When the Music's Over

5

After a glass of grapefruit juice, a mug of green tea and a bowl of muesli, Annie was ready to set off for work. She was hoping there would be something from forensics that morning, and an identification of the victim would also be welcome. When the news came on her car radio, it was no surprise to hear that one of the main stories was about the unidentified young girl found murdered on a leafy lane in Yorkshire, and the other was about Danny Caxton being interviewed on a matter of historic sexual abuse. As yet, the media had only scant details about both cases. One of the things they didn’t know, and were at all costs not to find out about, was that there had been a second car in the ‘leafy lane’ on the night of the girl’s murder. For the time being, it suited Annie for the rapists to think they were suspected of murder and the murderer to think he was home free. That way the rapists might panic and perhaps make a mistake, and the killer would carry on blithely unaware while the police closed in on him. At least, that was the theory.

After they had drawn a blank in the Eastvale tattoo parlour and takeaway, Annie had told Gerry to work on the assumption that the victim was being transported from the north-east to some point south of Eastvale by a route off the beaten track. She had also assumed that the victim was from the north-east, but she had realised, lying awake in bed the previous night, that the vehicle might have been carrying the girl home. Someone might have picked her up in Middlesbrough or Sunderland, for example, and been in the process of driving her back down south, to where she lived, when things had gone wrong and the driver had taken a detour down a quiet country lane and dumped her. Raped and bruised, but alive. But if that were the case, why was she walking back the way she had come?

Annie ignored the throng of media and made her way up to the squad room. Neither Winsome nor DC Doug Wilson was in, but Gerry sat at her desk working on the computer, hair held back by a tortoiseshell Alice band, which looked surprisingly cool on her. She maintained good posture, Annie noticed, unlike herself, who bent over, hunched and round-shouldered, as she hunted and pecked. Gerry seemed poised, ergonomically perfect, as if being at a computer keyboard were the most comfortable position in the world, everything at the right height and the right angle. And, of course, she touch-typed like a pro, eyes on the screen all the time.

‘Anything yet?’ Annie flopped into her chair, put her feet up on the desk and took a sip of the coffee she had picked up at the Starbucks on Market Street. She was trying to give it up, hence the green tea, but the lure of a latte was just too much at the start of the working day. Only one, though. That was her rule.

‘Still nothing,’ said Gerry, pausing at her labours. ‘The lab’s finished with Roger Stanford’s work clothes. Nothing there, as we suspected. We’ve also run checks on his background. Nothing. I think we can scratch him from our list. I’ve been in touch with Cleveland, Northumbria and the Durham Constabulary, and they’ll offer us all the help we want. They’re appalled by what happened, of course. They’ve already got patrol cars out to check up on the tattoo parlours and kebab and pizza places.’

‘Good. How about CCTV?’

‘That’s a bit more interesting,’ Gerry said, reaching for a file folder. ‘Though nothing to get too excited about. The nearest cameras service the big roundabout on the south-west edge of Eastvale, the end of Market Street. You’d turn off at the third exit for Bradham Lane, which is about two miles west.’

‘OK. So we can find out who went that way.’

‘Right, guv. But this is where it gets interesting. After the end of Bradham Lane, a mile or so west, there’s another roundabout, where you’d take the first exit if you were heading for Harrogate and West Yorkshire.’

‘Cameras?’

‘Yes.’

‘So if we find the same car on both roundabout cameras, separated by however long it takes to travel down Bradham Lane, and if the timing is right, then we might be on to something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Better stick at it then. Anything from missing persons yet?’

‘Nothing. Either nobody’s missed her yet or she makes a habit of disappearing for days at a time. I’ve also initiated enquiries at schools and social services. Oh, and you might not have seen this yet.’ Gerry tossed one of the morning tabloids towards Annie’s desk. ‘Page two.’

On the front page was a huge photograph of Danny Caxton receiving his MBE, circa 1985, and on page two was a short article about the mysterious naked girl found dead in the Yorkshire Dales. Beside it was an artist’s impression of the victim, without broken teeth and swollen lips. Annie hadn’t seen it yet. ‘She scrubs up nicely,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘A pretty young girl. Jesus Christ, what a waste.’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s good.’ Annie tapped the newspaper. ‘Someone might actually recognise her from this.’

The door opened and the diminutive Jazz Singh stood there in her lab coat, brandishing a buff file folder. ‘Before you ask,’ she said. ‘I worked late last night, as did everyone in toxicology. This is a particularly nasty one and whatever you need, you know...’

‘Thanks, Jazz,’ said Annie. ‘What’ve you got for us?’

Jazz sat down in Doug Wilson’s empty chair. ‘We’re still waiting for the DNA results to process,’ she began, ‘but it looks as if there were three distinct samples of seminal fluid in the girl’s body. All secretors.’

Annie’s jaw tightened. Three. The magic number. Gang bang. It was three men who had tried to rape her once. She flashed on the image of the naked girl being assailed from all sides, in all orifices, by three men turned to animals by lust. Maybe they had jobs, families, loved their mothers, but that night, whether under the influence of drugs or not, they had become inhuman, bestial, and had violated and humiliated a vulnerable young girl.

‘How can you tell how many there were if they were all mixed up?’ she asked.

