Aftermath

19

The interview had gone well, Maggie thought as she walked out on to Portland Place. Behind her, Broadcasting House looked like the stern of a huge ocean liner. Inside, it had been a maze. She hadn’t known how anyone could find their way around, even if they had worked there for years. Thank the Lord the program’s researcher had met her in the lobby, then guided her through security to the entrails of the building.

It started to rain lightly, so Maggie ducked into Starbucks. Sitting on a stool by the counter that stretched along the front window, sipping her latte and watching the people outside wrestle with their umbrellas, she reviewed her day. It was after three o’clock in the afternoon and the rush hour already seemed to have begun. If it ever ended in London. The interview she had just given had focused almost entirely on the generalities of domestic abuse – things to watch out for, patterns to avoid falling into – rather than her own personal story, or that of her co-interviewee, an abused wife who had gone on to become a psychological counselor. They had exchanged addresses and phone numbers and agreed to get in touch, then the woman had had to dash off to give another interview.

Lunch with Sally, the art director, had gone well, too. They had eaten at a rather expensive Italian restaurant near Victoria Station, and Sally had looked over the sketches, making helpful suggestions here and there. Mostly, though, they had talked about recent events in Leeds, and Sally had shown only the natural curiosity that anyone who happened to live across the street from a serial killer might expect. Maggie had been evasive when questioned about Lucy.

Lucy. The poor woman. Maggie felt guilty for leaving her alone in that big house on The Hill, right opposite where the nightmare of her own life had recently come to a head. Lucy had said she would be okay, but was she just trying to put a brave face on things?

Maggie hadn’t been able to get tickets for the play she wanted to see. It was so popular it was sold out, even on a Wednesday. She thought she might book into the little hotel anyway and go to the cinema instead, but the more she thought about it, and the more she looked out at the hordes of passing strangers, the more she thought she ought to be there for Lucy.

What she would do, she decided, was wait till the rain stopped – it only looked like a mild shower, and she could already see some blue clouds in the sky over the Langham Hilton across the road – do some shopping on Oxford Street, and then head home in the early evening and surprise Lucy.

Maggie felt much better when she had decided to go home. After all, what was the point going to the cinema by herself when Lucy needed someone to talk to, someone to help take her mind off her problems and help her decide what to do with her future?

When the rain had stopped completely, Maggie drained her latte and set out. She would buy Lucy a little present, too, nothing expensive or ostentatious, but perhaps a bracelet or a necklace, something to mark her freedom. After all, as Lucy had said, the police had taken all her things and she didn’t want them back now; she was about to start a new life.

It was late in the afternoon when Banks got the call to drive out to the Wheaton Moor, north of Lyndgarth, and he took Winsome with him. She had done enough work on the Leanne Wray case to be there at the end. Most of the daffodils were gone, but white and pink blossoms covered the trees, and the hedgerows glowed with the burnished gold stars of celandines. Gorse flowered bright yellow all over the moors.

He parked as close as he could to the cluster of figures, but they still had almost a quarter of a mile to walk over the springy gorse and heather. Blair and the others had certainly carried Leanne a long way from civilization. Though the sun was shining and there were only a few high clouds, the wind was cold. Banks was glad of his sports jacket. Winsome was wearing calf-high leather boots and a herringbone jacket over her black polo-neck sweater. She strode with grace and confidence, whereas Banks caught his ankle and stumbled every now and then in the thick gorse. Time to get out and exercise more, he told himself. And time to stop smoking.

They reached the team that Winsome had dispatched about three hours ago, Mick Blair handcuffed to one of the uniformed officers, greasy hair blowing in the wind.

Another officer pointed down the shallow sinkhole, and Banks saw part of a hand, most of the flesh eaten away, the still-white bone showing. “We tried to disturb the scene as little as possible, sir,” the officer went on. “I sent for the SOCOs and the rest of the team. They said they’d get here ASAP.”

