Piece Of My Heart

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, 8th September, 1969

When Chadwick was satisfied that things were running smoothly, he called Rick Hayes over and suggested they talk in the van. It was set up so that one end was a self-contained cubicle, just about big enough for an interview, though at six foot two, Chadwick felt more than a little claustrophobic. Still, he could put up with it, and a bit of discomfort never did any harm when someone had something to hide.

Close up, Hayes looked older than Chadwick would have expected. Perhaps it was the stress of the weekend, but he had lines around his eyes and his jaw was tense. Chadwick put him in his late thirties, but with the hairstyle and the clothes, he could probably pass for ten years younger. He had about three or four days’ stubble on his face, his fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and the first two fingers of his left hand were stained yellow with nicotine.

“Mr. Hayes,” Chadwick began. “Maybe you can help me. I need some background here. How many people attended the festival?”

“About twenty-five thousand.”

“Quite a lot.”

“Not really. There were a hundred and fifty thousand at the Isle of Wight the weekend before. Mind you, they had Dylan and the Who. And we had competition. Crosby, Stills and Nash and Jefferson Airplane were playing in Hyde Park on Saturday.”

“And you had?”

“Biggest draws? Pink Floyd. Led Zeppelin.”

Chadwick, who had never heard of either, dutifully made a note of the names after checking the spelling with Hayes. “Who else?”

“A couple of local groups. Jan Dukes de Grey. The Mad Hatters. The Hatters especially have been getting really big these past few months. Their first LP is already in the charts.”

“What do you mean, local?” Chadwick asked, making a note of the names.

“Leeds. General area, at any rate.”

“How many groups in all?”

“Thirty. I can give you a full list, if you like.”

“Much appreciated.” Chadwick wasn’t sure where that information would get him, but every little bit helped. “Something like that must require a lot of organization.”

“You’re telling me. Not only do you have to book the groups well in advance and arrange for concessions, parking, camping and toilet facilities, you’ve also got to supply generators, transport and a fair bit of sound equipment. Then there’s security.”

“Who did you use?”

“My own people.”

“You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

“On a smaller scale. It’s what I do. I’m a promoter.”

Chadwick scribbled something on his pad, shielding it from Hayes in the curve of his hand. Not that it meant anything; he just wanted Hayes to think it did. Hayes lit a cigarette. Chadwick opened the window. “The festival lasted three days, is that correct?”

“Yes. We started late Friday afternoon and wrapped up today in the wee hours.”

“What time?”

“Led Zeppelin played last. They came on shortly after one o’clock this morning, and they must have finished about three. We were supposed to wind up earlier, but there were the inevitable delays – equipment malfunctions, that sort of thing.”

“What happened at three?”

“People started drifting home.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“There was nothing to keep them here. The ones who had pitched tents probably went back to the campground to grab a few hours’ sleep, but the rest left. The field was pretty much empty for the cleanup crew to start by dawn. The rain helped.”

“What time did it start to rain?”

“Must have been about half two in the morning. Just a brief shower, like.”

“So it was mostly dry while this Led Zeppelin was playing?”

“Mostly. Yes.”

Yvonne had arrived home at six-thirty, Chadwick thought, which gave her more than enough time to get back from Brimleigh, if she had been there. What had she been doing between three and six-thirty? Chadwick decided he had better leave that well alone until he had established whether she had been there or not.

Given a time of death between one-thirty and five-thirty, the victim might have been killed while the band was playing, or while everyone was heading home. Most likely the former, he decided, as there would have been less chance of witnesses. And possibly before the rain, as there was no obvious trail. “Are there any other gates,” he asked, “in addition to where I came in?”

“No. Only to the north. But there are plenty of exits.”

“I assume there’s fencing all around the site?”

“Yes. It wasn’t a free concert, you know.”

“But no one would have had any real reason to go through the woods?”

“No. There are no exits on that side. It doesn’t lead anywhere. The parking, camping and gates are all on the north side, and that’s where the nearest road is, too.”

