Aftermath

8

Banks and Jenny walked past the police guard into Lucy Payne’s room just after ten o’clock the following morning. There was no doctor standing over them this time, Banks was happy to note. Lucy lay propped against the pillows reading a fashion magazine. The slats of the blinds let in some of the morning sun, lighting the vase of tulips on the bedside table, forming a pattern of bars over Lucy’s face and the white bedsheets. Her long glossy black hair was spread out on the pillow around her hospital-pale face. The colors of her bruises had deepened since the previous day, which meant they were on the mend, and she still wore half her head swathed in bandages. Her good eye, long-lashed, dark and sparkling, gazed up at them. Banks wasn’t sure what he saw in it, but it wasn’t fear. He introduced Jenny as Dr. Fuller.

Lucy looked up and gave them a fleeting wisp of a smile. “Is there any news?” she asked.

“No,” said Banks.

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I just have this feeling he’s going to die, that’s all.”

“Would that make a difference, Lucy?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. If Terry died, would it make a difference to what you might care to tell us?”

“How could it?”

“You tell me.”

Lucy paused. Banks could see her frown as she thought about what to say next. “If I were to tell you, you know, what went on. I mean, if I knew… you know… about Terry and those girls and all… what would happen to me?”

“You’ll have to be a bit clearer than that, I’m afraid, Lucy.”

She licked her lips. “I can’t really be any clearer. Not at this point. I have to think of myself. I mean, if I remembered something that didn’t show me in a good light, what would you do?”

“Depends what it is, Lucy.”

Lucy retreated into silence.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed her skirt. Banks gave her the go-ahead to pick up the questioning. “Do you remember anything more about what happened?” she asked.

“Are you a psychiatrist?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

Lucy looked at Banks. “They can’t make me have tests, can they?”

“No,” said Banks. “Nobody can force you to undergo testing. That’s not why Dr. Fuller’s here. She just wants to talk to you. She’s here to help.” And the check’s in the post, Banks added silently.

Lucy glanced at Jenny. “I don’t know…”

“You’ve got nothing to hide, have you, Lucy?” Jenny asked.

“No. I’m just worried that they’ll make things up about me.”

“Who’ll make things up?”

“Doctors. The police.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Because they think I’m evil.”

“Nobody thinks you’re evil, Lucy.”

“You wonder how I could have lived with him, a man who did what Terry did, don’t you?”

“How could you live with him?” Jenny asked.

“I was frightened of him. He said he’d kill me if I left him.”

“And he abused you, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Physically?”

“Sometimes he hit me. Where the bruises wouldn’t show.”

“Until Monday morning.”

Lucy touched her bandages. “Yes.”

“Why was it different that time, Lucy?”

“I don’t know. I still can’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Jenny went on. “I’m not here to force you to say anything you don’t want. Just relax. Did your husband abuse you in other ways?”

“What do you mean?”

“Emotionally, for example.”

“Do you mean like putting me down, humiliating me in front of people?”

“That’s the kind of thing I mean.”

“Then the answer’s yes. Like, you know, if something I cooked wasn’t very good or I hadn’t ironed his shirt properly. He was very fussy about his shirts.”

“What did he do if his shirts weren’t ironed properly?”

“He’d make me do them again and again. Once he even burned me with the iron.”

“Where?”

Lucy looked away. “Where it wouldn’t show.”

“I’m curious about the cellar, Lucy. Detective Superintendent Banks here told me you said you never went down there.”

“I might have been there the once… you know… the time he hurt me.”

“On Monday morning?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t remember?”

“No.”

“You never went down there before?”

Lucy’s voice took on a strange keening edge. “No. Never. Not since we first moved in, anyway.”

“How long after that was it that he forbade you to go there?”

“I don’t remember. Not long. When he’d done his conversions.”

“What conversions?”

“He told me he’d made it into a den, his own private place.”

“Were you never curious?”

“Not much. Besides, he always kept it locked and he carried the key with him. He said if he ever thought I’d been down there he’d thrash me to within an inch of my life.”

“And you believed him?”

She turned her dark eye on Jenny. “Oh, yes. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“Did your husband ever mention pornography to you?”

