Aftermath (11 page)

‘
Mrs
Payne? No. Why?’

‘All right, Claire. You can go home now.’

‘Is there any more news of Lucy?’ Maggie asked after Claire had left.

‘She’s comfortable. She’ll be fine.’

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Just a few loose ends from this morning’s interview, that’s all.’

‘Oh?’ Maggie fingered the neck of her T-shirt.

‘Nothing important, I shouldn’t think.’

‘What is it?’

‘One of the officers who interviewed you gave me the impression that he thought you weren’t telling the full story about your relationship with Lucy Payne.’

Maggie raised her eyebrows. ‘I see.’

‘Would you describe the two of you as close friends?’

‘Friends, yes, but close, no. I haven’t known Lucy long.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Yesterday. She dropped by in the afternoon.’

‘What did you talk about?’

Maggie looked down at her hands on her lap. ‘Nothing, really. You know, the weather, work, that sort of thing.’

Kimberley Myers was tied up naked in the cellar of the Payne house and Lucy had dropped by to talk about the weather. Either she really was innocent, or her evil went way beyond anything Banks had experienced before. ‘Did she ever give you any cause to suspect that anything was wrong at home?’ he asked.

Maggie paused. ‘Not in the way you’re suggesting. No.’

‘What way am I suggesting?’

‘I assume it’s to do with the murder? With Kimberley’s murder?’

Banks leaned back in his armchair and sighed. It had been a long day, and it was getting longer. Maggie wasn’t a convincing liar. ‘Ms Forrest,’ he said, ‘right now anything at all we can find out about life at number thirty-five The Hill would be useful to us. And I mean
anything
. I’m getting the same impression as my colleague, that you’re keeping something back.’

‘It’s nothing relevant.’

‘How the hell would you know!’ Banks snapped at her. He was shocked by the way she flinched at his harsh tone, at the look of fear and submission that crossed her features and the way she wrapped her arms around herself and drew in. ‘Ms Forrest . . . Maggie,’ he said more softly. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve had a bad day, and this is becoming very frustrating. If I had a penny for every time someone told me their information was irrelevant to my investigation I’d be a rich man. I know we all have secrets. I know there are some things we’d rather not talk about. But this is a murder investigation. Kimberley Myers is dead. PC Dennis Morrisey is dead. God knows how many more bodies we’ll unearth there, and I have to sit here and listen to you tell me that you know Lucy Payne, that she may have shared certain feelings and information with you and that you don’t think it’s
relevant
. Come on, Maggie. Give me a break here.’

The silence seemed to go on for ages, until Maggie’s small voice broke it. ‘She was being abused. Lucy. He . . . her husband . . . he hit her.’

‘Terence Payne abused his wife?’

‘Yes. Is that so strange? If he can murder teenage girls, he’s certainly capable of beating his wife.’

‘She told you this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t she do something about it?’

‘It’s not as easy as you think.’

‘I’m not saying it’s easy. And don’t assume that you know what I think. What did you advise her?’

‘I told her to seek professional help, of course, but she was dragging her heels.’

Banks knew enough about domestic violence to know that its victims often find it very difficult to go to the authorities or get out: they feel shame, feel it’s their own fault, feel humiliated and would rather keep it to themselves, believing it will turn out all right in the end. Many of them have nowhere else to go, no other lives to live, and they are scared of the world outside the home, even if the home is violent. He also got the impression that Maggie Forrest knew first hand what she was talking about. The way she had flinched at his sharp tone, the way she had been so reluctant to talk about the subject, holding back. These were all signs.

‘Did she ever mention that she suspected her husband of any other crimes?’

‘Never.’

‘But she was frightened of him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you visit their house?’

‘Yes. Sometimes.’

‘Notice anything unusual?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘How did the two of them behave together?’

‘Lucy always seemed nervous, edgy. Anxious to please.’

‘Did you ever see any bruises?’

‘They don’t always leave bruises. But Lucy seemed afraid of him, afraid of putting a foot wrong. That’s what I mean.’

Banks made some notes. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is that all you were holding back, or is there something else?’

