‘What do you mean, a bit the same?’
Evans was flustered. ‘Well, I only saw it for a minute or so. SOCCO, focusing naturally more on the body than the boat, only described it in general terms as a combination of green and some red bits. Or was it the other way around?’
‘That sounds like most narrowboats I’ve ever seen. OK, keep me informed,’ said Lambert. ‘But wait a minute! His mobile phone number will be in the file. Why don’t you ask the technical boys to track it for you?
‘Right-on it boss,’ Sammy confirmed, pulling his papers together.
The meeting over, Evans and Wang left together to plan their next move to find out more about Matt, the Streetsound drummer. Their first port of call was the hotel the band had stayed at the night before Jake Bosson had been found. The journey was unrewarding, for they had all checked out that morning, with no forwarding address. Persistence with the hotel management, however, revealed that the bill had been paid for by a credit card in the name of Julian Hampson. Enquiries to the credit company provided the address of Julian Hampson, together with a mobile phone number. Disappointingly, they soon discovered that the number was no longer in use, and there was no answer at the apartment in Didsbury, South Manchester.
‘We seem to be at a dead end for the moment, boss,’ Wang sighed.
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ Evans held up a finger. ‘They must have gone to play somewhere else, either in Manchester or another city. Let’s go around to the venue they were playing on the night, and have a word with the management.’
Wang looked unconvinced. ‘But how will they play another venue? Surely it will be called off, with their bass player dead and all. And won’t they still be in shock?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Evans agreed. ‘But we have to give it a shot, don’t we?’
‘OK, then, let’s get on with it.’
The visit to the venue turned up trumps. The band was supposed to be playing at another place in a couple of weeks, in the centre of Liverpool, not far from the pier head. The only question was, would they turn up? Julian Hampson could still not be traced, and a phone call to the Liverpool concert managers about the event only turned up the fact that tickets were still available. Sammy Wang, who made the call, was reluctant to inform the promoters that they were unlikely to have an act, and promised to ring back later with a firm booking.
Later that day the duo was called into Bill Lambert’s office for an update on their progress. They slunk in, heads down like beaten dogs with no bone, knowing they had nothing to show for their considerable efforts.
Lambert seemed uncharacteristically upbeat as he opened the proceedings. ‘Right, what’ve you got on this Matt the drummer, then?’
Wang kept his head down, allowing his senior colleague to take the lead. Evans did his utmost to sound positive, but even his cheerful Welsh lilt could not disguise the fact that there was still nothing to report.
‘Humph!’ Lambert spat out. ‘Good job someone’s come up with concrete info, even though it’s a bit gory.’ Both officers looked up in anticipation. Lambert beamed in satisfaction. ‘The post-mortem results have come back for Jake Bosson. Not only was he blind drunk when he received the fatal stab wound to the stomach on the boat, he was also so pumped on dope it was a wonder he could even stand up.’
Sammy Wang decided it was now safe to join in the conversation. ‘So, he was not in a position to defend himself.’
‘Exactly right,’ Lambert confirmed.
‘So,’ Evans followed, ‘if the perpetrator knew that, it seems to me he could easily have pushed him into the canal, making it look like an accident.’
Lambert said, ‘We know that from forensics but the perpetrator wouldn’t have, he obviously wanted him dead.’
‘So, what do you think we should focus on next, sir?’ Evans asked.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Get the stories from the other band members sorted, especially from this drummer bloke Matt.’
‘We’re still stuck on contact details, and we can’t find the manager, Julian Hampson either,’ Wang explained mournfully.
Lambert was visibly displeased. ‘Use your bloody brain! Thought you had a degree, man. Research, try on the internet. These impresarios and talent agents must have some kind of listing or association they belong to.
Oh, and before you go, there is still the main target, Brian Hampson so make sure we get an APB out to all airports and railway stations. He could have berthed up the boat a short distance away and scarpered either way.’
Wang was looking thoughtful. ‘What about a car, sir? Do we know whether he owned one? A lot of marinas have parking, or a long-stay car park. Or maybe he even parked his car at his son Julian’s place.’
‘Good point, Wang,’ Lambert said approvingly. ‘Does he have a driving licence? Do we have a copy in the file? Check it out and then run it through the DVLA, and if he does own a car – and there is no reason why he shouldn’t, what with all the road traffic cameras about these days – it ought to show up.’
‘Right, sir,’ Wang confirmed.
Lambert stood up to end the meeting, followed by Evans and Wang, and now with clear instructions, the pair gratefully left the room. Returning to their own office, they hunched over a computer, where Sammy, being the most dextrous on a keyboard, began swiftly typing into the search box. It was only a matter of minutes before they found what they were looking for: an association of talent agents, with one Julian Hampson listed bold as brass with an office in Altrincham.
There was a copy of Hampson’s driving licence on file, and a quick check with the DVLA showed it was valid for a further five years, and that there were no recorded offences. However, whilst it was a simple task to check the registered owner and/or keeper of a vehicle online, there was no easy way to find out what cars the owner of a driving licence might own.
Evans suddenly spoke up. ‘Surely he was asked at the interview stage whether he had a car or some other type of road transport.’
