now in mortal danger and demanded a result.
Feeling vindictive for whacking him with a shotgun butt, Henderson wouldn’t let Des Hamlin see his girlfriend, Nicola Jenner, until he agreed to appear at the rendezvous with Frank. In the end, he valued his organs more than the jail time he would lose for helping the police, but his mate Ros Vincent didn’t have such scruples. They concocted some story about Hamlin being arrested for drunk and disorderly and Vincent stepped happily into the breech. They fitted him with a wire, and five minutes into the meeting with Frank, they’d heard enough to enter the house and arrest him and two of his associates. Vincent was now under police protection and would soon be moving to the West Country.
Above the roar of London traffic, Henderson heard a noise inside the building, and a few seconds later the door opened. A sultry teenager called Marlene took them upstairs to the top floor and directed them into the control room at the side of Studio 2.
‘Detective Henderson, good to meet you man, and you too Sergeant Walters. I’m Sam Schweinsteiger,’ the older guy sitting behind the mixing desk said, after spinning around in his chair to shake hands. ‘This is Steve, my sound engineer.’ Henderson looked towards the guy sitting next to Sam, a hairy head clad in headphones, but received no more than an almost imperceptible nod.
‘If you sit over there,’ Sam said, indicating a small settee pushed back against the wall, ‘you can watch how it’s done, providing you keep quiet. I’ll only be about another ten minutes.’
According to Wikipedia, record producer Sam Schweinsteiger was forty-nine and the producer of the third and fourth albums for the Crazy Crows, Tropical Storm and Black Saturday,. Henderson could see he made strident efforts to look younger, or at least hipper, in keeping with the industry he worked within, wearing a zany-patterned t-shirt, faded and ripped jeans, and with his long hair pulled back into a pony-tail, streaked in grey. His chubby, jovial face, however, spoiled the effect as it was wrinkled from too much sun, or casting his mind back to the overcast and dismal weather outside, the overuse of sun beds.
Henderson was disappointed to discover Studio 2 was not showcasing some new indie band with a unique and interesting sound, or some old stagers hoping a new producer would sprinkle some fairy dust on their music and give them a hit single. Instead, they were recording the voice-over for a television or radio advert.
On the other side of the glass sat a Scottish comedian he recognised, but whose name he couldn't recall without confusing him with an actor jailed for buggering young boys, or the host of an early evening quiz show. He was attempting to do the voice-over for a well-known make of car, but was having trouble saying the curt, German strap line. Every time it came out of his mouth it sounded like Joseph Goebbels exhorting a mass rally of brown shirts.
The over-wrought Jock took a deep breath and started once again at the beginning of the script, causing Sam to utter to no one in particular, ‘Fucking hell, you would think Robert the Bruce here was doing this for the first time, the wanker.’
As if by magic, three attempts later, ‘The appliance of innovative technology,’ came trotting out of his mouth in flawless diction. Sam blew a long blast of frustration and angst at the ceiling, muttering, ‘Thank fuck for small mercies’ and pushed his chair away from the control desk.
The comedian removed his headphones with an exaggerated expression of exhaustion, as if talking into a microphone for an hour was as taxing as dragging coal from the bottom of a pit, or loading boxes on the back of a lorry, and Sam stepped into the corridor to greet him. Through the open door he could hear and feel the bonhomie as mutual back-slapping and hearty congratulations filled the air, including such flattering comments as, ‘Sterling performance’ and ‘You knocked my socks off’, a touch ironic as the old hippy wasn’t wearing any.
A few minutes later, Sam ducked his head back into the control room. ‘Let’s go upstairs and grab ourselves a cuppa, we can talk there.’
The top floor of the building, a large airy room overlooking the street, was set out as a canteen. Henderson could see half a dozen tables, a hot water urn, a variety of multi-coloured mugs and cups and much of the debris of a round-the-clock eating place: an overflowing bin, stained work surfaces and a dishwasher with more dirty dishes sitting outside than in.
Two people seated on opposite sides of a table were having an animated discussion, but to a more sensitive soul, it might be considered an argument. Beneath the grubby windows and overlooking the street, long cushions were laid out to create a sociable seating area with good natural lighting for reading or watching the world go by, but today it was occupied by a couple of worn-out musicians enjoying some shut-eye.
Sam made coffee in clean mugs using boiling water from the urn and a large teaspoonful of Nescafe from a canteen-sized tin. Henderson, more used to over-stewed Sussex House coffee and curdled milk, wasn’t complaining.
