1
The journey up from Cork had taken too long – much too long; and the four-and-a-half-hour drive had been a hot and sticky one. Harry Hammond meant to make a note (he was always meaning to make notes) to instruct his agent never to book the Humming Bees on back-to-back Cork and Belfast gigs again. The road from Dublin up to Belfast was as good as you’d get anywhere in the UK, but the Cork to Dublin section hadn’t improved since his father had started gigging with showbands in the sixties.
Needs must however, and Hammond could only dream about the success that had so far evaded the band; success that might have brought them luxuries, such as a better level of on-the-road comfort, of course; but better hotels, too; better equipment, better vehicles, better venues, a better crew and better audiences. Better everything in fact.
There was one thing that served as an effective antidepressant on the 250-mile journey, though: the power shower in the main artist’s dressing room at the 149-year-old Ulster Hall in Bedford Street, Belfast. Since Newry, Hammond had travelled with his eyes closed, not necessarily in search of much-needed sleep, but rather day-dreaming about peeling off his clingy, sweat-drenched clothes and stepping into the best shower he had ever experienced.
When he reached the aforementioned dressing room, he resisted the temptation to dive straight into the shower, choosing instead to prolong the anticipation. He had his trusted life-long friend and roadie (a frogeyed, five-foot-four-inches-small native of Belfast called Litz) deliver to his dressing room his two guitars, his suitcase, his laptop computer and his personal deli tray from the catering rider. Then he escorted Litz back to the dressing-room door, instructing him, as usual, to stand guard outside while he locked it from the inside. In the distance he could hear the roadies as they noisily wheeled the heavy flight cases of equipment up the steep ramps and onto the stage.
The shower still foremost in Hammond’s mind he had two tasks to complete before surrendering to the water-powered massage. He checked his emails (that took at least thirty minutes) and then he helped himself to about half the deli tray (that took perhaps another dozen minutes). Then he rang Litz on his mobile and said he was just about to step into the shower but could he – no please or thank-you – wheel in the wardrobe flight case as he needed a fresh change of clothes after his shower. He also instructed Litz to remove the deli tray. He didn’t seem to mind eating decaying animals, he just didn’t like the smell of them. He advised Litz that he’d already unlocked the dressing room so he could accomplish his chores. Litz completed the said tasks in five minutes. Apparently, though, Hammond hadn’t yet taken his greatly anticipated shower, because, a few minutes later, Litz heard the dressing-room door being locked again from the inside.
Now there would be no distractions. In one of Hammond’s lyrics he’d written that anticipation was better than participation. However, for anticipation to exist there had to be participation. At long last it was time for him to partake of the bliss that was the Ulster Hall’s power shower. Taking off his clothes at this stage felt like shedding a coat of dead, tired skin. He wondered if snakes felt such elation while shedding theirs.
He placed the freshly laundered towels by the shower door. He preferred to turn on the shower only when he was already standing naked in the shower tray. He just loved that initial blast of cold water, which would invigorate him before the water heated up to relax and recharge him.
It felt every bit as glorious as he’d hoped it would. He closed his eyes, raised his head in the direction of the showerhead and let the high-speed jets of hot water dampen and then shrink his trademark bottle-blonde crown of curls away from his brow.
He raised his hands to swish back his hair in an elaborate Tony Curtis DA. The water felt denser than normal. Come to think of it, it smelled different too. It smelled – and he had a quick chuckle to himself about this – it smelled like blood. He wondered for a split second if in his excitement getting into the shower he’d cut or grazed himself somewhere. Instinctively he grabbed his privates. Simultaneously he opened his eyes as his fingers moved to search his scalp for any leaking abrasion. The moment his eyes registered the crimson density of the water, he went into shock, collapsed into the shower tray and, in doing so, inadvertently suffered a minor cut to his forehead.
In the meantime, the trusted Litz had been trying to enter his boss’s dressing room with his traditional post-shower cup of herbal tea. Unable to gain entry, despite eleven incessant minutes knocking on the door, the resourceful Litz, aided and abetted by the Ulster Hall caretaker, William Mulholland, eventually gained access. When Litz was assured his boss was OK, he and Mulholland headed off to discover the source of the crimson Nile.
In the loft space above the artist’s dressing room, they discovered Barry ‘Joey’ Simpson, the Humming Bees’ lead guitarist, his body still warm, but face down in the five-hundred-gallon water tank.
