When the Music's Over (45 page)

“Yes. A grain, perhaps. Oh, Tony and I argued from time to time, but nothing serious, just little things.”

“So you'd say on the whole it was a happy marriage?”

“For as long as it lasted. Yes. Except . . .”

“What?”

“Towards the end.”

“What happened then?”

“Shall we sit down for few moments?” She patted her chest. “I do get a little out of breath sometimes these days.”

They came to a bench. There was a brass plaque screwed to the backrest that said: “This bench is erected in honor of Private Charles Waters, 1920–1944, by his widow Judith Waters. Let all who sit here contemplate the beauty and the brevity of life.” Private Charles Waters hadn't lived as long as Tony Monaghan, Banks thought, and both had met violent deaths.

“I always like to sit here when I bring the dogs for a walk,” Ursula said. “I don't know why.” They faced the sea, Lindisfarne off to their right amid the other Farne Islands, mostly nature reserves for seabirds. Gulls swooped and squawked above them. The dogs sat at Ursula's feet, panting hard after their exertions on the cliffs. Banks let the silence stretch for a few moments while Ursula got her breath back.

“When did things start going wrong?” he asked after a while.

“Nothing really went wrong, at least not at first. It was just that Tony started changing. He became more moody, more preoccupied, spent more time away from home. It was part of his job, of course, but I do think the long separations took their toll on us.”

“Did you worry about him being unfaithful?”

She shot him a sideways glance. “It wasn't so much that. I'm not
saying it never entered my mind. He was a very good-looking man. But no . . . it was more . . . we were just used to being together. Silly, really. Almost like an old couple. Comfortable.”

“When did that start to change?”

“When he started working for Danny Caxton. I presume that's why you're talking to me about all this? I do still read the newspapers.”

“I'm handling the case,” Banks said. “At least part of it. So anything you can tell me might be of use.”

“Anything that could be of use in putting away that evil bastard would be all right with me.”

Banks stared at her, shocked by the outburst. “You met him?”

She gave a harsh laugh. “When the agency found that Tony seemed to have a penchant for rubbing shoulders with the stars of the entertainment world, the little wife always got to meet the big names. Kept her happy, didn't it? Gave her something to tell her dull, boring suburban housewife friends about at coffee mornings. Except we didn't have any dull, boring suburban housewife friends, and I never attended coffee mornings. I'd be talking about Ginsberg and Burroughs or the latest Godard or Antonioni film with a bunch of unemployed artists smoking Gauloises in the pub, more likely. And they didn't give a damn about the Danny Caxtons of this world. Meeting Danny Caxton was supposed to be one of the perks.”

“I gather you didn't exactly like him?”

“That was my personal feeling, yes. Right from the start. Have you ever met someone who repulsed you at first sight? I don't mean because of looks, ugliness, or anything like that—Danny Caxton was as handsome as they come—but for want of a better word, because of something you sense inside, something wrong. Something evil.”

“Once or twice,” said Banks. “It's an occupational hazard.”

“Yes. I suppose it must be in your job. That's what I felt about Danny Caxton, right from the start. After that, I did my best to avoid him.”

“Have you any idea what it was about him that repulsed you so?”

“No. That's the problem. I can't really put it into words. There's nothing concrete at all. Nothing he said or did I can put my finger on. He was always pleasant and charming to me. There was just something
reptilian about him. He gave me the impression of a man who took what he wanted without qualms. I know he was an actor, and it probably came naturally, but I felt that every word, every gesture, every expressed feeling was fake, was something deliberate, to get an effect or produce one on the listener, to misdirect or to convince people he was just like one of us, when he wasn't at all. As if he was wearing a mask.”

Banks had heard people talk like that about psychopaths: the learned, simulated responses, knowing when it would be normal to laugh, when to pretend to shed a tear. “And your husband?” he asked. “What did Tony think?”

“I think Tony was rather dazzled by him. Certainly the first time they worked together—1966, I think it was—life went on much as normal. It was only later that he started to change.”

“In 1967?”

“Yes. During the summer season at Blackpool. I didn't see a lot of him over those few months, but I've never seen him so glad as when it was over and he could come home to stay. Or so he thought. He would have stayed at home, too, but Danny Caxton wanted him back, and Tony's boss wanted to keep the client happy. So off he went to Leeds for Christmas panto season.”

“What exactly did he do?”

“He handled the press, of course, interviews, TV appearances and the like, he arranged visits to open supermarkets and so on, booked hotels, arranged transportation if it was necessary, decided who should and who shouldn't be admitted to The Presence.”

“Quite a responsibility. Didn't Caxton have others to do all that for him?”

