Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

No matter how much wealth Caxton had accumulated, he clearly hadn’t spent anything on plastic surgery or dental care. His teeth were like yellowing fangs hanging from pale receding gums. They gave his smile the bared-teeth quality of a wild beast. His eyes were glaucous, rheumy and milky blue, and the network of red and purple veins on and around his nose showed a predilection for the bottle. Liver spots dappled the backs of his hands. Only his hair showed professional attention. A healthy silvery-grey in colour, cut short and simply combed diagonally from a straight side parting, it contrasted nicely with his tan. It had to be expensive to look that good and that easy. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and tan chinos despite the heat. Through the glass table, Banks could see that his big toenails had thickened and tapered into claws, just like that bird of prey’s.

‘The incident we want to ask you about occurred during your summer season in Blackpool in August 1967,’ Banks went on.

‘Alleged incident,’ corrected Feldman.

‘Oh, the incident took place all right. All that’s alleged is your client’s part in it.’

Feldman inclined his head.

‘Do you remember that season, Mr Caxton?’

Caxton made a steeple of his fingers and rested it under his chin, as if deep in thought. ‘I had many a summer season at Blackpool and elsewhere,’ he answered finally. ‘Eventually, they all sort of blend into one. You can’t expect me to remember every one of them. You’ll discover when you get old, Superintendent, that your powers of recall won’t be what they were.’

‘I thought it was yesterday old people can’t remember,’ Banks said. ‘Not years ago.’

Caxton gave a harsh laugh, more like a phlegmy cough. ‘Often it’s both.’

‘Especially if you don’t want to.’

‘Tut-tut,’ said Feldman.

‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I was in a show in Blackpool that summer,’ Caxton went on. ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for you to find out. What of it?’

‘Do you remember signing autographs outside the stage door after a weekend matinee?’

‘That was a fairly regular occurrence. One has to keep one’s public satisfied.’

Banks consulted his notebook. ‘Saturday, the nineteenth of August.’

‘It’s possible. Like I said, I can’t remember one summer from another.’

‘As you said, it wouldn’t be difficult to check the records, Mr Caxton,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, we’ve already done that, and you were in the line-up of that show that season, and there was an afternoon matinee that Saturday. It finished at four o’clock.’

Caxton spread his hands. ‘Well, if you say so.’

Banks could sense Winsome getting restless beside him. The young man came back bearing a tray of tea and a jug of iced water, with cups and glasses.

‘Bernie, would you play mother?’ Caxton asked. ‘I’m afraid my old joints make bending and pouring rather difficult.’

Bernie poured, breaking the silence only to ask about milk and sugar. Banks and Winsome accepted iced water. It was hot in the conservatory, the sun’s heat magnified by the glass. Banks hoped the antiperspirant he had applied that morning was as good as it said on the label.

‘Let’s get back to Blackpool 1967,’ Banks said. ‘That day, signing after the matinee, do you remember a young girl who expressed an interest in getting a start in show business?’

‘There were always young girls around,’ said Caxton, with a chuckle. ‘And plenty of them thought they had what it took to get into show business. I was hosting Do Your Own Thing! You might remember it, Superintendent, though I imagine your charming young companion here would have been far too young. And perhaps even in another country.’ He smiled at Winsome and Banks noticed that she didn’t react, just jotted things down in her notebook again. Caxton shrugged. ‘So what? I got a lot of interest from young people.’

‘This one was fourteen.’

‘They didn’t have their ages stamped on their foreheads. You know as well as I do that a girl may often look and behave far more advanced than her actual years.’

‘In this girl’s account, you took her back to your hotel room and raped her.’

‘I did what?’ Caxton spluttered. ‘Did I pick her up and cart her off like a Viking raider?’

‘You asked her to accompany you in a chauffeur-driven car. A Bentley or a Rolls.’

‘I never had time for Rolls-Royce. Far too ostentatious for my taste. It must have been the Bentley.’

‘The one you have in your garage today?’

‘Don’t be absurd. I replace them quite often’

‘You sent your assistant for her.’

‘And she came willingly? With someone she didn’t know? Tut-tut.’

‘She didn’t know what was waiting for her.’

‘Superintendent Banks...’ Feldman wagged his finger.

Caxton sighed and took a sip of tea. ‘Superintendent, Sergeant, I have some idea of where you’re going with this, but I have to say I have never raped anyone in my life. I’ve never had to. I have been blessed by knowing a multitude of beautiful, willing women of all ages, all creeds and colours.’ He spoke pointedly to Winsome. ‘I’d like to say shapes and sizes, but I have been far more particular about those qualities.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘I can’t abide obesity, and those anorexic creatures you see on the catwalks today leave me cold. I can honestly say that I’ve never had to beg for it, and I’ve never had to take it by force. And as far I can possibly know, I have never knowingly canoodled with anyone underage or caused anyone harm.’

‘Our information tells us different.’

‘Then perhaps your information is wrong. It was a long time ago. It’s easy to be mistaken about things. To misremember.’

‘Not something like this, I shouldn’t imagine. Rape. She was a virgin.’

‘Aren’t they all? Then why was nothing done at the time?’

‘It was.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing came of it.’

Caxton spread his hands and grinned his wolfish grin. ‘I rest my case.’

‘We still have to investigate.’

‘I understand. And I’ll tell your superiors you did your best.’

‘It’s not over yet. What about those paintings in the hall?’

‘What about them?’

‘Classical rape scenes, for the most part. Is that something that interests you especially?’

‘Oh, come, come. Surely you can’t arrest a man for his taste in art? Not yet.’

‘Nobody’s arresting you.’

Caxton glanced at his lawyer. ‘Well, that’s good, because I’m beginning to get a bit bored. Bernie?’

‘Would you get to the point, if there is one, Superintendent,’ said Feldman. ‘Mr Caxton is a busy man.’

‘At his age?’

Feldman raised an eyebrow.

‘Do you deny that you raped a girl on the date in question?’ Banks went on.

Caxton’s face reddened with anger. ‘Of course I do. Do you think I don’t know why all this has happened? It’s that business with Jimmy, Rolf and the rest. It’s brought them all out of the woodwork. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it’s the newspapers after a story, or someone with a story to sell to them. They’re all after money.’

‘Them?’

‘Tarts. Sluts. Especially the ones who weren’t good-looking enough to get a fella. Haven’t you noticed it’s always the ugly cunts who cry rape?’ As he spoke, spittle showered from his mouth but fortunately stopped short of Banks and Winsome.

‘Danny, I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Feldman, tapping him rhythmically on his arm.

‘Well, I’m not you.’ He wagged his finger at Banks. His chair legs screeched on the floor. ‘Let me tell them how things were. They have no idea. We were knee deep in willing girls. Couldn’t move without bumping into one. What would you do? Only if they were willing, of course, and by God were they willing.’