‘It’s Lorraine Hunt Lieberson,’ Banks said. ‘Singing Mahler’s “Liebst du um Schönheit”. He wrote it as a gift for his new bride, Alma. Ray here’s a bit of a philistine when it comes to classical music, and I’m trying to educate him. Don’t you like it?’
‘I... er... Yes, sir. It’s very beautiful, haunting.’
The other man in the room stood up and held out his hand. Gerry shook it. ‘Take no notice of him, love, he’s a music snob. Give me Pink Floyd any day.’ He smiled, and with a little bow, added, ‘Ray Cabbot, at your service.’
‘This is DI Cabbot’s father,’ Banks said. ‘He’s staying with me until he finds a place of his own.’
He was older than Banks, Gerry noted, and with his ponytail and lined face, he reminded her of a picture of Willie Nelson she had seen on a magazine cover recently. He wore ugly baggy trousers with pockets up and down the legs and a grey sweatshirt that said MIAMI DOLPHINS in bright red letters on the front.
Ray peered at her. ‘Has anyone ever told you how closely you resemble Jane Morris?’ he said.
‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her.’
‘Famous artists’ model. Pre-Raphaelite.’
‘Sorry, she’s a new one on me.’ Gerry had heard of Lizzie Siddal, and she was sick to death of hearing about her resemblance to the most famous Pre-Raphaelite model, mostly because of her slender ‘wand-like’ figure and long red hair. It wasn’t so much that she thought such comments inappropriate, though they often were, but she wished men could be a bit more original in their compliments, if compliments they were meant to be.
‘Fascinating subject, artists’ models,’ Ray Cabbot went on. ‘You could write a book about them. They invariably slept with the artists, you know. It can be a very intimate relationship, being painted. Very erotic. Rossetti and Fanny Cornforth, for example. Have you ever posed?’
‘I can’t say it’s a line of work I’ve ever wanted to pursue.’
‘Oh, you should. With your bones and colouring, you could—’
‘Er, Ray,’ Banks cut in, tapping his watch. ‘Weren’t you about to head off to the Dog and Gun? Folk night.’
‘Is it? Was I?’ Ray scratched his temple. ‘Ah, yes. Of course. Right. See you later, Jane. I mean Gerry.’ And he shot off through the kitchen and out of the front door.
‘He’s an artist. What can I say?’ Banks picked up a remote and turned off the music.
‘You didn’t have to do that for me, sir. I was enjoying it.’
‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer Pink Floyd?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ said Gerry. ‘I haven’t heard Pink Floyd. Not that I know of. I mean, I know the name, but, you know... I’m pleased to hear that Mahler wrote the song for his wife. It must have been a wonderful gift to receive. Nobody’s ever written a song for me, let alone one as lovely as that.’
‘Me, neither,’ said Banks. ‘And next time we’re in the car together, remind me to play you Ummagumma. So what can I help you with? Would you like a glass of wine? Cup of tea? Coffee? Perhaps a wee dram of whisky?’ He turned the CD player on again with the remote and the beautiful music continued quietly in the background.
‘Nothing, thanks, sir. I can’t stay. I just... well, I found something I thought was interesting, and I wanted to tell you in person.’
‘You’ve got my attention. Go ahead.’
Gerry sat in the one of the wicker chairs. Outside, the dark humps of the fells stood out in silhouette against the lighter night sky. Banks sat on the angled chair beside her and picked up a glass of purplish-red wine from the table between them.
‘You know you told me to dig a bit further into the Wendy Vincent business?’
‘You were working late on that tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then don’t keep me in suspense.’
Gerry turned slightly to face him. ‘Do you remember anything about the Wendy Vincent murder, sir? December, 1964.’
‘Even I’m not so old that I’ve been on the force that long,’ said Banks. ‘But I do believe I heard the name in the news not long ago.’
‘That’s right. I’ll get to that.’ Gerry went on, ‘Wendy Vincent was a fifteen-year-old girl who was sexually assaulted and murdered in some woods near her home in Leeds. There were rumours that she could have been an early victim of Brady and Hindley, and more recently the press threw Jimmy Savile and Peter Sutcliffe in the mix.’
‘How old would Sutcliffe have been in 1964?’
‘Eighteen, sir. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. If they hadn’t caught the real killer, that is. Frank Dowson. A couple of years back there was a piece in the papers on the fiftieth anniversary of fifth December, 1964. Just a simple retelling of an unsolved crime. That’s probably why you remember the name. The murder took place in the same part of west Leeds where Maureen Tindall lived at the time with her parents. Maureen and Wendy Vincent were the same age, went to the same school and were best friends. According to one of her teachers interviewed for the TV programme, Wendy had been playing hockey for the school team that morning, and she took a short cut through the woods on her way home. Apparently, she had taken a bit of a knock on the field, so she wasn’t feeling too great.’
‘And that’s where she was killed? The woods?’
‘Yes, sir. Raped and stabbed repeatedly. Her body was found hidden under some branches and bracken under a bridge over the stream. There was no mention of Maureen Tindall in the articles that coincided with the fiftieth anniversary, or on the TV footage about it, but I found one passing mention on a website, quoting a local newspaper back at the time, in 1964. The newspaper is no longer published, but the website had scans of back issues, and I found mention of Wendy’s best friend there: Maureen Grainger.’
‘Maureen Tindall’s maiden name.’
‘That’s right. It was the usual sort of human interest story you’d get in a small local weekly — what was the “real” Wendy like, what was her taste in clothes, music, did she have a boyfriend, what was she like as a friend, that type of thing.’
‘As I remember, that anniversary article you mentioned and the accompanying TV documentary sparked a reopening of the case, and that’s where Frank Dowson comes in, right?’
‘Yes. First on DNA evidence, connected with a series of rapes, then he confessed. Some of the papers accused the original police investigation of a massive cock-up, sir. Please excuse my language.’
‘I remember that. But there’s no question that they got the right man?’
‘Not as far as I can tell. Everything was done by the book. The confession was solid, the DNA evidence admissible. They’d found traces of blood and skin under Wendy’s fingernails that they were certain came from her killer. Of course, DNA typing didn’t exist at the time, but the samples were properly stored. After the case was reopened in 2015, they were checked against other cold-case samples, and a match was found for a suspect in several rapes. He was also on the database. Frank Dowson. He’d been twenty-one at the time of Wendy’s murder, and in the merchant navy. He admitted to a number of other unsolved rapes when they brought him in. And to Wendy’s murder. He got life, but he died in the prison hospital early this year. Respiratory failure.’
‘That’s all very interesting, Gerry, Maureen Tindall, or Grainger, being the best friend of a murder victim fifty years ago, and the killer finally being caught after all that time, but it happens these days. You know that. How could there possibly be any connection between the Wendy Vincent murder and what happened at Laura Tindall’s wedding? I mean, Frank Dowson could hardly have done it. He’s dead.’
Gerry’s shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know, sir, but I think we should talk to Maureen Tindall again, and maybe do a bit of digging around in the West Yorkshire archives for whatever files they’ve still got. People who were around at the time. You never know. Someone might remember something. There might even be a connection with Edgeworth.’