When the Music's Over (29 page)

THEY MET
in Banks's office shortly after his return from Leeds: Banks, AC Gervaise and Adrian Moss. Banks could have done without the latter, but he seemed to be all over the place like a dirty shirt these days. The station was still under siege, cameras clicking and questions shouted every time anyone came in or went out. The clamor seemed as much to do with Mimosa Moffat as it did Danny Caxton. Now that Mimosa had been identified, a phalanx of media had headed up to the Wytherton Heights estate to get the story from the horse's mouth, so to speak. No doubt viewers of the evening news and readers of tomorrow's newspapers would be treated to Lenny Thornton's or Albert Moffat's opinion on the local Muslim community and Sinead's
feelings about her murdered daughter. Only Johnny Kerrigan would remain silent.

Winsome, Banks knew, had been hard at work since he had phoned her from Leeds with the identification of Linda Palmer's mystery man. She had been on the phone and the Internet to amass as much information as she could about Tony Monaghan's life and death and had gathered it together in a small file, which Banks had just finished reading. At the moment, Winsome was in the squad room trying to squeeze out more information and was due to join them shortly.

For his part, Banks had stayed on in Leeds for a while after Linda had found the photographs. He had offered to arrange transport back to Minton-on-Swain for her, but she said she'd like to do a bit of shopping and visit some friends, then she'd take the train back in the evening. Banks first visited Ken Blackstone at Elland Road, where they had trawled through various archives and records, mostly in vain, coming up with an interesting tidbit about the long-dead Chief Constable Crammond, but not much else.

The problem, as Blackstone pointed out, was that it seemed the records had been systematically expunged at some point over the last fifty years. There were no surviving witness transcripts, though supposedly every homosexual with a passing acquaintance with the Hyde Park public convenience would have been questioned, along with a number of undercover police officers and officers placed on surveillance at various periods in the roof of the structure, where they had been able to spy on whatever was going on below. Another quick visit to the Wakefield archive had produced only the stark entry in the occurrence book: “No further action.” What it all added up to, Banks still didn't know, and he was hoping a bit of a brainstorming session back in Eastvale would go some way toward correcting that situation.

The basic facts, culled from newspapers, were that the man Linda Palmer identified as her second rapist had lived in Hampstead. Only twenty-six years old when he was murdered, Tony Monaghan worked for a London advertising agency, Philby, Leyland and Associates, based in the West End, and he was up in Leeds on company business during the time the incident occurred. At the time of the murder, Monaghan
had been wearing a suit from a bespoke Savile Row tailor and a lilac shirt. That had, no doubt, sealed his dismissal as a “queer.”

Monaghan's body had been found in the public conveniences at Hyde Park in the student area of Leeds. He had been stabbed to death, and his wallet was missing. The prevailing theory was that he had been on the prowl, looking for rough trade, and had found it. The public conveniences were a notorious spot for homosexual encounters, and though homosexual acts between two consenting adults in the privacy of their own homes had been legalized in the Sexual Offences Act that summer, the legality did not apply to public toilets or public acts of lewdness.

According to the date in the occurrence book, the investigation had been dropped after less than two weeks, and Monaghan's body would have been released for burial. Nothing more of interest appeared, and the photo that had caught Linda Palmer's attention was the only visual record still existing.

“It's as thin as the Caxton investigation as far as evidence goes,” Banks said, after pushing the file aside. “There's hardly any forensics, nothing to say whether he had been sexually active, sexually assaulted or what. Nothing to indicate that he was even gay. One of the papers speculated that it might have been a mugging, with Monaghan a stranger to the city and all, maybe not knowing the reputation of those toilets. But muggers rarely kill. There's also some speculation that whoever he picked up was psychologically confused about his sexuality and became violent when Monaghan made a pass. It's also possible he was a ‘queer' hater or someone who saw himself on a crusade against indecency. Don't forget the law had just been passed. It was controversial and it must have set off any number of nutters.”

“What's the link with Caxton?” asked AC Gervaise.

“We don't have one yet,” Banks said. “Apart from Linda Palmer. Winsome's still digging.”

“Was nothing else mentioned in the press or the police investigation?”

“No. Nobody dug deeply enough.”

“Is Ms. Palmer sure this is our man?”

