Vanishing Act

Book 3: The Eden House Mysteries

by Bill Kitson

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Thrillers; Ghost; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

'Reading this book for the second time' ***** Reader Review

1965 - the heyday of Rock & Roll. Northern Lights are tipped to become as big as The Beatles. But after a gig in Newcastle, lead singer and creative genius, Gerry Crowther, vanishes into the foggy night. Later, his body is recovered from the River Tyne.

Now, almost twenty years on, teen singing sensation Trudi Bell dominates the charts. As she prepares to release a new album, her manager Lew Pattison receives a demo tape from an unknown songwriter.

Realising the music is unmistakeably the work of Gerry Crowther, Lew enlists the help of Adam and Eve to uncover the truth. But some people will stop at nothing to keep it buried . . .

Vanishing Act is the third instalment in Bill Kitson's chilling and suspenseful Eden House mystery series. Perfect for fans of Peter James's Cold Hill series, Val McDermid and J M Dalgliesh.

Readers are hooked on The Eden House Mysteries:

'I couldn't sleep until I had finished this book' ***** Reader Review

'The best book I have read in a while' ***** Reader Review

'Captivating from start to finish. Brilliant page turner. I couldn't put it down' ***** Reader Review

'Read the whole thing in a day' ***** Reader Review

'One of the best authors I have come across' ***** Reader Review

'More twists than a corkscrew' ***** Reader Review

'The characters are brilliant and the story keeps you on the edge of your seat the whole time. Would highly recommendthis book!' ***** Reader Review

(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: March 26, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 274

Sample

Chapter One

December 1981

‘I want you to find a dead man.’

Those were the words Lew Pattison spoke the first time we met. It was a clear, cold winter’s morning, the sunlight making the frost on the fields sparkle like thousands of tiny diamonds, and Eve and I were returning from our morning stroll. Since Eve had moved from London to join me at Dene Cottage in the Yorkshire Dales, it had become a ritual we both enjoyed and gave us the chance to discuss our plans for the day. On this day, as with many in the immediate past, these centred on our plans for the extension to the cottage.

       When we reached the brow of the hill that marked the boundary of Laithbrigg village, we were surprised to see a car parked in the lane in front of the gate. Not just any car, either; the gleaming paint and sleek, majestic lines of the bodywork proclaimed it to be no less than the ultimate in luxury, a Rolls-Royce.

‘Wow! That’s some piece of metal.’

       ‘I wonder who it belongs to. Do you think it’s someone visiting us?’ Eve asked.

       ‘If so, they must be friends of yours. Nobody I know could afford the wing mirror off a car that expensive.’

       As we approached, the driver stepped carefully out, obviously wary in case his expensive, highly polished leather shoes came into contact with anything untoward. I was still admiring the man’s smart, tailored business suit, which seemed totally out of place in our surroundings, when Eve recognized our visitor.

       ‘It’s Lew Pattison.’

       ‘See, I knew it had to be one of your plutocratic friends. Who’s he?’

       ‘Alice’s husband. You remember me telling you about Alice Pattison, the barrister? She and I were friends in London; she represented me at my appeal.’

       Long before we met, Eve had been found guilty of attempted murder after stabbing her violent partner with a carving knife. The conviction had been overturned on appeal, when Eve’s counsel had been able to produce evidence and eyewitnesses who testified to the man’s long-term abuse, which had culminated with him scalding Eve with boiling water. It was in an attempt to escape this torture that Eve had retaliated.

       ‘Lew, this is a pleasant surprise,’ Eve greeted Pattison, before introducing me. ‘How’s Alice? Is everything all right?’

       ‘She’s fine. She sends her best wishes. She wanted to come along, but she’s in court all this week.’

       ‘How did you know where to find us?’

       ‘It would be hard not to. You two seem to be international celebrities. I read about your exploits when I was in Rome last week. Even there the papers and the TV bulletins carried stories about you both. I had to come to Yorkshire on business, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, because I have a favour to ask.’

       ‘Why don’t we go inside and have a cuppa, then you can explain why you’re here,’ Eve suggested.

