When the Music's Over

15

‘What am I doing here?’ Paul Warner asked Annie and Gerry. ‘I already told you everything I know the last time we met.’

He seemed more nervous this time, Annie thought, eyes all over the place. Perhaps it was because he was out of his home environment and in a police interview room. They were not places designed to put people at ease. He was dressed in clean jeans and a crisp white shirt. It looked as if it had been pressed, too, she thought, and almost asked him if he did his own ironing.

‘Just a few minor points we need to go over, Paul,’ said Annie. ‘As you might have gathered, there’s been developments.’

‘Developments. I’d say there are. The whole estate’s going up.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? The local police have it under control. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘No?’

Annie opened a folder on her desk and lifted a sheet of paper, as if to read from it. ‘First of all, something’s been puzzling me about you ever since we last talked. Maybe you can help. You seem to be a fairly intelligent lad. What is it with these racist views you seem to be espousing and encouraging? Are you involved with the English Defence League or the British National Party?’

Warner leaned back in his chair and stretched. ‘No matter what you or the Guardian might think, intelligence isn’t the private property of the left wing. And no,’ he went on, with a smile, ‘I’m not affiliated with either of those organisations. I suppose at first glance they may seem to offer swift and positive solutions to a number of problems, but if you look a bit closer you can see they’ll never progress beyond basic thuggery. There are other, more reasoned and less violent routes likely to lead to success.’

‘UKIP?’

‘One possibility, if they truly had the courage of their convictions.’

‘And what are the problems you see?’

Warner clasped his hands on his lap. ‘It’s as I told you before. Unhindered immigration is bleeding our country dry, membership in Europe is a millstone around our necks and kowtowing to the bloody Scots and Welsh and Irish is sapping our national identity. Sometimes it seems almost a crime to stand up and say you’re English.’

‘Well, that just about covers it,’ said Annie. ‘Though some would say immigrants contribute more to the economy than they take from it.’

‘That’s what they’d have you believe. You’ve all been brainwashed.’

‘By whom?’

‘The lefties. And before you get on to it, I’ve got nothing against the NHS or the benefits system, or the welfare state in general. As long as they’re for the benefit of our own.’

‘By that you mean white people?’

‘It’s not really an issue of colour, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. I mean English people.’

‘I take it these views didn’t go over too well when you were studying politics in Warwick?’

‘The universities are run by lefties, just like the BBC. You wouldn’t get any of them to listen to a reasonable, balanced argument from the right.’

‘These men we’ve brought in,’ Annie went on. ‘The British Pakistanis. Their grandparents came here after Partition, mostly to work in the cotton and woollen mills up north. Their parents were born here, they grew up here. Doesn’t that make them British?’

‘It takes a bit more than that.’

‘So they need to behave a bit more like us?’

‘Basically.’

‘Binge-drinking, football hooliganism, casual racism, and the rest?’

‘That’s a fringe element. Why am I here? Obviously not to talk politics.’

‘Right,’ said Annie. ‘When we talked before, I asked you about last Tuesday, and you said that you and Albert went back to your place after you’d been in the Hope and Anchor. About ten wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And after you’d had a few drinks and watched some DVDs, Albert crashed on your sofa for the night?’

‘That’s right. Yes. You already know all this.’

‘Bear with us, Paul. You went to sleep, or passed out, in your own bed, at about three in the morning, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Both at the same time?’

‘What?’

‘Did you both fall asleep at the same time?’

‘Probably not. I mean, not precisely. Why?’

‘Who fell asleep first?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you remember letting down the sofa bed?’

‘Not really.’

‘And why would you stay up after he fell asleep?’

‘I’m not saying I did. What’s this all about?’

‘Do you remember hearing Albert snoring or anything?’

‘No. I can’t say I do.’

‘But you’re certain he was there the whole time? He didn’t go out or anything?’

‘No.’

‘Would you have noticed it? If you were asleep and he was awake, say?’

‘Well, of course not, if I was asleep. I’m a sound sleeper. The sign of an untroubled conscience.’

‘I hear that most serial killers have no problems falling asleep. Or maybe it’s just the booze.’

Warner just smirked.

‘So he could have stayed awake until you passed out, then gone out?’ Annie pressed on.

‘He could have, I suppose. But why would he?’

