When the Music's Over

4

‘Have you ever been to one of these before?’ Annie asked Gerry as they clicked along the corridor to the post-mortem suite, footsteps echoing from the high ceiling and green-tiled walls. The antiseptic smell made Annie feel vaguely nauseated.

‘No,’ said Gerry.

‘A lot of firsts these days. Nervous?’

‘A bit. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’

Annie flashed on the time, not so long ago, when she got out of a helicopter feeling airsick and went straight to the scene where half a body had burst out of a bin liner. The left half. As if the victim had been neatly sliced in half from top to bottom with a chainsaw. She had been sick. ‘You won’t,’ she said. ‘Besides, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Even Alan gets a bit green around the gills when he has to attend one of these. It’s like a murder scene. You never get used to it, but you learn to cope. I suppose the advantage with this sort of thing is it’s all scientific. Sterile. Clinical. Not like finding a girl’s naked body dumped by the roadside.’ Or the left half of a body spilling from the plastic bag on the windswept valley bottom. She turned to Gerry, taking something from her briefcase. ‘Here, put a dab of this under your nose. It’s Vicks. It really does help a bit. The smell in there’s the worst.’

‘Thanks.’ Gerry dabbed the mentholated goo on her upper lip. ‘It reminds of me of when I was a child and my mother would rub it on my chest just before bed when I had a cold.’

‘Exactly,’ said Annie, applying a dab to herself. ‘Dr Glendenning will tease you about it if he smells it. He can be a bit of a jerk — he’s old school — so just ignore him. OK? Ready?’

Gerry nodded and they opened the swing doors and entered the room where Dr Glendenning and his chief anatomical pathology technologist Karen Galsworthy already had the body waiting on the slab. Dr Glendenning glanced over at them. ‘Nice of you to join us, ladies. Why don’t you get yourselves kitted up.’ Then he sniffed theatrically. ‘Someone got a chest cold, have they?’

Annie gave him a dirty look.

They were two minutes early, but Annie was well aware that Dr Glendenning treated everyone who entered his domain as a latecomer. Of course, as he occasionally joked when challenged, most visitors were late. They put on their disposable overalls and hairnets, adding plastic goggles and mouth masks. There was always a chance that the body was infected with some communicable disease, or that bits of bone and flesh would spray up when Dr Glendenning or Karen Galsworthy used the electric saw. You didn’t want a bone fragment in your eye. She hadn’t told Gerry that, of course.

The walls were covered with dazzling white tiles, which made the dirty body on the stainless-steel table seem all the more out of place. Rigor mortis had passed completely now, and the girl lay on her back, arms at her sides. Now that she could see the girl’s face Annie noticed that she had been very pretty even with the bruising, as well as young.

A bulky microphone dangled above the table, and cameras fixed on the walls filmed the procedure from a variety of angles. The surface of the body had already been examined microscopically for any trace evidence, samples taken, and Karen Galsworthy was busy washing it down when they went in. She seemed to be working gently, Annie thought, sadly and respectfully, as a funeral home worker might prepare a body for burial.

The odontologist had been and taken dental impressions, which might help them identify the girl. All he had said, according to Dr Glendenning, was that there was nothing unusual about the dental work. It looked very much, the doctor went on, as if the fist blows came first, knocking her to the ground and stunning her, then a flurry of hard kicks to the head, back, buttocks and chest while she was lying curled in the foetal position. And he was adamant that it had not been a hit and run.

The water sluiced off the mud and filthy water that had dried on the victim’s skin and sent it running into the gutters on either side of the table, then away down the drain. It couldn’t go into the general sewage pipes, Annie knew, in case of blood contaminants and other nasty things, so the resultant mess went into tanks where it had to be specially treated later before it was carefully disposed of.

When Karen had finished, Annie could see that the victim was slim with small, high breasts and long, shapely legs. She was of average height, and everything was in proportion. Her blond hair was parted on the left and fell over her ears and as far as the nape of her neck, showing dark brown roots and two pink streaks.

As always, Dr Glendenning’s first task after the body had been undressed — not necessary today — and examined for trace evidence was to carry out a careful examination of the surface. The removal of the dried mud and scum might have revealed identifying marks or injuries that hadn’t been noticed before. This case was no exception. Dr Burns had estimated time of death at the scene between one and three in the morning. Dr Glendenning didn’t disagree or put forward a shorter time period. He pointed out the dark bruise-like stripe down her left side, interrupted where her hip and shoulder had touched the ground, and the bruising around the broken right hip. ‘Post-mortem lividity indicates she died in the position she was found — on her left side, curled up — and that the body wasn’t moved,’ he said. ‘There are signs of a bit of scavenger activity — it was a warm night — but not too much. I’ve seen the crime-scene photos, and she was still in the foetal position when she was brought in here last night, so in my opinion Dr Burns is right, and she was protecting herself from a rain of blows. Or trying to.’ He pointed to cuts on her hips and upper thighs. ‘And I’ve matched these with the samples of barbed wire and broken glass recovered from the scene.’

Despite the extensive recording equipment, Gerry busied herself taking notes. Annie suspected she was doing it partly to take her mind off what was happening, distancing herself, becoming a fly on the wall. It seemed to be working, as she showed no obvious reaction to anything Karen or Dr Glendenning said or did.

‘And I’d like to add,’ Dr Glendenning went on, ‘that I also agree about cause of death. We’ve sent blood samples to toxicology, of course, and we’ll be sending stomach contents and anything else we can find once we’ve got her opened up. I imagine we’ll find a nasty mess inside, but it’s my opinion that the blows — kicks, judging by the patterns — were the direct cause of death. The girl was severely beaten. Severely. I’ve not seen such a vicious attack in a long time. The damage to the head alone could have caused death, but it also appears that several of her ribs were broken, and one of them could easily have pierced her heart or lung.’

‘Footwear patterns?’ Annie asked. ‘From the shoes or boots.’

‘A definite possibility,’ Dr Glendenning granted. ‘But don’t hold your breath. Such impressions would be vague and hardly likely to ensure a conviction. Unless there are unique elements, of course.’

‘Hate crime?’ suggested Annie.

‘Someone certainly hated her.’

‘Or hated women,’ said Karen.

‘Whether that was the actual motive,’ Dr Glendenning went on, ‘I can’t honestly say.’

Annie knew that Dr Glendenning wouldn’t be drawn on motive. In her experience, the presence of such a high degree of violence was linked to hate crimes or crimes involving partners. ‘You always hurt the one you love’ was a lot truer than the songwriters could have guessed. Such overkill could also be linked to crimes in which someone had been taught a lesson. Excessive violence served as an example and a warning to others and was common in gang-related crimes. It was unlikely, in Annie’s experience, that the girl had been killed by a passing stranger, unless they were dealing with a violent psychopath, and such creatures were thankfully rare. An artist’s impression of the girl without facial injuries would be appearing in the newspapers and on TV soon. Once they knew who she was, they could start questioning her family, friends and acquaintances, and Annie was willing to bet it wouldn’t take long to find out who had done this. But they had to identify her first.

Dr Glendenning finished examining the girl’s fingernails. ‘She bit them to the quicks,’ he said. ‘Not a trace of anything.’

‘How old would you say she was?’ Annie asked.

‘Fifteen or sixteen,’ Karen answered. ‘We can perform some more scientific checks later — testing the carbon levels in her eyes, for example — but going by height, shape, skin, bone structure and general appearance, I’d be surprised if she were older than sixteen.’

‘And Karen is very good with ages,’ said Dr Glendenning. ‘If I believed in it, I’d say she has a sixth sense for such things.’ Dr Glendenning went on to examine the surface of the skin, where the girl, it was now clear to see, had several tattoos, including a butterfly on the top of her left breast and a heart above her shaved pubic area. She also had a birthmark on the inside of her right thigh. Gerry made sketches and noted the locations, as they would help in identification. He lifted up her left hand to show them the white criss-cross marks on her wrist.

