Chapter 52
‘Todd, come in and make yourself comfortable.’
‘Thanks, Freddy.’ Todd sat down in a large armchair.
Freddy had spared no expense for this get-together, hiring a comfortable suite at the Savoy.
Todd surveyed the ageing Freddy, in his late fifties and now completely bald, but still a noise in the music business.
He’d recently signed a young duo from the East End and secured them a deal with Todd’s new record label.
He wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of the frothy music they played but saw the huge commercial potential, just as Freddy had promised.
‘Are the other two coming along?’ Todd checked his watch as Freddy opened a bottle of champagne.
‘Yes. Are you on or off the booze?’
‘One glass of the fizzy stuff shouldn’t hurt, but I’m going to have to make it snappy. I’ve a meeting at half past four.’
Freddy handed Todd a glass. ‘Sure. We should be done by then.’
The door opened and in walked Ian. ‘Hi, chaps, how are we all?’
‘Fine.’ Without asking, Freddy handed Ian a glass of mineral water as he sat down opposite Todd.
‘If we do play this gig, I hope we can find you something trendier than a cardigan and a pair of cords,’ chuckled Freddy, surveying Ian.
‘You want me back in my kaftan, do you?’ Ian smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ll have time to grow my hair.’
‘You’re the only one of us who the media are bound to comment looks better than he did seventeen years ago,’ replied Todd.
‘Well now, that’s what the love of a good woman, no meat and a system free from toxins can do for you, Todd.’
‘Spare me before I puke, Ian.’
They both looked up as Derek entered the room.
‘Hi, Derek.’
All three men resisted the temptation to stare at the glowing yellow halo on top of his head.
‘Champagne, Derek?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He took the glass from Freddy and sat down in the last spare armchair.
‘Right, well, before we start discussing future plans, I’d just like to say what a pleasure it is to see you three together after all this time. I know you’ve kept in touch during the years but it’s nice to see, even after the collapse of the band, that there’s no animosity between us.’
‘There never was between us three,’ murmured Todd.
‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, I presume from the chats I’ve had with you over the telephone that you’re all prepared to perform at the concert.’
‘Yep.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It’s a wonderful cause.’
‘Fine. So your decision isn’t dependent on whether or not Mr Daly decides to respond to pleas for his return?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Todd. ‘I mean, we’re not re-forming or anything. This is just a one-off to help a good cause.’
‘Yeah. In some ways it’d be better if he wasn’t found. How would you feel about seeing him again, Todd?’ asked Ian.
‘Rest assured, I’d cope.’ Todd was tight-lipped.
‘Well, as the concert is two weeks away and there’s not been a sniff of Con reported, I think it’s highly unlikely we will be seeing him again.
So we must assume he’s not coming and make contingency plans.
Because of the excitement that’s been generated by your possible re-formation, the organisers want you on last to keep the audience watching all the way through.
I thought you could start off with “Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?
”. You shared the melody line with Con on that one anyway, Todd.
Then lead into “She Loves You Truly”. I was wondering whether at that point we should invite Elton or Rod to join you, plug the Con gap a little, sing an old favourite.
A lot of bands are joining forces. Makes the evening more interesting. ’
Todd shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said.
‘The organisers have suggested the concert should close with Con’s last love song.’
‘“Losing You”?’ Todd asked.
Freddy nodded. ‘It’s universally known and they hope its poignancy might stir a few more hands to reach deeper into their pockets. All the performers will join you on stage to sing it, hold hands, you know the kind of thing I’m talking about.’
‘What about this single that you mentioned?’ asked Derek.
‘Yeah, they want someone to compose a new song that can be recorded by all the stars taking part, the proceeds obviously going to the charity. Brad at Metropolitan has offered studio time, the factory will press it onto vinyl for free and there’s a commitment from most of the stars to record their one or two lines. ’
‘So it wouldn’t just be The Fishermen then?’
‘No, Derek. You got the wrong end of the stick there, old chap. With one vital member of the band AWOL, it would be impossible to think of putting out a single,’ said Freddy.
‘I see.’
‘So, are we agreed we work on the premise I’ve just described?’
Todd and Ian nodded. Derek studied his hands.
‘I think you should leave maybe two or three days’ space in your diaries for a get-together.
