When the Music's Over (49 page)

“Save her from what?”

“From being just like all those stupid empty-headed young sluts she spent her time with. She was really talented. An artist. We talked about her going to art college. She could study design, and with my practical skills we could make beautiful stuff, maybe get rich. She just had a bit of growing up to do first, that's all.”

It was certainly what plenty of women tried to do with men, Annie thought, change them, improve them, and more often than not to no avail. “It was a nice dream,” Annie said. “So what went wrong?”

“You're right about what Albert said. He'd known for a week or so that Mimsy was seeing the Paki, though I don't think he knew the full story of what was going on. You've probably concluded for yourselves that Albert isn't exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier. It didn't take me long to figure it out from his drunken ramblings that night. Sure, he was the one who fell asleep. ‘Passed out' would be a better word. And yes, he had a bit of help from me.”

“Go on, Paul,” said Annie. “You were jealous?”

“Not just that. You can't psychoanalyze my feelings that simply. It was far more complicated than mere jealousy.”

“Tell us, then.”

“You wouldn't understand. The impurity. The defilement.”

“Mimosa was hardly a paragon of virtue, Paul.”

“I know that. But I . . . I mean, with the right person . . . She didn't have to be a write-off. She wasn't stupid, she just liked a good time. She was young. She would have grown out of it, all that silliness. I could have helped shape her, make something of her. I could have changed her.”

“Proper
My Fair Lady
business again,” said Gerry. “Teach her to talk properly and all that?”

Warner scowled at her. “You can talk like that if you want,” he said. “Cheapen it. It's just what I'd expect. I told you you couldn't understand how complex my feelings are.”

“Well, let's not worry ourselves too much about your complex feelings, then,” said Annie, “and you can just tell us what happened. The facts. Pretend we don't care why.”

“I'd had a few drinks, too, so maybe I was a bit drunk, I don't know. You know how you get these ideas fixed in your mind and you can't get rid of them. The idea of her with them just wouldn't go away.”

“Was this the first time you knew anything about what she was doing, her connection with the grooming gang?”

“Yes. She never said anything to me.”

“I don't suppose she would,” Annie said. “But hadn't you noticed any change in her over the past few months?”

“She was a bit more sophisticated, but I put that down to . . . well . . .”

“You? The Henry Higgins effect?”

Warner looked away. “I suppose so.”

“Anything else?”

“She was more moody. I didn't really see a lot of her, so it's hard to say.”

“Was she avoiding you?”

“I think so.”

“So what did you do on Tuesday night?”

“I slipped Albert a roofie, like you said. It was easy enough. He was out in no time.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So I could take the van without him knowing.”

“Why did it matter whether he knew or not?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Were you planning to do something to Mimosa at this time?”

“No. No way. I just couldn't get the image out of my head. Her with them. I thought I might get into it with the Pakis, break a few bones, but there was no way I was going to hurt Mimsy.”

“Why didn't you take your own van?”

“Because it's got my name splashed all over the fucking side. I know about CCTV on the roads and all that. They can even get your number plate.”

“You didn't want to be seen, didn't want to be on record?”

“Well, no.”

“Why not? Unless you were planning to do something illegal.”

“I told you. All I wanted to do was see if Mimsy was there, reason with her, but I thought I might get into a rumble with the Pakis. If I hurt one of them really bad, maybe the police would try to find me. Why make it easy? The Pakis could beat seven shades of shit out of me and that would be fine. I'd deserve it. But if I do it to them it's not only GBH, it's a fucking hate crime, too. Racism.”

“But you are a racist, Paul.”

“I'm entitled to my opinions. I'm not the only one.”

“That's a spurious argument. Never mind. So Albert Moffat had nothing to do with Mimsy's murder at all? You didn't take his van in order to implicate him?”

“No. But I told you, it wasn't murder. I didn't mean to kill her.”

“I forgot. It was an accident, right? Kicking her to death. How did you know Mimosa was going to get in a van with three Asian men that night?”

