Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“It’s not such an uncommon feeling, you know,” said Annie. “It’s not so terrible, either. It doesn’t make you a monster.”

“I felt like one.”

“That’s because you take too much on yourself. You always do. You’re not responsible for all the world’s ills and sins, not even a fraction of them. So Alan Banks is human; he isn’t perfect. So he feels relief when he thinks he should feel grief. Do you think you’re the only one that’s happened to?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked anyone else.”

“Well, you’re not. You just have to learn to live with your imperfections.”

“Like you do?”

Annie smiled and flicked a little wine at him. Luckily, she was drinking white. “What imperfections, you cheeky bastard?”

“Anyway, after that we decided no more kids, and we never talked about it again.”

“But you’ve carried the guilt around ever since.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I mean, I don’t think about it very often, but this brought it all back. And do you know what else?”

“What?”

“I loved the Job more. I never for a moment thought of giving it all up and becoming a used-car salesman.”

Annie laughed. “Just as well. I can’t imagine you as the used-car-salesman type.”

“Or something else. Something with regular hours, less chance of catching AIDS.”

Annie reached out and stroked his cheek. “Poor Alan,” she said, snuggling closer. “Why don’t you just try to put it all out of your mind. Just put everything out of your mind, everything except the moment, me, the music, the here and now.”

Van was getting into the meandering, sensuous “Ballerina” and Banks felt Annie’s lips, soft and moist, running over his chest, down his stomach, lingering, and he managed to do as she said when she reached her destination, but even as he gave himself up to the sensation of the moment, he still couldn’t quite get the thought of dead babies out of his mind.

Maggie checked the locks and the windows for the second time before going to bed that Saturday night, and only when she was satisfied that all was secure did she take a glass of warm milk upstairs with her. She had hardly got halfway up when the telephone rang. At first, she wasn’t going to answer it. Not at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. It was probably a wrong number anyway. But curiosity got the better of her. She knew that the police had been forced to let Lucy go that morning, so it might be she, looking for help.

It wasn’t. It was Bill. Maggie’s heart started to beat fast, and she felt the room closing in on her.

“You’re creating quite a stir over there, aren’t you?” he said. “Heroine and champion of battered wives everywhere. Or is that championess?”

Maggie felt herself shrinking, shriveling, her heart squeezing into her throat. All her bravado, her empowerment , withered and died. She could hardly talk, hardly breathe. “What do you want?” she whispered. “How did you find out?”

“You underestimate your celebrity. You’re not only in the Globe and the Post , you’re in the Sun and the Star , too. Even a picture in the Sun , though it’s not a very good one, unless you’ve changed a hell of a lot. They’ve been giving quite a bit of coverage to the Chameleon case, as they call it, comparing it to Bernardo and Homolka, naturally, and you seem to be caught right up in the thick of it.”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Me? Nothing.”

“How did you find me?”

“After the newspaper stories, it wasn’t difficult. You had an old address book you forgot to take with you. Your friends were in it. Thirty-two, The Hill, Leeds. Am I right?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Nothing. Not at the moment, anyway. I just wanted to let you know that I know where you are, and I’m thinking of you. It must have been very interesting living across the street from a killer. What’s Karla like?”

“It’s Lucy. Leave me alone.”

“That’s not very nice. We were married once, remember.”

“How could I forget?”

Bill laughed. “Anyway, mustn’t run up the firm’s phone bill too much. I’ve been working very hard lately, and even my boss thinks I need a holiday. Just thought I’d let you know I might be taking a trip over to England soon. I don’t know when. Might be next week, might be next month. But I think it’d be nice if we could get together for dinner or something, don’t you?”

“You’re sick,” Maggie said, and heard Bill chuckling as she hung up.

Banks had always thought that Sunday morning was a good time to put a little pressure on an unsuspecting villain. Sunday afternoon was good, too, after the papers, the pub and the roast beef and Yorkshire pud have put him in a good mood and he was stretched out in the armchair, newspaper over his head, enjoying a little snooze. But on Sunday morning, if they weren’t particularly religious, people were either relaxed and all set to enjoy a day off, or they were hung over. Either way made for a good chat.

Ian Scott was definitely hungover.

His oily black hair stood in spikes on top and lay flat at the sides, plastered to his skull where he had lain on the pillow. One side of his pasty face was etched with crease marks. His eyes were bloodshot and he wore only a grubby vest and underpants.

“Can I come in, Ian?” said Banks, pushing gently past him before he got an answer. “Won’t take long.”

The flat reeked of last night’s marijuana smoke and stale beer. Roaches still lay scattered in the ashtrays. Banks went over and opened the window as wide as it would go. “Shame on you, Ian,” he said. “A lovely spring morning like this, you ought to be out walking down by the river or having a crack at Fremlington Edge.”

“Bollocks,” said Ian, scratching those very items as he spoke.

Sarah Francis stumbled in from the bedroom, holding her tousled hair back from her face and squinting through sleep-gummed eyes. She was wearing a white T-shirt with Donald Duck on the front, and nothing else. The T-shirt only came down to her hips.

“Shit,” she said, covering herself with her hands as best she could and dashing back into the bedroom.

“Enjoy the free show?” said Ian.

“Not particularly.” Banks tossed a heap of clothes from the chair nearest the window and sat down. Ian turned on the stereo, too loud, and Banks got up and turned it off. Ian sat down and sulked and Sarah came back in wearing a pair of jeans. “You could have bloody warned me,” she grumbled to Ian.

“Shut up, you silly cunt,” he said.

Now Sarah sat down and sulked, too.

“Okay,” said Banks. “Are we all comfortable? Can I begin?”

“I don’t know what you want with us again,” said Ian. “We told you everything that happened.”

“Well, it won’t do any harm to go over it again, will it?”

Ian groaned. “I don’t feel well. I feel sick.”

“You should treat your body with more respect,” said Banks. “It’s a temple.”

“What do you want to know? Get it over with.”

“First off, I’m puzzled by something.”

“Well, you’re the Sherlock; I’m sure you can work it out.”

“I’m puzzled by why you haven’t asked me about Leanne.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d hardly be back here interrupting your Sunday morning, would I, if Leanne had turned up dead and buried in a serial killer’s garden?”

“What are you saying? Speak English.”

Sarah had curled herself somehow into a fetal position in the other armchair and was watching the exchange intently.

“What I’m saying, Ian, is that you didn’t ask about Leanne. That concerns me. Don’t you care about her?”