When the Music's Over

8

One of the responsibilities Banks had yet to face in his new job was administering a bollocking to officers under him. He’d done it often enough over the years as a DCI, mostly on an informal basis, but as detective superintendent and head of Homicide and Major Crimes, it was his job both to stand up for and to discipline his team. So his heart sank when Superintendent Carver from Wytherton strutted into his office early on Tuesday morning with a complaint. He had known last night that it would be a long day but he had never imagined it would start like this.

Though Banks was a detective and Carver wore a uniform, that didn’t count for anything; in rank, they were equal. But Banks could tell by Carver’s arrogant manner that he clearly felt coming from a tough urban patch made him somehow superior to these lowly sheep-shaggers on the edge of the largely rural Yorkshire Dales. Carver was all brass, bulk and Brylcreem, slathered with an aftershave that smelled like a tart’s window box. He wedged himself into a chair by the conference table and began his litany of woes. Before he could get too far, Banks sent for Annie and Gerry, who had just got back from taking Sinead Moffat to identify her dead daughter at the mortuary. They turned up a few minutes later, coffees in hand.

‘Sit down,’ said Banks. ‘Superintendent Carver here has brought some very serious complaints to me regarding you two. What do you have to say for yourselves?’

‘We’d like to hear what we’ve been accused of first, sir,’ said Annie.

‘You ought to know by now,’ Banks said, ‘that it’s a matter of courtesy to inform the officer in charge of a neighbouring policing area when you intend visiting his patch.’

‘It wasn’t a planned visit,’ said Annie. ‘We received an anonymous phone call identifying the girl found dead on Bradham Lane and we—’

‘You should still have informed Wytherton Police Station of your visit. But that’s the least of the problems. I have it on the authority of Superintendent Carver here that you intimidated two of his patrol officers on the street. PCs Reginald Babcock and William Lamont.’

‘Intimidated? That’s a laugh.’

Carver glared at her.

‘Would “played silly buggers with” describe the incident more accurately?’ Banks asked, with one arched eyebrow.

‘Last night we returned to Southam Terrace on the Wytherton Heights estate to talk to the girl’s mother, a recovering heroin addict who wasn’t home during our first visit.’

‘So this was your second unannounced call on Wytherton in the same day?’

‘Yes.’ Annie glanced at Carver. ‘Apologies for not ringing ahead. Perhaps we should have said we were coming, but we thought we had more important matters to deal with at the time. Sometimes you just get caught up in the momentum of an investigation. The case was breaking fast after several days of getting nowhere.’

Carver inclined his head in acceptance of the apology.

‘When DC Masterson and I got out of our car,’ Annie went on, ‘we were approached by the two officers in question. DC Masterson made a note of their numbers if—’

‘I know who they are,’ growled Carver. ‘Reg and Bill are two of my best men.’

‘Then I’d hate to meet any of the others,’ said Annie.

Carver gave her an appraising glance. ‘I imagine you would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been having a word or two about you, and it seems your record is hardly unblemished, not without incident.’

‘That’s out of order,’ said Banks. ‘DI Cabbot was—’

Annie touched Banks’s arm. ‘No, boss,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. Let him go on. I’m interested to hear.’

Carver coughed and fiddled with his tie. ‘It’s just that your attitude to male police officers might be seen as prejudiced.’

‘Am I prejudiced against men?’ Annie said. ‘Is that what you’re saying? Maybe I am towards some, but that prejudice doesn’t necessarily extend as far as every thick sexist oaf on the force or I’d have a hard time indeed doing my job. Your men tried to bully and intimidate us.’

‘That was because you didn’t announce your presence as police detectives.’ Carver’s expression took on a distinct sneer. ‘Not because they’re rapists or bullies. Not all men are, you know.’

‘Listen to yourself,’ Annie said, her voice rising. ‘Just listen to yourself.’

It was Banks’s turn to touch Annie’s arm. ‘OK, DI Cabbot, Superintendent Carver, that’s enough of that from both of you. Let’s agree to differ and leave personal slights behind us. Is that OK, Superintendent?’

Carver bristled. ‘Go on, DI Cabbot,’ he grunted. ‘We’re listening.’

‘We were approached by the officers in question, who informed us that we couldn’t park where we were because it was a double yellow line.’

‘And?’ said Banks.

‘There were no double yellow lines, just a single.’

‘But as I understand it, the officers were simply enforcing what they knew to be a parking law for that stretch of road,’ Banks countered.

‘There were no signs about not parking there, either. They said one of the lines had faded over time, and the council hadn’t got around to repainting it yet, which I thought was a load of bollocks.’ Annie looked at a smirking Superintendent Carver. ‘I’ll bet they found time this morning, though.’

‘Why didn’t you just do as you were instructed and move on?’ asked Banks. ‘Better still, why didn’t you tell them who you were and why you were there?’

Annie bit her lower lip. She knew that in one sense she had behaved the way she had because she had wanted to provoke the officers, to push them, test their behaviour. But she also knew that she had been sticking up for herself and Gerry, as members of the general public, trying to strike a blow against big hulking men who get pleasure from pushing women around. ‘It was their attitude,’ Annie said. ‘Their manner was confrontational right from the get-go.’

‘So you didn’t like their attitude,’ mocked Carver. ‘Funny, that’s exactly what they said about you.’

‘Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’

Banks smiled, but Annie’s Mandy Rice-Davies imitation didn’t get her far with Carver. Perhaps he was too young to remember the Profumo affair.

‘In fact,’ Carver continued, pulling at the sharp crease in his uniform trousers, ‘they went on to say that you two were both abusive and belligerent. That at one point you—’

‘Now hold on a minute,’ said Annie. ‘It was one of your men who grabbed me by the elbow and pulled his baton. Not us.’

‘Because he was provoked.’

‘Provoked, bollocks,’ said Annie. ‘He did it because he’s a bully.’

‘The officer said you were reaching into your bag. He thought you could have been reaching for a knife or even a gun. It’s a dodgy area. Drugs and stuff. They have to be careful. Every night they go out on patrol they could face some serious threat to life and limb. That’s why they might seem a bit more aggressive than some.’

