Aftermath (18 page)

•

‘Well you certainly know how to pamper a girl,’ Tracy said as Banks led her into the McDonald’s at the corner of Briggate and Boar Lane later that afternoon.

Banks laughed. ‘I thought all kids loved McDonald’s.’

Tracy nudged him in the ribs. ‘Enough of the “kid”, please,’ she said. ‘I’m twenty now, you know.’

For one horrible moment Banks feared he might have forgotten her birthday. But no. It was back in February, before the task force, and he had sent a card, given her some money and taken her out to dinner at Brasserie 44. A very expensive dinner. ‘Not even a teenager any more, then,’ he said.

‘That’s right.’

And it was true. Tracy was a young woman, now. An attractive one at that. It almost broke Banks’s heart to see how much she resembled Sandra twenty years ago: the same willowy figure, with the same dark eyebrows, high cheekbones, hair in a long blonde ponytail, stray tresses tucked behind her delicate ears. She even echoed some of Sandra’s mannerisms, such as biting her lower lip when she was concentrating and winding strands of hair around her fingers as she talked. She was dressed like a student today: blue jeans, white T-shirt with a rock band’s logo, denim jacket, carrying a backpack, and she moved with assurance and grace. A young woman, no doubt about it.

Banks had returned her phone call that morning, and they had arranged to meet for a late lunch, after her last lecture of the day. He had also told Christopher Wray that they hadn’t found his daughter’s body yet.

They stood in line. The place was full of office workers on afternoon break, truant schoolkids and mothers with prams and toddlers taking a break from their shopping. ‘What do you want?’ Banks asked. ‘My treat.’

‘In that case, I’ll have the full Monty. Big Mac, large fries and large Coke.’

‘Sure that’s all?’

‘We’ll see about a sweet later.’

‘It’ll bring you out in spots.’

‘No, it won’t. I
never
come out in spots.’

It was true. Tracy had always had a flawless complexion; school friends had often hated her for it. ‘You’ll get fat, then.’

She patted her flat stomach and pulled a face at him. She had inherited his metabolism, which allowed him to live on beer and junk food and still remain lean.

They got their food and sat at a plastic table near the window. It was a warm afternoon. Women wore bright sleeveless summer dresses, and the men had their suit jackets slung over their shoulders and their shirt-sleeves rolled up.

‘How’s Damon?’ Banks asked.

‘We’ve decided not to see each other till after exams.’

There was something about Tracy’s tone that indicated there was more to it than that. Boyfriend trouble? With the monosyllabic Damon, who had spirited her off to Paris last November, when Banks himself should have been with her instead of hunting down Chief Constable Riddle’s wayward daughter? He didn’t want to make her talk about it; she would get to it in her own time, if she wanted to. He couldn’t make her talk, anyway; Tracy had always been a very private person and could be as stubborn as he was when it came to discussing her feelings. He bit into his Big Mac. Special sauce oozed down his chin. He wiped it off with a serviette. Tracy was already halfway through her burger, and the chips were disappearing quickly, too.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch very often lately,’ Banks said. ‘I’ve been very busy.’

‘Story of my life,’ said Tracy.

‘I suppose so.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m only teasing, Dad. I’ve got nothing to complain about.’

‘You’ve got plenty, but it’s nice of you not to say so. Anyway, apart from Damon, how are
you
?’

‘I’m fine. Studying hard. Some people say second year’s harder than finals.’

‘Any plans for the summer?’

‘I might go to France again. Charlotte’s parents have a cottage in the Dordogne but they’re going to be in America and they said she can take a couple of friends down if she wants.’

‘Lucky you.’

Tracy finished her Big Mac and sipped some Coke through her straw, looking closely at Banks. ‘You look tired, Dad,’ she said.

‘I suppose I am.’

‘Your job?’

‘Yes. It’s a lot of responsibility. Keeps me awake at night. I’m not at all certain I’m cut out for it.’

‘I’m sure you’re just wonderful.’

‘Such faith. But I don’t know. I’ve never run such a big investigation before, and I’m not sure I ever want to again.’

‘But you’ve caught him,’ Tracy said. ‘The Chameleon killer.’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Congratulations. I knew you would.’

‘I didn’t do anything. The whole thing was a series of accidents.’

‘Well . . . the result’s the same, isn’t it?’

‘True.’

‘Look, Dad, I know why you haven’t been in touch. You’ve been busy, yes, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?’

