Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online

“If you were to ask me to take a guess,” he continued, “I’d say you’d been in one of Her Majesty’s rent-free boardin’ houses.”
    â€œYeah, I was inside,” Johnson admitted. “What of it?”
    â€œGBH?” Woodend asked.
    â€œLook, I got into a fight,” Johnson said. “I didn’t start it, but the old fool of a judge wouldn’t believe that, so while the other feller got off scot-free, I served eighteen months.”
    â€œSo when Mrs Pollard was lookin’ for a nice, diplomatic lad to stand on the door, you must have seemed like a gift from heaven,” Woodend mused. “It’s been nice talkin’ to you, Mr . . .?”
    â€œRick Johnson.”
    â€œ. . . Mr Johnson, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go inside now.”
    â€œWould it really matter if I did mind?” Johnson asked, stepping aside.
    â€œProbably not,” Woodend told him. “But I like to get the co-operation of the general public whenever possible.”
    He stepped through the doorway, and began to descend the steep stairs into the Cellar Club. Even at street level, the noise of the music was almost deafening, but by the time he had reached the cellar floor he felt as if his eardrums were about to explode. He began to notice the heat, too, and to regret the fact that he was wearing his heavy sports jacket.
    There was a rickety table at the bottom of the stairs, and the old man sitting at it had a wooden bowl of coins in front of him. Woodend produced his warrant card again.
    â€œWe’ve been expectin’ you,” the old man said, “only I’d have thought you’d have come at a quieter time.”
    â€œThe murder doesn’t seem to have done business any harm,” Woodend bawled over the noise of the music.
    â€œWhere else would they go at dinnertime if they didn’t come here?” the old man shouted back.
    â€œGot a register of guests, have you?”
    The old man slid a cardboard ledger across to him. Woodend scanned the list of signatures. ‘Les Bee-Anne’, ‘Michael Mouse’, ‘Elvis Presley’ . . .
    â€œYou’re not too particular who you let in, are you?” he asked.
    â€œThey’re only kids,” the old man answered. “There’s no harm in any of ’em.”
    Maybe not, Woodend thought. Then again, maybe one of the people in the club right at that moment was a cold-blooded killer.
    â€œHow the hell do you manage to sit through this din for hours at a stretch?” he shouted.
    The old man grinned. “I turn my deaf-aid off, don’t I?”
    Woodend made his way to the back of the tunnel. On the tiny stage were three young guitarists and a drummer, just as there had been at the same time a couple of days earlier. But this was not the Seagulls. According to the crayoned sign which had been hanging outside the club, this particular bunch called themselves Mickey Finn and the Knockouts.
    A few of the girls standing in the far tunnel had noticed him, and were nudging each other, pointing to him and giggling. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed. He didn’t consider himself old – he was still a few months off fifty – but to them he must have seemed like a dinosaur.
    He stripped off his jacket, loosened his tie, and wished he hadn’t put on his string vest that morning. Suddenly aware of the fact that his mouth was parched, he made his way over to the small snack bar.
    â€œCould I have a cup of tea, please?” he mouthed at the young girl behind the counter.
    The girl gave him an odd look – but no odder than the others he’d been getting – then shrugged and went over to the large enamel teapot which was resting on a portable hotplate.
    Woodend turned around again to face the stage. The singer – presumably Mickey Finn himself – was lamenting the fact that his baby had left him and never said a word. Woodend