When the Music's Over (46 page)

“How did you react?”

“We argued. I'm afraid I told him not to do anything,” she said. “I was frightened.”

“Of Caxton?”

“Partly. But more of the police. He talked about going to the police.”

“Even though he'd been involved in the rape.”

“Must you call it that? Yes. I was frightened he would go to jail.”

“You didn't think he deserved to?”

She gave Banks a sharp glance. “He was my husband,” she said.

Banks decided to let it go. No sense in making an enemy of Ursula Pemberton. “What happened next?”

“We parted on bad terms. The next thing I knew he was dead.”

Christ, thought Banks. Monaghan had gone to Leeds and confronted Caxton with his decision, perhaps evidence in the form of the Polaroids, and threatened him with the police. But it had to be more than that. Caxton knew he had the police in his pocket, that they wouldn't listen to Monaghan. They must have turned a blind eye to Caxton's transgressions before then, as they certainly had later. It was more likely than not that Tony's betrayal angered him more than fear of exposure. Caxton was a man used to having his own way, demanding loyalty, and here was his loyal servant, his chosen one, come to threaten him with exposure. Caxton no doubt knew enough people capable of doing the job. Banks had even heard of a few ex-coppers hiring themselves out for strong-arm work, even the occasional murder. It wouldn't have been difficult to arrange. And along came the Stott brothers, bouncers in his disco, old mates from the boxing club.

Ursula remained silent for so long that Banks felt she was looking to him for exoneration, for both herself and her husband. Banks didn't feel that was something he had the right to give. As if she were reading his thoughts, she said, “I'm sorry. I know your main concern is the poor victim. I didn't know her. Tony never mentioned any names. I don't even think he knew.”

Banks was about to tell her: Linda Palmer. But he didn't.

“After Tony had been killed,” he went on, “did you say anything about this? Did you talk to the police?”

“Yes. When I had to go up to Leeds to identify Tony's body.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Now, I know I remember,” she said. “He was high up. A chief superintendent, I think. I remember being impressed at the time.”

“It wasn't an inspector, then? Detective Inspector Chadwick?”

“No. I'd remember that. It was a Scottish name. Smoked a pipe. McCullen. That's who it was. Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen.”

Chadwick's boss
, Banks thought. “Did anyone takes notes?”

“No. There were just the two of us, after the identification. He had a big office. I never met with anyone else on the case, if there was anyone.”

“Oh, there was,” said Banks. “Was the interview recorded?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Were you asked to turn in a written statement?”

“No.”

So there was nothing at all, Banks realized. No record whatsoever of Ursula Monaghan's chat with McCullen, or her fears for what had happened to her husband. McCullen himself, perhaps under instructions from the chief constable, had headed her off at the pass. “What did you do after that?”

“I'd phone him often and ask how things were progressing, but I'd get put off and put off until all he could say was that there was no more progress. In the end, I'm sorry to say, I gave up. Moved on. I was just exhausted with it all, and it seemed to be blighting my life.”

Banks was of two minds whether to tell her that the police had been told to lay off Caxton from above, but he decided not to. “We don't solve all our cases,” he said. “Sadly. Sometimes they slip through the cracks.”

“I know that,” Ursula said. “You're only human. But I was a bit cross at the time. Shall we move on?” She got unsteadily to her feet and called the dogs, who had wandered off to explore a hillock several yards away. They came running.

“I'm sorry to be bringing all these bad memories back to you,” Banks said as they started walking toward the cottage. The sea sparkled around Lindisfarne and the old ruined stone seemed to shimmer in the light. “Especially as there's nothing to be done about it after so long.”

“It wouldn't have brought Tony back. Even if they had found out who did it.”

