Aftermath

16

The Monday-morning sunlight spilled through Banks’s kitchen window and glinted on the copper-bottomed pans hanging on the wall. Banks sat at his pine table with a cup of coffee, toast and marmalade, the morning newspaper spread out before him and Vaughan Williams’s Variations on a Theme by Thomas Tallis playing on the radio. But he was neither reading nor listening.

He had been awake since before four, a million details dancing around in his mind, and though he felt dog-tired now, he knew he couldn’t sleep. He would be glad when the Chameleon case was all over, when Gristhorpe was back at work, and when he could go back to his normal duties as detective chief inspector. The responsibility of command over the past month and a half had exhausted him. He recognized the signs: lack of sleep, bad dreams, too much junk food, too much booze and too many cigarettes. He was reaching the same near-burnout state as he had been in when he left the Met for North Yorkshire years ago, hoping for a quieter life. He loved detective work, but it sometimes seemed that modern policing was a young man’s game. Science, technology and changes in management structure hadn’t simplified things; they had only made life more complicated. Banks realized that he had probably come to the limits of his ambition when he actually thought that morning, for the first time, about packing in the Job altogether.

He heard the postman arrive and went out to pick up the letters from the floor. Among the usual collection of bills and circulars, there was a hand-addressed envelope from London, and Banks immediately recognized the neat, looping hand.

Sandra.

Heart beating just a little too fast for comfort, he carried the pile back into the kitchen. This was his favorite room in the cottage, mostly because he had dreamed about it before he had seen it, but what he read in Sandra’s letter was enough to darken the brightest of rooms even more than his previous mood had darkened it.

Dear Alan,

I understand that Tracy told you Sean and I are expecting a baby. I wish she hadn’t, but there it is, it’s done now. I hope this knowledge will at least enable you to understand the need for expediency in the matter of our divorce, and that you will act accordingly.

Yours sincerely,

Sandra

That was it. Nothing more than a cold, formal note. Banks had to admit that he hadn’t been responding to the matter of divorce with any great dispatch, but he hadn’t seen any need for haste. Perhaps, he was even willing to admit, deep down, he was stubbornly clinging to Sandra, and in some opaque and frightened part of his soul he was holding to the belief that it was all just a nightmare or a mistake, and he would wake up one morning back in the Eastvale semi with Sandra beside him. Not that that was what he wanted, not anymore, but he was at least willing to admit that he might harbor such irrational feelings.

Now this.

Banks put the letter aside, still feeling its chill. Why couldn’t he just let go of this and move on, as Sandra clearly had done? Was it because of what he had told Annie, about his guilt over Sandra’s miscarriage, about being glad that it happened? He didn’t know; it all just felt too strange: his wife of over twenty years, mother of their children, now about to give birth to another man’s child.

He tossed the letter aside, picked up his briefcase and headed out for the car.

He intended to go to Leeds later in the morning, but first he wanted to drop by his office, clear up some paperwork and have a word with Winsome. The drive to Eastvale from Gratly was, Banks had thought when he first made it, one of the most beautiful drives in the area: a narrow road about halfway up the daleside, with spectacular views of the valley bottom with its sleepy villages and meandering river to his left and the steeply rising fields with their drystone walls and wandering sheep to his right. But today he didn’t even notice all this, partly because he did it so often, and partly because his thoughts were still clouded by Sandra’s letter and vague depression over his job.

After the chaos of the weekend, the police station was back to its normal level of activity; the reporters had disappeared, just as Lucy Payne had. Banks wasn’t overly concerned about Lucy’s going missing, he thought as he closed his office door and turned on the radio. She would probably turn up again, and even if she didn’t, there was no real cause for concern. Not unless they came up with some concrete evidence against her. At least in the meantime, they could keep track of her through ATM withdrawals and credit card transactions. No matter where she was, she would need money.

After he had finished the paperwork, Banks went into the squad room. DC Winsome Jackman was sitting at her desk chewing on the end of a pencil.

“Winsome,” he said, remembering one of the details that had awoken him so early in the morning, “I’ve got another job for you.”

And when he’d told her what he wanted her to do, he left by the back exit and set off for Leeds.

It was just after lunch when Annie entered the CPS offices, though she hadn’t managed to grab a bite to eat herself yet. The Crown solicitor appointed to the case, Jack Whitaker, turned out to be younger than she had expected, late twenties or early thirties, she guessed, prematurely balding, and he spoke with a slight lisp. His handshake was firm, his palm just a little damp. His office was certainly far tidier than Stafford Oakes’s in Eastvale, where every file was out of place and stained with an Olympic symbol of coffee rings.

