When the Music's Over (21 page)

“Come on, Gerry,” she said. “Let's have a little shopping trip.”

Excerpt from Linda Palmer's Memoir

Let it be a steam train, then. I remember my excitement as it chugged out of Leeds City station, all straining hooks and cables, the whole thing creaking and rattling like the chains of Marley's ghost, the way only a steam train can, almighty exhalations of smoke exploding from its funnel as it built up momentum, the speed quickening, faster and faster, settling into the regular, rocking clickety-clack rhythm as it escaped the confines of the city. Soon green fields full of sheep and cows flashed by, a tiny
village, a lonely farmhouse, a river. A cyclist waiting at a level crossing waved to us, then bent to adjust his bicycle clips. Perhaps I'm already being free and easy with the details, but I'm sure you get the picture. It helps to put me in a mood to go on, and even invented memories can summon forth true ones.

I do recall that the compartment was stuffy, and Melanie's father opened the windows on both sides. I spent much of the journey reading
Lorna Doone
, carried away with the romance of it all, and Melanie had her head buried in the latest copy of
Jackie
. Occasionally we sneaked glances at each other and pulled faces. Our parents sat quietly, Mother reading her
Woman's Weekly
, Dad just puffing on his pipe, gazing out the window, woolgathering. Melanie's parents had their heads bent over a crossword puzzle. It was all very Philip Larkin, the bicycle clips, the smell of warm carriage cloth, framed tourist scenes on the carriage walls: Torquay, Brighton, Sunny Prestatyn. Through Huddersfield and Hebden Bridge we chuffed and clanked, tall mill chimneys and the dark satanic mills themselves, many still functional at that time, then up into the Pennines we rolled. Rills trickled in deep green clefts down the hillsides. Here and there stood a brooding, isolated farmhouse. I wondered about the people who lived there. Made up stories about them. The magical world their children had discovered in a cave under the waterfall, the witch who lived in the cottage deep in the woods and kidnapped children who strayed too far into the shadows.

Before long we had left Preston behind and it was time to play “Spot the Tower.” You knew you were almost there when you could see Blackpool Tower, that smaller but nonetheless proud replica of the Eiffel Tower, in the distance. Melanie saw it first, and I was miffed. Usually it was me. I always had a feeling that my mother and father let me win, but there was no such indulgence with Melanie. Soon it was time for our fathers to heft the suitcases down from the luggage racks and our mothers to remind us not to forget anything. A few spots of rain streaked the grimy windows as we entered the outskirts of Blackpool, but that was all right. We could smell the sea air.

The rain didn't last. In fact, I'm at a loss to remember whether it even materialized beyond those few stray drops. Whatever happened, I remember that first day was as sunny and bright as the rest of the days that first week. It must have rained, though. It always rains on seaside holidays. The summers of childhood were surely never as warm and sunny as I remember them.

So what did we do that first afternoon and evening? I don't remember. Oh, I'm sure we went straight to the boardinghouse, found our rooms and unpacked. Perhaps it was already teatime. Melanie and I were sharing a room, which was all right with me, as we both liked to stay up late and read or listen to the pirate stations, if we could pick any up, or Radio Luxembourg on our trannies under the bedclothes.

As I remember, the room was much the same as the year before, only this time with two single beds crammed in: boring flower-patterned wallpaper with the squashed fly still on a rose petal, a window looking out on the backyard, a pipe running down one wall that rattled and clanged every time anyone ran a tap or flushed the toilet, a chamber pot under each bed, and a bowl and jug you could fill with water for washing and brushing your teeth. The toilet and bathroom would have been down the hall, as usual, shared by everyone on the floor, use of hot water strictly regulated, dinner at six p.m. on the dot, or you were out of luck. It wasn't the kind of place that encouraged one to stay indoors, no matter what the weather. You never lost sight of the fact that you were an interloper in someone's home, tolerated out of necessity, perhaps, but never entirely welcome.

