‘A real gentleman,’ Amelia observed drily.
‘Your father, Brian, has he been in contact with you since his disappearing act?’ I asked.
‘No, nothing at all. I hoped he could fill in for Jake the bass player. I had to find somebody else.’
‘Lefty Phil Harris,’ Amelia chimed in.
‘You’re very knowledgeable. Oh! But you were at the Liverpool gig. I remember now.’
‘We were. We, thought he fitted in very well – couldn’t see the join, so to speak.’
‘Thank you,’ Julian nodded. ‘My dad and he went back a long way.’
The reference to Hampson Senior got me thinking. The only address Bill Lambert had given me was this office in Broadheath. ‘You say you have had no contact with your father since Jake’s death.’
‘None at all. I thought he would at least have phoned or left a message on my mobile.’
‘Did you see a lot of him before?
‘Now and again, especially when he was in Manchester. I was his manager, as you know.’
‘Why did he live on a narrowboat?’
‘He has always kept a boat on the canals. He was brought up in Birmingham, near a canal, and his uncle also had a boat. Dad used to stay with him when they were away acting in rep, and if you go back far enough, canal trade was in the family. Dad does still have a house in Edgbaston, Birmingham, but only stays there on occasions.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘I have a small flat in Didsbury, but it’s up for sale.’
I could not think of any further questions, so Amelia stepped in. ‘The evening when Matt was killed in the dressing room and you were injured… you didn’t see whoever it was who attacked you?’
‘No, the attacker must have been in the room when I entered, but I was drawn immediately to Matt who was down on the floor. And then… wallop! That’s all I can remember.’
‘And I see you have the scar on your left temple to prove it.’
‘Yes, indeed I do,’ he answered, fingering the scar.
I glanced over at Amelia, and she shook her head. It was time to leave.
‘Thank you for answering our questions, Mr Hampson,’ I said as we rose to leave.
Before walking back to Altrincham railway station, we paused outside the building, each expressing concern that we were missing something.
‘Why did he tell us that his small flat in Didsbury is up for sale? What has that got to do with the situation?’ Amelia asked, looking puzzled.
‘Absolutely nothing. I have no idea.’
‘Is he hiding something? Feeding us useless information to distract us?’
‘Wait a minute… am I imagining it or was there a photo of a narrowboat on the wall of his office?’
‘Er, yes, I think there was. It is a bit strange, that.’
‘It’s more than bit,’ I agreed, watching as the punk receptionist exited the office only yards away from us. I suddenly had an idea. I grabbed Amelia’s arm and moved to intercept Donna before she could get too far away.
‘Oh, Donna!’ I hollered. ‘Just a quick word. If we need to contact Julian out of office hours, where’s the best place, the flat or his…?’
Donna replied in anticipation. ‘Oh, he’s not been living at the flat since he put it up for sale. He stays on his boat most of the time, or at his girlfriend’s place in the centre of Manchester.’
‘That’s a good photo on the office wall… Castlefield, is it?’
‘Yes,’ she confirmed before striding off to complete her business.
‘That was a bit of a gamble, wasn’t it? But intriguing. Where is it taking us?’ Amelia asked.
‘I’m not exactly sure yet, but it is making my brain hurt. I’m sure there is a connection, but we had better hurry up back to the station.’
Back at the office, we mooched about and stared at the wall chart trying to make sense of this new information. We needed more information from GMP. At four o’clock we headed back to Stockport station again, for the rail and metro journey over to GMP headquarters on the north side of the city. Evans was not there, but just as Bill was about to begin Evans burst into the room, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Lambert and Wang were obviously in on what Evans had been doing, for they smiled broadly as Evans held a long metal object aloft in one hand, whilst giving a thumbs-up with the other.
‘This, as per forensics,’ he announced, ‘is the type of blunt instrument that did for Matt the drummer and injured Julian Hampson – not the real one, of course, only borrowed.’
‘What is it?’ Amelia craned her neck for a better look.
‘It’s a windlass, or lock key, and is used for winding the mechanism to open canal locks.’
