When the Music's Over

14

Banks was still trying to guess from Chief Superintendent Gervaise’s tone on the telephone what he was likely to be walking into when he went up to her office, as requested. At least she was alone in there, he thought with some relief, after he had knocked and entered. No Adrian Moss, Superintendent Carver or ACC McLaughlin. She even offered him coffee, which he accepted, and they sat down at her circular glass conference table, not the more formal desk.

‘Guess, what, Alan,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a call from the chief constable.’

‘I was wondering when that would happen. I’m surprised it took so long.’

‘Apparently, Danny Caxton’s lawyer Bernard Feldman called and complained about police harassment. He’s had two visits in the last two days, apparently, one of them from you.’

‘So what do we do, pack up our tents and go home?’

‘Hold your horses, o ye of little faith. If you want the short version, our lord and master told him to sod off.’

‘He what? The CC told Feldman and to sod off?’

‘And Caxton. Uh-huh.’

‘So they never played golf together.’

‘The CC had a message for you, too.’

‘What?’

Gervaise leaned forward. ‘ “Put the bastard away.” So it’s my brief to ask you if you’re any closer to doing just that. What’s brewing, in other words? Are we going to put the bastard away?’

Banks scratched his temple. ‘Well, to be honest, I’ve been preoccupied with Annie’s case this past little while — as you might have noticed — we’re very short-staffed.’

‘Budget cuts, Alan, budget cuts. Make do and mend.’

‘I know, I know. I was lucky to get the promotion when I did, blah-blah-blah. Even so, things have been a bit hectic, as you know.’

‘So you’ve made no progress?’

‘I’m not saying that. No need to take your coffee back. I’ve had my team of highly trained elves working on it night and day.’

‘And what has DS Jackman come up with?’

‘She’s been digging deep into Caxton’s past, and she’s come up with plenty since we talked to him yesterday. You know we think he was involved in the murder of Tony Monaghan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Naturally, there’s no hard evidence. It’s all disappeared, if it ever existed. But we do have a little more powder to add to our arsenal.’

‘Circumstantial?’

‘Most of it is, yes. But there are witnesses. Linda Palmer. Simon Bradley.’

‘OK. So what did your “elves” dig up?’

‘Three things of immediate significance, I think. In the first place, remember Linda Palmer saw that photo on the front page of the Yorkshire Evening Post for the twenty-seventh of October, 1967, just two weeks after Monaghan’s murder? It shows Caxton, with a big cheesy grin on his face, handing over a cheque — well one of those enormous, fake cheques, if you know what I mean — for £10,000 for the Police Widows and Orphans fund. As you can imagine, that was a lot of money in those days. We’ve got a bit more on it now.’

‘Where did this money come from?’

‘Caxton raised it through telethons and fund-raising drives, personal appearances and the like.’

‘Well we can hardly fault the man for raising money for charity.’

‘It’s not so much that, it’s who’s in the picture with him. I’ll have a copy sent up to you later. For a start, Caxton’s handing the cheque to Chief Constable Edward Crammond, who Simon Bradley told me was behind axing the investigation into Monaghan’s murder around the time the picture was taken. Also present was Detective Chief Superintendent Dennis McCullen, DI Chadwick’s SIO on the case.’

‘Are you saying that the charitable donation was a bribe?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Banks. ‘You couldn’t do things like that, even then. It’s just one of a number of things that show how closely Caxton was linked to the local constabulary at the time. He was known to be a mate of Crammond’s, same golf club and all, best seats at Headingley for the test match every year. Winsome’s still digging to see if she can find more.’

‘It’s not much, though, is it,’ said Gervaise, the tip of her pencil against her Cupid’s bow lips.

‘What do you mean? Not worth a refill?’ Banks held out his empty cup.

‘Cheeky bastard.’ Gervaise grinned. ‘But you can get it yourself.’

