When the Music's Over

16

‘Well, Paul, it looks like the end of the road for you, doesn’t it?’

‘No comment,’ said Warner. He was sitting nervously in the interview room beside his legal aid solicitor, who didn’t seem too happy at being woken up early on a Saturday morning. Warner had balked at Jessie Malton, perhaps because she was a woman and she was black, but he was quickly put in his place and told it wasn’t as easy as that to change legal aid representation, and you certainly couldn’t do it simply because you objected to the lawyer’s colour and gender.

‘I think your attitude might soon change,’ said Annie, opening the thick folder in front of her. While Annie and Gerry had been enjoying themselves at the Riverside Inn, they had managed to persuade Jazz Singh to work a late shift and Vic Manson to stay on an extra hour. Vic was married, so all he had to do was phone and say he’d be home a bit late, but Jazz had had a hot date that she wasn’t too pleased about cancelling. On the other hand, she knew what had been done to Mimsy Moffat, and she wanted to contribute her best efforts to putting her killer away, and if her girlfriend couldn’t understand that about her by now, she told Annie, there was no point going on with the relationship. Perhaps Annie and Gerry could have gone at him that evening, too, but they wouldn’t have had anywhere near as much ammunition as they had now — including Mimosa’s sketchbook and mobile — and he wouldn’t have had a night in the cell to probe his conscience, if he had one, or anticipate the worst, if he didn’t.

‘First off, we managed to recover Mimosa’s belongings from the van she was in on the night she died,’ Annie said, ‘and we found a couple of interesting things among them.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘There’s a little sketchbook, for a start. They were sketches of mostly people she knew — Albert, her mother, Jade, the other girls, Sunny and his pals. And you.’

‘I’ve seen that. So what? She always had a pencil and a sketchbook in her hands, even when you wanted her to do a bit of work.’

‘Then there was her mobile,’ Annie went on. ‘Calls to and from Albert, Jade, Sunny, home. And again, you. Mostly from.’

‘I told you she helped me and Albert out sometimes.’

‘So these phone calls were all work-connected?’

‘What else would they be?’

‘Most went unanswered. About fifteen over the past month. Couldn’t you get through to her?’

‘Obviously not. No doubt she was busy with her Paki friends.’

‘They weren’t friends, Paul. At least not towards the end. What was so important that you couldn’t pass on a message to her through Albert? You saw him often enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Fifteen unanswered calls. Your friend’s little sister. It’s odd, that’s all.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Did she tell you anything about her association with the Pakistanis?’ Gerry asked.

‘No. For Christ’s sake, I’ve told you, she agreed with us!’

‘Us?’

‘Me and Albert. I don’t understand this. Mimsy was always making disparaging remarks about Pakis. She even got in trouble for it at school.’

‘But you didn’t talk about her odd behaviour with Albert last Tuesday night, didn’t get him all het up?’

‘No. I told you. We watched DVDs and fell asleep.’

‘What about the fingerprint?’ Annie said.

‘What fingerprint?’

‘We found Albert’s fingerprints in Jim Nuttall’s van, as you’d expect. But why did we also find yours? The same van that Albert Moffat drove on a casual basis, the one that was parked in the lane at the back of your building on the night in question.’

‘No comment.’

‘You’ve already been told you don’t have to say anything,’ Annie reminded him, ‘so it’s well within your rights to say “no comment”, but as I’m sure Ms Malton will tell you, that bit about later relying on something in court is a deal-breaker. Should this case go to court, and I have to tell you the CPS think we have a good case, then you will almost certainly be asked this question, among others, and your “no comment” from today’s interview will be noted at the time. But we do have the fingerprint. Think about it, Paul.’

Warner looked disconcerted and turned to Jessie Malton, who whispered a few words in his ear. He clearly didn’t like what he had heard. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s a simple enough explanation. I’ve been with Albert a few times on road trips.’

‘Including Sheffield, the day of Mimosa Moffat’s murder?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And the person who took delivery there will vouch for you?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, I got Albert to drop me off in the city centre so I could do a bit of shopping, so he wouldn’t have seen me.’

‘What did you buy?’

‘This and that.’

‘Got the receipts?’

‘I threw them away.’

‘Pity,’ said Annie. ‘Did you use a credit or debit card?’

‘I paid cash.’

‘Right,’ said Annie. ‘Why did you head to the local recycling plant with a bin bag full of clothes and a pair of shoes as soon as you got home from your last interview here?’

‘I’d been meaning to take them for ages. I don’t know why I did it then, particularly. I just wanted something to do.’

‘Why not take them to a charity shop? They were in perfectly good condition.’

‘Never thought.’

‘Are you sure you weren’t feeling anxious about what they might reveal?’

‘I wouldn’t say I was anxious. I just felt like it. OK?’

He had raised his voice for the first time, and Jessie Malton tapped him on the arm and whispered in his ear.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This is putting a lot of stress on me.’

‘Why is it stressful, Paul, if you’ve got nothing to hide?’ Gerry asked. ‘You were helpful enough before. Remember? You told us that Albert Moffat was with you the whole time after you got back home from the pub on Tuesday until eleven the following morning.’

‘Well, I thought he was. I mean, I suppose he could have slipped out if I dozed off or something.’

‘If?’ said Gerry. ‘Did you doze off?’

‘I might have done. I don’t remember. Like I said, we were drinking.’

‘Are you trying to tell us that Albert nipped out and murdered his sister?’

‘No. I’m not saying that. Just that I could have been mistaken. He might have gone out, if I was asleep.’

‘Were you asleep?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘How about if you went out when he dozed off?’ Annie said. ‘Is that a viable scenario?’

‘That’s not how it happened.’

Annie paused. ‘There is one other thing.’

‘Oh. Yes?’

‘Yes, Paul. You see, we found one of your fingerprints under the outside door handle, on the driver’s side.’

‘Sure. I spelled Albert for a while. He was a bit hungover. We changed places. I drove.’

‘Very considerate of you. But the fingerprint, your fingerprint, was a bloody fingerprint. And the blood was Mimosa Moffat’s. What do you have to say about that?’

‘No comment.’

‘I thought so.’

