Aftermath (43 page)

‘Well, there’s no point going earlier. Things don’t start to warm up till after midnight.’

‘Yes, Ian, but that leaves over two hours unaccounted for. A lot can happen in two hours.’

‘How was I to know I’d have to account for my every minute?’

‘Two hours.’

‘I told you. We walked around town a bit, dropped in at the Riverboat, then went to the Bar None. I don’t know what fucking time it was.’

‘Sarah?’

Sarah took her thumb from her mouth. ‘What he says.’

‘Is that how it usually goes?’ Banks asked. ‘What Ian says. Haven’t you got a mind of your own?’

‘What he says. We went to the Riverboat then to the Bar None. Leanne left us just before half past ten outside the Old Ship. We don’t know what happened to her after that.’

‘And Mick Blair went with you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did Leanne seem that night, Sarah?’

‘Uh?’

‘What sort of mood was she in?’

‘All right, I suppose.’

‘She wasn’t upset about anything?’

‘No. We were having a good time.’

‘Leanne didn’t confide anything in you?’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Some problem with her stepmother, perhaps?’

‘She was always having problems with that stuck-up bitch. I was sick of hearing about them.’

‘Did she ever talk about running off?’

‘Not to me. Not that I remember. Ian?’

‘Nah. She just whined about the old cow, that’s all. She hadn’t the bottle to run away. If I was looking at somebody for it, I’d look at the stepmother first.’

‘Somebody for what?’

‘You know. If you think someone did something to Leanne, like.’

‘I see. What was the idea that excited you all before you left the Old Ship?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ian.

‘Oh, come on. We know you seemed excited by something you were going to do. What was it? Did it include Leanne?’

‘We talked about going to the Bar None, but Leanne knew she couldn’t come with us.’

‘That’s all?’

‘What else could there be?’

‘She didn’t give you any hint that she might not be going straight home?’

‘No.’

‘Or that she might run off, teach her stepmother a lesson?’

‘Dunno. Who can tell what’s in a bitch’s mind when it comes right down to it, hey?’

‘Tut-tut, such language. You’ve been listening to too much hip-hop, Ian,’ said Banks, standing to leave. ‘Nice choice of partner, Sarah,’ he said on his way out, noticing that Sarah Francis looked distinctly put out and, more to the point, even a little frightened. That might come in useful before too long, he thought.

•

‘I just had to get out of the flat, that’s all,’ said Janet Taylor. ‘I mean, I didn’t want to drag you halfway across Yorkshire.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Annie, with a smile. ‘I don’t live that far away. Besides, I like it here.’

Here
was a rambling old pub on the edge of the moorland above Wensleydale, not far from Banks’s cottage, with a solid reputation for Sunday lunch. Janet’s call had come shortly after ten o’clock that morning, just as Annie was having a nap to make up for her lack of sleep at Banks’s place. Their conversation had bothered her, kept her awake well into the small hours; she didn’t like talking about babies.

Trust Banks to hit a nerve. What she also didn’t like and didn’t seem able to tell him about these personal revelations of his was that they pushed her into examining her own past and her own feelings far more than she felt ready to do right now. She wished he would just lighten up and take it easy.

Anyway, an open-air lunch was just the ticket. The air was pure, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. From where they sat she could see the lush green dalesides criss-crossed with drystone walls, sheep wandering all over, baaing like crazy if any ramblers passed by. Down in the valley bottom, the river meandered and a group of cottages huddled around a village green, the square-towered church a little to one side, grey limestone bright in the midday sun. She thought she could see the tiny silhouettes of four people walking along the top of the high limestone scar over the dale. Christ, it would be good to be up there, all alone, not a care in the world.

But if the setting was ideal, she might have chosen a different companion. Despite the change of environment, Janet seemed distracted, forever flicking back the lock of hair that fell over her tired brown eyes. There was an unhealthy pallor about her that Annie guessed would take more than a lunch on the moors to dispel. Already Janet was on her second pint of lager and lime, and Annie had to bite her tongue not to say something about drink-driving. She was on her first half of bitter, might have another half, then coffee after lunch. Annie, who was a vegetarian, had ordered quiche and a salad, but she was pleased to see that Janet had ordered roast lamb; she looked as if she needed some meat on her bones.

