A Mersey Killing E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A skeleton and a missing woman. A doomed romance. A mystery spanning two generations.

Liverpool, 1961. A group of young men come together seeking fame and fortune, as the fledgling sounds of the Swinging Sixties take root in the city. Soon, Liverpool becomes synonymous with the music that shapes a generation.

Liverpool, 1999. Skeletal remains found in the docklands lead Detective Inspector Andy Ross and Sergeant Izzie Drake into a journey through time, as the investigation takes them back to early days of the Mersey Beat.

Whose bones laid beneath the mud of the River Mersey for over thirty years, and what links them to a young woman, missing for the entire time?

Leseprobe

A Mersey Killing

Mersey Murder Mysteries Book I

Brian L. Porter

Copyright (C) 2015 Brian L. Porter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements

So many people were instrumental in various ways in helping to ensure A Mersey Killing came to final fruition, it would take too long to mention them all, but hopefully those whose names are not mentioned here will know who you are, and how grateful I am to each and every one of you. Some, however, I felt I must include by name, so here goes.

Thanks must go to my publisher, Miika Hannila at Next Chapter Publishing, who had such faith in the book that he issued a contract for it before the first chapter was completed, and likewise to Mario Domina, CEO of ThunderBall Films, who optioned the book for movie adaptation at around the same time. Such confidence in one's work is truly rewarding for an author.

On a more personal level, sincere and loving thanks go to all the members of my extended family in the great city of Liverpool. Mostly my father's cousins and their descendants, my thoughts and recollections of you all helped mould most of the characters in the following story. The wonderful, typical Liverpudlian personalities of 'Aunty Ada' and 'Aunty Alice' combined to become Connie Doyle, and cousin George appears as George Thompson. Ron and Iris, with whom we stayed often in my early teens, helped me to form some of the personalities that make up many of the background characters.

A word of gratitude goes to my cousin, Rachael Tiffen, who graciously allowed me to use the names of her children, Ethan and Clemency as characters, and to Ethan and Clemmy personally for giving me their personal approval for me to do so. I hope you enjoy reading the book. As an author, I find it so much easier to develop a character who is based on the reality of a personal acquaintance. It enables me to add substance to the character that might otherwise be difficult to incorporate effectively.

I owe a debt of thanks also to my fellow author and dog lover, Carole Gill, the successful author of a number of bestselling horror novels. Read her vampire books if you dare! During a period of technical difficulty towards the end of the book, when it looked as if the final completion of A Mersey Killing might be delayed by many weeks, her help and support proved invaluable. A million thanks, Carole.

Similar thanks go to the aforementioned Mario Domina, who also helped immensely during this period.

To all the people of the wonderful city of Liverpool, thank you for being there, and for providing me with the inspiration for A Mersey Killing.

As always, I save my final thanks for my dear wife, Juliet, my fiercest critic during the writing of all my books. If she doesn't like it, it doesn't go into the final manuscript. Her patience, (often worn thin), and unerring support have been as always, a tower of strength time during the entire writing process.

Introduction

The year is 1961, and the city of Liverpool is just beginning to rock to the sounds of the new wave of popular music finding its way to the UK from the United States. At the birth of what would become known as 'The Swinging Sixties' four young men come together with dreams of pop stardom in their eyes, and begin following that dream in Liverpool's various clubs, some with illustrious names such as The Cavern and The Iron Door, but mostly in those venues little known outside the great port city. Playing for minimum fees, here, in the environment that would spawn such names as The Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers and more, Brendan Kane and the Planets begin their journey towards eventual recognition.

In what will become a sweeping tale of almost epic proportions, we skip to the eve of the millennium. It is 1999, and as the city of Liverpool undergoes a transforming programme of modernization and redevelopment, workers on a project to reclaim an old disused wharf and dockside warehouse uncover the skeletal remains of a long dead murder victim. Both kneecaps of the victim appear to bear the marks of a classic IRA 'kneecapping' and before long, Detective Inspector Andy Ross and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Clarissa (Izzie) Drake, find themselves involved in an investigation that sends them back in time, back to those heady days of the sixties when the city rocked to the sound of the new brand of British popular music, but when passions greater than anything they at first envisage had led to the ultimate crime, cold-blooded murder! A chance clue leads to the eventual identification of the remains, and to a new mystery, involving a young woman, missing for over thirty years. When a new murder occurs, connected to the investigation, Ross realises the case is not quite as 'cold' as it first appeared, and begins a race against time to prevent further killings as the past and present collide and the case takes a new sinister turn.

