Vanishing Act

by Bill Kitson

  Pickersgill frowned. ‘A waste of time, the way Yorkshire batted. Anyway, what did you want to ask me? Is it to do with that Leeds case?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Eve told him, ‘all we wanted was a little information.’

  He passed her his empty mug. ‘Information comes at a price.’

  When she’d replenished his drink, I asked, ‘What do you know about a man called Hardin, who lives at Allerscar?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  I explained our theory about Hardin’s true identity.

  ‘Hardin’s a strange character. Recluse hardly fits him. More like a hermit, I’d say. He’s definitely anti-social. As far as I’m aware he rarely leaves his property, and only then to go shopping. Even that is kept to a minimum. He grows a lot of his own fruit and vegetables, keeps hens and all he buys in the village shop is milk and butter, plus meat and fish; things he can’t produce on his land.’

  ‘Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘It seems he wants to leave his past behind. The only two things I know for certain are that Hardin isn’t his real name, and that he has no criminal record, or convictions of any kind. More than that, I can’t say.’

  The conversation with Pickersgill deepened the unease I was already feeling. After he’d left, I expressed my doubts to Eve and Charlie. ‘I’m seriously concerned about the wisdom of making this visit. I read the report of the suicide again last night. Although the coroner ruled it as an open verdict, there was a question mark over how the victim came about those head injuries. If Crowther is alive, by visiting him and raking up the past, we could risk antagonizing someone with homicidal tendencies. Perhaps the real reason he’s locked himself away all this time is because he can’t be trusted near other people.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Charlie pointed out, ‘he might be as much a victim as the man who died. I was thinking about all those lucky escapes.’

  ‘I suppose there’s only one way to find out,’ Eve told us. ‘Let’s go see what he has to say for himself.’

  I parked the car at the end of the short drive leading to Lovely Cottage and looked at the building with a tinge of trepidation. The windows facing the road were all shuttered, which seemed curious, given that the day was sunny and warm. I commented on this.

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone away,’ Eve responded.

  Part of me hoped she was right, and I noticed her voice seemed to echo that feeling. ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ I told my passengers. ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ Eve asked.

  ‘No, both of you stay here.’

  I got out of the car and closed the door behind me. The steel five-barred gate was of the type much used by farmers. No fancy wrought ironwork here. The gate closed behind me with a resounding clang that did little to calm my overstretched nerves. I walked slowly along the drive, looking to the left; then to the right, and then straight ahead, conscious all the time that I might be under observation.

  I reached the corner of the building and looked back towards the car. Eve and Charlie had got out of the vehicle and were standing by the gate, watching me. Their anxiety was plain.

  There was a garage alongside the house, with a narrow concrete path between the buildings. As I walked slowly along it, conscious that I was in an extremely vulnerable position, my attention was distracted by a couple of panels leaning against the garage wall. I recognized the name on them. It was that of a manufacturer of soundproof cladding. Had this been used to construct a recording studio, I wondered?

  I emerged at the rear of the building and stood for a second, taking in the magnificent view. Beyond the property the fields stretched into the distance, to where the Pennines provided a suitably dramatic backdrop. Closer, the small area of lawn behind the house gave way to a huge vegetable garden on one side, with an equally large orchard on the other. Beyond these were two greenhouses, of the type more usually associated with a market garden than a private house. Alongside these was another large building, instantly recognizable. It was a windmill, and next to it another structure, that from its dimensions I guessed to be a hen house.

  ‘What are you doing on my property?’

  I turned towards the speaker. His question was straightforward enough, and would be easy to answer, given chance. The shotgun pointed at my chest didn’t encourage conversation.

  Chapter Seven

  I asked what you’re doing on my property.’

  ‘I … er … Mr Hardin?’

  ‘Get out!’ The expression on the man’s face was menacing, but I caught a fleeting impression of something else in his eyes, although at the time I didn’t recognize it. I was far more concerned with the twin barrels, which were pointed directly at the bacon and eggs I’d had for breakfast.