Banks thanked him. He glanced back toward the road and saw a car and a van pull up, figures get out and make their way across the rough moorland, some of them in white coveralls. The SOCOs had soon roped off an area of several yards around the mound of stones, and Peter Darby, the local crime scene photographer, got to work. Now all they needed was Dr. Burns, the police surgeon. Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, would most likely conduct the PM, but he was too old and important to go scrambling across the moors anymore. Dr. Burns was skilled, Banks knew, and he already had plenty of experience of on-scene examinations.

It was another ten minutes before Dr. Burns arrived. By then Peter Darby had finished photographing the scene intact, and it was time to uncover the remains. This the SOCOs did slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb any evidence. Mick Blair had said that Leanne died after taking Ecstasy, but he could be lying; he could have tried to rape her and choked her when she didn’t comply. Either way, they couldn’t go around jumping to conclusions about Leanne. Not this time.

Banks began to feel that the whole thing was just too damn familiar, standing out there on the moors with his jacket flapping around him as men in white coveralls uncovered a body. Then he remembered Harold Steadman, the local historian they had found buried under a similar drystone wall below Crow Scar. That had been only his second case in Eastvale, back when the kids were still at school and he and Sandra were happily married, yet it seemed centuries ago now. He wondered what on earth a drystone wall was doing up here anyway, then realized it had probably marked the end of someone’s property long ago, property that had now gone to moorland, overgrown with heather and gorse. The elements had done their work on the wall, and nobody had any interest in repairing it.

Stone by stone, the body was uncovered. As soon as he saw the blond hair, Banks knew it was Leanne Wray. She was still wearing the clothes she had gone missing in – jeans, white Nike trainers, T-shirt and a light suede jacket – and that was something in Blair’s favor, Banks thought. Though there was some decomposition and evidence of insect and small-animal activity – a missing finger on her right hand, for example – the cool weather had kept her from becoming a complete skeleton. In fact, despite the splitting of the skin to expose the muscle and fat on her left cheek, Banks was able to recognize Leanne’s face from the photographs he had seen.

When the body was completely uncovered, everyone stood back as if they were at a funeral paying their last respects before the interment rather than at an exhumation. The moor was silent but for the wind whistling and groaning among the stones like lost souls. Mick Blair was crying, Banks noticed. Either that or the chill wind was making his eyes water.

“Seen enough, Mick?” he asked.

Mick sobbed, then abruptly turned away and vomited noisily and copiously into the gorse.

Banks’s mobile rang as he turned away to go back to his car. It was Stefan Nowak, and he sounded excited. “Alan?”

“What is it, Stefan? Identified the sixth victim?”

“No. But I thought you’d like to know immediately. We’ve found Payne’s camcorder.”

“Tell me where,” said Banks, “and I’ll be with you as fast as I possibly can.”

Maggie was tired when her train pulled into City Station around nine o’clock that evening, half an hour late due to a cow in a tunnel outside Wakefield. Now she had an inkling of why the British complained so much about their trains.

There was a long queue at the taxi rank, and Maggie only had a light holdall to carry, so she decided to walk around the corner to Boar Lane and catch a bus. There were plenty of them that stopped within a short walk of The Hill. It was a pleasant evening, no sign of rain here, and there were still plenty of people on the streets. The bus soon came and she sat at the back downstairs. Two elderly woman sat in front her, just come from the bingo, one with hair that looked like a sort of blue haze sprinkled with glitter. Her perfume irritated Maggie’s nose and made her sneeze, so she moved even farther back.

It was a familiar journey by now, and Maggie spent most of it reading another story in the new Alice Munro paperback she had bought on Charing Cross Road. She had also bought the perfect present for Lucy. It nestled in its little blue box in her holdall. It was an odd piece of jewelry and had immediately caught her eye. Hanging on a thin silver chain, it was a circular silver disc about the size of a ten-penny piece. Inside the circle, made by a snake swallowing its own tail, was an image of the phoenix rising. Maggie hoped that Lucy would like and appreciate the sentiment.

The bus turned the last corner. Maggie rang the bell and got off near the top of The Hill. The streets were quiet and the western sky was still smeared with the reds and purples of sunset. There was a slight chill in the air now, Maggie noticed, giving a little shiver. She saw Mrs. Toth, Claire’s mother, crossing The Hill with some fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and said hello, then turned to the steps.