Author's note

A Mersey Killing is a work of fiction, and as such, the main characters and many of the places mentioned with the work that follows are the creations of the author's mind and are not intended to be confused with any real persons, living or dead. It has been necessary, however, in order to create a work that is credible and believable to make certain references to actual people, places, and events in order to invoke the time and era of the book's setting, i.e. the city of Liverpool in the early nineteen-sixties. Where this has happened, it has been done with the greatest reverence and respect for those mentioned in passing, none of whom are actual participants in the fictional work, and that the reader will soon realise are there merely to help create the ambience of a very special time in the world of music, and in the wonderful vibrant city that gave birth to the phenomenon that came to be known as 'The Swinging Sixties.'

Spelling and Grammar

Please note that this book is written in British, (UK) English, and here in the UK, many spellings differ from those in the USA. Also, many of the characters in the book speak the local Liverpudlian dialect, which means I have amended the spellings and grammatical use of certain words to indicate the phonetic pronunciation of the words affected.

Chapter 1

OPENING BARS

The Cavern Club in the spring of 1961 was, to use the idiom of the day, 'really rocking'. A raucous crowd of teenagers was dancing, screaming and in some cases, eating a typical Cavern lunch of sandwiches, soft drinks, (the club had no liquor licence), or maybe tea or coffee. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, a popular local group of the day, completed their set and the crowded club, built in a converted, disused warehouse, filled with the sound of the clapping and cheering of happy and almost delirious youth. The drummer of the band, one Ringo Starr, would later rise to worldwide fame as a member of The Beatles, but their days of taking the music world by storm still lay a little way in the future. For now, he grinned at the applause, as did the other members of the group, who reveled in the ovation they received from the appreciative young audience. Like the Beatles, Rory Storm and the Hurricanes would later be signed by the iconic musical entrepreneur, Brian Epstein, without, sadly, achieving the fame of Liverpool's most marketable asset of the sixties, but for now, they were content to be one of the most popular groups on the ever growing local music scene. At the time, 'beat' music and rock 'n roll was only allowed in The Cavern Club during their lunchtime sessions, the club being a 'Skiffle Club' where only a smattering of jazz would be allowed to deviate from the norm. That would all change very soon thanks to the burgeoning sound of the sixties that would emanate from the streets of the great seaport.

Holding both arms out to his sides and lowering his palms in a request for quiet from the gathered throng of teenagers, Rory Storm smiled and spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard over the general hubbub of the club.

“Thanks, everyone. It's great to be appreciated. It's time for us to take a break, but I know you're gonna love the next group who're about to step up here for you. It's their first time here at the Cavern, so let's all give a real big Cavern welcome to Brendan Kane and the Planets!”

The audience cheered and clapped and as the sound rose until it seemed to bounce back from the brick walls of the club, Rory turned to his left and beckoned to the waiting group, positioned off stage, waiting for the moment to make their debut.

“Come on, Brendan, fellas,” Rory shouted and the debutantes virtually ran onto the stage to yet more cheers from the throng of eager youth, always happy to hear and appreciate the latest groups to hit the local music scene. Comprising Brendan himself, the group's lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist, he was followed onto the compact Cavern stage by lead guitarist Mickey Doyle, drummer Phil Oxley and Mickey's younger brother Ronnie on bass. Without preamble the group launched into the first of the two numbers they would perform that day, their own arrangement of Chuck Berry's classic hit, Roll Over Beethoven. Within seconds of them beginning the club was rocking to the sound of the new group on the scene and Brendan Kane's voice, powerful and resonant, had the audience enraptured.

“Wow, that boy can sing!” “Fab” and other superlatives were soon being exchanged by the young listeners whose discerning ears were fast becoming attuned to recognition of those groups or singers who had the right musical sound and most importantly, voices that could make them stand out from the crowd in a rapidly expanding local music scene. As the last strains of the music died away at the end of their performance, the watching audience spontaneously burst into a rousing chorus of applause, whistles, and cheers, and Brendan looked hopefully towards the side of the stage, where the club's resident D.J, knowing a good thing when he saw, (and heard) it, held one finger up, signaling that the group could perform one more song, that being double what they'd expected to play that day.

