When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery

by Peter Robinson

  Without replying, Feldman turned and started walking away from them. Banks and Winsome exchanged glances then started to follow him across the parquet floor of a foyer almost as big as a football field. The hall was dotted with Greek columns here and there, like something from a Cecil B. DeMille film set, and large reproductions of classical scenes in ornate gilded frames hung on the damasked walls. Banks couldn’t resist a quick detour to study them. Each had a brass plate under its frame, like in an art gallery, and he saw Leda and the Swan and the Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus by Rubens, two of Titian’s Danaë series and Tiepolo’s Apollo and Daphne. Certainly a theme there, he thought: naked women struggling in the grip of men. Not just tales from Greek mythology.

  ‘Mr Banks?’

  Feldman had stopped to call him on. Banks walked over. ‘Just looking,’ he said.

  ‘They’re not the originals, of course.’

  ‘I think some of the world’s major art galleries would be rather upset if they were,’ Banks replied, not wishing to be thought a philistine. ‘Who painted them?’

  ‘A friend of Danny’s. I can’t remember his name. They’re quite valuable, for copies, apparently. I know nothing about art.’

  ‘Whoever it is, he’d make a good living as a forger,’ Banks said, gesturing back towards the paintings. In reality, he probably was. But it wasn’t forgery as long as you didn’t try to pass them off as genuine.

  Feldman carried on walking, Banks and Winsome dutifully in tow. About ten minutes later, or so it seemed, they found themselves in an enormous glassed-in conservatory, like a section of a botanical garden or an expensive hotel restaurant. It stood before a full-size croquet lawn, which, in turn, overlooked the North Sea, sparkling today and matching the sky for blue, whitecaps dashing for the shore, which was hidden from their view at the bottom of the cliff. A few sailboats listed further out, catching the sea breeze. In the centre of the croquet lawn was a swimming pool. Tempting today, but not much use most of the time in this part of the world, Banks thought, which was probably why Caxton had an indoor pool, too.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Banks.

  Feldman led them over to a glass-topped table where a man sat in a white wicker chair, bade Banks and Winsome be seated, and sent another man, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere – the real butler, maybe – off to bring tea and iced water. Only when all that was done did he introduce Banks and Winsome to Danny Caxton, who neither stood nor offered to shake hands.

  ‘Get to the point, then.’ Caxton’s voice was raspy, but strong and clear enough to make him still a presence to be reckoned with. ‘I’d like to get this silly business over and done with. The sooner the better.’

  ‘Us, too,’ said Banks.

  For a moment, Banks felt his resolve falter, then he couldn’t help but notice how Caxton’s gaze lingered on Winsome’s breasts and slid lasciviously down over her thighs and legs. Despite the drooping shoulders, general emaciation, scrawny wattles, wrinkles and obvious signs of wear and tear, he appeared relatively spry for an eighty-five-year-old. The years had taken their greatest toll on his face, Banks thought. Once a handsome man, with what Banks’s father had scathingly referred to as matinee-idol looks, he was now more an example of Dorian Gray in reverse. Somewhere, perhaps, hidden away in an attic, was a painting of that handsome young man, but here was the lined and jowled reality, ravaged and wrinkled with the sins of the years. He was like an ageing bird of prey without its plumage.

  No matter how much wealth Caxton had accumulated, he clearly hadn’t spent anything on plastic surgery or dental care. His teeth were like yellowing fangs hanging from pale receding gums. They gave his smile the bared-teeth quality of a wild beast. His eyes were glaucous, rheumy and milky blue, and the network of red and purple veins on and around his nose showed a predilection for the bottle. Liver spots dappled the backs of his hands. Only his hair showed professional attention. A healthy silvery-grey in colour, cut short and simply combed diagonally from a straight side parting, it contrasted nicely with his tan. It had to be expensive to look that good and that easy. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and tan chinos despite the heat. Through the glass table, Banks could see that his big toenails had thickened and tapered into claws, just like that bird of prey’s.