‘And I thought it was just in their nature,’ said Annie. Gerry shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside hers.

‘Again, I’d like to know why you didn’t simply identify yourselves as police officers from the start,’ said Banks. ‘That would no doubt have prevented all these problems from arising, including the parking.’

‘I didn’t see why we should have had to,’ protested Annie. ‘We weren’t asking for special treatment. As far as I was concerned, we had broken no laws. We were simply two women parking a car — legally, as far as we were concerned — and walking down the street minding our own business when those two brutes came over and started hassling us for no good reason. The fact that we didn’t introduce ourselves as fellow officers only means they thought we were members of the public. And members of the public deserve to be better treated than we were. I’m sorry if you don’t like to hear it, but those two officers set out to bully and humiliate us from the start. Anything we did, whether you call it “intimidation” or whatever, was by way of defending ourselves.’

‘Including insinuating that one of my men was “bent”?’ asked Carver.

‘I said he reminded me of a bent sheriff in a bad Western. He did. I don’t think that constitutes calling him bent.’

‘Semantics,’ said Banks, again suppressing the laughter. ‘Let’s put the incident with the officers aside for the moment. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I understand the two of you then went on to inflame the local Asian community.’

‘We most certainly did not,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t know who told you that, but whoever it is, he’s a liar.’ She held Carver’s gaze as she spoke. ‘Mimosa’s family told us that she sometimes hung out on what they called the Strip, a half-mile stretch of Wytherton Town Street between the overpass and the canal bridge. Mimosa’s stepfather told us he didn’t like it because there were too many Asians around, but it’s the nearest place where there’s anything happening at night, and most kids aren’t as bigoted as Lenny Thornton. They like to hang out on the street, especially on warm nights. As Mimosa was from Wytherton Heights and our DNA specialist has informed us that the samples of semen taken from her body were Pakistani in origin, that’s why we went there in the first place after talking to Sinead Moffat.’

‘What do you think about that, DC Masterson?’ Banks asked, turning to a terrified Gerry.

‘It’s true, sir, what DI Cabbot says. We didn’t set out to inflame anyone in the community, and I don’t believe we did. As DI Cabbot said, we were following a perfectly valid lead about the murdered girl.’

‘Did you find the place swarming with young girls?’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘But considering that Mimosa Moffat has been dead for almost a week, it’d hardly be business as usual, would it?’

‘Even so, it’s a thin lead, or so it seems to me,’ said Banks. ‘I understand that certain accusations were made?’

‘No accusations,’ Annie replied. ‘I showed the two men behind the counter in a kebab and pizza takeaway an artist’s impression of the dead girl. They said they didn’t know her.’

‘And then?’

‘I wasn’t sure I believed them. After all, if she hung out on the Strip and she ate kebab and pizza, there was a good chance she’d been in their takeaway, wouldn’t you say, sir? It’s the kind of place young people hang out, especially if they’re under the legal drinking age. I might have mentioned her stomach contents as I left, just to make them think a bit.’

‘There are dozens of such places around,’ said Carver.

‘Not as close to where Mimosa Moffat lived,’ said Annie. ‘Not in her own neighbourhood. And an area she was known to hang out in. And the PM did find—’

Carver waved his hand. ‘Even so. That was still no reason to strut into my manor and start harassing racial minorities. Wytherton is a balancing act. And the fact that the dustmen are on strike and we have a heatwave at the moment doesn’t help, either. Tensions are high.’

‘Well, that explains the smell,’ said Annie. ‘But as for harassing racial minorities, come off it, sir. In the first place, the Asians didn’t seem to be a minority in the area, and in the second, I didn’t harass anyone. Nor did DC Masterson. Maybe I didn’t wear kid gloves, but I treated them all in exactly the same way I treat everyone else I question in a homicide investigation.’

‘Well, if that’s the way you go around—’

‘Did you discover anything more on this Strip?’ Banks cut in. Carver glared at him.

‘No. Apart from the smell. We talked to the guys in the minicab office next door, but that’s all. Everything else was pretty much closed, and there weren’t a lot of people about. None of the ones we talked to admitted to knowing Mimosa. It was if she didn’t exist. I got the feeling that someone’s got these people scared, or well trained, sir. They—’

‘This is pure balderdash,’ fumed Carver, getting to his feet. ‘Just because you couldn’t get any leads in your investigation, you accuse a whole community of being involved in a cover- up. If they said they didn’t know her, it was probably because they didn’t. I suppose you think my officers are part of the conspiracy, too?’

‘I never said that, sir,’ Annie answered. ‘But if the cap fits...’

‘You certainly implied it. Don’t you think your time might have been better spent asking them if they had noticed anything, instead of pestering local cafe owners and businessmen?’

‘That’s enough of that, Superintendent Carver,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s leave implications out of it for the moment. Sit down.’

Carver didn’t look happy, but he subsided into his chair.

‘And we did ask Reg and Bill if they’d noticed anything,’ muttered Annie. ‘Or if they recognised Mimosa Moffat.’

‘By which time you’d already alienated them.’

‘Did they, by the way?’ Banks asked him. ‘Notice anything?’

‘No,’ said Carver. ‘I talked to them about it once we knew why your officers were nosing around. And none of my men saw anything on the night in question, either. Reg and Bill weren’t even on duty. But the fact remains,’ he went on, ‘that Wytherton is a racially sensitive community. The place is like a tinderbox. It could go up at any moment. You don’t go marching into such an area and start pushing people around and making arbitrary insinuations. If you go in there at all, you go there with all your facts straight — and preferably with specific names, warrants, evidence, the lot.’

‘More than if they happened to be white?’

‘Damn right,’ said Carver.

‘We didn’t push anybody around,’ Annie said. ‘I don’t get it. Is this some sort of positive non-discrimination?’

‘Think about it, DI Cabbot,’ said Banks. ‘Call it post-colonial guilt, if you like.’

‘Even that doesn’t explain it.’

‘Then just accept it.’

