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

by Paul Charles

  ‘And the record company told him to sod off?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact they didn’t. From their point of view, the Circles catalogue was dead in the water. They were selling about ten thousand copies across their entire catalogue worldwide per year. The record company had already made their money, so what did they have to lose? They were getting their greatest hits package on top of which they got to keep everything for ten years, and it didn’t cost them a penny. Of course they went for it, they nearly bit his hand off.’

  ‘Clever cookie, our Sean.’

  ‘There’s more. In the middle of all of this he went to the song publishers and told them he was considering the record company’s request for the greatest hits package. This was manna from heaven for them, because apart from the Buddy Holly cover “Together Again”, it was all Green-Robertson material. He said he would agree to the record company deal if they, the publishers, would give him back the copyright to the Circles’ back catalogue of songs. If they did he would do a collection deal with them to cover that material and all new material for the following ten years. It was like money in the bank for them.’

  ‘Wow!’ was all the detective could say.

  ‘The First Evolution: The Greatest Hits of Circles has sold, to date, nearly five million copies worldwide. The greatest hits also drew attention to Circles’ other seven albums, which have since sold an additional eight hundred and fifty thousand copies. Sean pocketed the majority of that. He assigned all the publishing rights to his own publishing company, Goode Olde Songs. Sean employs a chap called James MacDonald to run the publishing company. James’ job is to get covers, chase the main publishers on the collection of the monies and deal with day-to-day enquiries. He’s on a small percentage of the company, you know, to encourage him to work harder at it. Sean still pays,’ Russell paused for a second, ‘or I should say he still paid Wilko his original royalty rate.’

  ‘If anything, Leslie, what you have told me should have resulted in Sean Green being found dead on the floor in Dingwalls,’ Kennedy considered. He then sat up in his seat and continued, ‘Which brings us neatly to the third manager?’

  ‘Yes, Nick Edwards.’

  ‘And his story?’

  ‘Well, let me give you a hypothetical situation. You have a group who don’t have a manager and are not very current, but they sell major amounts of records worldwide and extraordinary amounts of tickets in Germany. Then you have this manager of cool acts, none of whom can sell enough records or tickets to cover their nightly bar bills at the Jazz Café. So the manager does just enough to keep in with the unhip band, in the hopes of a large commission cheque. That is a certain type of manager.’

  ‘Nick Edwards?’

  ‘What? Sorry. No, no I was giving you a hypothetical situation, don’t you see,’ Russell replied, the master of discretion.

  ‘Any other skeletons in the Circles’ cupboard, hypothetically speaking of course?’ Kennedy smiled.

  ‘Come on, Kennedy. You’ve got a band who’ve been on the road for nearly thirty years now, quite a few of them with their guitarist David Cooper in tow. They’re bound to pick up a few enemies along the way. Being in a band is a lot like being a member of a family. The main difference, though, is that with a family you can just say “sod off”. However, with this band, sorry with any band, the financial ramifications of taking off can be far reaching. So, band members tend to stick with it and consequently the bickering becomes a lot more bitchy and, potentially violent, than family bickering.’

  ‘Violent enough that it would end up with murder?’ Kennedy pushed. He was getting impatient. Russell was a discreet solicitor and to gain more information Kennedy needed to know the correct questions to ask because he knew that although Russell would never willingly offer information that could be potentially damaging to one of his clients, equally, he would never lie on their behalf.

  ‘Well somebody did, Christy.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Okay,’ Kennedy began back in North Bridge House, ‘DS Irvine, could you go and interview Nick Edwards, Circles’ current manager. Here’re his details. WPC Coles, these are the details of guitarist David Cooper. Outside of Sean and Wilko he’s the longest serving member of the band and I’d like you to go and interview him. We’ve got twenty-nine years of information to dig up. After you finish with him, please meet me back here. We’re interviewing Sean Green, at his house, at three p.m. Oh, and Irvine, you take PC Allaway with you and Coles, take PC Lundy.’ Kennedy left them both sitting in his office and feeling more than slightly bewildered.

  The detective inspector was about to depart North Bridge House when Desk Sergeant Flynn caught him.

