by Bill Kitson
VANISHING ACT
Eden House Mysteries #3
Bill Kitson
The third volume in the best-selling Eden House Mysteries. Adam Bailey and Eve Samuels are back, and this time they’re trying to find a dead man.
In 1965, Northern Lights were the next big thing in the music world. They could’ve been as huge as The Beatles – but one night their lead singer and creative force, Gerry Crowther, suddenly disappeared without trace.
Now it’s nearly twenty years later. There are new stars on the pop scene, including teen sensation Trudi Bell. When Trudi’s manager is offered a song for her new album, he’s convinced that the performer on the demo tape is none other than Gerry Crowther. Sure that there’s more to it than just musical similarities, he enlists Adam and Eve’s help in finding the truth.
But some people don’t want the truth to come out…
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Prologue
November 1965
As the set drew to a close, the group began to play the opening chords of their latest hit, still at number one in the charts after five weeks. Although it was cold and foggy outside, the auditorium was packed, sweaty, and deafening. The sound of the group onstage, relayed by huge banks of speakers, was soon surpassed by the shouts, cheers, and most of all the piercing screams from the audience: most of the crowd that had flocked to see the group were teenage girls, desperate to get close to their idols. Behind the group, depicted in garish neon, their name: Northern Lights.
It was 1965, the heyday of rock.
Four encores later, still deafened by the shrieking adulation of their fans, the band made their way off stage. They headed down the warren of Newcastle City Hall’s corridors to their dressing room. A phalanx of security guards surrounded them and ushered them inside; two remained standing like sentinels outside the door. One of the roadies greeted the triumphant musicians and told them they had to wait for the limo that would take them to the hotel following the final gig in a long and exhausting tour.
After what seemed an age, the senior roadie appeared, to summon them. ‘There’s a right scrum outside the stage door,’ he warned them. ‘I reckon there’s even more heat outside than there was in the theatre.’
He turned and gestured towards the auditorium, and as he did so realized something was wrong. ‘Where’s Gerry?’ he asked.
The band members looked around, as if expecting to see their lead singer lurking in some dark corner. Then they looked at one another in perplexed surprise. A babble of denials followed.
‘What you’re saying is, nobody’s seen him since you left the stage, right? Well he can’t be waiting in the car, can he?’
‘Probably found something he fancied and stopped off for a quickie,’ the drummer suggested, accompanying his comment with a lewd gesture.
‘ I doubt that.’ The roadie motioned to the security men. ‘Go check in and around the auditorium. I suppose it could be like he says and some tasty bit of jailbait has waylaid him. Don’t disturb him if he’s having a knee-trembler though. Way he’s been behaving lately, you’re liable to finish up with a black eye.’
As they began their search, one of the group’s most ardent fans walked nervously towards the river, glancing over her shoulder from time to time. Her instructions were clear, but as she waited by the riverbank, Julie Solanki was uneasy. The area was deserted, dimly lit; the large amount of money she was carrying made her feel highly vulnerable. She heard footsteps, but as the approaching figure appeared out of the gloom, Julie realised it wasn’t the dealer she had been sent to meet.
She saw the distinctive jacket and was about to greet him; to congratulate him on the group’s performance, when he turned abruptly and headed towards the Tyne Bridge. Julie was surprised. He must have seen her, must have realized what she was doing there. After all, he’d been the one who passed her the message from the dealer.
Before she could ponder this, a car drew up alongside her. Seconds later, the deal was done. As Julie set out to deliver the drugs, she caught a fleeting glimpse of two figures, their faces seemingly averted, also heading for the Tyne Bridge. They vanished into the shadows. It would be years before she had cause to remember them.
It was over half an hour later before the men reported back.
‘We checked onstage and around all the ground floor. We also did the balcony and the foyer. We even checked every cubicle in the bogs, both men’s and women’s. God, they’re in a ruddy awful state, some of them! We thought he might have slipped into one of them if he wanted to get his end away, but no luck – for us or him,’ he ended with a grin.
‘I went down to the stage door, and when I could make myself heard above the wailing throng, I asked the others if they’d seen Crowther,’ his colleague added. ‘I thought he might have slipped out without anyone noticing him, but they said he definitely hadn’t been through there.’ He grinned. ‘The fans would have eaten him alive if he’d ventured out that way.’
‘I can think of worse ways to go,’ the drummer commented.
‘The thing is,’ the first security man told them, ‘nobody’s seen him. There’s no trace of Crowther in this building, and I can’t see any way he could have got out of here. He’s vanished. Utterly and completely vanished. Into thin air.’
Chapter One
December 1981
‘I want you to find a dead man.’
Those were the words Lew Pattison spoke the first time we met. It was a clear, cold winter’s morning, the sunlight making the frost on the fields sparkle like thousands of tiny diamonds, and Eve and I were returning from our morning stroll. Since Eve had moved from London to join me at Dene Cottage in the Yorkshire Dales, it had become a ritual we both enjoyed and gave us the chance to discuss our plans for the day. On this day, as with many in the immediate past, these centred on our plans for the extension to the cottage.
