When the Music's Over (28 page)

“Maybe. But he didn't keep a close eye on Mimosa.”

“Surely you can't blame Leonard for what happened to her?”

“I'm after finding out who did this to her. Then we'll see about blame.” Gerry took a deep breath. “Mr. O'Byrne, I find your willful ignorance about this whole matter astonishing, not to mention disturbing. Didn't you read about what happened in Rochdale, Rotherham and the rest? Isn't it required reading for the social services? Can't you see what's going on in front of your eyes? There's every possibility that Mimsy, and no doubt other young girls, were being groomed. They're what, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen? Alienated. Neglected. Lonely. Unloved. Some of them with learning difficulties. These men offer them some material comforts, a packet of crisps, a mobile top-up, a free fizzy pop, then friendship, companionship. Then come the demands. The sex with friends, with strangers.” She pointed. “It could be happening right there, less than half a mile down the road on the Strip and you don't know about it. Now a girl is dead.”

“You've no proof that any of this is happening in Wytherton,” said O'Byrne. “It's all conjecture. And even if there is some truth to it, you can't blame us. Nor can you blame Mimsy's death on it. We do our best, but we're drowning under the flow of shit from these estates. It's
like standing with your finger in the dyke. You lot don't do anything to help, either. It's not our job to arrest criminals. It's yours.”

“It's your job to protect the children and let us know what's happening.”

“Nobody wants to get involved in a race war in Wytherton. There's already plenty of tension around here. The English Defence League and the British National Party are active. Windows have been broken.”

“Including one by Albert Moffat. Is he a member of either of the groups?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Besides, isn't race war a bit alarmist? Who said anything about that? Surely there are ways of handling these things without starting a race war?”

O'Byrne stopped walking and faced her. “Yes? And how? Tell me how. What do you do, walk in and say, ‘Stop it, fellows, leave our poor little white girls alone'?”

“You could at least report it to your bosses, or to the police. You could at least give the possibility some serious consideration and talk about it.”

“I've already told you we have no evidence of such things going on. Do you? And as for the local police, I've told you how much use they are. You must know that yourself, from what you've said. You can report your concerns to them until you're blue in the face, but it'll go nowhere. As far as they're concerned these girls are the dregs from the council estates. These girls are making their own lifestyle choices. They decide who they want to go out with, who they want to sleep with. If they choose to be sluts, so it goes. They get no better than they deserve.”

“Written off at thirteen? Sexually assaulted by her psychological counselor. A man who was supposed to heal her. Did Mimsy deserve to be raped and murdered?”

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course she didn't. I'm speaking generally. They grow up quickly around these parts, in case you didn't know.”

“So you do have concerns, then?”

“I always have concerns in my job. All I'm saying is that as far as I know, so far, they don't involve grooming.”

“So everyone ignores the problem, turns their backs and thinks it will just go away?”

“If you think you can cure all the world's social ills, then go ahead. I used to think that when I first took this job.”

“And now you're a dyed-in-the-wool cynic at what, twenty-eight? I'm just surprised to find it still going on after the revelations of the last year or so.”

“It was going on long before Rotherham or Rochdale, and it'll be going on long after. Whether it's reached Wytherton or not.”

“Don't sound so pleased about it.”

O'Byrne started walking again, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “I'm not. That wasn't fair. You don't have to be so snarky.”

“Maybe I do,” said Gerry after a while. “Let me just ask you this, Mr. O'Byrne. Did you have
any
idea what was going on? Did you ever see young white girls hanging around with older Asians just around the corner from here, maybe when you went out for lunch? Didn't it seem in the least bit suspicious after what you've read in the papers or seen on the news? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don't pay any attention to the news because it's too depressing, and you leave this neighborhood the minute the buzzer goes.”

“I do my job, as I told you, but it's not my life. And I didn't see any such thing. Whatever was going on, they obviously kept a low profile, and I should imagine it was mostly done after dark, not at lunchtime.”

“They'd hardly need to worry about daylight with social workers like you around.”

“That's insulting.”

“Maybe so, but not as insulting as your ignoring the problem. You knew Mimosa was involved, didn't you? But you didn't do anything. Why was that? You were afraid of being branded a racist, sent on a diversity training course?”

“You don't know what you're talking about. I had no idea what was going on. If indeed anything
was
going on. You haven't even proved that to me yet.”

“Haven't I? Well, I'm getting fed up of your evasions and excuses. First of all the local police, now you. The very people who should be looking out for girls like Mimosa. What is it with this place?”

