Hunting for Crows (10 page)

With only two weeks to investigate the deaths of two members of the Crazy Crows, DI Henderson didn’t waste any time in setting up interviews with Peter Grant’s friends and associates. He expected the process to take a while, as no one liked talking to the police, but to his surprise, Sarah Corbett wanted to.

He’d called Peter Grant’s office to find the names of friends and business acquaintances of the dead man, and he was put through to the HR Department. It was a surprise when he spoke to the head of the department, as not only did she know all the people he needed to speak to, she’d also been Peter Grant’s girlfriend. Now, she was sitting across from him at a table in a coffee shop in the centre of Brighton.

She’d come straight from the office and was wearing a lilac skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse, looking every inch the HR professional.

With the introductions and preliminaries out of the way, Sarah fingered her latte, as if trying to decide where to start. He decided to help her out.

‘Had you and Peter been going out for long?’

‘Three weeks, but we’d worked together for over four years.’

‘Can I ask why both of you left it so long?’

‘He was married when I started working at the company and I was in a long-term relationship. He recently got divorced and my relationship also ended around the same time so...we just got together. It wasn’t pre-planned in any way.’

‘What do you know about Peter’s accident?’

‘Only what I read in the paper, and I’ve looked for the story in every newspaper I could lay my hands on. After a time you realise they must all have access to the same press release or witness statements as it all started to sound the same.’

‘I know what you mean. I attended the post-mortem and if there’s anything from there you would like me to tell you about, please ask.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, her previous downcast expression now a little brighter. ‘Did they come to the same conclusion as was reported in the press?’

‘The pathologist said it was a tragic accident brought about by muscle tiredness, as he had been lifting weights beyond his capabilities at the time.’

‘Did they conduct, I don’t know what you call them, drug tests, toxicology tests?’

‘Yes, there was alcohol in his system and a small amount of cannabis, consistent with the joint we found in an ashtray in the kitchen.’

‘How much alcohol?’

‘Equivalent to about three-quarters of a bottle of wine.’ He looked at her face. ‘You don’t look too surprised.’

‘What, that he took drugs or he drank wine?’

‘Both, but the amount of wine consumed prior to a gym workout seems excessive to me.’

‘He took the separation from his wife and kids badly; when the divorce came through, it brought it all back and he started drinking more than usual. He knew he was doing it, but said he would cut down as I… I made him feel better.’ She stopped to wipe away a tear.

‘Did he often take a drink before working out?’ Henderson asked. ‘I would have thought most people do it the opposite way round and go for a drink as a reward after going to the gym.’

She smiled. ‘I used to think that too. Peter was a bit of a night owl and didn’t seem to need as much sleep as everyone else. He liked to exercise at odd times. He liked wine and told me he often drank about a bottle when he wasn’t going out. It helped him sleep he said. I’ve never seen him drunk and because he was quite a chunky person I guess he could handle it. I say he usually did these things, but of course I was only just getting to know him.’

‘I understand,’ Henderson said as he lifted his cup and took a drink of his Americano.

‘Did the pathologist consider if alcohol or the small amount of drugs he took were a major contributing factor in his death?’

‘Yes, he did. He thought Peter’s judgement might have been impaired by the alcohol and as a result, he loaded more weights on the bar than he was capable of lifting.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ she said. ‘Peter had been doing weights since he was a teenager and knew all about the dangers. He could have written a book about it, if we didn’t employ all those experts at the company to do it for us.’

Henderson had to agree as the record book he’d seen in Grant’s gym suggested the same thing, but he hadn’t mentioned it at the post-mortem for fear of muddying the waters. He didn’t want to talk about it now either, as he wanted to hear what Sarah had to say and didn’t want to confuse her.

‘Sarah, this incident was investigated by the police and with all the evidence and the post-mortem results available, they decided Peter’s death was an accident.’

She nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘Why then do you give me the impression you don’t agree?’

‘When you say it so... starkly it does sounds pretty conclusive, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it does. I don’t think there’s any other way of looking at it, is there?’

‘I’m finding it hard to accept. He did such a great job managing the company we both work for. I don’t know if you’ve heard of Grant’s Fitness Emporium?’

He nodded in agreement. ‘I’ve met Peter before and I knew he worked there.’

