Peter Robinson - Aftermath

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.