“Those girls are already lost,” said O'Byrne. “Like you said, they'd do anything for a packet of crisps or a can of alcopop. Whatever it is they're doing, it's their own choice. Why can't you just accept that?”

It was Gerry's turn to stop in her tracks. “The dregs from the estates, eh? If you really believe that, Mr. O'Byrne,” she said, “then you're in the wrong job.” Then she turned and walked back up the towpath toward the bridge, her face burning with anger.

BANKS HAD
been wondering what to play on the journey from Eastvale to Leeds. His first thoughts had been maybe Bob Dylan, Patti Smith or Leonard Cohen. After all, Linda was a poet, and so were they. Or perhaps he should play nothing at all in case she wanted to talk. In the end, he asked her if there was anything she liked in particular. She thought for a moment, then said she'd always been a huge Bowie fan. Banks put on
Pin Ups
, not perhaps Bowie's most popular album, but one which satisfied Banks's love of old sixties music and Linda's love of Bowie. The startling segue from “Rosalyn” to the shimmering portamento that opened “Here Comes the Night” still sent a shiver up his spine every time he heard it, like the opening chords of the Small Faces' “All or Nothing.” He didn't turn the volume so high that they couldn't talk if they wanted to, but Linda seemed distant, lost in her own thoughts. Occasionally she pointed out a song she particularly liked—“See Emily Play” or “Sorrow,” for example—but mostly she remained silent, staring out of the side window at the passing landscape of the Vale of York. They turned off at Wetherby, made their way past the outer ring road and into the city center, and Banks managed to find a parking spot near the Merrion Centre, just behind the library. They walked across Millennium Square, which was crowded with people sitting out at the cafes enjoying the fine weather.

The library and art gallery were on the Headrow, next to the town hall, housed in another grand Victorian building. Inside and out, the
library complex was also an architectural delight, with its magnificent stone staircases, parquet floors, marble pillars, tiles and mosaics. A reviewer had once complained that the ceiling in the reading room was so glorious it would distract people from actually reading. Both Banks and Linda had been inside before, so they didn't stand and gawp as much as some visitors were doing, but made their way straight to the office where Ken's contact, Marian Hirst, was waiting for them.

Marian was a short, trim woman with no-nonsense gray hair and a pair of black-rimmed glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. Her nose was beaklike and her eyes dark and lively. Banks couldn't help thinking that she couldn't look more like most people's image of a librarian if she tried.

“DCI Blackstone told me you were coming,” she said, with a distant trace of a Scottish accent. “He uses the service often himself. I've got everything prepared for you in a little office here. Now, you know how to work the machine, I assume?”

Banks nodded. He'd used a film reader before.

“Everything is clearly labeled, so you'll know exactly where you are.”

“Is it possible to get copies?” Banks asked.

“Not as you go,” she said. “But if you put in a request our staff can provide one for you.”

She led them across the intricate parquet floor, her shoes clicking and echoing from the high ceiling as they walked, and entered a small room. Three boxes of film rolls sat on the table beside the reader.

“Make yourselves as comfortable as you can,” Marian said. “I'll be off about my business. And by the way, Ms. Palmer, it's an honor to meet you. I'm a great fan of your poetry.”

Banks noticed Linda blush as she muttered her thanks.

“I see some people recognize you,” Banks said when Marian Hirst had left them.

“No doubt your friend told her I was coming.”

“I shouldn't think so. Ken knows better than to blab your name around. Besides, he wouldn't know an ode from an oud.”

Linda laughed. “Hmm. I think this is a one-person job. Why don't you just show me how to set up the rolls then go and have a look at the
Atkinson Grimshaws or something? I don't want you hovering over my shoulder the whole time.”

Banks showed her how to operate the reader, and as soon as she was satisfied she could manage by herself, she shooed him away. He had no real idea how long it would take, but he reckoned he'd give her an hour, for starters, which allowed him plenty of time for a coffee and Kit Kat in the Tiled Room cafe, where he made a couple of phone calls and checked his e-mail. There was nothing much new. According to Winsome, the media crowd was growing outside Eastvale HQ now that they knew Mimosa Moffat was the Bradham Lane victim and that there were rumors of grooming. Annie had set off for Wytherton to meet up with Gerry and talk to Albert Moffat, who had finally turned up.

After that, Banks did take a few minutes to go and see the Atkinson Grimshaws in the art gallery before heading back to see how Linda was doing. He wasn't a great fan of art galleries and was far more comfortable with music and literature than with the visual arts, but Grimshaw's moody quayside and oddly lit nighttime city scenes were a delight. An hour and ten minutes had passed by the time he checked his watch, and he walked back next door to the library. He hadn't got far when he saw Linda wandering down a broad stone staircase, holding on to the banister. She was glancing around, the other hand clutching the neck of her blouse, as if searching for someone. Him, perhaps.

