Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

Banks was about to tell her: Linda Palmer. But he didn’t.

‘After Tony had been killed,’ he went on, ‘did you say anything about this? Did you talk to the police?’

‘Yes. When I had to go up to Leeds to identify Tony’s body.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘Now, I know I remember,’ she said. ‘He was high up. A chief superintendent, I think. I remember being impressed at the time.’

‘It wasn’t an inspector, then? Detective Inspector Chadwick?’

‘No. I’d remember that. It was a Scottish name. Smoked a pipe. McCullen. That’s who it was. Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen.’

Chadwick’s boss, Banks thought. ‘Did anyone takes notes?’

‘No. There were just the two of us, after the identification. He had a big office. I never met with anyone else on the case, if there was anyone.’

‘Oh, there was,’ said Banks. ‘Was the interview recorded?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Were you asked to turn in a written statement?’

‘No.’

So there was nothing at all, Banks realised. No record whatsoever of Ursula Monaghan’s chat with McCullen, or her fears for what had happened to her husband. McCullen himself, perhaps under instructions from the chief constable, had headed her off at the pass. ‘What did you do after that?’

‘I’d phone him often and ask how things were progressing, but I’d get put off and put off until all he could say was that there was no more progress. In the end, I’m sorry to say, I gave up. Moved on. I was just exhausted with it all, and it seemed to be blighting my life.’

Banks was in two minds whether to tell her that the police had been told to lay off Caxton from above, but he decided not to. ‘We don’t solve all our cases,’ he said. ‘Sadly. Sometimes they slip through the cracks.’

‘I know that,’ Ursula said. ‘You’re only human. But I was a bit cross at the time. Shall we move on?’ She got unsteadily to her feet and called the dogs, who had wandered off to explore a hillock several yards away. They came running.

‘I’m sorry to be bringing all these bad memories back to you,’ Banks said as they started walking towards the cottage. The sea sparkled around Lindisfarne and the old ruined stone seemed to shimmer in the light. ‘Especially as there’s nothing to be done about it after so long.’

‘It wouldn’t have brought Tony back. Even if they had found out who did it.’

‘It’s just the case I’m pursuing. I can’t really talk about it, but you’ll find out when it comes to trial. The thing is, we do at least have a chance of putting Caxton away, admittedly after a lifetime of getting away with sexual abuse. I’m also hoping with what I’ve found out about Tony’s murder, from you and other sources, I can make a convincing case for murder, or conspiracy at least. I have no concrete evidence, but I think if I can construct a plausible enough scenario a jury might believe it, given everything else.’

She hung her head. ‘I’m really sorry if my actions resulted in more girls getting abused.’

‘You’re not responsible for any of that,’ said Banks. Her husband had raped Linda Palmer, he knew, but he had confessed — made up a more palatable story, perhaps — and she had gone to the police with it. ‘I don’t think anything you could have done at the time would have stopped it. Stopped Caxton.’

‘Can you tell me if it was girls, or boys?’ Ursula asked out of the blue.

‘Girls. What difference does it make?’

‘The way Tony was found. You know, the place he was found in. It was obvious that everyone thought it was a gay murder. I just wondered if, you know, Caxton had been fond of young boys, that sort of thing. I mean, Tony had been involved in what happened at that party with a girl, but I just wonder if he was supposed to help find rough trade for Caxton, along with all his other duties.’

‘Not that we know of. Do you think your husband could have been gay, or bi?’

‘Absolutely not. I never believed it. I realise that’s what most wives would say, but it’s true. I’m not saying that Tony was some tough sort of macho man — he was artsy, for God’s sake, he dressed a bit differently, he liked ballet and opera and he wouldn’t harm a fly — but that doesn’t make a person gay. And in all our time together I never once got the remotest inkling that Tony had any interest, other than friendship, in his own sex. And I’ve known couples who were in that position. Gay men married to women for years. I think my gaydar, or whatever you call it, has been consistent.’

‘Why did you think he was in that public toilet, then?’

‘I could only assume he was put there to make it seem that way, or taken there and killed. I don’t know. I’m just sure that Caxton’s men did it. I don’t imagine for a moment he would have done it himself, but he probably knew people who would.’

How right you are, Banks thought. ‘And you mentioned this suspicion to Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen?’

‘Yes.’

They were approaching Ursula’s cottage over the rise. Banks could see his Porsche gleaming in the sunlight. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else,’ he said, ‘but if you remember any more details, however insignificant they might seem, let me know. And I apologise again for opening up old wounds. These cold cases have a tendency to do that.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Ursula. ‘I just hope you manage to find enough evidence to convict Caxton this time around. Will the judge put such an old man away for life?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve known cases where a judge has determined the accused too old and infirm to serve his sentence. But this is a high-profile case — Savile and Cyril Smith were dead by the time the world found out about them, but Rolf Harris is an old man, and they sent him to prison. The way things are going, there will be a wealth of evidence against Caxton. It’ll be hard not to be seen to do something.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks.

‘And?’

‘And he’s a pathetic old man. But it’s as you said. Repulsion at first sight. Perhaps the only difference between then and now is that the mask has slipped.’

After talking to Paul Warner and Albert Moffat it was late, and both Annie and Gerry felt the need to get out of the station. It was another fine evening, and they crossed the cobbled market square where tourists browsed in the gift-shop windows or sat in the little tea rooms and coffee houses looking out of the windows. They took a shortcut to the terraced river garden down a steep winding lane with high walls and came out by the falls. There had been so little rain lately that the Swain was not much more than a trickle of water the colour of pale ale, with hardly a touch of froth. Some days, after heavy rains, the water that had drained into the Swain from deeper in the dale flowed over in a noisy cataract, drowning out all other sounds and soaking anyone nearby in spray. Today, they could hear the birds, and they decided to sit in the open-air pub by the river. It was Friday, after all, and things were more or less under control. They found a table that afforded them a little distance and privacy from the rest of the customers and Annie went inside to get the drinks.

‘Christ, what a day,’ she said, plonking a pint of Black Sheep bitter in front of her and a Campari and soda in front of Gerry, who was a Campari and soda kind of girl. She then sat down and put her feet up on one of the other chairs, hoping none of the bar staff would see and tell her off.

Gerry held up her glass to clink. ‘Worth it, though. Cheers.’

‘Cheers. I don’t know about that. There’s not a lot we can do right now except leave Stefan and the rest to do their work. I don’t know about you, but after this pint, I’m off home for some shut-eye. Maybe when I wake up Jazz will have the DNA organised and we’ll know where we are.’