  ‘I only want to talk to you,’ I said, holding both my hands up.

  ‘I said, get out. You’re trespassing.’ The gun moved, indicating I should return along the path.

  I stood rooted to the spot, uncertain what I should do, when I heard another voice.

  ‘Please don’t shoot him. He’s my favourite uncle. Besides which, Aunt Evie would be very upset.’

  The man turned to look at Charlie, who was standing by the garage, with Eve a couple of paces behind him.

  The gunman lowered his weapon and stared at Charlie in surprise – a feeling I shared. The youngster, seemingly unaware that he had said anything out of the ordinary, stayed for a second, motionless, one hand raised, then, as he walked forward, I said, ‘My name is Adam Bailey. The lady over there is my fiancée Eve, and that’s her nephew Charlie.’

  ‘Bailey? I’ve heard your name recently.’

  ‘From Neville Wade, perhaps? I’m afraid we weren’t exactly truthful with Mr Wade. I’m not writing a book about 1960s pop groups. If you’re Charles Hardin, we’ve been asked to find you by Lew Pattison.’ As I spoke, I stepped sideways, intending to shield both Charlie and Eve should the gun come back into line. ‘Pattison asked us to locate you because of the song you wrote for Trudi Bell. He needs clearance on the copyright. He recognized your keyboard style, Mr Hardin. Or should I say, Mr Crowther? Mr Gerry Crowther?’

  For a second, I thought that Crowther was going to raise the weapon again, but then, as if bowing to the inevitable, he pushed the lever and broke it, removing the cartridges. ‘You’d better come in and explain,’ he told us grudgingly.

  Eve, her face depicting the relief she obviously felt, walked forward and grabbed my arm. I felt her shudder with relief. Charlie followed behind.

  Once inside, we passed through the mud room, where Crowther paused to remove his wellingtons, and entered a beautifully fitted kitchen. He placed a kettle on the hob of the Aga cooker. ‘I’ll make a drink in a few minutes,’ he told us, ‘and while we’re waiting, you can tell me why Pattison is so desperate to contact me. And how you found out where I live.’ He was very cautious, looking at us with suspicion.

  Eve explained about the music shop. ‘The rest was easy. Adam recognized your alias. He’s also a Buddy Holly fan.’

  ‘Funny, that. I worried for years that the name I’d chosen might be a giveaway, but as I’d got away with it for so long, I assumed people would have forgotten. What did you mean about Pattison and copyright?’

  ‘He needed to locate the composer of the song before he’ll allow Trudi Bell to record it. He’s aware that the composer could lodge a claim for royalties unless he has a proper contract. He was a bit shaken up, because he recognized your keyboard style, and along with everyone else he believed you had committed suicide in ’65.’

  ‘That was what everyone was intended to believe. It was all planned. The escape from the theatre, having an eyewitness who would conveniently see me walking towards the river, and the anonymous phone call to say someone had jumped off the bridge. But it all went wrong on the night.’

  ‘Why did you choose to disappear?’ I asked. ‘Was it to do with Carl Long?

  ‘What’s he got to do with t
his?’ I could see Crowther was becoming suspicious and knew I’d have to tread carefully.

  ‘We believe that the body pulled from the Tyne was Carl Long. Very convenient for you,’ I added.

  ‘I didn’t know he was dead until long afterwards. His death was simply … unfortunate.’

  I tried again. ‘I think you’re going to have to provide more than that by way of an explanation.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but it isn’t easy, even after all this time. I had nothing to do with Carl’s death. It was only much later that I realized what must have happened to him.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘That he’d either fallen or jumped to his death. The state poor Carl was in, either of those was more than a distinct possibility.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Eve said, ‘How come Carl Long was wearing your jacket? The Buddy Holly one.’

  There was a long pause as Crowther pondered Eve’s question. Eventually, he began to tell us what he knew about events on that cold winter’s night so long ago.