“Any new developments?” he asked after Annie had sat down.

“Yes,” said Annie. “PC Taylor changed her statement this morning.”

“May I?”

Annie handed him Janet Taylor’s revised statement, and Whitaker read it over. When he’d finished, he slid the papers over the desk back toward Annie. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think,” Jack Whitaker said slowly, “that we might be charging Janet Taylor with murder.”

“What?” Annie couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “She acted as a policewoman in pursuit of her duty. I was thinking justifiable homicide, or, at the very most, excusable. But murder?”

Whitaker sighed. “Oh, dear. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news, then?”

“What news?” Annie hadn’t turned on the radio when she drove down to Leeds, being far too preoccupied with Janet’s case and her confused feelings about Banks to concentrate on news or chat.

“The jury came back on the John Hadleigh case just before lunch. You know, the Devon farmer.”

“I know about the Hadleigh case. What was the verdict?”

“Guilty of murder.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Annie. “But even so, surely that’s different entirely? I mean, Hadleigh was civilian. He shot a burglar in the back. Janet Taylor-”

Whitaker held his hand up. “The point is that it’s a clear message. Given the Hadleigh verdict, we have to be seen to be acting fairly toward everyone. We can’t afford to have the press screaming at us for going easy on Janet Taylor just because she’s a policewoman.”

“So it is political?”

“Isn’t it always? Justice must be seen to be done.”

“Justice?”

Whitaker raised his eyebrows. “Listen,” he said, “I can understand your sympathies; believe me, I can. But according to her statement, Janet Taylor handcuffed Terence Payne to a metal pipe after she had already subdued him, then she hit him twice with her baton. Hard. Think about it, Annie. That’s deliberate. That’s murder.”

“She didn’t necessarily mean to kill him. There was no intent.”

“That’s for a jury to decide. A good prosecutor could argue that she knew damn well what the effect of two more hard blows to the head would be after she’d already given him seven previous blows.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Annie said.

“No one’s sorrier than I am,” said Whitaker.

“Except Janet Taylor.”

“Then she shouldn’t have killed Terence Payne.”

“What the hell do you know? You weren’t there, in that cellar, with your partner bleeding to death on the floor, a dead girl staked out on a mattress. You didn’t have just seconds to react to a man coming at you with a machete. This is a bloody farce! It’s politics, is all it is.”

“Calm down, Annie,” said Whitaker.

Annie stood up and paced, arms folded. “Why should I? I don’t feel calm. This woman has been going through hell. I provoked her into changing her statement because I thought it would go better for her in the long run than saying she couldn’t remember. How does this make me look?”

“Is that all you’re concerned about? How it makes you look?”

“Of course it’s not.” Annie lowered herself slowly back into the chair. She still felt flushed and angry, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “But it makes me look like a liar. It makes it look as if I tricked her. I don’t like that.”

“You were only doing your job.”

“Only doing my job. Only obeying orders. Right. Thanks. That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“Look, we might be able to get a bit of leeway here, Annie, but there’ll have to be a trial. It’ll all have to be a matter of public record. Aboveboard. There’ll be no sweeping it under the table.”

“That’s not what I had in mind, anyway. What leeway?”

“I don’t suppose Janet Taylor would plead guilty to murder.”

“Damn right she wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t advise her to.”

“It’s not exactly a matter of advising. Besides, that’s not your job. What do you think she would plead guilty to?”

“Excusable homicide.”

“It wasn’t self-defense. Not when she crossed the line and delivered those final blows after Payne was rendered incapable of defending himself or of attacking her further.”

“What, then?”

“Voluntary manslaughter.”

“How long would she have to serve?”

“Between eighteen months and three years.”

“That’s still a long time, especially for a copper in jail.”

“Not as long as John Hadleigh.”

“Hadleigh shot a kid in the back with a shotgun.”

“Janet Taylor beat a defenseless man about the head with a police baton, causing his death.”

“He was a serial killer.”

“She didn’t know that at the time.”

“But he came at her with a machete!”

“And after she’d disarmed him, she used more force than necessary to subdue him, causing his death. Annie, it doesn’t matter that he was a serial killer. It wouldn’t matter if he’d been Jack the bloody Ripper.”

