When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 3

  ‘Did any cars pass you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See anyone on foot?’

  ‘No one. It was a perfectly ordinary morning – until I got here.’ He put his head in his hands again. ‘The first thing I saw was the crows. That poor, poor girl . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry I have to ask these questions Mr Stanford, but the sooner I’m done, the sooner you can go home.’

  ‘Home? But I haven’t . . . I have to . . .’

  ‘I’d go home if I were you, Mr Stanford. Phone your work. They’ll understand. Delayed shock and all that. We’ll have someone come around and take a statement from you this afternoon. Who knows, you may have remembered something else by then.’

  ‘He’s already given his address,’ said Steph.

  Annie nodded. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Stanford. If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch. But I’d like to take the clothes you’re carrying to our lab. We’ll let you have them back good as new. Is that a problem?’

  ‘My clothes? But . . .? Oh, I see. But surely you can’t think I did it?’

  ‘Just for purposes of elimination, Mr Stanford.’

  ‘Of course.’ Stanford walked over to his bike, still stunned, unbuckled the bag and handed it over. Then he got on the bike and rode back, rather wobbly, down the lane.

  ‘Where are the nearest houses?’ Annie asked PC Mellors.

  She pointed. ‘Nearest farmhouse is over there, at the other side of that field.’

  Annie could see the house in the distance. ‘Unlikely they’ll have witnessed anything,’ she said, ‘though it’s not so far away. Someone might have heard a car, for example, especially as the lane is little used by traffic.’ No houses lined its sides, she noticed, only trees and fields of grazing sheep beyond the ditch and the drystone walls. That said, it was certainly a scenic route if you weren’t in a hurry. But it’s hard to see pretty landscapes at night. On the other hand, she realised, if you wanted to avoid the Automated Number Plate Recognition cameras, the speed cameras and all the rest of the Big Brother paraphernalia that makes any road trip practically a public event these days, then Bradham Lane was your route of choice.

  Annie glanced over at the body by the roadside and took a deep breath. No sense putting it off any longer. ‘Come on, Gerry,’ she said. ‘Let’s go have a butcher’s at what we’ve got.’

  The girl lay curled up in the foetal position, half in the long grass that edged a ditch, hands covering her face, as if to protect it. She was naked, and her body was streaked with mud, dirty water and blood. The soles of her feet were crusted with dried blood, and small stones from the road were embedded in the skin. There were no obvious bullet holes or stab wounds, and her throat seemed unscathed. Not so the rest of her. She could have been hit by a car, Annie supposed, but it would be up to the medical professionals to determine that. It was hard to see her features because of the position of her hands, but Annie noticed between the fingers that one eye was swollen shut, her lips were split and bloody, with a tooth protruding through the lower one, and her nose was crooked. Squatting to examine the rest of the body again, Annie noticed signs of bruising around the ribs, stomach and right hip. There were also signs of a scuffle in the earth around the body and, not so far away, the only obvious skid marks on the road surface, far too faint and blurred to give a decent tyre impression. In the absence of a medical and CSI opinion, Annie was convinced that this girl had been beaten to death, kicked, perhaps even jumped on. And girl she was. Despite the injuries, Annie could see that the victim was hardly any older than fifteen or sixteen. She sensed Gerry’s presence beside her and stood up.

  ‘My God,’ said Gerry, hand to her mouth.

  Annie put a friendly hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think God had much to do with it, do you? And I’d like to say you get used to it, but you don’t.’ Not so used to it, Annie thought, that you become indifferent to it, that you don’t feel that tightening in your gut and that surge of anger that someone had done this to a fellow human being, or don’t feel you’re going to put your all into catching the bastard who did it.

  ‘But she’s so young. She’s just a girl.’

  ‘I know.’ Gently directing a pale and trembling Gerry away with an arm around her shoulder, Annie headed back towards the uniformed officers. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time to call in the heavy brigade.’