‘Did you know that he had the use of a van that night?’

‘He did some delivery driving on the side. His boss lived in Stockton. It was a casual arrangement. He parked round the back when he kept the van overnight.’

‘You say that Albert could have gone out, if you were the one who bit the dust first, so to speak?’

‘I said it’s possible. Yes. But he was pissed. He wouldn’t have been able to drive.’

‘What if he wasn’t as pissed as you thought he was?’

‘You mean he might have been putting it on?’

‘Possibly.’

Paul shrugged. ‘Then I don’t know. I didn’t think so. I mean, we both had a fair bit to drink, and I certainly wouldn’t have thought of driving.’

‘We’d like to examine your van, Paul. Is that OK?’

‘But why? It can’t have been on your CCTV, or whatever you’ve got.’

‘How do you know that?’ Annie asked.

‘Well, I... I mean...’

‘How do you know that Albert didn’t drive it after you passed out? He wouldn’t use Jim Nuttall’s van, would he, surely? I mean he’d know we’d connect him to that eventually. But why not use your Citroën?’

‘Albert’s not that bright. Besides, if you could connect him to this Nuttall character, you could certainly connect him to me.’

‘Maybe so. But one way or another that van you’ve both told us was parked in the lane at the back of your flat did show up on CCTV near Bradham Lane that night. A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe Nuttall did it?’

‘Not very plausible, Paul. He’d have to take a taxi all the way from Stockton, which he didn’t. We checked.’

‘Maybe he got a mate to drop him off. I don’t know. There must be some mistake.’

‘I agree. Let’s move on. Last time we talked, you told us you said you had only a passing acquaintance with Mimosa. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you like her?’

‘Well enough, I suppose. I mean, I didn’t know her well enough to really say that. She was so much younger than me.’

‘Not that much. You’re what, twenty-three? Mimsy was fifteen? Very attractive, too, from what I hear. Sexy.’

‘She was still too young for me. I prefer women my own age.’

‘Got a girlfriend at the moment, Paul?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no.’

‘Did you know that Mimosa and her best friend Carol were among a group of local underage girls who’d been groomed by a gang of Asians from the Strip? That they’d been coerced, persuaded or forced into prostitution?’

‘God, no! How... I mean...’

‘Nobody told you?’

‘Well, obviously not. I mean, you asked me about grooming last time you talked to me, said it was something you suspected, but I never thought... Mimsy... no.’

‘Some people behave recklessly, especially if they get fired up with an idea. Was Albert fired up with an idea that night?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s say you’d been talking about Mimosa and her Pakistani groomers, for example. Might Albert have got riled up? Got a bee in his bonnet? She was his sister, after all. And they were Pakistanis.’

‘But that didn’t happen. We never talked about that.’

‘So you say.’

‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’

‘We know that Albert most certainly did know. And he mentioned it in conversation with Mimosa the day before she disappeared. They ended up on bad terms.’

‘Well that proves it, doesn’t it,’ said Paul, leaning forward. ‘Don’t you see. They must be involved. The Pakis. They must have done it. Have you brought them in yet?’

‘We’re just looking for some answers here,’ said Annie. ‘There’s no need to get your underpants in a knot.’

‘I’m not. I just don’t like being called a liar. Maybe Albert did know, like you say, but he didn’t tell me. I can’t tell you anything. This is all a shock to me. Like I said, I thought she was on our side. They must have made her do it. Is this something to do with why Mimsy got killed?’

‘We think so. We’re just not sure exactly how everything ties together yet.’

‘And you think Albert might have killed her?’

‘We’re just checking his alibi, that’s all.’

‘I’ve told you time and time again. He was at my place. We got a bit drunk, watched some DVDs between about half ten and two or three in the morning, then we fell asleep. Albert slept on the couch and he didn’t wake up until eleven the next morning.’

‘But you weren’t in the same room as Albert all night?’

‘Hell no. We didn’t sleep in the same room, but we were together there watching movies.’ Paul folded his arms. ‘I’ve had enough of these insinuations and innuendos. You’re simply playing tricks on me, using semantics to try to get me to admit something.’

‘Admit to what?’

‘Christ. I mean, you surely can’t think that Albert killed his own sister.’

‘Why not?’

