When the Music's Over (18 page)

“Fair enough,” said Annie. “You're the boss. So what exactly does this new information tell us?” She went to the whiteboard and took up a red marker, noting down the points as she talked. “I know it's mere speculation, but we have assumed the van was traveling from the northeast. Most likely it was heading for West Yorkshire, or maybe Greater Manchester. We might look more closely at communities with a large Asian population. There are bound to be a few in Teesside or Tyneside, not to mention West Yorkshire and Greater Manchester.”

“I agree that's it's a useful lead,” said Banks, “and we have to work with it. We also need to keep quiet about it until we have more to go on. The three men probably lived in an area with a high Asian population. If you tie that in with the kebab and pizza takeaway, or tattoo parlor, for example, you might be able to narrow it down even further. But we still need to find out who the victim is. That's what's most likely to lead us to our suspects.”

Annie sat down dejectedly. “The drawing's in the papers and on TV. It'll be shown again tonight and over the weekend. I don't know what more we can do. Someone has to recognize her.”

“Maybe that's the problem,” Banks said.

“What?”

“Somebody does recognize her, and that's why they're not talking.”

“Scared?”

“Look how badly she was beaten,” Banks said. “It sends a message. Anyone who does know who she is very likely knows who did it, and why. If she's got any sense, she's got to be scared to death of him, or them.”

“Then we need to find this person as fast as we can,” said Annie.

“
WELL, THIS
is nice,” said Annie, raising her glass. “Cheers.”

In the early evening, Banks and Annie were sitting outside at the Queen's Arms, in the market square, food on order and pints of Timothy Taylor's in front of them. Luckily for them, Adrian Moss had done his Pied Piper act and spirited the media away from the market square into the press room for a spot of disinformation. The evening light was soft and warm, the shadows slowly lengthening, and the limestone was almost the color of Cotswold stone. The square was quiet.
Most people are at home having dinner with the family
, Banks thought, or
getting ready for a night on the town.

“Cheers,” he said. “You do realize that what Jazz just told us makes your job rather . . . delicate?”

“‘Delicate'? Is that what promotion does for you, makes you use words like ‘delicate'?”

“That's not fair.”

“I know. And I'm sorry. It just slipped out. It just doesn't sound like the old you, that's all. It sounds more like Adrian Moss.”

“I almost feel sorry for poor Adrian,” said Banks. “He's certainly copped for it, hasn't he? Two major media bombshells in a week. I'm actually relieved that your latest bit of news will keep him occupied more than anything I might do next.”

“Charming. Maybe I'd feel sorry for him, too, if he wasn't such a wanker.”

“Adrian has his own agenda, and it's my guess that right at the top of it is Adrian Moss.” Banks smiled. “See. I'm not so different from who I was before. I've just got more responsibility.”

“And power.”

“That's a laugh.”

“Didn't you read that report where they said not to let misguided fears about offending cultural sensitivities get in the way of nailing the bastards who exploit children? Or something along those lines.”

“I read it,” said Banks. “And I agree. But that doesn't mean you have to go charging in like a bull in a china shop with all guns blazing. Softly, softly.”

“Softly, softly, my arse,” Annie replied. “And don't mix your metaphors. Though the image of a bull with an AK-47 is most amusing. I don't give a damn whether they're brown, blue or yellow with green spots. If they drugged and raped that girl we're going to get the bastards for it.”

“I'm with you on that, Annie,” said Banks. “It just makes things more . . . delicate. That's all I said. I can tell you exactly what's going to happen. Soon, the chief constable will give us all the lecture about not rocking the boat and respecting community values, Islam in particular.”

“Oh? So it's all about the chief constable's comfort levels, is it?”

“You know it isn't.” Banks paused. “You're going to have to act as SIO on this investigation, you know. Not officially. I mean, not as a DI.”

“Promote me to DCI then. Your old office is still empty, isn't it?”

