Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“I’ve told you. I don’t know nothing about a stolen car.” He folded his arms and tried to look defiant. Winsome gave a grunt of disgust and impatience.

“DC Jackman’s getting restless,” said Banks. “And I wouldn’t want to push her too far, if I were you.”

“You can’t touch me. It’s all on tape.”

“Touch you? Who said anything about touching you?”

“You’re threatening me.”

“No. You’ve got it wrong, Mick. See, I want to get this all settled, get you back off to work, home in time for the evening news. Nothing I’d like better. But DC Jackman here is, well, let’s just say that she’d be more than happy to see you in detention.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the cells, Mick. Downstairs. Overnight.”

“But I haven’t done anything. You can’t do that.”

“Was it Ian? Is that whose idea it was?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What happened to Leanne?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“I’ll bet Sarah tells us it was all your fault.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“She’ll want to protect her boyfriend, won’t she, Mick? I’ll bet she doesn’t give a damn about you when the chips are down.”

“Stop it!”

Winsome looked at her watch. “Let’s just lock him up and go home,” she said. “I’m getting fed up of this.”

“What do you think, Mick?”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

Banks looked at Winsome before turning back to Mick. “I’m afraid, then, we’re going to have to hold you on suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what ?”

“Suspicion of the murder of Leanne Wray.”

Mick jumped to his feet. “That’s absurd. I didn’t kill anyone. Nobody murdered Leanne.”

“How do you know that?”

“I mean I didn’t murder Leanne. I don’t know what happened to her. It’s not my fault if somebody else killed her.”

“It is if you were there.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Then tell us the truth, Mick. Tell us what happened.”

“I’ve told you.”

Banks stood up and gathered his file folders together. “All right. We’ll see what Sarah has to say. In the meantime, I want you to think about two things while you’re in the cells for the night, Mick. Time can drag down there, especially in the wee hours, when all you’ve got for company is the drunk next door singing ‘Your Cheating Heart’ over and over again; so it’s nice to have something to think about, something to distract you.”

“What things?”

“First off, if you come clean with us, if you tell us the truth, if it was all Ian Scott’s idea and if whatever happened to Leanne was down to Ian, then it’ll go a lot easier with you.” He looked at Winsome. “I could even see him walking away from this with little more than a reprimand, failing to report, or something minor like that, can’t you, DC Jackman?”

Winsome grimaced, as if the idea of Mick Blair’s getting off with less than murder appalled her.

“What’s the other thing?” Mick asked.

“The other thing? Oh, yes. It’s about Samuel Gardner.”

“Who?”

“The owner of the stolen car.”

“What about him?”

“Man’s a slob, Mick. He never cleans his car. Inside or out.”

Jenny couldn’t think of anything to say after what Keith and Laura had just told her. She sat with her mouth half open and an astonished expression on her face until her brain processed the information and she was able to continue. “How do you know?” she asked.

“We saw her,” Keith said. “We were with her. In a way, it was all of us. She was doing it for all of us but she was the only one had the guts to do it.”

“Are you certain about this?”

“Yes,” they said.

“This isn’t something you’ve just remembered?” Like many of her colleagues, Jenny distrusted repressed memory syndrome, and she wanted to make certain that was not what she was dealing with. Linda Godwin might have been kind to animals and never wet the bed or set a fire, but if she had killed when she was twelve, there was something seriously, pathologically wrong with her, and she could have killed again.

“No,” said Laura. “We always knew. We just lost it for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like when you put something away where you can find it again easily, but then you don’t remember where you put it,” said Keith.

Jenny understood that; it happened to her all the time.

“Or when you’re carrying something and you remember you have to do something else, so you put it down on your way, and then you can’t find it again,” Laura added.

“You say you were there?”

“Yes,” said Keith. “We were in the room with her. We saw her do it.”

“And you’ve said nothing all these years?”

Laura and Keith just looked at her and she understood that they couldn’t have said anything. How could they? They were too used to silence. And why would they? They were all victims of the Godwins and the Murrays. Why should Linda be singled out for more suffering?

“Is that why she was in the cage when the police came?”

“No. Linda was in the cage because it was her period,” Keith said. Laura blushed and turned away. “Tom was in the cage with her because they thought he did it. They never suspected Linda.”

“But why ?” asked Jenny.

“Because Kathleen just couldn’t take any more,” said Laura. “She was so weak, her spirit was almost gone. Linda killed her to s-s-save her. She knew what it was like to be in that position, and she knew that Kathleen couldn’t handle it. She killed her to save her further suffering.”

“Are you sure?” Jenny asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you certain that’s why Linda killed her?”

“Why else?”

“Didn’t you think it might have been because she was jealous? Because Kathleen was usurping her place?”

“No!” said Linda, scraping back her chair. “That’s horrible. How could you say something like that? She killed her to save her more suffering. She killed her out of k-k-kindness.”

One or two people in the café had noticed Laura’s outburst and were looking over curiously at the table.

“Okay,” Jenny said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Laura looked at her and a note of defiant desperation came into her tone. “She could be kind, you know. Linda could be kind.”

The old house was certainly full of noises, Maggie thought, and she was beginning to jump at almost every one: wood creaking as the temperature dropped after dark, a whistle of wind rattling at the windows, dishes shifting in the rack as they dried. It was Bill’s phone call, of course, she told herself, and she tried the routines she used to calm herself – deep breathing, positive visualization – but the ordinary noises of the house continued to distract her from her work.

She put a CD compilation of Baroque classics in the stereo Ruth had set up in the studio, and that both cut out the disturbing sounds and helped her to relax.

She was working late on some sketches for “Hänsel and Gretel” because the following day she had to go to London to meet with her art director and discuss the project so far. She also had an interview at Broadcasting House: a Radio Four program about domestic violence, naturally, but she was beginning to warm to being a spokesperson, and if anything she said could help anyone at all, then all the minor irritations, such as ignorant interviewers and provocative fellow guests, were worthwhile.

Bill already knew where she was, so she had no reason to worry about giving that away now. She wasn’t going to run away. Not again. Despite his call, and the way it had shaken her, she was determined to continue in her new role.