Aftermath

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 toward 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 judgment. 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 35 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 neighbor heard and called the police.”

Hartnell stretched his arms out behind his head. A twinkle came to his gray-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, toward 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 neighboring 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 defense 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 neighboring 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.”