  ‘Well, Banksy, what a turn-up for the books. You and me working together again. Just like old times. Congratulations, by the way. The promotion. Long overdue.’

  They were basking in the sunshine at one of the tables outside at the Queen’s Arms, eating lunch: monster fish and chips and mushy peas, with a pint of Timothy Taylor’s for Banks and a cheap lager for Burgess. Cyril, the landlord, had taken on a new barmaid to deal with the summer rush, an attractive blond Australian called Pat, to whom Burgess had already taken a shine. Luckily, Cyril wasn’t around, as he and Burgess had history.

  ‘So what’s your official title these days?’ Banks asked. ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘I always fancied “Special Agent”. It has a ring to it. But in actual fact I’m a non-executive director. Sounds like a dull second-rate businessman. Mostly I go by plain “Mr Burgess” these days.’

  ‘Like a surgeon.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s got class, don’t you think?’

  The cobbled market square was buzzing with shoppers and tourists, and clogged with parked cars. Young girls in vests and tight denim cut-offs over black tights hung out around Greggs eating pasties, then disappeared into the amusement arcade next door. A gaggle of serious ramblers, with walking-sticks like ski poles, expensive boots, baggy shorts and maps in plastic bags around their necks gathered by the market cross. A few people sat on the plinth around the market cross waiting for a local bus. Not far from Banks and Burgess sat a group of bloke-ish tourists in garish shorts and even more garish shirts, their faces flushed and eyes glazed from sunburn and beer. They were talking and laughing loudly enough that nothing Banks and Burgess spoke of could be overheard.

  ‘Have you done this sort of thing before?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Once or twice.’ Burgess sat back and sipped his drink, studying Banks over the rim of his glass. ‘I was peripherally involved in Operation Yewtree when I was back at the Yard, so I know the way things go. Look, Banksy, you probably thought the same as I did when all this stuff started coming out. You thought it was some sort of witch hunt, wondering who’d be the next celebrity to be accused of groping a young publicist fifty years ago. Different times, you’d say, and you’d be right.’ He leaned forward and tapped Banks on the chest. ‘You probably even thought, what’s so wrong with pinching the office girl’s bum, maybe suggesting a hotel room after work for a bit of hanky-panky? Right? I might even have a go with young Pat here, given half the chance. After all, I’m only human, and if you don’t ask . . . But that’s not what this is about. We’re not talking about a bit of how’s your father in a dark corner at the office Christmas party. A hand casually resting on a knee in a restaurant. A surreptitious brushing up against a nice pair of tits. We’ve all done that, all had a kiss and cuddle in the broom cupboard and a bit of slap and tickle under the stairwell with that secretary we fancied all year.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Banks. But he remembered. It was just such an indulgence in a dark corner under the mistletoe at an office Christmas party that had led to the only affair of his married life. He didn’t much care to be reminded of it now, though at the time it had seemed exciting and dangerous; it had made him feel alive at a time when he had felt the world and his marriage were falling apart around him. Looking back, it just made him feel guilty. Maybe it was some kind of poetic justice that his ex-wife Sandra had finally left him for another man.

  ‘But this is something else,’ Burgess went on. ‘It’s not even a matter of someone sticking his tongue down a girl’s throat or squeezing a breast. Believe me, I’ve had enough access to statements that I can say what we’r
e talking about here is the deliberate, arrogant and systematic abuse of innocent young girls – underage girls – by people who believe they’re above the law. People so blessed and so famous that in the general run of things they probably get more free pussy than they can shake a stick at. And what do they do? They pick on vulnerable thirteen-, fourteen-, fifteen-year-olds, and they assault them and rape them, force them to do vile stuff, and then tell them they ought to be jolly grateful for getting raped by Danny Caxton or whoever. These girls end up so terrified, so fucked up, that often the rest of their lives are blighted. They see themselves as natural victims and that’s what they become. All their lives, people abuse them just the way Caxton or whoever did all those years ago, and they can’t stop it. They can’t even figure out why. But even that’s not the point. The point is that these bastards, and I mean bastards like Danny Caxton, have been getting away with it for years and making us look like the fucking Keystone Cops. They’ve abused these girls and boys, just like those Pakistani grooming gangs in Rochdale and Rotherham, and nobody did a fucking thing about it. Not the parents. Not the social workers. Not us. Well, times have changed, mate, because here comes the cavalry, with a vengeance.’