Banks did. ‘So that’s one investigation we’ve still got going on,’ he said. ‘Caxton’s relationship with local men of influence, especially high-ranking police officers. And you can bet that’ll spiral when the other counties get as deeply stuck into their investigations as we have and start looking for lost statements and the like.’

‘Are you saying that Caxton was involved in Monaghan’s murder and got Crammond to put a lid on the investigation?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘It had better be more than “something like” if Adrian and the press ever get hold of it, let alone if it goes to court.’

‘I realise that. But there’s more. Simon Bradley mentioned a witness, a student who was crossing Hyde Park the same night Monaghan was killed. From what Bradley can remember, the lad saw two men carrying a third between them. He appeared drunk, but could have been dead. It could have been Monaghan.’

‘Could have been? Did he get a good look? Does Bradley remember the details? Can we locate this student?’

‘No. But Bradley does remember the young lad said the men were scary enough that he made sure they didn’t see him. He said he thought they were bruisers of some sort, a couple of burly blokes with no necks and shaved heads.’

‘And?’

‘And after a bit of digging, Winsome came up with the Stott brothers, a couple of burly blokes with shaved heads and no necks, one of whom was a boxer.’

‘And they were?’

‘A couple of local Leeds villains, muscle, enforcement, mercenary. Both dead now. One by violence. Winsome’s trying to find out more about them, but the one link we do have is that they were bouncers at a Bradford disco Caxton part-owned around the time of Monaghan’s murder. They also ran a Leeds boxing club he supported. One of his “youth” projects. Apparently the disco was a place Caxton used to like to visit, we think because he liked the young girls it attracted. But as I say, Winsome’s digging deeper. There’s definitely a connection. Caxton knew the Stotts, and he could have hired them to kill Monaghan and make it look like a gay murder. They were known to favour flick knives, as well as their fists.’

‘Was Monaghan killed by a flick knife?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘All the files have disappeared, including the post-mortem report and forensic examinations, if there were any.’

‘Pity. It’s still “could have”, Alan. And good luck to DS Jackman. After all this time, she’ll need it. You know we’ll never be able to prove that Caxton hired a couple of deceased thugs fifty years ago, don’t you? You said three developments. What’s the third? I hope it’s a bit better than the last two.’

‘Tony Monaghan’s widow. You remember, Winsome said she was following up on that? Well, she discovered that Ursula Monaghan remarried in 1974 and became Ursula Pemberton. She was widowed for the second time in 2009, natural causes this time, and she now lives just up the Northumberland coast.’

‘She’s still alive?’

‘As far as Winsome could gather. She checked the electoral rolls and DVLA in Swansea. Ursula Pemberton still votes, pays her council tax and has a valid driving licence. Think about it, if she was in her twenties in 1967 she’ll be in her seventies now. That’s not so old.’

‘The sad thing is,’ said Gervaise, ‘I can remember when it was.’ She fingered a paper clip. ‘It’s still not a lot, is it, and some of it’s a bit of a stretch. There’s not much you can do with any of it in court.’

‘I know. It’s all part of a bigger picture we’re building up. We’ve got the CPS onside.’

‘I understand that. I just hope the picture turns out to be what you think it will be, and you haven’t forgotten to take the lens cap off, or just pointed the camera at your foot.’

Banks spread his hands. ‘Well, that’s about where we are. You asked.’

‘And Linda Palmer?’

‘Linda Palmer will stand up. She’s working on a sort of written memoir of her time in Blackpool. I suggested it. I thought it might bring back a few more details.’

‘And has it?’

‘Dunno. I haven’t seen it yet. We were busy identifying Monaghan from the photo and finding out who he was.’

‘Well let’s hope it jogs her memory.’

‘We’ve got enough to go on, already. Especially with the other cases Non-Executive Director Burgess told me about. He wanted to be “Special Agent” so he’s a bit disappointed with his rather dull title.’

Gervaise laughed.

‘It’s a bit of a mouthful, I know, but I don’t know what else to call him.’