“Yes. He sometimes brought videos home, things he said he’d borrowed from Geoff, one of the other teachers. Sometimes we watched them together.” She looked at Banks. “You must have seen them. I mean, you’ve probably been in the house, searching and stuff.”

Banks remembered the tapes. “Did Terry have a camcorder?” he asked her. “Did he make his own tapes?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said.

Jenny picked up the thread again. “What sort of videos did he like?” she asked.

“People having sex. Girls together. Sometimes people tied up.”

“You said you watched the videos together sometimes. Did you like them? What effect did they have on you? Did he force you to watch them?”

Lucy shifted under her thin bedsheets. The outline of her body stirred Banks in ways he didn’t want to be stirred by her. “I didn’t really like them much,” she said in a sort of husky little-girl voice. “Sometimes, you know, though, even so… they… they excited me.” She moved again.

“Did your husband abuse you sexually, make you do things you didn’t want to do?” Jenny asked.

“No,” she said. “It was all just normal.”

Banks was beginning to wonder if the marriage to Lucy was just a part of Terence Payne’s “normal” facade, something to make people think twice about his real proclivities. After all, it had worked on DCs Bowmore and Singh, who hadn’t even bothered to reinterview him. Perhaps he went elsewhere to satisfy his more perverse tastes – prostitutes, for example. It was worth looking into.

“Do you know if he went with other women?” Jenny asked, as if reading Banks’s mind.

“He never said.”

“But did you suspect it?”

“I thought he might have done, yes.”

“Prostitutes?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t like to think about it.”

“Did you ever find his behavior bizarre?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever shock you, make you wonder what he was up to?”

“Not really. He had a terrible temper… you know… if he didn’t get his own way. And sometimes, during school holidays, I didn’t see him for days.”

“You didn’t know where he was?”

“No.”

“And he never told you?”

“No.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

She seemed to shrink back into the bed. “Curiosity never did you any good with Terry. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ he’d say, ‘and if you don’t shut up, it’ll kill you, too.’ ” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I did wrong. Everything was fine. It was just a normal life. Until I met Terry. Then everything started to fall apart. How could I be such a fool? I should have known.”

“Known what, Lucy?”

“What kind of person he was. What a monster he was.”

“But you did know. You told me he hit you, humiliated you in public and in private. You did know. Are you trying to tell me you thought that was normal? Did you think that was how everybody lived?”

“No, of course not. But it didn’t make him the sort of monster you think he is.” Lucy looked away again.

“What is it, Lucy?” Jenny asked.

“You must think I’m such a weak person to let him do all that. A terrible person. But I’m not. I’m a nice person. Everybody says I am. I was frightened. Talk to Maggie. She understands.”

Banks stepped in. “Maggie Forrest? Your neighbor?”

“Yes.” Lucy looked in his direction. “She sent me those flowers. We talked about it… you know… about men abusing their wives, and she tried to persuade me to leave Terry, but I was too frightened. Maybe in a while I might have found the courage. I don’t know. It’s too late now, isn’t it? Please, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to go home and get on with my life.”

Banks wondered whether he should tell Lucy that she wouldn’t be going home for some time, that her home looked like the site of an archaeological dig and would be in the police’s hands for weeks, perhaps months, to come. He decided not to bother. She would find out soon enough.

“We’ll go now, then,” said Jenny, standing up. “Take care, Lucy.”

“Would you do me a favor?” Lucy asked as they stood in the doorway.

“What is it?” Banks asked.

“Back at the house, there’s a nice little jewelry box on the dressing table in the bedroom. It’s a lacquered Japanese box, black with all kinds of beautiful flowers hand-painted on it. Anyway, it’s got all my favorite pieces in – earrings I bought on our honeymoon on Crete, a gold chain with a heart Terry bought me when we got engaged. They’re my things. Would you bring it to me, please? My jewelry box.”

Banks tried to hold in his frustration. “Lucy,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “We believe that several young girls were sexually abused and murdered in the cellar of your house, and all you can think about is your jewelry?”

“That’s not true,” said Lucy, a hint of petulance in her tone. “I’m very sorry for what happened to those girls, of course I am, but it’s not my fault. I don’t see why it should stop me having my jewelry box. The only thing anyone’s let me have from there is my handbag and purse, and I could tell someone had even been searching through them first.”

