When the Music's Over (30 page)

“I seem to remember you were here about one of my dad's old cases a while ago, weren't you?” she said.

“Going on for ten years back,” said Banks.

“Is it that long?”

“Just about.”

She looked at Winsome. “I don't remember you, love.”

“I was just a wet-behind-the-ears DC back then,” Winsome said, with a sideways glance at Banks.

Yvonne smiled and turned back to Banks. “So what is it this time?”

“Another of your father's old cases.”

“I'm sure I told you last time that he didn't bring his work at home—except for what we talked about then, when I was involved with those hippies and the Brimleigh Festival murder. But that was only because of me.”

“I know,” said Banks. “It's an even older crime than that.”

“When?”

“Summer of 1967.”

Yvonne stared out of the window as if lost in memories. “My goodness. I must have just turned fourteen then.”

“That was my estimate.”

She shot him a sharp glance. “And what do you expect me to remember?”

“I don't know. Maybe nothing. A local girl about your age was sexually assaulted. The incident happened in Blackpool, but she lived near you in West Leeds. She went to Brotherton House with her mother, and your father heard her complaint. It was entered in the occurrence book. Then there's nothing more.”

“It can't have gone anywhere, then, I suppose.”

“No. But it's resurfaced recently, and I was wondering why it was never investigated when it was first reported.”

“Is that the Danny Caxton business I've seen on the news?”

“That'll be it. Yes.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Do you remember? Did your father ever mention Caxton?”

“He was a popular name in our house.”

“Your father knew him?”

“He'd met him. But my mother was the fan. I thought he was a bit naff, myself, but I was just a precocious fourteen-year-old.”

“So was his victim.”

“Do you really think he did it?”

“Did you have any idea of the things Jimmy Savile was doing?”

“I've read about some of them,” said Yvonne. “You're right. I always thought he was a creep, but I'd no idea what kind, the depths . . . Rolf Harris, too. I quite liked ‘Tie My Kangaroo Down, Sport.' And Bill Cosby in the States. Who would have thought it?”

“So why not Danny Caxton?”

“That's poor reasoning, Mr. Banks.”

“Alan. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant, why should it be so unbelievable? We're gathering evidence. The case is getting stronger. But with something like this you've got to build a strong, solid structure, as you can imagine.”

“I don't know what you hope for from me. Danny Caxton never touched me.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Me? No.”

“We're interested in anything you can remember, really,” said Winsome. “A word, a gesture, anything. We know it was a long time ago, but something important might have stuck in your memory about that period.”

Yvonne looked at her. “You know, love, it's a funny thing about memory, especially as I get older. I can sometimes remember specific days, maybe even arguments Dad and I had about—oh, some boy, or some skirt I was wearing being too short, or music I was listening to being too loud. Sometimes he seemed remote and distracted—a lot of the time he was like that. I don't ever remember him being much of a talker. Now I look back, I sometimes think it must have been his job getting him down. What a funny thing memory is.”

Banks remembered lines from another of Linda Palmer's poems: “In no time at all, we alter what we / see—not nature, but nature exposed / to our vision.” She was right about the constant dance of memory and imagination, perception and creation, history and fiction. How easily the one was transformed into the other, or by it, sometimes to such an extent that we actually believed a thing had happened the way we remembered it, when it hadn't happened that way at all. He gave up pursuing the thought. It wasn't a fruitful line of inquiry for a detective.

“How did Caxton and your father meet?”

“I don't really know the details, but apparently there was a big do at work, something involving a donation to a police charity by Danny Caxton. He was always doing things like that, collecting for charity and stuff. They had a special gala ball or something, a dress-up job,
and even though Dad was only an inspector, he got invited and he got to take Mum, too. Well, she was made up. Had to buy a new dress and everything. Our place was a madhouse for a week before.”

“Do you remember when this was?”

