by Paul Charles
‘I reminded him that we both had built up Camden Town Records and he gave me some shit about there being lots of great foot soldiers but only a few generals. I told him that just because he was bald didn’t make him Napoleon, which didn’t go down too well.
‘I genuinely thought that he’d beat me down to two of the six million pounds; hell maybe even a million. But O’Browne didn’t want to give me a penny. It was only after a bit of wrangling that Russell, his solicitor, persuaded him to give me a hundred grand.’ Best himself now was moving about in the sofa to find a comfortable position in his tight black jeans.
‘When did you last see Peter O’Browne?’ WPC Coles asked, wafting some of Best’s cigarette smoke away from her face and wondering if she could sue the force if she contracted cancer. The smell of his hand-rolling stuff made her glad she’d given up smoking.
‘I’ve seen him around gigs from time to time and around Camden Town now and then. But I’ve had no direct dealings with him since the final chat. All contact has been through his solicitor. And I’ve seen some of his staff from time to time.’
‘Is there anyone you know who might have wanted to kill Peter O’Browne?’ WPC Coles asked, ticking off another question from the ever-shortening list in her mind’s eye.
‘God, take your pick. Any of the long list of people that he crossed. It’s not for me to say, but there are a lot of people out there who were unhappy with Peter O’Browne,’ Best replied.
‘Including yourself, sir?’ posed DS Irvine, with a hint of a smile to make his question seem less threatening.
Best appeared to be practising his first word before he uttered, ‘Listen, I can’t tell you I loved the guy: that’s why I’ve told you all this shit. But murder? No, not my style. No, sorry, not me.’ After a few seconds thought, he puffed on his roll-up and continued, ‘I’d take more satisfaction from making my company…’ Best gestured around the tidy room, dropping fag ash in an arc as he did ‘…Artists Co-op Records, more successful than Camden Town Records, and proving that our original ideals can work.’
As cigarette five made its way to his mouth he said, ‘I only chain-smoke because I can’t afford the matches.’ Coming from someone who smoked less, this remark might have been faintly funny, but from Tom Best, it did little to excuse the stale smell of smoke he would carry round with him. Anne Coles, with the self-righteousness of a recently quit smoker, pitied whoever shared his bed.
‘What were you doing yesterday evening between the hours of eight o’clock and midnight, sir?’ she asked.
The officialese hit Best like the ball you half-expect to hit you on the back of the head but which shocks you more because the precise moment of impact can never be predicted.
‘Well, that’s easy. We had a small dinner party at my house last night. The first Wednesday of every month, six of us get together for dinner and a chat. Last night it was our turn, Mavis – my partner – and I.’
‘What time did you all meet?’ the WPC continued.
‘Let’s see. Brian and Sally were there by seven thirty. I know because we all watched Coronation Street together, and Ted and John arrived just before eight,’ Tom Best responded precisely.
‘And what time did they leave?’
‘Now, let’s see,’ Best began as DS Irvine tried unsuccessfully to guess from the shape of Best’s lips what his first word would be. ‘Brian and Sally left just after eleven thirty. They had promised the babysitter that they would be home by midnight at the latest. And as for Ted and John, I’m afraid we usually have to tip the house on its end to get them out. I think it was probably around one twenty to one thirty in the morning. They finally took the hint when Mavis made her excuses and went to bed.’
‘Thank you. That would seem to be all for now, sir,’ the DS announced as he and WPC Coles rose to leave. Best extinguished his roll-up and stood up too. For the first time since the meeting began, he was without a cigarette.
‘Oh, just one more thing…’ DS Irvine was trying his Columbo trick. ‘What time did you get home from the office?’
‘Mavis picked me up at about six thirty.’
‘We may have some more questions, sir,’ warned Irvine. ‘If we do, someone will get back to you.’
WPC Anne Coles was not impressed with Tom Best and said so as they left the record shop.
