The Ballad Of Sean And Wilko (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  They met each other at the Marquee Club in Wardour Street the night Joe Cocker and the Grease Band made their London debut, Tuesday 25 June, 1968. That night was a turning point in their lives and a turning point in the London music scene due to Cocker’s devastating performance. Following England’s finest singer’s performance that night, “average” was no longer going to be an acceptable word in music circles. Both Sean and Wilko were with friends and stayed behind because someone knew someone who knew a guy who used to go to school with the sister of the guy who cleaned John Wilson’s cymbals and they said it would be okay to stay behind and hang with the band.

  At that point Sean had been in London six months, living just off Arlington Street where it cuts across Delancey Street, and he was desperate to make a musical connection. Wilko had been London-based for three years and, at twenty-two, was four years older than Sean.

  Neither of them got to meet Joe Cocker nor any of the members of the amazing Grease Band that night but they did get to meet each other as they hung around outside the dressing room in hope. Being musicians they were like beacons for each other and arranged to meet the following Saturday morning at Sean’s bedsit for a bit of a play. Wilko couldn’t make it until the Saturday as he was holding down a job as a barman. Sean, on the other hand, was surviving on an allowance from his father. He claimed that to make a go at the music business he had to devote all his time and energy to it. He persuaded his father to fund him by agreeing to return to Dun Laoghaire within twenty-four months to run the family hardware store if he failed to make a living performing, and writing, music.

  Sean knew immediately he’d found a focal part of his band. One verse of Wilko’s version of “With A Little Help From My Friends” was all it took to convince the Dubliner he was off the starting blocks.

  They messed around for a couple of hours playing Beatle and Beach Boy songs, Sean on upright piano and Wilko on one of Sean’s acoustic guitars. Wilko wasn’t a great guitarist by any means; he knew enough chords to start off most of the songs but by the time the vocals started he would get lost in the singing and bit by bit his guitar-playing would disappear.

  With Wilko’s voice Sean didn’t mind. Although he’d be playing alone again he was convinced that once he found the voice for his songs, the rest of the band would be easier to find and then, as bandleader, he’d have all the time in the world to play with and off other musicians. They took a break and went up Camden to the Dublin Castle for a refresher.

  They liked each other, got on well together and, by the time they returned to the bedsit, Sean had built up enough confidence to play Wilko a couple of his own compositions. And that was it. Wilko loved Sean’s songs as much as Sean loved Wilko’s voice. They had found in each other what was missing in themselves. Wilko had a few uncompleted bits and pieces of songs, great melodies to suit his perfect soul-steeped voice, but as a lyricist…well, generally he would start with a good idea but he’d never develop it.

  They played around on the songs until well past midnight that first night and Sean developed one of Wilko’s ideas into a well-polished tune. Wilko crashed at Sean’s place and the following morning they were back at it, back working on songs having agreed to form a group together. They had even agreed a name for their group, Circles. Something to do with life being nothing but a series of circles we all travel around in until we make the connections we do and then drop out of the interwoven circle. They tried several times to work this sentiment into a song. Thankfully, they never succeeded.

  But now twenty-nine long years, and many musicians, later only one of the duo survived and he was sitting in the office at Dingwalls Dancehall. To Irvine he didn’t look particularly upset but, then again, quietness and peacefulness may have been his way of dealing with the death of his long-standing musical partner.

  Irvine and Coles split the band and crew, seven in total and took statements. Irvine started with Sean Green, while the beautiful WPC drew the short straw of the unattractive roadie Dan Hudson, a grunge refugee.

  Sean Green, at the point Irvine interviewed him, looked his age; a reality he’d continuously avoided on stage. At forty-seven he should have been long past appearing at places like Dingwalls while contemporaries like Rod Stewart and Elton John were able to fill Wembley Stadium. But you never give up hope in the music game, there’s always the possibility of another hit around the corner. However, Circles’ last hit had been in 1979 with an incredible version of Buddy Holly’s “Together Again”. That single backed on the B-side, and sharing the royalties with an original Green-Robertson composition, “Heather Honey”, peaked at number nine and was their last appearance in the very exclusive Top Ten.

