Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “But I very much doubt it. Besides, even if it is true, it doesn’t really get us any further, does it?”

“I suppose not. Just speculation. You mentioned that Payne might have used a camcorder when you visited the cellar, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Jenny sipped some lager and dabbed her lips with a paper serviette. “It would be highly unusual in such a ritualized case of rape, murder and interment for the perpetrator not to keep some sort of record.”

“He had the bodies.”

“His trophies? Yes. And that probably explains why there was no further mutilation, no need to take a finger or a toe to remember them by. Payne had the whole body. But it’s not just that. Someone like Payne would have needed more, something that enabled him to relive the events.”

Banks told her about the tripod marks and the electronics catalog.

“So if he had one, where is it?” she asked.

“That’s the question.”

“And why is it missing?”

“Another good question. Believe me, we’re looking hard for it. If it’s in that house, even if it’s buried ten feet down, we’ll find out. We won’t leave a brick of that place standing until it’s given up all its secrets.”

“ If it’s in the house.”

“Yes.”

“And there’ll be tapes, too.”

“I haven’t forgotten them.”

Jenny pushed her plate aside. “I suppose I’d better go and get some work done.”

Banks looked at his watch. “And I’d better go see Mick Blair.” He reached forward and touched her arm lightly. She was surprised at the tingle she felt. “Take care, Jenny. Keep your eyes open, and if you see that car again, phone me right away. Understand?”

Jenny nodded. Then she noticed someone she didn’t know approaching them, walking with an easy, confident grace. An attractive young woman, tight jeans emphasizing her long and shapely legs, what looked like a man’s white shirt hanging open over a red T-shirt. Chestnut hair cascaded in shiny waves to her shoulders, and the only flaw on her smooth complexion was a small mole to the right of her mouth. Even that wasn’t so much an imperfection as a beauty spot. Her serious eyes were almond in shape and color.

When she got to the table, she pulled up a chair and sat down without being invited. “DS Cabbot,” she said, stretching out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Dr. Fuller.” Jenny shook. Firm grasp.

“Ah, the famous Dr. Fuller. A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Jenny felt tense. Was this woman, surely the Annie Cabbot, staking out her territory? Had she seen Banks touching her arm and thought something of it? Was she here to let Jenny know as subtly as possible to keep her hands off Banks? Jenny knew she was not bad when it came to the looks department, but she couldn’t help feeling somehow clumsy and even a bit dowdy next to Annie. Older , too. Definitely older.

Annie smiled at Banks. “Sir.”

Jenny could sense something between them. Sexual tension, yes, but it was more than that. Had they had a disagreement? All of a sudden the table was uncomfortable and she felt she had to leave. She picked up her bag and started rummaging for her car keys. Why did they always sink to the bottom and get lost among the hairbrushes, paper hankies and makeup?

“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” said Annie, smiling again at Jenny, then turning to Banks. “But I just happened to be in the station catching up on some paperwork after lunch. Winsome told me you were here and that she’d got a message for you. I said I’d deliver it.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“It’s from your mate Ken Blackstone in Leeds. It seems Lucy Payne’s done a runner.”

Jenny gasped. “What?”

“Local police dropped by her parents’ house this morning just to make sure everything was okay. Turns out her bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Bloody hell,” said Banks. “Another cock-up.”

“Just thought you’d want to know as soon as possible,” said Annie, untangling herself from the chair. She looked at Jenny. “Nice to meet you.”

Then she walked out with the same elegant grace she had walked in with, leaving Banks and Jenny to sit and stare at each other.

Mick Blair, the fourth person in the group on the night Leanne Wray disappeared, lived with his parents in a semi in North Eastvale, near enough to the edge of town for a fine view over Swainsdale, but close enough to the center for easy access. After Annie’s revelation about Lucy Payne, Banks wondered whether he should change his plans, but he decided that Leanne Wray was still a priority and Lucy Payne was still a victim in the eyes of the law. Besides, there would be plenty of coppers keeping an eye open for her; it was the most they could do until, and unless, they had anything to charge her with.

Unlike Ian Scott, Mick had never been in trouble with the police, though Banks suspected he might well have been buying drugs from Ian. He had a slightly wasted look about him, not quite all there, and didn’t seem to have much time for personal grooming. When Banks called after his lunch with Jenny that Sunday, Mick’s parents were out visiting family, and Mick was slouching around in the living room listening to Nirvana loud on the stereo, wearing torn jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on it, above his birth and death dates.

“What do you want?” Mick asked, turning down the volume and flopping on to the sofa, hands behind his head.

“To talk about Leanne Wray.”

“We’ve already been over that.”

“Let’s go over it again?”

“Why? Have you found out something new?”

“What would there be to find out?”

“I don’t know. I’m just surprised at your coming here, that’s all.”

“Was Leanne your girlfriend, Mick?”

“No. It wasn’t like that.”

“She’s an attractive girl. Didn’t you fancy her?”

“Maybe. A bit.”

“But she wasn’t having any of it?”

“It was early days, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some girls need a bit of time, a bit of working on. They don’t all just jump into bed with you the first time you meet.”

“And Leanne needed time?”

“Yes.”

“How far had you got?”

“What do you mean?”

“How far? Holding hands? Necking? Tongue or no tongue?” Banks remembered his own adolescent gropings and the various stages you had to pass. After necking usually came touching above the waist, but with clothes on, then under the blouse but over the bra. After that, the bra came off, then it was below the waist, and so on until you got to go all the way. If you were lucky. With some girls it seemed to take forever to move from one stage to another, and some might let you get below the waist but not go all the way. The whole negotiation was a minefield fraught with the danger of being dumped at every turn. Well, at least Leanne Wray hadn’t been an easy conquest, and for some odd reason, Banks was glad to know that.

“We necked once in a while.”

“What about that Friday night, the thirty-first of March?”

“Nah. We were in a group, like, with Ian and Sarah.”

“You didn’t neck with Leanne in the cinema?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I suppose so.”

“Might you have had a falling-out?”

“What are you getting at?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “It’s like this, Mick. I come here to talk to you again, and it seems to bother you, but you don’t ask me if we’ve found Leanne alive, or found her body yet. It was the same with Ian-”

“You’ve talked to Ian?”

“This morning. I’m surprised he didn’t get straight on the phone to you.”