DS Irvine agreed with her. ‘Aye. He’s the kind of guy who farts just as he’s about to leave a full lift.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The love you don’t give words to
Is a love you give away
- Mary Margaret O’Hara
Kennedy and PC Gaul parked – that is, PC Gaul parked and Kennedy sat in the passenger seat – on Duke’s Avenue in the heart of Muswell Hill. Martyn Farrelly resided among humble houses, but his own was quite grand. It was made up of two mews houses converted into one at the northern end of Dukes Mews.
The sound of the bell summoned an oblique figure to the thick glass door within seconds. The shadow metamorphosed into the owner of the house, Mr Martyn Farrelly, an important figure in the Peter O’Browne story. If only Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy knew at that point how important he was going to be.
‘Hello,’ began Farrelly as his eyes took in the details of the couple on his doorstep. One in police uniform, the other not. ‘Can I help?’ The musician was dressed only for indoor pursuits. He wore a blue crinkly tracksuit, matching top and bottom with a broad white stripe down both arms and legs. His hair was long but as the red scalp was partially visible, he would have looked better with a trim. His movements were tentative, lacking a confidence his bushy moustache failed to deliver.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy.’ The owner of the twitching fingers rummaged in an inside jacket pocket for his ID. ‘And this is PC Gaul.’
‘Yes?’ The voice was obviously originally from Ulster but had been so tempered by years of living in London and watching too many movies and US TV shows that it now hinted at an American twang.
‘It would be easier if we could come in, sir, at least off the doorstep.’ Kennedy wanted to observe, in the potentially more revealing context of his home, Martyn Farrelly’s reaction to the news that Peter O’Browne, his ex-manager and former best friend, was dead.
‘God – yes, yes, I’m sorry. Of course, come in,’ Farrelly replied, opening the door fully and ushering them in.
‘Thank you. Where shall we go?’ asked Kennedy. The hallway smelled the way Kennedy believed a home should smell: homely. A rich blend of the aromas of gorgeous furniture polish, the flowers on the hat stand, disinfectant from the toilet and the mouth-watering smell of freshly-baked bread wafting out into the hall from somewhere in the basement.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ Kennedy continued as he awaited Farrelly’s directions.
Farrelly was now clearly distressed. He was openly having trouble deciding where to take Kennedy and Gaul. If they were to be the bearers of bad news, he did not want to take them to the heart of his home, the source of the fresh bread aroma.
‘Who is it, Martyn?’ an apparently Scottish voice called from the basement.
‘It’s the police – two policemen. I’m going to take them through to the music room.’ His wife’s words seemed to have shaken him from his spell of indecision.
‘Oh Martyn, where are your manners?’ the faceless voice replied. They could hear footsteps climbing the stairs as the owner of the basement voice came into view, busily-wiping her flour-covered hands in her Guinness apron. A striking woman with dark eyebrows and long flowing blonde hair, she was probably slightly older than Farrelly’s early-forties. ‘Tea, Martyn. See if they want any tea.’ She then turned directly to Kennedy, and, nudging, Farrelly playfully in the ribs, said, ‘Hello. I’m Colette, his wife.’
And strength, Kennedy thought to himself.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked again.
Kennedy thought, ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ but in fact said, ‘Yes th
at would be absolutely brilliant, I’d…we’d love a cup of tea, wouldn’t we, PC Gaul?’ taking immediately to this fine, warm, family woman.
‘Youse go through to the music room with Martyn and I’ll be through shortly,’ Colette smiled as she vanished down the stairs.
Before they sat down, in the music room, Kennedy began: ‘We believe you know a Mr Peter O’Browne?’
‘Yes?’ said Farrelly urgently, restricting his reply to a single word to speed up the procedure and get the bad news over and done with. He brushed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, as if by tidying his hair he was better preparing himself. He would not have made a good poker player.
‘Well, I’m afraid we have to tell you that he’s dead. He was murdered yesterday evening,’ Kennedy said softly.