Banks followed Jenny out into the corridor and they headed for the lifts. “Calm down, Alan,” said Jenny. “Lucy’s dissociating. She doesn’t realize the emotional significance of what’s happened.”

“Right,” said Banks glancing at the clock on the wall. “That’s just bloody fine and dandy. Now I have to go and watch Dr. Mackenzie do his next postmortem, but I’ll do my damnedest to remember that none of it is Lucy Payne’s fault and that she’s managing to dissociate herself from it all, thank you.”

Jenny put her hand on his arm. “I can understand why you’re frustrated, Alan, but it won’t do any good. You can’t push her. She won’t be pushed. Be patient.”

The lift came and they got in. “Trying to have a conversation with that woman is like trying to catch water in a sieve,” Banks said.

“She’s a weird one, all right.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

Jenny grinned. “Let me think about it. I’ll talk to you after I’ve talked to her coworker and her parents. Bye.” They arrived at the ground floor and she hurried off toward the car park. Banks took a deep breath and pressed the “down” button.

Rapunzel was going much better today, Maggie decided as she stood back and examined her work, tip of her tongue between her small white teeth. She didn’t look as if one good yank on her hair would rip her head from her shoulders, and she didn’t look a bit like Claire Toth.

Claire hadn’t turned up as usual yesterday after school, and Maggie wondered why not. Perhaps it was only to be expected that she didn’t feel very sociable after what had happened. Maybe she just wanted to be alone to sort out her feelings. Maggie decided she would talk to her psychiatrist, Dr. Simms, about Claire, see if there was something that ought to be done. She had an appointment tomorrow which, despite the events of the week, she was determined to keep.

Lorraine Temple’s story hadn’t turned up in the morning newspaper, as Maggie had expected it to, and she had felt disappointed when she had searched through every page and not found it. She assumed that the journalist needed more time to check her facts and put the story together. After all, it had only been yesterday when they talked. Perhaps it would be a long article focusing on the plight of abused women, a feature in the weekend paper.

She bent over the drawing board and got back to work on the Rapunzel sketch. She had to turn her desk light on as the morning had turned overcast and muggy.

A couple of minutes later, her phone rang. Maggie put her pencil aside and answered it.

“Maggie?”

She recognized the soft, husky voice. “Lucy? How are you?”

“I’m feeling much better now, really.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say at first. She felt awkward. Despite her sending the flowers and defending Lucy to the police and with Lorraine Temple, she realized they didn’t know each other well and came from very different worlds. “It’s good to hear from you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I just wanted to thank you for the flowers,” Lucy went on. “They’re lovely. They make all the difference. It was a nice thought.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“You know, you’re the only person who’s bothered with me. Everyone else has written me off.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Lucy.”

“Oh, but it is. Even my friends from work.”

Though Maggie could hardly bring herself to ask, it was only polite. “How’s Terry?”

“They won’t even tell me that, but I think he’s very badly hurt. I think he’s going to die. I think the police are going to try to blame me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have they been to talk to you?”

“Twice. Just now there were two of them. One was a psychologist. She asked me all sorts of questions.”

“About what?”

“About things Terry did to me. About our sex life. I felt like such a fool. Maggie, I just feel so frightened and alone.”

“Look, Lucy, if I can help in any way…”

“Thank you.”

“Have you got a solicitor?”

“No. I don’t even know any.”

“Look, Lucy. If the police come bothering you again, don’t say anything to them. I know how they can twist your words, make something out of nothing. Will you at least let me try to get you someone? One of Ruth and Charles’s friends is a solicitor in town. Julia Ford. I’ve met her, and she seems nice enough. She’ll know what to do.”

“But I don’t have that much money, Maggie.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out with her somehow. Will you let me call her for you?”

“I suppose so. I mean, if you think it’s for the best.”

“I do. I’ll call her right now and ask her to drop by and talk to you, shall I?”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?”

Maggie heard a defeated laugh over the line. “Pray for me, perhaps. I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me. For the moment, I’d just like to know there’s someone on my side.”

“Count on it, Lucy, there is.”

“Thank you. I’m tired. I have to go now.”

