Free Hunting for Crows by Iain Cameron

by the second, there were signs of a marked improvement and good things to come.’
    ‘Have you got them?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The albums.’
    He nodded. ‘Of course.’
    ‘I might give them a listen, if I can stand the racket.’
    ‘I’ll ignore that. By the third album they’d introduced a keyboard player, I forget his name, but he expanded the sound and improved the song writing and all the rest, and it was much better than the previous two. When they released the fourth album, they were flying. The music press were calling them the next best thing since Led Zeppelin.’
    ‘I take it that’s a good thing.’
    ‘Of course it is, Philistine.’
    ‘So what went wrong?’
    ‘The keyboard player, Danny Winter, I remember his name now, was killed in an accident and afterwards the band just fell apart.’
    ‘Just like that?’
    ‘Yep, just like that. The main singer and songwriter in the band, Derek Crow–’
    ‘Not the guy who owns all those fuel tankers and who came to the country’s rescue in its hour of need?’
    ‘Him.’
    ‘He was in the papers only the other day, shaking hands with Rob McNaughton, our new Labour Prime Minister, for his role in averting a petrol shortage.’
    ‘Yes, the very man.’
    ‘Hasn’t he done well? I thought you said there wasn’t a story?’
    ‘I remember what happened now. Derek Crow was devastated by the accident and told the rest of the band he didn’t want to continue.’
    ‘That sounds like Derek Crow: this is what I’m doing and you lot can go and sling your hook if you don’t like it. What sort of accident killed the keyboard player? Did he take an overdose like all the rest or blow his liver on too much booze?’
    ‘No, but this is where the story takes on a little twist and is one of the reasons why it caught my eye in the first place. You see, the keyboard player drowned.’

TWELVE
     
    Ludwigshafen, Germany - 1985
     
     
     
    The gear from the last concert was safely stowed away, packed in vans that were now sitting immobile over in the car park. Derek and the rest of the boys were in the lounge of Friedrich Ebert Halle, drinking while waiting for the Guns of Detroit to finish their set. If it was up to Eric Hannah, he would piss-off right now, but Derek insisted they had to be nice to the folks they met on the way up, as they didn’t know when they might need their help in the future. Amen to all that.
    It was brass monkeys outside as he was still wearing his stage clothes, thin cotton shirt and jeans. They felt damp and his body sweaty but it was more from the dope in his system than any form of exertion as he didn’t run around the stage much when performing.
    Standing at the back of one of the vans was Fast Eddie, chief of the roadies. He was a slow-mover, but strong as an ox.
    ‘Hey Eddie,’ he said as he walked towards him.
    ‘Hey there, Eric.’
    ‘Is all the gear packed away?’
    ‘It’s all shipshape and ready to go back to good old Blighty.’
    Eric leaned on the van beside the fat roadie, a man who liked curries and beer a couple of times a week.
    ‘I’m looking forward to going home,’ Eddie said.
    ‘Oh, yeah, what’s so special about it?’
    ‘I miss two things. A decent pint of ale and a bloody good fry-up. The fucking stuff they serve up for breakfast here, bits of meat and rolls you can’t get your teeth into, doesn’t hold a candle to a full English breakfast.’
    ‘You’ve got a point there, mate. How’s our little hideaway?’
    ‘All waiting to be filled.’ He nodded towards the open rear doors of the Transit. ‘Take a butcher’s.’
    Eric pulled open the doors. The amps and guitars they had been playing at the concert about an hour ago were packed at the front with the big speaker cabinets standing behind. Three vans were being used for this tour, two full of gear and one for the band, but the difference here was the backs of a couple of speaker cabinets were off, exposing the rear of the speaker and electrical