When the Music's Over

2

The CSI van arrived about an hour after Roger Stanford had cycled off into the distance. Annie and Gerry remained by their car, under the shade of the trees, as the various specialists got to work. The uniformed officers donned latex gloves and overshoes to join in the roadside search. It was going on for half past eleven, and by all the signs, Annie thought, the day was going to be a scorcher. The morning mist had already burned off. She wished she were at home in the garden on a sunlounger working on her tan, with a thick Ken Follett lying open on her stomach and a long cool drink within reach.

‘What do you think?’ Gerry asked.

‘Hard to say yet,’ answered Annie. ‘Give the boffins an hour or so and they might come up with some ideas. We don’t even know who she is or how she got here. Nobody local’s been reported missing.’

‘Early days yet,’ said Gerry. ‘She can hardly have walked here.’

‘True enough. Let’s go talk to Doc Burns. He’s been with the body long enough. He should have something to say by now.’

They walked a few yards along the road, noting the officers and CSIs probing the ditch and long grass for any clues as to what might have happened. There was a chance that the girl’s clothes and bag were nearby. A purse or mobile could help them with the identification. Others had climbed over the drystone wall and were searching for anything that might have been thrown over there. Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy with his trusty Pentax, which he wouldn’t give up despite offers of a state-of-the-art digital SLR. He took digital photographs, too, of course, with a pocket Cybershot, as did many of the CSIs and investigating officers these days, but the Pentax shots were the ‘official’ ones, the pictures that got tacked to the whiteboard during briefing sessions and progress meetings.

Dr Burns was scribbling in his notebook when Annie and Gerry arrived by the corpse. ‘You two,’ he said.

Annie smiled. ‘DCI–I mean Detective Superintendent Banks is on another case. High profile, probably. He’s too good for the likes of us any more.’

Dr Burns smiled back. ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said.

Annie was joking. The few times she had met with Banks since his promotion, usually for a drink after work, he had seemed much as normal, complaining about the paperwork and boring meetings, but around the station he had been far more remote and preoccupied. Hardly surprising, she thought, given his added responsibilities. His new office also put him further away from the squad room, so they didn’t bump into one another as often during the day. Annie had put in an application for promotion to DCI, but budget cuts were back with a vengeance since Banks had scraped through. They were already reducing the senior ranks, and there were plenty of constables and sergeants out there who had passed their OSPRE exams and were still without positions to take up. The truth was, she’d have to take a few more courses and kiss a lot more arse before she got a promotion. Gerry, too, however well she did in her sergeant’s exams.

‘So what have we got?’ she asked Dr Burns.

‘Just what it looks like, at least until Dr Glendenning gets her on the slab. He might well discover some poison hitherto unknown to man, or signs of a blade so thin and needle sharp it leaves no trace to the naked eye. But until then, my opinion is that the poor girl was beaten to death.’

‘No chance it was a hit and run?’

‘I’d say that’s very unlikely, judging by the injuries and the position of the body. I wouldn’t rule it out a hundred per cent — hit and runs can cause any number of injuries similar to the ones this girl has — but I doubt it.’ Dr Burns paused. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘you might ask yourselves what a naked girl was doing walking down this lane in the middle of the night.’

‘Oh, we’ll be doing that all right,’ said Annie. ‘Can you tell if she was beaten by a blunt object or anything? Is there a particular weapon we should be searching for?’

‘From what I can see, I’d say fists and kicking. Mostly the latter, while she was lying on the ground trying to protect her face and head, knees up to try to cover her stomach.’

Annie stared at the stained and bruised body, stiffened in the foetal position. She had curled herself up in a ball like that to protect herself from a rain of blows, but she had died anyway.

‘Any idea how many attackers?’

‘Could be just one,’ Dr Burns said. ‘But again, you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem for a definitive answer.’

‘What about her clothes? Any idea when or why they were removed?’

‘None,’ said Dr Burns. ‘As far as I know, nobody’s found any trace of them yet, and they certainly weren’t removed after the beating.’

‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

Dr Burns gestured towards the body. ‘As you can see, there’s evidence of bruising and bleeding around the anus and vagina.’

‘Any idea what killed her?’

‘Could have been the blows to the head.’ Dr Burns pointed to areas where the blond hair was dark and matted with blood on the skull, the broken cheekbone, the mess of the mouth and ear. ‘It could also be internal injuries,’ he went on. ‘It looks as if someone stamped on her. A beating like this is likely to rupture the spleen and God knows what else. I think her hip is probably broken, too.’

‘Any ideas on time of death?’

Burns sighed. Annie knew it was the question all crime-scene doctors and pathologists hated because it was so difficult to answer accurately, but she had to ask. ‘Based on body temperature readings and the fact that rigor is advanced, I’d say it happened sometime between one and three in the morning. It was a warm night.’

‘Thanks,’ said Annie. ‘Are you finished with her?’

Dr Burns glanced at the body again. ‘God, yes,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you are. Not by a long shot.’ And he walked off to his car.

Annie asked Peter Darby and one of the CSIs if they had also finished with the body, and they said they had. She had a raincoat in the back of the car — always a sensible precaution in Yorkshire — and while they waited for the coroner’s van, she took it out and spread it gently over the girl’s body. For some reason she didn’t want the girl’s nakedness on display, even though everyone at the scene was a professional. Gerry still seemed especially pale and shaken by the sight.

‘Excuse me for asking,’ said Annie. ‘I realise I should know, but I can’t remember. Is this your first murder victim?’

Gerry offered a weak smile. ‘You usually keep me in the squad room chained to the computer.’

‘If you want to talk, or anything... As long as there’s a large glass of wine in it for me.’

‘Thanks, guv.’ Gerry straightened her back and stuck her long pre-Raphaelite locks behind her ears. ‘What next?’

‘We wait. Stefan’s gang are good, but they take their time. I think whatever happens, high-profile case or not, Alan’s going to find himself senior investigating officer on this one, so we’ll report to him when we get back to the station. First priority is to find out who she is. We’ll need to start checking on missing persons as soon as possible, and see how soon we can draft in a forensic odontologist to get working on dental records. We also need an artist’s impression. From what I could tell, her face is too badly disfigured for a useful photo ID. We’ll check with local schools, even though they’re on holiday. Social services. What’s your gut feeling on this?’

‘I think we need to know whether she was dumped or killed here, for a start.’

‘It seems a good out-of-the-way place to dump a body,’ Annie said. ‘Or even to kill someone. We should talk to whoever lives in that farmhouse over there.’

‘Ladies!’

Annie turned around to the source of the voice. It was Stefan Nowak about a couple of hundred yards up the road. ‘If you’d care to come here,’ he said, ‘I think we might have something interesting for you.’