“I understand you had a bit of trouble with skinheads?”

“Nothing my men couldn’t handle. A gang of them tried to break through the fence and we saw them off.”

“North or south?”

“East, actually.”

“When was this?”

“Saturday night.”

“Did they come back?”

“Not as far as I know. If they did, they were quiet about it.”

“Did people actually sleep in the field over the weekend?”

“Some did. Like I said, we had a couple of fields for parking and camping just over the hill there. A lot of people pitched tents and came back and forth. Others just brought sleeping bags. Look, why does all this matter? I’d have thought it was obvious what happened.”

Chadwick raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I must be missing something. Tell me.”

“Well, she must have got into an argument with her boyfriend or something, and he killed her. She was a bit away from the crowds, there by the edge of the woods, and if everyone was listening to Led Zeppelin, they probably wouldn’t notice if the world ended.”

“Loud, are they, this Led Zeppelin?”

“You could say that. You should have a listen.”

“Maybe I will. Anyway, it’s a good point you’ve raised. I’m sure the music might have helped the killer. But why assume it was her boyfriend? Do boyfriends usually stab their girlfriends?”

“I don’t know. It’s just… I mean… who else?”

“Could have been a homicidal maniac, perhaps?”

“You’d know more about that than I do.”

“Or a passing tramp?”

“Now you’re taking the piss.”

“I assure you, Mr. Hayes, I am taking this very seriously indeed. But in order to find out who might have done this, boyfriend or whatever, we need to know who she is.” He made a note, then looked directly at Hayes. “Maybe you can help me there?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“Oh, come off it, laddie.” Chadwick stared at him.

“I don’t know who she is.”

“Ah, but you did see her somewhere?”

Hayes looked down at his clasped hands. “Maybe.”

“And where, perhaps, might you have seen her?”

“She may have been backstage at some point.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. How does a person get to go backstage?”

“Well, usually, you need a pass.”

“And who hands those out?”

“Security.”

“But?”

Hayes wriggled in his chair. “Well, you know, sometimes… a good-looking girl. What can I say?”

“How many people were backstage?”

“Dozens. It was chaos back there. We had a VIP area roped off with a beer tent and lounges, then there were the performers’ caravans, dressing rooms, toilets. We also had a press enclosure in front of the stage. Some of the performers hung around to listen to other bands, you know, then maybe they’d jam backstage and… you know…”

“Who were the last groups to play on Sunday?”

“We kicked off the evening session with the Mad Hatters just after dark, then Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin.”

“Were they all backstage?”

“At one time or another, if they weren’t onstage, yes.”

“With guests?”

“There were a lot of people.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know… maybe fifty or so. More. That’s including roadies, managers, publicists, disc jockeys, record company people, agents, friends of the bands, hangers-on and what have you.”

“Did you keep guest lists?”

“You must be joking.”

“Lists of those who were given passes?”

“No.”

“Anyone keep track of comings and goings?”

“Someone checked passes at the entrance to the backstage area. That’s all.”

“And let in beautiful girls without passes?”

“Only if they were with someone who did have a pass.”

“Ah, I see. So our victim might not have been issued a pass for herself. In addition to beer, were there any other substances contributing to that general sense of well-being backstage?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I was too busy. Most of the time I was running around like a blue-arsed fly making sure everything was running smoothly, keeping everyone happy.”

“Were they?”

“For the most part. You got the occasional pillock complaining his caravan was too small, but on the whole it was okay.”

Chadwick jotted something down. He could tell that Hayes was craning his neck trying to read it, so he rested his hand over the words when he had finished. “Perhaps if we were to narrow down the time of death, do you think you’d be able to give us a better idea of who might have been backstage?”

“Maybe. I dunno. Like I said, it was a bit of a zoo back there.”

“I can imagine. Did you see her with anyone in particular?”

“No. It might have been her or it might not have. I only got a fleeting glance. There were a lot of people. A lot of good-looking birds.” His expression brightened. “Maybe it wasn’t even her.”

