When the Music's Over (5 page)

“I thought cold drinks might be nicer than tea,” Linda Palmer said, “but it's up to you.”

“Cold is fine,” said Banks, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His tie had disappeared soon after the morning meeting.

“Good, then. Let's sit down, shall we?”

They sat. Banks noticed a book facedown on the table beside an ashtray. It was called
Dart
by Alice Oswald, and looked slim enough to be a volume of poetry. Beside it sat a black Moleskine notebook with a Mont Blanc rollerball lying across its cover, which seemed a bit upmarket for a poet. Perhaps poets got paid more than he thought. Linda Palmer poured the drinks, which turned out to be freshly squeezed orange juice, judging by the pulp and tang. It was good to be in the shade in the warm summer weather. A light, cool breeze made the garden even more comfortable. A black cat came out from the bushes, gazed at them with a distinct lack of interest and stretched out in the sun.

“Don't mind her,” said Linda. “That's Persephone. Persy, for short, though that makes her sound male, doesn't it?”

“It's beautiful here,” Banks said.

“Thank you. I just adore it. We get a kingfisher sometimes, sitting on that branch over the water, scanning for fish. I could watch him for hours. Plenty of other birds, too, of course. The feeder attracts finches, wagtails, tits of all kinds. We get swifts and swallows in the evening, an owl at night. And the bats, of course. It can be really magical when the moon is full. Sometimes I don't think I would be at all surprised to see fairies at the bottom of this garden.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“I do now. Not always.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “Two children, both grown up and flown the coop. One husband, deceased.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

She inclined her head. “It was two years ago. Heart attack. Charles was a good man. He was an English prof at Durham.”

“Did you ever tell him and the children about what happened?”

Linda gave a slight shake of her head, and Banks knew not to pursue the matter. Not yet, at any rate. Now that he could examine
her more closely, he noticed that she had a few crow's-feet around her eyes and crinkles at the edges of her mouth, but they only accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it in any way. Her pale complexion was smooth, lightly freckled, the lips still full, a generous mouth. She wore no makeup, but with her skin, she didn't need it. The features of her heart-shaped face were strong, but not too sharp or angular, the Nordic cheekbones well defined, nose in proportion with everything else. But it was her dark blue eyes that really tantalized. Banks could sense warmth, humor, tenderness and curiosity under a guarded surface, and a hint of sadness, loss and pain beneath all that. They didn't flit around in search of an object to settle on, but remained fixed on whomever she was talking to. Her hands, usually a giveaway sign of age, seemed even younger than the rest of her, long tapered fingers and soft skin. No rings or jewelry of any kind. There were certain women, Banks thought, such as Cherie Lunghi and Francesca Annis, who seemed to become more attractive with age, and Linda Palmer was one of them.

“As I understand it,” he began, “you rang county HQ two days ago after being advised to do so by Childline, and you talked to a Detective Inspector Joanna MacDonald. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you call?”

“I didn't know who else to talk to. Was I wrong?”

“No, I mean, why now? After so long. What was special about the day before yesterday?”

“Nothing.”

“So why?”

“I can't explain it that easily.”

“Was it anything to do with other recent events?”

“Of course it was. It's a need that's been slowly building up in me. I've been plucking up the courage. You might not believe it, but I'm nervous as hell about this meeting. Would I have come forward if all those women hadn't complained about Jimmy Savile? I don't know. I like to think so, but probably not. I don't think they would have all come forward, either, if they hadn't known there were others with the same story to tell.”

It was true, Banks knew. At one point in the Savile investigation, the police had their knuckles rapped for not letting the accusers know they weren't alone. In some ways, though, it was hardly their fault; they were only thinking of what possible repercussions such collusion might have if the case went to trial. “So it wasn't that you forgot about it and just suddenly remembered?”

“No. I never forgot it. And before you ask, I'm interested in neither money nor notoriety. In fact, I would prefer it if you kept my name out of the papers.”

