by Bill Kitson
Wade’s expression changed; I could see the suspicion return. When he replied, his tone was hostile. ‘Is that the real reason for this little chat about old times? Hoping to unearth a juicy scandal to sell your book? An exposé about sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll would have far more potential than a history of 1960s bands. No matter that in the process you sully the reputation of someone who isn’t able to defend himself.’
‘That’s not the case at all,’ I protested. ‘I merely wanted to get a rounded picture. There are lots of questions I’d like to ask. I resisted the temptation to ask the others them too.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Questions such as, did you help Gerry get out of the gig venue that night? There seems to be a bit of a mystery surrounding how he managed to get out of the town hall without anyone seeing him – or admitting they saw him. Might he perhaps have been hidden by someone? In the van that carried the instruments and stage equipment, for example?’
‘How would I know? You’d have to ask the roadies that. They had control of the van.’
I’d been saving my bombshell until last. As I stood up to go, I remarked casually, ‘At least you’re alive to answer my questions. It would have been terrible if I’d discovered your body as I did Jimmy Mitchell’s a couple of days back.’
Wade stared at me, shock draining the colour from his face. ‘Mitchell’s dead?’ His tone was incredulous.
‘Yes, he was crushed to death by the car he was working on.’
‘What a terrible accident.’
‘It wasn’t an accident. Someone let the hydraulic jack down and then left, locking the door behind them.’
I could tell Wade was still struggling to believe my story. We left at that point, but as we crossed the car park, I glanced back. Wade was watching us go, a world of trouble in his expression. You, my friend, I thought, know far more than you’re prepared to say.
‘Wade knows a lot more than he’s prepared to let on,’ Eve echoed my thoughts almost word for word.
‘I got that impression too. Was there something specific that you picked up on?’
‘For one thing, I’m sure he knows that Crowther isn’t dead, or at the very least, suspects as much.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘When you asked him about Crowther’s suicide, he stumbled over his reply. His actual words were “can’t believe he committed suicide”, but I think he just stopped himself from saying, “don’t believe he committed suicide”, and there’s a world of difference in the meaning, even if he only substituted one word. I believe Wade helped Crowther disappear. I also think he knows the reason for the vanishing act. Did you notice how hostile he became when you asked that question? Above all, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if Wade knows where Crowther went after he vanished – and I don’t think it was into the River Tyne, or anywhere near it.’
‘He lied, too,’ Charlie added.
‘He did?’
‘Either he lied or Firth did. You told me Firth said that Wade always loaded his drum kit – wouldn’t let anyone touch it, but Wade maintained the roadies had done it.’
‘Good point, Charlie, well spotted.’
We had decided to make a day of it, and visited the famous gardens at Harlow Carr, before adjourning to the equally well-known Betty’s Cafe for afternoon tea, where Charlie gorged himself on their delicious choux buns, known to the locals as ‘elephant’s feet’.
Later, as we headed back to Laithbrigg, I suggested that we dine out rather than cooking at home. ‘That’s if you’re up to it, Charlie,’ I added.
‘I’m feeling much better,’ Charlie assured us. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’
‘Where do you suggest, the Admiral Nelson?’ Eve asked.
‘We could, I suppose, but as we’re passing the door, we could try and get a table at the Fox and Grapes near Allerscar. It’s usually booked up well in advance but we might be lucky with it being midweek.’
It was early evening when we arrived at the steakhouse, but despite that the car park was already almost full. ‘Gosh, what a lovely looking building.’ Eve exclaimed.
I glanced sideways at the long, low frontage of the country pub, whose limestone walls were clad with ivy. ‘Yes, and I’m told the food is equally good.’
As we walked across the car park our attention was drawn to the sound of a car engine. It sounded as if the driver of the vehicle was in a hurry. Driving at such speeds is unusual and fairly dangerous on the narrow, winding lanes of the dale.
We all turned in time to see the approaching car.
