Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Charlie Kavanagh.”

  “Great – I’ve worked with him before.”

  “Then you’ll know he appreciates punctuality.”

  Charlie Kavanagh also appreciated alcohol but Steve wasn’t going to mention that. Work was work and Kavanagh was one of the best and most efficient bosses he’d ever known. That was all that mattered. Steve was elated. A warm ray of sunshine had suddenly brightened up a hitherto barren week. Instead of going all the way to Newcastle on Saturday, he’d be controlling the multitudes flocking to the National Arboretum to hear a legendary rock band. It would be well-paid fun. What his contact had failed to tell Steve was that he’d also be involved in a murder investigation.

  Steve got to Westonbirt hours before the appointed time. When he parked his motorcycle and removed his crash helmet, he was instantly recognized.

  “Hey!” said Charlie Kavanagh, bearing down on him. The big, paunchy, amiable Irishman squinted. “I know you. It’s Steve something, isn’t it?”

  “Steve Long.”

  “You’re early. You don’t get paid until 4 p.m.”

  “I wanted to get the feel of the place.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “What will I be doing this evening?”

  “Hold on,” said Kavanagh, flipping over a page on his clipboard and looking down the list of names. “You’ll be wasted on the car park. You’ve got a sharp eye and sharper instincts. I remember you caught someone shooting up at Lord’s. We can’t have heroin addicts at the home of cricket. Yes, and I seem to recall you defusing a nasty situation at Wembley Arena last Christmas. See? Impress me and you get rewarded.”

  “Does that mean you’re doubling my wage?”

  Kavanagh laughed. “No, Steve, it means that you’ll be doing something more elevated than parking cars and taking tickets. I want you on the gate as a watcher.”

  “What am I watching out for?”

  “Trouble. Drugs, drunkenness, knives and anything else that might make people potential dangers. Even in a mature audience like the one we’re likely to get, there are always a few idiots bent on livening things up. Pick them out early on.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “We need to have eyes here, there and everywhere.”

  “I know the ropes.”

  “You’re partnered with a guy called Phil Denton.”

  Steve shrugged. “Don’t know him. What’s he like?”

  “Useful man. Retired boxer. He works well – just like you. Report back here this afternoon and I’ll issue detailed instructions.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “By the way, do you like Status Quo?”

  “I don’t dislike them,” said Steve, “but they’re not in my Top Ten. My father, on the other hand, worships them. I was supposed to see my parents this weekend. They were dead peeved when I cried off. The only way Dad will forgive me is if I get him a programme signed by Rick Parfitt and Francis Rossi.”

  “I’ll see if I can arrange it,” said Kavanagh. “I’ll even ask them to put OBE after their names. How many people get an Order of the British Empire for their services to music? We’re in good company here this evening. These fellas are pop aristocracy.”

  Westonbirt intrigued Steve. After a snack at the restaurant, he explored 600 acres of trees and shrubs from all parts of the world. Wherever he looked, there was something to make him gape in wonder. The arboretum housed the National Japanese Maple Collection along with many other striking collections. Pride of place went to a 2,000-year-old lime tree. Steve gazed at it for minutes.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” asked a voice.

  “Yes,” said Steve, turning to see a tall, lean, angular man in his twenties. “It’s been here for two millennia.”

  “That’s almost as long as Status Quo have been around.” They shared a laugh. “I saw you talking to Charlie Kavanagh early on so you must be one of the stewards. So am I.” He offered his hand. “Nick Hooper.”

  Steve shook his hand. “Hi, Nick. I’m Steve Long.” He’d heard the soft burr in the newcomer’s voice. “You sound as if you come from somewhere in the Cotswolds.”

  “I was born and bred in Cirencester,” explained Hooper. “That’s less than half an hour away. Gloucestershire is a wonderful county. It’s got everything. We even have Charlie, living down the road.”

  “Charlie Kavanagh?”

