Aftermath

18

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Annie told Banks in his Eastvale office on Wednesday morning. He had just been glancing over the garage’s report on Samuel Gardner’s Fiat. They had, of course, found many hair traces in the car’s interior, both human and animal, but they all had to be collected, labeled and sent to the lab, and it would take time to match them with the suspects, or with Leanne Wray. There were plenty of fingerprints, too – it was certainly true that Gardner had been a slob when it came to his car – but Vic Manson, fingerprints officer, could only hurry to a certain degree, and it wasn’t fast enough for Banks’s immediate needs.

Banks looked at Annie. “Sorry for what exactly?”

“Sorry for making a scene in the pub, for acting like a fool.”

“Oh.”

“What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing.”

“No, come on. That I was sorry about what I said, about us? About ending the relationship?”

“I can always live in hope, can’t I?”

“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Alan. It doesn’t suit you.”

Banks opened up a paper clip. The sharp end pricked his finger and a tiny spot of blood dropped on his desk. Which fairy tale was that? he found himself wondering. “Sleeping Beauty”? But he didn’t fall asleep. Chance would be a fine thing.

“Now, are we going to get on with life, or are you just going to sulk and ignore me? Because if you are, I’d like to know.”

Banks couldn’t help but smile. She was right. He had been feeling sorry for himself. He had also decided that she was right about their relationship. Fine as it had been most of the time, and much as he would miss her intimate company, it was fraught with problems on both sides. So tell her, his inner voice prompted. Don’t be a bastard. Don’t put it all down to her, the whole burden. It was difficult; he wasn’t used to talking about his feelings. He sucked his bleeding finger and said, “I’m not going to sulk. Just give me a little time to get used to the idea, okay? I sort of enjoyed what we had.”

“So did I,” said Annie, with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Do you think it’s any easier for me, just because I’m the one who’s making the move? We want different things, Alan. Need different things. It’s just not working.”

“You’re right. Look, I promise I won’t sulk or ignore you or put you down as long as you don’t treat me like something nasty stuck on your shoe.”

“What on earth makes you think I’d do that?”

Banks was thinking of the letter from Sandra, which had made him feel exactly like that, but he was talking to Annie, he realized. Yes, she was right; things were well and truly screwed up. He shook his head. “Ignore me, Annie. Friends and colleagues, okay?”

Annie narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him. “I do care, you know.”

“I know you do.”

“That’s part of the problem.”

“It’ll get better. Over time. Sorry, I can’t seem to think of anything to say but clichés. Maybe that’s what they’re for, situations like this? Maybe that’s why there are so many of them. But don’t worry, Annie, I mean what I say. I’ll do the best I can to behave toward you with the utmost courtesy and respect.”

“Oh, bloody hell!” Annie said, laughing. “You don’t have to be so damn stuffy! A simple good morning, a smile and a friendly little chat in the canteen every now and then would be just fine.”

Banks felt his face burn, then he laughed with her. “Right you are. How’s Janet Taylor?”

“Stubborn as hell. I’ve tried to talk to her. The CPS has tried to talk to her. Her own lawyer has tried to talk to her. Even Chambers has tried to talk to her.”

“At least she’s got a lawyer now.”

“The Federation sent someone over.”

“What’s she being charged with?”

“They’re going to charge her with voluntary manslaughter. If she pleads guilty with extenuating circumstances, there’s every chance she’ll get it down to excusable homicide.”

“And if she goes ahead as planned?”

“Who knows? It’s up to the jury. They’re either going to give her the same as they gave John Hadleigh, despite the vastly different circumstances, or they’re going to take her job and her situation into account and give her the benefit of the doubt. I mean, the public doesn’t want us hamstrung when it comes to doing our job, but they don’t want us to get ideas above our station, either. They don’t like to see us acting as if we’re beyond that law. It’s a toss-up, really.”

“How’s she bearing up?”

“She’s not. She’s just drinking.”

“Bugger.”

“Indeed. How about the Payne investigation?”

Banks told her what Jenny had discovered about Lucy’s past.

Annie whistled. “So what are you going to do?”

“Bring her in for questioning in the death of Kathleen Murray. If we can find her. It’s probably a bloody waste of time – after all, it was over ten years ago, and she was only twelve at the time – so I doubt we’ll get anywhere with it, but who knows, it might open other doors if a little pressure is judiciously applied.”

“AC Hartnell won’t like it.”

“I know that. He’s already made his feelings clear.”

“Lucy Payne doesn’t suspect you know so much about her past?”

“She has to be aware there was a chance the others would talk, or that we’d find out somehow. In that case, she may have already gone to ground.”