“He’d cut her partner. She was upset.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear she wasn’t calm, cool and collected when she did it.”

“You know what I mean. There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“Sorry. I’m sure the judge and jury will take the whole picture into account, her state of mind.”

Annie sighed. She felt sick. As soon as this farce was over she was getting the hell out of Complaints and Discipline, back to real police work, catching the villains.

“All right,” she said. “What next?”

“You know what next, Annie. Find Janet Taylor. Arrest her, take her to the police station and charge her with voluntary manslaughter.”

“Someone asking to see you, sir.”

Why was the fresh-faced PC who popped his head around the door of Banks’s temporary office at Millgarth smirking? Banks wondered. “Who is it?” he asked.

“You’d better see for yourself, sir.”

“Can’t someone else deal with it?”

“She specifically asked to see someone in charge of the missing girls case, sir. Area Commander Hartnell’s in Wakefield with the ACC, and DCI Blackstone’s out. That leaves you, sir.”

Banks sighed. “All right. Show her in.”

The PC smirked again and disappeared, leaving a distinct sense of smirk still in the air, rather like the Cheshire cat’s smile. A few moments later, Banks saw why.

She tapped very softly on his door and pushed it open so slowly that it creaked on its hinges, then she appeared before him. All five feet nothing of her. She was anorexically thin, and the harsh red of her lipstick and nail polish contrasted with the almost translucent paleness of her skin; her delicate features looked as if they were made out of porcelain carefully glued or painted on her moon-shaped face. Clutching a gold-lamé handbag, she was wearing a bright green crop top, which stopped abruptly just below her breasts – no more than goose pimples despite the push-up bra – and showed a stretch of pale, bare midriff and a belly-button ring, below which came a black PVS micro-skirt. She wore no tights, and her pale thin legs stretched bare down to the knee-highs and chunky platform heels that made her walk as if she were on stilts. Her expression showed fear and nervousness as her astonishingly lovely cobalt-blue eyes roved restlessly about the stark office.

Banks would have put her down for a heroin-addicted prostitute, but he could see no needle tracks on her arms. That didn’t mean she wasn’t addicted to something, and it certainly didn’t mean that she wasn’t a prostitute. There are more ways of getting drugs into your system than through a needle. Something about her reminded him of Chief Constable Riddle’s daughter, Emily, but it quickly passed. She bore more resemblance to the famous heroin-chic models of a few years ago.

“Are you the one?” she asked.

“What one?”

“The one in charge. I asked for the one in charge.”

“That’s me. For my sins,” said Banks.

“What?”

“Never mind. Sit down.” She sat, slowly and suspiciously, eyes still flicking restlessly around the office, as if she were afraid someone was going to appear and strap her into her chair. It had obviously taken her a lot of courage to come this far. “Can I get you some tea or coffee?” Banks asked.

She looked surprised at the offer. “Er… yes. Please. Coffee would be nice.”

“How do you take it?”

“What?”

“The coffee? How do you want it?”

“Milk and plenty of sugar,” she said, as if unaware that it came any other way.

Banks phoned for two coffees – black for him – and turned back to her. “What’s your name?”

“Candy.”

“Really?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Candy. Ever been in a police station before?”

Fear flashed across Candy’s delicate features. “Why?”

“Just asking. You seem ill at ease.”

She managed a weak smile. “Well, yes… Maybe I am. A little bit.”

“Relax. I won’t eat you.”

Wrong choice of words, Banks realized, when he saw the lascivious, knowing look in her eye. “I mean I won’t harm you,” he corrected himself.

The coffee arrived, carried in by the same, still-smirking PC. Banks was abrupt with him, resenting the kind of smug arrogance that the smirk implied.

“Okay, Candy,” said Banks after the first sip. “Care to tell me what it’s all about?”

“Can I smoke?” She opened her handbag.

“Sorry,” said Banks. “No smoking anywhere in the station; otherwise I’d have one with you.”

“Maybe we could go outside?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Banks said. “Let’s just get on with it.”

“It’s just that I really like a ciggie with my coffee. I always have a smoke with my coffee.”

“Not this time. Why have you come to see me, Candy?”

She fidgeted awhile longer, a sulky expression on her face, then shut the handbag and crossed her legs, clipping the underside of the desk with her platform and rattling it so much that Banks’s coffee spilled over the rim of his mug and made a gathering stain on the pile of papers before him.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s nothing.” Banks took out his handkerchief and wiped it up. “You were going to tell me why you’re here.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look,” Candy said, leaning forward in her chair. “First off, you have to grant me that immunization, or whatever. Or I won’t say a word.”

