Tim Buckley had put him in a late sixties mellow mood, so he flipped through the classics: the Grateful Dead’s American Beauty, Joni Mitchell’s Blue, CSNY’s Déjà Vu and the rest. Or should it be Astral Weeks? Harvest? Songs for Beginners? David Crosby’s If Only I Could Remember My Name? In the end he went for Love’s Forever Changes.
When he got back to conservatory with the wine, Annie lay sprawled in her chair, fast asleep, glass clutched to her chest, mouth open, snoring gently. Banks refilled his glass, then put his feet up and settled down to enjoy the breeze and listen to ‘Alone Again Or.’
10
The following morning it was still warm, but the sky had become overcast when Banks went to pick up Winsome and head for Leeds. Annie had looked rough at breakfast, and they hadn’t spoken much. Banks didn’t suppose that sleeping on the chair in the conservatory had done her much good. Whether it was her intended meaning or not, she certainly hadn’t needed the spare bedroom.
The ex-detective constable Simon Bradley, Winsome had discovered on the computer before they set off, still lived in the same stone-built detached house off Shaw Lane in Headingley that Banks remembered from his previous visit. Banks rang him, and he agreed to see them whenever they could get there.
After an uneventful drive down the busy A1 listening to a live Jerry Garcia Band CD, Banks and Winsome pulled up in the quiet, leafy street near the end of ‘Dear Prudence’. Beyond the green gate, the garden was in full bloom. Banks didn’t even know what half the flowers were called, but the riot of shape and colour certainly created a joyous effect. It had been almost ten years since he had last visited, but he remembered the garden had been Mrs Bradley’s pride and joy. It seemed that it still was.
Simon Bradley opened the front door on the first ring. ‘Detective Superintendent Banks. Glad you could make it so quickly. Good to see you again. Come in, come in.’ He glanced at Winsome. ‘My, my, things have changed since the old days.’
Winsome gave her best toothy smile, curtsied and said ‘Why, yes, mastah, dey surely have.’
Bradley laughed. ‘Cheeky minx, isn’t she?’
‘You don’t know the half of it. I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you. And call me Alan, please. And the cheeky minx is DS Winsome Jackman.’ Banks felt Winsome nudge him in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt, as they followed Bradley into the living room, from which French windows led out to a neatly mown back lawn, complete with a small gazebo, garden shed, outdoor grill, bird-feeder and patio with a green table and matching moulded plastic chairs.
Bradley turned to Winsome. ‘Please let me apologise. I really didn’t mean anything by what I said back there. I just sometimes feel like a bit of a dinosaur. Old habits die hard.’
‘Indeed they do,’ said Winsome. ‘That’s all right, sir. I’ve been learning a lot recently about how things were back in the day. It’s an education.’
‘I’ll bet.’ Bradley clapped his hands. ‘Outside or in? No air conditioning, I’m afraid. Only an old fan.’
‘Seeing as the weather’s still holding up,’ said Banks, ‘let’s try outdoors.’ The sky was still cloudy, and Banks could still feel that sort of electric crackle in the air that presaged a storm. He hoped it wouldn’t hit before he and Winsome could set off back to Eastvale. Sometimes you got enormous hailstones in a summer storm, and visibility could quickly dwindle to practically nothing in no time.
‘Excellent. Pam’s just making a pot of tea. She’ll be out with it shortly.’
As they walked through the living room, Banks noticed that the floor-to-ceiling collection of first-edition crime fiction he remembered from his previous visit was still there.
‘Pam complains endlessly about the books and the space they take up,’ Bradley said, ‘but what can I do? She came up with a one in, one out scheme, but I’m afraid it’s not working too well. Some of these people just keep on writing. And it’s not just the collecting, you know. I do read them all.’
‘But surely you must find their stories a bit different from the reality you remember?’
‘You’re not a fan?’