‘It’s simple,’ said Carver. ‘It’s pragmatic, a matter of simple practicalities. Let me explain. Your average whites don’t make too much of a fuss if you hassle them. The Muslim community pulls together and makes a noise about it. No matter that they’re mostly third-generation Pakistanis in Wytherton — their grandparents came over in the fifties — and that they often embrace Western culture and seem just as English as you and me. Maybe their grandparents brought the old religion with them, but it started to fade with their children. These days, they’re either westernised or... well, you know, attracted by the other extreme. Luckily that doesn’t happen too much around Wytherton. Either way, they feel themselves to be different, singled out, as easily demonised, especially when it suits them, and they make a noise about it. And when they do, guess who has to deal with it.’ He pointed his thumb at his own chest. ‘Wytherton is a split community. We’ve got the Muslims mostly to the south of the Strip in Lower Wytherton, though they’re spreading slowly into the north, and Wytherton Heights is mostly white. There are also areas where whites and British Pakistanis live side by side and have done for years. The boundaries are constantly changing. If we went in and came down hard on the Muslim community for no good reason, we’d have pitched battles on Town Street. Is that what you want to see, DI Cabbot?’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘But we didn’t go in hard, and it wasn’t for no good reason. Besides, I don’t believe the men we’re dealing with are Muslims in any real sense of the word. Muslims don’t do what was done to Mimosa. Muslims don’t rape and kill young girls. Well, they do, actually, some of them, but we’ll leave that aside for the time being. And they don’t exactly have an enlightened attitude towards women, while we’re at it, but if you point that out to some people, they just accuse you of picking on it as an excuse to demonise them because they don’t believe the same things you do. We may be wrong, but we think — I think — that Mimosa and probably some of her friends were being groomed. And we think it’s happening on your patch. Whether you simply ignored it or hadn’t a clue, I have no idea, but I should think they’ve suspended operations for the time being. What I want is justice for Mimosa Moffat, a fifteen-year-old girl from the Wytherton Heights estate who was gang-raped by three men of Pakistani descent, according to DNA evidence, and beaten to death by a person or persons unknown on my patch. If that means upsetting a few people in the community, so be it. Boo-bloody-hoo. Besides, the nearest any of that lot have been to Pakistan is the nearest Karachi Curry House.’

‘Irrelevant, DI Cabbot,’ said Carver. ‘Are you on some sort of personal vendetta? Is that what’s preventing you from seeing the bigger picture? Because if—’

‘That’s enough, Superintendent Carver,’ said Banks. ‘We take your point, but we do have a murder investigation to carry out. It seems you’re running a slack ship, as far as I can tell. The artist’s impression of Mimosa Moffat — done, by the way, because her face was beaten to a pulp — was circulated throughout the country, including Wytherton. Someone clearly isn’t doing their job right.’

‘I resent that.’

‘Resent away. How would you suggest we approach the problem?’

‘Well, you’ve got all the facilities, and your minds are made up, so you hardly need my advice.’

Banks could tell that Carver was annoyed that he had a difficult area to police, while Homicide and Major Crimes was housed at the more peaceful Eastvale Police HQ and had a mini forensic lab attached. But Banks could hardly help it if Carver were trying to pass his manor off as Fort Apache, the Bronx. ‘Humour me,’ he said. ‘What about CCTV on the Strip?’

‘You can try,’ said Carver. ‘But there isn’t very much. Besides, it was over a week ago. They’ll have recorded over the hard drives or DVDs or whatever they use by now. You might try questioning some of the local shopkeepers.’

‘I get it,’ said Banks. ‘Basically, not much chance of finding out if there was a car or a van parked near the kebab and pizza takeaway and the minicab office a week ago?’

No.’ Carver shot Annie and Gerry a withering glance.

‘So where do you suggest we start?’

Carver puffed up his chest. ‘I don’t know how you go about doing things down here, but I’d suggest you start by taking the Moffat house apart. We’ve had cause to pay more visits there over the years than we have to the entire Muslim community.’

‘Well, that’s no surprise if you’re too frightened to say boo to them, is it?’ said Annie. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’

‘Let Superintendent Carver speak,’ said Banks.

‘Thank you,’ said Carver. ‘Let me tell you about the Moffats. When it came to handing out brain cells they weren’t exactly at the front of the queue. By now they’re second-generation unemployed, third, if you discount Albert Senior’s artistic pursuits. He never did a day’s work in his life either, just sat around smoking joints and splashing paint on canvas. Albert and his common-law wife Maureen moved there in the late sixties and had Johnny and Sinead about five years apart. The family was called Kerrigan back then, no Moffat on the horizon for a while. Touch of the Irish about them, a background of wandering navvies and horse traders. Albert Kerrigan bought 14 Southam Terrace in the eighties when Mrs Thatcher made it possible for less well-off people to buy their own council house in the hopes they would become more law-abiding and house-proud.’

‘Spare us the political lecture, Superintendent Carver,’ said Banks.

Carver harrumphed and went on. ‘We know things didn’t turn out that way. And, I might add, the police at the time strongly suspected that Albert Kerrigan used money acquired through the sale of illegal drugs in the house purchase.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Annie. ‘They couldn’t prove it.’

‘That’s right. Kerrigan claimed he’d sold a painting to get the money, but I couldn’t imagine anyone paying six grand for the rubbish he turned out.’

‘And you’re an art expert, too,’ said Annie. ‘Wonders never cease.’

Carver went red.

‘Shut it, DI Cabbot,’ said Banks.

Carver cast her the evil eye and went on. ‘I was only a constable on the beat back then, patrol cars, but I had plenty of first-hand experience of the various Kerrigans and Moffats over the years. Sinead Kerrigan married Leslie Moffat in the late nineties, and Mimosa and Albert were born around the millennium, just three years apart. Les Moffat was a small-time crook. A bit of housebreaking, the occasional mugging after dark in Middlesbrough town centre. He could be violent when he wanted to, and he buggered off when the kids were still little. That was around the time Albert Kerrigan died of a brain tumour. Only in his fifties. I blame the drugs.’

‘And his wife?’ Banks asked.