‘From what I hear, “Dirty Dick” will still do nicely.’

Banks smiled. ‘That all, ma’am?’

‘For the moment. Keep at it, Alan. Putting my reservations aside, we’ll be jumping for joy if we can get Caxton on a conspiracy to commit murder charge as well as rape.’

‘Can we talk to Albert?’ Annie asked Sinead Moffat when she opened the door.

‘You two again. I didn’t think you’d have the bloody nerve to show your faces around here after what you’ve put us through.’

‘Sinead, I’m sorry about the press and the house search and all, but it’s out of my hands. Surely you must understand we have to do these things when something as serious as this happens? And as for them,’ she gestured towards the pack of reporters beyond the gate, ‘it’s their job, too, like it or not.’

A small crowd had gathered across the street, and Annie heard a shrill voice shout, ‘When are you going to do something about those Pakis instead of harassing poor honest decent folk? When are you going to put a stop to those murdering bastards?’ The crowd roared its approval.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Sinead. ‘Before that lot stone you to death. Albert’s in his room. Just go on up. And don’t be too hard on the lad. Remember he’s just lost his sister.’

Annie and Gerry climbed the stairs of 14 Southam Terrace and knocked on Albert’s door. They could hear music from inside, but it was playing quietly, and Albert quickly opened the door and asked them in.

‘It’s not a very big room, I’m afraid,’ he said, turning the radio down, ‘but there’s a couple of chairs. Sit down. What is it?’

Old clothes were draped over the upright chairs, and Albert quickly scooped them up and dropped them in the laundry basket. Annie felt a bit queasy about sitting where Albert’s dirty underpants had been, but she swallowed her pride and her bile. The room was at the back of the house, so they couldn’t hear or see the crowd of neighbours and reporters, just the slate roofs of the houses across the alley. Albert had his window partially open, which was a mercy, as he was smoking. He sat close to the window and the smoke curled in the air as it caught the draught, which whisked it outside.

‘Is it true that you’ve got them in custody?’ Albert said. ‘The bastards that did our Mimsy?’

‘It’s true that we’re talking to some people, yes, but there’s no proof that any of them killed Mimosa yet.’

‘I hope you deport them. They probably cut off people’s heads for killing people back where they come from.’

Annie sighed. ‘They come from Wytherton, Albert. Unless things have changed since this morning, I don’t think there’ll be any deportation or decapitation.’

‘You know what I mean.’ He cast a glance at Gerry’s sling. ‘You look as if you’ve been in the wars. What happened, trip over your truncheon?’

‘Baton,’ Gerry muttered. She leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. ‘As a matter of fact, I was set on by four lads not far from here. Asians. I think one of them was called Tariq. Know anyone by that name?’

Annie had expected her to blush or offer some sort of reproof, but instead she had to congratulate her DC for knowing an opportunity when she saw one, and for seizing it.

‘It figures,’ said Albert. ‘They’re getting everywhere these days, spreading like a pestilence, like a plague of rats.’

‘Tariq? Mean anything?’

‘No, but I can find out for you. Want him sorting out?’

‘That’s all right, thanks,’ said Gerry. ‘We’ll deal with him.’

‘I’m sorry for what happened to you, but what do you expect? They’re animals. They got no respect for their own women, so you can’t expect them to have any for ours. I told you before, you can’t trust the bastards, now maybe you’ll start to see what I mean. It was them all along, wasn’t it?’

Annie looked at Gerry again, worried she might show her revulsion about being thought of as one of ‘ours’. But she didn’t. She just said, ‘I see,’ and rubbed her shoulder. Annie found herself wondering whether Albert was laying it on so thick to divert them from any suspicions that he might have been involved.

‘How can I help you this time?’ Albert went on. He beamed at both of them, the picture of youthful innocence.

‘The last time we talked,’ Annie said, ‘you told us you didn’t know about Mimosa’s association with Sunny and his crowd until recently.’