‘Scars,’ he said. ‘Self-harm, by the looks of it. Perhaps a suicide attempt. More likely a cry for help. She’d never succeed doing it that way. You need to cut along the vein, not across it.’

‘Thanks for that advice,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll remember it. Any idea how old?’

‘The slash marks?’ Dr Glendenning studied them more closely. ‘Hard to say. Not recent, though.’

When Dr Glendenning turned the body over to examine the back, they discovered that she also had a tattoo shaped like a whale’s tail, the kind one often saw on girls wearing low-rise jeans and midriff-baring tops. Her back was covered in dark bruises and Annie imagined she could even see where ribs had been broken. Without the dirt and dried mud, the parts that weren’t bruised looked so pale.

‘No needle marks as far I can see,’ said Dr Glendenning. ‘And I think we would be able to see them now if she had them.’

Gerry wobbled a bit when Dr Glendenning and Karen began their examination of the girl’s private parts, but she managed to hold on. Finally Dr Glendenning put down his speculum and moved away. ‘There’s evidence of serious sexual abuse,’ he said. ‘Both vaginal and anal. Also of recent sexual activity. It appears the abuser didn’t wear a condom. Karen’s taking swabs, and we’ll get them analysed for traces of DNA as soon as possible. The poor girl wasn’t in the water for very long, it seems, which is fortunate for us.’

‘We think she was still conscious then,’ Annie said. ‘She managed to drag herself out as soon as she landed and stagger some distance.’

When they had finished with their examinations of the exterior and private parts, Karen placed the body block, a rubber brick, the kind Annie remembered diving for at the bottom of the pool for her life-saving bronze medal, under the girl’s back, to raise the front of her body for internal examination, and Dr Glendenning picked up his scalpel to begin the Y incision.

Annie glanced at Gerry, who had turned a bit pale, but was still holding her own. When the front of the body was open, exposing the glistening inner organs, the smell got worse, despite the Vicks, and Dr Glendenning and Karen exchanged serious expressions before going on. Even at a cursory glance, Annie could tell that things were not right inside. Not right at all.

When Banks and Winsome arrived at the gates of Xanadu, Danny Caxton’s palatial spread on a promontory between Whitby and Redcar, it was the early afternoon of another beautiful summer’s day. Banks had spent most of the morning setting up the mechanics of the investigation, trying to make sure he overlooked nothing. He had also arranged for checks into Caxton’s connection with any hospitals, care homes, schools and charities — anywhere he might have been likely to find vulnerable victims and people with a vested interest in keeping things quiet. The TV companies he had worked with also had to be fully investigated, including everyone who had worked with him on Do Your Own Thing! and as many of the young performers and invited audience members as possible. It wasn’t exactly Top of the Pops but Banks imagined it would have provided plenty of opportunities for indulgence on Caxton’s part. Preliminary checks had shown that he had always stayed at the same hotel in London when he was down there for recording. It was an out-of-the-way place, not especially convenient for the TV studios, and not exactly up to the level of luxury one might have expected for a man as wealthy as Caxton. These were all keys to finding more complainants: places, networks, groups, routes, access.

When witnesses or accusers were found, their testimony had to be validated. Dates, times, places and so on all had to be checked, photographic records uncovered if they existed. At the time, Caxton had been ‘untouchable’ and that feeling could have made him careless, led him to make mistakes. Priorities for Banks after Caxton and his ex-wife were finding the ‘witness’ and trying to discover what had happened to the original investigation, or lack of one. When he got going on all that, he knew, leads would start popping up all over the place, many of them red herrings, all needing to be thoroughly checked out. He could only interview the major players with Winsome; he would have to leave the rest to the team he had been allotted.

Burgess had phoned to share the news that some of the other cases against Caxton were strong enough, though no one else recollected a witness, or a second participant, the way Linda Palmer had. The earliest complainant to come forward so far was a seventy-year-old woman from 1962, and the most recent in her early forties, from 1988. According to Burgess, their accounts matched that of Linda Palmer in terms of the suddenness and brutality of his attacks, though both were roughly fondled, not actually raped. Like Hobbes’s view of life itself, Caxton’s attacks on women were nasty, brutish and short. He struck swiftly as a rattlesnake, and swift as a snake’s bite, it was over. Though Banks was willing to bet it didn’t seem that way to the victims; it certainly hadn’t to Linda Palmer.

The drive over the top end of the North York Moors had been spectacular, the roads far busier than usual because of the glorious weather. He had kept the music quiet — playing some acoustic Richard Thompson and a Keith Jarrett & Charlie Haden CD — and Winsome hadn’t complained. After a hurried lunch at a country inn outside Goathland, going over their preparatory notes one last time, they were ready for the interview.

Winsome had been reading up on Caxton’s biography during much of the journey, and as they crested the final rise before the imposing wrought-iron gates with a sculpted stone lion on top of each gatepost, she repeated to Banks, ‘I still don’t see what the point of this is, guv. It’s his word against hers. He’ll deny everything, if he’s got any sense. Stalemate.’

‘Maybe he’ll slip up,’ said Banks. ‘Perhaps we’ll rattle him. Who knows? Besides, don’t you want to get a look at how he lives, the lion in its lair? At least we’ll go away with some sense of the measure of the man, maybe even knowledge of a few of his weaknesses.’

‘I hope so,’ said Winsome. ‘But why not take him into custody for questioning? He’s got home advantage here. We could put him in an airless interview room, make him wait...’

‘We don’t want to make that move yet,’ said Banks. ‘Don’t forget, there are others. Linda Palmer wasn’t the only one. As Burgess said, there’ll be county forces queuing up to have a chat with him before long. We’re first in line. And when push comes to shove, we’ll be the ones to bring him in.’

Banks announced their arrival at the intercom by the gate, and without a word from the other end, the huge heavy gates in the high walls started to rumble open. As Banks drove along the narrow drive, he could see Caxton’s mansion ahead. Xanadu. Hardly a gesture towards originality in its name. Built in the style of a Palladian villa, with symmetrical wings on either side of the central portico, itself modelled on the Greek temple, it came complete with Doric columns and pilasters, all of white marble. In the rolling grounds to their right stood a Victorian folly, and a short distance from the north wing was a row of garages, most of them open. Banks could see expensive cars of all colours, makes and periods: an E-type Jag, a red Triumph MG6, an old Bentley and even a huge pink fifties Cadillac convertible with wings big enough for take-off. It was the sort of car that might have belonged to Elvis Presley. Maybe it had. Banks wondered if the Rolls that had picked up Linda Palmer nearly fifty years ago was really a Bentley. Even if it was, there wasn’t any chance of trace evidence after all that time. Still, there may have been other girls in the car, more recently, and the collection was worth the thorough search that the team would be carrying out after Banks and Winsome had left. Right now they were waiting just down the road, beyond the rise.

Banks pulled up in front of the portico steps, about as imposing as the ones in Rocky, and he and Winsome began to climb, more than half expecting a butler in full livery to answer the door at their ring.

The slight, dapper man with a silk handkerchief protruding from the top pocket of his jacket could have been a butler, but Banks doubted it. For a start, his suit cost more than Banks’s annual clothes allowance, more than his annual salary, in fact, if you included the gold cufflinks and matching tiepin that held down an old-school tie of some important sort. He had a few strands of wispy grey hair on his head and a thin grey moustache. He didn’t smile or reach out his hand to shake, just said, ‘Good afternoon. My name is Bernard Feldman. I’m Mr Caxton’s solicitor.’

‘That was quick,’ said Banks.

‘Word gets around.’

‘So I gather. Can we come in?’