‘Then you’ll know about the expertise we have. I can’t emphasise this enough, but Peter lived with exercise regimes, nutrition, muscle building, protein supplements, you name it, in a professional capacity for over fifteen years. It’s inconceivable he would make a mistake as basic as this.’

‘How is the business doing?’

‘Peter started his first shop in Western Road, now it’s in the Churchill Square shopping centre, close to Hollister. From there, he opened another eleven shops and two months ago, we opened our first superstore in Croydon.’

‘I knew about the shops but I didn’t know about the superstore.’

‘Yes, the first of many if Peter had his way, and in financial terms, we were in a good position with no bank lending, as Peter hated borrowing from banks. He made sure we had the money in the kitty before embarking on the superstore expansion plans.’

‘Impressive.’

‘The superstores were Peter’s idea, his baby. Many in the management team were set against it. If it worked out, and Peter was confident it would, more would have been opened. Why would he want to leave all that behind?’

‘Sarah, you’re talking about his death as if it was a deliberate act, as if he committed suicide. I thought we decided after discussing the police report and the post-mortem that he died as a result of an accident.’

She looked down at her untouched coffee. Henderson’s cup was empty and he fancied another, but didn’t move.

‘I know. Maybe I just can’t accept he would be so stupid to die in a silly accident when there was so much in his life to look forward to. You would expect someone in his position to be, I don’t know...a bit more careful and not so blasé about taking unnecessary risks.’

Henderson nodded. He’d heard of lottery winners, afraid to go out in case they were kidnapped or killed in a car accident. Perhaps Sarah expected Peter to do the same.

‘If he meant to commit suicide and wanted it to look like an accident,’ Sarah said, ‘then I can’t believe he could be so selfish. I mean, maybe he was feeling depressed about the divorce and his wife and kids leaving him, but I don’t see how it could exceed his desire to manage and grow the business and,’ she said in a voice barely audible, ‘the affection he felt for me.’

Henderson wasn’t a bereavement counsellor and didn’t know what to say in these circumstances, but clearly this woman felt utterly scorned that the man she’d staked some part of her future upon had been taken away so dramatically from her grasp. He was sure there was a name for such a condition, but whatever it was, it was making him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

He explored the suicide theory with her a little further and enquired after Peter’s health, his personal finances, and his emotional state, but the former drummer of the Crazy Crows ticked all the boxes and he was forced to agree with her; it didn’t look as if the man had done it deliberately.

The accident theory didn’t sit well with Sarah Corbett and neither did the suicide theory. It had taken forty minutes and one Americano, but it served to reinforce his belief that something in the deaths of the two men wasn’t quite as it seemed.

BBC Egton House, London 1987

‘Guys, guys, a warm welcome to Radio 1,’ the bloke holding a clip-board and wearing a pink sweater said. ‘We’ll get you sorted out in a few minutes. Help yourself to BBC coffee, if you can stand the assault on your taste buds, that is.’

The door closed and the five members of the Crazy Crows looked at one another before they all burst out laughing.

‘Christ, I used to listen to Radio 1 under the covers late at night when I was a kid,’ Eric said. ‘I just can’t believe we’re here in the same bloody studios.’

‘Make the most of it,’ Barry said. ‘Once they’ve seen us, they won’t invite us back.’

‘Once they’ve seen you, you mean,’ Eric said grabbing Barry in a headlock. ‘You’re such an ugly bastard. Good job we’re not here for the telly.’

‘Knock it off fellas,’ Derek said. ‘I want this interview calm, ok? Remember we’re here to promote our new album, not to wreck the studio or piss off listeners.’

‘Right-oh, boss,’ Eric said, releasing Barry and then giving him a slap on the head and mussing his long locks.

A few minutes later, Stu, the guy in the pink sweater, came back and led them into the studio. Derek had been nervous when their manager, Frannie Copeland, first suggested the idea of an interview with Radio 1, as the combination of Eric, Barry and Danny in the same room was asking for trouble. They larked and argued like a bunch of hormonal school boys, even when Eric wasn’t taking dope or pissed out of his head. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard it wasn’t to be a live interview but recorded and edited later, as even though radio studios used a delayed loop to catch the occasional profanity, it wouldn’t be enough to stop this lot embarrassing themselves.

Stu fussed over them for a few minutes, fitting them with headphones and easing their seats closer to the mikes. Thank goodness this wasn’t a television show as he wouldn’t want this guy powdering his nose and fiddling with his costume.

