When the Music's Over

10

The following morning it was still warm, but the sky had become overcast when Banks went to pick up Winsome and head for Leeds. Annie had looked rough at breakfast, and they hadn’t spoken much. Banks didn’t suppose that sleeping on the chair in the conservatory had done her much good. Whether it was her intended meaning or not, she certainly hadn’t needed the spare bedroom.

The ex-detective constable Simon Bradley, Winsome had discovered on the computer before they set off, still lived in the same stone-built detached house off Shaw Lane in Headingley that Banks remembered from his previous visit. Banks rang him, and he agreed to see them whenever they could get there.

After an uneventful drive down the busy A1 listening to a live Jerry Garcia Band CD, Banks and Winsome pulled up in the quiet, leafy street near the end of ‘Dear Prudence’. Beyond the green gate, the garden was in full bloom. Banks didn’t even know what half the flowers were called, but the riot of shape and colour certainly created a joyous effect. It had been almost ten years since he had last visited, but he remembered the garden had been Mrs Bradley’s pride and joy. It seemed that it still was.

Simon Bradley opened the front door on the first ring. ‘Detective Superintendent Banks. Glad you could make it so quickly. Good to see you again. Come in, come in.’ He glanced at Winsome. ‘My, my, things have changed since the old days.’

Winsome gave her best toothy smile, curtsied and said ‘Why, yes, mastah, dey surely have.’

Bradley laughed. ‘Cheeky minx, isn’t she?’

‘You don’t know the half of it. I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you. And call me Alan, please. And the cheeky minx is DS Winsome Jackman.’ Banks felt Winsome nudge him in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt, as they followed Bradley into the living room, from which French windows led out to a neatly mown back lawn, complete with a small gazebo, garden shed, outdoor grill, bird-feeder and patio with a green table and matching moulded plastic chairs.

Bradley turned to Winsome. ‘Please let me apologise. I really didn’t mean anything by what I said back there. I just sometimes feel like a bit of a dinosaur. Old habits die hard.’

‘Indeed they do,’ said Winsome. ‘That’s all right, sir. I’ve been learning a lot recently about how things were back in the day. It’s an education.’

‘I’ll bet.’ Bradley clapped his hands. ‘Outside or in? No air conditioning, I’m afraid. Only an old fan.’

‘Seeing as the weather’s still holding up,’ said Banks, ‘let’s try outdoors.’ The sky was still cloudy, and Banks could still feel that sort of electric crackle in the air that presaged a storm. He hoped it wouldn’t hit before he and Winsome could set off back to Eastvale. Sometimes you got enormous hailstones in a summer storm, and visibility could quickly dwindle to practically nothing in no time.

‘Excellent. Pam’s just making a pot of tea. She’ll be out with it shortly.’

As they walked through the living room, Banks noticed that the floor-to-ceiling collection of first-edition crime fiction he remembered from his previous visit was still there.

‘Pam complains endlessly about the books and the space they take up,’ Bradley said, ‘but what can I do? She came up with a one in, one out scheme, but I’m afraid it’s not working too well. Some of these people just keep on writing. And it’s not just the collecting, you know. I do read them all.’

‘But surely you must find their stories a bit different from the reality you remember?’

‘You’re not a fan?’

‘I can’t say I am. I’ve read a bit of Christie and Doyle, of course, but I don’t really think anyone was expected to believe that their exploits in any way reflected reality. I prefer spy thrillers, myself.’

‘Oh, I’m definitely with you on espionage fiction. Le Carré, Eric Ambler, Len Deighton, Alan Furst. Among the best. But do you know, that whole realism bit never really bothers me in the least. Sure, they get the procedures and the lingo wrong, but that’s not such a terrible thing. And the lingo changes all the time. I bet I wouldn’t understand a word if I found myself back in the old cop shop again. No, as long as the stories are gripping and the cops are interesting characters, I’m fine with it. What do you think, DS Jackman?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have much time for reading,’ Winsome said. ‘But when I do, I prefer non-fiction. History. Biography. Nature writing. That sort of thing.’

‘Admirable.’

‘And when I read crime fiction,’ Winsome went on, ‘I prefer mine hard-boiled and American. Chandler, MacDonald — both of them — and Hammett. When men were men and dames were broads.’

Bradley gave a little bow. ‘Of course. What exquisite taste.’

Banks gave Winsome a quizzical look, but she gave him inscrutable back. They sat at the patio table, and almost before they had made themselves comfortable, Bradley’s wife Pam came out to say hello and serve tea, saying she hoped Earl Grey was all right, but she always thought it more refreshing than Darjeeling on a warm day. Banks had often wondered why tea could be so perfect for such weather, but it was. They thanked her, and she disappeared back inside the house.

Bradley must be about seventy now, Banks calculated, but he was still in good shape. He had lost a bit of hair since the last visit, but he hadn’t put on any weight, and nor did he seem any more stooped or stiffer with age. With his sharp-creased white trousers and short-sleeve V-neck pullover, despite the heat, he resembled a cricketer at start of play, though it was probably regular rounds of golf, not cricket, that kept him in shape. Maybe a little tennis, too. Banks made a note to get more exercise, though he knew he probably wouldn’t do it. Two five- or six-mile walks a week and regular shorter strolls near his cottage seemed to suit him fine. And he still had the kind of metabolism that kept him trim no matter what he ate or drank.

‘This is one of the things some people find hard to believe in detective novels and on TV,’ said Bradley gesturing to the cups of tea and plate of biscuits. ‘The tea or coffee. Especially Americans. Seems too genteel and twee to them, I suppose. I don’t think their coppers are quite so well treated when they come calling.’

‘I could just imagine someone offering the Continental Op a cup of tea,’ Winsome said.

They all laughed.

‘But it happens all the time here,’ said Banks. ‘Sometimes I think we ought to have toilets installed in our cars.’

Bradley put his cup down, tilted his head to one side and stroked his cheek with his index finger. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, it seems that having worked for DI Chadwick is going to haunt me for the rest of my days.’

‘Remind me how long you worked with him.’

‘I was a DC for Chiller from 1966 to 1971, when I transferred to Suffolk CID.’

‘Chiller?’ said Winsome.

‘Nickname,’ explained Bradley. ‘He was a bit of an icy sort of character. Cool in the extreme, and I don’t mean in the “hip” sort of way.’

‘And DI Chadwick died in 1973?’ Banks said.

‘Right. We didn’t really keep in touch after I left. I just heard through the grapevine, which could be slow in those days.’

‘Was there a rift of some sort?’

‘Not at all. It was just our way. I moved on. Chiller let go with both hands.’

‘How’s your memory of 1967?’

‘How could I forget? It was the year that hippies suddenly became a worldwide phenomenon. Oh, they’d been around a while, probably since ’65 or so, even in Leeds, but ’67 was the break-out year, when the newspapers all got in on the act. San Francisco. Wear some flowers in your hair, and so on. Chiller hated the buggers.’

‘The Summer of Love.’

