Aftermath (7 page)

‘Good. What was she wearing?’

‘Nightie and a dressing gown.’

‘What about Terence Payne? How’s he doing?’

‘Hanging on. But they say that even if he does recover he might be . . . you know . . . a vegetable . . . there might be serious brain damage. They’ve found skull fragments stuck in his brain. It seems . . . well . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘The doctor’s saying that it seems the PC who subdued him used a bit more than reasonable force. He was very angry.’

‘Was he, indeed?’
Christ
. Banks could see a court case looming if Payne survived with brain damage. Best let AC Hartnell worry about it; that was what ACs were put on this earth for, after all. ‘How’s PC Taylor coping?’

‘She’s at home, sir. A friend’s with her. Female PC from Killingbeck.’

‘Okay, Karen, I want you to act as hospital liaison for the time being. Any change in the status of the patients – either of them – and I want to know immediately. That’s your responsibility, okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And we’re going to need a family liaison officer.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘Kimberley’s parents need to be told, before they hear it on the news. We also need to arrange for them to identify the body.’

‘I’ll do it, sir.’

‘Good of you to offer, Karen, but you’ve got your hands full already. And it’s a thankless task.’

Karen Hodgkins headed back to her car. If truth be told, Banks didn’t think Karen had the right bedside manner for a family liaison officer. He could picture the scene, the parents’ disbelief, their outpouring of grief, Karen’s embarrassment and brusqueness. No. He would send roly-poly Jonesy. DC Jones might be a slob, but he had sympathy and concern leaking out of every pore. He should have been a vicar. One of the problems with drawing a team from such a wide radius, Banks thought, was that you could never get to know the individual officers well enough. Which didn’t help when it came to handing out assignments. You needed the right person for the right job in police work, and one wrong decision could screw up an investigation.

Banks just wasn’t used to running such a huge team, and the problems of co-ordination had given him more than one headache. In fact, the whole matter of responsibility was weighing very heavily on his mind. He didn’t feel competent to deal with it all, to keep so many balls up in the air at once. He had already made more than one minor mistake and mishandled a few situations with personnel. So much so that he was beginning to think his people skills were especially low. It was easier working with a small team – Annie, Winsome Jackman, Sergeant Hatchley – where he could keep track of every little detail in his mind. This was more like the kind of work he had done on the Met down in London, only there he had been a mere constable or sergeant, given the orders rather than giving them. Even as an inspector down there, towards the end, he had never had to deal with
this
level of responsibility.

Banks had just lit his second cigarette when another car came through the barrier and Dr Jenny Fuller jumped out, struggling with a briefcase and an overstuffed leather shoulder-bag, hurrying as usual, as if she were late for an important meeting. Her tousled red mane cascaded over her shoulders and her eyes were the green of grass after a summer shower. The freckles, crow’s feet and slightly crooked nose that she always complained ruined her looks only made her appear more attractive and more human.

‘Morning, Jenny,’ Banks greeted her. ‘Stefan’s waiting inside. You ready?’

‘What’s that? Yorkshire foreplay?’

‘No. That’s “Are you awake?”’

Jenny forced a smile. ‘Glad to see you’re on form, even at this ungodly hour.’

Banks looked at his watch. ‘Jenny, I’ve been up since half past four. It’s nearly eight now.’

‘My point exactly,’ she said. ‘Ungodly’ She looked towards the house. Apprehension flitted across her features. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Very.’

‘Coming in with me?’

‘No. I’ve seen enough. Besides, I’d better go and put AC Hartnell in the picture or he’ll have my guts for garters.’

Jenny took a deep breath and seemed to gird herself. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Lay on, Macduff. I’m ready’

And she walked in.

•

Area Commander Philip Hartnell’s office was, as befitted his rank, large. It was also quite bare. AC Hartnell didn’t believe in making himself at home there. This, the place seemed to shout, is an
office
and an office only. There was a carpet, of course – an area commander merited a carpet – one filing cabinet, a bookcase full of technical and procedural manuals and on his desk, beside the virgin blotter, a sleek black laptop computer and a single buff file folder. That was it. No family photographs, nothing but a map of the city on the wall and a view of the open-air market and the bus station from his window, the tower of Leeds Parish Church poking up beyond the railway embankment.

