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

by Peter Robinson

  ‘1967? You ought to be good at that. One of your best years, wasn’t it?’

  Banks smiled. ‘It was a very good year, but I was still just a kid, a bit too young to enjoy all the new freedoms people were talking about. Not that they ever reached Peterborough. But musically, it was great. The Summer of Love. The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Pink Floyd, Love, Cream, Hendrix. Sergeant Pepper. Magnificent.’

  ‘Well, you can listen to all your old records and relive it.’

  ‘Not a bad idea, at that,’ said Banks. ‘There was a dark side to it all, though, and I have a feeling that’s where I’ll be finding myself.’

  ‘Don’t we always?’ said Annie. ‘Don’t we always?’

  6

  It was Monday morning, five days since the unidentified body had been found on Bradham Lane, and the eight-mile stretch was still closed to traffic in the hope that Stefan’s team would unearth some significant clue that had so far eluded their efforts. Fortunately, the lane was so little used that there was no immediate clamour for its reopening. A couple of cyclists had written letters to the local paper, but that was about all. Everyone else who had used it as a pleasant and convenient alternative had returned to the A1 temporarily without complaint.

  Every day the media gathered at both ends of the lane, but the scene was well guarded, with the mobile crime unit blocking the top end. One or two hardy reporters had tried sneaking across the fields to take photographs, but the vigilant eyes of the officers guarding the inner scene, the immediate area in which the body had been found, had spotted them in time. Even so, a few long-distance shots had appeared, the kind that have to be published with a circle added to pinpoint where the crime happened. Desperate for any sort of crime-scene image, one less reputable newspaper had even published a shot of a similar spot on a different road and claimed it as the place where the battered and broken body of the young girl was discovered. Both the cyclist who had found the body, Roger Stanford, and the Ketteridges on the nearest farm, had come under media siege at one point or another. As Stanford seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown and Mrs Ketteridge lived in fear of losing her baby, the local police had seen all the interlopers off and posted guards around the farm and Stanford’s house.

  The investigation had naturally slowed down over the weekend, especially as the budget allowed for little or no overtime. In the meantime, information wasn’t exactly pouring in. The CSIs had made no more headway and Jazz Singh had done about as much as she could with the DNA.

  Late that morning, Gerry was sitting at her computer in the squad room when the telephone rang. She picked up the handset and announced her rank and name. It was one of the community support officers working the Bradham Lane case, calling from the mobile crime scene unit. ‘Sorry to bother you, DC Masterson,’ she said, but I’ve got a caller on the hotline who insists on speaking to the person in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘That would be DI Cabbot,’ said Gerry. ‘Or DCI Banks.’

  ‘They’re not around. I rang you because the caller sounds a bit spooked. Young. Can I put her through? Maybe you could talk to her?’

  ‘Put her through.’

  She waited a few moments, and a small, scared voice came on the line. ‘Hello? Hello? Do you know about the girl in Bradham Lane, the one whose picture was on telly?’

  ‘I’m DC Masterson,’ said Gerry. ‘And I’m working on the case. Do you know who she is? Can you help us?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is the drawing a good likeness? Have you actually seen her?’

  ‘I was there when she was found,’ Gerry said. It was more or less true. ‘Yes, I saw her. It’s a good likeness.’

  ‘It is her, isn’t it? Was she, I mean . . .?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m OK. Yes. It’s just that she was my best friend. It’s her. It looks like her. I haven’t seen her for days. And they . . .’

  Gerry felt her blood turn cold. ‘Who?’ she said. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I can’t. They’ll kill me, too.’

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ Gerry said, as gently as she could. ‘Can you tell me who she is, then?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Mimsy.’

  ‘Mimsy?’

  ‘Mimsy Moffat.’ The caller paused. ‘We used to tease her about that,’ she said. ‘ “All mimsy were the borogoves.” She loved Alice. I remember when we talked about starting a band. We were going to call ourselves Mimsy and the Borogoves.’