‘But she was his little sister. This is unbelievable.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘You’ve got all those bloody Pakis out there guilty as hell of grooming and raping and doing God knows what else to poor Mimsy, and you’re trying to pin the blame on Albert. Shame on you.’

Annie stood up and Gerry followed suit more slowly, again using her good hand to push herself up from the chair. ‘Thanks, Paul. You’ve been very helpful,’ Annie said.

Warner just shook his head in disbelief and exasperation, then he got to his feet and walked towards the door. As he left the interview room, he gave them a backwards glance and muttered, ‘Unbelievable.’

‘Like they say in the movies,’ Annie called after him. ‘Don’t leave town, we might want to talk to you again.’ And when he had left, she took out her mobile.

‘What did he say?’ Banks asked Ursula Pemberton.

‘He told me it happened at a party in the hotel suite in Blackpool. They were celebrating something or other. It was a large suite and there were several rooms. At one point, Tony told me, Caxton asked him to accompany him, and they went to a darkened bedroom. There was a woman already in there, on the bed. She seemed surprised to see them and made to leave, but Caxton wouldn’t let her.’

‘You mean he physically stopped her?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember it exactly. Just that Caxton wouldn’t let her leave. Persuaded her to stay. One thing led to another and they ended up having sex, first Caxton and the woman, then...’ She swallowed. ‘Then Tony.’

‘He told you this?’

‘I told you he was honest, even at his own cost.’

‘Let me get this straight. Tony told you that he and Caxton raped a woman in a hotel room in Blackpool.’

‘Yes. I suppose that’s what it amounted to. Though he never mentioned rape. I assumed I was supposed to think the woman succumbed to Caxton’s charm and Tony just happened to be a beneficiary of his largesse. None of that helped.’

‘But if she wasn’t willing, it was rape.’

‘I’m aware of that. Tony told me Caxton said she was the kind of girl who liked it rough, but Tony thought maybe her fear was genuine.’

‘Yet he raped her anyway?’

‘They’d been drinking. Perhaps drugs. I don’t know. All three of them. Look, Superintendent, this isn’t easy for me. It wasn’t easy for him, either. He wasn’t proud of it. He was disgusted with himself. He was in tears when he told me.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I held him and told him it would be all right. That was when he told me he was going to do something about it.’

‘What?’

‘He was going to confront Caxton. Apparently there were some Polaroids — another of Tony’s jobs — and not just the official ones. Tony had taken pictures of Caxton with girls. Some while they were having sex, he hinted.’

‘Did Caxton know about these?’

‘I don’t know. If he did, they obviously hadn’t bothered him. Men like Caxton think they’re above the law.’

‘Why would the Polaroids be a problem for him?’

‘Tony said he was certain some of the girls were too young.’

‘Did he tell you why he joined in the fun that time?’

‘He just said it was the atmosphere, the moment, the sense of excitement.’ She sighed. ‘Something new. You know, there’s a thin line between experiment and sin.’

Well, Tony had certainly found out about it the hard way, Banks thought, and so had Linda Palmer. It wasn’t his place to tell Ursula Pemberton that the girl had been a fourteen-year-old virgin, that there had been no party, no drugs and very little to drink. It had no doubt cost Monaghan a great deal to tell his wife what he had told her, and his state when he got back from the Blackpool job spoke volumes about the internal struggles he’d been going through. He thought he’d come to the right decision. Confront Danny Caxton, even though he’d be damning himself at the same time. That took guts, Banks thought. But none of it expunged the thought of what they had done to Linda Palmer.

‘How did you react?’

‘We argued. I’m afraid I told him not to do anything,’ she said. ‘I was afraid.’

‘Of Caxton?’

‘Partly. But more of the police. He talked about going to the police.’

‘Even though he’d been involved in the rape.’

‘Must you call it that? Yes. I was frightened he would go to jail.’

‘You didn’t think he deserved to?’

She gave Banks a sharp glance. ‘He was my husband,’ she said.

Banks decided to let it go. No sense in making an enemy of Ursula Pemberton. ‘What happened next?’

‘We parted on bad terms. The next thing I knew he was dead.’

