When the Music's Over (32 page)

“What did you think of him?” Banks asked. “Caxton. I mean, when you heard his name in connection with a possible sexual assault.”

“I didn't know him, of course. Never met him. But I suppose I thought, nah, never, not him. He'd even been in the station once or twice, so I was told. And he was hardly ever off telly in those days. It'd be like thinking your uncle Ted was a perv.”

“Many a person's uncle Ted is a perv.”

“You know what I mean. Familiar. Friendly. Cozy.”

“It's a good disguise, don't you think?”

“So it would appear now.”

“Do you remember anything else from around that time?” Banks asked. “Anything DI Chadwick might have said? Or anyone, for that matter? The super? The chief?”

Bradley pursed his lips. “I had little truck with any rank higher than Chiller's, so no to that last part. As I remember, it was around my first anniversary with Leeds CID, the end of my first year working with DI Chadwick. As I said earlier, we had a fair bit of the Summer of Drugs stuff going on, so we found ourselves liaising with the Drugs Squad a lot. There was also the Sexual Offences Act, or the Queer Act, as we called it. You might remember that the House made homosexuality legal between consenting adults in private sometime during that summer. A lot of poofs seemed to take that as open season, and we had more work than ever. I do remember the first murder investigation I ever took a big part in, earlier that summer. A prostitute found floating in the canal down by the Calls. Posh now, with all those fancy restaurants, boutique hotels and flats, but it was a proper warren of crime back then. She'd been stabbed twelve times and dumped there. Foreigner. Polish. I never saw the body, like, only came in later for the legwork.”

“Did you ever find out who did it?”

“No. We never did. We suspected the pimp, but he had a cast-iron alibi, of course. There was some speculation later that she might
have been one of the Ripper's first, before the ‘stone in the sock' murder in 1969. Amazing what you can do with hindsight. But we'd never heard of the Ripper then, and prostitute murders were all too common.”

“And all too rarely investigated,” said Banks, remembering his days in Soho in the eighties. “
Plus ça change
.”

“Limited resources and too long a list of suspects. What can you do? You know as well as I do that most killers are related or in some way close to their victims. And stupid. Normally it doesn't take you more than a day or so to run them down. But there are some—prostitutes, stranger murders, random killings, clever buggers, gang hits—they're a little harder and call for more resources.”

“Do you remember the murder of a bloke called Tony Monaghan, found stabbed in the public toilets in Hyde Park? This would have been a bit later than the Caxton business. October.”

Bradley's expression turned grim. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I remember that one, all right.”

AT LEAST
Gerry hadn't teased Annie about appearing at work in the same clothes she had worn the day before. Maybe she hadn't even noticed. Or perhaps she was just being polite. As Annie was suffering through a three extra-strength acetaminophen hangover, she was thankful for small mercies. Banks had seemed in good spirits when they had met briefly over morning coffee before she set off for the station and he drove off to Leeds.

Before they left to talk to Paul Warner, Gerry filled Annie in on the previous evening's developments. The only new information was that DC Doug Wilson had found Albert's mate Ali in the Wytherton Arms. Unfortunately, Ali proved uninformative when questioned about what he had told Albert about older Pakistanis and underage girls. It was just a rumor, or so he told them. Such rumors were always doing the rounds.

Annie was also more than happy to let Gerry drive her to Wytherton later that day, where they found Paul Warner's flat on the second floor of an old detached house on the northwestern edge of the estate.
She understood it wasn't a part of the estate, wasn't a council house, but was privately owned and rented.