‘So, Inspector Henderson,’ Sam said as he took a seat across from the two detectives at one of the tables, ‘you said you wanted to talk to me about the Crazy Crows.’
Henderson gave Sam a summary of the deaths of Barry Crow and Peter Grant, to which Sam nodded in sombre fashion, but looked surprised when the name of Eric Hannah was me
ntioned.
‘Bloody hell, Eric Hannah? Christ, I forgot about him. I assumed he’d popped his clogs a long time back, he was such a coke-head. The worst sort in my book, he could never seem to get enough.’
‘Eric died in a car accident at the weekend, and with the other two deaths you know about, you can understand why we think something in their past must be triggering it.’
Eric’s death on Sunday morning had made many of the nationals as the crash not only disrupted traffic for hours, but the death of three musicians in the same band was now starting to interest them. His reputation for drink and drugs, and the fact he’d bought lots of booze in Sainsbury’s before the crash, only fuelled speculation that he was high on drugs or booze at the time, or that he wanted to shuffle off his mortal coil in spectacular fashion.
‘Yeah, I can see where you guys are coming from. I mean, I didn’t work with the Crows all through their career, but I’ll try and help where I can. I liked the band, especially Barry and Derek.’
‘When did you first come into contact with them?’
‘Let me think…early ’90 it would be. I first met them during the recording sessions for their third album, Tropical Storm. The record company kind of tolerated all the goings on in the studio, you know, the women and the drugs and booze, all while the new album was on schedule, but as soon as it fell behind they lost their rag. They sacked their producer, Dave Stevens, and brought me in. D’you know Dave?’
Henderson shook his head.
‘Great guy, bloody good producer and a wizard with a synthesiser, which saves bands a fortune on studio time as they don’t need strings and orchestras. This is where Derek got the idea of bringing in Danny Winter.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Smart bloke Derek. When Dave got kicked off the Crows, he went on to work with Bon Jovi and Texas, so it didn’t do his career any harm, but he lacks the strength of character to kick arse; he’s a musician’s producer, if you know what I mean.’
Henderson nodded and tried the coffee again, it tasted cooler this time and he dared take a sip.
‘It’s great if a band are hard working and serious, but when they’re a bunch of lazy bastards like the Crows, it was like shitting in the dark with no toilet paper; no bloody fun at all. They hired me because of my reputation for knocking bands into shape, which I can do if I’m handed a clear brief, either by the band if they know what they’re doing, or by the record company if they know what they want. I’ve calmed down a lot since then,’ he said with a smile, ‘but not much.’
‘What did you find when you took them over?’ Walters asked. ‘Did you have a mess to clear up?’
‘Once they toed the line and did things my way, it all started to improve. They were good musicians, make no mistake, but up until then, they were coasting.’
‘How did you find them to work with? Were they difficult?’
He sat back and sighed. ‘It’s a bastard not being able to smoke in this place. Times like this, I could do with a little nicotine boost, but it’s too bloody cold to stand outside. Let me think. Yeah, Eric and Pete were the best musicians by a long chalk. I think Barry only did it to pull skirt and Derek to get away from a shitty home life. He didn’t get on with his dad.’
‘Did they have any enemies?’ Henderson asked.
He laughed. ‘How much time have you got?’
‘Try me.’
‘Derek has a direct manner of speaking, and that’s putting it lightly. He winds people up. He tried it on with me, but I told him in no uncertain terms to take a hike. I mean, he pissed off roadies, stage managers, fans even, but the lot he wound up most was the record company.’
‘For the bad boy behaviour?’
‘Nah, for walking away when Black Saturday started to receive great reviews in the music press and racking up big sales in the shops. I knew the album would do well just as soon as I heard the first three or four tracks, you know, and I think the record company did too.’
‘Maybe they packed it in,’ Walters said, ‘because they’d all made so much money.’
Schweinsteiger shook his head, ‘nah.’
‘Really? I’m surprised to hear it, as each of them started a business not long after leaving the band. You need money for that.’
‘I don’t know where they got it from, but I do know they made bugger-all in the band.’
‘How come?’
‘The first two albums didn’t make much and covered more or less what they borrowed to buy instruments and such. The third did well, but by then, tours were international and getting costlier and they were spending more time in the studio, and don’t forget, they partied like it was going out of fashion. Nah, if they had more than their bus fare home in their pockets, I would be very surprised.’
TWENTY-NINE
The kettle clicked off and a tired Suzy Hannah rose from her chair to make tea, wondering why her lazy bitch of a sister couldn’t do it herself.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ Lorna asked.
