When the Music's Over (22 page)

“Was there anyone in particular?”

Sinead chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then said, “Once. Yes.”

“Was it before or after the self-harm?”

“After. He was supposed to be her counselor or something. I found them in his office one day when I made an unexpected visit. I'm not proud of it, but I went ballistic on both of them. I told her to get out. We had a terrible fight. We said things you can't ever take back.”

“She was underage,” Annie said. “He was committing a crime. Did you call the police?”

“You don't get it, do you? We
never
call the police. They're the last bloody people we'd call. Sorry. But I did tell the social and I'm sure his bosses fired him.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Sorry. They'll know down the social.”

“OK,” said Annie. “She kept on living here after that?”

“Where else could she go? She was only a kid. We don't have any family up here. But she used the place like a hotel, came and went as she pleased with hardly a word to anyone when she was here. The social came round and tried to make things work, but . . . well, they've got a lot on their hands, too.”

“How did you get on after that?”

“Not too bad, I suppose. She calmed down a bit for a while.”

“What about Lenny? Couldn't he do anything?”

“The big soft lunk? Nay. He wasn't her father, and Mimosa never tired of letting him know it. He loved her, in his way—and I don't mean owt dirty by that—but he couldn't tell her what to do. And our Johnny . . . well, you've seen him, poor beggar. His brain's addled with booze and pills from way back, when he was in that motorbike gang. There was the accident, too. Hurt his head. He's not been the same since. As if I've got any room to talk. I spent most of my time on the nod when our Mimosa was out gallivanting till all hours. Now it's too late.”

“And more recently? Do you think she was doing drugs?”

“Maybe. I warned her, of course, but she just sneered and said something about the pot calling the kettle black. Not heroin, though. I think I'd have been able to tell. Pot, most likely, maybe ecstasy?”

“Ketamine?”

Sinead frowned. “I don't know about that. I don't even know what that is. I mean, I wouldn't have known what to look for.”

“Did Mimosa herself have a thing about older men?” Annie asked. “You know, father figure, that sort of thing?”

“She thought most boys her own age were shallow and only interested in one thing. I tried to tell her that
all
men were only interested in one thing, but I don't think she listened. Yes, she'd usually go out with older boys, men sometimes. She felt more comfortable with them. Maybe she needed a father figure, I don't know about all that psychological gobbledygook. Christ knows, Lenny's not much use, and her real father was worse than useless.”

“I was in her room earlier,” Annie said, “and I saw a sketchbook with some pencil drawings in it. I know a bit about art, and they're very good.”

“She was mad about drawing. Yes, she was good. I once read somewhere that artistic talent skips a generation. Her granddad—my dad, Albert—was a bit of a hippie and a wonderful artist. He painted concert posters and album covers and stuff. But me and Johnny, forget it. And forget our Albert, even though he's named after his granddad. But Mimosa. She had it, all right.”

“My dad's an artist,” said Annie. “I grew up in a sort of artists' colony near St. Ives.”

“Lucky you,” said Sinead, flashing her a weak smile. “Did you inherit any of his talent or did it skip you?”

“I can draw a bit, but not as good as Mimosa. Did Mimosa and her brother get along? Share stuff?”

“They didn't see much of each other, but when they did they were fine. He loved her, I'm sure of it. He'll be gutted when he finds out.”

“We'd appreciate it if you'd let us know when he turns up.”

“I've tried to phone him, but his mobile's dead or turned off. Albert's got nothing to do with this. I can assure you.”

“That's not what I'm saying. But maybe he knows something that might help us. Will you let us know?”

“All right.”

“We couldn't find a mobile phone or a laptop computer or anything in Mimosa's room.”

“She always had her mobile with her. Not that she ever used it to call us. It was one of those cheap pay-as-you-go things.”

“Do you know the provider?”

“No idea.”

“What about a laptop?”