“You mean immunity?”

She flushed. “If that’s what it’s called. I didn’t go to school much.”

“Immunity from what?”

“From prosecution.”

“But why would I want to prosecute you?”

Her eyes were everywhere but on Banks, hands twisting the bag on her bare lap. “Because of what I do,” she said. “You know… with men. I’m a prostitute, a tom.”

“Bloody hell,” said Banks. “You could knock me over with a feather.”

Her eyes turned to him, shimmering with angry tears. “There’s no need to be snarky. I’m not ashamed of what I am. At least I don’t go around locking up innocent people and letting the guilty go free.”

Banks felt like a shit. Sometimes he just didn’t know when to hold his tongue. He had acted no better than the smirking PC when he insulted her with his sarcasm. “I’m sorry, Candy,” he said. “But I’m a very busy man. Can we get to the point? If you’ve got anything to tell me, then say it.”

“You promise?”

“Promise what?”

“You won’t lock me up.”

“I won’t lock you up. Cross my heart. Not unless you’ve come to confess a serious crime.”

She shot to her feet. “I haven’t done nothing!”

“All right. All right. Sit down, then. Take it easy.”

Candy sat slowly, careful with her platforms this time. “I came because you let her go. I wasn’t going to come. I don’t like the police. But you let her go.”

“Who’s this about, Candy?”

“It’s about that couple in the papers, the ones who took them young girls.”

“What about them?”

“Just that they… once… you know, they…”

“They picked you up?”

She looked down. “Yes.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

“How did it happen?”

“I was just, you know, out on the street, and they came by in a car. He did the talking, and when we’d fixed it up they took me to a house.”

“When was this, Candy?”

“Last summer.”

“Do you remember the month?”

“August, I think. Late August. It was warm, anyway.”

Banks tried to work out the timing. The Seacroft rapes had stopped around the time the Paynes moved out of the area, about a year or so before Candy’s experience. That left a period of about sixteen months before Payne abducted Kelly Matthews. Perhaps during that period he had been trying to sublimate his urges, relying on prostitutes? And Lucy’s role?

“Where was the house?”

“The Hill. It’s the same one that’s in all the papers. I’ve been there.”

“Okay. What happened next?”

“Well, first we had a drink and they chatted to me, putting me at ease, like. They seemed a really nice couple.”

“And then?”

“What do you think?”

“I’d still like you to tell me.”

“He said let’s go upstairs.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes. That’s what I thought he meant at first.”

“Go on.”

“Well, we went up to the bedroom and I… you know… I got undressed. Well, partly. He wanted me to keep certain things on. Jewelry. My underwear. At first, anyway.”

“What happened next?”

“It was dark in there and you could only make out shadows. He made me lie down on the bed, and the next thing I knew she was there, too.”

“Lucy Payne?”

“Yes.”

“On the bed with you?”

“Yes. Starkers.”

“Was she involved in what went on sexually?”

“Oh, yes. She knew what she was doing, all right. Proper little minx.”

“She never seemed to be coerced, a victim in any way?”

“Never. No way. She was in control. And she liked what was happening. She even came up with suggestions of her own… you know, different things to do. Different positions.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Not really. I mean, they liked to play games, but they seemed to know how far to go.”

“What sort of games?”

“He asked me if I’d mind him tying me to the bed. He promised they weren’t going to hurt me.”

“You let him do that?”

“They were paying well.”

“And they seemed nice.”

“Yes.”

Banks shook his head in amazement. “Okay. Go on.”

“Don’t judge me,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me or what I have to do, so don’t you dare judge me!”

“Okay,” said Banks. “Go on, Candy. They tied you to the bed.”

“She was doing something with hot candle wax. On my belly. My nipples. It hurt a bit, but it doesn’t really hurt. You know what I mean?”

Banks hadn’t experimented sexually with candle wax but he had spilled some on his hand on more than one occasion and knew the sensation, the brief flash of heat and pain followed by the quick cooling, the setting and drying, the way it pinched and puckered the skin. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation.

“Were you frightened?”

“A bit. Not really, though. I’ve known worse. But they were a team. That’s what I’m telling you. That’s why I came forward. I can’t believe you’ve let her go.”

“We don’t have any evidence against her, any evidence that she had anything to do with killing those girls.”