Without replying, Feldman turned and started walking away from them. Banks and Winsome exchanged glances then started to follow him across the parquet floor of a foyer almost as big as a football field. The hall was dotted with Greek columns here and there, like something from a Cecil B. DeMille film set, and large reproductions of classical scenes in ornate gilded frames hung on the damasked walls. Banks couldn’t resist a quick detour to study them. Each had a brass plate under its frame, like in an art gallery, and he saw Leda and the Swan and the Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus by Rubens, two of Titian’s Danaë series and Tiepolo’s Apollo and Daphne. Certainly a theme there, he thought: naked women struggling in the grip of men. Not just tales from Greek mythology.

‘Mr Banks?’

Feldman had stopped to call him on. Banks walked over. ‘Just looking,’ he said.

‘They’re not the originals, of course.’

‘I think some of the world’s major art galleries would be rather upset if they were,’ Banks replied, not wishing to be thought a philistine. ‘Who painted them?’

‘A friend of Danny’s. I can’t remember his name. They’re quite valuable, for copies, apparently. I know nothing about art.’

‘Whoever it is, he’d make a good living as a forger,’ Banks said, gesturing back towards the paintings. In reality, he probably was. But it wasn’t forgery as long as you didn’t try to pass them off as genuine.

Feldman carried on walking, Banks and Winsome dutifully in tow. About ten minutes later, or so it seemed, they found themselves in an enormous glassed-in conservatory, like a section of a botanical garden or an expensive hotel restaurant. It stood before a full-size croquet lawn, which, in turn, overlooked the North Sea, sparkling today and matching the sky for blue, whitecaps dashing for the shore, which was hidden from their view at the bottom of the cliff. A few sailboats listed further out, catching the sea breeze. In the centre of the croquet lawn was a swimming pool. Tempting today, but not much use most of the time in this part of the world, Banks thought, which was probably why Caxton had an indoor pool, too.

‘Impressive,’ said Banks.

Feldman led them over to a glass-topped table where a man sat in a white wicker chair, bade Banks and Winsome be seated, and sent another man, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere — the real butler, maybe — off to bring tea and iced water. Only when all that was done did he introduce Banks and Winsome to Danny Caxton, who neither stood nor offered to shake hands.

‘Get to the point, then.’ Caxton’s voice was raspy, but strong and clear enough to make him still a presence to be reckoned with. ‘I’d like to get this silly business over and done with. The sooner the better.’

‘Us, too,’ said Banks.

For a moment, Banks felt his resolve falter, then he couldn’t help but notice how Caxton’s gaze lingered on Winsome’s breasts and slid lasciviously down over her thighs and legs. Despite the drooping shoulders, general emaciation, scrawny wattles, wrinkles and obvious signs of wear and tear, he appeared relatively spry for an eighty-five-year-old. The years had taken their greatest toll on his face, Banks thought. Once a handsome man, with what Banks’s father had scathingly referred to as matinee-idol looks, he was now more an example of Dorian Gray in reverse. Somewhere, perhaps, hidden away in an attic, was a painting of that handsome young man, but here was the lined and jowled reality, ravaged and wrinkled with the sins of the years. He was like an ageing bird of prey without its plumage.

No matter how much wealth Caxton had accumulated, he clearly hadn’t spent anything on plastic surgery or dental care. His teeth were like yellowing fangs hanging from pale receding gums. They gave his smile the bared-teeth quality of a wild beast. His eyes were glaucous, rheumy and milky blue, and the network of red and purple veins on and around his nose showed a predilection for the bottle. Liver spots dappled the backs of his hands. Only his hair showed professional attention. A healthy silvery-grey in colour, cut short and simply combed diagonally from a straight side parting, it contrasted nicely with his tan. It had to be expensive to look that good and that easy. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and tan chinos despite the heat. Through the glass table, Banks could see that his big toenails had thickened and tapered into claws, just like that bird of prey’s.

‘The incident we want to ask you about occurred during your summer season in Blackpool in August 1967,’ Banks went on.

‘Alleged incident,’ corrected Feldman.

‘Oh, the incident took place all right. All that’s alleged is your client’s part in it.’

Feldman inclined his head.

‘Do you remember that season, Mr Caxton?’

Caxton made a steeple of his fingers and rested it under his chin, as if deep in thought. ‘I had many a summer season at Blackpool and elsewhere,’ he answered finally. ‘Eventually, they all sort of blend into one. You can’t expect me to remember every one of them. You’ll discover when you get old, Superintendent, that your powers of recall won’t be what they were.’

‘I thought it was yesterday old people can’t remember,’ Banks said. ‘Not years ago.’

Caxton gave a harsh laugh, more like a phlegmy cough. ‘Often it’s both.’

‘Especially if you don’t want to.’

‘Tut-tut,’ said Feldman.

‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I was in a show in Blackpool that summer,’ Caxton went on. ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for you to find out. What of it?’

‘Do you remember signing autographs outside the stage door after a weekend matinee?’

‘That was a fairly regular occurrence. One has to keep one’s public satisfied.’

Banks consulted his notebook. ‘Saturday, the nineteenth of August.’

‘It’s possible. Like I said, I can’t remember one summer from another.’

‘As you said, it wouldn’t be difficult to check the records, Mr Caxton,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, we’ve already done that, and you were in the line-up of that show that season, and there was an afternoon matinee that Saturday. It finished at four o’clock.’

Caxton spread his hands. ‘Well, if you say so.’

Banks could sense Winsome getting restless beside him. The young man came back bearing a tray of tea and a jug of iced water, with cups and glasses.

‘Bernie, would you play mother?’ Caxton asked. ‘I’m afraid my old joints make bending and pouring rather difficult.’

Bernie poured, breaking the silence only to ask about milk and sugar. Banks and Winsome accepted iced water. It was hot in the conservatory, the sun’s heat magnified by the glass. Banks hoped the antiperspirant he had applied that morning was as good as it said on the label.

‘Let’s get back to Blackpool 1967,’ Banks said. ‘That day, signing after the matinee, do you remember a young girl who expressed an interest in getting a start in show business?’

‘There were always young girls around,’ said Caxton, with a chuckle. ‘And plenty of them thought they had what it took to get into show business. I was hosting Do Your Own Thing! You might remember it, Superintendent, though I imagine your charming young companion here would have been far too young. And perhaps even in another country.’ He smiled at Winsome and Banks noticed that she didn’t react, just jotted things down in her notebook again. Caxton shrugged. ‘So what? I got a lot of interest from young people.’

‘This one was fourteen.’

‘They didn’t have their ages stamped on their foreheads. You know as well as I do that a girl may often look and behave far more advanced than her actual years.’

‘In this girl’s account, you took her back to your hotel room and raped her.’

‘I did what?’ Caxton spluttered. ‘Did I pick her up and cart her off like a Viking raider?’

‘You asked her to accompany you in a chauffeur-driven car. A Bentley or a Rolls.’

‘I never had time for Rolls-Royce. Far too ostentatious for my taste. It must have been the Bentley.’

‘The one you have in your garage today?’

‘Don’t be absurd. I replace them quite often’

‘You sent your assistant for her.’

‘And she came willingly? With someone she didn’t know? Tut-tut.’

‘She didn’t know what was waiting for her.’

‘Superintendent Banks...’ Feldman wagged his finger.

Caxton sighed and took a sip of tea. ‘Superintendent, Sergeant, I have some idea of where you’re going with this, but I have to say I have never raped anyone in my life. I’ve never had to. I have been blessed by knowing a multitude of beautiful, willing women of all ages, all creeds and colours.’ He spoke pointedly to Winsome. ‘I’d like to say shapes and sizes, but I have been far more particular about those qualities.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘I can’t abide obesity, and those anorexic creatures you see on the catwalks today leave me cold. I can honestly say that I’ve never had to beg for it, and I’ve never had to take it by force. And as far I can possibly know, I have never knowingly canoodled with anyone underage or caused anyone harm.’