“No. She didn't have one of those. We couldn't afford one. All she had she carried in that pink canvas shoulder bag she always took with her. You know the sort of things it had . . . I don't know what you call them . . . like butterflies and stuff stuck on.”

“Appliqué?”

“If you say so, love.”

“What else did she have in her bag besides the mobile?”

“Oh, you know, the usual stuff. Her purse, what little money she had. Ciggies, of course. And her precious sketchbook and pencils. They had to be a certain kind, the pencils. And the sketchbook was smaller than the one in her room. More portable.”

“Did you ever open it?”

“Once. But she caught me at it and hit the roof.”

“Why? What was in it?”

“She said it was private. That's the funny thing. It wasn't like dirty pictures or anything. It was nothing really, just sketches of people she'd seen on a bus or in cafes, faces, and local street scenes, a market, drawings of buildings, someone's garden, cats and dogs. That sort of thing. She drew whatever caught her eye.”

Damn
, thought Annie.
That sketchbook might be a useful aid in finding Mimosa's abductors, and her killer.
If she drew everything, there was a chance she had done a few portraits. She might even have sketched her killer. But there had been no sign of a pink shoulder bag at the scene. No doubt it had remained behind in the van with her clothes. The rapists would have destroyed it all by now, if they had any sense.

“Nearly finished,” she said, noticing Sinead's eyelids start to become heavy.

“It's all right, love. I shouldn't think I'll get much sleep tonight.”

“Did you ever see Mimosa with any Asians?”

“What . . . ?”

“Did she hang around with Asians, specifically Pakistanis?”

“Like I said, I don't know who her friends were. I mean, it wouldn't surprise me. They're everywhere now. But I never saw or heard anything. I don't think she really liked them much. She got into a bit of trouble for calling them names. Why?”

“It probably doesn't matter.” Annie patted Sinead's arm and stood up. “You get some rest if you can,” she said. “We'll see you in the morning. OK?”

“OK.”

Downstairs, they said good night to Lenny and Johnny. Lenny murmured something back through his haze of smoke, but Johnny was still dead to the world, anesthetized by booze and brain damage. Or golf.

Annie and Gerry sat in the car to collect their thoughts for a few moments outside the Moffat house.

“What's the bet she's back on heroin again tomorrow?” said Gerry. “The real stuff.”

“I don't think so,” said Annie. “I think she really wants to give it a try this time. But this is a hell of a setback, that's for certain. She's just
lost her daughter. Besides, if heroin gives her a bit of comfort and takes away some of the pain for a while, who are we to judge her?”

“But it's not a solution. It's only a temporary escape.”

Annie regarded the innocent young DC for a while. In the shadows, Gerry seemed no more than a young girl herself. “You're right, of course,” Annie said tiredly. “But sometimes temporary relief is better than no relief at all. How do you expect someone like Sinead to deal with this sort of loss and grief? It'd be enough to turn me to heroin. God knows I came close with those painkillers I was on after I got shot.”

“But can't we do something for her? For all of them?”

“Of course,” said Annie. “And we can bring about world peace and put an end to hunger and child prostitution while we're at it, too. Get real, Gerry.” Annie started the car. “Come on, let's have a ride down to Sunset Strip and see what's shakin', man. Who knows, there might even be a drink in it.”

WHILE THE
shopping mall they had visited that afternoon had been shiny and new, and mostly empty, the Strip resembled a dilapidated, badly lit movie set for a summer night on the main drag in the deep south of America. It wasn't so much the people, but the garish colors of the neons, streetlights and brightly lit shop windows all just a little distorted in a haze of pollution and humidity. Outside the Wytherton Arms an older crowd stood drinking pints and smoking and talking while a younger group weaved through the traffic and went into the Balti restaurant across the street. People queued outside the chippie next door to the pub and stood around to eat out of their cardboard boxes when they'd been served.