‘We have our little secrets. You use Y-STR to separate them. The Y chromosome. The male line. And STR means short tandem repeats. They’re—’

Annie held her hand up. ‘All right, all right. Sorry I asked. You’ve blinded me with science.’

‘That didn’t take long.’

‘Three men, you say? Christ.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Jazz, as if reading Annie’s thoughts. ‘What can I say? I only deliver the news. I should have DNA profiles before the end of the day, then at least we can check them against the database.’

‘They won’t be there,’ said Annie. ‘They never are.’

‘Don’t be so negative. At least we’ve got three shots this time.’

‘True. Anything else?’

Jazz pulled out some sheets of paper. ‘Preliminary tox results show a fair bit of alcohol in her system—’

‘Enough to make her drunk?’

‘Oh, yes. Tipsy at any rate. I don’t know how well she could hold her booze, but Dr Glendenning said her liver and kidneys show an unusual amount of damage for someone so young.’

‘That’s because someone booted them into her lungs,’ said Annie. ‘Maybe we should be thankful she was pissed. She might have felt less pain and fear.’

‘She wouldn’t have felt much at all,’ said Jazz. ‘We also found significant traces of ketamine in her system. The girl was off her face.’

‘Enough to go along willingly with what they wanted?’

‘Impossible to say for sure, but highly likely. Definitely high as a kite. Probably no sense of judgement. Even without the booze she’d have been gaga. A lot depends on when she took it, or was given it. It’s fast-acting, but it doesn’t last more than a couple of hours if you ingest it. The doc didn’t find any needle marks on her skin, so we’re assuming she took it orally. I assume you’re both aware of the effects?’

Annie glanced over at Gerry, who shook her head. ‘Remind us,’ she said. ‘DC Masterson here failed drugs 101.’

‘Hallucinations, sense of detachment from the body, depersonalisation.’ Jazz paused. ‘From what we can tell, it was a high dose, around a hundred milligrams.’

‘What does that mean?’ Gerry asked.

Jazz picked up another sheet of paper. ‘Have you heard of the K-hole?’

‘Vaguely,’ said Annie.

Gerry merely looked puzzled.

‘It’s a state some users enter into when the dosage is somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred and twenty-five milligrams. People have described it as like entering an alternate universe or another dimension, a black hole in the soul. You leave everything you know behind, including yourself. Loss of identity, loss of bodily awareness, sensation of floating, euphoria, loss of time perception.’

‘Sounds like fun,’ said Annie.

‘As I said, I don’t think she would have felt any pain. With any luck, she might have had no sensation at all, been somewhere else entirely, not really aware of what was happening to her.’

‘Until later,’ said Annie. ‘It may explain why they kicked her out of the van.’

‘Yes,’ Jazz agreed. ‘But it can also cause amnesia. You forget it all like you forget a dream. If you come back at all, that is. They say it’s a state very close to clinical schizophrenia.’

No matter how high or depersonalised the girl had been, Annie doubted that she had been completely unaware of what was being done to her in the van.

‘Well, we’ll never know what she felt, will we?’ said Gerry, ‘So there’s not much point in speculating. But now we know she was raped by three men, and she had been plied with alcohol and ketamine, we’ve got a bit more to go on, haven’t we? Her murder could be drug-related.’

Annie smiled. ‘Ever the practical one, Gerry. Ask the locals to check known dealers — especially in ketamine. But it hardly narrows down the field much, does it?’

‘Same general area?’

‘For the time being. If we draw a blank we can expand the search.’

‘I said there were traces of sperm from three distinct sources,’ said Jazz. ‘Not that she was raped by three men.’

‘You didn’t see the body,’ said Annie. ‘But we’ll bear that in mind.’

‘The dental records and tats photos are still doing the rounds,’ Gerry added. ‘We might get something from them, though it doesn’t appear she visited a dentist very often.’

Annie turned to Jazz. ‘Thanks for getting this done so quickly,’ she said. ‘And we’ll keep our fingers crossed there’s a hit with the DNA database.’

‘Even if there isn’t, I should have a bit more information on the assailants for you later. Pity DNA doesn’t indicate home address.’

Annie laughed. ‘It would certainly make our job a hell of a lot easier. Thanks again.’

‘It’s about time we had that celebratory drink,’ said DCI Ken Blackstone. ‘Congratulations on the promotion, Alan.’

They raised their glasses and clinked. Banks sipped some of his Sam Smith’s and forked up a piece of black pudding and smoked bacon Scotch egg. Blackstone was eating a prawn and Marie Rose sandwich washed down with a glass of chilled California blush.

‘I’m not sure congratulations is the right word for it,’ Banks said. ‘But thanks, anyway.’

Blackstone scratched his head. ‘What do you mean? Too much paperwork?’

‘That, too. But... that’s not why I wanted to see you. The drink, of course, but...’

‘Something on your mind?’

‘My first big case as a superintendent.’

‘Yes?’

‘Danny Caxton.’

Blackstone put his sandwich down. ‘Oh, bloody hell. They certainly chucked you in at the deep end.’

‘That’s an understatement. Though I must say, having talked to both the accuser and the man himself, I’m a lot more keen than I was a couple of days ago.’