  Irvine couldn’t believe how small Sean Green was. Irvine had assumed, as had the rest of the nation from the regular television appearances, that Sean Green must have been at least six foot tall. He was thin, which helped create the taller stage and television illusion. He was obviously used to people recognising him but then doubting he was the performer due to his stature.

  ‘Yea, I’m the same, I do the same double take every time I see a television personality in the flesh,’ Green said.

  ‘No sorry, it’s just that…’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay. We are what we are. I can deal with it,’ Sean replied, his Irish accent long faded into a mid-Atlantic wash.

  And he did deal with it, Irvine noticed, by wearing even taller platform shoes than Wilko. He also had an afro hairstyle, which added at least another five inches to his height, and a handlebar Zapata moustache. Irvine noticed marks on his nose and close to his ears that indicated he wore glasses, but only when out of the public spotlight. “Well preserved” were the words Irvine’s mother would have used to describe him. Sean Green’s stage gear, which still hung about his wiry frame, consisted of a pair of black flares, white frilly shirt and a three-quarter length, beautifully-cut, black jacket.

  Green relayed similar details to the ones Kevin Paul was simultaneously disclosing to Kennedy.

  ‘Where did you go during your break?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘Well, I usually go for a wander around the venue, keep out of the punters’ way, we do the meet and greet afterwards of course, but I like to check out the sound in the house and make sure KP has not been having any problems,’ Green replied.

  ‘You never join Mr Robertson in the dressing room for a breather?’

  Green paused, then smiled. ‘Oh, you mean Wilko. Mr Robertson sounds so formal. I’ve never known him to be called that. Some of his Paisley mates call him Robbo but never Mr Robertson. No, not really. You see Wilko sweats a lot on stage, each and every one of his pores opens and gushes the minute the lights hit him. Every stitch is literally soaked by about halfway through the set, so he loves to come off and use the “Gollyworbetson Jam” to change. He then hangs up his wet clothes, has a fag and catches his breath. To be quite honest with you there’s always a bit of a pong and anyway, I like to soak the audience vibe, as KP would say. So I just hang out until it’s time to go back on stage.’

  ‘When did you realise there was a problem?’

  ‘Well we, Wilko, KP and me, meet up at the side of the stage towards the end of the jam, for the final chorus, only this time Wilko wasn’t there. I didn’t think it was a big deal to be honest. I just went on by myself and sent KP off to find him,’ Green said.

  Irvine noted that the performer didn’t seem to have any problem with eye contact. ‘Had he ever missed the cue before?’

  Green smiled, half to himself and then full on to the policeman. He nodded to Irvine’s tweeds and two-tone brogue shoes. ‘Shall we just say that some of your fellow Scots have a reputation for their love of the juice-of-the-barley. Wilko was no exception and on a few occasions when he was a bit the worse for wear, he wouldn’t be able to find his way back onto the stage. It was always a bit of a farce like the scene in the movie, Spinal Tap, where the entire band get lost backstage and wander around forever along all these corridors. Well he was a bit like tha
t. If he’d had a few drinks and didn’t hook up with KP he’d have trouble getting back on stage. But once on that stage, sergeant, drink or no drink, no matter the amount, he could still sing with the best of them.’

  Irvine noted that the question was answered with more than a little pride. ‘How did you finish the set without him?’

  ‘Oh, I did two of the songs, two of the hits so the audience could be heard singing as much as myself, and the bass player, Simon, has a passable voice, he sang Wilko’s big ballad, “She Loves Rain.”’

  ‘The one from…’ Irvine hesitated.

  ‘The one from the TV shampoo advert, yes. Oh we don’t knock it, the money that brought us…’ Green started and then stopped, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper, ‘…it won’t do him much good now though, will it?’

