‘Spare us the political lecture, Superintendent Carver,’ said Banks.
Carver harrumphed and went on. ‘We know things didn’t turn out that way. And, I might add, the police at the time strongly suspected that Albert Kerrigan used money acquired through the sale of illegal drugs in the house purchase.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Annie. ‘They couldn’t prove it.’
‘That’s right. Kerrigan claimed he’d sold a painting to get the money, but I couldn’t imagine anyone paying six grand for the rubbish he turned out.’
‘And you’re an art expert, too,’ said Annie. ‘Wonders never cease.’
Carver went red.
‘Shut it, DI Cabbot,’ said Banks.
Carver cast her the evil eye and went on. ‘I was only a constable on the beat back then, patrol cars, but I had plenty of first-hand experience of the various Kerrigans and Moffats over the years. Sinead Kerrigan married Leslie Moffat in the late nineties, and Mimosa and Albert were born around the millennium, just three years apart. Les Moffat was a small-time crook. A bit of housebreaking, the occasional mugging after dark in Middlesbrough town centre. He could be violent when he wanted to, and he buggered off when the kids were still little. That was around the time Albert Kerrigan died of a brain tumour. Only in his fifties. I blame the drugs.’
‘And his wife?’ Banks asked.
‘Maureen? Drifted off with some Travellers. Never been seen since.’
‘Which leaves Sinead, Lenny, Johnny and the kids,’ said Banks. ‘Were any of the children ever fostered out or taken into care?’
‘No,’ said Carver. ‘They always managed to avoid that fate. God knows how.’
‘What about Sinead’s brother?’ Banks asked. ‘I heard he’s a bit . . .’ He glanced at Annie.
‘Doolally,’ she said.
‘Johnny’s five years older than Sinead,’ said Carver. ‘He rode with a local biker gang involved in drugs and all kinds of nastiness until he smashed his bike up on the A19 one rainy day. Never been the same since. Just sits in his chair. Which suits us fine.’
‘What happened after Les Moffat left?’ Banks asked.
‘Mama Sinead is left behind looking after the whole family. After Moffat, there was a string of men, bad choices for the most part, junkies, criminals and unemployed layabouts all. That’s when she developed her drug habit, and she wasn’t averse to a bit of soliciting to support it. Then Lenny Thornton came on the scene in 2009, and she soon had two kids by him. We’ve had our run-ins with Lenny. He’s settled down these days, but he specialised in car theft after a childhood of joyriding. Then when the security locks got too complicated for his tiny brain, he moved on to fencing stolen goods. But he wasn’t very good at it. After a short stretch inside, he seemed to go straight. We’ve had nothing on him for two or three years now. And that, my dear friends, is the Moffats of Southam Terrace. And when you start feeling all warm and tingly inside about Sinead Moffat getting her act together, doing the methadone cure, think again. She may well be trying to kick her heroin habit at the moment, but don’t let that fool you. Judging by all previous attempts, she’ll be back on it in no time, and turning tricks, if any man in his right mind will pay her for it.’
Banks gave him a dirty look. ‘Watch it, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘Sorry,’ said Carver.
‘Are you suggesting that one of the family killed Mimosa?’ Annie asked.
‘All I’m saying is it’s a good place to start. Better than Sunny’s Kebab and Pizza. You could do worse than have a chat with the social and school authorities, too. Wytherton Comprehensive. Lovely place. Shoo-in for Oxford.’ He paused. ‘You admit you don’t know who actually murdered the girl. All I’m saying is look close to home. Isn’t that the way it usually is? Her brother Albert’s a yobbo for a start. He’s broken a window or two on the Strip in his time, usually after a skinful of ale. He wouldn’t like it if he’d heard she’d been shagging Pakis.’
‘I won’t tell you again, Mr Carver,’ said Banks. ‘There’s no room for that sort of crudeness here. A bit more respect. According to our forensic evidence, the girl you’re talking about was raped.’
