‘Aye, pet. I’ll try. This’ll do her head in.’
‘Did you know that Mimsy cut herself?’ Annie said, raising her arm and pointing. ‘Her wrist.’
‘Aye, that were a couple of years back. Nowt serious, like.’
Annie assumed he was speaking of the physical injuries, not the psychological problems behind them. She nodded and stood up. Gerry needed no bidding to follow suit. ‘Did Mimsy have her own room here?’ Annie asked.
‘That she did.’
‘Mind if we have a look? Just to see if there’s anything.’
‘Top of the stairs on the left,’ said Thornton.
Annie led the way upstairs and saw the door was half open. They both slipped on their latex gloves, and Gerry pushed on the door. The hinges creaked as it opened. The first thing Annie noticed was that Mimsy had been tidy for a teenager. Much more so than Annie herself had ever been. She didn’t know about Gerry. She probably sat all her dolls in a neat row on a bookshelf and arranged the books according to the Dewey decimal system. Or perhaps it was simply that Mimsy wasn’t here very often. The striped wallpaper was peeling up there, just as it was in the living room.
Mimsy Moffat didn’t have much to keep tidy. The bed, a narrow single, was made, and there were clothes in the laundry hamper. Annie had been expecting the usual teenage posters on the walls – One Direction, Justin Bieber – but the only one was a poster advertising Swan Lake showing a beautiful ballerina appearing to float in mid-air above the water. The small chest of drawers was filled with underwear, make-up, socks, tights and a few pieces of cheap jewellery – earrings, a heart pendant with no photos inside, a charm bracelet with only a tiny pair of shoes on it. There were also a few T-shirts, clean and neatly folded. In her bedside drawer were a hairbrush, a box of Kleenex, a packet of paracetamol and a box of tampons. Nothing out of the ordinary.
A small desk stood under the window, which looked out on the backyard and the other backyards across the alley. On it lay a flat oblong tin of Lakeland colouring pencils and an 8 x 11 WHSmith sketchbook. Lenny Thornton had said that Mimsy liked to draw. Annie rifled through the pages, stopping here and there to admire a composition. Some were sketches of the uninspiring view from the window, others clearly more subjects from the imagination: magical creatures, half-deer, half-woman, flitting through forests at night, a stormy sea with tall-masted wooden ships tossing in the waves, a far-off mountain peak beyond a barren, red and orange landscape under a grey and purple sky, very Lord of the Rings, with a halo of fire at the summit. There were also some copies of the Tenniel illustrations to the Alice books. The one thing they all had in common was that they were very good. Perhaps a bit primitive in technique, but lacking nothing that couldn’t be learned by someone with the basic talent in a few months. If Mimsy Moffat were the artist, she had been talented indeed. Annie put down the sketchbook and wandered over to the small bookcase.
There were few books, mostly Mills & Boon romances, Martina Cole and bulky collections of illustrated fairy tales by Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, along with children’s books like The Water Babies, Tales of Beatrix Potter, The Wind in the Willows and not surprisingly a reproduction of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass with the John Tenniel illustrations. The wardrobe held a couple of denim jackets, a winter coat with fake fur collar, various leggings, distressed shorts and jeans, some miniskirts and cheap print dresses, along with a few pairs of shoes, including sandals, no-name trainers and two pairs of court shoes. There was no mobile phone or computer. No stereo system, CDs, iPods or the like. No purse or handbag. No TV. In many ways, it was a spartan room, and Annie was hardly surprised Mimsy didn’t spend much time there. Though no doubt it was spartan exactly because she hadn’t spent much time there. But where had she spent her time, and what were the attractions there?
‘Gerry, would you go ask Mr Thornton for a bin bag and permission to take the contents of Mimsy’s laundry basket? Who knows, we might find something in her pockets, or stains with DNA to match the samples Jazz took from her body.’
Gerry went out and after a few moments came back with a black bin bag. ‘He says he doesn’t care what we take,’ she told Annie. ‘The level in that whisky bottle’s gone down a fair bit, too.’
‘People deal with bad news in their own way,’ said Annie. ‘Any word from Johnny?’
‘Nothing. I think there’s something seriously wrong with him.’