‘Maureen? Drifted off with some Travellers. Never been seen since.’

‘Which leaves Sinead, Lenny, Johnny and the kids,’ said Banks. ‘Were any of the children ever fostered out or taken into care?’

‘No,’ said Carver. ‘They always managed to avoid that fate. God knows how.’

‘What about Sinead’s brother?’ Banks asked. ‘I heard he’s a bit...’ He glanced at Annie.

‘Doolally,’ she said.

‘Johnny’s five years older than Sinead,’ said Carver. ‘He rode with a local biker gang involved in drugs and all kinds of nastiness until he smashed his bike up on the A19 one rainy day. Never been the same since. Just sits in his chair. Which suits us fine.’

‘What happened after Les Moffat left?’ Banks asked.

‘Mama Sinead is left behind looking after the whole family. After Moffat, there was a string of men, bad choices for the most part, junkies, criminals and unemployed layabouts all. That’s when she developed her drug habit, and she wasn’t averse to a bit of soliciting to support it. Then Lenny Thornton came on the scene in 2009, and she soon had two kids by him. We’ve had our run-ins with Lenny. He’s settled down these days, but he specialised in car theft after a childhood of joyriding. Then when the security locks got too complicated for his tiny brain, he moved on to fencing stolen goods. But he wasn’t very good at it. After a short stretch inside, he seemed to go straight. We’ve had nothing on him for two or three years now. And that, my dear friends, is the Moffats of Southam Terrace. And when you start feeling all warm and tingly inside about Sinead Moffat getting her act together, doing the methadone cure, think again. She may well be trying to kick her heroin habit at the moment, but don’t let that fool you. Judging by all previous attempts, she’ll be back on it in no time, and turning tricks, if any man in his right mind will pay her for it.’

Banks gave him a dirty look. ‘Watch it, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘That was uncalled for.’

‘Sorry,’ said Carver.

‘Are you suggesting that one of the family killed Mimosa?’ Annie asked.

‘All I’m saying is it’s a good place to start. Better than Sunny’s Kebab and Pizza. You could do worse than have a chat with the social and school authorities, too. Wytherton Comprehensive. Lovely place. Shoo-in for Oxford.’ He paused. ‘You admit you don’t know who actually murdered the girl. All I’m saying is look close to home. Isn’t that the way it usually is? Her brother Albert’s a yobbo for a start. He’s broken a window or two on the Strip in his time, usually after a skinful of ale. He wouldn’t like it if he’d heard she’d been shagging Pakis.’

‘I won’t tell you again, Mr Carver,’ said Banks. ‘There’s no room for that sort of crudeness here. A bit more respect. According to our forensic evidence, the girl you’re talking about was raped.’

‘Doesn’t mean she hadn’t done it willingly at some point. Perhaps you’d like me to assign a couple of my local CID officers to help you with your enquiries in Wytherton?’ Carver went on, pushing his luck.

‘We can handle it,’ said Annie.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a Homicide and Major Crimes case. We may consult on occasion, should the need arise.’

Carver gritted his teeth. ‘If you say so.’

‘I think that’s all for now,’ Banks said. ‘You know your next actions, DI Cabbot, DC Masterson. Tear the Moffat house apart and find Albert Jr.’

It was another warm day in Wytherton, though much less muggy, and the smell of decomposing rubbish polluted the air. The dustbin men had been on strike for over a week now, Gerry had learned, and there seemed to be no end in sight. She had spent a good part of her morning on the phone and discovered that Les Moffat, Mimosa’s birth father, had died of liver disease two years ago and that Eddie Mallard, the ex-boyfriend of Sinead’s who had molested Mimosa, had been stabbed in a prison brawl four years ago. She had also got through to one of Mimosa’s teachers, who told her that Mimosa was naturally bright but didn’t apply herself enough. She could have done a lot better if she had tried, but then, Gerry thought, couldn’t we all. There had been attendance issues lately and Mimosa had paid more than one visit to the head teacher’s office. She had also been warned over the using of racial slurs. That seemed odd to Gerry, but perhaps if Mimsy was in a relationship with a group of Asian groomers then it was a form of camouflage.

The social service offices were housed in a flat-roofed, modern one-storey building on the other side of the canal, just across the bridge, over from the new shopping centre and about half a mile from the Strip. Beside it was a small square of tufty, dried-out grass where a few young people lounged, shirtless and listless, smoking joints or cigarettes, drinking from plastic water bottles or cans of lager. Gerry felt the sweat sticking her white silk blouse to her skin as she went through the front doors into the reception area.

A bored woman sat behind a glass partition like a ticket-seller at a railway station. Without looking up from her keyboard, she said, ‘Take a number and wait over there,’ as if it were for the hundredth time that day.

Gerry flashed her warrant card, and the woman pointed to a desk wedged into a corner. ‘Over there,’ she said. ‘See Alicia. She deals with all police matters.’

Alicia glanced up as Gerry approached. She was probably mid-thirties, plump with short curly dark hair and a badge with her first name below a smiley face. A place of mixed messages, this, Gerry thought.

Gerry showed her warrant card again. The woman examined it closely and gestured for her to sit down, making it clear who was in charge. Gerry sat on the moulded orange chair, trying to avoid a bit of old chewing gum stuck near the left edge. There was noise all around, chatter, computer printers, keyboards, ringtones. Not much laughter. The squad room was bad enough sometimes, but Gerry wondered how anyone could get any work done with such a din going on. Like anything else, she supposed, you got used to it.

‘What’s it about?’ the woman asked.

‘I’m here to see someone about a girl called Mimosa Moffat.’

‘Who?’

‘Mimosa Moffat.’

‘Just a minute.’

The woman tilted her computer screen towards her, hit a few keys and frowned as she scrolled up and down. ‘Moffat,’ she said eventually. ‘Address?’

Gerry told her.

‘I’ll see if the case officer’s in his office. Hang on a minute.’ Alicia picked up the phone, pressed a couple of buttons and waited. Eventually, someone answered and a brief exchange followed. Gerry could hardly hear a word because of the ambient noise. When Alicia put the phone down, she told Gerry, ‘Ciaran will see you now. His office is down that corridor over there, first right, second left. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ said Gerry. ‘Name on the door?’

