‘It’s as thin as the Caxton investigation as far as evidence goes,’ Banks said, after pushing the file aside. ‘There’s hardly any forensics, nothing to say whether he had been sexually active, sexually assaulted or what. Nothing to indicate that he was even gay. One of the papers speculated that it might have been a mugging, with Monaghan a stranger to the city and all, maybe not knowing the reputation of those toilets. But muggers rarely kill. There’s also some speculation that whoever he picked up was psychologically confused about his sexuality and became violent when Monaghan made a pass. It’s also possible he was a “queer” hater or someone who saw himself on a crusade against indecency. Don’t forget the law had just been passed. It was controversial and it must have set off any number of nutters.’
‘What’s the link with Caxton?’ asked AC Gervaise.
‘We don’t have one yet,’ Banks said. ‘Apart from Linda Palmer. Winsome’s still digging.’
‘Was nothing else mentioned in the press or the police investigation?’
‘No. Nobody dug deeply enough.’
‘Is Ms Palmer sure this is our man?’
‘Certain,’ Banks said. ‘She was shaken up by the whole thing. She got no impression that he was gay, of course, but she admitted she wouldn’t have known much about such things back then.’
‘But he did rape her?’
‘Yes. She said she remembered he hesitated, seemed nervous. But there could be many reasons for that. And just because a man rapes a woman, it doesn’t mean he’s not gay.’
‘Point taken.’
‘Where do you want to go with this?’ Adrian Moss interjected.
Banks glanced at Gervaise. ‘Nowhere yet,’ he said. ‘Not until we’ve actually got somewhere to go.’
‘You want to keep it under wraps?’
‘For now, yes. As much as we can.’
Moss made a note. ‘OK. Good.’
‘We don’t know what we’ve got,’ Banks went on. ‘We don’t know if it’s a lead or a red herring. If Linda Palmer says she’s sure it’s the man who raped her with Caxton, I, for one, believe her, but even so, it gets us no further. I mean, it’s not as if he’s still alive to identify Caxton, and we’re not here to investigate his murder. It’s bad enough having to investigate a fifty-year-old rape, but add a murder in the mix and it’d be damn nigh impossible.’
‘You might be surprised, Alan,’ said Gervaise. ‘The one might actually illuminate the other.’
‘There’s that, I suppose.’ Banks scratched his cheek. ‘I must admit, I was hoping it would turn out to be someone who might still be alive, but that was probably reaching a bit.’
‘Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that this Monaghan was murdered such a short time after assaulting Ms Palmer?’ asked Gervaise.
‘I do,’ said Banks. ‘And I also think it’s fishy that Caxton was photographed handing a cheque over to Crammond just over two weeks after Monaghan’s murder, only days after the investigation stopped. But just at the moment I can’t come up with a good reason as to how all these are linked. Was Monaghan simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he pick up someone who, for whatever reason, stabbed him to death? What was he doing in Leeds, for a start? If we knew even that it would be something.’
‘He was on business, wasn’t he?’ Gervaise said.
‘That’s what it said in the paper. He was in advertising.’
‘What about his old firm?’
‘Philby, Leyland and Associates? No longer in business,’ Banks said. ‘Winsome checked. She’s still trying to track down other ex-employees.’
‘Advertising must have been an exciting occupation back then,’ Gervaise said, ‘if it was anything like Mad Men.’
‘I think it attracted its fair share of hip young creative types, that’s for sure,’ Banks agreed.
‘A lilac shirt,’ said Moss.
Banks looked at him. He was wearing a dazzling white shirt, old school tie and pinstripe suit. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Your point, Adrian?’
‘Oh, nothing really. I mean, maybe back then, in the dark ages, so to speak, a police detective might well have taken such an article of clothing as a sign of . . . well . . .’
‘Gayness?’
‘Yes. And when you add the fact that Monaghan worked in advertising, a flamboyant and creative business, and the place his body was found, then . . . well, it’s hardly surprising, is it?’