‘What?’ Farrelly groaned as he fell into one of the sofas in his music room. The room so named because it was where Farrelly carried out his work, or his art, if there can be said to be a difference. Right at that moment though, it was merely an empty white room moving on a stormy sea for Martyn Farrelly. Having difficulty finding his land-legs, he surrendered to the comfort and safety of the sofa.
‘What?’ he repeated in a high-pitched squeak. ‘When? How? What happened? Was it an accident?’
‘No sir, it was not an accident, he was murdered,’ Kennedy repeated carefully.
‘Woohagh! God! I just can’t believe this. Peter dead? Murdered? Are you sure that you are talking about the right man?’
‘Positive, I’m afraid.’ replied Kennedy noticing that the last of the blood had drained from Farrelly’s face.
‘What can I do? How can I help?’ Farrelly inquired.
‘We’re trying to find out all we can about him to discover why anyone would want to kill such a decent fellow. Maybe then we can find out who did kill such a decent fellow.’ Kennedy was struggling to keep his question going. He felt that in posing a question you needed to give your interviewee enough to bite on to reduce the chance of a straight yes or no answer. The longer his answer, the greater the chance that they will give something away.
At that moment Colette Farrelly tapped gently on the door to alert them to her presence and let herself in turning the door knob with one hand while the other precariously balanced a tray. PC Gaul, showing that he had a few uses, rushed up to help. Kennedy noticed that there were four cups upon the tray, indicating that Colette intended to join them. Farrelly would probably talk more comfortably and freely in the company of his wife.
In a way Kennedy was already moderately envious of this couple. Sometimes, but rarely these days, you find a married couple: a married couple the sum of whose combination was greater than the total of the parts. This was one such couple.
‘Okay, Martyn you be mother,’ Colette began. She had removed the apron and tidied her hair, freshened-up her make-up. She hadn’t needed to, she had a physical power beyond beauty. This woman probably looked incredible the moment she woke up, she would look equally incredible under a mechanic’s grease. She had a presence shared with ann rea. But her physical and mental power did little or nothing to connect with her husband at that moment.
He stared at her and said, ‘Peter’s dead, Colette. Someone has murdered him.’
The role of mother was played by Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy. He coaxed Colette, ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Yes, fine, yes. Sorry. It’s such a shock.’ Her pallor now matched her husband’s. ‘We haven’t seen Peter for some time, of course, but it’s still a shock. Martyn and he were very close at one stage, early on in their careers.’
Kennedy suspended a full teaspoon of sugar over the virgin tea.
‘That’s how we met, you know, Martyn and I,’ she offered. ‘I was working for Martyn’s music publisher, BPE Music. Martyn was in this group, Blues by Five. BPE published their songs – Martyn’s songs – and Peter was the manager. God we’ve all come a long way since then.’ Colette smiled and noticed Kennedy’s hand poised to sweeten her tea. ‘No, sorry, no I wasn’t thinking straight. Not for me, thank you, just milk. And two sugars and milk for Martyn, please.
‘Are you okay dear?’ she almost whispered to her husband.
‘Yes, yes thanks,’ Farrelly touched the back of her hand gently and appeared to draw strength from her brown no-nonsense eyes.
Kennedy felt he should say something soothing. ‘I didn’t know Mr O’Browne of course, but a friend of mine did. She met with him a couple of times to interview him for an article she was working on. She like him instantly, thought he was a nice fellow.’
‘We were very close at one point, very close,’ explained Farrelly. ‘We shared a room together in his uncle’s house in Camden when we first came over with Blues by Five.
‘That was my first group. We were quite big in Ireland, you know. Peter and I decided to come to London and see if we could make it over here. We could have played around Ireland for twenty years and got nowhere.’
‘So how well did the Blues by Five do in England?’ prompted Kennedy, hoping it might nudge Martyn Farrelly into some free-falling thoughts.