“Nothing was too much for Danny Caxton. He said that Tony was his right-hand man and he'd be lost without him, so back Tony went. He was uneasy about it, but he was doing well in the firm, and he didn't believe his contract with Caxton would last forever, so he just thought he'd grit his teeth and see it through, do his job, then maybe the promotion he'd been after would materialize.”

“He'd been promised a promotion for working with Caxton?”

“Not in so many words, but his boss certainly gave the impression that it wouldn't do his future career prospects any harm.”

“Is he still alive, this boss?”

“Walter Philby? I've no idea. Given that he was about fifty in 1967, I doubt it.”

“Did Tony confide in you about what was bothering him?”

“Not at first, no. He just didn't seem himself. There was something on his mind. On his conscience. He wasn't himself. When he came home from the summer season, he was very pale and withdrawn. Listless. I actually thought he was ill, depression or something, and I made him go to the doctor's. The doctor said he was just jittery and edgy from pressure at work. He prescribed some pills.”

“Did they do any good?”

“Not much. Oh, there were moments when the old Tony shone through and made me laugh again. It wasn't all doom and gloom. But he wasn't home for long. The call for the Christmas season came in pretty soon after he'd returned from Blackpool.”

“And?”

“That upset him. He didn't want to go. He even argued with Walter about it, which he
never
usually did. But Walter was adamant. Danny Caxton wanted Tony, and Danny Caxton got what he wanted. At least from Philby, Leyland and Associates.”

“What was the problem? Was Caxton difficult, demanding?”

“I'm sure he was, but there was more to it than that. We never considered such things at the time, of course, so I'm speaking with the benefit of hindsight, but after Savile, Cosby, Rolf Harris, Cyril Smith and the rest, Danny Caxton was up to the same sort of thing. What you're looking into now. Something terrible happened, and Tony knew about it.”

“Did he say anything?”

Ursula stared out to sea. The dogs were busy sniffing gorse. “The day before he left,” she said, “he told me all about it, and I wished to God he hadn't.”

W
HAT AM I DOING HERE?” PAUL WARNER ASKED
Annie and Gerry. “I already told you everything I know the last time we met.”

He seemed more nervous this time, Annie thought, eyes all over the place. Perhaps it was because he was out of his home environment and in a police interview room. They were not places designed to put people at ease. He was dressed in clean jeans and a crisp white shirt. It looked as if it had been pressed, too, she thought, and almost asked him if he did his own ironing.

“Just a few minor points we need to go over, Paul,” said Annie. “As you might have gathered, there's been developments.”

“Developments. I'd say there are. The whole estate's going up.”

“That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? The local police have it under control. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“No?”

Annie opened a folder on her desk and lifted a sheet of paper, as if to read from it. “First of all, something's been puzzling me about you ever since we last talked. Maybe you can help. You seem to be a fairly intelligent lad. What is it with these racist views you seem to be espousing and encouraging? Are you involved with the English Defence League or the British National Party?”

Warner leaned back in his chair and stretched. “No matter what you or the
Guardian
might think, intelligence isn't the private property of the left wing. And no,” he went on, with a smile, “I'm not affiliated with either of those organizations. I suppose at first glance they may seem to offer swift and positive solutions to a number of problems, but if you look a bit closer you can see they'll never progress beyond basic thuggery. There are other, more reasoned and less violent routes likely to lead to success.”

“UKIP?”

“One possibility, if they truly had the courage of their convictions.”

“And what are the problems you see?”

Warner clasped his hands on his lap. “It's as I told you before. Unhindered immigration is bleeding our country dry, membership in Europe is a millstone around our necks and kowtowing to the bloody Scots and Welsh and Irish is sapping our national identity. Sometimes it seems almost a crime to stand up and say you're English.”

“Well, that just about covers it,” said Annie. “Though some would say immigrants contribute more to the economy than they take from it.”

“That's what they'd have you believe. You've all been brainwashed.”

“By whom?”

“The lefties. And before you get on to it, I've got nothing against the NHS or the benefits system, or the welfare state in general. As long as they're for the benefit of our own.”

“By that you mean white people?”

“It's not really an issue of color, but I wouldn't expect you to understand that. I mean
English
people.”

“I take it these views didn't go over too well when you were studying politics in Warwick?”

“The universities are run by lefties, just like the BBC. You wouldn't get any of them to listen to a reasonable, balanced argument from the right.”

“These men we've brought in,” Annie went on. “The British Pakistanis. Their grandparents came here after partition, mostly to work in the cotton and woolen mills up north. Their parents were born here, they grew up here. Doesn't that make them British?”