And Lucy hung up the phone.

After attending Dr. Mackenzie’s postmortem on the sad pile of bones and decaying flesh that had once been a young and vibrant girl with hopes and dreams and secrets, Banks felt twenty years older but none the wiser. First on the slab was the freshest because Dr. Mackenzie said it might tell him more, which seemed logical to Banks. Even so, the body had been partially buried under a thin layer of soil in Payne’s cellar for about three weeks, Dr. Mackenzie estimated, which was why the skin, hair and nails were loose and easy to pull off. Insects had been at work, and much of the flesh was gone. Where skin remained, it had burst open in places, revealing the glistening muscle and fat beneath. Not much fat, because this was Melissa Horrocks, weighing just a little under seven stone, whose T-shirt bore symbols to ward off evil spirits.

Banks left before Dr. Mackenzie had finished, not because it was too gruesome for him, but because these postmortems were going to go on for some time yet, and he had other business to attend to. It would be more than a day or two, Dr. Mackenzie said, before he would be able to get down to a report, as the other two bodies were in an even worse state of decomposition. Someone from the team had to sit through the postmortems, but this was one job Banks was happy to delegate.

After the sights, sounds and smells of Mackenzie’s postmortem, the bland headmaster’s office at Silverhill Comprehensive came as a relief. There was nothing about the uncluttered and nondescript room that indicated it had anything to do with education, or anything else, for that matter; it was much the same as any anonymous office in any anonymous building, and it didn’t even smell of much except a faint whiff of lemon-scented furniture polish. The head was called John Knight: early forties, balding, stoop-shouldered, dandruff on his jacket collar.

After getting a few general details about Payne’s employment history, Banks asked Knight if there had been any problems with Payne.

“There have been a few complaints, now that you mention it,” Knight admitted.

Banks raised his eyebrows. “From pupils?”

Knight reddened. “Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. Have you any idea what happens at the merest hint of something like that these days?”

“No,” said Banks. “When I was at school the teachers used to thrash us with just about anything they could lay their hands on. Some of them enjoyed it, too.”

“Well, those days are over, thank the Lord.”

“Or the law.”

“Not a believer?”

“My job makes it difficult.”

“Yes, I can understand that.” Knight glanced toward the window. “Mine, too, sometimes. That’s one of the great challenges of faith, don’t you think?”

“So what sort of problems were you having with Terence Payne?”

Knight brought himself back from a long way away and sighed. “Oh, just little things. Nothing important in themselves, but they all add up.”

“For example?”

“Tardiness. Too many days off without a valid reason. Teachers may get generous holidays, Superintendent, but they are expected to be here during term time, barring some serious illness, of course.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“Just a general sort of sloppiness. Exams not marked on time. Projects left unsupervised. Terry has a bit of temper, and he can get quite stroppy if you call him on anything.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“According to head of science, only since the new year.”

“And before that?”

“No problems at all. Terence Payne is a good teacher – knows his stuff – and he seemed popular with the pupils. None of us can believe what’s happened. We’re stunned. Just absolutely stunned.”

“Do you know his wife?”

“I don’t know her. I met her once at the staff Christmas party. Charming woman. A little reserved, perhaps, but charming nonetheless.”

“Does Terry have a colleague here called Geoff?”

“Yes. Geoffrey Brighouse. He’s the chemistry teacher. The two of them seemed pretty thick. Went out for a jar or two together every now and again.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Geoff’s been with us six years now. Solid sort of fellow. No trouble at all.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Of course.” Knight looked at his watch. “He should be over in the chemistry lab right now, preparing for his next class. Follow me.”

They walked outside. The day was becoming more and more muggy as the clouds thickened, threatening rain. Nothing new. Apart from the past few days, it had been raining pretty much every day on and off since the beginning of April.

Silverhill Comprehensive was one the few pre-war Gothic redbrick schools that hadn’t been sandblasted and converted into offices or luxury flats yet. Knots of adolescents lounged around the asphalt playground. They all seemed subdued, Banks thought, and a pall of gloom, fear and confusion hung about the place, palpable as a pea-souper. The groups weren’t mixed, Banks noticed; the girls stood in their own little conclaves, as if huddled together for comfort and security, staring down and scuffing their shoes on the asphalt as Banks and Knight walked by. The boys were a bit more animated; at least some of them were talking and there was a bit of the usual playful pushing and shoving. But the whole effect was eerie.