Banks pushed his half-eaten burger aside and worked on the chips. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. You probably held yourself personally responsible for those girls’ abductions, the way you always do, didn’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I’ll bet you thought that if you relaxed your vigilance for just one single moment he’d get someone else, another young woman
just like me
, didn’t you?’

Banks applauded his daughter’s perception. And she did have blonde hair. ‘Well, there may be a grain of truth in that,’ he said. ‘Just a tiny grain.’

‘Was it really horrible down there?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not at lunch. Not with you.’

‘I suppose you think I’m being nosy for sensation like a newspaper reporter, but I worry about you. You’re not made of stone, you know. You let these things get to you.’

‘For a daughter,’ said Banks, ‘you do a pretty good impersonation of a nagging wife.’ Immediately the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. It brought the spectre of Sandra between them, again. Tracy, like Brian, had struggled not to take sides in the break-up, but whereas Brian had taken an immediate dislike to Sean, Sandra’s new companion, Tracy got along with him quite well and that hurt Banks, though he would never tell her.

‘Have you talked to Mum lately?’ Tracy asked, ignoring his criticism.

‘You know I haven’t.’

Tracy sipped some more Coke, frowned like her mother, and stared out of the window.

‘Why?’ Banks asked, sensing a change in the atmosphere. ‘Is there something I should know?’

‘I was down there at Easter.’

‘I know you were. Did she say something about me?’ Banks knew he had been dragging his feet over the divorce. The whole thing had just seemed too hurried to him, and he wasn’t inclined to hurry, seeing no reason. So Sandra wanted to marry Sean, make it legal. Big deal. Let them wait.

‘It’s not that,’ Tracy said.

‘What, then?’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘I’d say if I did.’

‘Oh, shit.’ Tracy bit her lip. ‘I wish I’d never got into this. Why do I have to be the one?’

‘Because you started it. And don’t swear. Now, give.’

Tracy looked down at her empty chip carton and sighed. ‘All right. She told me not to say anything to you yet, but you’ll find out eventually. Remember, you asked for it.’

‘Tracy!’

‘Okay Okay. Mum’s pregnant. That’s what it’s all about. She’s three months pregnant. She’s having Sean’s baby’

•

Not long after Banks had left Lucy Payne’s room, Annie Cabbot strode down the corridors of the hospital to her appointment with Dr Mogabe. She hadn’t been at all satisfied with PC Taylor’s statement and needed to check out the medical angle as far as it was possible to do so. Of course, Payne wasn’t dead, so there would be no post mortem, at least not yet. If he had done what it very much seemed that he had, then Annie thought it might not be such a bad idea to carry out a post mortem on him while he was still alive.

‘Come in,’ called Dr Mogabe.

Annie went in. The office was small and functional, with a couple of bookcases full of medical texts, a filing cabinet whose top drawer wouldn’t shut, and the inevitable computer on the desk, a laptop. Various medical degrees and honours hung on the cream-painted walls, and a pewter-framed photograph stood on the desk facing the doctor. A family picture, Annie guessed. There was no skull beside it, though; nor was there a skeleton standing in the corner.

Dr Mogabe was smaller than Annie had imagined, and his voice was higher in pitch. His skin was a shiny purple-black and his short curly hair grey. He also had small hands, but the fingers were long and tapered; a brain surgeon’s fingers, Annie thought, though she had nothing for comparison, and the thought of them poking their way through the grey matter made her stomach lurch. Pianist’s fingers,

she decided. Much easier to live with. Or artist’s fingers, like her father’s.

He leaned forward and linked his hands on the desk. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Detective Inspector Cabbot,’ he said, with a voice straight out of Oxford. ‘Indeed, if the police hadn’t seen fit to call, I would have felt obliged to bring them in myself. Mr Payne was most brutally beaten.’

‘Always willing to be of service,’ said Annie. ‘What can you tell me about the patient? In layman’s terms, if you please.’

Dr Mogabe inclined his head slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said, as if he already knew the élite, technical mumbo-jumbo of his profession would be wasted on an ignorant copper such as Annie. ‘Mr Payne was admitted with serious head wounds, resulting in brain damage. He also had a broken ulna. So far, we have operated on him twice. Once to relieve a subdural hematoma. That’s—’

‘I know what a hematoma is,’ said Annie.

‘Very well. The second to remove skull fragments from the brain. I could be more specific, if you wish?’