“It's just the case I'm pursuing. I can't really talk about it, but you'll
find out when it comes to trial. The thing is, we do at least have a chance of putting Caxton away, admittedly after a lifetime of getting away with sexual abuse. I'm also hoping with what I've found out about Tony's murder, from you and other sources, I can make a convincing case for murder, or conspiracy at least. I have no concrete evidence, but I think if I can construct a plausible-enough scenario a jury might believe it, given everything else.”

She hung her head. “I'm really sorry if my actions resulted in more girls getting abused.”

“You're not responsible for any of that,” said Banks. Her husband had raped Linda Palmer, he knew, but he had confessed—made up a more palatable story, perhaps—and she had gone to the police with it. “I don't think anything you could have done at the time would have stopped it. Stopped Caxton.”

“Can you tell me if it was girls, or boys?” Ursula asked out of the blue.

“Girls. What difference does it make?”

“The way Tony was found. You know, the place he was found in. It was obvious that everyone thought it was a gay murder. I just wondered if, you know, Caxton had been fond of young boys, that sort of thing. I mean, Tony had been involved in what happened at that party with a girl, but I just wonder if he was supposed to help find rough trade for Caxton, along with all his other duties.”

“Not that we know of. Do you think your husband could have been gay, or bi?”

“Absolutely not. I never believed it. I realize that's what most wives would say, but it's true. I'm not saying that Tony was some tough sort of macho man—he was artsy, for god's sake, he dressed a bit differently, he liked ballet and opera and he wouldn't harm a fly—but that doesn't make a person gay. And in all our time together I never once got the remotest inkling that Tony had any interest, other than friendship, in his own sex. And I've known couples who
were
in that position. Gay men married to women for years. I think my gay-dar, or whatever you call it, has been consistent.”

“Why did you think he was in that public toilet, then?”

“I could only assume he was put there to make it seem that way, or
taken there and killed. I don't know. I'm just sure that Caxton's men did it. I don't imagine for a moment he would have done it himself, but he probably knew people who would.”

How right you are,
Banks thought. “And you mentioned this suspicion to Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen?”

“Yes.”

They were approaching Ursula's cottage over the rise. Banks could see his Porsche gleaming in the sunlight. “I don't think there's anything else,” he said, “but if you remember any more details, however insignificant they might seem, let me know. And I apologize again for opening up old wounds. These cold cases have a tendency to do that.”

“It's all right,” said Ursula. “I just hope you manage to find enough evidence to convict Caxton this time around. Will the judge put such an old man away for life?”

“I've no idea,” said Banks. “I've known cases where a judge has determined the accused too old and infirm to serve his sentence. But this is a high-profile case—Savile and Cyril Smith were dead by the time the world found out about them, but Rolf Harris is an old man, and they sent him to prison. The way things are going, there will be a wealth of evidence against Caxton. It'll be hard not to be seen to do something.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Yes,” said Banks.

“And?”

“And he's a pathetic old man. But it's as you said. Repulsion at first sight. Perhaps the only difference between then and now is that the mask has slipped.”

AFTER TALKING
to Paul Warner and Albert Moffat, both Annie and Gerry felt the need to get out of the station. It was late but another fine evening, and they crossed the cobbled market square where tourists browsed in the gift-shop windows or sat in the little tearooms and coffeehouses looking out of the windows. They took a shortcut to the terraced river garden down a steep winding lane with high walls and came out by the falls. There had been so little rain lately that the
Swain was not much more than a trickle of water the color of pale ale, with hardly a touch of froth. Some days, after heavy rains, the water that had drained into it from deeper in the dale flowed over in a noisy cataract, drowning out all other sounds and soaking anyone nearby in spray. Today, they could hear the birds, and they decided to sit in the open air pub by the river. It was Friday, after all, and things were more or less under control. They found a table that afforded them a little distance and privacy from the rest of the customers and Annie went inside to get the drinks.

“Christ, what a day,” she said, plonking a pint of Black Sheep bitter in front of her and a Campari and soda in front of Gerry, who was a Campari-and-soda kind of girl. She then sat down and put her feet up on one of the other chairs, hoping none of the bar staff would see and tell her off.