‘Alan, sit down,’ he greeted Banks. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

Banks ran his hand over his scalp. ‘Wouldn’t mind a black coffee, if it’s no trouble.’

‘Not at all.’

Hartnell phoned for coffee and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked when he moved. ‘Must get this bloody thing oiled,’ he said.

Hartnell was about ten years younger than Banks, which put him in his late thirties. He had benefited from the accelerated promotion scheme, which was meant to give bright young lads like him a chance at command before they became doddering old farts. Banks hadn’t been on such a track; he had worked his way up the old way, the hard way, and like many others who had done so, he tended to be suspicious of the fast-trackers, who had learned everything but the nitty-gritty down-and-dirty of policing.

The odd thing was that Banks liked Phil Hartnell. He had an easy-going manner, was an intelligent and caring copper, and let the men under his command get on with their jobs. Banks had had regular meetings with him over the course of the Chameleon investigation and, while Hartnell had made a few suggestions, some of them useful, he had never once tried to interfere and question Banks’s judgement. In appearance, good looking, tall and with the tapered upper body of a casual weight-lifter, Hartnell was also reputed to be a bit of a ladies’ man, still unmarried and tipped to remain that way for a while yet, thank you very much.

‘Tell me what we’re in for,’ he said to Banks.

‘A shit storm, if you ask me.’ Banks told him about what they had found so far in the cellar at number thirty-five The Hill, and the condition of the three survivors. Hartnell listened, the tip of his finger touched to his lips.

‘There’s not much doubt he’s our man, then? The Chameleon?’

‘Not much.’

‘That’s good, then. At least that’s something we can congratulate ourselves on. We’ve got a serial killer off the streets.’

‘It wasn’t down to us. Just pure luck the Paynes happened to have a domestic disagreement and a neighbour heard and called the police.’

Hartnell stretched his arms out behind his head. A twinkle came to his grey-blue eyes. ‘You know, Alan, the amount of shit we get poured on us when luck goes against us, or when we seem to be making no progress at all no matter how many man-hours we put in, I’d say we’re entitled to claim a victory this time and maybe even crow a little about it. It’s all in the spin.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do, Alan. I do.’

Their coffee arrived and both took a moment to sip. It tasted wonderful to Banks, who hadn’t got his usual three or four cups down his gullet that morning.

‘But we do have a potentially serious problem, don’t we?’ Hartnell went on.

Banks nodded. ‘PC Taylor.’

‘Indeed.’ He tapped the file folder. ‘Probationary PC Janet Taylor.’ He looked away a moment, towards the window. ‘I knew Dennis Morrisey, by the way. Not well, but I knew him. Solid sort of bloke. Seems he’s been around for years. We’ll miss him.’

‘What about PC Taylor?’

‘Can’t say I know her. Have the proper procedures been followed?’

‘Yes.’

‘No statement yet?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ Hartnell got up and stared out of the window for a few moments, his back to Banks. When he spoke again he didn’t turn round. ‘You know as well as I do, Alan, that protocol demands the Police Complaints Authority brings in an investigator from a neighbouring force to deal with a problem like this. There mustn’t even be the slightest hint of a cover-up, of special treatment. Naturally, I’d like nothing better than to deal with it myself. Dennis was one of ours, after all. As is PC Taylor. But it’s not on the cards.’ He turned and walked back over to his chair. ‘Can you imagine what a field day the press will have, especially if Payne dies? Heroic PC brings down serial killer and ends up being charged with using excessive force. Even if it’s excusable homicide, it’s still the dog’s breakfast as far as we’re concerned. And what with the Hadleigh case before the court right now . . .’

‘True enough.’ Banks, like every other policeman, had had to deal more than once with the outrage of men and women who had seriously hurt or killed criminals in defence of their families and property and then found themselves under arrest for assault, or worse, murder. At the moment, the country was awaiting the jury’s verdict on a farmer called John Hadleigh, who had used his shotgun on an unarmed sixteen-year-old burglar, killing the lad. Hadleigh lived on a remote farm in Devon, and his house had been broken into once before, just over a year ago, at which time he had been beaten as well as robbed. The young burglar had a record as long as your arm, but that didn’t matter. What mattered most was that the pattern of shotgun pellets covered part of the side and the back, indicating that the boy had been turning to run away as the gun was fired. An unopened flick-knife was found in his pocket. The case had been generating sensational headlines for a couple of weeks and would be with the jury in a matter of days.

