When the Music's Over (44 page)

“Did you ever get the impression that she was frightened at all? Being made to do anything against her will?”

“No. She'd always brazen it out, would Mimsy.”

“OK,” said Annie. “Can we go back to that Tuesday night, the twenty-first of July?”

“The night it . . . you know?”

“Yes. The night it happened. Now, you told us before you were at Paul Warner's—”

Albert stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah, like I told you. We had a few bevvies in the Hope and Anchor, then went back to Paul's for a few more. You can ask him.”

“We have, Albert, and he says you were there.”

“Well, then?”

“You stayed there until what time?”

“Well, I woke up there the next morning with a fuck of a headache. I can't remember what time it was, but it was late.”

“You didn't go out again after going back to Paul's from the Hope and Anchor? Neither of you?”

“No. I've told you all this. We just chatted about stuff, you know, watched DVDs, played some music.”

“Do you remember much about the evening?”

“To be honest,” said Albert, “I'd had a few jars earlier as well, before the Hope and Anchor. I was pretty far gone by my third Special Brew.”

“So you don't remember much?”

“No. Just waking up on the couch, like, with a—”

“Yes, said Annie. “With a fuck of a headache.”

Albert pointed at her and giggled. “You got it.”

“Any drugs?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it just alcohol, or did you take any drugs?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Coke, amphetamines, marijuana.”

“The wacky baccy? No, I don't do that stuff. It makes you stupid. And Paul's not into drugs, either.”

“Were you fit to drive?”

“I should say not.”

“I understand you do a bit of driving on the side, though.”

Albert's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Driving. You know.” Annie stuck her arms out and mimed turning a steering wheel.

“I know what you mean, but what are you getting at?”

“Do you or don't you do some driving for a man called Jim Nuttall?”

“Jim?”

“Yes. He's got an auto parts business in Stockton, Specialist stuff. For collectors and the like.”

“I know Jim, yeah. So what? What did he tell you?”

“Do you make deliveries and pickups for him?”

“Yeah, but it's all legit stuff. It's nothing to do with drugs or anything. I just help out now and then. Us unemployed people got to take what we can get, you know.”

“I'm not saying it isn't legitimate, Albert. Did you have a delivery on Tuesday, during the day?”

“Well, yeah, as a matter of fact. I was in Sheffield in the afternoon. Got back about an hour or so before the meeting, parked the car at the back of Paul's, as usual, and got a couple down me in the Hope and Anchor.”

“And Wednesday?”

“Sunderland. Afternoon. I was a bit late. I had a f—”

“Yes, you've told us, Albert. Why didn't you tell us about this before?”

“I don't know. It didn't come up, did it? And I'd just heard about Mimsy. I was gutted.”

“Are you sure it wasn't because Jim Nuttall told you not to mention
it to anyone, that he could get into trouble for paying you cash under the counter and not running it through his books?”

“Whatever Jim does is up to him.”

“But he told you to keep quiet about it.”

“Well . . . yeah. There's no harm in that.”

“So between Tuesday evening, when you got back from Sheffield, and Wednesday afternoon, when you made the delivery in Sunderland, where was Mr. Nuttall's van parked?”

“I told you. Lane round the back of Paul's place.”

“Do you often park it there?”

“If I know we're likely to be going back there for a few bevvies and movies. But it depends. If I'm not working for a few days I'll take it back to Jim's yard and he'll give me a ride home from Stockton.”

“But on this occasion you were driving two days in a row?”

“Yeah. And the parts were small. Just little cogs, really, so I'd no need to go all the way back to Stockton between deliveries. What's all this about? It wasn't a big deal. Jim's a nice bloke, he's hardly a major criminal.”

“And you're sure you didn't drive it again that night?”

“Are you joking! I told you. I was pissed as a newt. You might think I'm a dangerous criminal or something, but one thing I don't do is drink and drive.”

“Doesn't stop some people.”

“No way.”

“Well, I'm puzzled,” Annie said. “Perhaps you can help me out.”

“Uh-huh?”

