When the Music's Over (31 page)

Maybe Annie deserved the opportunity to let off a little steam, Banks thought. It was a complex case she was on, and the death of a child—which Mimosa Moffat was, when you came right down to it—got to even the most hardened officers. The fact that Annie had herself been raped some years ago, and was still recovering from a recent shooting incident, made her even more vulnerable. But Banks was still convinced that she was more than up to the task. Not only that, but that she was the best person for it.

“What's wrong with me, Alan?” she said when he had emptied the last of the bottle into her glass “Am I a racist? Is that it? Do you think I'm a racist?”

“I don't think you're a racist, Annie. It's just complicated, that's all. What do you think those mothers in Nigeria are thinking about, the ones whose daughters were kidnapped by Boko Haram?”

Annie squinted at him. “What? I can't even begin to imagine what hell they're going through, worrying if they're ever going to see their daughters again, scared about what's been done to them.” She gave a shudder. “It doesn't bear thinking about.”

“Exactly. It doesn't matter what color they are, does it? They're mothers going through hell, like any mother here would whose child goes missing, and children suffering. I know it sounds like a cliché, but we're all just people. Good 'uns, bad 'uns and in-between 'uns, most of us.”

“‘If you prick me, do I not bleed?'”

“You've got it.”

“But why is this race business all so complicated?” Annie went on, waving her glass at him. “It drives me round the bend. I don't know what I'm supposed to think or say. Is grooming girls for underage sex supposed to be OK in their culture, like female genital mutilation or honor killing? Are we supposed to
respect
it all, no matter what, just because it's their culture, like the Scots with their bagpipes and haggis? I mean, I don't even like bagpipes and haggis. It's not
my
bloody culture, I can tell you that. So does that make me a racist? And who do we blame? Society or the kids? Whatever happened to morality? Good and evil? Right and wrong?”

“Outdated concepts, I'm afraid,” said Banks. “But I think you're getting way too many things mixed up here. What's acceptable to one group isn't necessarily acceptable to another. And there's a big difference between haggis and bagpipes and female genital mutilation.”

Annie tipped her glass at a dangerous angle and narrowed her eyes. “I know that. I
know
that. I'm just trying to make a point, that's all. Am I supposed to think all these things are OK because they're sacred to some culture or ethnic group or medieval religion? Am I supposed to be
inclusive
? Is it all part and parcel of our
diversity
? Would I be
divisive
if I disagreed?”

“Probably,” said Banks. “But calm down. You're letting this get to you way too much.”

Annie sniffed. “I think anyone who performs female genital mutilation should be hung, drawn and quartered, bagpipes should be exiled to one of the inner circles of hell, and as for haggis, well, the jury's still out on that one.”

Banks laughed. “That's because you're a vegetarian.”

“They have vegetarian haggis, you know. Boil in a bag.”

“What's it made of?”

“I don't know. The inner organs of turnips and cabbages or something. But am I wrong about all this?”

“We both know,” said Banks,” that for every Asian who does something like this, you could find thousands who are decent, hardworking, law-abiding members of the community.”

“But it's not those people we're dealing with, is it? It never is. We deal with the worst, like whoever raped Mimosa. The dregs. We take the decency of the majority for granted.”

“True enough,” said Banks. “But what else can we do except try to protect the good guys and catch the bad guys? Look on the bright side. Danny Caxton, for example. For years he got away with abusing underage girls, but now we're coming down on him and people like him.”

“Thanks to Operation Yewtree. But don't you think even that's gone a bit over the top? I mean, famous people are getting arrested just for touching someone's arm or giving them a hug forty years ago, for crying out loud. Teachers are scared to touch children. I know I'm one to speak, given what happened to me and all, but I've never usually had much trouble removing an uninvited hand from my knee and telling its owner to bog off.”

“Maybe there's always some sort of overcompensation for letting things slide for so long,” said Banks. “Like positive discrimination. Some people complain that jobs are given to women or to blacks just because they're women or black, for example. It's our nature to try to make amends. And the Jimmy Savile business encouraged a lot of women to come forward and speak out. Don't forget, either, that many of the victims had come forward before, at the time of the incident, and been ignored. Women like Linda Palmer. That's down to us. Not you and me specifically, but the force. We've made mistakes. That's why Adrian Moss seems to be wringing his hands most of the
time these days. But the point is, it's happening. Same with grooming gangs. Sure, they got away with it for far too long in Rochdale, Rotherham, Manchester, Oxford, Aylesbury. Now it's Wytherton. Fair enough, too many people are still ignoring it, including us and the social, but you're coming down on them.”