Banks smiled. “I would if I could. Believe me, whenever I get a
chance I put a word in the right ears. But you've got to improve your chances by setting an example. As I said, even though I'm SIO on paper, you'll be doing the job yourself if this Caxton thing goes as it should. It's ‘delicate,' therefore a little tact with your success would go a long way to convincing the brass you're worth promoting, that you can handle the big time.”

A young girl delivered their meals. She couldn't have been much older than the victim, Banks thought. They thanked her and made a start before getting back to their conversation. “How's the veggie lasagne?” Banks asked.

“Probably a lot better than your curry-of-the-day.”

“Oh, I don't know. Tastes all right to me.”

“What is it?”

“Dunno, really. Curry. Of the day. Anonymous.”

Annie poked his arm. “OK, I take your point about tact. But isn't it exactly because of that attitude you're expressing that this grooming business got out of hand to start with? Being ‘delicate'? Treating everyone except the victims with kid gloves? Coppers and social workers so frightened of offending any ethnic or cultural group that they can't do their jobs properly? Victims so convinced they won't be believed that they don't even bother to report crimes?”

“That's a part of it,” Banks said. “Along with the breakdown of the family unit, overcrowded housing, immigration policy, Margaret Thatcher, the death of God, Cameron, the drug culture and the sexual revolution. Might as well throw UKIP in there, too.”

“Well, we have to throw them somewhere. But aren't we going down the same path? Not the UKIP path, but like the others, too touchy-feely and inclusive and diverse to do anything?”

“Not if we can help it. I'm just saying we're going to have to tread carefully. We can't go shouting out to all and sundry that three British Pakistanis are responsible for everything that happened to that girl. The rape, yes, but we can't be sure about the murder. I'm not saying what they did is minor, or that they should get off lightly, but don't lose sight of the fact that we're after three rapists and one killer here, whatever their color, and though I'd guess the killer knows who the
rapists are, they don't necessarily know who he is. And we don't know what ethnic group he belongs to. You're right. It shouldn't matter. Only that we know he's a killer.”

“You don't really think the girl went along with the three men willingly?”

“I don't know. She might have done, if she knew them. If your theory is right, she might have gone with them because they'd groomed her. She might have thought that she had nothing to fear, that they were just going to have a bit of fun. Then things got out of hand, perhaps because of the ketamine. But from what I read in the postmortem report about her injuries, and I mean the sexual injuries, I doubt that she went along with what they did. On the other hand, as Jazz said, if she was off her face on ketamine, who knows what was going through her mind? If Gerry's on the right track, you might get a lead from the CCTV.”

“Maybe,” said Annie. She picked up a forkful of lasagne. “Eventually. What about your case? Danny Caxton. Do you believe the accuser after all this time?”

“I think so,” Banks said. “You know, she was about the same age as the Bradham Lane victim when it happened. And she was raped, too. In her case, by two men. She also lived to tell the tale. She went willingly to the hotel with Caxton, drank a glass or two of champagne, then things turned ugly. That's what I mean. Maybe your victim got willingly into the van for the drugs, booze, music, party time, whatever, and then things turned nasty. There's no evidence that she was abducted or anything like that.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Annie. “She was ejected. On the other hand, the three men
could
have abducted her from the street somewhere first. I just wish we knew more.”

“It'll come,” said Banks. “Danny Caxton is a nasty piece of work, I can tell you that much.” He finished his pint. “Bugger it,” he said. “That went down well. I'm going to have another.”

“Drinking and driving?”

“I'll get one of the PCs to drive me home.”

“Ooh, flexing our superintendent's muscles, are we? Remember what I said about power?”

“Damn right. If you've got it, flaunt it. That's what I say.”