  ‘I never did think that,’ said Banks.

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘That this business is insignificant, that what we’ve been asked to do doesn’t matter. And I’d certainly agree that some very influential people have got away with a lot of serious crimes over the years. Nothing new about that. It’s just so bloody difficult to put a good case together after so long, like I said at the meeting. That’s all. Memories change; evidence gets lost. People become convinced that something happened when it didn’t, or that things happened differently. It’s damn near impossible to sort out who’s right in most cases. All you end up with is a shifting sandstorm of accusations, lies, half-truths, minor transgressions and full-blown felonies. Nobody knows what the truth is, in the end.’

  Burgess ran his hand over his unruly hair. ‘Too true. Too true. But we’re getting better. The CPS are building stronger cases, they’re more willing to prosecute, getting more convictions.’

  ‘So we ride their wave of success?’

  ‘Why not? Isn’t it better than riding a wave of failure? Besides, since when have you not risen to a challenge? This time they think we’re in with a chance. They rate this Linda Palmer as a credible complainant. According to them, she’s definitely not some fucked-up alcoholic with a chip on her shoulder.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Banks. ‘Does Caxton know we’re on to him?’

  ‘Probably. He shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s still got friends in high places. I want you to go and talk to him tomorrow. After that, we’ll get a team in to search his premises before he gets a chance to destroy any evidence there might be in his papers and on his computer. You can talk to Linda Palmer today. I trust your instinct enough to know that you won’t need a child protection expert to figure out whether she’s telling the truth. I know you, Banksy. I think once you get the bit between your teeth, you’ll take to it like a duck to water, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor, and you’ll be only too glad to bring down the wrath of God on arrogant bastards like Danny Caxton.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘I think so.’ Burgess finished his pint. ‘Another? I wouldn’t mind having another word with that buxom Australian barmaid. I like the way she pulls a pint.’

  ‘You need real cask ale to get a full show of flexed muscle, not that piss you drink. All she has to do is flick the lever.’

  ‘She can flick my lever any time. Why do you think I’m offering to buy you another one? Out of the goodness of my heart?’

  Banks rolled his eyes. ‘I’d better not,’ he said. ‘Not if I’ve got to get this crusade off the ground and talk to Linda Palmer this afternoon. Can you tell me anything about her, other than that she’s a poet and claims to be a victim of Caxton’s?’

  ‘I’ve never met her,’ said Burgess, ‘but from what I understand, she’s got her head screwed on right. I’ve talked to plenty of others who’ve been in her position. Memories are unreliable, you’re right about that, very vague sometimes. Like chasing shadows of shadows. You just have to keep at it. Gently, mind. They’re sensitive souls, these victims of historical abuse. Especially poets. Some of the girls buried it right away. Really deep. They were just kids, after all. Some went through years of analysis and therapy without really knowing why – why they couldn’t hold down a job, why they couldn’t handle a relationship, why they couldn’t bring up their kids properly. Some of them just turned to drugs and booze to help them forget. Some even committed suicide. But Linda Palmer isn’t like that, from what I understand. She’s different. She’s got her shit together.’

  Banks finished his drink and stood up. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the pep talk.’

  Burgess gave a mock salute. ‘My pleasure.’

  As Banks walked away, he turned and saw Burgess disappear inside the pub with his empty glass and a spring in his step.