‘And who, of all the players involved in the scenario, is most likely to have one of these items?’ Lambert posed. Before anyone could comment, he answered his own question. ‘Yes, Brian Hampson, of course.’
‘The problem is,’ Wang pointed out, ‘we can’t put him at the scene of the crime.’
One of the topics Amelia and I had discussed that afternoon, while staring at our white board, was fingerprints – or lack thereof. I couldn’t recall any meaningful discussion on the subject. I decided to raise it. ‘What did the fingerprint analysis from that night turn up?’
‘Well, we have a list, but forensics advised that no prints were found other than for names who were expected and entitled to be there on that particular evening.’
This struck me as lacking in detail. ‘Who would that list be meant to include?’ I persisted.
‘Band members, any tradesmen, roadies who had passes to get backstage that night,’ Wang answered.
‘Do we have a list of the names, though?’ I asked.
Sammy ruffled through his papers. ‘Here,’ he said, passing over a sheet of A4 paper with maybe twenty names on it.
I scanned down the list, and one stood out a country mile: that of Brian Hampson. I passed it to Amelia.
‘How could Brian Hampson have been there, if he is supposed to be AWOL?’ she asked incredulously.
There was a silence as the revelation sank in. I felt I could provide the answer. I turned and addressed my question to Sammy Wang. ‘Do we know who provided the names to forensics?’
‘Julian had a hand-written list of the original band members, and added roadies and a hairdresser and a pizza delivery driver and an electrician, and a waiter maybe. Forensics took the fingerprints taken from the dressing room and matched them but found none that at first sight should not have been there.’ He glanced sheepishly at Lambert.
There was a pause whilst Sammy Wang kept his head down in embarrassment for not checking the list thoroughly. I decided to help him out. ‘I believe that what happened was a genuine mistake. This hand-written list is of the original band members, including Jake, who was dead and therefore could not have been there to leave any fingerprints. He does not appear on the computer list from forensics. Lefty Phil Harrison quite rightly is included on the computer printout as a new member of the band. How, however, does Brian Hampson’s name appear, though? This is a surprise, but he could have been there in disguise and therefore not obviously recognisable.’
Flickers of realisation appeared on the faces around the table as the possibilities unfolded.
‘Well, bugger me!’ Evans exclaimed. ‘Could he really have done it?’
‘I believe he could. Remember, his experience as an impersonator goes back a long way. He has also played a number of small acting roles.’ I scanned down the list again, my eyes stopping at the pizza delivery driver. ‘Do we know whether anyone actually asked for a pizza to be delivered? It would be relatively easy for a talented impersonator to masquerade as a delivery driver.’
All eyes were upon me as Lambert explosively exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell! I think you could have something there!’
‘We still need to find him first, though,’ I cautioned.
‘Yes, indeed we do. We will certainly increase surveillance at Birmingham
, as he’s got to go back to his boat sometime.’
This last remark got me thinking again: how exactly did William describe the man who exited the boat in Birmingham? Was he carrying a bag of some kind…? A windlass was a sizeable object, and would surely not be carried in full view for all to see. I racked my brains to no avail. I would have to re-check with William.
The meeting had stalled. ‘OK, we’ve made good progress,’ summarised Bill. ‘Let’s leave it there. I’ll let you know pronto if we get any info.’
We made our way to the metro for the journey back into the city. On the metro Amelia asked, ‘You’re very quiet. What’s up?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about the windlass Evans had. I’ll leave it until the morning, but I’m going to call William. It would be very odd if Elvis were to take a windlass with him from Birmingham to Manchester, and also William never mentioned he had any kind of bag with him. It’s worth checking it out, don’t you think?’
‘Ah, yes, it would be strange indeed,’ she replied. ‘So that would mean…?’ She tailed off and looked at me thoughtfully as the metro tram pulled into Piccadilly close to eight ‘clock.
With our cars parked at different local stations in South Cheshire and neither fancying the catering on offer at Piccadilly, we parted company: me for the through train to Crewe and Amelia for the stopper to her local station.
