Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

‘Possibly. But I still think you’re pushing it a bit, guv. How did Warner know where she was, or where she was going that night?’

‘Well, if Albert told him about Sunny, he’d have a good idea where she might be. The rest, I admit I don’t know. But if Vic Manson finds any prints other than Albert’s and Jim Nuttall’s in the VW, then we’ll be looking at Paul Warner’s for comparison first. And remember, yonks back, Dr Glendenning said there might be a chance of matching the pattern of the shoes used to kick Mimosa? If Warner hasn’t got rid of them already — and why would he chuck away a perfectly good pair of Doc Martens or whatever if he thought he’d pulled off a clever one and wasn’t likely to be in the frame? If we keep pushing, the most he’d admit to is giving his mate a false alibi, and Albert doesn’t have the brains to wriggle out of a trap like that. Look how arrogant Warner is. He thinks we’re all thick plods.’

They sipped their drinks and watched the swans swimming under the overhanging willows on the quiet part of the river beyond the falls. Clouds of midges and the occasional wasp buzzed around them.

‘I could just fall asleep right now,’ Gerry said.

Then Annie’s mobile buzzed. She answered, listened for a few moments, then frowned and put it back in her handbag. ‘There goes your early evening kip,’ she said.

‘What? Who was it?’

‘My new best friend Superintendent Carver. He says the men he put on Paul Warner report that minutes after our lad got home, he was out again with a black bin bag, which he proceeds to put in the back of his van. They followed him into the Wytherton Household Waste Recycling Centre and apprehended him before he could dispose of anything. He made a fuss about his rights and lawyers and blah-blah. And the long and short of it is, he’s on his way to the station and we’d better get back there to welcome him.’ She paused and glanced at her watch. ‘On second thoughts, it’ll take a while, so let’s have another drink, or more, it’s a nice evening. A Friday, too. And things are starting to go our way. We can invite Alan and Winsome down here, too, if they’re free.’

‘What do we do about Warner?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not inviting him. If we charge him we can’t talk to him again. I’ll call Doug at the station and we’ll have him arrested on arrival. Then we’ll have twenty-four hours. Let him cool his heels overnight. We’ll see if we can put a rush on the Nuttall van forensics and get a couple of lab people to put in a bit of overtime and get started on the contents of that bin bag. Apparently, in addition to a pair of Doc Martens, some jeans and a polo shirt, there are some drugs. All that should give us enough ammunition to take on Warner again.’

‘But what do we do with Albert Moffat in the meantime? We’ve already got him arrested under suspicion.’

‘We keep him where he is. We arrest Warner for conspiracy to commit murder.’

‘Do you think they were in it together?’

‘It’s an interesting possibility, isn’t it? Your shout, I think.’

Linda Palmer was sitting in her garden that evening working on her memoir, girding herself to approach the main event. It was the dusk of another beautiful day, and she kept looking up from the page to watch the kingfisher scanning the water for fish. She had got herself as far as the Blackpool hotel, through the preamble of autographs, promises of help with her career, the ride in the plush car, the champagne. She was in the hotel suite now, on her second glass...

He asked me to sing him something. That’s how it all started. I asked what. He said anything I wanted. It felt strange just to stand there and sing while he sat on the edge of the bed watching and listening. But I did it. I sang ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’ because I loved Dusty Springfield and that was my favourite song of hers. I just couldn’t believe it. I felt like pinching myself. There I was, little Linda Palmer from Leeds, singing for Danny Caxton! We had some more champagne and he said I was very good and with a bit of coaching I could go a long way. I would also have to pass more tests if I wanted to be on Do Your Own Thing! I asked him what sort of tests he meant and he smiled and patted the bedspread beside him and told me to sit down. My head was beginning to spin and I felt a bit dizzy, so I sat. It was a pink candlewick bedspread, I remember that. I can remember the texture of it to this day and I’ve hated candlewick ever since. I was starting to feel nervous, as well as light-headed, with butterflies fluttering in my tummy, but I sat. ‘It’s more than just singing ability, you see,’ he said. ‘You also have to project yourself, be sexy. Can you be sexy?’ I muttered something like ‘I’m only fourteen,’ and started to get up. He grabbed my wrist. He was strong and it hurt. He pulled me back down. ‘You know what I mean by sexy, don’t you? Of course you do, you little tease.’ He squeezed my breast and a strange expression came over his face, a kind of serenity. He sighed. I tried to get up again. My heart was beating fast and hard. My face was burning and my breast ached. I just wanted to run out of there. But he was too strong. I cried, ‘No, no, no,’ but he—

Linda stopped and leaned back in her chair, reached for a cigarette. Her breath caught in her throat, and the sheen of sweat on her forehead wasn’t entirely due to the heat of the sun. Even now the memory had the power to move her, to disturb her. She looked across the river to the tree, but it was getting late and the kingfisher had gone. With a shaking hand, she picked up her pen again...

I was tall for my age, and everyone said I had the most beautiful blond hair. It tumbled down to my shoulders and the fringe at the front touched my eyebrows. I was wearing my yellow sundress, I remember, which came to just below my knees. I loved that dress, the bright colour of sunshine, the touch of cool cotton against my skin on a warm day. He pushed me on my back. Holding my wrists together and pinning me down with one hand while his other hand went up my dress, over my thighs, pushing between my legs, roughly. He was very excited now, making little grunting noises. I told him again to stop, that he was hurting me, but he just laughed and pulled at my underwear. I struggled and he turned me over so I was on my stomach, and he was holding my hands tight behind my back, like handcuffs. I was crying now and begging him to stop. I knew there was no use struggling. I suppose I abandoned myself to the inevitable. I had entered that place where there was no hope.

Then I felt him inside me, hard and rough, pushing. I cried out because it hurt so much and I think I struggled again. He kept my hands pinioned behind my back and covered my mouth with his other hand, so it was hard to breathe then his arm went around my throat squeezing hard enough to make me quiet. His shirtsleeve buttons must have been undone because I could feel the hairs of his forearm on my throat. He pushed my face into the bedspread and it smelled of the warm fabric and soap. I could hardly breathe. It was hot in the room. He was all sweaty and he tasted of something. It was like make-up, but then I didn’t know what it was. Later I realised it must have been the greasepaint that he’d worn onstage. The window was open but I don’t remember any breeze, just the sounds of the Big Dipper rattling on its tracks and the screams of excited riders.

I don’t know if all that is true or not. Some of it is. I know he raped me, but I don’t remember the details very clearly. The dialogue may be reinvented. Perhaps my imagination is working overtime. It was mostly just a blur of pain, struggle and the room spinning. Perhaps they will ask me in court, though I can’t imagine why, and if they do, I suppose I will have to tell them the truth as best I can. But I do remember something I had forgotten. It may mean nothing, but when I caught a glimpse of his forearm, I noticed some numbers tattooed on his skin. I had no idea what they could have been. A telephone number written in blue ballpoint? But I’ve since seen enough films and read enough books to know that it was something like the concentration camp numbers the Nazis used to tattoo on people’s arms. Which is odd, because I don’t think he was Jewish and I thought he grew up over here. But it might mean something to you. At least it’s something that might help to verify my identification, if that’s required. It seemed to me that these numbers were something he wanted to keep secret, but I saw them. I’m just sorry I can’t remember them the way you remember Elvis’s Teen and Twenty Disc Club membership number.