Aftermath (12 page)

‘It’s why the place is so cheap,’ Janet said after the noise had waned to a distant drone. ‘I don’t mind it that much. You get used to it. Sometimes I sit here and
imagine I’m up there in one of them, flying off to some exotic country.’ She got up and poured herself a small gin, adding some tonic from an open bottle of Schweppes. ‘Fancy a
drink, sir?’

‘No, thanks. How are you coping?’

Janet sat down again and shook her head. ‘The funny thing is, I don’t really know. I’m all right, I suppose, but I feel sort of numb, as if I’ve just come round from an
anaesthetic and I’m still all padded in cotton wool. Or like I’m in a dream and I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning and everything will be different. It won’t, though,
will it?’

‘Probably not,’ said Banks. ‘It might even be worse.’

Janet laughed. ‘Well, thanks for not giving me a load of bollocks.’

Banks smiled. ‘My pleasure. Look, I’m not here to question your actions, but I need to know what happened in that house. Do you feel up to talking about it?’

‘Sure.’

Banks noticed her body language, the way she crossed her arms and seemed to draw in on herself, and guessed that she wasn’t up to it, but he had to press on nonetheless.

‘I felt like a criminal, you know,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The way the doctor examined me, bagged my clothes, scraped under my fingernails.’

‘It’s routine. You know it is.’

‘I know. I know. That’s not what it feels like on the receiving end, though.’

‘I suppose not. Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Janet. This could be a serious problem. It could be over in no time at all, a minor bump in the road, but it could stick around,
cause you problems with your career—’

‘I think that’s pretty much over, don’t you, sir?’

‘Not necessarily. Not unless you want it to be.’

‘I must admit I haven’t given it a lot of thought since . . . you know.’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Funny thing is, if this was America, I’d be a hero.’

‘What happened when you first received the call?’

Janet told him about the car fire and the call and finding Lucy Payne unconscious in the hallway in short, halting sentences, occasionally pausing for a sip of gin and tonic, once or twice
losing her thread and staring towards the open window. Sounds of evening traffic came up from the busy road and occasionally a plane landed or took off.

‘Did you think she was seriously hurt?’

‘Serious enough. Not life threatening. But I stayed with her while Dennis checked around upstairs. He came back with a blanket and a pillow, I remember that. I thought that was nice of
him. It surprised me.’

‘Dennis wasn’t always nice?’

‘It’s not a word I’d use to describe him, no. We disagreed a lot, but I suppose we got on okay. He’s all right. Just a bit of a Neanderthal. And full of
himself.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘Dennis went in the back, the kitchen. I mean, someone had hit her and if it was her husband, the odds were he was still in the house somewhere. Right? Probably feeling sorry for
himself.’

‘You stayed with Lucy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Dennis called me, so I left her. She was as comfortable as I could make her, with the blanket and the pillow. The bleeding had pretty much stopped. I didn’t think she was in any
real danger. The ambulance was on its way . . .’

‘You didn’t sense any danger in the house?’

‘Danger? No, not at all. I mean, no more than you do in any domestic. They can turn on you. It’s happened. But no.’

‘Okay. What made you go down to the cellar? Did you think her husband might be there?’

‘Yes, I suppose we must have.’

‘Why did Dennis call you?’

Janet paused, clearly embarrassed.

‘Janet?’

Finally she looked at him. ‘You’ve been there? Down the cellar?’

‘Yes.’

‘That picture on the door. The woman.’

‘I saw it.’

‘Dennis called me to see it. It was his idea of a joke. That’s what I mean. Neanderthal.’

‘I see. Was the door open? The door to the cellar?’

‘No, it was closed. But there was light showing under it, a sort of flickering light.’

‘You didn’t hear anyone in there?’

‘No.’

‘Did either of you call out before you went in, identifying yourselves as police officers?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Okay, Janet. You’re doing fine. Carry on.’

Janet’s knees were pressed tight together and she was twisting her hands on her lap as she spoke. ‘Like I said, there was this flickering light.’

‘The candles.’

Janet looked at him and gave a little shudder. ‘There was a bad smell, too, like drains.’

