When the Music's Over (43 page)

“It's a one-man business,” he said, “so I apologize for the mess. I have to do my own books and orders and everything. Even make the tea.”

“Must be a full-time job with all the deliveries, too,” said Annie.

“More than full-time.”

“Why not take on some help?”

“Can't afford it. The profit margin's slim in this line of work. Besides, I can manage. When I can't, I know it'll be time for me to retire.”

“Anywhere in mind?”

“I've been saving. I had the Costa del Sol in mind at one time but Spain's gone bust these days, like my savings. I'll probably end up in a caravan park in Scunthorpe.”

Annie laughed. “You could at least try Redcar. It's a bit closer to home.”

“Aye, maybe I will, at that.” The kettle boiled, and Nuttall busied himself filling the teapot and making sure the mugs he picked from the shelf were clean. He brought milk and sugar out of one of the filing cabinets and set them on the table. When he'd finished he glanced at Wilson. “Brought the boss this time, have you, lad? It must be serious.”

“We hope not,” said Wilson. “We just need to go over one or two points with you.” He took out his notebook and Annie picked up the
questioning, starting by identifying the VW Transporter by its number, color and logo.

“Is that the only transport you have?” she asked.

“It is. It's big enough for my deliveries and it doubles as a decent-enough car for any personal trips I might wish to make.”

“Now, the last time DC Wilson was here, you told him you had a delivery in Southampton on the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-second of July, and that you drove down there from here during the night of the twenty-first. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Do you often drive at night?”

“Long distances, yes. It saves time, and I enjoy it. Gives me time to think. I'm not married. I live alone, so it doesn't matter whether I'm in or out. Sometimes I listen to books on tape or on the radio. LBC. I like Darren Adam and Steve Allen.”

Annie shifted in her seat and leaned back as much as she could. “Well, it's a serious case,” she said, “so we did a routine check with the dealer in Southampton, a Mr. Rodney Pomfret—is that correct?”

“Rodney. Yes.”

“His records seem to indicate that you made the delivery two days earlier, on the Monday morning. Which means you must have driven to Southampton on Sunday night.”

“I'm not being charged with breaking the Sabbath, am I?”

“Not this time. We'll let that one slip by. But it's a bit of a discrepancy, isn't it? Two days.”

Nuttall scratched his head. “I was sure it was Tuesday,” he said. “I must have got the days mixed up. Old age catching up with me. My memory's not been that good lately. Maybe I drove back on Tuesday night.”

“Afraid not,” Annie said. “Your car was definitely traveling in the other direction. It appeared on CCTV footage in the area we're interested in at the relevant time in the early hours of Tuesday morning. That's the big roundabout at the southern end of Market Street in Eastvale. Do you know it?”

“I know it.”

“Why didn't you stick to the A1 and M1?”

“I prefer to take the country roads. They're more interesting. Quieter. Contemplative.”

“Even at night, when you can't really see anything?”

“There's not as much traffic. The motorways are still busy at night. Everyone drives too fast. It's more peaceful than speeding along in three or four lanes with some bugger always on your tail and people overtaking without signaling. Not to mention the drunks driving home late from clubbing.”

“I know what you mean. But can you see our problem? If you weren't driving the van to Southampton when you said you were, what were you doing at the Eastvale roundabout that night? You must have brought the van back Monday, maybe also overnight, or even during the day Monday or Tuesday. Don't you remember?”

“Not for the life of me. It must have been another delivery. Tuesday night. I go all over the country.”

“Where did you go that time? Exeter? Birmingham? Shrewsbury? When do you sleep?”

“I can't remember. I do seem to be getting a bit muddled. Maybe it's lack of sleep.”

DC Wilson looked at Annie for the OK, then said, “We'd really like you to help us out a bit here, Mr. Nuttall. It's a muddle we need to get sorted. You must have records, surely? For tax purposes, at least. Receipts from petrol stations and so on.”