‘You would think so,’ Wang agreed.
A check back in the file showed that the question “what kind of car do you drive” had been asked, but answered as not applicable. The meeting ended there with the duo feeling that they were much back at square one.
Chapter 5
It was Tuesday morning and a man was standing idly on the platform at Stockport railway station. The man was sipping a brand-name coffee from a cardboard carton, and reading The Sun. He was avidly studying the ample breasts of the topless model on page three. Dressed in jeans, fashionable boot-type trainers and a heavy checked jacket, he looked like an average workman, right down to the green woolly hat. The hat was pulled down low over his ears, even though it was not particularly cold. Alerted by a guard, the platform manager was keeping an eye on him – the man had been there too long. With no delays in either direction, his train must have come and gone by now. The man had a shoulder bag that looked on the expensive side for your average workman, and his movements and manner didn’t fit the type. The platform manager grinned to himself. Was this profiling? You couldn’t be too careful these days. His superiors had advised a high-level risk of some kind of terrorist attack, so perhaps he was an undercover policeman? Heck, though. Could he have something in the bag? He kept watching the man.
A train was pulling into the station – a Virgin Pendolino intercity from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly, having so far stopped only at Milton Keynes and Crewe. It stopped on the northbound platform, and when the doors opened, a man wearing a smart midnight-blue suit stepped out. After stuffing his copy of The Times newspaper into a fashionable briefcase, he walked away towards the exit for Stockport town centre. Unnoticed by all but the platform manager, the workman was now on full alert and strolled nonchalantly at a suitable distance behind the Gent in the suit. The platform manager wondered whether to alert his superiors, but then a number of arriving trains required his attention, and a guard reported a problem with a troublesome passenger. He just plain forgot
.
***
Earlier that morning I had woken up wondering when I was going to hear from our latest client, who we always referred to as the “Lady Jane.” We were not sure she was actually titled, but she certainly sounded it and it was fun assuming. Amelia found her story about the rock-star toy-boy and the stolen jewellery all very interesting, if somewhat implausible. Several days had passed, and we were still waiting for our promised invitation to the next after-gig party.
Breakfast over, I backed my metallic-green, Saab classic 900 out of the garage at the converted barn where I live in south Cheshire. I was early so I made a quick check on my twelve chickens and two pigs. It always makes me smile. I am fortunate that my Landlord Cyril the farmer, allows his daughter Lily to look after them before and after school on weekdays, in exchange for me undertaking basic chores at weekends. All appeared to be in order.
The drive to Crewe station only takes fifteen minutes, and from there by rail to the Enodo offices in Stockport is only a short journey. After boarding my train, I skimmed The Times newspaper for a few minutes, but I was constantly distracted by thoughts of Lady Jane and the missing invitation. It seemed odd when she had emphasised the urgency of her situation. Alighting at Stockport, the commuter crowd was normal, with teenage schoolkids jostling and texting, along with office workers and a smattering of tradespeople and workmen making their exit. It was quite a mild day, so I undid the jacket button of my suit. Reaching the end of the station approach, I negotiated the maelstrom of the northbound road into Manchester. I hovered in the middle of the road before skipping through the south-flowing traffic and onto the sanctuary of the pavement on the other side. Out of habit, I glanced at a shop window, using its reflection to see a snapshot of what was behind me. There were perhaps half a dozen people stuck in the middle of the road waiting to cross. There was nothing untoward… or was there? My sixth sense alerted me, but I couldn’t figure out why.
I carried on walking, deliberately taking an earlier street than usual. I walked for a few yards and crossed at right angles, covertly glancing at more shop windows as I did so. Raising my newspaper and pretending to have forgotten something, I turned about and slowly retraced my steps some yards back to a coffee shop. As I entered, a glance in the window confirmed my suspicion: a workman in a green woolly hat faltered and waited. It was the green woolly hat that alerted me, and I could have easily missed it. The workman fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone and pretended to take a call, but he’d been rumbled. A few more twists and turns should prove it. I left the shop with a nasty cardboard coffee, and walked on in the direction I had been going. I crossed St Petersgate, then down the steps and left for Mersey Square, where I turned left again and up the hill. I was back where I started on St Petersgate. I turned around to place my drink in a rubbish bin. Green Hat was snookered, ducking into a doorway in panic. I walked on around a corner and sprinted off back towards the station before taking an alternative route to Enodo.
‘You been running? Or are the stairs getting too much for you?’ Amelia greeted me as I entered the office gasping for breath.
Collapsing in the chair, I explained the reason for my unplanned exercise.
‘He doesn’t sound too professional… and a green beanie hat!’ she laughed. ‘You’ll be ready for a decent coffee then.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘I don’t know if it’s me, but these over-large brand-name coffees in cardboard cartons are frankly crap, and yet lots of people wander around with them.’
‘It’s just a temporary fad. It won’t last,’ she observed wisely. ‘That Lady Jane hasn’t called… do you think we should chase her up? It seems strange as she was so worried the other day.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but I am also rather concerned about who was following me just now, from the station.’
