Hunting for Crows (18 page)

Dorchester, Dorset 1989

The inquest into Danny Winter’s death was held on 25
th
September 1989 at County Hall in Dorchester, Her Majesty’s Coroner for Dorset, Henry Faraday, presiding. The coroner, a genial-looking man with wispy grey hair, gold-rimmed glasses and the bedside manner of an experienced doctor, explained to those in attendance that an inquest was not a trial but an opportunity to lay out all the facts and assess them. The police had already concluded that the death of Danny Winter had been an accident.

In turn, each of the four remaining Crazy Crows gave their account of the day’s events. Derek said he saw no more than the boat leaving with three high-spirited occupants and returning about forty minutes later with only two. He didn’t hear if an altercation took place on board, as he fell asleep on the sand, but reiterated Peter’s statement that he didn’t hear anything either, and he would have woken Derek if he had.

Eric told the inquest that Danny started fooling around, stood up and fell in. Eric was not a confident swimmer and if he’d also gone into the water, they would be talking about two deaths today and not one. In any case, it was dark and he’d quickly lost sight of him. He woke Barry. He was a good swimmer and would have dived in, but they couldn’t see sign of Danny anywhere. They were unaware at the time, but Danny couldn’t swim, a fact brought to light first thing that morning when they were confronted by his mother outside the hall, who launched a hostile attack, blaming drugs, booze and their recklessness for her son’s death.

Barry told the inquest he believed all was amiable between the three men when they set out from the pier, and that little changed during the sail. He told Derek afterwards he’d noticed a strange glint in Eric’s eye and at the time he’d put it down to drugs, but now he was not so sure. He informed the inquest that due to a combination of a late night the day before, when they drove down from Birmingham to Bristol after a gig, and the amount of alcohol he’d consumed on the night in question, he laid down in the bottom of the boat and fell sound asleep.

The evidence that turned out to be the most interesting of the day did not come from Eric Hannah but from a guy called Graham Radcliffe. Graham, a resident of Osmington Mills, suffered from a recurrent nightmare relating to the death of his father, who died four weeks before from cancer. Each time a nightmare occurred, rather than try to fall asleep and risk it happening again, he got dressed and took his dog for a late-night walk.

He often walked along the beach, but when he heard voices, he thought they belonged to a group of rough local lads who would lark about and fight after consuming cans of strong lager. Instead, he followed the path on top of the cliffs. It was a warm, summer’s night with clear skies and a three-quarter moon. He could see two men lying on the sand, and out in the water he could make out the shape of a rowing boat, one he knew belonged to another local man, Harry Langham.

The boat pulled away from the pier and soon became indistinct, but he could still hear voices. Unlike Barry, he didn’t think all was well aboard the boat as he could hear two men talking loud as if arguing. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but by the pitch and the tone of their speech, it didn’t sound like a friendly or animated discussion. It ended with a short, sharp increase in voices and then a loud splash and nothing for a minute or two before he heard two voices again, but this time one of the voices was different. He knew now, the additional voice belonged to Barry after being woken by Eric.

The verdict was predictable enough, accidental death, and Derek wouldn’t want it any other way. There remained a niggling doubt about the part played by the animosity between Eric and Danny, but he didn’t want these misgivings appearing in the coroner’s report or in the press in case his fear was groundless. He couldn’t believe Eric would go as far as to shove Danny overboard, but did anyone know how he would react in the heat of the moment, or if he felt threatened? If his misgivings didn’t disappear, it would be something he would raise with Eric at a later date in private.

Following the delivery of the Coroner’s verdict, they walked outside into the warm Dorset sunshine. As he waited for the others, he could see Danny’s distraught mother being led to a car by her daughter. He wanted to tell her how much he’d liked Danny and what a burgeoning talent he was, but the words wouldn’t come out when he first met her and now didn’t seem like the best time.

They left the cars they used to travel down to Dorset in the Council car park and walked into town. They came across a smart-looking pub but ignored it as Eric could not be trusted not to get rat-arsed and speak ill of the dead, leading them all into a fight. Instead, they headed for Luigi’s, a small family-run Italian restaurant where the four remaining Crows plus manager Frannie Copeland sat down at a table.

Frannie, uncharacteristically taciturn throughout the morning’s unhappy proceedings, rallied when a glass of brandy appeared in front of him.

‘Here’s to Danny,’ he said holding up his glass. ‘A fine keyboard player, now immortalised on vinyl.’

‘To Danny,’ they all said.

He didn’t trust many things coming out of Frannie Copeland’s mouth, but yes, Danny would be remembered for as long as people listened to their music. A fitting memorial for a fine young man and heaps better than a cold tombstone.

‘I’ve never attended an inquest until today,’ Frannie said. ‘I’ve been to plenty of court cases, all civil ones for contract disputes, that kind of thing, but never an inquest.’

‘What sorts of cases,’ Derek asked. ‘Were you being sued or were you suing?’

It sounded an innocent enough question and Frannie answered it as such, but in his mind it was anything but. Like many bands starting out, they’d signed the agreement put in front of them just to get a manager, play a gig and get a recording contract. They didn’t read the fine print, and now older, wiser and generating much more money, Derek, was convinced Frannie was ripping them off.

He knew from information supplied to him by the record company what their weekly and monthly sales were, and he knew the price of an album in the shops before tax. If he deducted the cut Frannie and the record company took from the gross profit, they should be left with way more than they were getting now. In fact, the amount of money given to Derek to pay roadies, equipment hire, the guys in the band and all the rest, hadn’t increased much over last year, and yet copies of the new album were flying off the shelves.