Nuttall gave Wilson a sharp glance. “I keep my taxes in order, young lad, don't you be fretting about that.”

“Where were you going in the van at two o'clock on Tuesday night?” Annie asked. “It's not meant to be a difficult question.”

“Let me see . . .” Nuttall examined a large desk diary, running his finger down the page. “Bristol. That's it. It must have been Bristol.”

“May I?” Annie gestured for the diary. Reluctantly, Nuttall turned it around to face her. “That was the previous week, Mr. Nuttall,” she said. “The fourteenth of July. It's the twenty-first I'm talking about. More accurately, the early hours of the twenty-second.”

Nuttall said nothing, just picked at imaginary threads on his overalls.

“Mr. Nuttall,” Annie went on, “something's not right here, is it?
We need to know what it is. What you're not telling us. If you haven't done anything wrong, then you've nothing to worry about. Were you driving your car in the vicinity of Bradham Lane on the night of Tuesday, the twenty-first of July, around two in the morning?”

“No,” said Nuttall, looking at her with frightened eyes. “I didn't go out at all that night. I didn't feel well. I remember now.”

“Then who was driving your van?”

“I don't know. Someone must have borrowed it.”

“Do people often borrow it without your permission?”

“No.”

“Well, then . . .”

“It must have been stolen.”

“But you didn't report it stolen.”

“They must have brought it back before I noticed. That's what happened. It was there the next morning, so I never realized it had been gone.”

“Don't you check the fuel gauge? The mileage. For tax purposes.”

“I must have forgotten that time.”

“Have you been out in it since, Mr. Nuttall? Since the night it was ‘stolen' and returned?”

“No. Just for a couple of local deliveries, like. No overnights.”

That meant there could still be forensic traces, if the VW Transporter had been involved in Mimosa Moffat's murder. “OK,” said Annie. “I'm losing my patience just a little bit here, Mr. Nuttall. No matter what, we're going to take your van in for forensic examination immediately. Now you can cooperate with us here and now, or you can come in to the station in Eastvale with us and we can talk further there while we wait for the results. Either way, I simply want you to tell the truth. I don't think you've done anything terribly wrong. I don't know what you're afraid of, but believe me, whatever it is, it won't be worse than getting charged with murder, which is what will happen if you don't come clean.”

Nuttall swallowed. “Murder?”

“That's right.”

“I haven't murdered anyone.”

“Then tell us the truth.”

“But he wouldn't, not . . .”

“Not who, Mr. Nuttall? Do you know who “‘borrowed'” your car that night?”

Nuttall nodded.

“Tell me.”

There was a long pause as Nuttall seemed to consider his options. Finally, he took a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket and asked if he could smoke. Normally Annie would have said no right off the bat, but she nodded reluctantly. Anything that might help him talk. It was his office, after all. The acrid sulfur of the match and smoke from the cigarette irritated her nostrils. She edged back a couple of inches and sipped some tea. She watched a black cat picking its way across the pile of tires in the yard and let the silence stretch.

“I can't do it all myself,” Nuttall said finally. “So I have a lad to make some runs for me.”

“Why didn't you tell us this before?”

“Because it's not on the books. I don't pay him much, not as much as I'd have to if it was official, like. And there's no tax, no worries, just cash in hand. He's always been a good lad. I can't believe he'd do anything like you've been talking about.”

“Was this lad driving your van on the night in question?”

“Aye. He'd done a delivery that day in Sheffield, and he had a pickup the following day from a scrap dealer in Sunderland, some parts from an old Humber, so I told him to just park the van where he lived, save him coming all this way in the morning. He's done it before. What are you going to do to me? Are you going to report me?”

“Not if you tell me what I want to know. Who is it? What's his name?”

There was another pause as Nuttall sucked long on the cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled it, he looked down, as if ashamed by what he was doing, and whispered, “Albert. Albert Moffat is his name. He lives in Wytherton.”