‘Ciaran O’Byrne.’

The corridors beyond the open plan area formed a maze, and even with clear and simple directions, Gerry almost missed the second turning. She finally found the name on the door, knocked and answered the call to come in. Ciaran O’Byrne stood up to shake hands when Gerry entered. He was probably about her age, late twenties, skinny, bearded and casually dressed, mostly in black. The small office was so filled with filing cabinets and piles of papers that it was hard to find anywhere to sit. It was also like an oven. Gerry noticed there were no windows, just a sort of grille high in the wall, which was made of perforated plywood panels. A grinding, coughing noise came from inside the grille, but Gerry couldn’t feel even the slightest waft of cool air.

‘Just clear those papers off that chair,’ O’Byrne said. ‘You can dump them on the floor.’

Gerry picked up the papers and set them gently beside the chair, then sat down.

O’Byrne leaned back in his chair, tapped a pencil tip against his lower lip and said, ‘What can I do for you? Alicia said it was something to do with the Moffats.’

‘That’s right. Mimosa Moffat, in particular.’

‘She’s not a bad kid, really, isn’t Mimsy. Better than some. I must say I haven’t seen her for a while, though. I hope she isn’t in any trouble.’

Gerry felt gobsmacked. ‘Er... no... I mean, that is... you haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘Mimosa was killed last week. I’m from the county Homicide and Major Crimes. We’re investigating the case. The local police said we should talk to you.’

O’Byrne dropped his pencil and sat up straight. ‘What? She what? Bloody hell.’

‘Mimosa was murdered. Raped and murdered on a country lane just outside Eastvale about a week ago. Her picture has been on the news and in the papers all week. An artist’s likeness, at any rate. We only found out who she was yesterday through an anonymous phone call.’

O’Byrne rubbed his cheeks and eyes. ‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry to hear that. And I must apologise for my ignorance. This job’s depressing enough as it is. Any chance I get, you’ll find me fishing in Upper Teesdale or walking the Dales, not watching the news or reading the papers.’

‘I thought someone might have told you.’

‘I’m sure someone would have, eventually. Just not yet. My God. Mimsy Moffat. What happened to her?’

Gerry gave him an edited version of the details, skipping the points the team had decided to keep to themselves.

‘What is it you want from me?’ he asked. ‘I have to say, first off, that I wasn’t especially close to Mimsy.’

‘Why not? Weren’t you her case officer?’

‘Case officer? No. Whatever gave you that impression? I work mostly with Sinead, and sometimes Johnny, not Mimsy. She didn’t have a specific case officer.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Didn’t need one. Sinead has a drug problem, as you probably know already. Has had on and off for years. It’s caused her a number of other problems, bad judgement and child neglect not being the least of them. Her common-law husband and her brother haven’t always been able to step into the gap, so to speak. We — I — have kept an eye on Sinead. Try to help, make sure the kids aren’t suffering, the little ones especially, Tammi and Mike.’

‘And they weren’t?’

‘Not as I’m aware. Mimsy had a few problems at school, poor attendance, disruptive behaviour, talking back, and the like. She was excluded more than once, but that wasn’t much of a cause for concern. None of us really liked school, did we?’

Gerry actually had liked school, but she wasn’t going to tell O’Byrne that. She’d liked the learning and the sports, and had particularly excelled at hockey and field events, not to mention all the academic subjects except geography. ‘She was only fifteen,’ she said. ‘She should have been attending whether she liked it or not.’

‘Short of dragging her there... Look, Mimsy was a bit of a tearaway, and she didn’t respond well to authority. She liked to think she was different, not part of the ordinary crowd. Typical rebellious teen in some ways but she was also naive.’

‘Did she have learning difficulties?’

‘Not as such. Short attention span, mild dyslexia. That’s about all. It was more of an attitude problem.’

‘Did you notice any recent changes in her behaviour?’

‘Not really. But I haven’t actually really spoken with her for a while.’

‘You mentioned Leonard Thornton earlier. What about her uncle Johnny?’

‘Johnny’s disabled.’

‘You take care of him, too?’

‘Lord, no. He has his own NHS carers. All I do is coordinate to some extent, make sure the left hand knows what the right hand’s doing.’ He leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what it is you want from me. To the best of my knowledge, and the department’s knowledge, none of the children were being abused or mistreated. There were some negligence issues, and we worked with the family on them. But there has never been any doubt that Sinead and Leonard Thornton have been fit parents, despite the occasional lapse. No matter what some people think, we try to avoid intervention unless we feel it absolutely necessary.’

‘Is there anything you can tell me about Mimosa’s life? Her problems. Her friends. What she got up to. We still have a lot of blanks to fill in. Let’s start with her friends. Some names would help.’

‘I wish I could, but I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘OK. Her problems?’

‘Well, her biggest problem is a drug-addicted mother. I know that Sinead’s on a methadone programme at the moment, but we’re not a hundred per cent certain it will do the trick. She seems determined, but it hasn’t worked before, and frankly, this terrible news about Mimsy... well, I’m not sure what it will do to her. Though I got the impression they fought a lot, I also think it may have been because they were like as two peas in a pod. Not the heroin, of course but in some respects of character. But Sinead’s problems mean the kids — Mimsy and Albert in particular — weren’t subject to the usual parental discipline and control. As I said, they’re not bad kids, really, but Mimsy has run a little wild, which is only to be expected under the circumstances, and Albert got probation for vandalism a while back. He’s lucky he didn’t get done for hate crime as well, as it was a halal butcher’s window he chucked the brick through. Also lucky for him he was drunk at the time. It’s a turbulent neighbourhood.’

‘Did you ever have any direct contact with Mimsy?’

‘Briefly. When she self-harmed about eighteen months ago.’

‘Was there any particular reason for what she did?’

‘As usual in cases like that, there were a number of factors at work. I think mostly she was lonely and felt unloved, and she wanted to make her mother notice her. Sinead was going through a particularly difficult time then.’