“With my hands tied behind my back, it seems.”

Banks smiled at her. “Annie, I have every faith that you can do it, even with your hands tied behind your back.”

“You know,” Annie said, “the more I think about it, the more I'm sure that bastard Carver is bent.”

“He's probably just trying to do a really difficult job. It can't be easy, policing a divided community like Wytherton.”

“No, it's not that. Those two coppers, Bill and Reg. I know I goaded them a bit, but they were ready to beat the shit out of us, Alan. Now, who runs a station where it's OK for patrol officers to do that for no reason other than someone being mouthy?”

“Zero tolerance,” said Banks.

“Bloody hell, you've got an excuse for everything, don't you?”

“Not an excuse, but maybe a reason. And I'm not saying I agree. I'm just saying that's probably their philosophy.”

“Yeah, well, you can keep your zero tolerance if it means bashing me on the head with a baton.” She took a hearty swig of wine.

Banks thought for a moment. “I suppose they'd say they were defending their patch. It can't be an easy beat, Wytherton. And we come in like some invading army. No wonder Carver defends them.”

“Me and Gerry? An invading army?”

“You know what I mean.”

“That man Carver's a stuffed uniform,” said Annie.

“But why was he so unhelpful?” said Banks. “That's the point. You'd think he'd have a bit more about him. Have some idea what's going on in his manor.”

“He turned a blind eye.”

“I don't know,” said Banks. “But I can't help finding myself wondering if there isn't something he's trying to keep under wraps.”

“Like what?”

“Those two coppers who gave you a rough time—”

“Reg and Bill. Pair of pillocks.”

“Right. They weren't on duty the night Mimosa Moffat took her last ride, were they?”

“They said not.”

“What if Mimsy was a problem? Their problem.”

“Problem? Mimsy? What are you talking about?”

“But what if she was?” Banks said. “I'm just thinking out loud. What if they were involved somehow?”

“You mean Reg and Bill were having sex with underage girls?”

“Exactly. It's not beyond the bounds of possibility, is it? Maybe they found out what was going on, and that was their price for turning a blind eye? Maybe Mimosa threatened to blow the whistle. I know there's still a lot of loose ends, like nobody knowing she was going to be walking up the lane and so on. But as a working theory, does it hold water? Maybe they were planning on killing her at the other end of her journey, later, away from their own patch.”

“Reg and Bill? But they said they didn't know what was going on down the Strip. Even Carver didn't.”

“Why couldn't they be lying? I doubt that it would have been hard for them to get hold of a car we couldn't trace. One of the cars on the CCTV was stolen, wasn't it?”

“True,” said Annie. “But Reg and Bill?”

“It wouldn't be the first time police officers have lied to protect themselves. I'm merely suggesting that maybe you should have another chat with them. Find out exactly where they were last Tuesday between one and three in the morning.”

“Carver will love that,” Annie said.

“Fuck Carver. It's our case. Work around him.”

“You know, you might have a point. And the more I think of it, the more I'm convinced those two blokes in the takeaway were lying. You should've seen their faces when I said we'd be able to match the food we'd bought with the victim's stomach contents.”

“You told them that?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, we can't, can we?”

“Maybe not exactly, unless we matched the DNA with a goat or a
lamb they'd been serving. But it put the wind up them, I can tell you that.” Annie clinked glasses with Banks and slopped a little wine over the rim of hers onto the carpet. “Oops,” she said. “It's red, too. Sorry.”

“Forget it. How does Gerry feel about all this?”

“The poor kid's terrified she's going to be sent back on probation or something. You know, I like Gerry a lot, but she can be a bit of a mouse. She's a bit too ‘golly gosh' and ‘jolly hockey sticks' for me sometimes.”

“It's a matter of background,” said Banks. “She went to a posh school, didn't she?”

“Think so.”

“There you are, then. Give her a chance. She'll probably be chief constable one day. Playing fields of Eton and all that.”

“I don't think it was Eton. It was Merchant Taylors', or some such place.”

“It's just a saying. “‘The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.'”

“What's it mean? Who said that? David Cameron?”

“It's supposed to have been the Duke of Wellington, but it may well be a misquote. People who go to public school are destined for great things. Leadership. That's the point.”

“If you say so. The old boys' network? And the old girls'?” Annie drained her glass and waved it. “Can we have another?”

Banks got to his feet. “I'll open another bottle if you want.”