Joey’s days of running around the stage like someone possessed – while Hammond perfected his Jim Morrison static pose – had come to a very abrupt and very permanent end. Litz and Mulholland frantically tried to rescue Joey from the bloody water, only to find that he’d been garrotted by a guitar string. That same guitar string – a famous Ernie Ball ‘B’ string – was still embedded deeply in his neck.
Those were the facts as relayed to McCusker by Litz and Hammond.
2
McCusker sent DS Willie John Barr to question the remaining members of the band and crew, plus their associated girlfriends, wives and partners.
He didn’t know a lot about pop music or musicians, but he had heard quite a few stories about the legendary excesses of the catering rider, so he thought he might like to sample some of the alleged delights.
Litz, as it so happened, was also feeling a little peckish, so a few minutes later, McCusker and the Humming Bees’ chief roadie joined various other members of the crew down in the basement of the Ulster Hall, where the tour caterers had set up camp.
Considering what had just happened to one of the principals of their troop, McCusker felt they were all incredibly blasé. He figured they were either experiencing delayed shock or they were just acting the macho men they thought McCusker expected them to be.
‘Well, at long last Joey’s gone to play with Hendrix in heaven,’ the only roadie not dressed in denim began. His (apparent) daily wardrobe was a fading grey-black romper suit. He wore his long brown hair parted in the middle and flowing down to mix with his moustache-less goatee beard. He was seated at the head of the table, acting as though he’d been holding court before McCusker and Litz had arrived.
‘Aye Urry, just as long as Jimi doesn’t expect Joey to tune his guitars,’ replied the crew member sitting closest to McCusker; he was dressed head to toe in black, and had a ‘Dougal’ hairstyle.
They all fell about laughing at that one. Urry looked at McCusker, checking to see how their irreverence was going down with the detective. McCusker laughed casually even though he didn’t get the joke.
Needing no further encouragement, Urry continued. ‘Aye and as long as Jimi doesn’t leave Joey alone with any of his women they’ll get along fine.’
‘Well, from what I’ve read about Jimi and what I know about Joey, they’re both going to be pushed when it comes to standing each other a pint when they visit heaven’s version of the Crown Bar,’ Litz said, looking at McCusker, who was pretending to be preoccupied by his soup.
‘Yeah,’ Urry continued. ‘In the Humming Bees, Joey got the glory and scored the birds and Harry Hammond got to count the money and sweat a lot.’
‘Aye,’ Litz sighed loudly, ‘I’ve never known a man who sweated so much as Harry Hammond. As long as I’ve known him he’s been in need of a shower. If he hadn’t needed all those showers he’d be as big as Ed Sheeran by now.’
‘Did they get on well?’ McCusker asked, feeling he’d gone as long as he could without contributing to the conversation.
Litz, Urry and the two other crew members not so much laughed as offered their own version of a four-part, out-of-tune harmony of Frankie Howerd’s tittering.
‘Now then, Mac,’ Urry started, pulling on his fingerless gloves, ‘we should start to pack the gear away.’
‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you,’ Litz interrupted as Mac searched in vain for his gloves, ‘Harry is talking about going ahead with the gig, and the entire tour for that matter, as a … a … tribute to Joey.’
‘You’re fecking kidding?’ Urry said, spitting out the words.
‘No way,’ Mac screeched.
‘Typical,’ the remaining crew member offered meekly.
By now they were all on their feet.
‘You can definitely count me out,’ Urry said.
‘Aye, I’m with Urry,’ Mac offered in what sounded like a habitual soundbite.
‘OK, fair play to you. But before making any rash decisions, tell me this: how much wages are you owed?’ Litz asked, looking from one to the other.
‘Right lads,’ Urry said, visibly changing gear, and moving away from the table, ‘the rest of this equipment won’t get set up by itself now, will it?’
In a matter of seconds they were all gone, leaving McCusker and Litz at the table by themselves.
‘Whose band is this?’ McCusker asked.
‘It was originally formed by Joey and his brother Brian. In the beginning it was an Everly Brothers kind of act, with just the two of them. Joey’s real name is Barry, and when they were growing up, they were allowed to rehearse in their parents’ sitting room on condition they were very, very quiet,’ Litz began and dropped to a whisper for the last few words. ‘In fact they were so quiet their dad christened them the Humming Bees – you know B for Brian…’
‘…and B for Barry,’ McCusker added seamlessly.