The vehicle was already almost level with the pub. The engine sound was distinctive; the livery even more so. The bodywork was bright yellow, the roof black. The combination had led a motoring journalist to describe the Triumph Dolomite Sprint as looking and sounding like a gigantic angry wasp.
Even at the speed the car was doing the numberplate was easy to read.
‘That’s Neville Wade’s car,’ Charlie exclaimed.
‘It most certainly is. Where do you think he might be going, and in such a tearing hurry?’
‘I can only think of one possible explanation,’ Eve said. ‘He’s going to visit Gerry Crowther. But why drive here?’
‘Perhaps Crowther doesn’t own a telephone. If you intend to disappear completely, what use would you have for a telephone?’
‘Which implies that Wade knew all along that Crowther is alive, and where he’s living. Wade didn’t actually deny knowing why he vanished. He dodged the question very neatly, by turning the tables and accusing you of muck-raking.’
‘At least we know there’s a chance that Crowther does live in the area, and didn’t travel here specifically to post that music to Trudi Bell.’
On Thursday, we made the trip to the West Riding for our visit to Mytholmroyd. As we waited for Charlie to have a shower, Eve asked, ‘How do you plan to locate anyone who might know Crowther’s background?’
‘If we go to the Register Office and get a copy of his birth certificate we’ll know where his parents lived when he was a baby, and we might be lucky enough to talk to someone who knew him when he was growing up.’
‘You’re assuming that his parents stayed at the address on the certificate. It would be just our luck for them to have moved when he was three months old.’
‘I love your unflagging optimism. I still think it worth a shot, unless you’d rather spend all day in bed making passionate love to me?’
‘Mytholmroyd it is, then. I’ll be very interested to see the place, if only to discover how to spell it.’
Chapter Five
We reached our destination by mid-morning. Mytholmroyd did not have its own Register Office so we’d had to visit Hebden Bridge to seek information.
I adopted the persona of an Australian seeking long-lost relatives, which convinced the registrar to divulge the information we sought. Eve, however, was less impressed. When we emerged from the office, she leaned against the wing of the car, helpless with laughter.
‘What happened?’ Charlie asked. ‘What’s so funny?’
When she recovered, Eve explained, before adding, ‘That was without doubt the worst attempt at an Australian accent I’ve ever heard! You could have warned me. At one point I almost wet myself. And that poor receptionist, I’m not sure whether she thought she was dealing with someone with a speech impediment or an escapee from the nearest asylum.’
‘It got us the birth certificate, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, but why did you have to go through that complicated rigmarole?’
‘I wasn’t sure if there were rules and regulations about giving out birth certificates, but I thought if I made it sound as if we’d come thousands of miles to look up a family member, we might get a more sympathetic reception. In the end, that lady couldn’t have been more helpful.’
‘That was probably because she wanted to get you out of there as fast as possible.’
‘I wish I’d seen that,’ Cha
rlie said wistfully.
Courtesy of the certificate, we now had the address of Crowther’s parents in 1942. Eve read this out as I started the car. ‘It shouldn’t take much finding in such a small town.’
Our luck was in when we pulled up outside the house. A young woman was pushing a pram down the short drive. Eve jumped out of the car and went to speak to her. ‘That lady’s only lived here a couple of years,’ she reported back, ‘but she says we should ask the man in the house directly opposite. He’s lived here for over forty years.’
The elderly gentleman who answered the door was thin, tall, and smartly dressed. His snowy white hair was neatly brushed, and his eyes looked keen and alert. I launched into my cover story and asked him if he’d known Gerry Crowther.
He smiled wryly. ‘I should do.’ His tone was dry, the humour reflected in his eyes. ‘Not only did he live opposite, but I taught him for four years.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realize you were a teacher! Would you care to tell us about him? This is Eve, my secretary, by the way.’
The old man bowed slightly towards Eve, a gesture of courtesy from a bygone age. ‘What you actually mean is, can I tell you something about Gerald that you and the rest of the world don’t know.’
