Aftermath (37 page)

The silent countdown came to an end, David Hartford straightened his tie and put on his best smile, and they were off. Close up, Maggie thought, David’s skin looked like pink plastic, and she imagined it would feel like a child’s doll to the touch. His hair was also too impossibly black to be natural.

As soon as David started his introduction to the subject, he swapped his smile for a serious, concerned expression and turned first to Kathy, the policewoman, for a general idea of how many domestic complaints they got and how they dealt with them. After that, it was the social worker, Michael’s, turn to talk about women’s shelters. When David turned to Maggie for the first time, she felt her heart lurch in her chest. He was handsome in a TV host sort of way, but there was something about him that unnerved her. He didn’t seem interested in the problems and the issues, but more in making something dramatically appealing out of it all, of which he was the focus. She supposed that was what television was all about when you came right down to it, making things dramatic and making presenters look good, but still it disturbed her.

He asked her when she first knew there was something wrong, and she briefly detailed the signs, the unreasonable demands, flashes of anger, petty punishments and, finally, the blows, right up to the time Bill broke her jaw, knocked out two of her teeth and put her in hospital for a week.

When Maggie had finished, he turned to the next question on his sheet: ‘Why didn’t you leave? I mean, you’ve just said you put up with this physical abuse for . . . how long . . . nearly two years? You’re clearly an intelligent and resourceful woman. Why didn’t you just get out?’

As Maggie sought the words to express why it didn’t happen as simply as that, the social worker cut in and explained how easy it was for women to get trapped in the cycle of violence and how shame often prevented them from speaking out. Finally, Maggie found her voice.

‘You’re right,’ she said to David. ‘I could have left. As you say, I’m an intelligent and resourceful woman. I had a good job, good friends, a supportive family. I suppose part of it was that I thought it would go away, that we would work through it. I still loved my husband. Marriage wasn’t something I was going to throw away lightly.’ She paused, and when nobody else dived into the silence, said, ‘Besides, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Even after I did leave, he found me, stalked me, harassed me, assaulted me again. Even after the court order.’

This prompted David to go back to the policewoman and talk about how ineffective the courts were in protecting women at risk from abusive spouses, and Maggie had the chance to take stock of what she had said. She hadn’t done too badly, she decided. It was hot under the studio lights and she felt her brow moisten with sweat. She hoped it wouldn’t rinse away the make-up.

Next David turned to the doctor.

‘Is domestic violence specifically directed from men to women, Dr Bletchley?’ he asked.

‘There are some cases of husbands being physically abused by their wives,’ said the doctor, ‘but relatively few.’

‘I think you’ll find, statistically,’ Michael butted in, ‘that male violence against women by far outstrips women’s against men, almost enough to make female violence against men seem insignificant. It’s built into our culture. Men hunt down and kill their ex-partners, for example, or commit familial massacres in a way that women do not.’

‘But that aside,’ David asked next, ‘don’t you think sometimes that a woman might overreact and ruin a man’s life? I mean, once such accusations have been made, they are often very difficult to shake off, even if a court finds the person not guilty.’

‘But isn’t it worth the risk,’ Maggie argued, ‘if it saves the ones who really need saving?’

David smirked. ‘Well, that’s rather like saying what’s hanging a few innocent people matter as long as we get the guilty ones, too, isn’t it?’

‘Nobody intentionally set out to hang innocent people,’ Kathy pointed out.

‘But, say, if a man retaliates in the face of extreme provocation,’ David pressed on, ‘isn’t the woman still far more likely to be seen as the victim?’

‘She
is
the victim,’ Maggie said.

‘That’s like saying she asked for it,’ Michael added. ‘Just what kind of provocation justifies violence?’

‘Are there not also women who actually like it rough?’

‘Oh, don’t be absurd,’ said Michael. ‘That’s the same sort of thing as suggesting that women ask to be raped by the way they dress.’

‘But there
are
masochistic personalities, aren’t there, doctor?’

‘You’re talking about women who like their sex rough, yes?’ said the doctor.