“
WHAT THE
hell are you doing here?” Annie barked at Gerry as Gerry walked through the squad room door, her shoulder braced, arm in a sling. They were the only two in there.

“I don't want to miss anything, guv,” Gerry said. “We've put a lot of hours into this. It's near the end, I can feel it. I don't want to be lying in some hospital bed twiddling my thumbs.”

“Did the doctor release you?”

“I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me. My collarbone's just cracked, not broken. I didn't have any concussion or any hidden injuries, so they let me go.”

“You should have gone home. If you're still on painkillers, you're no use to us.”

“I haven't taken any more yet.” Gerry grimaced as she lowered herself into her chair, using her good hand on the desk for balance.

“OK,” said Annie, sitting on her desk. “That was a bloody stupid thing you did last night. You could have got yourself killed.”

“Sorry, guv. I didn't see any other way. Is there any news on Jade?”

“Not yet. She isn't in Leicester yet, and the foster brother says he hasn't seen or heard from her in months. We've got a bulletin out. Her real name's Carol Fisher, by the way. But that's not the point. What do you mean you didn't see any other way? You broke just about every rule in the book. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I should imagine the ACC or Chief Superintendent Gervaise will have a few ideas about that, guv. As I remember they were both dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because of me.”

Annie managed a thin smile. “That's true.”

“What would you have done, guv, given the opportunity? I didn't have a lot of time to make my mind up. It sounded like a one-time offer with a short expiry date to me.”

“That doesn't excuse what you did.”

“But I got a result. Doesn't that go some way towards exonerating me? Besides, what should I have done? Called Superintendent Carver? Have him send in the heavy squad? You know what he's like. Or Reg and Bill, maybe?”

“You could have called
me
.”

“I . . . I'm sorry. I thought I had a rapport with Jade. She trusted me. I didn't want to do something that might throw her or cause her to back off.”

“You did well, Gerry,” Annie said. “It's just . . . I've been there, you know, the wrong place at the wrong time. I still have nightmares.”

“Nothing happened.”

Annie gestured toward Gerry's shoulder. “Tell that to the officers investigating the incident. And they will, you mark my words.”

“I'll deal with that when it happens,” said Gerry. “Let them demote me.”

Annie laughed. “They can't demote you. You're as low as they come to start with.”

Gerry blushed. “You know what I mean. Put me back on probation again.”

“Or traffic.”

Gerry bit her lip. “Would they do that?”

“Who knows? You're right. Worry about it when it happens. Until then, consider yourself bollocked by your supervising officer.”

“Yes, guv. What are we going to do next?”

Annie explained about Jim Nuttall and his VW Transporter, at present in pieces in the police garage. The CSIs already thought they had identified small quantities of blood around the brake pedal and accelerator, and Jazz Singh was checking it against Mimosa's. They were also searching for anything to connect the car with Albert Moffat. At the moment, Annie said she was waiting for the CSIs to report, then she would be talking to Albert again. He may not have been as drunk as he was acting last Tuesday, and when Warner fell asleep, he might well have decided to take matters into his own hands. How that ended up with Mimsy Moffat dead on the Bradham Road was a mystery yet to be solved.

“What about Sunny?”

“Oh, yes. I think we'll have another long talk with him, don't you? And his mates. This thing clearly stretches a lot further than we thought it did. It's more than just four blokes and seven girls in Wytherton. It sounds like some sort of exclusive club. We'll have to try and worm as many names and locations as possible out of Sunny and the others, as well as the girls themselves and the cousins in Dewsbury.”

“Can I sit in on the interviews?”

Annie didn't say anything.

“Go on, boss. Please! I promise I won't say anything.”

Annie let the silence drag on a while longer, then she said, “Well, you'd be no bloody use to me if you didn't chip in now and then, would you? But it's going to be complicated. We'll need to work out a strategy. Are you sure you're up for it?”