  Gerry knew ‘Jabberwocky’. She had been a big Lewis Carroll fan when she was at school, and she still read the Alice stories once a year. ‘That’s a cute name. You can sing and play instruments?’

  ‘No. It was just blethering.’

  ‘You said “we”. “We used to tease her.” Who else?’

  ‘Just me, really.’

  ‘Can you tell me where Mimsy lived?’

  ‘On the estate. Number fourteen Southam Terrace.’

  ‘Where’s that? What estate?’

  ‘Wytherton Heights.’

  ‘Wytherton?’

  ‘Teesside. Near Middlesbrough.’

  ‘OK. My name’s Gerry. What’s yours, love?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. Nobody must know.’ Then she hung up, or switched off her mobile. Gerry immediately hit redial but her call went through to a generic answering service, the kind you get with a pay-as-you-go mobile when you don’t bother to personalise it. She left her name and mobile number just in case, then returned to her computer screen and clicked through to Google Maps.

  Wytherton was an area that clung like a boil to the arse of Teesside between Stockton and Middlesbrough, and Wytherton Heights was a sprawling square mile of council estates fringed in the north by a forest of sixties tower blocks and to the south by the main Wytherton Road. Town Street bisected the estate about a quarter of a mile up from Wytherton Road. Southam Terrace, Gerry discovered, lay somewhere near the middle of the largest section.

  What little information Gerry could find on the estate told her that it was a mix of post-war council housing. Some people who lived there had bought their houses from the council in the eighties or later, and there were a few older private houses scattered around the edges, mostly turned into student bedsits to service the nearby college. The Google Maps satellite images showed a mix of domestic architecture, from the grime-encrusted back-to-backs and through terraces to sixties brick council houses, maisonettes and old tower blocks. The aerial photographs she managed to dredge up showed higgledy-piggledy streets straggling west of a wasteland of abandoned factory yards with high fences scrolled with barbed wire, or walls topped with broken glass. To these, west of the houses, by the canal, stood a modern shopping centre.

  Gerry didn’t think she was a snob, but she had been brought up in a nice Georgian semi in a suburb of Liverpool called Crosby, not far from the Irish Sea. She had attended Merchant Taylors’ Girls School before reading law at Cambridge. Her mother was a schoolteacher and her father a solicitor and, needless to say, her decision to join the police after university had caused a family row or two. She wasn’t certain why she had done it, herself, only that she knew she didn’t want an academic career, and she didn’t want to be a lawyer. She thought that in the police she might at least get the chance to use her initiative now and then, find a little excitement, even danger, and that every day would be different. She could also use her IT skills. And Gerry wasn’t without ambition. If she did the right courses and was successful in her fieldwork, she knew fast-track promotion was a strong possibility for someone like her. The sky was the limit. She knew it sounded silly, and maybe joining the police was the wrong way to go about it, but she might even one day end up running MI5, like Stella Rimington, whose books she enjoyed. One of her friends had been recruited at Cambridge, and she remembered feeling jealous that she hadn’t been singled out, too. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t reading politics or Middle Eastern languages.

  No matter how much she tried to be ‘one of the lads’, though,
she knew she was posh when it came right down to it. Places like Wytherton Heights gave her the creeps. A big godforsaken ugly splodge of urban hell stuck between the beauties of the North York Moors and the Yorkshire Dales National Park, it might as well have signs saying no go area in big letters all over it. Perhaps she was showing her upper-middle-class upbringing, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it was the sort of area that boasted a tattoo shop or two as well as a kebab and pizza takeaway. As for whether it was home to a large Asian population, she had no idea, though she could soon find out.

  Gerry felt immediately guilty for being so judgemental. She had always prided herself on being a nice, decent, thoughtful person, kind to all and sundry, but perhaps her short time in the police had changed her. DI Cabbot could be cynical at times, so perhaps some of that was rubbing off on her. One glance at the Wytherton Heights estate onscreen was enough to tell her that she wouldn’t like visiting it.