  “His Royal Highness, Prince Charles. He lives at High-grove.”

  “I’d forgotten that. You must know Westonbirt well.”

  “House and arboretum.”

  Steve looked around. “I don’t see any house.”

  “It’s on the other side of the road,” said Hooper, pointing. “It stands in its own estate and is now an upmarket girls’ boarding school. I heard the Eagles there.”

  “I can’t believe the Eagles would play at a girls’ school.”

  “They didn’t. They played right here in the arboretum. I had a girlfriend at the school. Her parents lived abroad so she stayed on alone at the school for a few weeks in the summer. I climbed in one night and we left the window open so that we could listen to the concert for free. When we weren’t otherwise engaged, that is.” He wagged a finger. “We’ll have to watch out for that, Steve.”

  Steve was confused. “People climbing into the school?”

  “No. I’m talking about those who just won’t pay for a ticket. The arboretum closes two and a half hours before the concert but some clever buggers hide in the trees then sneak up close when the music starts and listen for free. We have to flush them out.”

  “You’ve obviously done this before, Nick.”

  “I’ve been here for lots of gigs. They’re always terrific. There’s plenty of pussy to go round and there’s never a shortage of gear.”

  “We’re supposed to confiscate any hard drugs.”

  “I always turn a blind eye,” said Hooper, airily. “That way, you get stuff slipped to you by way of thanks. Let’s face it, you don’t go to a pop concert to stay stone-cold sober. And you don’t leave until you get laid. That’s my motto, anyway.”

  It wasn’t an attitude that Steve shared. He took his duties very seriously. He’d smoked a little pot at university but – having seen the horrors that cocaine and heroin could inflict on people – he’d kept well away from hard drugs. Nick Hooper was clearly a user.

  “You been to the Old Arboretum yet?” asked Hooper.

  “I thought this was it.”

  “No, this is Silk Wood, the main part. Come on – I’ll show you the other bit. It’s close to where the concert is being held and has one big advantage over Silk Wood.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No dogs are allowed in there. This is where the bow-wows always come for exercise. They crap all over the place. You’d never bring a girl here, Steve. Take her to the Old Arboretum. At least you know it’s safe to lie down on the grass. Off we go. I’ll show you some of the places I always use.”

  Preparations had been thorough. A high perimeter fence had been erected on the Downs and a stage put up with a huge awning over it. The roadies went through their sound checks and – after all the visitors had left – Status Quo had a brief rehearsal, piercing the silence with their plangent harmonies. Steve was exhilarated by the pulsing rhythm of their music and had to make a conscious effort to listen to Charlie Kavanagh’s orders. A small army of stewards had now assembled, dressed in yellow jackets and issued with instructions. Charlie warned them what to look out for and said that anyone caught slacking would have his wage halved. That helped to concentrate their minds wonderfully.

  As the hours slipped by, they took up their posts. The early trickle of cars became a steady flow before turning into a veritable flood. Those in charge of parking the vehicles were working at full stretch. Tickets were scrutinized carefully at the main entrance. Steve was a little distance away, studying people for any danger signs. His colleague, Phil Denton, was a short, stocky man in his late thirties with the broad shoul
ders and craggy face of someone who’d spent a lot of time in a boxing ring. After talking to extroverts like Kavanagh and Hooper, Steve found him refreshingly taciturn.

  Expecting a largely mature audience, Steve was surprised to find so many younger fans flocking to the concert. He gave them a welcoming smile while he appraised them. Denton was equally vigilant though his intense gaze did tend to stay longer on the young women. One trio caught the attention of both stewards. They were three students who’d hitched a ride from Cardiff to see the band and had clearly come for a good time. They were already pleasantly drunk and ready for banter with the stewards. Two of them were attractive but they were overshadowed by the third girl, a shapely creature of middle height with the face of an angel and blonde hair that hung down her back. She had tattoos on her bare shoulders and her name – Angie – was on a large silver pendant around her neck. Steve was struck by her but Denton couldn’t take his eyes off Angie. He watched her for minutes and only broke off when Steve nudged him.