“Anything new on the sixth body?”

“No,” said Banks. “But we’ll find out who it is.” The fact that they couldn’t identify the sixth victim nagged away at him. Like the other victims, she had been buried naked and no traces of clothing or personal belongings remained. Banks could only guess that Payne must have burned their clothes and disposed of any rings or watches somehow. He certainly hadn’t kept them as trophies. The forensic anthropologist working on her remains had so far been able to tell him that she was a white female between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two and that she had died, like the others, of ligature strangulation. Horizontal striations in the tooth enamel indicated inconsistent nutrition during her early years. The regularity of the lines indicated possible seasonal swings in food supplies. Perhaps, like Katya, she had come from a war-torn country in Eastern Europe.

Banks had had a team keeping track of all mispers over the past few months, and they were working overtime now, following up on reports. But if the victim was a prostitute, like Katya Pavelic, then the chances of finding out who she was were slim. Even so, Banks kept telling himself, she was somebody’s daughter. Somewhere, somebody must be missing her. But perhaps not. There were plenty of people out there without friends or family, people who could die in their homes tomorrow and not be found until the rent was long overdue or the smell grew too bad for the neighbors to bear. There were refugees from Eastern Europe, like Katya, or kids who had left home to travel the world and might be anywhere from Katmandu to Kilimanjaro. He had to inure himself to the fact that they might not be able to identify the sixth victim for some time, if ever. But still it galled. She should have a name, an identity.

Annie stood up. “Anyway, I’ve said what I came to say. Oh, and you’ll probably be hearing very soon that I’ve made a formal request to come back to CID. Think there’s any chance?”

“You can have my job, if you want.”

Annie smiled. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Anyway, I don’t know if they’ve changed their minds about CID staffing levels, but I’ll talk to Red Ron, if you think that’ll help. We don’t have a DI right now, so it’s probably a good time to make your application.”

“Before Winsome catches up with me?”

“She’s sharp, that lass.”

“Pretty, too.”

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

Annie stuck her tongue out at Banks and left his office. Sad as he felt at the end of their brief romance, he felt some relief, too. He would no longer have to wonder from one day to the next whether they were on or off again; he had been given his freedom yet again, and freedom was a somewhat ambiguous gift.

“Sir?”

Banks looked up and saw Winsome framed in his doorway. “Yes?”

“Just had a message from Steve Naylor, the custody sergeant downstairs.”

“Problem?”

“No, not at all.” Winsome smiled. “It’s Mick Blair. He wants to talk.”

Banks clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Excellent. Tell them to send him straight up. Our best interview room, I think, Winsome.”

When she was packed and ready to head for London, Maggie took Lucy a cup of tea in bed the following morning. It was the least she could do after all the poor woman had been through lately.

They had talked well into the previous night, emptying a bottle of white wine between them, and Lucy had hinted at what a terrible childhood she had suffered and how recent events had brought it all back to mind. She had also confided that she was afraid of the police, afraid they might try to fabricate some sort of evidence against her, and that she couldn’t stand the thought of going to jail. Just one night in the cell had almost been too much for her to bear.

The police didn’t like loose ends, she said, and in this case she was a very serious loose end indeed. She knew they had been watching her and had sneaked out of her foster parents’ house after dark and taken the first train from Hull to York, then changed for London, where she had worked on changing her appearance, mostly through hair, makeup and a different style of dress. Maggie had to agree that the Lucy Payne she knew wouldn’t have been seen dead in the kind of casual clothes she was wearing now, nor would she have worn the same, slightly tarty makeup. Maggie agreed to tell no one that Lucy was there, and if any of the neighbors saw her and asked who she was, she would tell them she was a distant relative just passing through.

Both bedrooms, the large and the small, looked over The Hill, and when Maggie tapped on the door of the smaller room she had given Lucy and entered, she saw that Lucy was already standing by the window. Stark naked. She turned when Maggie entered with the tea. “Oh, thank you. You’re so kind.”

Maggie felt herself blush. She couldn’t help but notice what a fine body Lucy had: the full, round breasts, taut, flat stomach, gently curving hips and smooth tapered thighs, the dark triangle between her legs. Lucy seemed completely unembarrassed by her own nakedness, but Maggie felt uncomfortable and tried to avert her eyes.

Luckily the curtains were still closed and the light was fairly dim, but Lucy had held them open a little at the top and had clearly been watching the activity across the street. It had let up a bit in the past couple of days, Maggie had noticed, but there was still a great deal of coming and going, and the front garden was still a complete mess.

