The Ballad Of Sean And Wilko (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 4)

by Paul Charles

  The view from the top of Primrose Hill cleared his head and set his resolve. He turned toward home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The last Friday in November brought rain; half the month’s total rainfall in one day, in fact. This made Kennedy’s morning walk to North Bridge House, the home of Camden CID, as invigorating and breathtaking as any of his favourite walks along the coast at Portrush where he was brought up and both his parents still lived. London had enjoyed a wet summer and a dry winter. The greenness and freshness of Primrose Hill and the neighbouring Regent’s Park was as spiritual as any countryside. Kennedy was surprised, but not disappointed, that more Londoners chose not to sample these life-enriching sights.

  Such a soulful experience would set up even the most sceptical of persons for the trials and tribulations of their imminent day in the office or other place of work, whatever and wherever it may be. Even on the wettest of winter mornings two magpies had elected to greet him. He pulled up the collar of his Crombie, drank in a mouthful of damp air and put an inch to his step. His day was going to start, he hoped, with the autopsy results on the corpse of Wilko Robertson. Dr Taylor was an early bird and no doubt was already at work.

  It was eight o’clock when he reached North Bridge House. Desk Sergeant Tim Flynn’s weather-beaten Irish smile greeted him.

  ‘Top of the morning to you, sir.’ Flynn had been using the greeting for so long that no one took offence at it.

  ‘Aye, Timothy, great day – if you are a duck, that is,’ Kennedy offered in good humour as he unbuttoned his coat. Underneath he wore a dark blue three-piece suit, brown leather shoes, white shirt and yellow tie. Kennedy loosened the tie a little and undid the top button on his shirt. Once inside North Bridge House the only time his tie and top button were done up was when he went into Superintendent Castle’s office for a briefing.

  ‘You’ve had two calls this morning already, sir. One from ann rea.’ Flynn passed down the two green telephone message slips to Kennedy with a smile, ‘How come we see so little of that beautiful woman these days?’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a story, I’m sure. And if I ever find out I’ll let you know,’ Kennedy replied as he disappeared behind the swinging doors, which separated the public lobby of the station from the police’s private quarters. The swinging doors were still swinging by the time Kennedy had climbed one flight of stairs and entered his wood-panelled office. He sat down at his desk and turned in his swivel chair to see that his Guinness green-felted noticeboard was empty. His last case, The Roseland Romeo, was now but a memory contained in the numerous five-by-three index cards and several photographs that once covered his board. The case was now successfully solved and cards and photos meticulously filed by the detective inspector.

  Kennedy dialled the number of the person on Flynn’s second green slip.

  ‘ann rea speaking.’

  ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ Kennedy replied, his accent making the “are” all but disappear. The sound of her voice still left him gasping for air. She had a very sensual voice; no noticeable accent, and he loved to hear her speak. Everything about her was still a turn-on. That was the problem. Kennedy thought if only he could find one fault with her he’d be out of troubled waters. He couldn’t allow himself to accept it as her fault that she wasn’t in love with him.

  ‘Kennedy! Hey there, had a haircut yet?’ ann rea enquired.

  ‘No, not yet, but it’s getting there.’

  ‘Ah, leave it Kennedy, trust me it’ll look great.’ She was forever encouraging him to let his jet black hair grow just a fraction beyond respectable. Tempted as he was, he wasn’t sure how the super would react to a long-haired forty-four-year-old detective inspector wandering around the halls of North Bridge House.

  ‘I’ll take it under consideration.’

  ‘Listen, Kennedy, you’re in big trouble.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I thought we were mates,’ ann rea continued.

  ‘We were,’ Kennedy replied defensively. ‘We are.’

  ‘Yes, well then how comes you didn’t tell me that Wilko from the Circles was murdered last evening at Dingwalls?’

  ‘Aha. Well, we’re not entirely sure he was, at this point.’

  ‘Okay then. Even telling me that he was found dead would have been alright for starters.’