“Let’s remain optimistic, shall we, and assume that it was? Did the girl you saw have a flower painted on her right cheek?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not even sure it was her. Lots of girls had painted flowers.”

“Perhaps your security team might be able to help us?”

“Maybe. If they remember.”

“Was the press around?”

“On and off.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a matter of give and take, isn’t it? I mean, the publicity’s always useful and you don’t want to piss off the press, but at the same time you don’t want someone filming your every move or writing about you every time you go to the toilet, do you? We tried to strike a balance.”

“How did that work?”

“A big press conference before the event, scheduled interviews with specific artists at specific times.”

“Where?”

“In the press enclosure.”

“So the press weren’t allowed backstage?”

“You must be joking.”

“Photographers?”

“Only in the press enclosure.”

“Can you give me their names?”

“I can’t remember them all. You can ask Mick Lawton. He was press liaison officer for the event. I’ll give you his number.”

“What about television?”

“They were here on Saturday and Sunday.”

“Let me guess – press enclosure?”

“For the most part, they filmed crowd scenes and the bands performing, within strict copyright guidelines, with permission and everything.”

“I’ll need the names of television companies involved.”

“Sure. The usual suspects.” Hayes named them. It wasn’t as if there were that many to choose from, and Yorkshire Television and BBC North would have been Chadwick’s first guesses anyway. Chadwick stood up, stooping so he didn’t bang his head on the ceiling. “We’ll have a chat with them later, see if we can have a look at their footage. And we’ll be talking with your security people, too. Thanks for your time.”

Hayes shuffled to his feet, looking surprised. “That’s it?”

Chadwick smiled. “For now.”

It was like a scene out of Dickens painted with Rembrandt’s sense of light and shade. There were two distinct groups in the low-beamed lounge, one playing cards, the other in the midst of an animated conversation: gnarled, weather-beaten faces with lined cheeks and potato noses lit by candles and the wood fire that crackled in the hearth. The two people behind the bar were younger. One was a local girl Banks was sure he had seen before, a pale willowy blonde of nineteen or twenty. The other was a young man about ten years older, with curly hair and a wispy goatee.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked toward the door when Banks and Annie walked in, then the cardplayers resumed their game and the other group muttered quietly.

“Nasty night out there,” said the young man behind the bar. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a pint of Black Sheep,” said Banks, showing his warrant card, “and DI Cabbot here will have a Slimline bitter lemon, no ice.”

Annie raised an eyebrow at Banks but accepted the drink when it came, and took out her notebook.

“Thought it wouldn’t be long before you lot came sniffing around, all that activity going on out there,” said the young man. His biceps bulged as he pulled Banks’s pint.

“And you’ll be?”

“Cameron Clarke. Landlord. Everyone calls me CC.”

Banks paid for the drinks, against CC’s protests, and took a sip of his beer. “Well, Cameron,” he said, “this is a nice pint you keep, I must say.”

“Thanks.”

Banks turned to the girl. “And you are?”

“Kelly,” she said, shifting from foot to foot and twirling her hair. “Kelly Soames. I just work here.”

Like CC, Kelly wore a white T-shirt with “The Cross Keys Inn” emblazoned across her chest. There was enough candlelight behind the bar to see that the thin material came to a stop about three inches above her low-rise jeans and broad studded belt, exposing a flat strip of pale white skin and a belly button from which hung a short silver chain. As far as Banks was concerned, the bare-midriff trend had turned every male over forty into a dirty old man.

He glanced around. A middle-aged couple he hadn’t noticed when he came in sat on the bench below the bay window, tourists by the look of them, anoraks and an expensive camera bag on the seat beside them. Several of the people were smoking, and Banks suppressed a sudden urge for a cigarette. He addressed the whole pub. “Does anyone know what’s happened up the road?”

They all shook their heads and muttered no.

“Anyone leave here during the last couple of hours?”

“One or two,” CC answered.

“I’ll need their names.”

CC told him.

