Enderby looked at him. “Thought your resolve might weaken.”
“It often does,” Banks admitted. “Nice view.”
Enderby took a sip of beer. “Mmm.”
The window looked out over the glittering North Sea, dotted here and there with fishing boats and trawlers. Whitby was still a thriving fishing town, Banks reminded himself, even if the whaling industry it had grown from was long extinct. Captain Cook had got his seafaring start in Whitby, and his statue stood on top of West Cliff, close to the jawbone of a whale.
“When did this real murder happen?” Banks asked.
“September the year before. 1969. By Christ, Banks, you’re taking me on a hell of a trip along memory lane today. I haven’t thought about that business in years.”
Banks knew all about trips down memory lane, having not so long ago looked into the disappearance of an old school friend whose body was found buried in a field outside Peterborough. Sometimes, as he got older, it seemed as if the past was always overwhelming the present.
“Who was the victim?”
“A woman, young girl, really, called Linda Lofthouse. Lovely girl. Funny, I can still picture her there, half-covered by the sleeping bag. That white dress with the flowers embroidered on the front. She had a flower painted on her face, too. A cornflower. She looked so peaceful. She was dead, of course. Someone had grabbed her from behind and stabbed her so viciously he cut off a piece of her heart.” He gave a little shudder. “Someone’s just walked over my grave.”
“How was Swainsview Lodge involved in all this?”
“I’m getting to that. The murder took place at a rock festival in Brimleigh Glen. The body was found on the field by one of the volunteers cleaning up after it was all over. The evidence showed that she was killed in Brimleigh Woods nearby and then moved. It was only made to look as if she was killed on the field.”
“I know Brimleigh Glen,” said Banks. He had taken his wife, Sandra, and the children, Brian and Tracy, on picnics there shortly after they had moved to Eastvale. “But I know nothing about any festival.”
“Probably before your time here,” said Enderby. “First weekend of September 1969. Not so long after Woodstock and the Isle of Wight. It wasn’t one of the really big ones. It was overshadowed by the others. And it was also the only one they ever held there.”
“Who played?”
“The biggest names at the time were Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Fleetwood Mac. The others? Maybe you remember Family, the Incredible String Band, Roy Harper, Blodwyn Pig, Colosseum, the Liverpool Scene, Edgar Broughton and the rest. The usual late-sixties festival lineup.”
Banks knew all those names, even had a number of their CDs, or used to have. He would have to work harder at build
ing up his collection again, instead of just buying new stuff or recent reissues. He needed to make a note whenever he missed something he used to have. “How were the Mad Hatters involved?” he asked.
“They were one of the two local bands to play there, along with Jan Dukes de Grey. The Hatters were just getting big at the time, in late 1969, and it was a pivotal gig for them.”
“You’ve followed their career since then?” said Banks.
Enderby raised his glass. “Of course. I was more into blues back then–still am, really–but I got all their records. I mean, I met them, got a signed album. It was a big thrill. Even if I didn’t get to keep it.” He smiled at a distant memory.
“Why didn’t you get to keep it?”
“DI Chadwick took it for his daughter. Good Lord, Chiller Chadwick. I haven’t thought of him in years. What a cold, hard bastard he was to work for. Tough Scot, ex-army, hard as nails. The old school, you know, stickler for detail. Always perfectly turned out. You could see your reflection in his brogues. That sort of thing. I’m afraid I was a bit of a rebel back then. Let my hair grow down to my collar. He didn’t like it one bit. Good detective, though. I learned a lot from Chiller Chadwick. And he did apologize about the LP, I’ll give him that.”
“What happened to him?”
“No idea. Retired, I suppose. Maybe dead now. He was quite a few years older than me. Fought in the war. And he was with West Yorkshire, see. Leeds. They didn’t reckon we’d got anyone bright enough up here to solve a murder, and they might have been right at that. Anyway, I heard there was some sort of trouble with his daughter, and it affected his health.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“I don’t know. She went away to stay with relatives. I never met her. I think perhaps she was a bit of a wild child, though,
and he wouldn’t stand for that, Chiller wouldn’t. You know what some of the kids were like back then, smoking marijuana, dropping acid, sleeping around. Anyway, whatever it was, he kept it under his hat. You should talk to his driver, if he’s still around.”