She fumbled for her keys as she made her way up the dark steps overhung with shrubbery. It was hard to see her way. A perfect place for an ambush, she thought, then wished she hadn’t. Bill’s telephone call still weighed on her mind.

The house seemed to be in darkness. Perhaps Lucy was out? Maggie doubted it. Then she got past the bushes and noticed a flickering light coming from the master bedroom. She was watching television. For a moment, Maggie felt the uncharitable wish that she still had the house to herself. The knowledge that there was someone in her bedroom bothered her. But she had told Lucy she could watch television up there if she wanted, and she could hardly just march in and kick her out, tired as she was. Perhaps they should change rooms if Lucy just wanted to watch television all the time? Maggie would be quite happy in the small bedroom for a few days.

She turned the key in the lock and went inside, then put down her bag and hung up her jacket before heading upstairs to tell Lucy she had decided to come back early. As she glided up on the thick pile carpet she could hear sounds from the television but couldn’t make out what they were. It sounded like somebody shouting. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, so without even thinking to knock, Maggie simply pushed it open and walked in. Lucy law sprawled on the bed naked. Well, that wasn’t too much of a surprise after this morning’s display, Maggie thought. But when she turned to see what was on television she didn’t want to believe her eyes.

At first she thought it was just a porn movie, though why Lucy should be watching something like that and where she had got it from were beyond her, then she noticed the homemade quality, the makeshift lighting. It was some sort of cellar, and there was a girl who appeared to be tied to a bed. A man stood beside her playing with himself and shouting obscenities. Maggie recognized him. A woman lay with her head between the girl’s legs, and in the split second it took Maggie to register all this, the woman turned, licked her lips and grinned mischievously at the camera.

Lucy.

“Oh, no!” Maggie said, turning to Lucy, who was looking at her now with those dark, impenetrable eyes. Maggie put her hand to her mouth. She felt sick. Sick and afraid. She turned to leave but heard a sudden movement behind, then felt a splitting pain at the back of her head, and the world exploded.

The pond was gathering the evening light by the time Banks got there after taking Mick Blair back to Eastvale, making sure Ian Scott and Sarah Francis were under lock and key, and picking up Jenny Fuller on his way out of town. Winsome and Sergeant Hatchley could take care of things at Eastvale until tomorrow morning.

The colors shimmered on the water’s surface like an oil slick, and the ducks, having noticed so much human activity, were keeping a polite and safe distance, and no doubt wondering where the expected chunks of bread had got to. The Panasonic Super 8 camcorder lay, still attached to its tripod, on a piece of cloth on the bank. DS Stefan Nowak and DCI Ken Blackstone had stayed with it until Banks could get there.

“Are you sure it’s the one?” Banks asked Ken Blackstone.

Blackstone nodded. “One of our enterprising young DCs succeeded in tracking down the branch where Payne bought it. He paid cash for it, on the third of March last year. The serial number checks out.”

“Any tapes?”

“One in the camera,” said Stefan. “Ruined.”

“No chance of restoration?”

“All the king’s horses…”

“Only the one? That’s all?”

Stefan nodded. “Believe me, the men went over every inch of the place.” He gestured to take in the area of the pond. “If any tapes had been dumped here, we’d have found them by now.”

“So where are they?” Banks asked nobody in particular.

“If you want my guess,” said Stefan, “I’d say whoever chucked the camcorder in the lake dubbed them on to VHS. There’s some loss of quality, but it’s the only way you can watch them on a regular VCR, without the camcorder.”

Banks nodded. “Makes sense to me. Better take it to Millgarth and lock it up safe in the property room, though what good it’s going to do us now, I don’t know.”

Stefan bent to pick up the camera, wrapping it carefully in the cloth, as if it were a newborn baby. “You never know.”

Banks noticed the pub sign about a hundred yards away: The Woodcutter’s. It was a chain pub, that much he could tell even from a distance, but it was all there was in sight. “It’s been a long day, and I haven’t had my tea yet,” he said to Blackstone and Jenny after Stefan had driven off to Millgarth. “Why don’t we have a drink and toss a few ideas around?”

