When the Music's Over (47 page)

“You've forgotten Johnny,” she said. “Maybe his inertia is just as fake as Albert's alibi?”

Gerry laughed. “I don't think so. Sunny or one of his mates could have done it, remember, no matter what they say. They've got no real alibis. The only problem there is that we can't find any vehicle on the CCTV associated with them.”

“We can check the footage again,” said Gerry. “Doug did a good job checking up on Jim Nuttall. What about him?”

“Don't think so,” said Annie. “He's not connected with any of the players here, as far as we know, except with Albert Moffat. Besides, Albert's admitted he was driving on Tuesday and Wednesday and that the car was parked behind Warner's flat all night Tuesday. Somebody else could have taken it, I suppose, and left it back there later. But I
think Nuttall was just working the black-market economy, that's all, avoiding paying taxes, not to mention a proper wage. We can let the girls have a look at him when they're OK to do it, see if they recognize him from any of their assignments. Jade did say some of the men involved were white, didn't she?”

“Yes.”

“Then it wouldn't be a bad idea to dig a bit deeper, just for the sake of thoroughness, but I don't see Jim Nuttall as our killer.”

“So we're looking at Albert or Paul for it?”

“I think so,” said Annie. “And right now I'm leaning more toward Paul. He's smart. Don't forget, he's the one who alibied Albert, but in doing so, perhaps more important, he alibied himself. He must have known that. Probably thought we wouldn't see it, that he put one over on us. He's arrogant enough. If you ask me, Albert genuinely doesn't have a clue what happened. He was pissed out of his mind and, whatever else he is, he loved his sister. If Paul Warner was the one who was faking it, there's no reason he couldn't have slipped out in the van. He'd have more sense than to use his own car, even if he was only planning on beating up Sunny. And he knew Nuttall's van was there.”

“But why? What's his motive? And how did he know about Mimosa? How did he know she was going to Dewsbury, or that she would come walking back up the lane?”

“He didn't. He can't have. Only somebody in with Sunny and his cousins could have known that, if it was prearranged in advance. But the CCTV seems to have ruled that out. It's true we don't have a motive yet, but that doesn't mean there isn't one, just that we haven't thought of it. And maybe the Dewsbury trip is the wrong thing to be worrying about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paul Warner's not going to admit that he knew about Mimsy and Sunny, is he, or about what was going on with the girls, the grooming. But we know that Albert knew, and what if Albert, in his cups, told Warner earlier that Tuesday night and was so pissed he doesn't remember?”

“Doesn't help us much, does it? There was still no motive. And Albert can't have known about the Dewsbury trip, surely?”

“Not that we know of, though maybe he did. Again, we don't have the full picture. But as I said, maybe we've been worrying too much about the Dewsbury trip. What if Paul Warner really did have a thing for Mimsy?”

“We've no evidence of that. Look at the age diff —”

“Despite that. What difference does age make? Sunny's in his forties. We know she was drawn to older men, even abused by them. We're forgetting that although Mimsy was a child in some ways, she was a fully grown woman in others, attractive, with a nice figure, available, or so it might have seemed. Apparently, she oozed sex. Warner said he thought she was mature for her age the first time we talked to him. She also liked to hang out helping him and Albert on jobs. Maybe something happened. Maybe he got an eyeful when she went up the ladder one day and he liked what he saw? They had to have been left alone together at some point. Maybe she flirted a bit with Warner, or more—again, no excuse or motive for what happened, but maybe it's part of the cause, and it wouldn't be against what we know of her nature. And there was something you said earlier, about maybe if Mimosa had a cultured person to help her break out, someone like Paul Warner.”

“Possibly. But I still think you're pushing it a bit, guv. How did Warner know where she was, or where she was going that night?”