‘I still find it hard to understand how a fourteen-year-old girl could be sexually assaulted in front of a witness and nothing was done,’ said DS Winsome Jackman, as she parked the police Skoda in the tiny, charming village of Minton-on-Swain. ‘She did report it at the time, you say?’

‘She says she did,’ said Banks. ‘Different times. Didn’t you follow the Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris cases?’

‘Not really. They don’t mean anything to me. I mean, I know who they are, and it’s terrible what they got away with, but they had nothing to do with my life. They weren’t part of my childhood. I’m paying more attention to that Bill Cosby thing in the States.’

‘They were part of my childhood,’ said Banks. ‘Not a big part, maybe, except when Savile was a DJ on Radio Luxembourg, and I used to listen under the bedclothes, but a part, nonetheless. The Teen and Twenty Disc Club.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s what his radio programme was called. You could even write in to become a member, get a card with a number and a charm bracelet with a disc on it. I wish I still had mine. They’re probably worth a fortune now on the creepy souvenirs market. I’ve still got my Radio Luxembourg Books of Record Stars. You know, it’s funny the little things you remember, but it made you feel special that Elvis was a member, too. I even remember his number: one one three two one.’

‘Elvis Costello?’

Banks laughed. ‘Elvis Presley. Believe it or not, Winsome, I was an Elvis fan back then. Still am.’

‘But isn’t that when he was making those terrible films? We used to get them on television when I was little.’

‘Just between you and me, I used to enjoy those terrible films. I still listen to the soundtracks now and then. Girl Happy, Fun in Acapulco, Viva Las Vegas. Mostly pretty bad songs, but a few gems, and say what you like about Elvis, he had a great voice.’

‘We had a pastor who did terrible things to young girls the next village over,’ said Winsome. ‘Not to me, but girls my age.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘The fathers ganged up and... well, it wasn’t very nice. They used a machete. He was lucky to be alive, or maybe not, but he wasn’t able to harm any more girls after that. My father was livid. There was nothing he could do to stop it, but he could hardly arrest them all, either.’

‘It was a bit like that when I was a kid,’ said Banks, standing for a moment to breathe in the fragrant summer air. It was late July, and the village gardens were in bloom. Banks could see why Minton had recently won a best-kept Dales village award. The inhabitants clearly took great pride in their gardens. ‘Maybe without the machete. But it was like everyone knew who you should stay away from. Word gets around not to go near that Mr So-and-so at number eight, and we wouldn’t. Nobody ever said why.’

‘But people in the community knew who the perverts were?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Without anyone telling them who was on a sex offenders list, if we even had such things then. And as often as not, the community dealt with it. I think they stopped short of murder and castration where I grew up, but one or two local pervs upped sticks for no apparent reason. Warned off, I should think.’

‘But they’d only go somewhere else.’

‘That’s the problem. If what we’re hearing is true, people like Danny Caxton didn’t even get warned off, so they just carried on as they liked, year after year.’

‘And nobody stopped them. We didn’t stop them.’

‘No, we didn’t. Here it is.’

The three small cottages stood on the opposite side of the road from the main village, and Linda Palmer lived in the one with the green Mini parked outside. Banks and Winsome opened the gate, walked down the narrow hedge-lined path and flight of stone stairs, then Banks knocked on the sturdy red door. It was a warm afternoon, and even though he had slung his jacket over his shoulder, he could already feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, trickling and tickling down the groove of his spine. The heat didn’t seem to bother Winsome. She was as cool as ever in her tailored navy jacket and skirt.

When the door finally opened, he found himself face to face with a tall, slender woman with short ash-blond hair cut in a jagged fringe. Her hand gripped his and then Winsome’s in a firm handshake.

‘Come on in, both of you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I took so long to answer the door, but I was out in the garden. It’s such a beautiful day, it seemed a shame to waste it. Will you join me? Or do we have to sit on uncomfortable seats in the dark to do this?’

‘We’d be happy to join you,’ Banks said.

She moved ahead of them gracefully, looking good in close-fitting jeans and a loose white cotton tunic. The interior of the house seemed dark after the bright sun, but before their eyes had time to adjust they went through the open French windows and found themselves outside again. This time, they were in a different world. The river wasn’t very wide at this point, and it ran swift and deep at the bottom of the sloping lawn, the sun flashing like diamonds on its shifting, coiling surface, its sound constant but ever-changing. The opposite riverbank was overgrown with trees, some of them willows weeping down into the water, others leaning at precarious angles, as if they were about to topple in at any moment. Above the trees, it was possible to make out the pattern of drystone walls on the higher slopes of the opposite daleside, Tetchley Fell reaching high above Helmthorpe, close to where Banks lived, and much greener this summer after the rains.

But it was the river that drew one’s attention with its magnetic power, its voice and its shifting, scintillating movement. The garden was just a swatch of lawn that needed mowing, edged with a few beds of colourful flowers: poppies, foxgloves, roses. Fuchsia and a bay tree hung over the drystone wall from next door. At the bottom was a low iron railing decorated with curlicues, and beyond that the riverbank itself. A white table and four matching chairs awaited them in the shade of an old beech tree, along with a jug full of ice cubes and orange juice. The French windows remained open and Banks could hear music playing quietly inside. He recognised the opening movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

‘I thought cold drinks might be nicer than tea,’ Linda Palmer said, ‘but it’s up to you.’

‘Cold is fine,’ said Banks, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His tie had disappeared soon after the morning meeting.

‘Good, then. Let’s sit down, shall we?’

They sat. Banks noticed an open book face down on the table beside an ashtray. It was called Dart by Alice Oswald, and looked slim enough to be a volume of poetry. Beside it sat a black Moleskine notebook with a Mont Blanc rollerball lying across its cover, which seemed a bit upmarket for a poet. Perhaps they got paid more than he thought. Linda Palmer poured the drinks, which turned out to be freshly squeezed, judging by the pulp and tang. It was good to be in the shade in the warm summer weather. A light, cool breeze made the garden even more comfortable. A black cat came out from the bushes, gazed at them with a distinct lack of interest and stretched out in the sun.

‘Don’t mind her,’ said Linda. ‘That’s Persephone. Persy, for short, though that makes her sound male, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s beautiful here,’ Banks said.

‘Thank you. I just adore it. We get a kingfisher sometimes, sitting on that branch over the water, scanning for fish. I could watch him for hours. Plenty of other birds, too, of course. The feeder attracts finches, wagtails, tits of all kinds. We get swifts and swallows in the evening, an owl at night. And the bats, of course. It can be really magical when the moon is full. Sometimes I don’t think I would be at all surprised to see fairies at the bottom of this garden.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘I do now. Not always.’ A faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Two children, both grown up and flown the coop. One husband, deceased.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

She inclined her head. ‘It was two years ago. Heart attack. Charles was a good man. He was an English prof at Durham.’

‘Did you ever tell him and the children about what happened?’

