Peter Robinson: Piece Of My Heart

“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.”