“But don’t you see?” Candy pleaded. “She’s the same as him. They’re a team. They do things together. Everything together.”

“Candy, I know it probably took you a lot of courage to come here and talk to me, but what you’ve said doesn’t change things. We can’t go and arrest her on-”

“On some tom’s statement, you mean?”

“I wasn’t going to say that. What I was going to say was that we can’t just go and arrest her on the evidence of what you’ve just told me. You consented. You were paid for your services. They didn’t hurt you beyond what you were prepared for. It’s a risky profession you’re in. You know that, Candy.”

“But surely what I’ve said makes a difference?”

“Yes, it makes a difference. To me. But we deal in facts, in evidence. I’m not doubting your word, that it happened, but even if we had it on video, it wouldn’t make her a murderer.”

Candy paused for a moment, then she said, “They did. Have it on video.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw the camera. They thought it was hidden behind a screen, but I could hear something, a whirring noise, and once when I got up to go to the toilet I glimpsed a video camera set up behind a screen. The screen had a hole in it.”

“We didn’t find any videos at the house, Candy. And as I said, even if we had, it wouldn’t change anything.” But the fact that Candy had seen a video camera interested Banks. Again, he had to ask himself where was it, and where were the tapes?

“So it’s all for nothing, then? My coming here.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Yes, it is. You’re not going to do anything. She’s just as guilty as him, and you’re going to let her get away with murder.”

“Candy, we’ve got no evidence against her. The fact that she joined in a threesome with her husband and you does not make her a murderer.”

“Then find some evidence.”

Banks sighed. “Why did you come here?” he asked. “Really. You girls never come forward voluntarily and talk to the police.”

“What do you mean, you girls? You’re judging me again, aren’t you?”

“Candy, for crying out loud… You’re a tom. You told me yourself. You sell sex. I’m not judging your profession, but what I am saying is that girls who practice it rarely make themselves helpful to the police. So why are you here?”

She shot him a sly glance so full of humor and intelligence that Banks wanted to get on his soapbox and persuade her to go to university and get a degree. But he didn’t. Then her expression quickly changed to one of sadness. “You’re right about my profession, as you call it,” she said. “It’s full of risks. Risk of getting some sexually transmitted disease. Risk of meeting the wrong kind of customer. The nasty kind. Things like that happen to us all the time. We deal with them. At the time, these two were no better or worse than anyone else. Better than some. At least they paid.” She leaned forward. “But since I’ve read about them in the papers, what you found in the cellar…” She gave a little shudder and hugged her skinny shoulders. “Girls go missing,” she went on. “Girls like me. And nobody cares.”

Banks attempted to say something but she brushed it aside.

“Oh, you’ll say you do. You’ll say it doesn’t matter who gets raped, beat up or murdered. But if it’s some little butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-knickers schoolgirl, you’ll move heaven and earth to find out who did it. If it’s someone like me… well… let’s just say we’re pretty much low priority. Okay?”

“If that’s true, Candy, there are reasons,” said Banks. “And it’s not because I don’t care. Because we don’t care.”

She studied him for a few moments and seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Maybe you do,” she said. “Maybe you’re different. And maybe there are reasons. Not that they get you off the hook. The point is, though, why I came and all that… not just that girls do go missing. Girls have gone missing. Well, one in particular.”

Banks felt the hairs bristle at the back of his neck. “A girl you know? A friend of yours?”

“Not exactly a friend. You don’t have many friends in this profession. But someone I knew, yes. Spent time with. Talked to. Had a drink with. Lent money to.”

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know exactly. Before Christmas.”

“Did you report it?”

Her cutting glance said he’d just gone down a lot in her estimation. Curiously, it mattered to him. “Give me a break,” she said. “Girls come and go all the time. Move on. Even give up the life sometimes, save up enough money, go to university, get a degree.”

Banks felt himself blush as she said the very thing that had crossed his mind some time ago. “So what’s to say this missing girl didn’t just up and leave like the others?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Candy. “Maybe it’s a wild-goose chase.”

“But?”

“But you said that what I had to tell you wasn’t evidence.”

“That’s true.”

“It made you think, though, didn’t it?”

“It gave me pause for thought. Yes.”

“Then what if this girl didn’t just move on? What if something did happen to her? Don’t you think you at least ought to look into that possibility? You never know, you might find some evidence there.”

“What you’re saying makes sense, Candy, but did you ever see this girl with the Paynes?”

