Wesley sat forward. ‘Look, Mr Pauling, I won’t beat about the bush. Did you ever have any inkling of either Jonny or Hal Lancaster
having any …’ He felt the blood rush to his face as he searched for the most tactful way to put it. ‘Did they have any unusual
sexual tastes? Children, for instance?’
Chris Pauling stared at him for a few seconds with his mouth wide open. Then he turned to Sandra, who seemed equally amazed
at the question. He shook his head. ‘If you’re asking me whether Jonny and Hal were child molesters, I can tell you categorically
that they weren’t – well, not to my knowledge anyway, and you get to know people pretty well when you’re touring with them.
Jonny was one for the girls, even when he was married with a kid. He always had a load of groupies around him.’ He glanced
at Sandra. ‘As we all did before we settled down. But I can assure you that he wasn’t into anything nasty. No way. The rest
of us would have known. The same goes for Hal – he never went short of women. We lived so close in those days that I’m sure
I’d have been aware of anything like that going on. Jonny had fourteen-year-old girls throwing themselves at him but he never
took the bait – he always went for their big sisters, if you see what I mean … even their mums sometimes.’ He grinned.
‘What about boys?’ Wesley suggested. The question had to be asked.
Chris smiled and shook his head. ‘No way. You think I wouldn’t have known?’
Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. That was it. Jonny Shellmer and Hal Lancaster were no paedophiles. In a way Wesley
felt a tremendous relief. But on the other hand, it made the case more baffling.
‘Had Jonny any enemies? Or any nutcases who used to follow him around? Can you think of anything, anything at all that might
help us catch whoever did this?’
Chris Pauling shook his head again, looking genuinely regretful. ‘Sorry. I always reckoned Jonny was a nice bloke underneath
all the rock-star rubbish, and as far as I know, he didn’t have any enemies. And as for nutcases, I can’t think of any. There
was the odd fan who went a bit over the top but …’
‘Was there talk of Rock Boat getting together again?’
‘Hal wanted us to do a reunion tour.’ Pauling sighed. ‘But I don’t suppose it’ll happen now Jonny’s dead.’ He looked around
the shabby cottage. ‘I could have done with it – a few quid to get this place on its feet.’
Wesley took Jonny’s address book from his pocket. ‘There were a couple of numbers in Jonny’s address book we haven’t traced
yet. Did he know a Jim or Maggie Flowers?’
Pauling shrugged. ‘They don’t sound familiar.’
‘What about Jack Cromer? Did he know him?’
Pauling grinned. ‘Everyone knows that bastard. Jonny was on his show once.’
‘But did he have any more contact with him?’
‘Not that I know of. Sorry.’
‘Where were you last Wednesday?’ Heffernan asked bluntly.
Pauling looked at Sandra, who gave a slight nod. ‘I went up to London.’
‘Why?’
Pauling looked embarrassed. ‘I went to see someone at an auction house. I thought they might be interested in selling my old
drum kit and some other stuff I’ve got from the Rock Boat years. It’s only cluttering up the outhouse.’
Sandra touched his arm. ‘I didn’t want Chris to sell his things but …’
‘They’re no use to me now.’ Chris Pauling smiled sadly.
Wesley looked down at his notebook. ‘Has Jonny ever mentioned a woman called Angela?’
Pauling thought for a few moments. ‘There were a lot of girls around in the old days. There might have been an Angela among
them.’
Gerry Heffernan nudged Wesley’s elbow. It was time to go. But there was one more question Wesley wanted to ask.
‘Do you know if Jonny ever lived in Devon when he was young? Or did he ever mention spending his holidays there… in a place
called Derenham?’
Chris Pauling hesitated. ‘I remember he had some connection with Devon … or was it Dorset? I think he had some relatives there
but he never talked about it. Before the group got going he used to go down to stay sometimes. Then one year, just before
we hit the big time – he must have been about seventeen – he came back from a visit and he was acting a bit strange; quiet,
like, subdued. He never talked about that holiday and as far as I know he never went there again. I reckoned he’d had some
sort of row with someone, and when I asked him about his holiday he just told me to mind my own business. Funny, that … it
wasn’t like Jonny at all.’
Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. Wesley had always suspected that the answer lay somewhere close to home.