  Irvine decided to try to move on from this point quickly. ‘Was he in good health?’

  ‘Do you mean could he have died from natural causes?’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Well, I suppose his liver had taken a bit of a hammering over the years and he never seemed to ease up, but then again he was as strong as an ox. We never missed a gig you know. Not many bands can say that. Circles never ever missed a gig. That’s quite a boast for a twenty-nine-year career.’

  The whiskey had picked the band up a little bit by now, their voices were beginning to rise above a murmur, and Irvine leaned in close to Green to afford more privacy.

  ‘Did he have any money problems?’

  ‘Set up for life. Both of us were,’ Green said quietly.

  ‘Women problems?’

  ‘Show me a man who hasn’t woman problems and I’ll show you a liar,’ Green replied, still quietly.

  ‘Do you think he could have—’ Irvine began but before he could complete his sentence Green cut in with his own.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, sir,’ the DS replied honestly.

  ‘I mean are we talking natural causes or unnatural causes?’

  ‘Well we won’t really know until after the autopsy,’ Irvine replied.

  ‘Which will be carried out when?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning I believe,’ Irvine answered, visibly frustrated at not being able to get in his own questions. ‘Do you think there could be a reason which would have meant him taking his life?’

  ‘Now there’s a question, sergeant. You’d have to ask someone who was closer to him than I was.’

  Coles, at the other end of the office, was still questioning the grunge-influenced roadie. Today, all things considered, was an easy gig and they had arrived at noon to be met by the local stage crew who helped them to unload the equipment. The various crew members, depending upon their expertise and loyalties, would go off and set up their part of the equipment. Drums, keyboards, bass guitar stack, lead guitar stack, on-stage microphones, sound and monitor system and off-stage house sound.

  They would break for lunch around two thirty and hope to have everything set up by the time the musicians arrived at five o’clock for their sound check. The sound check was for fine-tuning all the instruments and equipment, setting the individual sound levels for the musicians on stage – through the monitor system, and for the audience – through the house system. Then they’d play several songs together to make sure the individual sound levels fitted into the overall sound balance. Once the sound balance was perfected they would use any remaining time to run through any of the songs requiring additional work.

  This sound check would finish at seven o’clock, it had to finish at seven o’clock because that was the time the doors of the venue were opened to the public. Road crew and band members would then dine, at the expense of the promoter, and some who didn’t like to perform on a full stomach, would either take a day room in a local hotel or go home. Circles never used a support act so they’d been on stage since ten past eight until Sean and Wilko took the breather from which Wilko failed to return.

  The remaining members of the Circles entourage seemed unable to throw any additional light on the mysterious death of one of their principles. Coles and Irvine did learn that amongst the musicians; Pat Bell, drums; Simon Rutland, bass guitar; Mark Giles, keyboards; David Cooper, guitarist was the longest serving and, after Sean and Wilko, most important member of the band and Dan Hudson was hired not because of his ability but because he also worked for a supposedly cool indie band, which accounted for his lack of dress sense – so said the other member of the Circles road crew, Mick ‘Litch’ Litchfield.

  Kennedy returned from the basement with KP and on checking with his DS that all statements had been taken he decided to leave further questioning until such time as he had the trusted Dr Taylor’s report advising him of exactly what had happened to Wilko Robertson.

  The death could still quite possibly be accidental or natural, in which case questioning all these musicians, interesting though it may be, could prove to be a total waste of time. In the meantime Kevin ‘KP’ Paul had given the DI more than enough information to be going on with.

  There were major sighs of relief all around as the musicians were allowed to go home. Not without a few gripes though, because the police were unable to allow them to return to the dressing room to change into their street clothes. As they all headed off out into the cold night Kennedy thought that they more closely resembled participants in a fancy dress party than members of the once phenomenally successful Circles.