He’d been inside radio studios before and assumed they would all be similar, but through a plate glass window he could see the afternoon DJ at work. There wasn’t one DJ inside but four, the ‘afternoon crew’ as they liked to be called. Headphones clamped on heads, they gathered around a large desk, upon which sat various bits of equipment and pieces of paper; tape decks, CD players, sound mixers, screens and keyboards, their voices recorded by big fat over-hanging microphones. To him it looked like chaos, but knowing the high standards employed by the BBC, it was organised chaos.

‘Hi fellas.’

Derek looked round. It wasn’t the whining voice of Stu this time, but Ronnie Rogan, champion of rock music on Radio 1 with a show going out on weekdays at 11 o’clock in the evening.

‘Hi, Ronnie, how are you doing?’ Eric said as they all shook hands.

‘Good to see you all here,’ he said in a Mid-Atlantic drawl, a voice sounding as if it had been fashioned by fags, booze and copious amounts of salt water, much loved by his late-night listeners. He looked more handsome than the voice suggested, a young, lean face under a tangled mess of blonde and brown hair, and wearing a tight fitting t-shirt with the name of some sports company on the front and tatty jeans.

He gave them a preamble about what he intended to do, how it would be edited down to a fifteen or twenty minute piece for his show next week, how it would be difficult for the listener to tell who was speaking if they all talked at once, all the usual radio station guff. Ronnie nodded to the guy in the control room, who looked to be in charge of recording their words of wisdom, and gathered his notes together.

‘Right, if I can make a start,’ Ronnie said. ‘Did the success of the new single,
Straight Up
, surprise you?’

‘I’ll say,’ Derek said, ‘because we didn’t know the record company were going to release it.’

‘Is that so? Then it really was a surprise.’

‘Yeah, but
Straight Up
is shorter and snappier than the stuff we’re used to doing, so I suppose it’s more obvious single material.’

‘How was
Top of the Pops
?’

‘A new experience,’ Eric said.

‘Never to be repeated,’ Barry said. ‘I hate faking it.’

‘Do you think of yourselves as an album band?’

‘I think we do,’ Barry said. ‘See, you can do more with a long track on an album than a three-minute single and while I don’t think any of us would say ‘no’ to all the additional fans and the amount of airplay we’re getting for
Straight Up
, I don’t think we’ll make a habit of it.’

‘Barry’s right,’ Derek said, ‘but Danny just got this little tune in his head and we took it from there. Maybe he’ll get another in a few weeks’ time.’

‘You never know,’ Danny said, smiling.

‘The single is a taster from the new album,
Tropical Storm
, your third, available from all good record shops on 1
st
September. Now I’ve heard you describe it, Derek, as the most complete album you’ve ever made. What did you mean by that?’

‘Everything just sort of came together on the album, the song writing, the playing and our understanding of the techniques we could use in the recording studio. See, we were rookies on the first couple of albums and the producer took all the decisions. With this one, we knew exactly what we wanted and what the studio was capable of producing and as a result, we were more involved in its production.’

‘I think it’s not an exaggeration to say,’ Ronnie said, ‘the addition of Danny on keyboards has made a big difference to your sound.’

‘Humph,’ Eric said.

‘For the better, I would say,’ Derek said, to mutterings of agreement from the others, all except Eric Hannah. ‘Plus, he’s started writing a few songs himself and co-writing with me so I think the quality of the songs has improved as well.’

‘It’s more of a collaboration,’ Danny said. ‘Derek often comes up with a good idea and I add lyrics to it.’

‘I’ve listened to the album a lot and I agree the songs are better. Eric, your role seems to have changed. Gone are the long guitar solos we heard on the first two albums, now it’s a more economic, snappier sound. Do you like playing this way?’

‘I can play anything,’ he said, pushing back his long, untidy hair from his face, ‘although I do prefer playing longer licks but,’ he said looking straight at Derek, ‘I do whatever the boss tells me to do.’

‘The fuck you do,’ Derek spat back, ‘you do what you damn well please.’

‘Don’t give me that crap,’ Eric said. ‘You say to me, don’t play that bit Eric, let Danny do it.’

‘The hell I do. I might shorten it if I think it’s too long, but nothing else.’

Voices were raised for a couple of minutes forcing Ronnie to step in and try to restore order.