‘I can’t say I am. I’ve read a bit of Christie and Doyle, of course, but I don’t really think anyone was expected to believe that their exploits in any way reflected reality. I prefer spy thrillers, myself.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely with you on espionage fiction. Le Carré, Eric Ambler, Len Deighton, Alan Furst. Among the best. But do you know, that whole realism bit never really bothers me in the least. Sure, they get the procedures and the lingo wrong, but that’s not such a terrible thing. And the lingo changes all the time. I bet I wouldn’t understand a word if I found myself back in the old cop shop again. No, as long as the stories are gripping and the cops are interesting characters, I’m fine with it. What do you think, DS Jackman?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have much time for reading,’ Winsome said. ‘But when I do, I prefer non-fiction. History. Biography. Nature writing. That sort of thing.’
‘Admirable.’
‘And when I read crime fiction,’ Winsome went on, ‘I prefer mine hard-boiled and American. Chandler, MacDonald – both of them – and Hammett. When men were men and dames were broads.’
Bradley gave a little bow. ‘Of course. What exquisite taste.’
Banks gave Winsome a quizzical look, but she gave him inscrutable back. They sat at the patio table, and almost before they had made themselves comfortable, Bradley’s wife Pam came out to say hello and serve tea, saying she hoped Earl Grey was all right, but she always thought it more refreshing than Darjeeling on a warm day. Banks had often wondered why tea could be so perfect for such weather, but it was. They thanked her, and she disappeared back inside the house.
Bradley must be about seventy now, Banks calculated, but he was still in good shape. He had lost a bit of hair since the last visit, but he hadn’t put on any weight, and nor did he seem any more stooped or stiffer with age. With his sharp-creased white trousers and short-sleeve V-neck pullover, despite the heat, he resembled a cricketer at start of play, though it was probably regular rounds of golf, not cricket, that kept him in shape. Maybe a little tennis, too. Banks made a note to get more exercise, though he knew he probably wouldn’t do it. Two five- or six-mile walks a week and regular shorter strolls near his cottage seemed to suit him fine. And he still had the kind of metabolism that kept him trim no matter what he ate or drank.
‘This is one of the things some people find hard to believe in detective novels and on TV,’ said Bradley gesturing to the cups of tea and plate of biscuits. ‘The tea or coffee. Especially Americans. Seems too genteel and twee to them, I suppose. I don’t think their coppers are quite so well treated when they come calling.’
‘I could just imagine someone offering the Continental Op a cup of tea,’ Winsome said.
They all laughed.
‘But it happens all the time here,’ said Banks. ‘Sometimes I think we ought to have toilets installed in our cars.’
Bradley put his cup down, tilted his head to one side and stroked his cheek with his index finger. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, it seems that having worked for DI Chadwick is going to haunt me for the rest of my days.’
‘Remind me how long you worked with him.’
‘I was a DC for Chiller from 1966 to 1971, when I transferred to Suffolk CID.’
‘Chiller?’ said Winsome.
‘Nickname,’ explained Bradley. ‘He was a bit of an icy sort of character. Cool in the extreme, and I don’t mean in the “hip” sort of way.’
‘And DI Chadwick died in 1973?’ Banks said.
‘Right. We didn’t really keep in touch after I left. I just heard through the grapevine, which could be slow in those days.’
‘Was there a rift of some sort?’
‘Not at all. It was just our way. I moved on. Chiller let go with both hands.’
‘How’s your memory of 1967?’
‘How could I forget? It was the year that hippies suddenly became a worldwi
de phenomenon. Oh, they’d been around a while, probably since ’65 or so, even in Leeds, but ’67 was the break-out year, when the newspapers all got in on the act. San Francisco. Wear some flowers in your hair, and so on. Chiller hated the buggers.’
‘The Summer of Love.’
‘Ah, yes. The Summer of Drugs, we called it. You have to remember, I was a bit of a young fogey, too.’ He smiled at Winsome. ‘Pinstripe suit, short hair, shirt and tie. DS Enderby was the one who drew Chiller’s wrath by letting his hair grow over his collar. Have you talked to him yet this time, by the way?’
‘I don’t think he’ll be able to help us,’ said Banks. ‘He only worked with the two of you on the Linda Lofthouse murder, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right. He was from your neck of the woods. North Yorkshire.’