An investigation didn’t mean that PC Janet Taylor would lose her job or go to jail. Fortunately there were higher authorities, such as judges and chief constables, who had to make decisions on such matters as those, but there was no denying that it could have a negative effect on her police career.

‘Well, it’s
my
problem,’ said Hartnell, rubbing his forehead. ‘But it’s a decision that has to be made very quickly. Naturally, as I said, I’d like to keep it with us, but I can’t do that.’ He paused and looked at Banks. ‘On the other hand, PC Taylor is West Yorkshire and it seems to me that
North
Yorkshire might reasonably be considered a neighbouring force.’

‘True,’ said Banks, beginning to get that sinking feeling.

‘That would help keep it as close as we can, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Banks.

‘As a matter of fact, ACC McLaughlin’s an old friend of mine. It might be worthwhile my having a word. How’s your Complaints and Discipline Department? Know anyone up there?’

Banks swallowed. It didn’t matter what he said. If the matter went to Western Division’s Complaints and Discipline, the burden would almost certainly land in Annie Cabbot’s lap. It was a small department – Annie was the only detective inspector – and Banks happened to know that her boss, Detective Superintendent Chambers, was a lazy sod with a particular dislike of female detectives making their way up the ranks. Annie was the new kid on the block and she was also a woman. Not a hope of her getting out of this one. Banks could almost see the bastard rubbing his hands for glee when the order came down.

‘Don’t you think it might seem just a bit
too
close to home?’ he said. ‘Maybe Greater Manchester or Lincolnshire would be better.’

‘Not at all,’ said Hartnell. ‘This way we get to be seen to do the right thing while still keeping it pretty close to us. Surely you must know someone in the department, someone who’ll realize it’s in his best interests to keep you informed?’

‘Detective Superintendent Chambers is in charge,’ said Banks. ‘I’m sure he’ll find someone suitable to assign.’

Hartnell smiled. ‘Well, I’ll have a word with Ron McLaughlin this morning and we’ll see where it gets us, shall we?’

‘Fine,’ said Banks, thinking
she’ll kill me, she’ll kill me
, even though it wasn’t his fault.

•

Jenny Fuller noted with distaste the poster as she went through the cellar door, with DS Stefan Nowak right behind her, then she put her feelings aside and viewed it dispassionately, as a piece of evidence. Which it was. It marked the keeper of the portal to the dark underworld where Terence Payne could immerse himself in what he loved most in life: domination, sexual power, murder. Once he had got beyond this obscene guardian, the rules that normally governed human behaviour no longer applied.

Jenny and Stefan were alone in the cellar now. Alone with the dead. She felt like a voyeur. She also felt like a fraud, as if nothing she could say or do would be of any use. She almost felt like holding Stefan’s hand. Almost.

Behind her, Stefan switched off the overhead light and made Jenny jump. ‘Sorry. It wasn’t on at first,’ he explained. ‘One of the ambulance crew turned it on so they could see what they were dealing with, and it just got left on.’

Jenny’s heartbeat returned to normal. She could smell incense, along with other odours she had no desire to dwell on. So this was his working environment:
hallowed, churchlike
. Several of the candles had burned down by now, and some of them were guttering out, but a dozen or more still flickered, multiplied into hundreds by the arrangement of mirrors. Without the overhead light, Jenny could hardly make out the dead policeman’s body on the floor, which was probably a blessing, and the candlelight softened the impact of the girl’s body, gave her skin such a reddish-gold hue that Jenny could have almost believed Kimberley alive were it not for the preternatural stillness of her body and the way her eyes stared up into the overhead mirror.

Nobody home
.

Mirrors. No matter where Jenny looked, she could see several reflections of herself, Stefan and the girl on the mattress muted in the flickering candlelight.
He likes to watch himself at work
, she thought. Could that be the only way he feels
real
? Watching himself doing it?