‘Doesn’t mean she hadn’t done it willingly at some point. Perhaps you’d like me to assign a couple of my local CID officers to help you with your enquiries in Wytherton?’ Carver went on, pushing his luck.
‘We can handle it,’ said Annie.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a Homicide and Major Crimes case. We may consult on occasion, should the need arise.’
Carver gritted his teeth. ‘If you say so.’
‘I think that’s all for now,’ Banks said. ‘You know your next actions, DI Cabbot, DC Masterson. Tear the Moffat house apart and find Albert Jr.’
It was another warm day in Wytherton, though much less muggy, and the smell of decomposing rubbish polluted the air. The dustbin men had been on strike for over a week now, Gerry had learned, and there seemed to be no end in sight. She had spent a good part of her morning on the phone and discovered that Les Moffat, Mimosa’s birth father, had died of liver disease two years ago and that Eddie Mallard, the ex-boyfriend of Sinead’s who had molested Mimosa, had been stabbed in a prison brawl four years ago. She had also got through to one of Mimosa’s teachers, who told her that Mimosa was naturally bright but didn’t apply herself enough. She could have done a lot better if she had tried, but then, Gerry thought, couldn’t we all. There had been attendance issues lately and Mimosa had paid more than one visit to the head teacher’s office. She had also been warned over the using of racial slurs. That seemed odd to Gerry, but perhaps if Mimsy was in a relationship with a group of Asian groomers then it was a form of camouflage.
The social service offices were housed in a flat-roofed, modern one-storey building on the other side of the canal, just across the bridge, over from the new shopping centre and about half a mile from the Strip. Beside it was a small square of tufty, dried-out grass where a few young people lounged, shirtless and listless, smoking joints or cigarettes, drinking from plastic water bottles or cans of lager. Gerry felt the sweat sticking her white silk blouse to her skin as she went through the front doors into the reception area.
A bored woman sat behind a glass partition like a ticket-seller at a railway station. Without looking up from her keyboard, she said, ‘Take a number and wait over there,’ as if it were for the hundredth time that day.
Gerry flashed her warrant card, and the woman pointed to a desk wedged into a corner. ‘Over there,’ she said. ‘See Alicia. She deals with all police matters.’
Alicia glanced up as Gerry approached. She was probably mid-thirties, plump with short curly dark hair and a badge with her first name below a smiley face. A place of mixed messages, this, Gerry thought.
Gerry showed her warrant card again. The woman examined it closely and gestured for her to sit down, making it clear who was in charge. Gerry sat on the moulded orange chair, trying to avoid a bit of old chewing gum stuck near the left edge. There was noise all around, chatter, computer printers, keyboards, ringtones. Not much laughter. The squad room was bad enough sometimes, but Gerry wondered how anyone could get any work done with such a din going on. Like anything else, she supposed, you got used to it.
‘What’s it about?’ the woman asked.
‘I’m here to see someone about a girl called Mimosa Moffat.’
‘Who?’
‘Mimosa Moffat.’
‘Just a minute.’
The woman tilted her computer screen towards her, hit a few keys and frowned as she scrolled up and down. ‘Moffat,’ she said eventually. ‘Address?’
Gerry told her.
‘I’ll see if the case officer’s in his office. Hang on a minute.’ Alicia picked up the phone, pressed a couple of buttons and waited. Eventually, someone answered and a brief exchange followed. Gerry could hardly hear a word because of the ambient noise. When Alicia put the phone down,
she told Gerry, ‘Ciaran will see you now. His office is down that corridor over there, first right, second left. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ said Gerry. ‘Name on the door?’
‘Ciaran O’Byrne.’
The corridors beyond the open plan area formed a maze, and even with clear and simple directions, Gerry almost missed the second turning. She finally found the name on the door, knocked and answered the call to come in. Ciaran O’Byrne stood up to shake hands when Gerry entered. He was probably about her age, late twenties, skinny, bearded and casually dressed, mostly in black. The small office was so filled with filing cabinets and piles of papers that it was hard to find anywhere to sit. It was also like an oven. Gerry noticed there were no windows, just a sort of grille high in the wall, which was made of perforated plywood panels. A grinding, coughing noise came from inside the grille, but Gerry couldn’t feel even the slightest waft of cool air.