“Well, if Albert told him about Sunny, he'd have a good idea where she might be. The rest, I admit I don't know. But if Vic Manson finds any prints other than Albert's and Jim Nuttall's in the VW, then we'll be looking at Paul Warner's for comparison first. And remember, yonks back, Dr. Glendenning said there might be a chance of matching the pattern of the shoes used to kick Mimosa? If Warner hasn't got rid of them already—and why would he chuck away a perfectly good pair of Doc Martens or whatever if he thought he'd pulled off a clever one and wasn't likely to be in the frame? If we keep pushing, the most he'd admit to is giving his mate a false alibi, and Albert doesn't have the brains to wriggle out of a trap like that. Look how arrogant Warner is. He thinks we're all thick plods.”

They sipped their drinks and watched the swans swimming under the overhanging willows on the quiet part of the river beyond the
falls. Clouds of midges and the occasional wasp buzzed around them.

“I could just fall asleep right now,” Gerry said.

Then Annie's mobile buzzed. She answered, listened for a few moments, then frowned and put it back in her handbag. “There goes your early evening kip,” she said.

“What? Who was it?”

“My new best friend Superintendent Carver. He says the men he put on Paul Warner report that minutes after our lad got home, he was out again with a black bin bag, which he proceeds to put in the back of his van. They followed him into the Wytherton Household Waste Recycling Centre and apprehended him before he could dispose of anything. He made a fuss about his rights and lawyers and blah-blah. And the long and short of it is, he's on his way to the station and we'd better get back there to welcome him.” She paused and glanced at her watch. “On second thought, it'll take a while, so let's have another drink, or more, it's a nice evening. A Friday, too. And things are starting to go our way. We can invite Alan and Winsome down here, too, if they're free.”

“What do we do about Warner?”

“Don't worry, I'm not inviting him. If we charge him we can't talk to him again. I'll call Doug at the station and we'll have him arrested on arrival. Then we'll have twenty-four hours. Let him cool his heels overnight. We'll see if we can put a rush on the Nuttall van forensics and get a couple of lab people to put in a bit of overtime and get started on the contents of that bin bag. Apparently, in addition to a pair of Doc Martens, some jeans and a polo shirt, there are some drugs. And we'll go carefully through Mimosa's possessions when we get them. All that should give us enough ammunition to take on Warner again.”

“But what do we do with Albert Moffat in the meantime? We've already got him arrested under suspicion.”

“We keep him where he is. We arrest Warner for conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Do you think they were in it together?”

“It's an interesting possibility, isn't it? Your shout, I think.”

LINDA PALMER
was sitting in her garden that evening working on her memoir, girding herself to approach the main event. It was the dusk of another beautiful day, and she kept looking up from the page to watch the kingfisher scanning the water for fish. She had got herself as far as the Blackpool hotel, through the preamble of autographs, promises of help with her career, the ride in the plush car, the champagne. She was in the hotel suite now, on her second glass . . .

He asked me to sing him something. That's how it all started. I asked what. He said anything I wanted. It felt strange just to stand there and sing while he sat on the edge of the bed watching and listening. But I did it. I sang “You Don't Have to Say You Love Me” because I loved Dusty Springfield and that was my favorite song of hers. I just couldn't believe it. I felt like pinching myself. There I was, little Linda Palmer from Leeds, singing for Danny Caxton! We had some more champagne and he said I was very good and with a bit of coaching I could go a long way. I would also have to pass more tests if I wanted to be on
Do Your Own Thing!
I asked him what sort of tests he meant and he smiled and patted the bedspread beside him and told me to sit down. My head was beginning to spin and I felt a bit dizzy, so I sat. It was a pink candlewick bedspread, I remember that. I can remember the texture of it to this day and I've hated candlewick ever since. I was starting to feel nervous, as well as light-headed, with butterflies fluttering in my tummy, but I sat. “It's more than just singing ability, you see,” he said. “You also have to project yourself, be sexy? Can you be sexy?” I muttered something like “I'm only fourteen,” and started to get up. He grabbed my wrist. He was strong and it hurt. He pulled me back down. “You know what I mean by sexy, don't you? Of course you do, you little tease.” He squeezed my breast and a strange expression came over his face, a kind of serenity. He sighed. I tried to get up again. My heart was beating fast and hard. My face was burning and my breast ached. I just wanted to run out of there. But he was too strong. I cried, “No, no, no,” but he—

Linda stopped and leaned back in her chair, reached for a cigarette. Her breath caught in her throat, and the sheen of sweat on her forehead wasn't entirely due to the heat of the sun. Even now the memory had the power to move her, to disturb her. She looked across the river to the tree, but it was getting late and the kingfisher had gone. With a shaking hand, she picked up her pen again . . .