Linda gave a slight shake of her head, and Banks knew not to pursue the matter. Not yet, at any rate. Now that he could examine her more closely, he noticed that she had a few crow’s feet around her eyes and crinkles at the edges of her mouth, but that only accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it in any way. Her pale complexion was smooth, lightly freckled, the lips still full, a generous mouth. She wore no make-up, but with her skin, she didn’t need it. The features of her heart-shaped face were strong, but not too sharp or angular, the Nordic cheekbones well defined, nose in proportion with everything else. But it was her dark blue eyes that really tantalised. Banks could sense warmth, humour, tenderness and curiosity under a guarded surface, and a hint of sadness, loss and pain beneath all that. They didn’t flit around in search of an object to settle on, but remained fixed on whomever she was talking to. Her hands, usually a giveaway sign of age, seemed even younger than the rest of her, long tapered fingers and soft skin. No rings or jewellery of any kind. There were certain women, Banks thought, such as Cherie Lunghi and Francesca Annis, who seemed to become more attractive with age, and Linda Palmer was one of them.

‘As I understand it,’ he began, ‘you rang county HQ two days ago after being advised to do so by Childline, and you talked to a Detective Inspector Joanna MacDonald. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you call?’

‘I didn’t know who else to talk to. Was I wrong?’

‘No, I mean, why now? After so long. What was special about the day before yesterday?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So why?’

‘I can’t explain it that easily.’

‘Was it anything to do with other recent events?’

‘Of course it was. It’s a need that’s been slowly building up in me. I’ve been plucking up the courage. You might not believe it, but I’m nervous as hell about this meeting. Would I have come forward if all those women hadn’t complained about Jimmy Savile? I don’t know. I like to think so, but probably not. I don’t think they would have all come forward, either, if they hadn’t known there were others with the same story to tell.’

It was true, Banks knew. At one point in the Savile investigation, the police had their knuckles rapped for not letting the accusers know they weren’t alone. In some ways, though, it was hardly their fault; they were only thinking of what possible repercussions such collusion might have if the case went to trial. ‘So it wasn’t that you forgot about it and just suddenly remembered?’

‘No. I never forgot it. And before you ask, I’m interested in neither money nor notoriety. In fact, I would prefer it if you kept my name out of the papers.’

‘Anonymity is guaranteed in cases like this,’ said Banks.

‘Even if I had to... you know... testify in court?’

‘Even then. There are special protocols in place to deal with this matter in the courts and so on. And you can’t be cross-examined by your alleged attacker in person.’

‘Thank you.’ She paused a moment. ‘May I ask you if any others have come forward?’

‘It’s early days yet,’ Banks said, ‘but yes, there are others. Believe me, you’re not alone.’

A blackbird sang in the garden next door and bees hummed and crawled inside the foxgloves and fuchsias, legs fat with pollen. The sound of the river was a constant background, threaded with the Beethoven Pastoral.

‘It’s something I never thought about back then, when it happened,’ Linda said. ‘That there would be others, that he would have done the same thing to someone else.’

‘You were fourteen,’ Banks said. ‘Hard to be anything other than the centre of the universe at that age.’

Linda managed a sad smile. ‘I did report it to the police at the time, you know.’

‘Do you remember who you spoke to?’

‘I can’t remember his name,’ said Linda. ‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone, not even my mum. I was frightened, and I was ashamed. But I’d been unable to sleep, I was off my food, just not myself at all, not functioning well, and Mother was desperate with worry. She even took me to the doctor’s. She kept on pushing me, and finally I told her what happened.’

‘But not your father?’

She hesitated. ‘No. He... he wouldn’t have handled it well. I know it would have come out eventually if... well... but at the time, no.’

‘Did the doctor examine you?’

‘No. He just said I was run-down and needed a tonic.’

‘How was the policeman? I mean, how did he treat you?’

‘Sympathetic, nice enough, but I’m not sure he believed me.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just his tone. It was difficult, him being a man, like it would have been for my father. Hard to talk about what happened. He seemed more embarrassed than anything else. And that office. It was like the headmaster’s study where you went for the cane.’

Banks smiled. He could imagine it had been difficult. These days, if something like that had just happened to her, she would have been talking to a sympathetic woman in a special room with muzak and subdued lighting. Candles, probably. Maybe even the Pastoral Symphony. ‘I doubt you were down for the cane all that often.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘If you’d be more comfortable talking to a female investigator,’ said Banks, ‘that can be easily arranged. I know you told DI MacDonald you weren’t bothered, but DS Jackman here can take over.’

Linda Palmer smiled at Winsome. ‘It’s all right. No offence, but I’m OK. Really.’ Then she turned to Banks again. ‘You’re the one they sent. It’s your case, isn’t it?’

‘Something like that. But, as I say, that can be changed. We can accommodate whatever you want. Both DS Jackman here and DI MacDonald are excellent officers.’

‘I assume you were chosen because you’re good at your job. Are you good?’

Winsome glanced at Banks as he shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He could see the faint outline of a grin on her face. Enjoying his discomfort. ‘I’m not one to blow my own trumpet,’ he said. ‘But I’ve had my fair share of success.’

‘You’ll do, then.’

‘Thanks very much.’

Linda glanced at Winsome again, and they both laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Linda. ‘It wasn’t meant to sound like that. The thing is, I really don’t care who I speak to. It was a long time ago, and I’m a big girl now. It was different then, when I was only fourteen, but a lot of water’s gone down the river since. Even my gynaecologist is a man these days.’

‘OK,’ Banks said. Burgess was right; this was no damaged witness. Linda Palmer could function better than most. Might that make her story seem less credible to a judge and jury? Banks wondered. Would people demand more wailing and gnashing of teeth, a history of drug and alcohol abuse? ‘I just wanted to make sure. I understand you heard nothing more of this original complaint?’

‘That’s right. Nothing except excuses, at any rate.’

‘Did you make inquiries?’

‘My mother did.’

‘And what happened?’

‘At first she was told that the investigation was ongoing and that it might take a long time. In the end they told her that the matter had been dropped due to lack of evidence.’

‘So it was your word against his, and they believed him?’

‘I doubt that they even talked to him. He was too high and mighty. But, yes, basically. That’s what I took it to mean. A fourteen-year-old girl. Everyone knows the kinds of hysterical fantasies we have with the onset of puberty.’

‘How did you feel about it?’

‘How do you think I felt?’

‘I can’t imagine. Disappointed?’

‘Not disappointed. You’d have to have expected something to feel that, and I suppose, deep down, I didn’t. Expect anything, I mean. And the whole thing was frightening for a young girl, talking to the police and all that. I couldn’t imagine being in a courtroom in front of all those serious old people in their wigs and gowns answering questions about what happened to me. I was shy. I had an overactive imagination, even then. But the main feeling was as if I didn’t count. As if what had happened to me didn’t matter. I was a nobody. You have to remember, I was just a kid from a working-class background, and we never expected much from the ruling classes. I mean, I couldn’t have articulated it that way back then, but that’s what it amounted to. Money and privilege ruled. Still do, for that matter, no matter what the clever southerners try to tell you. I’m sorry, there’s me on one of my hobby horses again.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Banks. ‘Did anyone ever pursue the matter beyond that point?’

