Not Dark Yet

14

‘Wouldn’t you just know it,’ said Annie on Friday morning. ‘We get a rare chance to visit a beauty spot and what happens? It fucking pours down.’

She and Gerry had arrived in Dorset late the previous evening, tired after a long drive, and were enjoying breakfast at the Castle Inn, West Lulworth. Annie, still trying hard to stick to the pescatarian course, if not total vegetarianism, had gone for the kippers, but Gerry was indulging in a rare full English. It was one of the things that annoyed Annie about her — not that she wasn’t a veggie, but that she seemed able to eat whatever she wanted and not put on any weight.

Outside, the rain sluiced down the mullioned windows, blurring the view of distant hills. They had set off from Eastvale around lunchtime the previous day, after the Timmy Kerrigan interview, and though the weather had been good, the journey had taken them close to seven hours, including heavy traffic around the M18, a quick sandwich stop near Oxford and getting lost in the winding Dorset lanes. After a brief snack and a couple of glasses of wine at the bar, they had both been ready for bed, and Annie had just managed to stay awake long enough to make a couple of phone calls before drifting off to sleep.

First, she had spoken with AC Gervaise and learned that Banks was spending the night in hospital under observation and that he seemed to be having problems with his memory. There was nothing she could do to help him right now, not from so far away, though she was glad that she had made time to deliver his mobile and headphones before she and Gerry set off for Dorset. Gervaise had also mentioned that the firefighters had discovered two unidentified charred corpses in the abandoned water treatment plant where Banks had been found. Now Annie was worried that one of them might be Zelda. Ray would fall apart if anything happened to her. She had asked Gervaise to call her again if there were any developments but had heard nothing yet. Last of all, she had called Ray to check up on him and tell him about Banks, without mentioning the burned corpses. Ray had sounded a little drunk, and there was loud music playing in the background: Led Zeppelin, ‘Dazed and Confused,’ one of Ray’s old favourites she remembered well.

Sergeant Trevelyan turned up outside the inn at ten o’clock on the dot, as he had promised. Annie and Gerry squeezed into his Land Rover, and what would have been perhaps, on a fine day, a pleasant twenty-minute walk, became a five-minute drive in the pouring rain. Luckily, Trevelyan was well-supplied with umbrellas, and when they arrived at their destination he handed one each to Gerry and Annie.

He was probably in his mid-fifties, Annie thought, maybe a bit old for a local sergeant. Most officers his age would have retired by then. He had a squarish face topped with grey hair worn in much the same style as Boris Johnson. His manner was brusque but friendly enough, Annie thought, especially as they were a couple of interlopers no doubt spoiling the rhythm of his day. She imagined that he was usually in uniform, but today he wore jeans and a light grey windcheater.

Once on the path, Annie felt the power of the wind as well as the rain. She held her umbrella close and kept her eyes on the muddy ground to make sure she didn’t trip over any undergrowth or a half-buried stone. All this meant she didn’t get to appreciate the beauty of the spot until they arrived at the cliff’s edge, because she had been staring at her feet, but once she looked up, she was impressed. She couldn’t believe she had never been there before, despite having grown up not too far away in St. Ives, Cornwall. And somehow, in the grim weather, with a rough grey sea and white breakers below, it was even more awe-inspiring than she had imagined. They stood on the top of a rugged cliff overlooking a semicircular stretch of beach, deserted at the moment. ‘Is this the spot?’ Annie asked Trevelyan, raising her voice to make herself heard over the wind and the crashing waves.

Trevelyan pointed to the west. ‘See that arch sticking out into the water there,’ he said, ‘the one with the hole in it?’

Annie saw it. From a distance it resembled a petrified brontosaurus, its long neck bent to drink from the sea. Still, she remembered, this area was supposed to be part of the Jurassic Coast, so why not? ‘From there?’ she said.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘She ran out there and jumped right off the end, bounced off the cliff, and landed in the sea. It wasn’t as rough as it is today, but it still took a while to find her. Too late, of course.’

They stood gazing at the spot, each lost in thought, the wind howling and raging around them. Annie tried to put herself in the mind of the young girl, humiliated and shamed by a rape that was no fault of her own, standing on that edge. What thoughts must have been whirling about in her mind? Was she already determined to jump, or did she suddenly decide to do it on the spot? Spur of the moment. Bad pun, she told herself, but unintentional.

After a few minutes, Trevelyan broke the silence. ‘Seen enough?’

Both Annie and Gerry nodded.