“Anonymity is guaranteed in cases like this,” said Banks.

“Even if I had to . . . you know . . . testify in court?”

“Even then. There are special protocols in place to deal with this matter in the courts and so on. And you can't be cross-examined by your alleged attacker.”

“Thank you.” She paused a moment. “May I ask you if any others have come forward?”

“It's early days yet,” Banks said, “but yes, there are others. Believe me, you're not alone.”

A blackbird sang in the garden next door and bees hummed and crawled inside the foxgloves and fuchsias, legs fat with pollen. The sound of the river was a constant background, threaded with the Beethoven Pastoral.

“It's something I never thought about back then, when it happened,” Linda said. “That there would be others, that he would have done the same thing to someone else.”

“You were fourteen,” Banks said. “Hard to be anything other than the center of the universe at that age.”

Linda managed a sad smile. “I did report it to the police at the time, you know.”

“Do you remember who you spoke to?”

“I can't remember his name,” said Linda. “I wasn't going to tell anyone, not even my mum. I was frightened, and I was ashamed. But I'd been unable to sleep, I was off my food, just not myself at all, not functioning well, and mother was desperate with worry. She even took me to the doctor's. She kept on pushing me, and finally I told her what happened.”

“But not your father?”

She hesitated. “No. He . . . he wouldn't have handled it well. I know it would have come out eventually if . . . well . . . but at the time, no.”

“Did the doctor examine you?”

“No. He just said I was run-down and needed a tonic.”

“How was the policeman? I mean, how did he treat you?”

“Sympathetic, nice enough, but I'm not sure he believed me.”

“Oh?”

“Just his tone. It was difficult, him being a man, like it would have been for my father. Hard to talk about what happened. He seemed more embarrassed than anything else. And that office. It was like the headmaster's study where you went for the cane.”

Banks smiled. He could imagine it had been difficult. These days, if something like that had just happened to her, she would have been talking to a sympathetic woman in a special room with Muzak and subdued lighting. Candles, probably. Maybe even the Pastoral Symphony. “I doubt you were down for the cane all that often.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You'd be surprised.”

“If you'd be more comfortable talking to a female investigator,” said Banks, “that can be easily arranged. I know you told DI MacDonald you weren't bothered, but DS Jackman here can take over.”

Linda Palmer smiled at Winsome. “It's all right. No offense, but I'm OK. Really.” Then she turned to Banks again. “You're the one they sent. It's your case, isn't it?”

“Something like that. But, as I say, that can be changed. We can accommodate whatever you want. Both DS Jackman here and DI MacDonald are excellent officers.”

“I assume you were chosen because you're good at your job. Are you good?”

Winsome glanced at Banks as he shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He could see the faint outline of a grin on her face. Enjoying his discomfort. “I'm not one to blow my own trumpet,” he said. “But I've had my fair share of success.”

“You'll do, then.”

“Thanks very much.”

Linda glanced at Winsome again, and they both laughed. “I'm sorry,” said Linda. “It wasn't meant to sound like that. The thing is, I really don't care who I speak to. It was a long time ago, and I'm a big girl now. It was different then, when I was only fourteen, but a lot of water's gone down the river since. Even my gynecologist is a man these days.”

“OK,” Banks said. Burgess was right; this was no damaged witness. Linda Palmer could function better than most. Might that make her story seem less credible to a judge and jury? Banks wondered. Would people demand more wailing and gnashing of teeth, a history of drug and alcohol abuse? “I just wanted to make sure. I understand you heard nothing more of this original complaint?”

“That's right. Nothing except excuses, at any rate.”

“Did you make inquiries?”

“My mother did.”

“And what happened?”

“At first she was told that the investigation was ongoing and that it might take a long time. In the end they told her that the matter had been dropped due to lack of evidence.”

“So it was your word against his, and they believed him?”

