‘No.’
So there was nothing at all, Banks realised. No record whatsoever of Ursula Monaghan’s chat with McCullen, or her fears for what had happened to her husband. McCullen himself, perhaps under instructions from the chief constable, had headed her off at the pass. ‘What did you do after that?’
‘I’d phone him often and ask how things were progressing, but I’d get put off and put off until all he could say was that there was no more progress. In the end, I’m sorry to say, I gave up. Moved on. I was just exhausted with it all, and it seemed to be blighting my life.’
Banks was in two minds whether to tell her that the police had been told to lay off Caxton from above, but he decided not to. ‘We don’t solve all our cases,’ he said. ‘Sadly. Sometimes they slip through the cracks.’
‘I know that,’ Ursula said. ‘You’re only human. But I was a bit cross at the time. Shall we move on?’ She got unsteadily to her feet and called the dogs, who had wandered off to explore a hillock several yards away. They came running.
‘I’m sorry to be bringing all these bad memories back to you,’ Banks said as they started walking towards the cottage. The sea sparkled around Lindisfarne and the old ruined stone seemed to shimmer in the light. ‘Especially as there’s nothing to be done about it after so long.’
‘It wouldn’t have brought Tony back. Even if they had found out who did it.’
‘It’s just the case I’m pursuing. I can’t really talk about it, but you’ll find out when it comes to trial. The thing is, we do at least have a chance of putting Caxton away, admittedly after a lifetime of getting away with sexual abuse. I’m also hoping with what I’ve found out about Tony’s murder, from you and other sources, I can make a convincing case for murder, or conspiracy at least. I have no concrete evidence, but I think if I can construct a plausible enough scenario a jury might believe it, given everything else.’
She hung her head. ‘I’m really sorry if my actions resulted in more girls getting abused.’
‘You’re not responsible for any of that,’ said Banks. Her husband had raped Linda Palmer, he knew, but he had confessed – made up a more palatable story, perhaps – and she had gone to the police with it. ‘I don’t think anything you could have done at the time would have stopped it. Stopped Caxton.’
‘Can you tell me if it was girls, or boys?’ Ursula asked out of the blue.
‘Girls. What difference does it make?’
‘The way Tony was found. You know, the place he was found in. It was obvious that everyone thought it was a gay murder. I just wondered if, you know, Caxton had been fond of young boys, that sort of thing. I mean, Tony had been involved in what happened at that party with a girl, but I just wonder if he was supposed to help find rough trade for Caxton, along with all his other duties.’
‘Not that we know of. Do you think your husband could have been gay, or bi?’
‘Absolutely not. I never believed it. I realise that’s what most wives would say, but it’s true. I’m not saying that Tony was some tough sort of macho man – he was artsy, for God’s sake, he dressed a bit differently, he liked ballet and opera and he wouldn’t harm a fly – but that doesn’t make a person gay. And in all our time together I never once got the remotest inkling that Tony had any interest, other than friendship, in his own sex. And I’ve known couples who were in that position. Gay men married to women for years. I think my gaydar, or whatever you call it, has been consistent.’
‘Why did you think he was in that public toilet, then?’
‘I could only assume he was put there to make it seem that way, or taken there and killed. I don’t know. I’m just sure that Caxton’s men did it. I don’t imagine for a moment he would have done it himself, but he probably knew people who would.’
How right you are, Banks thought. ‘And you mentioned this suspicion to Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen?’
‘Yes.’
They were approaching Ursula’s cottage over the rise. Banks could see his Porsche gleaming in the sunlight. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else,’ he said, ‘but if you remember any more details, however insignificant they might seem, let me know. And I apologise again for opening up old wounds. These cold cases have a tendency to do that.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Ursula. ‘I just hope you manage to find enough evidence to convict Caxton this time around. Will the judge put such an old man away for life?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve known cases where a judge has determined the accused too old and infirm to serve his sentence. But this is a high-profile case – Savile and Cyril Smith were dead by the time the world found out about them, but Rolf Harris is an old man, and they sent him to prison. The way things are going, there will be a wealth of evidence against Caxton. It’ll be hard not to be seen to do something.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks.