‘Right. I know a nice little tea shop not too far away that should be opening its doors just about now. Shall we go and have a chat?’

That same morning, as Annie and Gerry were watching the rain in Dorset, an ambulance took Banks over to the Friarage hospital, in Northallerton. He didn’t think he needed it — he could have driven himself if someone had brought his car — but the rules were the rules. All his tests had shown good reflexes, and the MRI — noisy and claustrophobic, but otherwise painless — revealed no brain injury, so Banks was discharged.

Dr. Chowdhury had already given him a list of symptoms to watch out for — including problems with speaking, walking or balance, numbness, blurred vision, fits, or personality changes — and told him not to watch TV or use his iPhone, to lay off the booze, take paracetamol for his headache, and to get in touch if his memory didn’t return within a few days.

Most of all, he was supposed to avoid stress and get plenty of rest. But how was he supposed to do that, he wondered, with Zelda still missing, two burned bodies in the treatment plant, and his memory of events scrambled beyond recognition? Superintendent Newry from IOPC would no doubt be on his case again soon. If you were a policeman, you didn’t get to stumble out of a burning building leaving two bodies behind you and not remember a thing without at least a stiff interrogation.

The doctor also suggested that it might be a good idea to get someone to stay with him for the first forty-eight hours to watch out for any danger signs that may be more easily spotted by an outside observer, such as personality changes. As far as Banks was concerned, that was a no-no. He had had enough being woken up at regular intervals during his two nights in hospital. Besides, he didn’t know anyone who would do it, or who he wanted to do it. Ray Cabbot probably would, but Banks knew that Ray was in no shape to play babysitter with Zelda gone. And Ray’s presence would just make him feel edgy and guilty about not having found her.

It would be too awkward having Annie around, even if she wasn’t away in Dorset. They had ended their relationship some years ago, mostly because they worked together, and he was of higher rank, but there were enough sparks remaining to make both wary of too close contact. Talk about stress. Anyone else, like Ken Blackstone in Leeds and Burgess in London, was simply too far away. Family was out of the question, too. He wasn’t going to burden Brian with his problems when he only had two or three more gigs to play with the band, or intrude on Tracy’s newly-wedded bliss with Mark. He figured he could probably keep an eye on himself.

Getting home was another matter, though, as his car was still in the drive outside Newhope Cottage. He had no qualms about asking a local constable to drop him off.

When he got there, three CSIs were still puttering around the front, and they gave Banks an embarrassing round of applause when he got out of the car. Wonderful, he thought, now even his home was a crime scene. He thanked the constable, and she drove off back to Northallerton.

‘Found anything yet?’ Banks asked Stefan Nowak, the Crime Scene Manager.

‘Tyre tracks,’ answered Nowak. ‘Fingerprints on your door frame. Most of them probably yours. A few drops of blood, also probably yours, but hardly enough to cause anyone great concern. And cigarette ends. Whoever did it must have had a long boring wait. They’re similar to the ones we found near Ray Cabbot’s cottage a few days ago. Ronhill. Croatian. Go ahead and get some rest. You look terrible. We’re done now. We’ve got all there is to find. Oh, and maybe you should check your valuables, you know, just to make sure they didn’t take anything. There’s no evidence they even entered the house, but just to be on the safe side.’

‘Thanks, Stefan. I will,’ said Banks, trying to think exactly what his valuables might be. ‘Though I very much doubt that was what it was about.’

‘Seeing as it’s not a serious crime scene, and the house wasn’t broken into, you can go in. We won’t seal the place up with tape.’

‘You mean me getting bashed on the head and abducted isn’t serious?’

‘Well, if you put it that way. John! Bring that crime scene tape over here.’

‘Away with you,’ said Banks, smiling. ‘On your way.’

Nowak walked towards the CSI van, grinned back over his shoulder and waved.

It was strange, Banks felt, that he could understand all the events Stefan was talking about — fingerprints, Croatian cigarettes, blood — but he still couldn’t remember a thing about what happened to him two nights ago. Apart from a flickering image of flames and a voice — Zelda’s voice? — telling him to run, it was still a blank.

He went into the cottage and saw that nothing appeared to have been disturbed in the front room. His computer was still intact. The entertainment room and kitchen were also untouched. Nothing was missing or out of place. They had come for him, not his possessions.