“You’ll get no objection from me,” said Blackstone.

“Jenny?”

Jenny smiled. “Not much choice, have I? I came in your car, remember? But count me in.”

They were soon settled at a corner table in the almost empty pub, which Banks found to his delight was still serving food. He ordered a beef burger and chips along with a pint of bitter. The jukebox wasn’t so loud that they couldn’t hear themselves talk, but it was loud enough to mask their conversation from any nearby tables.

“So what have we got?” Banks asked when he had his burger in front of him.

“A useless camcorder, by the looks of it,” said Blackstone.

“But what does it mean?”

“It means that someone – Payne, presumably – chucked it away.”

“Why?”

“Search me.”

“Come on, Ken, we can do better than this.”

Blackstone smiled. “Sorry, it’s been a long day for me, too.”

“It’s an interesting question, though,” said Jenny. “Why? And when?”

“Well, it has to have been before PCs Taylor and Morrisey entered the cellar,” said Banks.

“But Payne had a captive, remember,” said Blackstone. “Kimberley Myers. Why on earth would he ditch his camera when he was doing exactly the sort of things we assume he liked to videotape? And what did he do with the dubbed VHS tapes, if Stefan’s right about that?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” Jenny said, “but I can offer another way of looking at them.”

“I think I know what you’re getting at,” said Banks.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. Lucy Payne.” He took a bite of his beef burger. Not bad, he thought, but he was so hungry he would have eaten just about anything by then.

Jenny nodded slowly. “Why have we still been assuming that this video business was all down to Terence Payne when we’ve been investigating Lucy as a possible partner in crime all along? Especially after what Laura and Keith told me about Lucy’s past, and what that young prostitute told Alan about her sexual proclivities. I mean, doesn’t it make sense, psychologically, that she was just as involved as he was? Remember, the girls were killed in exactly the same way as Kathleen Murray: ligature strangulation.”

“Are you saying that she killed them?” Blackstone asked.

“Not necessarily. But if what Keith and Laura say is true, then Lucy might have seen herself acting as a deliverer, the way it appears she did with Kathleen.”

“A mercy killing? But you said earlier she killed Kathleen out of jealousy.”

“I said that jealousy certainly could have been a motive. One that her sister Laura didn’t want to believe. But Lucy’s motives could have been mixed. Nothing’s simple in a personality like hers.”

“But why?” Blackstone went on. “Even if it was her, why would she throw away the camera?”

Banks speared a chip and thought for a moment before answering: “Lucy’s terrified of jail. If she thought there was any chance of imminent capture – and it must have entered her mind after the first police visit and the connection between Kimberley Myers and Silverhill school – then might she not start making plans for self-preservation?”

“It all seems a bit far-fetched to me.”

“Not to me, Ken,” said Banks. “Look at it from Lucy’s point of view. She’s not stupid. Brighter than her husband, I’d say. Terence Payne kidnaps Kimberley Myers that Friday night – he’s out of control, becoming disorganized – but Lucy’s still organized, she sees the end coming fast. First thing she does is get rid of as much evidence as possible, including the camcorder. Maybe that’s what sets Terry against her, causes the row. Obviously she has no way of knowing that it will end the way it does, at the time it does, so she has to improvise, see which way the wind’s blowing. If we find any traces of her being in the cellar-”

“Which we do.”

“Which we do,” Banks agreed, “then she’s got a believable explanation for that, too. She heard a noise and went to investigate, and surprise, surprise, look what she found. The fact that her husband clobbers her with a vase only helps her case.”

“And the tapes?”

“She wouldn’t throw them away,” Jenny answered. “Not if they were a record of what she – of what they – had done. The camera’s nothing, merely a means to an end. You can buy another camera. But those tapes would be more valuable than diamonds to the Paynes because they’re unique and they can’t be replaced. They’re her trophies. She could watch them over and over again and relive those moments with the victims in the cellar. It’s the next best thing to the reality for her. She wouldn’t throw them away.”