‘Not that I know of. There seemed no point. We’d had our shot, and we missed. What were we to do? Start a campaign? My parents... you have to understand, something like that, it wasn’t something they could talk about. They’d both had strict upbringings. Sex wasn’t something we talked about in our house. My father in particular. Which was why we never told him. If he ever thought anything was wrong, he probably just wrote it off as some sort of “female” problem. Time of the month. If he noticed at all. I suppose he would have found out if anything had come of it, but it didn’t. And he died two months ago. Maybe that’s another reason I feel I can talk now. Need to talk now. He can never know.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘My mother was ashamed. She tried not to show it, but I could tell. I’m not saying she blamed me, but when she looked at me, I could tell she wished I’d never brought such unpleasantness into our house. She wanted rid of it, so we swept it under the carpet.’ Linda seemed uncertain whether to go on, then she said, ‘I’m not even sure she believed me. I think she realised there was something wrong with me, but the visit to the police was more like a visit to the doctor’s with a troublesome pain or an unexplained lump. When the investigation went nowhere, it was rather like getting a clean bill of health. You know, it’s not cancer, after all, it’s not polio. More relief than anger. Mother died a few years ago, and by the end I think she had even convinced herself to forget it had ever happened. Neither of us mentioned it to anyone else, or even to each other again. We simply got on with our lives.’

‘No crime in that.’

‘Keep calm and carry on. I know.’

‘I mean...’

‘I know what you mean.’ She sat forward suddenly, linking her hands on her lap. ‘It’s what lots of people did, their generation especially. My father was part of the D-Day landings, but he never spoke about it. I once saw a big puckered scar on his side when we were on a beach somewhere, and I asked him about it. He just brushed it off as nothing, but I recognised it from pictures I’d seen in books. It was a bayonet wound. He’d got close enough to the enemy for hand-to-hand combat in the war, for crying out loud, but he never talked about it. He probably killed the man who wounded him, and that was why he was still alive. I just felt guilt, that’s all. I tried. We tried the best we could, the best my mother and I could. We got nowhere. Now I’m different. I don’t mind talking about it. I don’t even really care if everyone finds out. Maybe I secretly want them to. I want to know why nobody did anything. And I want them to do something now, if they can. Is that so strange?’

‘No,’ said Banks. ‘Not at all. That’s what we’re here for.’ In a way, Banks knew, she was probably right about her mother. In many cases, the parents didn’t believe their children’s stories, which made it far worse for the children, who felt alone, humiliated and ashamed enough to start with. No wonder so many ended up blaming themselves.

‘What do you need to know?’ Linda asked. ‘Ms MacDonald didn’t ask me very much on the phone.’

‘She just wanted to get a general outline of the complaint, the basics. I’m afraid I need a lot more.’ Banks glanced at Winsome, who had her notebook and mobile out on the table. ‘Do you mind if we record this?’

‘Not at all,’ said Linda. ‘As I said, I want to talk about it.’

Winsome set the mobile’s voice recorder on.

‘Where did the assault take place?’ said Banks.

‘In a suite at the Majestic Hotel in Blackpool, a big old place behind the Pleasure Beach. It’s where he — Danny Caxton — and his entourage were staying during the summer season. It’s not there any more.’

‘Why were you there?’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘Looking back, God only knows,’ she whispered. ‘Remember, I was only fourteen. Danny Caxton was famous. He was handsome like a film star. And he was a nice man. Or so he seemed to his public. He had one of those affable, trustworthy personalities. On the outside. Maybe that was another reason nobody believed me. It was after a matinee, and I was at the stage door on the pier autograph hunting. I used to do that back then. My friend Melanie was supposed to be with me but she cried off at the last minute and went to one of the amusement arcades instead. She wasn’t really interested in autographs.’

‘Did you tell your parents where you were going?’

‘I probably said I was going to try and get some autographs, yes. They knew I collected them. They were used to me going off by myself. I was a solitary child. A bit of a loner. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t antisocial, and I was really glad Melanie was with us that week. But I still needed to do some things by myself. I always have.’

‘So you were on your own?’

‘Well, there were a few others after autographs, but no one was actually with me, no. You might remember he’d recently started hosting that talent show, Do Your Own Thing! at the time, and I suppose I thought I had talent. I used to watch it regularly. I had dreams of being an actress or a singer then, the next Julie Christie or Dusty Springfield or something. People told me I had a nice voice, and I’d had some good parts in school plays. I wrote my own songs. I’d even played Juliet at school earlier that year. Most of the celebrities, they just hurried by and scribbled in the book without even looking at you, if they bothered at all. But Danny Caxton was different. He noticed people. He really seemed to see me. He stopped to talk to me. Me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked me my name, what I did.’

‘You told him you were at school?’

‘Yes.’

‘What else?’

‘What I was interested in. That’s when I told him about... you know, singing and wanting to be onstage. As I said, I was usually a shy teenager, but there was something in his manner that could sort of bring people out of themselves. It felt nice to be able to talk about my dreams to someone. Most of the others had gone by then. I was last in line. He had my book in his hand and his pen ready, but I was gushing about my favourite pop singers. He knew them all, of course — I mean really knew them — and that was when he said maybe he could help me, and somehow the autograph got lost in the excitement. He never did sign it.’

‘What did he mean that he could help you?’

‘He said maybe he could arrange for me to come to a filming of his programme in the TV studio, to be a part of the audience, that maybe if I was good enough I could even be on it. It was a friendly invitation, you know, a bit mysterious, a bit promising, the hint that there’ll be something good at the end of it, that I might even get to meet Helen Shapiro or Kathy Kirby. They were both in Blackpool at the time, in different shows. Can you imagine? He said I was pretty and I carried myself well, I had elegant posture, and that was always important if you wanted to be successful in show business. He said they were always needing extras and whatever for the TV show, or for a Christmas panto, and maybe he could get me a start.’

‘Then what?’ Banks asked.

‘I fell for it hook, line and sinker, didn’t I? He’d finished signing autographs, so he went back to his car. Just before I set off to see if I could track down Melanie in the amusement arcade, someone asked me if I’d care to talk to Mr Caxton now, that he had some free time.’

‘Who was this?’

‘I don’t know. A sort of aide or assistant or something. Famous people like Danny Caxton had other people to do things for them. He was there later, in the hotel.’

‘Did you recognise this assistant from anywhere?’