I was tall for my age, and everyone said I had the most beautiful blond hair. It tumbled down to my shoulders and the fringe at the front touched my eyebrows. I was wearing my yellow sundress, I remember, which came to just below my knees. I loved that dress, the bright color of sunshine, the touch of cool cotton against my skin on a warm day. He pushed me on my back. Holding my wrists together and pinning me down with one hand while his other hand went up my dress, over my thighs, pushing between my legs, roughly. He was very excited now, making little grunting noises. I told him again to stop, that he was hurting me, but he just laughed and pulled at my underwear. I struggled and he turned me over so I was on my stomach, and he was holding my hands tight behind my back, like handcuffs. I was crying now and begging him to stop. I knew there was no use struggling. I suppose I abandoned myself to the inevitable. I had entered that place where there was no hope.

Then I felt him inside me, hard and rough, pushing. I cried out because it hurt so much and I think I struggled again. He kept my hands pinioned behind my back and covered my mouth with his other hand, so it was hard to breathe, then his arm went around my throat squeezing hard enough to make me quiet. His shirtsleeve buttons must have been undone because I could feel the hairs of his forearm on my throat. He pushed my face into the bedspread and it smelled of the warm fabric and soap. I could hardly breathe. It was hot in the room. He was all sweaty and he tasted of something. It was like makeup, but then I didn't know what it was. Later I realized it must have been the greasepaint that he'd worn onstage. The window was open but I don't remember
any breeze, just the sounds of the Big Dipper rattling on its tracks and the screams of excited riders.

I don't know if all that is true or not. Some of it is. I know he raped me, but I don't remember the details very clearly. The dialogue may be reinvented. Perhaps my imagination is working overtime. It was mostly just a blur of pain, struggle and the room spinning. Perhaps they will ask me in court, though I can't imagine why, and if they do, I suppose I will have to tell them the truth as best I can. But I do remember something I had forgotten. It may mean nothing, but when I caught a glimpse of his forearm, I noticed some numbers tattooed on his skin. I had no idea what they could have been. A telephone number written in blue ballpoint? But I've since seen enough films and read enough books to know that it was something like the concentration camp numbers the Nazis used to tattoo on people's arms. Which is odd, because I don't think he was Jewish and I thought he grew up over here. But it might mean something to you. At least it's something that might help to verify my identification, if that's required. It seemed to me that these numbers were something he wanted to keep secret, but I saw them. I'm just sorry I can't remember them the way you remember Elvis's Teen and Twenty Disc Club membership number.

When he had finished, he left me like a rag doll, sprawled there. I hurt all over. I even thought my arm might have been broken. I could hear him talking to someone. I couldn't make out the words through the fog of pain but I thought I heard him say, “You know you want to. Go on, do your own thing!” Then he laughed. I had forgotten about the other man, the one who'd taken photographs earlier. Maybe I assumed he'd left the room. I don't know. Most likely I didn't think about him at all. I had been vaguely aware of occasional sounds in the background. I suppose I must have thought they were coming through the open window. Someone must have put a coin in the machine, because the Laughing Policeman started up from the Pleasure Breach and sounded like he would never stop. I hate that sound to this day.

As I slowly turned myself over and tried to get up, I saw him again, the other man. He was very close to me and he was fumbling with the front of his trousers. I probably screamed or cried out again. I don't remember. Again I was forced down and again a man forced himself on me, in me, and again I don't remember much about it.

Maybe after Caxton I was even more passive. I'd stopped struggling completely. There was no point. They were too strong. I was frightened they'd hurt me if I fought back. I just lay there and closed my eyes trying to imagine being in another place but failing. I didn't fight. I've always felt guilty about that. Like it was my fault for not fighting.