“Linda,” Banks called out, heading toward her. She seemed as if she were ready to fall down the stairs, and he felt like reaching out his arms to save her, but she held on as she turned and caught his eye. He could tell by her expression and her pallor that she had been successful.

“I saw him,” she said, still clutching the cotton of her blouse at her throat with one hand. “I found him.”

“Show me,” said Banks, taking her arm and leading her gently back up the staircase to the viewing room.

Linda pointed toward the viewer as if it were something she couldn't bear to touch, and Banks leaned forward to study the head-and-shoulders photograph of a handsome young man in a dark suit. According to the brief story, his name was Tony Monaghan, and his
picture was in the newspaper because he had been found murdered in the public conveniences in Hyde Park, Leeds, on the twelfth of October 1967.

“There's something else,” Linda said. “Something else I saw when I was looking through. I didn't see it at the time, but . . . You have to see it first.” Linda fiddled with the machine. “As I said, I haven't seen this one before today. I went ahead a bit to see if there was anything else about the man I recognized and I saw this. Here. The end of October. Look.” She moved away.

Banks leaned over. The photograph showed a number of high-ranking police officers standing around one central figure, who was handing over an oversized cardboard check, a big cheesy grin on his face. “Superstar Danny Caxton presents Chief Constable Edward Crammond with a check for £10,000 for the Police Widows and Orphans Fund.” The story went on to say how Caxton had helped raise the amount through personal appearances and telethons, and how he valued his relationship with the local police, what a wonderful job they did, and so on. It was dated the twenty-seventh of October, just over two weeks after Tony Monaghan's murder and two months after Linda's rape.

It was clearly the photo of Danny Caxton that had upset Linda Palmer the most, but the picture of the man who had raped her after Caxton nearly fifty years ago intrigued Banks even more.
Tony Monaghan
. Perhaps he was now investigating a murder in addition to a rape.

T
HE BAY HORSE WAS A SPRAWLING MODERN CHAIN
pub on the estate, sitting beside a cluster of local shops—greengrocer, butcher, newsagent and hairdresser. When Annie and Gerry walked in that Tuesday afternoon, the place was almost deserted except for a lone figure in jeans and a black T-shirt sitting hunched over his pint in the far corner. Some music Banks would probably recognize was playing softly in the background—maybe Dire Straits, Annie thought—but other than that the pub was quiet.

When they got a little closer, he looked up at them, and Annie could see that his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he'd been crying. He had a skinhead haircut and was stockier than Annie had expected, with elaborate tattoos on the muscles of his arms. She could see some similarity in features to the images of Mimosa she had seen, the catlike slant of the eyes, the full, slightly pouting lips. On Mimosa it would all have been sexy as hell in life, whatever her age, but it made Albert's features seem a little too feminine. If he had more hair, Annie thought, he might even be quite handsome.

Lenny had told them he had just given the news to Albert about Mimosa and left him in the pub, that he had wanted to sit alone for a while and digest what he'd heard. Annie leaned over and said, “Albert? Lenny told us you were here. We're the police. We need to ask you a few questions. Is it OK if we sit down?”

Albert looked from one to the other. “Might as well,” he said.

Annie nodded toward the almost empty glass. “Another?”

“Thanks.”

Gerry went to the bar and came back with a pint of lager for Albert and two diet bitter lemons for herself and Annie.

“We'll try and make it brief and painless,” Annie said. “We're really sorry about your sister. I understand you've only just heard about what happened?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

“Manchester, clubbing with some mates. I went there on Thursday and came back this morning.”

“Drive?”

“Nah. Train.”

“When did you last see Mimosa?”

“The weekend before. Sunday, I think. Maybe Monday.”

“And you weren't worried about her? I mean, she'd already been missing two days before you left for Manchester.”

“That wasn't unusual. Not for our Mimsy. Besides, I'm not always at home myself.”

“What did you do last Tuesday night?” Annie asked.

“I stopped over at Paul's. We'd had a bit to drink, like, watched some DVDs and crashed out.”

“What time was this?”

“Dunno. We met up in the pub earlier. Not this one. The Hope and Anchor, near his place. We left there about tennish, I suppose.”

“And went to Paul's?”

“Yeah. That's Paul Warner. He's my best mate.”

“You stay there often?”

“Paul says I can crash whenever I want. He's got one of those letdown couches. It's pretty comfortable. And a power shower. Cool.”