Jessie Malton looked as impassive as ever.

Annie went on. ‘Well, I’m sure you know what that means. I’m just trying to clear up the events of that Tuesday night. We have your bloody fingerprint under the door handle of the van, not Albert’s. Now, Albert has used the van since then, we know, but he didn’t mention you being with him. Luckily for us, your bloody fingerprint was in an out-of-the-way spot. Easy to miss when you gave it a quick wipe down. It seems as if you might have been a bit shaken or agitated when you first tried to open the door after beating Mimsy Moffat to death.’

‘Detective,’ said Jessie Malton. ‘Can we have no more of that?’

‘Sorry. Slip of the tongue. But I’m sure both you and Ms Malton will realise that this needs a bit of explanation.’

‘I must have cut myself before I spelled Albert on Wednesday, that’s all.’

Annie sighed. ‘Paul. Paul. I’ve already told you it was Mimosa Moffat’s blood. Believe me, we’ve checked. It’s hers. No doubt about it. How did you come to have Mimosa’s blood on your hands on Wednesday in Sunderland, if indeed you were there at all?’

‘You must have made a mistake. Lots of people probably used that van since...’

‘Since when, Paul? Since you used it?’

‘I was going to say since it was parked at the back of the flat.’

‘But they haven’t, Paul. Yes, Albert Moffat drove it back to Jim Nuttall’s after his delivery to Sunderland the following day, and you say you were with him, but since then nobody but Mr Nuttall has used it. We checked. Albert’s and Nuttall’s fingerprints were close to yours, but they didn’t overlap, they didn’t obliterate yours, and there was no blood on them. He’s so used to opening that van door, he probably grasps the same spot every time by habit. You, on the other hand, being shaken up, as I said, reached too far the wrong way and left a clear and well-protected print. There’s no way around it, Paul.’

‘This is all just circumstantial. You can’t go to court with a case as flimsy as this.’

‘Can’t we, Paul?’ Annie turned over a sheet. ‘What about the pills?’

‘What pills?’

‘The ones in the bin bag you were trying to get rid of. We’ll be doing further analysis, but for the moment we have it on good authority that they’re Flunitrazepam, more commonly known as Rohypnol, or roofies. Inadequate men give them to unsuspecting females to put them to sleep before sex. When the girls wake up, their memories are vague. Sometimes they don’t even remember they’ve been raped. Is that what happened to you, Paul? Did women forget they’d had sex with you? Was it that forgettable? Did you give one of those pills to Mimosa and rape her? Did she forget? Or did she remember and taunt you with it?’

‘Again, Detective, I shouldn’t have to tell you to give up the fishing expedition,’ said Jessie Malton.

‘Sorry.’ Annie took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘Sometimes when you go fishing you catch something. That’s not what you used them for the other night, though, is it? Sex. That time you slipped one to Albert and he went out like a light after all he’d had to drink. You’d been carefully pacing yourself, pretending to keep up with his drinking, but you hadn’t had all that much, had you?’

Warner looked at Jessie Malton. ‘This is preposterous,’ he said. ‘Can’t you stop them?’

‘If you don’t wish to comment, then say so,’ said Jessie Malton. Annie could hear her distancing herself from Warner.

‘No comment,’ he said.

‘Let’s talk about the shoes, then,’ Annie went on. ‘The Doc Martens you were about to get rid of at the recycling plant.’

Paul squirmed.

‘They look as if they’ve been cleaned thoroughly, but we found traces of blood on those, too,’ Annie said. ‘And do you know what? It was Mimosa Moffat’s blood. You tried to get rid of it, didn’t you, scrubbing and polishing, but it’s hard, Paul. It gets in the seams, and it’s hard to get out.’ Paul seemed to be shrinking deeper into his chair. Annie pressed her advantage. ‘And do you know what’s worst of all,’ she went on. ‘What’s probably the most appalling thing anyone can do to another human being.’ She let the silence stretch. ‘You jumped on her, Paul. I don’t know whether you did it while she was still alive or after you’d killed her, but you stamped on her, and that stamp made an imprint. And that imprint — from Mimosa Moffat’s skin, Paul — matches the right shoe you were about to get rid of when Superintendent Carver’s men apprehended you. There are several scuffs and scratches on the sole that act as unique identifying features. What do you have to say to that?’ Annie let the silence stretch again. ‘Nothing?’ she said after a while. ‘Well, that shouldn’t surprise me. I mean, what is there to say after you’ve punched and kicked a defenceless young girl to death and stamped on her when she was down?’

‘I didn’t... I didn’t...’

Annie leaned forward. ‘You didn’t what, Paul? Come on, I’d like to know. Because right now I’m just thinking you were such an arrogant bastard that you didn’t even bother getting rid of the shoes you kicked her to death with after until you were worried we were getting close. Don’t you think it’s time to come clean with us? I told you it was the end of the road.’

Paul looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face drained of colour. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Didn’t mean to what, Paul?’

Jessie Malton leaned over to whisper something, but Paul brushed her off and said, ‘Kill her. I didn’t mean to kill her,’ before she could stop him. Jessie Malton dropped her pencil on her legal pad and looked up at the ceiling, muttering something under her breath.

Annie felt the tension leave her body like air from a tyre, but there was still more work to be done. ‘You’re admitting you killed her, are you, Paul?’

‘Yes. I killed her. But I didn’t mean to. The silly bitch.’

‘Why did you kill her?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘You loved her?’

‘Loved? I don’t know. Maybe. I wanted her. Or I thought I did.’

‘Did you sleep with her?’

Warner stared down at the bare desk for a few seconds before answering. ‘Once. Yes.’

‘How did that happen? Did you give her a roofie and rape her?’

‘No. She came around looking for Albert, but he was off somewhere. You know... one thing led to another.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t give her a roofie?’

‘No way. She was a bit drunk.’

‘She was very young, Paul. Underage, in fact.’

‘But she could seem so mature. I could see something in her. I don’t know. I thought if I could get through to her, you know, I could change her. I could save her.’

‘Save her from what?’