‘Our information tells us different.’

‘Then perhaps your information is wrong. It was a long time ago. It’s easy to be mistaken about things. To misremember.’

‘Not something like this, I shouldn’t imagine. Rape. She was a virgin.’

‘Aren’t they all? Then why was nothing done at the time?’

‘It was.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing came of it.’

Caxton spread his hands and grinned his wolfish grin. ‘I rest my case.’

‘We still have to investigate.’

‘I understand. And I’ll tell your superiors you did your best.’

‘It’s not over yet. What about those paintings in the hall?’

‘What about them?’

‘Classical rape scenes, for the most part. Is that something that interests you especially?’

‘Oh, come, come. Surely you can’t arrest a man for his taste in art? Not yet.’

‘Nobody’s arresting you.’

Caxton glanced at his lawyer. ‘Well, that’s good, because I’m beginning to get a bit bored. Bernie?’

‘Would you get to the point, if there is one, Superintendent,’ said Feldman. ‘Mr Caxton is a busy man.’

‘At his age?’

Feldman raised an eyebrow.

‘Do you deny that you raped a girl on the date in question?’ Banks went on.

Caxton’s face reddened with anger. ‘Of course I do. Do you think I don’t know why all this has happened? It’s that business with Jimmy, Rolf and the rest. It’s brought them all out of the woodwork. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it’s the newspapers after a story, or someone with a story to sell to them. They’re all after money.’

‘Them?’

‘Tarts. Sluts. Especially the ones who weren’t good-looking enough to get a fella. Haven’t you noticed it’s always the ugly cunts who cry rape?’ As he spoke, spittle showered from his mouth but fortunately stopped short of Banks and Winsome.

‘Danny, I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Feldman, tapping him rhythmically on his arm.

‘Well, I’m not you.’ He wagged his finger at Banks. His chair legs screeched on the floor. ‘Let me tell them how things were. They have no idea. We were knee deep in willing girls. Couldn’t move without bumping into one. What would you do? Only if they were willing, of course, and by God were they willing.’

Banks’s resolve had returned fully by now. In fact, it was even stronger than it had been the previous evening when he had replayed his conversation with Linda Palmer. He would have to tread carefully from now on. ‘And not underage?’

‘Naturally they weren’t. Goes without saying. It was just too easy. Sometimes I really felt sorry for those poor young lads who wasted away pining for a taste when I had so much I didn’t know what to do with it. The puny boyfriends. They didn’t stand a chance against real men like me.’

‘Danny!’ said the lawyer.

‘None of them ever gave you any trouble, said no?’ Banks asked.

Caxton frowned. ‘Not so as I remember.’

‘And your memory’s that good, is it?’

‘For my age.’

‘What was your driver called?’

‘Eh?’

‘The chauffeur? What was his name?’

‘I can’t remember petty details like that. Mike or Steve or Frank or something. I’ve been through a few drivers in my time. Never did learn to drive. Whoever he was, he’ll be dead by now.’

‘Do you remember the Majestic Hotel?’

‘Lovely old place. Gone now, I suspect?’

‘Long ago. You had a sort of private entrance, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘It wasn’t private. They just allowed me certain privileges. We used the staff entrance and the staff lift.’

‘That’s the way our witness remembers it. Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you feel the need to smuggle her up in the staff lift? So nobody could see you?’

‘Smuggle her? I never smuggled anybody in it. You make me sound like one of those people-traffickers.’

‘Well, why did you use it, then?’

‘There were always fans waiting in the hotel lobby. Autograph hunters and what have you. It was a celebrity hotel. A lot of us in the summer shows stayed there. The staff didn’t like it, the celebrities getting mobbed and so on. It was a discreet hotel. Easier all round if we took the back way.’

‘Yet she left by the front, when you’d done with her.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. If it had happened, the police would have been round fifty years ago, wouldn’t they?’

‘Who was the other man in the room, the one who asked the victim to get into the car? What was his name? His function?’

Caxton’s expression suddenly became guarded, and a hint of anxiety crept into his tone. ‘What are you talking about? There was no one else in the room.’

‘Which room? When?’

‘Whatever room you’re talking about. Ever.’

‘When you shared your prize with another man?’

‘Don’t be insane. Why would I share anything? Are you trying to say I’m a queer or something?’

‘Are you? I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I must admit, you don’t seem the sharing type. But I’m afraid our witness has a clear memory of this other person. He was younger than you, apparently, so there’s every chance he’s still in fine fettle today. Who knows, maybe the years have worn away at him and he’s ready to talk. Maybe his conscience has got the better of him. Was he there on other occasions, too? Other times with young girls? We heard he seemed rather reluctant, as if he was pushed into it. Maybe trying to impress you or something. What were you doing, Danny? Showing off. Throwing a little titbit his way. Who is he? Who were you hanging out with back then? We’ll find him, Danny, don’t worry about that. Then we’ll have a witness. Maybe we’ll even track down the chauffeur and some of the hotel employees. Some of them must have been young at the time. A bellboy, maybe. And then—’

‘That’s enough,’ said Feldman.

Banks gestured to Winsome and they both stood up. ‘For once,’ Banks said, ‘I find myself actually agreeing with something a lawyer says. Don’t bother to show us out. We’ll be seeing you again soon, Danny.’

Caxton didn’t look so cocky now, Banks thought. In fact, he seemed deep in thought, and worried thought, at that. Banks felt the lawyer’s eyes burning into his back as he and Winsome walked away, no doubt keeping an eye out in case they decided to steal the silverware or a painting. He thought he heard Caxton’s raspy voice saying something about making some calls.

Outside at the car, Winsome leaned forward and rested her palms on the bonnet to take a deep breath.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked. He could see that she was shaking.

‘Sorry, guv. I feel sick. That man. Who does he think he is? I feel like I’ve been slimed.’

Banks couldn’t help but laugh at those words coming from her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I never took you for a Ghostbusters fan.’

Winsome gave him a lopsided smile. ‘It was my dad. He had the video. Practically wore it out. Family tradition. Every Christmas. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s not even a Christmas movie.’

‘Come on, I’ll take you for a drink, and after that we’ll pay a little visit to the ex Mrs Caxton in York. I’ll bet she has some interesting stories to tell.’

The Unicorn wasn’t one of Annie’s favourite pubs, being too cramped, run-down and unfriendly for that, but it did have the advantage of being just across the road from Eastvale General Infirmary. Burned-out A & E doctors drank there when their shifts were over, and exhausted nurses dropped in for a quick bracer before heading home to face yet more domestic drudgery. It also attracted the occasional errant pupil from Eastvale Comprehensive, just down the hill, not necessarily over eighteen. As long as they kept to themselves and didn’t cause any trouble, the landlord wasn’t bothered, nor were the police. The Unicorn’s other advantages were that, during the day, it was quiet, with no games, jukebox or yahoos, and the landlord kept a decent pint of Black Sheep. Smoking had long since been banned in pubs, but Annie could have sworn that the Unicorn still stank of stale tobacco smoke and that the gloss brown of its ceiling was the result of years of accumulated nicotine and tar.

Annie and Gerry found a table by the bay window easily enough. One of the legs was too short, so Annie folded up a beermat and stuck it underneath. Someone had carved a heart and initials into the wood. The carving had been there so long, had so many drinks spilled on it, that it had almost faded into the table. Annie wondered if ‘KP’ still loved ‘HB.’

‘You’re having a double brandy, no argument,’ she said to Gerry, and proceeded to drop her bag on her chair and head for the bar. ‘I don’t suppose you’re hungry?’ she asked over her shoulder. Gerry shook her head. Annie was starving, so she ordered a packet of salt and vinegar crisps along with her pint of bitter.

Back at the table, she opened the crisps and offered the packet. ‘Help yourself.’