He went inside to get himself another pint and an orange juice for Annie, who was at least willing to stick with him for a while longer, even if she wasn't drinking. It was that time of evening when the place was almost deserted inside. Pat, the Australian barmaid, clearly had the night off, and Cyril had one of his playlists on: Marianne Faithfull singing “Summer Nights.” Very appropriate. Banks got the drinks and went back outside. The square was starting to fill up a bit now, young couples, families, some groups back from long walks, ready for the evening meal and a few pints. Other pubs had tables outside, and he could hear conversations and laughter from all sides. Music. It was Friday night. The weekend starts here.

Annie smiled when he handed her the drink. “I'll give you a lift home,” she said. “How's that for an offer?”

“Best I've had all day. But it's out of your way.”

“That's just the kind of person I am. Now, tell me about Danny Caxton. He seemed so nice on the telly. I mean, in an avuncular sort of way. I didn't fancy him or anything.”

“Yeah, he's everybody's dirty uncle. He's arrogant, foul-mouthed and he has no sense of remorse. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he's raped dozens of young girls over his career.”

“Well, there's an open mind for you.”

“Oh, I'll keep an open mind, all right. And he'll get a fair trial, if it ever comes to court. The odds are probably in his favor. It's the other bloke that interests me at the moment.”

“What other bloke?”

“I told you there were two rapists. According to Linda, the other was a bit younger than Caxton, and Caxton seemed happy to share the spoils with him. I'd like to know why. And who he was, of course. And what's happened to him.”

“Is there a way to find out after all this time?”

“I think so. Linda Palmer remembers seeing a photograph of the same man some time after her ordeal, maybe in October 1967, though she can't remember where she saw it. She says she's certain he wasn't famous, so I'm just wondering if she saw it in the local newspaper or something. At least that's a place to start.”

“But the rape took place in Blackpool.”

“That's because Caxton was in a summer show there. He actually lived near Otley at the time, just outside Leeds, and according to our records he appeared in panto at the Bradford Alhambra that Christmas.
Puss in Boots.
”

“Christ, I used to
hate
pantos,” said Annie.

“I wouldn't have imagined you got to very many, living in the artists' colony and all.”

“It was my uncle and aunt. They always worried about me not having a normal childhood, and that was one of the ways they remedied it, by taking me to the panto in Newquay every Christmas.
Normal
. Panto. I ask you.”

Banks laughed.

“Maybe she saw him on telly or in a pop music magazine?”

“I don't think so,” Banks said. “She seemed adamant that she didn't know him and hadn't seen him before. I don't believe he was a public figure. I think he may have been some sort of aide to Caxton. I would imagine panto would provide just as good a hunting ground as summer season, so we'll be trying to track down any incidents there, too. If I could find the photo she saw, maybe she'd recognize him, then we'd have an ID, at least.”

“How would you do that?”

“I'd get an idea of what newspapers or magazines a fourteen-year-old might have seen in 1967 and come up with a pile of photocopies for her to sort through. Something like that.”

“Talk about a long shot.”

“Or maybe I'll just start with the local paper and get lucky. Who knows? That's the sort of thing that happens with these cold cases. Everything's a long shot. Sometimes it seems as much about understanding the times as the characters involved.”

“1967? You ought to be good at that. One of your best years, wasn't it?”

Banks smiled. “It was a very good year, but I was still just a kid, a bit too young to enjoy all the new freedoms people were talking about. Not that they ever reached Peterborough. But musically, it was
great. The Summer of Love. The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Pink Floyd, Love, Cream, Hendrix.
Sergeant Pepper
. Magnificent.”

“Well, you can listen to all your old records and relive it.”

“Not a bad idea, at that,” said Banks. “There was a dark side to it all, though, and I have a feeling that's where I'll be finding myself.”

“Don't we always?” said Annie. “Don't we always?”

I
T WAS MONDAY MORNING, FIVE DAYS SINCE THE UNIDENTIFIED
body had been found on Bradham Lane, and the eight-mile stretch was still closed to traffic in the hope that Stefan's team would unearth some significant clue that had so far eluded their efforts. Fortunately, the lane was so little used that there was no immediate clamor for its reopening. A couple of cyclists had written letters to the local paper, but that was about all. Everyone else who had used it as a pleasant and convenient alternative had returned to the A1 temporarily without complaint.

