28. ‘Hercules’ Poirot Confronts Junior Crock

At this point we should return to the theft at Star Materials.

Deadlines approaching, Gorran was desperate. As we know, the rock guru had debts and promises to keep. Turbo had blown their PA while playing second support to Hawkwind at Aylesbury Friars’: a roadie had his hair singed off and tried to sue the group for compensation.

Gorran Kept up the day job and earnt fees as an in-demand DJ, but he still had to cover living expenses. He was a music impresario, not a charity. Marty didn’t want to mix up Star Materials finances with his own. Roy advised him strongly against that dangerous idea. It was a tricky case and Marty had to solve it. He couldn’t let Star Materials go bankrupt before getting his first number one. And Turbo wanted a new Bedford tour van.

One of Troy Crock’s duties, as CEO of Crock Security Group, had been to expertly install our strong box. Troy definitely had strength to tease open a mid-price security device. In the past Troy had been a local celebrity himself, as a multiple ‘Iron Man’ champion. He’d dragged a fire engine down Nulton high street, live on regional TV, by a wire between his teeth. He was an ex-boxer and power lifter, even if his dad was gutted that he never made the squad at Nulton Athletic. Despite taking out five ambitious strikers in a youth trial, it still hadn’t impressed the scout. Troy Boy had been too slow to drop his team mates. As a teenager he’d been a Judo brown belt; kick-boxed, cage fought, bare-knuckled, armed robbed, everything. For half a season he was captain of Nulton Falcons American Football Team, until he took a life-time ban.

After giving up an active role in sports Troy took on a few of his dad’s pubs. He was offered a managerial position shortly after Graham Gross got woken up by a shotgun, albeit briefly. Troy developed a portfolio that included entertainment, sports and gambling enterprises; a sports centre, a sports shop and some porn shops.

‘No bullshit, you don’t have to be Hercules Poirot to work out who’s behind this blinkin crime,’ Gorran argued.

There was some circumstantial evidence. Steve Fenton had noticed Crock hanging about in the corridor outside the office. The Screamers’ drummer, Brad Donut, had seen Troy with his hand on the door knob.

‘So this guy must have been round six feet tall. Chubby, right? Shaved scalp? Pouty little mouth? Flat head? Cross eyes?’ Brad recounted.

‘Sounds just like him,’ I said.

‘Fair play, what would Troy Boy want with our measly bloomin five hundred quid? Straight up, he puts more’n that on his dad’s fucking nag. He was blinkin bragging how he put a grand each-way on that Flying Boot at Towcester last week. The horse came in third out of a field of bloomin four and he didn’t even bother to cash the fucking ticket.’

‘Was it our money he was betting?’

‘Gord elp us,’ Gorran said, reacting with a wince.

We didn’t have any other suspects in our ID parade. So what were we going to do about it? We went to have a few private words with Troy at his studios: Steve, Marty and me went along that day.

Squeezed into a new red tracksuit Crock Junior was wedged behind an enormous office desk - probably half a tree from the Amazon. He had a problem with his nose tubes that complicated his breathing, like a bull that had got its dick stuck in a gate.

‘Really fuckin sorry to ear abart yer feft,’ he told us, already bored.

Troy made a big show of doing his accounts books. Proud of his writing prowess, he ran down his daily bookings with a gold fountain pen, inscribed with his name on the cap. He’d an annoying habit of licking a finger and thumb before turning pages in a big ledger, checking the month’s bookings at Crock Sound Studios.

‘Right, definitely Troy mate, we appreciate you’re bloomin busy at the moment, but we need some of your blinkin ‘elp. Fair play, help us get to the bottom of all this bloomin funny stuff down in the basement,’ Marty urged, with a squint and wince.

‘You musta been gutted, Marty. I woo’n’t criticise, if you went art and wasted those feevin fuckers,’ he argued. The eyes darted up to us for a moment, before returning to the figures. ‘Nah, nah, that’s a lotta juice to you lads.’

‘That’s why we want it back,’ Fenton informed him. As ever he operated straight as a telegraph pole. ‘All of it.’

Troy turned up the piggy eyes with a glint of menace. ‘You lads wunt me to get art my own fuckin wallet and give you a fuckin loan? Or what’s this abart?’

‘Right, definitely Troy mate, we appreciate your blinkin brain power, because our Steve spotted you lurking about outside our fucking office on the very day of the bloomin break-in.’ The punk guru grinned helpfully.

‘So how’re you going to explain that?’ Fenton challenged, taking a step closer.

‘It was about the same time as the robbery,’ I clarified.

In a surprising movement, Troy began stabbing the nib of his pen through the air towards us. ‘Nah, nah, you lads! You wanna be fuckin careful... chuckin arand fuckin accoosations,’ he warned. Colouring, enraged, he brushed the surface of his buzz cut. ‘You wanna show some respec’ boys. No justice without fuckin proofs.’