Brendan quickly mouthed “Coming home” to the group members and Mickey Doyle's fingers began to pick out the opening melody of a song he and Brendan had written together. With a resonating beat and a 'catchy' guitar melody running through the song, any risk the group had taken in performing their own composition rather than one of the standards of the day soon evaporated as the audience foot-tapped and jigged their way through the new song, which the group was performing in public for the first time.

“That was great,” said the club's D.J as the group left the stage to yet more rapturous applause. “You lads have a really good sound. I want you to come back again, and soon.”

“That'll be terrific,” Brendan replied, a beaming smile on his face. “How soon?”

“How're you fixed for next week?”

“Well, we're at The Iron Door on Tuesday.”

“What about Thursday lunchtime?”

Brendan quickly looked questioningly at the other members of the group. He knew they'd have to arrange time off work or simply absent themselves from their jobs if they were to fulfill the engagement, but each one unhesitatingly nodded their agreement.

“Okay, we'll be here,” he replied.

After staying at the club long enough to smoke a couple of cigarettes each and drink a coffee or a Coca-Cola, Brendan and the Planets made their way through the smoke-laden atmosphere and the happy crowd, towards the exit, accompanied by much back slapping and complimentary comments from a number of the youngsters who'd obviously enjoyed their performance. Perhaps, thought Brendan as the group loaded their gear into the old Bedford van they regularly borrowed from Phil Oxley's father, we might just have a decent shot of making something of the music business. Phil drove carefully, not wanting to damage his precious drum kit or the others' guitars and equipment and one by one, dropped the group members off at their homes, or, in Brendan's case, outside the bookshop where he worked. Mr. Mason, the shop owner, didn't mind giving Brendan time off to attend his gigs, as, being forward-thinking, he realized that many of the younger crowd who knew Brendan were already visiting his shop regularly and he'd cleverly begun to stock a wide range of products, magazines and American comics that ensured a steady turnover from the new branch of his clientele. Maybe, he thought, I ought to start stocking a few records, just in case.

Mr. Mason cheerfully welcomed Brendan back to work, where the young man soon managed to lose himself in daydreams of future stardom as he went about the rest of his day's work.

Chapter 2

LIVERPOOL, 1999

Clarissa Drake stood looking down, maybe thirty feet or so, towards the bottom of the old, dried up dock. Turning to the young man beside her, she spoke quietly, as she shivered in the early morning mist that drifted across the landscape from the nearby River Mersey.

“You know, Derek, if I didn't know better, I'd say he looks pleased to see us.”

Before the young man could reply, a deep voice from behind them made them both jump slightly.

“Now then, Izzie, how many times have I told you about that sense of humour of yours?

Turning to face the man behind the voice, Detective Sergeant Clarissa, (Izzie) Drake, found herself staring into the eyes of her boss, Detective Inspector Andy Ross. Detective Constable Derek McLennan stood beside her, trying to make himself look small and insignificant in an effort to avoid the wrath of his boss. D.I. Ross in fact, despite his words, had an almost imperceptible grin on his face as he looked sternly at his sergeant.

“I'm sorry sir, but you know how it always affects me, seeing something like this. I'm just trying to lighten the moment a bit if you know what I mean.”

The tall, swarthy-skinned Inspector took a step forward and looked down at the sight that had brought them here in the first place, the grinning rictus of the skull certainly looking to all intents and purposes appearing, as Izzie intimated, pleased to be revealed from its long incarceration in the clinging mud that had only now decided to reveal its macabre secret. Ross knew it had to have been there a long time, as the small wharf and dockside had been abandoned for many years and only now, in the course of urban renovation and improvement, had the collective mass of mud and detritus of years of neglect been slowly cleared away until the discovery of the remains brought all work to a halt. He turned to face the sergeant and the young detective constable who remained rooted to the spot beside her.

“Right then, let's get on with it. Izzie, try not to assign or assume gender until the doc has examined the remains, as well, OK?”

Izzie nodded her understanding.

