When the Music's Over (26 page)

“Then just accept it.”

“It's simple,” said Carver. “It's pragmatic, a matter of simple practicalities. Let me explain. Your average whites don't make too much of a fuss if you hassle them. The Muslim community pulls together and makes a noise about it. No matter that they're mostly third-generation Pakistanis in Wytherton—their grandparents came over in the fifties—and that they often embrace Western culture and seem just as
English as you and me. Maybe their grandparents brought the old religion with them, but it started to fade with their children. These days, they're either westernized or . . . well, you know, attracted by the other extreme. Luckily that doesn't happen too much around Wytherton. Either way, they feel themselves to be different, singled out, as easily demonized, especially when it suits them, and they make a noise about it. And when they do, guess who has to deal with it.” He pointed his thumb at his own chest. “Wytherton is a split community. We've got the Muslims mostly to the south of the Strip in Lower Wytherton, though they're spreading slowly into the north, and Wytherton Heights is mostly white. There are also areas where whites and British Pakistanis live side by side and have done for years. The boundaries are constantly changing. If we went in and came down hard on the Muslim community for no good reason, we'd have pitched battles on Town Street. Is that what you want to see, DI Cabbot?”

“No,” said Annie. “But we didn't go in hard, and it wasn't for no good reason. Besides, I don't believe the men we're dealing with are Muslims in any real sense of the word. Muslims don't do what was done to Mimosa. Muslims don't rape and kill young girls. Well, they do, actually, some of them, but we'll leave that aside for the time being. And they don't exactly have an enlightened attitude towards women, while we're at it, but if you point that out to some people, they just accuse you of picking on it as an excuse to demonize them because they don't believe the same things you do. We may be wrong, but we think—I think—that Mimosa and probably some of her friends were being groomed. And we think it's happening on your patch. Whether you simply ignored it or hadn't a clue, I have no idea, but I should think they've suspended operations for the time being. What I want is justice for Mimosa Moffat, a fifteen-year-old girl from the Wytherton Heights estate who was gang-raped by three men of Pakistani descent, according to DNA evidence, and beaten to death by a person or persons unknown on
my
patch. If that means upsetting a few people in the community, so be it. Boo-bloody-hoo. Besides, the nearest any of that lot have been to Pakistan is the nearest Karachi Curry House.”

“Irrelevant, DI Cabbot,” said Carver. “Are you on some sort of personal
vendetta? Is that what's preventing you from seeing the bigger picture? Because if—”

“That's enough, Superintendent Carver,” said Banks. “We take your point, but we do have a murder investigation to carry out. It seems you're running a slack ship, as far as I can tell. The artist's impression of Mimosa Moffat—done, by the way, because her face was beaten to a pulp—was circulated throughout the country, including Wytherton. Someone clearly isn't doing their job right.”

“I resent that.”

“Resent away. How would
you
suggest we approach the problem?”

“Well, you've got all the facilities, and your minds are made up, so you hardly need my advice.”

Banks could tell that Carver was annoyed that he had a difficult area to police, while Homicide and Major Crimes was housed at the more peaceful Eastvale Police HQ and had a mini forensic lab attached. But Banks could hardly help it if Carver was trying to pass off his manor as Fort Apache, the Bronx. “Humor me,” he said. “What about CCTV on the Strip?”

“You can try,” said Carver. “But there isn't very much. Besides, it was over a week ago. They'll have recorded over the hard drives or DVDs or whatever they use by now. You might try questioning some of the local shopkeepers.”

“I get it,” said Banks. “Basically, not much chance of finding out if there was a car or a van parked near the kebab and pizza takeaway and the minicab office a week ago?”

No.” Carver shot Annie and Gerry a withering glance.

“So where do you suggest we start?”

Carver puffed up his chest. “I don't know how you go about doing things down here, but I'd suggest you start by taking the Moffat house apart. We've had cause to pay more visits there over the years than we have to the entire Muslim community.”

“Well, that's no surprise if you're too frightened to say boo to them, is it?” said Annie. “You can't have it both ways.”

“Let Superintendent Carver speak,” said Banks.