  ‘The incident we want to ask you about occurred during your summer season in Blackpool in August 1967,’ Banks went on.

  ‘Alleged incident,’ corrected Feldman.

  ‘Oh, the incident took place all right. All that’s alleged is your client’s part in it.’

  Feldman inclined his head.

  ‘Do you remember that season, Mr Caxton?’

  Caxton made a steeple of his fingers and rested it under his chin, as if deep in thought. ‘I had many a summer season at Blackpool and elsewhere,’ he answered finally. ‘Eventually, they all sort of blend into one. You can’t expect me to remember every one of them. You’ll discover when you get old, Superintendent, that your powers of recall won’t be what they were.’

  ‘I thought it was yesterday old people can’t remember,’ Banks said. ‘Not years ago.’

  Caxton gave a harsh laugh, more like a phlegmy cough. ‘Often it’s both.’

  ‘Especially if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Tut-tut,’ said Feldman.

  ‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I was in a show in Blackpool that summer,’ Caxton went on. ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for you to find out. What of it?’

  ‘Do you remember signing autographs outside the stage door after a weekend matinee?’

  ‘That was a fairly regular occurrence. One has to keep one’s public satisfied.’

  Banks consulted his notebook. ‘Saturday, the nineteenth of August.’

  ‘It’s possible. Like I said, I can’t remember one summer from another.’

  ‘As you said, it wouldn’t be difficult to check the records, Mr Caxton,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, we’ve already done that, and you were in the line-up of that show that season, and there was an afternoon matinee that Saturday. It finished at four o’clock.’

  Caxton spread his hands. ‘Well, if you say so.’

  Banks could sense Winsome getting restless beside him. The young man came back bearing a tray of tea and a jug of iced water, with cups and glasses.

  ‘Bernie, would you play mother?’ Caxton asked. ‘I’m afraid my old joints make bending and pouring rather difficult.’

  Bernie poured, breaking the silence only to ask about milk and sugar. Banks and Winsome accepted iced water. It was hot in the conservatory, the sun’s heat magnified by the glass. Banks hoped the antiperspirant he had applied that morning was as good as it said on the label.

  ‘Let’s get back to Blackpool 1967,’ Banks said. ‘That day, signing after the matinee, do you remember a young girl who expressed an interest in getting a start in show business?’

  ‘There were always young girls around,’ said Caxton, with a chuckle. ‘And plenty of them thought they had what it took to get into show business. I was hosting Do Your Own Thing! You might remember it, Superintendent, though I imagine your charming young companion here would have been far too young. And perhaps even in another country.’ He smiled at Winsome and Banks noticed that she didn’t react, just jotted things down in her notebook again. Caxton shrugged. ‘So what? I got a lot of interest from young people.’

  ‘This one was fourteen.’

  ‘They didn’t have their ages stamped on their foreheads. You know as well as I do that a girl may often look and behave far more advanced than her actual years.’

  ‘In this girl’s account, you took her back to your hotel room and raped her.’

  ‘I did what?’ Caxton spluttered. ‘Did I pick her up and cart her off like a Viking raider?’

  ‘You asked her to accompany you in a chauffeur-driven car. A Bentley or a Rolls.’

  ‘I never had time for Rolls-Royce. Far too ostentatious for my taste. It must have been the Bentley.’

  ‘T
he one you have in your garage today?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. I replace them quite often’

  ‘You sent your assistant for her.’

  ‘And she came willingly? With someone she didn’t know? Tut-tut.’

  ‘She didn’t know what was waiting for her.’

  ‘Superintendent Banks . . .’ Feldman wagged his finger.

  Caxton sighed and took a sip of tea. ‘Superintendent, Sergeant, I have some idea of where you’re going with this, but I have to say I have never raped anyone in my life. I’ve never had to. I have been blessed by knowing a multitude of beautiful, willing women of all ages, all creeds and colours.’ He spoke pointedly to Winsome. ‘I’d like to say shapes and sizes, but I have been far more particular about those qualities.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘I can’t abide obesity, and those anorexic creatures you see on the catwalks today leave me cold. I can honestly say that I’ve never had to beg for it, and I’ve never had to take it by force. And as far I can possibly know, I have never knowingly canoodled with anyone underage or caused anyone harm.’