David seemed a little embarrassed by the directness of the question – clearly he was a man used to asking, not answering – but he nodded.

Dr Bletchley stroked his beard before answering. ‘Well, to answer your question simply: yes, there are masochistic women, just as there are masochistic men, but you have to understand that we’re dealing with a very tiny fragment of society here and not that section of society concerned with domestic violence.’

Obviously glad to be done with this line of questioning, David moved on to his next question, phrasing it carefully for Maggie. ‘You’ve recently had some involvement with what’s become rather a
cause célèbre
involving domestic abuse. Now, while we can’t discuss the case directly for legal reasons, is there anything you
can
tell us about that situation?’

He looked hungry for an answer, Maggie thought. ‘Someone confided in me,’ she said. ‘Confided that she was being abused by her husband. I offered advice, as much help and support as I could give.’

‘But you didn’t report it to the authorities.’

‘It wasn’t my place to do that.’

‘What do you think of that, DC Proctor?’

‘She’s right. There’s nothing we can do until the persons themselves report the matter.’

‘Or until things come to a head, as they did in this instance?’

‘Yes. That’s often the unfortunate result of the way things work.’

‘Thank you very much,’ David said, about to wrap things up.

Maggie realized she had weakened at the end, got sidetracked, so she launched in, interrupting him, and said, ‘If I might add just one more thing, it’s that victims are not always treated with the care, respect and tenderness we all think they deserve. Right now, there’s a young woman in the cells in Eastvale, a woman who until this morning was in hospital with injuries she sustained when her husband beat her last weekend. Why is this woman being persecuted like this?’

‘Do you have an answer?’ David asked. He was obviously pissed off at the interruption but excited by the possibility of controversy.

‘I think it’s because her husband’s dead,’ Maggie said. ‘They think he killed some young girls, but he’s dead and they can’t exact their pound of flesh. That’s why they’re picking on her. That’s why they’re picking on Lucy.’

‘Thank you very much,’ David said, turning to the camera and bringing out his smile again. ‘That just about wraps things up . . .’

There was silence when the programme ended and the technician removed their mikes, then the policewoman went over to Maggie and said, ‘I think it was extremely ill advised of you to say what you did back there.’

‘Oh, leave her alone,’ said Michael. ‘It’s about time someone spoke out about it.’

The doctor had already left, and David and Emma were nowhere to be seen.

‘Fancy a drink?’ said Michael to Maggie, as they left the studio after having their make-up removed, but she shook her head. All she wanted to do was get a taxi home and climb into a nice warm bath with a good book. It might be the last bit of peace and quiet she got if there was a reaction to what she had said tonight. She didn’t think she had broken any laws. After all, she hadn’t said Terry was guilty of the killings, hadn’t even mentioned his name, but she was also certain that the police could find something to charge her with if they wanted to. They seemed to be good at that. And she wouldn’t put it past Banks at all. Let them do it, she thought. Just let them make a martyr of her.

‘Are you sure? Just a quick one.’

She looked at Michael and knew that all he wanted to do was probe her for more details. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much for the offer, but no. I’m going home.’

Banks found chaos
outside Western Divisional Headquarters early on Saturday morning. Even at the back, where the entrance to the car park was located, reporters and
camera-wielding television news teams pushed against one another and shouted out questions about Lucy Payne. Banks cursed to himself, turned off the Dylan CD halfway through ‘Not Dark
Yet’ and edged his way carefully but firmly through the throng.

Inside, things were quieter. Banks slipped into his office and looked out of the window over the market square. More reporters. TV station vans with satellite dishes. The works. Someone had well
and truly let the cat out of the bag. First, Banks walked into the detectives’ squad room looking for answers. DCs Jackman and Templeton were at their desks, and Annie Cabbot was bending over
the low drawer in the filing cabinet, a heartwarming sight in her tight black jeans, Banks thought, remembering they had a date that night. Dinner, video and . . .

‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ he asked the room in general.

Annie looked up. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Didn’t you
see
her?’

‘What are you talking about?’

Kevin Templeton and Winsome Jackman kept their heads down, leaving this one well alone.

