Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“And not a name like Candy.”

“What’s wrong with Candy?”

“I don’t believe it’s your own name.”

“Well, well. I can see now why you’re such an important detective. Actually, it’s not. My real name is Hayley, which, if you ask me, is even worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not that bad.”

“You can spare me the flattery. Don’t you know us toms don’t need to be flattered?”

“I didn’t mean-”

She smiled. “I know you didn’t.” Then she leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk, her pale face only a foot or two away from his. He could smell bubble gum and smoke on her breath. “But that girl who disappeared. I know her name. Her street name was Anna, but I know her real name. What do you think of that, Mr. Detective?”

“I think we’re in business,” said Banks, reaching for pad and pen.

She sat back and folded her arms. “Oh, no. Not until I’ve had that cigarette.”

“What now?” asked Janet. “I’ve already changed my statement.”

“I know,” said Annie, that sick feeling at the center of her gut. Partly, it was due to Janet’s stuffy flat, but only partly. “I’ve been to talk to the CPS.”

Janet poured herself a shot of gin, neat, from an almost empty bottle. “And?”

“And I’m supposed to arrest you and take you down to the station to charge you.”

“I see. What are you going to charge me with?”

Annie paused, took a deep breath, then said, “The CPS wanted me to charge you with murder at first, but I managed to get them down to voluntary manslaughter. You’ll have to talk to them about this, but I’m sure that if you plead guilty, it’ll go easy on you.”

The shock and the anger she had expected didn’t come. Instead, Janet twisted a loose thread around her forefinger, frowned and took a sip of gin. “It’s because of the John Hadleigh verdict, isn’t it? I heard it on the radio.”

Annie swallowed. “Yes.”

“I thought so. A sacrificial lamb.”

“Look,” Annie went on, “we can work this out. As I said, the CPS will probably work out a deal-”

Janet held her hand up. “No.”

“What do you mean?”

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

“Janet-”

“No. If the bastards want to charge me, let them. I’ll not give them the satisfaction of pleading guilty to just doing my job.”

“This is no time for playing games, Janet.”

“What makes you think I’m playing games? I mean it. I’ll plead innocent to any charges you care to bring.”

Annie felt a chill. “Janet, listen to me. You can’t do that.”

Janet laughed. She looked bad, Annie noticed: hair unwashed and unbrushed, pale skin breaking out in spots, a general haze of stale sweat and fresh gin. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course I can. The public want us to do our job, don’t they? They want people to feel safe in their nice little middle-class beds at night, or when they’re driving to work in the morning or going out for a drink in the evening. Don’t they? Well, let them find out there’s a price for keeping killers off the streets. No, Annie, I’ll not plead guilty, not even to voluntary manslaughter.”

Annie leaned forward to put some emphasis into what she was saying. “Think about this, Janet. It could be one of the most important decisions you ever make.”

“I don’t think so. I already made that one in the cellar last week. But I have thought about it. I haven’t thought about anything else for a week.”

“Your mind’s made up?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I want to do this, Janet?” Annie said, standing up.

Janet smiled at her. “No, of course you don’t. You’re a decent enough person. You like to do the right thing, and you know as well as I do that this stinks. But when push comes to shove, you’ll do your job. The bloody Job. You know, I’m almost glad this has happened, glad to be out of it. The fucking hypocrites. Come on, get on with it.”

“Janet Taylor, I’m arresting you for the murder of Terence Payne. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

When Annie suggested they meet for a drink somewhere other than the Queen’s Arms, Banks felt immediately apprehensive. The Queen’s Arms was their “local.” It was where they always went for a drink after work. By naming another pub, the Pied Piper, a tourist haunt on Castle Hill, Annie was telling Banks she had a serious message to deliver, something beyond casual conversation, or so he believed. Either that, or she was worried about Detective Superintendent Chambers’s finding out they were meeting.

He got there ten minutes early, bought a pint at the bar and sat at a table near the window, back to the wall. The view was spectacular. The formal gardens were a blaze of purple, scarlet and indigo, and across the river the tall trees of The Green, some of them still in blossom, blocked out most of the eyesore of the East End Estate. He could still see some of the grim maisonettes, and the two twelve-story tower blocks stuck up as if they were giving the finger to the world, but he could also see beyond them to the lush plain with its fields of bright yellow rapeseed, and he even fancied he could make out the dark green humps of the Cleveland Hills in the far distance.

He could see the back of Jenny Fuller’s house, too, facing The Green. Sometimes he worried about Jenny. She didn’t seem to have much going in her life apart from her work. She had joked about her bad relationships yesterday, but Banks had witnessed some of them, and they were no joke. He remembered the shock, disappointment and – yes – jealousy he had felt some years ago when he went to interrogate a loser called Dennis Osmond and saw Jenny poke her head around his bedroom door, hair in disarray, a thin dressing gown slipping off her shoulders. He had also listened as she spilled out her woes over the unfaithful Randy. Jenny picked losers, cheats and generally unsuitable partners time after time. The sad thing was, she knew it, but it happened anyway.

Annie was fifteen minutes late, which was unlike her, and she lacked the usual spring in her step. When she got herself a drink and joined Banks at the table, he could tell she was upset.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“You can say that again.”

Banks felt that he could have had a better one, too. Sandra’s letter he could have done without, for a start. And while Candy’s information was interesting, it was maddeningly lacking in the hard evidence he needed if he was to track down Lucy Payne and arrest her for anything other than curb-crawling. That was the trouble; the odd things that trickled in – Lucy’s childhood, the satanic stuff in Alderthorpe, Kathleen Murray’s murder, and now Candy’s statement – were all disturbing and suggestive of more serious problems, but ultimately, as AC Hartnell had already pointed out, they added up to nothing.

“Anything in particular?” he asked.

“I just arrested Janet Taylor.”

“Let me guess: the Hadleigh verdict?”

“Yes. It seems everyone knew about it except me. The CPS wants justice to be seen to be done. It’s just bloody politics, that’s all.”

“Often is.”

Annie gave him a sour look. “I know that, but it doesn’t help.”

“They’ll make a deal with her.”

Annie told him what Janet had just said.

“Should be an interesting trial, then. What did Chambers have to say?”

“He doesn’t give a damn. He’s just marking time till he gets his pension. I’m through with Complaints and Discipline. Soon as there’s an opening in CID, I’m back.”