B
ANKS WAS STILL TRYING TO GUESS FROM CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT
Gervaise's tone on the telephone what he was likely to be walking into when he went up to her office, as requested. At least she was alone in there, he thought, with some relief after he had knocked and entered. No Adrian Moss, Superintendent Carver or ACC McLaughlin. She even offered him coffee, which he accepted, and they sat down at her circular glass conference table, not the more formal desk.

“Guess what, Alan,” she said. “I've had a call from the chief constable.”

“I was wondering when that would happen. I'm surprised it took so long.”

“Apparently, Danny Caxton's lawyer Bernard Feldman called and complained about police harassment. He's had two visits in the last two days, it seems, one of them from you.”

“So what do we do, pack up our tents and go home?”

“Hold your horses, oh ye of little faith. If you want the short version, our erstwhile lord and master told him to sod off.”

“He what? The CC told Feldman to sod off?”

“And Caxton. Uh-huh.”

“So they never played golf together.”

“The CC had a message for you, too.”

“What?”

Gervaise leaned forward. “‘Put the bastard away.' So it's my brief to ask you if you're any closer to doing just that. What's brewing, in other words? Are we going to put the bastard away?”

Banks scratched his temple. “Well, to be honest, I've been preoccupied with Annie's case this past little while—as you might have noticed—we're very short-staffed.”

“Budget cuts, Alan, budget cuts. Make do and mend.”

“I know, I know. I was lucky to get the promotion when I did, blah-blah-blah. Even so, things have been a bit hectic, as you know.”

“So you've made no progress?”

“I'm not saying that. No need to take your coffee back. I've had my team of highly trained elves working on it night and day.”

“And what has DS Jackman come up with?”

“She's been digging deep into Caxton's past, and she's come up with plenty since we talked to him yesterday. You know we think he was involved in the murder of Tony Monaghan?”

“Yes.”

“Naturally, there's no hard evidence. It's all disappeared, if it ever existed. But we do have a little more powder to add to our arsenal.”

“Circumstantial?”

“Most of it is, yes. But there are witnesses. Linda Palmer. Simon Bradley.”

“OK. So what did your ‘elves' dig up?”

“Three things of immediate significance, I think. In the first place, remember Linda Palmer saw that photo on the front page of the
Yorkshire Evening Post
for the twenty-seventh of October, 1967, just two weeks after Monaghan's murder? It shows Caxton, with a big cheesy grin on his face, handing over a check—well one of those enormous, fake checks, if you know what I mean—for ten thousand pounds for the Police Widows and Orphans Fund. As you can imagine, that was a lot of money in those days. We've got a bit more on it now.”

“Where did this money come from?”

“Caxton raised it through telethons and fund-raising drives, personal appearances and the like.”

“Well, we can hardly fault the man for raising money for charity.”

“It's not so much that, it's who's in the picture with him. I'll have a copy sent up to you later. For a start, Caxton's handing the check to Chief Constable Edward Crammond, who Simon Bradley told me was behind axing the investigation into Monaghan's murder around the time the picture was taken. Also present was Detective Chief Superintendent Dennis McCullen, DI Chadwick's SIO on the case.”

“Are you saying that the charitable donation was a bribe?”

“No, not at all,” said Banks. “You couldn't do things like that, even then. It's just one of a number of things that show how close Caxton was linked to the local constabulary at the time. He was known to be a mate of Crammond's, same golf club and all, best seats at Headingley for the test match every year. Winsome's still digging to see if she can find more.”

“It's not much, though, is it,” said Gervaise, the tip of her pencil against her Cupid's bow lips.

“What do you mean? Not worth a refill?” Banks held out his empty cup.

“Cheeky bastard.” Gervaise grinned. “But you can get it yourself.”

Banks did. “So that's one investigation we've still got going on,” he said. “Caxton's relationship with local men of influence, especially high-ranking police officers. And you can bet that'll spiral when the other counties get as deeply stuck into their investigations as we have and start looking for lost statements and the like.”