Besides, what other people might call valuables were just things as far as Banks was concerned: electronic equipment, books, CDs, DVDs, and so on could all be replaced. Most of them, at any rate. The only true valuables he owned consisted of mementos of his own and his children’s growing up: letters, old photographs, certificates, newspaper cuttings, and odds and ends from his grandparents, like a World War One bullet, a fragment of shrapnel, and a tarnished cigarette lighter with a dent in it, which his grandfather had said saved him from a German bullet. Banks smiled. Everyone in the family knew that was a tall tale, but they all pretended they believed it for the sake of the old man’s pride. After all, he had fought at the Somme and survived.

Thieves often took or destroyed things like this, with sentimental value for only the owner, but in this case, the box in which Banks stored them still nestled securely beside a similar box of his old Beano and Dandy annuals on top of his wardrobe.

Feeling tired, Banks thought he would go into the conservatory, have a glass of wine, and maybe doze for a while. He remembered Dr. Chowdhury’s strictures against alcohol, but doctors were always saying things like that. One glass wouldn’t do any harm. He opened a bottle of Languedoc and put on an old Bill Evans CD, the Half Moon Bay concert, then settled down in his favourite wicker chair, feet up on a low stool. He wasn’t supposed to watch TV or work on his computer, or even play games on his iPhone, but he didn’t feel like doing any of those things, anyway. Surely a little cool jazz wouldn’t do any harm? It was good for the soul, as was the wine. Dr. Chowdhury had cleared him for sleep, and the tests showed no serious damage. Which was just as well, as he started drifting off during ‘Autumn Leaves.’

‘Unfortunately, it’s not the right time of day for one of our famous cream teas,’ said Trevelyan, ‘but if you’re still around this afternoon, may I recommend that you sample one here?’

Annie wasn’t hungry so soon after breakfast, but she thought they might stick around another night, as they had to go to Wool to talk to the Sedgwicks later. Tea time would be very late to set off on such a long drive back up north if the weather remained so bad. Was there anything in a cream tea she wasn’t supposed to eat? Only calories, she thought. She wondered how Alan and Ray were doing back up in Eastvale. She didn’t want to phone and spoil Banks’s rest, if that was what he was doing, and she trusted AC Gervaise to call if there were any developments.

The three of them sat at a window table in a twee cafe in West Lulworth watching the passers-by hurry past, heads down, umbrellas up. The inside of the window was slightly steamed up, and along with the splattering of rain, it gave the view an Impressionist effect. And it was too hot in the cafe. Why did everyone have to turn the heating up when it rained? Annie sipped some tea and turned her mind back to the place they had just visited. Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door. Again, her heart weighed heavy at the thought of Marnie standing there, her life in pieces, then falling. No, jumping. And not standing. Running.

‘It was a lovely day,’ Trevelyan said.

Annie thought she might have missed something as she had been so lost in reverie. ‘What? When?’

‘The day Marnie Sedgwick died.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘It wasn’t like this. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky, the water was all blue around the cove from the minerals in the rocks. There were boats out.’

‘It was daylight?’

‘Mid-afternoon.’

‘I meant to ask you this before,’ Annie said, ‘but can you be absolutely certain that Marnie took her own life? There was no one else around?’

‘There were lots of people around for a weekday,’ said Trevelyan. ‘That’s why we can be sure. More eyewitnesses than you could shake a stick at. There was one group of Japanese tourists saw the whole thing. In shock, they were. We had to get an interpreter. They were on some sort of Hardy tour — Thomas, that is, our local celeb. One of his characters goes for a swim in the sea at Lulworth in Far from the Madding Crowd, and they all come by the coachload to see the spot. Can’t understand it myself, as it never happened, it was all just made up.’

‘Terence Stamp,’ said Gerry.

Annie looked at her. ‘Come again?’

‘The one who swam out to sea, faked his suicide. Sergeant Troy, played by Terence Stamp. I’ve seen the film. Julie Christie as Bathsheba Everdene. There’s a more recent version with Carey—’

‘OK, Gerry. But remember, we’re not on a Hardy tour.’

‘Sorry, guv. My dad was a movie buff. I can’t help it. And I was just thinking, you know, the suicide connection.’

Trevelyan smiled at the exchange. ‘It’s a good point,’ he said to Gerry. ‘Though Marnie Sedgwick wasn’t faking it. At least twenty people saw her run out on Durdle Door and launch herself off the end. As you saw, the arch bellies out a bit and she hit the rock face as she went down. The pathologist says that was what killed her. A head wound. Fractured skull. After that she dropped in the sea and the waves battered her against the base of the arch until a boat managed to get close enough to haul her out. It was too late by then.’