“What about work, Albert? Don't you have to go to work in the morning?”

“I'm unemployed. Paul lets me work with him sometimes. Odd jobs, like, you know, fetching and lifting.”

“What does this Paul do?”

“He's got his own business. Painting and decorating. Odd jobs on the side. He's good at fixing things. Tellies and computers and sinks and stuff.”

Annie heard the barman greet a regular. Albert sipped his lager and stared into the cold pale liquid.

“What was your relationship with your sister like?” she asked.

“Relationship?”

“Yes. How did you get along?”

“Do you have a big brother?” Albert asked.

“Me? No,” said Annie.

“I do,” said Gerry. “He's five years older than me. He used to tease me like hell, but once when I was about ten he rescued me from a gang on my way home from school. They were shoving me around and getting rough with me.”

Albert glanced at her and nodded. “You understand, then,” he said. “The problem with Mimsy was that she never knew when to keep her gob shut.”

“Bit of a mouth on her, had she?” said Annie.

“You can say that again. Not always, mind. She could be sweet and gentle as anything. Quiet, even. But when the mood took her. She was no fool, wasn't Mimsy, and she didn't suffer fools gladly.”

“That can make for a hard life,” Annie said.

Albert looked at Gerry again. “So you'll know what it was like,” he said. “Having a big brother and all. I love our Mimsy, and I'd have done anything for her, but she was a kid and she wasn't part of my life in that way, so I probably treated her like crap some of the time. I mean, we didn't have much in common, we didn't hang out or anything.”

“You didn't share any parts of your life?” Gerry asked.

“I use to let her come and help sometimes, when I was working with Paul.” He turned away. “Maybe we'd even let her have a lager and lime when we'd done, like, if it was thirsty work. There's no harm in it, is there?”

“I don't know,” said Annie. “We hear Mimosa liked a drink.”

“She did and all.”

“But you don't know where she went in her spare time,” Annie went on, “what she got up to?”

“No. Some people would probably think she was too young to be let loose like that, but you see it a lot these days. Kids as young as twelve, thirteen, fourteen, getting up to whatever they want with no questions asked.”

“Did Mimsy stop out all night?”

“Sometimes, sure.”

“Do you know where?”

“I never asked and she never said.”

“Is there anything you can tell us that might help us find her killer, Albert?”

Albert looked Annie in the eye, then leaned forward and spoke with a ferocity that made her flinch. “Do you think those Pakis did it?”

“Which ones would that be?” Annie asked.

“That lot down on the Strip.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Nothing. 'Cept they're old, and she shouldn't have been hanging out with them. You can't trust them, can you? They're not like us. They do things different.”

“What did you see?”

“Our Mimsy getting in a taxi outside that minicab place next door to that takeaway. She was with a fat Paki, an older bloke in a suit. All tarted up, she was, too.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

“No. He wasn't anyone I'd seen in the takeaway or the other shops. I mean, I've got nothing against them, really, but what was our Mimsy doing getting in a minicab with one of them?”

“Did you ask her?”

“Last time I saw her. When we were walking down the street.”

“What did she say?”

“Told me it was none of my fucking business what she did, and they were a lot more fun to hang out with than the sad bastards at school.”

“Did you tell your parents, your mother?”

“I didn't tell anyone, did I? Why should I get her in trouble. I'm no
snitch. But I told her she should stay away from them, that they were up to no good.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She just laughed and said what did I know.” He paused. “I'm not a racist, really, but it's not right, is it? Blokes like that hanging about with young girls like Mimsy. It surprised me, really, when I saw her, like, because I thought she . . . well, I thought we agreed on certain things.”

“On Pakistanis?”

“Yeah. Immigration. Them coming and taking over. That sort of thing.”

“Have you seen any Pakistanis with other young girls?”

“No. I mean, not really. You know, you'll see one or two of them down the Strip, in the takeaway or waiting for a minicab, but I never took much notice. I mean, anything you need around the Strip you have to get from them. They've got it all sewn up. Except the chippie, and that's run by the Chinks. But they don't live around here.”

Not a racist but . . .
Annie thought. The number of times she'd heard that. “I understand you got probation for throwing a brick through a halal butcher's window,” she said.

“I was pissed, wasn't I?”

“But why that particular window?”

“Dunno. It was just there.”

“When did this incident with Mimosa and the taxi occur?”

“Week before last. Wednesday or Thursday.”

About a week before she disappeared, Annie calculated. “And the next time you saw Mimsy was on the Sunday or Monday after that?”

“That's right.”