‘Well, this is a West Yorkshire matter, or West Riding, as they used to call it.’
‘OK. Shoot, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Banks told him first about Linda Palmer’s visit to Chadwick and the complaint he had seen in the occurrence book. While he talked, Bradley listened intently, taking an occasional sip of tea. When Banks had finished, there was a brief silence.
‘Danny Caxton,’ Bradley said. ‘There’s a blast from the past.’
‘Still around.’
‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about him on the news now and again. Hence the interest, I assume?’
‘Well, I think there’s a certain kind of justice in proving someone’s long-ago crimes when they’ve been so arrogant and so bullying they think they’ve got away with them.’
‘But it was a different age,’ Bradley argued. ‘The sixties. Especially ’67.’
‘That’s what everyone seems to say. Believe it or not, I’ve considered that argument, and the times. I enjoyed the late sixties. The permissiveness was great for young people, but I don’t think it extended as far as rape.’
‘You believe this woman’s story?’
‘I do. There are others, too, with similar tales to tell. But this one’s my case. I just want to know if you can remember anything about that period in Chadwick’s career, if he said anything to you about it. I know it’s a long time ago, but some little thing might have stuck in your mind.’
‘I remember him saying there was a complaint about Danny Caxton,’ Bradley said. ‘I remember that well. It was a hot summer’s day, like we’ve been having up until now. I never saw the girl who made the complaint and, as I said, as far as I know, it never went anywhere. She came in with her mother, I think.’
‘So there was no investigation?’
‘Not as I remember. Chiller said it was something to do with Blackpool, so not really our case.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘The incident – alleged incident – took place in Blackpool a bit more than a week before the complaint was registered in Leeds.’
‘I certainly never heard any more about it. I assumed he’d passed it on to Blackpool or West Lancashire CID. It would have been their call.’
‘We’ve checked and double-checked, and we can’t find any record with Lancashire. There’s only the occurrence book entry with the Leeds police. They don’t remember anything about it.’
‘Then it can’t have gone any further. I mean, it’s hardly surprising Blackpool wouldn’t want anything to do with it. Summer season’s big business there. Lots of name stars. Lots of paying customers. Mustn’t upset the apple cart.’
‘Could it have been buried?’
‘That’s possible,’ Bradley admitted, scratching his cheek. ‘Things did go astray on occasion, and there wasn’t exactly anything to bury, was there, if as far as it went was an occurrence book entry? As I said, it was another time. Different rules. Besides, Danny Caxton was a big shot around the station. Rubbed shoulders with the chief constable. I think even Chiller got to go to one of his dinner dances, but not the lowly likes of yours truly.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t a fan, myself. More of a Mantovani man.’
It was certainly true about the different rules back then, Banks knew. The advent of the PACE rules in the eighties along with the updating or repealing of many old acts had changed policing a great deal. On the other hand, Banks thought, there were bent coppers taking bribes to look the other way and lose evidence today, just as there were back then. Maybe it was a bit harder to get away with it these days – so many watchdogs – but it still happened. And sometimes orders came from above to look the other way if a notable person was involved, especially if said notable person had something on notable police persons. That was human nature, and it could only be tempered by rules and law, not completely controlled. You could slide about on the moral scale as much as you wanted, or you could convince yourself that you were certain what was right and what was wrong. Whichever way Banks thought about it, however, ignoring a fourteen-year-old girl’s claims of having been brutally raped came under ‘wrong’. But he realised there was no sense in arguing moral relativism or the tenor of the times with Bradley. The man had been a lowly DC, and it had been nearly fifty years ago. As he said, another age. Best stick to trying to prise out a bit more information.
‘Caxton lived in Otley at the time,’ Banks said. ‘And he was a local big shot. Charity events and the like. Prime high-ranks territory out there, isn’t it? Lawnswood? Bramhope? Poole?’
‘You think he put the kibosh on it? I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened that way,’ Bradley admitted. ‘But it’s more likely there was simply no substance to the complaint. No leads. Nothing to investigate. If the case was buried, though, the orders would have had to have come from higher up than Chiller.’
