‘I think he will.’ Evans flashed his warrant card.
‘Ooh!’ She stammered as she picked up the phone and announced their presence. ‘Mr Hampson says to go right through.’
They entered. There was no couch as such, but Julian was fluffing up a couple of cushions on a large old-fashioned floral chair. He quickly sat down behind a desk of similar vintage. For a man in his late twenties to early thirties, he was already running to fat with a paunch, and prematurely balding – destined to age like his father. Evans wondered if Julian would also wear a wig and do impersonations of Elvis. ‘How can I help you gentlemen?’ coughed Julian.
‘Detective Sergeant Evans and Detective Constable Wang,’ Sammy announced. ‘We’re investigating the murder of Jake Bosson.’
‘Ah! I wondered how long it would be before you came to see me. I don’t know anything about it because as you must know I left the party early with my girlfriend Loretta and I heard later that he was found dead on my Dad’s narrowboat in Castlefield the morning after the gig.’’
Evans gestured back towards reception. ‘Loretta…?’
‘Er, no. That’s my secretary Donna,’ Julian answered sheepishly, looking at his watch. ‘But she will be leaving early now, for the day, collecting her mother from the airport or something.’
Sammy Wang became more incisive. ‘You’re expecting us to believe that you haven’t spoken to either your father or any member of Streetsound since that night? What about the Liverpool gig next week?’
‘I’ve been on holiday for a few days in Ibiza with Loretta, with no mobile reception,’ Julian answered. ‘As for the gig, I’ll have to keep ringing around a few contacts for a replacement bass player. Jake has – had – only been with the band a short time, so I am sure they would still be able to perform, given the cash involved.’
‘You’re all heart,’ Evans observed.
‘Can I go now?’ Julian asked. ‘I’m sure you can see I’ve got an awful lot of work to do.’
‘Is your father down to sing at the gig?’ Sammy enquired, ignoring the man’s question.
‘Yes, he is, and I’m sure he will confirm that I told him I was going on holiday to Ibiza for a few days.’
‘Problem is, Julian,’ Evans teased, ‘Elvis has done a runner, along with his boat.’
‘Oh shit! Why would he do that? Because I have been in contact by mobile and he never said anything, mind you, having said that I haven’t spoken to him in the last few days.’
‘Probably because we want to ask him a few questions down at the station, just like yourself.’
‘You mean I have to come with you now? But Loretta will back me up. She booked the tickets.’
‘I’m sure she will, once you’ve given us her address and phone number,’ Sammy requested. ‘Shall we go?’
Twenty minutes later, they were back at GMP headquarters with Julian. After being logged in, an interview room was procured, where Julian duly provided the details for contacting Loretta before requesting to speak to his solicitor. Sammy went off to contact Donna, while Evans questioned Julian informally about his father, his connection to the band and his representation of both. The story tallied with the information already provided by Brian Hampson. Escorted by Sammy Wang, Donna arrived first, in tears and clearly distressed. She was allowed tea, which calmed her down. Loretta was taken to a separate interview room, where it soon became clear that she was only a minor player in the scenario.
In Donna’s interview Sammy Wang began. ‘Tell me, Donna, what is your position at the talent agency?’
‘I’m Julian’s personal assistant,’ she announced proudly.
‘And how long have you worked there?’
‘Eight weeks now,’ she answered. ‘I was at one of the Streetsound gigs and met Julian afterwards. I have done some singing, and Julian said he could help me, offering me the chance to work for him in the meantime.’
‘And how many gigs has Julian arranged for you?’
‘Well, none just yet. Things are quiet at the moment,’ Donna answered meekly.
Sammy looked at Evans, who rolled his eyes knowingly. ‘You’re his girlfriend? Are you having sex with him?’
‘No, I’m not his girlfriend! It’s not serious… it’s only happened a couple of times,’ she admitted, head bowed. ‘Loretta is his girlfriend, you must know that. She is the one he went on holiday with to Ibiza.’
‘Yes, we do know, thank you, Donna.’