‘No force would put a great deal of its resources into an investigation of that sort back then,’ said Banks. ‘No more than they would into the murder of a prostitute, as we discovered from the Yorkshire Ripper case. But even so, there should have been something, if only for form’s sake.’
‘Was there any information as to whether he was actually murdered in the toilet itself, or whether his body was brought from elsewhere?’ AC Gervaise asked.
‘No,’ said Banks. ‘So far it seems everyone assumed that he was killed where he was found, but any forensic information and exhibits, if there were any, have disappeared.’
‘No forensics?’
‘Nothing. I should imagine there was a lot of blood, though, given that he was stabbed.’
‘So he goes in the cubicle with whoever he picked up,’ Gervaise said. ‘The other bloke’s standing behind him. They get ready to do whatever they’re about to do, and the other bloke takes out a knife and stabs him, then slips his hand in his inside pocket for his wallet.’
At that moment there came a light tap on the door and Winsome entered, carrying a folder with her.
‘I hope you’ve got something for us,’ Banks said, ‘because we’re getting so desperate for leads here AC Gervaise has taken to crime fiction.’
Winsome sat down and poured herself the remaining splash of coffee. ‘I think you’ll like this, guv,’ she said. ‘Tony Monaghan was first employed as a PR consultant and publicist by Danny Caxton in 1966.’
‘I thought he worked for an advertising agency in London?’
‘He did, but they contracted him out. Apparently he did such a good job on his first assignment that Caxton asked for him by name.’
‘How on earth did you discover this?’ asked Gervaise. ‘The agency’s been defunct for years, Alan says.’
‘I have my methods, ma’am,’ said Winsome.
‘Come on, DS Jackman, give.’
Winsome managed a brief smile. ‘Yes, ma’am. Well, first off, I pushed Danny Caxton’s management company for that list of employees we’ve been after. I’d asked them before, but they were dragging their feet, going on about how many there were and how long ago it all was. I don’t think they were stalling particularly, just that it was another job on their table and there was nothing in it for them, I suppose, so why hurry? The secretary I spoke with this time was quite chatty. Must be a slow day. She seemed to find no reason to keep it from us, and when I expressed a sense of urgency, she faxed it to me. Monaghan’s name appeared, along with Philby, Leyland and Associates. I rang her back and asked her for more details about him, and she told me she didn’t know much, but it wasn’t unusual to hire freelancers or subcontract publicists from specialist firms. It happened a few times in Danny Caxton’s career. Monaghan was with him on and off from May 1966 until his death in October 1967. Monaghan took a break at home in London after the Blackpool summer season, and he headed back up north again to work with Caxton on the panto he was appearing in at the Bradford Alhambra that Christmas. Monaghan was married, by the way. I’ll see if I can find anything out about the widow. Anyway, the secretary I talked to knew nothing about Monaghan’s death – she wasn’t even born then – though she did say that most of the office knew they once had an employee who’d been murdered way back in the mists of time.’
‘I suppose you would remember something like that,’ Banks said. ‘Excellent work, Winsome. Now we have a concrete link between Monaghan and Caxton.’
‘Yes, but it hasn’t exactly taken us anywhere, has it, guv?’ said Winsome.
‘I don’t know about that. An employee of Caxton’s, someone who led Linda to the car and back to the hotel, who raped her in the hotel room, along with Caxton, and two months or so later he’s murdered in a mysterious and gruesome way. Don’t tell me that’s just coincidence.’
‘And the murder was never solved,’ Winsome added.
‘The murder was never even investigated,’ Banks said. ‘Just like Linda Palmer’s original complaint. Sounds like orders from on high to me. We have the photo of Caxton with then chief constable, Edward Crammond, and old gossip has it they were close, dinners together, golf club, even a cruise. Was Danny Caxton golden, or what?’
Banks could hear Adrian Moss’s sudden intake of breath. Phrases such as ‘orders from on high’ were anathema to him. ‘Never mind, Adrian,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find the right direction to spin it.’
Moss glowered at him.