  ‘I had it all planned. I wanted to do this one final gig in Newcastle, then walk off the stage at the end of the set and vanish into the night. People would put two and two together, and with the arrangements I’d made, they would assume I’d taken my own life by jumping from the Tyne Bridge. That was the scheme. It had to be concocted in secret. The only other person who knew, the only person I could trust with something so extreme, was Neville Wade. He knew the reason I had to do what I did, and he helped me prepare and carry out my plan.’

  Crowther paused for a second, before describing what had actually gone on. ‘I wanted to make my final performance something really special. Call it vanity if you like, but I wanted to leave a legacy for all the people who liked my music. If I was going to bow out, it had to be with a memorable exit, one they would talk about long after they thought I was dead. With that in mind I went to the theatre at lunchtime, long before the other members of the group got there. My idea was to get in an extra rehearsal whilst I could do it in peace and quiet.’

  He stopped speaking again, so I prompted him. ‘Did something happen at the rehearsal?’

  ‘Actually, the rehearsal didn’t take place. When I arrived at the theatre, Carl Long turned up out of the blue. He was waiting outside the stage door. Carl left the group after I joined them. It wasn’t an easy decision. I quite liked Carl, but his style of playing simply didn’t fit with the sound I had in mind for the band. I hadn’t seen him for over two years, and I barely recognized him. He was in a mess, to put it mildly. How much of a mess I didn’t appreciate until he told me what he’d been through. When I saw him, he was dirty, unshaven, and he smelled awful. That rank smell of body odour which suggested he hadn’t washed for days. He was only wearing a filthy sweater and thin cotton trousers, despite the bitterly cold weather. If you’ve ever spent time in Newcastle you’ll understand that when the wind blows there it’s almost Arctic. Anyway, Carl was shivering and he looked as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

  ‘I took him inside and made him drink a couple of mugs of tea, and fed him a sandwich I’d scrounged from the theatre manager. That perked him up a bit; enough to explain what had happened to him. Basically, it was every performer’s worst nightmare. Carl had got hooked on drink, then on drugs, a downward spiral culminating in his becoming a heroin addict. That had taken all his money, including the severance fee he’d got on leaving Northern Lights. Carl told me he was clean, and had been off the drugs for three months. The problem was that his addiction had left him penniless, and homeless. He’d been sleeping rough, which explained his appearance. However, he reckoned he had a chance to put everything right. Not in this country of course, because word had got out.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Eve said. ‘What do you mean about word having got out?’

  ‘The music industry was a real gossip shop back then. I guess it might still be, but I meant that Carl was unable to get work here because of rumours about his addiction, and that he was unreliable. People were reluctant to hire him, even though he was a good musician.’

  ‘So he was in effect begging?’ I asked.

  ‘I suppose so. He had come to ask for money, he referred to it as a loan, but I think we both knew different. Carl told me he’d been offered work as a session musician in the States, but that he needed money for the air fare.’

  ‘Did you believe him, or did you think the money was for drugs?’

  ‘It could have been, I suppose, but the story made sense. Motown and the Wall of Sound were becoming big news, together with the Surf Sound, bands like the Beach Boys. Whatever Carl’s motive in coming to me was, I knew I’d give it to him, even though I was fairly sure I’d not see my money again.’

  ‘An air fare to America would have been a tidy sum,’ Eve suggested. ‘Did you always carry a lot of cash on you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, so I arranged with Carl to meet him after the gig. I explained that I’d have to go to the local branch of my bank and get them to cash a cheque.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to meet on the Tyne Bridge?’ To this day I’m not sure what prompted my question. Nor did any of us realize the significance of Crowther’s reply at the time.