Both Annie and Gerry silently contemplated Marnie’s fate. ‘Do you get a lot of people jumping off this Durdle Door?’ Annie asked.

‘Every summer. It’s quite a popular sport among the young folk.’

‘But they don’t all die.’

‘Of course not. We have the occasional serious accident, though, and the air ambulances are out there often enough, but there are spots where you can jump safely and avoid the outfling and the rocks at the bottom. The tides, too, of course.’

‘But Marnie didn’t do that?’

‘No.’

‘Would she have known the lie of the land?’

‘According to her parents, Lulworth was one of her favourite spots. She loved the whole Jurassic Coast, no matter what the season.’

‘Did she leave a note?’

‘No. But there again—’

‘Many suicides don’t,’ said Annie. ‘We know. But there’s no doubt in your mind that it was suicide?’

‘None at all. Either that or she slipped and fell, but the majority of our witnesses say she definitely ran off the end.’

‘Ran,’ said Annie. ‘You’ve mentioned that a few times and it strikes me as odd. Why was she running?’

‘Nobody knows. Maybe she didn’t want to give herself a chance to change her mind.’

‘Or maybe she was being chased,’ said Annie.

Trevelyan flashed her a stern glance. ‘We’re not the country hicks you might think we are down here, DI Cabbot. While there was hardly a major investigation, we did ask around. Marnie had been seen walking with and talking to a man in the car park and on the cliffs earlier. We couldn’t get any sort of decent description except he was older, slender, medium height, with a touch of grey and, whoever he was, he was never seen again. The only unusual thing about him was that he was wearing a suit. You don’t get a lot of that around here. There was certainly no one chasing her when she ran out on to the Door and jumped off the end.’

‘What were they doing? Arguing? Holding hands?’

‘Just walking and talking, as far as we know,’ said Trevelyan. ‘Nobody noticed anything unusual or potentially alarming.’

‘Any photos or videos of him?’

‘None that we saw.’

‘Was there an investigation?’

‘Only a cursory one, as I said, for the coroner’s court.’ Trevelyan took a tablet from his briefcase. ‘And there’s more. I don’t want to upset you, but...’ He turned the tablet on and went to the menu, then passed it to Annie. ‘One of the Japanese tourists was taking videos of Durdle at the time.’

Annie held the tablet so that only she and Gerry could see it and pressed the start button for the video clip Trevelyan had selected. It began with a slow panorama of the sea and cliffs, the wind whistling in the microphone, white gulls swooping over the water’s surface. Then there was an audible human gasp and the image jumped chaotically before it caught the end of Durdle Door and a human figure running. She didn’t launch herself so much as fall like a rag doll and bounce off the cliff face. Annie felt sick and Gerry looked pale. But they watched it again. There was no indication that she had simply overbalanced or tried to dive into the sea.

‘Sorry,’ said Trevelyan, ‘but that’s pretty conclusive, I’d say. There’s no sign of anyone chasing her. Naturally, we made sure the video was never shared on social media.’

‘What about her stuff? Her mobile and so on?’

‘The mobile must have gone with her over the cliff. We never found it. She had nothing else except a few quid and a set of car keys in her jeans pocket. Her car was in the car park. She’d even paid.’

‘How long?’

‘Two hours. She arrived at 12:27.’

‘And was seen with the man when?’

‘Around that time in the car park and about fifteen minutes later on the cliffs.’

‘After that?’

‘She jumped at 12:54, according to the timer on the video.’

‘What happened to the man she was talking to?’

‘Someone saw him get into a car at about ten to or five to one. They couldn’t be certain.’

‘What sort of car?’

‘A posh one was all we heard. Maybe a Jag or a Beemer. Silver.’

‘CCTV? ANPR?’

Trevelyan shook his head. ‘It was too late by the time we heard all this. Recordings had been wiped over. To be honest, we didn’t scour every possible source. There was no evidence that the man had anything to do with Marnie’s suicide.’

‘But he might have given her cause,’ Gerry said.

‘We’d still no reason to suspect him of any crime.’

‘Isn’t it a bit odd, though,’ Gerry went on, ‘that Marnie would bother paying for the parking when she was intending to take her own life?’

