Aftermath

6

According to her parents, Melissa Horrocks, aged seventeen, who failed to return home after a pop concert in Harrogate on the eighteenth of April, was going through a rebellious phase.

Steven and Mary Horrocks had only the one daughter, a late blessing in Mary’s mid-thirties. Steven worked in the office of a local dairy, while Mary had a part-time job in an estate agent’s office in the city center. Around the age of sixteen, Melissa developed an interest in the kind of theatrical pop music that used Satanism as its main stage prop.

Though friends advised Steven and Mary that it was harmless enough – just youthful spirits – and that it would soon pass, they were nonetheless alarmed when she started altering her appearance and letting her schoolwork and athletics slip. Melissa first dyed her hair red, got a stud in her nose and wore a lot of black. Her bedroom wall was adorned with posters of skinny, satanic-looking pop stars, such as Marilyn Manson, and occult symbols her parents didn’t understand.

About a week before the concert, Melissa decided she didn’t like the red hair, so she reverted to her natural blond coloring. There was a good chance, Banks thought later, that if she’d kept it red, that might have saved her life. Which also led Banks to think that she hadn’t been stalked before her abduction – or at least not for long. The Chameleon wouldn’t stalk a redhead.

Harrogate, a prosperous Victorian-style North Yorkshire city of about seventy thousand, known as a conference center and a magnet for retired people, wasn’t exactly the typical venue for a Beelzebub’s Bollocks concert, but the band was new and had yet to win a major recording contract; they were working their way up to bigger gigs. There had been the usual calls for a ban from retired colonels and the kind of old busybodies who watch all the filth on television so they can write letters of protest, but in the end this came to no avail.

About five hundred kids wandered into the converted theater, including Melissa and her friends Jenna and Kayla. The concert ended at half-past ten and the three girls stood around outside for a while talking about the show. The three of them split up at about a quarter to eleven and went their separate ways. It was a mild night, so Melissa said she was going to walk. She didn’t live far from the city center, and most of her walk home took her along the busy, well-lit Ripon Road. Two people later came forward to say they saw her close to eleven o’clock walking south by the junction of West Park and Beech Grove. To get home, she would turn down Beech Grove and then turn off after about a hundred yards, but she never got there.

At first there was a faint hope that Melissa might have run away from home, given the running battle with her parents. But Steven and Mary, along with Jenna and Kayla, assured Banks this could not be the case. The two friends in particular said they shared everything, and they would have known if she was planning on running away. Besides, she had none of her valued possessions with her, and she told them she was looking forward to seeing them the next day at the Victoria Centre.

Then there was the satanic element, not to be lightly dismissed when a girl had disappeared. The members of the band were interviewed, along with as many audience members as could be rounded up, but that went nowhere, too. Even Banks had to admit when examining the statements later that the whole thing had been pretty tame and harmless, the black magic merely theater, as it had been for Black Sabbath and Alice Cooper in his day. Beelzebub’s Bollocks didn’t even bite the heads off chickens on stage.

When Melissa’s black leather shoulder bag was found in some bushes two days after her disappearance, as if it had been tossed from the window of a moving car, money still intact, the case came to the attention of Banks’s Chameleon task force. Like Kelly Matthews, Samantha Foster and Leanne Wray before her, Melissa Horrocks had disappeared into thin air.

Jenna and Kayla were devastated. Just before Melissa had walked off into the night, they had joked, Kayla said, about perverts, but Melissa had pointed to her chest and said the occult symbol on her T-shirt would ward off evil spirits.

The incident room was crowded at nine o’clock on Tuesday morning. Over forty detectives sat on the edges of their desks or leaned against the walls. Smoking was not permitted in the building, and many of them chewed gum or fidgeted with paper clips or rubber bands instead. Most had been on the task force since the beginning, and they had all put in long hours, invested a lot of themselves in the job, emotionally as well as physically. It had taken its toll on all of them. Banks happened to know that one unfortunate DC’s marriage had broken up over the hours he spent away from home and the neglect he displayed toward his wife. It would have happened some other time, anyway, Banks told himself, but an investigation like this one can put the pressure on, can push events to a crisis point, especially if that crisis point isn’t too far away to start with. These days, Banks also felt that he was approaching his own crisis point, though he had no idea where it was or what would happen when he got there.

Now there was at least some sense of progress, no matter how unclear things still seemed, and the air buzzed with speculation. They all wanted to know what had happened. The mood was mixed: on the one hand, it looked as if they had their man; on the other, one of their own had been killed and his partner was about to be put through the hoops.

When Banks strode in somewhat the worse for wear after another poor night’s sleep, despite a third Laphroaig and the second disc of Bach’s cello sonatas, the room hushed, everyone waiting to hear the news. He stood next to Ken Blackstone, beside the photographs of the girls pinned to the corkboard.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do my best to explain where we are with this. The SOCOs are still at the scene, and it looks as if they’ll be there for a long time yet. So far, they’ve uncovered three bodies in the cellar anteroom, and it doesn’t look as if there’s room for any more. They’re digging in the back garden for the fourth. None of the victims has been identified yet, but DS Nowak says the bodies are all young and female, so it’s reasonable to assume for the moment that they’re the young girls who went missing. We should be able to make some headway on identification later today by checking dental records. Dr. Mackenzie performed the postmortem on Kimberley Myers late yesterday and found that she had been subdued by chloroform but death was due to vagal inhibition caused by ligature strangulation. Yellow plastic fibers from the clothesline were embedded in the wound.” He paused, then sighed and went on. “She was also raped anally and vaginally and forced to perform fellatio.”