‘A cry for help? Did it work?’

‘Sinead understood. She’d been there herself. She’d done exactly the same thing in her own teenage years. She rallied herself for Mimsy’s sake. That was the first time she signed up for the methadone programme. At least she started trying. And Mimsy went for counselling.’ He picked up his pencil again and started twisting it in his short stubby fingers. ‘Didn’t last long, mind you. I’m afraid the counsellor...’

‘The counsellor abused her. Yes, Sinead mentioned something like that.’

‘He wasn’t one of ours, of course. He was private. Well, assigned through the NHS, but you know what I mean.’

Like most people employed to serve the public in some way, O’Byrne reacted first by trying to cover his own arse and that of his department. Not our fault. Not part of our mandate. How often had she had heard those words prefacing an excuse for not doing anything, or for doing the wrong thing? ‘She was what, all of thirteen at the time?’

O’Byrne looked sheepish. ‘Yes.’

‘Then you know as well as I do that he raped her, no matter how consensual their arrangement was.’

‘I’ve told you Mimsy was a bit of a tearaway, uncontrollable, something of a wild child. She was probably trying to assert her freedom, show she was a grown-up. And she could be manipulative when she wanted.’

‘ It sounds as if she could be manipulated, too,’ said Gerry. ‘Are you trying to exonerate this counsellor? Are you saying she led him on?’

‘No. No. Not at all. But so many girls her age think they’re so sophisticated, when deep down they’re actually not. I’m just saying I don’t think he threw her over the desk and had his way with her.’

Gerry couldn’t think of an appropriate response to that. She moved on. ‘I’ll need his name.’

‘John Lewton. He was disciplined, naturally. Terminated. Struck off. He can’t practise any more. I believe there were even steps towards criminal prosecution but bargains were made. As I understand it, he left the country not long after.’

‘For where?’

‘Spain. Apparently he owns some property there.’

Gerry would check the story out, of course, and make sure this John Lewton hadn’t suddenly reappeared in Mimsy’s life.

‘I know you can’t talk about these things,’ said O’Byrne, ‘but have you any idea who did this or why?’

‘We don’t. Not at the moment. You said you didn’t know who Mimosa’s friends were in the neighbourhood, but we’d like to talk to someone her own age she might have confided in. Is there no one you can think of?’

‘No. I’m sorry. But I’m sure she wasn’t in a gang. We monitor gang activity closely.’

‘What about the young girls hanging out on the Strip with older Pakistani men?’

O’Byrne’s eyes turned towards the grille and he sighed. ‘That thing never works,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you too hot in here? I am.’

‘Very.’

‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk.’

They left by the back door, beside which was a narrow footpath leading to the canal. From there, you could follow the towpath for some distance.

‘I often come out here when I just want a little break or to cool down,’ he said as they walked. ‘It’s not especially pretty, but at least it’s outside.’

It certainly wasn’t pretty, Gerry thought, with a factory belching smoke beyond the towpath, white suds floating on the filthy brown water, and the all-pervading smell of rotting garbage. There were also small piles of black bin bags spilling rubbish here and there, along with broken prams and wheel-less bicycles. Gerry thought she saw a rat scuttle from one bag to another. She didn’t even think it was much cooler by the canal, but it was certainly nice to be out of that oven of an office.

‘I mentioned the young girls hanging out with the Pakistanis on the Strip. The local police don’t seem to know much about it, or think much of it. Does it go on? Have you noticed anything like that?’

‘I’m afraid not. I don’t have any reason to go there. I don’t live around here. Soon as it’s time to go home, I’m gone.’

‘Very sensible,’ said Gerry. ‘But it’s a divided area, I hear. There’s a large Muslim community, mostly people of Pakistani descent.’

‘True,’ said O’Byrne. ‘But we don’t have a lot to do with them.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They don’t want us putting our noses in their business. They take care of their own families in their own way, according to their own customs, traditions and laws. I mean, some of our staff are from the community, and they have special ties, of course. They’ve occasionally been involved in certain domestic issues, but as a rule, by far the most of our work comes from the largely white estates.’

‘I see,’ said Gerry. ‘And you find it easiest not to help?’

‘Not to interfere. Yes. Best for everyone, all round.’

‘So you leave them to their own vigilante brand of justice?’

‘I’d say justice is your job, not mine. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘No matter what they do?’

O’Byrne managed a weak laugh. ‘Do? They don’t do anything that anyone else doesn’t do. Besides, we’re not the police. I’ll bet your police up here have far less trouble with them than with the local white population. Binge-drinking, vandalism, shoplifting, drugs, graffiti and the like. Some of those kids are just out of control, and their parents aren’t much better.’ He paused. ‘Believe me, we try to be sensitive to issues of race and cultural differences, and we try to be colour-blind. It’s an awkward balance, and I’d be the first to admit that it doesn’t really work and we don’t always get it right. We’re only human, after all.’

‘Have you talked to members of the community, people from the mosque, the imams?’

‘No. But I know what their answer would be.’

‘What?’

‘If they do these things, they can’t be true Muslims, therefore, they’re not our problem.’

‘That’s a bit short-sighted, isn’t it?’

‘Tell that to the imam.’

‘It’s just that we have reason to believe that Mimosa might have been connected with some Pakistanis, and there seem to be a lot of them in the neighbourhood. Running the shops and businesses along the Strip, for example. A takeaway, minicab firm, balti restaurant and so on. We know she ate kebab and pizza shortly before she died. Coincidence?’ Gerry realised she was pushing it a bit with this. All they really knew was what Dr Glendenning had found in her stomach and what Jazz Singh had got from the DNA: that her last meal consisted of pizza and kebab and that she had had rough sex with three men of Pakistani descent. There was nothing to indicate that the men came from this area, or that she had eaten her last meal on the Strip. Still, Gerry believed that Ciaran O’Byrne needed a bit of a kick up the arse, and as often as not in her business the roots of a crime began on the victim’s own doorstep, so it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.

‘Well, there are lots of places you can get kebab and pizza, and there are Asian communities all over the country.’

