Aftermath (50 page)

‘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 started 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 Laura, 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 ‘Hansel 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 4 programme 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.

While she was in London, she would also try to get a ticket for a West End play she wanted to see and stay overnight at the modest little hotel her art director had recommended several visits
ago.

Maggie turned back to her sketch. She was trying to capture the expression on the faces of Hansel and Gretel when they realized in the moonlight that the trail of crumbs they had left to lead
them from the dangers of the forest to the safety of home had been eaten by birds. She liked the eerie effect she had created with the tree trunks, branches and shadows, which with just a little
imagination could take the shapes of wild beasts and demons, but Hansel and Gretel’s expressions still weren’t quite right. They were only children, Maggie reminded herself, not adults,
and their fear would be simple and natural, a look of abandonment and eyes on the verge of tears, not as complex as adult fear, which would include components of anger and the determination to find
a way out. Very different facial expressions indeed.

In an earlier version of the sketch, Hansel and Gretel had come out looking a bit like younger versions of Terry and Lucy, Maggie thought, just as Rapunzel had resembled Claire, so she scrapped
it. Now they were anonymous, faces she had probably once spotted in a crowd which, for whatever mysterious reason, had lodged in her unconscious.

Claire. The poor girl. That afternoon Maggie had talked with both Claire and her mother together, and they had agreed that Claire would try the psychologist Dr Simms had recommended. That was a
start, at least, Maggie thought, though it might take Claire years to work through the psychological disturbance brought on by Terry Payne’s acts, her friend’s murder and her own sense
of guilt and responsibility.

Pachelbel’s ‘Canon’ played in the background and Maggie concentrated on her drawing, adding a little chiaroscuro effect here and a silvering of moonlight there. No need to make
it too elaborate, as it would only serve as the model for a painting, but she needed these notes to herself to show her the way when she came to the final version. That would be different in some
ways, of course, but would also retain many of the visual ideas she was having now.

When she heard the tapping over the music, she thought it was another noise the old house had come up with to scare her.

But when it stopped for a few seconds, then resumed at a slightly higher volume and faster rhythm, she turned off the stereo and listened.

Someone was knocking at the back door
.

Nobody ever used the back door. It only led into a mean little lattice-work of ginnels and snickets that connected with the council estate behind The Hill.

Not Bill, surely?

No
, Maggie reassured herself. Bill was in Toronto. Besides, the door was deadlocked, bolted and chained. She wondered if she should dial 999 right away, but then realized how silly she
would look in the eyes of the police if it was Claire or Claire’s mother. Or even the police themselves. She couldn’t bear the idea of Banks hearing she had been such a fool.

Instead, she moved very slowly and quietly. Despite the anonymous creaks, the staircase was relatively silent underfoot, partly because of the thick pile carpet. She picked out one of
Charles’s golf clubs from the hall cupboard and, brandishing it ready to use, edged towards the kitchen door.

The knocking continued.

It was only when Maggie had got to within a few feet of the door that she heard the familiar woman’s voice: ‘Maggie, is that you? Are you there? Please let me in.’

She abandoned the golf club, turned on the kitchen light and fiddled with the various locks. When she finally got the door open, she was confused by what she saw. Appearance and voice
didn’t match. The woman had short, spiky blonde hair, was wearing a T-shirt under a soft black leather jacket and a pair of close-fitting blue jeans. She was carrying a small hold-all. Only
the slight bruising by one eye and the impenetrable darkness of the eyes themselves told Maggie who it was, though it took several moments to process the information.

‘Lucy. My God, it
is
you!’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course.’ Maggie held the door open and Lucy Payne stepped into the kitchen.

‘Only I’ve got nowhere to go and I wondered if you could put me up. Just for a couple of days or so, while I think of something.’

‘Yes,’ said Maggie, still feeling stunned. ‘Yes, of course. Stay as long as you like. It’s quite a new look. I didn’t recognize you at first.’