“I didn't. But Albert had said he'd seen her getting in a taxi next to the takeaway the week before, that she was hanging out with them. It had been preying on my mind all evening, that she was with them. I knew about the grooming business going on around the country. She hadn't answered any of my phone messages. I wasn't really thinking clearly but I just had to go down there and see for myself. I thought maybe she'd be there, at the flat.”

“And then what?”

“I've no idea. I didn't have a plan.”

“Maybe you'd beat up Sunny and carry Mimsy off?”

“Something like that. But not Mimsy. I'd never . . . I never expected that. I would never . . . if she hadn't. It was her own fault.”

“Oh, spare us that, at least, Paul. What time was this when you set off for the Strip?”

“I don't know. Eleven. Half past eleven. Something like that. I took the keys and drove the van down the Strip, parked on the other side down the road. Like I said, I was just going to watch for a while, you know, see if she came in or out. I suppose I must have been a bit pissed but I felt like I was sobering up fast. The takeaway was still open. There was only the cook bloke working there, but it wasn't busy so he mostly sat reading the paper. I thought of just going to the flat and walking up, just like that, and confronting them, but I stayed put. Then, when I'd been there about twenty minutes, half an hour, the door opened and out they came. There was the owner of the takeaway and Mimsy, along with three other Pakis. Mimsy and the three men got in a dirty white van that had been parked just down the street, then the owner bloke waved good-bye and went into the takeaway and started chatting and laughing with the cook bloke. I gave them a few minutes, then I followed the van.”

“Why did you do that?” Annie asked.

“For crying out loud! Mimsy was in that van with three Pakis. I wanted to know where they were going, what they were going to do. Maybe I could intervene at the other end, persuade her to come back, beat the shit out of them, get her away from them. I'd no idea what they were planning, but I mean she obviously needed help. She was going in a totally wrong direction here.”

“So you were going to rescue her? Play the knight in shining armor?”

“Something like that.”

“What went wrong?”

“I waited about ten minutes or so at the top of Bradham Lane. I knew they'd see me if I set off down there straightaway, and there was really only one way to go at the end unless you're heading for the high dales or the local villages, and that's the main road into West Yorkshire. I figured they were probably from Bradford or somewhere like that where there's a lot of Pakis, and that's the road they'd take. I knew I could catch up with them and the other roads would be a bit busier, so they wouldn't notice me.”

“But something unexpected happened, didn't it?”

“I was driving down Bradham Lane and I saw her—Mimsy—
staggering toward me. She had no clothes on and she was filthy, half covered in mud. I stopped to give her a lift and when she saw it was me, she stopped in her tracks. She was stoned on something, but she was hurt, too, I could tell. Them Pakis, they'd done stuff to her. I told her to come with me, I'd take care of her. She just stood there, so I grabbed her wrist. Then she started struggling, calling me names, saying she'd rather walk home or go back with them than with someone like me. I couldn't believe it. There she was, all dirty and bloody and I was offering to help her, to get her away from all that and take care of her, and she just said of all the people she had to bump into it had to be me.”

“Why do you think she reacted like that, Paul?”

“I don't know. I mean, we hadn't parted on good terms.”

“After you slept with her?”

“Yes. It wasn't . . . I mean, she was drunk at the time, when she came round, like. When she sobered up a bit afterwards she laid into me for taking advantage of her.”

“Did you force her?”

“No way. It just, you know, it happened.”

“But Mimosa wasn't quite the slut everyone thought she was?”

“She said she didn't want to be around me again. That I was like all the other men who just took from her. But I wanted to give. I tried to tell her but she wouldn't listen. I tried to talk to her the next time I saw her with Albert, but she just cut me, as if I wasn't there. I wanted to help her. I thought we could really get somewhere together. It didn't matter how old she was.”

“Is that what all the phone calls were about?”

“Yes. I wanted to tell her that she meant something to me.”

“So why didn't you help her when she needed it most?”