“Not exactly with them, no.”

“Did you see the Paynes at any time around her disappearance?”

“I did see them sometimes, cruising the street. I can’t remember the exact dates.”

“Around that time, though?”

“Yes.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need a name.”

“No problem. I know her name.”

“And not a name like Candy.”

“What’s wrong with Candy?”

“I don’t believe it’s your own name.”

“Well, well. I can see now why you’re such an important detective. Actually, it’s not. My real name is Hayley, which, if you ask me, is even worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not that bad.”

“You can spare me the flattery. Don’t you know us toms don’t need to be flattered?”

“I didn’t mean-”

She smiled. “I know you didn’t.” Then she leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk, her pale face only a foot or two away from his. He could smell bubble gum and smoke on her breath. “But that girl who disappeared. I know her name. Her street name was Anna, but I know her real name. What do you think of that, Mr. Detective?”

“I think we’re in business,” said Banks, reaching for pad and pen.

She sat back and folded her arms. “Oh, no. Not until I’ve had that cigarette.”

“What now?” asked Janet. “I’ve already changed my statement.”

“I know,” said Annie, that sick feeling at the center of her gut. Partly, it was due to Janet’s stuffy flat, but only partly. “I’ve been to talk to the CPS.”

Janet poured herself a shot of gin, neat, from an almost empty bottle. “And?”

“And I’m supposed to arrest you and take you down to the station to charge you.”

“I see. What are you going to charge me with?”

Annie paused, took a deep breath, then said, “The CPS wanted me to charge you with murder at first, but I managed to get them down to voluntary manslaughter. You’ll have to talk to them about this, but I’m sure that if you plead guilty, it’ll go easy on you.”

The shock and the anger she had expected didn’t come. Instead, Janet twisted a loose thread around her forefinger, frowned and took a sip of gin. “It’s because of the John Hadleigh verdict, isn’t it? I heard it on the radio.”

Annie swallowed. “Yes.”

“I thought so. A sacrificial lamb.”

“Look,” Annie went on, “we can work this out. As I said, the CPS will probably work out a deal-”

Janet held her hand up. “No.”

“What do you mean?”

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

“Janet-”

“No. If the bastards want to charge me, let them. I’ll not give them the satisfaction of pleading guilty to just doing my job.”

“This is no time for playing games, Janet.”

“What makes you think I’m playing games? I mean it. I’ll plead innocent to any charges you care to bring.”

Annie felt a chill. “Janet, listen to me. You can’t do that.”

Janet laughed. She looked bad, Annie noticed: hair unwashed and unbrushed, pale skin breaking out in spots, a general haze of stale sweat and fresh gin. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course I can. The public want us to do our job, don’t they? They want people to feel safe in their nice little middle-class beds at night, or when they’re driving to work in the morning or going out for a drink in the evening. Don’t they? Well, let them find out there’s a price for keeping killers off the streets. No, Annie, I’ll not plead guilty, not even to voluntary manslaughter.”

Annie leaned forward to put some emphasis into what she was saying. “Think about this, Janet. It could be one of the most important decisions you ever make.”

“I don’t think so. I already made that one in the cellar last week. But I have thought about it. I haven’t thought about anything else for a week.”

“Your mind’s made up?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I want to do this, Janet?” Annie said, standing up.

Janet smiled at her. “No, of course you don’t. You’re a decent enough person. You like to do the right thing, and you know as well as I do that this stinks. But when push comes to shove, you’ll do your job. The bloody Job. You know, I’m almost glad this has happened, glad to be out of it. The fucking hypocrites. Come on, get on with it.”

“Janet Taylor, I’m arresting you for the murder of Terence Payne. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

When Annie suggested they meet for a drink somewhere other than the Queen’s Arms, Banks felt immediately apprehensive. The Queen’s Arms was their “local.” It was where they always went for a drink after work. By naming another pub, the Pied Piper, a tourist haunt on Castle Hill, Annie was telling Banks she had a serious message to deliver, something beyond casual conversation, or so he believed. Either that, or she was worried about Detective Superintendent Chambers’s finding out they were meeting.

He got there ten minutes early, bought a pint at the bar and sat at a table near the window, back to the wall. The view was spectacular. The formal gardens were a blaze of purple, scarlet and indigo, and across the river the tall trees of The Green, some of them still in blossom, blocked out most of the eyesore of the East End Estate. He could still see some of the grim maisonettes, and the two twelve-story tower blocks stuck up as if they were giving the finger to the world, but he could also see beyond them to the lush plain with its fields of bright yellow rapeseed, and he even fancied he could make out the dark green humps of the Cleveland Hills in the far distance.