She sighed. This conversation seemed to have gone on for most of the morning as she’d insisted on dissecting Eric’s car accident in minute detail. It ranged from the ‘official’ version as it appeared in the local paper, to the laughable conspiracy rumours popping up on the web like fairground ‘knock ’em downs.’ One suggested it was a drug hit and another said a rival fan had taken his revenge. Suzy didn’t have anything else to add, but Lorna could always find something.
‘I’m not sure,’ Suzy said as she poured the tea. She placed the mugs on the kitchen table, and with her mind elsewhere as if in a dream, she returned to her seat.
‘Ahem, I take two sugars and milk,’ the snotty cow said. She sounded like the strict headmistress she might have become if a promising teaching career hadn’t been thrown out of the window like a half-chewed apple after she’d married a useless shit like Dave, and if she’d kept her legs closed when the number of kids reached two.
At forty-one, she was nine years older than Suzy and sometimes when they went out together Lorna would be mistaken for her mother, making Suzy laugh and Lorna mad. It didn’t help that her sister never put on makeup, her hair was cut in the same old way, and her frumpy clothes did nothing to disguise an overweight frame.
Suzy rose from her seat, tipped in a little milk and searched in the cupboard for the sugar container, something she and Eric didn’t use. It would serve her sister right for winding her up if she picked up a packet of Eric’s constipation tablets or the garlic powder by mistake.
‘The house is paid for,’ Suzy said, after resuming her seat, ‘and I earn enough at the salon to keep the kids in shoes, but no more holidays for a while.’
Lorna sipped her tea, a look of disgust crinkling her eyes, suggesting too much sugar, not enough milk, too much tannin from a pot sitting on the hob, or her mug handle didn’t face Mecca. Whatever the problem, she wasn’t moving.
‘Don’t be daft girl, there’s the Jeans & Co business. It must be worth something?’
‘According to Eric it hasn’t made any money for years.’
‘He was lying to you, same as he lied about everything else. Sell it girl, I’ll help you.’
Oh my Lord. The word ‘help’ from her sister’s lips was like hearing ‘fuck’ from a priest or ‘free sample’ from a drug dealer; seldom spoken and only in the most extreme of circumstances. The same sister who’d refused to give her refuge when Eric was off his rocker and away on another of his wild and drunken phases. When his paranoid mind believed the world was conspiring against him and he thought nothing of punching her in the face or kicking her in the stomach when he thought she was pregnant. Lorna had refused to lend her any money when Suzy didn’t possess more than five pounds in her purse after her prick of a husband spent the housekeeping on a ‘must have’ and ‘not to be missed’ dope deal.
Eric had been an immature and self-centred sod who’d liked to think himself as sly as a fox, but he could be as open and readable as one of her kids’ comics. He was convinced she
didn’t know about the drugs in the shed or the booze in the fridge, but she did, and she also knew the only reason he went down there was to smoke weed and drink, a fact he would not admit to himself.
He’d believed his real purpose in religiously heading into the ‘studio’ was to keep his guitar playing up to speed, in case the band reformed and decided to tour again. Eric couldn’t see it, but the delusional sap smoked so much dope that even a music novice such as herself could hear he sounded crap. No way could he could remember the riffs, notes and words of one song, never mind the full twenty-song repertoire of a performing band.
‘No, I’m not going to sell it, not yet.’
‘You should girl, you’ll need the money.’
‘I don’t know enough about it, I need to take advice.’
‘What about all his gear in the shed? Some of the guitars in there are worth thousands.’
‘Which ones?’
‘The blue Rickenbacker and the signed Fender Stratocaster Eric Clapton used to play.’
‘How come you know so much about his guitars, then?’
‘You told me.’
‘No, I didn’t; I didn’t know.’
‘It must have been him then.’
‘How often did you go in the shed?’
‘I don’t know, once or twice.’
‘Funny how he would let you go in, but he never allowed me.’
Suzy could read her like a book, always could. She knew when she was telling lies and knew when she was trying to hide something.
‘You were screwing him, weren’t you?’
‘Suzy that’s outrageous, even for you. You’re upset about Eric’s death and not thinking straight but I’m trying my best to help you.’
‘I’m thinking straight all right and it’s coming back to me now. The sly looks you gave him when you thought I wasn’t looking, the times he disappeared upstairs to help you with the kids when he did bugger-all for his own, and the days he went around to your place, while moaning to me he couldn’t stand Dave. I could never work it out then, but I can now.’