‘Yes, but Mimosa lived here.’ Gerry paused. ‘I must say, you seem remarkably unconcerned. Don’t you get it? We’re talking about a fifteen-year-old girl in your care who was raped and murdered.’

‘I’ve told you, Mimsy wasn’t in my care.’

‘But you have a close connection with the family, with her mother particularly.’

‘But not because of Mimsy. Yes, well, I try to do my job. Things were difficult, but they were coping. Mimsy didn’t need to be taken away and handed over to foster parents or put in a home. She could take care of herself. At her best Sinead was there, and Leonard Thornton is a decent bloke, despite all appearances to the contrary.’

‘Maybe. But he didn’t keep a close eye on Mimosa.’

‘Surely you can’t blame Leonard for what happened to her?’

‘I’m after finding out who did this to her. Then we’ll see about blame.’ Gerry took a deep breath. ‘Mr O’Byrne, I find your wilful ignorance about this whole matter astonishing, not to mention disturbing. Didn’t you read about what happened in Rochdale, Rotherham and the rest? Isn’t it required reading for the social services? Can’t you see what’s going on in front of your eyes? There’s every possibility that Mimsy, and no doubt other young girls, were being groomed. They’re what, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen? Alienated. Neglected. Lonely. Unloved. Some of them with learning difficulties. These men offer them some material comforts, a packet of crisps, a mobile top-up, a free fizzy pop, then friendship, companionship. Then come the demands. The sex with friends, with strangers.’ She pointed. ‘It could be happening right there, less than half a mile down the road on the Strip and you don’t know about it. Now a girl is dead.’

‘You’ve no proof that any of this is happening in Wytherton,’ said O’Byrne. ‘It’s all conjecture. And even if there is some truth to it, you can’t blame us. Nor can you blame Mimsy’s death on it. We do our best, but we’re drowning under the flow of shit from these estates. It’s like standing with your finger in the dyke. You lot don’t do anything to help, either. It’s not our job to arrest criminals. It’s yours.’

‘It’s your job to protect the children and let us know what’s happening.’

‘Nobody wants to get involved in a race war here in Wytherton. There’s already plenty of tension around here. The English Defence League and the British National Party are active. Windows have been broken.’

‘Including one by Albert Moffat. Is he a member of either of the groups?

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Besides, isn’t race war a bit alarmist? Who said anything about that? Surely there are ways of handling these things without starting a race war?’

O’Byrne stopped walking and faced her. ‘Yes? And how? Tell me how. What do you do, walk in and say “Stop it, fellows, leave our poor little white girls alone”?’

‘You could at least report it to your bosses, or to the police. You could at least give the possibility some serious consideration and talk about it.’

‘I’ve already told you we have no evidence of such things going on. Do you? And as for the local police, I’ve told you how much use they are. You must know that yourself, from what you’ve said. You can report your concerns to them until you’re blue in the face, but it’ll go nowhere. As far as they’re concerned these girls are the dregs from the council estates. These girls are making their own lifestyle choices. They decide who they want to go out with, who they want to sleep with. If they choose to be sluts, so it goes. They get no better than they deserve.’

‘Written off at thirteen? Sexually assaulted by her psychological counsellor. A man who was supposed to heal her. Did Mimsy deserve to be raped and murdered?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t. I’m speaking generally. They grow up quickly around these parts, in case you didn’t know.’

‘So you do have concerns, then?’

‘I always have concerns in my job. All I’m saying is that as far as I know, so far, they don’t involve grooming.’

‘So everyone ignores the problem, turns their backs and thinks it will just go away?’

‘If you think you can cure all the world’s social ills, then go ahead. I used to think that when I first took this job.’

‘And now you’re a dyed-in-the-wool cynic at what, twenty-eight? I’m just surprised to find it still going on after the revelations of the last year or so.’

‘It was going on long before Rotherham or Rochdale, and it’ll be going on long after. Whether it’s reached Wytherton or not.’

‘Don’t sound so pleased about it.’

O’Byrne started walking again, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. ‘I’m not. That wasn’t fair. You don’t have to be so snarky.’

‘Maybe I do,’ said Gerry after a while. ‘Let me just ask you this, Mr O’Byrne. Did you have any idea what was going on? Did you ever see young white girls hanging around with older Asians just around the corner from here, maybe when you went out for lunch? Didn’t it seem in the least bit suspicious after what you’ve read in the papers or seen on the news? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don’t pay any attention to the news because it’s too depressing, and you leave this neighbourhood the minute the buzzer goes.’

‘I do my job, as I told you, but it’s not my life. And I didn’t see any such thing. Whatever was going on, they obviously kept a low profile, and I should imagine it was mostly done after dark, not at lunchtime.’

‘They’d hardly need to worry about daylight with social workers like you around.’

‘That’s insulting.’

‘Maybe so, but not as insulting as your ignoring the problem. You knew Mimosa was involved, didn’t you? But you didn’t do anything. Why was that? You were afraid of being branded a racist, sent on a diversity training course?’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I had no idea what was going on. If indeed anything was going on. You haven’t even proved that to me yet.’

‘Haven’t I? Well, I’m getting fed up of your evasions and excuses. First of all the local police, now you. The very people who should be looking out for girls like Mimosa. What is it with this place?’

‘Those girls are already lost,’ said O’Byrne. ‘Like you said, they’d do anything for a packet of crisps or a can of alcopop. Whatever it is they’re doing, it’s their own choice. Why can’t you just accept that?’

It was Gerry’s turn to stop in her tracks. ‘The dregs from the estates, eh? If you really believe that, Mr O’Byrne,’ she said, ‘then you’re in the wrong job.’ Then she turned and walked back up the towpath towards the bridge, her face burning with anger.