“Certain,” Banks said. “She was shaken up by the whole thing. She got no impression that he was gay, of course, but she admitted she wouldn't have known much about such things back then.”

“But he
did
rape her?”

“Yes. She said she remembered he hesitated, seemed nervous. But there could be many reasons for that. And just because a man rapes a woman, it doesn't mean he's not gay.”

“Point taken.”

“Where do you want to go with this?” Adrian Moss interjected.

Banks glanced at Gervaise. “Nowhere yet,” he said. “Not until we've actually got somewhere to go.”

“You want to keep it under wraps?”

“For now, yes. As much as we can.”

Moss made a note. “OK. Good.”

“We don't know what we've got,” Banks went on. “We don't know if it's a lead or a red herring. If Linda Palmer says she's sure it's the man who raped her with Caxton, I, for one, believe her, but even so, it gets us no further. I mean, it's not as if he's still alive to identify Caxton, and we're not here to investigate his murder. It's bad enough having to investigate a fifty-year-old rape, but add a murder in the mix and it'd be damn nigh impossible.”

“You might be surprised, Alan,” said Gervaise. “The one might actually illuminate the other.”

“There's that, I suppose.” Banks scratched his cheek. “I must admit, I
was
hoping it would turn out to be someone who might still be alive, but that was probably reaching a bit.”

“Don't you think it's too much of a coincidence that this Monaghan was murdered such a short time after assaulting Ms. Palmer?” asked Gervaise.

“I do,” said Banks. “And I also think it's fishy that Caxton was photographed handing a check over to Crammond just over two weeks after Monaghan's murder, only days after the investigation stopped. But just at the moment I can't come up with a good reason as to how all these are linked. Was Monaghan simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he pick up someone who, for whatever reason,
stabbed him to death? What was he doing in Leeds, for a start? If we knew even that, it would be something.”

“He was on business, wasn't he?” Gervaise said.

“That's what it said in the paper. He was in advertising.”

“What about his old firm?”

“Philby, Leyland and Associates? No longer in business,” Banks said. “Winsome checked. She's still trying to track down other ex-employees.”

“Advertising must have been an exciting occupation back then,” Gervaise said, “if it was anything like
Mad Men
.”

“I think it attracted its fair share of hip young creative types, that's for sure,” Banks agreed.

“A lilac shirt,” said Moss.

Banks looked at him. He was wearing a dazzling white shirt, old school tie and pinstripe suit. “Indeed,” he said. “Your point, Adrian?”

“Oh, nothing really. I mean, maybe back then, in the dark ages, so to speak, a police detective might well have taken such an article of clothing as a sign of . . . well . . .”

“Gayness?”

“Yes. And when you add the fact that Monaghan worked in advertising, a flamboyant and creative business, and the place his body was found, then . . . well, it's hardly surprising, is it?”

“No force would put a great deal of its resources into an investigation of that sort back then,” said Banks. “No more than they would into the murder of a prostitute, as we discovered from the Yorkshire Ripper case. But even so, there should have been
something
, if only for form's sake.”

“Was there any information as to whether he was actually murdered in the toilet itself, or whether his body was brought from elsewhere?” AC Gervaise asked.

“No,” said Banks. “So far it seems everyone assumed that he was killed where he was found, but any forensic information and exhibits, if there were any, have disappeared.”

“No forensics?”

“Nothing. I should imagine there was a lot of blood, though, given that he was stabbed.”

“So he goes in the cubicle with whoever he picked up,” Gervaise said. “The other bloke's standing behind him. They get ready to do whatever they're about to do, and the other bloke takes out a knife and stabs him, then slips his hand in his inside pocket for his wallet.”

At that moment there came a light tap on the door and Winsome entered, carrying a folder with her.

“I hope you've got something for us,” Banks said, “because we're getting so desperate for leads here, AC Gervaise has taken to crime fiction.”

Winsome sat down and poured herself the remaining splash of coffee. “I think you'll like this, guv,” she said. “Tony Monaghan was first employed as a PR consultant and publicist by Danny Caxton in 1966.”

“I thought he worked for an advertising agency in London?”

“He did, but they contracted him out. Apparently he did such a good job on his first assignment that Caxton asked for him by name.”

