When the Music's Over, page 27
“Did he ever say anything about gays?”
“If he did, I don’t remember. Only that argument I told you about, when Mum mentioned queers.”
“Did he ever mention the name Tony Monaghan?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Do you remember anything at all about a body found in the public toilets at Hyde Park up by the university?”
“I remember it vaguely, but I don’t remember when, or any details. I mean, when you’re a copper’s daughter you probably do pay a bit more attention to such things than someone else would. But I wasn’t really interested in crime stories. True or fictional. I do know those toilets were supposed to be a hotbed of gay activity. Everybody knew that. There was a rumor going round at school that the police used to hide up in the ceiling there and watch through peepholes to catch the gays at it.”
“Maybe it’s true,” said Banks, smiling. Many public conveniences did serve as meeting places for homosexuals, he remembered. His father had always warned him to stay away from certain public loos, even in Peterborough.
Yvonne laughed. “I couldn’t see my dad up there spying on people through a peephole. He was tolerant on the whole.” She laughed again. “Except with me, of course.”
Banks stood up, and Winsome followed suit. “Well, maybe he had that in common with a lot of fathers. Thanks, Yvonne. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I have?”
“Well, we know more now than we did before we came, so I’d call that a successful visit, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
Banks handed her his card. “In case you remember anything else. Call me anytime.”
“I’M AFRAID I didn’t follow your advice very well, did I?” said Annie glumly swirling the last of her shiraz in the large wineglass. “A little tact. Softly, softly.”
“No. You did the ‘bull in a china shop with all guns blazing’ approach.”
“I didn’t think so, but since that bastard from Wytherton had his say, you probably do.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “You were playing silly buggers with two oafs. Fair enough. You’ve had your fun, now just put it behind you and get back to work.”
“Christ, what a day,” said Annie. “Now Sinead Moffat hates me, too. She blames me for the search. And I’m pissed into the bargain. And I’m going to have another one.”
“My pleasure.” Banks poured the wine.
“Ta,” said Annie. “What’s that we’re listening to? It sounds a bit like Jeff Buckley.”
“It’s Tim Buckley,” said Banks.
“His dad. Blue Afternoon.” “His dad? Get away with you.”
“It is. He died young, too. Drug overdose.”
“All your lot did,” said Annie.
“I saw him once,” Banks said. “Knebworth Festival, 1974. It was one of the last gigs he did. Fantastic.”
They were sitting in the wicker chairs in Banks’s conservatory after a dinner of M&S lasagne and Caesar salad, with dressing that came in a sachet, a bottle of shiraz almost empty on the table between them and the lightest of breezes blowing through the open windows. The sun had gone down, but there was still a bluish glow in the sky behind Tetchley Fell. Banks had caught up with Annie in the corridor outside an interview room after he had got back from talking to Yvonne Reeves. It had been a long day, and Annie had looked drawn and haggard, so he had invited her to dinner, stopping off at Marks & Spencer on the way.
Maybe Annie deserved the opportunity to let off a little steam, Banks thought. It was a complex case she was on, and the death of a child—which Mimosa Moffat was, when you came right down to it—got to even the most hardened officers. The fact that Annie had herself been raped some years ago, and was still recovering from a recent shooting incident, made her even more vulnerable. But Banks was still convinced that she was more than up to the task. Not only that, but that she was the best person for it.
“What’s wrong with me, Alan?” she said when he had emptied the last of the bottle into her glass “Am I a racist? Is that it? Do you think I’m a racist?”
“I don’t think you’re a racist, Annie. It’s just complicated, that’s all. What do you think those mothers in Nigeria are thinking about, the ones whose daughters were kidnapped by Boko Haram?”
Annie squinted at him. “What? I can’t even begin to imagine what hell they’re going through, worrying if they’re ever going to see their daughters again, scared about what’s been done to them.” She gave a shudder. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t matter what color they are, does it? They’re mothers going through hell, like any mother here would whose child goes missing, and children suffering. I know it sounds like a cliché, but we’re all just people. Good ’uns, bad ’uns and in-between ’uns, most of us.”
“‘If you prick me, do I not bleed?’”
“You’ve got it.”
