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

by Peter Robinson

  After they had drawn a blank in the Eastvale tattoo parlour and takeaway, Annie had told Gerry to work on the assumption that the victim was being transported from the north-east to some point south of Eastvale by a route off the beaten track. She had also assumed that the victim was from the north-east, but she had realised, lying awake in bed the previous night, that the vehicle might have been carrying the girl home. Someone might have picked her up in Middlesbrough or Sunderland, for example, and been in the process of driving her back down south, to where she lived, when things had gone wrong and the driver had taken a detour down a quiet country lane and dumped her. Raped and bruised, but alive. But if that were the case, why was she walking back the way she had come?

  Annie ignored the throng of media and made her way up to the squad room. Neither Winsome nor DC Doug Wilson was in, but Gerry sat at her desk working on the computer, hair held back by a tortoiseshell Alice band, which looked surprisingly cool on her. She maintained good posture, Annie noticed, unlike herself, who bent over, hunched and round-shouldered, as she hunted and pecked. Gerry seemed poised, ergonomically perfect, as if being at a computer keyboard were the most comfortable position in the world, everything at the right height and the right angle. And, of course, she touch-typed like a pro, eyes on the screen all the time.

  ‘Anything yet?’ Annie flopped into her chair, put her feet up on the desk and took a sip of the coffee she had picked up at the Starbucks on Market Street. She was trying to give it up, hence the green tea, but the lure of a latte was just too much at the start of the working day. Only one, though. That was her rule.

  ‘Still nothing,’ said Gerry, pausing at her labours. ‘The lab’s finished with Roger Stanford’s work clothes. Nothing there, as we suspected. We’ve also run checks on his background. Nothing. I think we can scratch him from our list. I’ve been in touch with Cleveland, Northumbria and the Durham Constabulary, and they’ll offer us all the help we want. They’re appalled by what happened, of course. They’ve already got patrol cars out to check up on the tattoo parlours and kebab and pizza places.’

  ‘Good. How about CCTV?’

  ‘That’s a bit more interesting,’ Gerry said, reaching for a file folder. ‘Though nothing to get too excited about. The nearest cameras service the big roundabout on the south-west edge of Eastvale, the end of Market Street. You’d turn off at the third exit for Bradham Lane, which is about two miles west.’

  ‘OK. So we can find out who went that way.’

  ‘Right, guv. But this is where it gets interesting. After the end of Bradham Lane, a mile or so west, there’s another roundabout, where you’d take the first exit if you were heading for Harrogate and West Yorkshire.’

  ‘Cameras?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if we find the same car on both roundabout cameras, separated by however long it takes to travel down Bradham Lane, and if the timing is right, then we might be on to something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Better stick at it then. Anything from missing persons yet?’

  ‘Nothing. Either nobody’s missed her yet or she makes a habit of disappearing for days at a time. I’ve also initiated enquiries at schools and social services. Oh, and you might not have seen this yet.’ Gerry tossed one of the morning tabloids towards Annie’s desk. ‘Page two.’

  On the front page was a huge photograph of Danny Caxton receiving his MBE, circa 1985, and on page two was a short article about the mysterious naked girl found dead in the Yorkshire Dales. Beside it was an artist’s impression of the victim, without broken teeth and swollen lips. Annie hadn’t seen it yet. ‘She scrubs up nicely,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘A pretty young girl. Jesus Christ, what a waste.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s good.’ Annie tapped the newspaper. ‘Someone might actually recognise her from this.’

  The door opened and the diminutive Jazz Singh stood there in her lab coat, brandishing a buff file folder. ‘Before you ask,’ she said. ‘I worked late last night, as did everyone in toxicology. This is a particularly nasty one and whatever you need, you know . . .’

  ‘Thanks, Jazz,’ said Annie. ‘What’ve you got for us?’

  Jazz sat down in Doug Wilson’s empty chair. ‘We’re still waiting for the DNA results to process,’ she began, ‘but it looks as if there were three distinct samples of seminal fluid in the girl’s body. All secretors.’

  Annie’s jaw tightened. Three. The magic number. Gang bang. It was three men who had tried to rape her once. She flashed on the image of the naked girl being assailed from all sides, in all orifices, by three men turned to animals by lust. Maybe they had jobs, families, loved their mothers, but that night, whether under the influence of drugs or not, they had become inhuman, bestial, and had violated and humiliated a vulnerable young girl.

  ‘How can you tell how many there were if they were all mixed up?’ she asked.

  ‘We have our little secrets. You use Y-STR to separate them. The Y chromosome. The male line. And STR means short tandem repeats. They’re—’

  Annie held her hand up. ‘All right, all right. Sorry I asked. You’ve blinded me with science.’

  ‘That didn’t take long.’

  ‘Three men, you say? Christ.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Jazz, as if reading Annie’s thoughts. ‘What can I say? I only deliver the news. I should have DNA profiles before the end of the day, then at least we can check them against the database.’

  ‘They won’t be there,’ said Annie. ‘They never are.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative. At least we’ve got three shots this time.’

  ‘True. Anything else?’