“How on earth did you discover this?” asked Gervaise. “The agency's been defunct for years, Alan says.”

“I have my methods, ma'am,” said Winsome.

“Come on, DS Jackman, give.”

Winsome managed a brief smile. “Yes, ma'am. Well, first off, I pushed Danny Caxton's management company for that list of employees we've been after. I'd asked them before, but they were dragging their feet, going on about how many there were and how long ago it all was. I don't think they were stalling particularly, just that it was another job on their table and there was nothing in it for them, I suppose, so why hurry? The secretary I spoke with this time was quite chatty. Must be a slow day. She seemed to find no reason to keep it from us, and when I expressed a sense of urgency, she faxed it to me. Monaghan's name appeared, along with Philby, Leyland and Associates. I rang her back and asked her for more details about him, and she told me she didn't know much, but it wasn't unusual to hire freelancers or subcontract publicists from specialist firms. It happened a few times in Danny Caxton's career. Monaghan was with him on and off from May 1966 until his death in October 1967. Monaghan took a break at home in London after the Blackpool summer season, and he
headed back up north again to work with Caxton on the panto he was appearing in at the Bradford Alhambra that Christmas. Monaghan was married, by the way. I'll see if I can find anything out about the widow. Anyway, the secretary I talked to knew nothing about Monaghan's death—she wasn't even born then—though she did say that most of the office knew they once had an employee who'd been murdered way back in the mists of time.”

“I suppose you would remember something like that,” Banks said. “Excellent work, Winsome. Now we have a concrete link between Monaghan and Caxton.”

“Yes, but it hasn't exactly taken us anywhere, has it, guv?” said Winsome.

“I don't know about that. An employee of Caxton's, someone who led Linda to the car and back to the hotel, who raped her in the hotel room, along with Caxton, and two months or so later he's murdered in a mysterious and gruesome way. Don't tell me that's just coincidence.”

“And the murder was never solved,” Winsome added.

“The murder was never even investigated,” Banks said. “Just like Linda Palmer's original complaint. Sounds like orders from on high to me. We have the photo of Caxton with then chief constable Edward Crammond, and old gossip has it they were close, dinners together, golf club, even a cruise. Was Danny Caxton golden, or what?”

Banks could hear Adrian Moss's sudden intake of breath. Phrases such as “orders from on high” were anathema to him. “Never mind, Adrian,” he said. “I'm sure you'll find the right direction to spin it.”

Moss glowered at him.

“And nothing showed up in any of the documents we've seen,” Banks went on, “or any of the press reports. Nothing else to link Monaghan to Caxton. It was all kept quiet, if indeed anyone knew at all.”

“That's some cover-up,” said AC Gervaise. “But surely your DI Chadwick must have known?”

“Possibly,” Banks agreed. “At least, I assume he would have been the one to get the order to cease and desist. But seeing as he's long dead, we can hardly ask him, can we?” He paused for a moment. “But we can do the next best thing—talk to his oppo DC Bradley. He's
alive, at least he was when I spoke with him ten years ago about that pop festival murder. I was going to talk to him and Chadwick's daughter about the lack of investigation on Linda's case, anyway. Now I've got a bit more to ask them about.”

AC Gervaise sniffed. “Seems this DI Chadwick has left quite a legacy.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I could probably make a career out of just working over his cold cases.”

YVONNE REEVES
still lived in a bay-window semi on the outskirts of Durham. A light breeze ruffled the thick foliage of the trees that shaded the street and gave some shade from the sun. Yvonne ushered Banks and Winsome into the living room, which had been redecorated since Banks's last visit. It seemed brighter and airier than he remembered. Yvonne didn't offer tea but sat down opposite the two visitors and folded her hands in her lap. She wore black trousers and a cotton print top and seemed to have lost a bit of weight since his last visit. Banks remembered her being more full-figured. She wore her gray hair cut short, and its thinness, along with that of her body, made Banks wonder whether she was suffering from a serious illness. She seemed on the ball, however, and didn't appear to be lacking in energy. There were a few more lines on her face than last time, though that was only to be expected. She would have been fourteen in 1967, Banks had calculated, the same age as Linda Palmer, though she looked older. They might have even known each other, as they had both grown up in West Leeds.