Chapter 30
I tried William’s mobile the next morning. A lady I assumed to be his wife answered and told me he was on the land line and would call me back. Disappointed, I continued reading yesterday’s newspaper, giving up after five minutes, my thoughts dwelling on Elvis and his whereabouts and the windlass. He still hadn’t called back after an hour, so I tried again. No answer. I left a message, guessing that some people were enjoying their weekend. My landline rang: it was Amelia, who was clearly still too preoccupied to enjoy her weekend, like me.
‘You up to much? Only I’ve been thinking.’
‘That always worries me,’ I joked.
‘No, seriously. About yesterday… when we noticed the photo of Castlefield on the office wall and Donna explained that Julian had been staying on his boat. Don’t you think that’s weird?’
‘Having a boat is hardly weird,’ I answered, failing to get the picture. ‘I mean, it is in the family, after all.’
‘No, but keeping a boat at Castlefield could be,’ she explained. ‘Especially if you remember Mel, Tina’s housemate, letting slip the other night that she stayed overnight with Julian sometimes when she had been out late on an escort job.’
‘Of course! And she was found dead floating in the canal at Castlefield! Bit of a coincidence, what?’
‘Absolutely,’ she agreed, sounding pleased. ‘By the way, did William have anything to say?’
‘Don’t know yet. Haven’t been able to get hold of him.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity.’
‘Well, if we’re both at a loose end, do you fancy a trip into Manchester? We could have lunch and a snoop around Castlefield, and if William does get back to me I can ask him to check on Julian and the name of his boat.’
‘Right, I assume we’re better off driving, as it is weekend. Shall I pick you up in twenty minutes?’
‘Yep, let’s get on with it.’
Amelia arrived in fifteen minutes and we set off through the lanes. My mobile went; it was William. He apologised for not getting back to me sooner. His wife had only just remembered to tell him. I explained that I needed to know whether Elvis had any kind of bag when he left the towpath on the Birmingham and Fazeley canal.
He answers immediately and categorically. ‘No bag at all, and casually dressed in a lightweight pullover, and chinos. No coat.’
‘So, there was no way he could have concealed a windlass?’
‘A windlass? Not a chance. Why?’
‘Sorry, need-to-know only. Another favour, though, if you don’t mind…?’
‘Not at all. Fire away.’
‘Can you check on your database for the name of Julian Hampson, and whether he has a boat registered.’
‘Right-o. It’ll be after the weekend when I can get into the office, though.’
‘No problem.’ I thanked him and rang off.
Amelia had got the gist of the conversation already, and I filled in the gaps. We decided to postpone our trip into the city until after the weekend, when we’d have more information from William.
‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘It’s the Middlewich Folk and Boat Festival this weekend. Why don’t we pop along and see what’s going on? We can have a pint and some food at a pub and check out the musicians and Morris dancers. It’s great fun and with this good weather there will be big crowds.’
‘Right! Good idea,’ she laughed.
The town was heaving with visitors, and the atmosphere vibrant. We wandered around for a while, and finally sat outside the Big Lock pub in the sunshine, watching a band on the other side of the canal. Two pints of guest ale Bombardier and two huge Cumberland sausage hot dogs went down very nicely. The band was good and we stayed for their full slot. Feeling stuffed, we wandered around some more before heading off back home.
***
First thing on Monday, Amelia took a call from Bill Lambert. She put it through with no delay.
‘Good news just in from Birmingham,’ he began, with no preamble. ‘The locals have discovered that there’s now a for-sale sign on the Memphis/Voyager. However, unexpectedly, the agent reckons the owner has gone abroad so it will all be dealt with by his solicitor, meaning he won’t necessarily need to come back.’
‘Hmm, that is unexpected,’ I agreed, deciding I ought to let him know my current thoughts about Elvis and about possibly snooping around looking for Julian’s boat. I explained my train of thought regarding Elvis pretending to be a pizza delivery driver, and, my request to William regarding Elvis’s mode of dress and that Julian had a boat.