‘Ah, yes. The Summer of Drugs, we called it. You have to remember, I was a bit of a young fogey, too.’ He smiled at Winsome. ‘Pinstripe suit, short hair, shirt and tie. DS Enderby was the one who drew Chiller’s wrath by letting his hair grow over his collar. Have you talked to him yet this time, by the way?’

‘I don’t think he’ll be able to help us,’ said Banks. ‘He only worked with the two of you on the Linda Lofthouse murder, didn’t he?’

‘That’s right. He was from your neck of the woods. North Yorkshire.’

‘Well, this is a West Yorkshire matter, or West Riding, as they used to call it.’

‘OK. Shoot, and I’ll see what I can do.’

Banks told him first about Linda Palmer’s visit to Chadwick and the complaint he had seen in the occurrence book. While he talked, Bradley listened intently, taking an occasional sip of tea. When Banks had finished, there was a brief silence.

‘Danny Caxton,’ Bradley said. ‘There’s a blast from the past.’

‘Still around.’

‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about him on the news now and again. Hence the interest, I assume?’

‘Well, I think there’s a certain kind of justice in proving someone’s long-ago crimes when they’ve been so arrogant and so bullying they think they’ve got away with them.’

‘But it was a different age,’ Bradley argued. ‘The sixties. Especially ’67.’

‘That’s what everyone seems to say. Believe it or not, I’ve considered that argument, and the times. I enjoyed the late sixties. The permissiveness was great for young people, but I don’t think it extended as far as rape.’

‘You believe this woman’s story?’

‘I do. There are others, too, with similar tales to tell. But this one’s my case. I just want to know if you can remember anything about that period in Chadwick’s career, if he said anything to you about it. I know it’s a long time ago, but some little thing might have stuck in your mind.’

‘I remember him saying there was a complaint about Danny Caxton,’ Bradley said. ‘I remember that well. It was a hot summer’s day, like we’ve been having up until now. I never saw the girl who made the complaint and, as I said, as far as I know, it never went anywhere. She came in with her mother, I think.’

‘So there was no investigation?’

‘Not as I remember. Chiller said it was something to do with Blackpool, so not really our case.’

‘He said that?’

‘Yes.’

‘The incident — alleged incident — took place in Blackpool a bit more than a week before the complaint was registered in Leeds.’

‘I certainly never heard any more about it. I assumed he’d passed it on to Blackpool or West Lancashire CID. It would have been their call.’

‘We’ve checked and double-checked, and we can’t find any record with Lancashire. There’s only the occurrence book entry with the Leeds police. They don’t remember anything about it.’

‘Then it can’t have gone any further. I mean, it’s hardly surprising Blackpool wouldn’t want anything to do with it. Summer season’s big business there. Lots of name stars. Lots of paying customers. Mustn’t upset the apple cart.’

‘Could it have been buried?’

‘That’s possible,’ Bradley admitted, scratching his cheek. ‘Things did go astray on occasion, and there wasn’t exactly anything to bury, was there, if as far as it went was an occurrence book entry? As I said, it was another time. Different rules. Besides, Danny Caxton was a big shot around the station. Rubbed shoulders with the chief constable. I think even Chiller got to go to one of his dinner dances, but not the lowly likes of yours truly.’

‘Too bad.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t a fan, myself. More of a Mantovani man.’

It was certainly true about the different rules back then, Banks knew. The advent of the PACE rules in the eighties along with the updating or repealing of many old acts had changed policing a great deal. On the other hand, Banks thought, there were bent coppers taking bribes to look the other way and lose evidence today, just as there were back then. Maybe it was a bit harder to get away with it these days — so many watchdogs — but it still happened. And sometimes orders came from above to look the other way if a notable person was involved, especially if said notable person had something on notable police persons. That was human nature, and it could only be tempered by rules and law, not completely controlled. You could slide about on the moral scale as much as you wanted, or you could convince yourself that you were certain what was right and what was wrong. Whichever way Banks thought about it, however, ignoring a fourteen-year-old girl’s claims of having been brutally raped came under ‘wrong’. But he realised there was no sense in arguing moral relativism or the tenor of the times with Bradley. The man had been a lowly DC, and it had been nearly fifty years ago. As he said, another age. Best stick to trying to prise out a bit more information.

‘Caxton lived in Otley at the time,’ Banks said. ‘And he was a local big shot. Charity events and the like. Prime high-ranks territory out there, isn’t it? Lawnswood? Bramhope? Poole?’

‘You think he put the kibosh on it? I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened that way,’ Bradley admitted. ‘But it’s more likely there was simply no substance to the complaint. No leads. Nothing to investigate. If the case was buried, though, the orders would have had to have come from higher up than Chiller.’

‘How did he seem about it?’

Bradley scratched his temple. ‘He was a bit broody for a while. He had his moods, did Chiller. I suppose it could have been something to do with that, you know, being told to lay off. He wouldn’t have liked that. Very much his own man, was Chiller. I would imagine that whether or not he thought Caxton might be guilty of such a thing, he’d have liked to have had a look into it himself, just to satisfy his curiosity. But there was nothing he could do by himself, going up against someone like Caxton against orders. That’s the stuff of fiction and, for all his courage, he valued his job.’

‘So he took it seriously?’

‘I’d say he was disturbed by it, yes, but I still think he would have found it hard to believe such a thing of a bloke like Caxton.’

‘What did you think of him?’ Banks asked. ‘Caxton. I mean, when you heard his name in connection with a possible sexual assault.’

‘I didn’t know him, of course. Never met him. But I suppose I thought, nah, never, not him. He’d even been in the station once or twice, so I was told. And he was hardly ever off telly in those days. It’d be like thinking your Uncle Ted was a perv.’

‘Many a person’s Uncle Ted was a perv.’

‘You know what I mean. Familiar. Friendly. Cosy.’

‘It’s a good disguise, don’t you think?’

‘So it would appear now.’

‘Do you remember anything else from around that time?’ Banks asked. ‘Anything DI Chadwick might have said? Or anyone, for that matter? The super? The chief?’

Bradley pursed his lips. ‘I had little truck with any rank higher than Chiller’s, so no to that last part. As I remember, it was around my first anniversary with Leeds CID, the end of my first year working with DI Chadwick. As I said earlier, we had a fair bit of the Summer of Drugs stuff going on, so we found ourselves liaising with the Drugs Squad a lot. There was also the Sexual Offences Act, or the Queer Act, as we called it. You might remember that the House made homosexuality legal between consenting adults in private sometime during that summer. A lot of poofs seemed to take that as open season, and we had more work than ever. I do remember the first murder investigation I ever took a big part in, earlier that summer. A prostitute found floating in the canal down by The Calls. Posh now, with all those fancy restaurants, boutique hotels and flats, but it was a proper warren of crime back then. She’d been stabbed twelve times and dumped there. Foreigner. Polish. I never saw the body, like, only came in later for the legwork.’

‘Did you ever find out who did it?’

