When the Music's Over (23 page)

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 Anne stepped back just as quickly, and he stumbled a little as he lurched past her.

“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 toward 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 recognized her, for Christ's sake. You recognized her 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 makeup 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 that you do recognize 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 the 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 neighborhood? 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, toward 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 colored 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 realized, 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 to recognize 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 replied. “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 mosquitoes. Not only are they annoying, but they need your blood to breed. You could say good-bye 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.