“What about Payne, sir?” someone asked. “Is the bastard going to die?”

“The last I heard was that they had to operate on his brain. Terence Payne is still in a coma, and there’s no telling how long that might last, or how it will end. By the way, we now know that Terence Payne lived and taught in Seacroft before he moved to west Leeds in September the year before last, at the start of the school year. DCI Blackstone has him in the frame for the Seacroft Rapist, so we’re already checking DNA. I’ll want a team to go over the casework on that one with the local CID. DS Stewart, can you get that organized?”

“Right away, sir. That’ll be Chapeltown CID.”

Chapeltown would be hot to trot on this, Banks knew. It was a “red inker” for them – an easy way of closing several open case files at one fell swoop.

“We’ve also checked Payne’s car registration with DVLA in Swansea. He was using false plates. His own plates end in KWT, just like the witness in the Samantha Foster disappearance saw. The SOCOs found them hidden in the garage. That means Bradford CID must have already interviewed him. I’d imagine it was after that he switched to the false ones.”

“What about Dennis Morrisey?” someone asked.

“PC Morrisey died of blood loss caused by the severing of his carotid artery and jugular vein, according to Dr. Mackenzie’s examination at the scene. He’ll be doing the PM later today. As you can imagine, there’s getting to be quite a queue down at the mortuary. He’s looking for assistance. Anyone interested?”

Nervous laughter rippled through the room.

“What about PC Taylor?” one of the detectives asked.

“PC Taylor’s coping,” said Banks. “I talked to her yesterday evening. She was able to tell me what happened in the cellar. As you all probably know, she’ll be under investigation, so let’s try to keep that one at arm’s length.”

A chorus of boos came up from the crowd. Banks quieted them down. “It’s got to be done,” he said. “Unpopular as it is. We’re none of us above the law. But let’s not let that distract us. Our job is far from over. In fact, it’s just beginning. There’s going to be a mountain of stuff coming out of forensics examinations at the house. It’ll all have to be tagged, logged and filed. HOLMES is still in operation, so the green sheets will have to be filled out and fed in.”

Banks heard Carol Houseman, the trained HOLMES operator, groan, “Oh, bugger it!”

“Sorry, Carol,” he said, with a sympathetic smile. “Needs must. In other words, despite what’s happened, we’re still very much in business for the time being. We need to gather the evidence. We need to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Terence Payne is the killer of all five missing girls.”

“What about his wife?” someone asked. “She must have known.”

Just what Ken Blackstone had said. “We don’t know that,” said Banks. “For the moment she’s a victim. But her possible involvement is one of the things we’ll be looking into. We’re already aware that he might have had an accomplice. She should be able to talk to me later this morning.” Banks glanced at his watch and turned to DS Filey. “In the meantime, Ted, I’d like you to put a team together to go over all the statements and reinterview everyone we talked to when the girls were first reported missing. Family, friends, witnesses, everyone. Okay?”

“Right you are, Guv,” said Ted Filey.

Banks hated being called “Guv,” but he let it go by. “Get some photographs of Lucy Payne and show one to everyone you talk to. See if anyone remembers seeing her in connection with any of the missing girls.”

More mutterings broke out, and Banks quieted them down again. “For the moment,” he said, “I want you all to keep in close touch with our office manager, DS Grafton here-”

A cheer went up and Ian Grafton blushed.

“He’ll be issuing actions and TIEs, and there’ll be plenty of them. I want to know what Terence and Lucy Payne eat for breakfast and how regular their bowel movements are. Dr. Fuller suggested that Payne would have kept some sort of visual record of his deeds – videos, most likely, but maybe just ordinary still photographs. Nothing’s been found at the scene yet, but we’ll need to know if the Paynes ever owned or rented video equipment.”

Banks noticed a number of skeptical looks at the mention of Jenny Fuller. Typical narrow-minded thinking, in his opinion. Consultant psychologists might not be possessed with magic powers and able to name the killer within hours, but in Banks’s experience, they could narrow the field and target the area where the offender may live. Why not use them? At best they could help, and at worst they did no harm. “Remember,” he went on, “five girls were abducted, raped and murdered. Five girls. You don’t need me to tell you any one of them could have been your daughter. We think we’ve got the man responsible, but we can’t be sure he acted alone, and until we can prove it was him, no matter what shape he’s in, there’ll be no slacking on this team. Got it?”

The assembled detectives muttered, “Yes, sir,” then the group they started to split up, some drifting outside for a much-needed cigarette, others settling back at their desks.

“One more thing,” said Banks. “DCs Bowmore and Singh. In my office. Now.”

After a brief meeting with Area Commander Hartnell – who definitely gave her the eye – and Banks, who seemed uncomfortable about the whole thing, DI Annie Cabbot read over PC Janet Taylor’s file as she waited in the small office assigned her. Hartnell himself had decided that as Janet Taylor was coming in voluntarily, and as she wasn’t under arrest, an office would be a far less threatening environment for the preliminary talk than a standard grungy interview room.