  ‘Not so fast DI Kennedy, the super wants to see you.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see him when I come back.’

  ‘He said it was urgent,’ Flynn persisted, just as Superintendent Thomas Castle himself came bustling through the swinging doors, more Doc Watson than Dr Watson.

  ‘Ah, Kennedy, the very man.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was about to come and see you,’ Kennedy lied. Flynn rolled his eyes skywards.

  ‘Fine, fine, walk with me to my car, why don’t you?’ Castle was, as ever, immaculately turned out. The buttons on his uniform shone so well you could see all the Gloucester Avenue autumn foliage in them. ‘I wanted to talk to you, Christy. Someone at the Met has brought to my attention that you’ve never applied for promotion.’

  ‘Ah, no, sir.’

  ‘Well, there are a few people up there who are mighty impressed with your success rate.’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ Kennedy interrupted, ‘our success rate. We’re all part of a team, after all, and I couldn’t do what I do if you weren’t doing what you do, sir. And that goes for Dr Taylor, Irvine, Coles and the rest of the squad as well.’

  ‘My goodness,’ Castle stopped in his tracks. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, Christy. We like to think that in our own small way, what we do is important. But—’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about WPC Coles. I think she’s ready to move over to the detective side, permanently,’ Kennedy continued, adding an inch to his step. Where’s the super’s car when you need it, he wondered.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course we can discuss Coles later. But this is about you. They’d like to see you take your Chief Detective Inspector exams. They, sorry, we would like a man of your calibre amongst our ranks.’

  ‘You see that’s the problem, sir.’

  ‘What problem, Kennedy? There are no problems.’

  ‘No, sir, no real problems. But, as you know, I love the art of detection, solving the puzzle. I enjoy it immensely. But I couldn’t for the life of me ever do what you do, sir. You know, keep this organisation running like clockwork. Our little team works well. You keep the organisation together and you obviously love doing it. As I said, the Met are happy with us because our figures are good. Why upset that?’

  Castle muttered a few things as they reached his car. He opened his door and stared at Kennedy. ‘Look, all I’m saying, Kennedy, is that you’d better think about it. It’s not up to me, you understand. It’ll soon be out of my hands and all your flannelling won’t be able to save you.’ With that, Castle offered his most successful detective a warm smile and a wink of the left eye.

  Odd, thought Kennedy. Most people use the right eye. Kennedy walked across the road, and in the general direction of KP’s residence.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Hey, it’s the Philip Marlow vibe, man. God bless you.’

  A sleepy Kevin Paul stood inside his small house, just the wrong side of Chalk Farm Road to be Primrose Hill.

  ‘Still in bed at twelve thirty?’ Kennedy joked, as KP led the detective to his living quarters at the rear of the house.

  ‘It’s just with all those years on the road, man, I’ve found I’ve become half man half mattress. Hey, fancy a brew-up?’

  ‘That would be excellent,’ Kennedy replied, thinking to himself that this should b
e interesting. KP disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Kennedy in the living room alone. He could hear water running. To a casual eye, the house looked a bit hippie but closer inspection revealed KP’s care and attention to detail. KP had simple functional furniture, but the walls and shelves were covered with trophies from the tour manager’s incessant touring. Surprisingly enough, although there was lots of rock-n-roll memorabilia around, none of it belonged to Circles. He had a beautiful, framed Van Morrison It’s Too Late To Stop Now album poster. The walls were decorated with lots of Roundhouse posters and leaflets, all identically framed, announcing shows by the likes of the Doors, Fruupp, Thin Lizzy, Pink Floyd and the Undertones. There was an equal amount of wall space afforded to the posters of Bill Graham’s Fillmore West shows featuring the Grateful Dead, the Buffalo Springfield Band, the Faces and the Jimi Hendrix Experience. The little space left on the walls was covered with black and white photographs of the Beatles, John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan. KP’s house was crammed to the roof with bric-a-brac, but spotlessly clean. In fact, KP would certainly lead the shortlist for “Camden Town’s most house-proud hippie”.

  KP returned with a pot of tea and two large mugs.