He could see the back of Jenny Fuller’s house, too, facing The Green. Sometimes he worried about Jenny. She didn’t seem to have much going in her life apart from her work. She had joked about her bad relationships yesterday, but Banks had witnessed some of them, and they were no joke. He remembered the shock, disappointment and – yes – jealousy he had felt some years ago when he went to interrogate a loser called Dennis Osmond and saw Jenny poke her head around his bedroom door, hair in disarray, a thin dressing gown slipping off her shoulders. He had also listened as she spilled out her woes over the unfaithful Randy. Jenny picked losers, cheats and generally unsuitable partners time after time. The sad thing was, she knew it, but it happened anyway.

Annie was fifteen minutes late, which was unlike her, and she lacked the usual spring in her step. When she got herself a drink and joined Banks at the table, he could tell she was upset.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“You can say that again.”

Banks felt that he could have had a better one, too. Sandra’s letter he could have done without, for a start. And while Candy’s information was interesting, it was maddeningly lacking in the hard evidence he needed if he was to track down Lucy Payne and arrest her for anything other than curb-crawling. That was the trouble; the odd things that trickled in – Lucy’s childhood, the satanic stuff in Alderthorpe, Kathleen Murray’s murder, and now Candy’s statement – were all disturbing and suggestive of more serious problems, but ultimately, as AC Hartnell had already pointed out, they added up to nothing.

“Anything in particular?” he asked.

“I just arrested Janet Taylor.”

“Let me guess: the Hadleigh verdict?”

“Yes. It seems everyone knew about it except me. The CPS wants justice to be seen to be done. It’s just bloody politics, that’s all.”

“Often is.”

Annie gave him a sour look. “I know that, but it doesn’t help.”

“They’ll make a deal with her.”

Annie told him what Janet had just said.

“Should be an interesting trial, then. What did Chambers have to say?”

“He doesn’t give a damn. He’s just marking time till he gets his pension. I’m through with Complaints and Discipline. Soon as there’s an opening in CID, I’m back.”

“And we’d be happy to have you, as soon as there is,” said Banks, smiling.

“Look, Alan,” Annie said, looking at the view through the window, “there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Just as he’d thought. He lit a cigarette. “Okay. What is it?”

“It’s just that… I don’t know… this isn’t working out. You and me. I think we should ease off. Cool it. That’s all.”

“You want to end our relationship?”

“Not end it. Just change its focus, that’s all. We can still be friends.”

“I don’t know what to say, Annie. What’s brought this on?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t just expect me to believe you suddenly decided for no apparent reason to chuck me.”

“I’m not chucking you. I told you. Things are just changing.”

“Okay. Are we going to continue going out for romantic dinners, to galleries and concerts together?”

“No.”

“Are we going to continue sleeping together?”

“No.”

“Then what, precisely, are we going to do together?”

“Be friends. You know, at work. Be supportive and stuff.”

“I’m already supportive and stuff. Why can’t I be supportive and stuff and still sleep with you?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, Alan. Sleeping with you. The sex. You know that.”

“I thought I did. Maybe you’re just a damn good actress.”

Annie winced and swigged some beer. “That’s not fair. I don’t deserve that. This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

“Then why are you doing it? You know it’s more than sex with us, anyway.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t. Is it because of that conversation we had the other night? I wasn’t trying to suggest that we should have children. That’s the last thing I’d want right now.”

“I know. It wasn’t that.”

“Was it to do with the miscarriage, what I told you I felt?”

“Christ, no. Maybe. Look, okay, I’ll admit it threw me, but not in the way you think.”

“In what way, then?”

Annie paused, clearly uncomfortable, shifted in her chair and faced away from him, her voice low. “It just made me think about things I’d rather not think about. That’s all.”

“What things?”

“Do you have to know everything?”

“Annie, I care about you. That’s why I’m asking.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, turned her eyes on him and shook her head. “After the rape,” she said, “over two years ago, well… he hadn’t… the one who did it hadn’t… Shit, this is more difficult than I thought.”

Banks felt understanding dawn on him. “You got pregnant. That’s what you’re telling me, right? That’s why this whole business with Sandra is bothering you so much.”