  “That guy over there,” said Steve. “Recognize him?”

  Denton shook his head. “No – should I?”

  “He looks very much like someone we had to throw out of a concert at Regent’s Park for pestering women.”

  “Sure it’s him?”

  “No – but it could be.”

  “He’s doing no harm now. Let him go.”

  Steve looked hard at the man. He was a slim individual in his twenties with an arrogant swagger. It was the confident grin that Steve felt he’d seen before. The man was with a male friend and they carried blankets and a shoulder bag apiece. As they picked their way through the crowd, they looked for somewhere to sit. Spotting the three girls who’d arrived earlier, they settled down on the grass nearby. When he saw that the trio of students had been targeted, Steve felt almost parental. He wanted to go and warn Angie and her two friends but it was not his business to do so. Denton, by contrast, clearly thought it was his business. Gaze locked on Angie, he was consumed by envy. It was as if he’d already designated the girl as his and feared that he’d be dispossessed.

  “Keep your eyes on the gate,” warned Steve.

  Denton turned round. “What?”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to do.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Denton returned to his duty but kept glancing over his shoulder at Angie. Hundreds of people had already arrived. Some chose the seating provided but most had either brought their own chairs or preferred to squat on blankets. Food and drink were already being consumed. A faint aroma of cannabis hung over the whole audience. Still they came and still they were checked by Steve and Denton. Only a few people had to be turned away. One man was so hopelessly drunk that he collapsed and was carried out. Two shifty-looking youths were questioned and made the mistake of resisting when Steve tried to search them. Denton felled one of them with a punch. Both were carrying knives and sachets of drugs. They were handed over to the police. Steve watched them being taken away. Denton was far more interested in the way that Angie was being drawn into conversation by the slim, aggressively confident man whom Steve thought he’d identified as a troublemaker.

  “Ever heard them before?” asked Steve.

  “Who?” said Denton, turning to face him.

  “Status Quo.”

  “I worked at Glastonbury last year. They were there.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Loud.”

  A musical thunderstorm hit the arboretum. The quiet glades and dignified avenues of trees trembled at the booming explosions and the flashes of psychedelic lightning. Status Quo were like a force of nature, sweeping all before them and transforming a well-behaved, largely middle-class audience into a howling mob of dervishes. They could not get enough of the band and hailed each song with a standing ovation amplified by shouts, screams, whistles and an occasional firework. Collective madness reigned.

  It was difficult for Steve to keep his mind on his duties but he did his best, patrolling the outer edges of the concert in search of any trouble. Though Denton was supposed to stay with him, he drifted back time and again to a position from which he could see Angie at the heart of the crowd. As light began to fade, Steve lost sight of him. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “What gives?” asked Charlie Kavanagh, raising his voice above the tumult.

  “Nothing much to report,” replied Steve. “We only had to turn three people away. This lot are yelling their heads off but you expect that. Everything is very much under control.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, Steve. Where’s Phil?”

  “Oh, he wandered off.”

  “He’s supposed to be with you.”

  “I think he went to the loo,” said Steve, trying to cover for his colleague. “We all have to do that at some point.”

  “That’s exactly where I’m sending you now.” Kavanagh indicated the long line of portable toilets. “You know the drill – only one person to one cubicle. If two men go in together, it’s a drug deal. If a male slips into a cubicle with a female, then it’s copulation.”

  “I’ll get over there right now, Charlie.”

  “Remember what I told you earlier.”

  “We need to have eyes here, there and everywhere.”

  “Good man,” said Kavanagh, slapping him on the arm. “Now go and find Phil Denton. Make sure he earns his money.”