‘And it stuck,’ Litz continued. ‘Brian was an excellent songwriter but he had no stomach for the road, so Barry changed his name to Joey and recruited Harry, a mate of mine who lived close to Barry and myself. Harry learned all of Brian’s vocal parts. They found another three musicians, kept the name and, before they knew it, they’d secured a record deal with EMI. The first album consisted entirely of Brian’s songs; it received incredible reviews and the band had a reasonable first flush of success. Then, for the second record, Harry started to write some songs, at first with Joey, but then by himself.’
‘How were his songs?’
‘Agh you know,’ Litz said with a shrug of his shoulders so effective that McCusker knew immediately. ‘However, they still had one song of Brian’s left from the first batch. It was one they’d always done live but for some reason it never made the first album. Anyway, they recorded it for the second album. It was called, “Skybird”…’
‘I know “Skybird”…’
‘Everybody knows “Skybird”,’ Litz chuckled, ‘but they don’t have to listen to it every bleedin’ day of their lives, like the crew and I do. It was a big hit and made the second album a very respectable seller. And guess who had the majority of the publishing on that one? … Harry of course. Joey had a few co-writes, so he was making a few bob, but he was spending more than he was earning living the lifestyle … Let’s just say he was rather fond of self-induced chemical imbalance. So much so that didn’t he only go and shag Brian’s girlfriend while under the influence? I don’t think the brothers have spoken since.’
‘So Joey ran out of money?’
‘Well, not before Harry persuaded him to sell his share of the band and the publishing company they’d formed for the first album.’
‘Causing resentment?’
‘It wasn’t as blatant as that,’ Litz replied, ‘I mean, not to those of us on the outside. Harry is a very cautious and considered man. He plans all his moves with great care and attention. He’d have made sure not to be seen to be taking advantage. On top of which, Joey had a hunger he was preoccupied by. He would boast about wanting to be the prettiest corpse in the graveyard. I had the feeling he always hoped that Ash or Snow Patrol would steal him away, so he could sell his soul and share their glory. But until then he seemed content to do Harry’s bidding.’
Litz went quiet for a while clicking his tongue a few times.
‘What? You remembered something else?’ McCusker asked.
‘Well, it could be something and it could be nothing, but I did get the impression there was someone sniffing around him over the last few months.’
‘As in wanting to steal him?’
‘Perhaps,’ Litz replied blankly, ‘he was just a wee bit more content than normal, so it was either another group wanting him or he was off chasing a new bit of skirt.’
‘Is Harry married?’ McCusker began, distracted as a pretty catering assistant replaced the empty soup bowls with plates of sausages and champ.
‘No,’ Litz replied quickly; then mumbled, ‘he’s very keen on Janet though.’
‘Janet?’
‘Ah yes, Janet Morrison,’ Litz continued, his eyes lighting up again. ‘We’ve both known her since we ran around together up on Cyprus Avenue as kids. She’s not really serious about Harry. She always makes sure she has a mate around when she’s with him. You know, safety in numbers and all of that?’
‘Aye, I know what you mean. So you’re still fond of her yourself then?’
Litz looked at McCusker with a mixture of hurt and respect in his eyes. ‘She’s definitely not interested in anyone involved in all this travelling around with this auld rock and roll carry-on. But, then again, I’m not going to want to be doing this for ever, now am I?’
3
DS W.J. Barr joined them at the dinner table, and Litz used this interruption to go and attend to some duty or other.
When he’d left the room, McCusker said, ‘Right DS, what information did you manage to pick up for me?’
‘Well, let’s see,’ DS Barr started, playing with his tie as he read from his notes. ‘This was a short-notice booking and hadn’t been selling too well. The promoter, a Peter Kane from City Concerts, said the band was already in decline and it was costing him dearly. He said he was paying them ten grand. The tickets were priced at £17.50 and he would need to have taken over twice the box office just to break even!’
‘But, surely, if he couldn’t at least cover his costs he shouldn’t have agreed to do the show?’
‘Well, I asked him about that and he said the agent blagged him that, with all the cruise ships now visiting the city, the band would benefit from tourists. On top of which if he hadn’t done the concert, Wonderland, another promoter in the city, would have stepped in just to have a chance to work with the act.’
‘So, he was happy to lose money to protect his relationship with an act he openly admits were on the wane?’ McCusker asked.