Annie was impressed by PC Taylor’s record. There was little doubt that she would find a place in the Accelerated Promotion Course and make the rank of inspector within five years if she was cleared of all charges. A local girl, from Pudsey, Janet Taylor had four A-levels and a degree in sociology from the University of Bristol. She was just twenty-three years old, unmarried and living alone. Janet had high scores on all her entrance exams, and in the opinions of those who had examined her she showed a clear grasp of the complexities of policing a diverse society, along with the sort of cognitive skills and problem-solving abilities that augured well for a detective. She was in good health and listed her hobbies as squash, tennis and computers. Throughout her student career she had spent her summers working for security at the White Rose Centre, in Leeds, both manning the cameras and patrolling the shopping precinct. Janet had also done voluntary community work for her local church group, helping the elderly.

All of this sounded quite dull to Annie, who grew up in an artists’ commune near St. Ives surrounded by oddballs, hippies and weirdos of all sorts. Annie had also come late to the police, and though she had a degree, it was in art history, not much use in the force, and she hadn’t got on the APC because of an incident at her previous county, when three fellow officers had attempted to rape her at a party following her promotion to sergeant. One succeeded before she had managed to fight them off. Traumatized, Annie had not reported the incident until the following morning, by which time she had spent hours in the bath washing away all evidence. The DCS had accepted the words of the three officers against hers, and while they admitted that things had got a little out of hand, with a drunken Annie leading them on, they said they had retained their control and no sexual assault had taken place.

For a long time, Annie hadn’t much cared about her career, and no one had been more surprised than she had at the rekindling of her ambition, which had meant dealing with the rape and its aftermath – more complicated and traumatic than anyone but her really knew – but it had happened, and now she was a fully fledged inspector investigating a politically dodgy case for Detective Superintendent Chambers, who was clearly scared stiff of the assignment himself.

A brief tap at the door was followed by the entry of a young woman with short black hair, which looked rather dry and lifeless. “They told me you were in here,” she said.

Annie introduced herself. “Sit down, Janet.”

Janet sat and tried to make herself comfortable on the hard chair. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night, which didn’t surprise Annie in the least. Her face was pale and there were dark semi-circles under her eyes. Perhaps beyond the ravages of sleeplessness and abject terror, Janet Taylor was an attractive young woman. She certainly had beautiful eyes, the color of loam, and the kind of cheek-bones that models hang their careers on. She also seemed a very serious person, weighed down by the gravity of life, or perhaps that was a result of recent events.

“How is he?” Janet asked.

“Who?”

“You know. Payne.”

“Still unconscious.”

“Will he survive?”

“They don’t know yet, Janet.”

“Okay. I mean, it’s just that… well, I suppose it makes a difference. You know, to my case.”

“If he dies? Yes, it does. But don’t let’s worry about that for the time being. I want you to tell me what happened in the Paynes’ cellar, then I’ll ask you a few questions. Finally, I want you to write it all down in a statement. This isn’t an interrogation, Janet. I’m sure you went through hell down in that cellar, and nobody wants to treat you like a criminal. But there are procedures to be followed in cases like this, and the sooner we get going, the better.” Annie wasn’t being entirely truthful, but she wanted to set Janet Taylor as much at ease as possible. She knew she would have to push and prod a bit, maybe even go in hard now and again. It was her interrogation technique; after all, it was often under pressure of some sort that the truth slipped out. She would play it by ear, but if she needed to badger Janet Taylor a bit, then so be it. Damn Chambers and Hartnell. If she was going to do the bloody job, she was going to do it properly.

“Don’t worry,” said Janet. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m sure you haven’t. Tell me about it.”

As Janet Taylor spoke, sounding rather bored and detached, as if she had been through this all too many times already, or as if she were recounting someone else’s story, Annie watched her body language. Janet shifted in her chair often, twisted her hands on her lap, and when she got to the real horror, she folded her arms and her voice became flatter, lacking expression. Annie let her go on, making notes on points she thought relevant. Janet didn’t so much come to a definite end as trail off after she said she had settled to wait for the ambulance, cradling PC Morrisey’s head on her lap and feeling the warm blood seep through on her thighs. As she spoke about this, her eyebrows rose and wrinkled the center of her forehead, and tears formed in her eyes.

Annie let the silence stretch for a while after Janet had fallen silent, then she asked if Janet would like a drink. She asked for water and Annie brought her some from the fountain. The room was hot and Annie got some for herself, too.

“Just a couple of things, Janet; then I’ll leave you alone to write your statement.”

Janet yawned. She put her hand to her mouth but didn’t apologize. Normally Annie would have taken a yawn as a sign of fear or nervousness, but Janet Taylor had good reason to be tired, so she didn’t make too much of it on this occasion.

“What were you thinking about while it was happening?” Annie asked.

“Thinking? I’m not sure I was thinking at all. Just reacting.”

“Did you remember your training?”

Janet Taylor laughed, but it was forced. “Training doesn’t prepare you for something like that.”

“What about your baton training?”

“I didn’t have to think about that. It was instinctive.”

“You were feeling threatened.”

“Damn right I was. He was killing Dennis and he was going to kill me next. He’d already killed the girl on the bed.”

“How did you know she was dead?”

“What?”

“Kimberley Myers. How did you know she was dead? You said it all happened so fast, you barely caught a glimpse of her before the attack.”

“I… I suppose I just assumed. I mean, she was lying there naked on the bed with a yellow rope around her neck. Her eyes were open. It was a reasonable assumption to make.”

