Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

‘She says she did,’ said Banks. ‘Different times. Didn’t you follow the Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris cases?’

‘Not really. They don’t mean anything to me. I mean, I know who they are, and it’s terrible what they got away with, but they had nothing to do with my life. They weren’t part of my childhood. I’m paying more attention to that Bill Cosby thing in the States.’

‘They were part of my childhood,’ said Banks. ‘Not a big part, maybe, except when Savile was a DJ on Radio Luxembourg, and I used to listen under the bedclothes, but a part, nonetheless. The Teen and Twenty Disc Club .’

‘The what?’

‘It’s what his radio programme was called. You could even write in to become a member, get a card with a number and a charm bracelet with a disc on it. I wish I still had mine. They’re probably worth a fortune now on the creepy souvenirs market. I’ve still got my Radio Luxembourg Books of Record Stars . You know, it’s funny the little things you remember, but it made you feel special that Elvis was a member, too. I even remember his number: one one three two one.’

‘Elvis Costello?’

Banks laughed. ‘Elvis Presley. Believe it or not, Winsome, I was an Elvis fan back then. Still am.’

‘But isn’t that when he was making those terrible films? We used to get them on television when I was little.’

‘Just between you and me, I used to enjoy those terrible films. I still listen to the soundtracks now and then. Girl Happy, Fun in Acapulco, Viva Las Vegas . Mostly pretty bad songs, but a few gems, and say what you like about Elvis, he had a great voice.’

‘We had a pastor who did terrible things to young girls the next village over,’ said Winsome. ‘Not to me, but girls my age.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘The fathers ganged up and... well, it wasn’t very nice. They used a machete. He was lucky to be alive, or maybe not, but he wasn’t able to harm any more girls after that. My father was livid. There was nothing he could do to stop it, but he could hardly arrest them all, either.’

‘It was a bit like that when I was a kid,’ said Banks, standing for a moment to breathe in the fragrant summer air. It was late July, and the village gardens were in bloom. Banks could see why Minton had recently won a best-kept Dales village award. The inhabitants clearly took great pride in their gardens. ‘Maybe without the machete. But it was like everyone knew who you should stay away from. Word gets around not to go near that Mr So-and-so at number eight, and we wouldn’t. Nobody ever said why.’

‘But people in the community knew who the perverts were?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Without anyone telling them who was on a sex offenders list, if we even had such things then. And as often as not, the community dealt with it. I think they stopped short of murder and castration where I grew up, but one or two local pervs upped sticks for no apparent reason. Warned off, I should think.’

‘But they’d only go somewhere else.’

‘That’s the problem. If what we’re hearing is true, people like Danny Caxton didn’t even get warned off, so they just carried on as they liked, year after year.’

‘And nobody stopped them. We didn’t stop them.’

‘No, we didn’t. Here it is.’

The three small cottages stood on the opposite side of the road from the main village, and Linda Palmer lived in the one with the green Mini parked outside. Banks and Winsome opened the gate, walked down the narrow hedge-lined path and flight of stone stairs, then Banks knocked on the sturdy red door. It was a warm afternoon, and even though he had slung his jacket over his shoulder, he could already feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, trickling and tickling down the groove of his spine. The heat didn’t seem to bother Winsome. She was as cool as ever in her tailored navy jacket and skirt.

When the door finally opened, he found himself face to face with a tall, slender woman with short ash-blond hair cut in a jagged fringe. Her hand gripped his and then Winsome’s in a firm handshake.

‘Come on in, both of you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I took so long to answer the door, but I was out in the garden. It’s such a beautiful day, it seemed a shame to waste it. Will you join me? Or do we have to sit on uncomfortable seats in the dark to do this?’

‘We’d be happy to join you,’ Banks said.

She moved ahead of them gracefully, looking good in close-fitting jeans and a loose white cotton tunic. The interior of the house seemed dark after the bright sun, but before their eyes had time to adjust they went through the open French windows and found themselves outside again. This time, they were in a different world. The river wasn’t very wide at this point, and it ran swift and deep at the bottom of the sloping lawn, the sun flashing like diamonds on its shifting, coiling surface, its sound constant but ever-changing. The opposite riverbank was overgrown with trees, some of them willows weeping down into the water, others leaning at precarious angles, as if they were about to topple in at any moment. Above the trees, it was possible to make out the pattern of drystone walls on the higher slopes of the opposite daleside, Tetchley Fell reaching high above Helmthorpe, close to where Banks lived, and much greener this summer after the rains.

But it was the river that drew one’s attention with its magnetic power, its voice and its shifting, scintillating movement. The garden was just a swatch of lawn that needed mowing, edged with a few beds of colourful flowers: poppies, foxgloves, roses. Fuchsia and a bay tree hung over the drystone wall from next door. At the bottom was a low iron railing decorated with curlicues, and beyond that the riverbank itself. A white table and four matching chairs awaited them in the shade of an old beech tree, along with a jug full of ice cubes and orange juice. The French windows remained open and Banks could hear music playing quietly inside. He recognised the opening movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

‘I thought cold drinks might be nicer than tea,’ Linda Palmer said, ‘but it’s up to you.’

‘Cold is fine,’ said Banks, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His tie had disappeared soon after the morning meeting.

‘Good, then. Let’s sit down, shall we?’

They sat. Banks noticed an open book face down on the table beside an ashtray. It was called Dart by Alice Oswald, and looked slim enough to be a volume of poetry. Beside it sat a black Moleskine notebook with a Mont Blanc rollerball lying across its cover, which seemed a bit upmarket for a poet. Perhaps they got paid more than he thought. Linda Palmer poured the drinks, which turned out to be freshly squeezed, judging by the pulp and tang. It was good to be in the shade in the warm summer weather. A light, cool breeze made the garden even more comfortable. A black cat came out from the bushes, gazed at them with a distinct lack of interest and stretched out in the sun.

‘Don’t mind her,’ said Linda. ‘That’s Persephone. Persy, for short, though that makes her sound male, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s beautiful here,’ Banks said.

‘Thank you. I just adore it. We get a kingfisher sometimes, sitting on that branch over the water, scanning for fish. I could watch him for hours. Plenty of other birds, too, of course. The feeder attracts finches, wagtails, tits of all kinds. We get swifts and swallows in the evening, an owl at night. And the bats, of course. It can be really magical when the moon is full. Sometimes I don’t think I would be at all surprised to see fairies at the bottom of this garden.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘I do now. Not always.’ A faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Two children, both grown up and flown the coop. One husband, deceased.’