Peter Robinson - Aftermath

Annie gave a dismissive wave. “What you’d expect. That it’s my career on the line if there’s any fallout. Oh, and he warned me about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes. Said he thought you might try to pump me for information, to play my cards close to my chest. Which he examined rather too closely for my comfort, by the way.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. He said you’re a ladies’ man. Is that true?”

Banks laughed. “He did? He really said that?”

Annie nodded.

The Queen’s Arms was busy with the after-work crowd and tourists seeking shelter, and Banks and Annie had been lucky to get seats at the small, dimpled copper-topped table in the corner by the window. Banks could see the ghostly images of people with umbrellas drifting back and forth on Market Street beyond the red and yellow panes of glass. Rain spotted the windows, and he could hear it tapping in the pauses between words. Savage Garden were on the jukebox claiming that they loved someone before they met her. The air was full of smoke and animated chatter.

“What do you think of Janet Taylor?” Banks asked. “I’m not trying to pry into your case. I’m just interested in your first impression.”

“So you say. Anyway, I quite like her, and I feel sorry for her. She’s a probationary PC with limited experience put in an impossible position. She did what came naturally.”

“But?”

“I’ll not let my feelings blinker my judgment. I haven’t been able to put it all together yet, but it looks to me as if Janet Taylor lied on her statement.”

“Deliberately lied or just didn’t remember?”

“I suppose we could give her the benefit of the doubt on that. Look, I’ve never been in a situation like she was. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like for her. The fact remains that, according to Dr. Mogabe, she must have hit Payne with her baton at least seven or eight times after he was beyond any sort of retaliatory action.”

“He was stronger than her. Maybe that’s what was required to subdue him. The law allows us some latitude on reasonable force in making an arrest.”

Annie shook her head. She stretched out her legs sideways from the chair and crossed them. Banks noticed the thin gold chain around her ankle, one of the many things he found sexy about Annie. “She lost it, Alan. It goes way beyond self-defense and reasonable force. There’s another thing, too.”

“What?”

“I spoke to the paramedics and ambulance attendants who were first at the scene. They hadn’t a clue what had happened, of course, but it didn’t take them long to work out it was something really nasty and bizarre.”

“And?”

“One of them said when he went over to PC Taylor, who was cradling PC Morrisey’s body, she looked over at Payne and said, ‘Is he dead? Did I kill the bastard?’ ”

“That could mean anything.”

“My point exactly. In the hands of a good barrister it could mean she had intended to kill him all along and was asking if she had succeeded in her aim. It could signify intent.”

“It could also just be an innocent question.”

“You know as well as I do there’s nothing innocent about this business at all. Especially with the Hadleigh case on the news every day. And don’t forget that Payne was unarmed and down on the floor when she aimed the final few blows.”

“How do we know that?”

“PC Taylor had already broken his wrist, according to her statement, and kicked the machete into the corner where it was found later. Also, the angles of the blows and the force behind them indicate she had the advantage of height, which we know she didn’t have naturally. Payne’s six foot one and PC Taylor’s only five foot six.”

Banks took a long drag on his cigarette as he digested what Annie had to say, thinking it wouldn’t be a hell of a lot of fun to tell AC Hartnell about this. “Not an immediate threat to her, then?” he said.

“Not from where I’m looking.” Annie shifted a little in her chair. “It’s possible,” she admitted. “I’m not saying that wouldn’t freak out even the best-trained copper. But I’ve got to say that it looks to me as if she lost it. I’d still like to have a look at the scene.”

“Sure. Though I doubt there’s much left to see now the SOCOs have been in there for three days.”

“Even so…”

“I understand,” said Banks. And he did. There was something ritualistic in visiting the scene. Whether you picked up vibrations from the walls or what, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that it connected you more closely with the crime. You’d stood there, in that place where evil had happened. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’ll call on Janet Taylor after.”

“I’ll arrange it with the officers on duty,” said Banks. “We can go down there together if you like. I’m off to talk to Lucy Payne again before she disappears.”

“They’re releasing her from hospital?”

“So I’ve heard. Her injuries aren’t that serious. Besides, they need the bed.”

Annie paused, then she said, “I’d rather make my own way.”

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“Oh, don’t look so crestfallen, Alan. It’s nothing personal. It just wouldn’t look good. And people would see us, no matter what you think.”

“You’re right,” Banks agreed. “Look, if there’s any chance of a bit of spare time Saturday night, how about dinner and…?”

The corners of Annie’s mouth turned up, and a gleam came to her dark eyes. “Dinner and what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t. Tell me.”

Banks glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then he leaned forward. But before he could say anything, the doors opened and DC Winsome Jackman walked in. Heads turned: some because she was black, and some because she was a gorgeous, statuesque young woman. Winsome was on duty and Banks and Annie had told her where they would be.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

“That’s all right,” said Banks. “What is it?”

“A DC Karen Hodgkins from the task force just phoned.”

“And?”

Winsome looked at Annie. “It’s Terence Payne,” she said. “He died an hour ago in the infirmary without recovering consciousness.”

“Oh, shit,” said Annie.

“Well, that should make life interesting,” said Banks, reaching for another cigarette.

“Tell me about the Alderthorpe Seven,” said Banks into his phone at home later that evening. He had just settled down to Duke Ellington’s Black, Brown and Beige , the latest copy of Gramophone and two fingers of Laphroaig when Jenny phoned. He turned down the music and reached for his cigarettes. “I mean,” he went on, “I vaguely remember hearing about it at the time, but I can’t remember many details.”

“I don’t have a lot yet, myself,” said Jenny. “Only what the Liversedges told me.”

“Go on.”

Banks heard a rustle of paper at the other end of the line. “On the eleventh of February, 1990,” Jenny began, “police and social workers made a dawn raid on the village of Alderthorpe, near Spurn Head on the East Yorkshire coast. They were acting on allegations of ritual satanic abuse of children and investigating a missing child.”

“Who blew the whistle?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I didn’t ask.”

Banks filed it away for later. “Okay. Carry on.”

“I’m not a policeman, Alan. I don’t know what sort of questions to ask.”

“I’m sure you did just fine. Please, go on.”

“They took six children from two separate households into care.”