“And Constable?” Ross looked into the eyes of the young detective.

“Sir?”

“I'm not going to chew your head off for standing next to the sergeant while she makes frivolous comments, so no need to look like you're about to be sent back to uniform, or fed to the Chief Superintendent for supper, okay?”

“Yes, sir, okay sir, I mean thank you, sir.”

“How long you been in the detective division, lad?”

“Six months, sir.”

“Lots to learn my boy, lots to learn. Now, let's get on with the job.”

“Right sir, McLennan replied, following Izzie as she began the descent of the iron-runged ladder that led down to the muddy and rank smelling river bed below.

Ross quickly followed the two until all three officers stood quietly looking at the recently revealed skeletal remains that lay half in and half out of the mostly hard-packed surface of the ground that would once have been the bed of a busy and thriving riverside wharf.

The detectives took care not to approach too close to the remains, not wanting to disturb the scene before the medical examiner had had the opportunity to inspect the scene.

“Anyone know who the duty M.E. is?” Ross asked of no-one in particular.

Izzie Blake provided him with the answer.

“One of the paramedics up there said it's Fat Willy, sir.”

Ross groaned. The nickname Blake used referred to Doctor William Nugent, a brilliant but terribly overweight police surgeon, an expert in forensic pathology, whose unfortunate weight problems had provided the members of Merseyside Constabulary with the excuse to make jokes at his expense, always behind his back of course. A rather dour Scot, the doctor's accent contrasted with the predominantly local Liverpool accent possessed by most of the local constabulary, some of whom found it difficult to keep up with the doctor's words at times, though he seemed to have no difficulty with the Liverpudlian accent, having lived in the city for as many years as anyone could remember. Nugent was also something of a stickler for the rules and Ross knew he'd better be on his toes and not cause any disturbance to the scene before him, lest he incur the wrath of the good doctor. Ross held both arms out to his sides, as though indicating an invisible barrier.

“Right, people, no-one gets any closer than this until the doctor arrives. Now, tell me what you see. You first, Sergeant.”

Izzie Drake peered down at the skeletal remains and paused, as she gathered her thoughts. The skull and upper body were for the most part, fully exposed with the abdominal area still covered by a thick layer of mud and silt, and the lower legs and feet also exposed to the chill morning air.

“Well, sir looks to me as though the body has laid there for some time. If you look at the wall of the dock above us, we can see that the mud and silt must have reached up at least ten feet before the workmen started on the reclamation job.”

Ross looked up, nodding his agreement with his sergeant, also taking time to notice the faded lettering on the side of the disused brick built warehouse, which read 'Cole and Sons, Importers,' many of the letters now indistinct and barely readable. He made a mental note to check how long the warehouse had lain empty and whether Cole and Sons had been the last company to have used the facility. Izzie continued.

“Whoever the victim is, or was, must have lain buried beneath the mud and silt for years, to have ended up so deep.”

“Agreed,” said Ross. “Go on, what else?”

“I'd lay odds on the fact this is a suspicious death. I just don't see anyone dying of natural causes and not being reported missing or nobody having the faintest clue where he or she was last seen, that kind of thing.”

McLennan butted in.

“Unless the victim had a heart attack, or slipped and fell in the water all those years ago, no witnesses, and was just never found.”

“Well done, Constable McLennan,” said Ross. “That's good thinking. We may have to do a massive trawl of the missing person records once the doc gives us an idea of how long the remains have been down here. Anything else, Izzie?”

“Not yet, sir. I think we need to get the doctor's opinion before we begin formulating our own theories.”

As if on cue, first of all a wide shadow, and then a large figure appeared on the dockside above, followed by the booming voice of Doctor Nugent.

“Well now, Inspector Ross. I see you've got something interesting for me this morning?” The Scottish accent was easily discernible to those around the pathologist.

“Morning, Doctor. Yes. Been here a while, I'd say, but I'd appreciate your professional opinion before we jump to conclusions.”

“Aye, well, it's good to hear you're learning a thing or two. I take it no-one's disturbed the remains?”

“No, we've stayed well back to give you an undisturbed area around the victim.”

“Aye well, I'd better be comin' doon then, eh? Francis, come on man, and bring your camera.”

As if by magic the diminutive figure of Francis Lees, the pathologist's assistant appeared at his side, looking down at the death scene.