‘That’s right. Day before she went missing, if I remember right.’

‘And you hadn’t told your family or any of your mates about it?’

‘No. I didn’t want them taking the piss out of me for having a sister who hung out with Pakis. Besides, it’s none of their business.’

‘And you really had no idea before then that Sunny and his friends were exploiting Mimosa, along with a number of other young girls from the estate?’

‘No. How could I know that?’

‘Did you ever get the impression that she was frightened at all? Being made to do anything against her will?’

‘No. She’d always brazen it out, would Mimsy.’

‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘Can we go back to that Tuesday night, the twenty-first of July?’

‘The night it... you know?’

‘Yes. The night it happened. Now, you told us before you were at Paul Warner’s—’

Albert stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Yeah, like I told you. We had a few bevvies in the Hope and Anchor, then went back to Paul’s for a few more. You can ask him.’

‘We have, Albert, and he says you were there.’

‘Well, then?’

‘You stayed there until what time?’

‘Well, I woke up there the next morning with a fuck of a headache. I can’t remember what time it was, but it was late.’

‘You didn’t go out again after going back to Paul’s from the Hope and Anchor? Neither of you?’

‘No. I’ve told you all this. We just chatted about stuff, you know, watched DVDs, played some music.’

‘Do you remember much about the evening?’

‘To be honest,’ said Albert, ‘I’d had a few jars earlier as well, before the Hope and Anchor. I was pretty far gone by my third Special Brew.’

‘So you don’t remember much?’

‘No. Just waking up on the couch, like, with a—’

‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘With a fuck of a headache.’

Albert pointed at her and giggled. ‘You got it.’

‘Any drugs?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was it just alcohol, or did you take any drugs?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Coke, amphetamines, marijuana.’

‘The wacky baccy? No, I don’t do that stuff. It makes you stupid. And Paul’s not into drugs, either.’

‘Were you fit to drive?’

‘I should say not.’

‘I understand you do a bit of driving on the side, though.’

Albert’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Driving. You know.’ Annie stuck her arms out and mimed turning a steering wheel.

‘I know what you mean, but what are you getting at?’

‘Do you or don’t you do some driving for a man called Jim Nuttall?’

‘Jim?’

‘Yes. He’s got an auto parts business in Stockton. Specialist stuff. For collectors and the like.’

‘I know Jim, yeah. So what? What did he tell you?’

‘Do you make deliveries and pick-ups for him?’

‘Yeah, but it’s all legit stuff. It’s nothing do with drugs or anything. I just help out now and then. Us unemployed people got to take what we can get, you know.’

‘I’m not saying it isn’t legitimate, Albert. Did you have a delivery on Tuesday, during the day?’

‘Well, yeah, as a matter of fact. I was in Sheffield in the afternoon. Got back about an hour or so before the meeting, parked the car at the back of Paul’s, as usual, and got a couple down me in the Hope and Anchor.’

‘And Wednesday?’

‘Sunderland. Afternoon. I was a bit late. I had a f—’

‘Yes, you’ve told us, Albert. Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’

‘I don’t know. It didn’t come up, did it? And I’d just heard about Mimsy. I was gutted.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t because Jim Nuttall told you not to mention it to anyone, that he could get into trouble for paying you cash under the counter and not running it through his books?’

‘Whatever Jim does is up to him.’

‘But he told you to keep quiet about it.’

‘Well... yeah. There’s no harm in that.’

‘So between Tuesday evening, when you got back from Sheffield, and Wednesday afternoon, when you made the delivery in Sunderland, where was Mr Nuttall’s van parked?’

‘I told you. Lane round the back of Paul’s place.’

‘Do you often park it there?’

‘If I know we’re likely to be going back there for a few bevvies and movies. But it depends. If I’m not working for a few days I’ll take it back to Jim’s yard and he’ll give me a ride home from Stockton.’

‘But on this occasion you were driving two days in a row?’