‘Just clear those papers off that chair,’ O’Byrne said. ‘You can dump them on the floor.’
Gerry picked up the papers and set them gently beside the chair, then sat down.
O’Byrne leaned back in his chair, tapped a pencil tip against his lower lip and said, ‘What can I do for you? Alicia said it was something to do with the Moffats.’
‘That’s right. Mimosa Moffat, in particular.’
‘She’s not a bad kid, really, isn’t Mimsy. Better than some. I must say I haven’t seen her for a while, though. I hope she isn’t in any trouble.’
Gerry felt gobsmacked. ‘Er . . . no . . . I mean, that is . . . you haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Mimosa was killed last week. I’m from the county Homicide and Major Crimes. We’re investigating the case. The local police said we should talk to you.’
O’Byrne dropped his pencil and sat up straight. ‘What? She what? Bloody hell.’
‘Mimosa was murdered. Raped and murdered on a country lane just outside Eastvale about a week ago. Her picture has been on the news and in the papers all week. An artist’s likeness, at any rate. We only found out who she was yesterday through an anonymous phone call.’
O’Byrne rubbed his cheeks and eyes. ‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry to hear that. And I must apologise for my ignorance. This job’s depressing enough as it is. Any chance I get, you’ll find me fishing in Upper Teesdale or walking the Dales, not watching the news or reading the papers.’
‘I thought someone might have told you.’
‘I’m sure someone would have, eventually. Just not yet. My God. Mimsy Moffat. What happened to her?’
Gerry gave him an edited version of the details, skipping the points the team had decided to keep to themselves.
‘What is it you want from me?’ he asked. ‘I have to say, first off, that I wasn’t especially close to Mimsy.’
‘Why not? Weren’t you her case officer?’
‘Case officer? No. Whatever gave you that impression? I work mostly with Sinead, and sometimes Johnny, not Mimsy. She didn’t have a specific case officer.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Didn’t need one. Sinead has a drug problem, as you probably know already. Has had on and off for years. It’s caused her a number of other problems, bad judgement and child neglect not being the least of them. Her common-law husband and her brother haven’t always been able to step into the gap, so to speak. We – I – have kept an eye on Sinead. Try to help, make sure the kids aren’t suffering, the little ones especially, Tammi and Mike.’
‘And they weren’t?’
‘Not as I’m aware. Mimsy had a few problems at school, poor attendance, disruptive behaviour, talking back, and the like. She was excluded more than once, but that wasn’t much of a cause for concern. None of us really liked school, did we?’
Gerry actually had liked school, but she wasn’t going to tell O’Byrne that. She’d liked the learning and the sports, and had particularly excelled at hockey and field events, not to mention all the academic subjects except geography. ‘She was only fifteen,’ she said. ‘She should have been attending whether she liked it or not.’
‘Short of dragging her there . . . Look, Mimsy was a bit of a tearaway, and she didn’t respond well to authority. She liked to think she was different, not part of the ordinary crowd. Typical rebellious teen in some ways but she was also naive.’
‘Did she have learning difficulties?’
‘Not as such. Short attention span, mild dyslexia. That’s about all. It was more of an attitude problem.’
‘Did you notice any recent changes in her behaviour?’
‘Not really. But I haven’t actually really spoken with her for a while.’
‘You mentioned Leonard Thornton earlier. What about her uncle Johnny?’
‘Johnny’s disabled.’
‘You take care of him, too?’