  ‘Well, it all happened so late…’

  ‘Late, Kennedy? Late? I remember you ringing me at three o’clock in the morning. Shit…’ ann rea continued in a whisper, ‘…I remember waking up one morning with an Ulsterman in my arms who wasn’t there the night before.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s true about you and the Rev. Ian Paisley.’

  ‘Very funny, Kennedy. Don’t forget I was the one who rang you to tell you that Pauley Valentini had hijacked GLR. Hey, remember that?’

  ‘Yes, I do as a matter of act. Whatever happened to him?’

  ‘The police let him off with a suspended sentence. It was the worst thing they could have done to him,’ ann rea advised her former lover. ‘The minute he was released, all the fuss, not to mention his record sales, died down. The record company dropped him and he’s now a painter and decorator over Harlesden way. You see, there you go again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have a way of getting out of trouble by the questions you ask. Here I am trying to be mad at you and you turn all this back on me with your continued questions, all the time avoiding talking about Wilko.’

  ‘ann, there’s really nothing to tell. Off the record?’

  ‘Off the record? You tell me there is nothing to tell, “really”, and then you hit me with an “off the record?”’ ann sighed over the phone. ‘Go then, I’ll bite. Off the record, naturally, of course.’

  ‘They, Circles, were playing a gig last night at Dingwalls. Towards the end of the set, Wilko Robertson and his partner Sean Green went off and let the band do a song by themselves. Wilko goes off and locks himself in the dressing room to change—’

  ‘And drop a tab or two of something no doubt. Sorry, continue.’

  ‘And he doesn’t make it back to the stage. His tour manager, KP, breaks the door of the dressing room down and finds one Wilko Robertson sprawled dead across the floor.’

  ‘Are there any windows in the dressing room?’

  No,’ Kennedy replied quickly and then added by way of explanation, ‘it’s in the basement.’

  ‘And the tour manager fellow is convinced the door was locked from the inside, not just stiff or something.’

  ‘Yes, he was convinced it was locked. He further claims that he has done his shoulder and arm in breaking down the door.’

  ‘Wimp, where’s Arnie when you need him?’

  ‘Well he is somewhat feeble, but a nice man all the same. A bit of a hippie vibe, if you know what I mean, man,’ Kennedy replied tongue firmly in cheek, thinking maybe you had to be there.

  ‘So there couldn’t be any suspicious circumstances then, could there?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I may not be a detective, detective, but surely if the door was locked from the inside then no one could have got out again without unlocking the door. Unless they had Scottie beam them up, of course.’

  ‘Well, our particular Scottie was dead,’ Kennedy reminded ann rea. ‘But seriously, there could be several explanations.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Okay, your drugs scenario. Wilko goes into the dressing room and locks the door behind him. From all accounts he sweats a lot on stage and he always uses this point to change his clothes. He changes his clothes, sits down for a breather and does whatever it is that gets him off. Either his heart gives out with one blast too many, or the drug was spiked with something which killed him or he OD’d.’

  ‘For and against?’ ann rea quizzed.

  ‘For – mainly the fact that the door was locked from the inside so whatever damage was done we would expect to be self-inflicted. Against – I’ve seen a few ODs and Wilko didn’t look like one.
He looked peaceful. A bit flushed about the cheeks but that could be excused with all the sweating on stage. I have to say he didn’t look like he died a terrible death. On top of which we found no evidence of drugs in the room at all.’

  ‘And so your scenario would be, detective?’

  ‘Well, let’s examine the facts. Who found the body?’ the DI quizzed his friend.

  ‘This tour manager person.’

  ‘Yes, KP, short for Kevin Paul. And he was alone at the time. We have to take his word that he knocked the door down and found the singer inside. What if he tapped on the door, the singer opened it, KP went inside and murdered him, then went back outside the dressing room, locked the door behind him – from the outside – then kicked the door in? All he has to do then is replace the key in the inside in the Chubb lock, and presto.’

