When the Music's Over (35 page)

Before she could get very far, her mobile buzzed. She had to hurry to get it out of her briefcase and just managed to press the on button before the call went through to answering.

At first there was a disconcerting silence, then a small voice said, “Is this who I spoke to before?”

“It's me,” said Gerry.

“You gave me your number.”

“Yes. Are you Jade?”

“Who told you that? It's not my real name.”

“What's your real name?”

“You can call me Jade.”

“What is it, Jade? What can I do?”

“You said to ring if I . . . if I ever just . . . you know . . . wanted to.”

“That's right. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing's changed. Everything's quiet. But I'm going away.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know yet. Far away from them. I've got a few ideas.”

“What do you want from me, Jade?”

“I want to talk to you.” There was another pause, shorter this time. “There's things I want to tell you before I go. Things about me and Mimsy.”

“Tell me.”

“Not on the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?”

“Can you come to me? In Eastvale?”

“No. I've got no money, for a start. And I might be seen. I'm safe where I am.”

“OK. Say where.”

“Up on the estate, right on the eastern edge, there's a couple of terraces they're going to knock down. All the houses are condemned and boarded up. Nobody goes there.”

“Right.”

“But I know how to get in the one just past the broken playground. Number thirty-six. Mimsy and me used to hang out there when we wanted to get away from them for a while. We'd just smoke and talk and share a bottle. Have a laugh, you know. One of the boards over the front door is loose, the one in the middle. You just swing it to the left, like a sliding door.”

“I've got that,” Gerry said. “What's the broken playground?”

“You'll know it when you see it. It's Leinster Street, right opposite that abandoned factory. You can't miss it. But don't park outside. Someone might notice a car parked right out front. Park around the corner, OK? There's usually plenty of space.”

“OK, Jade. When?”

“Soon as you can get here. And can you bring me a sarnie or something?”

“What sort?”

“Anything. I'm fucking starving.”

“It'll take me about three-quarters of an hour to get there.”

“I'll be here. Be careful. Keep your eyes open. Things might seem quiet, but I'm sure they're still watching.”

“Who is?”

“I'll tell you all about it. Promise me you won't tell anyone.”

“Jade, I can't do that. It's not—”

“If you don't promise me you won't tell anyone, I won't be here. And come by yourself. I can tell you what you want to know, but not on the phone.”

“Jade, I—”

“Will you promise me?”

Now it was Gerry's turn to pause as the thoughts whizzed through her mind. Without fully considering any of the options, she said, “Yes. I promise,” and the line went dead.

After, as she stood there holding the mobile in her hand, she felt a
chill run up her spine despite the warm night air. What had she done? What had she agreed to? What if it was a trap? But why should Jade try to trap her? She'd said she was going away, and this was no doubt her parting shot against the men who had shamed and humiliated her and Mimsy. Gerry understood the need for secrecy well enough, but she also knew that if she went under Jade's rules, there was a strong likelihood that nothing she got would be of any use in court. Even if that were the case, at least she would have names and the full story, so they would know where to focus their investigation. The only things she could rely on happening were another bollocking and a possible suspension, or worse. And even if Jade had no reason to set a trap for her, she could be the bait. The gang that had groomed Jade and Mimsy, or the men who had raped Mimsy, could be behind it, even the killer. Maybe Jade was being held against her will, forced to do this. But that made no sense, Gerry told herself; she was just being paranoid.

She knew that she should call DI Cabbot immediately and go in with a team, but when it came down to it, Jade was still just a kid, whatever her experiences. Gerry couldn't bring herself to break a promise or to leave her out there alone. No doubt too many people had broken promises to Jade in her young life already, and Gerry didn't want to be just another person who let her down. It was a miracle she trusted anyone to start with. She tried to think what DI Cabbot or Detective Superintendent Banks would do in her situation, and she thought they would go. She would try to bring Jade in, she determined, try to persuade her to come and make an official statement, offer to protect her from the men.

But she had to go, and she had to go on Jade's terms. Before she left, she had a look in her fridge to see what she'd got for a sandwich.

BURGESS HAD
chosen the Indian restaurant on Market Street, not far from where Banks and Sandra used to live in Eastvale, partly because it stayed open late. Banks had only eaten takeaway from there before, and it had always been good. The meal that evening, with accompanying canned sitar music, dim lighting and cold lager, was also good.

Burgess licked his fingers after shoving a vindaloo-loaded piece of naan in his mouth and reached for his glass. “Bloody hot,” he said, when he could speak.

Banks was sticking to the chicken tikka masala, which was spicy enough, but not so hot it burned his taste buds to a crisp. He found that the older he got, the lower his tolerance for curries.

“By the way, how's your Annie's case going? I heard there's been a few shenanigans there.”

“Nothing much,” said Banks. “A superintendent's nose out of joint.”

“Grooming, isn't it?”

“We think so.”

Burgess shoveled in another mouthful of vindaloo. “Thought so. Nasty business. What is it with that lot? You'd think the only bloody career choices they have are pedo pimp and terrorist.”

“I see you haven't changed.”

“Well, I ask you. I thought we should touch base on Caxton, as it seems we've both been busy.”

“Well, I know I have.”

“It's coming together. The Met's working on active complaints from Brighton to Carlisle, about twenty-five in all between the mid-sixties and mid-eighties. He's no Jimmy Savile or Cyril Smith, unless we're only getting the tip of the iceberg, but he's no Boy Scout, either.”

“What's the age range?”

“Youngest is thirteen, oldest seventeen. And he's not fussy about venue. One audience member from
Do Your Own Thing!
in the dressing room. You remember they used to invite a load of screaming teenage girls in the studio if they had a wannabe Cliff Richard or Elvis on?”

Banks nodded. He'd seen the program.