       A few minutes later, when we were seated in the lounge, Pattison explained. ‘It was seeing the newspaper article that prompted the idea. I talked it over with Alice, and she reminded me of that other business you were involved in, at some castle or other? It seems you two have a talent for detective work.’

       ‘We don’t go seeking it,’ Eve protested, ‘it just seems to find us! Adam’s an author, and nowadays I’m learning to be a housewife, editor, and critic, and before long I plan to be a building site foreman, all rolled into one. We’ve had plans for an extension approved,’ she added by way of explanation.

       ‘I understand, and I won’t be offended if you refuse, but I do need some help, and you’d be ideal. For one thing, I know I can trust you, and you living here makes it even better.’

       ‘Why not tell us what it is you want us to do?’ I suggested.

       Pattison paused and took a deep breath. ‘It’s a long story, but basically … I want you to find a dead man.’

As an explanation, Pattison’s opening statement was more baffling than revealing. I blinked, and to cover my surprise, which I could see was mirrored by Eve, I said, ‘There are lots to choose from. Graveyards round here are full of them.’ Pattison gave me a pained smile, so I continued, ‘I assume you have someone specific in mind.’

       ‘First of all, I should explain my background. Eve knows a bit about me, I guess, but not too much. I’m in the music business. At least, that’s my main sphere of operation, although I’ve diversified in recent years. I started out as a roadie in the sixties, and then became a manager for several groups and solo artists. It was a golden time for British pop music, and the whole thing blossomed from there.

       ‘Currently, one of my brightest stars is a young girl with a great future. She’s only sixteen, but she’s already had a couple of hit singles. There are more songs waiting for her to record that I’m certain will make her a megastar. It’s one of those songs that’s the problem. The girl’s name is Trudi Bell. You may have heard of her.’

       I certainly had, and I could tell from Eve’s expression that she had too. ‘Last week,’ Pattison continued, ‘we received a registered letter at my office addressed for her attention. Inside was some sheet music, plus a demo tape. That’s by no means unusual. Fans often send in stuff, imagining they’ve written the next number one and asking their favourite pop star to record it. I had it down as just another of those losers until I scanned the dots.’

       ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’ I could tell by Eve’s expression that she didn’t understand either.

       ‘I meant, when I’d read the sheet music, it looked really good, so I played the tape. As soon as I heard the melody, I knew the song would be just right for Trudi. Whoever composed it knew exactly how to tailor a ballad for someone with a voice like hers. That made me curious about the songwriter. I was convinced it had to be someone with a profound knowledge of music.’

       ‘I take it you’d no clue as to the identity of the sender,’ Eve said.

‘No, there wasn’t a letter or anything.’

‘What about a return address on the envelope?’

       ‘There was, but it wasn’t much help. It simply said, “John Smith, c/o Barclays Bank, Harrogate”.’

       ‘So the composer wishes to remain anonymous. Where’s the problem with that?’

       Pattison turned to me. ‘Adam will understand, being an author. It’s all to do with copyright. Unless we can get the writer’s signature on a contract we could lay ourselves and Trudi open to huge claims if the song does become successful.’

       ‘I get that, but I still don’t see where the hunt for a dead man comes in,’ I said.

       ‘I listened to that demo over and over. All the time something was nagging at the back of my mind. You know how it is when you see someone in a street and recognize them, but can’t put a name to the face? Well, it was a bit like that, or when you read something and feel sure you know the author, even if you can’t remember their name. It’s pretty much the same with musicians. If you hear something, you can often tell who it is playing or singing, even before they announce it.’

       ‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘I only need a few bars to recognize Miles Davis, for example.’

       ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I was still struggling with it when, quite by chance, I heard a record from 1964 on the radio. That was when I knew who the player was. I knew without doubt that not only had he played, but also that he’d composed the song on that tape. There was only one problem. It couldn’t possibly have been the man I had in mind, because he died in 1965.’

       ‘Maybe he recorded it before he died and someone else sent it in?’ Eve suggested. ‘His wife, perhaps, or a close friend.’

