Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“I agree. Look, I understand you’re prejudiced against us, but-”

“Prejudiced? Right. With your help I ended up in hospital.”

“But you have to understand that in many of these matters our hands are tied. We’re only as good as the information we have and the laws of the land allow.”

“All the more reason for me to speak out about Lucy. After all, you’re not exactly here to help her, are you?”

“I’m here to find out the truth.”

“Well, that’s all very high-and-mighty of you.”

“Now who’s the cynic?”

“We all know the police only want convictions, that they’re not overly concerned with the truth, or with justice.”

“Convictions help, if they keep the bad guys off the street. Too often they don’t. And justice we leave to the courts, but you’re wrong about the rest. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m very much concerned with the truth. I’ve worked day and night on this case since the beginning of April, and every case I work I want to know what happened, who did it and why. I don’t always find out, but you’d be surprised how much I do learn. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. And I have to live with the knowledge, take it into my life, take it home with me. I’m that snowball rolling down the hill, only the pure snow’s run out and I’m picking up layer after layer of dirt and gravel just so that you can sit safe and warm at home and accuse me of being some sort of Gestapo officer.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. And I wasn’t always safe and warm.”

“Do you know that what you’ve just done actually stands a good chance of warping the truth, whatever it may be?”

“I didn’t do that. It was her. That journalist. Lorraine Temple.”

Banks slapped the table and immediately regretted it when Maggie jumped. “Wrong,” he said. “ She was only doing her job. Like it or not, that’s what it was. Her job’s to sell newspapers. You’ve got this all backward, Maggie. You think the media’s here to tell the truth and the police to lie.”

“You’re confusing me now.” The kettle boiled and Maggie got up to make tea. She didn’t offer Banks a cup, but when it was ready, she poured him one automatically. He thanked her.

“All I’m saying, Maggie, is that you might be doing Lucy more harm than good by talking to the press. Look at what happened this time. You say it came out all wrong and that they practically said Lucy is as guilty as her husband. That’s hardly helping her, is it?”

“But I told you. She twisted my words.”

“And I’m saying you should have expected that. It made a better story.”

“Then where am I supposed to go to tell the truth? Or to find it?”

“Christ, Maggie, if I knew the answer to that I’d-”

But before Banks could finish, his mobile rang. This time it was the PC on duty at the infirmary. Lucy Payne had just been cleared for release, and she had a solicitor with her.

“Do you know anything about this solicitor?” Banks asked Maggie when he’d finished on the phone.

She smiled sheepishly. “As a matter of fact, yes, I do.”

Banks said nothing, not trusting himself to respond in a civilized manner. Leaving his tea untouched, he bid Maggie Forrest a hurried farewell and dashed out to his car. He didn’t even stop to talk to Annie Cabbot when he saw her walking out of number 35, but managed only a quick wave before jumping in his Renault and roaring off.

Lucy Payne was sitting on the bed painting her toenails black when Banks walked in. She gave him a look and demurely pulled her skirt down over her thighs. The bandages were gone from her head, and the bruises seemed to be healing well. She had rearranged her long black hair so it covered the patch the doctor had shaved for his stitches.

Another woman stood in the room, over by the window: the solicitor. Slight in stature, with chocolate brown hair cropped almost as closely as Banks’s, and watchful, serious hazel eyes, she was dressed in a charcoal pinstriped jacket, matching skirt and a white blouse with some sort of ruffled front. She wore dark tights and shiny black pumps.

She walked over and held her hand out. “Julia Ford. I’m Lucy’s solicitor. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“A pleasure,” said Banks.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve talked to my client, is it, Superintendent?”

“No,” said Banks.

“And the last time you were accompanied by a psychologist named Dr. Fuller?”

“Dr. Fuller’s our consulting psychologist on the Chameleon task force,” said Banks.

“Just be careful, Superintendent, that’s all. I’d have very good grounds to argue that anything Dr. Fuller might have got from my client is inadmissible as evidence.”

“We weren’t gathering evidence,” said Banks. “Lucy was questioned as a witness, and as a victim . Not as a suspect.”

“A fine line, Superintendent, should matters change. And now?”

Banks glanced at Lucy, who had resumed painting her toenails, seeming indifferent to the banter between her solicitor and Banks. “I wasn’t aware you thought you needed a solicitor, Lucy,” he said.

Lucy looked up. “It’s in my best interests. They’re discharging me this morning. Soon as the paperwork’s done, I can go home.”

Banks looked at Julia Ford in exasperation. “I hope you haven’t encouraged her in this fantasy?”

Julia raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Banks turned back to Lucy. “You can’t go home, Lucy,” he explained. “Your house is being taken apart brick by brick by forensic experts. Have you any concept of what happened there?”

“Of course I have,” said Lucy. “Terry hit me. He knocked me out and put me in hospital.”

“But Terry’s dead now, isn’t he?”

“Yes. So?”

“That changes things, doesn’t it?”

“Look,” said Lucy. “I’ve been abused, and I’ve just lost my husband. Now you’re telling me I’ve lost my home, too?”

“For the time being.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?”

“How about your foster parents, Linda ?”

Lucy’s look let Banks know that she hadn’t missed the emphasis. “I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?”

“Anyway, it won’t be a problem for a while yet,” Banks went on. “We found traces of Kimberley Myers’s blood on the sleeves of your dressing gown, along with some yellow fibers under your fingernails. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do before you go anywhere.”

Lucy looked alarmed. “What do you mean?”

Julia Ford narrowed her eyes and looked at Banks. “What he means, Lucy, is that he’s going to take you in to the police station for questioning.”

“Can he do that?”

“I’m afraid so, Lucy.”

“And he can keep me there?”

“Under the PACE regulations, he can, yes, if he’s not satisfied with the answers you give him. For twenty-four hours. But there are very strict guidelines. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“You mean I could be in prison for a whole day? In a cell?”

“Don’t be alarmed, Lucy,” said Julia, stepping over and touching her client’s arm. “Nothing bad will happen to you. Those days are gone now. You’ll be well looked after.”

“But I’ll be in prison!”

“Possibly. It all depends.”

“But I haven’t done anything !” She gave Banks an angry look, black eyes burning like coals. “I’m the victim here. Why are you picking on me?”

“Nobody’s picking on you, Lucy,” said Banks. “There’s a lot of questions need answering, and we think you can help us.”

“I’ll answer your questions. I’m not refusing to cooperate. You don’t have to take me to the police station for that. Besides, I’ve already answered them.”