‘No. I’d never seen him before. He wasn’t someone from television or the live show. I would have recognised him then. We’d been to see the show a few days earlier with our parents, Melanie and me. An evening performance.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t really remember. Younger than Caxton. He seemed nice enough at first. There was nothing that really stood out about him.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I didn’t think twice about it. I went over with him and hopped in the car. It was really plush. A Rolls-Royce or something. Inside it smelled all of soft leather, and when it moved it was like floating on air.’

‘That’s very brazen,’ said Winsome. ‘Whisking you off in his car in public like that. Did anyone else witness this?’

‘I don’t know. Most of the other autograph hunters had drifted away by then, or gone chasing after Jess Conrad. I know I felt special, like a princess, getting in the car.’

‘You weren’t suspicious?’

‘Why would I be? Believe me, I’ve flagellated myself time after time for not being, but how could I be, really? I was fourteen, my head full of dreams of the stage, and here was this nice, funny man from TV who everybody loved saying he could help me. He was in your living room almost every night. It was broad daylight, Blackpool in high season, there were people all around. Would you have been suspicious?’

‘Probably not,’ Winsome admitted.

Banks could see by Winsome’s expression that she wouldn’t have been, that she understood exactly where Linda Palmer was coming from. Perhaps the analogy with the pastor in Winsome’s neighbouring village, whom everyone had respected, helped make it clear to her. Like the pastor, Danny Caxton was in a position of trust and power.

Beethoven’s storm broke, starkly contrasting with the serenity of the garden and the cloudless blue of the sky.

‘I mean, back then we didn’t worry about perverts all the time,’ said Linda, ‘and I don’t think I’d ever heard of a paedophile. We were all warned not to take sweets from strangers, of course, or get into cars with strange men we didn’t know, but Danny Caxton wasn’t strange. He was... he was like someone we knew, really, a kindly uncle. He wasn’t the sort of person our parents meant.’

Annie was sweating by the time they reached the spot where Stefan’s officer waited. It was about half a mile south from the girl’s body, and despite the light breeze and some shade from the leafy trees, the heat was getting to her. She felt out of shape and realised that, despite the yoga and meditation, she hadn’t got back to working out again yet. She made a mental note to rejoin the small fitness centre in Harkside, where she lived, as she was far more likely to use that than go after work — or, God forbid, before — to the larger one in Eastvale, despite its advantage in having more fit males around. She glanced at Gerry, who didn’t seem to be showing any effects whatsoever from the walk. Well, she was in her twenties, Annie thought, a willowy redheaded thoroughbred, though she herself was only in her early forties, and willowy enough. Plenty of time to shape up. Only Banks seemed never to have to bother with all that. No matter what he ate and drank, he stayed as lean and agile as ever. Still, it would catch up with him eventually, Annie thought, with a grim sort of satisfaction.

Signs of activity was all Stefan had said when Annie had asked him what they’d found. When they finally reached the spot, she saw that another area of the roadside had been cordoned off with police tape, and there were three white-suited CSIs kneeling and swabbing the ground nearby, collecting samples in plastic or paper bags. There was also another faint skid mark on the road, as if a car or van had slowed down quickly, swerved, then speeded up again.

Even before Stefan pointed out the finer details, Annie could see that the long grass edging the ditch had been flattened and was crusted with dried mud. The dirt along the edge of the road surface was similarly disturbed, and a track continued, almost recognisable as muddy footprints, for several feet in the direction where the body lay.

‘So she was hurt before she got to the place where we found her, where she was killed?’ said Annie.

‘Be careful,’ Stefan said as Annie squatted and leaned towards the ditch. ‘We found barbed wire and a broken bottle in there. Both were submerged, so we don’t expect anything in the way of trace evidence, but they’ve gone for testing. Some of the cuts on the girl’s side might have been caused by the wire or broken glass.’ He gestured to the fencing above the drystone wall. ‘It was obviously discarded when this was added. No doubt one of the farmers had problems with kids getting in scaring his sheep or whatever.’

‘What are you saying, Stefan?’ Annie asked. ‘That she was in the ditch here?’ She was glad to see a sheen of sweat on the crime-scene manager’s handsome face. At least someone else was human, and that it was the ever-so dreamy, ever-so cool Stefan Nowak was even better.

‘If you observe the way the dirt and grass are disturbed here, I’d say it indicates that someone climbed out of this ditch on to the road and started walking north, back towards the Eastvale road. The water’s dried up, but you can see the outlines her muddy feet made. No shoes. And it seems as if she was limping. I’m saying there’s a strong likelihood it was our girl. If she was naked, she would have been covered in filthy ditchwater and mud, like the girl’s body back up the road. And she would also show evidence of barbed wire and broken glass cuts, as the body does. If you move closer, you can also see that a handful of grass been pulled out right there.’ He pointed. Annie could see it. ‘To my thinking, if someone crawled out of the ditch, they had to get in there in the first place. It’s an explanation. She went in here, and for some reason, she tried to get a hold on the grass, perhaps to prevent herself falling in or help haul herself out.’

‘So she was moving fast when she went in?’

‘Possibly. I’d say so. Rolling too fast to stop herself. And you saw the hip injury. Dr Burns says it’s probably broken. A fall could cause an injury like that, if she bumped it on the road surface, for example. You know what I’m getting at, don’t you, Annie?’

‘Someone chucked her in the ditch, most likely from a moving vehicle. You can see where it skidded on the verge close to where she came out. The grass is flattened in a direction that indicates the vehicle was travelling south. She climbed out again, after getting a mud bath and cutting herself up a bit, then started walking back the way she’d come — hence the muddy footprints — most likely hoping for a lift home. Which means she wasn’t actually beaten to death until later, further up. Unless she simply collapsed and died of her injuries.’

‘I’d say she was most likely killed by the roadside up there, where the body is, but she was already naked and injured when she got there.’

‘Well, the position and attitude of the body certainly bear that out. But the vehicle she was thrown from had already... I mean, what happened? Did he turn back for her?’

‘There’s no evidence of that so far,’ Stefan said. ‘You can see the sort of swerve those skid marks indicate. Someone stopped or slowed rather quickly and lost control of the steering for a second or two. It happens.’

‘Could they have got out and run after her? Or could someone have been with her?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Stefan, ‘but there’s no evidence of anyone else in the vicinity, and there’s only one set of footprints. We’ll check, of course. We’re doing a complete workup on what tyre tracks we’ve got. I wouldn’t hold out a lot of hope because they’re just faint blurs, and you can’t get decent tyre impressions from skids, but there’s always a chance we might get enough to check against the manufacturers’ databases. For now, I’d say there were two cars.’

‘Two cars?’

‘Yes. Even from such small samples and skid marks we can see how the tracks differ. There was the van here, the one she was likely dumped from, travelling south. Then there was another van that stopped to give a naked girl a lift quarter of a mile up the road in the middle of the night. It was also travelling south, but it didn’t get as far here.’

‘Van? You said van.’