“What the hell are you waiting for man? Get doon the ladder there and wait for me at the bottom. And make sure to catch me if I slip on those old rusty rungs.”

The detectives looked at each other and smiled. The thought of Nugent's bulk falling from the ladder on to the hapless Lees gave them a moment of humour in the midst of their other wise grim task. The thought that Nugent's weight would probably force poor Lees's body into the mud and silt, suffocating the poor man, made him think they may end up with two bodies to remove from the dock before the day was out.

Lees quickly made his way down the ladder and dutifully stood almost to attention, his camera slung over his shoulder, as Nugent ponderously made his way down the rusting ladder, thankfully arriving safely at the bottom less than a minute after his assistant. Ross couldn't help but admire the way the pathologist, despite his bulk, managed to make his way down the ladder almost gracefully, and without any apparent difficulty.

“Now, let's see what we've got, eh?” said Nugent as he and Lees began their own examination of the scene. Lees's camera flashed incessantly as he photographed the partially revealed skeletal remains from every possible angle. Nugent knelt in the mud beside the skeleton and began a close examination. Ross, knowing the doctor's routine all too well, couldn't resist a quick question.

“See anything yet that might help us, Doctor?”

“Sshhh,” Nugent urged.

“Does he think the corpse is going to talk to him?” McLennan whispered quietly to Izzie.

“Ah heard that, young man,” Nugent snapped at the young detective. “Ah like tae work in peace if you don't have any objections.”

“Of course, Doctor, sorry,” said McLennan, blushing visibly.

“Aye, well, anyway, in response to your question, Inspector Ross, I do believe I have something for you.”

“Already, Doctor?”

“Aye, already, but it doesn't take a genius in this case to ascertain that, in my humble opinion, you'll be looking for a murderer I think.”

Ross and Izzie Drake looked at each other, exchanging knowing glances. Both knew instinctively this was going to be a potentially long and difficult case to crack.

“How can you be sure so quickly?” he asked the pathologist.

“Aye, well, I dinna think this hole in the skull got here by accident.”

Nugent beckoned the inspector closer and pointed to the rear of the skull, which he'd raised carefully just clear of the mud. There, the two men looked closely at the gaping hole in the back of the skull, larger than would have been left by a bullet but still conversant with some form of blunt force trauma.

“Couldn't that have been caused by an accident, Doc?”

“Under certain circumstances, it may have been, Inspector Ross, but not in this case, I think.”

“Why so certain?” asked the policeman.

Nugent pointed to a point about twelve inches to the right of the skull. Ross could see that the doctor, in the course of his close examination had uncovered the unmistakable form of a hammer.

“I'll wager a month's salary that yon hammer is your murder weapon, Inspector,” said Nugent. “There's some staining on the hammer head that may be blood, and the shape and size of the hammer head would appear to match the shape of the wound in this poor unfortunate soul's head. I'll be able to confirm it when we get the remains back to the lab, but for now, I'm satisfied you have a murder on your hands. No chance of fingerprints after so long I'm afraid which leads me to the bad news that I believe the remains have possibly lain here for a long time, years in fact.”

“Any idea of gender?” asked Izzie Drake.

“Not yet, Sergeant, but looking at the size of the feet, I'd hazard a guess at male,” Nugent replied. “Inspector, I dinna want to disturb the remains too much where they lie at present. Can you arrange for a team to dig out the entire area surrounding the skeleton and transport the lot back to my lab? I can carry out a thorough examination there and give you as much information as the deceased is willing to reveal to me.”

Ross groaned inwardly. It would be a massive task to remove the remains from their resting place, mud and all, without disturbing or destroying the skeleton, but at least once it was out of the way he and his team could carry out an intensive search of the surrounding area for clues to the identity of the victim or to the full nature of the crime. At least the possibility that this was indeed the murder site might make his task a little simpler, no need to go searching the length of the river bank for miles in both directions.

“I'll make the arrangements, Doc. Please, once you get the remains to your lab…”

“I know, Inspector. You'd like my findings as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, yes, Doc. I know it's not as if I can see a quick solution to this one, but anything we can do to find out who this was, and when the murder occurred, might just help us bring a killer to justice.”