  But then wasn’t that always the way with Circles, Kennedy mused, they had a habit of returning to from whence they started.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy decided to walk the short distance from Dingwalls Dancehall to his home in Primrose Hill. It was a cold night but his favourite black Crombie sheltered him from the brisk air as he made his way along the Regent’s Canal and crossed onto Primrose Hill itself. About a third of the way across the green land he turned left and instead of going to the comfort and warmth of his house he headed to the crown of the hill.

  It was a clear night with the full moon two days old. He had the hill and the amazing view of London to himself. Many a night he and ann rea had stood on this very summit in each other’s arms, drinking in this breathtaking view. Sometimes not being satisfied with the view alone they would seek full satisfaction under the cloak of darkness and bushes.

  Kennedy was fine. He kept telling himself he was fine, so it must be true. Yes, his romantic life was a mess, an absolute mess; but he was fine. There was just a little niggling feeling that every time he tried to convince himself that he was fine, it usually meant that he wasn’t.

  He had always believed that with girls you bought into the whole package, like he did with ann rea. She looked great – stunning, drop dead gorgeous more like. But it was her eyes that incessantly got under his skin. The first time Kennedy saw her eyes; brown with a hint of an oriental shape, he was scared that she would catch him looking at her. That first time, at Heathrow, she looked so stunning – not a hair out of place, curved eyebrows, full figure – she made Kennedy feel he had such a thirst to quench that water alone would never satisfy him again. Otis Redding had captured the feeling perfectly in the Smokey Robinson song, “My Girl”.

  They’d sat, as it happened, side by side on a flight to Dublin that day. Kennedy awkwardly started up a conversation and discovered she wrote for the local paper, the Camden New Journal. He learned that she always spelt her name in lower case just like k.d. lang, had a passion for music, would have liked to have been a carpenter, and drove a maroon Ford Popular which she suspected was drinking poteen. After they had accidentally met up a few times around Primrose Hill, Kennedy, eventually, invited her out to dinner. Things had developed from there but she still took his breath away each and every time he saw her.

  She dressed as cool as anyone who knew how to dress avoiding designer labels. She had a figure the memory of which still sent Kennedy to sleep with more than a grin on his face. She was intelligent; she was ex
cellent company, so great Kennedy still couldn’t work out where the hours went, where in fact their fifteen months together had gone. But everything was, he thought, part of the complete package. So from the outside, and practically from the inside too come to that, ann rea seemed to be the perfect partner. Especially for an unconfirmed bachelor settling into his early forties.

  ann rea seemed like the perfect deal. However, she had one main character flaw; a flaw which Kennedy had discovered to his cost. The flaw? ann rea wasn’t in love with him. Her exact words had been, “I don’t think I’m in love with you”. She found it impossible, when she started this relationship, to accept it as natural genuine love. She seemed incapable of dealing with and accepting the real thing. She forever doubted her feelings for Kennedy and because of this…this…flaw, she found it impossible to commit to a relationship.

  So, in Kennedy’s book, why prolong the pain of splitting up? Why not just fecking get on with it and part company? Why not indeed? It wasn’t as though Kennedy was anxious to seek out other female company, sadly he preferred his own, it was just, well, he’d been hurt twice before in life and he knew it would never ever be quite so painful again. He knew he could deal with it so he was prepared for the pain and preferred to get on with it, the splitting up that was. That in itself, in Kennedy’s case, wasn’t the major problem. No, the major problem was that Kennedy’s future ex-girlfriend, the very same ann rea, experienced great difficulty in letting Kennedy go. And, truth be told, he had the same difficulty losing her.

  However, his romantic woes were going to have to take a back seat for a time now. He was about to embark on a case which he was sure would take him across ann rea’s path. He was convinced he would see her several times in the coming days because, as well as being his beautiful future ex, not to mention current heartbreaker, ann rea was a local journalist with a goldmine of information in the wheelings and dealings and comings and goings of the music business.