Lucy gave a little twirl. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s certainly different.’

Lucy laughed. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I don’t want
anyone
else to know I’m here. Believe it or not, Maggie, but not everyone around here is as sympathetic towards
me as you are.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Maggie, then she locked, bolted and put the chain on the door, turned out the kitchen light and led Lucy Payne into the living room.

‘I just wanted
to say I’m sorry,’ Annie told Banks in his Eastvale office on Wednesday morning. He had just been glancing over the garage’s report on Samuel Gardner’s Fiat. They had, of course, found many hair traces in the car’s interior, both human and animal, but they all had to be collected, labelled and sent to the lab, and it would take time to match them with the suspects, or with Leanne Wray. There were plenty of fingerprints, too – it was certainly true that Gardner had been a slob when it came to his car – but Vic Manson, fingerprints officer, could only hurry to a certain degree, and it wasn’t fast enough for Banks’s immediate needs.

Banks looked at Annie. ‘Sorry for
what
exactly?’

‘Sorry for making a scene in the pub, for acting like a fool.’

‘Oh.’

‘What did you think I meant?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, come on. That I was sorry about what I said, about us? About ending the relationship?’

‘I can always live in hope, can’t I?’

‘Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Alan. It doesn’t suit you.’

Banks opened up a paperclip. The sharp end pricked his finger and a tiny spot of blood dropped on his desk. Which fairy tale was that? he found himself wondering.
Sleeping

Beauty?
But he didn’t fall asleep. Chance would be a fine thing.

‘Now are we going to get on with life, or are you just going to sulk and ignore me? Because if you are, I’d like to know.’

Banks couldn’t help but smile. She was right. He
had
been feeling sorry for himself. He had also decided that she was right about their relationship. Fine as it had been most of the time, and much as he would miss her intimate company, it was fraught with problems on both sides. So
tell
her, his inner voice prompted. Don’t be a bastard. Don’t put it all down to her, the whole burden. It was difficult; he wasn’t used to talking about his feelings. He sucked his bleeding finger and said, ‘I’m
not
going to sulk. Just give me a little time to get used to the idea, okay? I sort of enjoyed what we had.’

‘So did I,’ said Annie, with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. ‘Do you think it’s any easier for me, just because I’m the one who’s making the move? We want different things, Alan.
Need
different things. It’s just not working.’

‘You’re right. Look, I promise I won’t sulk or ignore you or put you down as long as you don’t treat me like something nasty stuck on your shoe.’

‘What on earth makes you think I’d do that?’

Banks was thinking of the letter from Sandra, which had made him feel exactly like that, but he was talking to Annie, he realized. Yes, she was right; things were well and truly screwed up. He shook his head. ‘Ignore me, Annie. Friends and colleagues, okay?’

Annie narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him. ‘I
do
care, you know.’

‘I know you do.’

‘That’s part of the problem.’

‘It’ll get better. Over time. Sorry, I can’t seem to think of anything to say but clichés. Maybe that’s what they’re for, situations like this? Maybe that’s why there are so many of them. But don’t worry, Annie, I mean what I say. I’ll do the best I can to behave towards you with the utmost courtesy and respect.’

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Annie said, laughing. ‘You don’t have to be so damn stuffy! A simple good morning, a smile and a friendly little chat in the canteen every now and then would be just fine.’

Banks felt his face burn, then he laughed with her. ‘Right you are. How’s Janet Taylor?’

‘Stubborn as hell. I’ve tried to talk to her. The CPS has tried to talk to her. Her own lawyer has tried to talk to her. Even
Chambers
has tried to talk to her.’

‘At least she’s got a lawyer now.’

‘The Federation sent someone over.’

‘What’s she being charged with?’

‘They’re going to charge her with voluntary manslaughter. If she pleads guilty with extenuating circumstances, there’s every chance she’ll get it down to excusable homicide.’