“Not implying, saying. Telling. Informing. Whatever you want to call it, it comes out the same. That boy was bent. At least, he thought he was bent, and he was looking for proof. A first time to show him what it was like. Male to male.”
“You can’t intend us to believe-”
“I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling you the truth. I doubt I was the first bloke he tried because he was damned direct in his approach. Hands on my crotch the instant we were out of public view. He saw me as a loner-which I am, let’s face it-and to his way of thinking, it was safe to try things out with me. That’s what he wanted to do, and I set him straight. I do not have underage kids, I told him. Come back on your sixteenth birthday.”
“You’re a liar, Barry,” Barbara Havers said. “Your computer’s filled with child pornography. You were carrying it in your van, for God’s sake. You’re shagging your fist in front of your computer screen every night, and you want us to believe Davey Benton was after you and not the reverse?”
“You can think what you want. You obviously do. Why not, when I’m such a flipping freak? And that’s running through your head as well, isn’t it? He looks like a ghoul, so he must be one.”
“Use that move often?” Havers asked. “I expect it works wonders out there in the world. Turn people’s aversion in on themselves. That must work specially well on kids. You’re a sodding genius, you are, boy-o. High marks for sorting out a way to play your appearance to your advantage, mate.”
Lynley said, “You don’t appear to understand your position, Mr. Minshall. Has Mr. Barty”-with a nod at the solicitor-“explained what happens when you’re charged with murder? Magistrates’ court, remand, coming to trial at the Old Bailey-”
“All those lags and screws just waiting to welcome you into Wormwood Scrubs with open arms,” Havers added. “They have a special greeting for child molesters. Did you know that, Bar? It requires you to bend over, of course.”
“I am not-”
Lynley switched off the recorder. “Apparently,” he said to James Barty, “your client needs more time to think. Meanwhile, the evidence mounts up against you, Mr. Minshall. And the moment we confirm that you were the last person to see Davey Benton alive, you can feel free to consider your fate well sealed.”
“I did not-”
“You might try to convince the CPS about that. We collect the evidence. We turn it over to them. At that point, things are out of our hands.”
“I can help you.”
“Think about helping yourself.”
“I can give you information. But the only way you’re going to get that from me is through a deal because if I give you anything, I’m not going to be a particularly popular man.”
“If you don’t give us something, you’re being sent down as Davey Benton’s,” Barbara Havers pointed out. “And that’s not going to do much for your popularity, Barry.”
“What I suggest,” Lynley said, “is that you tell us what you know and pray to God we’re more interested in that than in anything else. But make no mistake about it, Barry, you’re facing at least one murder charge currently. Any other charge you might come to face in the future as a result of what you tell us now about Davey Benton isn’t going to carry the same stretch in prison. Unless it’s another count of murder, of course.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Minshall said, but his voice was altered now, and for the first time it seemed to Lynley that they might be getting through to the man.
“Convince us,” Barbara Havers said.
Minshall thought for a moment and finally said, “Turn the recorder on. I saw him the night he died.”
“Where?”
“I took him to a…” He hesitated, then went for more water. “It’s called the Canterbury Hotel. I had a client there and we went to perform.”
“What d’you mean, ‘perform’?” Havers asked. “What kind of client?” In addition to the tape that Lynley was making, she was taking notes, and she looked up from her writing.
“Magic. We were doing a private show for a single client. At the end of it, I left Davey there. With him.”
“With whom?” Lynley asked.
“With the client. That was the last I saw of him.”
“And what was this client’s name?”
Minshall’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know.” And as if he expected them to walk out of the interview room, he went on hastily. “I knew him only by numbers. Two-one-six-oh. He never told me his name. And he didn’t know mine. He knew me only as Snow.” He gestured at his hair. “It seemed appropriate.”
“How did you meet this individual?” Lynley asked.
Minshall took another sip of water. His solicitor asked him if he wanted a conference. The magician shook his head. “Through MABIL,” he said.
“Mabel who?” Havers asked.
“M-A-B-I-L,” he corrected. “It’s not a person. It’s an organisation.”
“An acronym standing for…?” Lynley waited for the answer.
Minshall gave it in a tired voice. “Men and Boys in Love.”
“Bloody hell,” Havers muttered as she wrote in her notebook. She gave the acronym a vicious underscoring that sounded like the scrape of rough sandpaper on wood. “Let us guess what that’s all about.”
“Where does this organisation meet?” Lynley asked.
“In a church basement. Twice a month. It’s a deconsecrated place called St. Lucy’s, off the Cromwell Road. Down the street from Gloucester Road station. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s not hard to find.”
“The scent of sulphur’s no doubt a big hint when you get in the area,” Havers pointed out.
Lynley shot her a look. He felt the same aversion to the man and his story, but now that Minshall was finally talking, he wanted him to continue talking. He said, “Tell us about MABIL.”
Minshall said, “It’s a support group. It offers a safe haven for…” He seemed to search for a word that would elucidate the purpose of the organisation at the same time as it depicted its members in a positive light. An impossible task, Lynley thought, although he let the man attempt it anyway. “It offers a place where like-minded individuals can meet, talk, and learn they’re not alone. It’s for men who believe there is no sin and should be no social condemnation in loving young boys and wanting to introduce them to male-male sexuality in a safe environment.”
“In a church?” Havers sounded as if she couldn’t restrain herself. “Like some sort of human sacrifice? On the altar, I expect?”
Minshall took off his glasses and shot her a withering look as he polished them on the leg of his trousers. He said, “Why don’t you put a cork in it, Constable? It’s people like you who head witch-hunts.”
“You listen to me, you piece of-”
“That’ll do, Havers,” Lynley said. And to Minshall, “Go on.”
The magician gave Havers another look, then shifted his body as if to dismiss her. He said, “There are no young boys who are members of the association. MABIL does nothing but provide support.”
“For…?” Lynley prompted.
He returned his dark glasses to his nose. “For men who’re…conflicted about their desires. Those who’ve already made the leap help along those who want to make it. This help is offered in a loving environment, with tolerance for all and judgement of none.”
Lynley could see Havers getting ready to make another remark. He cut her off with, “And two-one-six-oh?”
“I saw him straightaway, the first time he showed up. He was new to it all. He could barely look anyone in the eye. I felt sorry for the bloke and offered to help him. It’s what I do.”
“Meaning?”
And here Minshall stalled. He was silent for a moment and then asked for time with his solicitor. For his part, James Barty had been sitting there sucking on his lower teeth so hard that it looked as if he’d swallowed his lip. He burst out with, “Yes. Yes. Yes,” and Lynley switched the recorder off. He nodded Havers towards the door, and they stepped out into the corridor of the Holmes Street station.