Free Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer Page A

asked.
    The four young men exchanged rapid, uneasy glances. “Not exactly threatened
him
, as such,” said Jack Towers, regaining the initiative which he had earlier lost to Steve.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œWell, a few nasty things have been happening recently, but they’ve been directed against the whole group, rather than just Eddie.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    Towers took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and handed them around. His hand was trembling, Woodend noted.
    â€œIt was just annoying little things, really,” the manager said, as if he now wished he’d never brought the matter up. “Somebody – and we’ve no idea who it was – rang one of the venues I’d booked, pretended to be me, and said we couldn’t make it that night. When we turned up, we’d already been replaced by another group. Another night we came out of a club in Birkenhead and found all the tyres on the van had been slashed.”
    â€œTell him about the rat,” Steve Walker said.
    Towers sighed. “A few days ago, Eddie found a dead rat in his guitar case,” he admitted reluctantly.
    â€œBut it wasn’t
just
dead, was it?” Walker persisted.
    â€œNo, it wasn’t just dead,” Towers admitted. “It had a string noose tied around its neck.”
    â€œA noose!” Woodend repeated. “And what do you think was the point of that?”
    â€œI don’t really know,” Towers said. “Somebody’s idea of a sick joke? An attempt at revenge?”
    â€œRevenge for what?”
    From the unhappy expression on his face, it was obviously a question Towers would rather not have answered.
    â€œThe lads are . . . er . . . very popular in Liverpool, especially with the girls,” he said. “I suppose it’s possible that one of those girls’ boyfriends might have misunderstood the situation.”
    â€œOr understood it only too well,” Walker said, and the other two Seagulls sniggered.
    â€œSo Eddie Barnes was a bit of a one for chasin’ the girls, was he?” Woodend asked.
    â€œNo, he wasn’t,” Steve Walker said hotly. “The rest of us will poke anythin’ that’s willin’, but Eddie wasn’t like that. He was a romantic. He believed in true love, an’ he was waitin’ for the right girl to come along. A lot of good it did him! At least when I die, I won’t go out a virgin.”
    â€œIs that what Eddie did?” Woodend asked. “Go out as a virgin? Are you sure?”
    Walker’s anger, which seemed never to be very far below the surface, burst forth again. “Of course I’m bloody sure,” he said. “He was my best mate. We didn’t have any secrets from each other.”
    â€œSteve’s right,” said Pete Foster, who Woodend had already marked down as the peacemaker of the group. “If Eddie had been goin’ out with any girls, we’d have known about it.”
    The interview was somehow losing its momentum, Woodend thought. It was time to put the cat among the pigeons and see who flew where.
    â€œSo what happens now?” he asked innocently.
    â€œNow?” Towers repeated, as if he had no idea what the chief inspector was talking about.
    â€œWith the group,” Woodend explained. “I mean, you’re goin’ to need a new lead guitarist, aren’t you?”
    Billie Simmons and Pete Foster exchanged another hurried glance, but, Woodend noticed, Steve Walker had his eyes fixed, firmly and intently, on their manager.
    Towers shifted awkwardly. “I’ve . . . I’ve already put an advertisement in the newspaper,” he admitted.
    â€œYou’ve done what?” Steve Walker demanded, his voice so high that he was almost screaming.
    The manager held out his hands in what was either a gesture of supplication or helplessness.
    â€œIt had to be done,” he said feebly. “The group