Donna was asked further questions about the details of Julian’s business but nothing of importance to the investigation was revealed.
‘OK, Donna, I think we can end it there,’ Evans finished.
Donna was allowed to leave, and the policemen returned to Julian’s interview room.
Julian’s solicitor arrived five minutes later: a short, rotund man wearing spectacles and a tweed jacket. He shook hands and sat behind the table next to his client, looking for all the world like a family GP in conversation about his patient’s wellbeing.
Tea was refused and Evans began. ‘Julian Hampson, you are the proprietor of the Julian Hampson Musical Agency?’
‘Talent Agency,’ Julian corrected.
Ignoring the correction, Evans ploughed on. ‘You were at the soirée after the gig in the hotel, the night before Jake Bosson, the bass player in the band Streetsound, was found dead on the narrowboat Memphis.’
‘Yes, I was,’ Julian answered.
‘Were all the band members present?’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘And your father Brian, the Elvis impersonator...’
‘He was there also.’
Evans nodded over to Wang for input.
‘Did you put him on as support just because he is your father?’ Sammy asked.
‘No, of course not. There’s no room for sentiment in this business,’ Julian explained. ‘He may be getting on a bit, but he’s been doing it a long time and he’s actually very good. And the older girls really like him. He does look much younger when he’s dressed up like Elvis with all the gear on, and wig of course.’
Evans waded in again. ‘Where was the party held?’
‘You know, in the hotel, of course.’
‘Could you tell us precisely where in the hotel?’ Evans asked
‘Oh, sorry. I see,’ Julian apologised. ‘In a private room, by invitation only.’
Sammy intervened to lower the tension. ‘And what was the general atmosphere in the room?’
‘Well, everyone was pissed, if that’s what you mean,’ Julian offered.
‘What about drugs?’ Evans countered.
‘A bit, mostly dope.’
‘Your dad and Jake seemed to get on well,’ Sammy observed.
‘They did right from the day he first joined the band. My dad is also a bass player, you see. When he’s not doing Elvis, that is.’
‘Could he not replace Jake for the next gig?’ Evans suggested.
‘Well, he could if I knew where the hell he was. Have you guys had any luck yet?’
‘Not as yet,’ Evans confirmed.
‘So, can you throw any light on why Jake helped your dad back to his boat?’
‘I’ve told you. They were friends, and would reminisce about old blues musicians. I guess Dad was slaughtered. Could hardly stand up.’
‘Did you see them leave?’ Sammy asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not. I… We – that’s Loretta and me – had to leave early. We were catching a flight to Ibiza in the morning.’
‘Very convenient,’ Evans muttered under his breath. ‘OK, let’s leave it there for tonight.’
‘You can’t keep me in overnight!’ Julian protested.
The solicitor, who had sat through the whole interview without hardly opening his mouth suddenly, woke up. ‘I must vehemently object. My client has done nothing wrong, and you don’t appear to have a shred of evidence linking him to the murder.’
Looking down at his notes, Evans spoke firmly. ‘Mr… Jenkinson, we have not
charged your client with anything as yet, but I’m sure you will agree there is a great deal of circumstantial evidence linking him to other people we are interviewing as part of this investigation, and also the events leading up to the body being found.’
‘Yes, but as you say, Detective Sergeant Evans, all circumstantial,’ Jenkinson agreed. And therefore, not enough to detain my client a moment longer.’ After this speech he settled back down into his prior semi-comatose state.
After a few more questions it was decided that there was not enough to keep Julian overnight. The interview was terminated and the solicitor left.
‘Not the most dynamic brief,’ Evans quipped.
‘The other one is indisposed,’ Julian moaned. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, you can,’ Evans reluctantly agreed.
Chapter 7
After an uneventful Wednesday, it was now the next day. I was driving in the early morning through the lanes to Crewe station. Rounding a bend about a mile from the Bentley motor car plant in South Cheshire, the traffic was halted, with a uniformed policeman directing traffic. I pondered on the reason: a broken-down vehicle, escaped livestock or something else. The answer turned out to be a brand-new powder-blue Bentley Mulsanne sunk into the back of a tractor trailer, the stench confirming that the trailer was loaded with muck slurry. The trade plates and colour suggested it was out on a test run, probably destined for the Middle East or China. The test driver, being helped into an ambulance, was going to be very lucky if he wasn’t dismissed.