‘People follow habit, as often as not,’ said Trevelyan. ‘If you’re the sort of person who always pays your way, you’ll just as likely do that even if you’re planning suicide. Still, it’s true that we don’t know she was planning any such thing. It might have been a sudden decision — it might even have had something to do with the man she was talking to — but as far as we were concerned, her death did not involve foul play or suspicious circumstances. Maybe you see it differently.’ Trevelyan put the tablet back in his briefcase and paused a moment. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I think you’d agree that I’ve been both patient and helpful so far. But you still haven’t told me anything about why you’re interested. Wouldn’t this be a good time to tell me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Annie. ‘You’re right, of course. We have evidence that Marnie Sedgwick was raped at a party in the house of a man called Connor Clive Blaydon back on 13 April of this year.’

‘Do you have any idea who did it?’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘The only evidence so far consists of a poor quality microSD recording from which we managed to enhance a picture of Marnie, but not of the rapist. We only found the recording some time after the event, while our CSIs were searching Blaydon’s house. He was murdered in a particularly brutal fashion about a month later.’

‘And you think that’s connected with what happened to Marnie?’

‘We don’t think anything. We don’t necessarily think Blaydon was the one who raped her. He could have been, but now we know for certain that Marnie didn’t kill him. She died five days before he did. But everyone we’ve talked to has told us about the change in her after the date of the rape. How she became depressed, moody, anxious. Now you tell us — show us — that she took her own life about a month later.’

‘You thought she might have been killed?’

‘There was a possibility that the rapist might have feared his identity being revealed,’ Gerry said. ‘We had to consider that he might have decided the best course of action was to get rid of Marnie. That’s why my ears pricked up when you mentioned she was talking to a man.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Trevelyan. ‘If I’d known any of what you’ve just told me before, I’d have made sure we tracked him down. But, as you saw, he wasn’t anywhere near her when she went over the edge. Nobody was. And she didn’t try to stop herself from falling. It seemed quite deliberate to me.’

‘But she may still have been running away from him.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Annie said. ‘There was no way you could have known what had happened to Marnie back up north. Or her parents. She didn’t tell anyone, as far as we know. We’re still only just putting it together ourselves, and we don’t know who raped her. Besides, this makes even more sense. I mean the suicide. Given her state of mind. Everyone says she’d been anxious and depressed ever since it happened.’

Trevelyan seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘It didn’t make a lot of sense to us at first, even though her parents pretty much echoed what you say. But what you’ve told me just now at least puts it in context. There’s more.’

‘More?’

‘Yes. We didn’t want to tell her parents at first. They were upset enough that their daughter had killed herself. But they would have found out one way or another. Post-mortems and coroners’ reports are a matter of public record, for a start. Not to mention the possibility of loose tongues.’

‘What is it?’ Annie asked, though she already had an inkling.

‘The post-mortem revealed that Marnie was pregnant when she died.’

BANKS AWOKE with a start when his phone played the blues riff. The Bill Evans CD had long since finished. It was late afternoon and shadows were lengthening across his garden and over the sloping stretch of land between the back of his cottage and the lower pastures of Tetchley Fell.

Banks answered. It was Ray Cabbot. ‘Alan, I heard what happened. Annie told me you got hit on the head. Are you OK? Do you want me to come over?’

‘No, Ray. I’m fine. It’s OK. You’re better staying there in case... you know, in case Zelda shows up.’

‘Right. I don’t suppose you’ve found anything new? She’s been gone nearly four days now. I’m going crazy here.’

‘Afraid not,’ said Banks. ‘But I’ve been out of commission all day and I don’t remember anything. Annie would have told you, though, if there was any news. Just hang on.’

‘Annie said something about a fire. I’ve tried calling her, but she’s not been answering her phone.’

‘No. She and Gerry are in Dorset following up a lead on a rape case. They’re probably pretty busy.’

‘Dorset? Are you sure Zelda hasn’t been hurt? Did you find her?’

‘People have mentioned fire to me,’ said Banks. ‘Unfortunately it’s something I don’t remember.’ But as soon as he said it, he had the strange sensation that it wasn’t true, that the state of his memory now was different from when he had drifted off to Bill Evans. That the pieces had rearranged themselves while he slept. He didn’t want to risk saying anything to Ray, but he wanted to explore what that difference was. Could it have come back? Nobody really understood how memory worked. Maybe it was the music. Or a dream. He had no idea what triggered it, but he felt that it was all back, what happened two nights ago, and if he could just get some quiet time alone he could access it. ‘I’m really knackered, Ray,’ he said. ‘And the doc says I’ve got to take it easy, so let’s leave this for now, shall we? I can’t tell you anything. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. Let’s get together then, OK?’