‘No. We never did. We suspected the pimp, but he had a cast-iron alibi, of course. There was some speculation later that she might have been one of the Ripper’s first, before the “stone in the sock” murder in 1969. Amazing what you can do with hindsight. But we’d never heard of the Ripper then, and prostitute murders were all too common.’

‘And all too rarely investigated,’ said Banks, remembering his days in Soho in the eighties. ‘Plus ça change.’

‘Limited resources and too long a list of suspects. What can you do? You know as well as I do that most killers are related or in some way close to their victims. And stupid. Normally it doesn’t take you more than a day or so to run them down. But there are some — prostitutes, stranger murders, random killings, clever buggers, gang hits — they’re a little harder and call for more resources.’

‘Do you remember the murder of a bloke called Tony Monaghan, found stabbed in the public toilets in Hyde Park? This would have been a bit later than the Caxton business. October.’

Bradley’s expression turned grim. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember that one, all right.’

At least Gerry hadn’t teased Annie about appearing at work in the same clothes she had worn the day before. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed. Or perhaps she was just being polite. As Annie was suffering through a three extra-strength paracetamol hangover, she was thankful for small mercies. Banks had seemed in good spirits when they had met briefly over morning coffee before she set off for the station and he drove off to Leeds.

Before they left to talk to Paul Warner, Gerry filled Annie in on the previous evening’s developments. The only new information was that DC Doug Wilson had found Albert’s mate Ali in the Wytherton Arms. Unfortunately, Ali proved uninformative when questioned about what he had told Albert about older Pakistanis and underage girls. It was just a rumour, or so he told them. Such rumours were always doing the rounds.

Annie was also more than happy to let Gerry drive her to Wytherton later that day, where they found Paul Warner’s flat on the second floor of an old detached house on the north-western edge of the estate. She understood it wasn’t a part of the estate, wasn’t a council house, but was privately owned and rented.

Paul Warner answered the ring and led them up the carpeted staircase. The hall and stairs seemed recently renovated, and Annie fancied she could even smell fresh paint. At first glance, he wasn’t what Annie had expected. Here was no tattooed skinhead, but a tall, slim, handsome young man with spiky blond hair, casually dressed in a red polo shirt and ice-blue jeans. The living room was a surprise, too: uncluttered, light and airy, walls painted in ivory and cool shades of blue-grey. The ubiquitous flat-screen TV dominated one wall, opposite the three-piece suite, and the window looked out on the main road below. On the other wall was a large bookcase. Banks would probably examine every title, DVDs and CDs too, but Annie just cast a swift eye over them, enough to see that Warner favoured books on history, war and politics, along with a bit of DIY, that he liked action and superhero films and had a box set of Beethoven’s symphonies and Schubert lieder. No metal or grunge. She walked over to the window. Over the road was a row of shops — the usual newsagent, minimart, chippie and betting shop — and the pub, the Hope and Anchor, which had seen better days, stood on the corner. Beyond lay the industrial sprawl of south Teesside. If you looked to the far left, Annie noticed, you could see the start of the open countryside, green fields and rolling hills. The sky had turned a bit threatening, she thought.

‘Nice,’ she said, turning around. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Thank you. I like it,’ said Warner. ‘Please, sit down, both of you. Is this is about Albert’s sister? It’s terrible what happened to her. I really feel for him.’

‘When did you hear?’

‘Last night. Albert told me. He came around in a hell of a state.’

Gerry and Annie sat on the broad sofa. It was as comfortable as it looked. Gerry took out her notebook.

‘I must say this is a cut above the usual bachelor pad we see in our line of work,’ said Annie. ‘I assume it is a bachelor pad?’

‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Warner cast Gerry a sidelong glance and Annie noticed her blush a little. Well, she was about his age, she guessed. Mid-twenties or thereabouts. Significantly older than Albert Moffat. She wondered if Moffat looked up to Paul as some sort of older brother figure. There wasn’t much for him to look up to in Lenny and Johnny at home.

‘I’m not sure I can be of any help, but I’ll try,’ Warner said as he leaned back in one of the armchairs. ‘I’m not averse to helping the boys in blue.’

‘We’re girls, Paul,’ said Annie, ‘in case you haven’t noticed. And as far as I can see, neither of us is wearing blue today.’

Warner laughed. ‘Sorry. Just a common saying, that’s all. My apologies. I can see I’ll have to be on my toes with you two.’

‘Only if you’ve got something to hide.’

‘Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? I’ll try to be as open with you as I can, but first you have to tell me what you want to know.’

‘We want to talk about your pal Albert Moffat,’ Annie said.

‘OK.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘About two years.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘Pub.’

‘Which pub?’

‘The Hope and Anchor, the one on the corner there.’ He pointed towards the window. ‘I’d just moved into the area, and we got talking.’

‘Where did you move from?’ Annie asked.

‘Birmingham.’

‘May I ask why?’

Warner shifted in his armchair. ‘Why does anybody move anywhere?’ he said. ‘For a change, I suppose. And to get away from Birmingham.’

‘You and Albert Moffat became friends right away?’

‘Yes. I suppose we did.’

‘What do you have in common? I must say you seem strange bedfellows.’

‘It’s true that Albert doesn’t always make a great first impression on people, but he’s not as stupid as most people think he is. He’s a bit shy, lacking in confidence, maybe. He’s also a laugh, especially after a few jars. And he has a good heart. He could probably have done a lot better for himself, given the chance, but you have to understand, Albert didn’t have the advantages, his upbringing and everything.’

‘And you did?’

‘I went to a decent school, yes. Pure luck. And I found it easy to do well there, pass exams and stuff.’

‘University?’

‘I tried it for a year. Warwick. Politics and history. I do find the subjects interesting, but I’m afraid I’m not much of an academic.’

‘What about Albert’s racism?’

‘Racism?’

‘Well, he seemed anti-Asian when we talked to him.’

‘Oh, that. You get that a lot around here. People get scared when they see too many dark faces around, don’t you think? Although sometimes I think Albert has a point, however crudely he makes it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool fascist. I don’t worship Hitler and go around beating up Pakis or anything like that. I do happen to have some strong opinions about Europe, immigration policy, migrants, the economy and so on. All Albert lacks is subtlety and intellectual depth in his opinions. I’ve done a bit of background reading in politics, even though I didn’t continue with it. Albert’s even less of an academic than I am.’

‘Yet you still spend time with him. An educated and well-read young man like yourself. How did the relationship develop?’ Annie asked.

‘I don’t know. How does anything develop, really? I lent him a few books. Albert can read, you know, and he’s not too proud to ask questions about things he doesn’t understand. We’d usually end up in the Hope and Anchor or the Coach and Horses, maybe with a few other locals, talking politics or whatever, whether we should stay in Europe or get out, how we should deal with the migrant camps in Calais, curbing immigration quotas, whatever, then sometimes we’d come back here with a six-pack or two and talk and watch DVDs. It’s a lot cheaper to drink at home.’

‘You were moulding his character? Sort of like Pygmalion?’