  ‘Our information tells us different.’

  ‘Then perhaps your information is wrong. It was a long time ago. It’s easy to be mistaken about things. To misremember.’

  ‘Not something like this, I shouldn’t imagine. Rape. She was a virgin.’

  ‘Aren’t they all? Then why was nothing done at the time?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing came of it.’

  Caxton spread his hands and grinned his wolfish grin. ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘We still have to investigate.’

  ‘I understand. And I’ll tell your superiors you did your best.’

  ‘It’s not over yet. What about those paintings in the hall?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Classical rape scenes, for the most part. Is that something that interests you especially?’

  ‘Oh, come, come. Surely you can’t arrest a man for his taste in art? Not yet.’

  ‘Nobody’s arresting you.’

  Caxton glanced at his lawyer. ‘Well, that’s good, because I’m beginning to get a bit bored. Bernie?’

  ‘Would you get to the point, if there is one, Superintendent,’ said Feldman. ‘Mr Caxton is a busy man.’

  ‘At his age?’

  Feldman raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Do you deny that you raped a girl on the date in question?’ Banks went on.

  Caxton’s face reddened with anger. ‘Of course I do. Do you think I don’t know why all this has happened? It’s that business with Jimmy, Rolf and the rest. It’s brought them all out of the woodwork. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it’s the newspapers after a story, or someone with a story to sell to them. They’re all after money.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Tarts. Sluts. Especially the ones who weren’t good-looking enough to get a fella. Haven’t you noticed it’s always the ugly cunts who cry rape?’ As he spoke, spittle showered from his mouth but fortunately stopped short of Banks and Winsome.

  ‘Danny, I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Feldman, tapping him rhythmically on his arm.

  ‘Well, I’m not you.’ He wagged his finger at Banks. His chair legs screeched on the floor. ‘Let me tell them how things were. They have no idea. We were knee deep in willing girls. Couldn’t move without bumping into one. What would you do? Only if they were willing, of course, and by God were they willing.’

  Banks’s resolve had returned fully by now. In fact, it was even stronger than it had been the previous evening when he had replayed his conversation with Linda Palmer. He would have to tread carefully from now on. ‘And not underage?’

  ‘Naturally they weren’t. Goes without saying. It was just too easy. Sometimes I really felt sorry for those poor young lads who wasted away pining for a taste when I had so much I didn’t know what to do with it. The puny boyfriends. They didn’t stand a chance against real men like me.’

  ‘Danny!’ said the lawyer.

  ‘None of them ever gave you any trouble, said no?’ Banks asked.

  Caxton frowned. ‘Not so as I remember.’

  ‘And your memory’s that good, is it?’

  ‘For my age.’

  ‘What was your driver called?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The chauffeur? What was his name?’

  ‘I can’t remember petty details like that. Mike or Steve or Frank or something. I’ve been through a few drivers in my time. Never did learn to drive. Whoever he was, he’ll be dead by now.’

  ‘Do you remember the Majestic Hotel?’

  ‘Lovely old place. Gone now, I suspect?’

  ‘Long ago. You had a sort of private entrance, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘It wasn’t private. They just allowed me certain privileges. We used the staff entrance and the staff lift.’

  ‘That’s the way our witness remembers it. Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did you feel the need to smuggle her up in the staff lift? So nobody could see you?’

  ‘Smuggle her? I never smuggled anybody in it. You make me sound like one of those people-traffickers.’

  ‘Well, why did you use it, then?’

  ‘There were always fans waiting in the hotel lobby. Autograph hunters and what have you. It was a celebrity hotel. A lot of us in the summer shows stayed there. The staff didn’t like it, the celebrities getting mobbed and so on. It was a discreet hotel. Easier all round if we took the back way.’

  ‘Yet she left by the front, when you’d done with her.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. If it had happened, the police would have been round fifty years ago, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Who was the other man in the room, the one who asked the victim to get into the car? What was his name? His function?’