They were sitting opposite one another at the end of a wooden bench in the narrow alley outside Whitelock’s, one of Leeds city centre’s oldest pubs, and usually one of the most crowded. That lunchtime was no exception. Summer students sat on nearby benches smoking and idling over their pints, shop girls from the Trinity Centre gossiped over a gin and orange or white wine spritzers, and office clerks chatted over a quick half of bitter. The used plates, emptied of their beef in ale pies, burgers, hot dogs or cheese and chutney sandwiches, were piling up. The staff could hardly keep up with the serving, let alone the clearing away. The buildings were high on both side of the narrow alley, letting in no sun, but the heat certainly had everyone wilting, Banks included. Blackstone remained immaculate and cool in suit, shirt and tie. With the glasses, bald spot on top and tufts of hair above his ears, he was getting to resemble Philip Larkin or Eric Morecambe a bit more every time Banks saw him. He had also put on a bit of weight, Banks noticed. Though the alley was crowded, there was a gap between Banks and Blackstone and the group of students, German by the sound of them, sitting next to them. And it wasn’t too noisy to have a conversation.

Banks had spent the morning with Winsome going over the itemised lists of stuff the search team had taken from Caxton’s house the previous evening and sending out inquiries for lists of his friends, employees and associates in the late sixties. There was nothing so far from the search, only a bit of mild Internet porn, but there were diaries and appointment calendars that might prove useful in pinning down his movements at critical times, and pre-digital photographs that might link him with some of his victims. He had left Winsome to continue the task while he drove to Leeds.

‘There were always rumours about him,’ Blackstone said. ‘You know he lived not too far from here for a while?’

‘Yes. Otley, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Had a nice big house after his first flush of fame in the early sixties. Before my time, of course, but there were rumours of parties. Orgies, I suppose. Quite the “A” guest list, too, if the stories are to be believed. High-ranking coppers, judges, politicians, a bishop or two.’

‘Well, he certainly got his immunity from somewhere. What were the rumours?’

‘Mostly that he liked them young. I mean, he wasn’t that old then, himself.’

‘Underage?’

‘Never heard that mentioned specifically.’

‘Unwilling?’

‘I think everyone assumed the girls threw themselves at him.’

‘That’s what he told us. One of the accusers who’s come forward lives near Eastvale. I’ve been assigned the investigation.’

‘Lucky you. Any hope?’

‘Maybe. A glimmer.’

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘She used to live here. In Leeds. She was on her holidays with her family in Blackpool when the assault took place.’

‘What does she say?’

‘That Caxton and another man raped her in a hotel room.’

‘How did they get her there?’

Banks explained as best he could to Blackstone what Linda Palmer had told him. ‘She’s not clear on everything,’ he added. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘She says she reported it when the family got back home. Here. Her mother went to the police station with her.’

‘That would’ve been Brotherton House, back then. Top end of the Headrow.’

‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘There’s got to be paperwork somewhere, Ken. That’s the first thing we need to track down. Proof that she reported what happened, proof that nothing was followed up.’

‘Might be tougher than you think. The paper trail might be somewhere, maybe. But the question is, where?’

Banks sipped some more beer. It tasted good but didn’t do a lot to slake his thirst. Maybe he should have asked for a pint of chilled lager on a day like this. ‘Computers?’

‘I’m not sure anything that far back has been entered. In fact, it most likely hasn’t been. Let me look into it. I know a good archivist. It’ll give me an excuse to ask her out for lunch or something.’

‘Always happy to be of help in the romance department.’

‘And what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘You know. The love life.’

‘What love life?’

‘Like that, is it? I thought you had a lovely young girlfriend. Italian, isn’t she?’

‘I did. Oriana. It just didn’t work out, that’s all. She was too young. Then either she was too busy or I was. You know the sort of thing. There was never any talk about... you know... any commitment or anything. We had fun, that’s all.’

‘So no pain?’

‘I wouldn’t quite say that. I listened to Blood on the Tracks and The Boatman’s Call a few too many times after she left. Drank a bit too much Laphroaig. Felt sorry for myself. But did I slit my wrists? No.’

‘With me it’s always In the Wee Small Hours and Macallan eighteen-year-old.’

‘Yeah, that’s a good combination, too. I always said you had class.’

‘So there’s nothing new on the horizon?’

‘Not so far as I can see.’

Blackstone gestured to Banks’s almost empty glass. ‘Another?’

‘No. Better not. I have to drive back. I’ll do a bit of shopping while I’m here first. Walk it off.’ One thing Banks wanted to do was go to Waterstones and buy Linda Palmer’s latest book of poetry, along with Dart, the book she was reading when he talked to her. And maybe Ariel. They might give him a bit more insight into her character. Besides, he might also enjoy them. He would also make time to go to HMV and pick up the new Sviatoslav Richter box set, his deferred present to himself on his promotion and salary increase. If they had it in stock, of course. He still missed the old Classical Record Shop. He had been listening to a lot of solo piano music in the long summer evenings — Angela Hewitt, Imogen Cooper, Mitsuko Uchida and other contemporary pianists playing Bach, Schubert, Chopin and Mozart, mostly — but Richter was a new discovery for him. He had enjoyed the 1958 Sofia recital and was looking forward to listening to some of the live New York recordings he had read about in Gramophone.

‘If I’m going to attempt to find something in the archives,’ Blackstone said, ‘I’m going to need to know what it is. Is that a problem?’