Maybe we went for a walk on the prom that first evening, or took one of the open trams along the front. We might have even ventured on the beach, removed our sandals, pulled our dresses up over our knees and gone for a wade. Perhaps we even shared a bag of cockles or winkles, digging out the poor creatures from their shells with pins, like little gobs of snot. Perhaps, though I doubt this happened so soon, we strolled the Golden Mile and played in the amusement arcades. Though I can't remember
what we did, I do remember the sense of excitement I always had at the start of a holiday, of new places to be discovered, new experiences, new adventures, new possibilities. The sea air was always intoxicating, always full of promise. This time, with my best friend Melanie by my side, I was sure it would be even more exciting than usual.

L
ENNY THORNTON WAS AS GOOD AS HIS WORD, AND
he phoned Annie at a quarter past nine that evening to inform her that Sinead had come home. Annie then called Gerry, who picked her up in the Corsa, and they set off for Wytherton Heights for the second time that day. After talking to Lenny Thornton earlier they had visited the shopping mall but had drawn a blank. There were no young people around, and the store workers and security guards could tell them nothing except what a nuisance the kids were, and how they scared away legitimate customers. No, no one had ever seen young girls with older Pakistani men. Most of the Pakistanis shopped in the Asian market at the other end of the Strip.

It was another sultry evening, the heat still clinging and clammy, streetlamps haloed with eerie light. The estate was in shadow and already dark, as many of the lamps were out; either they had been vandalized or the council just couldn't be bothered fixing them when they stopped working. The light was on in the front room of 14 Southam Terrace, and when Annie knocked on the door, Lenny Thornton answered briskly. He'd put on a T-shirt and jeans since their previous visit, but otherwise nothing much had changed. Johnny was asleep in his armchair, mouth open, snoring loudly. The TV was tuned to a golf tournament. No wonder Johnny was asleep, Annie thought.

“He took it badly,” Lenny said, nodding toward Johnny.

Annie wondered how he could tell. “So I see. You said Sinead's at home?”

Lenny gestured toward the stairs. “In her room. Go easy, won't you, hen. She's a bit fragile. It's still early days with the methadone.”

“Don't worry. Seen anything of Albert yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

Annie and Gerry went upstairs. The bedroom was dimly lit by an orange-shaded bedside lamp, which cast shadows over the walls and ceiling as they entered. It was a bare room, with just a wardrobe, dressing table, chest of drawers and a small TV set on a table opposite the double bed. Maybe it was because of the rose-patterned wallpaper and soft lighting, but it seemed more of a woman's room to Annie, and she couldn't imagine a man like Lenny Thornton here in the bed. None of her business.

Sinead lay propped up on her pillows, smoking, staring into space, an overflowing ashtray on her belly. Her mascara was smeared, and she had clearly been crying. A number of screwed-up tissues lay on the bedspread and floor around her. The room smelled of skin moisturizer and cigarette smoke.

Annie had seen junkies of every variety over the years, from some she was positive were dead to others so clear-minded she couldn't believe they were drug addicts, and she quickly guessed that Sinead Moffat was closer to the latter type. Not many people knew it, but a heroin addict who got her regular, quality-controlled doses of the drug could often function almost normally, hold down a job, raise a child and so on. It was the desperation of no fix, no money to feed the habit, the uncertain quality of the stuff and the aura of crime in squats, dirty needles and dingy flats where the addicts congregated that caused the problems. You just had to think of the opium addicts of the nineteenth century, like Coleridge and De Quincey, to see both the range of achievement and the depths of despair that were part and parcel of a junkie's life. But now, according to Lenny Thornton, Sinead was on the methadone cure. Methadone suppressed opioid withdrawal symptoms, and because it was an opioid itself, it also blocked the effects of drugs such as heroin and morphine. It worked for some people, and many prisons had extensive methadone treatment programs.

Gerry took a chair by the door. Annie sat on the edge of the bed and took Sinead's hand. Sinead didn't resist but her hand felt dry and lifeless as a sheet of paper. “I'm very sorry,” Annie said. “Do you want to see the artist's impression?”

Sinead sniffed and nodded. Annie showed it to her. Sinead traced her index finger over the image, then passed the drawing back to Annie and turned aside. “That's Mimosa,” she said. “I've got a better likeness, if you can use it.” She opened the drawer of the bedside table, shuffled through a stack of photos and handed one to Annie. “Taken last year. She hasna changed that much.”