  ‘Well done, Kennedy. Another case wrapped up successfully. KP’s your man.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. For starters we still don’t know if Wilko Robertson died from natural or unnatural causes. On top of that, I’m not sure this KP chap has what it takes to murder someone. I took to him immediately. He and I got on well. So, a solution perhaps but instinctively I doubt it,’ Kennedy said. ‘Well, I better head and get stuck into this.’

  ‘Hey, hang on a bit, Kennedy. Remember you’re returning my call, that means I rang you, which means I had a point.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought it was about Wilko,’ Kennedy offered as a genuine apology.

  ‘Well that was the excuse under which I rang you.’

  ‘Really? And the real reason?’

  ‘Gosh, Kennedy, what does a girl have to do around here to get invited out to dinner?’

  ‘How about tonight in the Queens?’ Kennedy replied, just a fraction too quickly.

  ‘Perfect. See you there at eight, Kennedy. Bye.’

  With that ann rea was gone, leaving Kennedy with the phone still at his ear and the second bit of green paper in his hand.

  LESLIE RUSSELL RANG AT SEVEN FORTY-FIVE, PLEASE RING BACK

  CHAPTER SIX

  Leslie Russell was the most dapper solicitor in Camden Town, and an acquaintance of Kennedy’s. He was also, Kennedy discovered, the legal representative for the group Circles. Russell had suggested a chat, “to put you in the picture”. Kennedy had suggested they meet at eleven at the Delancey Street café. Both arrived early. Formalities over and refreshments ordered, the men got down to the business at hand.

  ‘How was he murdered, Christy?’ Leslie Russell spoke as he looked, the perfect English gentleman. The solicitor had the voice, diction and phrasing that defied you to not listen to him. He dressed as his father – the senior partner in the firm Russell, Phillips and Partners – had dressed; in expensive, well lived-in suits. To the manner born, thought Kennedy.

  ‘Very deviously, Leslie, I can tell you. Taylor had nearly missed it. Wilko Robertson was stabbed straight into the heart by something “thinner than an ice pick but stronger than a knitting needle”. He was stabbed through the chest and there was only one little speck of blood. Death was immediate, the heart stopped and no blood was spilt. Taylor reckoned the blood was dropped as the murderer removed the weapon. When Taylor spotted the speck of blood he found the wound.’

  ‘So Wilko saw his murderer?’ the solicitor enquired.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Kennedy continued, ‘we think the assailant crept up behind Wilko, grabbed him around the neck with one arm while he stabbed him with the other. At any rate, all of it went on behind a locked door, which remained locked, from the inside.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Ask me one on cricket,’ Kennedy replied. He had given as much information as he was going to give. ‘How long have you worked with the group?’

  ‘Personally, eight years. Although the firm, through my father, has represented Circles for the last nineteen,’ Russell replied.

  ‘A long time.’

  ‘Absolutely, old chap. We find that, with all the changes these musicians make in their career – record companies, publishers, agents, mangers and so on – they do like to keep one pillar of stability in their organisation; generally their lawyer or their accountant,’ Russell explained.

  ‘I can see the logic in a solicitor, but I thought an accountant just looked after—’ Kennedy began.

  ‘The accounts, yes I know,’ Russell cut in, ‘but these days accountants and solicitors are becoming much more, confidants and advisors.’

  ‘Even above the managers?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely above the managers. In terms of the big deal, you see, the manager is almost always going to vote in favour of his own best interests. In the long term this can work out to the artist’s disadvantage. Not always, of course. But these older clients, who have perhaps gone through a few managers, tend to run ideas past their solicitor or accountant or even both, depending on the relationship. Both bill their clients by the hour and so their advice is less biased, or so we’d like to think.’

  ‘So, the early managers wield more power than the later ones?’ Kennedy suggested.

  ‘Absolutely. The first manager is really more of a boss, in fact. The eager musician will happily do as told; so desperate are they for success. The balance of power begins to shift in direct proportion to the amount of success the artist achieves.’

