Davis was wandering up the King’s Road with a photographer in tow, looking for likely faces in the right gear who could help decorate the article. Fishnet stockings, the man wanted. Ripped T-shirts. Okay then. Sure, they’d already been down to the Roxy, but that was full of tourists — not like in Czezowski’s day back in the spring. Ever since the Roxy live album had come out a few weeks back, you couldn’t move down there for bandwagon-jumpers. Mind you, if today was any indication, the King’s Road was suffering from the same disease. It was like a lot of people had been telling him at shows all week: Half the real punks had already bailed out of the scene, and the plastics were moving in. Still, the editor wanted photographs...
Saw a couple of likely looking prospects outside the Chelsea Drugstore, on the corner where Royal Avenue met the King’s Road. Bought them a can of beer, slipped them a quid each, and they said it was cool to photograph them for ten minutes or so. Davis let them get on with it and wandered off a few yards away to sit in the sun. Before you knew it, more police, uptight about the camera.
Asking for ID. Getting aggressive. The photographer couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Wasn’t as if she was the first person trying to get some shots of punks on the King’s Road that summer. Turned out it wasn’t that at all. They’d found another body. Right there on Royal Avenue, early that morning. Milkman practically tripped over it.
When he came over to see what the fuss was about, Davis noticed that it was the same policeman he’d talked to outside the Cheyne Walk house.
“Aren’t you the press man who was asking me questions about the previous murder?” said the copper.
He admitted that he was. Somehow, being seen taking photos a few yards away from the latest crime scene started the constable’s antenna twitching. Davis agreed that he had a few minutes spare in which to come along and talk to the detective sergeant.
“Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? What’s your interest in all this?”
“In the first one, pure curiosity. I’m a journalist. I read about it in the paper. I was round the corner having a drink. Thought I’d take a look.”
“And today?”
“Shooting pictures of punks for a feature I’m writing. It’s for a film magazine. They want coverage of some upcoming punk movies. I’ve been going around checking out the scene.”
The sergeant thought about that for a while.
“So would you describe yourself as an expert on this type of music?”
“Not an expert, no. I’m way too old for this. Most of the punters are about sixteen. But I’ve been at a lot of the shows these past couple of months. Talked to some of the bands involved. Research. Building up a picture. Why, is there a connection between the punk scene and the murders?”
“That’s one possible line of enquiry.”
The sergeant produced a clear plastic evidence bag and held it out for inspection. Visible inside was a sheet of paper with the usual blackmail lettering cut out from newspapers which had fast become a punk cliché through overuse. There was just one short phrase written on it:
I wAnNA Be a sLAvE FoR yOU aLL
“Mean anything to you?” asked the sergeant.
“Found on the body, was it?”
“If you’d just answer the question, sir...”
“Yes, actually, it does.”
“I see. And why might that be?”
“X-Ray Spex.”
“X-Ray Spex?”
“The band...”
“I know who they are, sir. I had the pleasure of seeing them perform several songs at the pub up the road a couple of weeks ago...”
“All right then. Go down to Town Records, 402 King’s Road. Get a copy of a new album called Live at the Roxy. X-Ray Spex track called “Oh Bondage Up Yours.” I think you’ll find it’s part of the lyrics.”
Early August. “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer blasting out from every pub jukebox. Pistols still at number four with “Pretty Vacant,” just one place down from “Angelo” by Brotherhood of Man. Check out the record reviews in the NME and the two main albums featured were the new ones from the Grateful Dead and Soft Machine. These were strange times. Davis was finishing up his evening getting plastered at the Roebuck. Usual mixed crowd. A couple of the staff from Seditionaries getting the evil eye from some of the older geezers who took exception to the swastikas on their clothes. Francis Bacon wandering in, looking for who knows what. Two famous actors in the corner, saying nothing, seemingly miserable, and a smattering of underage drinkers keeping their heads down. Davis spotted a few of the punks he’d interviewed at a Rezillos show in the Man in the Moon a few days previously, then went up and bought them a drink on expenses to see if they had any likely tips for the coming week.
“How’s it going, lads? Still getting hassled by the boys in blue?”
“Now and then. They were at the Spex gig at the Hope & Anchor the other day. Taking people outside. Going through your pockets. The usual crap.”
“Did they say what it was about?”
“Nah. Don’t need an excuse, do they?”
Apparently not. He went off to get some more cancer sticks and then pushed his way out through the doors and into the street. It was still bloody hot, but at least the tubes would still be running.
Now it was September. He’d finally finished that bloody punk films article, not that the editor had been particularly impressed. Easy to see why, really. The Pistols film with Meyer was shaping up to be a total fiasco and no one would even let him near that shoot — a sure sign of trouble. Nice idea on paper, but what would a director like that know about punk? Or care, for that matter... As for Jubilee — God help him — if he had to listen to much more of Jarman droning on about his plans to have some of the actors speaking in Latin, like his fucking unwatchable previous effort, then Davis would personally pay a group of King’s Road Teds to show up on the set and batter people to death with copies of the script. At least that German bloke who’d shown up in town from Munich making a punk documentary a week or so back seemed to have the right idea. Go to the clubs, talk to the fans, talk to some of the music papers and shops. Capture it as it’s happening.
Still, what the fuck, the article was done now.
As for the cops, they had rounded up some poor sod who was now “helping them with their enquiries.” Three killings in four weeks. Must have made all the happy little ratepayers in their Chelsea Mews houses start screaming bloody murder at their local MP. No wonder somebody’s been arrested. Can’t have that sort of behavior in the neighborhood. The Standard didn’t have much in the way of details, as per usual. Seems like the guy had been picked up after a show at the Nashville, following “information received.” According to the way it played in the press, it sounded like they were hoping that they’d taken some kind of dangerous lunatic off the streets. Innocent until proven guilty, of course...
What the hell. After a summer in which all the tabloids had spent their time running stories which claimed that the Sex Pistols cut up dead babies onstage and that your average punk was just as likely to bottle you in the face as say hello, hardly surprising that the cops would believe almost anything of someone who wore all the bondage gear. Was he guilty? Well, it seemed like he was their best bet...