‘Go ahead.’

Dr Mogabe stood up and started walking back and forth behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, as if he were delivering a lecture. When he came to name the various parts, he pointed to them on his own skull as he paced. ‘The human brain is essentially made up of the cerebrum, the cerebellum and the brainstem. The cerebrum is uppermost, divided into two hemispheres by a deep groove at the top, giving what you have probably heard called right brain and left brain. Do you follow?’

‘I think so.’

‘Prominent grooves also divide each hemisphere into lobes. The frontal lobe is the largest. There are also parietal, temporal and occipital lobes. The cerebellum is at the base of the skull, behind the brainstem.’

When Dr Mogabe had finished, he sat down again, looking very pleased with himself.

‘How many blows were there?’ Annie asked.

‘It’s difficult to be specific at this stage,’ said Dr Mogabe. ‘I was concerned merely with saving the man’s life, you understand, not with conducting an autopsy, but at an estimate I’d say two blows to the left temple, perhaps three. They caused the most damage to begin with, including the hematoma and skull fragments. There is also evidence of one or two blows to the top of the cranium, denting the skull.’

‘The
top
of his head?’

‘The cranium is that part of the head which isn’t the face, yes.’

‘Hard blows? As if someone hit directly down on it?’

‘Possibly. But I can’t be a judge of that. They would have been incapacitating, but not life-threatening. The top of the cranium is hard, and though the skull there was dented and fractured, as I said, the bone didn’t splinter.’

Annie made some notes.

‘Those weren’t the most damaging injuries, though,’ Dr Mogabe added.

‘Oh?’

‘No, the most serious injury was caused by one or more blows to the back of the head, the brainstem area. You see, that contains the medulla oblongata, which is the heart, blood vessel and breathing centre of the brain. Any serious injury to it can be fatal.’

‘Yet Mr Payne is still alive.’

‘Barely.’

‘Is there a possibility of permanent brain damage?’

‘There already
is
permanent brain damage. If Mr Payne recovers, he may well spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair in need of twenty-four hour a day care. The only good thing is that he probably won’t be aware of that fact.’

‘This injury to the medulla? Could it have occurred as Mr Payne fell back against the wall?’

Dr Mogabe rubbed his chin. ‘Again, it’s not my place to do the police’s job, or the pathologist’s, Detective Inspector. Suffice it to say that in
my
opinion these wounds were caused by the same blunt instrument as the others. Make of that what you will.’ He leaned forward. ‘In the simplest layman’s terms, this man received a most vicious beating about the head, Detective Inspector. Most vicious. I hope you believe, as I do, that the perpetrator should be brought to justice.’

Shit,
thought Annie, putting her notebook away. ‘Of course, Doctor,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘You will keep me informed, won’t you?’

‘You can count on it.’

Annie looked at her watch. Time to head back to Eastvale and prepare her daily report for Detective Superintendent Chambers.

•

After his lunch with Tracy, Banks wandered around Leeds city centre in a daze thinking of the news she had given him. The matter of Sandra’s pregnancy had hit him harder than he would have expected after so long apart, he realized as he stood and gazed in Curry’s window on Briggate, hardly taking in the display of computers, camcorders and stereo systems. He had last seen her in London the previous November, when he was down there searching for Chief Constable Riddle’s runaway daughter, Emily. Looking back, he felt foolish for the way he had approached that meeting, full of confidence that because he had applied for a job with the National Crime Squad that would take him back to live in London, Sandra would see the error of her ways, dump the temporary Sean and run back into Banks’s arms.

Wrong.

Instead she had told Banks that she wanted a divorce because she and Sean wanted to get married, and that cathartic event, he thought, had flushed Sandra out of his system for ever, along with any thoughts of moving to the NCS.

Until Tracy told him about the pregnancy.

Banks hadn’t thought, hadn’t suspected for a moment, that they wanted to get married because they wanted to have a baby. What on earth did Sandra think she was playing at? The idea of a half brother or sister for Brian and Tracy, twenty years younger, seemed unreal to Banks. And the thought of Sean, whom he had never met, being the
father
seemed even more absurd. He tried to imagine their conversations leading up to the decision, the love-making, the maternal desire rekindled in Sandra after so many years, and even the shadowiest of imaginings made him feel sick. He didn’t know her, this woman in her early forties who wanted a baby with a boyfriend she had hardly been with for five minutes, and that also made Banks feel sad.