  Jazz pulled out some sheets of paper. ‘Preliminary tox results show a fair bit of alcohol in her system—’

  ‘Enough to make her drunk?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Tipsy at any rate. I don’t know how well she could hold her booze, but Dr Glendenning said her liver and kidneys show an unusual amount of damage for someone so young.’

  ‘That’s because someone booted them into her lungs,’ said Annie. ‘Maybe we should be thankful she was pissed. She might have felt less pain and fear.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have felt much at all,’ said Jazz. ‘We also found significant traces of ketamine in her system. The girl was off her face.’

  ‘Enough to go along willingly with what they wanted?’

  ‘Impossible to say for sure, but highly likely. Definitely high as a kite. Probably no sense of judgement. Even without the booze she’d have been gaga. A lot depends on when she took it, or was given it. It’s fast-acting, but it doesn’t last more than a couple of hours if you ingest it. The doc didn’t find any needle marks on her skin, so we’re assuming she took it orally. I assume you’re both aware of the effects?’

  Annie glanced over at Gerry, who shook her head. ‘Remind us,’ she said. ‘DC Masterson here failed drugs 101.’

  ‘Hallucinations, sense of detachment from the body, depersonalisation.’ Jazz paused. ‘From what we can tell, it was a high dose, around a hundred milligrams.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Gerry asked.

  Jazz picked up another sheet of paper. ‘Have you heard of the K-hole?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ said Annie.

  Gerry merely looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s a state some users enter into when the dosage is somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred and twenty-five milligrams. People have described it as like entering an alternate universe or another dimension, a black hole in the soul. You leave everything you know behind, including yourself. Loss of identity, loss of bodily awareness, sensation of floating, euphoria, loss of time perception.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Annie.

  ‘As I said, I don’t think she would have felt any pain. With any luck, she might have had no sensation at all, been somewhere else entirely, not really aware of what was happening to her.’

  ‘Until later,’ said Annie. ‘It may explain why they kicked her out
of the van.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jazz agreed. ‘But it can also cause amnesia. You forget it all like you forget a dream. If you come back at all, that is. They say it’s a state very close to clinical schizophrenia.’

  No matter how high or depersonalised the girl had been, Annie doubted that she had been completely unaware of what was being done to her in the van.

  ‘Well, we’ll never know what she felt, will we?’ said Gerry, ‘So there’s not much point in speculating. But now we know she was raped by three men, and she had been plied with alcohol and ketamine, we’ve got a bit more to go on, haven’t we? Her murder could be drug-related.’

  Annie smiled. ‘Ever the practical one, Gerry. Ask the locals to check known dealers – especially in ketamine. But it hardly narrows down the field much, does it?’

  ‘Same general area?’

  ‘For the time being. If we draw a blank we can expand the search.’

  ‘I said there were traces of sperm from three distinct sources,’ said Jazz. ‘Not that she was raped by three men.’

  ‘You didn’t see the body,’ said Annie. ‘But we’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘The dental records and tats photos are still doing the rounds,’ Gerry added. ‘We might get something from them, though it doesn’t appear she visited a dentist very often.’

  Annie turned to Jazz. ‘Thanks for getting this done so quickly,’ she said. ‘And we’ll keep our fingers crossed there’s a hit with the DNA database.’

  ‘Even if there isn’t, I should have a bit more information on the assailants for you later. Pity DNA doesn’t indicate home address.’

  Annie laughed. ‘It would certainly make our job a hell of a lot easier. Thanks again.’

  ‘It’s about time we had that celebratory drink,’ said DCI Ken Blackstone. ‘Congratulations on the promotion, Alan.’

  They raised their glasses and clinked. Banks sipped some of his Sam Smith’s and forked up a piece of black pudding and smoked bacon Scotch egg. Blackstone was eating a prawn and Marie Rose sandwich washed down with a glass of chilled California blush.

  ‘I’m not sure congratulations is the right word for it,’ Banks said. ‘But thanks, anyway.’

  Blackstone scratched his head. ‘What do you mean? Too much paperwork?’

  ‘That, too. But . . . that’s not why I wanted to see you. The drink, of course, but . . .’

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘My first big case as a superintendent.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Danny Caxton.’

  Blackstone put his sandwich down. ‘Oh, bloody hell. They certainly chucked you in at the deep end.’

  ‘That’s an understatement. Though I must say, having talked to both the accuser and the man himself, I’m a lot more keen than I was a couple of days ago.’

  They were sitting opposite one another at the end of a wooden bench in the narrow alley outside Whitelock’s, one of Leeds city centre’s oldest pubs, and usually one of the most crowded. That lunchtime was no exception. Summer students sat on nearby benches smoking and idling over their pints, shop girls from the Trinity Centre gossiped over a gin and orange or white wine spritzers, and office clerks chatted over a quick half of bitter. The used plates, emptied of their beef in ale pies, burgers, hot dogs or cheese and chutney sandwiches, were piling up. The staff could hardly keep up with the serving, let alone the clearing away. The buildings were high on both side of the narrow alley, letting in no sun, but the heat certainly had everyone wilting, Banks included. Blackstone remained immaculate and cool in suit, shirt and tie. With the glasses, bald spot on top and tufts of hair above his ears, he was getting to resemble Philip Larkin or Eric Morecambe a bit more every time Banks saw him. He had also put on a bit of weight, Banks noticed. Though the alley was crowded, there was a gap between Banks and Blackstone and the group of students, German by the sound of them, sitting next to them. And it wasn’t too noisy to have a conversation.