Shops and businesses lined both sides of the half mile or so between the overpass to the east and the canal to the west, all with grilles that could be lowered after closing time, some with their plate-glass windows protected even while they were open for business. At the far end, near the overpass, Annie could make out the outline of a small mosque with its minaret. The various payday advance and check-cashing merchants were all closed and barred for the day, though their
signs remained lit. Among the other businesses were a bookie's, two charity shops—Oxfam and British Heart Foundation—a halal butcher's, an off-license, a nail bar, the Balti restaurant and takeaway, an exotic greengrocer, a newsagent, a shoe repair, Cash Generator, a hairdresser's and a minicab office. Next door to the latter was a kebab, pizza and burger takeaway with a couple of tables out front where two youths in white shirts sat smoking and drinking Coke from the can, legs stretched out across the sidewalk so that anyone walking by had to step over them. Over the road was an old cinema festooned with garish Bollywood movie posters. There was no tattooist, as far as Annie could make out. Just by where they parked it looked as if a couple of buildings had been demolished and replaced by a swatch of balding grass and a couple of benches. No one was sitting there. Mingled smells of cumin and coriander infused the air.

“I'd put the Krook lock on, if I were you,” Annie said.

Gerry put the clamp on her steering wheel. “See that?” she said, as they got out of the car. “Sunny's Kebab and pizza takeaway.”

“Burgers too,” Annie added. “Hungry?” Gerry pulled a face. “Not that hungry.”

“Foodie snob.”

Just as they started to walk away, a police patrol car pulled up by the side of the road and two burly uniformed officers got out, hitched their overloaded belts and approached.

“Evening, ladies,” said the tallest one.

Annie noticed Gerry reaching for her warrant card and just managed to grasp her wrist in time. She wanted to see how this panned out. “Evening, officers,” she said. “Problem?”

The officer pointed back at their car. “You can't park there,” he said.

Annie glanced over her shoulder. “Why not? I don't see any signs or anything.”

“Do you see any other cars parked nearby?”

“No. That's why we parked there.”

“It's a double yellow line.”

“There's only one line there,” Annie said, looking at her watch. “And it's well after eight o'clock.”

“Reg, isn't that a double yellow line you see there where that puke-green Corsa's parked?” he asked the other officer.

“Certainly is, Bill.”

“The outer one's a bit faint, love. Sorry about that. Hard to see in the dark. The council doesn't get around here very often to paint them. You'll have to move on or I'll write you a ticket.”

“I don't think so,” Annie said. She could sense Gerry's nervousness beside her, but she still wanted to know how far these cops would go, and why.

“What brings you out here to this godforsaken part of the world, ladies?” Bill asked.

“We're after a tattoo parlor,” said Annie.

Bill eyed her up and down. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Where you going to have it done, then?”

“Somewhere you'll never see it.”

“There's no need to be like that. Besides, there's no call for that sort of place around here.”

“Why not? A tattoo parlor would fit in perfectly.”

“Wrong color,” said Bill. “Tattoos don't show up well on these people's skin.”

“You guys,” Annie said. “You'll have me in stitches.”

“You know, I'd be careful if I was you,” Bill said, thrusting his face closer toward Annie's. So much so that she could smell beer on his breath. “Couple of nice ladies like yourselves. It's a dodgy neighborhood, this is. You can see for yourselves the kind of people that hang out here. We don't want any trouble. Now, why don't you just get back in that illegally parked car and drive away before we get serious about this.”

“
Get serious?
” said Annie.

Bill sighed theatrically. “We don't really want to take you in unless we have to.”

“Too much paperwork,” Reg added.

Even Gerry laughed at that. “Take us in?” she said. “Over a car that's parked perfectly legally? You've got to be kidding. I'd like to see you try.”

“Ey up, Reg, it speaks,” said Bill.

“Is this how you treat all visitors to the street?” Gerry asked.

“We don't like strangers around here, love, no matter how posh they sound. Don't get very many.”

“You know, Bill,” Annie said softly, “you sound just like a bent sheriff from a bad Western.”

Gerry gasped and Bill took a step back, his face turning red. “What did you say?” He reached for Annie.