When the Music's Over

7

Lenny Thornton was as good as his word, and he phoned Annie at a quarter past nine that evening to inform her that Sinead had come home. Annie then called Gerry, who picked her up in the Corsa, and they set off for Wytherton Heights for the second time that day. After talking to Lenny Thornton they had visited the shopping mall but had drawn a blank. There were no young people around, and the store workers and security guards could tell them nothing except what a nuisance the kids were, and how they scared away legitimate customers. No, no one had ever seen young girls with older Pakistani men. Most of the Pakistanis shopped in the Asian market at the other end of the Strip.

It was another sultry evening, the heat still clinging and clammy, streetlamps haloed with eerie light. The estate was in shadow and already dark, as many of the lamps were out; they had either been vandalised or the council just couldn’t be bothered fixing them when they stopped working. The light was on in the front room of 14 Southam Terrace, and when Annie knocked on the door, Lenny Thornton answered briskly. He’d put on a T-shirt and jeans since their previous visit, but otherwise nothing much had changed. Johnny was asleep in his armchair, mouth open, snoring loudly. The TV was tuned to a golf tournament. No wonder Johnny was asleep, Annie thought.

‘He took it badly,’ Lenny said, nodding towards Johnny.

Annie wondered how he could tell. ‘So I see. You said Sinead’s at home?’

Lenny gestured towards the stairs. ‘In her room. Go easy, won’t you, hen. She’s a bit fragile. It’s still early days with the methadone.’

‘Don’t worry. Seen anything of Albert yet?’

‘Not yet, no.’

Annie and Gerry went upstairs. The bedroom was dimly lit by an orange-shaded bedside lamp that cast shadows over the walls and ceiling as they entered. It was a bare room, with just a wardrobe, dressing table, chest of drawers and a small TV set on a table opposite the double bed. Maybe it was because of the rose-patterned wallpaper and soft lighting, but it seemed more of a woman’s room to Annie, and she couldn’t imagine a man like Lenny Thornton here in the bed. None of her business.

Sinead lay propped up on her pillows, smoking, staring into space, an overflowing ashtray on her belly. Her mascara was smeared, and she had clearly been crying. A number of screwed-up tissues lay on the bedspread and floor around her. The room smelled of skin moisturiser and cigarette smoke.

Annie had seen junkies of every variety over the years, from some she was positive were dead to others so clear-minded she couldn’t believe they were drug addicts, and she quickly guessed that Sinead Moffat was closer to the latter type. Not many people knew it, but a heroin addict who got her regular, quality-controlled doses of the drug could often function almost normally, hold down a job, raise a child and so on. It was the desperation of no fix, no money to feed the habit, the uncertain quality of the stuff and the aura of crime in squats, dirty needles and dingy flats where the addicts congregated that caused the problems. You just had to think of the opium addicts of the nineteenth century, like Coleridge and De Quincey, to see both the range of achievement and the depths of despair that were part and parcel of a junkie’s life. But now, according to Lenny Thornton, Sinead was on the methadone cure. Methadone suppressed opioid withdrawal symptoms, and because it was an opioid itself, it also blocked the effects of drugs such as heroin and morphine. It worked for some people, and many prisons had extensive methadone treatment programmes.

Gerry took a chair by the door. Annie sat on the edge of the bed and took Sinead’s hand. Sinead didn’t resist but her hand felt dry and lifeless as a sheet of paper. ‘I’m very sorry,’ Annie said. ‘Do you want to see the artist’s impression?’

Sinead sniffed and nodded. Annie showed it to her. Sinead traced her index finger over the image, then passed the drawing back to Annie and turned aside. ‘That’s Mimosa,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a better likeness, if you can use it.’ She opened the drawer of the bedside table, shuffled through a stack of photos and handed one to Annie. ‘Taken last year. She hasna changed that much.’

It was a close-up of a young girl with short blond hair parted on one side, so that a long lock curved over her left eye, almost covering it. Her face was free of make-up, her complexion smooth and pale, and it was clear that she was destined to become a true beauty, if only she had lived. She had the ghost of a smile on her face, as if an amusing thought had just passed through her mind. Annie also thought it was the kind of face that men would find attractive.

‘I took that,’ Sinead added. ‘We went to Filey for the day. I was doing good on methadone and Mimosa... well, Mimosa was being the kind, attentive daughter.’

‘It’s good,’ said Annie. ‘May I borrow it? I promise I’ll let you have it back.’

‘Please do,’ said Sinead. ‘It’s the best one I’ve got.’

‘How are you doing?’ Annie asked.

Sinead took a drag on her cigarette. ‘As well as can be expected. If you mean am I high, I don’t know if Lenny told you, but I’m on the methadone. Everything feels a bit far away and muffled, but I’m here, and I’m hurting. I can’t believe my little girl is gone.’

‘Lenny said he thought you might be with your addict friends when we called earlier.’

Sinead managed a weak smile. ‘He would. But I wasn’t. I really am going to make it work this time. I went to the clinic, then spent some time with my counsellor, and after that, just to cheer myself up, I went shopping and treated myself to Pizza Express with my friend Carolyn.’ She pointed to a few packages in the corner. ‘Haven’t even got around to opening them yet. What happened to my Mimosa?’

Annie swallowed. The last thing she wanted to do was tell Sinead Moffat what had been done to her daughter. Even the scant details on the news, which Sinead clearly hadn’t seen, were bad enough. ‘We think she was murdered,’ she said.

‘But how? Why?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ Annie pressed on quickly ahead, skirting the question of how Mimsy had been killed. Lenny Thornton could tell her that Mimsy had been ‘beaten’, if he remembered. ‘We’re going to need you to come to Eastvale to identify your daughter. But it’s late now. We can send a car for you tomorrow morning, if that’s OK?’

‘I can see her then?’

Annie knew that the staff there would have cleaned Mimsy’s body up as best they could for identification, but it would still be a great shock. ‘Yes. Tomorrow. Is it OK if I ask you a couple of questions now?’

‘OK.’

Annie looked over to Gerry, who had taken out her notebook.

‘When did you last see your daughter?’

‘I think it was after the weekend, you know, the one before this. She came by for a while on Monday, changed her clothes, had something to eat. Same as usual.’

That was the day before she had been killed, Annie realised. ‘Did you talk about anything in particular?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where she’d been, where she stayed when she wasn’t here?’

‘No. There was a mate called Jade. They hung out a lot together.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘But no one she talked about?’

‘No.’

‘How long had things been like this?’