‘And nothing showed up in any of the documents we’ve seen,’ Banks went on, ‘or any of the press reports. Nothing else to link Monaghan to Caxton. It was all kept quiet, if indeed anyone knew at all.’
‘That’s some cover-up,’ said AC Gervaise. ‘But surely your DI Chadwick must have known?’
‘Possibly,’ Banks agreed. ‘At least, I assume he would have been the one to get the order to cease and desist. But seeing as he’s long dead, we can hardly ask him, can we?’ He paused for a moment. ‘But we can do the next best thing – talk to his oppo DC Bradley. He’s alive, at least he was when I talked to him ten years ago about that pop festival murder. I was going to talk to him and Chadwick’s daughter about the lack of investigation on Linda’s case, anyway. Now I’ve got a bit more to ask them about.’
AC Gervaise sniffed. ‘Seems this DI Chadwick has left quite a legacy.’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I could probably make a career out of just working over his cold cases.’
Yvonne Reeves still lived in a bay-window semi on the outskirts of Durham. A light breeze ruffled the thick foliage of the trees that shaded the street and gave some shade from the sun. Yvonne ushered Banks and Winsome into the living room, which had been redecorated since Banks’s last visit. It seemed brighter and airier than he remembered. Yvonne didn’t offer tea but sat down opposite the two visitors and folded her hands in her lap. She wore black trousers and a cotton print top and seemed to have lost bit of weight since his last visit. Banks remembered her being more full-figured. She wore her grey hair cut short, and its thinness, along with that of her body, made Banks wonder whether she was suffering from a serious illness. She seemed on the ball, though, and didn’t appear to be lacking in energy. There were a few more lines on her face than last time, though that was only to be expected. She would have been fourteen in 1967, Banks had calculated, the same age as Linda Palmer, though she looked older. They might have even known one another, as they had both grown up in West Leeds.
‘I seem to remember you were here about one of my dad’s old cases a while ago, weren’t you?’ she said.
‘Going on for ten years back,’ said Banks.
‘Is it that long?’
‘Just about.’
She looked at Winsome. ‘I don’t remember you, love.’
‘I was just a wet-behind-the-ears DC back then,’ Winsome said, with a sideways glance at Banks.
Yvonne smiled and turned back to Banks. ‘So what is it this time?’
‘Another of your father’s old cases.’
‘I’m sure I told you last time that he didn’t bring his work home – except for what we talked about last time, when I was involved with those hippies and the Brimleigh Festival murder. But that was only because of me.’
‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘It’s an even older crime than that.’
‘When?’
‘Summer of 1967.’
Yvonne stared out of the window as if lost in memories. ‘My goodness. I must have just turned fourteen then.’
‘That was my estimate.’
She shot him a sharp glance. ‘And what do you expect me to remember?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe nothing. A local girl about your age was sexually assaulted. The incident happened in Blackpool, but she lived near you in West Leeds. She went to Brotherton House with her mother, and your father heard her complaint. It was entered in the occurrence book. Then there’s nothing more.’
‘It can’t have gone anywhere, then, I suppose.’
‘No. But it’s resurfaced recently, and I was wondering why it was never investigated when it was first reported.’
‘Is that the Danny Caxton business I’ve seen on the news?’
‘That’ll be it. Yes.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Do you remember? Did your father ever mention Caxton?’
‘He was a popular name in our house.’
‘Your father knew him?’
‘He’d met him. But my mother was the fan. I thought he was a bit naff, myself, but I was just a precocious fourteen-year-old.’
‘So was his victim.’
‘Do you really think he did it?’
‘Did you have any idea of the things Jimmy Savile was doing?’
‘I’ve read about some of them,’ said Yvonne. ‘You’re right. I always thought he was a creep, but I’d no idea what kind, the depths . . . Rolf Harris, too. I quite liked “Tie My Kangaroo Down, Sport”. And Bill Cosby in the States. Who would have thought it?’
‘So why not Danny Caxton?’
