Aftermath (30 page)

‘But you chose not to have babies?’

‘No. I had no choice. I can’t have babies.’ Maggie felt herself slipping down the rabbit hole, just like Alice, darkness closing around her.

‘Margaret! Margaret!’

She could hear Dr Simms’s voice only as if from a great distance, echoing. With a huge effort, she struggled up towards it, towards the light, and felt herself burst out like a drowning person from the water, gasping for air.

‘Margaret, are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m . . . I . . . But it wasn’t me,’ she said, aware of the tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘It
isn’t
me who can’t have babies.
Bill
can’t. It’s Bill. It’s something to do with his sperm count.’

Dr Simms gave Maggie a little time to dry her eyes, calm down and compose herself.

When she had done so, Maggie laughed at herself. ‘He used to have to masturbate into a Tupperware container and take it in for testing. Somehow that seemed so . . . well, Tupperware, I mean, it all seemed so
Leave it to Beaver
.’

‘Pardon?’

‘An old American TV programme. Mom at home, Pop at the office. Apple pie. Happy families. Perfect children.’

‘I see. Couldn’t you have adopted a child?’

Maggie was back out in the light now. Only it felt too bright. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That wouldn’t do for Bill. The child wouldn’t be
his
then, you see. No more than if I’d had someone else’s sperm in artificial insemination.’

‘Did the two of you discuss what to do?’

‘At first, yes. But not after he found out it was
his
physical problem and not mine. After that, if I ever mentioned children again, he hit me.’

‘And around this time he came to resent your success?’

‘Yes. Even to the point of committing little acts of sabotage so I’d be behind on a deadline. You know, throwing away some of my colours or brushes, misplacing an illustration or a package for the courier, accidentally wiping images from the computer, from
my
computer, forgetting to tell me about an important phone call, that sort of thing.’

‘So at this time he wanted to have children but discovered that he couldn’t father any, and he also wanted to be a partner in his law firm, but he didn’t get to be?’

‘That’s right. But that’s no excuse for what he did to me.’

Dr Simms smiled. ‘True, Margaret. Very true. But it’s a pretty volatile combination, don’t you think? I’m not making excuses, but can you imagine the stress he must have been under, how it might have
triggered
his violent feelings?’

‘I couldn’t see it coming at the time. How could I?’

‘No, you couldn’t. No one could expect you to. It’s as you said. Hindsight. Retrospect.’ She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs and looked at the clock. ‘Now, I think that’s enough for today, don’t you?’

Now was the time. ‘I’ve got a question,’ Maggie blurted out. ‘Not about me.’

Dr Simms raised her eyebrows and looked at her watch.

‘It won’t take a minute. Honest it won’t.’

‘All right,’ said Dr Simms. ‘Ask away.’

‘Well, it’s this friend of mine. Not really a friend, I suppose, because she’s too young, just a schoolgirl, but she drops by, you know, on her way home from school.’

‘Yes?’

‘Claire’s her name, Claire Toth. Claire was a friend of Kimberley Myers.’

‘I know who Kimberley Myers was. I read the newspapers. Go on.’

‘They were friends. They went to the same school. Both of them knew Terence Payne. He was their biology teacher.’

‘Yes. Go on.’

‘And she felt responsible, you know, for Kimberley. They were supposed to walk home together that night, but a boy asked Claire to dance. A boy she liked, and . . .’

‘And her friend walked home alone. To her death?’

‘Yes,’ said Maggie.

‘You said you had a question to ask me.’

‘I haven’t seen Claire since she told me this on Monday afternoon. I’m worried about her. Psychologically, I mean. What would something like this do to someone like her?’

‘Not knowing the girl in question, I can’t possibly say,’ said Dr Simms. ‘It depends on her inner resources, on her self-image, on family support, on many things. Besides, it seems to me that there are two separate issues here.’

‘Yes?’

‘First, the girl’s proximity to the criminal and to one victim in particular, and second, her feeling of responsibility, of guilt. As far as the first is concerned, I can offer a few general considerations.’

‘Please do.’