‘Not at all. As far as I’m concerned you’re an essential member of the investigative team as of now. You know as well as I do that victims’ identities are always sacred in cases like this.’

‘I’ve been there. You don’t think anyone escaped the fallout from the Savile business around here, do you?’

‘I suppose not. Leeds lad, wasn’t he?’

‘For our sins. And you also know that if you’re dealing with something along those lines, there’s a good chance any written records of what happened might have disappeared over the years.’

‘I know that, too. But it doesn’t hurt to look.’

‘Not you, it doesn’t. You’re not the one who’ll be getting a lungful of archive dust.’

‘Surely you’ve got more hygienic storage facilities these days?’

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

Banks lowered his voice. ‘The complainant’s name is Linda Palmer. She was fourteen at the time.’

‘Tough one,’ said Blackstone.

‘She’s a survivor, though,’ Banks went on. ‘Become a successful poet, as a matter of fact.’

‘Poetry?’ Blackstone pulled a face. ‘Not really up my street.’

‘Mine, neither,’ said Banks. At least it didn’t used to be, he thought. He had read that morning some excerpts in his anthology from Milton’s Paradise Lost, and the final lines, the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, still reverberated in his mind: ‘They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, / Through Eden took their solitary way.’ There was something deeply tragic about it that was as much, if not more, in the solemn music of the syntax as in the meanings of the words themselves. One thing he was quickly coming to realise as he worked his way through the anthology was that even if you didn’t understand a poem, which was frequently, you could still enjoy its music. ‘She’s been very successful,’ he said. ‘She’s smart and articulate. She doesn’t seem broken at all.’

‘Sounds like you’re smitten, mate. Attractive, too?’

‘That, too. But mostly she’s just an interesting woman who went through a terrible ordeal a long time ago. But she’s dealt with it. She hasn’t let it ruin her life.’

‘Why didn’t she pursue it back then?’

‘She was ignored after that first interview. Her mother wanted to forget all about it. They never even told her dad. Years passed.’

‘And this business in the newspapers has brought it all back?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You believe her story?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good enough for me, then.’ He took out a small notebook, not the official one.

‘She said they went to Blackpool the last two weeks of August,’ Banks said. ‘The twelfth to the twenty-sixth. And the assault occurred after the Saturday matinee at the end of the first week. That’d be the nineteenth of August. I looked it up.’

‘And she reported it when?’

‘First week after they got back. She can’t remember exactly what day, but early in the week, probably Tuesday or Wednesday. That’d be the twenty-ninth or thirtieth of August 1967.’

‘Remember what you were doing then?’

‘Probably listening to Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,’ said Banks. He had a sudden flash of memory. The summer Sunday afternoons sitting on Paul Major’s front steps listening to the Beatles’ new album on the old Dansette. Banks, Paul, Graham Marshall, Dave Grenfell and Steve Hill. Was that what he was doing while Linda Palmer was getting raped? Steve, Paul and Graham were all dead now, one from cancer, one from AIDS and one from murder.

‘Why didn’t she report it in Blackpool, after it happened?’ Blackstone asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I imagine she was confused, upset, in shock. I think she wanted to pretend it never happened, hide it from her parents.’

‘I’m just thinking that if it went through us, someone would have probably passed it on to Lancashire.’

‘I’ll have Winsome get in touch with them, again. Ask them to try harder. But in the meantime—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll have a root around for you.’

‘Thanks, Ken. You’re a pal.’

‘Muggins, more like.’

Excerpt from Linda Palmer’s Memoir

At the meeting that Friday evening in the boardroom, the whiteboard was covered with photos of the Bradham Lane body taken from all angles, as well as the artist’s impression of the girl’s face and close-ups of her tattoos and birthmark. Alongside were pictures from the crime scene and a timeline, carefully drawn up by Gerry on the computer.

Annie had brought Banks up to speed just before they started the meeting, and he took his seat with the others, including Gerry, Doug Wilson, Stefan Nowak, Vic Manson, Jazz Singh and assorted CSIs. Winsome had gone home, as this wasn’t her case, and she had plenty of homework to do on Danny Caxton. That beady-eyed bloke from the press office, Adrian Moss, who had visited her in the morning with AC Gervaise, was also present. He had been prowling the corridors a lot lately, as if he were up to something. He reminded Annie of a snake-oil salesman, not that she had ever met such a creature.

Annie surveyed the expectant faces, knowing how hard they had all worked since the body had been found on Wednesday morning. Now it was almost the weekend, and most of them would have a couple of days rest and some time to spend with their families, a brief respite from the world of violent death. Not Annie, and probably not Banks, either, she thought. This was the kind of case that put its hooks into you. She didn’t know how Banks felt about his high-profile investigation yet, but she knew him well enough to hazard a guess that he wasn’t too thrilled. That was being kept as much under wraps as hers for the moment. There were no meetings and little squad-room gossip, though Danny Caxton was making a splash in the media.

Gerry began by describing the CCTV searches for possible cars and vans. ‘We’ve made a start,’ she said. ‘DC Wilson is coordinating the team watching the CCTV and ANPR feeds. But it’ll be slow going. There’s a lot of it. We’re also checking Bradham village itself and all the farms and villages in the immediate area, as well as having a close look at events in Eastvale that night.’

‘Quite a job, then?’

