Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer

guitarist. An’ we’re goin’ to need him soon. Eddie wouldn’t have wanted the group to die with him. He cared almost as much about it as I do.”
    â€œDo you mind if I ask you a question?” Woodend said.
    â€œSeems to me you slipped in a couple of questions already. But go ahead. Ask me another.”
    â€œWhy do you call yourselves the Seagulls?”
    That was clearly not one of the questions Steve Walker had been anticipating. “Why do you want to know that?”
    â€œJust by the nature of his job, a bobby has to be curious,” Woodend told him. “But I was curious before I was a bobby. So indulge me.”
    â€œThe kind of music we play started in America,” Steve Walker said earnestly. “But we’re not just copyin’ the Yanks. The songs we write have a lot of us in them, an’ a good part of what we are is Liverpudlian. If you listen to our songs – I mean really listen to them, get right below the surface – you’ll hear the clankin’ of the tram cars, the swish of the river, the hooters on the docks, an’, most of all, you’ll hear the screech of the seagulls, because they were here long before there ever was a Liverpool.”
    â€œYou’re a bit of a poet on the quiet, aren’t you?” Woodend said, an amused smile playing on his lips.
    â€œI’m a rock’n’roller,” Steve Walker replied. “An’ one day soon I’m goin’ to be famous.”
    â€œWell, you don’t lack confidence, I’d say that much for you,” Woodend told him.
    â€œWould you?” Walker countered. “I play my music because I think I’m good. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t. Would you be able to do your job if you didn’t think you’d catch the murderers?”
    â€œGood point,” Woodend agreed. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your manager.”
    â€œWhy would you want to know about him?” Walker asked, some of his aggression and suspicion returning.
    â€œTruthfully, I want to know about him because, of the four of you, he’s the one I really haven’t got figured out.”
    Steve Walker laughed scornfully. “You’ve talked to us once, and you think you know us, do you?”
    â€œLet’s just say I can sketch in the broad outlines.”
    â€œGo on, then,” Walker challenged him.
    Woodend took a sip of his pint. “Billie Simmons is an easy-goin’ sort of feller. He might like playin’ his drums, but he’d be just as happy drivin’ a bus. Pete Foster’s a different case altogether. He’s not very sure of himself, is he?”
    â€œNeither would you be if you had a mother like his.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œNothin’. Forget I ever spoke.”
    â€œPete doesn’t like trouble, because he’s never quite convinced he’ll come out on top,” Woodend continued. “An’ he needs to get approval – you’ve only got to see the way he acts around your manager to realise that.” He paused. “How am I doin’ so far?”
    â€œNot bad,” Steve Walker admitted grudgingly. “What can you tell me about me?”
    â€œI think you’re drawn to victims,” Woodend said. “Eddie Barnes may have become your best mate, but the main reason you got to know him in the first place was because he needed your help. An’ I’m willin’ to bet that he’s not the only one you’ve protected over the years.”
    Steve Walker was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re makin’ me sound like a saint,” he said awkwardly.
    â€œNo, not a saint,” Woodend replied. “Just a lad who needed help himself at one time – and didn’t get any.”
    Walker gave him a hard, assessing stare. “You’re not stupid, are you?”
    â€œSometimes I do manage