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

by Paul Charles

  A locked-door murder wasn’t a crime of passion. It had been planned. Kennedy was dealing with a specific kind of murderer. Cold and brazen as well, to carry out such a crime in the presence of several hundred people.

  Kennedy took the small, pokey staircase into the basement and walked back along the length of the venue, with the dance floor overhead, to the storeroom/dressing room. The musicians’ street clothes still hung over the chairs as they had been left the previous evening. Kennedy, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, checked Sean Green’s space first. His was easiest to recognise due to the size of the trousers. Denim shirt, denim trousers, black leather jacket and platform white trainers. His holdall contained a second pair of shoes, the Independent, Music Week, Q Magazine and, at the very bottom and under a spare white soiled t-shirt, a couple of pens, a harmonica and three condoms.

  Wilko had two grey suit bags, with red trim, hanging on the wall side by side. One was empty, because he had changed into his second set of stage clothes before he’d been murdered, but the other felt full. Kennedy unzipped the bag down the centre of its full length and immediately wished he hadn’t. The stench of the sweat-soaked clothes, left overnight, brought tears to his eyes.

  Kennedy gingerly pulled out a crumpled yellow shirt, a monogrammed tank top similar to the one the singer had been found in and a rolled-up pair of green loon pants, flared. The bulk of the bag indicated that several objects, one quite weighty, were still resting on the bottom.

  The detective placed the foul-smelling clothes, item by item, on the chair underneath the suit bags. Then he put his hand in and searched around to find three items; a sealed twenty-pack of Silk Cut, a disposable cigarette lighter and a ten-inch-long stainless steel pike with a wooden handle affixed to one end. The murder weapon? Perhaps, but it contained no traces of blood, at least none visible to the naked eye. It seemed too careless to hide the murder weapon in the deceased’s suit bag. It was the last thing Kennedy had expected to find and it spooked him, so much so, he nearly dropped it. The spike was filed incredibly thin, into a point so fine it could have injected an ant. He’d never seen anything like it, and it certainly fit Dr Taylor’s description of the murder weapon. He felt a shiver run up his spine.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘Coles?’

  ‘Constable West told me you’d come in here.’

  ‘Look what I’ve found,’ Kennedy said as Coles entered the storeroom. He held up the spike in front of her.

  ‘The murder weapon?’

  ‘It seems too simple, but it fits the description,’ Kennedy offered as he placed the spike in a plastic bag and sealed it.

  ‘What on earth is that smell?’ Coles asked, gasping for air.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the hiding place. I’m done with the dressing room for now, let’s get out of here immediately.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ironic, Kennedy thought, that one so Irish that he’d change his name to Green would live in England’s Lane. The pop star’s home was a rambling house set back from the main thoroughfare and partly hidden behind a grove of fine chestnut trees. Slightly suburban, very tranquil and extremely expensive.

  Coles parked the blue Ford Sierra just off England’s Lane in Chalcot Gardens and they made the last twenty yards by foot. Green’s maid, Gerty, ushered Coles and Kennedy upstairs, where her employer was awaiting them in his study.

  Sean Green’s study took up the entire second floor of the five-storey house. It was a large, book-laden room, something like a loft space. This room was lit by two floor-to-ceiling windows and contained a music centre, a large Sony television, a video and a cabinet to one side of it containing thousands of CDs and hundreds of videocassettes. The floor was polished pine and there was a large leather sofa with two matching chairs. In the corner furthest away from the television was the real study; Sean’s work space. Set up on a L-shaped contraption was a Packard Bell computer, a synthesizer keyboard, a telephone, loads of paper scattered around a Sony DAT recording machine and rows of DAT tapes, all with unreadable handwriting on the spine. The red brick walls were covered with Gold Discs, Platinum Discs, a couple of framed Circles posters, framed PRS certificates, framed Ivor Novello Awards, a framed copy of the original artwork for Circles’ first album, Going Around With… showing a fresh-faced bunch of chaps on a fairground roundabout and a framed Sgt. Pepper’s signed poster. There were numerous framed photographs of Sean with Elton, Sean with Rod, Sean with a couple of the old-school comedians. Sean with Leslie Russell and Leslie’s father, Sean with KP.

