Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“Schizophrenia.”

“And the father?”

“Died two years ago.”

“What of?”

“Massive stroke. He was a butcher in Halifax, had a record for minor sex offenses – exposing himself, peeping, that sort of thing. Sounds a pretty classic background for someone like Terry Payne, wouldn’t you say?”

“If there is such a thing.”

“The miracle is that Terry managed to become a teacher.”

Jenny laughed. “Oh, they’ll let anyone in the classroom these days. Besides, that’s not the miracle.”

“What is?”

“That he managed to hold on to the job for so long. And that he was married. Usually serial sex offenders such as Terence Payne find it hard to hold down a job and maintain a relationship. Our man did both.”

“Is that significant?”

“It’s intriguing. If I’d been pushed for a profile a month or so ago I’d have said you were looking for a man between twenty and thirty, most likely living alone and working at some sort of menial job, or a succession of such jobs. Just shows how wrong one can be, doesn’t it?”

“Will you do it?”

Jenny toyed with the stem of her glass. The Mozart ended and left only the memory of music. A car passed by and a dog barked on The Green. She had the time to do as Banks asked. She had a lecture to give on Friday morning, but it was one she had given a hundred times, so she didn’t need to prepare. Then she had nothing until a string of tutorials on Monday. That should give her plenty of time. “As I said, it’s intriguing. I’ll need to talk to Lucy herself.”

“That can be arranged. You are our official consultant psychologist, after all.”

“Easy for you to say that now you need me.”

“I’ve known it all along. Don’t let a few narrow-minded-”

“All right,” said Jenny. “You’ve made your point. I can take being laughed at behind my back by a bunch of thick plods. I’m a big girl. When can I talk to her?”

“Best do it as soon as possible, while she’s still only a witness. Believe it or not, but defense lawyers have been known to claim that psychologists have tricked suspects into incriminating themselves. How about tomorrow morning? I’ve got to be down at the hospital for the next postmortem at eleven, anyway.”

“Lucky you. Okay.”

“I’ll give you a lift if you like.”

“No. I’ll go straight over to talk to the parents after I’ve talked to Lucy and her friend. I’ll need my car. Meet you there?”

“Ten o’clock, then?”

“Fine.”

Banks told her how to find Lucy’s room. “And I’ll let the parents know you’re coming.” Banks gave her the details. “You’ll do it, then? What I’m asking?”

“Doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it?”

Banks stood up, leaned forward and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. Even though she could smell the wine and smoke on his breath, her heart jumped and she wished his lips had lingered a little longer, moved a little closer to her own. “Hey! Any more of that,” she said, “and I’ll have you up on sexual harassment charges.”

Banks and Jenny walked past the police guard into Lucy Payne’s room just after ten o’clock the following morning. There was no doctor standing over them this time, Banks was happy to note. Lucy lay propped against the pillows reading a fashion magazine. The slats of the blinds let in some of the morning sun, lighting the vase of tulips on the bedside table, forming a pattern of bars over Lucy’s face and the white bedsheets. Her long glossy black hair was spread out on the pillow around her hospital-pale face. The colors of her bruises had deepened since the previous day, which meant they were on the mend, and she still wore half her head swathed in bandages. Her good eye, long-lashed, dark and sparkling, gazed up at them. Banks wasn’t sure what he saw in it, but it wasn’t fear. He introduced Jenny as Dr. Fuller.

Lucy looked up and gave them a fleeting wisp of a smile. “Is there any news?” she asked.

“No,” said Banks.

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I just have this feeling he’s going to die, that’s all.”

“Would that make a difference, Lucy?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. If Terry died, would it make a difference to what you might care to tell us?”

“How could it?”

“You tell me.”

Lucy paused. Banks could see her frown as she thought about what to say next. “If I were to tell you, you know, what went on. I mean, if I knew… you know… about Terry and those girls and all… what would happen to me?”

“You’ll have to be a bit clearer than that, I’m afraid, Lucy.”

She licked her lips. “I can’t really be any clearer. Not at this point. I have to think of myself. I mean, if I remembered something that didn’t show me in a good light, what would you do?”

“Depends what it is, Lucy.”

Lucy retreated into silence.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed her skirt. Banks gave her the go-ahead to pick up the questioning. “Do you remember anything more about what happened?” she asked.

“Are you a psychiatrist?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

Lucy looked at Banks. “They can’t make me have tests, can they?”

“No,” said Banks. “Nobody can force you to undergo testing. That’s not why Dr. Fuller’s here. She just wants to talk to you. She’s here to help.” And the check’s in the post , Banks added silently.

Lucy glanced at Jenny. “I don’t know…”

“You’ve got nothing to hide, have you, Lucy?” Jenny asked.

“No. I’m just worried that they’ll make things up about me.”

“Who’ll make things up?”

“Doctors. The police.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Because they think I’m evil.”

“Nobody thinks you’re evil, Lucy.”

“You wonder how I could have lived with him, a man who did what Terry did, don’t you?”

“How could you live with him?” Jenny asked.

“I was frightened of him. He said he’d kill me if I left him.”

“And he abused you, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Physically?”

“Sometimes he hit me. Where the bruises wouldn’t show.”

“Until Monday morning.”

Lucy touched her bandages. “Yes.”

“Why was it different that time, Lucy?”

“I don’t know. I still can’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Jenny went on. “I’m not here to force you to say anything you don’t want. Just relax. Did your husband abuse you in other ways?”

“What do you mean?”

“Emotionally, for example.”

“Do you mean like putting me down, humiliating me in front of people?”

“That’s the kind of thing I mean.”

“Then the answer’s yes. Like, you know, if something I cooked wasn’t very good or I hadn’t ironed his shirt properly. He was very fussy about his shirts.”

“What did he do if his shirts weren’t ironed properly?”

“He’d make me do them again and again. Once he even burned me with the iron.”

“Where?”

Lucy looked away. “Where it wouldn’t show.”

“I’m curious about the cellar, Lucy. Detective Superintendent Banks here told me you said you never went down there.”

“I might have been there the once… you know… the time he hurt me.”

“On Monday morning?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t remember?”

“No.”

“You never went down there before?”

Lucy’s voice took on a strange keening edge. “No. Never. Not since we first moved in, anyway.”

“How long after that was it that he forbade you to go there?”