“It takes a bit more than that.”

“So they need to behave a bit more like us?”

“Basically.”

“Binge drinking, football hooliganism, casual racism and the rest?”

“That's a fringe element. Why am I here? Obviously not to talk politics.”

“Right,” said Annie. “When we talked before, I asked you about last Tuesday, and you said that you and Albert went back to your place after you'd been in the Hope and Anchor. About ten wasn't it?”

“That's right.”

“And after you'd had a few drinks and watched some DVDs, Albert crashed on your sofa for the night?”

“That's right. Yes. You already know all this.”

“Bear with us, Paul. You went to sleep, or passed out, in your own bed, at about three in the morning, right?”

“Yes.”

“Both at the same time?”

“What?”

“Did you both fall asleep at the same time?”

“Probably not. I mean, not precisely. Why?”

“Who fell asleep first?”

“I don't know.”

“Don't you remember letting down the sofa bed?”

“Not really.”

“And why would you stay up after he fell asleep?”

“I'm not saying I did. What's this all about?”

“Do you remember hearing Albert snoring or anything?”

“No. I can't say I do.”

“But you're certain he was there the whole time? He didn't go out or anything?”

“No.”

“Would you have noticed it? If you were asleep and he was awake, say?”

“Well, of course not, if I was asleep. I'm a sound sleeper. The sign of an untroubled conscience.”

“I hear that most serial killers have no problems falling asleep. Or maybe it's only the booze.”

Warner just smirked.

“So he could have stayed awake until you passed out, then gone out?” Annie pressed on.

“He could have, I suppose. But why would he?”

“Did you know that he had the use of a van that night?”

“He did some delivery driving on the side. His boss lived in Stockton. It was a casual arrangement. He parked round the back when he kept the van overnight.”

“You say that Albert could have gone out if you were the one who bit the dust first, so to speak?”

“I said it's possible. Yes. But he was pissed. He wouldn't have been able to drive.”

“What if he wasn't as pissed as you thought he was?”

“You mean he might have been putting it on?”

“Possibly.”

Paul shrugged. “Then I don't know. I didn't think so. I mean, we both had a fair bit to drink, and I certainly wouldn't have thought of driving.”

“We'd like to examine your van, Paul. Is that OK?”

“But why? It can't have been on your CCTV, or whatever you've got.”

“How do you know that?” Annie asked.

“Well, I . . . I mean . . .”

“How do you know that Albert didn't drive it after you passed out? He wouldn't use Jim Nuttall's van, would he, surely? I mean he'd know we'd connect him to that eventually. But why not use your Citroën?”

“Albert's not that bright. Besides, if you could connect him to this Nuttall character, you could certainly connect him to me.”

“Maybe so. But one way or another that van you've both told us was parked in the lane at the back of your flat
did
show up on CCTV near Bradham Lane that night. A bit of a coincidence, don't you think?”

“Maybe Nuttall did it?”

“Not very plausible, Paul. He'd have to take a taxi all the way from Stockton, which he didn't. We checked.”

“Maybe he got a mate to drop him off. I don't know. There must be some mistake.”

“I agree. Let's move on. Last time we talked, you told us you had only a passing acquaintance with Mimosa. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like her?”

“Well enough, I suppose. I mean, I didn't know her well enough to really say that. She was so much younger than me.”

“Not that much. You're what, twenty-three? Mimsy was fifteen? Very attractive, too, from what I hear. Sexy.”

“She was still too young for me. I prefer women my own age.”

“Got a girlfriend at the moment, Paul?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but no.”

“Did you know that Mimosa and her best friend, Carol, were among a group of local underage girls who'd been groomed by a gang of Asians from the Strip? They'd been coerced, persuaded or forced into prostitution.”

“God, no! How . . . I mean . . .”

“Nobody told you?”

“Well, obviously not. I mean, you asked me about grooming last time you talked to me, said it was something you suspected, but I never thought . . . Mimsy . . . no.”

“Some people behave recklessly, especially if they get fired up with an idea. Was Albert fired up with an idea that night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let's say you'd been talking about Mimosa and her Pakistani groomers, for example. Might Albert have got riled up? Got a bee in his bonnet? She was his sister, after all. And they were Pakistanis.”

“But that didn't happen. We never talked about that.”

“So you say.”

“Are you saying you don't believe me?”

“We know that Albert most certainly did know. And he mentioned
it in conversation with Mimosa the day before she disappeared. They ended up on bad terms.”

“Well, that proves it, doesn't it,” said Paul, leaning forward. “Don't you see. They must be involved. The Pakis. They must have done it. Have you brought them in yet?”