“Who’s that?”
“Young lad called Bradley. Simon Bradley. He was a DC then, Chiller’s driver. But now, who knows? Probably a chief constable.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Bit of an arse-licker. They always get ahead, don’t they?”
“What was Chadwick’s first name?”
“Stanley.”
Banks thought that Templeton or Winsome ought to be able to track Simon Bradley down easily enough, and if Leeds was involved, he might be able to enlist the help of DI Ken Blackstone to find out about Chadwick. He offered Enderby another drink, which Enderby accepted. Banks’s pint glass, fortunately, was still half-full.
“I take it this murder was solved?” Banks asked when he returned with the drink.
“Oh, yes. We got him, all right.”
“So back to how the Mad Hatters and Swainsview Lodge were involved.”
“Oh, yes, forgot about that, didn’t I? Well, Vic Greaves was the victim’s cousin, see, and he’d arranged for her and her friend to get backstage passes for the festival. While she was backstage during Led Zeppelin’s performance on the last night, this cousin, Linda Lofthouse, decided to take a walk in the woods by herself. That’s where she was killed.”
“Any sexual motive?”
“She wasn’t raped, if that’s what you mean. They did find
some semen on the back of her dress, though, so what he did obviously gave him some sort of thrill. Secretor. Mind you, it was a common enough blood group. A, if I remember correctly, same as the victim’s. We didn’t have DNA and all that fancy forensic technology back then, so we had to rely on good old-fashioned police work.”
“Did you recover the murder weapon?”
“Eventually. Complete with traces of group A blood and the killer’s fingerprints.”
“Very handy. I suppose he could have argued that it was his own blood. It was
his
knife after all.”
“He could have, but he didn’t. Our forensics blokes were good. They also found traces of white fibre and a strand of dyed cotton wedged between the blade and the handle. These were eventually linked to the victim’s dress. There was no doubt about it. The dye on its own was enough.”
“Seems pretty much cut and dried then.”
“It was. I told you. Anyway, a week or so later, the Mad Hatters were up at Swainsview rehearsing for a tour, so that was the first time I went there and met them.”
“Tell me a little bit more about the personalities involved.”
“Well, Vic Greaves was mad as a hatter, no doubt about it. When we tried to talk to him at Swainsview Lodge, he was practically incoherent. You know, he’d keep going, like, ‘If you go down to the woods today…’ Remember ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’?”
Banks did remember. He had even heard another version of it recently when Vic Greaves said to him, “Vic’s gone down to the woods today.” Coincidence? He would have to find out. Greaves hadn’t been particularly coherent during the rest of their chat in Lyndgarth the other day, either. “Was he on drugs at the time?” Banks asked.
“He was on something, that’s for certain. Most of the people around him said he took LSD like it was Smarties. Maybe he did.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“The others weren’t too bad. Adrian Pritchard, the drummer, was a bit of a wild man, you know, wrecking hotel rooms on tour, getting into fights and that sort of thing, but he settled down. Reg Cooper, of course, well, he was the quiet one. He became one of the best, most respected guitarists in the business. Great songwriter, too, and along with Terry Watson, the rhythm guitarist and lead singer, he pushed the band in a more pop direction. Robin Merchant always seemed the brightest of the bunch to me, though. He was educated, well read, articulate, but a bit weird in his tastes, you know, he was into all that occult stuff–magic, tarot, astrology, Aleister Crowley, Carlos Castaneda–but lots of them were back then.”
“What about Chris Adams?”
“Seemed a nice enough bloke both occasions I met him. A bit straighter than the rest, maybe, but still one of the ‘beautiful people,’ if you catch my drift.”
“Did they all take drugs?”
“They all smoked a lot of dope and did acid. Robin Merchant obviously got into mandies in a big way, and later both Reg Cooper and Terry Watson had their problems with heroin and coke, but they’re clean now, as far as I know, have been for years. I’m not sure about Chris. I don’t think he was as much into it as the rest of them. Probably had to keep his wits about him for all the organizing managers have to do.”
“I suppose so,” said Banks. “Are you still in touch?”