Warner smiled. ‘Well I’m hardly Henry Higgins, and I can’t see Albert as Eliza Doolittle, but I suppose in a way I might have been moulding him, yes. But not in a really overt way. I mean, I never forced any of my values or opinions on him, just tried to get him to think more deeply about the ones he had, about what he felt. I had a mentor once, when I was about his age, one of my tutors at university, and I learned the value of having someone to look up to. That’s all, really. I don’t think he’s got a lot going for him at home.’

‘Is that what you did last Tuesday?’ Annie went on. ‘Go to the pub then come back here?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time?’

‘We met up in the Hope and Anchor about eight.’

‘Until when?’

‘About ten, maybe a little later.’

‘Was anyone else with you?’

‘Only in the pub. There were about five or six of us.’

‘Did you all leave around ten?’

‘I don’t know. People sort of went their own ways. Albert and I came up here for a few more bevvies, a couple of the lads drifted home, others stayed in the pub.’

‘Right. So how long did you stay here drinking? I assume you were drinking?’

‘Yes. I suppose we stopped up talking and watching DVDs until about two or three in the morning, maybe later, then we crashed out.’

‘What did you watch?’

‘That night? A Bridge Too Far. Oldie but goodie. Albert can’t watch anything he wants at home because they have the TV permanently locked on Sky Sports. Albert’s not a big golf fan.’

‘So Albert Moffat was with you all Tuesday night?’

‘Well, not exactly with me. I don’t swing in that direction, and neither does Albert. But here, yes. He slept on the sofa, like he usually does if he stops over.’

‘He stays here often?’

‘Whenever he wants.’

‘And in the morning?’

‘Lazy sod didn’t wake up until nearly eleven.’

‘Would you say you and Albert were both drunk by the time you crashed out?’

‘Probably. Almost certainly. I had a hell of a headache the next morning.’

Annie felt like saying she knew what he felt like, but that was pushing the empathy with a witness too far. ‘Too drunk to drive?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Do you own a car?’

‘I’ve got a little Citroën van. For work, like.’

‘Where do you keep it?’

‘Outside on the street.’

‘Were you with Albert in Manchester over the weekend?’

‘No, we don’t live in each other’s pockets. And I’m not a great fan of clubbing. The music drives me crazy, that pounding beat and monotonous repetition.’

Annie gestured towards the bookcase. ‘Yes, I noticed you have more refined tastes.’

Warner narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t miss much, do you? It was something I picked up from my mentor a while back. Not that I don’t like pop stuff. I do. I just gained an appreciation of finer things. I’d never listened to classical music before, and when I did I found I liked it.’

‘Did you know Mimosa, Albert’s sister?’ Annie asked.

‘Of course. I’ve been round to Albert’s place a few times. Sometimes she was there. But she was Albert’s kid sister. I wouldn’t say I really knew her well.’

‘Were they close?’

‘I think so. He was protective towards her. I mean, it was a difficult family, so I would imagine they relied on one another a lot. They were separated by the age difference, of course, as well as gender. But she could be quite mature for her age.’

‘So you’ve talked to her?’

‘On occasion, yes. She helped us with jobs once or twice. Just little things like passing a can of paint up a stepladder or something. She seemed to appreciate having somewhere to hang out other than home. I can’t say I blame her, having met the family.’

‘Was this recently?’

‘No, not for a while now.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Mimsy? Probably not much different from most girls her age, though I can’t say I have much experience to go on. I don’t have any siblings. I suppose she spent most of her time thinking about make-up and dreaming about pop stars and the like. But she was always pleasant enough when I saw her. She seemed bright. More so than Albert, I’d say.’

‘In what way?’

‘She was quick to grasp your meaning, even when you were being ironic. She was naive though, I think, in some ways. Not very well read. But talented. A good sketch artist. At least to my untutored eye.’

‘Would you say she was easily manipulated?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I never saw anyone try to manipulate her. I imagine she would be keen to please. She lacked confidence and made it up by being a bit mouthy, but I got the feeling that she’d been let down a lot in her life and she wanted to make a good impression.’

‘Albert said she didn’t suffer fools gladly.’

‘I doubt she did. I can’t say I saw any evidence of it, but if she felt slighted or put down she could certainly let you have a mouthful.’

‘Did Albert tell you about Mimosa hanging out with a Pakistani bloke down on the Strip?’

‘What? No. Why would he tell me something like that? Even if it was true. Was this recently?’

‘Maybe he thought you’d help him do something about it? You wouldn’t approve, would you? Didn’t you say you agreed with him about immigrants?’

‘Not exactly. And my approval doesn’t come into it. I don’t approve of mixed marriages, as a matter of fact, but they were hardly about to get married, were they?’

‘Who?’

‘Mimsy and this person you’re talking about.’

‘Have you heard of grooming?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s hard not to these days, isn’t it?’

‘Would it surprise you to hear that we think it might have been going on along the Strip, and that Mimosa, and perhaps even some of her friends, had been groomed?’

‘Good God, that’s awful. And the police haven’t done anything?’

‘We’ve only just found about it,’ Annie said, feeling as if she were apologising. ‘We’re not even certain we’re right yet.’

‘It’s an appalling thought. I had absolutely no idea that anything like that could have been going on. I suppose it wasn’t something I thought could happen here, not practically on my own doorstep. I saw the news about Rochdale and all the rest, of course. But they all seemed so far away from Wytherton in so many ways.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Annie. She glanced at Gerry, who put away her notebook, and they got up to leave. ‘I think that’s all for now,’ Annie said, holding her hand out to shake. ‘Thanks for your time, Paul.’

Warner shook. ‘Of course. If there’s anything else...’

‘Naturally. We’ll be in touch.’

When they got outside, Gerry noted down the licence number of the white Citroën Nemo. paul warner, painting and decorating was written on the side above a phone number, which Gerry also copied down. ‘He’s certainly an odd one, isn’t he?’ she said.

‘Indeed he is,’ said Annie. ‘A real fish out of water. But I think he’s given Albert Moffat a convincing alibi.’

‘Any particular reason you remember the Tony Monaghan murder?’ Banks asked.

‘It was my first body, for a start, and a nasty one at that.’ Bradley screwed up his face with the effort of memory. ‘I won’t forget it in a hurry. The smelly toilets, being cooped up in that tiny space with the body and all. It made me gag. Hard to believe it’s an Indian restaurant now. It was still early days for me, remember, and it took me a good few times before I could approach a murder scene with a settled stomach. A queer murder. They were usually easy enough to solve, too, but we got nowhere with that one. Not that we didn’t work hard at it, whatever you might think. At least at first.’

‘I don’t think anything. Tell me about it.’

Bradley looked up at the clouds, as if for inspiration, then said, ‘We got a call to the public conveniences in Hyde Park. Very public and very convenient, if you know what I mean. The new act may have made homosexuality legal, but you still got a lot of rent boys and the like trawling for trade in these sort of places.’ He glanced at Winsome. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not homophobic, any more than I’m racist. I was all for making it legal, but some of the creatures that crept out of the gutter, or from under stones, were enough to make your skin crawl.’