Christ, thought Banks. Monaghan had gone to Leeds and confronted Caxton with his decision, perhaps evidence in the form of the Polaroids, and threatened him with the police. But it had to be more than that. Caxton knew he had the police in his pocket, that they wouldn’t listen to Monaghan. They must have turned a blind eye to Caxton’s transgressions before then, as they certainly had later. It was more likely than not Tony’s betrayal that angered him more than fear of exposure. Caxton was a man used to having his own way, demanding loyalty, and here was his loyal servant, his chosen one, come to threaten him with exposure. Caxton no doubt knew enough people capable of doing the job. Banks had even heard of a few ex-coppers hiring themselves out for strong-arm work, even the occasional murder. It wouldn’t have been difficult to arrange. And along came the Stott brothers, bouncers in his disco, old mates from the boxing club.

Ursula remained silent for so long that Banks felt she was looking to him for exoneration, both for her and her husband. Banks didn’t feel that was something he had the right to give. As if she were reading his thoughts, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I know your main concern is the poor victim. I didn’t know her. Tony never mentioned any names. I don’t even think he knew.’

Banks was about to tell her: Linda Palmer. But he didn’t.

‘After Tony had been killed,’ he went on, ‘did you say anything about this? Did you talk to the police?’

‘Yes. When I had to go up to Leeds to identify Tony’s body.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘Now, I know I remember,’ she said. ‘He was high up. A chief superintendent, I think. I remember being impressed at the time.’

‘It wasn’t an inspector, then? Detective Inspector Chadwick?’

‘No. I’d remember that. It was a Scottish name. Smoked a pipe. McCullen. That’s who it was. Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen.’

Chadwick’s boss, Banks thought. ‘Did anyone takes notes?’

‘No. There were just the two of us, after the identification. He had a big office. I never met with anyone else on the case, if there was anyone.’

‘Oh, there was,’ said Banks. ‘Was the interview recorded?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Were you asked to turn in a written statement?’

‘No.’

So there was nothing at all, Banks realised. No record whatsoever of Ursula Monaghan’s chat with McCullen, or her fears for what had happened to her husband. McCullen himself, perhaps under instructions from the chief constable, had headed her off at the pass. ‘What did you do after that?’

‘I’d phone him often and ask how things were progressing, but I’d get put off and put off until all he could say was that there was no more progress. In the end, I’m sorry to say, I gave up. Moved on. I was just exhausted with it all, and it seemed to be blighting my life.’

Banks was in two minds whether to tell her that the police had been told to lay off Caxton from above, but he decided not to. ‘We don’t solve all our cases,’ he said. ‘Sadly. Sometimes they slip through the cracks.’

‘I know that,’ Ursula said. ‘You’re only human. But I was a bit cross at the time. Shall we move on?’ She got unsteadily to her feet and called the dogs, who had wandered off to explore a hillock several yards away. They came running.

‘I’m sorry to be bringing all these bad memories back to you,’ Banks said as they started walking towards the cottage. The sea sparkled around Lindisfarne and the old ruined stone seemed to shimmer in the light. ‘Especially as there’s nothing to be done about it after so long.’

‘It wouldn’t have brought Tony back. Even if they had found out who did it.’

‘It’s just the case I’m pursuing. I can’t really talk about it, but you’ll find out when it comes to trial. The thing is, we do at least have a chance of putting Caxton away, admittedly after a lifetime of getting away with sexual abuse. I’m also hoping with what I’ve found out about Tony’s murder, from you and other sources, I can make a convincing case for murder, or conspiracy at least. I have no concrete evidence, but I think if I can construct a plausible enough scenario a jury might believe it, given everything else.’

She hung her head. ‘I’m really sorry if my actions resulted in more girls getting abused.’

‘You’re not responsible for any of that,’ said Banks. Her husband had raped Linda Palmer, he knew, but he had confessed — made up a more palatable story, perhaps — and she had gone to the police with it. ‘I don’t think anything you could have done at the time would have stopped it. Stopped Caxton.’

‘Can you tell me if it was girls, or boys?’ Ursula asked out of the blue.

‘Girls. What difference does it make?’

‘The way Tony was found. You know, the place he was found in. It was obvious that everyone thought it was a gay murder. I just wondered if, you know, Caxton had been fond of young boys, that sort of thing. I mean, Tony had been involved in what happened at that party with a girl, but I just wonder if he was supposed to help find rough trade for Caxton, along with all his other duties.’