“Good Lord, no. They wouldn’t know me from Adam. The bumbling, awestruck young detective who came around asking bothersome questions? They didn’t even remember me
from the first time when I went there over Robin Merchant’s death. But I tried to keep up with their careers, you know. You do when you’ve actually met someone as famous as that, don’t you? I got to meet Pink Floyd, you know. And The Nice. Roy Harper, too. Now
he
was stoned. They live in Los Angeles these days, most of the Mad Hatters. Except Tania, I think.”
“Tania Hutchison? The singer they brought in after Merchant died and Vic Greaves drifted off?”
“Yes. Beautiful girl. Absolutely stunning.”
Banks remembered lusting after Tania Hutchison when he’d watched her on
The Old Grey Whistle Test
in the early seventies. Every young male did. “I seem to remember reading that she lives in Oxfordshire, or somewhere like that,” Banks said.
“Yes, the proverbial country manor. Well, she can afford it.”
“You actually met her? I thought she came on the scene much later, after all that mess with Merchant and Greaves?”
“Sort of. See, she was the manager’s girlfriend at the time. Chris Adams. She was with him when we went to investigate Robin Merchant’s drowning. They were in bed together at the time. I interviewed her the next morning. She wasn’t looking her best, of course, a bit the worse for wear, but she still put the rest to shame.”
“So Tania and Chris Adams provided one another with alibis?”
“Yes.”
“And you had no reason to disbelieve them?”
“Like I said before, I had no real reason to disbelieve any of them.”
“How long had she known Adams and the group?”
“I can’t say for certain, but she’d been around for a while before Merchant died,” Enderby said. “I know she was at the
Brimleigh Festival with Linda Lofthouse. They were friends. I reckon that was where Adams met her. She and Linda lived in London. Notting Hill. Practically flatmates. And they played and sang together in local clubs. Folk sort of stuff.”
“Interesting,” said Banks. “I’ll have to have a look into this Linda Lofthouse business.”
“Well, it was a murder, but there’s no mystery about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks. “And there’s still the little matter of who killed Nick Barber, and why.”
Sunday, September 21, 1969
Chadwick could tell right from the start that McGarrity was not like the others, who had been quickly bound over to appear before the magistrate first thing Monday morning and released on police bail. No, McGarrity was another kettle of fish entirely.
For a start, like Rick Hayes, he was older than the rest. Probably in his early to mid-thirties, Chadwick estimated. He also had the unmistakable shiftiness of a habitual criminal and a pallor that, experience had taught Chadwick, came only from spending time in prison. There was something sly about him behind the smirk, and a deadness in his eyes that gave off danger signals. Just the kind of nutter who likely killed Linda Lofthouse, Chadwick reckoned. Now all he needed was a confession, and evidence.
They were sitting in a stark, windowless room, redolent of other men’s sweat and fear, the ceiling filmed brownish yellow from years of cigarette smoke. On the scarred wooden desk between them sat a battered and smudged green tin ashtray bearing the Tetley’s name and logo. DC Bradley sat in a corner to the left of, and behind, McGarrity, taking notes. Chadwick intended to conduct this preliminary interview himself, but if
he met stubborn opposition, he would bring in someone else later to help him chip away at the suspect’s resistance. It had worked before and it would work again, he was certain, even with as slippery looking a customer as McGarrity.
“Name?” he asked finally.
“Patrick McGarrity.”
“Date of birth?”
“The sixth of January, 1936. I’m Capricorn.”
“Good for you. Ever been in prison, Patrick?”
McGarrity just stared at him.
“Not to worry,” said Chadwick. “We’ll find out one way or another. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because you bastards smashed the door down in the middle of the night and brought me here?”
“Good guess. I suppose you know we found drugs in the house?”
McGarrity shrugged. “Nothing to do with me.”
“As a matter of fact,” Chadwick went on. “They do have something to do with you. My officers found a significant amount of cannabis resin in the same room where they found you asleep. Over two ounces, in fact. Easily enough to sustain a dealing charge.”
“That wasn’t mine. It wasn’t even my room. I was just crashing there for the night.”
“What’s your address?”
“I’m a free spirit. I go where I choose.”
“No fixed abode, then. Place of employment?”
McGarrity emitted a harsh laugh.
“Unemployed. Do you claim benefits?”
Silence.