Peter Robinson: When the Music's Over

‘All you’re really telling me,’ said Feldman, ‘is that Mr Caxton’s press officer did a good job. I don’t see anything criminal in that.’

‘Let’s get back to the allegations of rape, then,’ said Winsome. ‘When we asked our complainant if she would immerse herself in the difficult and painful process of trying to remember as much detail as she could about the assault, there was something specific that she remembered, and we think it will link her most effectively with Mr Caxton. Would you roll up your left sleeve, please, Mr Caxton?’

‘What...?’

‘Your left sleeve.’

Caxton looked at Feldman, who nodded like a man who knew it would have to happen inevitably at some point, even if they objected now. Slowly, Caxton pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, then unfastened the button at the cuff of his shirt and pushed that up, too. The inked numbers were plain to see. Banks noticed that Caxton’s hand was shaking, and his skin had turned even paler, looking dry, like parchment. He began to worry there was something more serious going on than nerves.

‘What are those numbers?’ Winsome asked. ‘What do they mean? We know that you were in England during the war, not in Auschwitz. Can you—’

Banks tapped Winsome gently on the arm to indicate that she should stop. ‘Mr Caxton,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Do you need me to call a doctor?’

‘Ggggah bbrrridddd ahh.’

Caxton couldn’t get the words out. His face looked oddly lopsided, Banks noticed, as if the right half had fallen away from the cheekbones, and spittle drooled from his lower lip. His right arm hung limp, and that whole side of his body seemed to sag. Banks knew what was happening. He dashed to the door to tell the officer outside to call the paramedics immediately.

Danny Caxton was having a stroke.

By Saturday night, when Banks again knocked on Linda Palmer’s door in Minton-on-Swain, a great deal had happened. Paul Warner was in custody for the murder of Mimosa Moffat, and the forensic evidence was fast building up against him. They also had his confession. Sunny and his colleagues were all under arrest and facing a number of serious charges, though DNA tests showed that none of them had any connection with Mimosa’s murder. The DNA of the three cousins from Dewsbury, however, was a clear match for the semen samples found inside Mimosa, and they faced a whole lot of charges, though they continued to deny rape and insist that the sex had been consensual. Mimosa had been under the age of consent, so it didn’t matter too much, but their sentences would certainly be a lot longer if a jury believed they had also physically assaulted her and forced her to perform sex acts against her will. The problem was that there was no one to say Mimosa wasn’t willing, though the three men who said she was had every reason to lie. The five other victims of Sunny’s grooming gang were being cared for and were all giving detailed statements of their own experiences, though the whereabouts of Jade, aka Carol Fisher, were still unknown. The Strip had quietened down a lot, but there were still isolated incidents and rumblings of unrest around the Wytherton Heights estate. Two more women had come out with complaints against Danny Caxton since he had made his grand entrance and exit to and from Eastvale Police HQ, one in Great Yarmouth and the other in Weymouth. Caxton was still in hospital, still hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

Linda Palmer opened the front door and led Banks through to the garden. It was another fine summer evening early in August, but Banks sensed a slight autumn chill already in the air. It wasn’t enough to drive them indoors, though, and Banks took the same chair as he had on his previous visit. Music played through the open French windows, swirling strings rising and falling, and there was a bottle of wine open on the table. Linda asked Banks if he would like some.

‘Just a glass, please,’ he said. It was a crisp Pinot Grigio, nicely chilled, and it went down well. The river was in the shadow of the trees, but Banks could hear it, and was constantly aware of its presence beyond the music, which he didn’t recognise. Persy was lying on the lawn near a flower bed.

‘Who’s this?’ Banks asked, referring to the music.

‘Mahler’s Ninth. The last movement, the adagio. I’ll put something else on if it’s not to your liking. Some people have a hard time with Mahler.’

‘No,’ said Banks, ‘don’t change it for me. It’s someone I’ve been meaning to get into for a while. All I know of Mahler is the soundtrack from Death in Venice .’

‘Ah, yes. Magnificent.’ Linda paused. ‘I heard about Danny Caxton on the news,’ she said. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Famous TV personality has stroke in police custody? I should think so. There’s bound to be repercussions. There’ll be an inquest, maybe even an investigation. They take anything unusual that happens in police custody seriously these days. On the plus side, his lawyer was there. He saw everything that happened, and he said we couldn’t have responded faster. It was so quick. And Caxton had never told us before that he had any problem with his heart. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but there’s not much chance of a trial now, so what the hell. According to a disgruntled employee on the staff at Caxton’s home, Xanadu, his doctor had warned him to be careful with his health, prescribed various drugs to combat hypertension and elevated heart rate. But Caxton didn’t take them. He said they interfered with his sex life, which, according to our source, was mostly catered to by high-class call girls shipped into Xanadu on a fairly regular basis. He didn’t change his lifestyle either, kept on smoking cigars, drinking cognac. Too arrogant to listen to the doctors, I suppose. The only indication he’d given was that he said he wasn’t feeling well, but nobody feels well when they know they’ve been caught.’

Linda smiled. ‘There’s an irony in that, isn’t there,’ she said. ‘The great man brought down by his own perverse desires. But surely the lawyers will argue that the stress of being interrogated must have had something to do with it?’

‘No doubt that’s what they’ll say. But we played it by the book and it’s all on record, audio recording and video. There was no use of restraint, not that we’d be likely to need it with an eighty-five-year-old man. Caxton arrived under his own steam, with his lawyer, and he was well treated at all times. He behaved quite normally at first. Nevertheless, there’ll be trouble, you can be sure of it. They’ll want their pound of flesh.’

‘Will you lose your job?’

‘Maybe. If they need a sacrificial lamb. Or perhaps I’ll just be demoted, or promoted to chief constable, where I can do no harm. It was, after all, my first major investigation as superintendent. I enjoyed being detective chief inspector, though, so demotion wouldn’t bother me too much. Chief constable I’m not so sure about.’

‘You’re being very flippant about it, but I feel terrible.’

‘Why? It’s not your fault. We can’t let people who do the things Caxton did to you and others go free just because they’re old and frail. I hope you understand that. It’s simply that the politics of the job demands sacrifices.’

‘What do the doctors say?’

‘They don’t hold out a lot of hope. Apparently he had a second stroke on the way to hospital and a third when he got there. He’s in his mid-eighties. Even if he does survive, he’ll be bedridden and incapacitated for the rest of his days.’

‘I wish I could feel something,’ said Linda with a shiver. ‘Pity. Compassion. I can’t.’

Banks just looked at her. ‘Save it for someone who deserves it.’