‘You’re probably right about that. Brain damage would be my guess.’ She glanced around the room again. ‘Anything else you think we should take?’
‘Maybe the hairbrush?’ said Gerry. ‘Just to make sure about DNA.’
‘Good point.’ Annie put the hairbrush in one of the smaller plastic bags she carried in her shoulder bag, then put Mimsy’s dirty laundry in the bin bag and labelled both.
Downstairs everything seemed much the same except, as Gerry had noted, the level in the whisky bottle. The football game was still on, fast approaching extra time, Johnny hadn’t moved, and Thornton was lighting another cigarette. ‘We’ll be off, now,’ Annie said. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing we can do for you before we leave, Mr Thornton?’
‘Nay, pet. Just leave me be. I’ll be all right. Johnny and me, we’ll be all right.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want us to call someone?’
‘I don’t know as I want to talk to anyone right now,’ said Thornton. ‘But thanks, hen. You’d best be on your way now, all right? Find out what happened to our Mimsy.’
‘You will give me a ring when Sinead comes back, won’t you? We’ll arrange to have her brought to Eastvale and back home again.’
‘I’ll ring,’ Thornton said. His voice sounded throaty. He turned just as they opened the door. ‘Would you mind sending the wee ones in as you leave?’ he said. ‘You never know what’s going to happen to them out there.’
It was the first thought he’d shown for his own children, Annie realised, taken aback by the request. Grief affects us all in different ways, she told herself, and who was she to judge Lenny Thornton? She knew next to nothing about his life. She shielded her eyes from the onslaught of sunlight and watched as the children actually obeyed her instructions and went inside. Maybe they thought there was a treat in store for them.
‘Come on, Gerry,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a little shopping trip.’
*
Excerpt from Linda Palmer’s Memoir
Let it be a steam train, then. I remember my excitement as it chugged out of Leeds City station, all straining hooks and cables, the whole thing creaking and rattling like the chains of Marley’s ghost, the way only a steam train can, almighty exhalations of smoke exploding from its funnel as it built up momentum, the speed quickening, faster and faster, settling into the regular, rocking clickety-clack rhythm as it escaped the confines of the city. Soon green fields full of sheep and cows flashed by, a tiny village, a lonely farmhouse, a river. A cyclist waiting at a level crossing waved to us, then bent to adjust his bicycle clips. Perhaps I’m already being free and easy with the details, but I’m sure you get the picture. It helps to get me in a mood to go on, and even invented memories can summon forth true ones.
I do recall that the compartment was stuffy, and Melanie’s father opened the windows on both sides. I spent much of the journey reading Lorna Doone, carried away with the romance of it all, and Melanie had her head buried in the latest copy of Jackie. Occasionally we sneaked glances at each other and pulled faces. Our parents sat quietly, Mother reading her Woman’s Weekly, Dad just puffing his pipe, gazing out the window, wool-gathering. Melanie’s parents had their heads bent over a crossword puzzle. It was all very Philip Larkin, the bicycle clips, the smell of warm carriage cloth, framed tourist scenes on the carriage walls: Torquay, Brighton, Sunny Prestatyn. Through Huddersfield and Hebden Bridge we chuffed and clanked, tall mill chimneys and the dark satanic mills themselves, many still functional at that time, then up into the Pennines we rolled.
Rills trickled in deep green clefts down the hillsides. Here and there stood a brooding, isolated farmhouse. I wondered about the people who lived there. Made up stories about them. The magical world their children had discovered in a cave under the waterfall, the witch who lived in the cottage deep in the woods and kidnapped children who strayed too deeply into the shadows.
Before long we had left Preston behind and it was time to play ‘Spot the Tower’. You knew you were almost there when you could see Blackpool Tower, that smaller but nonetheless proud replica of the Eiffel Tower, in the distance. Melanie saw it first, and I was miffed. Usually it was me. I always had a feeling that my mother and father let me win, but there was no such indulgence with Melanie. Soon it was time for our fathers to heft the suitcases down from the luggage racks and our mothers to remind us not to forget anything. A few spots of rain streaked the grimy windows as we entered the outskirts of Blackpool, but that was all right. We could smell the sea air.