       Pattison shook his head. ‘He wasn’t married, had no family, and precious few friends. Apart from that, back then it would have been reel-to-reel tape, not a cassette. Besides which, it was in stereo, not mono.’

       ‘OK, so who is this mysterious composer? I take it we’re discounting it being the work of a ghostwriter.’

       Pattison groaned. ‘It didn’t say anything in that newspaper article about your weird sense of humour.’

       Eve snorted. ‘If you think that’s bad, wait until he really gets warmed up.’

       Pattison leaned forward and set his mug down carefully on the coaster. ‘What do you know about Northern Lights?’ He must have anticipated my reply because he added swiftly, ‘I’m talking about the pop group, not the Aurora Borealis.’

       The name was familiar enough. ‘I seem to remember they were tipped for stardom. As I recall some people reckoned they might be as big as The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, but then something went wrong and they were never heard of again. Wasn’t there some sort of scandal?’

       Pattison looked at me mockingly. ‘I thought you used to be a reporter?’

       ‘Not in those days. Back then I hadn’t reached such heady heights.’

       ‘I used to manage Northern Lights. You were right; they would have been huge if they’d stayed together. Looking back, I think it was inevitable that they would have split up sooner or later. What happened in 1965 just made it sooner.’

       ‘What was their problem?’

       ‘You name it and you’d probably be right. Back-biting, jealousy, petty squabbles, professional rivalry, women – all fuelled by booze and drugs. At the root of it all was the fact that the group had split into two factions. Everyone knew that but for the genius of one of their members, they’d still have been playing pubs and working men’s clubs, earning a pittance and struggling to get gigs.

       ‘It was like that before Gerry Crowther joined them. He had a good singing voice and he was an exceptional keyboard player, but his genius lay in his talent as a songwriter. Crowther composed all their hit singles plus every track on their LPs. He was both talented and prolific – and most of the others hated him on both counts.’

       Pattison paused and took a sip of his tea, which must have been cold by then. ‘Crowther actually chose the most famous line-up. He knew he could mould them into a unit capable of producing the sound he wanted. In the process he insisted they replace some members of the original line-up. Several of the others protested, but deep down they knew they would have to go along with Crowther’s ideas if they wanted to succeed. You’d think that would make them grateful, but in fact it seemed to make them resent him even more.’

       ‘What happened to cause the split?’ Eve asked.

       ‘Northern Lights were playing their final gig of the tour in Newcastle in November ’65. At the end of their set, the group went back to their dressing room to unwind and waited for their transport. After a while, someone noticed that Crowther wasn’t there. When they couldn’t find him everyone went into panic mode. Eventually, the truth came out: it seemed Crowther had walked from the venue to the Tyne Bridge and jumped to his death. He was seen near the bridge by one of the group’s fans. It was a long time afterwards that his body was recovered from the river. There was no possibility of a mistake. They even recovered his trademark leather jacket.’

       ‘Was it very distinctive?’

       ‘Unique around the north-east, I reckon. It had the name and image of Crowther’s hero, Buddy Holly, on the back.’

       I blinked with surprise. ‘I’ve got one of those. I’ve had it for years. Mind you, I got mine in New York, not Newcastle. And you must have got it wrong. If Crowther died in 1965, someone else must have played on the song.’

       ‘I didn’t get it wrong. I’m convinced I didn’t. I’m sure it was Crowther who wrote and played that music. No one came close to his style.’

       ‘If you’re right, whose was the body in the river? And how did they come by Crowther’s jacket?’

       Pattison shrugged helplessly. ‘I’ve no idea. That’s why I need your help.’

       ‘Accepting that you believe Crowther is alive, why ask us to find him? Isn’t that the sort of job a private detective would be better at?’

       ‘Or the police perhaps,’ Eve added.

       ‘The police won’t get involved. As far as they’re concerned, Crowther’s dead. Even if he didn’t come to any harm and simply vanished of his own volition, they won’t be interested. It isn’t illegal to disappear. As for private investigators, I’ve very little confidence in their ability. There are other reasons for asking you as well.’

       ‘Such as?’