Banks had been wondering what to play on the journey from Eastvale to Leeds. His first thoughts had been maybe Bob Dylan, Patti Smith or Leonard Cohen. After all, Linda was a poet, and so were they. Or perhaps he should play nothing at all in case she wanted to talk. In the end, he asked her if there was anything she liked in particular. She thought for a moment, then said she’d always been a huge Bowie fan. Banks put on Pin Ups, not perhaps Bowie’s most popular album, but one which satisfied Banks’s love of old sixties music and Linda’s love of Bowie. The startling segue from ‘Rosalyn’ to the shimmering portamento that opened ‘Here Comes the Night’ still sent a shiver up his spine every time he heard it, like the opening chords of the Small Faces’ ‘All or Nothing’. He didn’t turn the volume so high that they couldn’t talk if they wanted to, but Linda seemed distant, lost in her own thoughts. Occasionally she pointed out a song she particularly liked — ‘See Emily Play’ or ‘Sorrow’, for example — but mostly she remained silent, staring out of the side window at the passing landscape of the Vale of York. They turned off at Wetherby, made their way past the outer ring road and into the city centre, and Banks managed to find a parking spot near the Merrion Centre, just behind the library. They walked across Millennium Square, which was crowded with people sitting out at the cafes enjoying the fine weather.

The library and art gallery were on the Headrow, next to the town hall, housed in another grand Victorian building. Inside and out, the library complex was also an architectural delight, with its magnificent stone staircases, parquet floors, marble pillars, tiles and mosaics. A reviewer had once complained that the ceiling in the reading room was so magnificent it would distract people from actually reading. Both Banks and Linda had been inside before, so they didn’t stand and gawp as much as some visitors were doing, but made their way straight to the office where Ken’s contact, Marian Hirst, was waiting for them.

Marian was a short trim woman with no-nonsense grey hair and a pair of black-rimmed glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. Her nose was beak-like and her eyes dark and lively. Banks couldn’t help thinking that she couldn’t look more like most people’s image of a librarian if she tried.

‘DCI Blackstone told me you were coming,’ she said, with a distant trace of a Scottish accent. ‘He uses the service often himself. I’ve got everything prepared for you in a little office here. Now, you know how to work the machine, I assume?’

Banks nodded. He’d used a film reader before.

‘Everything is clearly labelled, so you’ll know exactly where you are.’

‘Is it possible to get copies?’ Banks asked.

‘Not as you go,’ she said. ‘But if you put in a request our staff can provide one for you.’

She led them across the intricate parquet floor, her shoes clicking and echoing from the high ceiling as they walked, and entered a small room. Three boxes of film roll sat on the table beside the reader.

‘Make yourselves as comfortable as you can,’ Marian said. ‘I’ll be off about my business. And by the way, Ms Palmer, it’s an honour to meet you. I’m a great fan of your poetry.’

Banks noticed Linda blush as she muttered her thanks.

‘I see some people recognise you,’ Banks said when Marian Hirst had left them.

‘No doubt your friend told her I was coming.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Ken knows better than to blab your name around. Besides, he wouldn’t know an ode from an oud.’

Linda laughed. ‘Hmm. I think this is a one-person job. Why don’t you just show me how to set up the rolls then go and have a look at the Atkinson Grimshaws or something? I don’t want you hovering over my shoulder the whole time.’

Banks showed her how to operate the reader, and as soon as she was satisfied she could manage by herself, she shooed him away. He had no real idea how long it would take, but he reckoned he’d give her an hour, for starters, which allowed him plenty of time for a coffee and Kit Kat in the Tiled Room cafe, where he made a couple of phone calls and checked his email. There was nothing much new. According to Winsome, the media crowd was growing outside Eastvale HQ now that they knew Mimosa Moffat was the Bradham Lane victim and that there were rumours of grooming. Annie had set off for Wytherton to meet up with Gerry and talk to Albert Moffat, who had finally turned up.

After that, Banks did take a few minutes to go and see the Atkinson Grimshaws in the art gallery before heading back to see how Linda was doing. He wasn’t a great fan of art galleries and was far more comfortable with music and literature than with the visual arts, but Grimshaw’s moody quayside and oddly lit nighttime city scenes were a delight. An hour and ten minutes had passed by the time he checked his watch, and he walked back next door to the library. He hadn’t got far when he saw Linda wandering down a broad stone staircase, holding on to the bannister. She was glancing around, the other hand clutching the neck of her blouse, as if searching for someone. Him, perhaps.

‘Linda,’ Banks called out, heading towards her. She seemed as if she were ready to fall down the stairs, and he felt like reaching out his arms to save her, but she held on as she turned and caught his eye. He could tell by her expression and her pallor that she had been successful.

‘I saw him,’ she said, still clutching the cotton of her blouse at her throat with one hand. ‘I found him.’

‘Show me,’ said Banks, taking her arm and leading her gently back up the staircase to the viewing room.

Linda pointed towards the viewer as if it were something she couldn’t bear to touch, and Banks leaned forward to study the head-and-shoulders photograph of a handsome young man in a dark suit. According to the brief story, his name was Tony Monaghan, and his picture was in the newspaper because he had been found murdered in the public conveniences in Hyde Park, Leeds, on the twelfth of October 1967.

‘There’s something else,’ Linda said. ‘Something else I saw when I was looking through. I didn’t see it at the time, but... You have to see it first.’ Linda fiddled with the machine. ‘As I said, I haven’t seen this one before today. I went ahead a bit to see if there was anything else about the man I recognised and I saw this. Here. The end of October. Look.’ She moved away.

Banks leaned over. The photograph showed a number of high-ranking police officers standing around one central figure, who was handing over an oversized cardboard cheque, a big cheesy grin on his face. ‘Superstar Danny Caxton presents Chief Constable Edward Crammond with a cheque for £10,000 for the Police Widows and Orphans Fund.’ The story went on to say how Caxton had helped raise the amount through personal appearances and telethons, and how he valued his relationship with the local police, what a wonderful job they did, and so on. It was dated the twenty-seventh of October, just over two weeks after Tony Monaghan’s murder and two months after Linda’s rape.

It was clearly the photo of Danny Caxton that had upset Linda Palmer the most, but the picture of the man who had raped her after Caxton nearly fifty years ago intrigued Banks even more. Tony Monaghan. Perhaps he was now investigating a murder in addition to a rape.