‘OK,’ said Ray. ‘Sorry about... you know... Have a good rest.’

People kept saying that, but Banks was hardly likely to get a good rest until he had remembered what he could. The images were still fragmented, his memory in flux, but there were more of them now, and some were firming up into clear pictures. He found that it didn’t take much effort to put them into a linear narrative. Waking with Keane looming over him, the smell of the petrol, a dark figure emerging from the shadows, Keane stiffening, stabbed from behind, spilling petrol, then Zelda stepping forward to cut his bonds. And the flames. It got a bit blurred again after that, with a sudden whoosh of flame and heat and Zelda shouting for him to run. Then he had woken up in the hospital bed.

There were still a few blank spots to fill in. The things Keane had said, for a start. There was something important in that, he remembered, without being able to grasp exactly what it was. He relaxed. It would come, and it was no good trying to force it. Perhaps some more music and another nap would help?

But it wasn’t to be. No sooner had he put some solo Thelonious Monk on, than his phone went off again. He was tempted not to answer, as it was a withheld number, but he gave in at the last moment and paused the music. As he had suspected, it was Burgess on the line.

‘How’s the head?’ he asked.

‘Word sure gets around. It’s fine, thanks.’

‘Memory?’

‘Still a bit untrustworthy.’

‘I’d keep it that way if Newry’s on your trail.’

‘You know about that?’

‘Sure. And him. He’s a real bastard. Guilty till proven guilty.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘That’s not why I called you.’

‘Oh?’

‘No. We found an arm — at least, a recycling plant worker out Croydon way did. Severed just below the shoulder. Wrapped in a black bin liner. It fell out right in front of his forklift.’

‘Whose arm?’

‘No idea. And no other body parts yet. They’re still scouring the area. The bad news is that there’s no hand, therefore no prints.’

‘Why tell me?’

‘Thought you’d be interested. This arm, there’s some decomposition, but it’s not too badly preserved, and it’s got a tat. A bit faded, but still readable with our technology. Looks like someone tried to scrub it off with bleach but didn’t quite succeed.’

‘Of what?’

‘My experts tell me it’s the insignia of some Croatian crime gang. “Loyal unto death” or some such codswallop.’

‘Croatian?’

‘Thought you’d be interested. I’ll send up the details. And make sure you get plenty of—’

‘I know. Rest. Believe me, I’ve been trying. Thanks. Talk to you later.’

Banks ended the call. An arm, he thought. Interesting. Then he started the solo Monk again and lay back in his chair.

There was a definite aura of mourning in the Sedgwick household, though the curtains weren’t closed and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sedgwick was dressed in black. There was a family photo taken in happier days on the mantelpiece, but no shrine to Marnie with candles burning and a vase of flowers. The mourning resided more in the general atmosphere and the numb, mechanical way Mrs. Sedgwick — Francine, she asked them to call her — made tea and carried in the tray while her husband — Dennis, please — put out a gateleg table in front of the green velour sofa. It was an unremarkable house on an unremarkable street, and its view consisted almost entirely of other unremarkable houses, with just a glimpse of the rolling green Dorset countryside in a gap between two terraces.

The Sedgwicks looked older than Annie had expected, given that Marnie had been only nineteen when she died, but both seemed fit and trim despite a few wrinkles around the eyes and a touch of grey. Francine wore her hair long with a ragged fringe, and Dennis had his neatly cut with a side parting and a forelock that flopped over his brow. They were both casually dressed in jeans and short-sleeved shirts.

The rain continued to batter against the large arched window in the living room as they settled down to tea and the McVitie’s chocolate digestives Francine had laid out on a plate. Annie took one, but Gerry and Dennis didn’t.

‘We’re sorry to bring up memories that might still be painful for you,’ Annie said, ‘but we need to talk to you about Marnie. Is that short for Marjorie, by the way?’

‘It is,’ said Francine. ‘Her name is Marjorie, but she couldn’t pronounce it when she was young. It came out as Marnie, and it just kind of stuck. Especially when she got older and thought Marjorie sounded too old-fashioned.’

‘Nothing to do with the movie then?’ said Gerry.

Francine frowned. ‘What movie?’

‘Never mind.’

Annie gave Gerry a sharp glance and went on. ‘We were wondering how long Marnie had been home until she... you know...’

‘Committed suicide?’ said Dennis. ‘I know you’re not supposed to say that these days. It’s no longer PC, though Lord knows why, but that’s what happened. How long was it, dear? Not long.’