“Another in his dressing room at a panto.
Puss in Boots.
I wonder if he has a sense of irony. Several girls at a home for disturbed teens he supported for a while in the early seventies.”

“You think they'll stand up? I mean, everyone's kept it quiet for so long.”

“By sheer number alone, I'd say. But we've got a lot more than that. We've got names, dates, places and a hell of a pile of missing crime reports.”

“Snap,” said Banks. “He had quite a talent for disappearing things, it seems. Should've been a stage magician.”

“That's what happens when you take the time and effort to lose at golf to every chief constable in the country.” Burgess called the waiter over and ordered two more lagers. “We've also been getting some interesting calls from retired police officers. Mostly junior at the time. They don't want to be seen as turning a blind eye. They say they knew about Caxton, and others like him, and they wanted to stop it, but any attempts were blocked from higher up. You know as well as I do that the police force is a hierarchical institution, almost military in its fastidiousness about chain of command. Now you and I might be a bit . . . unorthodox . . . shall we say. But most coppers do what they're told. The smooth running of the force depends on it. But that doesn't mean they don't grind their teeth in frustration when they see something like this going unchecked and unpunished. We've got allies, Banksy. People who remember stuff. People who will come forward. People who aren't afraid to stand up and be counted, now they've got their pensions.”

“I'm sure that Linda's case will make a compelling one.”

“Compelling? You're our flagship case. I've read your reports. Think she'll be able to convince a jury?”

Banks sipped some lager and thought for a moment. “If anything goes against Linda,” he said, “it'll be her calmness. The only emotion she showed was when she saw the photos of Monaghan and Caxton in the old newspaper file. And that passed quickly. People won't see a victim with a life blighted by Caxton's abuse. They won't see a broken woman, a junkie, a loser. She's got herself together, she's succeeded in making something of herself. But the scars are there, nonetheless, the damage was done. I think her emotional honesty, intelligence and directness will have to carry the day for her.”

“In a court of law? Blimey, that could be a first. But don't worry. From what I can see, you've got the goods. Besides, we don't want every victim blubbering in the witness box about how her life's been
ruined by what Caxton did. That might sound a bit callous, but there it is. Too much emotion can sometimes cheapen a solid case.”

“Maybe. I've asked her to write things down, to see if she can come up with more detail.”

“The more, the better. I see you also tracked down the second man quickly enough. Nice bit of detective work.”

“Tony Monaghan. Yes, Linda Palmer recognized him from a photo in the
Yorkshire Evening Post
archives. A picture that appeared after his body was found in a public toilet in Leeds, unfortunately, so it doesn't really get us anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“I was hoping we'd have a live witness.”

“True enough, that would probably clinch it.” Burgess took another sip of lager. “Look, we've got three other complainants so far telling us that they were raped by another man after Caxton. This was in the late seventies, so it certainly wasn't your Tony Monaghan, but there seems to be a pattern of sorts.”

“Any leads as to their identities?”

“Unfortunately, no. The accusers remember nothing about them, and there were no handy photos in newspapers, either. It's my guess they were employees of Caxton's performing a similar role to Monaghan, from gofer to fixer. He obviously let his minions have sloppy seconds from time to time. We're working on a list of all the man's employees through the ages, so we'll have a lot of names to check out. Your DS Jackman's doing a grand job on background, by the way. Some of them have to be still alive. We should have a few more people to interview eventually.”

“Good. It's a pity about Monaghan.”

“Yes. But you must have your suspicions about the murder?”

“Naturally. And we'll be investigating it. But that's all they are. Suspicions.”

Their pints arrived, and they clinked glasses. “Cheers,” said Burgess. He pushed his plate away. “That's enough of that.” Banks noticed it was almost empty. He worked on the remainder of his tikka masala and naan.

“I found out today that the Tony Monaghan murder investigation
was shut down, too,” said Banks, “according to DI Chadwick's old oppo, Simon Bradley. And the case files mysteriously disappeared. I'd say from all I've heard that Chief Constable Edward Crammond is in the frame for it.”

“Which makes it even more suspicious and more likely to be linked with Caxton,” said Burgess. “He had the clout to close down investigations, he knew chief constables, and it seems to have become a habit with him from what I've seen.”

“Good point,” Banks agreed. “But I don't think you can convict a man for murder by trying to argue that he'd influenced several other investigations so he must have influenced that one, too.”

“No, but you can argue that he
could
have influenced that one, and once you get that pattern in a jury's mind, it's as good as done. But what are we speculating about this for? Caxton's going down for the girls. Monaghan's murder is icing on the cake if we can make it stick.”

“A separate charge?”

“It'll have to be. They all will, or all we've got is similar fact evidence, and you know what judges think about that. And you'll have to get a bit more than you've got already.”

“A confession would be nice,” Banks said. “Otherwise, it'll never be more than speculation.”

Burgess rubbed his forehead. “I went to see Caxton yesterday. And that slimy lawyer of his. Confronted them with one or two things. I don't think we'll ever get a confession out of him. Bastard doesn't think he's done anything wrong.”

“That was the impression I got, too.”

“Thing is, I'd like you to have another word with him.”

“I don't have much new to question him about.”

“You've got Tony Monaghan. The murder. Throw that in his face. See how he reacts. Suggest you know he had something to do with it. Play the gay card. He seemed to be faltering a bit yesterday. He's old and he tires easily. Hit him while he's on the ropes. That's what I say.”

Banks felt a bit queasy about attacking a tired and weak old man, but he thought back on Linda Palmer's ordeal, not to mention all the other victims, and reminded himself who he was dealing with. “Right
you are,” he said. “I'll talk to him tomorrow, while he's still recovering from your visit.”

Burgess punched Banks's arm. “I was nice as pie. Like a conversation between two old mates.”