‘Calm down now, gents. Thank you. We’ll take that bit off the tape, but hey,’ he said, a devious smile on his lips, ‘maybe I won’t. Now we’re back on script, can I ask, you’ve lined up a tour to promote the new album, are you planning to play any festivals?’

The interview lasted a further half hour and Ronnie assured them when the tape stopped they had captured enough to make an interesting fifteen-minute slot for his programme. He thanked them in an over-the-top radio manner and next thing they knew, they were out through the doors at Egton House, and standing in London’s summer sunshine.

‘Who fancies a drink?’ Eric said.

No one had any plans for the rest of the day so they decamped to a pub nearby, The George in Great Portland Street. Trust Eric to know there would be a pub there.

It was a lovely old-fashioned boozer in an age when they were all being converted into gastro pubs, wine bars and bistros, with dark oak panelling, a big ornate wall mirror and long bar with a good range of ales; none of that modern lager crap. With the lads settled around a table in the corner, Derek hauled Eric up to the bar to help him carry the drinks.

It was nearing the end of lunchtime and the pub was busy with suits from nearby offices filling bodies with the drug of their choice to help them navigate their way through a dull afternoon. Loads of drinkers were smoking, but at least the pub wasn’t filled with it, as the doors and windows were open on account of it being a warm day, and a refreshing breeze wafted inside. Everyone in the band smoked, but Derek couldn’t stand a room full of stale smoke.

Standing behind a bloke being served, he pulled Eric towards him by the lapels. ‘Why the fuck did you pull a stunt like that in the studio?’

‘What d’ya mean? Get your hands off me.’

Derek released him from his grip. ‘You know bloody fine what I mean: you mouthing off to the world and his uncle that you’ve got a problem with Danny playing in the band.’

‘I don’t have a problem.’

‘Yes, you fucking do. You’re always on his case–’

‘What can I get you, gents?’ the barman asked. He was tall, blond and Australian.

Derek gave him the order and turned back to face Eric. ‘You’ve been bending my ear for months saying you’ve got too much to do, as each of the songs has a long guitar solo and by the end of a gig your hand is aching. Then, if you bust a string or your effects pedal goes on the blink, the sound’s screwed and there’s always a tuning delay when you change guitars. Now, when I finally bring someone in, someone who can help fill out the sound and give you a break from long solos, someone who even Ronnie Rogan thinks is a major addition to the band, you go fucking ape-shit. Explain it to me mate, because I don’t understand what’s going on.’

‘I dunno. Maybe I don’t feel important in the band anymore. I mean, when it was just you singing and me playing guitar, it was like we were joint front men, both of us in the limelight.’

‘So, now you’re having to share some of the limelight with Danny. I don’t have a problem with it, why should you?’

‘Yeah, but it’s not only that, he’s got a bigger slice of the new album. On some tracks I’m like the Yeti, a rare sight.’

‘Bollocks Eric, you appear on every track, but it’s true you don’t play many of the long guitar solos you used to. What did Ronnie call it, ‘a snappier sound’ and I think it makes it more memorable. The public seem to think so as well, look at the single, it’s selling well and Ronnie thinks the new album is good.’

‘I dunno…’

‘I’m not fucking lying to you. If you remember what that new producer Sam Schweinsteiger said–’

‘What, the hippy Yank?’

‘Yeah, the hippy Yank. He said the secret of good guitar playing is to make every solo memorable, not a long solo that people are waiting to finish so they can get back to the tune–’

‘That’s Grant’s drum solos you’re talking about. My playing is never boring.’

‘You know what I mean. When you think of
Whisky in the Jar
or Zeppelin’s
Kashmir,
you remember the guitar part as much as the song. That’s where we wanna be.’

‘I dunno, I’m still not happy having Danny around. It’s disrupting the balance.’

‘Bollocks, I don’t think it is and neither do the other guys. Listen mate, you better get used to it, because Danny’s going nowhere. He’s joining the band full-time.’

The barman returned. ‘That’s three pints of lager and two pints of best. Anything else?’

‘Yeah,’ Derek said, ‘throw in four packets of roasted peanuts and half a dozen bags of crisps: three salt and vinegar and three smoky bacon.’

‘You’re all heart, Derek. A big day out at the BBC and you treat us to a pint and a packet of smoky bacon crisps.’

‘Whatd’ya mean?’ he said picking three pints up from the bar in his big mitts and heading for the table in the corner. ‘It’s your treat, mate, you’re paying.’