Annie smiled thinly. “Perceptive of you.” She touched his hand and whispered, “Yes. I got pregnant.”

“And?”

Annie shrugged. “And I had an abortion. It wasn’t my best moment, but it wasn’t my worst. I didn’t feel guilty afterward. I didn’t feel much of anything, in fact. But all this… I don’t know… I just want to put it behind me, and being with you always seems to bring it all back, shove it right in my face.”

“Annie-”

“No. Let me finish. You’ve got too much baggage, Alan. Too much for me to handle. I thought it would get easier, go away, maybe, but it hasn’t. You can’t let it go. You’ll never let it go. Your marriage was such a big part of your life for so long that you can’t. You’re hurt and I can’t console you. I don’t do consoling well. Sometimes I just feel too overwhelmed by your life, your past, your problems, and all I want to do is crawl away and be on my own. I can’t get any breathing space.”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and noticed his hand was shaking a little. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”

“Well, that’s why I’m telling you. I’m not good at commitment, at emotional closeness. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never. I don’t know, but it’s stifling me and scaring me.”

“Can’t we work it out?”

“I don’t want to work it out. I don’t have the energy. This is not what I need in my life right now. That’s the other reason.”

“What?”

“My career. This Janet Taylor fiasco aside, believe it or not, I do love police work and I do have an aptitude for it.”

“I know-”

“No, wait. Let me finish. What we’ve been doing is unprofessional. It’s hard for me to believe that half the station doesn’t already know what we’re up to in private. I’ve heard the sniggers behind my back. Certainly all my colleagues in CID and Complaints and Discipline know. I think Chambers was also dropping a hint when he warned me you were a ladies’ man. I wouldn’t be surprised if ACC McLaughlin knows, too.”

“Relationships on the job aren’t unusual, and they certainly aren’t illegal.”

“No, but they are seriously discouraged and frowned upon. I want to make chief inspector, Alan. Hell, I want to make superintendent, chief constable. Who knows? I’ve rediscovered my ambition.”

It was ironic, Banks thought, that Annie should rediscover her ambition just when he thought he had come to the limits of his. “And I’m standing in your way?”

“Not standing in my way. Distracting me. I don’t need any distractions.”

“All work and no play…”

“So I’ll be dull for a while. It’ll be a nice change.”

“So that’s it, then? Just like that? Over. The end. Because I’m human and I’ve got a past that sometimes rears its ugly head, and because you’ve decided you want to put more effort into your career, we stop seeing each other?”

“If you want to put it like that, yes.”

“What other way is there to put it?”

Annie hurried her pint. Banks could tell she wanted to leave. Damn it, though, he was hurt and angry and he wasn’t going to let her get off that easily.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. You’re not jealous of anyone, are you?”

“Jealous? Of whom? Why should I be?”

“Jenny, perhaps?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Alan. No, I’m not jealous of Jenny. If I’m jealous of anyone, it’s Sandra. Can’t you see that? She’s got more of a hold on you than anyone.”

“That’s not true. Not anymore.” But Banks remembered the letter, his feelings when he read the cold, business-like words. “Is there someone else? Is that it?” he went on quickly.

“Alan, there’s nobody else. Believe me. I’ve told you. I don’t have room for anyone in my life right now. I can’t cope with anyone else’s emotional demands.”

“What about sexual demands?”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t have to be emotional, sex, does it? I mean, if it’s too much trouble to sleep with someone who actually cares a bit about you, maybe it’d be easier to pick up some stud in a bar for a quick anonymous fuck. No demands. You don’t even have to tell one another your names. Is that what you want?”

“Alan, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I’d like you to stop right there.”

Banks rubbed his temples. “I’m just upset, Annie, that’s all. I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad day, too.”

“I’m sorry about that. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

He looked her in the eye. “Then don’t. No matter who you get involved with, you’ll have to face things you want to avoid.”

He noticed the tears in her eyes. The only time he’d seen her cry before was when she told him about her rape. He reached out to touch her hand on the table, but she jerked it away. “No. Don’t.”

“Annie-”

“No.”

She stood up so abruptly that she banged the table hard and her drink spilled right on to Banks’s lap, then she ran out of the pub before he could say another word. All he could do was sit there feeling the cold liquid seep through his trousers, aware of everyone’s eyes on him, thankful only that they hadn’t been in the Queen’s Arms, where everyone knew him. And he’d thought the day couldn’t get any worse.