“Are you saying that Caxton was involved in Monaghan's murder and got Crammond to put a lid on the investigation?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“It had better be more than ‘something like' if Adrian and the press ever get hold of it, let alone if it goes to court.”

“I realize that. But there's more. Simon Bradley mentioned a witness, a student who was crossing Hyde Park the same night Monaghan was killed. From what Bradley can remember, the lad saw two men carrying a third between them. He appeared drunk, but could have been dead. It could have been Monaghan.”

“Could have been? Did he get a good look? Does Bradley remember the details? Can we locate this student?”

“No. But Bradley does remember the young lad said the men were
scary enough that he made sure they didn't see him. He said he thought they were bruisers of some sort, a couple of burly blokes with no necks and shaved heads.”

“And?”

“And after a bit of digging, Winsome came up with the Stott brothers, a couple of burly blokes with shaved heads and no necks, one of whom was a boxer.”

“And they were?”

“A couple of local Leeds villains, muscle, enforcement, mercenary. Both dead now. One by violence. Winsome's trying to find out more about them, but the one link we do have is that they were bouncers at a Bradford disco Caxton part-owned around the time of Monaghan's murder. They also ran a Leeds boxing club he supported. One of his ‘youth' projects. Apparently the disco was a place Caxton used to like to visit, we think because he liked the young girls it attracted. But as I say, Winsome's digging deeper. There's definitely a connection. Caxton
knew
the Stotts, and he could have hired them to kill Monaghan and make it look like a gay murder. They were known to favor switchblades, as well as their fists.”

“Was Monaghan killed by a switchblade?”

“We don't know,” said Banks. “All the files have disappeared, including the postmortem report and forensic examinations, if there were any.”

“Pity. It's still ‘could have,' Alan. And good luck to DS Jackman. After all this time, she'll need it. You know we'll never be able to prove that Caxton hired a couple of deceased thugs fifty years ago, don't you? You said three developments. What's the third? I hope it's a bit better than the last two.”

“Tony Monaghan's widow. You remember, Winsome said she was following up on that? Well, she discovered that Ursula Monaghan remarried in 1974 and became Ursula Pemberton. She was widowed for the second time in 2009, natural causes this time, and she now lives just up the Northumberland coast.”

“She's still alive?”

“As far as Winsome could gather. She checked the electoral rolls and DVLA in Swansea. Ursula Pemberton still votes, pays her council
tax and has a valid driving license. Think about it, if she was in her twenties in 1967 she'll be in her seventies now. That's not so old.”

“The sad thing is,” said Gervaise, “I can remember when it was.” She fingered a paper clip. “It's still not a lot, is it, and some of it's a bit of a stretch. There's not much you can do with any of it in court.”

“I know. It's all part of a bigger picture we're building up. We've got the CPS onside.”

“I understand that. I just hope the picture turns out to be what you think it will be, and you haven't forgotten to take the lens cap off, or just pointed the camera at your foot.”

Banks spread his hands. “Well, that's about where we are. You asked.”

“And Linda Palmer?”

“Linda Palmer will stand up. She's working on a sort of written memoir of her time in Blackpool. I suggested it. I thought it might bring back a few more details.”

“And has it?”

“Dunno. I haven't seen it yet. We were busy identifying Monaghan from the photo and finding out who he was.”

“Well, let's hope it jogs her memory.”

“We've got enough to go on already. Especially with the other cases non–executive director Burgess told me about. He wanted to be ‘Special Agent' so he's a bit disappointed with his rather dull title.”

Gervaise laughed.

“It's a bit of a mouthful, I know, but I don't know what else to call him.”

“From what I hear, ‘Dirty Dick' will still do nicely.”

Banks smiled. “That all, ma'am?”