‘From being just like all those stupid empty-headed young sluts she spent her time with. She was really talented. An artist. We talked about her going to art college. She could study design, and with my practical skills we could make beautiful stuff, maybe get rich. She just had a bit of growing up to do first, that’s all.’

It was certainly what plenty of women tried to do with men, Annie thought, change them, improve them, and more often than not to no avail. ‘It was a nice dream,’ Annie said. ‘So what went wrong?’

‘You’re right about what Albert said. He’d known for a week or so that Mimsy was seeing the Paki, though I don’t think he knew the full story of what was going on. You’ve probably figured it out for yourselves that Albert isn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier. It didn’t take me long to figure it out from his drunken ramblings that night. Sure, he was the one who fell asleep. Passed out would be a better word. And yes, he had a bit of help from me.’

‘Go on, Paul,’ said Annie. ‘You were jealous?’

‘Not just that. You can’t psychoanalyse my feelings that simply. It was far more complicated than mere jealousy.’

‘Tell us, then.’

‘You wouldn’t understand. The impurity. The defilement.’

‘Mimosa was hardly a paragon of virtue, Paul.’

‘I know that. But I... I mean, with the right person... She didn’t have to be a write-off. She wasn’t stupid, she just liked a good time. She was young. She would have grown out of it, all that silliness. I could have helped shape her, make something of her. I could have changed her.’

‘Proper My Fair Lady business again,’ said Gerry. ‘Teach her to talk properly and all that?’

Warner scowled at her. ‘You can talk like that if you want,’ he said. ‘Cheapen it. It’s just what I’d expect. I told you you couldn’t understand how complex my feelings are.’

‘Well, let’s not worry ourselves too much about your complex feelings, then,’ said Annie, ‘and you can just tell us what happened. The facts. Pretend we don’t care why.’

‘I’d had a few drinks, too, so maybe I was a bit drunk, I don’t know. You know how you get these ideas fixed in your mind and you can’t get rid of them. The idea of her with them just wouldn’t go away.’

‘Was this the first time you knew anything about what she was doing, her connection with the grooming gang?’

‘Yes. She never said anything to me.’

‘I don’t suppose she would,’ Annie said. But hadn’t you noticed any change in her over the past few months?’

‘She was a bit more sophisticated, but I put that down to... well...’

‘You? The Henry Higgins effect?’

Warner looked away. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Anything else?’

‘She was more moody. I didn’t really see a lot of her, so it’s hard to say.’

‘Was she avoiding you?’

‘I think so.’

‘So what did you do on Tuesday night?’

‘I slipped Albert a roofie, like you said. It was easy enough. He was out in no time.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘So I could take the van without him knowing.’

‘Why did it matter whether he knew or not?’

‘I... I...’

‘Were you planning to do something to Mimosa at this time?’

‘No. No way. I just couldn’t get the image out of my head. Her with them. I thought I might get into it with the Pakis, break a few bones, but there was no way I was going to hurt Mimsy.’

‘Why didn’t you take your own van?’

‘Because it’s got my name splashed all over the fucking side. I know about CCTV on the roads and all that. They can even get your number plate.’

‘You didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want to be on record?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Why not? Unless you were planning to do something illegal.’

‘I told you. All I wanted to do was see if Mimsy was there, reason with her, but I thought I might get into a rumble with the Pakis. If I hurt one of them really bad, maybe the police would try to find me. Why make it easy? The Pakis could beat seven shades of shit out of me and that would be fine. I’d deserve it. But if I do it to them it’s not only GBH, it’s a fucking hate crime, too. Racism.’

‘But you are a racist, Paul.’

‘I’m entitled to my opinions. I’m not the only one.’

‘That’s a spurious argument. Never mind. So Albert Moffat had nothing to do with Mimsy’s murder at all? You didn’t take his car in order to implicate him?’

‘No. But I told you, it wasn’t murder. I didn’t mean to kill her.’

‘I forgot. It was an accident, right? Kicking her to death. How did you know Mimosa was going to get in a van with three Asian men that night?’

‘I didn’t. But Albert had said he’d seen her getting in a taxi next to the takeaway the week before, that she was hanging out with them. It had been preying on my mind all evening, that she was with them. I knew about the grooming business going on around the country. She hadn’t answered any of my phone messages. I wasn’t really thinking clearly but I just had to go down there and see for myself. I thought maybe she’d be there, at the flat.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t have a plan.’

‘Maybe you’d beat up Sunny and carry Mimsy off?’

‘Something like that. But not Mimsy. I’d never... I never expected that. I would never... if she hadn’t. It was her own fault.’

‘Oh, spare us that, at least, Paul. What time was this when you set off for the Strip?’

‘I don’t know. Eleven. Half eleven. Something like that. I took the keys and drove the van down the Strip, parked on the other side down the road. Like I said, I was just going to watch for a while, you know, see if she came in or out. I suppose I must have been a bit pissed but I felt like I was sobering up fast. The takeaway was still open. There was only the cook bloke working there, but it wasn’t busy so he mostly sat reading the paper. I thought of just going to the flat and walking up, just like that, and confronting them, but I stayed put. Then, when I’d been there about twenty minutes, half an hour, the door opened and out they came. There was the owner of the takeaway and Mimsy, along with three other Pakis. Mimsy and the three men got in a dirty white van that had been parked just down the street, then the owner bloke waved goodbye and went into the takeaway and started chatting and laughing with the cook bloke. I gave them a few minutes, then I followed the van.’

‘Why did you do that?’ Annie asked.

‘For crying out loud! Mimsy was in that van with three Pakis. I wanted to know where they were going, what they were going to do. Maybe I could intervene at the other end, persuade her to come back, beat the shit out of them, get her away from them. I’d no idea what they were planning, but I mean she obviously needed help. She was going in a totally wrong direction here.’

‘So you were going to rescue her? Play the knight in shining armour?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘I waited about ten minutes or so at the top of Bradham Lane. I knew they’d see me if I set off down there straight away, and there was really only one way to go at the end unless you’re heading for the high dales or the local villages, and that’s the main road into West Yorkshire. I figured they were probably from Bradford or somewhere like that where there’s a lot of Pakis, and that’s the road they’d take. I knew I could catch up with them and the other roads would be a bit busier, so they wouldn’t notice me.’