‘Yeah. And the parts were small. Just little cogs, really, so I’d no need to go all the way back to Stockton between deliveries. What’s all this about? It wasn’t a big deal. Jim’s a nice bloke, he’s hardly a major criminal.’

‘And you’re sure you didn’t drive it again that night?’

‘Are you joking! I told you. I was pissed as a newt. You might think I’m a dangerous criminal or something, but one thing I don’t do is drink and drive.’

‘Doesn’t stop some people.’

‘No way.’

‘Well, I’m puzzled,’ Annie said. ‘Perhaps you can help me out.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘You say Mr Nuttall’s van was parked in the lane behind Paul’s flat all Tuesday night, so why do you think it showed up on CCTV footage heading for Bradham Lane close to two o’clock in the morning?’

‘I don’t know. There must be some sort of mistake. Those cameras aren’t always reliable, you know. I had a mate once who—’

‘Are you sure about this, Albert?’ said Annie. ‘Because we think you’re lying, and that’s a very serious business. We think you brooded about Mimosa and her Asian friends. You either already knew she was going for a ride to Dewsbury that night, or you just took it into your mind to go down to Sunny’s and break a window or two to vent your anger, and you saw her leaving in a van with three men. You were curious. You followed. You held back a while before Bradham Lane because you thought your lights would be spotted following them down there, and you knew you could catch up with them later, somewhere there was likely to be a bit more traffic. It must have given you the shock of your life when you saw Mimosa walking up that lane towards you. Dirty, naked, bleeding. So you came to a stop just past her, and she turned and walked as best she could to the van. She must have thought it was a lifesaver, whoever it was. Did something snap? Was that it? Did she say something to you? Put you down? Did she laugh at you? Was that it? Or did she shame the family? Was it your version of an honour killing?’

‘That’s rubbish, that is. I told you I was at Paul’s. He said so.’

‘Paul’s your mate, Albert. Either you waited until he passed out, or he’s lying to protect you. Either way, we’ve got you for it. We’re just waiting for the forensics on the van. It’s my bet that neither you nor Mr Nuttall have done a good-enough cleaning job on it to get rid of all the traces of Mimosa’s blood. In the meantime, we’ll be wanting your clothes and shoes for forensic examination. I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mimosa Moffat. Do you understand me, Albert? We’re taking you into custody. Is that clear?’

Albert turned pale. ‘You’re what?’

‘We’re arresting you, Albert, and we’re taking you back to Eastvale. If you fail to say something now you later rely on in court it may go against you. Anything you do say may be used in court. You’ll be hearing that again before we start the official interview at the station. You’re entitled to a lawyer, and if you don’t have one we’ll provide one for you.’

Albert was shaking his head as Annie spoke, and when she’d finished, he slumped in his chair and folded his arms. ‘I think I will have that lawyer you mentioned,’ he said.

A fresh breeze skidded off the North Sea and bent the long fat blades of lush green grass through which the trodden path meandered along the clifftop. Across the sparkling blue water stood the tidal island of Lindisfarne, Holy Island, consisting of a village, a small castle on a hill and a ruined priory where St Aidan and St Cuthbert had lived, and where the exquisite Lindisfarne Gospels had been painstakingly illuminated in the eighth century. The island was connected to the mainland by a mile-long causeway, which at the moment was covered by the tide. Banks and Ursula Pemberton were walking on the edge of the cliffs with her dogs, two fine Irish setters. Ursula was a hearty, outdoorsy type, wearing loose-fitting jeans and a thin polo-neck jumper against the slight chill off the sea. She had a ruddy weather-beaten face, and her tight grey curls hardly moved in the wind. Banks reckoned she must be about ten years older than Linda Palmer.

‘It’s a stunning view,’ said Banks.

‘Yes. It never fails to send a shiver up my spine,’ said Ursula, ‘And I don’t mean the wind. It’s that sense of history being close enough to grasp, more real than what you get on the news every day. It invigorates me. I don’t know how I lived without it for so many years.’