‘Did you have any reason to be afraid at this point?’

‘Not particularly. It was creepy, but we were proceeding cautiously, as we always do in such situations. Routine. He could have been armed. The husband. We were aware of that possibility.
But if you mean did we have any inkling of what we’d find in there, then no. If we had we’d have been out of there like a shot and brought in the troops. Dennis and me, we’re
neither of us the hero types.’ She shook her head.

‘Who went in first?’

‘I did. Dennis kicked the door in and stood back, like, you know, making a bow. Taking the piss.’

‘What happened next?’

She gave a sharp jerk of her head. ‘It was all so fast. It was a blur. I remember candles, mirrors, the girl, crude drawings on the walls, things I saw out of the corners of my eyes. But
they’re like images from a dream. A nightmare.’ Her breathing became sharper and she curled up on the armchair, legs under her, arms wrapped around herself. ‘Then he came. Dennis
was right behind me. I could feel his breath warm on my neck.’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘I don’t know. Behind. A corner. So fast.’

‘What did Dennis do?’

‘He didn’t have time to do anything. He must have heard or sensed something to make him turn, and the next thing I knew he was bleeding. He screamed out. That’s when I pulled
my baton. He cut Dennis again, and the blood sprayed over me. It was as if he hadn’t noticed me, or he didn’t care, he’d get to me later. But when he did, I had my baton out and
he tried to slash me but I deflected it. Then I hit him . . .’ She started to sob and rubbed the backs of her hands against her eyes. ‘Sorry. Dennis, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ Banks said. ‘Take it easy, Janet. You’re doing fine.’

‘He had his head on my lap. I was trying to hold the artery closed, like they teach in first aid. But I couldn’t do it. I’d never done it before, not with anyone real. The
blood just kept seeping out. So much blood.’ She sniffed and ran the back of her hand across her nose. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s okay. You’re doing fine, Janet. Before that. Before you tried to save Dennis, what else did you do?’

‘I remember handcuffing the man to one of the pipes.’

‘How many times did you hit him?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘More than once?’

‘Yes. He wouldn’t stop coming, so I hit him again.’

‘And again?’

‘Yes. He kept getting up.’ She started sobbing again. When she’d calmed, she asked, ‘Is he dead?’

‘Not yet.’

‘The bastard killed Dennis.’

‘I know. And when a man’s partner is killed he’s supposed to do something about it, right? If you don’t, it’s bad for business, bad for detectives
everywhere.’

Janet looked at him as if he were crazy. ‘What?’

Banks looked up at Bogart as Sam Spade. Clearly the posters were there for show, not as a result of any great passion for the films themselves, and his pathetic attempt at lightening things up
fell flat. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering what went through your mind.’

‘Nothing. I didn’t have time to stop and think. He’d cut Dennis and he was going to cut me. Call it self-preservation if you like, but it wasn’t a conscious thought. I
mean, I didn’t think I’d better hit him again or he might get up and cut me. It wasn’t like that.’

‘What
was
it like?’

‘I told you. A blur. I disabled the killer, handcuffed him to one of the pipes and then I tried to keep Dennis alive. I didn’t even look in Payne’s direction again. To be
honest, I didn’t give a damn what shape he was in. Only Dennis.’ Janet paused and looked down at her hands clasped around the glass. ‘You know what really gets me? I’d just
been nasty to him. All because he’d been telling his damn sexist jokes to that fireman.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’d been arguing, that’s all. Just before we got to the house. I told him his mole was probably cancerous. It was cruel of me. I know he’s a hypochondriac. Why did I do
that? Why am I such a horrible person? Then it was too late. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t mean it.’ She cried again and Banks thought it best to let her get it all out. It would
take more than one tearful session to purge her of her guilt, but at least it was a start.

‘Have you been in touch with the Federation?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Do it tomorrow. Talk to your rep. They’ll be able to help with counselling, if you want it, and . . .’

‘Legal representation?’

‘If it comes to that, yes.’

Janet got to her feet a bit more unsteadily and went to pour herself another drink.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Banks asked.