“When did the electricity go off?”

“About two hours ago. There’s a line down on the Eastvale Road. It could take an hour or two more, or so they said.”

It was half past nine now, Banks noted, so the power cut had occurred at half past seven. It would be easy enough to check the exact time with Yorkshire Electricity, but that would do to be going on with. If Nick, the victim, had been killed between six and eight, then, had the killer seized the opportunity of the cover of extra darkness, or had he acted sooner, between six and half past seven? It probably didn’t matter, except that the power cut had brought Mrs. Tanner to check on her tenant, and the body had been discovered perhaps quite a bit sooner than the killer had hoped.

“Anyone arrive after the electricity went off?”

“We arrived at about a quarter to eight,” said the man in the bay-window seat. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

The woman beside him nodded.

“We were on our way to Eastvale, back to the hotel,” he went on, “and this is the first place we saw that was open. I don’t like driving after dark at the best of times.”

“I don’t blame you,” Banks said. “Did you see anyone else on the road?”

“No. I mean, there might have been a car or two earlier, but we didn’t see anyone after the power went out.”

“Where were you coming from?”

“Swainshead.”

“Did you see anyone when you parked here?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. The wind was so loud and the branches…”

“You might have seen someone?”

“I thought I saw the taillights of a car,” the man’s wife said.

“Where?”

“Heading up the hill. Straight on. I don’t know where the road goes. But I can’t be certain. As my husband says, it was a bit like a hurricane out there. It could have been something else flashing in the dark, a lantern or a torch or something.”

“You didn’t see or hear anything else?”

They both shook their heads.

A possible sighting of a car heading up the unfenced road over the moors, then; that was the sum of it. They would make inquiries at the youth hostel, of course, but it was hardly likely their murderer was conveniently staying there. Still, someone might have seen something.

Banks turned back to CC. “We’ll need statements from everyone in here. Names and addresses, when they arrived, that sort of thing. I’ll send someone over. For the moment, though, did anyone leave and come back between six and eight?”

“I did,” said one of the cardplayers.

“What time would that be?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“How long were you gone?”

“About fifteen minutes. As long as it takes to drive to Lyndgarth and back.”

“Why did you drive to Lyndgarth and back?”

“I live there,” he said. “I thought I might have forgotten to turn the gas ring off after I had my tea, so I went back to check.”

“And had you?”

“What?”

“Turned the gas ring off?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Wasted journey, then.”

“Not if I hadn’t turned it off.”

That raised a titter from his cronies. Banks didn’t want to get mired any deeper in Yorkshire logic.

“You still haven’t told us what’s happened,” another of the cardplayers piped up. “Why are you asking all these questions?” A candle guttered on the table and went out, leaving his gnarled face in shadow.

“This is just the beginning,” said Banks, thinking he might as well tell them. They would find out soon enough. “It looks very much as if we have a murder on our hands.”

A collective gasp rose from the drinkers, followed by more muted muttering. “Who was it, if I might ask?” said CC.

“I wish I knew,” said Banks. “Maybe you can help me there. All I know is that his name was Nick and he was staying at Moorview Cottage.”

“Mrs. Tanner’s young lad, then?” said CC. “She was in here looking for him not so long ago.”

“I know,” said Banks. “She found him.”

“Poor woman. Tell her there’s a drink on the house waiting for her, whatever she wants.”

“Have you seen her husband tonight?” Banks asked, remembering that Mrs. Tanner had told him her husband was at a darts match.

“Jack Tanner? No. He’s not welcome here.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m sorry to say it, but he’s a troublemaker. Ask anyone. Soon as he’s got three or four pints into him he’s picking on someone.”

“I see,” said Banks. “That’s interesting to know.”

“Now, wait a minute,” protested CC. “I’m not saying he’s capable of owt like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know. What you said. Murdering someone.”

“Do you know anything about the young man?” Annie asked.

CC was so distracted by her breaking her silence that he stopped spluttering. “He came in a couple of times,” he said.

“Did he talk to anyone?”