‘About six months.’

‘And you weren’t worried?’

‘Of course I was. I’d been there, myself. Teenage girls are secretive. You must remember that yourselves? But I knew there was no point goading her or nagging her. If there was something bothering her, she’d tell me when she was good and ready.’

‘Did she seem worried or upset by anything?’

‘No, she was as cheeky as ever.’

‘What were you doing on Tuesday evening?’

‘Me. You don’t think—’

‘We need to know where everybody was,’ Annie said.

‘We were here, all of us. Just a normal evening in.’

‘All of you being you, Lenny, Johnny and Albert?’

‘Not Albert.’

‘Where was he?’

‘You’ll have to ask him. Probably in the pub with his mates. Paul and the others. But he wouldn’t hurt Mimosa.’

‘We’re not saying he did, Sinead. We just need to know these things. Didn’t he come home that night?’

‘He rarely comes home. So rarely you could hardly call it his home.’

‘Where does he stay? Girlfriend?’

‘He may have one, but he’s more one for the lads, is Albert. I don’t mean he’s gay or anything. Heaven forbid. He just likes his ale and a bit of pushing and shoving, you know, like lads are. He often stays at Paul’s. That’s Paul Warner. They more or less share a flat on the edge of the estate.’

‘Would you say that you and Mimsy were close?’ Annie began.

‘Mimosa. I always called her Mimosa. Everyone else called her Mimsy, but I called her Mimosa. Some people thought it was a silly name, but I’ve always thought it’s beautiful.’

‘Sorry. Mimosa. Would you say you were close?’

‘I always liked to think so, but not recently, no. Not especially. Maybe when she was little, but times have been hard over the past few years, since she’s been more grown up. Things happened. I’ve let my family down. Made mistakes. I couldn’t control her lately. I never knew where she was or what she was up to.’

‘You said she was secretive?’

‘More so these past few months than she used to be. Yes.’

‘Her father left several years ago, right?’

‘That was one of the good things that happened.’

‘Any idea where he is now?’

‘Australia wouldn’t be far enough.’

‘Is that where he is?’

‘No. I’ve no idea. Haven’t seen or heard from him in more than ten years.’

‘And after he left?’

‘There were others. Men. I wasn’t a good mother. I made some bad choices.’

‘Did any of the men bother Mimosa?’

Sinead turned away, but Annie could tell she was nodding, even with her head buried in the pillow. She touched her shoulder. ‘Sinead. Did anyone interfere with her?’

‘One of them. Just one. I walked in on them one night, right there in her room. He was making her toss him off, the filthy bastard. She was only eight. She didn’t know what was going on, it was supposed to be a game for her, but she wasn’t happy about it. I went ballistic, threatened to call the police and everything.’

‘Did you? Call the police?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because things were bad enough already.’ She faced Annie. Her light brown eyes were flecked with amber. ‘I’m sorry, love, but nothing good’s ever come of calling the police around here. There was other stuff. Stolen goods in the house. Drugs. If I’d got the police involved they’d have given us more grief than they’d have given him.’

‘What did you do, then?’

‘I shoved all his stuff in a case and chucked it out of the window. He ran off and never came back.’

‘We’ll need his name.’

‘Mallard. Eddie Mallard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on your books.’

‘And what about Lenny?’

She managed a half smile. ‘Lenny’s all right. A bit rough and ready, but his heart’s in the right place. He never hurt Mimosa and he takes good care of me.’

‘When do you think you and your daughter started drifting apart?’

‘When she was about thirteen. She was sullen and depressed. It was just a difficult time for her. Self-image and everything. I suppose I should consider myself lucky she didn’t suffer from anorexia or bulimia.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Not that I could fathom. Hormones, I suppose. She got very moody, started stopping out. Just till late at first, then all night.’

‘Is that when she cut herself?’

Sinead gave Annie a sharp glance. ‘You saw that?’

‘Hard to miss.’

‘Yes, it was around that time.’

‘Was it serious? I mean, did Mimosa really try to kill herself? Did it bleed a lot?’

‘No. It wasn’t deep. I talked to her. I’ve...’ Sinead held up her arm and pulled her sleeves up over her wrist. There were the same sort of criss-cross scars as they had seen on Mimsy. ‘It was a long time ago. But I told her I understood. I knew she was unhappy, miserable. She thought everybody hated her, and she’d never have a boyfriend or anyone to love her. Some of the other kids at school made fun of her.’

‘Why?’

‘Do they need a reason? Her name? Her family? I wasn’t a good mother. I didn’t know what to tell her except everything would be all right. But it wasn’t enough.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘I wasn’t always there for her. And Lenny and Johnny are harmless, like I said, but they were no use to Mimosa. No use at all. She was thirteen. She needed a mother, and I failed her.’

‘Did talking help?’

‘I don’t think so. Not by then. I couldn’t get through to her. They grow up so quickly these days. Then they’re gone.’

‘Sinead, Mimosa didn’t have to be gone. Someone took her. That’s why we’re here. We want to find out who it was and make sure they don’t do it to anyone else and that they pay for what they’ve done.’

‘How can they pay? What’s the price of my daughter’s life?’

‘It’s the only price the law allows. I can’t change that.’

‘No, love. No, you can’t. Oh, what does it matter who did it? She’s gone. It was my fault. I’ve been trying, honest I have, but it hasn’t done any good, has it? Sometimes I think she was born under a bad sign.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know what her problem was, where it came from. There were older men sniffing around, even when she was thirteen.’

‘They took advantage of her?’

‘What do you think? She had that sort of sexy innocent thing going. She couldn’t see it herself. That’s why it’s so powerful, because it’s unconscious. Believe it or not, I used to have some of it myself, back in the day. It’s good for nothing but trouble.’

‘Was there anyone in particular?’

Sinead chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then said, ‘Once. Yes.’

‘Was it before or after the self-harm?’

‘After. He was supposed to be her counsellor or something. I found them in his office one day when I made an unexpected visit. I’m not proud of it, but I went ballistic on both of them. I told her to get out. We had a terrible fight. We said things you can’t ever take back.’

‘She was underage,’ Annie said. ‘He was committing a crime. Did you call the police?’

‘You don’t get it, do you? We never call the police. They’re the last bloody people we’d call. Sorry. But I did tell the social and I’m sure his bosses fired him.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘Sorry. They’ll know down the social.’

‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘She kept on living here after that?’