  Caxton’s expression suddenly became guarded, and a hint of anxiety crept into his tone. ‘What are you talking about? There was no one else in the room.’

  ‘Which room? When?’

  ‘Whatever room you’re talking about. Ever.’

  ‘When you shared your prize with another man?’

  ‘Don’t be insane. Why would I share anything? Are you trying to say I’m a queer or something?’

  ‘Are you? I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I must admit, you don’t seem the sharing type. But I’m afraid our witness has a clear memory of this other person. He was younger than you, apparently, so there’s every chance he’s still in fine fettle today. Who knows, maybe the years have worn away at him and he’s ready to talk. Maybe his conscience has got the better of him. Was he there on other occasions, too? Other times with young girls? We heard he seemed rather reluctant, as if he was pushed into it. Maybe trying to impress you or something. What were you doing, Danny? Showing off. Throwing a little titbit his way. Who is he? Who were you hanging out with back then? We’ll find him, Danny, don’t worry about that. Then we’ll have a witness. Maybe we’ll even track down the chauffeur and some of the hotel employees. Some of them must have been young at the time. A bellboy, maybe. And then—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Feldman.

  Banks gestured to Winsome and they both stood up. ‘For once,’ Banks said, ‘I find myself actually agreeing with something a lawyer says. Don’t bother to show us out. We’ll be seeing you again soon, Danny.’

  Caxton didn’t look so cocky now, Banks thought. In fact, he seemed deep in thought, and worried thought, at that. Banks felt the lawyer’s eyes burning into his back as he and Winsome walked away, no doubt keeping an eye out in case they decided to steal the silverware or a painting. He thought he heard Caxton’s raspy voice saying something about making some calls.

  Outside at the car, Winsome leaned forward and rested her palms on the bonnet to take a deep breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Banks asked. He could see that she was shaking.

  ‘Sorry, guv. I feel sick. That man. Who does he think he is? I feel like
I’ve been slimed.’

  Banks couldn’t help but laugh at those words coming from her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I never took you for a Ghostbusters fan.’

  Winsome gave him a lopsided smile. ‘It was my dad. He had the video. Practically wore it out. Family tradition. Every Christmas. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s not even a Christmas movie.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you for a drink, and after that we’ll pay a little visit to the ex Mrs Caxton in York. I’ll bet she has some interesting stories to tell.’

  The Unicorn wasn’t one of Annie’s favourite pubs, being too cramped, run-down and unfriendly for that, but it did have the advantage of being just across the road from Eastvale General Infirmary. Burned-out A & E doctors drank there when their shifts were over, and exhausted nurses dropped in for a quick bracer before heading home to face yet more domestic drudgery. It also attracted the occasional errant pupil from Eastvale Comprehensive, just down the hill, not necessarily over eighteen. As long as they kept to themselves and didn’t cause any trouble, the landlord wasn’t bothered, nor were the police. The Unicorn’s other advantages were that, during the day, it was quiet, with no games, jukebox or yahoos, and the landlord kept a decent pint of Black Sheep. Smoking had long since been banned in pubs, but Annie could have sworn that the Unicorn still stank of stale tobacco smoke and that the gloss brown of its ceiling was the result of years of accumulated nicotine and tar.

  Annie and Gerry found a table by the bay window easily enough. One of the legs was too short, so Annie folded up a beermat and stuck it underneath. Someone had carved a heart and initials into the wood. The carving had been there so long, had so many drinks spilled on it, that it had almost faded into the table. Annie wondered if ‘KP’ still loved ‘HB.’

  ‘You’re having a double brandy, no argument,’ she said to Gerry, and proceeded to drop her bag on her chair and head for the bar. ‘I don’t suppose you’re hungry?’ she asked over her shoulder. Gerry shook her head. Annie was starving, so she ordered a packet of salt and vinegar crisps along with her pint of bitter.

  Back at the table, she opened the crisps and offered the packet. ‘Help yourself.’