  Kavanagh went off to check with stewards stationed at key points inside the perimeter fence. Steve obeyed his orders but saw no sign of Denton. It was as if his colleague had disappeared. The band got progressively louder, the mood more excitable and the lighting effects more spectacular. Steve was still lurking near the toilets when he caught a glimpse of a yellow jacket in the midst of the audience. Next minute, somebody was hauled to his feet and frogmarched through the crowd. Phil Denton was escorting the slim young man whom Steve had picked out earlier as a sex pest. The man struggled hard to escape but Denton’s grip was firm. He pushed his captive towards Steve.

  “We’re slinging this joker out,” said Denton.

  “What’s he done?” asked Steve.

  “Nothing!” protested the man.

  “He was molesting a young woman,” said Denton.

  “That’s rubbish. She was up for it. Everything was going well until you interfered. Can’t a bloke have a free grope when it’s offered to him on a plate?”

  “Open the door, Steve. Let’s get him out.”

  Steve led the way to a gate in the fence. He and Denton had already been given the combination of the locks on the exits. While Steve was finding the numbers, the man continued to yell and struggle. Denton silenced him with a couple of punches. Steve opened the gate and his colleague flung his prisoner unceremoniously out before locking the gate again.

  “Who was he pestering?” asked Steve.

  “Angie,” said Denton.

  “Did she ask for help?”

  “That bastard was all over her and she was trying to fight him off. Something had to be done. Angie came here with her friends to listen to the music not to get jumped on by that animal.” He peered through the chain-link fence at the young man who was dragging himself to his feet. “And don’t you dare show your face in here again,” warned Denton, “or I’ll murder you!”

  Denton stalked off, leaving Steve with two thoughts. The first concerned the evicted man who was now skulking off into the trees bordering Mitchell Drive. He’d be back. His type never gave up. He’d get back inside the compound somehow in order to cause some real trouble. Angie might be spared, but another girl would fall into his clutches. Steve resolved to pass the word around the other stewards to look out for him.

  The second thought was more disturbing. In a crowd of that size, Denton must have got very close to Angie to be able to see that she was in distress. That meant he’d abandoned his duties altogether. Throwing out a troublemaker was no routine assignment for Denton. There’d been real hatred in his voice. He looked and sounded as if he’d wanted to
kill the man he’d ejected. Steve was very worried about his colleague. What on earth was eating Phil Denton?

  Even after four decades, Status Quo could still generate an immense amount of energy, connecting with their audience at a deep level and leaving them in a state of ecstasy. When the gig finally ended, the applause went on for almost a quarter of an hour. It was time for the stewards to click into action, shepherding the band offstage, guiding the punters back to their cars, calling for medical aid to the inevitable minority too drunk or drugged to move, and generally helping to clear up the mess left behind. It was well past midnight before Steve was signed off. He’d parked his motorcycle near some trees and was upset to see that it had been knocked over. After hauling it upright and putting it back on its stand, he noticed some marks gouged out in the turf. It was as if someone or something had been dragged over the grass and collided with his machine on the way.

  There was enough light for him to follow the channels in the earth as they snaked towards the trees. Once there he was in relative darkness and picked his way forward with care. When he came to a clearing, moonlight broke through to reveal a hideous sight. Stretched on the ground with her clothes ripped off was the body of a beautiful young woman with long, fair hair. Though he could see no telltale pendant around her neck, Steve identified her at once. It was Angie.

  After handing everything over to the police, Charlie Kavanagh talked to the two students who’d come to the concert with Angie. Steve was close enough to his boss to smell the whisky on his breath but it didn’t seem to affect Kavanagh’s ability to do his job. He was as brisk and authoritative as ever. One of the girls dissolved into tears, but the other one – Rachel by name – wanted answers.

  “Where is Angie?” she demanded.

  “There’s been an accident,” replied Kavanagh, unwilling to tell her that her companion had been strangled to death after a sexual assault. “You have to stay well clear, Rachel.”

  “Can’t we go to her?”

  “Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “But she’s our friend.”

  “Even so.”

  “Why are the police involved?”