‘Judging by the track width, both were commercial vehicles of some kind.’

‘You say this second van was travelling in the same direction as the one that had dumped her?’

‘Yes. Again, if you look closely, you can see the way the grass is flattened a short distance south from where her trail ends.’

‘So the van would have been coming towards her, and she’d have had to turn to run back to it when it stopped. That would explain why her tracks continue on north past the spot where she’s lying back there. Bloody hell,’ said Annie. ‘What a mess. She ran back to the van when it stopped, and then the driver killed her. Or could the van have hit her? Could this have been a hit and run, despite what Dr Burns said?’

‘I really can’t speculate on that, but you’ve seen her body, same as I have. You’ll have to talk to Dr Glendenning when he’s done the post-mortem. No doubt the good doctor will be checking her skin for any signs of paint or any traces that might have transferred from a van. But you also have to remember that if she was hit by a van, it could have been an accident.’

‘She’d have been like a deer in the headlights.’

‘Probably.’

‘Was the other van following the first one?’

Stefan thought for a moment. ‘I’d say not. She had time to walk some distance from where she was dumped from the first vehicle before it came along. That would probably have taken her ten or fifteen minutes, the shape she was in.’

Gerry walked over and stood beside them. ‘Did you catch that?’ Annie said. ‘A naked girl gets tossed in a ditch from a moving vehicle. She gets out, makes her way back up the road, maybe hoping for a Good Samaritan or at least a working telephone box, then someone else comes along and either runs her down or kicks the living daylights out of her.’

‘That’s about the way I see it,’ Stefan said. ‘And judging from the skid marks and pattern on the verge up there, I’d say that when he’d finished with her, he turned around and headed back the way he came.’

‘You’re saying “he”, Stefan. Is it just a figure of speech or do you really think it was a man?’

‘Sorry,’ said Stefan. ‘It’s mostly just a habit. Easier than saying “he or she”. But now that you mention it, I find it harder to see a woman than a man doing what was done to her.’

‘And what are the odds of some stranger just happening along this road, seeing a naked woman walking and turning out to be a passing psychopath, deciding to beat her to death?’

‘That’s just the problem, isn’t it?’ Stefan said. ‘Probably close to zero.’

‘Did anything happen in the car?’ Banks asked.

‘No. Caxton went on being the perfect gentleman, chatting, solicitous of my comfort, anxious to help me with my dreams. Giving advice about how to behave onstage, how to deal with stage fright. Stuff like that. He even gave me a cigarette and a glass of champagne. It was the first time I’d ever tasted it.’

‘In the car? Was there a driver?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And was the other man with you?’

‘Yes, but he was in the front with the driver. He didn’t say anything the whole way.’

‘Were either of them ever questioned?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think anyone was.’

‘And the hotel staff saw you when you arrived?’

‘No. We went into a sort of underground car park at the back and got straight in a lift. I don’t remember going through reception or anything, or seeing anyone else. Not then. I suppose maybe because he was a celebrity he had a discreet way in. To be honest, I didn’t really notice. I was on cloud nine. I was with Danny Caxton and he was going to help me get into show business. I could already see my name in lights.’

‘Did the driver and the other man go in with you?’

‘Not the driver. Just the other man... he... yes.’

‘OK. Then what happened?’

‘We went up in a tiny lift to the fourth floor, a big suite of rooms, all wood panelling and old world elegance. Gilt-framed pictures on the walls. Constable prints, Turner, stuff like that. I remember one of a horse standing by a tree. A Stubbs, maybe. It was a sad horse.’

‘What happened?’

‘We drank more champagne. I had never really drunk alcohol before, except a sip of my dad’s beer once when he was out, and it went straight to my head. I suppose I was giggly, a bit silly. I think I even sang him a song or something.’

‘What did Caxton do next?’

‘He changed. Just like that. I asked him what I should do next, you know, to get started in the business, and he led me towards the bedroom and said something about passing the audition, that people have to pay for what they get, and they should be grateful. I don’t remember it all exactly. I was feeling a bit dizzy. He said the first thing was to take some photos.’

‘With your clothes off?’

‘No. There was still no suggestion of funny business. He said they were to show agents and whatever. A portfolio. Anyway, the other man, the assistant, took some. He had a Polaroid camera and it was the first time I’d seen one. It was like magic the way the photos came out. I think he took some more later, too, you know, while... I thought I could hear the sound of the camera.’

‘How were you feeling by the time he took the photos?’

‘I was feeling nervous. Danny Caxton was scaring me a bit, saying things, and the way he looked at me. I felt my heart beating fast. I didn’t know what he meant. And the smile had gone. I suppose I was a bit tipsy, too. Like I said, I wasn’t used to drinking. I asked him where Helen Shapiro was, and he laughed and said he didn’t know. I think he said something rude about her, but I didn’t really understand it. Then he sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. I sat down. I think I told him I wanted to go home.’

Banks could tell that despite Linda’s calm veneer she was getting upset the more she spoke. It was hardly surprising, given what was to come. ‘You don’t have to tell us all the details right now,’ he said, ‘but did Danny Caxton rape you?’

Linda looked Banks in the eye first, then Winsome. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘And did you struggle?’

‘As best I could. I didn’t know what was happening, what he was doing. It might be hard for people to believe this today, but I was a virgin, and I was ignorant of the realities of sex. Oh, we talked about it at school, but that was all a load of nonsense, like rubbing willies and so on. It wasn’t anything like... Yes, I struggled because I was scared. But he was far stronger than me. And it hurt.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘After?’

‘Yes.’

Linda averted her eyes, staring down at a robin hopping over the lawn by the fence. ‘It gets very hazy, but when Caxton finished, he rolled off me. I tried to stand up. It was hard. I was winded, and he’d made me sore... you know. I felt sick from the champagne. But Caxton said I couldn’t leave yet, and he pushed me down again, then he told the other man it was his turn, to hurry up.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘The younger man raped me, too. There was something...’ She stopped, as if trying to find the right words. ‘Something reluctant about him. Like he didn’t really want to do it, but he wanted to please Caxton. Maybe he’d been pushed into it, you know, maybe Caxton was challenging him to be a man or something. But what happened had excited him, and he’d passed a point of no return. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being fanciful, using hindsight, but I don’t think he felt comfortable.’

‘But he did it anyway? Did he rape you as well?’

She turned her head away. ‘Yes.’

‘So this man was both a witness and an assailant. You didn’t mention this to DI MacDonald?’

‘No. I just told her someone else was there. I never told my mother, either.’

‘Or the Leeds police?’

‘No. I was too ashamed. Somehow, it seemed... being raped twice... I just couldn’t.’

‘Did you tell your friend Melanie?’

‘I’ve never told anyone.’

‘Where’s Melanie now?’

‘She died a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Banks.

‘We’d lost touch, more or less, over the years.’