“You say Mr. Nuttall's van was parked in the lane behind Paul's flat all Tuesday night, so why do you think it showed up on CCTV footage heading for Bradham Lane close to two o'clock in the morning?”

“I don't know. There must be some sort of mistake. Those cameras aren't always reliable, you know. I had a mate once who—”

“Are you sure about this, Albert?” said Annie. “Because we think you're lying, and that's a very serious business. We think you brooded about Mimosa and her Asian friends. You either already knew she was going for a ride to Dewsbury that night, or you just took it into your mind to go down to Sunny's and break a window or two to vent your
anger, and you saw her leaving in a van with three men. You were curious. You followed. You held back a while before Bradham Lane because you thought your lights would be spotted following them down there, and you knew you could catch up with them later, somewhere there was likely to be a bit more traffic. It must have given you the shock of your life when you saw Mimosa walking up that lane towards you. Dirty, naked, bleeding. So you came to a stop just past her, and she turned and walked as best she could to the van. She must have thought it was a lifesaver, whoever it was. Did something snap? Was that it? Did she say something to you? Put you down? Did she laugh at you? Was that it? Or did she shame the family? Was it your version of an honor killing?”

“That's rubbish, that is. I told you I was at Paul's. He said so.”

“Paul's your mate, Albert. Either you waited until he passed out, or he's lying to protect you. Either way, we've got you for it. We're just waiting for the forensics on the van. It's my bet that neither you nor Mr. Nuttall have done a good-enough cleaning job on it to get rid of all the traces of Mimosa's blood. In the meantime, we'll be wanting your clothes and shoes for forensic examination. I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mimosa Moffat. Do you understand me, Albert? We're taking you into custody. Is that clear?”

Albert turned pale. “You're what?”

“We're arresting you, Albert, and we're taking you back to Eastvale. If you fail to say something now you later rely on in court it may go against you. Anything you do say may be used in court. You'll be hearing that again before we start the official interview at the station. You're entitled to a lawyer, and if you don't have one we'll provide one for you.”

Albert was shaking his head as Annie spoke, and when she'd finished, he slumped in his chair and folded his arms. “I think I will have that lawyer you mentioned,” he said.

A FRESH
breeze skidded off the North Sea and bent the long fat blades of lush green grass through which the trodden path meandered along the cliff top. Across the sparkling blue water stood the tidal
island of Lindisfarne, Holy Island, consisting of a village, a small castle on a hill and a ruined priory where St. Aidan and St. Cuthbert had lived, and where the exquisite Lindisfarne Gospels had been painstakingly illuminated in the eighth century. The island was connected to the mainland by a mile-long causeway, which at the moment was covered by the tide. Banks and Ursula Pemberton were walking on the edge of the cliffs with her dogs, two fine Irish setters. Ursula was a hearty, outdoorsy type, wearing loose-fitting jeans and a thin polo-neck sweater against the slight chill off the sea. She had a ruddy, weather-beaten face, and her tight gray curls hardly moved in the wind. Banks reckoned she must be about ten years older than Linda Palmer.

“It's a stunning view,” said Banks.

“Yes. It never fails to send a shiver up my spine,” said Ursula. “And I don't mean the wind. It's that sense of history being close enough to grasp, more real than what you get on the news every day. It invigorates me. I don't know how I lived without it for so many years.”

That sounded like something of a romantic notion to Banks, but it made him think of
Briggflatts
, the Basil Bunting poem he had listened to on CD since hearing Mark Knopfler's song “Basil.” There was something about that mix of landscape, history and lost love that struck a chord deep inside him. Maybe it was all connected with the expulsion from the Garden of Eden. At any rate, Ursula Pemberton was right. He felt it here, too, on the Northumberland coast, just as he did in Whitby, and even in Eastvale, itself no stranger to history, with an eleventh-century castle reputed to have been one of the many temporary prisons to Mary Queen of Scots.

“There's plenty of history in London,” Banks said. “Some would argue far more than up here.”