‘Where else could she go? She was only a kid. We don’t have any family up here. But she used the place like a hotel, came and went as she pleased with hardly a word to anyone when she was here. The social came round and tried to make things work, but... well, they’ve got a lot on their hands, too.’

‘How did you get on after that?’

‘Not too bad, I suppose. She calmed down a bit for a while.’

‘What about Lenny? Couldn’t he do anything?’

‘The big soft lunk? Nay. He wasn’t her father, and Mimosa never tired of letting him know it. He loved her, in his way — and I don’t mean owt dirty by that — but he couldn’t tell her what to do. And our Johnny... well, you’ve seen him, poor beggar. His brain’s addled with booze and pills from way back, when he was in that motorbike gang. There was the accident, too. Hurt his head. He’s not been the same since. As if I’ve got any room to talk. I spent most of my time on the nod when our Mimosa was out gallivanting till all hours. Now it’s too late.’

‘And more recently? Do you think she was doing drugs?’

‘Maybe. I warned her, of course, but she just sneered and said something about the pot calling the kettle black. Not heroin, though. I think I’d have been able to tell. Pot, most likely, maybe ecstasy?’

‘Ketamine?’

Sinead frowned. ‘I don’t know about that. I don’t even know what that is. I mean, I wouldn’t have known what to look for.’

‘Did Mimosa herself have a thing about older men?’ Annie asked. ‘You know, father figure, that sort of thing?’

‘She thought most boys her own age were shallow and only interested in one thing. I tried to tell her that all men were only interested in one thing, but I don’t think she listened. Yes, she’d usually go out with older boys, men sometimes. She felt more comfortable with them. Maybe she needed a father figure, I don’t know about all that psychological gobbledygook. Christ knows, Lenny’s not much use, and her real father was worse than useless.’

‘I was in her room earlier,’ Annie said, ‘and I saw a sketchbook with some pencil drawings in it. I know a bit about art, and they’re very good.’

‘She was mad about drawing. Yes, she was good. I once read somewhere that artistic talent skips a generation. Her granddad — my dad, Albert — was a bit of a hippie and a wonderful artist. He painted concert posters and album covers and stuff. But me and Johnny, forget it. And forget our Albert, even though he’s named after his granddad. But Mimosa. She had it, all right.’

‘My dad’s an artist,’ said Annie. ‘I grew up in a sort of artists’ colony near St Ives.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Sinead, flashing her a weak smile. ‘Did you inherit any of his talent or did it skip you?’

‘I can draw a bit, but not as good as Mimosa. Did she and her brother get along? Share stuff?’

‘They didn’t see much of each other, but when they did they were fine. He loved her, I’m sure of it. He’ll be gutted when he finds out.’

‘We’d appreciate it if you’d let us know when he turns up.’

‘I’ve tried to phone him, but his mobile’s dead or turned off. Albert’s got nothing to do with this, I can assure you.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying. But maybe he knows something that might help us. Will you let us know?’

‘All right.’

‘We couldn’t find a mobile phone or a laptop computer or anything in Mimosa’s room.’

‘She always had her mobile with her. Not that she ever used it to call us. It was one of those cheap pay-as-you-go things.’

‘Do you know the provider?’

‘No idea.’

‘What about a laptop?’

‘No. She didn’t have one of those. We couldn’t afford one. All she had she carried in that pink canvas shoulder bag she always took with her. You know the sort of thing it had... I don’t know what you call them... like butterflies and stuff stuck on.’

‘Appliqué?’

‘If you say so, love.’

‘What else did she have in her bag besides the mobile?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff. Her purse, what little money she had. Ciggies, of course. And her precious sketchbook and pencils. They had to be a certain kind, the pencils. And the sketchbook was smaller than the one in her room. More portable.’

‘Did you ever open it?’

‘Once. But she caught me at it and hit the roof.’

‘Why? What was in it?’

‘She said it was private. That’s the funny thing. It wasn’t like dirty pictures or anything. It was nothing really, just sketches of people she’d seen on a bus or in cafes, faces, and local street scenes, a market, drawings of buildings, someone’s garden, cats and dogs. That sort of thing. She drew whatever caught her eye.’

Damn, thought Annie. That sketchbook might be a useful aid to finding Mimosa’s abductors, and her killer. If she drew everything, there was a chance she had done a few portraits. She might even have sketched her killer. But there had been no sign of a pink shoulder bag at the scene. No doubt it had remained behind in the van with her clothes. The rapists would have destroyed it all by now, if they had any sense.

‘Nearly finished,’ she said, noticing Sinead’s eyelids start to become heavy.

‘It’s all right, love. I shouldn’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight.’

‘Did you ever see Mimosa with any Asians?’

‘What...?’

‘Did she hang around with Asians, specifically Pakistani?’

‘Like I said, I don’t know who her friends were. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me. They’re everywhere now. But I never saw or heard anything. I don’t think she really liked them much. She got into a bit of trouble for calling them names. Why?’

‘It probably doesn’t matter.’ Annie patted Sinead’s arm and stood up. ‘You get some rest if you can,’ she said. ‘We’ll see you in the morning. OK?’

‘OK.’

Downstairs, they said goodnight to Lenny and Johnny. Lenny murmured something back through his haze of smoke, but Johnny was still dead to the world, anaesthetised by booze and brain damage. Or golf.

Outside the Moffat house Annie and Gerry sat in the car to collect their thoughts for a few moments.

‘What’s the bet she’s back on heroin again tomorrow?’ said Gerry. ‘The real stuff.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Annie. ‘I think she really wants to give it a try this time. But this is a hell of a setback, that’s for certain. She’s just lost her daughter. Besides, if heroin gives her a bit of comfort and takes away some of the pain for a while, who are we to judge her?’

‘But it’s not a solution. It’s only a temporary escape.’

Annie regarded the innocent young DC for a while. In the shadows, Gerry seemed no more than a young girl herself. ‘You’re right, of course,’ Annie said tiredly. ‘But sometimes temporary relief is better than no relief at all. How do you expect someone like Sinead to deal with this sort of loss and grief? It’d be enough to turn me to heroin. God knows I came close with those painkillers I was on after I got shot.’

‘But can’t we do something for her? For all of them?’

‘Of course,’ said Annie. ‘And we can bring about world peace and put an end to hunger and child prostitution while we’re at it, too. Get real, Gerry.’ Annie started the car. ‘Come on, let’s have a ride down to Sunset Strip and see what’s shakin’, man. Who knows, there might even be a drink in it.’