“Can I stop here for the night? I'm too pissed to drive and I can't afford a taxi all the way to Harkside. I'd probably be sick, if I had to go in a car.”

“I've got an early start in the morning, but the spare room's made up.”

Annie hesitated for a moment, then she said, “I don't need the spare room.”

Banks went to get another bottle of red from the rack in the kitchen, then he went into the entertainment room to put another CD on.
What had she meant by that remark?
he wondered.
Was it some sort of come-on?
Any romance they had shared had fizzled out long ago, and he had thought neither of them was foolish enough to want to rekindle
it, to mix work and sex again. Now this? But Annie had had way too much to drink. She was upset, confused, and he wasn't going to take advantage of her.

Tim Buckley had put him in a late-sixties mellow mood, so he flipped through the classics: The Grateful Dead's
American Beauty
, Joni Mitchell's
Blue
, CSNY's
Déjà Vu
and the rest. Or should it be
Astral Weeks
?
Harvest
?
Songs for Beginners
?
David Crosby's If Only I Could Remember My Name
? In the end he went for Love's
Forever Changes
.

When he got back to the conservatory with the wine, Annie lay sprawled in her chair, fast asleep, glass clutched to her chest, mouth open, snoring gently. Banks refilled his glass, then put his feet up and settled down to enjoy the breeze and listen to “Alone Again Or.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING IT WAS STILL WARM, BUT
the sky had become overcast when Banks went to pick up Winsome and head for Leeds. Annie had looked rough at breakfast, and they hadn't spoken much. Banks didn't suppose that sleeping on the chair in the conservatory had done her much good. Whether it was her intended meaning or not, she certainly hadn't needed the spare bedroom.

The ex–detective constable Simon Bradley, Winsome had discovered on the computer before they set off, still lived in the same stone-built detached house off Shaw Lane in Headingley that Banks remembered from his previous visit. Banks rang him, and he agreed to see them whenever they could get there.

After an uneventful drive down the busy A1 listening to a live Jerry Garcia Band CD, Banks and Winsome pulled up in the quiet, leafy street near the end of “Dear Prudence.” Beyond the green gate, the garden was in full bloom. Banks didn't even know what half the flowers were called, but the riot of shape and color certainly created a joyous effect. It had been almost ten years since he had last visited, but he remembered the garden had been Mrs. Bradley's pride and joy. It seemed that it still was.

Simon Bradley opened the front door on the first ring. “Detective Superintendent Banks. Glad you could make it so quickly. Good to
see you again. Come in, come in.” He glanced at Winsome. “My, my, things have changed since the old days.”

Winsome gave her best toothy smile, curtsied and said “Why, yes, mastah, dey surely have.”

Bradley laughed. “Cheeky minx, isn't she?”

“You don't know the half of it. I wouldn't mess with her, if I were you. And call me Alan, please. And the cheeky minx is DS Winsome Jackman.” Banks felt Winsome nudge him in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt, as they followed Bradley into the living room, from which French doors led out to a neatly mown lawn at the back, complete with a small gazebo, garden shed, outdoor grill, bird feeder and patio with a green table and matching molded plastic chairs.

Bradley turned to Winsome. “Please let me apologize. I really didn't mean anything by what I said back there. I just sometimes feel like a bit of a dinosaur. Old habits die hard.”

“Indeed they do,” said Winsome. “That's all right, sir. I've been learning a lot recently about how things were back in the day. It's an education.”

“I'll bet.” Bradley clapped his hands. “Outside or in? No air conditioning, I'm afraid. Only an old fan.”

“Seeing as the weather's still holding up,” said Banks, “let's try outdoors.” The sky remained cloudy, and Banks could still feel that sort of electric crackle in the air that presaged a storm. He hoped it wouldn't hit before he and Winsome could set off back to Eastvale. Sometimes you got enormous hailstones in a summer storm, and visibility could quickly dwindle to practically nothing in no time.

“Excellent. Pam's just making a pot of tea. She'll be out with it shortly.”

As they walked through the living room, Banks noticed that the floor-to-ceiling collection of first-edition crime fiction he remembered from his previous visit was still there.

“Pam complains endlessly about the books and the space they take up,” Bradley said, “but what can I do? She came up with a one in, one out scheme, but I'm afraid it's not working too well. Some of these people just keep on writing. And it's not only the collecting, you know. I do read them all.”

“But surely you must find their stories a bit different from the reality you remember?”

“You're not a fan?”