“Only to ask for a drink, like. And food. He had a bar snack here once, didn’t he, Kelly?”

Kelly was on the verge of tears, Banks noticed. “Anything to add?” he asked her.

Even in the candlelight, Banks could see that she blushed. “No,” she said. “Why should I?”

“Just asking.”

“Look, he was just a normal bloke,” CC said. “You know, said hello, smiled, put his glass back on the bar when he left. Not like some.”

“Did he smoke?”

CC seemed puzzled by the question, then he said, “Yes. Yes, he did.”

“Did he stand at the bar and chat?” Annie asked.

“He wasn’t the chatty sort,” said CC. “He’d take his drink and go sit over there with the newspaper.” He gestured toward the hearth.

“Which newspaper?” Banks asked.

CC frowned. “The Independent,” he said. “I think he liked to do the crossword. Too hard for me, that one. I can barely manage the Daily Mirror. Why? Does it matter?”

Banks favored him with a tight smile. “Maybe it doesn’t,” he said, “but I like to know these things. It tells me he was intelligent, at any rate.”

“If you call doing crossword puzzles intelligent, I suppose it does. I think they’re a bit of a waste of time, myself.”

“Ah, but you can’t do them, can you?”

“Does either of you have any idea what he did for a living?” Annie asked, glancing from CC to Kelly and back.

“I told you,” said CC. “He wasn’t chatty, and I’m not especially the nosy type. Man wants to come in here and have a quiet drink, he’s more than welcome, as far as I’m concerned.”

“So it never came up?” Annie said.

“No. Maybe he was a writer or a reviewer or something.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, if he didn’t have the newspaper, he always had a book with him.” He glanced toward Banks. “And don’t ask me what book he was reading, because I didn’t spot the title.”

“Any idea what he was doing here, this time of year?” Banks asked.

“None. Look, we often get people staying at Moorview Cottage dropping by for a pint or a meal, and we don’t know any more or less about them than we did about him. You don’t get to know people that quickly, especially if they’re the quiet type.”

“Point taken,” said Banks. He knew quite well how long it took the locals to accept newcomers in a place like Fordham, and no holidaying cottager could ever stay long enough. “That just about wraps it up for now.” He looked at Annie. “Anything else you can think of?”

“No,” said Annie, putting away her notebook.

Banks drained his pint. “Right, then, we’ll be off, and someone will be over to take your statements.”

Kelly Soames was chewing on her plump pink lower lip, Banks noticed, glancing back as he followed Annie out of the pub.

Monday, 8th September, 1969

The newshounds had sniffed out a crime at about the same time that the incident van arrived, and the first on the scene was a Yorkshire Evening Post reporter, shortly followed by local radio and television, the same people who had no doubt been reporting on the festival. Chadwick knew that his relationship with them was held in a delicate balance. They were after a sensational story, one that would make people buy their newspapers or tune in to their channel, and Chadwick needed them on his side. They could be of invaluable help in identifying a victim, for example, or even in staging a reconstruction. In this case, there wasn’t much he could tell them. He didn’t go into details about the wounds, nor did he mention the flower painted on the victim’s cheek, though he knew that that was the sort of sensationalist information they wanted. The more he could keep out of the public domain, the better when it came to court. He did, however, get them to agree to let police look at the weekend’s footage. It would probably be a waste of time, but it had to be done.

When Chadwick was done at the field it was afternoon, and he realized he was hungry. He had DC Bradley drive him to the nearest village, Denleigh, about a mile to the northeast. It had turned into a fine day, and only a thin gauze of cloud hung in the sky to filter a little of the sun’s heat. The village had a sort of stunned appearance about it, and Chadwick noticed that it was unusually messy, the streets littered with wastepaper and empty cigarette packets.

At first it seemed there was nobody about, but then they saw a man walking by the village green and pulled up beside him. He was a tweedy sort with a stiff-brush mustache and a pipe. He looked to Chadwick like a retired military officer, reminded him of a colonel he’d had in Burma during the war.