“How did she seem? Was she upset, worried or anything? Was there anything different about her?”

“No. Same as usual.”

“Any marks on her? Anything like that?”

“No. She just got pissed off when I mentioned I'd seen her with the Paki, that's all. And, yeah, she was wearing some new trainers, fancy Nikes. I asked her where she'd got the money for them, and she told me she'd saved up.”

“Did you believe her?”

“No reason not to.”

“Did she have a part-time job? A summer job?”

“No.”

“Did Lenny or Sinead give her any pocket money?”

“Shouldn't think so.”

“Where do you think she got the money for new trainers?”

Albert shrugged. “Dunno. She'd saved it out of the bits and pieces she earned helping out me and Paul? But it must have taken her a long time. He doesn't pay either of us much. Bit of a skinflint, is Paul. Maybe some bloke gave it to her. You haven't told me. Did they do it? Do you think it was the Pakis?”

“We don't know who it was yet, Albert, so don't take it into your head to do anything stupid.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“No, I'm not. I'm just telling you not to do anything foolish. Leave it to us to find out what happened.”

“Right. As if you lot would ever do anything if it was Pakis. You'd be too scared of being called racists.”

“Albert, no matter what you think, we're out to catch a murderer here, and we'll use whatever it takes to do that, whoever the murderer turns out to be. You have my word on that.”

Albert stared at her, then picked up his pint. The new customer started playing one of the machines near the door. Sirens and bells filled the air. “There's something else,” Albert went on. “Not specifically to do with Mimsy, but a Paki mate of mine—he's OK, by the way, none of that religious mumbo jumbo, and he's a loyal Boro fan—he says he heard that some of the older blokes had been messing with white girls. You know, like that Rotherham thing.”

“Did he say anything more?”

“No. Just that.”

“When was this?”

“A few weeks before I saw Mimsy getting in the taxi.”

“Did you make any connection between what he told you and what you saw?”

“Connection?”

“Never mind. What's his name?”

“Ali.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Somewhere south of the Strip. But we have a drink in the Wytherton Arms now and then. You could probably find him in there most nights. Like I said, none of that religious nondrinking mumbo jumbo for Ali.”

“If you happen to bump into him before we have time to find him, would you give him this and ask him to call me?” Annie said, handing Albert her card.

“I don't want him to think I've been talking to the polis.”

“Albert. It's for Mimosa.”

Albert took the card reluctantly. “I'll think about it.”

“How did it end, this last talk with Mimosa? Did you stay friends?”

“I suppose so. It's her life. I just told her if she needed anything, like, all she had to do was ask. She gave me one of her friendly pecks on the cheek, said something about her knight in shining armor and that was that.”

“That was you? Her knight in shining armor.”

Albert managed a thin smile. “Yeah. That's what she called me sometimes.” He looked at Gerry. “I saved her from bullies too, once or twice, when she was about ten. It sort of stuck.”

“Mimsy was bullied?” Annie asked.

“For a while, yeah, at school.”

“Why?”

“Who knows. She was just different, that's all. And, like I said, she was mouthy.”

“But it stopped?”

“Far as I know.”

Annie paused, as much to let Gerry catch up with her notes as anything else. Albert drank some more lager and Annie sipped the tart bitter lemon. A pint would have been so much better. “Do you remember that incident with the psychological counselor?” she asked.

“Do I ever. Mum really laid into Mimsy that time. Him, too. I think she knew she'd fucked up a lot in her own life, and she saw Mimsy making the same mistakes, same bad choices. It just set her off.”

“Was Mimsy doing drugs then?”

“Some, maybe. Pills and dope and stuff.”

“Ketamine?”

“K? That's crazy stuff, isn't it? I don't know. I wouldn't think so. Mimsy liked a good time, she didn't want to go apeshit barking bonkers.”

“Have you seen or heard of this counselor since?”

“No. They fired him. I heard he'd buggered off to Spain or somewhere. Too good for him. Ought to send him to the fucking North Pole stark bollock naked. Good riddance.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Albert?” Annie asked. “Anything at all. Was there anyone you know who'd want to do Mimosa harm?”

“Not that I know of. Except maybe the Pakis, if she pissed them off.”

“OK.” Annie glanced toward Gerry, who put her notebook away. “If you think of anything, and I mean anything, that may help us catch your sister's killer, no matter how unimportant it seems, give us a call. Right?”

“Right,” said Albert.

“And try to get in touch with Ali. Want a lift home?”

“Nah. Thanks. I think I'll just stay and have another. Let it all sink in.” He rubbed his eyes. “I just feel like numb, like.”