“Thank you,” said Carver. “Let me tell you about the Moffats. When it came to handing out brain cells they weren't exactly at the
front of the queue. By now they're second-generation unemployed, third, if you discount Albert Senior's artistic pursuits. He never did a day's work in his life, either, just sat around smoking joints and splashing paint on canvas. Albert and his common-law wife, Maureen, moved there in the late sixties and had Johnny and Sinead about five years apart. The family was called Kerrigan back then, no Moffat on the horizon for a while. Touch of the Irish about them, a background of wandering navvies and horse traders. Albert Kerrigan bought 14 Southam Terrace in the eighties when Mrs. Thatcher made it possible for less-well-off people to buy their own council houses in the hopes they would become more law-abiding and house proud.”

“Spare us the political lecture, Superintendent Carver,” said Banks.

Carver harrumphed and went on. “We know things didn't turn out that way. And, I might add, the police at the time strongly suspected that Albert Kerrigan used money acquired through the sale of illegal drugs in the house purchase.”

“Let me guess,” said Annie. “They couldn't prove it.”

“That's right. Kerrigan claimed he'd sold a painting to get the money, but I couldn't imagine anyone paying six grand for the rubbish he turned out.”

“And you're an art expert, too,” said Annie. “Wonders never cease.”

Carver went red.

“Shut it, DI Cabbot,” said Banks.

Carver cast her the evil eye and went on. “I was only a constable on the beat back then, patrol cars, but I had plenty of firsthand experience of the various Kerrigans and Moffats over the years. Sinead Kerrigan married Leslie Moffat in the late nineties, and Mimosa and Albert were born around the millennium, just three years apart. Les Moffat was a small-time crook. A bit of housebreaking, the occasional mugging after dark in Middlesbrough town center. He could be violent when he wanted to, and he buggered off when the kids were still little. That was around the time Albert Kerrigan died of a brain tumor. Only in his fifties. I blame the drugs.”

“And his wife?” Banks asked.

“Maureen? Drifted off with some Travellers. Never been seen since.”

“Which leaves Sinead, Lenny, Johnny and the kids,” said Banks. “Were any of the children ever fostered out or taken into care?”

“No,” said Carver. “They always managed to avoid that fate. God knows how.”

“What about Sinead's brother?” Banks asked. “I heard he's a bit . . .” He glanced at Annie.

“Doolally,” she said.

“Johnny's five years older than Sinead,” said Carver. “He rode with a local biker gang involved in drugs and all kinds of nastiness until he smashed up his bike on the A19 one rainy day. Never been the same since. Just sits in his chair. Which suits us fine.”

“What happened after Les Moffat left?” Banks asked.

“Mama Sinead is left behind looking after the whole family. After Moffat, there was a string of men, bad choices for the most part, junkies, criminals and unemployed layabouts all. That's when she developed her drug habit, and she wasn't averse to a bit of soliciting to support it. Then Lenny Thornton came on the scene in 2009, and she soon had two kids by him. We've had our run-ins with Lenny. He's settled down these days, but he specialized in car theft after a childhood of joyriding. Then when the security locks got too complicated for his tiny brain, he moved on to fencing stolen goods. But he wasn't very good at it. After a short stretch inside, he seemed to go straight. We've had nothing on him for two or three years now. And that, my dear friends, is the Moffats of Southam Terrace. And when you start feeling all warm and tingly inside about Sinead Moffat getting her act together, doing the methadone cure, think again. She may well be trying to kick her heroin habit at the moment, but don't let that fool you. Judging by all previous attempts, she'll be back on it in no time, and turning tricks, if any man in his right mind will pay her for it.”

Banks gave him a dirty look. “Watch it, Mr. Carver,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”

“Sorry,” said Carver.

“Are you suggesting that one of the family killed Mimosa?” Annie asked.

“All I'm saying is it's a good place to start. Better than Sunny's Kebab and Pizza. You could do worse than have a chat with the social
and school authorities, too. Wytherton Comprehensive. Lovely place. Shoo-in for Oxford.” He paused. “You admit you don't know who actually murdered the girl. All I'm saying is look close to home. Isn't that the way it usually is? Her brother Albert's a yobbo for a start. He's broken a window or two on the Strip in his time, usually after a skinful of ale? He wouldn't like it if he'd heard she's been shagging Pakis.”

“I won't tell you again, Mr. Carver,” said Banks. “There's no room for that sort of crudeness here. A bit more respect. According to our forensic evidence, the girl you're talking about was
raped
.”