“Have you seen what they’ve done over there?” said Lucy, coming forward and accepting the cup of tea. She got back into bed and covered herself with the thin white sheet. Maggie was grateful at least for that.

“Yes,” said Maggie.

“That’s my house, and they’ve ruined it completely for me. I can’t go back there now. Not ever.” Her lower lip trembled in anger. “I saw through the door into the hall when someone came out. They’ve taken all the carpets, pulled up the floorboards. They’ve even punched big holes in the walls. They’ve just ruined it.”

“I suppose they were looking for things, Lucy. It’s their job.”

“Looking for what? What more could they want? I’ll bet they’ve taken all my nice things, too, all my jewelry and clothes. All my memories.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it all back.”

Lucy shook her head. “No. I don’t want it all back. Not now. I thought I did, but now I’ve seen what they’ve done, it’s tainted. I’ll start over again. With just what I’ve got.”

“Are you all right for money?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, thank you. We had a bit put away. I don’t know what will happen to the house, the mortgage, but I doubt we’ll be able to sell it in that state.”

“There must be some sort of compensation,” Maggie said. “Surely they can’t just take your house and not compensate you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised at anything they could do.” Lucy blew on the tea. Steam rose around her face.

“Look, I told you last night,” Maggie said, “I have to go to London, just for a couple of days. Will you be all right here by yourself?”

“Yes. Of course. Don’t worry about me.”

“There’s plenty of food in the fridge and freezer, you know, if you don’t want to go out or order in.”

“That’s good, thank you,” said Lucy. “I think I really would just like to stay in and shut out the world and watch television or something, try to take my mind off what’s been happening.”

“There’s plenty of videotapes in the cupboard under the TV in my bedroom,” said Maggie. “Please feel free to watch them there whenever you want.”

“Thank you, Maggie. I will.”

Though there was a small television set in the living room, the only TV-and-VCR combination in the entire house was set up in the master bedroom, for some reason, and that was Maggie’s room. Not that she wasn’t thankful. She had often lain in bed unable to sleep and, when there was nothing suitable on television, had watched one of the love stories or romantic comedies Ruth seemed to favor, with actors such as Hugh Grant, Meg Ryan, Richard Gere, Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts and Sandra Bullock; they had helped her through many a long, hard night.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you need?”

“I can’t think of anything,” Lucy said. “I just want to feel safe and comfortable so I can remember what it’s like.”

“You’ll be fine here. I’m really sorry I have to leave you so soon, but I’ll be back before long. Don’t worry.”

“It’s okay, honest,” said Lucy. “I didn’t come here to interrupt your life or anything. You’ve got your work. I know that. I’m only asking for sanctuary for a short time, just till I get myself together.”

“What are you going to do?”

“No idea. I suppose I can change my name and get a job somewhere far away from here. Anyway, not to worry. You go to London and have a good time. I can take care of myself.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Lucy got out of bed again, put her cup of tea on the bedside table and went back toward the window. There she stood, providing Maggie with a rear view of her finely toned body, looking out across the road at what used to be her home.

“I must dash, then,” said Maggie. “The taxi will be here soon.”

“Bye,” said Lucy, without turning round. “Have a good time.”

“Okay, Mick,” said Banks. “I understand you want to talk to us.”

After his night in the cells, Mick Blair didn’t at all resemble the cocky teenager they had interviewed yesterday. In fact, he looked like a frightened kid. Clearly the prospect of spending several years in a similar or worse facility had worked on his imagination. He had also, Banks knew through the custody sergeant, had a long telephone conversation with his parents shortly after his detention, and his manner had seemed to change after that. He had not asked for a lawyer. Not yet.

“Yeah,” he said. “But first tell me what Sarah said.”

“You know I can’t do that, Mick.”

In fact, Sarah Francis had told them nothing at all; she had remained as monosyllabic and as scared and surly as she had in Ian Scott’s flat. But that didn’t matter, as she had been mainly used as a lever against Mick, anyway.

Banks, Winsome and Mick were in the largest, most comfortable interview room. It had also been painted recently, and Banks could smell the paint from the institutional-green walls. He still had nothing from the lab on Samuel Gardner’s car, but Mick didn’t know that. He said he wanted to talk, but if he decided to play coy again, Banks could always drop hints about fingerprints and hairs. He knew they had been in the car. It was something he should have checked at the time, with Ian Scott having a record for taking and driving away. Given Scott’s other offense, he also had a good idea what the four of them had been up to.

“Would you like to make a statement, then?” Banks said. “For the record.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been made aware of all your rights?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then, Mick. Tell us what happened that night.”

“What you said yesterday, about it going easier with me…?”

“Yes?”