‘Not that we know of. Do you think your husband could have been gay, or bi?’

‘Absolutely not. I never believed it. I realise that’s what most wives would say, but it’s true. I’m not saying that Tony was some tough sort of macho man — he was artsy, for God’s sake, he dressed a bit differently, he liked ballet and opera and he wouldn’t harm a fly — but that doesn’t make a person gay. And in all our time together I never once got the remotest inkling that Tony had any interest, other than friendship, in his own sex. And I’ve known couples who were in that position. Gay men married to women for years. I think my gaydar, or whatever you call it, has been consistent.’

‘Why did you think he was in that public toilet, then?’

‘I could only assume he was put there to make it seem that way, or taken there and killed. I don’t know. I’m just sure that Caxton’s men did it. I don’t imagine for a moment he would have done it himself, but he probably knew people who would.’

How right you are, Banks thought. ‘And you mentioned this suspicion to Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen?’

‘Yes.’

They were approaching Ursula’s cottage over the rise. Banks could see his Porsche gleaming in the sunlight. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else,’ he said, ‘but if you remember any more details, however insignificant they might seem, let me know. And I apologise again for opening up old wounds. These cold cases have a tendency to do that.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Ursula. ‘I just hope you manage to find enough evidence to convict Caxton this time around. Will the judge put such an old man away for life?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve known cases where a judge has determined the accused too old and infirm to serve his sentence. But this is a high-profile case — Savile and Cyril Smith were dead by the time the world found out about them, but Rolf Harris is an old man, and they sent him to prison. The way things are going, there will be a wealth of evidence against Caxton. It’ll be hard not to be seen to do something.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks.

‘And?’

‘And he’s a pathetic old man. But it’s as you said. Repulsion at first sight. Perhaps the only difference between then and now is that the mask has slipped.’

After talking to Paul Warner and Albert Moffat it was late, and both Annie and Gerry felt the need to get out of the station. It was another fine evening, and they crossed the cobbled market square where tourists browsed in the gift-shop windows or sat in the little tea rooms and coffee houses looking out of the windows. They took a shortcut to the terraced river garden down a steep winding lane with high walls and came out by the falls. There had been so little rain lately that the Swain was not much more than a trickle of water the colour of pale ale, with hardly a touch of froth. Some days, after heavy rains, the water that had drained into the Swain from deeper in the dale flowed over in a noisy cataract, drowning out all other sounds and soaking anyone nearby in spray. Today, they could hear the birds, and they decided to sit in the open-air pub by the river. It was Friday, after all, and things were more or less under control. They found a table that afforded them a little distance and privacy from the rest of the customers and Annie went inside to get the drinks.

‘Christ, what a day,’ she said, plonking a pint of Black Sheep bitter in front of her and a Campari and soda in front of Gerry, who was a Campari and soda kind of girl. She then sat down and put her feet up on one of the other chairs, hoping none of the bar staff would see and tell her off.

Gerry held up her glass to clink. ‘Worth it, though. Cheers.’

‘Cheers. I don’t know about that. There’s not a lot we can do right now except leave Stefan and the rest to do their work. I don’t know about you, but after this pint, I’m off home for some shut-eye. Maybe when I wake up Jazz will have the DNA organised and we’ll know where we are.’

‘I doubt I’ll sleep much,’ said Gerry, ‘but home sounds nice.’

‘So what do you reckon?’

‘There are a few things that interest me,’ said Gerry, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears and leaning forward. ‘First off, ever since I talked to Jade I’ve been trying to imagine what Mimosa was like. It’s not easy to put a picture together.’

‘Nothing I’ve heard convinces me she had any more brains than a feral cat. I’m not trying to make any excuses for what happened, but she was out for what she could get, she sounds manipulative, and she was a druggie.’

‘But she was vulnerable, open to being manipulated by Sunny and his gang.’

‘True enough. But remember what Jade told you on the recording. Mimosa was queen bee, or whatever they called her. She got paid for luring girls in.’

‘But they made her do it.’

‘Maybe so. I’m just saying she was no saint, that’s all. If it hadn’t been this, she’d have got herself into trouble some other way.’