It was a close-up of a young girl with short blond hair parted on one side so that a long lock curved over her left eye, almost covering it. Her face was free of makeup, her complexion smooth and pale, and it was clear that she was destined to become a true beauty, if only she had lived. She had the ghost of a smile on her face, as if an amusing thought had just passed through her mind. Annie also thought it was the kind of face that men would find attractive.

“I took that,” Sinead added. “We went to Filey for the day. I was doing good on methadone and Mimsy . . . well, Mimsy was being the kind, attentive daughter.”

“It's good,” said Annie. “May I borrow it? I promise I'll let you have it back.”

“Please do,” said Sinead. “It's the best one I've got.”

“How are you doing?” Annie asked.

Sinead took a drag on her cigarette. “As well as can be expected. If you mean am I high, I don't know if Lenny told you, but I'm on the methadone. Everything feels a bit far away and muffled, but I'm here, and I'm hurting. I can't believe my little girl is gone.”

“Lenny said he thought you might be with your addict friends when we called earlier.”

Sinead managed a weak smile. “He would. But I wasn't. I really am going to make it work this time. I went to the clinic, then spent some time with my counselor, and after that, just to cheer myself up, I went shopping and treated myself to Pizza Express with my friend Carolyn.” She pointed to a few packages in the corner. “Haven't even got around to opening them yet. What happened to my Mimosa?”

Annie swallowed. The last thing she wanted to do was tell Sinead Moffat what had been done to her daughter. Even the scant details on the news, which Sinead clearly hadn't seen, were bad enough. “We think she was murdered,” she said.

“But how? Why?”

“That's what we're trying to find out.” Annie pressed on quickly ahead, skirting the question of how Mimsy had been killed. Lenny Thornton could tell her that Mimsy had been “beaten,” if he remembered. “We're going to need you to come to Eastvale to identify your daughter. But it's late now. We can send a car for you tomorrow morning, if that's OK?”

“I can see her then?”

Annie knew that the staff there would have cleaned Mimosa's body up as best they could for identification, but it would still be a great shock. “Yes. Tomorrow. Is it OK if I ask you a couple of questions now?”

“OK.”

Annie looked over to Gerry, who had taken out her notebook.

“When did you last see your daughter?”

“I think it was after the weekend, you know, the one before this. She came by for a while on Monday, changed her clothes, had something to eat. Same as usual.”

That was the day before she had been killed, Annie realized. “Did you talk about anything in particular?”

“No.”

“Do you know where she'd been, where she stayed when she wasn't here?”

“No. There was a mate called Jade. They hung out a lot together.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

“But no one she talked about?”

“No.”

“How long had things been like this?”

“About six months.”

“And you weren't worried?”

“Of course I was. I'd been there myself. Teenage girls are secretive.
You must remember that yourselves? But I knew there was no point goading her or nagging her. If there was something bothering her, she'd tell me when she was good and ready.”

“Did she seem worried or upset by anything?”

“No, she was as cheeky as ever.”

“What were you doing on Tuesday evening?”

“Me. You don't think—”

“We need to know where everybody was,” Annie said.

“We were here, all of us. Just a normal evening in.”

“All of you being you, Lenny, Johnny and Albert?”

“Not Albert.”

“Where was he?”

“You'll have to ask him. Probably in the pub with his mates. Paul and the others. But he wouldn't hurt Mimosa.”

“We're not saying he did, Sinead. We just need to know these things. Didn't he come home that night?”

“He rarely comes home. So rarely you could hardly call it his home.”

“Where does he stay? Girlfriend?”

“He may have one, but he's more one for the lads, is Albert. I don't mean he's gay or anything. Heaven forbid. He just likes his ale and a bit of pushing and shoving, you know, like lads are. He often stays at Paul's. That's Paul Warner. They more or less share a flat on the edge of the estate.”

“Would you say that you and Mimsy were close?” Annie began.

“Mimosa. I always called her Mimosa. Everyone else called her Mimsy, but I called her Mimosa. Some people thought it was a silly name, but I've always thought it's beautiful.”

