When the Music's Over (19 page)

The food came and they paused for a while to eat in silence. The
pastry on Banks's pie was soggy and the meat more gristle than steak. One of the other young children at the next table threw some cutlery on the grass and let out a piercing scream. Banks winced. The young woman picked up the spoon and smiled at him again.

“I'm sorry we couldn't get much from the archive,” Blackstone said.

“That's OK. I didn't expect anything more. There is one interesting piece of information, though.”

“Oh?”

“‘Chiller' Chadwick. I've come across him before on another old case. Always had my suspicions he was bent, but I could never prove it.”

“I don't suppose he's still around?” said Blackstone.

“Died of a heart attack in March 1973, if I remember rightly.”

“I think I know the case you mean,” Blackstone said. “Wasn't that the rock journalist connected with the murder at that Brimleigh rock festival in 1969? Chadwick would have been the SIO back then, right?”

“That's right,” said Banks. “Linda Lofthouse, the Mad Hatters, Vic Greaves, all that lot. Seems a lifetime ago.”

“1969?”

“Our case. The journalist. 2006, wasn't it? 1969 seems several lifetimes ago, and as for 1967 . . .”

“The Summer of Love.”

“That's right. Not for Linda Palmer, though. You know, Ken, there are a few leads in this that might not be too cold. I remember from the other case, we located Chadwick's oppo, a DS Enderby, and he also had a DC called Bradley. I talked to Chadwick's daughter Yvonne as well. There's a chance he might have mentioned Linda Palmer or Danny Caxton to one of them. From what I heard about him, he struck me as a hard man, and not beyond a verbal or a physical beating, but I don't think he was the kind of person who'd have liked being anyone's fool, or in anyone's pocket. Even Caxton's.”

“It's worth a shot, isn't it?” said Blackstone. “Tracking them down. His daughter. This DC Bradley.”

“Definitely. I've got their addresses back on the old case records in Eastvale. At least from 2006. But first I've got something I'd like you to do for me, if you can spare a couple of lads for a few hours.”

“My team is at your command,” said Blackstone.

Banks explained about the photo Linda Palmer remembered seeing and suggested starting with the
Yorkshire Evening Post
for October 1967.

“Those old newspaper morgues are more complicated than you'd think,” said Blackstone. “I suppose you know the old YEP building's been knocked down and they've moved to Whitehall Road?”

“Yes.”

“The thing is, they always stored their photos by theme, not date, and I expect they still do.”

“We'd need to go through the complete issues,” Banks said. “The photo might be part of a story and we'd need to know that story. We don't know the theme. Surely they're on microfiche somewhere? Old newspapers are fragile, aren't they?”

Blackstone considered for a moment. “I think your best bet is Leeds Central Library. They've got a local studies department that has all the old
YEP
s on microfilm. It shouldn't take too long to scroll through them. Would it be a problem, getting your victim to Leeds?”

“I can't see why,” said Banks.

“Then there's no reason you shouldn't do it tomorrow.”

“That soon? Can you get it organized?”

“Sure. I know some of the staff there. We use the facility often. I'll have a word, let them know to get it set up. October 1967?”

Banks pushed his plate of half-eaten pie aside. Blackstone followed suit. “If it's going to be that easy, we might as well throw in September and November as well, if that's no problem.”

“Not at all. Early afternoon good?”

“Fine with me. Thanks, Ken.”

“Right, then. You know where the place is?”

“I ought to do.”

“I'll ring you in the morning, tell you who to ask for.”

“In that case,” said Banks, “I'll put off interviewing Bradley and Chadwick's daughter until Linda's had a chance to examine the photos. Who knows, I might have a few more things to ask them about if we get lucky on this.” He finished his Coke and stood up. “Shall we?”

The young woman with the children gave Banks a weary smile as they left.

Blackstone nudged him. “You could have been in there, mate. I saw the way she was eyeing you. Ready-made family.”

Banks laughed. “Just what I need right now.”