The rain didn’t last. In fact, I’m at a loss to remember whether it even materialised beyond those few stray drops. Whatever happened, I remember that first day was as sunny and bright as the rest of the days that first week. It must have rained, though. It always rains on seaside holidays. The summers of childhood were surely never as warm and sunny as I remember them.
So what did we do that first afternoon and evening? I don’t remember. Oh, I’m sure we went straight to the boarding house, found our rooms and unpacked. Perhaps it was already teatime. Melanie and I were sharing a room, which was all right with me, as we both liked to stay up late and read or listen to the pirate stations, if we could pick any up, or Radio Luxembourg on our trannies under the bedclothes.
As I remember, the room was much the same as the year before, only this time with two single beds crammed in: boring flower-patterned wallpaper with the squashed fly still on a rose petal, a window looking out on the backyard, a pipe running down one wall that rattled and clanged every time anyone ran a tap or flushed the toilet, a chamber pot under each bed, and a bowl and jug you could fill with water for washing and brushing your teeth. The toilet and bathroom would have been down the hall, as usual, shared by everyone on the floor, use of hot water strictly regulated, dinner at 6 p.m. on the dot, or you were out of luck. It wasn’t the kind of place that encouraged one to stay indoors, no matter what the weather. You never lost sight of the fact that you were an interloper in someone’s home, tolerated out of necessity, perhaps, but never entirely welcome.
Maybe we went for a walk on the prom that first evening, or took one of the open trams along the front. We might have even ventured on the beach, removed our sandals, pulled our dresses up over our knees and gone for a paddle. Perhaps we even shared a bag of cockles or winkles, digging out the poor creatures from their shells with pins, like little gobs of snot. Perhaps, though I doubt this happened so soon, we strolled the Golden Mile and played in the amusement arcades. Though I can’t remember what we did, I do remember the sense of excitement I always had at the start of a holiday, of new places to be discovered, new experiences, new adventures, new possibilities. The sea air was always intoxicating, always full of promise. This time, with my best friend Melanie by my side, I was sure it would be even more exciting than usual.
7
Lenny Thornton was as good as his word, and he phoned Annie at a quarter past nine that evening to inform her that Sinead had come home. Annie then called Gerry, who picked her up in the Corsa, and they set off for Wytherton Heights for the second time that day. After talking to Lenny Thornton they had visited the shopping mall but had drawn a blank. There were no young people around, and the store workers and security guards could tell them nothing except what a nuisance the kids were, and how they scared away legitimate customers. No, no one had ever seen young girls with older Pakistani men. Most of the Pakistanis shopped in the Asian market at the other end of the Strip.
It was another sultry evening, the heat still clinging and clammy, streetlamps haloed with eerie light. The estate was in shadow and already dark, as many of the lamps were out; they had either been vandalised or the council just couldn’t be bothered fixing them when they stopped working. The light was on in the front room of 14 Southam Terrace, and when Annie knocked on the door, Lenny Thornton answered briskly. He’d put on a T-shirt and jeans since their previous visit, but otherwise nothing much had changed. Johnny was asleep in his armchair, mouth open, snoring loudly. The TV was tuned to a golf tournament. No wonder Johnny was asleep, Annie thought.
‘He took it badly,’ Lenny said, nodding towards Johnny.
Annie wondered how he could tell. ‘So I see. You said Sinead’s at home?’
Lenny gestured towards the stairs. ‘In her room. Go easy, won’t you, hen. She’s a bit fragile. It’s still early days with the methadone.’
‘Don’t worry. Seen anything of Albert yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’
Annie and Gerry went upstairs. The bedroom was dimly lit by an orange-shaded bedside lamp that cast shadows over the walls and ceiling as they entered. It was a bare room, with just a wardrobe, dressing table, chest of drawers and a small TV set on a table opposite the double bed. Maybe it was because of the rose-patterned wallpaper and soft lighting, but it seemed more of a woman’s room to Annie, and she couldn’t imagine a man like Lenny Thornton here in the bed. None of her business.
