‘No. I’m sorry. But I’m sure she wasn’t in a gang. We monitor gang activity closely.’
‘What about the young girls hanging out on the Strip with older Pakistani men?’
O’Byrne’s eyes turned towards the grille and he sighed. ‘That thing never works,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you too hot in here? I am.’
‘Very.’
‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk.’
They left by the back door, beside which was a narrow footpath leading to the canal. From there, you could follow the towpath for some distance.
‘I often come out here when I just want a little break or to cool down,’ he said as they walked. ‘It’s not especially pretty, but at least it’s outside.’
It certainly wasn’t pretty, Gerry thought, with a factory belching smoke beyond the towpath, white suds floating on the filthy brown water, and the all-pervading smell of rotting garbage. There were also small piles of black bin bags spilling rubbish here and there, along with broken prams and wheel-less bicycles. Gerry thought she saw a rat scuttle from one bag to another. She didn’t even think it was much cooler by the canal, but it was certainly nice to be out of that oven of an office.
‘I mentioned the young girls hanging out with the Pakistanis on the Strip. The local police don’t seem to know much about it, or think much of it. Does it go on? Have you noticed anything like that?’
‘I’m afraid not. I don’t have any reason to go there. I don’t live around here. Soon as it’s time to go home, I’m gone.’
‘Very sensible,’ said Gerry. ‘But it’s a divided area, I hear. There’s a large Muslim community, mostly people of Pakistani descent.’
‘True,’ said O’Byrne. ‘But we don’t have a lot to do with them.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They don’t want us putting our noses in their business. They take care of their own families in their own way, according to their own customs, traditions and laws. I mean, some of our staff are from the community, and they have special ties, of course. They’ve occasionally been involved in certain domestic issues, but as a rule, by far the most of our work comes from the largely white estates.’
‘I see,’ said Gerry. ‘And you find it easiest not to help?’
‘Not to interfere. Yes. Best for everyone, all round.’
‘So you leave them to their own vigilante brand of justice?’
‘I’d say justice is your job, not mine. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘No matter what they do?’
O’Byrne managed a weak laugh. ‘Do? They don’t do anything that anyone else doesn’t do. Besides, we’re not the police. I’ll bet your police up here have far less trouble with them than with the local white population. Binge-drinking, vandalism, shoplifting, drugs, graffiti and the like. Some of those kids are just out of control, and their parents aren’t much better.’ He paused. ‘Believe me, we try to be sensitive to issues of race and cultural differences, and we try to be colour-blind. It’s an awkward balance, and I’d be the first to admit that it doesn’t really work and we don’t always get it right. We’re only human, after all.’
‘Have you talked to members of the community, people from the mosque, the imams?’
‘No. But I know what their answer would be.’
‘What?’
‘If they do these things, they can’t be true Muslims, therefore, they’re not our problem.’
‘That’s a bit short-sighted, isn’t it?’
‘Tell that to the imam.’
‘It’s just that we have reason to believe that Mimosa might have been connected with some Pakistanis, and there seem to be a lot of them in the neighbourhood. Running the shops and businesses along the Strip, for example. A takeaway, minicab firm, balti restaurant and so on. We know she ate kebab and pizza shortly before she died. Coincidence?’ Gerry realised she was pushing it a bit with this. All they really knew was what Dr Glendenning had found in her stomach and what Jazz Singh had got from the DNA: that her last meal consisted of pizza and kebab and that she had had rough sex with three men of Pakistani descent. There was nothing to indicate that the men came from this area, or that she had eaten her last meal on the Strip. Still, Gerry believed that Ciaran O’Byrne needed a bit of a kick up the arse, and as often as not in her business the roots of a crime began on the victim’s own doorstep, so it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.
‘Well, there are lots of places you can get kebab and pizza, and there are Asian communities all over the country.’
‘Yes, but Mimosa lived here.’ Gerry paused. ‘I must say, you seem remarkably unconcerned. Don’t you get it? We’re talking about a fifteen-year-old girl in your care who was raped and murdered.’