Every day the media gathered at both ends of the lane, but the scene was well guarded, with the mobile crime unit blocking the top end. One or two hardy reporters had tried sneaking across the fields to take photographs, but the vigilant eyes of the officers guarding the inner scene, the immediate area in which the body had been found, had spotted them in time. Even so, a few long-distance shots had appeared, the kind that have to be published with a circle added to pinpoint where the crime happened. Desperate for any sort of crime-scene image, one less reputable newspaper had even published a shot of a similar spot on a different road and claimed it as the place where the battered and broken body of the young girl was discovered. Both the cyclist who had found the body, Roger Stanford, and the Ketteridges on the nearest farm had come under media siege at one point or another. As Stanford seemed
on the verge of a nervous breakdown and Mrs. Ketteridge lived in fear of losing her baby, the local police had seen all the interlopers off and posted guards around the farm and Stanford's house.

The investigation had naturally slowed down over the weekend, especially as the budget allowed for little or no overtime. In the meantime, information wasn't exactly pouring in. The CSIs had made no more headway and Jazz Singh had done about as much as she could with the DNA.

Late that morning, Gerry was sitting at her computer in the squad room when the telephone rang. She picked up the handset and announced her rank and name. It was one of the community support officers working the Bradham Lane case, calling from the mobile crime scene unit. “Sorry to bother you, DC Masterson,” she said, “but I've got a caller on the hotline who insists on speaking to the person in charge of the investigation.”

“That would be DI Cabbot,” said Gerry. “Or DCI Banks.”

“They're not around. I rang you because the caller sounds a bit spooked. Young. Can I put her through? Maybe you could talk to her?”

“Put her through.”

She waited a few moments, and a small, scared voice came on the line. “Hello? Hello? Do you know about the girl in Bradham Lane, the one whose picture was on telly?”

“I'm DC Masterson,” said Gerry. “And I'm working on the case. Do you know who she is? Can you help us?”

“I don't know. Is the drawing a good likeness? Have you actually
seen
her?”

“I was there when she was found,” Gerry said. It was more or less true. “Yes, I saw her. It's a good likeness.”

“It is her, isn't it? Was she, I mean . . . ?”

“Are you OK?”

“I'm OK. Yes. It's just that she was my best friend. It's
her
. It looks like her. I haven't seen her for days. And they . . .”

Gerry felt her blood turn cold. “Who?” she said. “Who are they?”

“I can't. They'll kill me, too.”

“It's all right, love,” Gerry said, as gently as she could. “Can you tell me who she is, then?”

“Yes. It's Mimsy.”

“Mimsy?”

“Mimsy Moffat.” The caller paused. “We used to tease her about that,” she said. “‘All mimsy were the borogoves.'” She loved
Alice
. I remember when we talked about starting a band. We were going to call ourselves Mimsy and the Borogoves.”

Gerry knew “Jabberwocky.” She had been a big Lewis Carroll fan when she was at school, and she still read
Through the Looking-Glasss
once a year. “That's a cute name. You can sing and play instruments?”

“No. It was just blethering.”

“You said ‘we.' ‘We used to tease her.' Who else?”

“Just me, really.”

“Can you tell me where Mimsy lived?”

“On the estate. Number fourteen Southam Terrace.”

“Where's that? What estate?”

“Wytherton Heights.”

“Wytherton?”

“Teesside. Near Middlesbrough.”

“OK. My name's Gerry. What's yours, love?”

“I'm sorry. I can't tell you. Nobody must know.” Then she hung up, or switched off her mobile. Gerry immediately hit redial but her call went through to a generic answering service, the kind you get with a pay-as-you-go mobile when you don't bother to personalize it. She left her name and mobile number just in case, then returned to her computer screen and clicked through to Google Maps.