“It’s been like this since we heard,” said Knight, as if reading Banks’s mind. “People don’t realize how far-reaching and long-lasting the effects will be around this place. Some of the students may never get over it. It’ll blight their lives. It’s not just that we’ve lost a cherished pupil, but someone we put in a position of trust seems to be responsible for some abominable acts, if I’m not speaking out of turn.”

“You’re not,” said Banks. “And abominable only scratches the surface. But don’t tell the papers.”

“My lips are sealed. They’ve been around already, you know.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“I didn’t tell them anything. Nothing to tell, really. Here we are. The Bascombe Building.”

The Bascombe Building was a modern concrete-and-glass addition to the main school building. There was a plaque on the wall near the door, which read: “This building is dedicated to the memory of Frank Edward Bascombe, 1898-1971.”

“Who was he?” Banks asked, as they went in the door.

“A teacher here during the war,” Knight explained. “English teacher. This used to be part of the main building then, but it was hit by a stray doodlebug in October of 1944. Frank Bascombe was a hero. He got twelve children and another teacher out. Two pupils were killed in the attack. Just through here.” He opened the door to the chemistry lab, where a young man sat at the teacher’s desk in front of a sheaf of notes. He looked up. “Geoff. A Detective Superintendent Banks to see you.” Then he left, shutting the door behind him.

Banks hadn’t been in a school chemistry lab for thirty years or more, and though this one had far more modern fixtures than he remembered from his own school days, much of it was still the same: the high lab benches, Bunsen burners, test tubes, pipettes and beakers; the glass-fronted cabinet on the wall full of stoppered bottles containing sulfuric acid, potassium, sodium phosphate and such. What memories. It even smelled the same: slightly acrid, slightly rotten.

Banks remembered the first chemistry set his parents bought him for Christmas when he was thirteen, remembered the fine powdered alum, the blue copper sulfate and bright purple crystals of potassium permanganate. He liked to mix them all up and see what happened, paying no regard to the instructions or the safety precautions. Once he was heating some odd concoction over a candle at the kitchen table when the test tube cracked, making a mess all over the place. His mother went spare.

Brighouse, wearing a lightweight jacket and gray flannel trousers, not a lab coat, came forward and shook hands. He was a fresh-faced lad, about Payne’s age, with pale blue eyes, fair hair and a lobster complexion, as if he’d been able to find some sun and stayed out in it too long. His handshake was firm, dry and short. He noticed Banks looking around the lab.

“Bring back memories, does it?” he asked.

“A few.”

“Good ones, I hope?”

Banks nodded. He had enjoyed chemistry, but his teacher, “Titch” Barker, was one of the worst, most brutal bastards in the school. He used the rubber connecting lines of the Bunsen burners in his thrashings. Once he held Banks’s hand over a burner and made as if to light it, but he backed off at the last moment. Banks had seen the sadistic gleam in his eye, how much effort it had cost him not to strike the match. Banks hadn’t given him the satisfaction of a plea for mercy or an outward expression of fear, but he had been shaking inside.

“Anyway, it’s sodium today,” said Brighouse.

“Pardon?”

“Sodium. The way it’s so unstable in air. Always goes down well. The kids these days don’t have much of an attention span, so you have to give them pyrotechnics to keep them interested. Luckily, there’s plenty of scope for that in chemistry.”

“Ah.”

“Sit down.” He pointed toward a tall stool by the nearest bench. Banks sat in front of a rack of test tubes and a Bunsen burner. Brighouse sat opposite.

“I’m not sure I can help you in any way,” Brighouse began. “I know Terry, of course. We’re colleagues, and good mates to some extent. But I can’t say I know him well. He’s a very private person in many ways.”

“Stands to reason,” said Banks. “Look at what he was doing in private.”

Brighouse blinked. “Er… quite.”

“Mr. Brighouse-”

“Geoff. Please. Call me Geoff.”

“Right, Geoff,” said Banks, who always preferred the first name, as it gave him an odd sort of power over a suspect, which Geoff Brighouse certainly was in his eyes. “How long have you known Mr. Payne?”