‘This victim wasn’t a rent boy,’ said Banks.

‘No. He wasn’t. Not in this case. He was in his late twenties, as far as we could tell, nicely dressed, wearing a wedding ring. Stabbed, as you say. Eight or nine times, as I remember. We thought maybe he was a prospective customer who’d tried it on with the wrong person. I mean, some people did just go there for a piss, you know, if they didn’t know any better. And he was a stranger to the area, up from London, so I remember.’

‘Was robbery a motive?’

‘We certainly considered it. Pockets emptied. Maybe even a drug deal gone wrong. There was plenty of that around, too.’

‘So you couldn’t identify him at first?’

‘No. Only later, when we asked around. He had a card from a hotel in his top pocket — something the killer must have missed. That led us to the Queen’s Hotel in City Square, and then to his room. We found out he was from London. His name was Tony Monaghan. He worked for an advertising agency.’

‘Philby, Leyland and Associates,’ said Banks. ‘How far did you get with that investigation?’

‘Not far at all, beyond identifying the body and noting the cause of death. We interviewed a few people we knew were habitués of that particular public toilet, but we didn’t get anywhere with them. We talked to a few people at the hotel, but nobody knew anything about him. He hadn’t been staying there long and he was on his own. We even canvassed some of the students who lived nearby. One lad told me he was on his way home from a party late on the night in question, and he saw two men carrying a third slumped between them, as if he was drunk, like. He said he thought it seemed funny because the two men didn’t look like students — you get plenty of drunkenness and that sort of thing around the university — but they were like thugs, like boxers or all-in wrestlers. “Two burly bald blokes without necks”, was how he put it, if I remember correctly. He didn’t like the looks of them, so he got out of the way sharpish, like, before they saw him. The timing matched, but we couldn’t get any further with it. There was no CCTV back then like there is these days. And it was a filthy night, raining and all, so the lad could have been mistaken. We did our best to carry out a thorough search of the park for a murder weapon or any other trace evidence, but we found nothing, and if there had been any trace evidence the rain would have washed it away.’

‘But the two men could have been carrying Tony Monaghan’s body towards the toilets?’

‘They could have been.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I took the student’s statement. That was it. We had a twelve-year-old kid stabbed and dumped on some wasteland near Leeds Parish Church, so we gave all our attention to that. It was a nasty one. Kid, and all.’

‘Did you solve that?’

‘Oh, aye. Eventually. Stepfather confessed early in 1968. He’d been abusing the boy and he’d threatened to tell. It was a busy time. There was plenty of other stuff we worked on. Robberies, drugs, assaults, prostitution rings and so on, but these are the ones that stick in your mind over time.’

‘True enough. Did you get the student’s name?’

‘I did, at the time, but I can’t remember it now.’

‘Was there a post-mortem on Monaghan?’

‘I’m sure there was,’ Bradley said. ‘But...’

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s funny, but a while later, sometime the following year, I tried to locate some of the Monaghan files, including the PM report.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘A similar case. Similar MO, at any rate. There was no gay angle, though, and it turned out to be a complete red herring. Bloke stabbed near a notorious public convenience. But it was the wife. Found out his dirty little secret and followed him there.’

‘It was the similarity in method and location that sent you looking for the Monaghan files?’

‘Yes. But I couldn’t find them, couldn’t find any post-mortem report, nothing.’

‘So within a year or so of what you admit was a superficial investigation, all traces of the crime had been somehow expunged from your files?’

‘The files themselves had been taken. That’s the only explanation for it.’

‘Did you challenge DI Chadwick on it?’

‘I asked him if he knew where they were, but he said he didn’t. He was evasive. Said something about the chief constable taking an interest.’

‘Edward Crammond?’

Bradley gave Banks a sharp glance. ‘You do work fast. Yes, Chief Constable Edward Crammond. A right bastard. And a reputation for hobnobbing with the rich and famous.’

‘Including Caxton?’

‘Indeed. You know what became of him, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Both he and Chief Superintendent McCullen were dismissed for accepting bribes from a prominent Leeds drug dealing gang in 1974. We found it in some old files.’ Banks thought he heard a distant rumble of thunder. He looked towards Winsome and indicated that she should pick up the questioning, as they had determined on the drive down. After all, she had done most of the background work on the Monaghan case so far.

‘Did you find any link between the young girl’s complaint and the Tony Monaghan murder?’ Winsome asked.

Bradley seemed surprised by the question. ‘Nay, lass. There weren’t none. Not as I recall.’

‘Whose decision was it to take no further action on the Monaghan murder?’

‘That would have come from high up, just like with Caxton.’

‘Chief Constable Edward Crammond?’

‘Very likely.’

‘Why would he have the files removed?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you guess?’

‘Aye,’ said Bradley. ‘Same as you can. And no doubt we’d come to the same conclusion.’

‘How did you experience it?’ she asked. ‘Down in the trenches. How was it put to you? I mean, I’m not long beyond being a mere DC myself, so I do have a clear memory of what it’s like down there, even now. I’ve still no idea what the brass are thinking.’ She glanced at Banks. ‘Not even him, half the time. I just get on with my job, do what I’m told.’

‘Aye. That’s the way it was then, too.’

‘So if someone told you that was it, forget it, the case was closed, that’s exactly what you’d do, no questions asked?’

‘Of course,’ said Bradley. ‘Unless you’re Philip Marlowe or someone. You know as well as I do they don’t have to give you a reason.’

‘Was that how it happened?’

‘As far as I can remember,’ said Bradley. ‘One day I was talking to Monaghan’s employers in London about the reason for his visit, the next thing Chiller came in and told me the case was over and done with. I asked him if that meant we’d got someone for it, but he just said no and walked out. End of story. Then, like I said, the files disappeared.’

‘How did he seem when he told you this?’

‘Chiller? Proper pissed off, if you’ll pardon my language.’

‘Weren’t you curious about what happened?’

‘Course I was, love. But I valued my job. And even if I’d wanted to, I didn’t have time or the resources to go gallivanting about following up personal investigations. That sort of thing only happens on telly.’

‘So that was the end of Tony Monaghan. Stabbed in a public toilet.’

‘If you care to look at it that way.’

‘What other way is there?’

‘Some lifestyles are more dangerous than others. If you hang around notorious public toilets looking for rough trade you’re taking a risk.’

‘But Monaghan was a stranger in town,’ said Winsome. ‘How would he know?’

Bradley tapped the side of his nose. ‘They knew. They all knew. There’s a network.’

Banks finished the last of his tea. It was cold and slightly bitter. ‘Simon,’ he said, ‘did you have any reason at all to think there was something fishy about the Tony Monaghan murder?’

‘What? You mean other than the student’s statement, being asked to drop the case and the files disappearing?’

‘Well, that made two in a row that got quickly dropped, unless I’m missing something. Close together, too.’