I’m sure you’re all pretty rusty and even though it’s for charity, we want to have some semblance of professionalism.
I’ll book a studio at Metropolitan to rehearse and try and get whomever we decide on to join the band to come along for a run-through. ’
‘Sounds fine to me,’ said Todd.
‘Oh, one last thing. Brad is toying with the idea of issuing a greatest hits LP just around the time of the concert. It may seem mercenary but if you gentlemen are prepared to do your bit to save the starving, then Brad sees no reason not to cash in on any renewed wave of interest in The Fishermen. Anyone got any objections?’
Derek’s face brightened considerably. ‘No, not at all.’
‘Personally, I think it’s morally wrong to cash in on what has up to now seemed a completely selfless idea,’ commented Ian.
‘Don’t be pious, Ian, it doesn’t become you,’ said Todd.
‘Well, there’s not a lot you can do. Metropolitan can release any of your old songs any time they want.
It can only be to your financial benefit anyway.
Give the royalties away to Africa if it salves your conscience.
Okay, so that’s about it, other than announcing the news to the media of course.
We’ll have to arrange a press conference for some time in the next few days, but I’ll be in touch with you all as to the date and time of that.
’ Freddy smiled. ‘I think it’ll be fun for you to flex your musical muscles again. ’
Todd stood up. ‘I’m looking forward to dusting down that old guitar. I gotta run. See you chaps soon.’
‘And me,’ said Ian. ‘Virginia is waiting downstairs. We’re taking the kids to the Trocadero for some spaghetti.’
‘Cheers, gentlemen,’ said Freddy as Ian and Todd left the suite.
‘I must be going too,’ Derek said feebly.
‘How’s business, Derek?’ asked Freddy.
‘Fine, just fine.’ He stood up. ‘Bye then, Freddy.’
Freddy watched him as he left. By chance he’d seen an article chronicling Morgan Electronics’ demise in the Financial Times. From every pore in his body, Derek exuded desperation.
It was gone four in the morning. Helen was hunched over her desk, smoking her fifteenth cigarette since midnight, a habit she’d started in prison.
She was certain of only one thing. Sorcha had been murdered by mistake, protecting the man she loved. It was Con the gunman had been after.
The list in front of her was the same as it had been for seventeen years: suspects who would have wanted to harm Con, and were clever enough to set her up too.
The fact that Sorcha had obviously known the murderer had been a key point in the prosecution’s evidence. That at least narrowed the list down.
Helen studied the names once more.
Derek Longthorne. He’d certainly hated Con at the time, and Helen had always thought him odd. She did not cross his name off the list.
Todd. He’d had every reason to want Con dead, after being publicly cuckolded. She left his name too.
Lulu. Was this a crime of passion? She left the star’s name alone.
Ian. Had he discovered Con wanted him out of the band and decided to gun him down in a drug-crazed fit of rage?
Helen’s hand hovered over Ian’s name. After what had happened to her, anything was possible, but she doubted he had had enough brain cells back then to plan a crime of this complexity. Still . . .
Brad. She crossed his name off. He’d been incarcerated in his drying-out clinic on that Friday night.
Freddy. The only reason she could come up with was that he knew The Fishermen were falling apart. A murder of one of the band’s members would have boosted sales. He was clever enough to have planned it and he had access to the building but . . .
Helen sighed. None of it made sense. It never had.
If only she could talk to Con and interrogate him about what Sorcha had actually said just before she died. It was his statement alongside DI Garratt’s that had persuaded the jury to convict her.
Con was God knows where.
Her only hope was that Garratt – probably retired by now – would see her.
She’d looked up the address in the telephone book and tried the number earlier in the evening.
The sound of his voice sent shudders down her spine but at least she knew he was still alive.
Helen hadn’t said anything – just hung up.
She had his address. Tomorrow, after she had visited the library, she would visit him.
Helen pressed the button that ran her through the microfiche to 19 September 1969.
The shooting had of course been front-page news in all of the papers.
There was a photograph of Con coming out of the hospital after Sorcha had died.
His face betrayed such terrible devastation she could hardly bear to look at it.
On the following page, there was a promotional shot of The Fishermen taken a few weeks before the shooting. Helen slid back again to the picture of Con. Then back to The Fishermen. There was something her brain was registering but not computing.
She looked at both photos again. Finally, she realised what it was.