Aftermath (19 page)

Banks was in Borders looking at the colourful display of bestsellers, and he didn’t even remember walking into the shop, when his mobile rang. He went outside and ducked into the Victoria Quarter before answering, leaning near the entrance across from the Harvey Nichols café. It was Stefan.

‘Alan, thought you’d like to know ASAP, we’ve identified the three bodies in the cellar. Got lucky with the dentists. We’ll still run the DNA, though, cross-check with the parents.’

‘That’s great,’ said Banks, snapping back from his gloomy thoughts of Sandra and Sean. ‘And?’

‘Melissa Horrocks, Samantha Foster and Kelly Matthews.’

‘What?’

‘I said—’

‘I know. I heard what you said. I just. . .’ People were walking by with their shopping and Banks didn’t want to be overheard. To be truthful, he also still felt like a bit of a dickhead talking on his mobile in public, though from what he saw around him, nobody else did. He had even once witnessed a father sitting in a Helmthorpe café phone his daughter in the playground across the road when it was time to go home, and curse because the kid had switched her mobile off so he had to walk across the road and shout to her instead. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s the sequence,’ Banks said. ‘It’s all wrong.’ He lowered his voice and hoped that Stefan could still hear him. ‘Working backwards: Kimberley Myers, Melissa Horrocks, Leanne Wray, Samantha Foster, Kelly Matthews. One of the three should be Leanne Wray. Why isn’t she there?’

A little girl holding her mother’s hand gave Banks a curious look as they passed him by in the arcade. Banks switched off his mobile and headed towards Millgarth.

•

Jenny Fuller was surprised to find Banks ringing her doorbell that evening. It was a long time since he had visited her at home. They had met many times, for coffee or drinks, even lunch or dinner, but rarely had he come here. Jenny had often wondered whether this was anything to do with that clumsy attempt at seduction the first time they had worked together.

‘Come in,’ she said, and Banks followed her through the narrow hall into the high-ceilinged living room. She had redecorated and rearranged the furniture since his last visit and noticed him glancing around in that policeman’s way of his, checking it out. Well, the expensive stereo was the same, and the sofa, she thought, smiling to herself, was the very same one where she had tried to seduce him.

She had bought a small television and video when she got back from America, having picked up the habit of watching there, but apart from the wallpaper and carpeting, nothing much else had changed. She noticed his gaze settle on the Emily Carr print over the fireplace, a huge dark, steep mountain dominating a village in the foreground. Jenny had fallen in love with Emily Carr’s work when she was doing postgraduate work in Vancouver and had bought that print to bring back as a reminder of her three years there. Happy years, for the most part.

‘Drink?’ she asked.

‘Whatever you’re pouring.’

‘Knew I could count on you. I’m sorry I don’t have any Laphroaig. Is red wine okay?’

‘Fine.’

Jenny went to pour the wine and noticed Banks walk over to the window. The Green looked peaceful enough in the golden evening sunlight, long shadows, dark green leaves, people walking their dogs, kids holding hands. Perhaps he was remembering the second time he visited her, Jenny thought with a shudder as she poured the Sainsbury’s Côtes du Rhone.

A drugged-out kid called Mick Webster had held her hostage with a handgun and Banks had managed to defuse the situation. The kid’s mood swings had been extreme, and the whole thing had been touch and go for a while. Jenny had been terrified. Ever since that day she had been unable to listen to
Tosca
, which had been playing in the background at the time. When she had poured the wine, she shook off the bad memory, put a CD of Mozart’s string quartets on and carried the glasses over to the sofa.

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses. Banks looked as tired as Jenny had ever seen him. His skin was pale and even his normally sharp and lean features seemed to be sagging on the bone the way his suit sagged on his frame, and his eyes seemed more deeply set than usual, duller, lacking their usual sparkle. Still, she told herself, the poor sod probably hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since he was put in charge of the task force. She wanted to reach out and touch his face, smooth away the cares, but she didn’t dare risk rejection again.

‘So? To what do I owe the honour?’ Jenny said. ‘I’m assuming it’s not just my irresistible company that’s brought you here?’

Banks smiled. It made him look a little better, she thought. A little. ‘I’d like to say it was,’ he answered, ‘but I’d be a liar if I did.’

