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goin’ back to the club to talk to the Seagulls.”
    He should never have given them the bloody list, Hopgood thought. He should have made them come to him for every name and every address that they required. But how could he have known that the stories they told about Woodend in the canteen were only a pale imitation of the real thing?
    â€œI suppose I’d better come with you and make the introductions,” the inspector said, trying to sound casual.
    Woodend drained the last few drops of his pint. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” he said.
    â€œIt’s no trouble.”
    â€œI’m sure it isn’t,” Woodend agreed. “But I’m equally sure that a hard-workin’ bobby like you can find better things do with his time than tag around behind me. Besides, bein’ questioned by two policeman is intimidatin’ enough for most people – even if one of them is no more than a lad. There’s no point in completely overwhelmin’ ’em with three.”
    â€œAs you wish, sir,” Hopgood said, ungraciously.
    â€œThank you, Inspector,” Woodend replied. He turned to Rutter. “Before we leave Liverpool, you really must remind me to have a word with the Chief Super about how co-operative Mr Hopgood’s been.”
    Hopgood watched the two Scotland Yard men leave
the pub. They had won this particular round, he told himself, but
if he had anything to do with it, the hand raised in victory at
the end of the contest would be his.

Six
    T he typists and shop assistants who had been gyrating to the beat of Mickey Finn and the Knockouts had drifted back to their desks in the typing pools and their positions behind department-store counters, and without them to fill up the space, the brick-vaulted Cellar Club seemed achingly empty. Not that it had been entirely abandoned. Rick Johnson and his wife were sitting on a couple of the hard chairs facing the stage, talking in low and urgent tones, and four young men were standing by the snack bar, looking very ill at ease.
    â€œWe’ll be with you in a couple of minutes,” Woodend called to the men at the bar. He turned to his sergeant. “We’ll go an’ have a look the murder scene first, shall we?”
    They walked up the side of the middle tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the arched ceiling. Once they had mounted the small stage, Woodend swung around to face the back of the club.
    This was almost the last thing Eddie Barnes ever saw, he thought – a cramped, sweaty cave of a place, full of adoring female fans.
    There was no door separating the dressing room from the stage, just a jagged gap in the wall, where the bricks had been knocked out.
    Woodend sighed. The fellers who had built this place, back in Charles Dickens’ day, had taken pride in their work, even though they knew that it was only going to be used for storage. The ones who had modified it – to make it into a place for people – hadn’t been bothered to make more than a botched job of it. And they said progress was
always
a good thing.
    Bending his head to avoid banging it, Woodend stepped through the gap. The dressing room itself was longer than it was wide, and was illuminated by a single, naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Near the door was a cupboard which contained the disc jockey’s turntable and records. Beyond that were several rickety chairs and an equally rickety table. The whole place stank of sweat and stale cigarette smoke.
    â€œAh, the glamour an’ magic of show business,” Woodend said, almost to himself.
    He picked his way between the chairs to a small, stained sink. It didn’t take a detective to work out that the lads who played in the groups used this more as a toilet than for washing – the smell of urine provided all the evidence anyone would need.
    Guitars and amplifiers were heaped up in a pile next to the sink, and beyond them was a