“Okay,” said Annie. “So you never thought of yourself as saving her, as rescuing her?”

“No. It was what was happening to Dennis that concerned me.”

“And what you thought was going to happen to you next?”

“Yes.” Janet sipped some more water. A little of it dripped down her chin on to the front of her gray T-shirt, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“So you got your baton out. What next?”

“I told you. He came at me with this crazy look in his eye.”

“And he lashed out at you with his machete?”

“Yes. I deflected the blow with my baton, the side against my arm, like they taught us. And then when he’d swung, before he could bring it back into position again, I swung out and hit him.”

“Where did the first blow land?”

“On his head.”

“Where exactly on his head?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t concerned about that.”

“But you wanted to put him out of commission, didn’t you?”

“I wanted to stop him from killing me.”

“So you’d want to hit him somewhere effective?”

“Well, I’m right-handed, so I suppose I must have hit him on the left side of his head, somewhere around the temple.”

“Did he go down?”

“No, but he was dazed. He couldn’t get his machete in position to strike again.”

“Where did you hit him next?”

“The wrist, I think.”

“To disarm him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do next?”

“I kicked the machete into the corner.”

“What did Payne do?”

“He was holding his wrist and cursing me.”

“You’d hit him once on the left temple and once on the wrist by this time?”

“That’s right.”

“What did you do next?”

“I hit him again.”

“Where?”

“On the head.”

“Why?”

“To incapacitate him.”

“Was he standing at this point?”

“Yes. He’d been on his knees trying to get the machete, but he got up and came at me.”

“He was unarmed now?”

“Yes, but he was still bigger and stronger than me. And he had this insane look in his eyes, as if he had strength to spare.”

“So you hit him again?”

“Yes.”

“Same spot?”

“I don’t know. I used my baton in the same way. So yes, I suppose so, unless he was half turned away.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But it’s possible? I mean, it was you who suggested it.”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t see why.”

“You didn’t hit him on the back of his head at any point?”

“I don’t think so.”

Janet had started to sweat now. Annie could see beads of it around her hairline and a dark stain spreading slowly under her arms. She didn’t want to put the poor woman through much more, but she had her job to do, and she could be hard when she needed to be. “What happened after you hit Payne on the head a second time?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nothing. He kept coming.”

“So you hit him again.”

“Yes. I took the baton in both hands, like a cricket bat, so I could hit him harder.”

“He had nothing to defend himself with at this time, right?”

“Only his arms.”

“But he didn’t raise them to ward off the blow?”

“He was holding his wrist. I think it was broken. I heard something crack.”

“So you had free rein to hit him as hard as you liked?”

“He kept coming at me.”

“You mean he kept moving toward you?”

“Yes, and calling me names.”

“What sort of names?”

“Filthy names. And Dennis was groaning, bleeding. I wanted to go to him, to see if I could help, but I couldn’t do anything until Payne stopped moving.”

“You didn’t feel you could restrain him with handcuffs at this point?”

“No way. I’d already hit him two or three times, but it seemed to have no effect. He kept coming. If I’d gone in close and he’d got hold of me he’d have strangled the life out of me.”

“Even with his broken wrist?”

“Yes. He could have got his arm across my throat.”

“Okay.” Annie paused to make some notes on the pad in front of her. She could almost smell Janet Taylor’s fear, and she wasn’t sure if it was residual, from the cellar, or because of present circumstances. She drew out the note-making process until Janet started shifting and fidgeting, then she asked, “How many times do you think you hit him in all?”

Janet turned her head to one side. “I don’t know. I wasn’t counting. I was fighting for my life, defending myself against a maniac.”

“Five times? Six times?”

“I told you. I don’t remember. As many times as I needed. To make him stop coming. He just wouldn’t stop coming at me.” Janet broke into sobs and Annie let her cry. It was the first time emotion had broken through the shock and it would do her good. After a minute or so, Janet collected herself and sipped some more water. She seemed embarrassed to have broken down in front of a colleague.

“I’ve almost finished now, Janet,” said Annie. “Then I’ll leave you be.”

“Okay.”

“You managed to get him to stay down, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He fell against the wall and slid down.”

“Was he still moving then?”

“Not very much. He was sort of twitching and breathing heavily. There was blood on his mouth.”

“Final question, Janet: Did you hit him again after he went down?”

Her eyebrows shot together in fear. “No. I don’t think so.”

“What did you do?”

“I handcuffed him to the pipe.”

“And then?”

“Then I went to help Dennis.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hit him again after he went down? Just to make sure?”

Janet looked away. “I told you. I don’t think so. Why would I?”

Annie leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk. “Try to remember, Janet.”

But Janet shook her head. “It’s no good. I don’t remember.”

“Okay,” said Annie, getting to her feet. “Interview over.” She pushed a statement sheet and a pen in front of Janet. “Write out what you’ve told me in as much detail as you can remember.”

Janet grasped the pen. “What happens next?”

“When you’ve finished, love, go home and have a stiff drink. Hell, have two.”

Janet managed a weak but genuine smile as Annie left and shut the door behind her.

DCs Bowmore and Singh looked shifty when they walked into Banks’s temporary Millgarth office, as well they might, he thought.

“Sit down,” he said.

They sat. “What is it, sir?” asked DC Singh, attempting lightness. “Got a job for us?”

