Peter Robinson: When the Music's Over

‘Have you done this sort of thing before?’ Banks asked.

‘Once or twice.’ Burgess sat back and sipped his drink, studying Banks over the rim of his glass. ‘I was peripherally involved in Operation Yewtree when I was back at the Yard, so I know the way things go. Look, Banksy, you probably thought the same as I did when all this stuff started coming out. You thought it was some sort of witch hunt, wondering who’d be the next celebrity to be accused of groping a young publicist fifty years ago. Different times, you’d say, and you’d be right.’ He leaned forward and tapped Banks on the chest. ‘You probably even thought, what’s so wrong with pinching the office girl’s bum, maybe suggesting a hotel room after work for a bit of hanky-panky? Right? I might even have a go with young Pat here, given half the chance. After all, I’m only human, and if you don’t ask... But that’s not what this is about. We’re not talking about a bit of how’s your father in a dark corner at the office Christmas party. A hand casually resting on a knee in a restaurant. A surreptitious brushing up against a nice pair of tits. We’ve all done that, all had a kiss and cuddle in the broom cupboard and a bit of slap and tickle under the stairwell with that secretary we fancied all year.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Banks. But he remembered. It was just such an indulgence in a dark corner under the mistletoe at an office Christmas party that had led to the only affair of his married life. He didn’t much care to be reminded of it now, though at the time it had seemed exciting and dangerous; it had made him feel alive at a time when he had felt the world and his marriage were falling apart around him. Looking back, it just made him feel guilty. Maybe it was some kind of poetic justice that his ex-wife Sandra had finally left him for another man.

‘But this is something else,’ Burgess went on. ‘It’s not even a matter of someone sticking his tongue down a girl’s throat or squeezing a breast. Believe me, I’ve had enough access to statements that I can say what we’re talking about here is the deliberate, arrogant and systematic abuse of innocent young girls — underage girls — by people who believe they’re above the law. People so blessed and so famous that in the general run of things they probably get more free pussy than they can shake a stick at. And what do they do? They pick on vulnerable thirteen-, fourteen-, fifteen-year-olds, and they assault them and rape them, force them to do vile stuff, and then tell them they ought to be jolly grateful for getting raped by Danny Caxton or whoever. These girls end up so terrified, so fucked up, that often the rest of their lives are blighted. They see themselves as natural victims and that’s what they become. All their lives, people abuse them just the way Caxton or whoever did all those years ago, and they can’t stop it. They can’t even figure out why. But even that’s not the point. The point is that these bastards, and I mean bastards like Danny Caxton, have been getting away with it for years and making us look like the fucking Keystone Cops. They’ve abused these girls and boys, just like those Pakistani grooming gangs in Rochdale and Rotherham, and nobody did a fucking thing about it. Not the parents. Not the social workers. Not us. Well, times have changed, mate, because here comes the cavalry, with a vengeance.’

‘I never did think that,’ said Banks.

‘Think what?’

‘That this business is insignificant, that what we’ve been asked to do doesn’t matter. And I’d certainly agree that some very influential people have got away with a lot of serious crimes over the years. Nothing new about that. It’s just so bloody difficult to put a good case together after so long, like I said at the meeting. That’s all. Memories change; evidence gets lost. People become convinced that something happened when it didn’t, or that things happened differently. It’s damn near impossible to sort out who’s right in most cases. All you end up with is a shifting sandstorm of accusations, lies, half-truths, minor transgressions and full-blown felonies. Nobody knows what the truth is, in the end.’

Burgess ran his hand over his unruly hair. ‘Too true. Too true. But we’re getting better. The CPS are building stronger cases, they’re more willing to prosecute, getting more convictions.’

‘So we ride their wave of success?’

‘Why not? Isn’t it better than riding a wave of failure? Besides, since when have you not risen to a challenge? This time they think we’re in with a chance. They rate this Linda Palmer as a credible complainant. According to them, she’s definitely not some fucked-up alcoholic with a chip on her shoulder.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Banks. ‘Does Caxton know we’re on to him?’

‘Probably. He shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s still got friends in high places. I want you to go and talk to him tomorrow. After that, we’ll get a team in to search his premises before he gets a chance to destroy any evidence there might be in his papers and on his computer. You can talk to Linda Palmer today. I trust your instinct enough to know that you won’t need a child protection expert to figure out whether she’s telling the truth. I know you, Banksy. I think once you get the bit between your teeth, you’ll take to it like a duck to water, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor, and you’ll be only too glad to bring down the wrath of God on arrogant bastards like Danny Caxton.’

‘I will?’

‘I think so.’ Burgess finished his pint. ‘Another? I wouldn’t mind having another word with that buxom Australian barmaid. I like the way she pulls a pint.’

‘You need real cask ale to get a full show of flexed muscle, not that piss you drink. All she has to do is flick the lever.’

‘She can flick my lever any time. Why do you think I’m offering to buy you another one? Out of the goodness of my heart?’

Banks rolled his eyes. ‘I’d better not,’ he said. ‘Not if I’ve got to get this crusade off the ground and talk to Linda Palmer this afternoon. Can you tell me anything about her, other than that she’s a poet and claims to be a victim of Caxton’s?’

‘I’ve never met her,’ said Burgess, ‘but from what I understand, she’s got her head screwed on right. I’ve talked to plenty of others who’ve been in her position. Memories are unreliable, you’re right about that, very vague sometimes. Like chasing shadows of shadows. You just have to keep at it. Gently, mind. They’re sensitive souls, these victims of historical abuse. Especially poets. Some of the girls buried it right away. Really deep. They were just kids, after all. Some went through years of analysis and therapy without really knowing why — why they couldn’t hold down a job, why they couldn’t handle a relationship, why they couldn’t bring up their kids properly. Some of them just turned to drugs and booze to help them forget. Some even committed suicide. But Linda Palmer isn’t like that, from what I understand. She’s different. She’s got her shit together.’

Banks finished his drink and stood up. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the pep talk.’

Burgess gave a mock salute. ‘My pleasure.’

As Banks walked away, he turned and saw Burgess disappear inside the pub with his empty glass and a spring in his step.

The CSI van arrived about an hour after Roger Stanford had cycled off into the distance. Annie and Gerry remained by their car, under the shade of the trees, as the various specialists got to work. The uniformed officers donned latex gloves and overshoes to join in the roadside search. It was going on for half past eleven, and by all the signs, Annie thought, the day was going to be a scorcher. The morning mist had already burned off. She wished she were at home in the garden on a sunlounger working on her tan, with a thick Ken Follett lying open on her stomach and a long cool drink within reach.