‘But they were different. I mean, I never really thought about the Caxton thing like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the way we were talking about it earlier. Orders from above. You know. I never connected the two at all. I just assumed the girl must have been making it up.’

‘And Monaghan?’

Bradley glanced out over the back garden. It wasn’t as colourful as the front, but it was clearly well tended and cared for. ‘It just didn’t feel right,’ he said eventually.

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bradley gave a little shiver and tapped his stomach. ‘Haven’t you ever had that feeling, a sort of gut instinct? You just know there’s something wrong — what the Americans call hinky — and you can’t quite grasp it.’

‘Did you ever have any reason to think Tony Monaghan might not have been a homosexual?’ Winsome asked. ‘Despite where his body was found. That his death might have been staged in some way?’

‘Well, I did for a while, when I took the student’s statement, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought he might have been mistaken.’

‘Did you ever come across any evidence to prove that Monaghan was a homosexual?’ Winsome asked.

Bradley thought for a moment. ‘Well, no, not really.’

‘You knew he was married?’

‘He was wearing a wedding ring, and we found out just a day or two later that he had a wife, yes. But none of that really counted for anything. There were plenty of homos who were married. Especially then. They felt it gave them some sort of immunity, or maybe they were in denial. We just made the assumption that he used his business trips around the country to satisfy his perverse cravings.’

‘Did you talk to Monaghan’s wife?’

‘I didn’t. No.’

‘Did DI Chadwick?’

‘I don’t know. If he did, he didn’t say anything to me about it.’

‘But it is possible that Monaghan might not have been gay, isn’t it?’ Winsome persisted.

‘I suppose so. But what was he doing there?’

‘Maybe it was as you said earlier. Maybe he just needed to use the toilet. Did you find out where he’d been that evening? Had he been drinking? Dinner with friends? Business colleagues? I mean, if he’d had a few pints, it would make sense that he’d need to relieve himself. Where was he coming from? Which direction was he heading? Back to the hotel? Why was he walking alone?’

‘We didn’t get to ask all those questions. Who could we have asked them of? We didn’t get time to trace his movements.’

‘So maybe the student was right, after all. But didn’t it bother you? You said you talked to his employer in London. Did you find out what he was working on up north?’

‘No. They said they respected their clients’ confidentiality. I argued with them, but it was no good. They said I’d have had to get a court order, and the whole investigation came to a halt before I could do anything like that.’

‘Did you ever wonder why?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Come up with any ideas?’

‘Not really.’

‘Would it surprise you to find out that Tony Monaghan was in Leeds because he worked for Danny Caxton, who was appearing in pantomime in Bradford that Christmas?’

Bradley flinched as if he’d been kicked. ‘I’d bloody well say it would, yes. Where did you find that out?’

‘It came up in our inquiries,’ Winsome said. ‘So you’ve got two cases now, only weeks apart, both nipped in the bud, and both starring Danny Caxton. What do you think of that?’

‘I don’t know what to think. If I’d known at the time—’

‘Oh, come on, Simon,’ Banks cut in. ‘Surely you’ve got a bit of imagination.’

‘Well... I suppose, you know, if Monaghan was queer and he was connected with someone high up—’

‘Like Caxton? Or a senior police officer?’

‘Maybe the chief constable. Or a local politician, bigwig, whatever. Well, if there was a such a connection, maybe a little influence had been brought to bear. They’d want to keep something like that quiet, wouldn’t they, legal or not.’

‘Do you think DI Chadwick knew about this connection?’

‘No. I very much doubt it,’ said Bradley. ‘I think they kept him as much in the dark as they did me. Like I said, he seemed pissed off at being told to give it up. See, there was always one thing that rankled.’

‘Oh?’ said Banks. ‘And what was that?’

‘It was the body. I mean, it was gruesome enough, and all, no doubt about that.’

‘So what was wrong?’

‘The position, partly. It just didn’t seem right, Chiller thought, didn’t seem natural he would have fallen the way he had.’

‘But you don’t know for certain that’s what happened?’

‘It’s what the pathologist said at the scene. Course, we never got a proper post-mortem report. Not that I ever saw.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Look, I’m bloody gobsmacked by all this. Are you sure you’re right?’

‘We only have a few facts, Mr Bradley,’ said Winsome. ‘That’s all. What we’ve told you is true as far as it goes. Obviously, we need to know a lot more. Can you think of anything else?’

‘Just something Chiller said. I wouldn’t have known because it was my first, like.’

‘What was it?’

‘There wasn’t enough blood. If he’d been killed where we found him, he wouldn’t have fallen the way he was lying and there would have been a lot more blood.’

‘Did the pathologist remark on this?’ Banks asked.

‘I think so. It’s a long time ago. But if he did, it was in a sort of offhand way, like it might not mean anything, or there might be a simple explanation. I’ve since found out that not all knife wounds bleed a lot. The cut ends sort of form a seal. But one of the thrusts had severed a major artery, the femoral. There should have been more blood. But, like I said earlier, the weather was foul and we certainly didn’t find any traces of blood in the park.’

‘So DI Chadwick suspected that your student might have been right about what he saw, and Tony Monaghan was killed elsewhere and dumped in the toilets?’ Banks said.

‘I’m not sure he actually came out with it like that, but yes, it seems that way.’

‘Which brings a whole lot of assumptions into question,’ said Banks, giving Winsome the nod to get ready to leave. ‘Simon, I know it’s not easy, remembering,’ he said. ‘But do you think you could write down what you’ve just told us, and anything else you can remember about the case?’ Banks gave him a card. ‘You can email it to me, if you like. Or fax it.’

Bradley took the card. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He smiled at Winsome. ‘Nice to meet you, lass.’ He stood up and shook their hands. ‘Let me—’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Banks. ‘We can find our way out. Thanks.’

As they were leaving, Banks glanced behind him. He had noticed a cabinet by the wall, and he saw a pale Bradley open its door and take out a bottle of dark amber liquid. Just before he closed the front door behind him, he heard Bradley call out, ‘Pam? Pam? Where’s the bloody glasses, love? I need a drink.’

Excerpt from Linda Palmer’s Memoir

Gerry kicked off her shoes and went over to turn on the shaded table lamp. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but it was getting there. It had been a long day, and all she wanted to do was put her feet up with a good book and a cup of herbal tea. First, though, she went into the bedroom and changed out of her work clothes. She felt a bit sticky from the day’s humidity and thought a shower might help — one of her little luxuries was that the flat came with a power shower — so she got straight in before she could talk herself out of it. Coming out feeling and smelling clean with her long hair still wet and hanging over her shoulders, she put on tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt and walked through to the small kitchenette to put the kettle on.

The flat she rented on the fringes of Eastvale College campus was a sort of attic that took up the top floor of an old house. Not exactly a penthouse, but she had a nice view beyond the streets of student housing and the college itself to the woods and hills in the west beyond. She could even see the meandering silver line of the River Swain as it made its progress into Eastvale from its source high in the hills. The living room was spacious and comfortable, with a dormer window, sofa and two armchairs, the bedroom adequate, the en suite a delight and the kitchenette all right if all you wanted was tea and toast. There was no cooker, but there was a hotplate for fry-ups, not that she ever ate those. Mostly she ate out, and lightly at that. It was a student area so there were plenty of cheap cafes and takeaways of every variety — even kebab and pizza combined.