Banks leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “If you call sharpening pencils and emptying the wastepaper baskets a job.”

Their jaws dropped. “Sir-” Bowmore began, but Banks held his hand up.

“A car number plate ending in KWT. Ring any bells?”

“Sir?”

“KWT. Kathryn Wendy Thurlow.”

“Yes, sir,” said Singh. “It’s the number Bradford CID got in the Samantha Foster investigation.”

“Bingo,” said Banks. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Bradford send us copies of all their files on the Samantha Foster case when this team was set up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Including the name of everyone in the area who owned a dark car with the number plate ending in KWT.”

“Over a thousand, sir.”

“Over a thousand. Indeed. Bradford CID interviewed them all. And guess who’s among that thousand.”

“Terence Payne, sir,” answered Singh again.

“Bright lad,” said Banks. “Now, when Bradford CID were working on that case, did they have any links to any similar crimes?”

“No, sir,” answered Bowmore this time. “There was the girl went missing from the New Year’s party in Roundhay Park, but there was no reason to link them together at the time.”

“Right,” said Banks. “So why do you think I issued an action shortly after this task force was set up to go over all the evidence on the previous cases, including the disappearance of Samantha Foster?”

“Because you thought there was a link, sir,” said DC Singh.

“Not just me,” said Banks. “But, yes, three girls, as it was then. Then four. Then five. The possibility of a link was becoming stronger and stronger. Now guess who was assigned to go over the evidence in the Samantha Foster case.”

Singh and Bowmore looked at each other, then frowned and looked at Banks. “We were, sir,” they said as one.

“Including reinterviewing the list of car owners Bradford CID got from the DVLA.”

“Over a thousand, sir.”

“Indeed,” said Banks, “but am I correct in assuming that you had plenty of help, that the action was split up and that the letter P was among those alphabetically assigned to you? Because that’s what it says in my files. P for Payne.”

“There were still a lot to go, sir. We haven’t got around to them all yet.”

“You haven’t got around to them yet? This was at the beginning of April. Over a month ago. You’ve been dragging your feet a bit, haven’t you?”

“It’s not as if it was the only action assigned us, sir,” said Bowmore.

“Look,” said Banks, “I don’t want any excuses. For one reason or another, you failed to reinterview Terence Payne.”

“But it wouldn’t have made any difference, sir,” Bowmore argued. “I mean, Bradford CID didn’t exactly mark him down as their number one suspect, did they? What was he going to tell us that he didn’t tell them? He wasn’t going to decide to confess just because we went to talk to him, was he?”

Banks ran his hand over his hair and muttered a silent curse. He was not a natural authoritarian – far from it – and he hated this part of the job, dishing out bollockings, having been on the receiving end of plenty himself, but if anyone ever did, these two prize pillocks deserved the worst he could give. “Is this supposed to be an example of you using your initiative?” he said. “Because if it is, you’d have been better advised to stick to procedure and follow orders.”

“But, sir,” Singh said, “he was a schoolteacher. Newly married. Nice house. We did read over all the statements.”

“I’m sorry,” said Banks, shaking his head. “Am I missing something here?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Well, I’m not aware that Dr. Fuller had given us any sort of profile of the person we were looking for at this point.”

DC Singh grinned. “Hasn’t given us much of anything when you get right down to it, has she, sir?”

“So what made you think you could rule out a recently married schoolteacher with a nice house?”

Singh’s jaw opened and shut like a fish mouth. Bowmore looked down at his shoes.

“Well?” Banks repeated. “I’m waiting.”

“Look, sir,” said Singh, “I’m sorry, but we just hadn’t got around to him yet.”

“Have you talked to any of the people on your list?”

“A couple, sir,” muttered Singh. “The ones Bradford CID had marked down as possibles. There was one bloke had a previous for flashing, but he had a solid alibi for Leanne Wray and Melissa Horrocks. We checked that out, sir.”

“So when you’d nothing better to do, you’d fill in a bit of overtime by ticking a name or two off the list, names that Bradford CID had put question marks beside. Is that it?”

“That’s not fair, sir,” Bowmore argued.

“Not fair. I’ll tell you what’s not bloody fair, DC Bowmore. It’s not bloody fair that at least five girls that we know of so far have most likely died at the hands of Terence Payne. That’s what’s not fair.”

“But he wouldn’t have admitted it to us, sir,” Singh protested.

“You’re supposed to be detectives, aren’t you? Look, let me put it simply. If you’d gone around to Payne’s house when you were supposed to, say last month, then one or two more girls might not have died.”

“You can’t put that down to us, sir,” Bowmore protested, red in the face. “That’s just not on.”

“Oh, isn’t it? What if you’d seen or heard something suspicious while you were in the house interviewing him? What if your finely developed detective’s instinct had picked up on something and you’d asked to have a look around?”

“Bradford CID didn’t-”

“I don’t give a damn what Bradford CID did or didn’t do. They were examining a single case: the disappearance of Samantha Foster. You, on the other hand, were investing a case of serial abductions. If you’d had any reason at all to look in the cellar you’d have had him, believe me. Even if you’d poked around his video collection it might have raised your suspicions. If you’d looked at his car, you’d have noticed the false plates. The ones he’s using now end in NGV, not KWT. That might have rung a few alarm bells, don’t you think? Instead you decide on your own that this action isn’t worth rushing on. God knows what else you thought was so much more important. Well?”