‘First of all, tell me how
you
feel about it all.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I . . . I don’t know yet. Afraid, I suppose. Not so trusting. He was my neighbour, after all. I don’t know. I haven’t been able to work it all out yet.’

Dr Simms nodded. ‘Your friend probably feels the same way. Mostly confused for the moment. Only she’s younger than you, and she probably has fewer defences. She’ll certainly be more mistrustful of people. After all, this man was her
teacher
, a figure of respect and authority. Handsome, well dressed, with a nice house and a pretty young wife. He didn’t look at all like the sort of monster we usually associate in our minds with crimes such as these. And she’ll experience a heightened sense of paranoia. She may not feel comfortable going out alone, for example, may feel she’s being stalked or watched. Or her parents might not let her go out. Sometimes parents take control in these situations, especially if they feel they’ve been guilty of any sort of neglect.’

‘So her parents might be keeping her at home? Keeping her from visiting
me
?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘What else?’

‘From what I can gather so far, these are sex crimes and as such they are bound to have some effect on a vulnerable young schoolgirl’s burgeoning sexuality. Exactly what effect is hard to say. It takes different people different ways. Some girls might become more childlike, suppress their sexuality, because they think that will afford them some kind of protection. Others may even become more promiscuous because being good girls didn’t help the victims. I can’t tell you which way she’ll go.’

‘I’m sure Claire wouldn’t become promiscuous.’

‘She may become withdrawn and preoccupied with the case. I think it’s most important that she doesn’t keep these feelings bottled up, that she struggles to understand what happened. I know that’s difficult, even for us adults, but we can help her.’

‘How?’

‘By accepting its effect on her but also reassuring her that it was some sort of aberration, not the natural course of things. There’s little doubt the effects will be deep and long lasting, but she will have to learn how to readjust to the way her world-view has altered.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’re always saying that teenagers feel immortal, but any immortality your friend felt she had will have been stripped away by what’s happened. That’s a hard adjustment to make, that what happened to someone close to you could happen to you, too. And the full horror of it hasn’t even come out yet.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Probably nothing,’ said Dr Simms. ‘You can’t make her come to you, but if she does you should encourage her to talk, be a good listener. But don’t push her, and don’t try to tell her how to feel.’

‘Should she be seeing a psychologist?’

‘Probably. But that’s her decision. Or her parents’.’

‘Could you recommend someone? I mean, if they’re interested.’

Dr Simms wrote a name on a slip of paper. ‘She’s good,’ she said. ‘Now, off you go. I’ve got my next patient waiting.’

They arranged another appointment and Maggie walked out into Park Square thinking about Claire and Kimberley and human monsters. That numb sensation had come back, the feeling that the world was at a distance, through mirrors and filters, cotton wool, through the wrong end of the telescope. She felt like an alien in human form. She wanted to go back to where she came from, but she didn’t know where it was any more.

She walked down to City Square, past the statue of the Black Prince and the nymphs bearing their torches, then she leaned against the wall near the bus-stop on Boar Lane and lit a cigarette. The elderly woman beside her gave her a curious look. Why was it, Maggie wondered, that she always felt worse after these sessions with Dr Simms than she did before she went?

The bus arrived. Maggie trod out her cigarette and got on.

The drive to Eastvale
went smoothly enough. Banks ordered an unmarked car and driver from Millgarth and left through a side exit with Julia Ford and Lucy Payne. They didn’t run into any reporters. During the journey Banks sat in the front with the driver, a young female DC, and Julia Ford and Lucy Payne sat in the back. Nobody spoke a word. Banks was preoccupied by the discovery of another body in the Paynes’s back garden, news he had just received from Stefan Nowak on his mobile as they set off from the Infirmary. That made one body too many and by the sound of it, he didn’t think this one was Leanne Wray’s either.

Occasionally, Banks caught a glimpse of Lucy in the rearview mirror and saw that she was mostly gazing out of the window. He couldn’t read her expression. Just to be on the safe side, they entered the Eastvale police station through the rear entrance. Banks settled Lucy and Julia in an interview room and went to his office, where he walked over to the window and lit a cigarette and prepared himself for the coming interview.