Sinead lay propped up on her pillows, smoking, staring into space, an overflowing ashtray on her belly. Her mascara was smeared, and she had clearly been crying. A number of screwed-up tissues lay on the bedspread and floor around her. The room smelled of skin moisturiser and cigarette smoke.
Annie had seen junkies of every variety over the years, from some she was positive were dead to others so clear-minded she couldn’t believe they were drug addicts, and she quickly guessed that Sinead Moffat was closer to the latter type. Not many people knew it, but a heroin addict who got her regular, quality-controlled doses of the drug could often function almost normally, hold down a job, raise a child and so on. It was the desperation of no fix, no money to feed the habit, the uncertain quality of the stuff and the aura of crime in squats, dirty needles and dingy flats where the addicts congregated that caused the problems. You just had to think of the opium addicts of the nineteenth century, like Coleridge and De Quincey, to see both the range of achievement and the depths of despair that were part and parcel of a junkie’s life. But now, according to Lenny Thornton, Sinead was on the methadone cure. Methadone suppressed opioid withdrawal symptoms, and because it was an opioid itself, it also blocked the effects of drugs such as heroin and morphine. It worked for some people, and many prisons had extensive methadone treatment programmes.
Gerry took a chair by the door. Annie sat on the edge of the bed and took Sinead’s hand. Sinead didn’t resist but her hand felt dry and lifeless as a sheet of paper. ‘I’m very sorry,’ Annie said. ‘Do you want to see the artist’s impression?’
Sinead sniffed and nodded. Annie showed it to her. Sinead traced her index finger over the image, then passed the drawing back to Annie and turned aside. ‘That’s Mimosa,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a better likeness, if you can use it.’ She opened the drawer of the bedside table, shuffled through a stack of photos and handed one to Annie. ‘Taken last year. She hasna changed that much.’
It was a close-up of a young girl with short blond hair parted on one side, so that a long lock curved over her left eye, almost covering it. Her face was free of make-up, her complexion smooth and pale, and it was clear that she was destined to become a true beauty, if only she had lived. She had the ghost of a smile on her face, as if an amusing thought had just passed through her mind. Annie also thought it was the kind of face that men would find attractive.
‘I took that,’ Sinead added. ‘We went to Filey for the day. I was doing good on methadone and Mimosa . . . well, Mimosa was being the kind, attentive daughter.’
‘It’s good,’ said Annie. ‘May I borrow it? I promise I’ll let you have i
t back.’
‘Please do,’ said Sinead. ‘It’s the best one I’ve got.’
‘How are you doing?’ Annie asked.
Sinead took a drag on her cigarette. ‘As well as can be expected. If you mean am I high, I don’t know if Lenny told you, but I’m on the methadone. Everything feels a bit far away and muffled, but I’m here, and I’m hurting. I can’t believe my little girl is gone.’
‘Lenny said he thought you might be with your addict friends when we called earlier.’
Sinead managed a weak smile. ‘He would. But I wasn’t. I really am going to make it work this time. I went to the clinic, then spent some time with my counsellor, and after that, just to cheer myself up, I went shopping and treated myself to Pizza Express with my friend Carolyn.’ She pointed to a few packages in the corner. ‘Haven’t even got around to opening them yet. What happened to my Mimosa?’
Annie swallowed. The last thing she wanted to do was tell Sinead Moffat what had been done to her daughter. Even the scant details on the news, which Sinead clearly hadn’t seen, were bad enough. ‘We think she was murdered,’ she said.
‘But how? Why?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ Annie pressed on quickly ahead, skirting the question of how Mimsy had been killed. Lenny Thornton could tell her that Mimsy had been ‘beaten’, if he remembered. ‘We’re going to need you to come to Eastvale to identify your daughter. But it’s late now. We can send a car for you tomorrow morning, if that’s OK?’
‘I can see her then?’
Annie knew that the staff there would have cleaned Mimsy’s body up as best they could for identification, but it would still be a great shock. ‘Yes. Tomorrow. Is it OK if I ask you a couple of questions now?’
‘OK.’
Annie looked over to Gerry, who had taken out her notebook.
‘When did you last see your daughter?’
‘I think it was after the weekend, you know, the one before this. She came by for a while on Monday, changed her clothes, had something to eat. Same as usual.’
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 18