‘I’ve told you, Mimsy wasn’t in my care.’
‘But you have a close connection with the family, with her mother particularly.’
‘But not because of Mimsy. Yes, well, I try to do my job. Things were difficult, but they were coping. Mimsy didn’t need to be taken away and handed over to foster parents or put in a home. She could take care of herself. At her best Sinead was there, and Leonard Thornton is a decent bloke, despite all appearances to the contrary.’
‘Maybe. But he didn’t keep a close eye on Mimosa.’
‘Surely you can’t blame Leonard for what happened to her?’
‘I’m after finding out who did this to her. Then we’ll see about blame.’ Gerry took a deep breath. ‘Mr O’Byrne, I find your wilful ignorance about this whole matter astonishing, not to mention disturbing. Didn’t you read about what happened in Rochdale, Rotherham and the rest? Isn’t it required reading for the social services? Can’t you see what’s going on in front of your eyes? There’s every possibility that Mimsy, and no doubt other young girls, were being groomed. They’re what, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen? Alienated. Neglected. Lonely. Unloved. Some of them with learning difficulties. These men offer them some material comforts, a packet of crisps, a mobile top-up, a free fizzy pop, then friendship, companionship. Then come the demands. The sex with friends, with strangers.’ She pointed. ‘It could be happening right there, less than half a mile down the road on the Strip and you don’t know about it. Now a girl is dead.’
‘You’ve no proof that any of this is happening in Wytherton,’ said O’Byrne. ‘It’s all conjecture. And even if there is some truth to it, you can’t blame us. Nor can you blame Mimsy’s death on it. We do our best, but we’re drowning under the flow of shit from these estates. It’s like standing with your finger in the dyke. You lot don’t do anything to help, either. It’s not our job to arrest criminals. It’s yours.’
‘It’s your job to protect the children and let us know what’s happening.’
‘Nobody wants to get involved in a race war here in Wytherton. There’s already plenty of tension around here. The English Defence League and the British National Party are active. Windows have been broken.’
‘Including one by Albert Moffat. Is he a member of either of the groups?
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Besides, isn’t race war a bit alarmist? Who said anything about that? Surely there are ways of handling these things without starting a race war?’
O’Byrne stopped walking and faced her. ‘Yes? And how? Tell me how. What do you do, walk in and say “Stop it, fellows, leave our poor little white girls alone”?’
‘You could at least report it to your bosses, or to the police. You could at least give the possibility some serious consideration and talk about it.’
‘I’ve already told you we have no evidence of such things going on. Do you? And as for the local police, I’ve told you how much use they are. You must know that yourself, from what you’ve said. You can report your concerns to them until you’re blue in the face, but it’ll go nowhere. As far as they’re concerned these girls are the dregs from the council estates. These girls are making their own lifestyle choices. They decide who they want to go out with, who they want to sleep with. If they choose to be sluts,
so it goes. They get no better than they deserve.’
‘Written off at thirteen? Sexually assaulted by her psychological counsellor. A man who was supposed to heal her. Did Mimsy deserve to be raped and murdered?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t. I’m speaking generally. They grow up quickly around these parts, in case you didn’t know.’
‘So you do have concerns, then?’
‘I always have concerns in my job. All I’m saying is that as far as I know, so far, they don’t involve grooming.’
‘So everyone ignores the problem, turns their backs and thinks it will just go away?’
‘If you think you can cure all the world’s social ills, then go ahead. I used to think that when I first took this job.’
‘And now you’re a dyed-in-the-wool cynic at what, twenty-eight? I’m just surprised to find it still going on after the revelations of the last year or so.’
‘It was going on long before Rotherham or Rochdale, and it’ll be going on long after. Whether it’s reached Wytherton or not.’
‘Don’t sound so pleased about it.’
O’Byrne started walking again, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. ‘I’m not. That wasn’t fair. You don’t have to be so snarky.’
