Death of a Cave Dweller Read Online Free PDF Page A

Woodend continued. “The village that is made up by havin’ shared interests. It could be an amateur dramatic society, or a pigeon-fanciers’ association, but when all those people who share that interest get together, what you have is a community.”
    â€œI see your point, sir,” Rutter said, but what he was thinking was, ‘Read your Dickens, Sergeant. You’ll find it all there in Dickens.’
    â€œRead your Dickens, Sergeant,” Woodend told him. “You’ll find it all there in Dickens.”
    He had finished his sandwich and now reached into another of his pockets, and pulled out a packet of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes. He did not offer one to Rutter, having long ago accepted that his sergeant – for some strange reason of his own – preferred to smoke fags with an American cork tip.
    â€œYou’ve been on the blower to the Liverpool bobbies, haven’t you, lad?” he asked, striking a match and lighting up.
    â€œYes, sir. Just before we left London.”
    â€œSo what did they have to tell you?”
    â€œThe dead man . . .” Rutter began. “Well, the dead
boy
, really – he was only just twenty—”
    â€œA bit younger than you, then,” Woodend interrupted, a look of amusement flashing briefly across his face. “Carry on, lad.”
    â€œThe dead boy belonged to a band called the Seagulls.”
    â€œShould I have heard of them?” Woodend asked. “Are they famous, like this Buddy Ivy you’re always listenin’ to?”
    â€œBuddy
Holly
,” Rutter corrected him. “No, sir, they’re not. Most of the famous groups are either American, or are based in the London area. Coming from the North is a little . . .” He groped for the right word.
    â€œUnfashionable?” Woodend provided.
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œAye, your lot from down south never did give my lot much credit,” the chief inspector said. “So, you were tellin’ me all about these singin’ sea birds.”
    â€œAccording to the local sergeant I talked to, they’re very popular around the Liverpool area,” Rutter said. “They’ve played in Germany, too. Hamburg, I think. Anyway, they were booked to appear at in a place called the Cellar Club the day before yesterday. They started playing, but the lead guitarist’s amplifier wasn’t working properly. He bent down to adjust the bass control, and was electrocuted. Someone had wrapped a live wire around the spindle. The Liverpool Police are convinced the re-wiring was done with malice aforethought.”
    â€œWhat I still don’t understand is why it should have killed him,” Woodend said. “I got a shock from the mains once, an’ I’m still here.”
    Rutter looked a little embarrassed. “It’s a bit technical, sir.”
    â€œYou’re a bright lad. You should be able to explain it even to a stone-age bobby like me,” Woodend said.
    â€œAll right. Where were you when you got your shock?” Rutter asked.
    â€œUpstairs. In the front bedroom.”
    â€œEddie Barnes was in a cellar, much closer to the ground. Were your hands wet when you got the shock?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so.”
    â€œThere’s apparently very little ventilation at the club. Even if he’d only been there for a few minutes, Barnes would already have been sweating – and electrical current loves to travel through moisture. What were you wearing on your feet?”
    â€œCarpet slippers.”
    â€œWith rubber soles. Good insulation. Eddie Barnes was wearing leather boots with metal studs in them.”
    â€œI still don’t see it,” Woodend admitted.
    â€œThink of electricity as water and you and Eddies Barnes as dams. The current wants to get through you and out again on the other side, but because you’re well insulated – because there’s no crack in your dam