  ‘So, you didn’t tell me you started out as the group’s manager,’ Kennedy opened, sitting down.

  ‘Yea, well, someone had to do it, didn’t they?’ KP replied. Though just out of bed, KP was dressed immaculately, his trademark skullcap adorning his crown.

  ‘How did you meet them?’

  ‘Sean Green. I knew Sean Green,’ KP began, ‘I knew Sean Green when he was Sean Pratley.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s his real name, man,’ KP replied. ‘I kid you not. Green is a bit of a stage-name vibe, man. Actually it was my idea, the Green bit. I’d known Sean in Ireland. I’m from Naas in County Kildare and it’s a small-town vibe, man. There wasn’t much happening there in the late sixties. Showbands ruled in the country and you had to go to Dublin to see the beat groups. Most of the good ones were from the North, people like the Interns and the Gentry. But they’d come down and play in Dublin in places like the Stella Ballroom. I used to hang out at the Stella all the time and eventually the ballroom owner let me book in three groups every Monday night. It was a dead night for him anyway, and within a month we were regularly pulling in four hundred heads, man. It was far out. I got to know the regulars. I even had a weekly pop column in one of the rags. Sean Pratley was one of our regulars and he stood out immediately because he was so tiny. Always very polite but he did love his music and we’d hook up at some point every Monday and have a chinwag over a pint or a brew-up. You have to realise that this was way before there was a music business in Ireland. We were making it up as we went along. Eventually the showband vibe became so frustrating that I had to move to England. All I knew was that I wanted to do something connected to music, and I couldn’t do it in Ireland. I knew in my gut that if I had a chance that chance must lie in London. Shit man, the Beatles were in London. So off I went, man. Ended up, not a million miles from here in fact, in a squat in Arlington Road. I was working in a record shop during the day and helping out in a café four evenings a week to make ends meet. I was still writing my weekly column for the Irish rag and so I’d go and hang out in the Marquee Club on Wardour Street on nights I wasn’t working in the café. Guess who’d be there? Yep, Sean Pratley from the Stella Ballroom. We became good mates and he’d hang around the record shop a good few hours every week, checking out all the new releases, and then he’d hang out at the café I worked in, down on Parkway, a very buzzy vibe in those days man.’

  ‘Sounds like heady times, all right,’ Kennedy agreed.

  ‘Oh, yes man. They were. So, Sean’s been writing these songs and supposedly putting this group together. I’d always say, “yea, yea, great man, let me hear it”. I figure, little guy, big talker. Good luck to him, mate, each to their own. Then one day he comes in the record shop all excited and blurts out that he’s found the voice for his songs, the singer for his group. “Yea, yea, great man, let me hear it.” “Sure, no problem,” he says. “Come around to my flat this evening.” I do and he introduces me to this Scottish geezer, Wilko Robertson. We have a beer just to relax and then they start into the songs. Well, man, I don’t know if I was more excited about the songs or the singer. They were both brilliant. Sean had had the goods up his sleeve all along. Over the next few months they put together the rest of the band. Writing for the Irish papers, I got to know some of the club owners around London and I got them a few support gigs, as you do. It wasn’t that I wanted to be their manager. I didn’t even know what a manager did. I was just helping out my mates. But Sean would ask me about everything. I’d go to all of the gigs. By default, I was becoming part of their entourage.’

  If Kennedy had been taken aback somewhat by the smell of KP’s strange tea he found the taste to be totally satisfying, not to mention invigorating. “Purely Herbal”, KP had offered to Kennedy’s quizzical look. On draining the tea Kennedy was pleasantly surprised not to see the trademark hippie three-month tea stain on the inside of the mug. He replaced the mug on the table, clasped his hands on his knees and sunk back into his seat as KP continued his narrative.