  Not one single photograph of Sean and Wilko Robertson, not unless you counted Wilko’s appearance on the album sleeve artwork.

  ‘Quite a collection of books here.’ The Camden Town detective admired exquisite editions of Crime and Punishment, The Odyssey, Moby Dick, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, The Forgotten London by Jim Driver and Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

  ‘Mostly they are from the Franklin Classics Library. It’s all done by mail order. The rest I picked up here and there over the years on my travels,’ Sean replied nonchalantly. Kennedy was quite surprised at the musician’s apparent “around the house casual dress”. He was dressed in a suit, in his own house in the afternoon. A bleeding Armani suit if Kennedy wasn’t mistaken. ann rea would have known immediately, she was great at things like that. A very sharp black suit and a grey satin shirt, top button done up. He even had the jacket on and buttoned up. His lack of casualness emphasised by black shiny leather slip-ons – black shiny leather platform slip-ons.

  ‘I see you’ve nearly all of the Agatha Christie series here?’ Coles announced following her browse.

  ‘Yes, Franklin is working its way through those at the minute.’

  ‘You like detective stories then?’ Kennedy felt compelled to ask.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Green replied, as he removed a book from the shelves. It was a Beatles-related book, George Martin’s edition of The Summer of Love, ‘I personally go for books like this one, which take you behind the scenes of some of the famous moments which changed our lives.

  ‘What about John Dickson Carr?’ Kennedy enquired casually.

  ‘Who? Has he done a book on the Beatles as well?’ came the reply.

  ‘Ah, no. Not exactly.’

  ‘In a few moments my wife, Colette, will bring us up some tea and coffee and then we can have our chat. Will that be okay?’ Sean enquired, as he returned George Martin’s book to its place on the shelves. Not, however, before giving it a quick wipe on the back of his sleeve.

  ‘That would be perfect,’ Kennedy replied, and then as an afterthought, ‘The Colette? From “Colette Calls”?’

  ‘The very same,’ Sean answered proudly and then, right on cue, a stunning, blonde-haired woman emerged from the stairwell, dressed in a black dress; both hair and dress were long and free-flowing. She was in her bare feet. A concession to Sean’s height perhaps?

  ‘Well, Colette,’ Sean began as he introduced everyone, ‘it would seem you have a fan in the Camden police force.’

  Colette tried a bashful, lopsided look, which didn’t quite come off. She’d obviously heard variations on this line so many times before she could no longer feign modesty with any degree of success. When she spoke, Kennedy and Coles were shocked to discover a thick Scottish accent.

  ‘This is William,’ she said introducing the twelve-year-old boy who was carrying one of the three trays. The first, Colette’s, contained a teapot, a coffee pot, a hot water pot, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. The second, William’s, bore three cups, three saucers and three serving plates; all crockery was beautiful white china. The tray was offset with three spoons and three white Irish linen napkins plus a larger plate packed with an assortment of biscuits. Bringing up the rear, the only person in the room shorter than Sean Green, was the nine-year-old daughter Tressa, whose matching silverware tray bore finger sandwiches.

  ‘There’s egg, and ham and cheese,’ Tressa announced proudly with as big a s
mile as her small face would allow.

  The children deposited their trays on the large coffee table, said ‘Cheerio’, and left. Colette remained behind but didn’t join her husband on the sofa. Kennedy and Coles had taken one of the chairs each. Kennedy realised she had stayed behind to pour the tea and coffee because she sat on the floor by the coffee table and went around them each in turn adding milk, sugar, coffee or tea as requested. She composed her husband’s mixture without direction and said, ‘It’s really terribly sad about Wilkenson, isn’t it?’

  Kennedy slowly equated Wilkenson to Wilko.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he replied. As he did so he realised that Colette Green had been the first person so far to express sorrow at the demise of Wilko Robertson.

  ‘Mr Green, sir, you and Mr Robertson were colleagues for a long time?’ Coles asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Green smiled. ‘A very long time.’