Gerry opened the window and felt the merest hint of a breeze. She could hear the sound of a student party from across the street — the occasional whoop over pounding dance beats. They wouldn’t go on too late, they never did, except at the end of term. Now it was mostly just summer students. The threatening sky that had dogged most of the day and presaged a storm seemed to have broken up without coming to fruition, and she could see a half moon through a rent in the cloud cover and, here and there, a bright star shining through a thin veil of cloud.

She made her tea and sat in the comfortable armchair she liked best for reading. With some Chopin nocturnes playing quietly in the background, she picked up her Kindle and started reading Fifty Shades of Grey. It had taken her two years to get around to it after an acquaintance in her Pilates class had recommended it, and it took her about fifteen minutes to press ‘Home’. It wasn’t just the bad writing, she didn’t get the point of it. She wasn’t a prude, though it had been a while since she’d had a boyfriend. That was because she didn’t have the time, not lack of inclination — now her life was all studying for exams, courses, and work work work. There was simply no room for a boyfriend, and she was not the kind of girl to favour one-night stands or the casual fuck-buddy arrangement. Sometimes she felt sad and lonely, but mostly she loved her job and its possibilities so much she didn’t mind too much. She scrolled through her small collection for something else to read and decided on Elena Ferrante’s latest in the Neapolitan series. She had followed the adventures of Elena and Lila right from the start.

Before she could get very far, her mobile buzzed. She had to hurry to get it out of her briefcase and just managed to press the on button before the call went through to answering.

At first there was a disconcerting silence, then a small voice said, ‘Is this who I spoke to before?’

‘It’s me,’ said Gerry.

‘You gave me your number.’

‘Yes. Are you Jade?’

‘Who told you that? It’s not my real name.’

‘What’s your real name?’

‘You can call me Jade.’

‘What is it, Jade? What can I do?’

‘You said to ring if I... if I ever just... you know... wanted to.’

‘That’s right. Is something wrong?’

‘Nothing’s changed. Everything’s quiet. But I’m going away.’

‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know yet. Far away from them. I’ve got a few ideas.’

‘What do you want from me, Jade?’

‘I want to talk to you.’ There was another pause, shorter this time. ‘There’s things I want to tell you before I go. Things about me and Mimsy.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Not on the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?’

‘Can you come to me? In Eastvale?’

‘No. I’ve got no money, for a start. And I might be seen. I’m safe where I am.’

‘OK. Say where.’

‘Up on the estate, right on the eastern edge, there’s a couple of terraces they’re going to knock down. All the houses are condemned and boarded up. Nobody goes there.’

‘Right.’

‘But I know how to get in the one just past the broken playground. Number thirty-six. Mimsy and me used to hang out there when we wanted to get away from them for a while. We’d just smoke and talk and share a bottle. Have a laugh, you know. One of the boards over the front door is loose, the one in the middle. You just swing it to the left, like a sliding door.’

‘I’ve got that,’ Gerry said. ‘What’s the broken playground?’

‘You’ll know it when you see it. It’s Leinster Street, right opposite that abandoned factory. You can’t miss it. But don’t park outside. Someone might notice a car parked right out front. Park around the corner, OK? There’s usually plenty of space.’

‘OK, Jade. When?’

‘Soon as you can get here. And can you bring me a sarnie or something?’

‘What sort?’

‘Anything. I’m fucking starving.’

‘It’ll take me about three-quarters of an hour to get there.’

‘I’ll be here. Be careful. Keep your eyes open. Things might seem quiet, but I’m sure they’re still watching.’

‘Who is?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

‘Jade, I can’t do that. It’s not—’

‘If you don’t promise me you won’t tell anyone, I won’t be here. And come by yourself. I can tell you what you want to know, but not on the phone.’

‘Jade, I—’

‘Will you promise me?’

Now it was Gerry’s turn to pause as the thoughts whizzed through her mind. Without fully considering any of the options, she said, ‘Yes. I promise,’ and the line went dead.

After, as she stood there holding the mobile in her hand, she felt a chill run up her spine despite the warm night air. What had she done? What had she agreed to? What if it was a trap? But why should Jade try to trap her? She’d said she was going away, and this was no doubt her parting shot against the men who had shamed and humiliated her and Mimsy. Gerry understood the need for secrecy well enough, but she also knew that if she went under Jade’s rules, there was a strong likelihood that nothing she got would be of any use in court. Even if that were the case, at least she would have names and the full story, so they would know where to focus their investigation. The only things she could rely on happening were another bollocking and a possible suspension, or worse. And even if Jade had no reason to set a trap for her, she could be the bait. The gang that had groomed Jade and Mimsy, or the men who had raped Mimsy, could be behind it, even the killer. Maybe Jade was being held against her will, forced to do this. But that made no sense, Gerry told herself; she was just being paranoid.

She knew that she should call DI Cabbot immediately and go in with a team, but when it came down to it Jade was still just a kid, whatever her experiences. Gerry couldn’t bring herself to break a promise or to leave her out there alone. No doubt too many people had broken promises to Jade in her young life already, and Gerry didn’t want to be just another person who let her down. It was a miracle she trusted anyone to start with. She tried to think what DI Cabbot or Detective Superintendent Banks would do in her situation, and she thought they would go. She would try to bring Jade in, she determined, try to persuade her to come and make an official statement, offer to protect her from the men.

But she had to go, and she had to go on Jade’s terms. Before she left, she had a look in her fridge to see what she’d got for a sandwich.

Burgess had chosen the Indian restaurant on Market Street, not far from where Banks and Sandra used to live in Eastvale, partly because it stayed open late. Banks had only eaten takeaway from there before, and it had always been good. The meal that evening, with accompanying canned sitar music, dim lighting and cold lager, was also good.

Burgess licked his fingers after shoving a vindaloo-loaded piece of naan in his mouth and reached for his glass. ‘Bloody hot,’ he said, when he could speak.

Banks was sticking to the chicken tikka masala, which was spicy enough, but not so hot it burned his taste buds to a crisp. He found that the older he got, the lower his tolerance for curries.

‘By the way, how’s your Annie’s case going? I heard there’s been a few shenanigans there.’

‘Nothing much,’ said Banks. ‘A superintendent’s nose out of joint.’

‘Grooming, isn’t it?’

‘We think so.’

Burgess shovelled in another mouthful of vindaloo. ‘Thought so. Nasty business. What is it with that lot? You’d think the only bloody career choices they had was paedo pimp or terrorist.’

‘I see you haven’t changed.’

‘Well, I ask you. I thought we should touch base on Caxton, as it seems we’ve both been busy.’

‘Well, I know I have.’