WYTHERTON WAS
about a forty-five-minute drive from Eastvale. At the heart of the Heights estate, Southam Terrace was a narrow, potholed street of through terrace houses blackened by years of industrial smoke. The council might well have restored the Victorian town hall to its former sandstone glory, but nobody had bothered sandblasting the streets of Wytherton Heights. Even the sunlight didn't do much to brighten up the sooty facades and grimy slate roofs. Gerry parked her lime-green Corsa across from the Moffat house, and she and Annie walked over the hot tarmac. The smell of warm tar provoked in Annie a sudden memory of sitting by the roadside on hot summer days when she was a child, picking off chunks of softened tar and rolling them into balls.

The gate was closed, peeling green paint in need of a touch-up, and beyond it two children played on a postage-stamp lawn littered with bright-colored plastic toys. The children, one about two, the other about five, looked up suspiciously from the structure they were building of different-colored interlocking blocks.

“That's nice,” said Annie, crouching. “What is it, a castle?”

“Prison,” said the five-year-old, and snickered.

“They learn young around here,” Annie muttered, standing up. “Mum and Dad in?”

“Dunno.”

Gerry knocked on the door, and they waited almost a full minute before anyone answered. They could hear the TV playing loudly inside, some overexcited sporting commentary, but nothing else. Eventually the door opened and a man in a grubby string vest stood in front of them. “Yeah? What is it?”

Annie flashed her warrant card. “Mr. Moffat?”

“No. Lenny Thornton.”

“Is Mr. Moffat at home?”

Thornton scratched his head. “Well, he was here maybe ten years or so ago, but it'll be the missus you're after. Well, the girlfriend. You know. Her name's Moffat.”

“Mimsy?” said Gerry.

“Bloody hell, no, pet. That's her young lass. Sinead's her mother.” He had a strong Geordie accent. Annie was used to hearing it, but she could see Gerry struggling to understand.

“Is Sinead Moffat in, then?” As Annie spoke, she and Gerry were edging into the front room. Lenny Thornton edged back politely as they moved forward. Eventually they were able to shut the door behind them. The closed curtains let in a faint glow, but the main source of light was a large flickering TV screen showing an international football game. Maybe there was a big tournament on somewhere that Annie hadn't heard about, but she thought it more likely the game was a repeat. When she saw who was playing, she knew it was. She had watched it several days ago.

“Sinead's out,” said Thornton, “but you's welcome to a cuppa, if you's like.” He subsided into a well-worn armchair, lit a cigarette and gestured to a teapot and a cluster of stained mugs on the table under the window. “Kettle's in the kitchen.”

“No, thanks.” Annie glanced around the room. It was untidy, with stacks of magazines and articles of clothing strewn here and there. An unpleasant odor hung about the place: cigarette smoke, old socks and boiled cabbage. Then there was Lenny Thornton.

There are some men, Annie thought, such as Daniel Craig and Aidan Turner, who should be shirtless as often as possible, but Lenny Thornton wasn't one of them. His hairy belly drooped over his belt, little squares of fat pushing through the net of his string vest, and his man breasts wobbled when he moved. He could also do with a shave and a haircut, and probably a wash, too. A can of Carlsberg Special Brew rested on one arm of his armchair and an ashtray on the other. Annie also noticed, as her eyes adjusted, that there was another person in the room, a man with long, greasy hair and a lined, unshaven face, who might well be dead for all the sound he'd made or movement
he'd shown. Annie thought he resembled a zombie biker in the dim light. “Who's that?” she asked.

“That's Sinead's brother,” Lenny Thornton answered. “Hasna moved from that chair in ten years. Except to go to the local, that is. Say hello to the polis, Johnny.”

Johnny gave what sounded like a grunt without taking his eyes away from the football game. The door on the other side of the room was open, and Annie could see through the kitchen and the open back door to the yard beyond, with its high brick wall and latched wooden gate. A bicycle without wheels leaned against the wall. She knew without looking that beyond the gate would be a narrow cobbled alley, and on the opposite side another backyard exactly the same. People used to have their WCs out there, but most had got indoor toilets these days and only used the old outhouses as storage sheds. At least a light breeze blew in through the open door. There were two hard-backed chairs at the table by the window, and Annie decided they were probably the safest place to sit, after she had moved a pile of old
Racing Post
s from one of them.