“Since he first came here nearly two years ago.”

“He was teaching in Seacroft before then. Is that right?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You didn’t know him then?”

“No. Look, if you don’t mind my asking, how is he, by the way?”

“He’s still in intensive care, but he’s hanging on.”

“Good. I mean… oh, shit, this is so difficult. I still can’t believe it. What am I supposed to say? The man’s a friend of mine, after all, no matter…” Brighouse put his fist to his mouth and chewed on a knuckle. He seemed suddenly close to tears.

“No matter what he’s done?”

“I was going to say that, but… I’m just confused. Forgive me.”

“It’ll take time. I understand. But in the meantime I need to find out all I can about Terence Payne. What sorts of things did you do together?”

“Mostly went to pubs. We never drank a lot. At least I didn’t.”

“Payne’s a heavy drinker?”

“Not until recently.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“A couple of times. You know, when he was in his car.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to take his keys away.”

“What happened?”

“He got angry. Even hit me once.”

“Terence Payne hit you?”

“Yeah. But he was pissed. He’s got a temper when he’s pissed.”

“Did he give you any reason why he was drinking so much?”

“No.”

“He didn’t talk about any personal problems he might be having?”

“No.”

“Did you know of any problems other than the drinking?”

“He was letting his work slip a bit.”

The same thing Knight had said. Like the drinking, it was probably more of a symptom than the problem itself. Jenny Fuller would perhaps be able to confirm it, but Banks thought it made sense that a man who was doing, who felt compelled to do, what Payne had been doing would need some sort of oblivion. It seemed almost as if he had wanted to be caught, wanted it all to be over. The abduction of Kimberley Myers, when he knew he was already in the system because of his car number plate, was a foolhardy move. If it hadn’t been for DCs Bowmore and Singh, he might have been brought to Banks’s attention earlier. Even if nothing had come from a second interview, his name would have leaped out of HOLMES as soon as Carol Houseman had entered the new data, that Kimberley Myers was a pupil at Silverhill, where Payne taught, and that he was listed as the owner of a car whose number ended in KWT, despite the false NGV plates.

“Did he ever talk about Kimberley Myers?” Banks asked.

“No. Never.”

“Did he ever talk about young girls in general?”

“He talked about girls, not particularly young ones.”

“How did he talk about women? With affection? With disgust? With lust? With anger?”

Brighouse thought for a moment. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I always thought Terry sounded a bit sort of domineering, the way he talked about women.”

“How so?”

“Well, he’d spot a girl he fancied, in a pub, say, and go on about, you know, how he’d like to fuck her, tie her to the bed and fuck her brains out. That sort of thing. I… I mean, I’m not a prude, but sometimes it was a bit over-the-top.”

“But that’s just male crudeness, isn’t it?”

Brighouse raised an eyebrow. “Is it? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what it means. I’m just saying he sounded rough and domineering when he talked about women.”

“Talking about male crudeness, did you ever lend Terry any videos?”

Brighouse looked away. “What do you mean? What sort of videos?”

“Pornographic videos.”

It wasn’t possible for someone as red as Brighouse to blush, but for moment Banks could almost have sworn that he did.

“Just some soft stuff. Nothing under the counter. Nothing you can’t rent at the corner shop. I lent him other videos, too. War films, horror, science fiction. Terry’s a film buff.”

“No homemade videos?”

“Of course not. What do you think I am?”

“The jury’s still out on that one, Geoff. Does Terry own a camcorder?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you?”

“No. I can just about manage a basic point-and-shoot camera.”

“Did you go to his house often?”

“Once in a while.”

“Ever go down in the cellar?”

“No. Why?”

“Are you sure about that, Geoff?”

“Damn it, yes. Surely you can’t think…?”

“You do realize we’re carrying out a complete forensic examination of the Paynes’ cellar, don’t you?”

“So?”

“So the first rule of a crime scene is that anyone who’s been there leaves something and takes something away. If you were there, we’ll find out, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you looking guilty simply for not telling me you were there on some innocent mission, like watching a porn video together.”

“I never went down there.”

“Okay. Just so long as you know. Did the two of you ever pick up any women together?”