“Anywhere to eat around here?” Chadwick asked, winding the window down.

“Fish-and-chip shop, just round the corner,” the man said. “Should be still open.” Then he peered more closely at Chadwick. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Chadwick said. “I’m a policeman.”

“Huh. We could have done with a few more of your lot around this weekend,” the man went on. “By the way, Forbes is the name. Archie Forbes.”

They shook hands through the window. “Unfortunately, we can’t be everywhere, Mr. Forbes,” said Chadwick. “Was there any damage?”

“One of them broke the newsagent’s window when Ted told them he’d run out of cigarette papers. Some of them even slept in Mrs. Wrigley’s back garden. Scared her half to death. I suppose you’re here about that girl they found dead in a sleeping bag?”

“News travels fast.”

“It does around these parts. Communism. You mark my words. That’s what’s behind it. Communism.”

“Probably,” said Chadwick, moving to wind up the window.

Forbes kept talking. “I still have one or two contacts in the intelligence services, if you catch my drift,” he said, putting a crooked finger to the side of his nose, “and there’s no doubt in my mind, and in the minds of many other right-thinking people, I might add, that this is a lot more than just youthful high spirits. Behind it all you’ll find those French and German student anarchist groups, and behind them you’ll find communism. Need I spell it out, sir? The Russians.” He took a puff on his pipe. “There’s no doubt in my mind that there are some very unscrupulous people directing events behind the scenes, unscrupulous foreigners, for the most part, and their goal is the overthrow of democratic government everywhere. Drugs are only a part of their master plan. These are frightening times we live in.”

“Yes,” said Chadwick. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Forbes. We’ll be off for those fish and chips now.” He signaled for Bradley to drive off as he wound up the window, leaving Forbes staring after them. They had a laugh about Forbes, though Chadwick believed there might be something in what he’d said about foreign students fomenting dissent. They soon found the fish-and-chip shop and sat in the car eating.

When Chadwick had finished, he screwed up the newspaper, then excused himself, got out of the car and put it in the rubbish bin. Next he went into the telephone booth beside the fish-and-chip-shop and dialed home. Janet answered on the third ring. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Chadwick. “I was wondering about Yvonne. How is she today?”

“Back to normal, it seems.”

“Did she say anything about last night?”

“No. We didn’t talk. She left for school at the usual time and gave me a quick peck on the cheek on her way out. Look, let’s just leave it at that for the time being, darling, can’t we?”

“If she’s sleeping with someone, I want to know who it is.”

“And what good would that do you? What would you do if you knew? Go over and beat him up? Arrest him? Be sensible, Stan. She’ll tell us in her own time.”

“Or when it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, never mind,” said Chadwick. “Look, I have to go. Don’t bother keeping dinner warm tonight. I’ll probably be late.”

“How late?”

“I don’t know. Don’t wait up.”

“What is it?”

“Murder. A nasty one. You’ll hear all about it on the evening news.”

“Be careful, Stan.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Chadwick hung up and went back to the car.

“Everything all right, sir?” Bradley asked, window rolled down, halfway through his post-fish-and-chips cigarette. The car’s interior smelled of lard, vinegar and warm newsprint.

“Yes,” said Chadwick. “Right now, I think we’d better head back to Brimleigh Glen and see what’s been happening there, don’t you?”

Monday, 8th September, 1969

The search team had fastened tape to the four trees that surrounded the little grove deep in Brimleigh Woods, about two hundred yards from where the body had been found. The woods were dense enough that, from there, you couldn’t see as far as the field, and any noise would certainly have been drowned out by the music.

The police dog had found the spot easily enough by following the smell of the victim’s blood. Officers had also marked off the route the dog had taken, and painted little crosses on the trees. Every inch of the path would have to be searched. For the moment, though, Chadwick, Enderby and Bradley stood behind the tape gazing down at the bloodstained ground.

“This where it happened?” Chadwick asked.

