Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

‘I always like to sit here when I bring the dogs for a walk,’ Ursula said. ‘I don’t know why.’ They faced the sea, Lindisfarne off to their right amid the other Farne Islands, mostly nature reserves for seabirds. Gulls swooped and squawked above them. The dogs sat at Ursula’s feet, panting hard after their exertions on the cliffs. Banks let the silence stretch for a few moments while Ursula got her breath back.

‘When did things start going wrong?’ he asked after a while.

‘Nothing really went wrong, at least not at first. It was just that Tony started changing. He became more moody, more preoccupied, spent more time away from home. It was part of his job, of course, but I do think the long separations took their toll on us.’

‘Did you worry about him being unfaithful?’

She shot him a sideways glance. ‘It wasn’t so much that. I’m not saying it never entered my mind. He was a very good-looking man. But no... it was more... we were just used to being together. Silly, really. Almost like an old couple. Comfortable.’

‘When did that start to change?’

‘When he started working for Danny Caxton. I presume that’s why you’re talking to me about all this? I do still read the newspapers.’

‘I’m handling the case,’ Banks said. ‘At least part of it. So anything you can tell me might be of use.’

‘Anything that could be of use in putting away that evil bastard would be all right with me.’

Banks stared at her, shocked by the outburst. ‘You met him?’

She gave a harsh laugh. ‘When the agency found that Tony seemed to have a penchant for rubbing shoulders with the stars of the entertainment world, the little wife always got to meet the big names. Kept her happy, didn’t it? Gave her something to tell her dull, boring suburban housewife friends about at coffee mornings. Except we didn’t have any dull, boring suburban housewife friends, and I never attended coffee mornings. I’d be talking about Ginsberg and Burroughs or the latest Godard or Antonioni film with a bunch of unemployed artists smoking Gauloises in the pub, more likely. And they didn’t give a damn about the Danny Caxtons of this world. Meeting Danny Caxton was supposed to be one of the perks.’

‘I gather you didn’t exactly like him?’

‘That was my personal feeling, yes. Right from the start. Have you ever met someone who repulsed you at first sight? I don’t mean because of looks, ugliness, or anything like that — Danny Caxton was as handsome as they come — but for want of a better word, because of something you sense inside, something wrong. Something evil.’

‘Once or twice,’ said Banks. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘Yes. I suppose it must be in your job. That’s what I felt about Danny Caxton, right from the start. After that, I did my best to avoid him.’

‘Have you any idea what it was about him that repulsed you so?’

‘No. That’s the problem. I can’t really put it into words. There’s nothing concrete at all. Nothing he said or did I can put my finger on. He was always pleasant and charming to me. There was just something reptilian about him. He gave me the impression of a man who took what he wanted without qualms. I know he was an actor, and it probably came naturally, but I felt that every word, every gesture, every expressed feeling was fake, was something deliberate, to get an effect or produce one on the listener, to misdirect or to convince people he was just like one of us, when he wasn’t at all. As if he was wearing a mask.’

Banks had heard people talk like that about psychopaths: the learned, simulated responses, knowing when it would be normal to laugh, when to pretend to shed a tear. ‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘What did Tony think?’

‘I think Tony was rather dazzled by him. Certainly the first time they worked together — 1966, I think it was — life went on much as normal. It was only later that he started to change.’

‘In 1967?’

‘Yes. During the summer season at Blackpool. I didn’t see a lot of him over those few months, but I’ve never seen him so glad as when it was over and he could come home to stay. Or so he thought. He would have stayed at home, too, but Danny Caxton wanted him back, and Tony’s boss wanted to keep the client happy. So off he went to Leeds for Christmas panto season.’

‘What exactly did he do?’

‘He handled the press, of course, interviews, TV appearances and the like, he arranged visits to open supermarkets and so on, booked hotels, arranged transportation if it was necessary, decided who should and who shouldn’t be admitted to The Presence.’

‘Quite a responsibility. Didn’t Caxton have others to do all that for him?’

‘Nothing was too much for Danny Caxton. He said that Tony was his right-hand man and he’d be lost without him, so back Tony went. He was uneasy about it, but he was doing well in the firm, and he didn’t believe his contract with Caxton would last for ever, so he just thought he’d grit his teeth and see it through, do his job, then maybe the promotion he’d been after would materialise.’

‘He’d been promised a promotion for working with Caxton?’

‘Not in so many words, but his boss certainly gave the impression that it wouldn’t do his future career prospects any harm.’

‘Is he still alive, this boss?’

‘Walter Philby? I’ve no idea. Given that he was about fifty in 1967, I doubt it.’

‘Did Tony confide in you about what was bothering him?’

‘Not at first, no. He just didn’t seem himself. There was something on his mind. On his conscience. He wasn’t himself. When he came home from the summer season, he was very pale and withdrawn. Listless. I actually thought he was ill, depression or something, and I made him go to the doctor’s. The doctor said he was just jittery and edgy from pressure of work. He prescribed some pills.’

‘Did they do any good?’

‘Not much. Oh, there were moments when the old Tony shone through and made me laugh again. It wasn’t all doom and gloom. But he wasn’t home for long. The call for the Christmas season came in pretty soon after he’d returned from Blackpool.’

‘And?’

‘That upset him. He didn’t want to go. He even argued with Walter about it, which he never usually did. But Walter was adamant. Danny Caxton wanted Tony, and Danny Caxton got what he wanted. At least from Philby, Leyland and Associates.’

‘What was the problem? Was Caxton difficult, demanding?’

‘I’m sure he was, but there was more to it than that. We never considered such things at the time, of course, so I’m speaking with the benefit of hindsight, but after Savile, Cosby, Rolf Harris, Cyril Smith and the rest, Danny Caxton was up to the same sort of thing. What you’re looking into now. Something terrible happened, and Tony knew about it.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Ursula stared out to sea. The dogs were busy sniffing gorse. ‘The day before he left,’ she said. ‘He told me all about it, and I wished to God he hadn’t.’

‘What am I doing here?’ Paul Warner asked Annie and Gerry. ‘I already told you everything I know the last time we met.’

He seemed more nervous this time, Annie thought, eyes all over the place. Perhaps it was because he was out of his home environment and in a police interview room. They were not places designed to put people at ease. He was dressed in clean jeans and a crisp white shirt. It looked as if it had been pressed, too, she thought, and almost asked him if he did his own ironing.

‘Just a few minor points we need to go over, Paul,’ said Annie. ‘As you might have gathered, there’s been developments.’

‘Developments. I’d say there are. The whole estate’s going up.’