Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“You’ve changed your mind about the statement, then?” Annie asked. They were sitting far enough away that they couldn’t be overheard if they spoke quietly. Not that any of the other diners looked as if they wanted to eavesdrop; they were all family groups talking loudly and laughing, trying to keep track of their adventurous children.

“I wasn’t lying,” said Janet. “I want you to know that, first off.”

“I know that.”

“I was just confused, that’s all. My memory of that night’s a bit shaky.”

“Understandable. But you do remember how many times you hit him?”

“No. All I’m saying is that it might have been more than I thought.”

Their meals arrived. Janet tucked in as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hadn’t, and Annie picked at her food. The quiche was dry and the salad boring, but that was to be expected in a place that catered mostly for meat-eaters. At least she could enjoy the view. A high plane left a figure eight of white vapor trail across the sky.

“Janet,” Annie went on. “What do you want to change in your statement?”

“Well, you know, where I insisted I only hit him, what, two or three times?”

“Four.”

“Whatever. And the postmortem found… how many?”

“Nine blows.”

“Right.”

“Do you remember hitting him nine times?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Janet sawed off a piece of lamb and chewed on it for a moment.

Annie ate some lettuce. “What are you saying, Janet?”

“Just that, well, I suppose I lost it, that’s all.”

“You’re claiming diminished responsibility?”

“Not really. I mean, I knew what was going on, but I was scared and I was upset about Dennis, so I just… I don’t know, maybe I should have stopped hitting him sooner, after I’d handcuffed him to the pipes.”

“You hit him after that?”

“I think so. Once or twice.”

“And you remember doing that?”

“I remember hitting him after I’d handcuffed him, yes. Thinking, this one’s for Dennis, you bastard. I just don’t remember how many times.”

“You realize you’ll have to come to the station and revise your statement, don’t you? I mean, it’s okay just telling me here, now, like this, but it has to be done officially.”

Janet raised an eyebrow. “Of course I know that. I’m still a copper, aren’t I? I just wanted… you know…” She looked away out over the dale.

Annie thought she did know, and that Janet was too embarrassed to say it. She wanted some company. She wanted someone who would at least try to understand her in a gorgeous setting on a beautiful day, before the three-ringed circus that was likely to be her life for the next while went into full swing.

Jenny Fuller and Banks had lunch together in the slightly less exotic Queen’s Arms. The place was bursting at the seams with Sunday tourists, but they bagged a small table – so small there was hardly room for two roast beef and Yorkshire pud specials and the drinks – just before they stopped serving meals at two o’clock. Lager for Jenny and a pint of shandy for Banks because he had to conduct another interview that afternoon. He still looked tired, Jenny thought, and she guessed that the case had been keeping him awake at nights. That and his obvious discomfort over Sandra’s pregnancy.

Jenny and Sandra had been friends. Not close, but both had been through harrowing experiences around the same time and these had created some sort of bond between them. Since her travels in America, though, Jenny hadn’t seen much of Sandra, and now she supposed she wouldn’t see her again. If she had to choose sides, as people did, then she supposed she had chosen Alan’s. She had thought he and Sandra had a solid marriage – after all, Alan had turned her down when she tried to seduce him, and that had been a new experience for her – but clearly she was wrong. Never having been married herself, she would have been the first to confess that she knew little about such things, except that outward appearances often belie an inner turmoil.

So what had been going through Sandra’s mind in that last little while was a mystery. Alan had said that he wasn’t sure whether Sandra met Sean before or after they split up, or whether he was the real reason behind the separation. Jenny doubted it. Like most problems, it hadn’t just happened overnight, or when someone else turned up on the scene. Sean was as much a symptom as anything, and an escape hatch. This business had probably been years in the making.

“The car,” Banks said.

“A blue Citroën.”

“Yes. I don’t suppose you got the number?”

“I must admit it never crossed my mind the first time I saw it. I mean, why would I? It was in Alderthorpe and I parked behind it. Coming back from Spurn Head, it always stayed too far behind for me to be able to see.”

“And you lost it where?”

“I didn’t lose it. I noticed it stopped following me just after I got on to the M62 west of Hull.”

“And you never saw it again?”

“No.” Jenny laughed. “I must admit I felt rather as if I was being run out of town. You know, like in those cowboy films.”

“You didn’t get a glimpse of the driver at all?”

“No. Couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”

“What next?”

“I’ve some university work to catch up on and some tutorials tomorrow. I could postpone them, but…”

“No, that’s okay,” said Banks. “Lucy Payne’s out, anyway. No real rush.”

“Well, on Tuesday or Wednesday I’ll see if I can talk to Keith Murray in Durham. Then there’s Laura in Edinburgh. I’m developing a picture of Linda – Lucy, but it’s still missing a few pieces.”

“Such as?”

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure. I just get the feeling that I’m missing something.” She saw Banks’s worried expression and slapped his arm. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll not go putting my intuitions into my profiles. This is just between you and me.”

“Okay.”

“I suppose you could call it the missing link. The link between Linda’s childhood and the possibility of Lucy’s being involved in the abductions and murders.”

“There’s the sexual abuse.”

“Yes, there’s no doubt that many people who were abused become abusers themselves – it’s a cycle – and according to Maureen Nesbitt, Linda was sexually aware at eleven. But none of that’s enough in itself. All I can say is that it could have created a psychopathology in Lucy that made her capable of becoming the compliant victim of a man like Terence Payne. People often repeat mistakes and bad choices. You just have to look at my history of relationships to see that.”

Banks smiled. “You’ll get it right one day.”

“Meet my knight in shining armor?”

“Is that what you want? Someone to fight your battles for you, then pick you up and carry you upstairs?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“And I thought you were a feminist.”

“I am. It doesn’t mean I might not fight his battles, pick him up and carry him upstairs the next day. All I’m saying is that chance would be a fine thing. Anyway, can’t a woman have her fantasies?”

“Depends where they lead. Has it occurred to you that Lucy Payne wasn’t the compliant victim at all, and that her husband was?”

“No, it hasn’t. I’ve never come across such a case.”

“But not impossible?”

“In human psychology, nothing’s impossible. Just very unlikely, that’s all.”

“But supposing she were the powerful one, the dominant partner…”

“And Terence Payne was her sex slave, doing her bidding?”

“Something like that.”