Free Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer

We’ve already told the local bluebottles everythin’ we know,” Steve Walker said.
    â€œI’m sure you have,” Woodend replied. “An’ I’ll be lookin’ at their reports – when I get round to it. But me, I’m the sort of feller who likes to get everythin’ straight from the horse’s mouth. I expect that you’re a bit that way inclined yourself, Mr Walker.”
    Steve Walker did not deny it. Instead, he lit a Woodbine, took a deep drag on it, and said, “The equipment was workin’ perfectly when we played our gig the night before.”
    â€œAnd where did you play this gig?”
    â€œHere. In the Cellar Club. It was what Mrs Pollard calls ‘The Battle of the Bands Night’.”
    â€œThe Battle of the Bands Night,” Woodend repeated. “So you weren’t the only ones performin’?”
    Walker shook his head. “No. There were three other groups on with us – Len Tooley an’ the Aces, The Fantastics, an’ Mickey Finn an’ the Knockouts,” he said. “We were the ones who closed the show,” he added, with just a hint of pride.
    That would explain all the people down on Inspector Hopgood’s list, Woodend thought. Four groups. That meant at least sixteen people who had access to the dressing room. But wait! Eddie Barnes’s equipment couldn’t have been tampered with until after he played the last set, and if the other groups had already buggered off by then . . .
    â€œDid you all leave the club at the same time?” he asked.
    â€œMore or less. Apart from Rick an’ Lucy Johnson. They stayed behind to lock up.”
    â€œAn’ what time would that be?”
    â€œAbout half-past one.”
    Woodend whistled softly. “Clubs in Liverpool do seem to keep pretty late hours.”
    â€œThe
club
closed at eleven,” Steve Walker said disdainfully, as if he thought Woodend should already have known that. “But that wasn’t your question, was it? You asked what time we left, an’ I told you that was around half one.”
    â€œWhat were you doin’ in those two an’ a half hours?”
    Steve Walker shrugged. “Messin’ around with the other groups, like we always do on Battle of the Bands Night.”
    Damn, Woodend thought. “So the other groups stayed on when they’d finished their sets?” he said.
    â€œI would have thought that was pretty obvious, even to you,” Steve Walker replied.
    â€œWould you care to be a little more specific about what you mean by messin’ around?” Woodend asked, ignoring Walker’s tone.
    â€œWe chewed the fat for a while, told a few jokes, then a few of us had a jam session.”
    â€œWas Eddie Barnes part of the jam session?”
    â€œNot that night.”
    â€œBut on other nights?”
    â€œEddie used to join in,” Pete Foster said, “but for the last couple of weeks he’s been . . .”
    â€œBeen what?”
    â€œIt’s hard to say exactly. He was still serious about his music, but he didn’t seem to be enjoyin’ it as much.”
    Now that
was
interesting, Woodend thought, filing it in his mind as something to come back to later.
    â€œLet me get this straight,” he said. “The equipment couldn’t have been tampered with until after you finished playin’ at eleven, so the murderer had to get at it either before you left the club at half-past one or in the mornin’. Who’s here in the mornin’s?”
    â€œWouldn’t know about that – you see I’m usually in bed until about eleven thirty,” Steve Walker said, with a grin which showed another side of his character. “You’d better ask Rick.”
    Yes, Woodend thought. There were a number of things he’d like to ask Mr Rick Johnson about, when he got the chance.
    â€œDo you know if anyone had threatened Eddie Barnes?” he