“You meant it, didn’t you? I mean, whatever Sarah said, she might have been lying, you know, to protect herself and Ian.”

“The courts and the judges look favorably upon people who help the police, Mick. That’s a fact. I’ll be honest. I can’t give you the exact details of what will happen – it depends on so many variables – but I can tell you that you’ll have my support for leniency, and that should go some distance.”

Mick swallowed. He was about to rat on his friends. Banks had witnessed such moments before and knew how difficult it was, what conflicting emotions must be struggling for primacy inside Mick Blair’s soul. Self-preservation usually won out, in Banks’s experience, but sometimes at the cost of self-loathing. It was the same for him, the watcher; he wanted the information, and he had coaxed many a weak and sensitive suspect toward informing, but when he succeeded, the taste of victory was often soured by the bile of disgust.

Not this time, though, Banks thought. He wanted to know what had happened to Leanne Wray far more than he cared about Mick Blair’s discomfort.

“You did steal that car, didn’t you, Mick?” Banks began. “We’ve already recovered a lot of hair samples and fingerprints. We’ll find yours among them, won’t we? And Ian’s, Sarah’s and Leanne’s.”

“It was Ian,” Blair said. “It was all Ian’s idea. It was nothing to do with me. I can’t even fucking drive.”

“What about Sarah?”

“Sarah? Ian says jump, Sarah asks how high.”

“And Leanne?”

“Leanne was all for it. She was in a pretty wild mood that night. I don’t know why. She said something about her stepmother, but I didn’t know what the problem was. To be honest, I didn’t really care. I mean, I didn’t want to know about her family problems. We’ve all got problems, right?”

Indeed we do, thought Banks.

“You just wanted to get into her knickers, then?” said Winsome.

That seemed to shock Blair, coming from a woman, a beautiful woman at that, with a soft Jamaican accent.

“No! I mean, I liked her, yes. But I wasn’t trying it on, honest. I wasn’t trying to force her or anything like that.”

“What happened, Mick?” Banks asked.

“Ian said why don’t we take a car and do some E and smoke a couple of spliffs and maybe drive up to Darlington and go clubbing.”

“What about Leanne’s curfew?”

“She said fuck the curfew, it sounded like a great idea to her. Like I said, she was a bit wild that night. She’d had a couple of drinks. Not a lot, like, just a couple, but she didn’t usually drink, and it was just enough to loosen her up a bit. She just wanted to have some fun.”

“And you thought you might get lucky?”

Again, Winsome’s interjection seemed to confuse Blair. “No. Yes. I mean, if she was willing. Okay, I fancied her. I thought, maybe… you know… she seemed different, more devil-may-care.”

“And you thought the drugs would make her even more willing?”

“No. I don’t know.” He looked at Banks in annoyance. “Look, do you want me to go on with this or not?”

“Go on.” Banks gave Winsome the signal to keep out of it for the time being. He could imagine the scenario easily enough: Leanne a little drunk, giggly, flirting with Blair a bit, as Shannon the barmaid had said, then Ian Scott offering Ecstasy in the car, maybe Leanne unsure about it, but Blair encouraging her, egging her on, hoping all the time to get her into bed. But all that was something they could deal with later on, if necessary, when they had established the circumstances of Leanne’s disappearance.

“Ian stole the car,” Blair went on. “I don’t know anything about stealing cars, but he said he learned when he was a kid growing up on the East Side Estate.”

Banks knew all too well that stealing cars was one of the essential skills for kids growing up on the East Side Estate. “Where did you go?”

“North. Like I said, we were going to Darlington. Ian knows the club scene up there. Soon as we set off, Ian handed out the E and we all gobbled it up. Then Sarah rolled a spliff and we smoked that.”

Banks noticed that it was always someone else committing the illegal act, never Blair, but he filed that away for later. “Had Leanne taken Ecstasy or smoked marijuana before?” he asked.

“Not to my knowledge. She always seemed a bit straitlaced to me.”

“But not that night?”

“No.”

“Okay. Go on. What happened?”

Mick looked down at the table and Banks could tell he was coming to the hard part. “We hadn’t got far out of Eastvale – maybe half an hour or so – when Leanne said she felt sick and she could feel her heart was beating way too fast. She was having trouble breathing. She used that inhaler thing she carried with her, but it didn’t do any good. Made her worse, if you ask me. Anyway, Ian thought she was just panicking or hallucinating or something, so first he opened the car windows. It didn’t do any good, though. Soon she was shaking and sweating. I mean, she was really scared. Me, too.”

“What did you do?”