That sounded something of a romantic notion to Banks, but it made him think of Briggflatts, the Basil Bunting poem he had listened to on CD since hearing Mark Knopfler’s song ‘Basil’. There was something about that mix of landscape, history and lost love that struck a chord deep inside him. Maybe it was all connected with the expulsion from the Garden of Eden. At any rate, Ursula Pemberton was right. He felt it here, too, on the Northumberland coast, just as he did in Whitby, and even in Eastvale, itself no stranger to history, with an eleventh-century castle reputed to have been one of the many temporary prisons to Mary Queen of Scots.

‘There’s plenty of history in London,’ Banks said. ‘Some would argue far more than up here.’

‘Yes. It’s true enough, isn’t it? The Tower and St Paul’s and all that. It’s not a competition, I know. I suppose I just wasn’t paying attention when we lived there. It was all a bit in your face. It seems more subtle and mystical here, but the connection is more direct. The pace of life gives you time to pay attention to its depths. In London there’s always something else going on — the noise, the crowds. Superficial usually. Parties. Theatre. I don’t think I ever really stopped to look at the past there. Not really look. But then I was a modern young sixties woman, newly wed, living for the moment, not the old and the antique, except as far as clothes were concerned. I suppose it’s not so much the place as me, is it?’

‘I’d guess it’s a bit of both.’

‘A confluence? Perhaps. But you didn’t come all this way to listen to an old woman prattle on about history. What can I help you with, Superintendent? You were very circumspect on the telephone.’

‘Was I? I suppose it’s a delicate subject. It’s about your first husband.’

‘Tony?’

‘Yes.’

She stared out to sea. It must have been the wind, Banks thought, that made her eyes water. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ She called to the dogs and they carried on walking. ‘It was a long time ago. Nearly fifty years. Just an acid flashback, as we used to say.’

‘You took drugs?’

‘Superintendent! Tony and I were an educated, hip couple about town. This was London in the mid-sixties. Tony was in advertising, so we hung out with a lot of artists and would-be writers, film-makers, photographers and models: Jean Shrimpton, Terence Stamp, David Bailey. What do you think? Not that I’d ever admit to having said so.’

Banks smiled. ‘I think the statute of limitations on that ran out a long time ago.’

‘Good. I know I certainly put it behind me. So what is it you want to know about Tony?’

‘What sort of man was he?’

‘My goodness, that’s a hard one. I mean, I wouldn’t know where to begin. He was a good man, certainly, quick to laugh, but serious when need be. He had gravitas. He was also considerate, attentive, loving. He listened. So many people I find these days just like to talk endlessly about themselves. You know the kind. While you’re talking you can tell they’re just thinking about what they’re going to say next. But Tony was a genuine listener. He was funny, too, he could make me laugh. He liked to experiment, try new things, but I think at heart he was a traditionalist, a family man. It was as much the times we were living in as anything. We were thinking of starting a family, you know, when... when it happened.’

‘Would you say Tony was a weak man?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say weak. He was certainly impressionable, suggestible, perhaps easily led. But he knew where to draw the lines. He had a moral compass, fibre, whatever you call it. He was honest, even if it was at his own cost. He was certainly capable of standing up for what he believed was right.’

Something had clearly gone askew with Tony Monaghan’s moral compass, Banks thought, if what Linda Palmer had told him was true. And he believed her. Why would she lie? The thing was that perhaps a man like Monaghan, the way his widow described him, might in a mad moment lose his direction in order to try a new experience, perhaps be led astray by someone else’s charisma, as she had said. And if Tony Monaghan was half the man she said he was, if he did lose his way, it would torment him. And if that torment made itself known to, say, Caxton, and appeared to threaten him in any way... Caxton was a powerful and charismatic man.

‘How long did you live in London?’ Banks asked.

‘I was born there. Cricklewood. I left in my early thirties. That was five years after Tony died. He was twenty-seven when he was killed.’