‘And God forbid you should ever be a liar, Alan Banks. Such an honourable man. But couldn’t you be a bit
less
honourable sometimes? The rest of us human beings, well, we can’t help the occasional untruth, but you, no, you can’t even lie to give a girl a compliment.’

‘Jenny, I just couldn’t stay away. Some inner force drove me to your house, compelled me to seek you out. I just knew I had to come—’

Jenny laughed and waved him down. ‘All right, all right. That’s enough. Honourable is much better.’ She ran her hand through her hair. ‘How’s Sandra?’

‘Sandra’s pregnant.’

Jenny shook her head as if she had been slapped. ‘She’s
what
?’

‘She’s pregnant. I’m sorry to state it so abruptly, but I can’t think of a better way.’

‘That’s all right. I’m just a bit gobsmacked.’

‘You and me both.’

‘How do you feel about it?’

‘You sound like a psychologist.’

‘I
am
a psychologist.’

‘I know. But you don’t have to sound like one. How do I feel about it? I don’t know yet. When you get right down to it, it’s none of my business, is it? I let go the night she asked for a divorce so she could marry Sean.’

‘Is that why . . .?’

‘Yes. They want to get married, make the kid legal.’

‘Did you talk to her?’

‘No. Tracy told me. Sandra and I . . . well, we don’t communicate much any more.’

‘That’s sad, Alan.’

‘Maybe.’

‘There’s still a lot of anger and bitterness?’

‘Funnily enough, there isn’t. Oh, I know I might sound a bit upset, but it was the shock, that’s all. I mean, there was a lot of anger, but it was sort of a revelation when she asked for the divorce. A release. I knew then that it was really over and that I should just get on with my life.’

‘And?’

‘And I have done, for the most part.’

‘But residual feelings surprise you sometimes? Creep up behind you and hit you on the back of your head?’

‘I suppose you could say that.’

‘Welcome to the human race, Alan. You ought to know by now that you don’t stop having feelings for someone just because you split up.’

‘It was all new to me. She was the only woman I’d been with for any length of time. The only one I wanted. Now I know what it feels like. Naturally, I wish them all the best.’

‘
Meow
. There you go again.’

Banks laughed. ‘No. Really, I do.’

Jenny sensed that there was something he wasn’t telling her, but she also knew that he guarded his feelings when he wanted to and she would get nowhere if she pushed him. Best move on to the business at hand, she thought. And if he wants to say anything more about Sandra, he’ll say it in his own time. ‘That wasn’t why you came to see me, either, was it?’

‘Not really. Maybe partly. But I do want to talk to you about the case.’

‘Any new developments?’

‘Just one.’ Banks told her about the identification of the three bodies and how he found it puzzling.

‘Curious,’ Jenny agreed. ‘I would have expected some sort of sequence, too. They’re still digging outside?’

‘Oh, yes. They’ll be out there for a while.’

‘There wasn’t much room in that little cellar.’

‘Just enough for about three, true,’ said Banks, ‘but that still doesn’t explain why it isn’t the most
recent
three. Anyway, I’d just like to go over some stuff with you. Remember when you suggested, quite early on, that the killer might have had an accomplice?’

‘It was only a remote possibility. Despite the inordinate amounts of publicity your Wests and Bradys and Hindleys get, the killer couple is still a rare phenomenon. I assume you’re thinking of Lucy Payne?’

Banks sipped some wine. ‘I talked to her at the hospital. She . . . well, she said she didn’t remember much about what happened.’

‘Not surprising,’ said Jenny. ‘Retrograde amnesia.’

‘That’s what Dr Landsberg said. It’s not that I don’t believe in it – I’ve come across it before – it’s just so damn . . .’

‘Convenient?’

‘That’s one way of putting it. Jenny, I just couldn’t get over the feeling that she was waiting, calculating, stalling in some way.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘Waiting to see which way the wind was going to blow, as if she can’t work out what to say until she knows what’s happening with Terry. And it would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

‘What would?’

‘The way the girls were taken. A girl walking home on her own would be most unlikely to stop and give directions, say, to a male driver, but she might stop if a woman called her over.’