He had been so preoccupied with the extra body on the journey up that he had hardly noticed it was another gorgeous day out there. There were plenty of cars and coaches parked on the cobbled market square, family groups milling about, holding onto their children’s hands, women with cardigans fastened loosely by the sleeves around their necks, just in case a cool breeze sprang up, clutching umbrellas against the possibility of rain. Why is it we English can never quite entrust ourselves to believe that fine weather will last? Banks wondered. We’re always expecting the worst. That was why the forecasters covered all bases: sunny with cloudy periods and the chance of a shower.

The interview room smelled of disinfectant because its last inhabitant, a drunken seventeen-year-old joyrider, had puked up a takeaway pizza all over the floor. Other than that, the room was clean enough, though very little light filtered in through the high, barred window. Banks inserted tapes in the machine, tested them and then went through the immediate formalities of time, date and those present.

‘Right, Lucy,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Ready to begin?’

‘If you like.’

‘How long have you been living in Leeds?’

‘What?’

Banks repeated the question. Lucy looked puzzled by it but said, ‘Four years, more or less. Ever since I started working at the bank.’

‘And you came from Hull, from your foster parents Clive and Hilary Liversedge?’

‘Yes. You know that already.’

‘Just getting the background clear, Lucy. Where did you live before then?’

Lucy started to fidget with her wedding ring. ‘Alderthorpe,’ she said quietly. ‘I lived at number four Spurn Road.’

‘And your parents?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes, they lived there, too.’

Banks sighed. ‘Don’t play games with me, Lucy. This is a serious business.’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Lucy snapped. ‘You drag me out of hospital all the way up here for no reason, and then you start asking about my childhood. You’re not a psychiatrist.’

‘I’m just interested, that’s all.’

‘Well, it wasn’t very interesting. Yes, they abused me, and yes I was taken into care. The Liversedges were good to me, but it’s not as if they were my
real
parents or anything. When the time came, I wanted to go out on my own in the world, put my childhood behind me and make my own way. Is there anything wrong with that?’

‘No,’ said Banks. He wanted to find out more about Lucy’s childhood, especially the events that occurred when she was twelve, but he knew he wasn’t likely to find out much from her. ‘Is that why you changed your name from Linda Godwin to Lucy Liversedge?’

‘Yes. Reporters kept bothering me. The Liversedges arranged it with the social services.’

‘What made you choose to move to Leeds?’

‘That’s where the job was.’

‘The first one you applied for?’

‘That I really wanted. Yes.’

‘Where did you live?’

‘I had a flat off Tong Road at first. When Terry got the job at Silverhill, we bought the house on The Hill. The one you say I can’t go back to, even though it’s my home. I suppose you expect me to keep making the mortgage payments while your men rip the place apart, too?’

‘You moved in together before you were married?’

‘We already knew we were getting married. It was such a good deal at the time that we’d have been fools to turn it down.’

‘When did you marry Terry?’

‘Just last year. The twenty-second of May. We’d been going out together since the summer before.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘What does that matter?’

‘I’m just curious. Surely it’s a harmless question.’

‘In a pub.’

‘Which pub?’

‘I can’t remember what it was called. It was a big one, though, with live music.’

‘Where was it?’

‘Seacroft.’

‘Was he by himself?’

‘I think so. Why?’

‘Did he chat you up?’

‘Not in so many words. I don’t remember.’

‘Did you ever stay at his flat?’

‘Yes, of course I did. It wasn’t wrong. We were in love. We were going to get married. We were engaged.’

‘Even then?’

‘It was love at first sight. You might not believe me, but it was. We’d only been going out two weeks when he bought me my engagement ring. It cost nearly a thousand pounds.’

‘Did he have other girlfriends?’

‘Not when we met.’

‘But before?’

‘I suppose so. I didn’t make a fuss about it. I assumed he’d led a pretty normal life.’

‘Normal?’

‘Why not?’

‘Did you ever see any evidence of other women in his flat?’

‘No.’

‘What were you doing in Seacroft when you lived off Tong Road? It’s a long way.’