Gerry held up her glass to clink. “Worth it, though. Cheers.”

“Cheers. I don't know about that. There's not a lot we can do right now except leave Stefan and the rest to do their work. I don't know about you, but after this pint, I'm off home for some shut-eye. Maybe when I wake up, Jazz will have the DNA organized and we'll know where we are.”

“I doubt I'll sleep much,” said Gerry, “but home sounds nice.”

“So what do you reckon?”

“There are a few things that interest me,” said Gerry, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and leaning forward. “First off, ever since I talked to Jade I've been trying to imagine what Mimosa was like. It's not easy to put a picture together.”

“Nothing I've heard convinces me she had any more brains than a feral cat. I'm not trying to make any excuses for what happened, but she was out for what she could get, she sounds manipulative and she was a druggie. As for brains, who knows?”

“But she was vulnerable, open to being manipulated by Sunny and his gang.”

“True enough. But remember what Jade told you on the recording. Mimosa was queen bee, or whatever they called her. She got paid for luring girls in.”

“But they made her do it.”

“Maybe so. I'm just saying she was no saint, that's all. If it hadn't been this, she'd have got herself into trouble some other way.”

“So you'd have written her off, like the social workers and the Wytherton police? You think she was just some estate slut looking for an easy ride?”

“Gerry, where's this coming from? I mean nothing of the sort. All I'm saying is that, on my reading, Mimosa was a troubled personality, and headstrong, gobby, as everyone said. Some people are just destined for trouble of one sort or another. I'm not saying it was her fault she had a fucked-up life.”

“She might have made something of herself,” Gerry said, “if she'd had some more cultured influence in her life, like Paul Warner, for example. She could have broken out.”

“Paul Warner? Come off it, Gerry, you don't fancy him, do you?”

Gerry blushed. “No. But you can't deny he speaks well and he's educated. He seemed to like her. I know she was too young for him, but I'm just using him as an example.”

“So all she needed was the right man in her life? Paul Warner? He dropped out of university after his first year and he's a racist. Would you want that sort of influence on your daughter?”

“Well, not the racism, no, but . . . Oh, never mind.”

“It's part of the package.”

Gerry remained silent a moment sipping on her drink, then she said, “Well, she could draw. She had artistic talent. She could have developed that, gone to college.”

“True enough. But just because you can draw doesn't mean you've got ability in any other department. Believe me, I've known a few artists in my time, and I could tell you a story or two. There's absolutely no connection whatsoever between art and personal morality. Or art and emotional intelligence. Quite the opposite, mostly. You just have to study the lives of the great artists to see that.” Annie took a sip of her beer. “We'll have another go at Albert tomorrow, see if we can break him.”

“Albert's not that bright,” said Gerry. “Can you really see him
pretending
to get drunk, then slipping out while Paul Warner's genuinely passed out in his flat, then driving the car, following the van and killing Mimosa?”

“I can see him losing it with her,” said Annie, “but you're right, I can't see the rest. Still, we shouldn't mistake cunning for intelligence.”

“Nobody noticed anything suspicious in his room when we searched the Moffat house.”

“We didn't know what we were looking for then. Now we've got his clothes and shoes in for forensic analysis.”

“Albert knows we're bound to find his prints in the car.”

“He can explain that,” said Annie. “But he wouldn't be able to explain blood on his shoes as easily. And there's another thing.”

“What?”

“That phone call I made after the interview, when you left to go to the loo?”

“Yes?”

“I called Superintendent Carver. Gave him a chance to redeem himself. I asked him nicely to put a watch on Paul Warner. If he dashes back home and starts acting strangely, then we'll have an idea he might be covering for his mate. And we'll have Mimosa's personal belongings in our hands tomorrow, don't forget.”

“And what if we're wrong? What's the alternative to Albert? Lenny Thornton? Sinead Moffat?”