‘How are you doing?’ Annie asked.

Janet laughed. ‘Oh, about as well as can be expected.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I still can’t get the sleep thing sorted out. You know, I keep replaying it, but I’m not sure if I’m seeing it the way it really happened.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, in the replays I see his face.’

‘Terry Payne’s?’

‘Yes, all twisted and contorted. Fearsome. But I don’t think I remember seeing him clearly at the time. My mind must be filling in details.’

‘Possibly.’ Annie thought of her own ordeal, the rape carried out by three colleagues after celebrating her passing her sergeant’s boards. At the time, she could have sworn she would remember every grunt and groan, every obscene facial expression and every sensation of him – the one who actually succeeded in penetrating her while the others held her down – forcing himself inside her as she struggled, tearing at her clothes, every drop of sweat that dripped from his face onto her skin, but she was surprised to find that much of it had faded, and it wasn’t a memory she felt compelled to rerun for herself night after night. Perhaps she was tougher than she thought, or maybe she was compartmentalizing it, as someone had once told her she did, shutting out the pain and humiliation.

‘You’ve changed your mind about the statement, then?’ Annie asked. They were sitting far enough away that they couldn’t be overheard if they spoke quietly. Not that any of the other diners looked as if they wanted to eavesdrop; they were all family groups talking loudly and laughing, trying to keep track of their adventurous children.

‘I wasn’t lying,’ said Janet. ‘I want you to know that, first off.’

‘I know that.’

‘I was just confused, that’s all. My memory of that night’s a bit shaky.’

‘Understandable. But you do remember how many times you hit him?’

‘No. All I’m saying is that it might have been more than I thought.’

Their meals arrived. Janet tucked in as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hadn’t, and Annie picked at her food. The quiche was dry and the salad boring, but that was to be expected in a place that catered mostly for meat eaters. At least she could enjoy the view. A high plane left a figure of eight of white vapour-trail across the sky.

‘Janet,’ Annie went on. ‘What do you want to change in your statement?’

‘Well, you know, where I insisted I only hit him, what, two or three times?’

‘Four.’

‘Whatever. And the post mortem found . . . how many?’

‘Nine blows.’

‘Right.’

‘Do you remember hitting him nine times?’

‘No. That’s not what I’m saying.’ Janet sawed off a piece of lamb and chewed on it for a moment.

Annie ate some lettuce. ‘What
are
you saying, Janet?’

‘Just that, well, I suppose I lost it, that’s all.’

‘You’re claiming diminished responsibility?’

‘Not really. I mean, I knew what was going on, but I was scared and I was upset about Dennis, so I just . . . I don’t know, maybe I should have stopped hitting him sooner, after I’d handcuffed him to the pipes.’

‘You hit him after that?’

‘I think so. Once or twice.’

‘And you remember doing that?’

‘I remember hitting him after I’d handcuffed him, yes. Thinking, this one’s for Dennis, you bastard. I just don’t remember how many times.’

‘You realize you’ll have to come to the station and revise your statement, don’t you? I mean, it’s okay just telling me here, now, like this, but it has to be done officially.’

Janet raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course I know that. I’m still a copper, aren’t I? I just wanted . . . you know . . .’ She looked away out over the dale.

Annie thought she did know and that Janet was too embarrassed to say it. She wanted some company. She wanted someone who would at least try to understand her in a gorgeous setting on a beautiful day, before the three-ringed circus that was likely to be her life for the next while went into full swing.

Jenny Fuller and Banks had lunch together in the slightly less exotic Queen’s Arms. The place was bursting at the seams with Sunday tourists, but they bagged a small table – so small there was hardly room for two roast beef and Yorkshire pud specials and the drinks – just before they stopped serving meals at two o’clock. Lager for Jenny and a pint of shandy for Banks because he had to conduct another interview that afternoon. He still looked tired, Jenny thought, and she guessed that the case had been keeping him awake at nights. That and his obvious discomfort over Sandra’s pregnancy.