‘Maybe I do,’ said Gerry after a while. ‘Let me just ask you this, Mr O’Byrne. Did you have any idea what was going on? Did you ever see young white girls hanging around with older Asians just around the corner from here, maybe when you went out for lunch? Didn’t it seem in the least bit suspicious after what you’ve read in the papers or seen on the news? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don’t pay any attention to the news because it’s too depressing, and you leave this neighbourhood the minute the buzzer goes.’
‘I do my job, as I told you, but it’s not my life. And I didn’t see any such thing. Whatever was going on, they obviously kept a low profile, and I should imagine it was mostly done after dark, not at lunchtime.’
‘They’d hardly need to worry about daylight with social workers like you around.’
‘That’s insulting.’
‘Maybe so, but not as insulting as your ignoring the problem. You knew Mimosa was involved, didn’t you? But you didn’t do anything. Why was that? You were afraid of being branded a racist, sent on a diversity training course?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I had no idea what was going on. If indeed anything was going on. You haven’t even proved that to me yet.’
‘Haven’t I? Well, I’m getting fed up of your evasions and excuses. First of all the local police, now you. The very people who should be looking out for girls like Mimosa. What is it with this place?’
‘Those girls are already lost,’ said O’Byrne. ‘Like you said, they’d do anything for a packet of crisps or a can of alcopop. Whatever it is they’re doing, it’s their own choice. Why can’t you just accept that?’
It was Gerry’s turn to stop in her tracks. ‘The dregs from the estates, eh? If you really believe that, Mr O’Byrne,’ she said, ‘then you’re in the wrong job.’ Then she turned and walked back up the towpath towards the bridge, her face burning with anger.
Banks had been wondering what to play on the journey from Eastvale to Leeds. His first thoughts had been maybe Bob Dylan, Patti Smith or Leonard Cohen. After all, Linda was a poet, and so were they. Or perhaps he should play nothing at all in case she wanted to talk. In the end, he asked her if there was anything she liked in particular. She thought for a moment, then said she’d always been a huge Bowie fan. Banks put on Pin Ups, not perhaps Bowie’s most popular album, but one which satisfied Banks’s love of old sixties music and Linda’s love of Bowie. The startling segue from ‘Rosalyn’ to the shimmering portamento that opened ‘Here Comes the Night’ still sent a shiver up his spine every time he heard it, like the opening chords of the Small Faces’ ‘All or Nothing’. He didn’t turn the volume so high that they couldn’t talk if they wanted to, but Linda seemed distant, lost in her own thoughts. Occasionally she pointed out a song she particularly liked – ‘See Emily Play’ or ‘Sorrow’, for example – but mostly she remained silent, staring out of the side window at the passing landscape of the Vale of York. They turned off at Wetherby, made their way past the outer ring road and into the city centre, and Banks managed to find a parking spot near the Merrion Centre, just behind the library. They walked across Millennium Square, which was crowded with people sitting out at the cafes enjoying the fine weather.
The library and art gallery were on the Headrow, next to the town hall, housed in another grand Victorian building. Inside and out, the library complex was also an architectural delight, with its magnificent stone staircases, parquet floors, marble pillars, tiles and mosaics. A reviewer had once complained that the ceiling in the reading room was so magnificent it would distract people from actually reading. Both Banks and Linda had been inside before, so they didn’t stand and gawp as much as some visitors were doing, but made their way straight to the office where Ken’s contact, Marian Hirst, was waiting for them.
Marian was a short trim woman with no-nonsense grey hair and a pair of black-rimmed glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. Her nose was beak-like and her eyes dark and lively. Banks couldn’t help thinking that she couldn’t look more like most people’s image of a librarian if she tried.
‘DCI Blackstone told me you were coming,’ she said, with a distant trace of a Scottish accent. ‘He uses the service often himself. I’ve got everything prepared for you in a little office here. Now, you know how to work the machine, I assume?’
Banks nodded. He’d used a film reader before.
