It was a fine day, with only a few high white clouds in the sky. Even so, Chadwick felt out of his element. It wasn’t as if he had never visited the Dales before. He and Janet had had many rides out there when Yvonne was younger and he got his first car, a Reliant three-wheeler that rocked dangerously in even the slightest crosswind. He wasn’t untouched by the beauty of nature, but he was still a city boy at heart. After a short while the open country did nothing for him except make him miss the damp pavements, the noise and bustle and crowds even more.
If he had his way, they would spend their holidays exploring new cities, but Janet liked the caravan. Yvonne wouldn’t be coming with them for very much longer, he thought, so he might just be able to persuade Janet to take a trip to Paris or Amsterdam, if they could afford it, and broaden her horizons. Janet had never been abroad, and Chadwick himself had only been on the Continent during wartime. It would be interesting to revisit some of his old haunts. Not the beaches, battlefields or cemeteries – he had no interest in them – but the bars, cafés and homes where people had opened their doors and hearts and shown their gratitude after liberation.
“Here we are, sir.”
Chadwick snapped out of his reverie as Enderby pulled off the narrow track onto the grass. “Is this it?” he asked. “It doesn’t look like much of a place.”
What he could see of the house beyond its high stone wall and wooden gate was an unremarkable building of limestone with a flagstone roof and three chimneys. It was long and low with very few windows; all in all, a gloomy-looking place.
“This is just the back,” said Enderby as they approached the gate. It opened into a flagged yard, and the path led to a heavy red door with a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. “Tradesman’s entrance.”
Enderby knocked on the door, and they waited. The silence was oppressive, Chadwick thought. No birds singing. Even the sound of a rock band rehearsing would have been preferable. Well, on second thought…
The door opened and a young man of about thirty in a paisley shirt and flared black denim jeans greeted them. His chestnut hair wasn’t as long as Chadwick would have expected, but it did hang over his collar. “You must be the police,” he said. “I’m Chris Adams, the band’s manager. I don’t see how we can help you, but please come in.”
Enderby and Chadwick followed him into a broad paneled hallway with doors leading off to the left and right. The dark wood gleamed, and Chadwick caught a whiff of lemon-scented polish. At the far end a set of French windows framed a stunning view of the opposite daleside, an asymmetrical jumble of fields and drystone walls, and below them, at the bottom of the slope, was the river. The doors, Chadwick noticed as he got closer, led out to a terrace with stone balustrades. A table, complete with umbrella, and six chairs stood in front of the doors.
“Impressive,” said Chadwick.
“It’s nice when the weather’s good,” said Adams. “Which I can’t say is all that often in this part of the world.”
“Local?”
“I grew up in Leeds. Went to school with Vic, the keyboards player. It’s down here.”
He led them down a flight of stone steps and Chadwick realized then that they had entered the house on its highest level and there was a whole other floor beneath. At least half of it, he noticed as they walked in through the door, was taken up by one large room, at the moment full of guitars, drums, keyboard instruments, microphones, consoles, amplifiers, speakers and thick, snaking electrical cords: the rehearsal studio, mercifully silent except for the all-pervading hum of electricity. More French windows, these ones open, led out to a patio area in the shadow of the terrace above. Just beyond that, across a short stretch of overgrown lawn, was a granite and marble swimming pool. Why anyone would want an outdoor swimming pool in their backyard in Yorkshire was beyond Chadwick, but the rich had their own tastes, and the wherewithal to indulge them. Perhaps it was heated. Sunlight reflecting from the surface told him the pool was full of water.
Four young men sat around in the large room smoking cigarettes and chatting and laughing with three girls, and one lay on a sofa reading. On a table by one wall stood a variety of bottles – Coca-Cola, gin, vodka, whiskey, brandy, beer and wine. Some of the others seemed to have drinks already, and Adams offered refreshments, but Chadwick declined. He didn’t like to feel beholden in any way toward people who might very well be, or might soon become, suspects. Everyone was wearing casual clothes, mostly jeans and T-shirts, some tie-dyed in the most outrageous patterns and colors. Very long hair was the norm for both men and women, except for Adams, who seemed a shade more conservative than the rest. Chadwick was wearing a dark suit and muted tie.
Now that he was here, Chadwick didn’t know exactly where to start. Adams introduced the band members, who all said hello politely, and the girls, who giggled and retreated to one of the other rooms.
Fortunately, one of the group members stepped forward and said, “How can we help you, Mr. Chadwick? We heard about what happened at Brimleigh. It’s terrible.”
It was Robin Merchant, bass and vocals, and clearly the spokesman. He was tall and thin and wore jeans and a jacket made of some satiny blue material with zodiac signs embroidered on it.
“I don’t know that you can,” said Chadwick, sitting down on a folding chair. “It’s just that we have information the girl was in the backstage area at some point on Sunday evening, and we’re trying to find out if anyone saw her there or talked to her.”
“There were a lot of people around,” said Merchant.
“I know that. And I also know that things might have been, shall we say, a wee bit chaotic back there.”
One of the others – Adrian Pritchard, the drummer, Chadwick thought – laughed. “You can say that again. It was anarchy, man.”
They all laughed.
“Even so,” Chadwick said, “one of you might have seen or heard something important. You might not know it, what it is, but it’s possible.”
“Does the tree fall in the woods if no one is there to hear it?” chimed in the one on the sofa. Vic Greaves, keyboard player.
“Come again?” said Chadwick.
Greaves stared off into space. “It’s a matter of philosophy, isn’t it? How can I know something if I don’t know it? How can I know that something happens if I don’t experience it?”
“What Vic means,” said Merchant, jumping to the rescue, “is that we were all pretty much focused on what we were doing.”
“Which was?”
“Pardon?”
“What were you doing?”
“Well, you know,” said Merchant, “just relaxing in the caravan, practicing a few chord changes, or maybe having a drink or something, talking to guys in the other bands. Depends what time it was.”
Chadwick doubted it. Most likely, he thought, they were taking drugs and having sex with groupies, but none of them was going to admit that. “What time did you perform?”
Merchant looked to the others for confirmation. “We went on about eight, just after, right, and we played an hour set, so we were off again just after nine. After the roadies moved the equipment around and set up the light show, Pink Floyd came on after us, about ten, then Fleetwood Mac, then Led Zep.”
“And after your set? What did you do?”
Merchant shrugged. “We just hung around, you know. We were pretty wired, the adrenaline from performing and everything – I mean, it went really well, a great gig, and a big one for us – so we needed a couple of drinks to come down. I don’t know, we just listened to the other bands, that sort of thing. I spent a bit of time in the caravan reading.”
“Reading what?”
“You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Try me.”
“Aleister Crowley, Magick in Theory and Practice.”