“Doesn't mean she hadn't done it willingly at some point. Perhaps you'd like me to assign a couple of my local CID officers to help you with your inquiries in Wytherton?” Carver went on, pushing his luck.

“We can handle it,” said Annie.

“I don't think that will be necessary,” said Banks. “It's a Homicide and Major Crimes case. We may consult on occasion, should the need arise.”

Carver gritted his teeth. “If you say so.”

“I think that's all for now,” Banks said. “You know your next actions, DI Cabbot, DC Masterson. Tear the Moffat house apart and find Albert Jr.”

IT WAS
another warm day in Wytherton, though much less muggy, and the smell of decomposing rubbish polluted the air. The garbagemen had been on strike for more than a week now, Gerry had learned, and there seemed to be no end in sight. She had spent a good part of her morning on the phone and discovered that Les Moffat, Mimosa's birth father, had died of liver disease two years ago and that Eddie Mallard, the ex-boyfriend of Sinead's who had molested Mimosa, had been stabbed in a prison brawl four years ago. She had also got through to one of Mimosa's teachers, who told her that Mimosa was naturally bright but didn't apply herself enough. She could have done a lot better if she had tried, but then, Gerry thought, couldn't we all. There had been attendance issues lately and Mimosa had paid more than one visit to the head teacher's office. She had also been warned over the
use of racial slurs. That seemed odd to Gerry, but perhaps if Mimsy was in a relationship with a group of Asian groomers, then it was a form of camouflage.

The social service offices were housed in a flat-roofed, modern one-story building on the other side of the canal, just across the bridge, over from the new shopping center and about half a mile from the Strip. Beside it was a small square of tufty, dried-out grass where a few young people lounged, shirtless and listless, smoking joints or cigarettes, drinking from plastic water bottles or cans of lager. Gerry felt the sweat sticking her white silk blouse to her skin as she went through the front doors into the reception area.

A bored woman sat behind a glass partition like a ticket seller at a railway station. Without looking up from her keyboard, she said, “Take a number and wait over there,” as if it were for the hundredth time that day.

Gerry flashed her warrant card, and the woman pointed to a desk wedged into a corner. “Over there,” she said. “See Alicia. She deals with all police matters.”

Alicia glanced up as Gerry approached. She was probably mid-thirties, plump with short curly dark hair and a badge with her first name below a smiley face. A place of mixed messages, this, Gerry thought.

Gerry showed her warrant card again. The woman examined it closely and gestured for her to sit down, making it clear who was in charge. Gerry sat on the molded orange chair, trying to avoid a bit of old chewing gum stuck near the left edge. There was noise all around, chatter, computer printers, keyboards, ringtones. Not much laughter. The squad room was bad enough sometimes, but Gerry wondered how anyone could get any work done with such a din going on. Like anything else, she supposed, you got used to it.

“What's it about?” the woman asked.

“I'm here to see someone about a girl called Mimosa Moffat.”

“Who?”

“Mimosa Moffat.”

“Just a minute.”

The woman tilted her computer screen toward her, hit a few keys and frowned as she scrolled up and down. “Moffat,” she said eventually. “Address?”

Gerry told her.

“I'll see if the case officer's in his office. Hang on a minute.” Alicia picked up the phone, pressed a couple of buttons and waited. Eventually, someone answered and a brief exchange followed. Gerry could hardly hear a word because of the ambient noise. When Alicia put the phone down, she told Gerry, “Ciaran will see you now. His office is down that corridor over there, first right, second left. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Gerry. “Name on the door?”

“Ciaran O'Byrne.”

The corridors beyond the open plan area formed a maze, and even with clear and simple directions, Gerry almost missed the second turning. She finally found the name on the door, knocked and answered the call to come in. Ciaran O'Byrne stood up to shake hands when Gerry entered. He was probably about her age, late twenties, skinny, bearded and casually dressed, mostly in black. The small office was so filled with filing cabinets and piles of papers that it was hard to find anywhere to sit. It was also like an oven. Gerry noticed there were no windows, just a sort of grille high in the wall, which was made of perforated plywood panels. A grinding, coughing noise came from inside the grille, but Gerry couldn't feel even the slightest waft of cool air.