While the shopping mall they had visited that afternoon had been shiny and new, and mostly empty, the Strip resembled a dilapidated badly lit movie set for a summer night on the main drag in the deep south of America. It wasn’t so much the people, but the garish colours of the neons, streetlights and brightly lit shop windows all just a little distorted in a haze of pollution and humidity. Outside the Wytherton Arms an older crowd stood drinking pints and smoking and talking while a younger group weaved through the traffic and went into the balti restaurant across the street. People queued outside the chippie next door to the pub and stood around to eat out of their cardboard boxes when they’d been served.

Shops and businesses lined both sides of the half mile or so between the overpass to the east and the canal to the west, all with grilles that could be lowered after closing time, some with their plate-glass windows protected even while they were open for business. At the far end, near the overpass, Annie could make out the outline of a small mosque with its minaret. The various payday advance and cheque-cashing merchants were all closed and barred for the day, though their signs remained lit. Among the other businesses were a bookie’s, two charity shops — Oxfam and British Heart Foundation — a halal butcher’s, an off-licence, a nail bar, the balti restaurant and takeaway, an exotic greengrocer, a newsagent, a heel bar, Cash Generator, a hairdresser’s and a minicab office. Next door to the latter was a kebab, pizza and burger takeaway with a couple of tables out front where two youths in white shirts sat smoking and drinking Coke from the can, legs stretched out across the pavement so that anyone walking by had to step over them. Over the road was an old cinema festooned with garish Bollywood movie posters. There was no tattooist, as far as Annie could make out. Just by where they parked, it looked as if a couple of buildings had been demolished and replaced by a swatch of balding grass and a couple of benches. No one was sitting there. Mingled smells of cumin and coriander infused the air.

‘I’d put the Krook lock on, if I were you,’ Annie said.

Gerry put the clamp on her steering wheel. ‘See that?’ she said, as they got out of the car. ‘Sunny’s kebab and pizza takeaway.’

‘Burgers too,’ Annie added. ‘Hungry?’

Gerry pulled a face. ‘Not that hungry.’

‘Foodie snob.’

Just as they started to walk away from the car, a police patrol car pulled up by the side of the road and two burly uniformed officers got out, hitched up their overloaded belts and approached.

‘Evening, ladies,’ said the tallest one.

Annie noticed Gerry reaching for her warrant card and just managed to grasp her wrist in time. She wanted to see how this panned out. ‘Evening, officers,’ she said. ‘Problem?’

The officer pointed back at their car. ‘You can’t park there,’ he said.

Annie glanced over her shoulder. ‘Why not? I don’t see any signs or anything.’

‘Do you see any other cars parked nearby?’

‘No. That’s why we parked there.’

‘It’s a double yellow line.’

‘There’s only one line there,’ Annie said, looking at her watch. ‘And it’s well after eight o’clock.’

‘Reg, isn’t that a double yellow line you see there where that puke green Corsa’s parked?’ he asked the other officer.

‘Certainly is, Bill.’

‘The outer one’s a bit faint, love. Sorry about that. Hard to see in the dark. The council doesn’t get around here very often to paint them. You’ll have to move on or I’ll write you a ticket.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Annie said. She could sense Gerry’s nervousness beside her, but she still wanted to know how far these cops would go, and why.

‘What brings you out here to this godforsaken part of the world, ladies?’ Bill asked.

‘We’re after a tattoo parlour,’ said Annie.

Bill eyed her up and down. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Where you going to have it done, then?’

‘Somewhere you’ll never see it.’

‘There’s no need to be like that. Besides, there’s no call for that sort of place around here.’

‘Why not? A tattoo parlour would fit in perfectly.’

‘Wrong colour,’ said Bill. ‘Tattoos don’t show up well on these people’s skin.’

‘You guys,’ Annie said. ‘You’ll have me in stitches.’

‘You know, I’d be careful if I was you,’ Bill said, thrusting his face closer towards Annie’s. So much so that she could smell beer on his breath. ‘Couple of nice ladies like yourselves. It’s a dodgy neighbourhood, this is. You can see for yourselves the kind of people that hang out here. We don’t want any trouble. Now, why don’t you just get back in that illegally parked car and drive away before we get serious about this.’

‘Get serious?’ said Annie.

Bill sighed theatrically. ‘We don’t really want to take you in unless we have to.’

‘Too much paperwork,’ Reg added.

Even Gerry laughed at that. ‘Take us in?’ she said. ‘Over a car that’s parked perfectly legally? You’ve got to be kidding. I’d like to see you try.’

‘Ey up, Reg, it speaks,’ said Bill.

‘Is this how you treat all visitors to the street?’ Gerry asked.

‘We don’t like strangers around here, love, no matter how posh they sound. Don’t get very many.’

‘You know, Bill,’ Annie said softly, ‘you sound just like a bent sheriff from a bad Western.’

Gerry gasped and Bill took a step back, his face turning red. ‘What did you say?’ He reached for Annie.

Annie stood her ground. ‘You heard.’

Bill grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s it. You’re coming with us.’

‘No we’re not,’ said Annie, swiftly extricating her arm. He’d squeezed it tightly, and it hurt, but she wasn’t going to show weakness and massage it in front of him. She pushed down the sense of panic and images of the rape she had endured a few years ago. These men seemed like mirror images of the ones who had done that. Bill moved forward with surprising speed, but Annie stepped back just as quickly, and he stumbled a little as he lurched forward.

‘Why, you little bitch.’

‘Bollocks to you,’ said Annie, and she pushed past them and carried on walking, Gerry trotting along beside her.

‘Hey! Wait a minute!’ Bill and Reg walked after them. Annie turned to see Bill’s hand on the baton at his waist. He was breathing hard. ‘We’re not finished with you two yet. Where do you think you’re going?’

‘What’s it to you?’

That seemed to confuse Bill for a moment. He looked at Reg. ‘We’ve got a right pair here,’ he said, then turned back to Annie. ‘Hop it, the both of you. We’ll let you off this time. We don’t want any trouble. Just get back in your car and piss off out of here. You don’t belong. Is that clear? It’s for your own good, believe me. No-go area, this is, and we don’t want to spend the rest of the night mopping up after you two tarts. Believe me, if you’re out for a bit of fun you’ve come to the wrong place.’

Annie took a deep breath and walked towards them. As she did so, she reached for her warrant card. ‘Know a better one, do you?’

Bill pulled out his baton. Annie held her hands out, palms up. ‘Whoa, wait a minute, son. You’re making a big mistake here.’

‘Am I?’