“I can't say I am. I've read a bit of Christie and Doyle, of course, but I don't really think anyone was expected to believe that their exploits in any way reflected reality. I prefer spy thrillers, myself.”

“Oh, I'm definitely with you on espionage fiction. Le Carré, Eric Ambler, Len Deighton, Alan Furst. Among the best. But do you know, that whole realism bit never really bothers me in the least. Sure, they get the procedures and the lingo wrong, but that's not such a terrible thing. And the lingo changes all the time. I bet I wouldn't understand a word if I found myself back in the old cop shop again. No, as long as the stories are gripping and the cops are interesting characters, I'm fine with it. What do you think, DS Jackman?”

“I'm afraid I don't have much time for reading,” Winsome said. “But when I do, I prefer nonfiction. History. Biography. Nature writing. That sort of thing.”

“Admirable.”

“And when I read crime fiction,” Winsome went on, “I prefer mine hard-boiled and American. Chandler, MacDonald—both of them—and Hammett. When men were men and dames were broads.”

Bradley gave a little bow. “Of course. What exquisite taste.”

Banks gave Winsome a quizzical look, but she gave him inscrutable back. They sat at the patio table, and almost before they had made themselves comfortable, Bradley's wife, Pam, came out to say hello and serve tea, saying she hoped Earl Grey was all right, but she always thought it more refreshing than Darjeeling on a warm day. Banks had often wondered how tea could be so perfect for such weather, but it was. They thanked her, and she disappeared back inside the house.

Bradley must be about seventy now, Banks calculated, but he was still in good shape. He had lost a bit of hair since the last visit, but he hadn't put on any weight, and nor did he seem any more stooped or stiffer with age. With his sharp-creased white trousers and short-sleeve V-neck pullover, despite the heat, he resembled a cricketer at the start of play, though it was probably regular rounds of golf, not
cricket, that kept him in shape. Maybe a little tennis, too. Banks made a note to get more exercise, though he knew he probably wouldn't do it. Two five- or six-mile walks a week and regular shorter strolls near his cottage seemed to suit him fine. And he still had the kind of metabolism that kept him trim no matter what he ate or drank.

“This is one of the things some people find hard to believe in detective novels and on TV,” said Bradley gesturing to the cups of tea and plate of biscuits. “The tea or coffee. Especially Americans. Seems too genteel and twee to them, I suppose. I don't think their coppers are quite so well treated when they come calling.”

“I could just imagine someone offering the Continental Op a cup of tea,” Winsome said.

They all laughed.

“But it happens all the time here,” said Banks. “Sometimes I think we ought to have toilets installed in our cars.”

Bradley put his cup down, tilted his head to one side and stroked his cheek with his index finger. “Unless I'm very much mistaken, it seems that having worked for DI Chadwick is going to haunt me for the rest of my days.”

“Remind me how long you worked with him.”

“I was a DC for Chiller from 1966 to 1971, when I transferred to Suffolk CID.”

“Chiller?” said Winsome.

“Nickname,” explained Bradley. “He was a bit of an icy sort of character. Cool in the extreme, and I don't mean in the ‘hip' sort of way.”

“And DI Chadwick died in 1973?” Banks said.

“Right. We didn't really keep in touch after I left. I just heard through the grapevine, which could be slow in those days.”

“Was there a rift of some sort?”

“Not at all. It was just our way. I moved on. Chiller let go with both hands.”

“How's your memory of 1967?”

“How could I forget? It was the year that hippies suddenly became a worldwide phenomenon. Oh, they'd been around a while, probably
since '65 or so, even in Leeds, but '67 was the breakout year, when the newspapers all got in on the act. San Francisco. Wear some flowers in your hair, and so on. Chiller hated the buggers.”

“The Summer of Love.”

“Ah, yes. The Summer of Drugs, we called it. You have to remember, I was a bit of a young fogey, too.” He smiled at Winsome. “Pinstripe suit, short hair, shirt and tie. DS Enderby was the one who drew Chiller's wrath by letting his hair grow over his collar. Have you talked to him yet this time, by the way?”

“I don't think he'll be able to help us,” said Banks. “He only worked with the two of you on the Linda Lofthouse murder, didn't he?”

“That's right. He was from your neck of the woods. North Yorkshire.”

“Well, this a West Yorkshire matter, or West Riding, as they used to call it.”

“OK. Shoot, and I'll see what I can do.”