‘She came down at the beginning of May,’ said Francine. ‘I can’t remember the exact date. The third or fourth, I think. But she was only home for a couple of weeks or so before she died.’

‘And during that time how did her behaviour seem?’

‘There was something wrong. She wouldn’t tell us what it was, and we couldn’t guess, but we knew things weren’t right with her. She shut herself up in her room a lot, missed meals because she said she wasn’t hungry. And mood swings. She had mood swings. We were starting to think we should try to persuade her to see a doctor when... it happened.’

‘Did Marnie have any eating disorders? Anorexia? Bulimia?’

‘No, never. She’d always had a healthy appetite, that’s why it seemed so strange.’

‘She wasn’t drinking or taking drugs as far as you know?’

‘No,’ said Dennis. ‘I’m not saying she might not have experimented while she was at uni or living up north, but not while she was here. I’ve done a drug awareness course, and I think I would have known the signs.’

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’m a teacher. Local comprehensive. And Francie here works in human resources at the hospital. I started my summer break early, and Francie is still on medical leave. Her nerves are bad.’

‘Sorry to hear it,’ Annie mumbled. ‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

‘There’s no point pussyfooting around us,’ Dennis said. Even though his wife looked alarmed, he went on, ‘We know that Marnie was pregnant when she jumped.’

‘Dennis!’

‘Sorry, love.’ Dennis leaned over and patted his wife’s hand. ‘But it’s the truth.’

‘We know,’ said Annie.

‘What we’d like to know,’ Dennis went on, ‘is why the police are coming around now, over a month after our Marnie killed herself. And why the North Yorkshire police?’

‘Marnie lived in York,’ said Gerry. ‘That’s not technically North Yorkshire — they’re very much a nation of their own — but we think Marnie is connected with an incident that took place between Harrogate and Ripon.’

‘What sort of incident?’ asked Francine.

Gerry glanced at Annie, who gave her a slight nod. ‘It was a rape,’ Gerry said. ‘At a party.’

‘I told you,’ said Mr. Sedgwick to his wife. ‘I told you Marnie wasn’t the sort of girl to get herself into trouble.’

‘But, Dennis,’ she said. ‘She was raped. Our Marnie was raped. Oh, God.’ She wielded a handkerchief from beneath her cushions and started to cry.

Annie thought it was true that Dennis Sedgwick had made rape sound preferable to getting pregnant through consensual sex, but she didn’t think he had intended it to come out that way. It had been a thoughtless statement, but not a cruel or brutal one. She distracted herself with her tea and a biscuit while the Sedgwicks settled themselves back down again, and said, ‘It’s more than likely she had no idea what was happening to her. It looks as if someone slipped something in her drink. Rohypnol, something like that.’

‘She was drugged?’ said Dennis.

‘It appears that way.’

‘Where was this party?’

‘At the home of a man called Connor Clive Blaydon. Have either of you ever heard of him?’

They both shook their heads.

‘What was she doing there?’ Francine asked.

‘She was working,’ Gerry said.

‘But I thought she worked at Pizza Express?’

‘She did,’ Gerry explained. ‘But she had another job — part-time — working for an events organiser.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Francine.

‘Backroom stuff. Mostly in the kitchen. Helping the caterers. Organising.’

‘Then how did she become a victim?’

‘We don’t know. One of the guests must have had his eye on her and managed to get her alone. He might have persuaded her to have a drink he had drugged.’

‘She was always too trusting,’ Dennis said. ‘Even when she was a little girl.’

‘We can’t know for certain,’ Annie said, ‘because we haven’t yet found any witnesses willing to speak to us, or anyone who admits to knowing anything.’

‘Why not?’ asked Dennis.

‘Mr. Blaydon, the host, was murdered about a month after the party. The 22nd May, to be precise.’

‘And you think these events are connected? Marnie’s rape and Blaydon’s murder.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Annie. ‘We’re just keeping an open mind. As you can no doubt work out, this was after Marnie’s suicide.’

‘Well, at least you’re not trying to accuse her of murder.’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘But as I’m sure you understand, with both a rape and a murder occurring so closely together, on the same premises, we can’t leave any corner unexamined. This Blaydon was involved with some pretty shady characters, and we think our best bet is that he was killed by a member of the Albanian Mafia.’

‘Mafia?’ gasped Francine. ‘What was our Marnie doing with the Mafia?’

‘Nothing,’ said Annie. ‘She was helping to organise the party, that’s all. She had nothing to do with the guests. I doubt she even knew there were such dangerous characters around.’