Annie thrust her warrant card at him. ‘Yes. See. Get out of jail free card.’

Bill stared at the warrant card and turned pale. ‘Fuck me, Reg,’ he said. ‘It’s a DI.’

‘She’s a DI,’ said Annie. ‘Is this the way you behave towards all your visitors?’

‘We don’t get a lot of tourists,’ mumbled Bill.

‘I’m not bloody surprised, the way you treat them.’

‘Ma’am.’

‘I wouldn’t be seen dead here myself if I didn’t have a job to do.’

‘A job? We don’t know anything about no job.’

‘That’s because it’s a surprise visit.’

‘Who to?’

‘That’d be telling.’

Bill puffed out his chest. ‘This is our patch. You owe us the courtesy of letting us know you’re coming and why you’re here.’

‘Spot check,’ said Annie. ‘We go around the country checking out police officers for courteous service and politeness. You two scrotes have just failed.’

‘But you... you didn’t tell us who you were. You didn’t identify yourselves.’

‘Shouldn’t matter,’ Annie said. ‘We’re posing as members of the public.’

Gerry took out her notebook.

‘What’s she doing?’ Reg asked.

‘I’m making a note of your numbers,’ said Gerry. ‘I’d like your names as well.’

‘Bugger off.’

‘All right. Be like that. We’ll make do with the numbers.’

‘It’s not our fault,’ said Bill. ‘We’ve got orders. It’s a dangerous street. People get mugged here and stuff. We’re only trying to protect the public.’

‘By pulling your baton?’ said Annie.

‘That was a—’

‘Mistake? Yes, I know. A big one.’

‘Look around you, for Christ’s sake,’ Bill went on. ‘What do you see?’

‘A lot of people out enjoying a nice summer evening?’

Bill lowered his voice. ‘Pakis. That’s what.’

‘So what?’

‘Well, you can’t trust ’em, can you?’

‘And you can’t touch ’em, either,’ Reg, suddenly emboldened, added. ‘Racism, that is. That’s why we warn people off. It’d be more than our job’s worth to take one of ’em in.’

Annie moved closer, took the artist’s impression of Mimsy from her bag, and thrust it in front of Bill’s face. ‘Know her?’

Bill studied the sketch. ‘Bloody hell! Is that the girl that’s been in the news all weekend?’

‘Bingo. Give the man a cigar. Do you know her?’

Bill looked at Reg, and they seemed to have a silent conversation.

‘Better if you tell the truth,’ Annie said.

Finally, Bill bit his lip and said to Reg, ‘It’s the Moffat girl, isn’t it?’

‘It could be her,’ said Reg.

‘We know that now,’ said Annie. ‘You could have saved us a lot of time.’

‘How?’

‘This likeness has been in the papers and on TV for a few days now. Surely you must have received copies for distribution at the station?’

‘It’s just not a good likeness,’ said Bill.

‘What do you mean? Her mother and stepfather recognised her, for Christ’s sake. You recognised it just now.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe we’re specially observant. She doesn’t usually look like that.’

‘She looks a hell of a lot worse than that right now, I can assure you,’ said Annie. ‘Have you seen her recently?’

‘Around the Strip sometimes, sure. She’s usually wearing make-up and she wears her hair different, that’s all. And tarty clothes.’

‘It’s not her face you notice, if you know what I mean,’ said Reg.

Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Nudge, nudge. God give me strength. So now you do recognise her, where and when did you last see her?’

‘Not for a while now. Over a week or so.’

‘Do you remember the last time you saw her?’

‘Not specifically, no. We see a lot of people on the Strip.’

‘Who was she usually with?’

‘Just her mates, you know, young girls like her.’

‘Any place in particular?’

‘That kebab and pizza place down there,’ said Reg, pointing. ‘It’s run by a Paki, but the food’s not bad if you like that sort of thing. You get hungry on night shift, or maybe you don’t remember. And there’s a minicab office next door, they use that sometimes.’

‘Who does?’

‘The kids. But the Strip’s not a place many white kids hang out. The Strip. You’d likely see them more often at the shopping mall playing with their mobiles, texting and sexting and Instagramming and stuff.’

‘She’s a troublemaker, that one,’ said Bill. ‘Gob on her like the Tyne Tunnel. It’s no wonder she came to a sticky end.’

‘Sticky end,’ Annie repeated, not even trying to keep the disbelief out of her tone. ‘This girl, whose name is Mimosa Moffat, by the way, was tossed out of a moving car on a country lane on my patch after being repeatedly raped, then beaten to death by one or more persons unknown. We know she came from around here, so is it OK if we ask a few questions around the neighbourhood? It’s all right. We don’t require your help unless you happen to have seen a suspicious van parked on the street here last Tuesday night.’

‘We weren’t on duty last Tuesday.’

‘Right. Thanks for your help. You can get back to playing with your todgers in the patrol car now, if you like.’

‘Now, hang on a minute, love,’ said Bill. ‘There’s no call for—’ But Annie and Gerry walked away, towards the kebab and pizza takeaway.

Before they were out of earshot Annie turned and said, ‘And don’t you fucking dare give us a parking ticket.’

Banks and Linda Palmer met in a pub he had discovered high up in the moors north of Lyndgarth, oddly named the Low Moor Inn. Banks had expected it to be empty on a Monday night, but the place was jumping — well, Banks thought, about as much as a place like the Low Moor Inn could ever jump. It was full of local farmers mixed with coast-to-coast walkers slaking their thirsts after a long day in the hot sun. The pub offered bed and breakfast, so a few of them would be staying for the night, which explained why there were so few cars in the car park.

The Low Moor Inn was one of those old Dales pubs with thick stone walls to keep out the howling wind, though there was no wind that night, and the huge fireplace was dark and empty, like the jaw of some mythical beast. It was still muggy outside, but inside the pub a pleasant chill came from the thick stone. They were the sort of walls that hoarded winter and emanated its chill throughout summer. Framed paintings of local scenes hung here and there, some of them for sale, with prices written under them. The lighting was dim, and despite being crowded, the pub was reasonably quiet, conversations hushed, laughter muted by the strange and ancient acoustics. The bar was of dark polished wood with rows of coloured bottles behind reflected in the long mirror, and a brass footrest ran along the bottom. It was polished so bright you could see your face distorted in it. Wooden chair legs scraped on the rough flagstone floor, and the round wobbly tables were scarred by many a cigarette end. Linda was already waiting when Banks arrived, a glass of white wine in front of her.