‘Did they talk to each other, this man and Caxton, use names or anything?’

‘Not that I remember, no.’

‘I know this is a bit delicate,’ said Banks, ‘but did either of them use a condom?’

‘No. I thought later it was a miracle I didn’t get pregnant, but I didn’t.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I was crying and I just wanted to go home. It was like I didn’t exist for them any more. I just walked out of the room in a daze.’

‘Nobody tried to stop you?’

‘No.’

‘How did you leave the hotel?’ Banks asked.

‘Through reception, out the front.’

‘Caxton didn’t make you go by the back entrance, where you’d come in, have his driver take you?’

‘He didn’t even give me bus fare.’

‘Did anyone see you leaving?’

‘I should imagine so. I felt as if everyone could see what I’d just been doing. I was so ashamed. They had to know, just from the way I was walking, though I probably didn’t seem odd at all, just a bit dishevelled. I know it’s ridiculous, but it just felt that way, like “whore” was emblazoned on my forehead. I suppose it’s because that was how I felt inside. I thought everyone could see it. I can’t say I saw them, though. I was in a daze. I didn’t really notice anything.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I don’t know. I must have just walked around. I don’t know where or for how long. Maybe the Pleasure Beach. The sands. I remember I missed dinner and everyone was angry with me. I just told them I’d been walking around and lost track of the time. I said I didn’t feel very well and went to bed early.’

‘Now think carefully,’ said Banks. ‘You say you’d never seen this other man before, but did you ever see him again?’

‘That’s where it gets unclear,’ said Linda, a tone of regret and desperation in her voice. ‘I honestly can’t remember. I think I did, but I was a zombie for weeks, months after. I put on a good enough show. But inside. I don’t have much recall of the aftermath.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘Calm down, Linda. There’s no hurry, no pressure.’

‘I just have this memory of seeing a picture of him sometime after he raped me, but it’s not clear where, or even if I really did. It might have been in a newspaper or something. It might even have been an image in a dream. Or a nightmare. I had plenty of those.’

‘A magazine, perhaps? Or a billboard? Was he also famous?’

‘No. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t. At least, I’d have known if I’d seen him on TV or anything. No, if it really happened, it was just a fleeting glimpse, half-forgotten. Most likely a newspaper. Half created, half perceived, perhaps.’

‘Wordsworth,’ said Banks.

Linda’s eyes widened. ‘You know poetry?’

‘No, but we did “Tintern Abbey” at school. Even went on a school trip there. It was one of the few I liked, a big favourite of our English teacher’s — he was very big on the Romantic imagination — and I’ve never forgotten those lines, or at least the paraphrase. It’s something that comes up a lot in my job.’

‘ “Of all the mighty world / Of eye and ear, — both what they half create, / And what perceive.” Yes, that’s what it’s like, really, trying to think back to that... that day. I don’t know how much I perceived or how much I’m making up, filling in, when I try to remember it.’

She had just about put her finger on the whole problem of historical abuse cases, Banks thought — or Wordsworth had. No real evidence, just a mix of fact and fiction. But there had to be a way to crack it, to crack Danny Caxton. Linda wasn’t the only victim, and in these cases there was strength in numbers, in independent, believable testimony. When it came right down to it, most people had no reason to lie about something like that; the only problem was getting their memories as clear as possible. Even then, Banks knew, you could ask five people to describe an event they had all witnessed together and you’d get five different accounts.

‘You mentioned a newspaper,’ Banks said. ‘Is that where you might have seen his picture?’

‘It’s what comes to mind. You know, passing a rack of papers at the newsagent’s or a quick glance at someone’s paper getting on or off a bus. It feels like it was that sort of flash.’

‘How long after the assault?’

‘I can’t remember exactly. It wasn’t all that long, though. After summer but before winter. October, maybe. As I said, I was in bad shape for a few months, maybe a year, though I still managed to function. School, and all that. I was just jumpy, and I got depressed sometimes. I lost interest in things. Reading. Songs. Hockey. Hanging out with my friends. They started to think I was weird and ignore me. My marks went down, of course. My mother took me to a child psychologist, but I don’t really think that did any good. The same doctor who’d given me the tonic before gave me some more pills, but I only pretended to take them after the first few made everything even more fuzzy. I suppose they were all just trying to help. I was probably behaving like a real brat.’

‘But you never sought the photograph out later, tried to find it again?’

‘No. I just wanted things to get better, to feel better, and when they started to, when the anxiety decreased and it felt like a heavy weight was lifting from me, I moved on, tried to forget.’

‘Would you recognise the man if you saw the picture again?’

‘Perhaps. I couldn’t describe him, but I think I might recognise that photo if I saw it again. Memory’s a strange thing. But I can’t say for sure.’

‘So you didn’t ever go back and tell the police you’d seen a photo of the man who was with Caxton, a man who had also raped you and perhaps taken photos of you with Caxton?’

‘No. They’d dropped the case by then. I don’t know that it would have changed anything.’

‘You have to let the police decide things like that, Linda,’ said Banks. ‘People don’t always know what matters and what doesn’t, what’s important and what isn’t.’

‘But doesn’t having every little thing thrown at you clutter up your investigations?’

Banks smiled. ‘We’ve got a special unclutter gadget that separates the wheat from the chaff.’ He paused. ‘No, seriously, please tell me everything that comes to you. Don’t self-censor.’

‘OK. But I don’t think I can remember anything more right now. I’m exhausted.’

Banks handed her his card. ‘Ring me anytime if you do. And I mean anytime.’

She took the card and read it, then shifted her eyes back to Banks. They seemed filled with a kind of dreamy wistfulness, or it could have been tears. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Would you be willing to repeat all you’ve told me in court, if it came to that?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘You’d better be certain. The defence counsel won’t make things easy for you.’

‘They’d do their job, I suppose. I’d be more comfortable doing it if I wasn’t alone. If there were others.’

‘I think you can count on that.’

‘You know, sometimes I feel a bit like a phoney in all this.’

‘Why?’

She gestured around her. ‘My life wasn’t ruined. I’ve made a successful life for myself. Oh, I get jumpy sometimes, I have panic attacks, and I still have bad dreams — long winding corridors, something nasty behind the door, rooms beyond rooms, but they’re just typical nightmares.’

‘Drugs? Drink?’

Her eyes narrowed, with a glint of humour. ‘Are you asking me if I’m a junkie or an alcoholic?’

‘Not at all.’ Banks felt himself blush. ‘It’s just that sometimes people who’ve experienced... you know, they reach for...’

‘Oblivion?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I had my moments. I was seventeen, eighteen in the late sixties, early seventies. People were experimenting. I was deep into that scene, the poetry, the music, the Eastern philosophy, the clothes, and, yes, the drugs. It took a while for the psychedelic drug culture to work its way up to Leeds, but my friends and I tried pot and acid, mescaline, speed, Mandies. Never the hard stuff, though. No coke or heroin.’