‘Until it was too late,’ said Dennis.

‘Yes.’

‘Who was she working for?’

‘A woman called Charlotte Westlake. She was Mr. Blaydon’s personal assistant, and her background is in events organising.’

‘How did Marnie come to be working for her?’

‘It seemed she just wanted another job. Needed the money. Mrs. Westlake told us that most people who apply to her for jobs do so via word of mouth, so clearly someone who already worked for her, or had worked for her, suggested Marnie try it.’

‘Who was this?’

‘We don’t know. We have a list of present and previous employees, so it’s something we can find out if we need to. But it probably doesn’t matter. The fact is that she was working at this party at Mr. Blaydon’s house when someone drugged and raped her. She didn’t tell anyone.’

‘Then how do you know?’

‘There was a recording,’ Gerry said. ‘A very poor one — the cam wasn’t working properly — but we managed to re-create an image of her face. Mrs. Westlake’s secretary had met her when she came for a job interview and identified her from that image as Marnie.’

‘A camera?’ said Francine. ‘My God, are you saying someone recorded all this? Are you sure? Couldn’t there be some mistake?’

‘There could be,’ said Annie, ‘but we don’t think so. As I said, we know that she was working at the house the night the attack occurred. Would you like to see the picture?’

‘Is it...’

‘It’s just head and shoulders.’

Mrs. Sedgwick nodded and Annie took out the photo and showed it to her. She put it down. ‘It could be anyone, couldn’t it?’

Her husband picked it up. ‘Francine’s right,’ he said, tossing it back towards Annie. ‘This doesn’t prove anything.’

‘We think it was Marnie,’ Annie went on, ‘and we think that was why people say she was behaving strangely after that party. Mood swings. Depression. Shutting herself away. She couldn’t concentrate on her job at Pizza Express, so she left, then came home. That’s when you were briefly reunited.’

‘Did she know she was pregnant?’ Francine asked, moving the hankie away from her face.

‘We don’t know,’ said Annie. ‘We don’t even know for certain that the rape caused her pregnancy. If she knew, she never mentioned it to anyone we’ve talked to. All we can say is that she might have known, might have sensed the change in herself, even after just a month or so, while she was back with you. A missed period, perhaps, cramps, nausea, bloating, mood swings. And she was certainly upset enough by the rape itself for that to affect her behaviour. Do you know if she saw anyone in the two weeks she was down here? Old friends, perhaps?’

‘They’ve all moved away. There’s not much for young people to do around here. Most of them leave. Besides, she hardly ever went out.’

‘Only the walks,’ said Dennis.

‘Yes, that’s true. She went for long walks sometimes. Disappeared for hours. We were quite worried about her.’

‘A witness saw her walking and talking to a man on the cliffs the day she died,’ Annie said. ‘Do you know who that might have been?’

‘The police mentioned that to us, too,’ said Dennis. ‘We have no idea. Could it be important? Could it be the man who... who raped her?’

‘There’s no evidence that he had anything to do with what happened to her,’ Annie said. ‘And we don’t know who raped her. But it’s always good to talk to people who...’ She paused. ‘Well, I don’t suppose we’ll manage that now. Whoever he is, he’ll be long gone. It probably isn’t relevant.’

‘We always told her not to talk to strangers,’ said Dennis.

‘It wasn’t a stranger,’ Francine said. ‘That’s what they’re saying. If she was walking and talking with him, he was probably someone she knew.’

‘We don’t know,’ said Annie. ‘Did Marnie have any siblings, brothers or sisters?’

The Sedgwicks looked at one another in silence for a moment, then Francine said, ‘No. Marnie was an only child I... you see, we couldn’t have children of our own, and...’

‘Marnie was adopted?’ said Annie, giving Gerry a puzzled glance.

‘Well, yes. I assumed you knew.’

‘Nobody told us.’

‘It didn’t make her any less our own. We couldn’t have loved her more if I’d given birth to her myself.’

‘No, of course,’ said Annie. ‘It’s just that we didn’t know. It never came up in any of our investigations.’

‘There’s no reason why it should, is there?’ said Dennis.

‘I suppose not. You just took us by surprise, that’s all. How old was she when you adopted her?’

‘Just a baby,’ said Francine. ‘They had to keep her in a while longer than usual because she was born early. But she was a beautiful, tiny, perfect baby.’ She collapsed into sobs, and her husband embraced her.

Annie sat thinking and Gerry scribbled away in her notebook.