‘How on earth did you find this place?’ she asked, looking around in admiration.

‘Just got lucky,’ said Banks. ‘They don’t do food in the evenings, though.’

‘That’s all right. I’m not hungry.’

‘Another white wine?’

‘I’d better stick with this,’ said Linda. ‘Driving.’

Banks got himself a pint of Daleside bitter. It was his first drink of the day, he realised, and the day was almost over. He had expected to have a brief telephone conversation with Linda about tomorrow, but she had seemed on edge and said she needed to get out of the house for a while, so he had suggested they meet at Low Moor.

‘It does seem a bit off the beaten track,’ said Linda. ‘Are you worried you’re being followed? Or that I am?’

‘Something like that. After all, you’re the celebrity. Someone might spot you.’

Linda laughed. It was a silky, musical sound. ‘Well, thanks for the compliment, but I’ve never known anyone recognise a poet in the street.’ She glanced around. ‘Or even in a pub. Maybe it happened to Heaney and Larkin, but not me. Not even Carol Ann Duffy, I shouldn’t think.’

Banks hadn’t heard of Carol Ann Duffy, so he kept quiet about that. ‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way up here,’ he said. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’

‘You didn’t drag me anywhere. I told you, I needed to get out for a while.’ Linda tilted her head and looked at him. ‘I was getting a bit stir crazy. Besides, would it be the worst thing in the world?’

‘What?’

‘If they see us together. Find out who I am. The media.’

Banks took a sip of beer and considered what she had said. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it would. Though it could make things difficult for the Crown Prosecution Service down the line. But they’re pests, the media. Once they latched on, they would never leave you alone. They’re like mosquitos. Not only are they annoying, but they need your blood to breed. You could say goodbye to your peace and tranquillity for a while.’ Adrian Moss would probably love a high-profile victim as well as a high-profile suspect, but that wasn’t Banks’s concern. Moss’s job was to get the most out of the media for the police while getting the least out of the police for the media. He had already thrown the TV a bone in the shape of the search of Caxton’s home, but even he would draw the line at throwing Linda Palmer to the wolves. Maybe. ‘And you can be sure they wouldn’t go easy on you,’ Banks went on. ‘They wouldn’t be sympathetic and understanding. They’d dig up every boyfriend you’ve ever had and ask you some tough questions, maybe even insinuate that you led Caxton on, or you’re making it all up in the hopes of selling more books.’

‘It’s very sweet of you to think about me. But I know what the media are like. Don’t forget, I came to you. And I came into this with my eyes wide open, fully aware that it might bring about some infringements of my privacy and put me in an awkward position.’ She smiled. ‘Not to mention disturb my peace of mind. I’ve been jotting things down, as you suggested. It’s remarkable the things I remember. Or think I remember. I’ve not been sleeping very well.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I’ve no wish to get fixated on an incident from my past, however traumatic, but the more I immerse myself in that two-week holiday and its aftermath, the more details nag away at me.’

‘As a detective, it’s those details I’m interested in,’ said Banks.

Linda took a sip of her wine, then asked, ‘Have you spoken with Caxton yet? I saw the police raid on the news.’

‘Yes, quite dramatic, wasn’t it? I spoke with him just before it.’

‘And?’

‘Naturally, he denies everything.’

‘Denies that anything happened?’

‘Denies that he ever forced anyone to have sex. Denies that he would ever have needed to force anyone to have sex.’

‘Arrogant prick. Does he even deny that he was in Blackpool that week, that I asked for his autograph, that he invited me to his hotel?’

Banks held up his hand. ‘Linda, stop. You know I can’t talk to you in detail about this yet. If it were to get to court and it came up that I’d coached you in any way it could damage the case. I can interview you as a witness and him as a suspect, but that’s as far as it goes. It’s a delicate balance. All I can say is that he says he doesn’t remember you.’

Her mouth opened and shut. ‘He doesn’t remember me?’

‘That doesn’t mean—’

Then Linda started to laugh. ‘The most soul-destroying, ugly, painful experience in my life, and he doesn’t even remember. Well, there’s irony for you.’

‘What else would he say?’

‘And there’s me feeling disappointed at not being remembered by my rapist. I should feel better for thinking he’s lying?’

Banks could think of nothing to say. He was used to comforting a different, more normal sort of victim. Linda Palmer was all over the place, up one minute, down the next. And what was he to say? That there had been so many victims, how could Caxton be expected to remember one from another? That he was just lying, that it was part of his denial? She knew all that.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You must forgive me. I’m afraid this has all sort of jumbled up my emotions. I don’t know what I’m feeling from one minute to the next.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Banks. ‘Best to stick to what’s going to help us.’

‘The facts, ma’am, just the facts?’

Banks smiled. ‘Something like that.’

Linda stared into her glass. She seemed tired, Banks thought. Bags were forming under her striking dark blue eyes, a pallor on her skin. Banks noticed her hands, the long tapered fingers, nails bitten down, a chunky pewter ring, a silver bangle around her left wrist and a little black-faced Swatch watch with a chequered band on her right. She was wearing jeans and a tan suede jacket over a white blouse, and she carried a shoulder bag to match her jacket. ‘Here,’ she said, reaching into the bag, which she had set on the empty chair beside her. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ She brought out a book with her name on it, called Mnemosyne’s Children: Selected Poems, 1985–2012 and handed it to him. ‘I’ve published a new collection since then, but I thought this might be a good place to start. If you want to, that is. I hope this won’t be construed as trying to bribe a police officer.’

Banks took the book and thanked her. ‘Bribe? With a book of poetry? To do what?’ Then he realised he’d implied an insult or a slight. ‘I don’t mean it’s not worth anything or not a good bribe or—’

‘Please,’ Linda said, laughing. ‘No more, or your foot will be so far down your throat you’ll choke. I know what you mean. It was a joke.’

‘Anyway, I know about the new book. I bought it in Leeds the other day. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t buy this one, then.’

‘Mnemosyne,’ said Banks. ‘Isn’t that memory?’

‘Indeed. Consort of Zeus, mother of the Muses.’

Banks opened the book and saw that it had been signed on the title page: ‘To Alan Banks, the copper who quoted Wordsworth.’ He’d never had a book inscribed to him before. ‘Thank you,’ he said, feeling a little embarrassed. Then he hesitated, not sure whether to share his current enthusiasm, then decided what the hell. ‘Actually, I’ve been working my way through an anthology of English poetry. I read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” this morning.’