  ‘So one day we’re at a gig, the Toby Jug at Tolworth, and this geezer comes across to me and says, “You the manager of this lot then?” and I say, “No, I’m just their friend”. “Well,” he says, “the little fella says you’re his manager”. “Oh,” I say, “well, it must be true then because it’s his band”. I must admit I was feeling quite proud at being called the manager. He wants to know, “Do you have demo?” I told him that as a matter of a fact we did. He gives me his business card, he was from RCA, or something. And that, I suppose, was that. I became their manager, by default. It was never really discussed or anything. I had my solicitor draw up a letter of agreement and they both signed it immediately,’ KP recalled with pride. ‘I was about to go and see this geezer and a few other labels that I’d gotten to know, blagging for records and all that. Sean used to always mark up the boxes containing his demo tapes, Songs by Sean or By Sean and Wilko Robertson. I knew he was embarrassed about the name Pratley so I says, “Look, you’re Irish, so you should have an Irish name.” He went through all the O’ This and O’ That, all of which was a bit diddley-eye for me, and then I remembered this song from Sesame Street called, “It’s Not Easy Being Green.” Like, it’s not easy being Irish. And I can tell you man, in those days it wasn’t easy being Irish in London, but you’d know that, man, wouldn’t you? You’re from the North, aren’t you?’

  Kennedy nodded that he was from the North. He also recalled that, even he, who’d been a policeman all the years he’d been in London, hadn’t found it easy in the early days.

  ‘Yea, man, I bet you remember that vibe. Anyway, “Sean Green,” I say. “That’s your name. Arise, Sean Green.” He loved it, we all loved it and we went off and got a record deal. They thought I got them the record deal. But the truth was, three record companies were fighting over them. Wilko had a great voice, the songs were brilliant. They were a great group in those days.’

  ‘KP, who’d want to murder Wilko?’ Kennedy asked, point blank.

  ‘God, man, I’ve been racking my brain since yesterday evening to come up with a list of suspects for you, but in the music business there are so many. Those you shaft on the way up are still waiting for you as you slide back down that greasy pole of success.’ Kevin Paul suddenly looked tired and weary and all of his fifty-one years. ‘Could have been any of us then, really. It was always a one for all and all for one vibe, man. Really.’

  ‘Why did you give it up?’ Kennedy changed tack.

  ‘What, managing the band? Mmmm. Good question. I suppose I was bored with it all. First time around the houses it was brilliant, exciting. You know, getting mentioned for the first time in the Melody Maker, playing Friars Aylesbury for the first time, getting in the charts, getting your first gold disc, selling o
ut Hammersmith Odeon for the first time, going to Europe for the first time, going to Japan for the first time, going to America for the first time. All the firsts were great. But when we didn’t break America we started to mark time over here. Plus, I’d loads of dosh saved. I’d a very soft mattress, if you know what I mean. In the early days…well let’s say there was the potential to do deals in cash so I was okay. I’d enough money. More, I figured, than I’d ever spend. So what was the point? I didn’t need to do it. I wasn’t enjoying it. And the relief I felt when I jumped from the treadmill, I couldn’t believe it. It was like getting my life back again – a part I never thought I’d see again. It dawned on me that life doesn’t depend on whether or not you are mentioned by some spotty little herbits in the New Musical Express or the Melody Maker. You stopped listening to every new band as if they were the competition. Hell man, when I split, I even started to listen to music again. I bought my house and took my time doing it up. I put my feet up and watched the world go by. Spent some time in America. I watched the four seasons come and go while travelling around Ireland. That was great. I got to meet up with real people again.’

  ‘Then you came back. After what you’ve said I’m surprised you bothered,’ Kennedy responded.

  ‘Well, I know. And I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t need the money. Sean contacted me when Wilko left and he was putting together the greatest hits package. He wanted my help. It was fun, it gave me something enjoyable to fill the days. Sean made sure the record company paid me well and he gave me a royalty on the record, which he didn’t need to do. He wanted someone he could trust to help him in the studio. I thought I was co-producing but the credit, when it came out, was Produced by Sean Green. I got a credit for Co-ordination and compilation, which was fine. It’s only words, man. We got on great again. When we’d finished the album he and Leslie Russell took me out to dinner at Odette’s in Primrose Hill, so I figured it must be important.’ KP broke off to chuckle at his own joke, sliding his black and brown skullcap back and forth to scratch his forehead.