‘Good, very good. Yeah we did very well, but we thought we were going to do even better. It was fantastic to start with but what we didn’t realise was that a lot of the audience, who were mostly, if not entirely, Irish, were coming to see us because they were homesick. They didn’t want to go and see Big Tom and his like up in Kilburn, and we were the acceptable alternative for the younger audience. But I realised when we were making the second album that we really didn’t have what it took to make the big time. We didn’t really have a band commitment, a band vibe. Then other people had hits with our songs…’
‘Your songs,’ his wife corrected.
‘Yes, well,’ he smiled. ‘It took another two years and two more albums for the band to accept what Peter and I had already admitted to each other. Peter had started to put his energies into other things, like the shop, Camden Records.
‘And I had started to concentrate more on my songs. The publishers persuaded some of the other artists they shared with Pye to record a few of my songs. One of them “Why do Girls do This?” was a small hit but then a group from Basingstoke called, The Road, recorded “I Think I’ve lost You” and that reached number twenty-two in the charts and that prompted other artists to look for my songs.
‘To be perfectly honest, I was a lot more comfortable writing songs in my new flat in West Hampstead, than sharing a transit van with four other musicians, two roadies and a load of equipment. The publishers put Colette in charge of my career and we became quite close and well…’ Farrelly left them to guess the obvious before continuing. ‘So by the time we decided to end Blues by Five, Peter and I already had some wind in our next sail.
‘He was great at that time. He gave me an unconditional release from all my contracts. He had no need to do that, you know. I was already generating some money from the songwriting, quite a bit actually…’ Again he smiled at Colette. ‘And he would have been entitled to twenty per cent of that. Most people would have held on to it, just to see what happened. But Peter didn’t. He said he had done nothing to help with the songs or the covers, so he wouldn’t take a piece of it. If the Blues by Five records had showed any post-group life, then it would have been a different matter. He also felt that I would have an easier job getting a new management deal if there were no skeletons in the cupboard.
‘I must admit it was only a lot later that I realised this. Actually, Colette kept pointing it out to me, but I refused to see it because I thought that he had made me sign a crap publishing deal. I always felt that I should have been making a lot more money out of my songwriting.’
‘Had you fallen out at that time? When did you become disgruntled about the publishing situation?’ Kennedy inquired.
‘We didn’t really fall out in terms of a big fight or anything like that, but we weren’t talking. In fact we didn’t talk for ages and ages. Then Colette got angry with me and said that I disregarded friends
, and that I’d regret it when I got older. She made me see, in no uncertain terms, that we were lucky, very lucky, to secure a recording deal and publishing deal with anyone in the first place.’
‘I’m sure I’ve been told before what exactly the difference is between a recording deal and a publishing deal, and how a manager fits into all this,’ said Kennedy, ‘but could you remind me how it works?’
It was not Farrelly but Colette who answered him. ‘You’re going to need to know the overall picture if you’re going to be looking into Peter’s death.’ She took a sip of her tea before she began. ‘Take an artist, a solo artist, male or female, or a group. To operate in the commercial music world he or she or they will need a team of people. The team is usually put together by the manager. Some managers consult their artists more than others on the selection of the team.
‘The agent is sometimes the first person in place, even before the manager. The artists need gigs to show themselves off to managers and the agents are responsible for securing bookings – gigs, concerts, live appearances or whatever – for the artists. The agent will liaise with the promoter, whose job it is to promote the individual concerts – book the halls, sell the tickets, look after the smooth running of the show on the day.’
Colette ticked off the personnel as she dealt with them. ‘Then there’s the record company. It is their job to fund the recording of the records and manufacture and distribute them throughout the world.
‘The publisher will protect the copyright of the songs. In the old days it was easier to define this as you had two types of artist, one who wrote songs and one who performed them on record and on stage. But since the Beatles, the writer is, nine times out of ten, likely to be the performer, too. So now most publishing houses are more or less banks who advance money to the artists and charge them for the privilege. Now and again, though very rarely, a publisher will fulfil the old-fashioned function of going out and finding artists to record the songs of one of their writers.