‘How did he seem about it?’
Bradley scratched his temple. ‘He was a bit broody for a while. He had his moods, did Chiller. I suppose it could have been something to do with that, you know, being told to lay off. He wouldn’t have liked that. Very much his own man, was Chiller. I would imagine that whether or not he thought Caxton might be guilty of such a thing, he’d have liked to have had a look into it himself, just to satisfy his curiosity. But there was nothing he could do by himself, going up against someone like Caxton against orders. That’s the stuff of fiction and, for all his courage, he valued his job.’
‘So he took it seriously?’
‘I’d say he was disturbed by it, yes, but I still think he would have found it hard to believe such a thing of a bloke like Caxton.’
‘What did you think of him?’ Banks asked. ‘Caxton. I mean, when you heard his name in connection with a possible sexual assault.’
‘I didn’t know him, of course. Never met him. But I suppose I thought, nah, never, not him. He’d even been in the station once or twice, so I was told. And he was hardly ever off telly in those days. It’d be like thinking your Uncle Ted was a perv.’
‘Many a person’s Uncle Ted was a perv.’
‘You know what I mean. Familiar. Friendly. Cosy.’
‘It’s a good disguise, don’t you think?’
‘So it would appear now.’
‘Do you remember anything else from around that time?’ Banks asked. ‘Anything DI Chadwick might have said? Or anyone, for that matter? The super? The chief?’
Bradley pursed his lips. ‘I had little truck with any rank higher than Chiller’s, so no to that last part. As I remember, it was around my first anniversary with Leeds CID, the end of my first year working with DI Chadwick. As I said earlier, we had a fair bit of the Summer of Drugs stuff going on, so we found ourselves liaising with the Drugs Squad a lot. There was also the Sexual Offences Act, or the Queer Act, as we called it. You might remember that the House made homosexuality legal between consenting adults in private sometime during that summer. A lot of poofs seemed to take that as open season, and we had more work than ever. I do remember the first murder investigation I ever took a big part in, earlier that summer. A prostitute found floating in the canal down by The Calls. P
osh now, with all those fancy restaurants, boutique hotels and flats, but it was a proper warren of crime back then. She’d been stabbed twelve times and dumped there. Foreigner. Polish. I never saw the body, like, only came in later for the legwork.’
‘Did you ever find out who did it?’
‘No. We never did. We suspected the pimp, but he had a cast-iron alibi, of course. There was some speculation later that she might have been one of the Ripper’s first, before the “stone in the sock” murder in 1969. Amazing what you can do with hindsight. But we’d never heard of the Ripper then, and prostitute murders were all too common.’
‘And all too rarely investigated,’ said Banks, remembering his days in Soho in the eighties. ‘Plus ça change.’
‘Limited resources and too long a list of suspects. What can you do? You know as well as I do that most killers are related or in some way close to their victims. And stupid. Normally it doesn’t take you more than a day or so to run them down. But there are some – prostitutes, stranger murders, random killings, clever buggers, gang hits – they’re a little harder and call for more resources.’
‘Do you remember the murder of a bloke called Tony Monaghan, found stabbed in the public toilets in Hyde Park? This would have been a bit later than the Caxton business. October.’
Bradley’s expression turned grim. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember that one, all right.’
At least Gerry hadn’t teased Annie about appearing at work in the same clothes she had worn the day before. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed. Or perhaps she was just being polite. As Annie was suffering through a three extra-strength paracetamol hangover, she was thankful for small mercies. Banks had seemed in good spirits when they had met briefly over morning coffee before she set off for the station and he drove off to Leeds.
Before they left to talk to Paul Warner, Gerry filled Annie in on the previous evening’s developments. The only new information was that DC Doug Wilson had found Albert’s mate Ali in the Wytherton Arms. Unfortunately, Ali proved uninformative when questioned about what he had told Albert about older Pakistanis and underage girls. It was just a rumour, or so he told them. Such rumours were always doing the rounds.
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 28