“I wish you luck, Inspector, I really do,” Nugent said as he rose from his position and beckoned Lees to follow him, and the pair began the ascent up the ladder back up to the dockside.

“Anything to add, Constable?” Ross directed the question at McLennan.

“Just a question really, sir.”

“OK, ask away.”

“Well sir, this dock or wharf or whatever the correct term is, was once connected to the Mersey by that channel, right?” McLennan pointed along the narrow channel along which the ships would have approached the dock from the river, unloaded at the dockside and then turned round in the basin they now stood in before heading back out to the Mersey.

“Right,” said Ross, “so what's the question?”

“It's just that I don't see how they could block off the whole River Mersey so they could drain the dock and the channel, sir. How the heck did they manage it?”

“Good question, McLennan and I'm glad to see you're thinking about this. I'm no engineer but I think you'll find they drive large metal pilings into the river bed, erect some sort of temporary dam, then use massive pumps of some sort to drain the water from this side. When it's dry, they can then build the new reinforced river bank you now see at the end of the channel, thus re-directing the flow of the Mersey. They must have done this many times during all the redevelopment of the dock area, because I know there are a hell of a lot of these old inlets and channels that had to be closed off to the river before the developers could start work on their so-called urban redevelopment and improvement of the old dock area.”

“Right, sir, I see. I was just trying to work out if the clearing of the channel might have any bearing on the timing of the death of the victim.”

“Good thought, Constable, but of course, it could have happened any time when the dock was still operational or after closure as far as my thinking goes. But listen, you keep thinking lad, okay? That's what a good detective does, all the time, lots of thinking, mainly small points but then one day you just might hit on something important. The other thing we need to consider is whether the body was carried here by the tide and simply washed up here. The actual murder site and original dump site could be almost anywhere.”

McLennan smiled, pleased the inspector had listened to his points and didn't think he was wasting his time, but wished he'd thought of the inspector's last point.

Ross next took out his mobile phone, and spent the next few minutes making arrangements for a specialist recovery team to attend the scene and remove the remains and the surrounding mud and silt in one large excavation, for transportation to the forensic lab, in order for Doctor Nugent to carry out what Ross knew would be a painstaking examination. There wasn't much they could do for the present, not until the remains had been removed and they had the opportunity to carry out a detailed examination of the surrounding area. Ross knew he'd have to call in a few uniformed officers as well as the members of his own team of detectives, and his own boss, Detective Chief Inspector Harry Porteous wouldn't be best pleased at the overtime bill that would probably ensue from a case that on the surface, at least, appeared to offer little hope of a quick and easy solution.

“Well,” said Izzie as she and Ross stood staring at the remains, McLennan having been dispatched by Ross to begin the arrangements to have the remains carefully removed and taken to the lab.

“Well indeed, Sergeant,” Ross replied, thoughtfully. “Well, indeed.”

Chapter 3

LIVERPOOL, SEPTEMBER, 1962

Brendan Kane and his fellow musicians sat around the kitchen table in Brendan's parents home, a small two up, two down red-brick terraced house, much like thousands of others in the city. The young men sat around Brendan's Mum's kitchen table, with drummer Phil, unable to keep his hands still, constantly fiddling with a bottle of Camp Coffee in one hand and another of Heinz Tomato Ketchup in the other. To one side of the room, a small coal fire burned in the hearth, adding warmth and a feeling of cozy security to the room. Near the fire, a load of washing stood draped over a wooden clothes horse, the smell of damp washing adding to the homely feel of the room. Despite the domestic warmth and atmosphere of his parents' home, like many others of his own age, Brendan nurtured dreams of being able to move up in the world, to leave behind the rather grim and humdrum workaday existence endured by his Mum and Dad and others of their generation. His father, Dennis, had spent his entire working life as a docker, a hard life, with much physical toil required on a daily basis. The years had taken their toll on Dennis Kane, and Brendan, despite having the greatest of respect for his father, wanted more from life, a house with a garden instead of a front door that opened straight onto the street, a few of the modern conveniences perhaps, like a dishwashing machine similar to those he'd seen in the shops in the city centre, and one of the new fangled automatic washing machines. Brendan knew his Mum was luckier than most, in owning her twin tub machine with the spin-dryer that took the worst of the water out of the clothes. Still, the washing draped on the clothes-horse was a reminder that his mother still did a great deal of washing by hand and dried it the best she could in front of the fire.