“We're just looking for some answers here,” said Annie. “There's no need to get your underpants in a knot.”

“I'm not. I just don't like being called a liar. Maybe Albert did know, like you say, but he didn't tell me. I can't tell you anything. This is all a shock to me. Like I said, I thought she was on our side. They must have made her do it. Is this something to do with why Mimsy got killed?”

“We think so. We're just not sure exactly how everything ties together yet.”

“And you think Albert might have killed her?”

“We're just checking his alibi, that's all.”

“I've told you time and time again. He was at my place. We got a bit drunk, watched some DVDs between about half ten and two or three in the morning, then we fell asleep. Albert slept on the couch and he didn't wake up until eleven the next morning.”

“But you weren't in the same room as Albert all night?”

“Hell no. We didn't sleep in the same room, but we were together there watching movies.” Paul folded his arms. “I've had enough of these insinuations and innuendos. You're simply playing tricks on me, using semantics to try to get me to admit something.”

“Admit to what?”

“Christ. I mean, you surely can't think that Albert killed his own sister.”

“Why not?”

“But she was his little sister. This is unbelievable.” He pointed toward the door. “You've got all those bloody Pakis out there guilty as hell of grooming and raping and doing god knows what else to poor Mimsy, and you're trying to pin the blame on Albert. Shame on you.”

Annie stood up and Gerry followed suit more slowly, again using
her good hand to push herself up from the chair. “Thanks, Paul. You've been very helpful,” Annie said.

Warner just shook his head in disbelief and exasperation, then he got to his feet and walked toward the door. As he left the interview room, he gave them a backward glance and muttered, “Unbelievable.”

“Like they say in the movies,” Annie called after him, “don't leave town, we might want to talk to you again.” And when he had left, she took out her mobile.

“
WHAT DID
he say?” Banks asked Ursula Pemberton.

“He told me it happened at a party in the hotel suite in Blackpool. They were celebrating something or other. It was a large suite and there were several rooms. At one point, Tony told me, Caxton asked him to accompany him, and they went to a darkened bedroom. There was a woman already in there, on the bed. She seemed surprised to see them and made to leave, but Caxton wouldn't let her.”

“You mean he physically stopped her?”

“I don't know. I don't remember it exactly. Just that Caxton wouldn't let her leave. Persuaded her to stay. One thing led to another and they ended up having sex, first Caxton and the woman, then . . .” She swallowed. “Then Tony.”

“He told you this?”

“I told you he was honest, even at his own cost.”

“Let me get this straight. Tony told you that he and Caxton raped a woman in a hotel room in Blackpool.”

“Yes. I suppose that's what it amounted to. Though he never mentioned rape. I assumed I was supposed to think the woman succumbed to Caxton's charm and Tony just happened to be a beneficiary of his largesse. None of that helped.”

“But if she wasn't willing, it was rape.”

“I'm aware of that. Tony told me Caxton said she was the kind of girl who liked it rough, but Tony thought maybe her fear was genuine.”

“Yet he raped her anyway?”

“They'd been drinking. Perhaps drugs. I don't know. All three of
them. Look, Superintendent, this isn't easy for me. It wasn't easy for him, either. He wasn't proud of it. He was disgusted with himself. He was in tears when he told me.”

“What did you do?”

“I held him and told him it would be all right. That was when he told me he was going to do something about it.”

“What?”

“He was going to confront Caxton. Apparently there were some Polaroids—another of Tony's jobs—and not just the official ones. Tony had taken pictures of Caxton with girls. Some while they were having sex, he hinted.”

“Did Caxton know about these?”

“I don't know. If he did, they obviously hadn't bothered him. Men like Caxton think they're above the law.”

“Why would the Polaroids be a problem for him?”

“Tony said he was certain some of the girls were too young.”

“Did he tell you why he joined in the fun that time?”

“He just said it was the atmosphere, the moment, the sense of excitement.” She sighed. “Something new. You know, there's a thin line between experiment and sin.”

Well, Tony had certainly found out about it the hard way,
Banks thought,
and so had Linda Palmer
. It wasn't his place to tell Ursula Pemberton that the girl had been a fourteen-year-old virgin, that there had been no party, no drugs and very little to drink. It had no doubt cost Monaghan a great deal to tell his wife what he had told her, and his state when he got back from the Blackpool job spoke volumes about the internal struggles he'd been going through. He thought he'd come to the right decision. Confront Danny Caxton, even though he'd be damning himself at the same time.
That took guts
, Banks thought. But none of it expunged the thought of what they had done to Linda Palmer.