Death of a Cave Dweller Read Online Free

in the Casablanca Coffee Bar, just off Cook Street. In front of them were two untouched cups of cappuccino, which had been steaming when they’d first got them, but now were lukewarm. Neither the slightly plump bass guitarist nor the normally placid drummer looked at all happy.
    â€œThis thing with Eddie couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” Pete Foster said, lighting up a Woodbine.
    â€œOh, so there’s a good time to be electrocuted on stage, is there?” Billie Simmons asked.
    Pete jerked his head, as if he’d suddenly received a slight electric shock himself. “No, of course there isn’t,” he said hurriedly. He held his hands out, palms upwards. “Look, I’m as sorry about Eddie’s death as the rest of you. I mean, he was my mate as well.”
    â€œHe was
Steve’s
mate,” Billie corrected him. “As far as Eddie was concerned, you an’ me were just the other fellers in the group.”
    â€œThe point is,” Pete persisted, “Eddie’s death leaves a big gap in the band – my mum was sayin’ the same thing just this mornin’ – an’ that’s just what we can’t afford right now.”
    â€œWhy right now?” Billie asked, picking up on the last two words. “Do you know somethin’ I don’t?”
    â€œHow could I?” Pete asked, avoiding the question. “All I meant was, after all the work we’ve put in we’re finally startin’ to make a name for ourselves, and losin’ Eddie is a big setback.”
    He was lying, Billie decided. Pete and Jack Towers were as thick as two thieves, and if the manager had any news to give them, Pete always got it first. But whatever the secret was that he was hiding, there was no way it could pried out of him now.
    â€œWhen you asked me to come out for a coffee, you said you were worried about two things,” the drummer said. “So what’s the other?”
    Pete Foster puffed nervously on his cigarette. “I’m scared, Billie,” he admitted. “
Really
scared.”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œOf what?” Pete repeated. “Isn’t it bloody obvious? I mean, it’s not as if Eddie’s death came completely out of the blue, is it? There’s been all the other stuff – like the dead rat.”
    â€œThat didn’t have anythin’ to do with Eddie gettin’ killed,” Billie said dismissively.
    â€œDidn’t it?” Pete replied, a hysterical edge creeping into his voice. “How can you be so sure of that? Are you an expert on murders, all of a sudden?”
    â€œThere’s a big difference between bein’ willin’ to play a few dirty tricks an’ bein’ willin’ to take somebody’s life,” Billie argued. “The joker an’ the killer just have to be two different people.”
    â€œWhen I was a kid, there was an old feller lived on his own at the end of our street,” Pete said. “He was a right loonie – always shoutin’ at us, an’ wavin’ his fist. Well, we began playin’ this game with his front door. When it first started, the rule was that all you had to do was run up to the door an’ touch it. But after a bit, that got borin’. So we said that from then on, you had to knock on the door as loud as you could. Finally, you had to knock on the door, an’ actually wait there until he started to open it.”
    â€œWhat’s your point?”
    â€œThat’s what this feels like to me,” Pete said. “First there were the phone calls, then the rat, now Eddie. Whoever’s doin’ this is gettin’ more an’ more extreme every time.”
    â€œYou can’t get more extreme than murder,” Billie pointed out.
    â€œCan’t you?” Pete asked, nervously lighting a new cigarette from the stub of his old one. “Well, what about
two
murders?”
    â€œYou’ve