Like the rest of the group, he felt his best chance of achieving his dreams just might be through their music. He'd received his guitar, a second-hand but good condition twin pick-up Hofner, as a Christmas present one year from his parents, who were well aware of their son's love of music, and who'd scrimped and saved for months in order to buy their son the instrument and a second-hand amplifier to go with it. Second-hand or not, to young Brendan, the guitar had been, and still was, the greatest gift his parents could ever have given him, and he was determined to pay them back for their financial sacrifice, just as soon as he could.

“Listen up lads,” said Brendan, as he pointed to a stack of papers laid out on the table in front of him. “Here's the receipts for every gig we've done so far. We're doing okay locally, but I think we need to try and branch out, you know, like, maybe get a recording contract.”

“Christ, Brendan,” Mickey replied, flicking back a permanently annoying lock of hair that always fell across right eye, “We'd all love to do that, man, but getting a recording contract isn't as easy as that, and you know it.”

The others all nodded their agreement with Mickey's statement.

“Yeah, look, I know that, but that guy Brian Epstein, you know, his Dad owns a furniture shop in town? Brian's the manager of the music department and he's started out managing some of the local beat groups. He's signed The Beatles, and we've played the same stage as them, right? Someone told me they've got a recording contract already with a record coming out next month. They wrote it themselves, it's called Love me Do. I heard last week he's also got Gerry and the Pacemakers on his books and a couple of others, and they're all local and doing okay under his guidance.”

Phil Oxley joined in the conversation.

“Yeah, I've seen him around in some of the clubs, like The Cavern, The Iron Door, places like that.”

“But has he ever seen us and heard us play?” asked young Ronnie.

“Exactly,” said Brendan. “We need to make sure he's there in one of those clubs when we're on stage, make sure he hears and likes us. Then maybe we'll get picked up by him, too.”

“Yeah, but he's not the only manager in the business, is he?” said, Ronnie. “I know for a fact that a couple of groups have had demo recordings made at Pete Kemp's studio in the city centre. Maybe we could do that and send copies of the demo off to Mr. Epstein and some of the big recording companies, you know, like Decca, E.M.I. and Polydor?”

“Sure, Ronnie,” said Brendan. “We could do that, spend a load of dosh we haven't got on getting a demo made, and then buy enough copies to send around the industry, only for some producer's assistant to listen to a few bars if we're lucky and then throw the disc in the bin. We only get three pounds a gig man, and we have to pay Phil's dad a bit towards the petrol we use when he lends us his van, so we ain't got a whole lot of spare cash to throw away on a demo that hardly anyone will hear.”

“But how do other groups manage then?” asked Ronnie. “Surely lots of record companies do have people who listen to new talent when they get the demos in the post?”

Mickey chimed in.

“Ronnie, I think what Brendan's getting at is that most of the groups whose demos get heard are probably sent in by their managers, who already know the producers and such like at Decca and places like that.”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Brendan. “That's why we need someone like Brian Epstein to notice us. It doesn't have to be him of course, but he's local, and we've probably got more chance of being heard and spotted by him than by anyone else, and we don't exactly know many managers of pop groups personally, do we?”

“Okay,” said Ronnie. “What do you think we should do then, Brendan? How do we get him to see and hear us? We can't exactly go begging to him, can we? You know, 'Please Mr. Epstein, we're real good. Come and listen to us and sign us up.'

“We use our brains, Ronnie. That's what we do. Look here,” Brendan said. “These receipts show we make a small profit on every gig, not a lot, sure, but enough to maybe get a few leaflets printed. My idea is to get them printed with a few of our 'coming soon' dates, you know, when we've maybe got three or four bookings lined up and we make sure copies of the leaflet are delivered to his dad's shop, to the music department and to his office. I've found out he's got one in town, where he runs his management stuff from. Then we get that gorgeous sister of yours, Mickey, to help us out.”

“And what do we want Marie to do, exactly?” asked Mickey.

“Well, she's a real looker, right, and she and her mates go out to the clubs regular to listen to the music, right?” They all nodded in agreement, apart from Mickey, who appeared unsure of just what Brendan was about to suggest.