‘So you’d have written her off, like the social workers and the Wytherton police? You think she was just some estate slut looking for an easy ride?’

‘Gerry, where’s this coming from? I mean nothing of the sort. All I’m saying is that, on my reading, Mimosa was a troubled personality, and headstrong, gobby, as everyone said. Some people are just destined for trouble of one sort or another. I’m not saying it was her fault she had a fucked-up life.’

‘She might have made something of herself,’ Gerry said, ‘if she’d had some more cultured influence in her life, like Paul Warner, for example, she could have broken out.’

‘Paul Warner? Come off it, Gerry, you don’t fancy him, do you?’

Gerry blushed. ‘No. But you can’t deny he speaks well and he’s educated. He seemed to like her. I know she was too young for him, but I’m just using him as an example.’

‘So all she needed was the right man in her life? Paul Warner? He dropped out of university after his first year and he’s a racist. Would you want that sort of influence on your daughter?’

‘Well, not the racism, no, but... Oh, never mind.’

‘It’s part of the package.’

Gerry remained silent a moment sipping on her drink, then she said, ‘Well, she could draw. She had artistic talent. She could have developed that, gone to college.’

‘True enough. But just because you can draw doesn’t mean you’ve got ability in any other department. Believe me, I’ve known a few artists in my time, and I could tell you a story or two. There’s absolutely no connection whatsoever between art and personal morality. Or art and emotional intelligence. Quite the opposite, mostly. You just have to study the lives of the great artists to see that.’ Annie took a sip of her beer. ‘We’ll have another go at Albert tomorrow, see if we can break him.’

‘Albert’s not that bright,’ said Gerry. ‘Can you really see him pretending to get drunk, then slipping out while Paul Warner’s genuinely passed out in his flat, then driving the car, following the van and killing Mimosa?’

‘I can see him losing it with her,’ said Annie, ‘but you’re right, I can’t see the rest. Still, we shouldn’t mistake cunning for intelligence.’

‘Nobody noticed anything suspicious in his room when we searched the Moffat house.’

‘We didn’t know what we were looking for then. Now we’ve got his clothes and shoes in for forensic analysis.’

‘Albert knows we’re bound to find his prints in the car.’

‘He can explain that,’ said Annie. ‘But he wouldn’t be able to explain blood on his shoes as easily. And there’s another thing.’

‘What?’

‘That phone call I made after the interview, when you left to go to the loo?’

‘Yes?’

‘I called Superintendent Carver. Gave him a chance to redeem himself. I asked him nicely to put a watch on Paul Warner. If he dashes back home and starts acting strangely, then we’ll have an idea he might be covering for his mate. And we’ll have Mimosa’s personal belongings in our hands tomorrow, don’t forget.’

‘And what if we’re wrong? What’s the alternative to Albert? Lenny Thornton? Sinead Moffat?’

‘You’ve forgotten Johnny,’ she said. ‘Maybe his inertia is just as fake as Albert’s alibi?’

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

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

‘So we’re looking at Albert or Paul for it?’

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

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

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

‘What do you mean?’

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

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

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

‘We’ve no evidence of that. Look at the age diff—’

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

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

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

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

‘I could just fall asleep right now,’ Gerry said.

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

‘What? Who was it?’

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

‘What do we do about Warner?’

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

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

‘We keep him where he is. We arrest Warner for conspiracy to commit murder.’

‘Do you think they were in it together?’

‘It’s an interesting possibility, isn’t it? Your shout, I think.’

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

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

Linda put down her pen and refilled her wine glass. She had let her cigarette burn down on the ashtray while she wrote, so she lit another. She noticed that her hand was shaking as she did so, perhaps because it had been so tense gripping the pen to write. Dusk was gathering quickly, and the shadows lengthened on the garden, the river itself already dark under the shade of the sheltering trees. A blackbird sang somewhere, louder than the other birds. She knew she was almost finished now and already felt spent, the way she did when she knew she’d got to the end of a particularly difficult poem after weeks of drafts and revisions. She put the cigarette down again and set off on the final words...

Linda closed the notebook and put down the pen. She could hardly see any more for tears. Darkness had fallen, and the last of the swallows were swooping and diving over the woods. The bats would be out soon. She rubbed her eyes, filled her wine glass to the brim and lit another cigarette.