“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
“He could have, but he didn’t. Our forensics blokes were good. They also found traces of white fiber 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, 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
“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
“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.”
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.