“What we do is, we ask her to go to a few of the clubs where we know he hangs out and see if she can get to talk to him, just drop him a few hints about this really great group she's heard, that's us of course, and that he ought to go to The Iron Door, or wherever we're booked that week, and listen to us. She can tell him lots of kids are following us and that we've got a great sound. What bloke can resist a really good looking bird like your sis, Mickey?”

“Sounds good,” Mickey replied, “but how do we know which clubs he's going to be at so Marie can try and talk to him?”

“Yes, I know, that's the one big problem with my plan. Maybe she could spend a week or two doing her best to corner him and then we get the leaflets posted, sharpish like, and distribute them so he gets copies just after talking to Marie, and we might get lucky.”

“Bloody hell, Brendan, there's a load of ifs, buts, and maybes in there, don't you think?” asked Ronnie.

“I know Ronnie, but come on fellas, don't you think it's worth a try?”

After another five minutes of discussion, with no-one having come up with a better idea to try to gain the recognition of the man they saw as a way into the recording industry, they reached an agreement, and Mickey promised he'd speak to his sister Marie, who he agreed would probably be pleased to enlist her friends in helping them to put Brendan's grand plan into operation.

After another half hour of discussion and agreeing to meet at Brendan's house at seven p.m on Friday night before going on to a gig at the newly-opened Pelican Club, the group went their separate ways, leaving Brendan to clear away the receipts and the mugs that had held their frequent cups of tea, leaving his Mum's kitchen as clean as possible when she came home after her shift at the launderette.

The front door opened soon afterwards, and Brendan's Dad walked into the house, having spent an hour at the pub, enjoying a pint or two with his friends. He made his way straight to the kitchen, where Brendan was sitting at the table, deep in thought.

“Hey, son, how you doing?” Dennis asked.

“Alright, Dad, Just thinking stuff, you know.”

“Aye lad, you do a lot of that there thinking, don't you? I hope you're going to stick at that new job of yours and not turn into too much of a dreamer over all that music stuff you and your mates are so keen on. There's no future in that life, you should know that.”

Brendan sighed. He and his father had had this conversation many times in recent months.

“You're wrong, Dad, really. There's a real future out there if you're good enough, and I know me and the lads have a real chance if we can just get spotted. That's what we've been talking about before you came home.”

“Oh aye? And just what does Mr. Mason think of all this 'beat music' lark, eh? He's got some patience, I'll say that for him, letting you have time off to go and play that so-called music of yours during the day.”

“It's only the odd hour here and there, Dad, when we get a lunchtime gig, and then I'm only actually away from the shop for a couple of hours, and one of them's me lunch hour anyway, and Mr. Mason says he thinks I should follow me dreams, we all should.”

Dennis Kane waved a dismissive hand in his son's direction. No way would the hardened old dock worker ever understand the modern generation.

“Aye well, if you say so, son, if you say so. Now be a good lad and put the kettle on and make your old Dad a nice cup of tea, eh?”

Brendan nodded at his father, rose from the table and picked up the kettle from the cooker hob next to the sink unit, quickly filling it and putting it on to boil on the gas ring, all dreams of being a future pop star, for the moment, like the slowly boiling kettle, placed on the back burner.

One day, Dad, I'll prove you wrong, and make you proud of me, he thought, without actually saying the words. He knew he'd never convince his Dad until maybe he and the group actually made it big, and perhaps even then his Dad wouldn't think being a musician and singer was what he'd deem a 'proper job.

The kettle whistled as it came to the boil and Brendan dutifully made the tea, and Dennis took his with a quick “Thanks, son,” and made his way into the small parlour at the front of the house, and turned on the small black and white television in the corner, the one Brendan hoped to one day turn into one with a glorious colour screen, like the ones in that big shop in the city.

Brendan took his own cup of steaming hot tea upstairs with him to his bedroom, where he turned on his small portable transistor radio which he kept permanently tuned to Radio Luxemburg, lay down on his bed and allowed himself to drift into his daydream of music stardom as the latest sounds of the pop charts assailed his brain, the tea soon growing cold as he became lost in the early sounds of the sixties.

Chapter 4

MERSEYSIDE POLICE HEADQUARTERS, 1999