  But this wasn’t the time for self-analysis, she thought, getting to her feet. Like it or not, it was time to pick up her boss from County HQ and whisk them both up to Southam Terrace, Wytherton Heights. Maybe it would turn out to be a much nicer place than she thought.

  The Wakefield office of the West Yorkshire Archive Service was unfortunately not a modern air-conditioned building, being instead housed in the old Registry of Deeds office, a 1930s building on Newstead Road. Ken Blackstone handed over the form he had filled out, and after he and Banks had shown their warrant cards, Ms Brindley made a quick search to locate the occurrence book. She soon came back with the volume they wanted and placed it on the table in front of them.

  ‘It would have been the end of August or beginning of September, 1967,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t know the exact date, but it was before school started again.’

  It didn’t take long to locate the brief, neatly written entry of the thirtieth of August 1967, at 2.35 p.m. Reading the unadorned entry, Banks could only imagine what that day had been like for Linda Palmer and her mother, perhaps agonising over whether to go, frightened, embarrassed, sitting on the bus to town not knowing what to expect. As it was only an occurrence book, not a statement, there was very little detail. The complainant was identified as ‘Linda Palmer’ and her mother’s presence was also noted. They had come with a ‘crime complaint’, which was further described as ‘indecent and unlawful’ in the description. There was no mention of rape, and Danny Caxton was not named. Detective Inspector Stanley Chadwick had talked to the complainant, but when it came to further action and result, there was nothing. Blackstone flipped forward a few pages to see if he could find anything else, but all the entries were similarly brief. They would need the case files or individual notebooks to find out any more, and they were gone, if there had, indeed, ever been any. Destroyed years ago, most likely.

  Disappointed, Banks asked Ms Brindley if she would make a copy of the entry in question. It wasn’t much, but every little helped at this point.

  ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘the occurrence book is rather large and heavy. It’s very awkward to fit in the photocopier. I’d suggest you use your mobile and take a digital photo, if that’s acceptable?”

  ‘Of course.’ Banks took out his mobile, positioned it carefully and took three photos, just to make certain. ‘Is there any way of finding out if anything came of this?’ he asked when he had finished.

  ‘Not without the records, no, and I’m afraid we don’t have those.’

  ‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Well, let me see. We do have the court registers, so if anything went to court it would be listed in there.’

  ‘As far as we know, it didn’t,’ said Banks. ‘But thanks, anyway.’

  ‘No problem.’ Ms Brindley smiled and asked them if there was anything more they required.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Blackstone. ‘You’ve been a great help. Thanks very much.’

  Ms Brindley inclined her head briefly then drifted away. Banks and Blackstone made their way outside again, where it was marginally cooler than inside.

  They found a pub with a beer garden not far from the cathedral and sat down at a table in the shade next to two young women struggling to control three small children, who already appeared to have ingested a surfeit of sugar. The pretty mother with the ring in her nose and a stud in her lower lip gave Banks a long-suffering glance, and he smiled at her.

  It was a chain pub, but that was OK with Banks. At least it meant they would get their food quickly. Blackstone passed him a laminated menu. They both decided on the steak and mushroom pie special, and Blackstone went to get some drinks – Coke, as they both had to drive later – and put in their order at the bar. While he was away, the eldest of the children at the next table, perhaps about three, tottered over to Banks, grinning and slobbering drool down the front of his bib. The girl with the stud in her lip swept forward and picked him up with one arm in a surprisingly gentle and graceful motion, smiled sweetly at Banks and apologised.

  When Blackstone got back, Banks raised his Coke. ‘Cheers. I didn’t notice you pursuing young Ms Brindley with quite the vigour I would have expected from you.’

  ‘Didn’t you notice the ring on her finger?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Big sparkler. Probably zircon. Third finger of her left hand. Wasn’t there the last time I saw her.’

  ‘Too late, then.’

