Peter Robinson: When the Music's Over

‘Was it Mahler’s last work?’ Banks asked.

‘Not technically, no. He’d sketched out a tenth symphony before he died. But he was ill. He’d lost his favourite daughter and been diagnosed with heart problems. The ninth is often regarded as his farewell to the world, especially that adagio.’ She paused a moment then asked him, ‘So Caxton won’t be going on trial?’

‘The CPS will declare him unfit to stand,’ said Banks, ‘Even if he lives that long.’

‘So there’ll be no real closure?’

‘I always thought closure was overrated,’ said Banks. ‘What’s so special about an old man sitting in a prison cell for the rest of his natural life?’

‘Well, if you put it that way...’

‘I don’t mean to belittle anything you’ve been through,’ said Banks, ‘but everyone’s going to know what he did, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s too old to recover from what happened to him, even if he survives for a while longer. That’ll have to be enough.’

‘Do you think it has all been worthwhile?’ Linda asked. ‘Has justice been served?’

‘I think that’s a question you should be answering. Has it?’

Linda seemed lost in thought for a moment, her brow furrowed, then she said. ‘I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe it’s too soon. I just feel numb.’

‘Well, perhaps his stroke is justice of a kind,’ said Banks.

‘But it isn’t, really, is it?’ Linda replied. ‘I mean, it’s the sort of thing that happens to all of us in one way or another, at some time — strokes, heart attack, Alzheimer’s, cancer. There’s no justice in that. Just arbitrary endings. We all die, some of us in great agony, so how can Caxton’s stroke be anything like a judgement, or justice?’

‘Do you want more?’ Banks asked. ‘Do you want him to suffer more? If he’d gone to jail before he had his stroke, he’d be spending his time on the hospital wing. Would that really make a scrap of difference to you?’

‘No. I’m not saying I want him to suffer more. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m confused. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I’m not jumping up and down for joy because the man who raped me has had a stroke. Maybe I should be. I’m not one of those people who thinks criminals should be hanged, drawn and quartered. I don’t know. It just feels sort of meaningless.’

‘Perhaps it is, then,’ said Banks. ‘But it might mean more to some of his other victims.’

Linda lit a cigarette and regarded him through lowered eyes. ‘Are you saying I don’t make a good victim?’

Banks smiled. ‘Victim isn’t the word that comes to mind when I talk to you,’ he said. The sun was at such an angle that the river looked like a burning oil slick and the undersides of the overhanging trees were lit by its fiery light. Banks finished his wine and put his glass down. ‘I should be going.’

Linda didn’t react for a moment, then she leaned forward and said, ‘Do you mind if I come with you to the Dog and Gun? I really don’t feel like being here on my own tonight. I want people and music and dancing.’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks, standing and offering her his arm.

‘Are you sure it’s OK, me being a witness, a victim ? You won’t get into trouble?’

‘I’m already in trouble. A bit more won’t make much difference.’

Linda smiled and took his arm and together they walked out of the garden.

It was a bitterly cold night but the nature of Jade’s work didn’t allow her to dress for the weather. She was shivering in her tube top and micro skirt as she paced her corner near the city centre. Streetlights and neons reflected in the puddles, and the noise of revellers from nearby pubs and clubs filled the air — a laugh, a glass smashing, a sudden cheer or whoop, loud music from a cover band imitating the Rolling Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’. There was plenty of traffic, and the cars occasionally slowed down for a closer look at her, sometimes stopped to pick her up. But she still had hours of work ahead of her before she could get back to the flat and experience the rush and the euphoria that followed. That anticipation of blissful oblivion had quickly become all that kept her going in the cold city night.

The girls were spaced well apart, and Radnor came by every once in a while to make sure everything was all right, and to pick up the earnings. He was OK, she supposed. Better than some. And she wouldn’t be doing this for ever, she thought as she paced. She was still young. There was a man she’d been talking to, a pal of Radnor’s, who said he thought she’d be perfect for some films he was going to make. The work paid well. About a thousand euros a scene, he said, with extra for unprotected sex, gangbangs and fake rape. A few months of that, and she’d have a nice little nest egg to do with what she wanted. She didn’t know what that was yet, but she wanted to move somewhere far away from here, perhaps a village in the country. She’d kick her habit and live somewhere people were nice and there were trees and birds and sweet-smelling flowers and maybe a river at the bottom of her garden.

The wind seemed to rake against her exposed flesh and she felt the first drops of rain on her cheek. A car pulled up by the kerb about ten yards ahead of her and a hand beckoned out of the window. The engine purred and the red brake lights glowed like a demon’s eyes. She felt that same tightening in her stomach she always felt when a car stopped. You never knew what was going to happen next. Then she pulled herself together, thrust her chest out and remembered to swing her hips as she walked towards it.

Many thanks to Carolyn Mays my editor at Hodder & Stoughton. Also thanks to Abby Parsons for all her assistance and to Justine Taylor for clear and clean copy-editing. At McClelland & Stewart, I would like to thank Ellen Seligman, and at William Morrow, my editor Daniel Mallory and assistant editor Marguerite Weisman. I would also like to thank my wife Sheila Halliday, who read the manuscript when I thought it was ready to submit and found even more room for improvement.

Thanks to my agents Domnick Abel and David Grossman for their continuing encouragement and support. Also thanks to the publicists — Kerry Hood at Hodder, Ashley Dunn at McClelland & Stewart and Megan Schumann at Morrow.

Thanks to Nicholas Reckert for the interesting walks that somehow always seem to suggest a possible crime scene. In this book, he is by no means responsible for Wytherton Heights, which is entirely of my own imagining.

As far as research is concerned, I want to give special thanks to Jenny Brierley, ICT Archivist at the West Yorkshire Archive Service, for her invaluable help in tracking down old police records.

I feel it might also be useful to mention three books I found particularly useful when researching the themes of my novel: In Plain Sight: The Life and Lies of Jimmy Savile by Dan Davies; Smile for the Camera: The Double Life of Cyril Smith by Simon Danczuk and Matthew Baker; and Violated by Sarah Wilson.

Last but not least, thanks to the sales teams who make the deals and set up the speical promotions, to the reps who get out on the road and sell the book to the shops, and to the booksellers themselves, without whom you wouldn’t be holding this volume in your hand. And thanks, of course, to you, the reader.