Brighouse’s eyes shifted toward the Bunsen burner, and he fiddled with the test tube rack in front of him.

“Mr. Brighouse? Geoff? It could be important.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Let me be the judge of that. And if you’re worried about splitting on a mate, you shouldn’t be. Your mate’s in hospital in a coma. His wife’s in the same hospital with a few cuts and bruises he inflicted on her. And we found the body of Kimberley Myers in the cellar of his house. Remember Kimberley? You probably taught her, didn’t you? I’ve just been to the postmortem of one of his previous victims and I’m still feeling a bit off-color. You don’t need to know anymore, and believe me, you don’t want to.”

Brighouse took a deep breath. Some of the bright red coloring seemed to have leached from his cheeks and brow. “Well, okay, yeah, we did. Once.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing. You know…”

“No, I don’t know. Tell me,”

“Look, this is…”

“I don’t care how embarrassing it is. I want to know how he behaved with this woman you picked up. Carry on. Think of it as confiding in your doctor over a dose of clap.”

Brighouse swallowed and went on. “It was at a conference in Blackpool. In April, just over a year ago.”

“Before he got married?”

“Yeah. He was seeing Lucy, but they weren’t married then. Not till May.”

“Go on.”

“Not much to tell. There was this cracking young teacher from Aberdeen, and one night, you know, we’d all had a few drinks at the bar and got to flirting and all. Anyway, she seemed game enough after a few gins, so we went up to the room.”

“The three of you?”

“Yes. Terry and I were sharing a room. I mean, I’d have stayed away if it was his score, like, but she made it clear she didn’t mind. It was her idea. She said she’d always fancied a threesome.”

“And you?”

“It had been a fantasy of mine, yes.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think? We had sex.”

“Did she enjoy it?”

“Well, like I said, it had been mostly her idea in the first place. She was a bit drunk. We all were. She didn’t object. Really, she was keen. It was only later…”

“What was only later?”

“Look, you know what it’s like.”

“No, I don’t know what it’s like.”

“Well, Terry, he suggested a Greek sandwich. I don’t know if you-”

“I know what a Greek sandwich is. Go on.”

“But she didn’t fancy it.”

“What happened?”

“Terry can be very persuasive.”

“How? Violence?”

“No. He just doesn’t give up. He keeps on coming back to what he wants and it just wears down people’s resistance in the end.”

“So you had your Greek sandwich?”

Brighouse looked down and rubbed his fingertips on the rough, scratched lab bench. “Yeah.”

“And she was willing?”

“Sort of. I mean, yes. Nobody forced her. Not physically. We’d had a couple more drinks and Terry was at her, you know, just verbally, about how great it would be, so in the end…”

“What happened afterward?”

“Nothing, really. I mean she didn’t kick up a fuss. But it soured the mood. She cried a bit, seemed down, you know, as if she felt betrayed, used. And I could tell she didn’t like it much, when it was happening.”

“But you didn’t stop?”

“No.”

“Did she scream or tell you to stop?”

“No. I mean, she was making noises but… well, she was a real screamer to start with. I was even worried about the people next door telling us to keep the noise down.”

“What happened next?”

“She went back to her own room. We had a few more drinks, then I passed out. I assume Terry did the same.”

Banks paused and made a jotting in his notebook. “I don’t know if you realize this, Geoff, but what you’ve just told me constitutes accessory to rape.”

“Nobody raped her! I told you. She was willing enough.”

“Doesn’t sound like it to me. Two men. Her by herself. What choice did she have? She made it clear that she didn’t want to do what Terence Payne was asking for, but he went ahead and did it anyway.”

“He brought her around to his way of thinking.”

“Bollocks, Geoff. He wore down her resistance and resolve. You said so yourself. And I’ll also bet she was worried what might happen if she didn’t go along with him.”

“Nobody threatened her with violence.”

“Maybe not in so many words.”

“Look, maybe things went just a little too far…”

“Got out of hand?”

“Maybe a little.”

Banks sighed. The number of times he’d heard that excuse for male violence against women. It was what Annie Cabbot’s assailants had claimed, too. He felt disgusted with Geoffrey Brighouse, but there wasn’t much he could do. The incident had taken place over a year ago, the woman hadn’t filed a complaint as far as he knew, and Terence Payne was fighting for his life in the infirmary anyway. Still, it was one worth noting down for future reference.