‘How long had you been married?’

‘Five years. I know it seems very young, but people did things like that back then. He’d just come out of university and was starting in the advertising business, and I’d graduated from secretarial college. I mostly temped until Tony started making enough to live on. We were so happy. It’s hard to believe in all the optimism of youth these days. Everything seems so bleak and futureless. But despite the bomb and Kennedy’s assassination and all the rest of the terrible things that went on, there was hope. It was somehow more palpable then. Or am I looking back through rose-coloured glasses the way I’m looking at Lindisfarne now? Life must have been tough there back in the eighth century.’ A gust of wind ruffled her curls.

Banks remembered his early days with Sandra and the kids in Kennington. They were good times, certainly, and often full of joy, even though he was doing a job that constantly brought him into contact with the worst elements of society. ‘We all romanticise the past to some extent,’ he said. ‘You know, every childhood summer was glorious, every spring a new birth. And every winter there was enough snow for sledging and building snowmen and having snowball fights and the occasional day off school, but never so much that it made life miserable. I suppose there must be at least a grain of truth in it.’

‘Yes. A grain, perhaps. Oh, Tony and I argued from time to time, but nothing serious, just little things.’

‘So you’d say on the whole it was a happy marriage?’

‘For as long as it lasted. Yes. Except...’

‘What?’

‘Towards the end.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Shall we sit down for a few moments?’ She patted her chest. ‘I do get a little out of breath sometimes these days.’

They came to a bench. There was a brass plaque screwed to the backrest that said: ‘This bench is erected in honour of Private Charles Waters, 1920–1944, by his widow Judith Waters. Let all who sit here contemplate the beauty and the brevity of life.’ Private Charles Waters hadn’t lived as long as Tony Monaghan, Banks thought, and both had met violent deaths.

‘I always like to sit here when I bring the dogs for a walk,’ Ursula said. ‘I don’t know why.’ They faced the sea, Lindisfarne off to their right amid the other Farne Islands, mostly nature reserves for seabirds. Gulls swooped and squawked above them. The dogs sat at Ursula’s feet, panting hard after their exertions on the cliffs. Banks let the silence stretch for a few moments while Ursula got her breath back.

‘When did things start going wrong?’ he asked after a while.

‘Nothing really went wrong, at least not at first. It was just that Tony started changing. He became more moody, more preoccupied, spent more time away from home. It was part of his job, of course, but I do think the long separations took their toll on us.’

‘Did you worry about him being unfaithful?’

She shot him a sideways glance. ‘It wasn’t so much that. I’m not saying it never entered my mind. He was a very good-looking man. But no... it was more... we were just used to being together. Silly, really. Almost like an old couple. Comfortable.’

‘When did that start to change?’

‘When he started working for Danny Caxton. I presume that’s why you’re talking to me about all this? I do still read the newspapers.’

‘I’m handling the case,’ Banks said. ‘At least part of it. So anything you can tell me might be of use.’

‘Anything that could be of use in putting away that evil bastard would be all right with me.’

Banks stared at her, shocked by the outburst. ‘You met him?’

She gave a harsh laugh. ‘When the agency found that Tony seemed to have a penchant for rubbing shoulders with the stars of the entertainment world, the little wife always got to meet the big names. Kept her happy, didn’t it? Gave her something to tell her dull, boring suburban housewife friends about at coffee mornings. Except we didn’t have any dull, boring suburban housewife friends, and I never attended coffee mornings. I’d be talking about Ginsberg and Burroughs or the latest Godard or Antonioni film with a bunch of unemployed artists smoking Gauloises in the pub, more likely. And they didn’t give a damn about the Danny Caxtons of this world. Meeting Danny Caxton was supposed to be one of the perks.’

‘I gather you didn’t exactly like him?’