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘How much could he have lost?’
‘Well, that’s another funny thing, up to an hour ago, the ticket sales were under five hundred, so he reckoned he was going to lose about ten grand. Then Joey was murdered and Harry decided he still wanted the show to go ahead, “as a tribute to Joey”.’ DS Barr raised his right eyebrow as he mentioned the word ‘tribute’. ‘Now it’s all over Radio Ulster and the box-office phones are going crazy. The promoter predicts the show will be completely sold out before the doors open.’
‘So, now, instead of losing ten thousand quid, he’s going to make a few bob?’ McCusker said, polishing off his jam roly-poly and custard.
‘Yep, I reckon he’ll turn a profit of about five grand,’ the DS replied as he checked his notes.
‘Which means, altogether, he’s about fifteen thousand pounds better off?’
‘But surely you’re not suggesting it was worth killing someone for fifteen grand?’
‘Oh, I’ve met people who’d consider it for a lot less than fifteen thousand lids,’ McCusker said. ‘On top of which, those fifteen big ones could have been considerably higher if you take into consideration the entire tour. Tell me this, W.J., did you learn anything else from the promoter?’
‘Well, only that he felt Joey’s brother, Brian, was the real talent behind the band. Did you know he wrote “Skybird”?’
‘Yep, Litz filled me in on some of the band’s history. Did the promoter feel there was any bad blood between the brothers?’ McCusker said.
‘Apparently not,’ DS Barr replied. ‘He thought Harry had cultivated a battle between Joey and Brian just for the press mileage, but, according to him, Brian no longer held any grudge against his brother. In fact he was truly concerned over the helpless state Joey was in.’
‘Can we talk to Brian?’
‘Not until tomorrow morning. He’s in London.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘The promoter, he’s now Brian’s manager. He had him over in London recording his first solo album. He spoke to him on the phone and told Brian what had happened to Joey. Brian confirmed he’d be arriving at George Best City Airport tomorrow morning.’
‘How long has he been there?’
‘For the last three weeks.’
‘Are you certain he’s actually in London?’
‘I thought you’d ask me that so I got the number of the recording studios from the directory and I rang him there.’
‘Right, good man,’ McCusker grunted, visibly pleased. ‘At least that’s one name we can strike from our suspect list.’
‘And how many names would that leave us with, Inspector?’
‘Oh, we’d have to consider just about everyone else in this travelling circus. Then you’d have to add families and friends, plus the promoter. Yeah, the promoter, with his financial exposure, must be in the frame somewhere. Plus there’ll be other suspects we don’t even know about yet.’
‘Everyone except Harry Hammond of course…’
‘You reckon?’ McCusker asked, mostly with his eyebrows and a friendly smile.
‘Well, he was locked in his dressing room with Litz outside the door on guard when Joey was garrotted,’ Barr said.
McCusker didn’t reply, appearing preoccupied.
‘It’ll take us forever to check the rest of them out,’ DS Barr offered, uncharacteristically downbeat.
‘Maybe W.J., but maybe not,’ McCusker offered, wandering off in search of the caretaker, Andrew Mulholland.
4
Eventually, the promoter officially asked McCusker’s permission for the concert to go ahead. By this stage it was six-forty and the doors were about to open. Joey Simpson’s remains had been removed from the premises and the majority of the audience, (baby-sittered up, where appropriate) were already on their way to the Ulster Hall. Apart from which, McCusker was cute enough to know that there was a bit of history taking place in their midst. Musicians, crew and fans alike would discuss the riddle he was trying to solve for many, many years to come – possibly for longer than the band’s name would survive. And anyway, McCusker had been well fed and was therefore disposed to be accommodating.
DS Barr, for good measure, discreetly placed constables at the entrance and exit points, on Bedford Street, and on Linden Hall Street, to the rear of the venue.
5
As McCusker sat beside the caretaker, Mulholland, up in the back row of the balcony, he couldn’t help but be excited by the energy generated by 1,800 punters as they took their places in the auditorium. He was indeed experiencing first hand what Litz had described as the buzz of the audience. The detective could actually feel the collective energy of the people gathering around him with common cause – to celebrate the music of one of their favourite artists.