Paul Warner answered the ring and led them up the carpeted staircase. The hall and stairs seemed recently renovated, and Annie fancied she could even smell fresh paint. At first glance, he wasn't what Annie had expected. Here was no tattooed skinhead, but a tall, slim, handsome young man with spiky blond hair, casually dressed in a red polo shirt and ice-blue jeans. The living room was a surprise, too: uncluttered, light and airy, walls painted in ivory and cool shades of blue-gray. The ubiquitous flat-screen TV dominated one wall, opposite the three-piece suite, and the window looked out on the main road below. On the other wall was a large bookcase. Banks would probably examine every title, DVDs and CDs too, but Annie just cast a swift eye over them, enough to see that Warner favored books on history, war and politics, along with a bit of DIY, that he liked action and superhero films and had a box set of Beethoven's symphonies and Schubert lieder. No metal or grunge. She walked over to the window. Above the road was a row of shops—the usual newsagent, mini-mart, chippie and betting shop—and the pub, the Hope and Anchor, which had seen better days, stood on the corner. Beyond lay the industrial sprawl of south Teesside. If you looked to the far left, Annie noticed, you could see the start of the open countryside, green fields and rolling hills. The sky had turned a bit threatening, she thought.

“Nice,” she said, turning around. “I'm impressed.”

“Thank you. I like it,” said Warner. “Please, sit down, both of you. Is this about Albert's sister? It's terrible what happened to her. I really feel for him.”

“When did you hear?”

“Last night. Albert told me. He came around in a hell of a state.”

Gerry and Annie sat on the broad sofa. It was as comfortable as it looked. Gerry took out her notebook.

“I must say this is a cut above the usual bachelor pad we see in our line of work,” said Annie. “I assume it is a bachelor pad?”

“I'm not married, if that's what you're asking.” Warner cast Gerry a sidelong glance and Annie noticed her blush a little. Well, she was about his age, she guessed. Mid-twenties or thereabouts. Significantly
older than Albert Moffat. She wondered if Moffat looked up to Paul as some sort of older brother figure. There wasn't much for him to look up to in Lenny and Johnny at home.

“I'm not sure I can be of any help, but I'll try,” Warner said as he leaned back in one of the armchairs. “I'm not averse to helping the boys in blue.”

“We're girls, Paul,” said Annie, “in case you haven't noticed. And as far as I can see, neither of us is wearing blue today.”

Warner laughed. “Sorry. Just a common saying, that's all. My apologies. I can see I'll have to be on my toes with you two.”

“Only if you've got something to hide.”

“Well, that remains to be seen, doesn't it? I'll try to be as open with you as I can, but first you have to tell me what you want to know.”

“We want to talk about your pal Albert Moffat,” Annie said.

“OK.”

“How long have you known him?”

“About two years.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Pub.”

“Which pub?”

“The Hope and Anchor, the one on the corner there.” He pointed toward the window. “I'd just moved into the area, and we got talking.”

“Where did you move from?” Annie asked.

“Birmingham.”

“May I ask why?”

Warner shifted in his armchair. “Why does anybody move anywhere?” he said. “For a change, I suppose. And to get away from Birmingham.”

“You and Albert Moffat became friends right away?”

“Yes. I suppose we did.”

“What do you have in common? I must say you seem strange bedfellows.”

“It's true that Albert doesn't always make a great first impression on people, but he's not as stupid as most people think he is. He's a bit shy, lacking in confidence, maybe. He's also a laugh, especially after a few
jars. And he has a good heart. He could probably have done a lot better for himself, given the chance, but you have to understand, Albert didn't have the advantages, his upbringing and everything.”

“And you did?”

“I went to a decent school, yes. Pure luck. And I found it easy to do well there, pass exams and stuff.”

“University?”

“I tried it for a year. Warwick. Politics and history. I do find the subjects interesting, but I'm afraid I'm not much of an academic.”

“What about Albert's racism?”

“Racism?”

“Well, he seemed anti-Asian when we talked to him.”

“Oh, that. You get that a lot around here. People get scared when they see too many dark faces about, don't you think? Although sometimes I think Albert has a point, however crudely he makes it.”

“Oh?”

“Don't sound so surprised. I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool fascist. I don't worship Hitler and go around beating up Pakis or anything like that. I do happen to have some strong opinions about Europe, immigration policy, migrants, the economy and so on. All Albert lacks is subtlety and intellectual depth in his opinions. I've done a bit of background reading in politics, even though I didn't continue with it. Albert's even less of an academic than I am.”