Warner hung his head. “I don't know. She was on drugs, strange drugs, not like she usually was if she was high or pissed. I couldn't get her to calm down. I couldn't make sense of her. And I couldn't help myself. I snapped. Simple as that. I slapped her, just to try to jolt her out of it, like, and she tried to slap me back. There was a bit of a scuffle. She called me some names. I saw red. Called me a perv and a
pedo. I mean,
me
, when she was with them Pakis. Next thing I knew she was on the ground, not moving. I didn't mean it. I didn't. Really.” He put his head in hands.

“So this was the girl you loved. Maybe? Someone you wanted to help, wanted to be with. And when you saw her naked and dirty and hurt, instead of lust you felt rage, and instead of pity you felt anger. Is that right?”

Warner nodded, his head in his hands, crying now. “It came out all wrong, all fucked up.”

“She was coming down off ketamine, Paul,” said Annie. “It's a bit different from roofies. Much harder to control people on K. And she'd been gang-raped by three men. Did you know she was dead when you drove away?”

Warner sniffed and looked up, wide-eyed. “No. I didn't know anything. Only that I'd lost it.”

“So you just left her there, to die naked in the road,” said Annie. “Good one, Paul. I'm sure Albert and his family will be proud of you.”

“They're a waste of space. They didn't care about her. At least I tried.”

“To do what, Paul? Do what everyone else did to her except her family? Take advantage of her? Use and abuse her?”

“No. To give her a better life. The life she deserved.”

“What route did you take back to Wytherton? You didn't go the same way you came.”

“I took a longer route, back up the lane then left and over the tops.”

“Why?”

“No CCTV.”

“So by then you were thinking clearly enough to save your own skin?”

“Of course I was. I knew what I'd done. I'm not an idiot.”

“No, of course not.” Annie put the papers back in the file folder and closed it. She and Gerry both shook their heads. Jessie Malton looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else. Then, while Paul Warner sobbed into his cupped hands, Annie and Gerry left to consult Banks and the CPS about the specifics of the charges. On their way out,
Annie asked the PC outside the door to take Warner back to his cell. It was Monday before he'd come in front of a magistrate, so they had plenty of time to get things right.

THERE WAS
no way Banks or Adrian Moss could keep the media at bay when Danny Caxton was brought into Eastvale Police Headquarters by two plainclothes officers, shortly after the Paul Warner interview. There wasn't even any point going around the back or in at the side. Adrian Moss threw up his hands in despair when he saw the mob. Caxton himself seemed to take it as a publicity stunt and smiled for the cameras, waving his handcuffed hands in the air triumphantly for his public. Anybody who didn't know him better would guess that he was mad, thought Banks, staring down at the crowd in the market square from his window.

On the Strip in Wytherton Heights, or so he had been told, angry mobs were throwing bricks and Molotov cocktails through shop windows, and the terrified members of the Asian community hid in cellars and attics if they couldn't leave town quickly enough to stay safely with relatives far away. Banks wondered if the tide would turn when it came out later in the day that the person responsible for Mimosa Moffat's murder was white.

Banks and Winsome let Caxton wait in the interview room with Bernie Feldman. Banks had read Linda Palmer's memoir of the holiday in Blackpool, and while it hadn't furnished many hard facts, it had given him a couple of points to pursue and a lot of insight into the way her mind worked.

When they finally entered the room, Caxton rubbed his wrists theatrically. “Bit tight, those cuffs,” he said. “I know a lass or two who'd appreciate that.” He winked at Winsome.

Winsome ignored him, went through the formalities and set the voice recorder and video going.

“So what is it this time?” Feldman asked.

“We've got some new evidence, if you'll bear with me,” said Banks.

“Evidence? I doubt that very much.”

Banks ignored the lawyer and looked directly at Caxton. “And I'd
be remiss if I didn't tell you now, Mr. Caxton, that the other investigations are coming together. We have strong rape and sexual assault cases for you to face from Brighton in 1965, Leicester in 1968, Bristol in 1971 and Newcastle in 1973. There are plenty more in the works, too.”