“It might have been around the time you're talking about, 1967. There were pictures in the papers and everything. The chief constable, Crammond, was well in with Mr. Caxton, or so my dad said. And come to think of it, he did say something about a case, some colleague of Mr. Caxton's being found dead.”

“Did he say anything more?”

“No. Just that it was bad timing, you know, for the charity ball and everything.”

“Do you remember anything else about the summer or autumn of 1967, especially anything to do with Danny Caxton?” Banks asked.

“Not about Mr. Caxton, no. Except Mum was thrilled to meet him, of course. She said they shook hands—he even kissed the back of her hand like a real gentleman—and he had such a lovely smile. No wonder they called him ‘The Man with the Big Smile.' He even said, ‘Do your own thing!' You remember, that was his catchphrase.”

“I remember,” said Banks.

“We seemed to argue a lot that summer, Dad and me. I was just starting to get excited about all the new music and the gatherings and stuff. Hendrix, Cream and so on. I wanted to wear flowers in my hair and go to San Francisco. My dad thought it was all stupid, of course. But there was something in the air, something different, something magical. Maybe it was just me. I suppose fourteen-year-old girls can be impressionable. But I was right in a way, wasn't I? I mean things did happen—well, I told you about some of that last time you were here, I remember 1969 better. I was sixteen then and far more up for it.”

“Was there anything in particular about your father's state of mind in the period we're talking about?”

“He was grumpy a lot. I thought it might have been because of all the hippies starting up and all those demonstrations and marches. And the drugs. It made his job harder. Though I think most of that came later. But I suppose it wasn't an easy time for the police, having lots of freedom-loving people taking mind-expanding drugs, and
anarchists and communists on the streets ripping up cobblestones and whatever.”

Banks suppressed a smile. It was rare that anyone gave a thought to the policeman's point of view, in his experience, but trust it to be a policeman's daughter, whether she embraced hippiedom or not.

“I do remember one argument we had around that time,” Yvonne went on. “He said it was all very well for me to go on about miniskirts and mascara and listen to the Rolling Stones, but if I had to deal with some of the things he did, I'd never want to go outside again.”

“Did he say what?”

“No. I can't remember, but I just assumed he meant his job. You know, junkies, dead bodies and stuff. He was always going on about what a dangerous world it was out there. I mean, the thing with Linda Lofthouse was later, so it wasn't anything to do with that. But he seemed frustrated. More than usual. He even fought with Mum once or twice, which was rare. He almost never lost his temper with her.”

“Do you remember the circumstances of this particular argument?”

“No. It was years ago. I was doing my homework, but they were quite loud and I couldn't help overhearing. I suppose the fact that they were having a row made me want to listen. Mum said something about it being a good thing because it meant he wouldn't have to go and mix with all those queers, and I just remember that he got angry and said that he was hamstrung and couldn't do anything. He said something about his effing boss, too. Funny, I only remember that because he swore, which he rarely did at home, and I had no idea what ‘hamstrung' meant. It was the first time I ever heard the word. I had to look it up in the dictionary.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

“No. I mean, not specifically. Around the time you're talking about. It was probably September or October, as I was back at school, but I don't know for sure.”

“Before the ball?”

“Around then.”

It sounded to Banks as if Chadwick had been complaining to his wife about not being allowed to investigate something to do with gays, perhaps because his boss had intervened, and if the timing was
right, it could well have been the Tony Monaghan case. But which boss? There had been many officers above Chadwick at the time. Edward Crammond? It would be useful to find out who Chadwick's other senior officers were and see if any came up in the names of “friends and acquaintances” Winsome had gathered so far from Caxton's past. “Did your father ever say anything about homosexuals?”

“What do you mean?”

“That summer, the Sexual Offences Act had just made homosexuality legal for adults over twenty-one in the privacy of their own homes. It was a transitional time. It caused a few problems for the police.”

“What? You mean you could no longer beat the shit out of people for being gay?”