“Do you know how long Sinead will be?” she asked.

“No telling with her when she goes out and about.”

“Do you know where we can find her?”

“Could be anywhere.”

Annie pressed on. “And Mimsy?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Her name's Mimosa, by the way. Sinead says she named her after a posh drink she had at a wedding once. But everyone calls her Mimsy. 'Cept Sinead, that is.”

“Any other children?”

“She's got an older brother.”

“What's he called? Buck's Fizz?”

“Come again?”

“Never mind.”

“Albert, he's called. After his granddad. Silly name for a kid these days, I'd say.”

Albert and Mimosa, Annie thought. It sounded like a good stage name. What act would they perform? Magician and assistant? “Where's Albert?”

“He's out an' all.”

“So there's just you and Johnny here?”

“That's right, hen.”

Annie sighed. “Lucky us.”

“So why don't you just tell us what you want, then you can go about your business and we can get back to the footie.”

Annie glanced at the screen. “I've seen it,” she said. “Croatia wins three to two in extra time.”

Thornton glared at her. “You can be a right bitch, you know that, love?”

“I've been called worse. Look,” Annie went on, softening her tone. “I've got a serious job to do here, and you're not being very helpful.”

“I can't tell you people are here when they're not, can I? That'd be lying. You're not asking me to lie to the polis, now, are you?”

“OK, but I'm sure you could give us some idea of where Sinead is?”

“I told you. I don't know where she goes.”

“What does she do? Has she got a job?”

“Job? Nay, lass, none of us has a job. Everyone knows there's no work around these parts, even the tarts what work at the Job Centre. Hasn't been for years. The old 'uns'll tell you it was Thatcher shutting down the steelworks and engineering factories. Even Johnny over there's never had a job in his life, and he won't see t'other side of forty again.
Job?
”

So Mimsy Moffat was probably third-generation unemployed, Annie realized. She thought for a moment, then opened her briefcase and slipped out a copy of the artist's impression. He had tried to make Mimsy appear as alive and unblemished as possible, and succeeded to a large extent. She showed the image to Lenny Thornton. “Could this be Mimsy?”

Thornton squinted, then took the sheet of paper to the window and inched open the curtains to let the direct light fall on it. “That's her,” he said, handing it back. “To a tee. It's bloody good, that is. Who's been drawing her, then? Is it one of her own?”

“She draws?”

“Aye. Anything and everything. She'd draw the bloody kitchen sink if there was nothing else around.” He glanced from Annie to
Gerry, and Annie thought she could see fear in his eyes. “What's going on?” he asked. “It's never good news, having the polis around. Is something wrong?”

“It's not one of Mimsy's drawings,” Annie said. “Don't you watch the news? Read the papers?”

Thornton sat down again. “
Racing Post
, some days. And Johnny won't have the news on. Says it's all lies and government conspiracies. We just watch Sky Sports. Look, love, come on, you're making us nervous.”

Annie sighed. “Mr. Thornton, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but we think Mimsy's dead. That's why we're here. That's why we're asking questions.”

Thornton turned to her, slack-jawed. “Dead? What do you mean you think Mimsy's dead?”

“We believe she was murdered last Tuesday night. Have you seen her since then?”

“No. No, I haven't. But . . . murder? Our Mimsy? Who'd want to murder her? Johnny, will you turn that thing down?”

Johnny did something with the remote and the volume quieted a little.

“That's what we'd like to find out,” Annie said. “We really need to talk to Sinead.”

“But you can't think she had anything to do with it.”

“I'm not saying she did. But she's Mimsy's mother. She'll have to be informed. And someone will have to come to Eastvale Infirmary and identify Mimsy. We'd prefer her mother come if at all possible.”

“Eastvale?” Thornton lit a cigarette. His movements seemed to be in slow motion, mechanical. Annie realized he must be in shock, for all his apparent bravado. She didn't think she could have broken the news any more gently. “Mr. Thornton? Are you all right? Do you want me to call someone for you. Doctor? A neighbor?”