“I’m sorry,” said Brighouse. “But you must understand. She never told us to stop.”

“Didn’t seem as if she had much chance to do that, sandwiched between two strapping lads like you and Terry.”

“Well, she’d enjoyed everything else.”

Move on, Banks told himself, before you hit him. “Any other incidents like that?”

“No. It was the only time. Believe it or not, Superintendent, but after that night, I was a bit ashamed, even though I did nothing wrong, and I would’ve been uncomfortable getting into a situation like that with Terry again. He was too much for me. So I just avoided the possibility.”

“So Payne was faithful to his wife from then on?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that the two of us didn’t pick up any more girls together. Sometimes he told me, you know, about picking up prostitutes and all.”

“What did he do with them?”

“What do you think?”

“He didn’t go into detail?”

“No.”

“Did he ever talk about his wife in a sexual way?”

“No. Never. He was very possessive about her, and very guarded. He hardly mentioned her at all when we were together. It was as if she were part of a different life altogether. Terry’s got a remarkable ability to compartmentalize things.”

“So it would seem. Did he ever suggest abducting young girls?”

“Do you seriously believe that I’d have anything to do with that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know, Geoff. You tell me. He talked to you about tying them up and fucking their brains out, and he certainly raped that teacher in Blackpool, no matter how willing she might have been to have regular sex with the two of you earlier. I don’t know what to think of your part in all this, Geoff, to be quite honest.”

Brighouse had lost all his color now, and he was trembling. “But you can’t think that I…? I mean…”

“Why not? There’s no reason you couldn’t have been in it with him. More convenient if there were two of you. Easier to abduct your victims. Any chloroform in the lab?”

“Chloroform? Yes. Why?”

“Under lock and key, is it?”

“Of course.”

“Who has a key?”

“I do. Terry. Keith Miller, the department head, Mr. Knight. I don’t know who else. Probably the caretaker and the cleaners, for all I know.”

“Whose prints do you think we’d find on the bottle?”

“I don’t know. I certainly can’t remember the last time I used the stuff.”

“What did you do last weekend?”

“Not much. Stayed home. Marked some projects. Went shopping in town.”

“Got a girlfriend at the moment, Geoff?”

“No.”

“See anyone else over the weekend?”

“Just neighbors – you know, people from the other flats, in the hall, on the stairs. Oh, and I went to the pictures Saturday night.”

“On your own?”

“Yes.”

“What did you go to see?”

“New James Bond, in the city center. And then I dropped in at my local.”

“Anyone see you?”

“A few of the regulars, yes. We had a game of darts.”

“How late were you there?”

“Closing time.”

Banks scratched his cheek. “I don’t know, Geoff. When you get right down to it, it’s not much of an alibi, is it?”

“I wasn’t aware I’d be needing one.”

The lab door opened and two boys poked their heads in. Geoff Brighouse seemed relieved. He looked at his watch, then at Banks, and gave a weak smile. “Time for class, I’m afraid.”

Banks stood up. “That’s all right, Geoff. I wouldn’t want to interfere in the education of the young.”

Brighouse beckoned the boys in, and more followed, swarming around the stools at the benches. He walked with Banks over to the door.

“I’d like you to come down to Millgarth and make a statement,” Banks said before leaving.

“A statement? Me? But why?”

“Just a formality. Tell the detective exactly what you just told me. And we’ll also need to know exactly where you were and what you were doing at the times those five girls were abducted. Details, witnesses, the lot. We’ll also need a fingerprint scan and a sample of DNA. It won’t be painful, just like brushing your teeth. This evening after school will do fine. Say five o’clock? Go to the front desk and ask for DC Younis. He’ll be expecting you.” Banks gave him a card and wrote down the name of the bright, if rather judgmental, young DC he had that very second chosen for the task of taking Brighouse’s formal statement. DC Younis was active in his local Methodist Chapel and a bit conservative, morally. “Cheers,” said Banks, leaving a stunned and worried-looking Geoff Brighouse to teach his class the joys of unstable sodium.