When the Music's Over (12 page)

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

“At his age?”

Feldman raised an eyebrow.

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

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

“Them?”

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

“Danny, I wouldn't, if I were you,” said Feldman, tapping him rhythmically on his arm.

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

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

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

“Danny!” said the lawyer.

“None of them ever gave you any trouble, said no?” Banks asked.

Caxton frowned. “Not so as I remember.”

“And your memory's that good, is it?”

“For my age.”

“What was your driver called?”

“Eh?”

“The chauffeur? What was his name?”

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

“Do you remember the Majestic Hotel?”

“Lovely old place. Gone now, I suspect?”

“Long ago. You had a sort of private entrance, if I'm not mistaken.”

“It wasn't private. They just allowed me certain privileges. We used the staff entrance and the staff lift.”

“That's the way our witness remembers it. Why?”

“Why what?”

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

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

“Well, why did you use it, then?”

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

“Yet she left by the front, when you'd done with her.”

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

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

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

“Which room? When?”

“Whatever room you're talking about. Ever.”

“When you shared your prize with another man?”

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

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

“That's enough,” said Feldman.

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

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

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

“What is it?” Banks asked. He could see that she was shaking.

“Sorry, guv. I feel sick. That man. Who does he think he is? I feel like I've been slimed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back at the table, she opened the crisps and offered the packet. “Help yourself.”

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

“So how are you really?”

“I'm fine. Really.” Gerry took a sip of the drink and coughed. A hint of color came to her cheek.

“Not exactly VSOP, I know,” said Annie. “But it'll do the trick.”

“Really. I'm all right. I don't need mothering.” She put the glass on the table.

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

“Sorry, I didn't mean it like that.”

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

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

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

Gerry laughed.

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

Gerry wrinkled her nose. “Yes. It was a bit of a mess, wasn't it?”

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

Gerry picked up her glass again and took a swallow. “Don't,” she said.

“I thought it didn't bother you.”

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

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

“What did you think of the scars on her wrist?”

“Sad to say,” said Annie, “it's not all that unusual in young girls.”

“Suicide, or just . . . you know . . . a cry, like the doctor said?”

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

“So how much closer are we?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Partying?”

“Maybe. She didn't need to have set off immediately after the meal.”

“So she
could
have started here.”

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

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

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

“Fair enough. But maybe they started even farther north and stopped somewhere en route for the food? Ate in the van.”

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