‘There’s nothing else.’

Banks stood up and excused himself. ‘Do you see now,’ he said at the door, ‘that what you’ve told me
is
relevant, after all? Very relevant.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Terence Payne has serious brain injuries. He’s in a coma from which he may never recover and, even if he does, he might remember nothing. Lucy Payne will mend quite easily. You’re the first person who’s given us any information at all about her, and it’s information from which she could benefit.’

‘How?’

‘There are only two questions as regards Lucy Payne. First, was she involved? And second, did she know and keep quiet about it? What you’ve just told me is the first thing that tips the scales in her favour. By talking to me, you’ve done your friend a service. Good evening, Ms Forrest. I’ll make sure there’s an officer keeping an eye on the place.’

‘Why? Do you think I’m in danger? You said Terry—’

‘Not that sort of danger. The press. They can be very persistent, and I wouldn’t want you telling them what you’ve just told me.’

Leanne Wray
was sixteen when she disappeared from Eastvale on Friday, thirty-first March. She was five feet two inches tall, weighed just six stone twelve, and was an
only child living with her father, Christopher Wray, a bus driver, and her stepmother Victoria, who stayed home, in a terrace house just north of Eastvale town centre. Leanne was a pupil at
Eastvale Comprehensive.

Leanne’s parents later told police that they saw nothing wrong in letting their daughter go to the pictures that Friday night, even though they had heard of the disappearances of Kelly
Matthews and Samantha Foster. After all, she was going with her friends and they said she had to be home by half past ten at the latest.

The one thing Christopher and Victoria might have objected to, had they known about it, was the presence in the group of Ian Scott. Christopher and Victoria didn’t like Leanne hanging
around with Ian. For one thing, he was two years older than she was, and that meant a lot at her age. For another, Ian had a reputation as a bit of a trouble-maker and had even been arrested twice
by the police: once for taking and driving away and once for selling Ecstasy in the Bar None. Also, Leanne was a very pretty girl, slim and shapely, with beautiful golden blonde hair, an almost
translucent complexion and long-lashed blue eyes, and they thought an older boy like Ian could be interested in her for only one thing. That he had his own flat was another black mark against
him.

But Leanne just liked to hang out with Ian’s crowd. Ian’s girlfriend, also with them that night, was Sarah Francis, aged seventeen, and the fourth in the party was Mick Blair, aged
eighteen, just a friend. They all said they had walked around the centre for a while after the film, then gone for a coffee at the El Toro – though the police discovered on further
investigation that they had actually been drinking in the Old Ship Inn, in an alley between North Market Street and York Road, and lied about it because both Leanne and Sarah were under age. When
pressed, they all said that Leanne had left them just outside the pub and headed home on foot at about a quarter past ten, a journey that should have taken her no more than ten minutes. But she
never arrived.

Leanne’s parents, though angry and worried, gave her until morning before calling the police, and an investigation, headed by Banks, soon went into full swing. Eastvale was papered with
posters of Leanne, everyone who had been at the cinema, in the Old Ship Inn and in the town centre that evening was questioned. Nothing. They even ran a reconstruction, but nothing came of it.
Leanne Wray had vanished into thin air. Not one person reported seeing her since she left the Old Ship.

Her three friends said they went to another pub, the Riverboat, a crowded place that stayed open late, and ended up at the Bar None on the market square. The closed-circuit TV cameras showed
them turning up there at about half past twelve. Ian Scott’s flat was given the full SOCO treatment to see if any evidence of Leanne’s presence could be found there, but there was
nothing. If she had been there, she had left no trace.

There were hints of tension in the Wray home, Banks soon discovered, and according to a school friend, Jill Brown, Leanne didn’t get on well with her stepmother. They argued a lot. She
missed her real mother, who had died of cancer two years ago, and Leanne had told her friend that she thought Victoria ought to go out and get a job instead of ‘sponging off her dad’,
who didn’t make a lot of money anyway. Things were always a bit tough financially, Jill said, and Leanne had to wear sturdier clothes than she thought fashionable and make them last longer
than she would have wished. When she was sixteen, she got a Saturday job in a town centre boutique, so she was able to buy nice clothes at a discount.