Marty continued to grin reassuringly if painfully. ‘No bullshit, we just want to know if you saw anything blinkin suspicious outside our Star Materials office, while you were down there at the time, Troy mate, lurking about and checking the bloomin door.’

Jolting a crick out of his neck vertebrae, shifting his bulk in the soft spring chair, Troy’s brain blanked. ‘Nah, not a fuckin mouse, Marty. Can’t be of any assis’ance to yer. Now if you don’t fuckin mind,’ he suggested, shaking his wrist to move along his bracelet.

‘No bullshit Troy, how can you be so fucking sure about that?’ Marty burst out. Money could make him emotional sometimes.

‘I could take fuckin offence at yer attitood.’

‘What do you know?’ Steve demanded. ‘Give us the info.’ The versatile bass player came straight out with this, as if ordering a plain omelette from our favourite cafe.

‘Inside, artside, wotever... it ain’t my fuckin problem, dick ed. Fink! What’d I wunt with five hundred poxy notes yours?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘That’s never bin my game lads.’

Tossing down the expensive pen, Troy leant back heavily on his cushiony leather seat. A couple of deep creases formed at the centre of his minimal forehead.

‘You look arter your business, Marty, an I’ll look arter me own.’

‘Right, definitely Troy, we hear what you’re blinkin saying, but we can’t afford to lose our dosh to just anyone who walks by and has a blinkin look,’ Gorran said, agonising, as if picking the words from between his teeth.

The thug smoothed the front of his shiny red jacket. ‘What ya tryin to say, Marty boy?’

Marty’s tortured grimace set off premature wrinkles. ‘Straight up Troy, if we don’t recover our money my company’ll be finished quicker than James Hunt splashing through a dirty puddle. So fair play, Troy mate, we’re going to need a bit of your blinkin help, to get to the bloomin bottom of this.’

‘Why leave yer money darn there? You stupid or wot?’

‘That’s your advice?’ Fenton challenged. ‘That’s your expert opinion?’

Troy was instantly pumped with aggression. ‘That’s right, dick ed, listen up and wash yer fuckin mouth art.’ He could have shoved another bus down the road at this point. ‘My advice, take it or fuckin leave it, dick ed.’

‘Fair play, Troy mate, but you’re supposed to be chief blinkin security officer.’

‘I dunt poke abart in fings which ain’t my fuckin bus’ness. What would I want with five poxy undred? What I wunt with a lotta artist’s pens? That’s why.’

‘Right, definitely Troy, so you know those bloomin artist’s pens went missing?’

‘But it dunt belong to me!’

‘No bullshit, Troy mate, but I already blinkin know they don’t fucking belong to you,’ Marty told him, laughing dryly.

‘Ain’t nuffin to do wi me, Marty boy, none of it. Now, if you lads dunt mind,’ he suggested. He shook out his arms, tried to get the fountain pen comfortable in his grip and dabbed the nib on his short fat furry tongue. I noticed that he already had a blue blot on the tip.

‘You’ve some questions to answer,’ Fenton argued.

‘Takin the piss, dick ed? I dunt answer any moo-er yer stoopid fuckin questions.’

‘Straight up, Troy, so we’ve had your side of the blinkin story b’now, so if you hear any suspicious fucking talk from any other bloomin local criminals, no bullshit, we’d be grateful if you told us about it,’ Gorran suggested.

‘I ain’t makin no promises.’

‘Right, definitely, cos if we don’t get our money back I might have to pack up my blinkin turntables at the Hatter for good,’ Gorran warned.

Suddenly Junior Crock looked concerned. ‘Stop yer DJ-ing? Stop pullin in the punters? Nah, nah, Marty. You dunt wanna think abart it. What ud me dad say?’

‘No bullshit Troy, you’d better go and blinkin ask him, cos I’ve got this bloomin Battle of the Bands jamboree coming up. Fair play and my Turbo have a ‘Black Forest Chateau’ tour of Germany on the fucking horizon. So, straight up, Troy mate, how am I going to finance all this blinkin business now? Fair play, we’ve got Jack Squit chance of covering it all,’ Marty bemoaned.

‘I’ll let you know,’ Troy replied.

‘Not if you hear from us first,’ Steve said.

‘I ain’t dishonest, Marty boy. Dad brought me up honest. I got fuckin efics. Never do nufink under the ref’s nose. Keep in wi’ the law,’ Troy advised, taking a solemn tone. ‘Me dad’s prouda me. All right, so I wunt cut art to play fuckin football. So what about it? I’m a man’s man.’

Soon after the meeting he offered Marty some free rehearsal time for the bands. So we drove back to Crock Sound Studios - room 2 - where Snot and Billy were smoking rather than practicing, as if all their (creative) capital had grown legs, jumped out of the box and escaped by itself, as well.