“Yet you still spend time with him. An educated and well-read young man like yourself. How did the relationship develop?” Annie asked.

“I don't know. How does anything develop, really? I lent him a few books. Albert
can
read, you know, and he's not too proud to ask questions about things he doesn't understand. We'd usually end up in the Hope and Anchor or the Coach and Horses, maybe with a few other locals, talking politics or whatever, whether we should stay in Europe or get out, how we should deal with the migrant camps in Calais, curbing immigration quotas, whatever, then sometimes we'd come back here with a six-pack or two and talk and watch DVDs. It's a lot cheaper to drink at home.”

“You were molding his character? Sort of like Pygmalion?”

Warner smiled. “Well, I'm hardly Henry Higgins, and I can't see Albert as Eliza Doolittle, but I suppose in a way I might have been molding him, yes. But not in a really overt way. I mean, I never forced any of my values or opinions on him, just tried to get him to think more deeply about the ones he had, about what he felt. I had a mentor once, when I was close to his age, one of my tutors at university, and I learned the value of having someone to look up to. That's all, really. I don't think he's got a lot going for him at home.”

“Is that what you did last Tuesday?” Annie went on. “Go to the pub, then come back here?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“We met up in the Hope and Anchor about eight.”

“Until when?”

“About ten, maybe a little later.”

“Was anyone else with you?”

“Only in the pub. There were about five or six of us.”

“Did you all leave around ten?”

“I don't know. People sort of went their own ways. Albert and I came up here for a few more bevvies, a couple of the lads drifted home, others stayed in the pub.”

“Right. So how long did you stay here drinking? I assume you were drinking?”

“Yes. I suppose we stopped up talking and watching DVDs until about two or three in the morning, maybe later, then we crashed out.”

“What did you watch?”

“That night?
A Bridge Too Far.
Oldie but goodie. Albert can't watch anything he wants at home because they have the TV permanently locked on Sky Sports. Albert's not a big golf fan.”

“So Albert Moffat was with you all Tuesday night?”

“Well, not exactly
with
me. I don't swing in that direction, and neither does Albert. But here, yes. He slept on the sofa, like he usually does if he stops over.”

“He stays here often?”

“Whenever he wants.”

“And in the morning?”

“Lazy sod didn't wake up until nearly eleven.”

“Would you say you and Albert were both drunk by the time you crashed out?”

“Probably. Almost certainly. I had a hell of a headache the next morning.”

Annie felt like saying she knew what he felt like, but that was pushing the empathy with a witness too far. “Too drunk to drive?”

“Definitely.”

“Do you own a car?”

“I've got a little Citroën van. For work, like.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“Outside on the street.”

“Were you with Albert in Manchester over the weekend?”

“No, we don't live in each other's pockets. And I'm not a great fan of clubbing. The music drives me crazy, that pounding beat and monotonous repetition.”

Annie gestured toward the bookcase. “Yes, I noticed you have more refined tastes.”

Warner narrowed his eyes. “Don't miss much, do you? It was something I picked up from my mentor a while back. Not that I don't like pop stuff. I do. I just gained an appreciation of finer things. I'd never listened to classical music before, and when I did I found I liked it.”

“Did you know Mimosa, Albert's sister?” Annie asked.

“Of course. I've been round to Albert's place a few times. Sometimes she was there. But she was Albert's kid sister. I wouldn't say I really
knew
her well.”

“Were they close?”

“I think so. He was protective towards her. I mean, it was a difficult family, so I would imagine they relied on one another a lot. They were separated by the age difference, of course, as well as gender. But she could be quite mature for her age.”

“So you've talked to her?”

“On occasion, yes. She helped us with jobs once or twice. Just little things like passing a can of paint up a stepladder or something. She seemed to appreciate having somewhere to hang out other than home. I can't say I blame her, having met the family.”