‘It’s coming together. The Met’s working on active complaints from Brighton to Carlisle, about twenty-five in all between the mid-sixties and mid-eighties. He’s no Jimmy Savile or Cyril Smith, unless we’re only getting the tip of the iceberg, but he’s no Boy Scout, either.’

‘What’s the age range?’

‘Youngest is thirteen, oldest seventeen. And he’s not fussy about venue. One audience member from Do Your Own Thing! in the dressing room. You remember they used to invite a load of screaming teenage girls in the studio if they had a wannabe Cliff Richard or Elvis on?’

Banks nodded. He’d seen the programme.

‘Another in his dressing room at a panto. Puss in Boots. I wonder if he has a sense of irony. Several girls at a home for disturbed teens he supported for a while in the early seventies.’

‘You think they’ll stand up? I mean, everyone’s kept it quiet for so long.’

‘By sheer number alone, I’d say. But we’ve got a lot more than that. We’ve got names, dates, places and a hell of a pile of missing crime reports.’

‘Snap,’ said Banks. ‘He had quite a talent for disappearing things, it seems. Should’ve been a stage magician.’

‘That’s what happens when you take the time and effort to lose at golf to every chief constable in the country.’ Burgess called the waiter over and ordered two more lagers. ‘We’ve also been getting some interesting calls from retired police officers. Mostly junior at the time. They don’t want to be seen as turning a blind eye. They say they knew about Caxton, and others like him, and they wanted to stop it, but any attempts were blocked from higher up. You know as well as I do that the police force is a hierarchical institution, almost military in its fastidiousness about chain of command. Now you and I might be a bit... unorthodox... shall we say. But most coppers do what they’re told. The smooth running of the force depends on it. But that doesn’t mean they don’t grind their teeth in frustration when they see something like this going unchecked and unpunished. We’ve got allies, Banksy. People who remember stuff. People who will come forward. People who aren’t afraid to stand up and be counted, now they’ve got their pensions.’

‘I’m sure that Linda’s case will make a convincing one.’

‘Convincing? You’re our flagship case. I’ve read your reports. Think she’ll be able to convince a jury?’

Banks sipped some lager and thought for a moment. ‘If anything goes against Linda,’ he said, ‘it’ll be her calmness. The only emotion she showed was when she saw the photos of Monaghan and Caxton in the old newspaper file. And that passed quickly. People won’t see a victim with a life blighted by Caxton’s abuse. They won’t see a broken woman, a junkie, a loser. She’s got herself together, she’s succeeded in making something of herself. But the scars are there, nonetheless, the damage was done. I think her emotional honesty, intelligence and directness will have to carry the day for her.’

‘In a court of law? Blimey, that could be a first. But don’t worry. From what I can see, you’ve got the goods. Besides, we don’t want every victim blubbering in the witness box about how her life’s been ruined by what Caxton did. That might sound a bit callous, but there it is. Too much emotion can sometimes cheapen a solid case.’

‘Maybe. I’ve asked her to write things down, to see if she can come up with more detail.’

‘The more, the better. I see you also tracked down the second man quickly enough. Nice bit of detective work.’

‘Tony Monaghan. Yes, Linda Palmer recognised him from a photo in the Yorkshire Evening Post archives. A picture that appeared after his body was found in a public toilet in Leeds, unfortunately, so it doesn’t really get us anywhere.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was hoping we’d have a live witness.’

‘True enough, that would probably clinch it.’ Burgess took another sip of lager. ‘Look, we’ve got three other complainants so far telling us that they were raped by another man after Caxton. This was in the late seventies, so it certainly wasn’t your Tony Monaghan, but there seems to be a pattern of sorts.’

‘Any leads as to their identities?’

‘Unfortunately, no. The accusers remember nothing about them, and there were no handy photos in newspapers, either. It’s my guess they were employees of Caxton’s performing a similar role to Monaghan, from gofer to fixer. He obviously let his minions have sloppy seconds from time to time. We’re working on a list of all the man’s employees through the ages, so we’ll have a lot of names to check out. Your DS Jackman’s doing a grand job on background, by the way. Some of them have to be still alive. We should have a few more people to interview eventually.’

‘Good. It’s a pity about Monaghan.’

‘Yes. But you must have your suspicions about the murder?’

‘Naturally. And we’ll be investigating it. But that’s all they are. Suspicions.’

Their pints arrived, and they clinked glasses. ‘Cheers,’ said Burgess. He pushed his plate away. ‘That’s enough of that.’ Banks noticed it was almost empty. He worked on the remainder of his tikka masala and naan.

‘I found out today that the Tony Monaghan murder investigation was shut down, too,’ said Banks, ‘according to DI Chadwick’s old oppo Simon Bradley. And the case files mysteriously disappeared. I’d say from all I’ve heard that Chief Constable Edward Crammond is in the frame for it.’

‘Which makes it even more suspicious and more likely to be linked with Caxton,’ said Burgess. ‘He had the clout to close down investigations, he knew chief constables, and it seems to have become a habit with him from what I’ve seen.’

‘Good point,’ Banks agreed. ‘But I don’t think you can convict a man for murder by trying to argue that he’d influenced several other investigations so he must have influenced that one, too.’

‘No, but you can argue that he could have influenced that one, and once you get that pattern in a jury’s mind, it’s as good as done. But what are we speculating about this for? Caxton’s going down for the girls. Monaghan’s murder is icing on the cake if we can make it stick.’

‘A separate charge?’

‘It’ll have to be. They all will, or all we’ve got is similar fact evidence, and you know what judges think about that. And you’ll have to get a bit more than you’ve got already.’

‘A confession would be nice,’ Banks said. ‘Otherwise, it’ll never be more than speculation.’

Burgess rubbed his forehead. ‘I went to see Caxton yesterday. And that slimy lawyer of his. Confronted them with one or two things. I don’t think we’ll ever get a confession out of him. Bastard doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.’

‘That was the impression I got, too.’

‘Thing is, I’d like you to have another word with him.’

‘I don’t have much new to question him about.’

‘You’ve got Tony Monaghan. The murder. Throw that in his face. See how he reacts. Suggest you know he had something to do with it. Play the gay card. He seemed to be faltering a bit yesterday. He’s old and he tires easily. Hit him while he’s on the ropes. That’s what I say.’

Banks felt a bit queasy about attacking a tired and weak old man, but he thought back on Linda Palmer’s ordeal, not to mention all the other victims, and reminded himself who he was dealing with. ‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow, while he’s still recovering from your visit.’

Burgess punched Banks’s arm. ‘I was nice as pie. Like a conversation between two old mates.’

‘I’ll bet. What do you think, do we pester him at home or bring him in?’

Burgess frowned for a moment, then said. ‘Go see him at home once more. Gives ’em a feeling of intrusion, contamination. Next time, we’ll have him down the nick.’

‘That’ll be fun.’ Banks sipped some lager.

‘Come on, Banksy, why don’t we finish our drinks and pay up? Then we can go and see how that buxom blond Australian barmaid’s doing at the Queen’s Arms.’