They both looked down.

“Nothing to say for yourselves?”

“No, sir,” muttered a tight-lipped DC Singh.

“I’ll even give you the benefit of the doubt,” said Banks. “I’ll assume that you were pursuing other angles and not just skiving off. But you still screwed up.”

“But he must’ve lied to Bradford CID,” Bowmore argued. “He’d only have lied to us, too.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” said Banks. “I’ve told you. You’re supposed to be detectives. You don’t take anything at face value. Maybe you’d have noticed something about his body language. Maybe you’d have caught him out in a lie. Maybe – God forbid – you might have even checked one of his alibis and found it didn’t hold up. Maybe just something might have made you a little bit suspicious about Terence Payne. Am I making myself clear? You had at least two, maybe three, more things to go on than Bradford had, and you blew it. Now you’re off the case, both of you, and this is going on your records. Clear?”

Bowmore looked daggers at Banks, and Singh seemed close to tears, but Banks had no sympathy for either of them at that moment. He felt a splitting headache coming on. “Get the hell out of here,” he said. “And don’t let me see you in the incident room again.”

Maggie hid herself away in the sanctuary of Ruth’s studio. Spring sunshine spilled through the window, which she opened an inch or two to let in some air. It was a spacious room at the back of the house, originally the third bedroom, and while the view through the window left a lot to be desired – a grotty, litter-strewn back passage and the council estate beyond – the room itself was perfect for her needs. Upstairs, in addition to the three rooms, toilet, and bathroom, there was also a loft, accessed by a pull-down ladder, that Ruth said she used for storage. Maggie didn’t store anything there; in fact, she never even went up there, as she felt disturbed by spidery, dusty, neglected places, the mere thought of which made her shiver. She had allergies, too, and the slightest hint of dust made her eyes burn and her nose itch.

Another bonus today was that upstairs at the back of the house, she wasn’t constantly distracted by all the activity out on The Hill. It was open to traffic again, but number 35 was screened off and people kept coming and going, bringing out boxes and bags of God knew what. She couldn’t quite put it out of her mind, of course, but she didn’t read the newspaper that morning, and she tuned the radio to a classical station that had few news breaks.

She was preparing to illustrate a new coffee-table selection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, working on thumbnails and preliminary sketches, and what nasty, gruesome little stories they were, she discovered on reading through them for the first time since childhood. Back then, they had seemed remote, cartoonish, but now the horror and the violence seemed all too real. The sketch she had just finished was for “Rumpelstiltskin,” the poison dwarf who helped Anna spin straw into gold in exchange for her firstborn. Her illustration was a bit too idealized, she thought: a sad-looking girl-child at a spinning wheel, with just the suggestion of two burning eyes and the distorted shadow of the dwarf in the background. She could hardly use the scene where he stamped so hard his foot went through the floor and his leg came off as he tried to pull it out. Matter-of-fact violence, no dwelling on blood and guts the way so many films did these days – special effects for the sake of it – but violence nonetheless.

Now she was working on “Rapunzel” and her preliminary sketches showed the young girl – another firstborn taken from her true parents – letting her long blond hair down from the tower where she was held captive by a witch. Another happy ending, with the witch being devoured by a wolf, except for her talon-like hands and feet, which it spat out to be eaten by worms and beetles.

She was just trying to get the rope of hair and the angle of Rapunzel’s head right, so that it would at least look as if she might be able support the prince’s weight, when the telephone rang.

Maggie picked up the studio extension. “Yes?”

“Margaret Forrest?” It was a woman’s voice. “Am I speaking to Margaret Forrest?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Is that you, Margaret? My name’s Lorraine Temple. You don’t know me.”

“What do you want?”

“I understand that it was you who dialed in the emergency call on The Hill yesterday morning? A domestic disturbance.”

“Who are you? Are you a reporter?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? Yes, I write for the Post.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you. Go away.”

“Look, I’m just down the street, Margaret. I’m calling on my mobile. The police won’t let me near your house, so I wondered if you’d care to meet me for a drink or something. It’s almost lunch-time. There’s a nice pub-”

“I’ve nothing to say to you, Ms. Temple, so there’s no point in our meeting.”

“You did report a domestic disturbance at number thirty-five The Hill early yesterday morning, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then I have got the right person. What made you think it was a domestic?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I don’t know what you mean.”

“You heard noises, didn’t you? Raised voices? Breaking glass? A thud?”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m just wondering what made you jump to the conclusion that it was a domestic disturbance, that’s all. I mean, why couldn’t it have been someone grappling with a burglar, for example?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Oh, come on, Margaret. It’s Maggie, isn’t it? Can I call you Maggie?”

Maggie said nothing. She had no idea why she didn’t just hang up on Lorraine Temple.

“Look, Maggie,” Lorraine went on, “give me a break here. I’ve got my living to make. Were you a friend of Lucy Payne’s, is that it? Do you know something about her background? Something the rest of us don’t know?”

“I can’t talk to you anymore,” Maggie said, and then she did hang up. But something Lorraine Temple had said struck a chord, and she regretted doing so. Despite what Banks had told her, if she were to be Lucy’s friend, then the press might prove an ally, not an enemy. She might have to speak to them, to mobilize them in Lucy’s support. Public sympathy would be very important, and in that the media might be able to help her. Of course, all this depended on the approach the police took. If Banks believed what Maggie had told him about the abuse, and if Lucy confirmed it, as she would, then they would realize that she was more of a victim than anything else and just let her go as soon as she was well again.

