When the Music's Over (11 page)

The drive over the top end of the North York Moors had been spectacular, the roads far busier than usual because of the glorious weather. He had kept the music quiet—playing some acoustic Richard Thompson and a Keith Jarrett and Charlie Haden CD—and Winsome hadn't complained. After a hurried lunch at a country inn outside Goathland, going over their preparatory notes one last time, they were ready for the interview.

Winsome had been reading up on Caxton's biography during much
of the journey, and as they crested the final rise before the imposing wrought-iron gates with a sculpted stone lion on top of each gatepost, she repeated to Banks, “I still don't see what the point of this is, guv. It's his word against hers. He'll deny everything, if he's got any sense. Stalemate.”

“Maybe he'll slip up,” said Banks. “Perhaps we'll rattle him. Who knows? Besides, don't you want to get a look at how he lives, the lion in its lair? At least we'll go away with some sense of the measure of the man, maybe even knowledge of a few of his weaknesses.”

“I hope so,” said Winsome. “But why not take him into custody for questioning? He's got home advantage here. We could put him in an airless interview room, make him wait . . .”

“We don't want to make that move yet,” said Banks. “Don't forget, there are others. Linda Palmer wasn't the only one. As Burgess said, there'll be county forces queuing up to have a chat with him before long. We're first in line. And when push comes to shove, we'll be the ones to bring him in.”

Banks announced their arrival at the intercom by the gate, and without a word from the other end, the huge heavy gates in the high walls started to rumble open. As Banks drove along the narrow drive, he could see Caxton's mansion ahead. Xanadu. Hardly a gesture toward originality in its name. Built in the style of a Palladian villa, with symmetrical wings on either side of the central portico, itself modeled on the Greek temple, it came complete with Doric columns and pilasters, all of white marble. In the rolling grounds to their right stood a Victorian folly, and a short distance from the north wing was a row of garages, most of them open. Banks could see expensive cars of all colors, makes and periods: an E-Type Jag, a red Triumph MG6, an old Bentley and even a huge pink fifties Cadillac convertible with wings big enough for takeoff. It was the sort of car that might have belonged to Elvis Presley. Maybe it had. Banks wondered if the Rolls that had picked up Linda Palmer nearly fifty years ago was really a Bentley. Even if it was, there wasn't any chance of trace evidence after all that time. Still, there may have been other girls in the car, more recently, and the collection was worth the thorough
search that the team would be carrying out after Banks and Winsome had left. Right now they were waiting just down the road, beyond the rise.

Banks pulled up in front of the portico steps, about as imposing as the ones in
Rocky,
and he and Winsome began to climb, more than half expecting a butler in full livery to answer the door at their ring.

The slight, dapper man with a silk handkerchief protruding from the top pocket of his jacket
could
have been a butler, but Banks doubted it. For a start, his suit cost more than Banks's annual clothes allowance, more than his annual salary, in fact, if you included the gold cuff links and matching tiepin that held down an old-school tie of some important sort. He had a few strands of wispy gray hair on his head and a thin gray moustache. He didn't smile or reach out his hand to shake, just said, “Good afternoon. My name is Bernard Feldman. I'm Mr. Caxton's solicitor.”

“That was quick,” said Banks.

“Word gets around.”

“So I gather. Can we come in?”

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 toward 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 farther out, catching the sea breeze. In the center 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 aging 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-gray in color, 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 on the lineup of that show in 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 it was 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 a Rolls-Royce. Far too ostentatious for my taste. It must have been the Bentley.”

“The 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 colors.” 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 as 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?”