‘But something unexpected happened, didn’t it?’

‘I was driving down Bradham Lane and I saw her — Mimsy — staggering towards me. She had no clothes on and she was filthy, half covered in mud. I stopped to give her a lift and when she saw it was me, she stopped in her tracks. She was stoned on something, but she was hurt, too, I could tell. Them Pakis, they’d done stuff to her. I told her to come with me, I’d take care of her. She just stood there, so I grabbed her wrist. Then she started struggling, calling me names, saying she’d rather walk home or go back with them than with someone like me. I couldn’t believe it. There she was, all dirty and bloody and I was offering to help her, to get away from all that and take care of her, and she just said of all the people she had to bump into it had to be me.’

‘Why do you think she reacted like that, Paul?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, we hadn’t parted on good terms.’

‘After you slept with her?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t... I mean, she was drunk at the time, when she came round, like. When she sobered up a bit afterwards she laid into me for taking advantage of her.’

‘Did you force her?’

‘No way. It just, you know, it happened.’

‘But Mimosa wasn’t quite the slut everyone thought she was?’

‘She said she didn’t want to be around me again. That I was like all the other men who just took from her. But I wanted to give. I tried to tell her but she wouldn’t listen. I tried to talk to her the next time I saw her with Albert, but she just cut me, as if I wasn’t there. I wanted to help her. I thought we could really get somewhere together. It didn’t matter how old she was.’

‘Is that what all the phone calls were about?’

‘Yes. I wanted to tell her that she meant something to me.’

‘So why didn’t you help her when she needed it most?’

Warner hung his head. ‘I don’t know. She was on drugs, strange drugs, not like she usually was if she was high or pissed. I couldn’t get her to calm down. I couldn’t make sense of her. And I couldn’t help myself. I snapped. Simple as that. I slapped her, just to try to snap her out of it, like, and she tried to slap me back. There was a bit of a scuffle. She called me some names. I saw red. Called me a perv and a paedo. I mean, me, when she was with them Pakis. Next thing I knew she was on the ground, not moving. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. Really.’ He put his head in his hands.

‘So this was the girl you loved. Maybe? Someone you wanted to help, wanted to be with. And when you saw her naked and dirty and hurt, instead of lust you felt rage, and instead of pity you felt anger. Is that right?’

Warner nodded, his head in his hands, crying now. ‘It came out all wrong, all fucked up.’

‘She was coming down off ketamine, Paul,’ said Annie. ‘It’s a bit different from roofies. Much harder to control people on K. And she’d been gang-raped by three men. Did you know she was dead when you drove away?’

Warner sniffed and looked up, wide-eyed. ‘No. I didn’t know anything. Only that I’d lost it.’

‘So you just left her there, to die naked in the road,’ said Annie. ‘Good one, Paul. I’m sure Albert and his family will be proud of you.’

‘They’re a waste of space. They didn’t care about her. At least I tried.’

‘To do what, Paul? Do what everyone else did to her except her family? Take advantage of her? Use and abuse her?’

‘No. To give her a better life. The life she deserved.’

‘What route did you take back to Wytherton? You didn’t go the same way you came.’

‘I took a longer route, back up the lane then left and over the tops.’

‘Why?’

‘No CCTV.’

‘So by then you were thinking clearly enough save your own skin?’

‘Of course I was. I knew what I’d done. I’m not an idiot.’

‘No, of course not.’ Annie put the papers back in the file folder and closed it. She and Gerry both shook their heads. Jessie Malton looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else. Then, while Paul Warner sobbed into his cupped hands, Annie and Gerry left to consult Banks and the CPS about the specifics of the charges. On their way out, Annie asked the PC outside the door to take Warner back to his cell. It was Monday before he’d come in front of a magistrate, so they had plenty of time to get things right.

There was no way Banks or Adrian Moss could keep the media at bay when Danny Caxton was brought into Eastvale Police Headquarters by two plain-clothes officers, shortly after the Paul Warner interview. There wasn’t even any point going around the back or in at the side. Adrian Moss threw up his hands in despair when he saw the mob. Caxton himself seemed to take it as a publicity stunt and smiled for the cameras, waving his handcuffed hands in the air triumphantly for his public. Anybody who didn’t know him better would guess that he was mad, thought Banks, staring down at the crowd in the market square from his window.

On the Strip in Wytherton Heights, or so he had been told, angry mobs were throwing bricks and Molotov cocktails through shop windows, and the terrified members of the Asian community hid in cellars and attics if they couldn’t leave town quickly enough to stay safely with relatives far away. Banks wondered if the tide would turn when it came out later in the day that the person responsible for Mimosa Moffat’s murder was white.

Banks and Winsome let Caxton wait in the interview room with Bernie Feldman. Banks had read Linda Palmer’s memoir of the holiday in Blackpool, and while it hadn’t furnished many hard facts, it had given him a couple of points to pursue and a lot of insight into the way her mind worked.

When they finally entered the room, Caxton rubbed his wrists theatrically. ‘Bit tight, those cuffs,’ he said. ‘I know a lass or two who’d appreciate that.’ He winked at Winsome.

Winsome ignored him, went through the formalities and set the voice recorder and video going.

‘So what is it this time?’ Feldman asked.

‘We’ve got some new evidence, if you’ll bear with me,’ said Banks.

‘Evidence? I doubt that very much.’

Banks ignored the lawyer and looked directly at Caxton. ‘And I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you now, Mr Caxton, that the other investigations are coming together. We have strong rape and sexual assault cases for you to face from Brighton in 1965, Leicester in 1968, Bristol in 1971 and Newcastle in 1973. There are plenty more in the works, too.’

‘Get to the point, will you,’ Caxton said. ‘I want to go home. I don’t feel well. I’m an old man. You can’t keep me cooped up here.’

‘Then we’ll move right ahead. First of all, I want to talk to you about Tony Monaghan.’

‘What about him? I told you he worked for me. He was a homosexual. He got killed in a public toilet.’

‘As a matter of fact, Mr Caxton, he wasn’t actually killed in the toilet, and there’s no evidence that he was gay.’