Lorraine Temple was persistent enough to call back a couple of minutes later. “Come on, Maggie,” she said. “Where’s the harm?”

“All right,” said Maggie, “I’ll meet you for a drink. Ten minutes. I know the place you mean. It’s called The Woodcutter. At the bottom of The Hill, right?”

“Right. Ten minutes. I’ll be there.”

Maggie hung up. While she was still close to the phone, she took out the yellow pages and looked up a local florist. She arranged to have some flowers delivered to Lucy in her hospital bed, along with a note wishing her well.

Before she left, she had one last quick look at her sketch and noticed something curious about it. Rapunzel’s face. It wasn’t the all-purpose fairy-tale princess sort of face you saw in so many illustrations; it was individual, unique, something Maggie prided herself on. More than that, though, Rapunzel’s face, half-turned to the viewer, resembled Claire Toth’s, even down to the two spots on her chin. Frowning, Maggie picked up her rubber and erased them before she went off to meet Lorraine Temple from the Post.

Banks hated hospitals, hated everything about them, and he had done so ever since he’d had his tonsils out at the age of nine. He hated the smell of them, the colors of the walls, the echoing sounds, the doctors’ white coats and the uniforms the nurses wore, hated the beds, thermometers, syringes, stethoscopes, IVs, and the strange machines glimpsed behind half-open doors. Everything.

If truth be told, he had hated it all since well before the tonsil experience. When his brother, Roy, was born, Banks was five, seven years too young to be allowed inside a hospital at visiting time. His mother had some problems with the pregnancy – those unspecified adult problems that grown-ups always seemed to be whispering about – and spent an entire month there. Those were the days when they’d let you hang on to a bed that long. Banks was sent away to live with his aunt and uncle in Northampton and went to a new school for the whole period. He never settled in, and being the new boy, he had to stick up for himself against more than one bully.

He remembered his uncle driving him to the hospital to see his mother one dark, cold winter’s night, holding him up to the window – thank God she was on the ground floor – so he could wipe the frost off with his wool mitten and see her swollen shape halfway along the ward and wave to her. He felt so sad. It must be a horrible place, he remembered thinking, that would keep a mother from her son and make her sleep in a room full of strange people when she was so poorly.

The tonsillectomy had only confirmed what he already knew in the first place, and now he was older, hospitals still scared the shit out of him. He saw them as last resorts, places where one ends up, where one goes to die, and where the well-intentioned ministrations, the probing, pricking, slicing and all the various ectomies of medical science only postpone the inevitable, filling one’s last days on earth with torture, pain and fear. Banks was a veritable Philip Larkin when it came to hospitals, could think only of “the anesthetic from which none come round.”

Lucy Payne was under guard at Leeds General Infirmary, not far from where her husband lay in intensive care after emergency surgery to remove skull splinters from his brain. The PC sitting outside her room, a dog-eared Tom Clancy paperback on the chair beside him, reported no comings or goings other than hospital staff. It had been a quiet night, he said. Lucky for some, Banks thought as he entered the private room.

The doctor was inside waiting. She introduced herself as Dr. Landsberg. No first name. Banks didn’t want her there, but there was nothing he could do about it. Lucy Payne wasn’t under arrest, but she was under the doctor’s care.

“I’m afraid I can’t give you very long with my patient,” she said. “She has suffered an extremely traumatic experience, and she needs rest more than anything.”

Banks looked at the woman in the bed. Half her face, including one eye, was covered with bandages. The eye that he could see was the same shiny black as the ink he liked to use in his fountain pen. Her skin was pale and smooth, her raven’s-wing hair spread out over the pillow and sheets. He thought of Kimberley Myers’s body spread-eagled on the mattress. That had happened in Lucy Payne’s house, he reminded himself.

Banks sat down beside Lucy, and Dr. Landsberg hovered like a lawyer waiting to interrupt when Banks overstepped his PACE bounds.

“Lucy,” he said, “my name’s Banks, Acting Detective Superintendent Banks. I’m in charge of the investigation into the five missing girls. How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” Lucy answered. “Considering.”

“Is there much pain?”

“Some. My head hurts. How’s Terry? What’s happened to Terry? Nobody will tell me.” Her voice sounded thick, as if her tongue were swollen and her words were slurred. The medication.

“Perhaps if you just told me what happened last night, Lucy. Can you remember?”

“Is Terry dead? Someone told me he was hurt.”

The concern of the abused wife for her abuser – if that was what he was witnessing – didn’t surprise Banks very much at all; it was an old sad tune, and he had heard it many times before, in all its variations.

“Your husband was very badly injured, Lucy,” Dr. Landsberg cut in. “We’re doing all we can for him.”

Banks cursed her under his breath. He didn’t want Lucy Payne to know what kind of shape her husband was in; if she thought he wasn’t going to survive, she could tell Banks whatever she wanted, knowing he’d have no way of checking whether it was true or not. “Can you tell me what happened last night?” he repeated.

Lucy half closed her good eye; she was trying to remember, or pretending she was trying to remember. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Good answer, Banks realized. Wait and see what happens to Terry before admitting to anything. She was sharp, this one, even in her hospital bed, under medication.

“Do I need a lawyer?” she asked.