“Then where are they?” said Banks.

“And where is she?” said Jenny.

“Isn’t it just remotely possible,” Banks suggested, pushing his plate aside, “that the two questions have the same answer?”

Maggie woke up with a splitting headache and a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of her stomach. She felt weak and disoriented; didn’t know at first where she was or how much time had gone by since she lost consciousness. The curtains were open and she could see it was dark outside. As things slowly came into focus, she realized she was still in her own bedroom. There was one bedside lamp turned on; the other lay in pieces on the floor. That must have been what Lucy hit her with, Maggie thought. She could feel something warm and sticky in her hair. Blood.

Lucy hit her! The sudden revelation shocked her closer to consciousness. She had seen the video: Lucy and Terry doing things to that poor girl, Lucy looking as if she were enjoying herself.

Maggie tried to move and found that her hands and feet were bound to the brass bed. She was tied up and spread-eagled, just like the girl on the video. She felt the panic rise in her. She thrashed around, trying to get loose, but only succeeding in making the bedsprings creak loudly. The door opened and Lucy came in. She was dressed in her jeans and T-shirt again.

Lucy shook her head slowly. “Look what you made me do, Maggie,” she said. “Just look at what you made me do. You told me you weren’t coming back for another day.”

“It was you,” Maggie said. “On that video. It was you. It was vile, disgusting.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” said Lucy, sitting at the edge of the bed and stroking Maggie’s brow.

Maggie flinched.

Lucy laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, Maggie. Don’t be such a prude. You’re not my type, anyway.”

“You killed them. You and Terry together.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Lucy, getting up again and pacing the room, arms folded. “Terry never killed anyone. He didn’t have the bottle. Oh, he liked them tied up naked, all right. He liked to do things to them. Even after they were dead. But I had to do all the killing myself. Poor things. See, they could only take so much, and then I had to put them to sleep. I was always gentle. Gentle as I could be.”

“You’re insane,” said Maggie, thrashing around on the bed again.

“Keep still!” Lucy sat on the bed again, but this time she didn’t touch Maggie. “Insane? I don’t think so. Just because you can’t understand me doesn’t mean I’m insane. I’m different, true. I see things differently. I need different things. But I’m not insane.”

“But why?”

“I can’t explain myself to you. I can’t even explain myself to me.” She laughed again. “Least of all to me. Oh, the psychiatrists and psychologists would try. They would dissect my childhood and toss around their theories, but even they know when it gets right down to it that they’ve got no explanations for someone like me. I just am. I happen. Like five-legged sheep and two-headed dogs. Call it what you will. Call me evil, if it helps you understand. More important right now, though, is how am I going to survive?”

“Why don’t you just go? Run away. I won’t say anything.”

Lucy gave her a sad smile. “I wish that were true, Maggie. I wish things were as easy as that.”

“They are,” Maggie said. “Go. Just go. Disappear.”

“I can’t do that. You’ve seen the tape. You know. I can’t let you just walk around with that knowledge. Look, Maggie, I don’t want to kill you, but I think I can. And I think I must. I promise I’ll be every bit as gentle as I was with the others.”

“Why me?” Maggie whimpered. “Why did you pick on me?”

“You? Easy. Because you were so willing to believe that I was a victim of domestic violence, just like you. True enough, Terry had been getting unpredictable and had lashed out on one or two occasions. It’s an unfortunate thing that men like him lack the brains, but they don’t lack for brawn. No matter, now. Do you know how I met him?”

“No.”

“He raped me. You don’t believe me, I can tell. How could you? How could anyone? But he did. I was walking to the bus stop after I’d been to a pub with some friends, and he dragged me in an alley and raped me. He had a knife.”

“He raped you, and you married him? You didn’t tell the police?”