“But why is this race business all so complicated?” Annie went on, waving her glass at him. “It drives me round the bend. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think or say. Is grooming girls for underage sex supposed to be OK in their culture, like female genital mutilation or honor killing? Are we supposed to respect it all, no matter what, just because it’s their culture, like the Scots with their bagpipes and haggis? I mean, I don’t even like bagpipes and haggis. It’s not my bloody culture, I can tell you that. So does that make me a racist? And who do we blame? Society or the kids? Whatever happened to morality? Good and evil? Right and wrong?”
“Outdated concepts, I’m afraid,” said Banks. “But I think you’re getting way too many things mixed up here. What’s acceptable to one group isn’t necessarily acceptable to another. And there’s a big difference between haggis and bagpipes and female genital mutilation.”
Annie tipped her glass at a dangerous angle and narrowed her eyes. “I know that. I know that. I’m just trying to make a point, that’s all. Am I supposed to think all these things are OK because they’re sacred to some culture or ethnic group or medieval religion? Am I supposed to be inclusive? Is it all part and parcel of our diversity? Would I be divisive if I disagreed?”
“Probably,” said Banks. “But calm down. You’re letting this get to you way too much.”
Annie sniffed. “I think anyone who performs female genital mutilation should be hung, drawn and quartered, bagpipes should be exiled to one of the inner circles of hell, and as for haggis, well, the jury’s still out on that one.”
Banks laughed. “That’s because you’re a vegetarian.”
“They have vegetarian haggis, you know. Boil in a bag.”
“What’s it made of?”
“I don’t know. The inner organs of turnips and cabbages or something. But am I wrong about all this?”
“We both know,” said Banks,” that for every Asian who does something like this, you could find thousands who are decent, hardworking, law-abiding members of the community.”
“But it’s not those people we’re dealing with, is it? It never is. We deal with the worst, like whoever raped Mimosa. The dregs. We take the decency of the majority for granted.”
“True enough,” said Banks. “But what else can we do except try to protect the good guys and catch the bad guys? Look on the bright side. Danny Caxton, for example. For years he got away with abusing underage girls, but now we’re coming down on him and people like him.”
“Thanks to Operation Yewtree. But don’t you think even that’s gone a bit over the top? I mean, famous people are getting arrested just for touching someone’s arm or giving them a hug forty years ago, for crying out loud. Teachers are scared to touch children. I know I’m one to speak, given what happened to me and all, but I’ve never usually had much trouble removing an uninvited hand from my knee and telling its owner to bog off.”
“Maybe there’s always some sort of overcompensation for letting things slide for so long,” said Banks. “Like positive discrimination. Some people complain that jobs are given to women or to blacks just because they’re women or black, for example. It’s our nature to try to make amends. And the Jimmy Savile business encouraged a lot of women to come forward and speak out. Don’t forget, either, that many of the victims had come forward before, at the time of the incident, and been ignored. Women like Linda Palmer. That’s down to us. Not you and me specifically, but the force. We’ve made mistakes. That’s why Adrian Moss seems to be wringing his hands most of the time these days. But the point is, it’s happening. Same with grooming gangs. Sure, they got away with it for far too long in Rochdale, Rotherham, Manchester, Oxford, Aylesbury. Now it’s Wytherton. Fair enough, too many people are still ignoring it, including us and the social, but you’re coming down on them.”
“With my hands tied behind my back, it seems.”
Banks smiled at her. “Annie, I have every faith that you can do it, even with your hands tied behind your back.”
“You know,” Annie said, “the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that bastard Carver is bent.”
“He’s probably just trying to do a really difficult job. It can’t be easy, policing a divided community like Wytherton.”
“No, it’s not that. Those two coppers, Bill and Reg. I know I goaded them a bit, but they were ready to beat the shit out of us, Alan. Now, who runs a station where it’s OK for patrol officers to do that for no reason other than someone being mouthy?”
“Zero tolerance,” said Banks.
“Bloody hell, you’ve got an excuse for everything, don’t you?”
“Not an excuse, but maybe a reason. And I’m not saying I agree. I’m just saying that’s probably their philosophy.”
“Yeah, well, you can keep your zero tolerance if it means bashing me on the head with a baton.” She took a hearty swig of wine.
Banks thought for a moment. “I suppose they’d say they were defending their patch. It can’t be an easy beat, Wytherton. And we come in like some invading army. No wonder Carver defends them.”