‘Yes, ma’am. There wasn’t a lot of traffic at that time of night, of course, but there was more than you might expect, especially over a two- or three-hour period. Seems that the route our vans took cuts a big corner off if you want to get to Harrogate and West Yorkshire, especially if you want to avoid the A1 with all the lorries and roadworks. It’s a bit slower, of course, but some drivers aren’t in that much of a hurry. The main problem isn’t the volume of traffic, though. It just takes time to narrow things down, find the drivers, check their stories. We have to follow up on every car and van. And the quality of the images isn’t always as good as one would hope. According to Mandy Ketteridge’s statement, we believe the murder took place between two-fifteen and two-thirty in the morning, so we’re starting by working on a time spread between one and three a.m. Naturally, we’ll extend that if we get more information.’

‘Anything stand out yet?’ Banks asked.

‘There’s a couple of builders’ vans,’ Gerry said. ‘One white, the other dark blue, or black. We think the girl was taken and raped in a van of some sort before she was dumped by the roadside. At least she was dumped from it, even if she was raped elsewhere. The problem is, the number plate on the white van is impossible to read.’

‘No name on the side, or logo?’

‘No, sir. Not on either.’

‘OK. Keep at it,’ Banks said.

‘And Gerry,’ Annie added. ‘As we think the second van might have turned back—’

‘We’ll be checking for that, too, though there are a few out-of-the-way routes over the moors that can get you back to Eastvale by a different, and CCTV-free, route.’

‘Bugger,’ said Annie. ‘But if he did take a different route, away from the cameras, it seems to indicate some degree of premeditation, or at least self-preservation after the fact.’

‘Lots of people know they’re on candid camera everywhere they go these days,’ said Banks. ‘If he’d just killed someone, he’d probably be extra cautious, so that’s a good call.’

‘I would have thought he’d also be panicking,’ said Annie. ‘Unless it was something he was used to. I don’t know about you, Gerry, but I think if I’d just gone too far and killed someone, I’d be crazy with fear. I wouldn’t be thinking clearly.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gerry. ‘But we’ve no way of knowing. I suppose it affects different people differently. It doesn’t mean he was a cold-blooded killer, just that he maybe felt a sense of calm and clarity after he’d done it. Relief, maybe.’

‘Sexual?’

‘That’s possible, too. Lord knows there are enough men who get off on violence against women.’

Annie summed up what little else they knew so far and invited Stefan and Jazz to provide an update. Stefan spoke about cars and tyres, using the photos on the whiteboard as a guide, and explained how there just wasn’t enough information from the skid marks to run against a database search for make and model. He also explained how the traces of blood and the girl’s muddy footprints led him to his theories about the sequence of events, though there were, unfortunately, no recoverable footprints from the killer, only signs of a scuffle by the roadside. They were working on identifying footwear marks made on the girl’s body, he said, but he stressed that they were partial and would be unlikely to lead to the actual footwear the killer had been wearing, should he still be foolish enough to have it in his possession. There were, however, one or two scuff marks and scratches unique to that footwear. The one thing he was reasonably certain of was that there had been no one with her on her ten- or fifteen-minute walk from where she had been dumped to where she had been killed, so it seemed that whoever had kicked her out of the van while ‘My Silver Lining’ was playing had gone on his way. It also appeared as if there had been only one killer.

‘Maybe they were working in concert,’ Annie suggested.

‘What do you mean?’ Banks asked.

‘Maybe it was prearranged. Someone knew she was going to be tossed out of the van, and whoever it was in the other van following for the specific purpose of killing her.’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Banks admitted. ‘But it’s a bit elaborate, don’t you think? Why go to all that trouble when the people in the van could just as easily have killed her before they dumped her?’

‘Maybe they weren’t supposed to know she was going to be killed? It’s not any more unbelievable than some psycho just happening to pass by.’

‘True enough,’ said Banks.

Then Jazz Singh took over.

‘I’ve been working with the DNA for a while now,’ she began, ‘and even though we’ve got no hits on the database, I’m sorry to say, I’ve come to a few conclusions. As you know, we found samples of semen from three males in the girl’s orifices. The men clearly didn’t use condoms, unless all three broke, so we can assume they’re confident or stupid. Or both. Either way, it’s to our advantage.’

‘They most likely don’t expect anyone to be searching for them,’ said Banks. ‘Especially if, as Annie suggests, they didn’t kill the girl. Either she was willing, or they raped her and gave her graphic warnings of what would happen to her if she talked.’

‘Agreed,’ said Annie. ‘And I’d lean towards the latter, given the amount of trauma they inflicted on her. Which leads me to believe they had confidence of some control over her even when she was out of their immediate presence.’

‘Right,’ said Jazz. ‘She knew them. Maybe they knew where she lived. Again, to our advantage. Now, in addition to having good-enough samples to match with any suspects we might find, there are one or two things I can tell you about the three men already, using an ethnic inference test. It’s not infallible, and it can only be used as an estimation. It won’t stand up in court. In fact, I don’t think the information should leave this room. However, it might help you with your investigation. A comparison of Y-DNA markers to those in a database indicate the three men were all of Asian heritage, from the Indian sub-continent, most likely Pakistan. I can study other databases and haplogroups, but I’m not sure that will help you any further at this point.’

‘Pakistan?’ said Adrian Moss in disbelief.