‘This is nothing,’ Mulholland said, noticing McCusker’s reaction to the buzz. ‘You should have been here on New Year’s Eve in 1959 when the Royal Showband had almost five thousand people gathered in here. That was quare craic, I’ll tell you. Aye, I remember seeing them walking down through the choir seats, which were packed with punters. The band members were mobbed before they were able to take their positions on stage. Another great night was March the fifth, 1971, when Led Zeppelin took to that there stage in front of you and performed “Stairway to Heaven” for the first time anywhere in the world. And then there was Rory Gallagher; oh boy, he was on fire every night he played here, either with Taste or with his own band when Taste split up. Rory loved this city, and this hall in particular. Aye, I’d watch him from up here and, be jinkers, I’ll tell you something, there were some nights I was convinced he was going to physically rise up in front of those giant organ pipes at the back of the stage there.’
McCusker followed the caretaker’s stare down to the stage, which was now packed with roadies, including Litz, Urry and Mac, all wandering about doing their last-minute checks and rechecks.
‘Has there ever been…’ the rest of McCusker’s question became inaudible because the house lights went down and the roar of the audience went up as Harry Hammond, with the surviving members of the Humming Bees, sauntered onto the stage.
Harry Hammond, dressed all in black, wrapped himself around the centrally positioned microphone stand. The keyboard player started to play very solemn (synthesised) organ chords. This signature introduction to what was one of their hits was enough to send the fans into another tizz. Hammond wailed like a banshee, and a few lines later the band kicked in, at which point McCusker gave up all hope of deciphering the lyrics. He wasn’t even sure why he tried; it wasn’t as if he expected to find any clues therein.
Following the third of their stadium-style rock anthems, Hammond silenced the crowd with his first direct words to them of the evening:
‘This one’s for Joey!’
The drummer immediately counted the band in to a tune even McCusker recognised: ‘Skybird’, the Humming Bees’ biggest hit.
The roof of the Ulster Hall was lifted off its proverbial rafters as the audience’s singing easily drowned out even the band’s amplified sound.
McCusker’s attention was fixed on the stage and proceedings there. Hammond was, as Litz had predicted, ‘sweating buckets’.
As the band reached the part where Joey’s trademark searing guitar solo would normally come in to take the song up another notch or two, the arrangement broke down. Obviously the Humming Bees, in their Joeyless state, hadn’t rehearsed anything to fill this gap.
But then an amazing thing happened. Just as the band’s sound was about to disintegrate into a chaotic mess, the audience with one voice started to sing, as best they could, the notes of the missing solo. The keyboard player quickly cottoned on to what was happening and a few bars later he was leading the audience through the correct melody.
The spell was broken when the caretaker screamed in the detective’s ear, ‘If you want to attend to those chores you mentioned earlier, now would be a good time, because I’ve got a pile of stuff I’m going to need to do shortly before the concert comes to an end.’
Twenty minutes later, McCusker was back in his original seat. The concert seemed to have sagged quite a bit during his absence. He went into a bit of a trance and pretty soon started to think about Barry ‘Joey’ Simpson’s demise.
If the reaction on the stage below was anything to go by, Simpson’s bandmates seemed to be doing better than OK without him.
But, McCusker wondered, who could have murdered the unfortunate musician?
His brother perhaps? Maybe Brian Simpson had just bided his time and was now taking his revenge for losing out on the Humming Bees’ publishing and royalties honeypot. That was before you even considered the ultimate betrayal by his brother and his former girlfriend as a possible motive. Perhaps Harry Hammond, who’d already legally taken ownership of the band and their income, still (emotionally) needed to be the main man on stage? But surely Harry had been locked – not to mention, guarded – in his own dressing room at the time of the murder?
Then there was the promoter on the verge of a financial bloodbath. Had he found a rather lethal way to reverse his fortunes? And then, considering all of this, was there a chance that the ever-trusted Litz, in his endeavours with street-smart Miss Morrison, had decided to eliminate the competition once and for all? Or could the aforementioned promoter, this time in his role as Brian Simpson’s manager, have decided that he could help his budding artist’s interests by derailing the Humming Bees? Could Brian also have been involved in this scenario? He did, however, appear to be conveniently away in London exactly at the time of the murder.
People with nice tidy alibis always attracted McCusker’s attention.
He tuned back into the concert again as it neared the end. In truth, the Humming Bees hadn’t managed to revisit the ecstatic heights they had achieved during the performance of ‘Skybird’. The band was clearly aware of this, because they encored with the same song.