‘That was my personal feeling, yes. Right from the start. Have you ever met someone who repulsed you at first sight? I don’t mean because of looks, ugliness, or anything like that — Danny Caxton was as handsome as they come — but for want of a better word, because of something you sense inside, something wrong. Something evil.’

‘Once or twice,’ said Banks. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘Yes. I suppose it must be in your job. That’s what I felt about Danny Caxton, right from the start. After that, I did my best to avoid him.’

‘Have you any idea what it was about him that repulsed you so?’

‘No. That’s the problem. I can’t really put it into words. There’s nothing concrete at all. Nothing he said or did I can put my finger on. He was always pleasant and charming to me. There was just something reptilian about him. He gave me the impression of a man who took what he wanted without qualms. I know he was an actor, and it probably came naturally, but I felt that every word, every gesture, every expressed feeling was fake, was something deliberate, to get an effect or produce one on the listener, to misdirect or to convince people he was just like one of us, when he wasn’t at all. As if he was wearing a mask.’

Banks had heard people talk like that about psychopaths: the learned, simulated responses, knowing when it would be normal to laugh, when to pretend to shed a tear. ‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘What did Tony think?’

‘I think Tony was rather dazzled by him. Certainly the first time they worked together — 1966, I think it was — life went on much as normal. It was only later that he started to change.’

‘In 1967?’

‘Yes. During the summer season at Blackpool. I didn’t see a lot of him over those few months, but I’ve never seen him so glad as when it was over and he could come home to stay. Or so he thought. He would have stayed at home, too, but Danny Caxton wanted him back, and Tony’s boss wanted to keep the client happy. So off he went to Leeds for Christmas panto season.’

‘What exactly did he do?’

‘He handled the press, of course, interviews, TV appearances and the like, he arranged visits to open supermarkets and so on, booked hotels, arranged transportation if it was necessary, decided who should and who shouldn’t be admitted to The Presence.’

‘Quite a responsibility. Didn’t Caxton have others to do all that for him?’

‘Nothing was too much for Danny Caxton. He said that Tony was his right-hand man and he’d be lost without him, so back Tony went. He was uneasy about it, but he was doing well in the firm, and he didn’t believe his contract with Caxton would last for ever, so he just thought he’d grit his teeth and see it through, do his job, then maybe the promotion he’d been after would materialise.’

‘He’d been promised a promotion for working with Caxton?’

‘Not in so many words, but his boss certainly gave the impression that it wouldn’t do his future career prospects any harm.’

‘Is he still alive, this boss?’

‘Walter Philby? I’ve no idea. Given that he was about fifty in 1967, I doubt it.’

‘Did Tony confide in you about what was bothering him?’

‘Not at first, no. He just didn’t seem himself. There was something on his mind. On his conscience. He wasn’t himself. When he came home from the summer season, he was very pale and withdrawn. Listless. I actually thought he was ill, depression or something, and I made him go to the doctor’s. The doctor said he was just jittery and edgy from pressure of work. He prescribed some pills.’

‘Did they do any good?’

‘Not much. Oh, there were moments when the old Tony shone through and made me laugh again. It wasn’t all doom and gloom. But he wasn’t home for long. The call for the Christmas season came in pretty soon after he’d returned from Blackpool.’

‘And?’

‘That upset him. He didn’t want to go. He even argued with Walter about it, which he never usually did. But Walter was adamant. Danny Caxton wanted Tony, and Danny Caxton got what he wanted. At least from Philby, Leyland and Associates.’

‘What was the problem? Was Caxton difficult, demanding?’

‘I’m sure he was, but there was more to it than that. We never considered such things at the time, of course, so I’m speaking with the benefit of hindsight, but after Savile, Cosby, Rolf Harris, Cyril Smith and the rest, Danny Caxton was up to the same sort of thing. What you’re looking into now. Something terrible happened, and Tony knew about it.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Ursula stared out to sea. The dogs were busy sniffing gorse. ‘The day before he left,’ she said. ‘He told me all about it, and I wished to God he hadn’t.’