  ‘Had you made any enemies during your time together?’ Coles pushed.

  ‘Well, he apparently did,’ Green replied. ‘Look, sorry for being facetious. It’s just, after yesterday evening, well it’s all been such a strain. I mean, in this business of course you make enemies. We all hated the music papers for not writing about us any more or for, when they would write about us, always being nasty, just to get cheap laughs. Colette keeps telling me that I should stop reading them. But I like the new groups, you know. I like them a lot. I listen to Radio One but as far as Circles are concerned, well we’re just another bunch of bankers who don’t work with money, if you know what I mean. But I listen to Oasis and Manic Street Preachers and The Verve and Ocean Colour Scene. I listen to Radio One all the time. That’s where you find out all about those bands, the NME and Radio One, so I’m not going to ignore them just because they don’t like my music. Yes, in one way we did hate them and they definitely hated us. When we were selling millions of records it was fine. We had a direct connection with our fans. The media would leave us alone. They had to, they’d have been laughed out of business if they were found having a go at someone as successful as us.’

  Kennedy asked the next question, ‘Had you hoped your upcoming work was going to wipe the smirks from their faces?’

  ‘In reality? I’m not sure that even if Circles came up with an album as innovative and as brilliant and as beautiful as Sgt. Pepper’s we would have received anything but the usual jeers and sneers from those sitting in judgement. Sadly, we’d become a bit of a joke. We were a victim of our own success. We’d done what we’d done and that, as far as the committee was concerned, was that. We had our five minutes of glory. It was a case of, “Okay. Circles. Yes we know them. They’re over, done, finished with. Next please!” And in a way that’s fine. We’d had a good innings and we couldn’t possibly sustain our earlier success the way Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, Ray Davies and Van Morrison have done because we didn’t have the American success. That’s a big thing in all of this. That’s when you start to lose your fans. There’s a bit of a snobbish thing going on with the fans as well, you know. Initially they’re part of an exclusive club. They want to be the first on the block to discover a great new band and then they take pride in turning all their mates on to it. Then they wear your success like a badge upon their chest. That’s what the whole t-shirt, sweatshirt, baseball-cap and badge thing is all about.’

  Kennedy had to admit, he’d never seen anyone wear a piece of Circles merchandising, neither shirt, nor hat, nor badge.

  ‘So,’ Green continued, ‘you become the biggest most successful band in a club and they are right there with you, cheering you on, one and all. Then you become the biggest in an area and then the biggest in London, and they are right there with you, cheering you on. The bigger you become, the louder they cheer. It’s country by country throughout Europe and they’re still with you and then you go to American and you fail. Well, when you return home you notice immediately some of the audience aren’t there any more. If you’re not good enough for the Yanks, you’re not good enough for them. “Oh, and by the way have you heard this new band down the Mean Fiddler, they’re from Scotland. The guitarist is only seventeen and he’s the best since Clapton and the girl singer, well she’s just so hot.” It’s too early to realise it but right then you’ve already started on the slippery slope.’

  ‘But,’ Kennedy began, ‘I’m a bit confused here. You’ve just been giving us an insight into the wheelings and dealings of the music business, and very informative you’ve been too, but, if you felt this way…if you felt that Circles could produce the next Sgt. Pepper’s and they’d still get laughed at, well, then why on earth did you want to bother? Why put yourself through all of it again? You live in a wonderful house, you have a beautiful wife and children, you don’t exactly need the money do you?’

  ‘Well,’ Sean smiled, ‘this is what I do.’

  Neither Kennedy nor Coles spoke.

  ‘This is all I can do. My life is not over. I’m not going to sit around for the rest of my life waiting to die. I’m not going to just give in. There are a lot of people around who’d be happy if Circles just went away. I’m sorry, quite simply I’m not going to oblige them. Hell, I’m not sorry.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re going to continue even without Wilko?’ Coles asked.

  ‘Oh, most certainly.’

  ‘Really?’ Kennedy was surprised.