Fifteen minutes later, the hall had emptied and McCusker was still sitting alone in the balcony, watching the crew break down the equipment. He felt there were few things in life as sad and lonely as a post-gig empty venue. In the moments prior to the doors opening, when the auditorium was also empty, there was anticipation about the magic that was about to happen. The air would be so thick you could cut it with a knife. After the performance, however, the atmosphere was heavy with the regret that it was all over; the magic moments were gone forever.
All these thoughts brought McCusker neatly back to the Humming Bees’ lyric: ‘Anticipation is always better than participation’.
Since McCusker had visited Hammond’s dressing room mid-set to have a good old look around, including spending thirty minutes on his computer, he was now thoroughly enjoying anticipating the events that were about to unfold in that same dressing room.
6
McCusker, accompanied by DS William John Barr, entered the star dressing room. They had to push their way past the liggers and well-wishers lucky enough to have secured coveted backstage passes. The death of Joey Simpson did not seem to have dampened the postgig proceedings. This troubled McCusker greatly, but he’d also have to admit to being particularly taken by the number of great-looking women present, the majority of whom seemed to be wearing skin-tight jeans tucked into knee-high stiletto boots.
Never liking to be the centre of attention, McCusker whispered something in DS Barr’s ear. The young DS showed none of his superior’s reluctance for the spotlight.
‘OK, OK, we’re going to need this room cleared immediately,’ he barked at the top of his voice. When it became clear that the thronging mass was intent on ignoring him, he stood up on a plush leather chair, stuck two fingers from each hand under his tongue and gave one of the loudest wolf-whistles McCusker had ever heard.
‘OK. Everyone apart from band, crew and promoter, out now!’ Barr ordered.
The two constables on guard at the door helped clear the room of the guest list, all of whom seemed to be working on the age-old principle that the only place worth being backstage was the place you weren’t meant to be. Pretty soon, though, McCusker had his less public room. The only person missing was chief roadie, Litz.
McCusker went over to speak to Urry and Mac discreetly, and they immediately sauntered off, Urry walking away like John Wayne making his final triumphant exit at the end of a movie.
‘OK, let’s all make ourselves comfortable while Urry and Mac find Litz,’ McCusker said.
Harry Hammond looked at his watch several times, not once clocking the time. The promoter, Peter Kane, kept staring at his mobile, checking and sending texts.
Hammond eventually asked the question that was on everyone’s mind: ‘Do you really think Litz murdered Joey?’
‘I’d say not,’ McCusker replied confidently.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Hammond said, forcing a smile. ‘I mean, I know for a fact he was outside my dressing-room door all afternoon.’
Hammond’s sweat rate still hadn’t slowed back down to normal, so he used a non-stop supply of tissues to remove the irritating film of sticky, salty moisture from his brow and neck. He immediately discarded the soiled tissue into the ever-filling wastepaper bin by the side of the fridge. McCusker quickly put a single plastic glove on his right hand, removed the latest tissue and carefully placed it in an evidence bag, which he sealed, marking up the location, date and time on the label.
‘Sorry; why did you do that?’ Hammond said, half laughing.
‘Just collecting evidence,’ McCusker replied.
An embarrassingly long minute later Urry and Mac returned, nonchalantly wheeling a flight case between them. When they’d wheeled the flight case over to beside Hammond’s wardrobe on wheels, Urry said, ‘We couldn’t find Litz anywhere, Inspector; he seems to have vanished. Very strange if you ask me. Is this the flight case you wanted?’
‘That’s the one,’ McCusker replied.
The flight case was identical to the four-foot cube already in the room, except that one had been stencilled with ‘Humming Bees, Belfast’, then, in smaller letters underneath, ‘H.H. Wardrobe’; whereas the other – the new arrival – had been stencilled ‘Humming Bees, Belfast’, then in smaller letters, ‘Band. Dressing Room’.
‘OK, we should start,’ McCusker announced. ‘Litz seems to have been unavoidably detained; perhaps he’s with Janet Morrison.’
Hammond tried to appear as if this hadn’t registered, making it even more obvious that it had.
‘Mr Harold Hammond I’m arresting you for the murder of Mr Barry Simpson. I have to advise you that anything you say…’
The remainder of McCusker’s caution was lost amid Hammond’s moans, groans, protests and the noise of the members of the band and crew all trying to talk at the same time. Nonetheless, McCusker completed the caution by the book. Urry made a fist-first dash towards Hammond, only to be thwarted in his efforts in the final second by the ever-alert DS Barr.