I nodded. ‘Something like that.’
‘Gerald was a good pupil, easy to teach. He wasn’t outstanding, except at music of course.’ The smile flashed again. ‘But you already knew that. He was polite and for the most part well-behaved. When I say for the most part, all boys get into some sort of mischief, but with Gerald it was nothing serious. He was a self-contained boy, who grew into a fairly introverted young man. I’m not suggesting he didn’t mix with other pupils but he was at his happiest when he was alone with his music. He was quite a favourite with the girls, because of his musical talent, but he only had eyes for one. It was a typical childhood sweetheart thing, but whether it developed any further than holding hands or a kiss and cuddle, I couldn’t say.’
‘What about his parents?’
‘Gerald’s father died when the boy was only five. Cancer, as I recall. His mother had to struggle to make ends meet, but she did a very good job of raising the boy on her own, and Gerald was absolutely devoted to her. Gertrude died when he was eighteen, and he put the house on the market immediately after her death and moved away after the sale went through. Although he wasn’t one to show his feelings, Gerald was prey to very strong emotions. I never saw him lose his temper, even when he was provoked, but he would go away and nurse the hurt. Although he may have appeared as cool and aloof to others, I think Gerald was deeply insecure.’ The ex-teacher smiled sadly before adding, ‘And I suppose his actions rather proved that, didn’t they?’
‘Were you surprised that he committed suicide?’
‘Surprised and saddened, yes, but shocked, no. If something really traumatic had happened in his life, Gerald would only have two ways of dealing with it. One way was to lose himself in his music and let his emotions flow through that. There’s one track on a Northern Lights LP that I feel sure is a dedication to his mother.’
The former teacher saw my look of surprise. He smiled, a trifle sadly. ‘Simply because I’m over seventy years old doesn’t mean I don’t like pop music, and in Gerald’s case I had a vested interest in it.’
‘You said he had two ways of dealing with trouble. Music was one, what was the other?’
‘By running away from it, but if the trauma was too great, by doing what he did.’
‘You’ve been extremely helpful. One final question and then we’ll leave you in peace. Can you remember the name of the girl that Crowther had a crush on?’
‘I’ve been racking my brains as we were talking, but I simply can’t bring it to mind. One of the penalties of age, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head in self-mocking sorrow at his declining faculties.
‘I guess it must be difficult to recall one amongst the many you taught over the years. Perhaps I could leave you my phone number and if you do remember, or if you can think of anything else that might help, you could let me know?’
He nodded his agreement, and as Eve was writing down the number he asked me, ‘Whatever you do, please don’t depict Gerald as weak, or belittle his character. I can only guess at the pressures the music industry puts on young people who are ill-prepared for the attention. It’s hardly surprising that some of them cave in under such stress. Even without the emotional demands, there’s the travelling and all the risk that entails. Take Gerald’s hero, for example. Buddy Holly would have probably been alive to this day had it not for that ill-fated winter tour. I remember Gerald’s distress on hearing the news. It was almost as if he’d lost a close personal friend or relative.’
‘A lot of us felt that way about Buddy Holly,’ I remarked. ‘I was a great fan, no more than that, but I felt hurt by it.’
As we returned home, Eve said, ‘There’s your answer. Gerry Crowther was on the receiving end of some traumatic news, something too big for him to face, and so he cut and run. We’re still no nearer to working out why he’s chosen to emerge from the shadows after all these years.’
‘Aren’t we? I could be totally off target, but something the teacher said gave me a possible clue. What you have to do is link two facts together.’
I explained, and Eve and Charlie pondered the idea. ‘You could be right, but how do we find out one way or the other?’ Eve asked.
‘There is only one way, and that’s to ask the person concerned. However, we need to know all about them, and the only person who can tell us that is Lew Pattison.’
‘I could phone Alice if you want? She could get the details from Lew. He’s sure to have them to hand.’