When we reached the brow of the hill that marked the boundary of Laithbrigg village, we were surprised to see a car parked in the lane in front of the gate. Not just any car, either; the gleaming paint and sleek, majestic lines of the bodywork proclaimed it to be no less than the ultimate in luxury, a Rolls-Royce.
‘Wow! That’s some piece of metal.’
‘I wonder who it belongs to. Do you think it’s someone visiting us?’ Eve asked.
‘If so, they must be friends of yours. Nobody I know could afford the wing mirror off a car that expensive.’
As we approached, the driver stepped carefully out, obviously wary in case his expensive, highly polished leather shoes came into contact with anything untoward. I was still admiring the man’s smart, tailored business suit, which seemed totally out of place in our surroundings, when Eve recognized our visitor.
‘It’s Lew Pattison.’
‘See, I knew it had to be one of your plutocratic friends. Who’s he?’
‘Alice’s husband. You remember me telling you about Alice Pattison, the barrister? She and I were friends in London; she represented me at my appeal.’
Long before we met, Eve had b
een found guilty of attempted murder after stabbing her violent partner with a carving knife. The conviction had been overturned on appeal, when Eve’s counsel had been able to produce evidence and eyewitnesses who testified to the man’s long-term abuse, which had culminated with him scalding Eve with boiling water. It was in an attempt to escape this torture that Eve had retaliated.
‘Lew, this is a pleasant surprise,’ Eve greeted Pattison, before introducing me. ‘How’s Alice? Is everything all right?’
‘She’s fine. She sends her best wishes. She wanted to come along, but she’s in court all this week.’
‘How did you know where to find us?’
‘It would be hard not to. You two seem to be international celebrities. I read about your exploits when I was in Rome last week. Even there the papers and the TV bulletins carried stories about you both. I had to come to Yorkshire on business, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, because I have a favour to ask.’
‘Why don’t we go inside and have a cuppa, then you can explain why you’re here,’ Eve suggested.
A few minutes later, when we were seated in the lounge, Pattison explained. ‘It was seeing the newspaper article that prompted the idea. I talked it over with Alice, and she reminded me of that other business you were involved in, at some castle or other? It seems you two have a talent for detective work.’
‘We don’t go seeking it,’ Eve protested, ‘it just seems to find us! Adam’s an author, and nowadays I’m learning to be a housewife, editor, and critic, and before long I plan to be a building site foreman, all rolled into one. We’ve had plans for an extension approved,’ she added by way of explanation.
‘I understand, and I won’t be offended if you refuse, but I do need some help, and you’d be ideal. For one thing, I know I can trust you, and you living here makes it even better.’
‘Why not tell us what it is you want us to do?’ I suggested.
Pattison paused and took a deep breath. ‘It’s a long story, but basically … I want you to find a dead man.’
As an explanation, Pattison’s opening statement was more baffling than revealing. I blinked, and to cover my surprise, which I could see was mirrored by Eve, I said, ‘There are lots to choose from. Graveyards round here are full of them.’ Pattison gave me a pained smile, so I continued, ‘I assume you have someone specific in mind.’
‘First of all, I should explain my background. Eve knows a bit about me, I guess, but not too much. I’m in the music business. At least, that’s my main sphere of operation, although I’ve diversified in recent years. I started out as a roadie in the sixties, and then became a manager for several groups and solo artists. It was a golden time for British pop music, and the whole thing blossomed from there.
‘Currently, one of my brightest stars is a young girl with a great future. She’s only sixteen, but she’s already had a couple of hit singles. There are more songs waiting for her to record that I’m certain will make her a megastar. It’s one of those songs that’s the problem. The girl’s name is Trudi Bell. You may have heard of her.’
I certainly had, and I could tell from Eve’s expression that she had too. ‘Last week,’ Pattison continued, ‘we received a registered letter at my office addressed for her attention. Inside was some sheet music, plus a demo tape. That’s by no means unusual. Fans often send in stuff, imagining they’ve written the next number one and asking their favourite pop star to record it. I had it down as just another of those losers until I scanned the dots.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’ I could tell by Eve’s expression that she didn’t understand either.
‘I meant, when I’d read the sheet music, it looked really good, so I played the tape. As soon as I heard the melody, I knew the song would be just right for Trudi. Whoever composed it knew exactly how to tailor a ballad for someone with a voice like hers. That made me curious about the songwriter. I was convinced it had to be someone with a profound knowledge of music.’
‘I take it you’d no clue as to the identity of the sender,’ Eve said.
‘No, there wasn’t a letter or anything.’
‘What about a return address on the envelope?’
‘There was, but it wasn’t much help. It simply said, “John Smith, c/o Barclays Bank, Harrogate”.’