‘Oh, come on, Inspector,’ Hammond spluttered. ‘It couldn’t possibly have been me. I was in here in my dressing room. The door was not only locked but also guarded by Litz. On top of which, Joey was my mate, my fellow band member – my song-writing partner. What motive could I possibly have for murdering him?’
When McCusker refused to reply, Hammond, looking like he’d been saving his trump card, added, ‘What possible proof could you have?’
‘Well Mr Hammond, in the middle of all that you would appear to be asking three good questions. One, what was your motive? Two, how did you commit the murder? And three, what’s my proof that you did in fact commit said murder? So, if everyone would like to settle down again, I’ll deal with your questions in that order.’
‘I think that’s a good idea, Inspector,’ Hammond said. ‘In the meantime Urry, ring for my lawyer. I feel a very expensive lawsuit coming on.’
‘From the look in the detective’s eyes, I have a funny feeling that even Perry Mason couldn’t get you out of the shit this time,’ Urry replied.
‘Peter?’ Hammond pleaded with his promoter, who avoided eye contact with the singer.
‘Let’s start with the motive,’ McCusker announced in a louder voice. ‘I’d a wee go on your laptop during your concert, Mr. Hammond.’
‘That’s private,’ Hammond protested.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ McCusker offered dismissively. ‘I didn’t go into any of your personal files; we can have the experts do that later with the proper warrants. In the meantime I just wanted to Google a few topics. It really is incredible what you can find out there in cyberspace.
‘Anyway, I Googled “Humming Bees”, and you know what? There were over eight hundred thousand documents filed on the subject. Eventually I found a site, one of the fans’ chat rooms, which had been enjoying quite a bit of activity of late. There I discovered that one of the original two Humming Bees – Joey’s brother, Brian Simpson – is currently in a studio making his first album.’
‘That’s hardly headline news – Eddie Mcllwaine had it in his column in the Saturday Telegraph at least two months ago,’ Hammond snapped.
‘Fair point, Mr Hammond, fair point,’ McCusker continued, unfazed. ‘But the other information I uncovered in the same chat room might not be such common knowledge; and that was that Brian was forming a band to tour in support of his album and that Joey had agreed to join them. Is that right, Mr Kane?’
‘Yes,’ the promoter replied. ‘But not only that; what you should also be aware of is that the only reason Brian agreed to make an album was because Joey was going to put the band together and lead it for his brother.’
The crew looked troubled – obviously unaware of this news.
‘Mr Hammond, from what I gather from the chat rooms,’ McCusker continued flawlessly, ‘the fans seem to agree that even if you could have survived Joey leaving the Humming Bees, you most definitely could not have survived him teaming up with his brother again. The possibility of such an eventuality had the Humming Bees’ fans positively buzzing with excitement. There was absolutely no doubt where their allegiance lay.’ McCusker stopped talking as though to allow that fact to sink in.
Hammond started to laugh, but it wasn’t as nervous a laugh as McCusker had expected.
‘Anyway,’ McCusker resumed, ‘next we get to your method of murder. You had your agent book you back in here for tonight’s show. Everyone, including the fans with their poor support in terms of ticket sales, agreed it was much too soon for the Humming Bees to play a return concert here. That’s what made me suspicious in the first place. Why would a cautious man such as yourself risk ruining such a buoyant market as Belfast for your band? There had to be something about this venue that was vital to the solution to our riddle. But what could it possibly be?’
‘I’m not hanging around wasting any more time here,’ Hammond snarled to no one in particular.
‘Please don’t forget, Mr Hammond,’ McCusker announced, ‘that you’re no longer at liberty to leave; you’re under arrest. But as you’re obviously rather impatient, let’s cut to the quick. Here’s what happened. Once Litz was positioned at the door you set up everything for your shower. While you were pretending to spend thirty minutes on your laptop doing emails and, ‘a dozen minutes’ eating half the contents of your deli tray, you rang Joey. You probably tempted him with drugs and asked him to meet you in the roof space above your dressing room. Then you nipped out of the dressing-room window, dropped down to the fire-escape gantry and made your way into the roof space via the fire exit, which you’d obviously conveniently left open. Joey came up via the proper staircase. When he got there, in order to protect your livelihood you strangled him with a guitar string, leaving him face down in the water tank.’