  ‘It was Carl’s idea, and at the time it spooked me, because it was almost as if he’d read my mind. He said, “Why don’t I meet you on the Tyne Bridge at midnight, and the next time you’ll hear from me is when I’ve made it big in the States.” We had a chuckle about that. I agreed to the meeting and later arranged with Neville Wade for him to make the anonymous phone call at 12.15 a.m. reporting the man jumping off the bridge. Before Carl left, because it was so cold, I lent him my Buddy Holly coat. He promised to return it when we met later, but of course I never saw him again.’

  ‘What happened after the gig?’ Eve asked.

  ‘I was later than intended, which meant I didn’t get to the bridge on time. I had to lie low for ages, much longer than I’d anticipated, waiting for the fans to disperse. That ruined part of my plan, which involved being seen by someone who knew me en route to the bridge. I arrived there a few minutes after midnight, but there was no sign of Carl. I waited as long as I dared, but then I had to leave, because I knew Nev would be placing that phone call, and I couldn’t risk the police turning up and finding me on the bridge, alive and well.’

  ‘What did you do when Carl didn’t make the meeting?’

  ‘I continued with my plan. Next morning I caught a train for York. I’d already bought this place, so I headed straight here and took up my new life. I thought Carl must have changed his mind about the money. I remember being mildly peeved about the coat, but I didn’t really begrudge him it. It was only months later after Nev told me about the body being recovered that I knew what had actually happened to Carl. It was really rather sad.’

  ‘This eyewitness who was supposed to have seen you heading for the river, I assume that was Julie Solanki.’

  ‘Yes, it was. How did you know that?’

  ‘I’ll explain later. When we read the inquest report, which mistook Carl for you, there was some speculation by the coroner as to whether his injuries had been sustained in the fall, or whether someone had struck him. Have you any reason to believe his death was other than accidental?’

  Crowther’s expression changed, became guarded, tense. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.’

  That answer was more puzzling than revealing. Rather than press him on it then, I opted to change tack. I was about to ask him a further question when Eve forestalled me by asking the same thing.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what made you decide to leave Northern Lights in such a dramatic fashion? And why you’ve chosen to emerge from the shadows after all this time.’

  As Eve spoke I saw once again the flicker of emotion in Crowther’s eyes, and this time, without the distraction of a shotgun pointed at me, I recognized it. The emotion was fear. But what had Crowther to be afraid of, living out here in a hermit-like existence? It looked as if he wou
ldn’t respond, so I provided a little more impetus.

  ‘I think I can guess the answer to Eve’s last question. I believe that once you’d written that song you didn’t want just anyone to perform it. You wanted it to be your daughter.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘How did you find out that Trudi is my daughter?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ Eve told him. She explained about our visit to Mytholmroyd and the interview with his former teacher. ‘Once we had your mother’s Christian name, putting that together with Sheila’s surname, it was the obvious conclusion.’

  ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Trudi on TV. I knew at once who she was, even before they announced her name. She looks so much like Sheila did at that age. I was thrilled when I heard her name, because I knew Sheila had called her Trudi after my mum. It meant that Sheila didn’t hate me for what I’d done.’

  Crowther’s expression turned gloomy, as he continued, ‘I don’t think she’d be anywhere near as understanding if she ever got to find out that I didn’t kill myself. I dread to think what her reaction would be if she learned that I’d deserted them.’

  Eve stared at him for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice reflected incredulity, tinged with anger and contempt. ‘You chose to disappear, knowing that Sheila was expecting your child? Why did you do that? Was it something to do with the drink and drugs?’

  Crowther stared at her, his astonishment obvious. ‘What do you mean? I’ve never touched drugs. I detested them for the effect they had on performers and the example it set for young impressionable fans. I still do, for that matter. As for boozing, that wasn’t my thing either. In fact I rarely took a drink, and on the few occasions I did, I had nothing more than a half of lager.’

  ‘That wasn’t what we were told. Lew said he’d heard rumours that you were hooked on drugs and often legless, and that it had been going on for months before your disappearance.’

  ‘I don’t know who told him that, but it certainly isn’t true.’