“So the experts tell me,” said Enderby, pointing to bloodstains on the leaves and undergrowth. “There’s some blood here, consistent with the wounds the victim received.”

“Wouldn’t the killer have been covered in blood?” Bradley asked.

“Not necessarily,” said Enderby. “Peculiar things, stab wounds. Certainly with a slashed neck artery or vein, or a head wound, there’s quite a lot of spatter, but with the heart, oddly enough, the edges of the wound close and most of the bleeding is internal, it doesn’t spurt the way many people think it does. There’s quite a bit of seepage, of course – that’s what you’re seeing here and in the sleeping bag – and I doubt he’d have got away with his hands completely clean. After all, it looks as if he stabbed her five or six time and twisted the blade.” He gestured to the edge of the copse. “If you look over there, though, by the stream, you can see that little pile of leaves. They’ve got traces of blood on them, too. I reckon that he tried to wipe it off with the leaves first, then he washed his hands in the running water.”

“Get it all collected and sent to the lab,” said Chadwick, turning away. He wasn’t usually sentimental about victims, but he couldn’t get the image of the innocent-looking girl in the bloodstained white dress out of his mind, and he couldn’t help but think of his own daughter. “When did the doctor say he’d get around to the postmortem?”

“He said he’d try for later this afternoon, sir,” said Enderby.

“Good.”

“We’ve interviewed most of the people on security duty,” Enderby added.

“And?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid, sir. They all agree there was so much coming and going, so much pandemonium, that nobody knows who was where when. I’ve a good suspicion most of them were partaking of the same substances as the musicians and guests, too, which doesn’t help their memories much. Lots of people were wandering around in a daze.”

“Hmm,” said Chadwick. “I didn’t think we could expect too much from them. What about the girl?”

“No one admits definitely to seeing her, but we’ve got a couple of cautious maybes.”

“Push a bit harder.”

“Will do, sir.”

Chadwick sighed. “I suppose we’d better arrange to talk to the groups who were backstage at the time, get statements, for what they’re worth.”

“Sir?” said Enderby.

“What?”

“You might find that a bit difficult, sir. I mean… they’ll have all gone home now, and these people… well, they’re not readily accessible.”

“They’re no different from you and me, are they, Enderby? Not royalty or anything?”

“No, sir, more like film stars. But-”

“Well, then? I’ll deal with the two local groups, but as far as the rest are concerned, arrange to have them interviewed. Get someone to help you.”

“Yes, sir,” Enderby replied tightly, and turned away.

“And, Enderby.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t know what the standards are in North Yorkshire, but while you’re working for me I’d prefer it if you got your hair cut.”

Enderby reddened. “Yes, sir.”

“Bit hard on him, weren’t you, sir?” said Bradley, when Enderby had gone.

“He’s a scruff.”

“No, sir. I mean about questioning the groups. He’s right, you know. Some of these pop stars are a bit high and mighty.”

“What would you have me do, Simon? Ignore the fifty or so people who might have seen the victim with her killer because they’re some sort of gods?”

“No, sir.”

“Come on. Let’s head back home. I should be in time for Dr. O’Neill’s postmortem if I’m lucky, and I want you to go to Yorkshire Television and the BBC and have a look at the footage they shot of the festival.”

“What am I looking for, sir?”

“Right now, anything. The girl, anyone she might have been with. Any odd or unusual behavior.” Chadwick paused. “On second thought, don’t worry about that last bit. It’s all bound to be odd and unusual, given the people we’re dealing with.”

Bradley laughed. “Yes, sir.”

“Just use your initiative, laddie. At least you won’t have to watch the doctor open the poor girl up.”

Before they walked away, Chadwick turned back to the bloodstained ground.

“What is it, sir?” Bradley asked.

“Something that’s been bothering me all morning. The sleeping bag.”

“Sleeping bag?”

“Aye. Who did it belong to?”

“Her, I suppose,” said Bradley.

“Perhaps,” Chadwick said. “But why would she carry it into the woods with her? It just seems odd, that’s all.