Caxton glanced at Feldman. ‘What do you mean? That’s what I was told.’

‘Mistakes were made.’

‘Not my fault.’

‘Going on evidence of the position of the body and blood loss, we have determined that Mr Monaghan couldn’t have been killed in the Hyde Park public toilets but that his body was placed there after his murder.’

‘So what?’

‘It wasn’t a gay killing,’ said Banks.

‘I don’t really see what any of this has to do with my client,’ said Feldman. He turned to Caxton. ‘Danny, this was going on for fifty years ago. There’s no way this is solid evidence.’

‘I think it will become clear soon enough,’ Banks said.

‘And what is this evidence you’re talking about?’ Feldman went on. ‘Where is it? I assume you have some crime-scene photographs, forensic reports, a post-mortem perhaps?’

This was where Banks knew he was stumped. He didn’t have any of those things, only Simon Bradley’s slightly unreliable memories and the things Ursula Pemberton had told him. That might be declared hearsay, though a good prosecuting barrister might successfully argue for its admittance on the grounds that Tony Monaghan was unable to testify himself. Even so, it was a long stretch from getting Ursula Pemberton’s evidence admitted to proving that Danny Caxton had anything to do with her husband’s murder. ‘You know we don’t,’ said Banks. ‘But we do have witnesses, one of whom was involved in the investigation at the time.’

‘A boffin, is he?’ said Feldman. ‘Home Office pathologist, perhaps?’

‘He was a serving police officer, now retired.’

‘Long memory, then? And honest with it?’

‘We also have another witness.’ Banks moved on quickly. ‘A witness who saw two burly men half-carrying and half-dragging someone towards the toilets the night Tony Monaghan died.’

‘This gets better,’ Feldman said. ‘Two someones carrying a third someone in the dark.’ He folded his arms. ‘Please go on. I’m intrigued. I assume you can produce this witness?’

Caxton wasn’t saying anything, but Banks had noticed him getting progressively paler, an anxious look in his eyes. He pressed the advantage. ‘We think those two men were the Stott brothers, well-known criminal enforcers at the time and, we understand, acquaintances of Mr Caxton.’

‘They worked at a club I had an interest in,’ said Caxton. ‘I—’

‘Danny, be quiet,’ said Feldman, raising a hand. ‘Don’t say another word. Leave this to me.’

‘We know where they worked,’ said Banks. ‘They were bouncers at the Discothique nightclub in Bradford. You first met them at a boxing club you had also had an interest in, and we have it on good authority that they were employed from time to time as your minders, Mr Caxton, and that on at least one occasion they faced criminal charges for GBH.’

‘That was nothing to do with me,’ said Caxton.

‘Are you saying you have a positive identification on these two gentlemen?’ Feldman asked.

‘Maybe not,’ Banks went on. ‘But their victim in the GBH case was the boyfriend of a waitress who claimed to have been sexually assaulted by Mr Caxton at the Discothique nightclub shortly after closing time one night.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Caxton, though he was looking paler. Banks noticed a tic developing under his left eye. He seemed worried by the direction the interview was taking.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Danny, they’ve got nothing,’ Feldman assured his client. ‘And even if what they’re saying about these Stott characters is true, there’s no positive identification, no way they could be linked to the body found in the public toilets.’

‘You think I don’t know that, Bernie?’ snapped Caxton.

Banks leaned back and turned to Winsome. ‘DS Jackman.’

‘Let me tell you what we think happened,’ said Winsome. ‘Tony Monaghan was with Mr Caxton in the Majestic Hotel, Blackpool, when the assault on our complainant occurred. In fact, she was raped first by Mr Caxton and then by Mr Monaghan.’

‘So you take the word of a rapist—’

‘Danny, be quiet,’ said Feldman. ‘Let’s hear the lady out.’

Winsome inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Mr Feldman. I’ve done a lot of hard digging on this case, so I think I can spell things out clearly for you. One thing Mr Caxton might not have realised was that Mr Monaghan was a man of conscience. He’d done a foolish thing, a serious thing, committed a crime, but he couldn’t live with it as easily as... well, as easily as some people seem able to do. He felt the need to unburden himself, so after a great deal of soul-searching, he told his wife all about what happened and what he intended to do about it. Monaghan’s widow is still very much alive and was able to fill in a few blanks for us.’

Caxton shot Feldman a frightened glance. ‘What is this, Bernie? What are they saying?’

‘Let the lady talk, Danny. They tell a good tale, but they still have no evidence. Witness to the crime, was she, this wife?’

‘Though she wasn’t present when the crime was committed, we do have a strong witness in Mrs Monaghan,’ said Winsome. ‘Her husband told her what happened that afternoon in the hotel. She was horrified, of course, that someone she loved could commit such an act, but she also saw that he was genuinely repentant and wanted to atone. His atonement was to confront Mr Caxton with his decision to go to the police. Apparently, he also had in his possession a number of compromising Polaroid photographs of Mr Caxton with young girls, some of whom are also in the process of telling us their stories. Needless to say, these photographs disappeared long ago.’

‘Pity,’ said Feldman. ‘It’s a touching tale, but no evidence there, either. Hearsay. And from the man’s wife. In fact, it seems that stories are all you have.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Banks cut in. ‘But juries love a good story, as I’m sure you’re aware, and we think we can put together a good narrative of events. Carry on, DS Jackman.’

Winsome turned over a page in her file. ‘So Mr Monaghan crossed Mr Caxton in a serious way. It wasn’t so much the threat to tell the police that worried him, or even the photographs. He could easily have squared all that through his establishment contacts. It was his right-hand man’s betrayal. He couldn’t stand that. Either he lost his temper and killed Mr Monaghan himself, then got the Stott brothers to get rid of the body in a place where it would be assumed to be a gay killing, or he had the Stott brothers do the lot. Either way, Monaghan was killed and his body placed in the toilet. Sad to say, police at the time didn’t exactly pull out all the stops on homosexual victims. After a cursory initial investigation — which we do know revealed that Tony Monaghan most likely hadn’t been killed in the toilet and that two men had been seen half-dragging a third towards that very place on the night in question — orders came from above that there was no case, nothing more to be done. A short while later, the few case files that had been kept — including medical and forensic reports and witness statements — simply disappeared.’ Winsome took the enlargement of the newspaper photograph from her file and slid it across the table so that Feldman and Caxton could look at it. ‘As you can see,’ she went on, ‘here Mr Caxton is handing over a large cheque to Chief Constable Edward Crammond. Also in the photo are a number of other high-ranking police officers of the time, including Detective Chief Superintendent Dennis McCullen, who was immediately in charge of the Monaghan case. Both Chief Constable Crammond and Chief Superintendent McCullen were dismissed from the force in a corruption scandal over accepting bribes some years later.’