PC Wallace took his eyes off Nurse Chang for a moment and glanced at the newcomer, a big, awkward man in a shabby waxed jacket
and flat cap who carried a bunch of flowers in front of him like a shield. He recognised him,
and was surprised to see him there at the hospital, especially in view of the fact that his son was missing.
The man had a brief conversation with Nurse Chang, handed her the flowers and turned to go. When he had disappeared through
the swing-doors, Wallace caught the nurse’s eye and smiled.
‘I know that man. What did he want?’ he asked as casually as he could manage.
‘I was just going to tell you. He wanted to see Angela Simms, but I told him it was relatives only.’
‘Thanks,’ Wallace said before asking whether he could use the phone in the sister’s office.
As he neared the end of the M62 Wesley glanced at the man slumped in the passenger seat. There was a beatific smile on Gerry
Heffernan’s face that had appeared as soon as he saw the large sign welcoming him to Liverpool. The chief inspector had come
home.
He directed Wesley straight to Liz Carty’s – formerly Liz Shellmer – address: a large detached house with snowy-white pebbledashed
walls and sparkling leaded windows, probably built in the early quarter of the twentieth century. It was near a set of magnificent
park gates with proud liver birds strutting in their centres, flanked by a quartet of large statues representing the four
seasons – a relic of Victorian municipal pride. Wesley, who had never visited Liverpool before, was pleasantly surprised.
‘Nice area,’ he commented, earning himself an approving look.
‘I did a lot of my early courting in a rowing boat on Calderstones Park lake,’ Heffernan announced as he unfastened his seat
belt. ‘Either there or in the back row of the Allerton Odeon down the road. Happy days, eh?’
Wesley said nothing, not wanting to trigger a stream of teenage reminiscences. He didn’t think he could take it after such
a long drive. He just wanted to be sitting on Liz Carty’s sofa with a cup of tea in his hand.
He locked the car and marched up the path of Liz’s budding and well-stocked front garden, noting the fine display of daffodils
beneath the bay window. He lifted the polished brass lion’s head on the shiny black front door. It landed with a resounding
bang. Then he stepped back and waited, admiring the house. It was solid, boasting of prosperity without opulence or any overt
show of wealth. Wesley approved. It was hardly what he’d expected of the ex-wife of a rock star. But then people often didn’t
conform to stereotypes.
Liz herself was no stereotypical ex-rock-chick. She was an attractive middle-aged woman who had taken care of herself. She
wore a straight grey skirt and a floral blouse, and her hair was cut into a neat, sensible bob. Her clothes were good quality,
expensive but not flash. The woman seemed to match her house. She invited them inside with impeccable good manners and offered
them tea.
‘Nice place this,’ said Gerry Heffernan as he made himself comfortable on the sofa.
But before Wesley could reply Liz came back in with the tea and sat herself down in the armchair facing them.
‘I still can’t believe anyone would want to kill Jonny. I didn’t hear about it until the police rang and said my address had
been found in his address book and …’ She began to play with the thick gold band on her wedding finger.
‘Didn’t you hear about it on the news? It was on the telly. We were expecting you to get in touch with us,’ said Gerry Heffernan
bluntly.
Liz shook her head. ‘We were away in Italy when it happened.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Venice in the spring. Norman took me
for our wedding anniversary. By the time we returned all the fuss had died down and there was nothing on the television about
it – not that I watch much television,’ she added righteously. In Wesley’s experience people who made that claim always seemed
to know in detail, perhaps by some form of telepathy, the plots of every soap opera.
Wesley looked her in the eye. ‘Can you tell us about your relationship with Jonny?’
She shrugged and fluttered her hands, as if she had no idea where to begin. But after a few seconds’ hesitation she soon got
into her stride.
She launched into an account of how she had met Shellmer – funnily enough hanging around Calderstones Park lake at the age
of fifteen. Gerry Heffernan grinned approvingly. Jonny had been three years older than her and, in a flurry of teenage rebellion,
she had married him at the age of seventeen. Their only son, William, was born soon after. The marriage had lasted four years,
most of which they spent apart as Jonny had shot to fame by then and most of his time was taken up with touring or recording
in London.