“Something like that.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean you specifically, but you've got to admit your lot didn't exactly have a spotless record when it came to respecting minority rights—whether sexual orientation or race.”

“Yvonne, you're right. But I don't want to argue about that today. Mostly we do our best. Your father did his best. You know that. But sometimes there's a rotten apple. Maybe the police force attracts prejudiced bullies to a certain extent. I've met a few in my time. But not everyone's like that.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Yvonne, with a pout that made her look thirty years younger for a moment. “Sorry, I'm just being provocative. Dad certainly wasn't like that. I don't think he was a rotten apple at all. A bit strict, yes. Conservative, square. He didn't like the hippies and all that, but I never once heard him say a bad word about colored people or gays. And he wouldn't hit them or harass them just because he didn't approve of them. He liked to pretend to be a crusty right-wing curmudgeon when I was defending the workers and the students and so on, but I believe at heart he was a liberal. He believed in a fair deal for everyone. He hated privilege. He didn't really want to go to Caxton's ball, you know. He only did it for Mum.”

“Did he ever say anything about gays?”

“If he did, I don't remember. Only that argument I told you about, when Mum mentioned queers.”

“Did he ever mention the name Tony Monaghan?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Do you remember anything at all about a body found in the public toilets at Hyde Park up by the university?”

“I remember it vaguely, but I don't remember when, or any details. I mean, when you're a copper's daughter you probably do pay a bit more attention to such things than someone else would. But I wasn't really interested in crime stories. True or fictional. I do know those toilets were supposed to be a hotbed of gay activity. Everybody knew that. There was a rumor going round at school that the police used to hide up in the ceiling there and watch through peepholes to catch the gays at it.”

“Maybe it's true,” said Banks, smiling. Many public conveniences did serve as meeting places for homosexuals, he remembered. His father had always warned him to stay away from certain public loos, even in Peterborough.

Yvonne laughed. “I couldn't see my dad up there spying on people through a peephole. He was tolerant on the whole.” She laughed again. “Except with me, of course.”

Banks stood up, and Winsome followed suit. “Well, maybe he had that in common with a lot of fathers. Thanks, Yvonne. You've been very helpful.”

“I have?”

“Well, we know more now than we did before we came, so I'd call that a successful visit, wouldn't you?”

“I suppose so.”

Banks handed her his card. “In case you remember anything else. Call me anytime.”

“
I'M AFRAID
I didn't follow your advice very well, did I?” said Annie glumly swirling the last of her shiraz in the large wineglass. “A little tact. Softly, softly.”

“No. You did the ‘bull in a china shop with all guns blazing' approach.”

“I didn't think so, but since that bastard from Wytherton had his say, you probably do.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Banks. “You were playing silly buggers with two oafs. Fair enough. You've had your fun, now just put it behind you and get back to work.”

“Christ, what a day,” said Annie. “Now Sinead Moffat hates me, too. She blames me for the search. And I'm pissed into the bargain. And I'm going to have another one.”

“My pleasure.” Banks poured the wine.

“Ta,” said Annie. “What's that we're listening to? It sounds a bit like Jeff Buckley.”

“It's Tim Buckley,” said Banks.

“His dad.
Blue Afternoon.”
“His dad? Get away with you.”

“It is. He died young, too. Drug overdose.”

“All your lot did,” said Annie.

“I saw him once,” Banks said. “Knebworth Festival, 1974. It was one of the last gigs he did. Fantastic.”

They were sitting in the wicker chairs in Banks's conservatory after a dinner of M&S lasagne and Caesar salad, with dressing that came in a sachet, a bottle of shiraz almost empty on the table between them and the lightest of breezes blowing through the open windows. The sun had gone down, but there was still a bluish glow in the sky behind Tetchley Fell. Banks had caught up with Annie in the corridor outside an interview room after he had got back from talking to Yvonne Reeves. It had been a long day, and Annie had looked drawn and haggard, so he had invited her to dinner, stopping off at Marks & Spencer on the way.