       ‘Back then, I got a firm of private detectives involved and details of Gerry’s disappearance appeared in the press within a couple of days. At that point we were trying to keep it under wraps. The leak must have come either from my office or the enquiry agent. I’m still not sure which.’

       ‘What are the other reasons?’

       Pattison spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care. ‘There are aspects to this case that I wouldn’t want to entrust to them. Like I said, there was a lot of strife within Northern Lights. Crowther only had two allies within the band: Neville Wade, the drummer, and Billy Quinn, the lead guitarist. After Gerry disappeared, Quinn’s behaviour changed. He became introverted, morose, with hardly a word for anyone. Soon after Crowther’s body was recovered from the river, Billy was killed in London. At the time, I thought he’d simply made a bad mistake, but now I’m not sure. So, I thought that the best chance of finding Gerry without anyone getting wind of what’s going on would be to involve a complete outsider, and someone who had no previous connection either with me or Northern Lights.’

       ‘So you picked us because you want to avoid anyone learning that Crowther’s potentially alive? That’s the only reason?’

       ‘Not quite. For one thing, Crowther was born in this area. Well, West Yorkshire to be exact. I particularly remembered because the place name was so unusual that I’d to ask him how to spell it. It was Mytholmroyd.’

I smiled and corrected Pattison’s pronunciation. ‘If everyone believed the suicide story, they must have thought Crowther had a reason. Do you know what that might have been?’

       Pattison was silent for a moment before answering.

‘Musicians are an odd bunch. A few are normal, level-headed individuals. I’d have put Crowther in that bracket, but towards the end he became more … difficult, shall we say. About a month or two before he vanished his behaviour changed abruptly. I got reports back that Crowther had started drinking. He certainly wasn’t a teetotaller, none of them were, but I’d never seen him drink much.’

       ‘And you’ve no idea what caused the change?’

       ‘No. I thought his death was the culmination of his downward spiral, and assumed that drink, drugs, or depression, or a combination of all three, had finally got the better of him.’ Pattison smiled rather sadly. ‘The three Ds that are the bane of performers everywhere. Now, I’m not sure what to think. If Crowther is still alive, then the mystery of why he vanished is greater than ever. Apart from that,’ he continued, ‘I have a piece of evidence to show you.’

       ‘What’s that?’ Eve asked.

He produced a large registered envelope from his briefcase. ‘This is the envelope that the music came in.’ He pointed to the top right-hand corner. ‘When Alice saw that, she convinced me to drive up from London to visit you. She said it was too good an opportunity to miss.’

       The envelope bore the postmark of the village of Allerscar, no more than fifteen miles away from where we were.

Before Pattison left, we’d come to a compromise. Although we’d agreed to try and locate Gerry Crowther, as Eve pointed out, we couldn’t consider starting to make enquiries for some months. ‘You’ve asked at a very bad moment,’ she told him. ‘The builder starts work straight after New Year and Adam is working to a deadline. We’ll have to refuse if you need something doing in the immediate future.’

       ‘That’s not a problem,’ Pattison smiled. ‘It isn’t as if I need the music for Trudi to record next week. She has several more potential songs lined up, just not as good as that one. How does this sound: if you agree to take the case, I’ll gather all the background material I can find together and when you give me the go-ahead, I’ll send it up to you via registered mail. You can start by having a look through it all, and let me know if there’s anything else you need. Then you’ll be au fait with the facts. It’ll take me quite a while to get all the info down on paper anyway.’

       As we watched him drive away, Eve said, ‘Lew’s comment about “taking the case” makes us sound like real private detectives.’

       ‘That’s true, and I hope all the villagers saw Pattison’s car outside our house. It’ll do wonders for our reputation.’

       ‘They’ll probably charge us double for the work we want doing on the house.’

       I looked at my intended with interest. ‘Are you certain you weren’t born in Yorkshire?’

       ‘Now that we’ve decided to play detective, have you an idea where to start?’

       ‘There isn’t much we can do until Pattison supplies that background material. I have had one idea, though.’