‘And?’
‘And he’s a pathetic old man. But it’s as you said. Repulsion at first sight. Perhaps the only difference between then and now is that the mask has slipped.’
After talking to Paul Warner and Albert Moffat it was late, and both Annie and Gerry felt the need to get out of the station. It was another fine evening, and they crossed the cobbled market square where tourists browsed in the gift-shop windows or sat in the little tea rooms and coffee houses looking out of the windows. They took a shortcut to the terraced river garden down a steep winding lane with high walls and came out by the falls. There had been so little rain lately that the Swain was not much more than a trickle of water the colour of pale ale, with hardly a touch of froth. Some days, after heavy rains, the water that had drained into the Swain from deeper in the dale flowed over in a noisy cataract, drowning out all other sounds and soaking anyone nearby in spray. Today, they could hear the birds, and they decided to sit in the open-air pub by the river. It was Friday, after all, and things were more or less under control. They found a table that afforded them a little distance and privacy from the rest of the customers and Annie went inside to get the drinks.
‘Christ, what a day,’ she said, plonking a pint of Black Sheep bitter in front of her and a Campari and soda in front of Gerry, who was a Campari and soda kind of girl. She then sat down and put her feet up on one of the other chairs, hoping none of the bar staff would see and tell her off.
Gerry held up her glass to clink. ‘Worth it, though. Cheers.’
‘Cheers. I don’t know about that. There’s not a lot we can do right now except leave Stefan and the rest to do their work. I don’t know about you, but after this pint, I’m off home for some shut-eye. Maybe when I wake up Jazz will have the DNA organised and we’ll know where we are.’
‘I doubt I’ll sleep much,’ said Gerry, ‘but home sounds nice.’
‘So what do you reckon?’
‘There are a few things that interest me,’ said Gerry, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears and leaning forward. ‘First off, ever since I talked to Jade I’ve been trying to imagine what Mimosa was like. It’s not easy to put a picture together.’
‘Nothing I’ve heard convinces me she had any more brains than a feral cat. I’m not trying to make any excuses for what happened, but she was out for what she could get, she sounds manipulative, and she was a druggie.’
‘But she was vulnerable, open to being manipulated by Sunny and his gang.’
‘True enough. But remember what Jade told you on the recording. Mimosa was queen bee, or whatever they called her. She got paid for luring girls in.’
‘But they made her do it.’
‘Maybe so. I’m just saying she was no saint, that’s all. If it hadn’t been this, she’d have got herself into trouble some other way.’
‘So you’d have written her off, like the social workers and the Wytherton police? You think she was just some estate slut looking for an easy ride?’
‘Gerry, where’s this coming from? I mean nothing of the sort. All I’m saying
is that, on my reading, Mimosa was a troubled personality, and headstrong, gobby, as everyone said. Some people are just destined for trouble of one sort or another. I’m not saying it was her fault she had a fucked-up life.’
‘She might have made something of herself,’ Gerry said, ‘if she’d had some more cultured influence in her life, like Paul Warner, for example, she could have broken out.’
‘Paul Warner? Come off it, Gerry, you don’t fancy him, do you?’
Gerry blushed. ‘No. But you can’t deny he speaks well and he’s educated. He seemed to like her. I know she was too young for him, but I’m just using him as an example.’
‘So all she needed was the right man in her life? Paul Warner? He dropped out of university after his first year and he’s a racist. Would you want that sort of influence on your daughter?’
‘Well, not the racism, no, but . . . Oh, never mind.’
‘It’s part of the package.’
Gerry remained silent a moment sipping on her drink, then she said, ‘Well, she could draw. She had artistic talent. She could have developed that, gone to college.’
‘True enough. But just because you can draw doesn’t mean you’ve got ability in any other department. Believe me, I’ve known a few artists in my time, and I could tell you a story or two. There’s absolutely no connection whatsoever between art and personal morality. Or art and emotional intelligence. Quite the opposite, mostly. You just have to study the lives of the great artists to see that.’ Annie took a sip of her beer. ‘We’ll have another go at Albert tomorrow, see if we can break him.’