The food arrived, breaking Derek’s morose chain of thought. He realised it would be the first thing he’d eaten all day as he hadn’t felt like food first thing this morning, and the large plate of Tagliatelle sitting in front of him was just what he needed, accompanied by a couple of glasses of the house Chianti. The board outside promised the best Italian food in Dorchester, and true to their word, it tasted like it. It was a shame the band weren’t as big in Italy as they were in Germany, as he could take or leave Schnitzels, Sauerbraten and Bratwurst, but he couldn’t get enough pasta and pizza.

With a couple of glasses of wine inside him, Eric could usually be relied upon to turn his calm exterior into his argumentative but nevertheless sociable self, but not today, as a black mood had taken over. He barely touched his food. The other guys were more stoic, and if asked to play a gig tomorrow, their presence would be assured.

Fifteen minutes later, Frannie put down his knife and fork and lit a cigar. Everyone had finished eating except Pete, who was often last, but it didn’t excuse the ignorant sod for his lack of manners.

‘Let me tell you first about my meeting with the record company a couple of days ago,’ Frannie said in between puffs, ‘and then about some plans I’m making for the future. You should know, the suits at the record company are well pleased with
Black Saturday
as it’s charted in the UK, Germany, Japan and they think soon in the U.S.’

Barry nudged Eric beside him. ‘Did you hear that Eric? Next stop an American tour.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ he replied.

‘I thought you always wanted to go there?’

‘I do, but not today, ok?’ He pushed his chair away and headed towards the toilets.

Undaunted, Frannie continued. ‘They say they’ll finance you for the next two albums but if the next one’s a flop, you can forget I told you this, ha, ha.’

A similar comment would normally raise a good laugh if they were drunk or high after a concert, but today it fell flat.

‘Now, if you can produce another cracker like
Black Saturday
and we all hope you do, it doesn’t matter what they think. You’ll be telling them what to do, as they’ll be afraid of losing you to someone else.’

They batted the subject around for a few minutes, everyone starting to feel more upbeat except Derek. Eric came back from the toilet and slumped down in the seat like an overgrown adolescent. His nose looked devoid of the white tell-tale marks, but it was obvious he had done a line in the loo as his eyes were glazed and red. When did this guy ever stop? On this day of all days, Derek expected a bit more respect for Danny.

‘Now for the tours,’ Frannie continued, under a pall of cigar smoke, ‘we’re not talking about the US yet, but once this tour is over, I know a promoter who wants you guys to headline a tour right across Europe, and wait for it, over to Australia and New Zealand.’

Barry, Pete and an invigorated Eric were all for it, but Derek could foresee insurmountable problems. Firstly, what to do about Danny? The obvious course of action, and one Frannie would be exhorting him to do in a week or so, was to hire a straight replacement.

The question remained, would the new guy be as creative as Danny and would he collaborate with Derek on song writing? As an alternative, they could do without a keyboard player and return to the old days as a guitar band, with Eric playing solos that Danny used to play on his keyboard. No way did he want to do that, as the keyboard gave them a different sound and the first option, filled him with dread.

Problem two, was what to do about Frannie. Sure, he was working hard, lining them up with tours and he had a good relationship with record company bosses, but Derek had no illusions he would drop them like a stone if sales fell or Eric went on a long-term bender. All this would perhaps be workable if the thieving bastard wasn’t robbing them left, right and centre. He had proof now, but when he’d taken it to a lawyer, he was told Frannie was doing nothing wrong. It was immoral, greedy and self-serving, yes, but illegal? No.

Last but not least, what could be done with the once mercurial Eric Hannah, now the volatile and unpredictable Eric Hannah? No one, not even Eric, knew what sort of mood he would wake up with in the morning. He took out his ire for a shitty upbringing, an absent father and an alcoholic mother, on Danny, suggesting to all it was about the music, but Derek, knew different. With no Danny, who would his target be, himself or Barry? It wouldn’t be Pete as he was a difficult man to provoke, and once roused, he would get a broken nose for his trouble.

‘You’re not saying much Derek,’ Frannie said, after giving him a nudge. ‘It’s not like you.’

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said.’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘It sounds great, but you’re going to have to do it without me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I quit.’

‘You can’t fucking quit,’ Eric said, ‘not now, not when we seem to be moving into the big time.’

‘I’m finished with it. Danny’s death made my mind up for me. I couldn’t carry on even if I wanted to.’

He pushed back his seat, stood and put on his jacket. ‘See you around.’

He walked out of the restaurant and retraced his steps towards County Hall where he’d left his car. He’d given Frannie a lift down to Dorchester but he would find room in Barry’s car if he could stand some of the jazz music he listened to, or if he couldn’t, he could always take a taxi. It would cost him the best part of £200 but the voracious bastard could afford it, he’d made enough out of them.

He was walking along High West Street when a hand pulled him back. He turned to find an out of breath Eric Hannah standing there.

‘What the fuck do think you’re playing at, Derek?’ he said, his eyes wide and wild but not all from his recent exertions.

‘What do you mean? I told you in the restaurant, I’m getting out. I’ve had enough; enough of Frannie, enough of your drug taking, and enough of dead musicians and bloody inquests.’

‘The fuck you are. We’re on the verge of doing something great and you wanna fuck it up. I’ll stop doing the drugs, honest I will.’

‘I’ve heard it all a thousand times before. Moses could stop the Red Sea, but you can’t stop taking dope. You’re too weak.’

‘You fucking bastard, you only think of yourself.’

Derek continued to walk away but a hand hauled him back. He turned and a fist came flying towards him. He jerked his head to the side and it bounced off his cheekbone. Without hesitation, he punched Eric straight in the face and followed up with a punch in the gut. He collapsed in a heap on the dirty pavement.

‘Don’t do this to me, Derek,’ he said sobbing, tears mingling with blood on his face. ‘The band is all I’ve got.’

‘You can start another band, you don’t need me.’