  2

  The CSI van arrived about an hour after Roger Stanford had cycled off into the distance. Annie and Gerry remained by their car, under the shade of the trees, as the various specialists got to work. The uniformed officers donned latex gloves and overshoes to join in the roadside search. It was going on for half past eleven, and by all the signs, Annie thought, the day was going to be a scorcher. The morning mist had already burned off. She wished she were at home in the garden on a sunlounger working on her tan, with a thick Ken Follett lying open on her stomach and a long cool drink within reach.

  ‘What do you think?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Hard to say yet,’ answered Annie. ‘Give the boffins an hour or so and they might come up with some ideas. We don’t even know who she is or how she got here. Nobody local’s been reported missing.’

  ‘Early days yet,’ said Gerry. ‘She can hardly have walked here.’

  ‘True enough. Let’s go talk to Doc Burns. He’s been with the body long enough. He should have something to say by now.’

  They walked a few yards along the road, noting the officers and CSIs probing the ditch and long grass for any clues as to what might have happened. There was a chance that the girl’s clothes and bag were nearby. A purse or mobile could help them with the identification. Others had climbed over the drystone wall and were searching for anything that might have been thrown over there. Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy with his trusty Pentax, which he wouldn’t give up despite offers of a state-of-the-art digital SLR. He took digital photographs, too, of course, with a pocket Cybershot, as did many of the CSIs and investigating officers these days, but the Pentax shots were the ‘official’ ones, the pictures that got tacked to the whiteboard during briefing sessions and progress meetings.

  Dr Burns was scribbling in his notebook when Annie and Gerry arrived by the corpse. ‘You two,’ he said.

  Annie smiled. ‘DCI – I mean Detective Superintendent Banks is on another case. High profile, probably. He’s too good for the likes of us any more.’

  Dr Burns smiled back. ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said.

  Annie was joking. The few times she had met with Banks since his promotion, usually for a drink after work, he had seemed much as normal, complaining about the paperwork and boring meetings, but around the station he had been far more remote and preoccupied. Hardly surprising, she thought, given his added responsibilities. His new office also put him further away from the squad room, so they didn’t bump into one another as often during the day. Annie had put in an application for promotion to DCI, but budget cuts were back with a vengeance since Banks had scraped through. They were already reducing the senior ranks, and there were plenty of constables and sergeants out there who had passed their OSPRE exams and were still without positions to take up. The truth was, she’d have to take a few more courses and kiss a lot more arse before she got a promotion. Gerry, too, however well she did in her
sergeant’s exams.

  ‘So what have we got?’ she asked Dr Burns.

  ‘Just what it looks like, at least until Dr Glendenning gets her on the slab. He might well discover some poison hitherto unknown to man, or signs of a blade so thin and needle sharp it leaves no trace to the naked eye. But until then, my opinion is that the poor girl was beaten to death.’

  ‘No chance it was a hit and run?’

  ‘I’d say that’s very unlikely, judging by the injuries and the position of the body. I wouldn’t rule it out a hundred per cent – hit and runs can cause any number of injuries similar to the ones this girl has – but I doubt it.’ Dr Burns paused. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘you might ask yourselves what a naked girl was doing walking down this lane in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll be doing that all right,’ said Annie. ‘Can you tell if she was beaten by a blunt object or anything? Is there a particular weapon we should be searching for?’

  ‘From what I can see, I’d say fists and kicking. Mostly the latter, while she was lying on the ground trying to protect her face and head, knees up to try to cover her stomach.’

  Annie stared at the stained and bruised body, stiffened in the foetal position. She had curled herself up in a ball like that to protect herself from a rain of blows, but she had died anyway.

  ‘Any idea how many attackers?’

  ‘Could be just one,’ Dr Burns said. ‘But again, you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem for a definitive answer.’

  ‘What about her clothes? Any idea when or why they were removed?’

  ‘None,’ said Dr Burns. ‘As far as I know, nobody’s found any trace of them yet, and they certainly weren’t removed after the beating.’

  ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

  Dr Burns gestured towards the body. ‘As you can see, there’s evidence of bruising and bleeding around the anus and vagina.’