Chapter 53
‘Right, chaps, let’s see what kind of noise you make,’ grinned Freddy as Todd, Derek and Ian settled themselves in the studio. ‘Let’s start off with “Way Across the River”. The riffs are easy on rusty hands. Okay, whenever you’re ready.’
Todd gave the signal and they started playing.
Brad stood by the door to the studio, his arms folded. ‘Blimey, takes you back, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, those were the good old days,’ agreed Freddy.
‘Dunno about that – can’t remember much about them,’ smiled Brad. ‘I’ve got a photographer coming at three thirty to take some shots.’
‘Fine.’
‘The media interest is big, Freddy. I’ve given the go-ahead for the compilation CD and LP to be released a week after the concert.’
The telephone rang. Brad moved to the recording console and picked it up. ‘Brad here. What? Okay, Melody, I’ll be up immediately.’ He put the telephone down. ‘Gotta go and check out a weirdo who keeps peering into reception. Back in a second.’
Brad took the stairs two at a time.
‘There he is.’ Melody pointed to the glass doors. ‘He’s been there for a good twenty minutes. I don’t like the look of him.’
Brad stared at the man standing on the other side of the glass doors. He was tall and well built, dressed in a scruffy pair of jeans with a guitar slung over his shoulder. His dark hair was matted and his beard was long and untamed.
‘Probably looking for a deal. He’ll start playing that ancient guitar the minute I approach him.’
Brad walked towards the front door and pushed it open.
‘Can I help you, mate?’ The man turned towards him slowly, his eyes a piercing blue in his haggard face. ‘I said, can I help you?’
‘I don’t know, can you?’
‘Look, mate, you’re scaring our girls loitering around out here. If you have no business here, shove off before I call the police.’
‘Brad?’
‘Yes?’
The man smiled lazily. ‘You really don’t recognise me, do you?’
‘No, I . . .’ Brad studied him again. ‘No . . . I . . . Bugger me. Well, bugger me!’
The two receptionists watched in astonishment as their boss threw his arms around the man outside.
‘Okay, let’s have a bash at “Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?”,’ said Freddy. ‘You take Con’s melody line for now, Todd. You’ll probably share it with Paul on the night.’
The three started playing the intro.
‘I’ve travelled far, and still can’t find, the woman that I left behind me, I . . .’ Todd’s voice petered out as a familiar, slightly husky voice took over.
‘I’ve searched all corners of the land, over sea and shore and . . . oh, can someone tell me where she’s gone?’
Everyone in the studio turned their heads towards the door.
And watched him as he sang to the end of the verse.
He stopped, and there was silence in the studio.
‘Will no one say they’re glad to see me?’ he asked.
Todd stood up slowly and walked across to him. He held out his hand.
‘Hello, Con, welcome home.’
The press photographer who arrived twenty minutes later thought all his Christmases had come at once. There was Con Daly, back from the dead, chatting casually to his old colleagues.
‘This’ll make the front page of all the tabloids tomorrow,’ he assured Brad.
‘Good. See that it does. It can only help with the publicity for the concert.’
Con yawned. ‘Sorry. I’m knackered.’
‘We’ll book you a suite at the Ritz, shall we, Con?’ Freddy suggested. ‘You can chill out and recover for a couple of days. And we’ll try and keep the press out of your hair for a while.’
‘Don’t be silly. Con can come and stay at my house, meet the wife and kids,’ said Ian.
‘Not sensible, Ian. You’d have to build a six-foot-high wall round the outside to stop the media getting to Con,’ Brad put in.
‘Come with me, Con. My place is secure,’ Todd said gently.
Con looked at him. ‘Thanks, Todd. That would be grand.’
They didn’t talk much on the drive home. Con stared out of the window at the busy London streets and Todd listened to the news.
‘And a story just in: Con Daly, lead singer of the hugely successful sixties rock band The Fishermen, walked into the offices of his old record company, Metropolitan, earlier today. The Fishermen are re-forming to play at the Music for Life concert at Wembley in a week’s time.