Jenny and Sandra had been friends. Not close, but both had been through harrowing experiences around the same time and these had created some sort of bond between them. Since her travels in America, though, Jenny hadn’t seen much of Sandra and now she supposed she wouldn’t see her again. If she had to choose sides, as people did, then she supposed she had chosen Alan’s. She had thought he and Sandra had a solid marriage – after all, Alan had turned her down when she tried to seduce him and that had been a new experience for her – but clearly she was wrong. Never having been married herself, she would have been the first to confess that she knew little about such things, except that outward appearances often belie an inner turmoil.

So what had been going through Sandra’s mind in that last little while was a mystery. Alan had said that he wasn’t sure whether Sandra met Sean before or after they split up, or whether he was the real reason behind the separation. Jenny doubted it. Like most problems, it hadn’t just happened overnight, or when someone else turned up on the scene. Sean was as much a symptom as anything, and an escape hatch. This business had probably been years in the making.

‘The car,’ Banks said.

‘A blue Citroen.’

‘Yes. I don’t suppose you got the number?’

‘I must admit it never crossed my mind the first time I saw it. I mean, why would I? It was in Alderthorpe and I parked behind it. Coming back from Spurn Head it always stayed too far behind for me to be able to see.’

‘And you lost it where?’

‘I didn’t lose it. I noticed it stopped following me just after I got onto the M62 west of Hull.’

‘And you never saw it again?’

‘No.’ Jenny laughed. ‘I must admit I felt rather as if I was being run out of town. You know, like in those cowboy films.’

‘You didn’t get a glimpse of the driver at all?’

‘No. Couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.’

‘What next?’

‘I’ve some university work to catch up on and some tutorials tomorrow. I could postpone them, but . . .’

‘No, that’s okay,’ said Banks. ‘Lucy Payne’s out, anyway. No real rush.’

‘Well, on Tuesday or Wednesday I’ll see if I can talk to Keith Murray in Durham. Then there’s Laura in Edinburgh. I’m developing a picture of Linda–Lucy, but it’s still missing a few pieces.’

‘Such as?’

‘That’s the problem. I’m not sure. I just get the feeling that I’m missing something.’ She saw Banks’s worried expression and slapped his arm. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll not go putting my intuitions into my profiles. This is just between you and me.’

‘Okay.’

‘I suppose you could call it the missing link. The link between Linda’s childhood and the possibility of Lucy’s being involved in the abductions and murders.’

‘There’s the sexual abuse.’

‘Yes, there’s no doubt that many people who were abused become abusers themselves – it’s a cycle – and, according to Maureen Nesbitt, Linda was sexually aware at eleven. But none of that’s enough in itself. All I can say is that it
could
have created a psychopathology in Lucy that made her capable of becoming the compliant victim of a man like Terence Payne. People often repeat mistakes and bad choices. You just have to look at
my
history of relationships to see that.’

Banks smiled. ‘You’ll get it right one day.’

‘Meet my knight in shining armour?’

‘Is that what you want? Someone to fight your battles for you, then pick you up and carry you upstairs?’

‘It’s not a bad idea.’

‘And I thought you were a feminist.’

‘I am. It doesn’t mean I might not fight his battles, pick him up and carry him upstairs the next day. All I’m saying is that the chance would be a fine thing. Anyway, can’t a woman have her fantasies?’

‘Depends where they lead. Has it occurred to you that Lucy Payne wasn’t the compliant victim at all and that her husband was?’

‘No, it hasn’t. I’ve never come across such a case.’

‘But not impossible?’

‘In human psychology, nothing’s impossible. Just very unlikely, that’s all.’

‘But supposing she were the powerful one, the dominant partner . . .’

‘And Terence Payne was her sex slave, doing her bidding?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jenny. ‘But I very much doubt it. Besides, even if it is true, it doesn’t really get us any further, does it?’

‘I suppose not. Just speculation. You mentioned that Payne might have used a camcorder when you visited the cellar, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Jenny sipped some lager and dabbed her lips with a paper serviette. ‘It would be highly unusual in such a ritualized case of rape, murder and interment for the perpetrator
not
to keep some sort of record.’