‘More titles than you can shake a stick at,’ said Linda. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘Interesting. I liked it, the tone, the sentiment, I suppose. I must confess, though, I sometimes have trouble understanding what’s being said. Maybe it’s the language, or maybe I’m just thick.’

She smiled. ‘ “A poem should not mean but be.” Someone said that once. I can’t remember who. But I always find it useful to fall back on when I fail to understand something. Wait till you get to the Romantics. Or you could skip forward to them.’

‘That would be cheating.’

‘Then cheat. So what? Be a devil. I don’t think reading in chronological order contributes a great deal to the love or understanding of poetry. You could even chuck a few translations in the mix. Rilke, Baudelaire, Akhmatova.’

Banks tapped her book. ‘Well, maybe I’ll cheat and jump forward to this,’ he said.

She toyed with the stem of her wine glass.

‘I wanted to talk to you again about the other man,’ Banks hurried on. ‘It could be important. You say you think you saw a photo of him some time after you’d reported what happened?’

‘Yes. I just can’t remember where.’

‘Did you read many newspapers in those days?’

‘At that age? No, I read Jackie and Melody Maker and Photoplay.’

‘You liked going to the pictures?’

‘Twice a week. We had a lot to choose from then. Lyric, Crown, Clifton, Western, Palace — and they were all within walking distance. There were the Odeon, the Gaumont, the Tower, the Majestic and the ABC in town if you had to see something as soon as it came out. And lots of other local fleapits if you were willing to get a bus to Hyde Park, Headingley or Harehills. The local cinemas all showed double bills, too, so you could easily see four films in each a week. More if you wanted to go to a different cinema every night. Melanie and I looked old enough to get into X films at some of them when we were fourteen. We loved horror — Hammer, Christopher Lee, Vincent Price, Edgar Allan Poe, all that stuff.’

‘I remember doing the same,’ said Banks, then he paused. ‘It doesn’t really matter, but you just told me you looked old enough to get into X-certificate films when you were fourteen. Were you often mistaken for someone older?’

‘I see what you mean,’ Linda said. ‘Might Caxton have thought I was older? Yes, maybe. Though I told him my age. I suppose he might have assumed I was lying. Though why, I don’t know. Girls of fourteen usually add something when they lie about their age, rather than subtract a year or two, the way I do now. I don’t think he cared. He wanted me, so he forced me. It was rape whichever way you look at it, my age or my lack of consent.’

‘As I said, it doesn’t really matter if he says he thought you were twenty-five. It’s just the kind of thing the media might seize on.’

‘I’ll be sure to keep my childhood secrets from them.’

‘So you didn’t read the newspapers. Did you watch the news on TV?’

‘It was on sometimes, if my dad was watching, but I can’t say I paid much attention. I saw the papers at news-stands, and we had the Yorkshire Evening Post delivered at home every day, so it was lying around the house. I’d see the front pages, I suppose. Sometimes read the sports page, if Leeds United were playing.’

‘You were a fan?’

‘They were golden back then.’

‘Do you have any recollection whether it might have been a minor celebrity you saw, someone on the fringes of Caxton’s world, maybe in another show in Blackpool at the same time? Or could it have been a sports personality, someone like that?’

‘Either is possible, I suppose,’ said Linda. ‘But I honestly can’t remember. As I said, I think I might recognise the same photo if I saw it again. My mind works with patterns like that. But can I remember where I saw it? Or the context? No. Maybe a newspaper. I’m sure I didn’t see it on TV. And it was about a month after Caxton and the other man raped me. I’d say late September at the earliest. Most likely sometime in early October.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘OK, so here’s what I’ve got in mind. We’re going to start by going through microfiche editions of the Yorkshire Evening Post from September 1967. You’d be surprised how little time it’ll take if you don’t have to do a lot of reading. Will you have a good look at the pictures and tell me if you recognise anyone?’

‘I’ll try. Where are these microfilms?

‘Leeds Central Library. I’ll pick you up tomorrow after lunch, say about one. OK?’

‘Fine with me.’

‘And if that doesn’t work out, we can always move on to other sources. I suppose it’s possible he was in Melody Maker or Photoplay. Then there’s the nationals. You must have seen them sometimes, too?’

‘I suppose so. Maybe when I passed a news vendor or something, but we didn’t get any at home except the People and the News of the World on Sundays.’

‘A right collection of villains you’d find in those,’ said Banks. ‘And that might take a bit longer to set up.’

‘I don’t think there’s any hurry, do you?’ She seemed to hesitate.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Just tell me if I’m being impertinent or if it’s classified or anything.’

‘OK. Fire away.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that poor girl found dead on Bradham Lane.’

‘Do you know the place?’

‘I use it often if I’m heading south from Eastvale. It’s a lovely detour, far nicer than the A1. But it seems such a lonely, forlorn place to die. I saw the artist’s impression in the paper. She was very young, wasn’t she?’

‘About fifteen, we think.’

‘And you’ve no idea who she is, how she got there, or why?’

‘I—’

Linda held her hand up. ‘I understand. You can’t talk about it. That’s OK. I’m sorry.’

‘All I can tell you,’ said Banks, ‘is that she was naked and we believe she was raped repeatedly, beaten to death and left by the side of the road. That much has all been in, or more or less implied by, the press.’

Linda put her hand to her mouth. ‘My God, the poor child.’

‘And we do know who she was. We just found out.’

‘How terrible for her parents.’

‘Because of her age, she won’t be identified by name in the media, but that artist’s impression has already been in all the papers and on TV, as you know, so plenty of people have seen an image of her. Obviously some of them will know who she was, so it wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a leak before long.’

‘It hardly matters to her, does it, but her family... What you said about the media.’

‘We’ll do our best to protect them.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Linda. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ Clearly upset, she gathered up her things. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Are you coming?’

Banks still had half a pint left in his glass. He could easily have left it, but he was strangely comfortable in the cool, stone pub, and he never minded being alone with his thoughts. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll hang on and finish my drink. Maybe read a poem or two. You head off. Thanks for coming.’

‘Until tomorrow afternoon, then.’

‘Tomorrow.’

Banks hunched over the rest of his beer, Linda’s book on the table in front of him, and thought for a moment. Linda Palmer was obviously feeling a lot of empathy for the dead girl, Mimsy. However different their backgrounds and the circumstances of their suffering, he also felt that the two girls would have understood each other. Linda was hardly groomed over time, as it appeared Mimsy Moffat may have been, but she was given cigarettes and champagne and promised a spot on Do Your Own Thing! by someone loved and trusted by the whole country. Mimsy was most likely abused by people she thought were her friends. Perhaps Mimsy was far more knowing and sophisticated at fifteen than Linda had been at fourteen, but when it came right down to it, that didn’t matter. Their fates had been similar: both had been betrayed and violated at a very early age, but only one had lived.