The traffic was proceeding within the legal speed limit, with all the drivers rubbernecking the incident. I checked the time, and I’d missed my normal train. I’d have to change tack and drive, taking the M6 motorway for an arduous journey into Stockport and Enodo offices.
‘Oh, my!’ Amelia cried when I explained my lateness over the first coffee of the day.
We discussed the fact that Lady Jane had still not been in contact. As often happened, by coincidence the phone rang and it was Lady Jane on the line, explaining that she still didn’t know when the next gig was going to be. She asked us to meet her for lunch at the Valley Lodge Hotel, mid-way between Wilmslow and Manchester Airport.
As we arrived, she was sitting in her car waiting for us. She appeared nervous. Entering the hotel, we sat at a window table, giving us, a view of the constant traffic travelling through the tunnel under the airport runway. We ordered sandwiches and soft drinks, and a glass of wine for Lady Jane
Sipping her Chardonnay delicately, Jane reiterated that she still didn’t know about the date of the next Streetsound gig. I asked her what she did know, and she told me that Matt had taken a call from Julian Hampson saying that he was trying to find a replacement bass player as soon as possible to play the gig, and that it could even be “Elvis.”
‘Elvis?’ Amelia cried, in amusement, looking at me for encouragement. I could only shrug and hold up my hands, thinking that while we’d thought Lady Jane a bit mad, this confirmed it.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ Amelia asked tentatively.
Lady Jane laughed out loud – much too loud. Heads turned and Amelia and I exchanged knowing glances.
‘I’m sorry. I realise that sounds mad. Let me explain,’ she said. ‘Julian’s father, Brian Hampson, is a musician, which is how Julian got into the music business. He is an experienced bass player, as well working as a fantastic Elvis impersonator. He was supporting Streetsound at the last gig, and he owns the narrowboat on which Jake, the bass player in Streetsound was found dead.’
Amelia looked my way for inspiration, but I was no help. ‘So, what’s the problem?’
Lady Jane thought for a moment before continuing. ‘Ah, yes! The problem is they were hoping Brian would be able to stand in but they haven’t been able to contact him. The boat was berthed at Castlefield, not far away from the gig and the hotel. Julian even went around but both Brian and the boat have disappeared without a trace. Julian’s been interviewed by the Greater Manchester Police, who are also looking for Elvis… sorry, Brian.’
‘Have you got any more on the jewellery thefts?’
‘Well, I’m not sure I should be telling you this, but we were staying in a hotel and I was coming back from the hair salon. I got out of the lift, and as I was walking along the corridor back to our room, a man came out, turned and waved back into the room. I went in straightaway and saw Matt hurriedly stuffing a package into a drawer. I pretended not to notice. When he went into the bathroom, I sneaked a peek, and the package was full of jewellery just like the stuff he takes from me: necklaces, earrings, rings and so on.’
‘What did you do?’ Amelia enquired.
‘I couldn’t accuse him straight out, could I? I told Matt I’d seen a bloke come out of the room and asked who the bloke was, a friend or what, and he said he was a friend who he’d got some stuff for, like he does for me.’
‘Did this bloke look like he’d come in from the street? Or another hotel guest?’
‘He could have been staying in the hotel. He only had a shirt and trousers on, no jacket, and although it was raining outside, he wasn’t wet.’
‘Do you think Matt accepted your questioning as purely innocent?’ Amelia added.
‘I can’t say, but later he said he had to nip out for something, so I followed for a short while. He walked along Deansgate and turned into Liverpool Road.’
‘Towards the Castlefield area?’ I offered.
‘It could well have been. I was scared to go too far in case he saw me.’