Annie put her hands on her hips. ‘Last night, on the television.’

‘I was over in Withernsea interviewing a retired copper about Lucy Payne. What did I miss?’

Annie walked over to her desk and rested her hip against the edge. ‘The neighbour, Maggie Forrest, was involved in a television discussion about domestic violence.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘Indeed. She ended up by accusing us of persecuting Lucy Payne because we can’t wreak our revenge on her husband and she informed the viewers in general that Lucy was being detained
here.’

‘Julia Ford,’ Banks whispered.

‘Who?’

‘The lawyer. I’ll bet she’s the one told Maggie where we were holding Lucy. Christ, what a mess.’

‘Oh, by the way,’ Annie said with a smile. ‘AC Hartnell’s already phoned twice. Asked if you’d ring him as soon as you get in.’

Banks headed for his office. Before phoning Phil Hartnell, he opened his window as wide as it would go and lit a cigarette. Bugger the rules; it was shaping up to be one of those days, and it
had only just begun. Banks should have known Maggie Forrest was a loose cannon, that his warning might well just egg her on to more foolish behaviour. But what else could he do about her? Not much,
apparently. She hadn’t committed a criminal offence, and certainly there was nothing to be gained by going around and telling her off again. Still, if he did happen to see her for any reason,
he’d give her a piece of his mind. She had no idea what she was playing with.

When he calmed down, he sat at his desk and reached for the phone, but it rang before he could pick it up and dial Hartnell’s number.

‘Alan? Stefan here.’

‘I hope you’ve got some good news for me, Stefan, because the way this morning’s going I could do with some.’

‘That bad?’

‘Getting that way.’

‘Maybe this’ll cheer you up, then. I just got the DNA comparison in from the lab.’

‘And?’

‘A match. Terence Payne was your Seacroft Rapist, all right.’

Banks slapped the desk. ‘Excellent. Anything else?’

‘Only minor points. The lads going through all the documents and bills taken from the house have found no evidence of sleeping tablets prescribed for either Terence or Lucy Payne and they
didn’t find any illegal ones, either.’

‘As I thought.’

‘They did find an electronics catalogue, though, from one of those places that put you on their mailing list when you buy something from them.’

‘What did they buy?’

‘There’s no record of their buying anything on their credit cards, but we’ll approach the company and get someone to go through the purchases, see if they used cash. And
another thing: there were some marks on the floor of the cellar that on further investigation look rather like those a tripod would make. I’ve talked with Luke and he didn’t use a
tripod, so . . .’

‘Someone else did.’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Then where the hell is it?’

‘No idea.’

‘Okay, Stefan, thanks for the good news. Keep looking.’

‘Will do.’

As soon as he’d hung up, Banks dialled Hartnell’s number. The man himself answered on the second ring.

‘Area Commander Hartnell.’

‘It’s Alan,’ said Banks. ‘Heard you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No. I’ve only just found out. The place is swarming with media.’

‘Surprise, surprise. The stupid woman. What’s the situation with Lucy Payne?’

‘I talked to her yesterday, got nowhere.’

‘Any more evidence?’

‘Not evidence, as such.’ Banks told him about the Seacroft Rapist DNA match, the possibility of a camcorder still being hidden somewhere on the Paynes’s property, and his talk
with George Woodward about the Satanic paraphernalia in Alderthorpe and the ligature strangulation of Kathleen Murray.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Hartnell. ‘Certainly not evidence against Lucy Payne. For Christ’s sake, Alan, she was a victim of the most appalling abuse. I remember that
Alderthorpe case. We don’t want all that raked up. Think what it will look like if we start suggesting she killed her own bloody cousin when she was only twelve.’

‘I thought I might use it to push her a bit, see where she goes.’

‘You know as well as I do that blood and fibres aren’t enough, and as far as evidence goes, they’re all we’ve got. This speculation about her past will do nothing but
gain her more sympathy from the public.’

‘There are probably as many people outraged by the crimes and thinking maybe she had more to do with them than she admits.’