‘I take it this scandal has nothing to do with my client?’

‘It was a separate incident, drug-related, but it indicates the characters of the men concerned. Mr Caxton and the chief constable were known to be good friends. They dined together, played golf together and even, on one occasion, went on a holiday in Majorca together. All paid for by Mr Caxton.’

‘I did a lot of charity work for the police,’ said Caxton. ‘You can’t accuse me of bribing Ted Crammond with—’

‘But isn’t that exactly what you were doing, Mr Caxton?’ said Winsome. ‘This photograph was taken on the twenty-seventh of October, around the time the Monaghan investigation came to a full stop.’

‘You can’t possibly think that such a senior police officer would cover up a murder,’ said Feldman.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Banks. ‘Though stranger things have happened. It’s possible that, despite his later troubles, Chief Superintendent McCullen had no idea that Mr Caxton had killed Mr Monaghan, or arranged to have him killed. What he was covering up was his friend’s involvement with a man who, it appeared, had turned out to have homosexual inclinations. The fact that Mr Monaghan worked for Mr Caxton was never mentioned in any of the media reports at the time. That, I think, would have been a far easier thing to do, and easier for Chief Constable Crammond to settle with his conscience than murder.’ Banks glanced at Caxton, who seemed to be slipping further and further away from the conversation, looking puzzled and confused, as if he couldn’t understand what he was being accused of any more. It was either arrogance, Banks guessed, or another act, an attempt to put the faltering mask of innocence back in place.

‘All you’re really telling me,’ said Feldman, ‘is that Mr Caxton’s press officer did a good job. I don’t see anything criminal in that.’

‘Let’s get back to the allegations of rape, then,’ said Winsome. ‘When we asked our complainant if she would immerse herself in the difficult and painful process of trying to remember as much detail as she could about the assault, there was something specific that she remembered, and we think it will link her most effectively with Mr Caxton. Would you roll up your left sleeve, please, Mr Caxton?’

‘What...?’

‘Your left sleeve.’

Caxton looked at Feldman, who nodded like a man who knew it would have to happen inevitably at some point, even if they objected now. Slowly, Caxton pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, then unfastened the button at the cuff of his shirt and pushed that up, too. The inked numbers were plain to see. Banks noticed that Caxton’s hand was shaking, and his skin had turned even paler, looking dry, like parchment. He began to worry there was something more serious going on than nerves.

‘What are those numbers?’ Winsome asked. ‘What do they mean? We know that you were in England during the war, not in Auschwitz. Can you—’

Banks tapped Winsome gently on the arm to indicate that she should stop. ‘Mr Caxton,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Do you need me to call a doctor?’

‘Ggggah bbrrridddd ahh.’

Caxton couldn’t get the words out. His face looked oddly lopsided, Banks noticed, as if the right half had fallen away from the cheekbones, and spittle drooled from his lower lip. His right arm hung limp, and that whole side of his body seemed to sag. Banks knew what was happening. He dashed to the door to tell the officer outside to call the paramedics immediately.

Danny Caxton was having a stroke.

By Saturday night, when Banks again knocked on Linda Palmer’s door in Minton-on-Swain, a great deal had happened. Paul Warner was in custody for the murder of Mimosa Moffat, and the forensic evidence was fast building up against him. They also had his confession. Sunny and his colleagues were all under arrest and facing a number of serious charges, though DNA tests showed that none of them had any connection with Mimosa’s murder. The DNA of the three cousins from Dewsbury, however, was a clear match for the semen samples found inside Mimosa, and they faced a whole lot of charges, though they continued to deny rape and insist that the sex had been consensual. Mimosa had been under the age of consent, so it didn’t matter too much, but their sentences would certainly be a lot longer if a jury believed they had also physically assaulted her and forced her to perform sex acts against her will. The problem was that there was no one to say Mimosa wasn’t willing, though the three men who said she was had every reason to lie. The five other victims of Sunny’s grooming gang were being cared for and were all giving detailed statements of their own experiences, though the whereabouts of Jade, aka Carol Fisher, were still unknown. The Strip had quietened down a lot, but there were still isolated incidents and rumblings of unrest around the Wytherton Heights estate. Two more women had come out with complaints against Danny Caxton since he had made his grand entrance and exit to and from Eastvale Police HQ, one in Great Yarmouth and the other in Weymouth. Caxton was still in hospital, still hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

Linda Palmer opened the front door and led Banks through to the garden. It was another fine summer evening early in August, but Banks sensed a slight autumn chill already in the air. It wasn’t enough to drive them indoors, though, and Banks took the same chair as he had on his previous visit. Music played through the open French windows, swirling strings rising and falling, and there was a bottle of wine open on the table. Linda asked Banks if he would like some.

‘Just a glass, please,’ he said. It was a crisp Pinot Grigio, nicely chilled, and it went down well. The river was in the shadow of the trees, but Banks could hear it, and was constantly aware of its presence beyond the music, which he didn’t recognise. Persy was lying on the lawn near a flower bed.

‘Who’s this?’ Banks asked, referring to the music.

‘Mahler’s Ninth. The last movement, the adagio. I’ll put something else on if it’s not to your liking. Some people have a hard time with Mahler.’

‘No,’ said Banks, ‘don’t change it for me. It’s someone I’ve been meaning to get into for a while. All I know of Mahler is the soundtrack from Death in Venice.’