The meeting finished there, and Lady Jane promised to keep us up to date. We watched her leave, then I stood daydreaming at the bar as Amelia visited the bathroom. As I was waiting for the bill, a sharp-suited man stepped up to the bar, invading my comfort zone. He had a pint glass, and he raised it quickly. My instant reaction was to step back, expecting to be glassed. He made a slight step sideways, imperceptible to anyone but me. Raising the glass higher to get the attention of the barman, his mouth contorted into an eerie twisted smile before he moved to face me and said,
‘Nice day, mate. but I’m telling you for the last time, the company you keep is bad for your health. Stay away from the lady.’
Before I could react or make any protest, he placed the glass down, swiftly turned around, and strode out of the door. I considered mentioning the incident to the barman when he brought the man’s drink over, but felt foolish,
He looked around for the man. ‘Where’s he gone?’ he asked.
‘He got an urgent phone call. He said sorry,’ was all I could manage to say in explanation as he tutted and took the drink away again.
I had recognised my assailant immediately, despite the sharp suit: it was the workman with the green beanie hat. The barman returned with my change as Amelia appeared, and we made our way out to the car park.
She glanced at me. ‘Are you, all right? Something wrong with the food?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just had a warning,’ I said grimly, and explained the altercation in the bar.
‘Ah! I heard a car screeching out of the car park just now,’ she advised. ‘If you’re right about the man with the green beanie hat, then he must be following her, and given what he said it must be on orders from the husband.’
‘That would only make sense if I were seeing her on my own, and even if I was, we wouldn’t be sitting at a window table, would we?’
‘Umm, yeah, that’s true,’ she agreed.
Mulling this over, we drove back to Enodo offices.
***
The sharp-suited man who’d threatened the Gent did not drive far before pulling over to the side of the road to take a call on his mobile. After receiving details of his whereabouts, the caller, his boss Malcolm Nolan summoned him to Manchester Airport to wait for him in the arrivals hall. He was uncomfortable in the crowd of people waiting for family members and other passengers. He avoided several attempts at small talk. A message came up on the arrivals board advising that the flight from Grenoble was half an hou
r late owing to a delayed take-off because of turbulence. Cursing to himself, he bought a bought a coffee and took up a position at the rear of a group of private hire car drivers awaiting the arrival of their pre-booked fares. He sipped his coffee and again avoided the small talk, which only made him stand out among the more casually dressed drivers.
Meanwhile the man he was meeting was glowering at the back of a long line of arrivals snaking their way along the airport corridors towards the customs checkpoint. He was pissed off. Riding the travellator Malcolm Nolan stared at the ads endorsing all things good about Manchester, and the gateway to the North West, instantly forgetting them all. He pulled out of the queue at customs to use the bathroom, only to find that the queue was now much longer and he had to retrace his steps a hundred yards. He was fuming, but resigned himself to the wait like most of the other arrivals, being herded along like cattle. Customs was a nightmare, and he eventually emerged into the arrivals hall, with his skis precariously balanced over one shoulder and dragging a suitcase. Handing over the skis, he shook hands with Alec, the sharp-suited man.
‘Bloody glad you were close by. I’ve been stuck in that queue for what seems like hours. Let’s go.’
‘Yes, Mr Nolan, follow me. I’ve just got to pay for the parking ticket first.’
Once in the large BMW, heading for Wilmslow, Alec narrated the findings of his morning’s endeavours to his boss Malcolm Nolan.
‘So, you’ve no idea why she keeps seeing this bloke, then?’
‘No, I haven’t, and it’s only the second time as far as I know, and she’s not actually seeing him, if you know what I mean.’
‘Of course, I know what you bloody mean, you idiot,’ Malcolm Nolan snapped.
‘What should I do, then?’
‘Just keep up the surveillance for now. Do you know where he hangs out?’
‘No, he’s clever. He must’ve sussed me, and gave me the slip the only time I was close.’
‘OK, well, keep it up then, and if you get the chance, rough him up a bit and maybe he’ll realise that whatever she’s paying him – whatever it’s for – won’t be worth the trouble. Is she still going to see that band with her sister?’
Caught in a Trap Page 4