They lived apart and grew apart. Liz stayed in Liverpool, eventually moving back to her family home so her parents could help
with William’s upbringing, and Jonny did his own thing. She had always had a soft spot for him and they had kept in fairly
regular touch. Later she had married a chartered accountant called Norman, had two more children, worked part time for a local
cancer charity and led a life of blameless domesticity a world away from any excesses of sex, drugs and rock and roll. Boring,
perhaps, but Liz Carty seemed happy enough with her lot.
Wesley listened carefully. She was being completely honest with them, he could tell. When Gerry Heffernan asked her what Jonny
had been like, a smile came to her lips as she remembered her first love. He had been fun, she said. Talented and exciting
with a quick tongue and a temper to match. A good lover, she added with a blush. And he had been the sort of boy her strait-laced
parents disapproved of, which had made him doubly attractive. But he wasn’t a bad person – he could be kind in unexpected
ways. Liz’s soft spot was now on open display.
‘But you still split up?’ Wesley asked gently.
Liz nodded. ‘After we’d been married a couple of years
I caught him in bed with a girl, one of Rock Boat’s many groupies, I think. It was then I knew that it was hopeless. You might
think it strange but I wasn’t angry or anything – I just knew that the parting of the ways was inevitable. And I suppose that
what my parents told me about children from broken homes never being able to keep their own marriages together must always
have been at the back of my mind.’
Wesley sat forward. ‘What do you mean?’ This was something he hadn’t heard before – something they hadn’t considered.
‘Jonny’s mother wasn’t actually married to his father,’ Liz said, matter-of-factly. ‘His dad had two families – Jonny and
his mother and another family down South. Shellmer was his mother’s maiden name. Jonny told me he used to go on holiday with
his mum to Wales every summer, then he’d go off to stay with his dad and his family down South for a few weeks.’
‘Whereabouts down South?’ Gerry Heffernan shifted himself to the edge of his seat.
Liz thought for a moment. ‘I think it was near where Jonny died. Devon. But I can’t be sure. He never talked about it if he
could help it.’
‘Did he keep in touch with his father?’
‘No. I think there’d been some sort of row before I met him because he didn’t even invite his father to our wedding. And it
wasn’t until I’d known Jonny for a while that I discovered that he had a half-brother and sister. He’d got drunk one night
and mentioned them, but when I asked him about them afterwards he wouldn’t talk about them. I think there must have been some
sort of argument, something he wanted to forget.’
Wesley looked at Gerry Heffernan. He could almost hear the cogs whirring in the older man’s brain. ‘His biography mentions
the Welsh holidays but not Devon. Can you think why?’
‘As I said, I’d got the impression there’d been some sort
of bad feeling between him and his father. Perhaps he didn’t want reminding of it.’
This didn’t square with the fact that Jonny Shellmer had intended to settle in Devon. But Wesley didn’t voice his doubts.
‘Did he ever mention a village called Derenham? It’s near Tradmouth.’
‘Isn’t that where he was killed?’ Wesley nodded. ‘I’m sure he never mentioned it.’
‘Is his mother still alive?’
Liz shook her head. ‘No. She died about fifteen years ago. Jonny phoned me late one night to tell me. He was drunk and he
was really upset about her death and, before you ask, I’ve no idea whether his father’s alive or what became of the half-brother
and sister he wouldn’t talk about.’
‘Did you know that he was hoping to move to Devon? He was looking for a property.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Liz sensibly. ‘Whatever family he had down there have probably died or moved away by now, so he’d
have no reason to avoid the place any more. Have you managed to trace them at all?’
Gerry Heffernan grunted. ‘No, love. In fact it’s the first we’ve heard that he had any family down there. We suspected there
was some connection but we didn’t know what.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘Have you brought that photo you found at Jonny’s cottage?’
Wesley had left it in the car. He hurried outside to retrieve it. When he returned he found his boss getting his feet firmly
under Liz Carty’s table. He was slurping a second cup of tea and munching what looked like a homemade scone. It must be the
unkempt, neglected widower look, he thought to himself – there was something about Gerry Heffernan that awakened some women’s
maternal instincts.
But Wesley wasn’t to be neglected. When he had finished his own scone, he handed Liz the photograph he’d found in Jonny’s
drawer and asked her whether she recognised
anybody. She studied it for a while with a frown of concentration. Then she spoke.