‘That’s poor reasoning, Mr Banks.’
‘Alan. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant, why should it be so unbelievable? We’re gathering evidence. The case is getting stronger. But with something like this you’ve got to build a strong solid structure, as you can imagine.’
‘I don’t know what you hope for from me. Danny Caxton never touched me.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Me? No.’
‘We’re interested in anything you can remember, really,’ said Winsome. ‘A word, a gesture, anything. We know it was a long time ago, but something important might have stuck in your memory about that period.’
Yvonne looked at her. ‘You know, love, it’s a funny thing about memory, especially as I get older. I can sometimes remember specific days, maybe even arguments Dad and I had about – oh, some boy, or some skirt I was wearing being too short, or music I was listening to being too loud. Sometimes he seemed remote and distracted – a lot of the time he was like that. I don’t ever remember him being much of a talker. Now I look back, I sometimes think it must have been his job getting him down. What a funny thing memory is.’
Banks remembered lines from another of Linda Palmer’s poems: ‘In no time at all, we alter what we / see – not nature, but nature exposed / to our vision.’ She was right about the constant dance of memory and imagination, perception and creation, history and fiction. How easily the one was transformed into the other, or by it, sometimes to such an extent that we actually believed a thing had happened the way we remembered it, when it hadn’t happened that way at all. He gave up pursuing the thought. It wasn’t a fruitful line of inquiry for a detective.
‘How did Caxton and your father meet?’
‘I don’t really know the details, but apparently there was a big do at work, something to do with a donation to a police charity by Danny Caxton. He was always doing things like that, collecting for charity and stuff. They had a special gala ball or something, a dress-up job, and even though Dad was only an inspector, he got invited and he got to take Mum, too. Well, she was made up. Had to buy a new dress and everything. Our place was a madhouse for a week before.’
‘Do you remember when this was?’
‘It might have been around the time you’re talking about, 1967. There were pictures in the papers and everything. The chief constable, Crammond, was well in with Mr Caxton, or so my dad said. And come to think of it, he did say something about a case, some colleague of Mr Caxton’s being found dead.’
‘Did he say
anything more?’
‘No. Just that it was bad timing, you know, for the charity ball and everything.’
‘Do you remember anything else about the summer or autumn of 1967, especially anything to do with Danny Caxton?’ Banks asked.
‘Not about Mr Caxton, no. Except Mum was thrilled to meet him, of course. She said they shook hands – he even kissed the back of her hand like a real gentleman – and he had such a lovely smile. No wonder they called him “The Man with the Big Smile”. He even said, “Do your own thing!” You remember, that was his catchphrase.’
‘I remember,’ said Banks.
‘We seemed to argue a lot that summer, Dad and me. I was just starting to get excited about all the new music and the gatherings and stuff. Hendrix, Cream and so on. I wanted to wear flowers in my hair and go to San Francisco. My dad thought it was all stupid, of course. But there was something in the air, something different, something magical. Maybe it was just me. I suppose fourteen-year-old girls can be impressionable. But I was right in a way, wasn’t I? I mean things did happen – well, I told you about some of that last time you were here, I remember 1969 better. I was sixteen then and far more up for it.’
‘Was there anything in particular about your father’s state of mind in the period we’re talking about?’
‘He was grumpy a lot. I thought it might have been because of all the hippies starting up and all those demonstrations and marches. And the drugs. It made his job harder. Though I think most of that came later. But I suppose it wasn’t an easy time for the police, having lots of freedom-loving people taking mind-expanding drugs, and anarchists and communists on the streets ripping up cobblestones and whatever.’
Banks suppressed a smile. It was rare that anyone gave a thought to the policeman’s point of view, in his experience, but trust it to be a policeman’s daughter, whether she embraced hippiedom or not.
‘I do remember one argument we had around that time,’ Yvonne went on. ‘He said it was all very well for me to go on about miniskirts and mascara and listen to the Rolling Stones, but if I had to deal with some of the things he did, I’d never want to go outside again.’
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 26