‘Albert’s not that bright,’ said Gerry. ‘Can you really see him pretending to get drunk, then slipping out while Paul Warner’s genuinely passed out in his flat, then driving the car, following the van and killing Mimosa?’
‘I can see him losing it with her,’ said Annie, ‘but you’re right, I can’t see the rest. Still, we shouldn’t mistake cunning for intelligence.’
‘Nobody noticed anything suspicious in his room when we searched the Moffat house.’
‘We didn’t know what we were looking for then. Now we’ve got his clothes and shoes in for forensic analysis.’
‘Albert knows we’re bound to find his prints in the car.’
‘He can explain that,’ said Annie. ‘But he wouldn’t be able to explain blood on his shoes as easily. And there’s another thing.’
‘What?’
‘That phone call I made after the interview, when you left to go to the loo?’
‘Yes?’
‘I called Superintendent Carver. Gave him a chance to redeem himself. I asked him nicely to put a watch on Paul Warner. If he dashes back home and starts acting strangely, then we’ll have an idea he might be covering for his mate. And we’ll have Mimosa’s personal belongings in our hands tomorrow, don’t forget.’
‘And what if we’re wrong? What’s the alternative to Albert? Lenny Thornton? Sinead Moffat?’
‘You’ve forgotten Johnny,’ she said. ‘Maybe his inertia is just as fake as Albert’s alibi?’
Gerry laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Sunny or one of his mates could have done it, remember, no matter what they say. They’ve got no real alibis. The only problem there is that we can’t find any vehicle on the CCTV associated with them.’
‘We can check the footage again,’ said Gerry. ‘Doug did a good job checking up on Jim Nuttall. What about him?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Annie. ‘He’s not connected with any of the players here, as far as we know, except with Albert Moffat. Besides, Albert’s admitted he was driving on Tuesday and Wednesday and that the car was parked behind Warner’s flat all night Tuesday. Somebody else could have taken it, I suppose, and left it back there later. But I think Nuttall was just working the black-market economy, that’s all, avoiding paying taxes, not to mention a proper wage. We can let the girls have a look at him when they’re OK to do it, see if they recognise him from any of their assignments. Jade did say some of the men involved were white, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it wouldn’t be a bad idea to dig a bit deeper, just for the sake of thoroughness, but I don’t see Jim Nuttall as our killer.’
‘So we’re looking at Albert or Paul for it?’
‘I think so,’ said Annie. ‘And right now I’m leaning more towards Paul. He’s smart. Don’t forget, he’s the one who alibied Albert, but in doing so, perhaps more importantly, he alibied himself. He must have known that. Probably thought we wouldn’t see it, that he put one over on us. He’s arrogant enough. If you ask me, Albert genuinely doesn’t have a clue what happened. He was pissed out of his mind and, whatever else he is, he loved his sister. If Paul Warner was the one who was faking it, there’s no reason he couldn’t have slipped out in the van. He’d have more sense than to use his own car, even if he was only planning on beating up Sunny. And he knew Nuttall’s van was there.’
‘But why? What’s his motive? And how did he know about Mimosa? How did he know she was going to Dewsbury, or that she would come walking back up the lane?’
‘He didn’t. He can’t have. Only somebody in with Sunny and his cousins could have known that, if it was arranged in advance. But the CCTV seems to have ruled that out. It’s true we don’t have a motive yet, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one, just that we haven’t thought of it. And maybe the Dewsbury trip is the wrong thing to be worrying about.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Paul Warner’s not going to admit that he knew about Mimsy and Sunny, is he, or about what was going on with the girls, the grooming. But we know that Albert knew, and what if Albert, in his cups, told Warner earlier that Tuesday night and was so pissed he doesn’t remember?’
‘Doesn’t help us much, does it? There was still no motive. And Albert can’t have known about the Dewsbury trip, surely?’