‘No, we’d need Lew to vouch for us before we ask the sort of questions we’d need to put. This isn’t a matter of the group’s history; it’s something far more personal.’
Charlie remained quiet and after a while his aunt asked if he was feeling poorly again. ‘No, nothing like that, Aunt Evie. I’m trying to remember something.’
When we reached home he vanished into the study, emerging several minutes later holding a press cutting. ‘I don’t know if this means anything,’ he told us. ‘But something came to me when you were talking to that teacher.’ He held up the paper. ‘This is the Gerry Crowther inquest report. The coroner recorded an open verdict. Is that something to do with suicide?’
‘An open verdict simply means that they can’t be sure what the cause of death actually was. In this case it could be any one of three things: accident, suicide, or murder. As to whether it’s important, I guess that depends on which of the three it was.’
The following night, we all settled down to watch television. The theme from M*A*S*H signalled the beginning of Top of the Pops. The choral version of the theme music had been one of the surprise hits of 1980.
Eve sat alongside me on the sofa as we watched the opening of the show. My attention was slightly distracted by the gyrations of the female members of the resident dance troupe, Legs & Co.
‘This song’s quite apt, in an ironic sort of way,’ Eve remarked.
The title, ‘Suicide Is Painless’, did indeed seem appropriate to our investigation. It was a little over halfway through the show when the presenter told the studio audience and viewers, ‘And now, here’s a young lady we’re going to hear a lot more of, a bright young talent who has already won acclaim from fans and music critics alike. Here she is, singing her latest hit … let’s hear it for Trudi Bell!’
Charlie, who had paid little attention to the preceding acts, sat bolt upright as the young girl’s face came into close-up. Midway through her performance of the song, as the producer ordered a switch from one camera to another, I got a brief glimpse of the singer’s left profile. I sat up abruptly, provoking a protest from my companion on the sofa.
‘Did you see that?’ I demanded, ignoring Eve’s complaint.
‘See what? I was watching Trudi.’
‘Yes, but when they showed her left side,
I noticed something strange. Watch closely, with luck they’ll switch to that camera again.’
However, Trudi reached the end of her song, the music faded and as the presenter tried to make himself heard over the rapturous applause, it seemed that we were out of luck. ‘Go on then, tell me, what was it you saw, or thought you saw?’
I explained, and although Charlie could see what I was getting at, Eve seemed unconvinced. However, she did agree that it was worth checking. ‘Because if I am right,’ I told her, ‘I think it more or less proves my theory.’
‘It isn’t a theory; it’s a wild idea based on what could be nothing more than coincidence.’
We didn’t have to wait long for further evidence to back up what Eve had referred to as ‘my wild idea’. Next morning, we were in the middle of breakfast when the phone rang. I went into the hallway to answer it, leaving Eve and Charlie to demolish the rest of the toast.
‘Who was it?’ Eve asked as I returned to the kitchen.
‘The schoolmaster we met yesterday. He’s remembered the name of the girl Crowther had a crush on.’
‘Go on then, tell me.’
‘The girl’s name was Sheila Bell. Add the fact that Gerry Crowther’s mother was called Gertrude, and I think it’s safe to assume that Trudi Bell is Crowther’s daughter, don’t you?’
Eve looked at me sternly. ‘You’ve got a very smug expression on your face. You’re gloating because your theory’s been proved right, aren’t you?’
‘A little bit, I suppose. The old man told me about Sheila Bell. Like Crowther, she lost her father when she was young, but in her case it wasn’t that he’d died, he simply walked out on her mother. As the teacher put it, “That didn’t mean Sheila was short of adult male relatives. If rumours are to be believed, she had plenty of uncles visiting the house”.’ I saw Charlie grin, an expression he changed quickly when his aunt glanced in his direction.
‘He also said that Sheila was a very bright student, one of the best he’d taught. They wanted her to go on to university, but for some reason she dropped out of school. Her mother moved away, and he lost track of the girl.’
