Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer

he’d have preferred it to be him what got electrocuted.”
    Mickey Finn was singing about some other guy
who’d taken his girl away from him. Woodend glanced down at
his watch, and wondered whether he should stay until the end of
the show. On reflection, he didn’t think he would.
He’d probably learned as much as he could from one session,
and besides, the heat in the place was making his armpits
itch.

Five
    R ick Johnson was no longer maintaining a lonely vigil at the club door. He had been joined by a slim pretty girl, with long dark hair. She reminded Woodend of his own daughter, Annie, who, at that time of day, would be in school. He wondered why this girl wasn’t sitting at her desk, too.
    â€œSo you’ve seen enough of the club already, have you?” Johnson said aggressively.
    Woodend gave the girl a friendly smile, then turned his attention back on the doorman.
    â€œIs this one of those difficult customers that Mrs Pollard pays you to keep out?” he asked.
    â€œShe’s my wife!” Johnson said, scowling.
    Jesus Christ, Woodend thought. His wife!
    She had to be older than she looked, but even so, she could barely be of marriageable age. The chief inspector found himself wondering exactly what set of circumstances would make a sweet little kid like her end up married to a bruiser like Rick Johnson.
    â€œHow do you do, Mrs Johnson? I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said.
    Instead of answering, the girl looked down at the ground. Her long dark hair now obscured her face, but Woodend would have been prepared to bet that she was blushing.
    â€œMy wife doesn’t talk to strangers,” Rick Johnson said, as if she weren’t really there at all.
    â€œVery wise,” Woodend said. “An’ you should tell her not to take toffees from them, either. That’s what I’ve always told my little girl.”
    Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, and strode across the road. Whatever had made her marry Johnson, a man with a criminal record? he asked himself for a second time.
    It was only a few short steps to the Grapes, the pub where he had told Rutter and Inspector Hopgood to wait for him. Woodend pushed open the door, stepped inside and took a look around him. The bar had a wooden floor and scrubbed wooden tables. Many of the customers seemed to be off-duty postmen, but there was also a smattering of young lads, some of them with guitar cases propped up next to them. So this place was the watering hole of the kids who played in the Cellar Club, the chief inspector thought. That was a very useful thing to know.
    The two policemen were sitting at a table by the window. Both looked as if they had run out of things to say to each other long ago. Woodend bought a pint of best bitter at the bar, then walked over to them and eased his large frame into a free chair.
    â€œI’ve been telling your sergeant here that I’ve fixed you up with a nice big office back at the station, sir,” Hopgood said.
    â€œThat’s very kind of you, Inspector,” Woodend replied, “an’ I’ll make sure that word of how helpful you’ve been to us gets back to your bosses.” He paused for a second. “But there’s no point in wastin’ much space on us, because we’ll hardly ever be there.”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, sir,” Hopgood said. “If you’re going to conduct a murder inquiry, you’ll surely need—”
    â€œWhile I get some ale down me, why don’t you explain to the inspector how we work, Sergeant,” Woodend interrupted.
    Rutter sighed softly to himself. Breaking in the new help was always a tedious business, which was why the chief inspector was leaving it up to him. Still, he supposed that was what a bagman was for – to do the tedious business.
    â€œMr Woodend doesn’t like to get too far away from the scene of the