‘Ah, yes. Magnificent.’ Linda paused. ‘I heard about Danny Caxton on the news,’ she said. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Famous TV personality has stroke in police custody? I should think so. There’s bound to be repercussions. There’ll be an inquest, maybe even an investigation. They take anything unusual that happens in police custody seriously these days. On the plus side, his lawyer was there. He saw everything that happened, and he said we couldn’t have responded faster. It was so quick. And Caxton had never told us before that he had any problem with his heart. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but there’s not much chance of a trial now, so what the hell. According to a disgruntled employee on the staff at Caxton’s home, Xanadu, his doctor had warned him to be careful with his health, prescribed various drugs to combat hypertension and elevated heart rate. But Caxton didn’t take them. He said they interfered with his sex life, which, according to our source, was mostly catered to by high-class call girls shipped into Xanadu on a fairly regular basis. He didn’t change his lifestyle either, kept on smoking cigars, drinking cognac. Too arrogant to listen to the doctors, I suppose. The only indication he’d given was that he said he wasn’t feeling well, but nobody feels well when they know they’ve been caught.’

Linda smiled. ‘There’s an irony in that, isn’t there,’ she said. ‘The great man brought down by his own perverse desires. But surely the lawyers will argue that the stress of being interrogated must have had something to do with it?’

‘No doubt that’s what they’ll say. But we played it by the book and it’s all on record, audio recording and video. There was no use of restraint, not that we’d be likely to need it with an eighty-five-year-old man. Caxton arrived under his own steam, with his lawyer, and he was well treated at all times. He behaved quite normally at first. Nevertheless, there’ll be trouble, you can be sure of it. They’ll want their pound of flesh.’

‘Will you lose your job?’

‘Maybe. If they need a sacrificial lamb. Or perhaps I’ll just be demoted, or promoted to chief constable, where I can do no harm. It was, after all, my first major investigation as superintendent. I enjoyed being detective chief inspector, though, so demotion wouldn’t bother me too much. Chief constable I’m not so sure about.’

‘You’re being very flippant about it, but I feel terrible.’

‘Why? It’s not your fault. We can’t let people who do the things Caxton did to you and others go free just because they’re old and frail. I hope you understand that. It’s simply that the politics of the job demands sacrifices.’

‘What do the doctors say?’

‘They don’t hold out a lot of hope. Apparently he had a second stroke on the way to hospital and a third when he got there. He’s in his mid-eighties. Even if he does survive, he’ll be bedridden and incapacitated for the rest of his days.’

‘I wish I could feel something,’ said Linda with a shiver. ‘Pity. Compassion. I can’t.’

Banks just looked at her. ‘Save it for someone who deserves it.’

She caught his gaze. ‘Silly of me, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. Most of us try to be good people.’

‘What about the other case? The girl who was groomed and raped.’

‘A friend of her brother’s has confessed to the murder,’ said Banks. ‘That’s about all I can say right now.’

‘You believe him?’

‘No reason not to.’

‘Why?’

‘I wish I could say I understood, but I don’t, really. He was infatuated with her, even though she was a few years younger than he is, and he’s somewhat of a racist. The idea of her going with people of a different ethnic origin set his teeth on edge. He’d just heard, or so he says, and he couldn’t get the images out of his mind. He followed their van. When she came walking towards him, it didn’t go as he expected. The things she said, the way she reacted. Partly because she’d been on ketamine and partly because... well... he just lost it. Saw red. I suppose that’s believable enough. It’ll have to be, at any rate. It’s all we’re likely to get from him.’

‘ “An old black ram is tupping your white ewe.” ’

‘Othello,’ said Banks.

‘My, my, you are a literate copper. Not only Wordsworth, but Shakespeare, too. I suppose you did it at school?’

‘Yes. Amazing how you remember quotes like that when you’re a dirty-minded teenager.’

‘Iago uses sexual images like that to drive Othello over the edge.’

‘Maybe the girl’s brother did that to our suspect,’ Banks said. ‘But it probably wasn’t intentional. He’s not that bright.’

‘What about the men who raped her?’

‘They’ll go away for a long time. Rape, conspiracy to rape, sexual activity with a child, sexual assault. A range of charges. The CPS will throw the book at them. Something’s sure to stick.’

‘Good Lord. It’s all so sad. This is the sort of thing you deal with day after day, isn’t it?’

Banks sipped some wine. The strings held a long note, then the brass came in and another melody began. ‘Not every day, no.’

‘But it must get to you, seeing so much of the dark side, the cruel side of human nature.’

‘You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. Besides, it’s not all doom and gloom. I see plenty of good, too. Plenty of decent people trying to help others. They’re just not always who or where you expect them to be.’

‘I don’t think I could do your job.’

‘That’s just as well. The world will be a far better place if you stick at what you do already.’

‘You’ve read my poetry?’

‘Some. It’s really good. Of course, I know nothing about such—’

‘Oh, tosh. Do you think I write for reviewers and literary critics? Half the time I don’t even get reviewed. How many poetry reviews do you see in your weekend papers?’

‘The Observer does a few.’

‘Beyond the Observer.’

‘Dunno. That’s the only one I read, except for the Mail on Sunday. It’s true they don’t review much poetry.’

‘The Observer and the Mail? Are you schizophrenic or something?’

Banks laughed. ‘No. It’s just that I find if I read both, the truth usually comes somewhere in between. And the Mail has a better TV guide.’

‘Well, that’s a novel way of looking at it. Are you still reading your poetry anthology in chronological order?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for it lately, but I think I’ll take your advice and jump around more. After I’ve finished your poems, that is.’

Linda offered a top-up of wine. Banks hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I keeping you from something? It’s Saturday night, after all. Do you have plans for the evening? Maybe celebrating with your colleagues?’

‘No, not at all. We’ll do that next week when we know we have something to celebrate. I was just thinking of the drive home. But why not? A drop more won’t put me over the limit. As a matter of fact, I was going to drop my car at home and walk down to the Dog and Gun in Gratly. It’s folk night. I think Penny Cartwright’s back home. But there’s plenty of time for that.’

‘She is,’ said Linda. ‘I had coffee with her this afternoon.’

‘You know Penny?’

