When the Music's Over (51 page)

“Who's this?” Banks asked, referring to the music.

“Mahler's Ninth. The last movement, the adagio. I'll put something else on if it's not to your liking. Some people have a hard time with Mahler.”

“No,” said Banks, “don't change it for me. It's someone I've been meaning to get into for a while. All I know of Mahler is the soundtrack from
Death in Venice
.”

“Ah, yes. Magnificent.” Linda paused. “I heard about Danny Caxton on the news,” she said. “Are you in trouble?”

“Famous TV personality has stroke in police custody? I should think so. There're bound to be repercussions. There'll be an inquest, maybe even an investigation. They take anything unusual that happens in police custody seriously these days. On the plus side, his lawyer was there. He saw everything that happened, and he said we couldn't have responded faster. It was so quick. And Caxton had never told us before that he had any problem with his heart. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there's not much chance of a trial now, so what the hell. According to a disgruntled employee on the staff at Caxton's home, Xanadu, his doctor had warned him to be careful with his health, prescribed various drugs to combat hypertension and elevated heart rate. But Caxton didn't take them. He said they interfered with his sex life, which, according to our source, was mostly catered to by high-class call girls shipped into Xanadu on a fairly regular basis. He didn't change his lifestyle either, kept on smoking cigars, drinking cognac. Too arrogant to listen to the doctors, I suppose. The only indication he'd given was that he said he wasn't feeling well, but nobody feels well when they know they've been caught.”

Linda smiled. “There's an irony in that, isn't there,” she said. “The great man brought down by his own perverse desires. But surely the lawyers will argue that the stress of being interrogated must have had something to do with it?”

“No doubt that's what they'll say. But we played it by the book and it's all on record, audio recording and video. There was no use of restraint, not that we'd be likely to need it with an eighty-five-year-old man. Caxton arrived under his own steam, with his lawyer, and he was well treated at all times. He behaved quite normally at first. Nevertheless, there'll be trouble, you can be sure of it. They'll want their pound of flesh.”

“Will you lose your job?”

“Maybe. If they need a sacrificial lamb. Or perhaps I'll just be demoted, or promoted to chief constable, where I can do no harm. It
was, after all, my first major investigation as superintendent. I enjoyed being detective chief inspector, though, so demotion wouldn't bother me too much. Chief constable I'm not so sure about.”

“You're being very flippant about it, but I feel terrible.”

“Why? It's not your fault. We can't let people who do the things Caxton did to you and others go free just because they're old and frail. I hope you understand that. It's simply that the politics of the job demands sacrifices.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“They don't hold out a lot of hope. Apparently he had a second stroke on the way to the hospital and a third when he got there. He's in his mid-eighties. Even if he does survive, he'll be bedridden and incapacitated for the rest of his days.”

“I wish I could feel something,” said Linda with a shiver. “Pity. Compassion. I can't.”

Banks just looked at her. “Save it for someone who deserves it.”

She caught his gaze. “Silly of me, I suppose.”

“Not at all. Most of us try to be good people.”

“What about the other case? The girl who was groomed and raped.”

“A friend of her brother's has confessed to the murder,” said Banks. “That's about all I can say right now.”

“You believe him?”

“No reason not to.”

“Why?”

“I wish I could say I understood, but I don't really. He was infatuated with her, even though she was a few years younger than he is, and he's somewhat of a racist. The idea of her going with people of a different ethnic origin set his teeth on edge. He'd just heard, or so he says, and he couldn't get the images out of his mind. He followed their van. When she came walking towards him, it didn't go as he expected. The things she said, the way she reacted. Partly because she'd been on ketamine and partly because . . . well . . . he just lost it. Saw red. I suppose that's believable enough. It'll have to be, at any rate. It's all we're likely to get from him.”

“‘An old black ram is tupping your white ewe.'”

“
Othello
,” said Banks.

“My, my, you
are
a literate copper. Not only Wordsworth, but Shakespeare, too. I suppose you did it at school?”

“Yes. Amazing how you remember quotes like that when you're a dirty-minded teenager.”

“Iago uses sexual images like that to drive Othello over the edge.”

“Maybe the girl's brother did that to our suspect,” Banks said. “But it probably wasn't intentional.”

“What about the men who raped her?”

“They'll go away for a long time. Rape, conspiracy to rape, sexual activity with a child, sexual assault. A range of charges. The CPS will throw the book at them. Something's sure to stick.”

“Good lord. It's all so sad. This is the sort of thing you deal with day after day, isn't it?”

Banks sipped some wine. The strings held a long note, then the brass came in and another melody began. “Not every day, no.”

“But it must get to you, seeing so much of the dark side, the cruel side of human nature.”

“You've been there. You know what it's like. Besides, it's not all doom and gloom. I see plenty of good, too. Plenty of decent people trying to help others. They're just not always who or where you expect them to be.”

“I don't think I could do your job.”

“That's just as well. The world will be a far better place if you stick at what you do already.”

“You've read my poetry?”

“Some. It's really good. Of course, I know nothing about such—”

“Oh, tosh. Do you think I write for reviewers and literary critics? Half the time I don't even get reviewed. How many poetry reviews do you see in your weekend papers?”

“The
Observer
does a few.”

“Beyond the
Observer
.”

“Dunno. That's the only one I read, except for the
Mail on Sunday
. It's true they don't review much poetry.”

“The
Observer
and the
Mail
? Are you schizophrenic or something?”

Banks laughed. “No. It's just that I find if I read both, the truth usually comes somewhere in between. And the
Mail
has a better TV guide.”

“Well, that's a novel way of looking at it. Are you still reading your poetry anthology in chronological order?”