       ‘Only one? Adam, you’re losing your touch.’   Eve has a great talent for insulting me. What’s more worrying is that I’m starting to enjoy it.

‘I think a trip to Mytholmroyd sometime in the future might pay dividends.’

       ‘Mytholmroyd? Why there?’

       ‘That was where Crowther was born. He might have returned there after the supposed suicide. Alternatively, we might find someone who could give us a clue as to where he is now, and what he’s been doing for the past sixteen years.’

       Eve shook her head sadly. ‘Your thinking might be good but your arithmetic is lousy. I counted three ideas, not one.’

       ‘OK then, here’s another idea for you. Your friend Pattison was a little less truthful in a couple of respects.’ I closed the door and followed Eve into the study.

       ‘In what way was he untruthful?’

       ‘He said the police wouldn’t be interested because no crime had been committed. That isn’t really right. If Crowther didn’t commit suicide that night, what did become of him? And if someone else’s body was washed up later wearing Crowther’s clothing, might that not make police suspect that Crowther might have been responsible for the unknown’s death?’

       ‘You think Crowther might have vanished because he’d murdered someone, and dressed the corpse in his jacket to make it appear as if it was him who had died?’

            ‘It’s a possibility, and I reckon that’s the real reason Pattison doesn’t want the police involved. The other reason might be connected to Quinn’s death. Pattison merely said he was “killed”. He didn’t elaborate, which I found a bit suspicious.’

Chapter Two

Work on the extension went better than we could have hoped, helped by an unusually mild winter and spring. The end of May saw the new part of the building ready for occupation.

Our home was no longer small; the extension had changed the cottage into a house. It was with great ceremony that the plaque bearing the name Eden House was installed, replacing the previous Dene Cottage. I held Eve close as we gazed at the sign. ‘Well, my little builder’s foreman, you’ve certainly proved your organisational skills.’ I smiled at her. ‘Perhaps the next thing you can organise could be a wedding?’

‘That’ll have to wait a bit longer. You’ve another book to finish first, and there’s that job we promised to do for Lew. Besides, who mentioned marriage? I happen to like collecting jewellery,’ she said, staring at my mother’s engagement ring on her left hand.

‘If you’re that keen on rings, then I’ll buy you a gold one to go with it.’

       It was early July before I had time to spare. Eve then phoned Lew Pattison to ask if he still wanted us to try and find the missing musician. He seemed pleased that we were ready to make a start and would get the paperwork sent through as soon as possible.

We had finished our evening meal when our phone rang. Eve answered it, and her greeting of ‘Hi, sis,’ told me it was her older sister Harriet who was calling; or Lady Rowe, to give her correct title.

       Harriet was doing most of the talking, because all I heard from Eve were several monosyllables, followed by an, ‘Oh dear, that’s terrible. How is he?’ She ended the call by saying, ‘I don’t know. I’ll tell Adam, and see if he’s got any bright ideas. It’s unlikely, but you never know.’

       ‘Problem?’ I asked as she put the phone down. I can be very perceptive at times.

       ‘And how! You know they’re all supposed to be jetting off to the States?’

       I nodded, and Eve continued, ‘It looks as if the whole trip will have to be cancelled. Tony might have to go to that conference in New York on his own.’

       Eve’s brother-in-law, Sir Anthony Rowe, was scheduled to attend an international business symposium in New York, and that had been the planned springboard for a six-week holiday for the whole family, including Lady Charlotte, Tony’s mother.

       ‘Why, what’s gone wrong?’

       ‘Charlie has been sent home from school after spending two days in the sanatorium. He’s gone down with a severe case of tonsillitis. He’s got a high temperature and there’s no way the doctor will allow him near an aeroplane until he’s better. That means Harriet, the twins, and Lady Charlotte will all have to stay at home.’

       Charles Rowe, Tony and Harriet’s son, now fifteen years old, was a great favourite of ours. The solution seemed obvious.

       ‘Tell Harriet we’ll go across to Mulgrave Castle tomorrow, bring Charlie back here, and take care of him. That way the rest of the family don’t miss out.’

       ‘That’. . .