‘No thanks.’ Gerry’s luxuriant red tresses were securely fastened back in a ponytail, which showed off her high forehead with its intricate blue tracery of veins just below the surface, the delicate bone structure of her pale, lightly freckled face, the green eyes.

‘So how are you really?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’ Gerry took a sip of the drink and coughed. A hint of colour came to her cheeks.

‘Not exactly VSOP, I know,’ said Annie. ‘But it’ll do the trick.’

‘Really, I’m all right. I don’t need mothering.’ She put the glass on the table.

‘Mothering?’ Annie spluttered. ‘Christ, Gerry, all I’m trying to do is show a little concern, and you accuse me of mothering.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘How else am I supposed to take it? I’m just about old enough to be your bloody mother if I’d had a teenage pregnancy, which I didn’t.’

Gerry smiled. ‘I didn’t mean that at all. It didn’t bother me, really. The post-mortem. True, I felt a bit faint when Dr Glendenning made the first incision, but it’s fascinating, really, once you get a really good look at someone’s insides. I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger. I used to love ER and Casualty and Holby City.’

‘Christ,’ said Annie. ‘I’m practically old enough to remember Emergency Ward 10. I’ll guarantee you that Alan does. They turn my stomach, medical dramas.’

Gerry laughed.

‘And more to the point,’ Annie went on, ‘I’m used to things like gallbladders and lungs being in the right places.’

Gerry wrinkled her nose. ‘Yes. It was a bit of a mess, wasn’t it?’

‘A bit of a mess? There’s an understatement if ever there was one. Her spleen was where her liver was supposed to be.’

Gerry picked up her glass again and took a swallow. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

‘I thought it didn’t bother you.’

‘Not at the time, but thinking about it... There’s no need to keep reliving it. I won’t forget in a hurry. At least we can be thankful she wasn’t pregnant.’

‘I don’t know. It might have pointed us towards a motive. Someone did a real job on that poor girl. Can you imagine it? Kicking her head and stomach like that? Stamping on her. We’ve got to find whoever did this. And fast.’

‘What did you think of the scars on her wrist?’

‘Sad to say,’ said Annie, ‘it’s not all that unusual in young girls.’

‘Suicide, or just... you know... a cry, like the doctor said?’

‘Can’t tell. Maybe someone even did it to her. Some sort of torture. But I’d go with the doc for now. It’s not like Doc Glendenning to make wild guesses, so I’d say, given his experience, that he’s seen that kind of thing before, and he knows a hawk from a handsaw. Off the cuff, I can only add that I don’t think it was a really serious attempt to kill herself, or she’d probably have tried again and succeeded.’

‘So how much closer are we?’

‘Well,’ said Annie, after a long draught of beer, ‘we might not know who she is yet, or where she’s from, but we’ve got the artist’s impression, along with her stomach contents — kebab and pizza — tattoos and a birthmark. And the doc reckons she ate about two or three hours before she was killed, which means sometime between eleven and midnight. It’s not the sort of meal you’d have in a sit-down cafe, I reckon, so it’s most likely takeaway.’

‘The stomach contents don’t help us much more than the tattoos,’ said Gerry. ‘It seems like every takeaway sells just about any junk food you can possibly think of in the same place these days. I know places where you can get fish and chips, tandoori, burgers, pizza, kebabs, falafels, chop suey and currywurst. All from the same fryer and oven.’

‘Maybe so,’ Annie said, ‘but there is one thing worth considering. Places like that are far more common in urban areas than around here, say.’

‘But we’ve got one here, in Eastvale, near where I live. Why couldn’t she have started out from here?’

‘She could have, I suppose,’ said Annie. ‘I know the place you mean. The student area, right? We’ll check it out. But the spot where the body was found is only, what, fifteen minutes’ drive from Eastvale. If she ate her last meal two or three hours before her death, what she was doing in Eastvale the rest of the time?’

‘Partying?’

‘Maybe. She didn’t need to have set off immediately after the meal.’

‘So she could have started here.’

‘Yes. But no one local has been reported missing as yet. We need to extend our area. I know I’m making wild generalisations, Gerry, but I’m also trying to be logical about it. I still think kebab and pizza places are more prevalent in urban areas, so I’m thinking that if she didn’t start out here, maybe she started out in the north-east, maybe Tyneside or Teesside.’

‘That’s a huge area,’ Gerry said. ‘And most of it’s off our patch. Besides, if she had her last meal between eleven and midnight and was killed between two and two-thirty, it doesn’t take two or three hours to drive from Teesside or Tyneside to where her body was found.’

‘They could have stopped somewhere for a while or partied before they left, as you suggested earlier. And it’s a smaller area to consider than the whole country. I’m just saying it’s somewhere to start, Gerry. It’s a massive job, but if we can get CCTV footage from the major roads in the area for before and after two a.m., we’re in with a chance. We can work out the most likely routes and check all vehicles within our time period. But we also need to know who she is. Get a list of the tattoo parlours and kebab and pizza outlets in the north-east.’

‘Fair enough. But maybe they started even further north and stopped somewhere en route for the food? Ate in the van.’

‘Maybe,’ said Annie. ‘But I don’t think there are a lot of kebab and pizza takeaways between Teesside and where she was found. Certainly few enough to check out quickly. Have you got a better idea?’

‘No,’ said Gerry. ‘Sorry. I just don’t know... it’s all so sketchy.’

‘You don’t need to be sorry for playing devil’s advocate. It sharpens the thinking. And I agree it’s sketchy, speculative. But we need a plan. We’ve got to do something. Let’s not forget that the poor girl was abused, and that took more than fifteen minutes.’

‘But it didn’t have to happen in the van, is what I’m saying.’

‘True,’ said Annie. ‘But if not, why was she naked?’

‘Maybe the van was just to dump her after whatever had happened.’

‘So what do you suggest we do first?’

‘Schools, colleges, tattoo parlours and kebab and pizza takeaways in Eastvale and points north-east, like you said, boss.’

‘Right. You’ve got it.’

‘What do you make of the tattoos? Any chance there?’

‘Tats like hers are ten a penny these days,’ said Annie. ‘Nothing artistic or distinctive, just off the peg. But we’ll get some photos run off. Someone might recognise the combination, locations. And the patrol officers and PCSOs can start asking around the parlours — Teesside, Tyneside.’

‘There’s a tattooist right here in Eastvale, too.’

‘How do you know that?’

Gerry said nothing, just looked away and blushed.

‘You didn’t!’

‘Just a little one.’ She held her thumb and forefinger in a close pincer shape.

‘Show me.’

‘No way! Not here.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘Christ, you’re the quiet one, aren’t you? Did your boyfriend put you up to it?’

Gerry sipped more of her brandy. ‘Boyfriend? Chance would be a fine thing. I don’t have time, what with the exams, computer studies and the job and all. No, it was my treat to me on getting the posting to Eastvale.’

‘To each her own. So first we’ll ask around about the tats and the takeaway, starting here. They were professionally done, even if they are common designs, so we might get lucky with some artist recognising his or her handiwork, or remembering the birthmark.’

‘I still can’t get over how young she was,’ said Geraldine. ‘Just lying there on the table like that, so vulnerable.’

‘Obviously old enough to get involved with some nasty people.’

‘Come again?’

‘Well, you don’t think all this just happened to her by accident, do you?’

‘You’re not trying to say she was on the game or something, are you?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Annie, ‘but I don’t think we’re dealing with a complete innocent here. The doc found semen in her vagina, anus and oesophagus.’

‘You don’t have to remind me,’ said Gerry, sipping more brandy. ‘She was raped.’

‘He said the odds are that it didn’t all come from the same person, but there’s no telling how many as yet. We’ll know after Jazz has done the DNA testing.’

‘She was gang-raped?’