‘And the man?’

‘Crouched down in the back seat with the chloroform ready? Jumps out the back door and drags her in? I don’t know the details. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it makes sense. Have you got any other evidence of her complicity?’

‘None. But it’s early days yet. The SOCOs are still going through the house and the lab boys are working on the clothes she was wearing when she was assaulted. Even that might come to nothing if she says she went down in the cellar, saw what her husband had done and ran away screaming. That’s what I mean about her waiting to see which way the wind blows. If Terence Payne dies, Lucy’s home free. If he lives, his memory could be damaged irretrievably. He
is
very badly hurt. And even if he recovers, he might decide to protect her, gloss over what part she played.’

‘If she played a part. She certainly couldn’t rely on his memory being damaged, or his dying.’

‘That’s true. But it might have given her the perfect opportunity to cover up her own involvement, if there was any. You had a look around the house, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was your impression?’

Jenny sipped some wine and thought about it: the magazine-perfect décor, the little knick-knacks, the obsessive cleanliness. ‘I suppose you’re thinking of the videos and books?’ she said.

‘Partly. There looked to be some pretty raunchy stuff, especially in the bedroom.’

‘So they’re into porn and kinky sex. So what?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got a couple of soft porn videos in my bedroom. I don’t mind a little kinkiness, now and then. Oh, don’t blush, Alan. I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m simply pointing out that a few videos featuring three-way sex and a bit of mild, consensual S & M don’t necessarily make a killer.’

‘I know that.’

‘And while it is true,’ Jenny went on, ‘that, statistically, most sex killers are into pornography of an extreme kind, it’s false logic to argue the opposite.’

‘I know that, too,’ said Banks. ‘What about the occult connection? I wondered about the candles and incense in the cellar.’

‘Could be just for atmosphere.’

‘But there
was
a sort of ritual element.’

‘Possibly.’

‘I was even wondering if there could be some connection there with the fourth victim, Melissa Horrocks. She was into that Satanic rock music stuff. You know, Marilyn Manson and the rest.’

‘Or maybe Payne just has an extreme sense of irony in his choice of victims. But look, Alan, even if Lucy did get off on the kinky stuff and Satanism, it’s hardly evidence of anything else, is it?’

‘I’m not asking for court evidence. At the moment I’ll take anything I can get.’

Jenny laughed. ‘Clutching at straws again?’

‘Maybe so. Ken Blackstone reckons Payne might also be the Seacroft Rapist.’

‘Seacroft Rapist?’

‘Two years ago, between May and August. You were in America. A man raped six women in Seacroft. Never caught. It turns out Payne was living there, single, at the time. He met Lucy that July, and they moved to The Hill around the beginning of September, when he started teaching at Silverhill. The rapes stopped.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time a serial killer was a rapist first.’

‘Indeed not. Anyway, they’re working on DNA.’

‘Have a smoke if you want,’ Jenny said. ‘I can see you’re getting all twitchy.’

‘Am I? I will, then, if you don’t mind.’

Jenny brought him an ashtray she kept in the sideboard for the occasional visitor who smoked. Though a non-smoker herself, she wasn’t as fanatical about not allowing any smoking in her house as some of her friends were. In fact, her time in California had made her hate the nico-nazis even more than the smokers.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

‘Your job,’ said Banks, leaning forward. ‘And the way I see it now is that we’ve probably got enough to convict Terry Payne ten times over, if he survives. It’s Lucy I’m interested in, and time’s running out.’

‘What do you mean?’

Banks drew on his cigarette before answering. ‘As long as she stays in hospital, we’re fine, but as soon as she’s released we can only hold her for twenty-four hours. Oh, we can get extensions, maybe in an extreme case like this up to ninety-six hours, but we’d better damn well have something solid to go on if we’re going to do that, or she walks.’

‘I still think it’s more than possible that she had nothing to do with the killings. Something woke her up that night and her husband wasn’t there, so she looked around the house for him, saw the lights in the cellar, went down and saw . . .’

‘But why hadn’t she noticed before, Jenny? Why hadn’t she been down there before?’

‘She was afraid to. It sounds as if she’s terrified of her husband. Look at what happened to her when she did go down.’