  ‘Yes of course,’ Green said. ‘We’re not going to throw away all the new material, I think it’s the best stuff we’ve done. Besides which, we owe it to Wilko’s memory to continue.’

  ‘So will you replace Wilko or play on without him?’ the WPC asked.

  ‘You know Wilko was out of the group for several years, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, KP and Leslie Russell gave us all the background,’ Kennedy confirmed.

  ‘Well, I think that we could get his replacement back again – a very fine singer called Robert Clarke.’ Green paused. ‘I should say here that I’m being perfectly candid with you but I would hope that you could keep all this information confidential for the moment. I haven’t discussed it with anyone yet, apart from Leslie Russell. Obviously it would be highly inappropriate if this information came out right now.’

  Kennedy nodded agreement, and continued, ‘Did Wilko gamble, do you know?’

  ‘Well, as far as I was aware he’d take a flutter now and again on the horses but he wouldn’t run up either massive wins or losses.’

  ‘Was he depressed?’ Kennedy again.

  ‘He was dark sometimes, yes, but that’s more a question for his mates,’ Green replied.

  ‘Who were?’ Coles this time.

  ‘Oh, you’d best ask KP that, I’m sure he knows them all.’

  ‘Some of the boys say Wilko was sleeping around. Were there any jealous lovers? Or jealous boyfriends or husbands?’

  ‘I didn’t really socialise with him much, you see. Again, KP would be the person to ask.’

  ‘Leslie Russell, is he the band’s solicitor or your solicitor?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Both,’ Green replied. ‘He’s my solicitor, consequently he’s Circles’ solicitor.’

  ‘So Wilko had a separate solicitor?’

  ‘Look, I think I should explain.’ Green cleared his throat. ‘I own the band outright. It’s been my band since Wilko left some years back. Up to that point, Leslie Russell, and his father before him, acted for Wilko and myself because it was our band. The other musicians are employed by me, none are official partners in the band. In the early days, Wilko and myself took all the responsibility for the band. When he left, I bought him out. I paid one hundred thousand pounds for his share. Obviously he was to continue to get his share of the royalties as per his original deal, but it was my band. When Wilko rejoined the band, he worked for me. I felt it would be appropriate that he should have his own legal representative, to avoid any possible conflicts of interests.’

  ‘Is that usual?’ Coles asked.

  ‘Well, you can check with Leslie Russell, but you’ll find there is no
thing illegal and certainly nothing unethical about such an arrangement. He quit the band. I bought him out with my own money. When he left the band, I undertook sole responsibility for the band. Wilko, who in all honesty thought the band was all washed up, couldn’t wait to get his money when we signed the agreement, in case I had second thoughts. So, with Wilko out of the band, I was able to move at my own speed; I didn’t need to go to him for approval. With the help of Leslie Russell, I did a new deal with the record company, which included the greatest hits package. Again, with the help of Russell, I did a new publishing deal and I jumped at the chance of using, “She Loves Rain” for the shampoo TV advert. The song had been a Top Five hit for us and the record company re-released it around the time of the shampoo advert. The single made the Top Twenty, and it got tonnes of airplay on Radio Two and sold another six hundred thousand copies of the greatest hits package. So, I guess you could say I turned the band’s career around without Wilko’s help. Believe me, though, even with his smaller share of the royalties he still did incredibly well.’

  ‘So he was on a wage like the rest of the band?’

  ‘Well, he was on a retainer; more than a wage. He needed some cash. I think all his money was tied up in something. His solicitor, a chap called Richard Slattery, would know best about all of that. We were advancing him each week, in cash I believe. Obviously for the tour I wanted to give him more than just a wage. He was still a draw, you know. Having him back would sell tickets. Up until yesterday we – Wilko, Slattery, Russell and myself – were working out a percentage of the concert profit for him.’

  ‘I think we’ve enough to be going on with for now, Sean. One little thing though, yesterday evening, when you were walking around during the jam, when Wilko was in the dressing room by himself, did you see anyone? More to the point, did anyone see you?’ Kennedy prepared to put away his notepad and rise from the chair.