“For the moment. Keep at it, Alan. Putting my reservations aside, we'll be jumping for joy if we can get Caxton on a conspiracy to commit murder charge as well as rape.”

“
CAN WE
talk to Albert?” Annie asked Sinead Moffat when she opened the door.

“You two again. I didn't think you'd have the bloody nerve to show your faces around here after what you've put us through.”

“Sinead, I'm sorry about the press and the house search and all, but it's out of my hands. Surely you must understand we have to do these things when something as serious as this happens? And as for them”—she gestured toward the pack of reporters beyond the gate— “it's their job, too, like it or not.”

A small crowd had gathered across the street, and Annie heard a shrill voice shout, “When are you going to do something about those Pakis instead of harassing poor honest decent folk? When are you going to put a stop to those murdering bastards?” The crowd roared its approval.

“You'd better come in,” said Sinead. “Before that lot stone you to death. Albert's in his room. Just go on up. And don't be too hard on the lad. Remember, he's just lost his sister.”

Annie and Gerry climbed the stairs of 14 Southam Terrace and knocked on Albert's door. They could hear music from inside, but it was playing quietly, and Albert quickly opened the door and asked them in.

“It's not a very big room, I'm afraid,” he said, turning the radio down, “but there's a couple of chairs. Sit down. What is it?”

Old clothes were draped over the upright chairs, and Albert quickly scooped them up and dropped them in the laundry basket. Annie felt a bit queasy about sitting where Albert's dirty underpants had been, but she swallowed her pride and her bile. The room was at the back of the house, so they couldn't hear or see the crowd of neighbors and reporters, just the slate roofs of the houses across the alley. Albert had his window partially open, which was a mercy, as he was smoking. He sat close to it and the smoke curled in the air as it caught the draft, which whisked it outside.

“Is it true that you've got them in custody?” Albert said. “The bastards that did our Mimsy?”

“It's true that we're talking to some people, yes, but there's no proof that any of them killed Mimosa yet.”

“I hope you deport them. They probably cut off people's heads for killing people back where they come from.”

Annie sighed. “They come from Wytherton, Albert. Unless things have changed since this morning, I don't think there'll be any deportation or decapitation.”

“You know what I mean.” He cast a glance at Gerry's sling. “You look as if you've been in the wars. What happened, trip over your truncheon?”

“Baton,” Gerry muttered. She leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. “As a matter of fact, I was set on by four lads not far from here. Asians. I think one of them was called Tariq. Know anyone by that name?”

Annie expected her to blush or offer some sort of reproof, but instead she had to congratulate her DC for knowing an opportunity when she saw one, and for seizing it.

“It figures,” said Albert. “They're getting everywhere these days, spreading like a pestilence, like a plague of rats.”

“Tariq? Mean anything?”

“No, but I can find out for you. Want him sorted out?”

“That's all right, thanks,” said Gerry. “We'll deal with him.”

“I'm sorry for what happened to you, but what do you expect? They're animals. They got no respect for their own women, so you can't expect them to have any for ours. I told you before, you can't trust the bastards, now maybe you'll start to see what I mean. It was them all along, wasn't it?”

Annie looked at Gerry again, worried she might show her revulsion about being thought of as one “of ours.” But she didn't. She just said, “I see,” and rubbed her shoulder. Annie found herself wondering whether Albert was laying it on so thick to divert them from any suspicions that
he
might have been involved.

“How can I help you this time?” Albert went on. He beamed at both of them, the picture of youthful innocence.

“The last time we talked,” Annie said, “you told us you didn't know about Mimosa's association with Sunny and his crowd until recently.”

“That's right. Day before she went missing, if I remember right.”

“And you hadn't told your family or any of your mates about it?”

“No. I didn't want them taking the piss out of me for having a sister who hung out with Pakis. Besides, it's none of their business.”

“And you really had no idea before then that Sunny and his friends were exploiting Mimosa, along with a number of other young girls from the estate?”

“No. How could I know that?”