‘So the composer wishes to remain anonymous. Where’s the problem with that?’
Pattison turned to me. ‘Adam will understand, being an author. It’s all to do with copyright. Unless we can get the writer’s signature on a contract we could lay ourselves and Trudi open to huge claims if the song does become successful.’
‘I get that, but I still don’t see where the hunt for a dead man comes in,’ I said.
‘I listened to that demo over and over. All the time something was nagging at the back of my mind. You know how it is when you see someone in a street and recognize them, but can’t put a name to the face? Well, it was a bit like that, or when you read something and feel sure you know the author, even if you can’t remember their name. It’s pretty much the same with musicians. If you hear something, you can often tell who it is playing or singing, even before they announce it.’
‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘I only need a few bars to recognize Miles Davis, for example.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. I was still struggling with it when, quite by chance, I heard a record from 1964 on the radio. That was when I knew who the player was. I knew without doubt that not only had he played, but also that he’d composed the song on that tape. There was only one problem. It couldn’t possibly have been the man I had in mind, because he died in 1965.’
‘Maybe he recorded it before he died and someone else sent it in?’ Eve suggested. ‘His wife, perhaps, or a close friend.’
Pattison shook his head. ‘He wasn’t married, had no family, and precious few friends. Apart from that, back then it would have been reel-to-reel tape, not a cassette. Besides which, it was in stereo, not mono.’
‘OK, so who is this mysterious composer? I take it we’re discounting it being the work of a ghostwriter.’
Pattison groaned. ‘It didn’t say anything in that newspaper article about your weird sense of humour.’
Eve snorted. ‘If you think that’s bad, wait until he really gets warmed up.’
Pattison leaned forward and set his mug down carefully on the coaster. ‘What do you know about Northern Lights?’ He must have anticipated my reply because he added swiftly, ‘I’m talking about the pop group, not the Aurora Borealis.’
The name was familiar enough. ‘I seem to remember they were tipped for stardom. As I recall some people reckoned they might be as big as The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, but then something went wrong and they were never heard of again. Wasn’t there some sort of scandal?’
Pattison looked at me mockingly. ‘I thought you used to be a reporter?’
‘Not in those days. Back then I hadn’t reached such heady heights.’
‘I used to manage Northern Lights. You were right; they would have been huge if they’d stayed together. Looking back, I think it was inevitable that they would have split up sooner or later. What happened in 1965 just made it sooner.’
‘What was their problem?’
‘You name it and you’d probably be right. Back-biting, jealousy, petty squabbles, professional rivalry, women – all fuelled by booze and drugs. At the root of it all was the fact that the group had split into two factions. Everyone knew that but for the genius of one of their members, they’d still have been playing pubs and working men’s clubs, earning a pittance and struggling to get gigs.
‘It was like that before Gerry Crowther joined them. He had a good singing voice and he was an exceptional keyboard player, but his genius lay in his talent as a songwriter. Crowther composed all their hit singles plus every track on their LPs. He was both talented and prolific – and most of the others hated him on both counts.’
Pattison paused and took a sip of his tea, which
must have been cold by then. ‘Crowther actually chose the most famous line-up. He knew he could mould them into a unit capable of producing the sound he wanted. In the process he insisted they replace some members of the original line-up. Several of the others protested, but deep down they knew they would have to go along with Crowther’s ideas if they wanted to succeed. You’d think that would make them grateful, but in fact it seemed to make them resent him even more.’
‘What happened to cause the split?’ Eve asked.
‘Northern Lights were playing their final gig of the tour in Newcastle in November ’65. At the end of their set, the group went back to their dressing room to unwind and waited for their transport. After a while, someone noticed that Crowther wasn’t there. When they couldn’t find him everyone went into panic mode. Eventually, the truth came out: it seemed Crowther had walked from the venue to the Tyne Bridge and jumped to his death. He was seen near the bridge by one of the group’s fans. It was a long time afterwards that his body was recovered from the river. There was no possibility of a mistake. They even recovered his trademark leather jacket.’
‘Was it very distinctive?’
‘Unique around the north-east, I reckon. It had the name and image of Crowther’s hero, Buddy Holly, on the back.’
I blinked with surprise. ‘I’ve got one of those. I’ve had it for years. Mind you, I got mine in New York, not Newcastle. And you must have got it wrong. If Crowther died in 1965, someone else must have played on the song.’
‘I didn’t get it wrong. I’m convinced I didn’t. I’m sure it was Crowther who wrote and played that music. No one came close to his style.’
‘If you’re right, whose was the body in the river? And how did they come by Crowther’s jacket?’
Pattison shrugged helplessly. ‘I’ve no idea. That’s why I need your help.’
‘Accepting that you believe Crowther is alive, why ask us to find him? Isn’t that the sort of job a private detective would be better at?’
‘Or the police perhaps,’ Eve added.