‘Not that we know of, though maybe he did. Again, we don’t have the full picture. But as I said, maybe we’ve been worrying too much about the Dewsbury trip. What if Paul Warner really did have a thing for Mimsy?’
‘We’ve no evidence of that. Look at the age diff—’
‘Despite that. What difference does age make? Sunny’s in his forties. We know she was drawn to older men, even abused by them. We’re forgetting that although Mimsy was a child in some ways, she was a fully grown woman in others, attractive, with a nice figure, available, or so it might have seemed. Apparently, she oozed sex. Warner said he thought she was mature for her age the first time we talked to him. She also liked to hang out helping him and Albert on jobs. Maybe something happened. Maybe he got an eyeful when she went up the ladder one day and he liked what he saw? They had to be left alone together at some point. Maybe she flirted a bit with Warner, or more – again, no excuse or motive for what happened, but maybe it’s part of the cause, and it wouldn’t be against what we know of her nature. And there was something you said earlier, about maybe if Mimosa had a cultured person to help her break out, someone like Paul Warner.’
‘Possibly. But I still think you’re pushing it a bit, guv. How did Warner know where she was, or where she was going that night?’
‘Well, if Albert told him about Sunny, he’d have a good idea where she might be. The rest, I admit I don’t know. But if Vic Manson finds any prints other than Albert’s and Jim Nuttall’s in the VW, then we’ll be looking at Paul Warner’s for comparison first. And remember, yonks back, Dr Glendenning said there might be a chance of matching the pattern of the shoes used to kick Mimosa? If Warner hasn’t got rid of them already – and why would he chuck away a perfectly good pair of Doc Martens or whatever if he thought he’d pulled off a clever one and wasn’t likely to be in the frame? If we keep pushing, the most he’d admit to is giving his mate a false alibi, and Albert doesn’t have the brains to wriggle out of a trap like that. Look how arrogant Warner is. He thinks we’re all thick plods.’
They sipped their drinks and watched the swans swimming under the overhanging
willows on the quiet part of the river beyond the falls. Clouds of midges and the occasional wasp buzzed around them.
‘I could just fall asleep right now,’ Gerry said.
Then Annie’s mobile buzzed. She answered, listened for a few moments, then frowned and put it back in her handbag. ‘There goes your early evening kip,’ she said.
‘What? Who was it?’
‘My new best friend Superintendent Carver. He says the men he put on Paul Warner report that minutes after our lad got home, he was out again with a black bin bag, which he proceeds to put in the back of his van. They followed him into the Wytherton Household Waste Recycling Centre and apprehended him before he could dispose of anything. He made a fuss about his rights and lawyers and blah-blah. And the long and short of it is, he’s on his way to the station and we’d better get back there to welcome him.’ She paused and glanced at her watch. ‘On second thoughts, it’ll take a while, so let’s have another drink, or more, it’s a nice evening. A Friday, too. And things are starting to go our way. We can invite Alan and Winsome down here, too, if they’re free.’
‘What do we do about Warner?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not inviting him. If we charge him we can’t talk to him again. I’ll call Doug at the station and we’ll have him arrested on arrival. Then we’ll have twenty-four hours. Let him cool his heels overnight. We’ll see if we can put a rush on the Nuttall van forensics and get a couple of lab people to put in a bit of overtime and get started on the contents of that bin bag. Apparently, in addition to a pair of Doc Martens, some jeans and a polo shirt, there are some drugs. All that should give us enough ammunition to take on Warner again.’
‘But what do we do with Albert Moffat in the meantime? We’ve already got him arrested under suspicion.’
‘We keep him where he is. We arrest Warner for conspiracy to commit murder.’
‘Do you think they were in it together?’
‘It’s an interesting possibility, isn’t it? Your shout, I think.’
Linda Palmer was sitting in her garden that evening working on her memoir, girding herself to approach the main event. It was the dusk of another beautiful day, and she kept looking up from the page to watch the kingfisher scanning the water for fish. She had got herself as far as the Blackpool hotel, through the preamble of autographs, promises of help with her career, the ride in the plush car, the champagne. She was in the hotel suite now, on her second glass . . .
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 42