‘Of Pakistani descent, yes, but they may never have actually been there. They could be as English as you and me. I’m simply talking about ethnic origins.’

‘But living here?’ Moss asked.

‘The DNA doesn’t tell us where they’re living, but I suppose we can assume that they are here, as their semen was found in the victim at the crime scene. I doubt they sent it via airmail. I’ve started a familial search, but that’s yielded nothing so far. No criminal brothers, mothers or fathers. I can dig further and uncover genetic disorders or high risk of developing certain medical conditions in future, if you want, but it becomes expensive and time-consuming, and I don’t see what good it does us.’

Adrian Moss looked at Jazz. ‘Are you sure about the ethnic origin?’

‘Yes. Why? Doesn’t it help?’

‘It’s a fucking media nightmare is what it is,’ he said. ‘Excuse my language.’

‘I’m not too sure about that,’ said Annie. ‘I think it’s a terrific lead, Jazz. Well done. For a start, it points us in a specific direction. We could be dealing with a grooming situation gone wrong, for example. Wasn’t it the case in Rotherham, Rochdale, Aylesbury and all the other places that those involved in grooming were men of Pakistani heritage exploiting white girls?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘But I still think we ought to keep an open mind. Don’t jump to conclusions. It wasn’t necessarily a grooming gang that did this. They could have been friends of hers, for example, or people pretending to be friends. Or students. Kids today hang around with all kinds of ethnic groups. They’re not racist, most of them, except your BNP types. And Pakistanis aren’t genetically predisposed to grooming young girls for sex. After all, it’s not something we haven’t been doing for years already — and by we I mean ethnic Brits and other Europeans. It’s not a specifically race-related issue.’

‘It becomes one when most people caught at it these days are of Pakistani origin,’ Annie argued. ‘And they weren’t caught before because everyone — including us — turned a blind eye because we were scared of upsetting the Muslim community. And nobody believed the victims. Remember that buried report from West Midlands in the news not long ago?’

‘Can’t you all hear what you’re saying?’ Adrian Moss cut in. ‘This is dynamite. Any one of those words or theories. As soon as the media get anywhere near this, they’re... we’re... we’re... I mean, for Christ’s sake: Rotherham, Rochester, Pakistanis, grooming. It’s a public relations nightmare waiting to happen. We’ll be accused of racism. Worse, of Islamophobia.’

‘You’re here to prevent that, aren’t you?’ said Annie, smiling sweetly at him. ‘And take heart, Adrian, we’re hardly dealing with devout Muslims, are we? Think about it. Alcohol, ketamine and possible gang-rape were involved, and the last I heard they’re a big no-no as far as Islam is concerned. Whoever gang-raped the girl or beat her to death don’t believe in any deity I’d care to know about. They rape underage girls, sell them for sex.’

Moss groaned and put his head in his hands. Annie wasn’t sure whether it was ‘gang-rape’ or ‘sell them for sex’ that caused such a reaction. ‘Whatever you do,’ he pleaded, ‘just don’t mention grooming to the media. At least not yet, not until you have absolute proof and I’ve had a chance to smooth the way. Even then, please clear it with me first.’

‘Don’t worry, Adrian,’ said Banks. ‘We’ll be keeping as much as we can back. We’ll keep both you and the CPS in the loop. We don’t even know the victim’s identity yet. And there’s something else we should keep in mind.’

‘What?’ asked Annie.

‘They may have groomed her and even raped her, but they didn’t kill her.’

‘We can’t be certain about that,’ Annie said.

‘Possibly not. But from what you’ve told me, and Jazz’s analysis bears this out, all we really know is that the victim had rough sex with three men of Pakistani descent, and it seems they tossed her naked out of a moving van in the middle of nowhere. The murder took place after that. Beyond that, it’s all speculation.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jazz. ‘But we got nothing from the murder scene, nothing from the killer except scuffs in the grass and the shoe or boot impressions Stefan’s working on.’

‘But they still threw her out of a moving vehicle,’ Annie insisted. ‘That’s attempted murder, for a start. And I happen to think our speculations are very reasonable given the circumstances.’

‘Maybe they did it for a laugh,’ Banks argued. ‘Kids can be irresponsible. And cruel. And that wasn’t what killed her. Or the sex. She walked for about ten minutes back along the road before someone stopped and did the killing.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Annie. ‘You’re the boss. So what exactly does this new information tell us?’ She went to the whiteboard and took up a red marker, noting down the points as she talked. ‘I know it’s mere speculation, but we have assumed the van was travelling from the north-east. Most likely it was heading for West Yorkshire, or maybe Greater Manchester. We might look more closely at communities with a large Asian population. There are bound to be a few in Teesside or Tyneside, not to mention West Yorkshire and Greater Manchester.’

‘I agree that’s it’s a useful lead,’ said Banks, ‘and we have to work with it. We also need to keep quiet about it until we have more to go on. The three men probably lived in an area with a high Asian population. If you tie that in with the kebab and pizza takeaway, or tattoo parlour, for example, you might be able to narrow it down even further. But we still need to find out who the victim is. That’s what’s most likely to lead us to our suspects.’

Annie sat down dejectedly. ‘The drawing’s in the papers and on TV. It’ll be shown again tonight and over the weekend. I don’t know what more we can do. Someone has to recognise her.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ Banks said.

‘What?’

