Peter Robinson - Aftermath

“You’ll get no objection from me,” said Blackstone.

“Jenny?”

Jenny smiled. “Not much choice, have I? I came in your car, remember? But count me in.”

They were soon settled at a corner table in the almost empty pub, which Banks found to his delight was still serving food. He ordered a beef burger and chips along with a pint of bitter. The jukebox wasn’t so loud that they couldn’t hear themselves talk, but it was loud enough to mask their conversation from any nearby tables.

“So what have we got?” Banks asked when he had his burger in front of him.

“A useless camcorder, by the looks of it,” said Blackstone.

“But what does it mean?”

“It means that someone – Payne, presumably – chucked it away.”

“Why?”

“Search me.”

“Come on, Ken, we can do better than this.”

Blackstone smiled. “Sorry, it’s been a long day for me, too.”

“It’s an interesting question, though,” said Jenny. “Why? And when?”

“Well, it has to have been before PCs Taylor and Morrisey entered the cellar,” said Banks.

“But Payne had a captive, remember,” said Blackstone. “Kimberley Myers. Why on earth would he ditch his camera when he was doing exactly the sort of things we assume he liked to videotape? And what did he do with the dubbed VHS tapes, if Stefan’s right about that?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” Jenny said, “but I can offer another way of looking at them.”

“I think I know what you’re getting at,” said Banks.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. Lucy Payne.” He took a bite of his beef burger. Not bad, he thought, but he was so hungry he would have eaten just about anything by then.

Jenny nodded slowly. “Why have we still been assuming that this video business was all down to Terence Payne when we’ve been investigating Lucy as a possible partner in crime all along? Especially after what Laura and Keith told me about Lucy’s past, and what that young prostitute told Alan about her sexual proclivities. I mean, doesn’t it make sense, psychologically, that she was just as involved as he was? Remember, the girls were killed in exactly the same way as Kathleen Murray: ligature strangulation.”

“Are you saying that she killed them?” Blackstone asked.

“Not necessarily. But if what Keith and Laura say is true, then Lucy might have seen herself acting as a deliverer, the way it appears she did with Kathleen.”

“A mercy killing? But you said earlier she killed Kathleen out of jealousy.”

“I said that jealousy certainly could have been a motive. One that her sister Laura didn’t want to believe. But Lucy’s motives could have been mixed. Nothing’s simple in a personality like hers.”

“But why?” Blackstone went on. “Even if it was her, why would she throw away the camera?”

Banks speared a chip and thought for a moment before answering: “Lucy’s terrified of jail. If she thought there was any chance of imminent capture – and it must have entered her mind after the first police visit and the connection between Kimberley Myers and Silverhill school – then might she not start making plans for self-preservation?”

“It all seems a bit far-fetched to me.”

“Not to me, Ken,” said Banks. “Look at it from Lucy’s point of view. She’s not stupid. Brighter than her husband, I’d say. Terence Payne kidnaps Kimberley Myers that Friday night – he’s out of control, becoming disorganized – but Lucy’s still organized, she sees the end coming fast. First thing she does is get rid of as much evidence as possible, including the camcorder. Maybe that’s what sets Terry against her, causes the row. Obviously she has no way of knowing that it will end the way it does, at the time it does, so she has to improvise, see which way the wind’s blowing. If we find any traces of her being in the cellar-”

“Which we do.”

“Which we do,” Banks agreed, “then she’s got a believable explanation for that, too. She heard a noise and went to investigate, and surprise, surprise, look what she found. The fact that her husband clobbers her with a vase only helps her case.”

“And the tapes?”

“She wouldn’t throw them away,” Jenny answered. “Not if they were a record of what she – of what they – had done. The camera’s nothing, merely a means to an end. You can buy another camera. But those tapes would be more valuable than diamonds to the Paynes because they’re unique and they can’t be replaced. They’re her trophies. She could watch them over and over again and relive those moments with the victims in the cellar. It’s the next best thing to the reality for her. She wouldn’t throw them away.”

“Then where are they?” said Banks.

“And where is she?” said Jenny.

“Isn’t it just remotely possible,” Banks suggested, pushing his plate aside, “that the two questions have the same answer?”

Maggie woke up with a splitting headache and a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of her stomach. She felt weak and disoriented; didn’t know at first where she was or how much time had gone by since she lost consciousness. The curtains were open and she could see it was dark outside. As things slowly came into focus, she realized she was still in her own bedroom. There was one bedside lamp turned on; the other lay in pieces on the floor. That must have been what Lucy hit her with, Maggie thought. She could feel something warm and sticky in her hair. Blood.

Lucy hit her! The sudden revelation shocked her closer to consciousness. She had seen the video: Lucy and Terry doing things to that poor girl, Lucy looking as if she were enjoying herself.

Maggie tried to move and found that her hands and feet were bound to the brass bed. She was tied up and spread-eagled, just like the girl on the video. She felt the panic rise in her. She thrashed around, trying to get loose, but only succeeding in making the bedsprings creak loudly. The door opened and Lucy came in. She was dressed in her jeans and T-shirt again.

Lucy shook her head slowly. “Look what you made me do, Maggie,” she said. “Just look at what you made me do. You told me you weren’t coming back for another day.”

“It was you ,” Maggie said. “On that video. It was you. It was vile, disgusting.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” said Lucy, sitting at the edge of the bed and stroking Maggie’s brow.

Maggie flinched.

Lucy laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, Maggie. Don’t be such a prude. You’re not my type, anyway.”

“You killed them. You and Terry together.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Lucy, getting up again and pacing the room, arms folded. “Terry never killed anyone. He didn’t have the bottle. Oh, he liked them tied up naked, all right. He liked to do things to them. Even after they were dead. But I had to do all the killing myself. Poor things. See, they could only take so much, and then I had to put them to sleep. I was always gentle. Gentle as I could be.”

“You’re insane,” said Maggie, thrashing around on the bed again.

“Keep still!” Lucy sat on the bed again, but this time she didn’t touch Maggie. “Insane? I don’t think so. Just because you can’t understand me doesn’t mean I’m insane. I’m different, true. I see things differently. I need different things. But I’m not insane.”

“But why ?”

“I can’t explain myself to you. I can’t even explain myself to me.” She laughed again. “Least of all to me. Oh, the psychiatrists and psychologists would try. They would dissect my childhood and toss around their theories, but even they know when it gets right down to it that they’ve got no explanations for someone like me. I just am. I happen. Like five-legged sheep and two-headed dogs. Call it what you will. Call me evil, if it helps you understand. More important right now, though, is how am I going to survive?”