Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer Page B

I’d like to think that if I did lose her, I could handle the situation with the same courage you’re showin’.”
    Mrs Barnes nodded gratefully. “Eddie worked so hard at that guitar of his,” she said, as she ladled the sugar into Woodend’s cup. “Hours an’ hours he’d be up in his room, practisin’. Sometimes he’d get so frustrated he was almost in tears, but he’d never ever think about givin’ up.”
    â€œHe was a real tryer,” Mr Barnes said solemnly. “Always had been. I remember when he was just a little kid an’ he had these buildin’ blocks. Every time he tried to build a wall with them, they’d tumble over, but he kept at it till he’d got what he wanted.”
    â€œWould you like to see a picture of him?” Mrs Barnes asked, as she handed Woodend his tea.
    â€œAye, I would.”
    Mrs Barnes went over to the sideboard, and returned with a photograph in a silver frame. Woodend took it in his free hand, and examined it. Two young men were standing side by side in front of the Mersey ferry, their arms over each other’s shoulders. Woodend immediately recognised one as Steve Walker; the other had to be the dead guitarist.
    Eddie Barnes had been a thin young man, with pale, intense features and eyes almost as large as those of the child in the picture on the wall. A sensitive kid, Woodend guessed – a kid with a big heart.
    The chief inspector felt himself in the grip of a familiar sensation – one he always tried to resist, despite acknowledging the fact that it made him a better policeman. He was starting to get personally involved.
    He handed the photograph back to Mrs Barnes. “Tell me about Eddie’s relationship with Steve Walker,” he said.
    The woman sat down on the sofa next to her husband. She was holding the photograph tightly, as if she were afraid it would slip out of her fingers. A sad smile came to her face. “Eddie an’ Steve were best mates.”
    â€œSo I’ve been told,” Woodend said, returning her smile. “I never met your son, but I have recently met Steve Walker, an’ I find it hard to picture them gettin’ on. Seems to me they were as different as chalk an’ cheese.”
    â€œA lot of people have got Steve all wrong,” Mrs Barnes told him. “They say he’s a hard case, an’ . . . well, I suppose it’s true he’s been in a few fights in his time. But deep down, he’s as gentle as a lamb.”
    â€œYou’re obviously very fond of him.”
    â€œHe’s two years older than our Eddie is . . .” Mrs Barnes gulped. “Than our Eddie
was
. By rights, they shouldn’t have been mates at all, but they were. Eddie’s . . . Eddie was always a bit of a gentle soul, you see, an’ you know how other kids react to that. He didn’t have things easy in the primary school, but he was bullied somethin’ terrible durin’ his first couple of weeks at the secondary. Then Steve stepped in, an’ the bullyin’ stopped.”
    â€œWe were grateful for what he did for our Eddie,” Mr Barnes said, “but that isn’t the only reason we’re fond of him.”
    â€œYou’re quite right, Father,” his wife agreed. “Like I said before, there are hidden depths to Steve.”
    â€œDid you see quite a lot of him?” Woodend asked.
    â€œHe was always round here, wasn’t he?” Mrs Barnes replied. “To tell you the truth . . . well, I don’t want to gossip, but I don’t think he’s had a very happy home life.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œHis dad’s a drunken brute, by all accounts,” Mr Barnes said. “When he was younger, Steve used to have bruises which I’m sure didn’t come from fightin’ with other kids.”
    â€œAn’ as for that mother of his, you could see she couldn’t be bothered to turn him