‘Lord, no. He has his own NHS carers. All I do is coordinate to some extent, make sure the left hand knows what the right hand’s doing.’ He leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what it is you want from me. To the best of my knowledge, and the department’s knowledge, none of the children were being abused or mistreated. There were some negligence issues, and we worked with the family on them. But there has never been any doubt that Sinead and Leonard Thornton have been fit parents, despite the occasional lapse. No matter what some people think, we try to avoid intervention unless we feel it absolutely necessary.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me about Mimosa’s life? Her problems. Her friends. What she got up to. We still have a lot of blanks to fill in. Let’s start with her friends. Some names would help.’
‘I wish I could, but I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘OK. Her problems?’
‘Well, her biggest problem is a drug-addicted mother. I know that Sinead’s on a methadone programme at the moment, but we’re not a hundred per cent certain it will do the trick. She seems determined, but it hasn’t worked before, and frankly, this terrible news about Mimsy . . . well, I’m not sure what it will do to her. Though I got the impression they fought a lot, I also think it may have been because they were like as two peas in a pod. Not the heroin, of course but in some respects of character. But Sinead’s problems mean the kids – Mimsy and Albert in particular – weren’t subject to the usual parental discipline and control. As I said, they’re not bad kids, really, but Mimsy has run a little wild, which is only to be expected under the circumstances, and Albert got probation for vandalism a while back. He’s lucky he didn’t get done for hate crime as well, as it was a halal butcher’s window he chucked the brick through. Also lucky for him he was drunk at the time. It’s a turbulent neighbourhood.’
‘Did you ever have any direct contact with Mimsy?’
‘Briefly. When she self-harmed about eighteen months ago.’
‘Was there any particular reason for what she did?’
‘As usual in cases like that, there were a number of factors at work. I think mostly she was lonely and felt unloved, and she wanted to make her mother notice her. Sinead was going through a particularly difficult time then.’
‘A cry for help? Did it work?’
‘Sinead understood. She’d been there herself. She’d done exactly the same thing in her own teenage years. She rallied herself for Mimsy’s sake. That was the first time she signed up for the methadone programme. At least she started trying. And Mimsy went for counselling.’ He picked up his pencil again and started twisting it in his short stubby fingers. ‘Didn’t last long, mind you. I’m afraid the counsellor . . .’
‘The counsellor abused her. Yes, Sinead mentioned something like that.’
‘He wasn’t one of ours, of course. He was private. Well, assigned through the NHS, but you know what I mean.’
Like most people employed to serve the public in some way, O’Byrne reacted first by trying to cover his own arse and that of his department. Not our fault. Not part of our mandate. How often had she had heard those wo
rds prefacing an excuse for not doing anything, or for doing the wrong thing? ‘She was what, all of thirteen at the time?’
O’Byrne looked sheepish. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you know as well as I do that he raped her, no matter how consensual their arrangement was.’
‘I’ve told you Mimsy was a bit of a tearaway, uncontrollable, something of a wild child. She was probably trying to assert her freedom, show she was a grown-up. And she could be manipulative when she wanted.’
‘ It sounds as if she could be manipulated, too,’ said Gerry. ‘Are you trying to exonerate this counsellor? Are you saying she led him on?’
‘No. No. Not at all. But so many girls her age think they’re so sophisticated, when deep down they’re actually not. I’m just saying I don’t think he threw her over the desk and had his way with her.’
Gerry couldn’t think of an appropriate response to that. She moved on. ‘I’ll need his name.’
‘John Lewton. He was disciplined, naturally. Terminated. Struck off. He can’t practise any more. I believe there were even steps towards criminal prosecution but bargains were made. As I understand it, he left the country not long after.’
‘For where?’
‘Spain. Apparently he owns some property there.’
Gerry would check the story out, of course, and make sure this John Lewton hadn’t suddenly reappeared in Mimsy’s life.
‘I know you can’t talk about these things,’ said O’Byrne, ‘but have you any idea who did this or why?’
‘We don’t. Not at the moment. You said you didn’t know who Mimosa’s friends were in the neighbourhood, but we’d like to talk to someone her own age she might have confided in. Is there no one you can think of?’
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 23