‘It’s likely. But the rapists didn’t kill her,’ Annie went on quickly. ‘That was someone else, later, in a different vehicle, after she’d walked a quarter mile back up the road. It was the broken rib piercing her heart that most likely killed her, the doc said, though she’d probably have died from her other injuries eventually. Remember, the doc also said from his examination of the footmarks that it looked very much as if she was kicked to death by just one person. She may have been raped by the men in the van, but she was still alive when they threw her out into the ditch. So what does she do?’

‘She starts walking home.’

‘Right. Makes sense, doesn’t it? The poor lass is stark naked, and in pain from the sexual assault and the tumble into the ditch, so she wants to get help, even get to hospital, perhaps. Or home, as you say. Maybe she sees a light on in the Ketteridge house, but she can’t climb over a wall and a barbed-wire fence in the state she’s in. Maybe she’s hoping for a gate or something, some means of entry. Whatever. She’s lost. She starts walking back in the direction they came from — the van came from — and they’ve gone on ahead. Where are they going? Don’t forget, if you turn right at the bridge at the bottom of Bradham Lane, you’ll soon get to a roundabout that’ll get you to Leeds, Bradford and points south in no time.’

‘You know,’ Gerry mused. ‘We’re only assuming she was naked when they kicked her out of the van, but maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was the other person who took her clothes, the killer.’

‘Good point,’ Annie conceded. ‘But I reckon if those blokes in the van were having sex with her, she probably had her clothes off, or most of them. And I doubt they’d have given her time to put them on again before they chucked her out.’

‘Makes sense. Could they have come back and finished her off?’

‘Apparently not,’ said Annie. ‘At least that’s not what Mandy Ketteridge heard. And I keep going back to the unlikelihood of some whacko happening along and killing her.’

‘You still think it was someone she knew?’

‘Yes. Don’t forget, Mandy Ketteridge said she thought the second vehicle turned around and went back the way it came.’

‘Maybe the victim didn’t see who it was, or if she did, she didn’t think she had anything to fear from him. Maybe she thought it was a friend. She was disoriented, remember. Hurt. Naked. On drugs as far as we know. She heard a car. She thought she’d be rescued. It must have been the first thing that came into her mind. Joy. Relief. I mean, how do you think you’d feel if you’d just been through what she’d been through?’

Annie swallowed and turned away. Gerry had no idea, of course. As far as Annie was aware, Banks was the only one in Eastvale who knew she had been raped several years ago, before her transfer there, by fellow detectives after a promotion party. She remembered exactly what she had felt like, and she had fought tooth and nail. She would also know how long it took several men to rape a woman if she hadn’t managed to fight her way out after the first attacker.

Annie took a long slug of Black Sheep. ‘Right. She’s hurt, heading away from where her attackers went. Another car comes. She’s hoping for help, wherever he’s going. It stops a few yards beyond her. As you said, she must have thought she’d found help. A Good Samaritan.’

‘Hmmm, maybe,’ Gerry said. ‘But it turned out to be some psycho killer who decided to beat her to death? We’re back to that again.’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘There was nothing psycho about it. That’s my point. And why would a psycho bother to turn around and go back the way he came? Wouldn’t he be more likely to just carry on down Bradham Lane?’

‘Depends where he was going.’ Gerry frowned. ‘What are you getting at? I don’t understand. Someone followed her right from the start of the journey, from before she was raped?’

‘Or someone knew where she was going and followed at a distance. That would explain how the second vehicle could be ten or fifteen minutes behind the first, as Mandy Ketteridge said it was. It makes sense if the killer knew they were heading down Bradham Lane. Had to take Bradham Lane to get where they were going from the road they were already on. If he knew all that, I’m thinking he may have held back a little while before following them down the lane so they wouldn’t see his lights behind them.’

‘So you have them going from the north-east to West Yorkshire?’

‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it?’

‘But how could whoever’s in the second vehicle know they’re going to throw her out of the van?’

‘He doesn’t. But when it happens, and he sees her walking towards him, he seizes his opportunity. Maybe he can’t believe his luck. We don’t know what was in his mind, what he was hoping for, or expecting to happen. The thing is, Gerry, I’m saying that it was most likely someone she knew who killed her. Someone who wanted her dead for a reason. It wasn’t a random sex killer attack.’

‘We don’t know that whoever was in the second vehicle didn’t rape her, too.’

‘According to Mandy Ketteridge, it didn’t stop that long, but she heard raised voices, more like an argument than a sex attack.’

‘Is she in any danger?’

‘Who?’

‘Mandy Ketteridge. Remember, she asked about it, seemed worried?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Annie. ‘Nobody but us knows what she saw and heard.’

‘But if they did know, or suspected? They might have seen her light on. It’s a loose end. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with, how far they’d go.’

‘Now you’re making me paranoid. We’ll have the patrols pay extra attention. I still don’t think she’s in any danger, but it wouldn’t do any harm to keep a close eye on the place.’

Gerry thought for a moment, swirling the brandy in her glass. ‘Let’s say you’re right about the killer knowing the victim,’ she said. ‘How does that help us?’

‘If it was someone she knew, then perhaps there was a motive. If there was a motive, once we know who she was, it gives us a better chance of finding out who had it.’

‘What motive? So she couldn’t report the rape?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe she knew too much about something?’

‘Or she was in thrall to someone, a pimp, whatever, and disobeyed orders, was made an example of,’ said Gerry. ‘Or it was family, an honour killing, something like that?’

‘As far as I can tell, she wasn’t Middle Eastern.’

‘There’s other kinds of honour killings,’ said Gerry. ‘Funny term, really. There’s no honour in it at all, is there?’

‘Come on,’ said Annie. ‘Enough of this. We’d better get back to the station and see if there are any developments.’

Gerry knocked back the remainder of her brandy and pulled a face. She teetered a little when she stood up to leave. ‘You’d better not be drunk,’ said Annie. ‘Not on one double brandy. Or you might pass your exams, young lady, but you’ll never make it as a DS.’

At the same time as Annie was soothing Gerry with brandy, Banks had been as good as his word and bought Winsome a small whisky and soda in Whitby, sticking to Diet Coke himself. After that he had driven them across the moors to York while Winsome dozed for an hour in the passenger seat. Even the Alabama Shakes didn’t keep her awake. Nor did she hear the Rolling Stones doing ‘Stray Cat Blues’ from their 1971 show at the University of Leeds. Banks hadn’t realised it was on the playlist, and he felt uncomfortable when Jagger started singing about a thirteen-year-old girl. It reminded him that those days had, indeed, been different, though Jerry Lee Lewis had been hounded out of the country for marrying his thirteen-year-old cousin.

When they finally arrived at the ex Mrs Caxton’s flat in a converted convent not far from York city centre, they found that her day had hardly been anywhere near as abstemious as theirs.

The woman who answered the doorbell was short and plump, with a fuzz of pinkish-white hair over chipmunk cheeks and a small, pinched mouth. The tight T-shirt and tartan slacks she wore didn’t do her any favours. But she probably didn’t care about that. She had a glass in her hand, and Banks could smell the gin from where he stood.

‘Mrs Caxton?’ he asked, identifying himself.

‘As was,’ she said. ‘Then Mrs Braithwaite, but the second one was no better than the first, so I’ve gone back to my maiden name — Canning. But you can call me Carol. Don’t stand out there in the hall, or you’ll have the neighbours talking. Nosey lot, they are. Come in, make yourselves at home. Is this about Danny?’

‘Why do you ask?’ said Banks, as he and Winsome followed Carol Canning into her living room. The large picture window framed a view of the main road, where traffic slowed for a large roundabout. The flat was cleaner and neater than Banks would have expected from the state of Carol Canning so early in the day. Maybe she had someone to come in and ‘do’ for her, or perhaps she was just a fastidious, house-proud drunk. Maybe the drink was her way of celebrating a day’s housework. Whatever the reason, the mantelpiece was dust free, and the wood surfaces shone with recent polish.