He opened the book Linda had given him and turned to a poem called ‘Memory’:

It seemed to relate to what they had talked about, Wordsworth’s idea of perception and imagination somehow being involved in the creation of memory, and perhaps Linda’s own thoughts about how memory transforms rather than presents an accurate snapshot of experience. He sensed a certain distance and detachment in the poem — she wasn’t confronting the thought or experience head on, viscerally — but he liked how the sound and imagery of her language seemed to fill out the idea behind the words. It wasn’t something he could paraphrase, but perhaps, he thought, that was what a good poem should do: express something that could be expressed no other way. That was why so much of it was so damn difficult to understand. Like most people, he probably tried too hard to translate it into rational meanings instead of letting it perform its magic. Not mean, but be.

Well, perhaps the book had given him some insight into poetry, but he wasn’t sure whether it had given him any into Linda Palmer. She remained an enigma to him. He had no doubt that all the feelings were still there, or the memory of them, even after all this time — rage, humiliation, shame, guilt, fear — but they were preserved under an obsidian veneer. It remained to be seen how thick that veneer was.

Banks closed the book, glanced at his watch and finished his pint. Time to go. He took one last look around the cosy bar. He’d like to have another, linger a little longer over Linda’s poetry, but he was driving, and he knew it would be a long day tomorrow.

Annie and Gerry stepped over the outstretched legs of the two youths and walked through the open door of the takeaway. They had already smelled the tomato sauce, peppers, onions and grilled meat and spices from a distance, but the aroma was even stronger inside, with hot cooking oil added to the mix. The small space was brightly lit. There were only two small wobbly Formica-topped tables as the business was clearly predominantly takeaway and customers weren’t encouraged to hang about.

One man stood behind the counter talking to another in a cook’s white uniform. The grills and ovens were off to one side, mostly hidden, and the wall behind the counter housed displays of crisps and chocolate bars. A glass-fronted fridge stood to one side filled with a selection of fizzy drinks.

The man behind the counter smiled and asked, ‘What can I do for you two lovely ladies?’

‘See, at least someone around these parts has some manners,’ Annie said to Gerry. She smiled sweetly back at the man. ‘I’ll have a slice of margherita please, and my friend here will have a doner kebab.’

‘Coming right up, my lovelies.’

He was good-looking, Annie thought. Late thirties or early forties, she guessed, tall, with earthy brown eyes and an athletic frame. He wore his hair cropped, like Banks, and had a neatly trimmed beard turning a little grey around the edges. The other man in the cook’s garb went over to his station and prepared to heat up some pizza and kebab. He was more well padded than his workmate, and probably a year or two younger, with a smoother, lighter complexion and slightly longer, greasy hair.

Gerry was making a face and mouthing, ‘Calories.’

‘It’s all right,’ Annie whispered. ‘You don’t have to eat the bloody thing.’

‘Not from round these parts, are you?’ the man asked. ‘I’m Sunny, by the way. This is my caff. Sunny’s Kebab and Pizza.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Annie. ‘No, we’re not from around here.’

‘Thought I hadn’t seen you before.’

‘Do you live nearby, Sunny?’

Now he started to appear suspicious. ‘Who’s asking?’

Annie showed him her warrant card.

‘Fuzz,’ he said. ‘I should have known.’

‘Fuzz?’ echoed Annie with a wide-eyed glance at Gerry. ‘Fuzz? Nobody calls us fuzz any more.’

Sunny shrugged. ‘It’s the nicest word I know.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Annie. ‘What have we ever done to you that fuzz is the nicest word you know for us? Just a few moments ago you were calling us “my lovelies”. Now some women might find that offensive, but my friend and I don’t mind, do we Gerry?’

‘Always nice to be called lovely,’ mumbled Gerry. ‘Better than fuzz.’

‘We get harassed all the time. Insulted. Threatened. One of my friend’s sons got beat up just walking home from the mosque the other night. My friend down the Strip had a brick thrown through his window not so long ago. Did you lot do anything to help? No. You should have seen the trouble he had getting anything out of the insurance company.’

That was hardly a problem of racism, Annie thought. Nobody can get money out of an insurance company. But there was no point arguing. She had worked in racially sensitive areas, and she knew the score. Eastvale wasn’t one of them, but Wytherton clearly was. It was a delicate exercise in political correctness and positive discrimination. You really had to know your catchphrase of the day and jargon of the moment. Annie took the drawing out of her bag. ‘What my partner and I would really like to know is whether you’ve seen this girl around here.’ She held up the image.

Annie could have sworn that an expression of shock and fear flashed across Sunny’s face before he said, rather too quickly, ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’

Annie gestured to the cook. ‘What about your friend?’

Sunny called him over. His name was Faisal, and he was more surly than Sunny. He glanced at the drawing and shook his head.

‘He doesn’t know her, either.’

‘We hear she came here for takeaways.’

‘Lots of people come here. I can’t remember every customer I’ve ever served.’

‘No, but she’s an attractive girl, don’t you think? What about last Tuesday?’

‘No. I told you. We don’t know her. If she came here, she wasn’t a regular. Maybe she came once and didn’t like our food. It happens, believe it or not.’

‘Funny that,’ said Annie, leaning on the counter.

‘What is?’

‘Well, we know she lived around here. In fact, we’ve just come from her mother’s place up the road. And one of the local coppers tells us your food is popular with the young people from the estate.’

‘Lots of people live around here. They don’t all eat here.’ He pointed across the street. ‘Maybe she preferred fish and chips?’

‘Maybe so. But this girl was murdered last Tuesday night, Sunny, and do you know what the pathologist found in her stomach contents when he did the post-mortem?’

‘What?’

‘Pizza and kebab. Now, what do you think of that?’

Faisal placed their orders on the counter without looking their way, and Sunny put the boxes in a paper bag. ‘That’s sick, that is,’ he mumbled. ‘Here. Take it. On the house. Just go away.’ He handed Annie the bag.

But Gerry placed some money on the counter. ‘We’ll pay,’ she said. ‘Keep the change.’

‘And, do you know?’ Annie held up the bag as they were leaving. ‘Our CSI people are very clever these days, just like on telly. They can match anything with anything if they’ve got a sample.’