‘But you’re forgetting that Litz was by my door all of this time,’ Hammond said in an ‘OK, I’ll humour you’ tone. ‘I take your point about being able to drop out of the dressing-room window, but it would have been impossible to climb back up and in again. The window ledge is much too high above the gantry. So the only way I could have regained access to my dressing room was past Litz at the door.’
‘Well at the very least that shows us you considered the possibility,’ McCusker replied, realising for perhaps the first time in his life that he was conscious of trying to avoid laying on the Ulsterspeak. ‘But let’s discuss that point. You rang Litz from your mobile, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, I needed him to bring in my wardrobe,’ Hammond claimed.
‘Could you please do me a favour, Mr Hammond, and ring Litz again for me now?’
Hammond gave a ‘no bother’ shrug and speed-dialled his chief roadie, burying the programmed phone inside the golden curls by his left ear.
A few seconds later they could all hear the muffled sound of a ringing tone.
McCusker walked over to the flight case Urry and Mac had wheeled into the dressing room. They could all now clearly hear the sound of a mobile ringing from within. He knocked on the top of the case three times, and slowly the ringing tone, which was the guitar introduction to Them’s ‘Here Comes the Night’, grew louder and louder as the flight case gradually opened and Litz hopped out, stretching this way and that to relieve the cramp he’d incurred in the twenty or so minutes he’d been hiding inside the confines of the case.
DS W.J. Barr seemed most impressed by McCusker’s revelation.
‘Where were we, Mr Hammond?’ McCusker asked, gaining everyone’s attention once again. ‘Oh yes. So, after you strangled Joey, you slipped down from the roof space and over to the backstage street access, where you knew your flight case was parked. You hid inside your own flight case, rang Litz on your mobile, pretending you were still inside your dressing room, and ordered him to deliver your flight case to your dressing room, so you could finalise preparations for your shower.
‘When Litz delivered the flight case containing yourself into your dressing room, you waited a few moments to make sure he had left your dressing room. You hopped out of the flight case and locked the dressing-room door again from the inside. You then jumped into your shower to complete your farce of bumping your head, passing out, and being “discovered” by Litz and Mulholland with the perfect alibi.’
‘Sounds more like a case for Inspector Colombo,’ Hammond sneered. ‘All a little too far-fetched, if you ask me. But tell me this, Inspector, where’s your proof?’
‘Ah well, that’s where Google comes to the rescue. My problem, Mr, Hammond, is that I’m not really that up-to-date on the scientific side of police work. I confess that I find it impossible to keep up with all the developments in the DNA field, so while I had access to your computer, I ran another check.’ McCusker paused as he walked over to the table on which he’d left the evidence bag with Hammond’s perspirationsoaked tissues. The Portrush detective gingerly lifted the bag using his thumb and forefinger and held it aloft.
Barr involuntarily said, ‘His DNA!’
‘Exactly,’ McCusker confirmed. ‘I found two very interesting things when I Googled “Sweat DNA”. In the million or so documents posted under the subject, I discovered that a human’s perspiration does in fact contain their DNA. Now, having witnessed your performance on stage tonight, I’ve seen that you leak a lot. What I’m trying to say is that your sweat glands are habitually overactive. I would bet my entire fortune that at least a few of your beads of sweat found their way onto Joey’s clothes when you were strangling him with a guitar string. Our team of experts are currently examining Joey’s clothing and now we have your DNA sample for them to compare any findings against.’
‘Surely if I strangled him with a guitar string my hands would have cuts on them,’ Hammond said, offering them for inspection.
‘May I?’ McCusker asked, as he walked over to Hammond’s wardrobe flight case.
Hammond looked confused but nodded his consent.
McCusker searched the inside of the stale-smelling flight case for a few minutes. He eventually found what he was looking for.
‘Mac,’ McCusker said, ‘I believe you lost a pair of gloves earlier today.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Would these be them?’ McCusker asked, trying not to sound like David Copperfield making a big reveal, as he passed the fingerless gloves over for inspection.
‘Yes, these are definitely mine!’
Harry Hammond looked like he was a beaten man, then finally he admitted as much, muttering something about the anticipation of Joey’s demise being much more enjoyable than his actual participation in it. At least that’s what McCusker thought Hammond was saying as the musician was handcuffed and led away.
For his part, McCusker would have to admit that, in this particular case, his participation in the solving of the crime had been much more enjoyable than the anticipation of the investigation.