‘Well, nobody’s interested in little old me any more, my second husband wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but Danny always was a bit of a lad, to say the least. He sailed a bit close to the wind, if you catch my drift. Besides, you called me Mrs Caxton. It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. What is it? Tax evasion? Not that I care. I don’t get a penny from him. Not any more.’

‘It’s not tax evasion,’ said Banks.

‘Sit down. Tea? Something stronger? Gin?’

‘Tea would be really nice.’

Carol Canning headed for the kitchen. Winsome looked at Banks and widened her eyes. Banks smiled at her. Carol seemed to him the sort of drunk who could hold her liquor; at least, she didn’t wobble when she walked, and her speech wasn’t slurred. A steady drip throughout the day, Banks guessed, causing and maintaining a gentle buzz. She returned several minutes later with a tray bearing a rose-patterned china teapot with gilded edges and two matching cups and saucers. There were also similar bowls of sugar and milk. Banks, who preferred his tea in a mug, accepted milk and sugar and took the proffered saucer. Not a trace of a tremor in Carol Canning’s hand. Banks could hardly get his finger through the handle of the cup. He noticed that the level of gin in Carol’s glass was considerably higher than it had been before she went into the kitchen.

When everyone had been served, she sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette, which she attached to a long ivory holder, put her legs up and stretched her smoking arm along the back, holding the gin close to her breast. It might have been the nineteenth century, and she might have been reposing on a chaise longue. ‘Now do tell,’ she said. ‘Don’t tease. You haven’t come all this way just for the view.’

‘No,’ said Banks, trying to hold his teacup delicately, without snapping off the fragile handle. ‘It is about your ex-husband. The first one.’

‘So what has Danny boy been up to now?’

‘Now?’

‘A figure of speech.’ She wagged her finger and spilled a little gin. ‘You policemen! I can see I’m going to have to watch what I say.’

‘Sorry. Just habit. Well, you’ll hear about it soon enough, so I might as well tell you that your ex-husband has been accused of a rape in 1967, and that other similar incidents are being investigated.’

‘1967?’

‘Yes.’

‘We were divorced in 1965.’

‘Yes. But were you ever aware of anything like that while you were married to him?’

‘I wouldn’t have put it past him. Danny was always rather forceful, shall we say. I mean, his idea of foreplay was, “You awake?” ’ She laughed. ‘He liked it rough — but that’s not to say he ever hit me or anything — and he liked it often and anywhere. I always assumed he had other women, but I’d never have imagined that he had to rape them. He was very attractive, was Danny. Lots of women fancied him and I’m sure plenty of them were only too willing to spread their legs.’

‘These were young girls.’

She chewed her lip. ‘How young?’

‘Underage. Fourteen. The one we talked to.’

She put her cigarette hand to her mouth. A half inch of ash dropped on to the front of her T-shirt. She ignored it. ‘Oh my God.’

‘That surprises you?’

‘No, no. Not particularly. But it does shock me.’ She took a hefty slug of gin. ‘As much as I’m capable of being shocked these days.’

‘But it doesn’t surprise you?’

Carol Canning thought for a moment, a little pale, took a gulp of gin, then whispered, ‘Nothing about Danny surprises me. He was a law unto himself, that man. What he wanted, he took.’

‘He wanted young girls?’

‘Christ, I was only sixteen when he took me. And there was no hesitation on his part. I didn’t even have time to say no.’

‘He raped you?’

‘He took me. I wasn’t unwilling and I wasn’t a virgin. I was a little bit tipsy. I don’t think I wanted to say no. It was flattering, getting attention from a star like Danny Caxton. See how naive I was? There was a time when I was flattered by the attention of celebrities. It took me long enough to learn better. You wouldn’t find a bigger pack of deviants outside an institution.’

‘Well, this fourteen-year-old girl wasn’t flattered, and she says he raped her.’

‘Is this for certain? Are you sure she’s telling the truth, and not just out for what she can get?’

‘Sure as we can be. At least, we’re investigating the allegation. Why should she lie?’

Carol snorted. ‘Men. Why wouldn’t she lie? If she was ashamed of what she did, or regretted it too late? Got a bit pissed, and things went too far. Women do that all the time.’

‘Do what?’

‘Cry rape.’

‘We don’t think that’s what happened,’ Winsome said.

‘But you’re not sure, are you, love? And you have no evidence. Besides, they’re all coming out of the woodwork now, after Jimmy and Rolf. They can smell the money in it, you ask me.’ She turned back to Banks.

‘Did you know any of Mr Caxton’s friends?’ he asked.

‘Danny didn’t have any friends. Just hangers-on. They came and went.’

‘Do you know any who hung around longer than others? Or any from 1967?’

‘I told you, we were divorced by then. I have no idea who his cronies were.’

‘You must have been very young.’

She smiled flirtatiously. ‘Flattery will get you anywhere. We were all young once.’ She looked at Winsome. ‘Some of us still are. I was nineteen. We’d been married two years. I suppose it was ’62 when we first met. My fifteen minutes.’

‘You must have heard things about him, though?’

‘I can’t say I paid a lot of attention. I had an exciting enough life to live. You know about his background, don’t you?’

‘Some things,’ Banks said cautiously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it wasn’t all public knowledge. He had a hard time of it when he was young, did Danny.’

‘You mean being taken away from his parents?’

‘Partly that,’ said Carol Canning. ‘But it wasn’t until much later that he found out what really happened, around the time we were married, in fact.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What happened to his parents.’

‘It says in his official biography that they both died in the war,’ said Winsome.

‘That’s true enough, love. At least, his mother died in a concentration camp.’

‘And his father?’

‘He was a member of the Volksdeutscher Selbstschutz.’

‘What was that?’ Banks asked.

‘It was a paramilitary group made up of ethnic German Poles. Danny’s father was half-German. They basically did all they could to help the German war effort, including massacring fellow Poles. For years Danny thought his father had died in the camp with his mother, when it’s not entirely impossible that he had helped put her there. One day an old family friend called by, a camp survivor. He knew Danny’s family. You can imagine how upsetting the news was for him. Of course, he was famous then. He felt he needed to keep it quiet. He was ashamed. It seemed unsavoury. I suppose it helped that he couldn’t really remember his parents — after all, he hadn’t seen them since he was three — but even so, it’s a devastating thing to happen to someone, and no matter what he’s done, Danny isn’t without sensitivity.’

Banks could imagine how much it must have hurt and confused the young man. Perhaps if anyone were looking for a trigger to Caxton’s later behaviour, that might have been it, though from what Carol Canning had said, he was already a man used to getting his way sexually, even if it meant being a bit rough. Still, something like that could rip your soul in two.

‘What happened to him? The father?’

‘Nobody knows. He might have died in the war or ended up living to a ripe old age in Germany — east or west — after it was all over. One thing’s for certain, he’ll be dead by now. Danny never talked about him again in my presence. I remember his expression when he was told the news. Face set like stone. Pale as a ghost. And he didn’t argue, didn’t contest it. He just left the room. When he came back, hours later, he acted as normal, as if nothing had happened. Cracked a joke or two. That was Danny.’

Banks reconsidered his direction. ‘Let’s go back a bit,’ he said. ‘You didn’t sound surprised at the accusation when I first mentioned it.’

‘Am I surprised Danny shagged a fourteen-year-old? Not at all. He always liked them young. Am I surprised he was a bit rough with her? No. He never was a patient or considerate lover. Am I surprised you’re making such a fuss about it after all this time? Yes. Those were different times.’

‘And stars like Danny Caxton were subject to different laws?’

‘In a way. Yes. They were gods. And you know what the gods got up to.’ She drank some more gin. ‘Have you asked her why she took so long to report this... incident... or whatever it was?’