Lucy laughed. “He didn’t know what he was getting into. I gave him the rape of his life. It might have taken him a while to realize it, but I was raping him as much as he was raping me. It wasn’t my first time, Maggie. Believe me, I know all about rape. From experts. There was nothing he could do that hadn’t been done to me before, time after time, by more than one person. He thought he was in control, but sometimes it’s the victim who’s really in control. We had a lot in common, we soon found out. Sexually. And in other ways. He kept on raping girls even after we were together. I encouraged him. I used to make him tell me all the details of what he’d done to them while we were fucking.”

“I don’t understand.” Maggie was crying and trembling, no longer able to keep her horror and fear in check now she knew there was no chance of reasoning with Lucy.

“Of course you don’t,” Lucy said soothingly, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking Maggie’s brow. “Why should you? But you’ve been useful, and I’d like to thank you for that. First you gave me somewhere to hide the tapes. I knew they were the only things that might incriminate me other than Terry, and I didn’t think he’d talk. Besides, he’s dead now.”

“What do you mean about the tapes?”

“They were here all along, Maggie. Remember I came to see you that Sunday, before all hell broke loose?”

“Yes.”

“I brought them with me and hid them behind some boxes up in the loft when I went up to the toilet. You’d already told me you never went up there. Don’t you remember?”

Maggie did remember. The loft was an airless, dusty place, she had discovered on her first and only look, which gave her the willies and aggravated her allergies. She must have mentioned it to Lucy when showing her around the house. “Is that why you made friends with me, because you thought I might be useful?”

“I thought I might have need of a friend somewhere down the line, yes, a defender, even. And you were good. Thank you for all you’ve said on my behalf. Thank you for believing in me. I’m not enjoying this, you know. I get no pleasure from killing. It’s a pity it has to end this way.”

“But it doesn’t,” Maggie begged. “Oh, God, please don’t. Just go. I won’t say anything. I promise.”

“Oh, you say that now, now that you’re full of fear of death, but if I go, you won’t feel that way anymore, and you’ll tell the police everything.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I wish I could believe you, Maggie, I really do.”

“It’s true.”

Lucy took the belt off her jeans.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’ll be gentle. It’s nothing to be frightened of, just a little pain, then you’ll go to sleep.”

“No!”

Someone banged on the front door. Lucy froze and Maggie held her breath. “Be quiet,” Lucy hissed, putting her hand over Maggie’s mouth. “They’ll go away.”

But the banging continued. Then came a voice. “Maggie! Open up, it’s the police. We know you’re in there. We spoke to your neighbor. She saw you come home. Open up, Maggie. We want to talk to you. It’s very important.”

Maggie could see fear in Lucy’s expression. She struggled to shout, but the hand covered her mouth, almost cut off her breath.

“Is she with you, Maggie?” the voice continued. It was Banks, Maggie realized, the detective who made her angry. If only he stayed, broke down the door and rescued her, she’d apologize; she’d do whatever he wanted. “Is that who it is?” Banks went on. “The blond girl your neighbor saw. Is it Lucy? Did she change her appearance? If it’s you, Lucy, we know all about Kathleen Murray. We’ve got a lot of questions for you. Maggie, come down and open up. If Lucy’s with you, don’t trust her. We think she hid the tapes in your house.”

“Be quiet,” Lucy said, and went out of the room.

“I’m here!” Maggie immediately yelled at the top of her lungs, not sure if they could hear her or not. “She’s here, too. Lucy. She’s going to kill me. Please help me!”

Lucy came back into the bedroom, but she didn’t seem concerned by Maggie’s screams. “They’re out back, too,” she said, crossing her arms. “What can I do? I can’t go to jail. I couldn’t stand to be locked up in the cage for the rest of my days.”

“Lucy,” Maggie said as evenly as she could manage. “Untie me and open the door. Let them in. I’m sure they’ll be lenient. They’ll see you need help.”

But Lucy wasn’t listening. She had started pacing again and muttering to herself. All Maggie could catch was the word “cage” again and again.

Then she heard an almighty crash from downstairs as the police broke the front door, then the sound of men running up the stairs.

“I’m up here!” she yelled.

Lucy looked at her, almost pitifully, Maggie thought, said, “Try not to hate me too much,” then she took a run and dived through the bedroom window in a shower of glass.

Maggie screamed.