“Sorry. Mimosa. Would you say you were close?”

“I always liked to think so, but not recently, no. Not especially. Maybe when she was little, but times have been hard over the past few years, since she's been more grown up. Things happened. I've let my family down. Made mistakes. I couldn't control her lately. I never knew where she was or what she was up to.”

“You said she was secretive?”

“More so these past few months than she used to be. Yes.”

“Her father left several years ago, right?”

“That was one of the good things that happened.”

“Any idea where he is now?”

“Australia wouldn't be far enough.”

“Is that where he is?”

“No. I've no idea. Haven't seen or heard from him in more than ten years.”

“And after he left?”

“There were others. Men. I wasn't a good mother. I made some bad choices.”

“Did any of the men bother Mimosa?”

Sinead turned away, but Annie could tell she was nodding, even with her head buried in the pillow. She touched her shoulder. “Sinead. Did anyone interfere with her?”

“One of them. Just one. I walked in on them one night, right there in her room. He was making her toss him off, the filthy bastard. She was only eight. She didn't know what was going on, it was supposed to be a game for her, but she wasn't happy about it. I went ballistic, threatened to call the police and everything.”

“Did you? Call the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because things were bad enough already.” She faced Annie. Her light brown eyes were flecked with amber. “I'm sorry, love, but nothing good's ever come of calling the police around here. There was other stuff. Stolen goods in the house. Drugs. If I'd got the police involved they'd have given us more grief than they'd have given him.”

“What did you do, then?”

“I shoved all his stuff in a case and chucked it out of the window. He ran off and never came back.”

“We'll need his name.”

“Mallard. Eddie Mallard. I wouldn't be surprised if he's on your books.”

“And what about Lenny?”

She managed a half smile. “Lenny's all right. A bit rough-and-ready, but his heart's in the right place. He never hurt Mimosa and he takes good care of me.”

“When do you think you and your daughter started drifting apart?”

“When she was about thirteen. She was sullen and depressed. It was just a difficult time for her. Self-image and everything. I suppose I should consider myself lucky she didn't suffer from anorexia or bulimia.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Not that I could fathom. Hormones, I suppose. She got very moody, started stopping out. Just till late at first, then all night.”

“Is that when she cut herself?”

Sinead gave Annie a sharp glance. “You saw that?”

“Hard to miss.”

“Yes, it was around that time.”

“Was it serious? I mean, did Mimosa really try to kill herself? Did it bleed a lot?”

“No. It wasn't deep. I talked to her. I've . . .” Sinead held up her arm and pulled her sleeves up over her wrist. There were the same sort of crisscross scars as they had seen on Mimsy. “It was a long time ago. But I told her I understood. I knew she was unhappy, miserable. She thought everybody hated her, and she'd never have a boyfriend or anyone to love her. Some of the other kids at school made fun of her.”

“Why?”

“Do they need a reason? Her name? Her family? I wasn't a good mother. I didn't know what to tell her except everything would be all right. But it wasn't enough.” She gave a little shiver. “I wasn't always there for her. And Lenny and Johnny are harmless, like I said, but they were no use to Mimosa. No use at all. She was thirteen. She needed a mother, and I failed her.”

“Did talking help?”

“I don't think so. Not by then. I couldn't get through to her. They grow up so quickly these days. Then they're gone.”

“Sinead, Mimosa didn't have to be gone. Someone took her. That's why we're here. We want to find out who it was and make sure they don't do it to anyone else and that they pay for what they've done.”

“How can they pay? What's the price of my daughter's life?”

“It's the only price the law allows. I can't change that.”

“No, love. No, you can't. Oh, what does it matter who did it? She's gone. It was my fault. I've been trying, honest I have, but it hasn't done any good, has it? Sometimes I think she was born under a bad sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know what her problem was, where it came from. There were older men sniffing around, even when she was thirteen.”

“They took advantage of her?”

“What do
you
think? She had that sort of sexy innocent thing going. She couldn't see it herself. That's why it's so powerful, because it's unconscious. Believe it or not, I used to have some of it myself, back in the day. It's good for nothing but trouble.”