‘You been going out with married women or anything?’ she jibed.
‘Don’t be daft! You know I haven’t been out with anybody for ages, but I have had a thought, what do you think? Lady Jane could have been followed here the other day, couldn’t she?’
‘But why leave it until today to follow you from the station? And if he knew where the office was, he wouldn’t have fallen for your little trick of doubling back.’
‘Ah, yes! Maybe he knew the office was in Stockport but not exactly where. She did say her husband was away a lot, so maybe he has come back and the tail on her has reported back about her visiting somewhere in Stockport.’
Amelia pondered for a moment. ‘But how did he, or they, know to follow you?’
‘Yes, I see your point,’ I agreed. ‘Any thoughts, then? What do you think we should do?’
‘Why don’t I call her, casual-like, and say we were just wondering about her situation?’
‘Good idea,’ I confirmed. ‘I’ll nip out the back and make sure he’s not still sniffing around.’
I grabbed an old raincoat, complete with a rainproof cap stuffed in the pocket. I sneaked out into the alley and round to the high street, where I turned left into Little Underbank. A few yards past Robinson’s brewery, I climbed the steps to the market area. From here I had a vantage point to see all along the street back towards the A6 road. Commuters were all ensconced in their offices by now, so it was comparatively quiet. There was no sign of a workman in a green woolly hat, so I concluded that he had given up.
Arriving back at the office, via the back door again, Amelia was making coffee. ‘I’ll bring it through and tell you about my conversation with Lady Jane,’ she said.
I sat down in anticipation. ‘You are not going to believe this,’ she began. ‘The reason she hasn’t called is because the bass player in the band, by the name of Jake Bosson, was found dead on a narrowboat last Saturday morning. It looks as though they will have to pull out of their latest gig, which is scheduled for next week in Liverpool.’
‘Dead? On a boat?’ I spluttered in astonishment. ‘What was he doing on a boat?’
‘That’s what everyone else is keen to find out, especially the police.’
‘Where are the canals in Stockport?’
‘No, not in Stockport. The band was playing in Manchester, and the boat was berthed in Castlefield Basin, right in the city centre.’
I was still only slightly the wiser. ‘So where does that leave us, then?’
‘She doesn’t know any more at the moment, and as soon as she does she will phone us.’
We drank our coffee and theorised on the possible situations of why Jake was on the boat and whether a new bass player could be found in time for the next gig in Liverpool.
Chapter 6
Brian Hampson was sober. He had not touched a drop of alcohol since the fateful night of Jake’s untimely demise. Whilst availing himself of the hospitality of Greater Manchester Police, he had had plenty of time to work out his first move: to get out of Manchester as fast as. He had decided he would head south for he had a pre-planned appointment to keep in Birmingham, and a few hours later he was moored on a small canal marina in the middle of nowhere, far from any prying eyes. Switching on his mobile router and laptop, he used Google to plan the best route by canal to his destination in Birmingham. Halfway through, he realised that any escape by perhaps hiring a car or taking a train or plane would probably be a bad move: they could all be under surveillance. He knew he would have to talk to the police sooner or later, but he had to offload the jewellery and other stuff first. He was thankful that he had already taken the precaution of moving it off the boat and into a safety deposit box before the last gig, the police searched the boat but there was nothing to find. He would have to remain on the boat, but he would need to take some precautions first. After some thought he made his plan. He managed to forge a different number onto the canal licence stuck in the window of the boat. Next, he painted over the name Memphis, and replaced it with Voyager. Nothing could immediately be done about the overall colour of the boat, which was mainly green, but as it was a common enough colour for a canal boat, he felt confide
nt that the name-change would suffice for the average observer.
Brian was also genuinely concerned about the immediate future of Streetsound. It was fortunate that Jake had not been a Streetsound member for long, and whilst understandably upset and shaken, the rest of the band would not be as cut up about his death as might normally be expected in such circumstances. His son Julian had only cancelled one gig for the next week, although a replacement bass player had not yet been recruited. Julian was trying to persuade Brian to stand in, without which it appeared unlikely that the Liverpool gig the following week would go ahead. Brian did not want to let his son down, but neither did he wish to answer any further questions from Greater Manchester Police, who he felt would be keeping a watchful eye on the Streetsound manager and the band members.
***
Evans and Wang found the business of talent agent Julian Hampson in a tawdry office on an industrial estate in Broadheath on the north side of Altrincham. Situated between a motor parts factor and a paint distributor, it would not impress budding clients, but was close to the centre of Altrincham and within easy reach of Manchester.
There was an old diesel C-class Mercedes parked outside, which they assumed to be Julian’s. On entering the reception area and ringing a bell on the desk, a young woman with spiky dark red hair, a nose ring and tattoos emerged from a rear office. Her embarrassed expression as she smoothed down her short skirt suggested she and Julian had been snogging
‘How can I help you gentlemen today?’ she asked, sitting herself down.
‘We’re here to see Mr Julian Hampson,’ Evans stated importantly.
‘He’s very busy. I’m not sure he’ll be able to see you without an appointment,’ she pouted.
Caught in a Trap Page 3