‘Known her for years. We’re old friends.’

‘She never said.’

Linda smiled. ‘She talked plenty about you.’

Banks felt himself blush. ‘Don’t tell me. She’s never forgiven me for suspecting her of murder thirty years ago.’

Linda laughed. ‘Something like that. I mean, really. It’s not something one gets over that easily, I shouldn’t imagine. How could you? But I think she likes you.’

‘That’s a surprise.’

The wind rustled through the leaves and birds called from the trees by the riverside. ‘Kingfisher not around?’ he asked.

‘Not today. But he’ll be back.’

They listened to the wind and the birds and the river for a while, Mahler’s notes and chords drifting between sound and silence through the evening air as if they belonged there, then Linda said, ‘Those numbers on Caxton’s arm. Did you find out what they were? Were they what I thought?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks.

‘Can you tell me?’

‘I don’t see why not. I knew from talking to Caxton’s ex-wife a while ago that he’d been sent to England as a young lad, when he was about three, I think.’

‘So he can’t have been in a concentration camp.’

‘No. He never went back. He was in England throughout the war.’

‘So what, then?’

‘She told me that his mother was in a camp and that his father fought with the Germans. This was in Poland.’

‘People did that?’

‘Apparently so. Places like Poland, Estonia and the other Baltic States were torn apart by the Russians and Germans. Some families fought against their own kin. Some found themselves in one side’s army one day and the enemy’s the next. Stalin or Hitler? Who would you choose?’

‘So where did the numbers come from?’

‘It was his mother’s camp number. He found out only years later, from someone who was with her then and survived. They have records.’

‘He has his mother’s concentration camp number tattooed on his arm?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know whether that’s sick or sentimental.’

‘A bit of both, really,’ said Banks. ‘He can’t have had it done until after he was divorced, as his ex-wife had never seen it. Others must have, even though he always wore long sleeves, and he tried to keep it concealed. You saw it.’ Banks didn’t tell her that it was when he asked to look at Caxton’s arm that he had his stroke. No point making her feel guilty. She’d done the right thing in noting it down, and he’d done the right thing in asking to see it. The rest was just bad timing. He didn’t really know what was going to happen to his career because of what happened in that interview room. Neither he nor Winsome had behaved in any way offensively or aggressively during the interview, but Danny Caxton had keeled over and would most likely die. Adrian Moss had a hell of a job on his hands with this one, and for once Banks appreciated that he might prove a useful ally. Not that ACC McLaughlin and AC Gervaise weren’t a hundred per cent behind him. The chief constable and crime commissioner were waffling and waving this way and that in the prevailing winds, but that was only to be expected. The best Banks could do was tell the truth and try to protect Winsome from the shit storm as best he could. Even if there were no professional consequences, there would be a big fuss in the media for a few days.

The music was so quiet now that Banks could hardly hear it above the birds and the wind in the leaves. Occasionally he would catch a slow, soft phrase, then silence came again. Linda swallowed and turned towards the river. He couldn’t see her expression or the look in her eyes. ‘It always makes me cry, the end,’ she said. ‘You really have to hear it inside to get the full impact, but the quiet strings and silence alternate like a dying man’s breath for a while, and finally it just disappears into silence. More Shakespeare. “The rest is silence.” ’

‘Was it Mahler’s last work?’ Banks asked.

‘Not technically, no. He’d sketched out a tenth symphony before he died. But he was ill. He’d lost his favourite daughter and been diagnosed with heart problems. The ninth is often regarded as his farewell to the world, especially that adagio.’ She paused a moment then asked him, ‘So Caxton won’t be going on trial?’

‘The CPS will declare him unfit to stand,’ said Banks, ‘Even if he lives that long.’

‘So there’ll be no real closure?’

‘I always thought closure was overrated,’ said Banks. ‘What’s so special about an old man sitting in a prison cell for the rest of his natural life?’

‘Well, if you put it that way...’

‘I don’t mean to belittle anything you’ve been through,’ said Banks, ‘but everyone’s going to know what he did, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s too old to recover from what happened to him, even if he survives for a while longer. That’ll have to be enough.’

‘Do you think it has all been worthwhile?’ Linda asked. ‘Has justice been served?’

‘I think that’s a question you should be answering. Has it?’

Linda seemed lost in thought for a moment, her brow furrowed, then she said. ‘I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe it’s too soon. I just feel numb.’

‘Well, perhaps his stroke is justice of a kind,’ said Banks.

‘But it isn’t, really, is it?’ Linda replied. ‘I mean, it’s the sort of thing that happens to all of us in one way or another, at some time — strokes, heart attack, Alzheimer’s, cancer. There’s no justice in that. Just arbitrary endings. We all die, some of us in great agony, so how can Caxton’s stroke be anything like a judgement, or justice?’

‘Do you want more?’ Banks asked. ‘Do you want him to suffer more? If he’d gone to jail before he had his stroke, he’d be spending his time on the hospital wing. Would that really make a scrap of difference to you?’

‘No. I’m not saying I want him to suffer more. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m confused. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I’m not jumping up and down for joy because the man who raped me has had a stroke. Maybe I should be. I’m not one of those people who thinks criminals should be hanged, drawn and quartered. I don’t know. It just feels sort of meaningless.’

‘Perhaps it is, then,’ said Banks. ‘But it might mean more to some of his other victims.’

Linda lit a cigarette and regarded him through lowered eyes. ‘Are you saying I don’t make a good victim?’

Banks smiled. ‘Victim isn’t the word that comes to mind when I talk to you,’ he said. The sun was at such an angle that the river looked like a burning oil slick and the undersides of the overhanging trees were lit by its fiery light. Banks finished his wine and put his glass down. ‘I should be going.’

Linda didn’t react for a moment, then she leaned forward and said, ‘Do you mind if I come with you to the Dog and Gun? I really don’t feel like being here on my own tonight. I want people and music and dancing.’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks, standing and offering her his arm.

‘Are you sure it’s OK, me being a witness, a victim? You won’t get into trouble?’

‘I’m already in trouble. A bit more won’t make much difference.’

Linda smiled and took his arm and together they walked out of the garden.