‘What happened?’

‘I got bored with it all, like watching the same cartoon show over and over again at the News Theatre. So I went to university to study English literature.’

‘And drink?’

‘At university? Who didn’t?’

‘In general. Now.’

‘The occasional glass of wine. Hell, the occasional bottle of wine. So what?’

Banks smiled. ‘So nothing.’ Thinking he wouldn’t mind sharing a bottle with her as they talked right now, in the summer garden by the riverside with Beethoven’s calm after the storm playing. But he pushed such thoughts out of his mind. The garden had cast its own special spell made of bee drone, blackbird song, the scent of roses and the music of the fast-running river. The warm and hazy air could do things to your mind, too, distract you, slow thought down, alter its direction. He was here to help this woman get justice for a terrible thing that had happened to her years ago, not to entertain fantasies about chatting with her about poetry and music and life in general over a glass of wine. He needed to break the spell.

She cocked her head. ‘Do you ask all your victims questions like this?’

‘Everyone’s different. I don’t have a set list. I do have a few things I want to know, then I let the conversation flow from the answers. That’s often when I find out the most interesting stuff. Besides, it’s not often that both suspect and victim are celebrities.’

‘I wasn’t a celebrity. I was a fourteen-year-old girl with a head full of dreams of a glamorous life, like being a rock star or an actress. And if you think being a poet is a celebrity leading a glamorous life, then you know something I don’t. And I don’t want to be thought of as a victim, either. If you’re wondering if what happened inhibited me, blighted my life, then the answer’s no, it didn’t. That’s why I feel like a phoney. In small ways maybe it did. For a few months, maybe even a year, certainly, I was a mess, like I said, no doubt about that. But it was a long time ago. Sex, for a while, you know, that was out of the question. It was difficult to relax. I was afraid of the dark. I’d flash on his face, on top of me, his smell. Their faces. I didn’t...’ She broke the mood with laughter and turned to Winsome. ‘I always thought the sexual revolution was invented by men to get their own way.’

‘You might not be far wrong about that,’ Banks said. ‘Winsome here wasn’t even born then.’

‘Winsome? That’s a lovely name.’

‘Thank you,’ said Winsome.

Linda gazed down her gently sloping garden towards the river. ‘Everything came all right eventually, in my twenties. I think I managed to compartmentalise things, draw a veil over the experience. I knew it was there, and it infiltrated my dreams sometimes, but I could control it most of the time, if that makes any sense. As far as missing the sexual revolution was concerned, all I’d really missed was a dose of clap, crabs, premature ejaculations and probably an unwanted pregnancy. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shock you. I shouldn’t say things like that, of course, but it seemed that was all so many of my girlfriends had to talk about when we were students. I suppose all I had to do was meet the right man. Charles. We married in my late twenties, had children. I started a career in teaching, always writing in whatever spare time I had. Poetry. Spent a few years teaching at a Canadian university in my forties. Creative writing.’ She looked around at the garden. ‘We came back and settled here, then Charles became ill. I have to say, though, on the whole, that it’s been a happy and productive life so far. Fulfilled in so many ways. I count myself lucky.’

‘Except for an encounter with Danny Caxton.’

Her expression darkened for a moment. ‘Except for him, yes. And it makes me feel terrible that he did the same thing to others. That he got away with it for so long. But I never thought of it like that until I heard about Jimmy Savile. In an odd way, it was that day in Blackpool that brought me to poetry, though. I mean, I’d been interested at school, but about a year or so later, when I came out of the deep despair, I picked up this book of poems. I don’t remember where. I don’t even know what made me pick it up. It was by Sylvia Plath. Ariel. Do you know it?’

‘No,’ said Banks. ‘I mean, I’ve heard the name, even seen her grave at Heptonstall, but I haven’t read the poems.’

‘I won’t say I understood them, but they sent my head in a spin. Direct hit. Blew me away. Shivers up the spine, the whole deal. The violent imagery, the anger, the dark fire of her imagination, that fingers-on-the-blackboard feeling. It went right to my soul, if that’s not too melodramatic a way of putting it. I went right out and bought everything she’d written. As soon as I read her I knew I wanted to be a poet. Soon I was writing poems, myself. Imitating Sylvia Plath, of course. Then I branched out, read others, the Beats, the Liverpool poets, the Russians, Hughes, Heaney, Harrison, Larkin, Hill. And I’m sure I imitated them all. Except Hill. You can’t imitate him.’

‘You didn’t dismiss Ted Hughes as a misogynistic swine?’

‘Because of what happened with Sylvia? You do know a bit about poetry, don’t you? Or at least about poets. Quite the Adam Dalgliesh.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t write it.’ Banks didn’t tell her that he had also read some Tony Harrison after a dying coal miner had mentioned him in conversation a year or two back. Enjoyed the poems, too. Harrison seemed to put his finger on how certain things, especially education, can cut you off from your roots. Banks felt that, especially as his father had never approved of his becoming a policeman, and he was sure that Linda understood it also, coming from a working-class background and ending up being a famous poet. All her old friends would be nervous around her now, thinking she had somehow transformed herself into an exotic and remote creature. Weird, indeed.

‘Ah, well. Who needs the competition? No. I think Ted Hughes was a brilliant poet. As far as life skills went, they both sucked.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, is that on the recorder?’

Winsome smiled. ‘Never mind. I don’t think anyone’s going to take issue with your opinion about Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath.’

Linda clapped her hands. ‘Well thank heaven for that. More orange juice?’

Banks and Winsome exchanged glances. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Banks said, standing up. He almost felt like telling her it had been a pleasure talking to her, but he remembered what they were there for. ‘I appreciate your cooperation,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we’ll want to talk to you again and ask some more questions, if that’s all right?’

‘You’ll come again?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good.’

‘And if you remember anything in the meantime, however unimportant it seems, call me. It might be a good idea to... never mind.’

‘No, go on. What? I’m intrigued.’

‘It’s a lot to ask,’ Banks said, ‘but sometimes with such old memories, it helps to work at them a bit, make an effort, perhaps write things down as they come, if they come. I mean, you’re a writer after all. But it could be painful.’

‘No,’ said Linda, giving him a curious, probing look. ‘A journal. A memoir. It’s a good idea. I’ll try. I promise.’

She stood up and saw them out. As they walked back up the garden path, Winsome turned to Banks and said, ‘Well, she certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. What do you think? I believed her.’

‘Me, too,’ said Banks. ‘I think we’re in with a chance on this one. I think we might just nail the bastard, especially if her memory gets jogged a bit by writing about it. We could do with finding out that other man’s identity, though. Let’s get back to the station and prep a few questions for Mr Caxton tomorrow, then I think we can head out early tonight. We’ve got a lot of homework to do before our trip to the seaside tomorrow.’