‘She didn’t. She reported it at the time and nothing was done.’

A triumphant and unpleasant grin split her features. ‘Seems like it’s down to you lot, then, doesn’t it, ducky?’

‘I’m not saying the police weren’t at fault. We’ll be checking out that aspect of the case, too.’

‘I’ll bet you will. You could probably save yourself the trouble, you know.’

‘Oh, yes? How?’

‘Well, think about it. Danny was a big star. People liked to be around him. Bask in his glory. He had charisma, you know. Tons of it. People came under his spell. Important people, like senior coppers, judges, politicians, royalty, for all I know. Or people who relied on him for their jobs, to keep raking in the money. You don’t kill the cash cow just for a quick slice of beef, do you? And the others, the coppers and their like, they liked to be seen with him, liked to be able to impress their mates by saying they’d been down to Danny’s for the weekend, rubbed shoulders with Mick and Keith, and, by heck, you should have seen the crumpet. He played golf with the chief constables. Gave generously to the Police Widows and Orphans Fund and a few others. Someone always owed him a favour, belonged to the same club, was a mate, depended on him for their livelihood or status. He was clever with people like that.’

‘Manipulative? A user?’

‘Of course. But without seeming so obvious. He was a charmer, was Danny, when he wanted to be. When he wanted something. If he committed the occasional indiscretion, odds were there’d be people to cover it up, people who didn’t want any grief to fall on him.’

‘You’re saying he bribed his way out of an investigation?’

‘I’m saying he didn’t have to. He was golden, was Danny. Untouchable.’

‘Rape isn’t a simple indiscretion, Mrs... Canning... and Danny wasn’t particularly charming when he wanted to have sex with the girl we’ve just talked to.’

Carol made a dismissive gesture. ‘He always got what he wanted, one way or another. There’s no doubt he was screwed up. But he’s not stupid. He might not have had much formal education, but he taught himself.’

‘The point remains,’ Banks went on, ‘that the girl did report the assault, the rape, to the local police at the time, which makes me inclined to believe that it did happen.’

‘And they did nothing. What I said before still stands. She got pissed and went too far. Regretted it in the morning.’

‘Then why would she bother going to the police and raking it all up? Surely that must have been painful for her. Nobody knew. Why not just get on with her life and chalk it up to inexperience?’

‘I don’t know. Guilt? Shame? Maybe she wasn’t too bright. Maybe she got pregnant.’

‘She didn’t.’

‘Don’t tell me Danny used a rubber Johnny. That’d be a first. He wouldn’t know how to put one on.’

‘She didn’t get pregnant.’

Carol Canning drank some more gin, and her eyes seemed to blur out of focus, then, very slowly, under a puzzled frown, they sharpened again and she took off on a different tack. ‘On the other hand,’ she said. ‘Neither did I.’

‘What?’

‘Get pregnant. I thought it was me, but maybe he was shooting blanks. I mean, I had three with Kenny. Kenny might have been no great shakes in the bedroom department, but he had the right stuff, apparently. Danny just had to touch me and I came like the dickens, but Kenny just had to look at me and I’d get pregnant.’

‘Didn’t you go to a doctor?’

‘With Danny? No. We didn’t care that much, really. We were having too much of a good time to want kids. Even when we were married we didn’t see that much of each other. I was still touring then, first with the girls, then solo. And if Danny was playing the rear end of a horse in Christmas panto in Leeds, I was Widow Twanky down in Brighton. It was a crazy life.’

‘And if you had got pregnant?’

‘There were ways of dealing with it, even then.’

‘Why did you split up?’ Winsome asked.

‘I don’t really see as it has anything to do with your investigation, but we just drifted apart. We really did. It was easy, so easy we never even noticed it happening.’ She waved her cigarette arm theatrically in the direction of both of them. ‘I mean, he went one way — variety shows, lousy pop songs, quiz programmes, bad movies — and I went another — Granny Takes a Trip, psychedelia, dope, acid, country weekends with the Maharishi, the whole shebang. Even us pop girls had a bit of fun, you know. I made a solo album, a folky sort of thing, like Vashti Bunyan, but it went nowhere. I had a nice voice. They all said so. New Musical Express, Melody Maker, Record Mirror. Even Danny said I had a nice voice.’

Where had Banks heard that before? Linda Palmer. Perhaps it was a line Caxton used with all the girls. Suddenly, Banks remembered what he had been racking his brains over since they had arrived. The Tri-Lites. Carol Canning had been one of the original Tri-Lites, so named before the term had been hijacked for lights of three different wattages. They were a girl group popular in the early sixties. He wouldn’t have known that to look at her now, of course, and he had been a bit too young back then to appreciate their obvious charms, but her mention had jogged his memory. They had enjoyed a period of chart success from about 1961 until 1965 when their sort of music started falling out of fashion. They wore knee-length dresses and had bouffant hairdos, all trying to copy Helen Shapiro, Kathy Kirby or Susan Maughan. Banks remembered seeing them once or twice on Top of the Pops. In the mid-sixties they tried to imitate the American sound popular at the time, but they were no match for Tamla Motown. Banks remembered that Carol had tried to go solo in the late sixties, jump on the hippie bandwagon, but her career had quickly foundered.

‘The Tri-Lites,’ he said.

‘Oh, don’t. Please. For my sins. They were wigs, you know. The big hair.’

‘Fooled me.’

‘And awfully hot onstage, or under the studio lights. I don’t think people ever noticed how much we sweated doing a show. We were all pretty ripe when we got off. Stripped right down and jumped in a lukewarm bath as soon as possible. As often as not with some randy young lad from one of the bands.’ She winked. ‘You know what they say. When the music’s over, it’s time to have fun.’

‘Never heard that one,’ said Banks. ‘I thought it was “turn out the lights”.’

‘Don’t you turn out the lights when you want to have fun, Superintendent?’

‘And after the solo album?’ Banks asked. ‘What then?’

Carol Canning stared into space again for a while. At first Banks thought she was miffed at his lack of response to her flirting, but he realised that she was mired in difficult memories. ‘Oh, those were the lost years, ducky. Next thing I knew I was married to Kenny, and it was 1975. All Hot Chocolate and Bay City Rollers. Our day was over. Though I still think we could have given Abba a run for their money.’ She got to her feet, still remarkably steady, Banks thought, sang a few bars of ‘Dancing Queen’ and lit another cigarette. ‘God, this is so depressing. Let’s all have a big drink, and I’ll put some real music on, shall I? Aretha or Dionne or something. Definitely not the fucking Tri-Lites.’

Winsome gave Banks an anxious look, and he glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid we’d better be off now,’ he said.

‘You’re no fun. You’re going to leave an old lady alone with her memories and her gin?’

‘Needs must.’

She waved her glass at them and some of the gin slopped over the side, dribbled down her hand and splashed on the front of her T-shirt to join the cigarette ash. ‘Now see what you’ve made me do.’ She pouted. ‘Go on, then. Off you go. They all do in the end.’

Banks and Winsome took their leave. As Winsome got behind the wheel, she turned to Banks and said, ‘I know it’s only the second day, guv, but already I have to confess I’m getting sick to death of this case and these people.’

Banks had expected something like that. He wondered if Annie would have been able to keep quiet as long as Winsome had in Carol Canning’s company. He doubted it. She wasn’t quite as sensitive as Winsome, and not as well behaved. She usually gave as good as she got, or thought she was getting. ‘My sentiments exactly,’ he said. ‘Give me a down-to-earth honest criminal any time. The more godawful these people are, the more we owe it to Linda Palmer to make a good case against Danny Caxton.’

‘Yeah,’ Winsome said. ‘I suppose so. I suppose you’re right.’

‘And cheer up. You know what the woman in the movie said: “Tomorrow’s another day.” ’