‘I can AirDrop it,’ Mitsuko said.
In a few moments Annie was asked if she was willing to accept the photo. She clicked yes, and there it was. She held out the phone and Gerry bent forward to see it too. It was the first time they had seen what the person they were after looked like. The image from the SD card did her no justice at all. Marnie was a lot more attractive than Annie had been able to tell from the video capture. And no doubt the fact that she was enjoying a weekend break in Rome, and hadn’t just been assaulted, helped a great deal. Her big dark eyes stared directly into the camera, her complexion was pale and flawless and her short hair definitely hennaed. She wore a simple white T-shirt, no make-up or heavy jewellery, and had no tattoos on her arms or neck, but there was something of the goth in her appearance, both challenging and defiant. It was perhaps more of an attitude than a style, Annie decided, something in her stance and the seriousness of her expression.
Their pizzas arrived. Mitsuko asked if there was anything else, and they said they didn’t think so. Not for the moment. She said she would be around the restaurant if they thought of anything, and went back to work.
As they tucked into their lunch, Annie thought about Marnie and remembered her own experience. After she had been raped, she had wandered around in a depressed haze of guilt and shame, wondering how she could ever have let such a thing happen to her. But it was her anger that ultimately saved her. She never let go of the fact that it wasn’t her fault; it was the fault of the bastards who raped her. And clinging to that idea was probably what saved her from Marnie’s fate, whatever it was. Annie had clawed her way out; Marnie seemed to have gone under.
She completely understood why Marnie hadn’t been able to tell her best friend what happened. She had never shared what happened to her with a living soul until she told Banks in a moment of weakness on their first case together. It was a long time ago now, but the pain and shame would never completely go away; they were deep down, rooted in her very being. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t live a normal life, couldn’t function properly. She did. She wanted to find Marnie and tell her that she could do it, too, even if at first she wouldn’t believe it.
As soon as she got back to the station from York, Gerry got on her computer. A search through the databases revealed that a Marjorie Sedgwick lived in a place called Wool, in Dorset. According to Gerry’s information, that came under the Purbeck North policing area. She made a note of the address, then phoned the Purbeck police.
A youthful-sounding PCSO answered her call, saying he knew the Sedgwick family by name and that they did, indeed, live in Wool, though he was very careful to point out that he didn’t know them because of any criminal activity, suspected or real. When Gerry pressed her case and asked why he knew the name, he grew evasive and muttered something about a tragedy. Even though he had verified who Gerry was by calling back the Eastvale number she had given him, he still seemed reluctant to say more.
‘If you can’t or don’t want to talk to me,’ said Gerry, ‘can you please put someone on who will?’
There was silence, then the sound of the handset being set down on a hard surface. Gerry tried to picture the location. Many of these police stations were much like the ones in rural Yorkshire, nothing more than the local copper’s living room with a filing cabinet and a few wanted posters on the walls. She imagined a thatched roof cottage with a blue POLICE sign over its door and opening hours noted down the side.
‘Sergeant Trevelyan here,’ came a new voice at the other end. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ Gerry thought Trevelyan was a Cornish name. Still, Cornwall wasn’t that far from Dorset. His accent didn’t give anything away; it was pure RP.
‘My name is Geraldine Masterson,’ she said. ‘I’m a DC at Eastvale Regional Police HQ in Eastvale, North Yorkshire. I’m making enquiries about a local girl called Marnie Sedgwick, and the database has led me to a Marjorie Sedgwick in Wool, Dorset. Your PCSO seemed to recognise Marnie’s name.’
‘Not many who wouldn’t around these parts,’ said Trevelyan.
‘Oh, why is that?’
‘Not the best of reasons, I’m afraid. Poor Marnie Sedgwick only went and killed herself, didn’t she? The tragedy’s still fresh in everyone’s mind.’
Gerry felt her skin prickle. ‘Killed herself?’
‘Aye. Jumped off Durdle Door.’
‘When did this happen?’
There was another pause, then Trevelyan said, ‘May. Seventeenth May.’
About a month after the rape, Gerry realised, and five days before Blaydon’s murder. She made a note on her desk pad.
‘Can I send you a photo of her, then we can be certain we’re talking about the same person?’
‘Go ahead. Text it to my mobile.’ He gave her the number. A few seconds after she had sent the image, she heard a ding and Trevelyan came back. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That’s poor Marnie, all right.’
Christ. Gerry felt a chill flutter in her chest. ‘You said she jumped off Durdle Door?’
‘It’s a limestone arch in the sea near Lulworth Cove. The water’s worn a hole in it over the years, so it’s like an open door in the rock. The beach there is a popular tourist spot.’
‘I’ve seen pictures,’ said Gerry. ‘Would you mind if my colleague and I come down to see you? We’d like to talk to the family, too, if possible.’
‘It’s all right by me,’ said Trevelyan. ‘Hell of a long way to come, if you ask me, though, and I won’t have any more to tell you than I have right now.’
‘Will you arrange for us to see this Durdle Door and to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Sedgwick?’
‘Easy enough. I’ll certainly ask them. You understand they might not wish to dredge it all up again. It’s still raw.’
‘We can be very gentle. Please try, Sergeant. It’s important.’
‘I’ll do my best. See you soon then?’
‘We’ll talk to you soon.’
Banks hadn’t heard the Blue Lamps live for quite a while, but they were every bit as good as he remembered, their bluesy feel, rhythmic complexity, and subtle use of harmonies as strong and as familiar as ever. To Banks’s ears, it was CSNY meet the Allman Brothers, but with an unmistakable edge of more recent pop styles in the mix.
It was a nostalgic evening, and they played songs from their earliest albums mixed in with more recent work, along with a few covers they had revisited now and then over the years. At one point, Brian announced, ‘I feel like I’ve been listening to this song since I was in my cradle. This is for my old man. He’s here somewhere tonight. Love you, Dad!’ The crowd cheered and the band launched into a bluesy ‘Visions of Johanna,’ with Brian taking the lead vocal and a soaring lyrical guitar solo. Emotion fizzed in Banks’s chest and almost made it to his eyes. As with most of Dylan’s mid-sixties songs, he didn’t understand a word of it, but it sure had a powerful effect on him.
The Sage was full, and the fans both enthusiastic and saddened by the occasion. Some waved banners saying ‘PLEASE DON’T TURN OFF THE LAMPS!’ but everything was good-natured, including the band members, and no one felt cheated when the show ended after the fifth encore.
Banks kept checking his mobile during the performance, but nothing new came in. When the show ended, surprised by how the music had allowed him to put Zelda out of his mind for a short while at least, he nipped outside to phone Annie, who had been in charge during his absence, and told her about a derelict hunting lodge he had remembered on the fells above Swainshead. It turned out that the place had already been searched and found to be empty. As had the Blaydon properties they had searched so far. The only news was that Burgess had come up with a good photograph of Petar Tadić, and Adrian Moss had pasted it all over the media.