  ‘Story of my life. Cheers,’ said Blackstone. ‘I see from the news you’ve got a media circus on your hands up in Eastvale.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m sneaking around like a mischievous schoolboy. Our Media Relations Officer is about ready to blow a gasket. The mere mention of “Pakistani” sends him into conniptions.’

  ‘Pakistani?’

  ‘Annie might have a grooming case on her hands involving members of the British Pakistani community. Not a word, mind you.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’

  ‘We think the girl was raped by three men and beaten to death by another on a remote country lane in our neck of the woods. Gerry’s just discovered who she was, and her home happens to be on a council estate that’s conveniently located just on our side of the county border.’

  ‘Nasty. I don’t suppose this Caxton business helps with the media relations, either?’

  ‘Oh, Adrian loves that,’ said Banks. ‘That’s his wet dream. It’s the race thing that’s got his knickers in a twist.’

  The food came and they paused for a while to eat in silence. The pastry on Banks’s pie was soggy and the meat more gristle than steak. One of the other young children at the next table threw some cutlery on the grass and let out a piercing scream. Banks winced. The young woman picked up the spoon and smiled at him again.

  ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get much from the archive,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘That’s OK. I didn’t expect anything more. There is one interesting piece of information, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘ “Chiller” Chadwick. I’ve come across him before on another old case. Always had my suspicions he was bent, but I could never prove it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s still around?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Died of a heart attack in March 1973, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘I think I know the case you mean,’ Blackstone said. ‘Wasn’t that the rock journalist connected with the murder at that Brimleigh rock festival in 1969? Chadwick would have been the SIO back then, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Banks. ‘Linda Lofthouse, the Mad Hatters, Vic Greaves, all that lot. Seems a lifetime ago.’

  ‘1969?’

  ‘Our case. The journalist. 2006, wasn’t it? 1969 seems several lifetimes ago, and as for 1967 . . .’

  ‘The Summer of Love.’

  ‘That’s right. Not for Linda Palmer, though. You know, Ken, there are a few leads in this that might not be too cold. I remember from the other case, we located Chadwick’s oppo, a DS Enderby, and he also had a DC called Bradley. I talk
ed to Chadwick’s daughter Yvonne as well. There’s a chance he might have mentioned Linda Palmer or Danny Caxton to one of them. From what I heard about him, he struck me as a hard man, and not beyond a verbal or a beating, but I don’t think he was the kind of person who’d have liked being anyone’s fool, or in anyone’s pocket. Even Caxton’s.’

  ‘It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?’ said Blackstone. ‘Tracking them down. His daughter. This DC Bradley.’

  ‘Definitely. I’ve got their addresses back on the old case records in Eastvale. At least from 2006. But first I’ve got something I’d like you to do for me, if you can spare a couple of lads for a few hours.’

  ‘My team is at your command,’ said Blackstone.

  Banks explained about the photo Linda Palmer remembered seeing and suggested starting with the Yorkshire Evening Post for October 1967.

  ‘Those old newspaper morgues are more complicated than you’d think,’ said Blackstone. ‘I suppose you know the old YEP building’s been knocked down and they’ve moved to Whitehall Road?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The thing is, they always stored their photos by theme, not date, and I expect they still do.’

  ‘We’d need to go through the complete issues,’ Banks said. ‘The photo might be part of a story and we’d need to know that story. We don’t know the theme. Surely they’re on microfiche somewhere? Old newspapers are fragile, aren’t they?’

  Blackstone considered for a moment. ‘I think your best bet is Leeds Central Library. They’ve got a Local Studies Department that has all the old YEPs on microfilm. It shouldn’t take too long to scroll through them. Would it be a problem, getting your victim to Leeds?’

  ‘I can’t see why,’ said Banks.

  ‘Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t do it tomorrow.’

  ‘That soon? Can you get it organised?’

  ‘Sure. I know some of the staff there. We use the facility often. I’ll have a word, let them know to get it set up. October 1967?