Wytherton was an area that clung like a boil to the arse of Teesside between Stockton and Middlesbrough, and Wytherton Heights was a sprawling square mile of council estates fringed in the north by a forest of sixties tower blocks and to the south by the main Wytherton Road. Town Street bisected the estate about a quarter of a mile up from Wytherton Road. Southam Terrace, Gerry discovered, lay somewhere near the middle of the largest section.

What little information Gerry could find on the estate told her that it was a mix of postwar council housing. Some people who lived there had bought their houses from the council in the eighties or later, and
there were a few older private houses scattered around the edges, mostly turned into student bedsits to service the nearby college. The Google Maps satellite images showed a mix of domestic architecture, from the grime-encrusted back-to-backs and through terraces to sixties brick council houses, maisonettes and old tower blocks. The aerial photographs she managed to dredge up showed higgledy-piggledy streets straggling west of a wasteland of abandoned factory yards with high fences scrolled with barbed wire or walls topped with broken glass. To the west of these houses, by the canal, stood a modern shopping center.

Gerry didn't think she was a snob, but she had been brought up in a nice Georgian semi in a suburb of Liverpool called Crosby, not far from the Irish Sea. She had attended Merchant Taylors' Girls' School before reading law at Cambridge. Her mother was a schoolteacher and her father a solicitor and, needless to say, her decision to join the police after university had caused a family row or two. She wasn't certain why she had done it herself, only that she knew she didn't want an academic career, and she didn't want to be a lawyer. She thought that in the police she might at least get the chance to use her initiative now and then, find a little excitement, even danger, and that every day would be different. She could also use her IT skills. And Gerry wasn't without ambition. If she did the right courses and was successful in her fieldwork, she knew fast-track promotion was a strong possibility for someone like her. The sky was the limit. She knew it sounded silly, and maybe joining the police was the wrong way to go about it, but she might even one day end up running MI5, like Stella Rimington, whose books she enjoyed. One of her friends had been recruited at Cambridge, and she remembered feeling jealous that she hadn't been singled out, too. Perhaps it was because she wasn't reading politics or Middle Eastern languages.

No matter how much she tried to be “one of the lads,” though, she knew she was posh when it came right down to it. Places like Wytherton Heights gave her the creeps. A big godforsaken ugly splodge of urban hell stuck between the beauties of the North York Moors and the Yorkshire Dales National Park, it might as well have had signs
saying no go area in big letters all over it. Perhaps she was showing her upper-middle-class upbringing, but she wouldn't be surprised if it was the sort of area that boasted a tattoo shop or two as well as a kebab and pizza takeaway. As for whether it was home to a large Asian population, she had no idea, though she could soon find out.

Gerry felt immediately guilty for being so judgmental. She had always prided herself on being a nice, decent, thoughtful person, kind to all and sundry, but perhaps her short time in the police had changed her. DI Cabbot could be cynical at times, so maybe some of that was rubbing off on her. One glance at the Wytherton Heights estate on-screen was enough to tell her that she wouldn't like visiting it.

But this wasn't the time for self-analysis, she thought, getting to her feet. Like it or not, it was time to pick up her boss from County HQ and whisk them both up to Southam Terrace, Wytherton Heights. Maybe it would turn out to be a much nicer place than she thought.

THE WAKEFIELD
office of the West Yorkshire Archive Service was unfortunately not a modern air-conditioned building, being instead housed in the old Registry of Deeds office, a 1930s building on Newstead Road. Ken Blackstone handed over the form he had filled out, and after he and Banks had shown their warrant cards, Ms. Brindley made a quick search to locate the occurrence book. She soon came back with the volume they wanted and placed it on the table in front of them.

“It would have been the end of August or beginning of September, 1967,” Banks said. “I don't know the exact date, but it was before school started again.”