Janet poured herself a stiff measure and sat down again. ‘Tell me what else I should be doing, sir. Should I be going to sit with Dennis’s wife and kids? Should I try to explain to
them how it happened, how it was all my fault? Or should I just smash up my flat and go out on the town and pick a fight in some anonymous pub somewhere, the way I feel like doing? I don’t
think so. This is by far the least harmful alternative to
anything else
I’d rather be doing right now.’

Banks realized that she had a point. He had felt that way himself more than once, and had even given in to the urge to go out on the town and pick a fight. It hadn’t helped. He would be a
hypocrite if he said he didn’t understand plenty about finding oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. There had been two periods in his life when he had sought solace that way. The first was
when he felt he was fast approaching burnout those last few months in London, before the transfer to Eastvale, and the second was more than a year ago, after Sandra had left him.

The thing was, people said it didn’t work, but it did. As a short-term solution, for temporary oblivion, there was nothing to match the bottle, except perhaps heroin, which Banks
hadn’t tried. Maybe Janet Taylor was right, and tonight drinking was the best thing she could do. She was hurting, and sometimes you had to do your hurting by yourself. Booze helped dull the
pain for a while, and eventually you passed out. The hangover would be painful, but that was for tomorrow.

‘Right you are. I’ll let myself out.’ On impulse, Banks leaned over and kissed the top of Janet’s head as he left. Her hair tasted of burnt plastic and rubber.

•

That evening, Jenny Fuller sat in her home office, where she kept all the files and notes on the investigation on her computer, no office having been made available to her at
Millgarth. The office looked out over the Green, a narrow stretch of parkland between her street and the East Side Estate. She could just see the lights of the houses through the spaces between the
dark trees.

Working so closely with Banks had made Jenny remember a lot of their history. She had once tried to seduce him, she recalled with embarrassment, and he had resisted politely, claiming to be a
happily married man. But he was attracted to her; she knew that much. He wasn’t a happily married man any more, but now he had ‘The Girlfriend’, as Jenny had come to call Annie
Cabbot, though she had never met her. That had come about because Jenny had spent so much time out of the country and hadn’t even been around when Banks and Sandra separated. If she had been
. . . well, things might have been different. Instead, she had embarked on a series of disastrous relationships.

One of the reasons she had spent so much time away, she had finally admitted to herself after coming back from California this last time with her tail between her legs, was to get away from
Banks, from the easy proximity to him that tormented her so much while she pretended to be casual about the whole thing, and much cooler than she felt. And now they were working closely
together.

With a sigh, Jenny returned her attention to her work.

Her main problem thus far, she realized, had been an almost complete lack of forensic and crime scene information, and without them it was damn near impossible to produce a decent threshold
analysis – an initial review that could serve as an investigative compass, help the police know where to look – let alone a more complex profile. About all she had been able to work on
was the victimology. All this, of course, had given her detractors on the task force – and they were legion – plenty of ammunition.

England was still in the Dark Ages as far as the use of consultant psychologists and criminal profiling went, Jenny believed, especially as compared to the USA. Partly this was because the FBI
is a national force with the resources to develop national programmes and Britain has fifty or more separate police forces all operating piecemeal. Also, profilers in the USA tend to be cops and
are therefore more readily accepted. In Britain, profilers are usually psychologists or psychiatrists and, as such, are distrusted by the police and the legal system in general. Consultant
psychologists would be lucky to make it to the witness box in an English court, Jenny knew, let alone be accepted as expert witnesses, the way they are in the USA. Even if they did get in the box,
whatever evidence they gave would be looked at askance by judge and jury, and the defence would wheel in another psychologist with a different theory.

The Dark Ages.

When it came right down to it, Jenny was well aware that most of the police she worked with regarded her as perhaps only one step up from a clairvoyant, if that, and that they only brought her
in because it was easier than not doing so. But she struggled on. While she was prepared to admit that profiling was still, perhaps, more of an art than a science, and while a profile could rarely,
if ever, point the finger at a specific killer, she believed that it could narrow the field and help focus an investigation.