‘Somebody does recognise her, and that’s why they’re not talking.’

‘Scared?’

‘Look how badly she was beaten,’ Banks said. ‘It sends a message. Anyone who does know who she is very likely knows who did it, and why. If she’s got any sense, she’s got to be scared to death of him, or them.’

‘Then we need to find this person as fast as we can,’ said Annie.

‘Well, this is nice,’ said Annie, raising her glass. ‘Cheers.’

In the early evening, Banks and Annie were sitting outside at the Queen’s Arms, in the market square, food on order and pints of Timothy Taylor’s in front of them. Luckily for them, Adrian Moss had done his Pied Piper act and spirited the media away from the market square into the press room for a spot of disinformation. The evening light was soft and warm, the shadows slowly lengthening, and the limestone was almost the colour of Cotswold stone. The square was quiet. Most people were at home having dinner with the family, Banks thought, or getting ready for a night on the town.

‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘You do realise that what Jazz just told us makes your job rather... delicate?’

‘ “Delicate”? Is that what promotion does for you, makes you use words like “delicate”?’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry. It just slipped out. It just doesn’t sound like the old you, that’s all. It sounds more like Adrian Moss.’

‘I almost feel sorry for poor Adrian,’ said Banks. ‘He’s certainly copped for it, hasn’t he? Two major media bombshells in a week. I’m actually relieved that your latest bit of news will keep him occupied more than anything I might do next.’

‘Charming. Maybe I’d feel sorry for him, too, if he wasn’t such a wanker.’

‘Adrian has his own agenda, and it’s my guess that right at the top of it is Adrian Moss.’ Banks smiled. ‘See. I’m not so different from who I was before. I’ve just got more responsibility.’

‘And power.’

‘That’s a laugh.’

‘Didn’t you read that report where they said not to let misguided fears about offending cultural sensitivities get in the way of nailing the bastards who exploit children? Or something along those lines.’

‘I read it,’ said Banks. ‘And I agree. But that doesn’t mean you have to go charging in like a bull in a china shop with all guns blazing. Softly, softly.’

‘Softly, softly, my arse,’ Annie replied. ‘And don’t mix your metaphors. Though the image of a bull with an AK 47 is most amusing. I don’t give a damn whether they’re brown, blue or yellow with green spots. If they drugged and raped that girl we’re going to get the bastards for it.’

‘I’m with you on that, Annie,’ said Banks. ‘It just makes things more... delicate. That’s all I said. I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen. Soon, the chief constable will give us all the lecture about not rocking the boat and respecting community values, Islam in particular.’

‘Oh? So it’s all about the chief constable’s comfort levels, is it?’

‘You know it isn’t.’ Banks paused. ‘You’re going to have to act as SIO on this investigation, you know. Not officially. I mean, not as a DI.’

‘Promote me to DCI then. Your old office is still empty, isn’t it?’

Banks smiled. ‘I would if I could. Believe me, whenever I get a chance I put a word in the right ears. But you’ve got to improve your chances by setting an example. As I said, even though I’m SIO on paper, you’ll be doing the job yourself if this Caxton thing goes as it should. It’s “delicate”, therefore a little tact with your success would go a long way to convincing the brass you’re worth promoting, that you can handle the big time.’

A young girl delivered their meals. She couldn’t have been much older than the victim, Banks thought. They thanked her and made a start before getting back to their conversation. ‘How’s the veggie lasagne?’ Banks asked.

‘Probably a lot better than your curry of the day.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Tastes all right to me.’

‘What is it?’

‘Dunno, really. Curry. Of the day. Anonymous.’

Annie poked his arm. ‘OK, I take your point about tact. But isn’t it exactly because of that attitude you’re expressing that this grooming business got out of hand to start with? Being “delicate”? Treating everyone except the victims with kid gloves? Coppers and social workers so frightened of offending any ethnic or cultural group that they can’t do their jobs properly? Victims so convinced they won’t be believed that they don’t even bother to report crimes?’

‘That’s a part of it,’ Banks said. ‘Along with the breakdown of the family unit, overcrowded housing, immigration policy, Margaret Thatcher, the death of God, Cameron, the drug culture and the sexual revolution. Might as well throw UKIP in there, too.’

‘Well, we have to throw them somewhere. But aren’t we going down the same path? Not the UKIP path, but like the others, too touchy-feely and inclusive and diverse to do anything?’

‘Not if we can help it. I’m just saying we’re going to have to tread carefully. We can’t go shouting out to all and sundry that three British Pakistanis are responsible for everything that happened to that girl. The rape, yes, but we can’t be sure about the murder. I’m not saying what they did is minor, or that they should get off lightly, but don’t lose sight of the fact that we’re after three rapists and one killer, here, whatever their colour, and though I’d guess the killer knows who the rapists are, they don’t necessarily know who he is. And we don’t know what ethnic group he belongs to. You’re right. It shouldn’t matter. Only that we know he’s a killer.’

‘You don’t really think the girl went along with the three men willingly?’

‘I don’t know. She might have done, if she knew them. If your theory is right, she might have gone with them because they’d groomed her. She might have thought that she had nothing to fear, that they were just going to have a bit of fun. Then things got out of hand, perhaps because of the ketamine. But from what I read in the post-mortem report about her injuries, and I mean the sexual injuries, I doubt that she went along with what they did. On the other hand, as Jazz said, if she was off her face on ketamine, who knows what was going through her mind? If Gerry’s on the right track, you might get a lead from the CCTV.’