It didn't take long to locate the brief, neatly written entry for the thirtieth of August 1967, at 2:35 p.m. Reading the unadorned entry, Banks could only imagine what that day had been like for Linda Palmer and her mother, perhaps agonizing over whether to go, frightened, embarrassed, sitting on the bus to town not knowing what to expect. As it was only an occurrence book, not a statement, there was very little detail. The complainant was identified as “Linda Palmer” and her mother's presence was also noted. They had come with a
“crime complaint,” which was further described as “indecent and unlawful.” There was no mention of rape, and Danny Caxton was not named. Detective Inspector Stanley Chadwick had talked to the complainant, but when it came to further action and result, there was nothing. Blackstone flipped forward a few pages to see if he could find anything else, but all the entries were similarly brief. They would need the case files or individual notebooks to find out any more, and they were gone, if there had, indeed, ever been any. Destroyed years ago, most likely.

Disappointed, Banks asked Ms. Brindley if she would make a copy of the entry in question. It wasn't much, but every little bit helped at this point.

“As you can see,” she said, “the occurrence book is rather large and heavy. It's very awkward to fit in the photocopier. I'd suggest you use your mobile and take a digital photo, if that's acceptable?”

“Of course.” Banks took out his mobile, positioned it carefully and took three photos, just to make certain. “Is there any way of finding out if anything came of this?” he asked when he had finished.

“Not without the records, no, and I'm afraid we don't have those.”

“I know,” said Banks. “Is there
anything
else?”

“Well, let me see. We do have the court registers, so if the case went to court it would be listed in there.”

“As far as we know, it didn't,” said Banks. “But thanks, anyway.”

“No problem.” Ms. Brindley smiled and asked them if there was something else they required.

“No, thanks,” said Blackstone. “You've been a great help. Thanks very much.”

Ms. Brindley inclined her head briefly, then drifted away. Banks and Blackstone made their way outside again, where it was marginally cooler than inside.

They found a pub with a beer garden not far from the cathedral and sat down at a table in the shade next to two young women struggling to control three small children, who already appeared to have ingested a surfeit of sugar. The pretty mother with the ring in her nose and a stud in her lower lip gave Banks a long-suffering glance, and he smiled at her.

It was a chain pub, but that was OK with Banks. At least it meant they would get their food quickly. Blackstone passed him a laminated menu. They both decided on the steak and mushroom pie special, and Blackstone went to get some drinks—Coke, as they both had to drive later—and put in their order at the bar. While he was away, the eldest of the children at the next table, perhaps about three, tottered over to Banks, grinning and slobbering drool down the front of his bib. The girl with the stud in her lip swept forward and picked him up with one arm in a surprisingly gentle and graceful motion, smiled sweetly at Banks and apologized.

When Blackstone got back, Banks raised his Coke. “Cheers. I didn't notice you pursuing young Ms. Brindley with quite the vigor I would have expected from you.”

“Didn't you notice the ring on her finger?”

“Afraid not.”

“Big sparkler. Probably zircon. Third finger of her left hand. Wasn't there the last time I saw her.”

“Too late, then.”

“Story of my life. Cheers,” said Blackstone. “I see from the news you've got a media circus on your hands up in Eastvale.”

“Tell me about it. I'm sneaking around like a mischievous schoolboy. Our media relations officer is about ready to blow a gasket. The mere mention of ‘Pakistani' sends him into conniptions.”

“Pakistani?”

“Annie might have a grooming case on her hands involving members of the British Pakistani community. Not a word, mind you.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“We think the girl was raped by three men and beaten to death by another on a remote country lane in our neck of the woods. Gerry's just discovered who she was, and her home happens to be on a council estate that's conveniently located just on our side of the county border.”

“Nasty. I don't suppose this Caxton business helps with the media relations, either?”

“Oh, Adrian loves that,” said Banks. “That's his wet dream. It's the race thing that's got his knickers in a twist.”