“Me and Gerry? An invading army?”
“You know what I mean.”
“That man Carver’s a stuffed uniform,” said Annie.
“But why was he so unhelpful?” said Banks. “That’s the point. You’d think he’d have a bit more about him. Have some idea what’s going on in his manor.”
“He turned a blind eye.”
“I don’t know,” said Banks. “But I can’t help finding myself wondering if there isn’t something he’s trying to keep under wraps.”
“Like what?”
“Those two coppers who gave you a rough time—”
“Reg and Bill. Pair of pillocks.”
“Right. They weren’t on duty the night Mimosa Moffat took her last ride, were they?”
“They said not.”
“What if Mimsy was a problem? Their problem.”
“Problem? Mimsy? What are you talking about?”
“But what if she was?” Banks said. “I’m just thinking out loud. What if they were involved somehow?”
“You mean Reg and Bill were having sex with underage girls?”
“Exactly. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, is it? Maybe they found out what was going on, and that was their price for turning a blind eye? Maybe Mimosa threatened to blow the whistle. I know there’s still a lot of loose ends, like nobody knowing she was going to be walking up the lane and so on. But as a working theory, does it hold water? Maybe they were planning on killing her at the other end of her journey, later, away from their own patch.”
“Reg and Bill? But they said they didn’t know what was going on down the Strip. Even Carver didn’t.”
“Why couldn’t they be lying? I doubt that it would have been hard for them to get hold of a car we couldn’t trace. One of the cars on the CCTV was stolen, wasn’t it?”
“True,” said Annie. “But Reg and Bill?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time police officers have lied to protect themselves. I’m merely suggesting that maybe you should have another chat with them. Find out exactly where they were last Tuesday between one and three in the morning.”
“Carver will love that,” Annie said.
“Fuck Carver. It’s our case. Work around him.”
“You know, you might have a point. And the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced those two blokes in the takeaway were lying. You should’ve seen their faces when I said we’d be able to match the food we’d bought with the victim’s stomach contents.”
“You told them that?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well, we can’t, can we?”
“Maybe not exactly, unless we matched the DNA with a goat or a lamb they’d been serving. But it put the wind up them, I can tell you that.” Annie clinked glasses with Banks and slopped a little wine over the rim of hers onto the carpet. “Oops,” she said. “It’s red, too. Sorry.”
“Forget it. How does Gerry feel about all this?”
“The poor kid’s terrified she’s going to be sent back on probation or something. You know, I like Gerry a lot, but she can be a bit of a mouse. She’s a bit too ‘golly gosh’ and ‘jolly hockey sticks’ for me sometimes.”
“It’s a matter of background,” said Banks. “She went to a posh school, didn’t she?”
“Think so.”
“There you are, then. Give her a chance. She’ll probably be chief constable one day. Playing fields of Eton and all that.”
“I don’t think it was Eton. It was Merchant Taylors’, or some such place.”
“It’s just a saying. “‘The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.’”
“What’s it mean? Who said that? David Cameron?”
“It’s supposed to have been the Duke of Wellington, but it may well be a misquote. People who go to public school are destined for great things. Leadership. That’s the point.”
“If you say so. The old boys’ network? And the old girls’?” Annie drained her glass and waved it. “Can we have another?”
Banks got to his feet. “I’ll open another bottle if you want.”
“Can I stop here for the night? I’m too pissed to drive and I can’t afford a taxi all the way to Harkside. I’d probably be sick, if I had to go in a car.”
“I’ve got an early start in the morning, but the spare room’s made up.”
Annie hesitated for a moment, then she said, “I don’t need the spare room.”
Banks went to get another bottle of red from the rack in the kitchen, then he went into the entertainment room to put another CD on. What had she meant by that remark? he wondered. Was it some sort of come-on? Any romance they had shared had fizzled out long ago, and he had thought neither of them was foolish enough to want to rekindle it, to mix work and sex again. Now this? But Annie had had way too much to drink. She was upset, confused, and he wasn’t going to take advantage of her.
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 the 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 color 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 doors led out to a neatly mown lawn at the back, complete with a small gazebo, garden shed, outdoor grill, bird feeder and patio with a green table and matching molded plastic chairs.
Bradley turned to Winsome. “Please let me apologize. 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 remained 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.