‘Why should Julian have a boat as well?’ he asked.
I further explained the picture of Castlefield on his office wall and Donna letting slip that he had been spending time on his boat.
‘Be sure to let me know what this William has to say.’
‘Of course,’ I confirmed. ‘Oh, and did you know that some of the girls on Julian’s mobile contacts list are not all artists?’
‘Not artists… I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘He’s also running an escort agency.’
‘Is he now?’ Bill exclaimed. ‘That opens up a few more lines of enquiry, then!’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I tell you what,’ he added. ‘Let me know as soon as this William gets back to you, but in the meantime, I think we need to have another chat with Julian about living off immoral earnings.’
‘Sure thing,’ I confirmed, hanging up the phone.
William was as good as his word, and rang early afternoon. ‘About your question the other day… there is a boat registered to a Julian Hampson. The boat has another hackneyed name: My Way,’ he groaned, sounding pained.
Shaking my head and groaning in return, I replied, ‘My Way… where’s the imagination?’
I thanked him and glanced at Amelia, who was also shaking her head and rolling her eyes at the choice of name.
I rang Bill, but his mobile was not being answered, so I left a message that we were going to have a little snoop around at Castlefield.
We parked up in the Great Northern Warehouse multi-storey, a stone’s throw from Castlefield.
‘What if we find it and there is somebody there, or more than one?’ asked Amelia.
‘You mean, Julian and Elvis? Now that would be a shock, but I agree we can’t rule it out.’
‘We would have to be careful, though, since we think he’s a killer.’
‘You’re dead right.’
‘Not funny,’ she shot back.
‘No,’ I confirmed, ‘but we are here now. Let’s get on.’ We strode down Liverpool Road, towards the Castlefield Hote
l, and then walked down the steps to the canal towpath proper. After an hour wandering around, we could not find a boat by the name of My Way. I wondered if we were letting our imagination run away with us.
‘Maybe he’s gone off for a trip somewhere,’ Amelia suggested. ‘I mean, what’s the point of a boat if you never go anywhere?’
‘And,’ I added, ‘you have to take them to be pumped out and take on water every now and then, so maybe we are unlucky on this occasion.’
‘Could be,’ she mused. ‘So, what do we do now?’
‘I don’t think we are wrong about the name of the boat, but perhaps the picture of Castlefield on Julian’s office wall led us to jump to a conclusion that it was berthed here. There are that many offshoots maybe with other moorings close by that would still give easy access to the city centre, so maybe we missed something.’
‘OK. I can see that’s quite possible,’ Amelia agreed. ‘So where does that leave us?’
My mobile interrupted our thoughts. ‘Right what now?’ asked Lambert.
‘Well, the boat is registered with the name My Way and we assumed it would be moored at Castlefield, so we are actually here right now having a little look-see, hoping to see if the boat is here before calling you.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I also asked Julian about it and he confirmed he has it berthed there, and that Elvis has been using it sometimes but I forgot to ask precisely where, and on which canal, so can you keep on looking?’
‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘We were beginning to think perhaps we had made one too many assumptions. There are a lot of options… offshoots and spurs, whatever they’re called.’
‘Well, keep looking, but be careful. He’s dangerous, so don’t approach him. We will be joining you soon. We’ve got all we’re going to get today from Julian about his escort girls. I’m not a betting man, but I reckon the boat is there or somewhere close by. See you shortly, maybe an hour at the steps next to the Castlefield Hotel?’
‘OK, we’ll be there,’ I replied. ‘What’s happening with Julian?’
‘Ah! We found a little accounting book in a safe hidden in the wall behind that picture of Castlefield. We think there is enough information about punters and details of girls in there to charge him with living off immoral earnings. Also, you might be interested to know many of the girls go by a different name when they are escorting. A girl called Stacy has Tina in brackets after her name, and as that’s the only Tina in the book, I guess that she must be our drowned body. But Julian is on his way to GMPHQ right, and we’ll get him to confirm whether the Tina on the slab is the Stacy in his book.’
Caught in a Trap Page 17