Banks told him first about Linda Palmer's visit to Chadwick and the complaint he had seen in the occurrence book. While he talked, Bradley listened intently, taking an occasional sip of tea. When Banks had finished, there was a brief silence.

“Danny Caxton,” Bradley said. “There's a blast from the past.”

“Still around.”

“Yes, I've been hearing about him on the news now and again. Hence the interest, I assume?”

“Well, I think there's a certain kind of justice in proving someone's long-ago crimes when they've been so arrogant and so bullying they think they've got away with them.”

“But it was a different age,” Bradley argued. “The sixties. Especially '67.”

“That's what everyone seems to say. Believe it or not, I've considered that argument, and the times. I enjoyed the late sixties. The permissiveness was great for young people, but I don't think it extended as far as rape.”

“You believe this woman's story?”

“I do. There are others, too, with similar tales to tell. But this one's my case. I just want to know if you can remember anything about that
period in Chadwick's career, if he said anything to you about it. I know it's a long time ago, but some little thing might have stuck in your mind.”

“I remember him saying there was a complaint about Danny Caxton,” Bradley said. “I remember that well. It was a hot summer's day, like we've been having up until now. I never saw the girl who made the complaint and, as I said, as far as I know, it never went anywhere. She came in with her mother, I think.”

“So there was no investigation?”

“Not as I remember. Chiller said it was something to do with Blackpool, so not really our case.”

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

“The incident—alleged incident—took place in Blackpool a bit more than a week before the complaint was registered in Leeds.”

“I certainly never heard any more about it. I assumed he'd passed it on to Blackpool or West Lancashire CID. It would have been their call.”

“We've checked and double-checked, and we can't find any record with Lancashire. There's only the occurrence book entry with the Leeds Police. They don't remember anything about it.”

“Then it can't have gone any further. I mean, it's hardly surprising Blackpool wouldn't want anything to do with it. Summer season's big business there. Lots of name stars. Lots of paying customers. Mustn't upset the apple cart.”

“Could it have been buried?”

“That's possible,” Bradley admitted, scratching his cheek. “Things did go astray on occasion, and there wasn't exactly anything to bury, was there, if as far as it went was an occurrence book entry? As I said, it was another time. Different rules. Besides, Danny Caxton was a big shot around the station. Rubbed shoulders with the chief constable. I think even Chiller got to go to one of his dinner dances, but not the lowly likes of yours truly.”

“Too bad.”

“Oh, I don't know. I wasn't a fan myself. More of a Mantovani man.”

It was certainly true about the different rules back then, Banks
knew. The advent of the PACE rules in the eighties along with the updating or repealing of many old acts had changed policing a great deal. On the other hand, Banks thought, there were bent coppers taking bribes to look the other way and lose evidence today, just as there were back then. Maybe it was a bit harder to get away with it these days—so many watchdogs—but it still happened. And sometimes orders came from above to look the other way if a notable person was involved, especially if said notable person had something on notable police persons. That was human nature, and it could only be tempered by rules and law, not completely controlled. You could slide about on the moral scale as much as you wanted, or you could convince yourself that you were certain what was right and what was wrong. Whichever way Banks thought about it, however, ignoring a fourteen-year-old girl's claims of having been brutally raped came under “wrong.” But he realized there was no sense in arguing moral relativism or the tenor of the times with Bradley. The man had been a lowly DC, and it had been nearly fifty years ago. As he said, another age. Best stick to trying to prize out a bit more information.

“Caxton lived in Otley at the time,” Banks said. “And he was a local big shot. Charity events and the like. Prime high-ranks territory out there, isn't it? Lawnswood? Bramhope? Poole?”

“You think he put the kibosh on it? I'm not saying it couldn't have happened that way,” Bradley admitted. “But it's more likely there was simply no substance to the complaint. No leads. Nothing to investigate. If the case was buried, though, the orders would have had to have come from higher up than Chiller.”

“How did he seem about it?”

Bradley scratched his temple. “He was a bit broody for a while. He had his moods, did Chiller. I suppose it could have been something to do with that, you know, being told to lay off. He wouldn't have liked that. Very much his own man, was Chiller. I would imagine that whether or not he thought Caxton might be guilty of such a thing, he'd have liked to have had a look into it himself, just to satisfy his curiosity. But there was nothing he could do by himself, going up against someone like Caxton against orders. That's the stuff of fiction and, for all his courage, he valued his job.”

“So he took it seriously?”

“I'd say he was disturbed by it, yes, but I still think he would have found it hard to believe such a thing of a bloke like Caxton.”