“Yes. It's true enough, isn't it? The Tower and St. Paul's and all that. It's not a competition, I know. I suppose I just wasn't paying attention when we lived there. It was all a bit in your face. It seems more subtle and mystical here, but the connection is more direct. The pace of life gives you time to pay attention to its depths. In London there's always something else going on—the noise, the crowds. Superficial usually. Parties. Theater. I don't think I ever really stopped to look at the past
there. Not really look. But then I was a modern young sixties woman, newly wed, living for the moment, not the old and the antique, except as far as clothes were concerned. I suppose it's not so much the place as me, is it?”

“I'd guess it's a bit of both.”

“A confluence? Perhaps. But you didn't come all this way to listen to an old woman prattle on about history. What can I help you with, Superintendent? You were very circumspect on the telephone.”

“Was I? I suppose it's a delicate subject. It's about your first husband.”

“Tony?”

“Yes.”

She stared out to sea. It must have been the wind, Banks thought, that made her eyes water. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes.” She called to the dogs and they carried on walking. “It was a long time ago. Nearly fifty years. Just an acid flashback, as we used to say.”

“You took drugs?”

“Superintendent! Tony and I were an educated, hip couple-about-town. This was London in the mid-sixties. Tony was in advertising, so we hung out with a lot of artists and would-be writers, filmmakers, photographers and models: Jean Shrimpton, Terence Stamp, David Bailey. What do you think? Not that I'd ever admit to having said so.”

Banks smiled. “I think the statute of limitations on that ran out a long time ago.”

“Good. I know I certainly put it behind me. So what is it you want to know about Tony?”

“What sort of man was he?”

“My goodness, that's a hard one. I mean, I wouldn't know where to begin. He was a good man, certainly, quick to laugh, but serious when need be. He had gravitas. He was also considerate, attentive, loving. He
listened
. So many people I find these days just like to talk endlessly about themselves. You know the kind. While you're talking you can tell they're just thinking about what they're going to say next. But Tony was a genuine listener. He was funny, too, he could make me
laugh. He liked to experiment, try new things, but I think at heart he was a traditionalist, a family man. It was as much the times we were living in as anything. We were thinking of starting a family, you know, when . . . when it happened.”

“Would you say Tony was a weak man?”

“No, I wouldn't say weak. He was certainly impressionable, suggestible, perhaps easily led. But he knew where to draw the lines. He had a moral compass, fiber, whatever you call it. He was honest, even if it was at his own cost. He was certainly capable of standing up for what he believed was right.”

Something had clearly gone askew with Tony Monaghan's moral compass, Banks thought, if what Linda Palmer had told him was true. And he believed her. Why would she lie? The thing was that perhaps a man like Monaghan, the way his widow described him, might in a mad moment lose his direction in order to try a new experience, perhaps be led astray by someone else's charisma, as she had said. And if Tony Monaghan was half the man she said he was, if he did lose his way, it would torment him. And if that torment made itself known to, say, Caxton, and appeared to threaten him in any way . . . Caxton was a powerful and charismatic man.

“How long did you live in London?” Banks asked.

“I was born there. Cricklewood. I left in my early thirties. That was five years after Tony died. He was twenty-seven when he was killed.

“How long had you been married?”

“Five years. I know it seems very young, but people did things like that back then. He'd just come out of university and was starting in the advertising business, and I'd graduated from secretarial college. I mostly temped until Tony started making enough to live on. We were so happy. It's hard to believe in all the optimism of youth these days. Everything seems so bleak and futureless. But despite the bomb and Kennedy's assassination and all the rest of the terrible things that went on, there was hope. It was somehow more palpable then. Or am I looking back through rose-colored glasses the way I'm looking at Lindisfarne now? Life must have been tough there back in the eighth century.” A gust of wind ruffled her curls.

Banks remembered his early days with Sandra and the kids in Kennington
. They were good times, certainly, and often full of joy, even though he was doing a job that constantly brought him into contact with the worst elements of society. “We all romanticize the past to some extent,” he said. “You know, every childhood summer was glorious, every spring a new birth. And every winter there was enough snow for sledding and building snowmen and having snowball fights and the occasional day off school, but never so much that it made life miserable. I suppose there must be at least a grain of truth in it.”