The excitement surrounding the Irishman’s return can only boost interest in the concert, at which The Fishermen will be the star act. ’
Todd switched the radio off and looked across at Con. ‘I’ll do all I can to keep them at bay.’
Con nodded. ‘Thanks, Todd.’
Over the next forty-eight hours, Con did no more than eat and sleep. Todd found him curled up on the floor next to the double bed when he took him in breakfast, but he made no comment.
The press camped outside night and day, bringing ladders and even hiring a crane to try to get a shot of the prodigal son returned.
On the third day, as Todd sat in his top-floor attic office, a freshly showered and shaven Con appeared at the door.
‘Todd, forgive me.’
He turned round. ‘What for?’
‘I behaved like a prat, an eejit and an arsehole all those years ago. The apology is seventeen years too late, but I’ve been wanting to make it anyway.’ Todd nodded. ‘For what it’s worth, and I’m not sure it’s worth a lot, nothing ever happened between Lulu and me. She made most of it up.’
‘Yeah. I began to figure that out when her flings with all those Hollywood A-listers ended in “total disaster” on the front pages of the tabloids.’ Todd looked genuinely pained. ‘Anyway, it’s water under the bridge. Lulu always was flighty.’
‘Thanks.’ Con’s eyes twinkled.
‘And let me say how sorry I am about . . . what happened. I still can’t believe she’s not here.’
‘I know.’
‘I came round to Hampstead after the trial to see you. The house was shut up so I presumed you’d gone away for some time by yourself. I assumed you’d be back. Why did you stay away so long?’
Con perched on the edge of Todd’s desk. He picked up an elastic band and stretched it between his fingers.
‘Every time I thought of coming back, I couldn’t face it.
Sorcha died protecting me from Helen’s bullets.
Losing her was bad enough, but then to hear she was expecting our child .
. . Our baby died with her.’ Con looked at Todd, his eyes wet with tears.
‘I felt responsible for both their deaths. I still do.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Here, there, everywhere. At first I had to keep on the move. Travel numbs the mind. Besides which, people recognised me in those days. Eventually I went home.’
‘I don’t think your own mother would recognise you today.’
‘I realised that when Brad threatened me with the police outside Metropolitan if I didn’t move along,’ Con smiled.
‘Why choose now to come back?’
‘I’d been thinking about it for some time. I started to realise I was never going to escape the memories, so I might as well come back and face them. And I’d read about the concert in a newspaper. I liked the thought of our music having a point, doing some good. It was the spur I needed.’
‘Did you leave a life behind?’
He shrugged. ‘No. Life seems to be about losing the ones you love. Anyway, enough of this melancholy. It’s music I’ve come home to play. When do we get together with the boys for a run-through?’
Helen stared at the photograph of Con Daly in the newspaper, her heart beating hard against her chest.
They had both gone away seventeen years ago and returned within the same week.
Would Con see her? No, he blamed her for Sorcha’s death.
She heard the tip of the letter box and went to the hall to collect her post.
There was one white envelope, neatly addressed. She tore it open and saw ex-DI Garratt’s name at the bottom of the notepaper. She was surprised and gratified he’d kept his word and written to her. Moving to the dining table, Helen sat down and unfolded the contents.
Dear Miss McCarthy,
Enclosed is a copy of my notes taken the night Mrs Daly died. You can see for yourself that she implicated you.
Yours faithfully, T. Garratt
There was a postscript, too.
The name Garratt mentioned within that interested her.
Helen stared out of the window and shook her head.
‘So that’s who it was . . . And I never knew.’
She put the letter to one side and unfolded the page on which were written the last words that Sorcha had spoken.
‘I can’t . . . remem— the name . . . Yes, Helen . . . ask Helen . . . an old friend . . .’
She took a pen and wrote down the name Inspector Garratt had mentioned in the PS several times. Once more, she studied the words Sorcha had spoken.
Then she stared into space for a long, long time.
She now knew who had murdered Sorcha Daly.
But the question was, why?