Angus had all of Neurotica’s original equipment. The battle scars on each piece spoke to me of half-forgotten memories. All I’d have to do was flip on the mains, and everything would work perfectly. Angus had always seen to that. The crowning glory and what had set my heart rate through the roof was the fact that my old keyboard rig still existed. He had everything: Hammond C3, Wurlitzer Electric Piano, Minimoog and a Yamaha DX7, set-up as they always had been, seemingly waiting for me to come in and pick up where I’d left off twenty-four years earlier. When I’d beat my hasty retreat from the band, I’d left everything behind, not caring what happened to it. I’d assumed it had all been sold or junked or stolen years ago. And now here it all was again.
Looking at the set-up, it felt as if the lads and I had merely nipped down to the nearest pub for a pint and a pie and would be returning shortly to run through the tunes for our latest album or rehearse for our next tour. Everything came flooding back, whether I wanted it to or not.
As I stood gawking like an idiot, someone crunched along the gravel outside and stopped in the doorway. I turned, only seeing a silhouette against the glare from outside, but I knew who it was regardless. The only living people I’d known longer were my mum and my auntie.
“Hello, Michael,” said my former best mate and comrade, Rolly Simpson, lead singer of Neurotica.
Seven
Roland Paul Simpson was the reason I still had an unpublished phone number. After walking out on Neurotica in the middle of the tour which, according to our record label, would have made us one of the top five acts in the world, Rolly started calling me on a daily basis.“The band can’t go on without you.” “You can’t just walk away from us; we’re mates!” “How can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?” “You’re killing Neurotica, you know.” Or variations on the theme.
I’d taken a bit of the money I’d made and gone off to be alone. I suspect that Rolly’s success in always tracking me down regardless of where I was hiding out had been because he was able to buy the info from my perennially-short-of-cash brother. It made no matter where I went, a small hotel in Paris, a pension in Vienna, an island in Greece, Thailand, even Achiltibuie in remote, northwestern Scotland, sooner or later I’d get a call from Rolly. When I’d finally emigrated to Canada, he’d obtained my phone number within a week.
Twice he’d tried confronting me: the first time I walked away without saying a word, the second time, I popped him one.
Since then, I’d only seen Rolly in photos or occasionally on the telly (much less so in recent years), and what I’d seen hadn’t been good. He’d had a bloated, pasty look due to his hard-living lifestyle. In his case, all the royalty money we’d received over the years had not been well spent.
The Rolly Simpson in front of me that day was slim and looked fit and clear-eyed, although undeniably older than his forty-nine years. Tall, with a hawk-like nose, piercing blue eyes and blond hair (now back in a ponytail), his rugged good looks and devil-may-care attitude had been attracting women by the score for as long as I’d known him.
“Hello, Rolly,” I said neutrally. “Didn’t think to find you here.”
“Angus’s old dad wasn’t up to officially identifying the body. Since you were en route, DCI Campbell, here, asked me to deputize. I happened to be in Edinburgh, so it was no problem to pop over.” He went up and shook the cop’s hand heartily. “Top o’ the mornin’ to you, sir!”
Campbell beamed at Rolly in a way that I hadn’t yet seen from him—certainly not towards me. In fact, I had the feeling he would have regarded me as the prime suspect if I hadn’t been so firmly three thousand miles away in Canada.
Rolly turned his smile on Constable Dickson. “And how are you today, Michelle? I’ve never seen any woman look so good in a uniform.”
The constable dropped her eyes, blushing furiously.
Rolly hadn’t changed one jot over the years: same bad lines delivered with such ease they could charm the pants off any woman inside of ten minutes. Judging by her reaction, he might possibly already have accomplished it with PC Dickson, or was well on the way.
“So what do you think of poor Angus’s little museum, Michael?” Rolly asked.
I smiled, despite my mood. “It’s like seeing old friends again.”
Rolly looked at me sharply. “Does that include me?”
Noticing Campbell’s attention on us, I chose my words carefully. “Yes, Rolly, that includes you.”
He strode forward and gripped me in a bear hug, patting my back heartily. I tried to look as if this were all normal.
Rolly stepped back with his hands still on my upper arms, looking me over. “The years have been kind to you, haven’t they? You look almost the same, Michael. God, it’s great to see you!” Turning back to Campbell, he asked, “Have you finished doing your worst on my mate here? If so, I’d really like to get him alone somewhere for a long jaw about the old days.”
Campbell nodded, but added, “If Mr. Quinn doesn’t mind, I will probably wish to talk with him again, and I’d like to know if he makes any plans to return home.”
Not so much the words, but the way Campbell said them, brought me up short. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d divined some of the part I’d played in Angus’s murder. He’d managed to come close to tripping me up a few times, and I wasn’t eager to give him any more chances if I could help it.
“I will certainly be here through the funeral,” I said, then turned to Rolly. “I’m assuming there will be a funeral?”
“Angus’s father would like one—even if Angus himself would have thought the idea bloody stupid. I’m to call later today and find out what’s been decided. One of Angus’s sisters lives in Australia, you know, so it will still take her a bit of time to get here. My guess is the funeral will be the day after tomorrow at the earliest, assuming that’s all right with you folks,” he said to Campbell.
“It should be fine.”
“Great! That’s settled then. Michael, do you feel up to some grub?”
I suddenly realized that I was indeed hungry. “All right. I’ll also need to arrange for a place to stay.”
“No problem! You can stay with me at the Hilton in Glasgow. I’ll just change to a suite. It’ll be like old times.”
I didn’t want those old times—for several reasons. “No thanks, Rolly. I’d rather stay someplace nearby like Dunoon.”
He flashed a quick smirk over at Constable Dickson, and I was certain from the looks that passed between them, that he’d bedded her. “Right, I remember now: your seasickness.” He turned to the two cops. “Once we decided to cross the Channel by boat, and Michael spent the entire trip with his head in the—”
“I’m sure they don’t want to listen to old war stories. Besides, I left the car I hired back in Dunoon at the police station.”
Rolly realized from my tone that he’d overstepped the boundaries and did a deft about-face. “Right. Let’s go, then.”
As I would have expected, Rolly’s car was fast and expensive: a bright red Porsche Carrera coupe. His driving hadn’t changed, either: too fast, too careless and still way too lucky for him to think of smartening up.
He didn’t take the road back to Dunoon, though, turning instead to the left in the direction of the Isle of Bute.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I’m taking the road up the side of Loch Fyne to a little place I know. They serve great seafood, especially oysters.”
“Oysters? Good