‘Maybe,’ said Annie. She picked up a forkful of lasagne. ‘Eventually. What about your case? Danny Caxton. Do you believe the accuser after all this time?’

‘I think so,’ Banks said. ‘You know, she was about the same age as the Bradham Lane victim when it happened. And she was raped, too. In her case, by two men. She also lived to tell the tale. She went willingly to the hotel with Caxton, drank a glass or two of champagne, then things turned ugly. That’s what I mean. Maybe your victim got willingly into the van for the drugs, booze, music, party time, whatever, and then things turned nasty. There’s no evidence that she was abducted or anything like that.’

‘Quite the opposite,’ said Annie. ‘She was ejected. On the other hand, the three men could have abducted her from the street somewhere first. I just wish we knew more.’

‘It’ll come,’ said Banks. ‘Danny Caxton is a nasty piece of work, I can tell you that much.’ He finished his pint. ‘Bugger it,’ he said. ‘That went down well. I’m going to have another.’

‘Drinking and driving?’

‘I’ll get one of the PCs to drive me home.’

‘Ooh, flexing our superintendent’s muscles are we? Remember what I said about power?’

‘Damn right. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. That’s what I say.’

He went inside to get himself another pint and an orange juice for Annie, who was at least willing to stick with him for a while longer, even if she wasn’t drinking. It was that time of evening when the place was almost deserted inside. Pat, the Australian barmaid, clearly had the night off, and Cyril had one of his playlists on: Marianne Faithfull singing ‘Summer Nights’. Very appropriate. Banks got the drinks and went back outside. The square was starting to fill up a bit now, young couples, families, some groups back from long walks, ready for the evening meal and few pints. Other pubs had tables outside, and he could hear conversations and laughter from all sides. Music. It was Friday night. The weekend starts here.

Annie smiled when he handed her the drink. ‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ she said. ‘How’s that for an offer?’

‘Best I’ve had all day. But it’s out of your way.’

‘That’s just the kind of person I am. Now, tell me about Danny Caxton. He seemed so nice on telly. I mean, in an avuncular sort of way. I didn’t fancy him or anything.’

‘Yeah, he’s everybody’s dirty uncle. He’s arrogant, foul-mouthed and he has no sense of remorse. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’s raped dozens of young girls over his career.’

‘Well, there’s an open mind for you.’

‘Oh, I’ll keep an open mind, all right. And he’ll get a fair trial, if it ever comes to court. The odds are probably in his favour. It’s the other bloke that interests me at the moment.’

‘What other bloke?’

‘I told you there were two rapists. According to Linda, the other was a bit younger than Caxton, and Caxton seemed happy to share the spoils with him. I’d like to know why. And who he was, of course. And what’s happened to him.’

‘Is there a way to find out after all this time?’

‘I think so. Linda Palmer remembers seeing a photograph of the same man some time after her ordeal, maybe in October 1967, though she can’t remember where she saw it. She says she’s certain he wasn’t famous, so I’m just wondering if she saw it in the local newspaper or something. At least that’s a place to start.’

‘But the rape took place in Blackpool.’

‘That’s because Caxton was in a summer show there. He actually lived near Otley at the time, just outside Leeds, and according to our records he appeared in panto at the Bradford Alhambra that Christmas. Puss in Boots.’

‘Christ, I used to hate pantos,’ said Annie.

‘I wouldn’t have imagined you got to very many, living in the artists’ colony and all.’

‘It was my uncle and aunt. They always worried about me not having a normal childhood, and that was one of the ways they remedied it, by taking me to the panto in Newquay every Christmas. Normal. Panto. I ask you.’

Banks laughed.

‘Maybe she saw him on telly or in a pop music magazine?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Banks said. ‘She seemed adamant that she didn’t know him and hadn’t seen him before. I don’t believe he was a public figure. I think he may have been some sort of aide to Caxton. I would imagine panto would provide just as good a hunting ground as summer season, so we’ll be trying to track down any incidents there, too. If I could find the photo she saw, maybe she’d recognise him, then we’d have an ID, at least.’

‘How would you do that?’

‘I’d get an idea of what newspapers or magazines a fourteen-year-old might have seen in 1967 and come up with a pile of photocopies for her to sort through. Something like that.’

‘Talk about a long shot.’

‘Or maybe I’ll just start with the local paper and get lucky. Who knows? That’s the sort of thing that happens with these cold cases. Everything’s a long shot. Sometimes it seems as much about understanding the times as well as the characters involved.’

‘1967? You ought to be good at that. One of your best years, wasn’t it?’

Banks smiled. ‘It was a very good year, but I was still just a kid, a bit too young to enjoy all the new freedoms people were talking about. Not that they ever reached Peterborough. But musically, it was great. The Summer of Love. The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Pink Floyd, Love, Cream, Hendrix. Sergeant Pepper. Magnificent.’

‘Well, you can listen to all your old records and relive it.’

‘Not a bad idea, at that,’ said Banks. ‘There was a dark side to it all, though, and I have a feeling that’s where I’ll be finding myself.’

‘Don’t we always?’ said Annie. ‘Don’t we always?’