“I doubt that they even talked to him. He was too high and mighty. But, yes, basically. That's what I took it to mean. A fourteen-year-old girl. Everyone knows the kinds of hysterical fantasies we have with the onset of puberty.”

“How did you feel about it?”

“How do you think I felt?”

“I can't imagine. Disappointed?”

“Not disappointed. You'd have to have expected something to feel that, and I suppose, deep down, I didn't. Expect anything, I mean. And the whole thing was frightening for a young girl, talking to the police and all that. I couldn't imagine being in a courtroom in front of all those serious old people in their wigs and gowns answering questions about what happened to me. I was shy. I had an overactive imagination, even then. But the main feeling was as if I didn't count. As if what had happened to me didn't matter. I was a nobody. You have to remember, I was just a kid from a working-class background,
and we never expected much from the ruling classes. I mean, I couldn't have articulated it that way back then, but that's what it amounted to. Money and privilege ruled. Still do, for that matter, whatever the clever southerners try to tell you. I'm sorry, there's me on one of my hobbyhorses again.”

“No matter,” said Banks. “Did anyone ever pursue the matter beyond that?”

“Not that I know of. There seemed no point. We'd had our shot, and we missed. What were we to do? Start a campaign? My parents . . . you have to understand, something like that, it wasn't something they could talk about. They'd both had strict upbringings. Sex wasn't something we discussed in our house. My father in particular. Which was why we never told him. If he ever thought anything was wrong, he probably just wrote it off as some sort of ‘female' problem. Time of the month. If he noticed at all. I suppose he would have found out if anything had come of it, but it didn't. And he died two months ago. Maybe that's another reason I feel I can talk now.
Need
to talk now. He can never know.”

“What about your mother?”

“My mother was ashamed. She tried not to show it, but I could tell. I'm not saying she blamed me, but when she looked at me, I could tell she wished I'd never brought such unpleasantness into our house. She wanted rid of it, so we swept it under the carpet.” Linda seemed uncertain whether to go on, then she said, “I'm not even sure she believed me. I think she realized there was
something
wrong with me, but the visit to the police was more like a visit to the doctor's with a troublesome pain or an unexplained lump. When the investigation went nowhere, it was rather like getting a clean bill of health. You know, it's not cancer, after all, it's not polio. More relief than anger. Mother died a few years ago, and by the end I think she had even convinced herself to forget it had ever happened. Neither of us mentioned it to anyone else, or even to each other again. We simply got on with our lives.”

“No crime in that.”

“Keep calm and carry on. I know.”

“I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean.” She sat forward suddenly, linking her hands on her lap. “It's what lots of people did, their generation especially. My father was part of the D-Day landings, but he never spoke about it. I once saw a big puckered scar on his side when we were on a beach somewhere, and I asked him about it. He just brushed it off as nothing, but I recognized it from pictures I'd seen in books. It was a bayonet wound. He'd got close enough to the enemy for hand-to-hand combat in the war, for crying out loud, but he never talked about it. He probably killed the man who wounded him, and that was why he was still alive. I just felt guilt, that's all. I tried. We tried the best we could, the best my mother and I could. We got nowhere. Now I'm different. I don't mind talking about it. I don't even really care if everyone finds out. Maybe I secretly want them to. I want to know why nobody did anything. And I want them to do something now, if they can. Is that so strange?”

“No,” said Banks. “Not at all. That's what we're here for.” In a way, Banks knew, she was probably right about her mother. In many cases, the parents didn't believe their children's stories, which made it far worse for the children, who felt alone, humiliated and ashamed enough to start with. No wonder so many ended up blaming themselves.

“What do you need to know?” Linda asked. “Ms. MacDonald didn't ask me very much on the phone.”

“She just wanted to get a general outline of the complaint, the basics. I'm afraid I need a lot more.” Banks glanced at Winsome, who had her notebook and mobile out on the table. “Do you mind if we record this?”