There was, then, the faintest hope that Leanne had run away from a difficult situation and somehow hadn’t heard the appeals. Until her shoulder-bag was found in the shrubbery of a garden
she would have passed on her route home. The owners of the house were questioned, but they turned out to be a retired couple in their seventies and were soon exonerated.

After the third day, Banks contacted his Assistant Chief Constable, Ron McLaughlin, and discussions with Area Commander Philip Hartnell of West Yorkshire Police followed. Within days, the
‘Chameleon’ task force was created and Banks was put in charge of North Yorkshire’s part. It meant more resources, more man-hours and more concentrated effort. It also meant,
sadly, that they believed a serial killer was at work, and this was something the newspapers lost no time in speculating about.

Leanne was an average pupil, so her teachers said. She could probably do better if she tried harder, but she didn’t want to make the effort. She intended to leave school at the end of the
year and get a job, maybe in a clothes shop or a music shop like Virgin or HMV. She loved pop music, and her favourite group was Oasis, no matter what people said about them. Leanne was a loyal
fan. Her friends thought her a rather shy but easy-going person, quick to laugh at people’s jokes and not given much to introspection. She also suffered from mild asthma and carried an
inhaler, which had been found along with the rest of her personal things in the abandoned shoulder-bag.

If the second victim, Samantha Foster, was a little eccentric, Leanne Wray was about as ordinary a lower-middle-class Yorkshire lass as you could get.

•

‘Yeah, I’m all right to talk, sir. Really. Come on in.’

PC Janet Taylor didn’t
look
all right to Banks when he called at her flat after six that evening, but then anyone who had, that morning, both fought off a serial killer and cradled
her dying partner’s head on her lap had every right to look a bit peaky. Janet was pale and drawn, and the fact that she was dressed all in black only served to accentuate her pallor.

Janet’s flat was above a hairdresser’s on Harrogate Road, not far from the airport. Banks could smell the setting lotion and herbal shampoo inside the ground floor doorway. He
followed her up the narrow staircase. She moved listlessly, dragging her feet. Banks felt almost as weary as Janet seemed. He had just attended Kimberley Myers’s post mortem and while it had
yielded no surprises – death by ligature strangulation – Dr Mackenzie had found traces of semen in the vagina, anus and mouth. With any luck, DNA would link that to Terence Payne.

Janet Taylor’s living room showed signs of neglect typical to a single police officer’s dwelling. Banks recognized it all too well. He tried to keep his own cottage clean as best he
could, but it was difficult sometimes when you couldn’t afford a cleaning lady and you didn’t have time yourself. When you did have a bit of free time, the last thing you wanted to do
was housework. Still, the small room was cosy enough despite the patina of dust on the low table and the T-shirt and bra slung over the back of the armchair, the magazines and occasional unwashed
teacups. There were three framed posters of old Bogie movies on the walls –
Casablanca
,
The Maltese Falcon
and
The African Queen
– and some photos on the
mantelpiece, including one of Janet looking proud in her uniform, standing between an older couple Banks took to be her mother and father. The potted plant on the windowsill looked to be on its
last legs, wilting and brown around the edges of the leaves. A television set flickered in one corner, the sound turned down. It was a local news programme, and Banks recognized the scene around
the Payne house.

Janet moved the T-shirt and bra from the back of the armchair. ‘Sit down, sir.’

‘Can we have the sound on for a minute?’ Banks asked. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll learn something.’

‘Sure.’ Janet turned the volume up, but all they got was a repeat of AC Hartnell’s earlier press statement. When it was over, Janet got up and turned off the TV. She still
seemed slow in her movements, slurred in her speech, and Banks imagined it was something to do with the tranquillizers the doctor would have given her. Or maybe it was the half-empty bottle of gin
on the sideboard.

A plane took off from Leeds and Bradford Airport, and while the noise didn’t actually shake the flat, it was enough to rattle a glass and make conversation impossible for a minute or so.
It was also hot in the small room, and Banks felt the sweat gather on his forehead and under his arms.