It was still raining as the black London cab dropped Colleen off across the Thames at The National Archives. She dashed inside and asked for the reference section. A soft-spoken gentleman pointed her across the tall round foyer under a glass and iron domed roof.
After a good deal of searching, she found Brenda Pike’s certified copy of Entry of Death on microfiche, date April 15th, 1966. Two days after her body was found in Steve Cook’s hotel room bed. Nude, of course. The EOD listed Brenda’s home address as 2671 Ludlow Road, Church Stretton, a small town southwest of London. But what was curious was the cause of death, as determined by Doctor James Ledgwick, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons: pending investigation. That was twelve years ago. The status seemed to be lost in limbo.
The tabloids Colleen had read at the public library in SF stated Brenda Pike had died of a heroin overdose, supposedly delivered by Steve Cook. A single needle mark was found in her right elbow. She was right-handed, which suggested the shot had not been self-administered. No drugs or paraphernalia were found in Steve’s hotel room, and he had been adamant that he never used drugs. One bandmate stated that Steve never used drugs and loathed them. “He had his hands full with booze and birds.”
She recalled reading in SF that Brenda Pike’s death was listed as “Death by Misadventure.” The uncertain cause of death was a concern.
While she was there, Colleen researched articles on The Lost Chords, and former band members. One had died several years ago of an aneurysm, another lived with his aging mother in the town of Andover, and the drummer, whose nickname was Tich, now worked as a doorman in a London club. How the mighty had fallen.
Armed with a stack of ten-pence coins, Colleen left the National Archives, erected her folding umbrella against the rain, and found her way to a red London telephone kiosk.
She dialed Doctor Ledgwick’s practice on Harley Street. A very polite young woman informed her that Dr. Ledgwick was on sabbatical in Southeast Asia and was expected to return by end of year. When Colleen asked about a death certification Dr. Ledgwick had signed off over a decade before, she was told no one would be readily available to help her. She was free to leave a message that would hopefully be returned eventually. She did, giving the number of her answering service in the United States.
She scratched that item off the list.
She called directory assistance, asking for Nev Ashdown’s telephone number in Andover. Nev was the former guitarist with The Lost Chords who lived with his mother. But no telephone number was available.
She did the same for Dave Simons, aka Tich, the Chords’ drummer who worked in London as a doorman. She got a phone number this time, a North London number, and called. The number had been disconnected. She sighed, crossed that out.
That left her Brenda Pike’s family, if any, in Church Stretton. Once again, she called directory inquiries, got a number for Herbert Pike, Brenda’s father.
She called. A woman with an almost inaudible, soft voice answered. She was so excruciatingly polite Colleen couldn’t quite believe it.
Colleen explained she was doing research for an upcoming article in the New York Times and had a few questions.
“What kind of article, if I might ask?” the woman said.
“A story on the darker side of British pop culture in the sixties.”
“Oh, I see.” There was a discernible silence, broken by the clicking of the phone line as it measured out another few pence. “Well, if your article is related to Steve Cook, I’m afraid we’re not interested.”
Colleen swallowed, then responded. “I understand your reluctance, Ms. Pike, but I feel it’s so important for our readers to get all sides of the story. And I’m not sure yours has been properly told. The tendency is to focus on the superficial.”
“We are not interested,” the woman said, more firmly now. “Please do not call again.” And with that she hung up.
Colleen let out a breath, hung up, left the phone booth, lit up a cigarette. Blew smoke into the wet morning air.
Not much to go on. Except that Sir Ian was guilty of something and Brenda Pike’s cause of death was technically uncertain.
Grasping at straws.
It took a while to find a free cab but when she finally flagged one down, she asked the cabbie how she might get to Church Stretton. He drove her to Euston Railway Station.
The train to Church Stretton meant changing at Crewe, on the way to Liverpool, and then heading south. It was a three-hour journey but, if nothing else, she could catch up on her sleep, perhaps rid herself of some of the jet lag.
“Church Stretton?” Sir Ian said, leaning back in his office chair, phone to his ear. “Are you sure about that, Reggie?”
“That’s what I overheard the man at the ticket counter say. Change at Crewe. She’s on the nine-oh-five return.”
“I hope you don’t have plans for tonight, Reg. I’ll need you there at the station when Ms. Aird returns from Church Stretton. Follow her. Find out where she’s staying. Don’t lose her. Keep me posted. And be discreet.”
Reg sighed on the other end of the line.
“It’s what I pay you for, lad,” Sir Ian said. “If she goes out later, I want to know where, and who she meets.”
“Right,” Reggie said in a voice that did little to mask its annoyance.
“I might need you to give her a little warning, Reggie.”
That seemed to cheer Reg up. He liked that sort of thing. He grunted an acknowledgement.
“Good boy,” Sir Ian said, hanging up.