“I'm afraid I haven't had much time for it lately, but I think I'll take your advice and jump around more. After I've finished your poems, that is.”

Linda offered a top-up of wine. Banks hesitated for a moment. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Am I keeping you from something? It's Saturday night, after all. Do you have plans for the evening? Maybe celebrating with your colleagues?”

“No, not at all. We'll do that next week when we know we have something to celebrate. I was just thinking of the drive home. But why not? A drop more won't put me over the limit. As a matter of fact, I was going to drop my car at home and walk down to the Dog and Gun in Gratly. It's folk night. I think Penny Cartwright's back home. But there's plenty of time for that.”

“She is,” said Linda. “I had coffee with her this afternoon.”

“You know Penny?”

“Known her for years. We're old friends.”

“She never said.”

Linda smiled. “She talked plenty about you.”

Banks felt himself blush. “Don't tell me. She's never forgiven me for suspecting her of murder thirty years ago.”

Linda laughed. “Something like that. I mean, really. It's not something one gets over that easily, I shouldn't imagine. How could you? But I think she likes you.”

“That's a surprise.”

The wind rustled through the leaves and birds called from the trees by the riverside. “Kingfisher not around?” he asked.

“Not today. But he'll be back.”

They listened to the wind and the birds and the river for a while, Mahler's notes and chords drifting between sound and silence through the evening air as if they belonged there, then Linda said, “Those
numbers on Caxton's arm. Did you find out what they were? Were they what I thought?”

“Yes,” said Banks.

“Can you tell me?”

“I don't see why not. I knew from talking to Caxton's ex-wife a while ago that he'd been sent to England as a young lad, when he was about three, I think.”

“So he can't have been in a concentration camp.”

“No. He never went back. He was in England throughout the war.”

“So what, then?”

“She told me that his mother was in a camp and that his father fought with the Germans. This was in Poland.”

“People did that?”

“Apparently so. Places like Poland, Estonia and the other Baltic states were torn apart by the Russians and Germans. Some families fought against their own kin. Some found themselves in one side's army one day and the enemy's the next. Stalin or Hitler? Who would you choose?”

“So where did the numbers come from?”

“It was his mother's camp number. He found out only years later, from someone who was with her then and survived. They have records.”

“He has his mother's concentration camp number tattooed on his arm?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know whether that's sick or sentimental.”

“A bit of both, really,” said Banks. “He can't have had it done until after he was divorced, as his ex-wife had never seen it. Others must have, even though he always wore long sleeves, and he tried to keep it concealed. You saw it.” Banks didn't tell her that it was when he asked to look at Caxton's arm that he'd had his stroke. No point making her feel guilty. She'd done the right thing in noting it down, and he'd done the right thing in asking to see it. The rest was just bad timing. He didn't really know what was going to happen to his career because of what happened in that interview room. Neither he nor Winsome had
behaved in any way offensively or aggressively during the interview, but Danny Caxton had keeled over and would most likely die. Adrian Moss had a hell of a job on his hands with this one, and for once Banks appreciated that he might prove a useful ally. Not that ACC McLaughlin and AC Gervaise weren't a hundred percent behind him. The chief constable and crime commissioner were waffling and waving this way and that in the prevailing winds, but that was only to be expected. The best Banks could do was tell the truth and try to protect Winsome from the shitstorm as best he could. Even if there were no professional consequences, there would be a big fuss in the media for a few days.

The music was so quiet now that Banks could hardly hear it above the birds and the wind in the leaves. Occasionally he would catch a slow, soft phrase, then silence came again. Linda swallowed and turned toward the river. He couldn't see her expression or the look in her eyes. “It always makes me cry, the end,” she said. “You really have to hear it inside to get the full impact, but the quiet strings and silence alternate like a dying man's breath for a while, and finally it just disappears into silence. More Shakespeare. ‘The rest is silence.'”

“Was it Mahler's last work?” Banks asked.

“Not technically, no. He'd sketched out a tenth symphony before he died. But he was ill. He'd lost his favorite daughter and been diagnosed with heart problems. The ninth is often regarded as his farewell to the world, especially that adagio.” She paused a moment then said, “So Caxton won't be going to trial?”

“The CPS will declare him unfit to stand,” said Banks. “Even if he lives that long.”

“So there'll be no real closure?”

“I always thought closure was overrated,” said Banks. “What's so special about an old man sitting in a prison cell for the rest of his natural life?”

“Well, if you put it that way . . .”

“I don't mean to belittle anything you've been through,” said Banks, “but everyone's going to know what he did, and he's not going anywhere. He's too old to recover from what happened to him, even if he survives for a while longer. That'll have to be enough.”

“Do you think it has all been worthwhile?” Linda asked. “Has justice been served?”

“I think that's a question you should be answering. Has it?”

Linda seemed lost in thought for a moment, her brow furrowed, then she said, “I don't know. Not yet. Maybe it's too soon. I just feel numb.”

“Well, perhaps his stroke is justice of a kind,” said Banks.

“But it isn't, really, is it?” Linda replied. “I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens to all of us in one way or another, at some time—strokes, heart attack, Alzheimer's, cancer. There's no justice in that. Just arbitrary endings. We all die, some of us in great agony, so how can Caxton's stroke be anything like a judgment, or justice?”

“Do you want more?” Banks asked. “Do you want him to suffer more? If he'd gone to jail before he had his stroke, he'd be spending his time on the hospital wing. Would that really make a scrap of difference to you?”

“No. I'm not saying I want him to suffer more. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm confused. It doesn't feel like I thought it would. I'm not jumping up and down for joy because the man who raped me has had a stroke. Maybe I should be. I'm not one of those people who thinks criminals should be hanged, drawn and quartered. I don't know. It just feels sort of meaningless.”