“You didn’t ask.”

“Who was the other pass for?”

“Her friend, the girl she was with.”

“The same one you saw her with at the Roundhouse and the recording session? The one whose name you can’t remember?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Merchant shrugged.

“If you got her a pass, you must know her name.”

“I didn’t look at it.”

“Did you see her later, at the festival?”

“Once or twice.”

“Were they together?”

“The first time I saw them, yes. Later on they weren’t.”

“What do you know about this girl?”

“Nothing. She was a friend of Linda’s and that they sang together in clubs. I think they shared a pad or were neighbors or something.”

“What does she look like?”

“About the same age as Linda. Long dark hair, olive complexion. Nice figure.”

“What time did you last see her?”

“I don’t know. When Pink Floyd were on. It must have been close to midnight.”

“And were the two of them together?”

“I didn’t see Linda then, no.”

“What was this other girl doing?”

“Just standing around with a group of people drinking and chatting.”

“Who?”

“Just people. Nobody in particular.”

So who was she? Chadwick wondered. And why hadn’t she reported her friend missing? Not for the first time he began to wonder about the mental faculties of the world he was dealing with. Didn’t these people care if someone stole their sleeping bag, or, worse, if someone close to them simply disappeared? He didn’t expect them to see the world as he did, with danger at every turn, but surely it was simple common sense to worry? Unless something had happened to her friend, too. He wouldn’t find that out by hanging around Swainsdale Lodge, he decided, and the thought of trying to talk to any of the others again brought on a headache.

Chadwick thanked Robin Merchant for his time, said he would have to talk to Vic Greaves at some point when he was feeling better, then they went back inside. Enderby, looking pleased with himself, held out a copy of the Mad Hatters LP and asked Merchant if he would sign it. He did. The others were slouching in their chairs smoking and sipping drinks, Reg Cooper picking a quiet tune on his guitar, Vic Greaves apparently asleep on his sofa, tranquilized to the gills. The sound system was buzzing in the background. Chris Adams showed them out, apologizing for Greaves and promising that if there was anything else they needed, they should just get in touch with him, gave them his phone number and left them at the door.

“Where did you get that?” Chadwick said in the car, pointing to the LP. “He gave it to me. The manager. I got them all to sign it.”

“Better hand it over,” said Chadwick. “You wouldn’t want anyone to think you’d been accepting bribes, would you?”

“But, sir!”

Chadwick held his hand out. “Come on, laddie. Give.”

Reluctantly, Enderby handed over the signed LP. Chadwick slipped it into his briefcase, suppressing a little smile as Enderby practically stripped the gears getting back to the road.

CHAPTER NINE

The MOJO office was a square open-plan area on the same floor as Q and Kerrang! magazines, accommodating about twenty or so people. There were two fairly large windows at one end, and two long desks equipped with Mac computers in various colors and stacked with CDs, reference books and file folders. Cluttered, but appealingly so. Filing cabinets fitted under the desks. Posters covered the walls, mostly blowups of old MOJO covers. The people Banks could see working there ran the whole gamut: short hair, long hair, gray hair, shaved heads. Dress was mostly casual, but there were even some ties in evidence.

Nobody paid Banks any attention as John Butler, the editor he had come to see, led him to a section of desk close to the window. An empty Prêt A Manger bag sat among the papers on his desk, and a whiff of bacon hung in the air, reminding Banks that it was mid-afternoon and he was starving. He could feel his stomach growling as he sat down.

John Butler looked to be in his late thirties and was one of the more casually dressed people in the office, wearing jeans and an old Hawkwind T-shirt. His shaved head gleamed under the strip lighting. There was music playing, some sixtyish piece with jangling guitars and harmonies. Banks didn’t recognize it, but he liked it. He could also hear the thumping bass of dance mix coming from round the corner. He thought it must be hard to concentrate on writing with all that noise going on.

“It’s about Nick Barber,” said Banks. “I understand he was working on an assignment for you?”

“Yes, that’s right. Poor Nick.” Butler’s brow crinkled. “One of the best. Nobody, and I mean nobody, knew more about late-sixties and early-seventies music than Nick, especially the Mad Hatters. He’s a great loss to the entire music community.”

“It’s my job to find out who killed him,” said Banks.

“I understand. Any help I can give, of course… though I don’t see how.”

“What was Nick Barber’s assignment?”

“He was doing a big feature on the Mad Hatters,” said Butler. “More specifically, on Vic Greaves, the keyboards player. Next year is the fortieth anniversary of when the band was formed, and they’re re-forming for a big concert tour.”

Banks had heard of the Mad Hatters. Not many people hadn’t. They had rebuilt themselves from the ashes of the sixties in a way that few other bands had, except perhaps Fleetwood Mac after Peter Green, and Pink Floyd after Syd Barrett left. But not without tremendous cost, as Banks recalled. “Where are they now?” he asked.

“All over the place. Most of them live in L.A.”

“Vic Greaves disappeared years ago, didn’t he?” Banks said.

“That’s right. Nick had found him.”

“How did he manage that?”

“He protected his sources pretty well, but I’d say most likely through a rental agency or an estate agent. He had his contacts. Vic Greaves doesn’t go to extraordinary lengths to stay anonymous, he’s just a recluse and he doesn’t advertise his presence. I mean, he’s been found before. The problem is that no one can ever get much out of him so they give up, except maybe some of the weirdos who see him as a sort of cult figure, which is why he guards his privacy to the extent that he does, or Chris Adams does. Anyway, however Nick did it, you can guarantee it wouldn’t be through Adams, the manager.”

“Why not?”

“Adams is very protective of Greaves. Has been ever since the breakdown. They’re old friends, apparently, go back to school days.”

“Where did Nick find Greaves?”

“In North Yorkshire. The Hatters always had a strong connection with Yorkshire through Lord Jessop and Swainsview Lodge. Besides, Vic and Reg Cooper, the lead guitarist, were both local lads. Met the others at the University of Leeds.”

“North Yorkshire? How long has he been living there?”

“Dunno,” said Butler. “Nick didn’t say.”

So the object of Nick Barber’s pilgrimage had been right under his nose all the time, and he had never guessed. Well, why would he? If you wanted to live as a hermit in the Dales, it could be done. Now Banks had a glimmer of a memory. Something that he might have guessed brought Nick Barber to Swainsdale. “Help me here,” he said. “I didn’t grow up in the area, and I wasn’t there at the time, but as far as I can remember, there was some other connection with the group, wasn’t there?”

“Robin Merchant, the bass player.”

“He drowned, didn’t he?”

“Indeed he did. Drowned in a swimming pool about a year after Brian Jones did exactly the same thing. June 1970. Tragic business.”

“And that swimming pool was at Swainsview Lodge,” said Banks. “Now I remember.” He was surprised at himself for not getting the connection earlier, but when it came down to it, although he knew that Brian Jones had also died in a swimming pool, he didn’t know where that pool was, either. To him, a swimming pool was a swimming pool. But Nick Barber would know things like that, just the way sports fans knew their team’s scores, statistics and greatest players going back years.