‘Everything is clearly labelled, so you’ll know exactly where you are.’
‘Is it possible to get copies?’ Banks asked.
‘Not as you go,’ she said. ‘But if you put in a request our staff can provide one for you.’
She led them across the intricate parquet floor, her shoes clicking and echoing from the high ceiling as they walked, and entered a small room. Three boxes of film roll sat on the table beside the reader.
‘Make yourselves as comfortable as you can,’ Marian said. ‘I’ll be off about my business. And by the way, Ms Palmer, it’s an honour to meet you. I’m a great fan of your poetry.’
Banks noticed Linda blush as she muttered her thanks.
‘I see some people recognise you,’ Banks said when Marian Hirst had left them.
‘No doubt your friend told her I was coming.’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Ken knows better than to blab your name around. Besides, he wouldn’t know an ode from an oud.’
Linda laughed. ‘Hmm. I think this is a one-person job. Why don’t you just show me how to set up the rolls then go and have a look at the Atkinson Grimshaws or something? I don’t want you hovering over my shoulder the whole time.’
Banks showed her how to operate the reader, and as soon as she was satisfied she could manage by herself, she shooed him away. He had no real idea how long it would take, but he reckoned he’d give her an hour, for starters, which allowed him plenty of time for a coffee and Kit Kat in the Tiled Room cafe, where he made a couple of phone calls and checked his email. There was nothing much new. According to Winsome, the media crowd was growing outside Eastvale HQ now that they knew Mimosa Moffat was the Bradham Lane victim and that there were rumours of grooming. Annie had set off for Wytherton to meet up with Gerry and talk to Albert Moffat, who had finally turned up.
After that, Banks did take a few minutes to go and see the Atkinson Grimshaws in the art gallery before heading back to see how Linda was doing. He wasn’t a great fan of art galleries and was far more comfortable with music and literature than with the visual arts, but Grimshaw’s moody quayside and oddly lit nighttime city scenes were a delight. An hour and ten minutes had passed by the time he checked his watch, and he walked back next door to the library. He hadn’t got far when he saw Linda wandering down a broad stone staircase, holding on to the bannister. She was glan
cing around, the other hand clutching the neck of her blouse, as if searching for someone. Him, perhaps.
‘Linda,’ Banks called out, heading towards her. She seemed as if she were ready to fall down the stairs, and he felt like reaching out his arms to save her, but she held on as she turned and caught his eye. He could tell by her expression and her pallor that she had been successful.
‘I saw him,’ she said, still clutching the cotton of her blouse at her throat with one hand. ‘I found him.’
‘Show me,’ said Banks, taking her arm and leading her gently back up the staircase to the viewing room.
Linda pointed towards the viewer as if it were something she couldn’t bear to touch, and Banks leaned forward to study the head-and-shoulders photograph of a handsome young man in a dark suit. According to the brief story, his name was Tony Monaghan, and his picture was in the newspaper because he had been found murdered in the public conveniences in Hyde Park, Leeds, on the twelfth of October 1967.
‘There’s something else,’ Linda said. ‘Something else I saw when I was looking through. I didn’t see it at the time, but . . . You have to see it first.’ Linda fiddled with the machine. ‘As I said, I haven’t seen this one before today. I went ahead a bit to see if there was anything else about the man I recognised and I saw this. Here. The end of October. Look.’ She moved away.
Banks leaned over. The photograph showed a number of high-ranking police officers standing around one central figure, who was handing over an oversized cardboard cheque, a big cheesy grin on his face. ‘Superstar Danny Caxton presents Chief Constable Edward Crammond with a cheque for £10,000 for the Police Widows and Orphans Fund.’ The story went on to say how Caxton had helped raise the amount through personal appearances and telethons, and how he valued his relationship with the local police, what a wonderful job they did, and so on. It was dated the twenty-seventh of October, just over two weeks after Tony Monaghan’s murder and two months after Linda’s rape.
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 24