“Why would you need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. When the police talk to people… you know, on television…”

“We’re not on television, Lucy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I know that, silly. I didn’t mean… never mind.”

“What’s the last thing you remember about what happened to you?”

“I remember waking up, getting out of bed, putting on my dressing gown. It was late. Or early.”

“Why did you get out of bed?”

“I don’t know. I must have heard something.”

“What?”

“A noise. I can’t remember.”

“What did you do next?”

“I don’t know. I just remember getting up and then it hurt and everything went dark.”

“Do you remember having an argument with Terry?”

“No.”

“Did you go in the cellar?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember. I might have done.”

Covering all the possibilities. “Did you ever go in the cellar?”

“That was Terry’s room. He would have punished me if I went down there. He kept it locked.”

Interesting, Banks thought. She could remember enough to distance herself from whatever they might have found in the cellar. Did she know? Forensics ought to be able to confirm whether she was telling the truth or not about going down there. It was the basic rule: wherever you go, you leave something behind and take something with you.

“What did he do down there?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know. It was his own private den.”

“So you never went down there?”

“No. I didn’t dare.”

“What do you think he did down there?”

“I don’t know. Watched videos, read books.”

“Alone?”

“A man needs his privacy sometimes. That’s what Terry said.”

“And you respected that?”

“Yes.”

“What about that poster on the door, Lucy? Did you ever see it?”

“Only from the top of the steps, coming in from the garage.”

“It’s quite graphic, isn’t it? What did you think of it?”

Lucy managed a thin smile. “Men… men are like that, aren’t they? They like that sort of thing.”

“So it didn’t bother you?”

She did something with her lips that indicated it didn’t.

“Superintendent,” Dr. Landsberg cut in, “I really think you ought to be going now and let my patient get some rest.”

“Just a couple more questions, that’s all. Lucy, do you remember who hurt you?”

“I… I… it must have been Terry. There was no one else there, was there?”

“Had Terry ever hit you before?”

She turned her head sideways, so the only side Banks could see was bandaged.

“You’re upsetting her, Superintendent. I really must insist-”

“Lucy, did you ever see Terry with Kimberley Myers? You do know who Kimberley Myers is, don’t you?”

Lucy turned to face him again. “Yes. She’s the poor girl that went missing.”

“That’s right. Did you ever see Terry with her?”

“I don’t remember.”

“She was a pupil at Silverhill, where Terry taught. Did he ever mention her?”

“I don’t think so… I…”

“You don’t remember.”

“No. I’m sorry. What’s wrong? What’s happening? Can I see Terry?”

“I’m afraid you can’t, not at the moment,” said Dr. Landsberg. Then she turned to Banks. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. You can see how agitated Lucy is becoming.”

“When can I talk to her again?”

“I’ll let you know. Soon. Please.” She took Banks by the arm.

Banks knew when he was beaten. Besides, the interview was going nowhere. He didn’t know whether Lucy was telling the truth about not remembering or whether she was confused because of her medication.

“Get some rest, Lucy,” Dr. Landsberg said as they left.

“Mr. Banks? Superintendent?”

It was Lucy, her small, thick, slurred voice, her obsidian eye fixing him in its gaze.

“Yes?”

“When can I go home?”

Banks had a mental image of what home would look like right now, and probably for the next month or more. Under construction. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Outside in the corridor, Banks turned to Dr. Landsberg. “Can you help me with something, Doctor?”

“Perhaps.”

“Her not remembering. Is that symptomatic?”

Dr. Landsberg rubbed her eyes. She looked as if she got about as much sleep as Banks did. Someone paged a Dr. Thorsen over the PA system. “It’s possible,” she said. “In cases like this there’s often post-traumatic stress disorder, one of the effects of which can be retrograde amnesia.”

“Do you think that’s the case with Lucy?”

“Too early to say, and I’m not an expert in the field. You’d have to talk to a neurologist. All I can say is that we’re pretty certain there’s no physical brain damage, but emotional stress can be a factor, too.”

“Is this memory loss selective?”

“What do you mean?”

“She seems to remember her husband was hurt and that he was the one who hit her, but nothing else.”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“Is it likely to be permanent?”

“Not necessarily.”

“So her complete memory might come back?”

“In time.”

“How long?”

“Impossible to say. As early as tomorrow, as late as… well, maybe never. We know so little about the brain.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”

Dr. Landsberg gave him a puzzled glance. “Not at all,” she said. “Superintendent, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but I had a word with Dr. Mogabe – he’s Terence Payne’s doctor – just before you came.”

“Yes.”

“He’s very concerned.”

“Oh?” This was what DC Hodgkins had told Banks the day before.

“Yes. It seems as if his patient was assaulted by a policewoman.”

“Not my case,” said Banks.

Dr. Landsberg’s eyes widened. “Just like that? You’re not at all concerned?”

“Whether I’m concerned or not doesn’t enter into it. Someone else is investigating the assault on Terence Payne and will no doubt be talking to Dr. Mogabe in due course. My interest is in the five dead girls and the Paynes. Good-bye, Doctor.”

And Banks walked off down the corridor, footsteps echoing, leaving Dr. Landsberg to her dark thoughts. An orderly pushed a whey-faced, wrinkled old man past on a gurney, IV hooked up, on his way to surgery, by the look of things.

Banks shuddered and walked faster.