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

tried to tune his mind into the song. It wasn’t anything like jazz, he decided. There was none the subtlety of a King Oliver, or the professional musicianship of a Jack Teagarten. Yet it had
something
– there was a raw energy and enthusiasm to the music which was not to be lightly dismissed.
    â€œYer tea!” shouted a thin voice just behind him. “That’ll be fourpence ha’penny, please.”
    Woodend paid the money and took a sip of his tea. It was hot and wet – but that was all that could be said for it. On stage, the group reached the end of the number, and the audience applauded.
    â€œMickey an’ the fellers will be back in a few minutes,” the DJ said over the tannoy. “In the meantime, let’s listen to a bit of good old rock’n’roll from Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. It’s a little song they had a hit with a while back, an’ it’s called, ‘Shakin’ All Over’.”
    The record was a little less noisy than the live group had been, and Woodend was now fairly sure that the buzzing in his ears would go away eventually. He kept his eyes on the stage. The drummer and the two guitarists ducked under an archway at the side and disappeared from sight, but the lead singer, a tall, slim boy with blond hair which spilled well over his collar, climbed down the steps and was heading through the tunnel towards the snack bar.
    The boy looked at him at him with the same surprise as everyone else in the club had. “Bit old for this, aren’t you, grandad?” he said.
    Well, at least he didn’t ask me if I was expectin’ to see a stripper, Woodend thought.
    â€œI suppose I am a bit old for it,” he admitted, “but I liked your set, anyway. Would you like a drink?”
    Suspicion flared up in the boy’s eyes. “You’re not a poof out on pick-up, are you?” he demanded.
    â€œNo,” Woodend said, pulling out his warrant card for the third time. “I’m a bobby.”
    The boy did not examine the card closely, as Rick Johnson had done. Instead he simply said, “You’re here lookin’ for Eddie Barnes’s murderer, are you?”
    â€œThat’s right, I am,” Woodend agreed. “That drink’s still on offer if you want it.”
    â€œI’ll have a Coke,” the boy said.
    A Coke! Woodend thought. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned lemonade? Was there suddenly something wrong with dandelion and burdock?
    â€œYou must be Mickey Finn,” he said, laying some coins on the counter. “Is that your real name?”
    â€œI was christened Michael Finn,” the boy said. “Most of the lads I knock around with call me Mike.”
    â€œDid you know Eddie Barnes well, Mike?”
    Finn shrugged. “Depends what you mean by well. He wasn’t a close wacker of mine, if that’s what you’re askin’, but I did know him. Most of the lads who are in groups know each other. We’re always performin’ in the same places, you see. We help each other out. We cadge lifts in each other’s vans. An’ we lend each other guitarists or drummers when the feller who’s supposed to be playin’ has got to work late, or has been kept in by his dad.”
    Woodend forced himself to suppress a smile. Kept in by their dads! You saw these big lads strutting about on the stage and you got the illusion they were grown up. But they weren’t. Come Friday night, they’d be handing their pay packets over to their mums and getting pocket money back in return. And as for having their own keys to the front door – well, that would have to wait until they turned twenty-one!
    â€œDid Eddie Barnes ever play with the Knockouts?” Woodend asked the young singer.
    â€œA couple of times.”
    â€œAn’ was he any good?”
    â€œNot as good as our regular lead guitarist,” Finn said proprietarily, and this time Woodend did