“We were in the country by then, up on the moors above Lyndgarth, so Ian pulled off the road and stopped. We all got out and walked out on the moor. Ian thought the open spaces would be good for Leanne, a breath of fresh air, that maybe she was just getting claustrophobic in the car.”

“Did it help?”

Mick turned pale. “No. Soon as we got out she was sick. I mean really sick. Then she collapsed. She couldn’t breathe, and she seemed to be choking.”

“Did you know she was asthmatic?”

“Like I said, I saw her use the inhaler in the car when she first started feeling weird.”

“And it didn’t enter your mind that Ecstasy might be dangerous for an asthma sufferer, or that it might cause a bad reaction with the inhalant?”

“How could I know? I’m not a doctor.”

“No. But you do take Ecstasy – I doubt this was your first time – and you must have been aware of some of the adverse publicity. The Leah Betts story, for example, the girl who died about five years ago? A few others since.”

“I heard about them, yes, but I thought you just had to be careful about your body temperature when you were dancing. You know, like, drink plenty of water and be careful you don’t dehydrate.”

“That’s only one of the dangers. Did you give her the inhaler again when she became worse out on the moor?”

“We couldn’t find it. It must have been back in the car, in her bag. Besides, it had only made her worse.”

Banks remembered viewing the contents of Leanne’s shoulder bag and seeing the inhaler there among her personal items, doubting that she would have run away without it.

“Didn’t it also cross your mind that she might have been choking on her own vomit?” he went on.

“I don’t know, I never really…”

“What did you do?”

“That’s just it. We didn’t know what to do. We just tried to give her some breathing space, some air, you know, but all of a sudden she sort of twitched, and after that she didn’t move at all.”

Banks let the silence stretch for a few moments, conscious only of their breathing and the soft electric hum of the tape machines.

“Why didn’t you take her to the hospital?” he asked.

“It was too late! I told you. She was dead.”

“You were certain of that?”

“Yes. We checked her pulse, felt for a heartbeat, tried to see if she was breathing, but there was nothing. She was dead. It all happened so quickly. I mean, we were feeling the E, too, we were panicking a bit, not thinking clearly.”

Banks knew of at least three other recent Ecstasy-related deaths in the region, so Blair’s account didn’t surprise him too much. MDMA, short for methylenedioxymethamphetamine, was a popular drug with young people because it was cheap and kept you going all night at raves and clubs. It was believed to be safe, though Mick was right that you had to be careful about your water intake and body temperature, but it could also be particularly dangerous to people suffering from high blood pressure or asthma, like Leanne.

“Why didn’t you take her to a hospital when you were all still in the car?”

“Ian said she’d be okay if we just got out and walked around for a while. He said he’d seen that kind of reaction before.”

“What did you do then, after you discovered she was dead?”

“Ian said we couldn’t tell anyone what had happened, that we’d all go to jail.”

“So what did you do?”

“We carried her further out on the moor and buried her. I mean, there was a sort of sinkhole, not very deep, by a bit of broken-down drystone wall, so we put her in there and we covered her up with stones and bracken. Nobody could find her unless they were really looking, and there weren’t any public footpaths nearby. Even the animals couldn’t get to her. It was so desolate, the middle of nowhere.”

“And then?”

“Then we drove back to Eastvale. We were all badly shaken up, but Ian said we ought to be seen about the place, you know, acting natural, as if things were normal.”

“And Leanne’s shoulder bag?”

“That was Ian’s idea. I mean, we’d all decided by then that we’d just say she left us outside the pub and set off home and that was the last we saw of her. I found her bag on the backseat of the car, and Ian said maybe if we dumped it in someone’s garden near the Old Ship, the police would think she’d been picked up by a pervert or something.”

And indeed we did, thought Banks. One simple, spur-of-the-moment action, added to two other missing girls whose bags had also been found close to the scenes of their disappearances, and the entire Chameleon task force had been created. But not in time to save Melissa Horrocks or Kimberley Myers. He felt sick and angry.

There was mile after mile of moorland up beyond Lyndgarth, Banks knew, none of it farmed. Blair was right about the isolation, too. Only the occasional rambler crossed it, and then usually by the well-marked paths. “Can you remember where you buried her?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Blair. “I don’t know about the exact spot, but within a couple of hundred yards. You’ll know it when you see the old wall.”

Banks looked at Winsome. “Get a search party together, would you, DC Jackman, and have young Mick here go out with them. Let me know the minute you find anything. And have Ian Scott and Sarah Francis picked up.”

Winsome stood up.

“That’ll do for now,” Banks said.

“What’ll happen to me?” Blair asked.

“I don’t know, Mick,” said Banks. “I honestly don’t know.”