  Banks had spent the morning with Winsome going over the itemised lists of stuff the search team had taken from Caxton’s house the previous evening and sending out inquiries for lists of his friends, employees and associates in the late sixties. There was nothing so far from the search, only a bit of mild Internet porn, but there were diaries and appointment calendars that might prove useful in pinning down his movements at critical times, and pre-digital photographs that might link him with some of his victims. He had left Winsome to continue the task while he drove to Leeds.

  ‘There were always rumours about him,’ Blackstone said. ‘You know he lived not too far from here for a while?’

  ‘Yes. Otley, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Had a nice big house after his first flush of fame in the early sixties. Before my time, of course, but there were rumours of parties. Orgies, I suppose. Quite the “A” guest list, too, if the stories are to be believed. High-ranking coppers, judges, politicians, a bishop or two.’

  ‘Well, he certainly got his immunity from somewhere. What were the rumours?’

  ‘Mostly that he liked them young. I mean, he wasn’t that old then, himself.’

  ‘Underage?’

  ‘Never heard that mentioned specifically.’

  ‘Unwilling?’

  ‘I think everyone assumed the girls threw themselves at him.’

  ‘That’s what he told us. One of the accusers who’s come forward lives near Eastvale. I’ve been assigned the investigation.’

  ‘Lucky you. Any hope?’

  ‘Maybe. A glimmer.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘She used to live here. In Leeds. She was on her holidays with her family in Blackpool when the assault took place.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘That Caxton and another man raped her in a hotel room.’

  ‘How did they get her there?’

  Banks explained as best he could to Blackstone what Linda Palmer had told him. ‘She’s not clear on everything,’ he added. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘She says she reported it when the family got back home. Here. Her mother went to the police station with her.’

  ‘That would’ve been Brotherton House, back then. Top end of the Headrow.’

  ‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘There’s got to be paperwork somewhere, Ken. That’s the first thing we need to track down. Proof that she reported what happened, proof that nothing was followed up.’

  ‘Might be tougher than you think. The paper trail might be somewhere, maybe. But the question is, where?’

  Banks sipped some more beer. It tasted good but didn’t do a lot to slake his thirst. Maybe he should have asked for a pint of chilled lager on a day like this. ‘Computers?’

  ‘I’m not sure anything that far back has been entered. In fact, it most likely hasn’t been. Let me look into it. I know a good archivist. It’ll give me an excuse to ask her out for lunch or something.’

  ‘Always happy to be of help in the romance department.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You know. The love life.’

  ‘What love life?’

  ‘Like that, is it? I thought you had a lovely young girlfriend. Italian, isn’t she?’

  ‘I did. Oriana. It just didn’t work out, that’s all. She was too young. Then either she was too busy or I was. You know the sort of thing. There was never any talk about . . . you know . . . any commitment or anything. We had fun, that’s all.’

  ‘So no pain?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite say that. I listened to Blood on the Tracks and The Boatman’s Call a few too many times after she left. Drank a bit too much Laphroaig. Felt sorry for myself. But did I slit my wrists? No.’

  ‘With me it’s always In the Wee Small Hours and Macallan eighteen-year-old.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a good combination, too. I always said you had class.’

  ‘So there’s nothing new on the hor
izon?’

  ‘Not so far as I can see.’

  Blackstone gestured to Banks’s almost empty glass. ‘Another?’

  ‘No. Better not. I have to drive back. I’ll do a bit of shopping while I’m here first. Walk it off.’ One thing Banks wanted to do was go to Waterstones and buy Linda Palmer’s latest book of poetry, along with Dart, the book she was reading when he talked to her. And maybe Ariel. They might give him a bit more insight into her character. Besides, he might also enjoy them. He would also make time to go to HMV and pick up the new Sviatoslav Richter box set, his deferred present to himself on his promotion and salary increase. If they had it in stock, of course. He still missed the old Classical Record Shop. He had been listening to a lot of solo piano music in the long summer evenings – Angela Hewitt, Imogen Cooper, Mitsuko Uchida and other contemporary pianists playing Bach, Schubert, Chopin and Mozart, mostly – but Richter was a new discovery for him. He had enjoyed the 1958 Sofia recital and was looking forward to listening to some of the live New York recordings he had read about in Gramophone.

  ‘If I’m going to attempt to find something in the archives,’ Blackstone said, ‘I’m going to need to know what it is. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Not at all. As far as I’m concerned you’re an essential member of the investigative team as of now. You know as well as I do that victims’ identities are always sacred in cases like this.’

  ‘I’ve been there. You don’t think anyone escaped the fallout from the Savile business around here, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not. Leeds lad, wasn’t he?’

  ‘For our sins. And you also know that if you’re dealing with something along those lines, there’s a good chance any written records of what happened might have disappeared over the years.’

  ‘I know that, too. But it doesn’t hurt to look.’