  ‘So how hard have Circles been on managers?’

  ‘Well, for a thirty-year career, not too. Three managers in total. The first one, Kevin Paul—’

  ‘KP?’ Kennedy cut in.

  ‘Yes, KP.’ Russell smiled indulgently. ‘Kevin was their first manager and a very good one at that, but after five or six years he grew bored with it and dropped out. They then hired Frazer Williams, less flamboyant than Kevin but very stable. He was the manager when my father became their solicitor.’

  ‘What happened to Frazer?’

  ‘It’s sad. Circles were past their peak when he took over their management and, as the eighties progressed, they became less and less successful. Someone had to be blamed.’

  ‘Frazer?’

  ‘The very same. He was fired. Then they managed themselves for a time. That would have been in the late eighties, when I came aboard. But it was mostly housekeeping at that time as Sean Green made all the decisions, and some good ones at that. A few of his deals, completed during the manager-less period, set the band up for life. Wilko had left the band at this stage. Although Sean formed the band, business-wise Circles had also been a partnership between Wilko and himself. Unless they were both keen on something it wouldn’t be done. When Wilko left the group, Sean was able to tie up a lot of loose ends which had been hanging around for ages. He was able to move the band forward. The current manager—’

  ‘Hang on a wee minute, here, would you?’ Kennedy interrupted. ‘Before we get on to the current manager tell me about Wilko leaving the group.’

  ‘Well, he was drinking a lot,’ Russell began to explain. ‘The band was no longer successful, except in Germany. He and Sean were arguing constantly. One night, after one more dismal performance, they were fighting in their typical fashion. Sean was spouting away, trying to come up with original ideas to help the band become successful again. Wilko grandstanded. “If you’re so sure what to do with the band,” he said, “buy me out and you can do whatever you want.” The next day, Sean did exactly that. He paid Wilko one hundred thousand pounds and that was to be the end of Wilko’s involvement in Circles.’

  ‘He bought him out entirely?’

  ‘Well, no. Not entirely. The deal they struck was that everything the band had released, to that date, would still be subject to their original royalties deal. Wilko would still get record and publishing royalties at the same rate. However, for everything released after that date, all royalties would go to Sean alone.’

  ‘So Wilko cut himself a good deal,’ the detective assessed.

  ‘Well…’ Russell hesitated.

  ‘The band was finished, you said. They’d passed their peak. A hundred grand in pocket
would be about three hundred now. That’s a lot of money for quitting a washed-up band,’ Kennedy offered.

  ‘Perhaps. But Wilko had been a wee bit too keen to snatch the money, I think. A bit of the penny wise and pound foolish.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The minute the contract was signed and the money paid over to Wilko, Sean started putting the band’s business in order. For years their record company had been pestering them to put out a greatest hits package. Wilko had always refused. But now Sean had a free hand. He went to the record company. Not only would he give them their greatest hits package but he would help them put it together. He would even give them two new songs to put on it. Very clever.’

  ‘How so?’ Kennedy enquired.

  ‘With a greatest hits package their record company was going to pull out all the stops with promotion. Television, radio, press. They were going to fly-post the streets of England and Europe. High profile promotion, which Circles had not enjoyed for years. Sean was able to use this launch as a platform for his new material and new lead singer. The first single was to be one of the new songs.’

  ‘He must’ve made a lot of money on the new deal?’ Kennedy guessed.

  ‘He took not a penny in advance. What he wanted, in exchange for this greatest hits package, were the rights back for all the Circles’ master recordings He would then lease back to the company all the albums, including the new greatest hits package and two albums of brand new material, for ten years. He also wanted the band’s royalty rate increased from eleven per cent to twenty per cent, which would have put him on a par with Rod Steward. He also negotiated a royalty escalation that would earn him a maximum of twenty-four per cent on everything if the greatest hits package sold three million copies. This took him up to the rarefied air enjoyed by the likes of Paul McCartney.’