Aftermath

weather. Either she really was innocent, or her evil went way beyond anything Banks had experienced before. “Did she ever give you any cause to suspect that anything was wrong at home?” he asked.

Maggie paused. “Not in the way you’re suggesting. No.”

“What way am I suggesting?”

“I assume it’s to do with the murder? With Kimberley’s murder?”

Banks leaned back in his armchair and sighed. It had been a long day, and it was getting longer. Maggie wasn’t a convincing liar. “Ms. Forrest,” he said, “right now anything at all we can find out about life at number thirty-five The Hill would be useful to us. And I mean anything. I’m getting the same impression as my colleague – that you’re keeping something back.”

“It’s nothing relevant.”

“How the hell would you know!” Banks snapped at her. He was shocked by the way she flinched at his harsh tone, at the look of fear and submission that crossed her features and the way she wrapped her arms around herself and drew in. “Ms. Forrest… Maggie,” he said more softly. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve had a bad day, and this is becoming very frustrating. If I had a penny for every time someone told me their information was irrelevant to my investigation I’d be a rich man. I know we all have secrets. I know there are some things we’d rather not talk about. But this is a murder investigation. Kimberley Myers is dead. PC Dennis Morrisey is dead. God knows how many more bodies we’ll unearth there, and I have to sit here and hear you tell me that you know Lucy Payne, that she may have shared certain feelings and information with you and that you don’t think it’s relevant. Come on, Maggie. Give me a break here.”

The silence seemed to go on for ages, until Maggie’s small voice broke it. “She was being abused. Lucy. He… her husband… he hit her.”

“Terence Payne abused his wife?”

“Yes. Is that so strange? If he can murder teenage girls, he’s certainly capable of beating his wife.”

“She told you this?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t she do something about it?”

“It’s not as easy as you think.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy. And don’t assume that you know what I think. What did you advise her?”

“I told her to seek professional help, of course, but she was dragging her heels.”

Banks knew enough about domestic violence to know that victims of it often find it very difficult to go to the authorities or get out: they feel shame, feel it’s their own fault, feel humiliated and would rather keep it to themselves, believing it will turn out all right in the end. Many of them have nowhere else to go, no other lives to live, and they are scared of the world outside the home, even if the home is violent. He also got the impression that Maggie Forrest knew firsthand what she was talking about. The way she had flinched at his sharp tone, the way she had been so reluctant to talk about the subject, holding back. These were all signs.

“Did she ever mention that she suspected her husband of any other crimes?”

“Never.”

“But she was frightened of him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you visit their house?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“Notice anything unusual?”

“No. Nothing.”

“How did the two of them behave together?”

“Lucy always seemed nervous, edgy. Anxious to please.”

“Did you ever see any bruises?”

“They don’t always leave bruises. But Lucy seemed afraid of him, afraid of putting a foot wrong. That’s what I mean.”

Banks made some notes. “Is that all?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Is that all you were holding back, or is there something else?”

“There’s nothing else.”

Banks stood up and excused himself. “Do you see now,” he said at the door, “that what you’ve told me is relevant, after all? Very relevant.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Terence Payne has serious brain injuries. He’s in a coma from which he may never recover, and even if he does, he might remember nothing. Lucy Payne will mend quite easily. You’re the first person who’s given us any information at all about her, and it’s information from which she could benefit.”

“How?”

“There are only two questions as regards Lucy Payne. First, was she involved? And second, did she know and keep quiet about it? What you’ve just told me is the first thing that tips the scales in her favor. By talking to me, you’ve done your friend a service. Good evening, Ms. Forrest. I’ll make sure there’s an officer keeping an eye on the place.”

“Why? Do you think I’m in danger? You said Terry-”

“Not that sort of danger. The press. They can be very persistent, and I wouldn’t want you telling them what you’ve just told me.”

5

Leanne Wray was sixteen when she disappeared from Eastvale on Friday, the thirty-first of March. She was five feet two inches tall, weighed only six stone twelve pounds, and was an only child living with her father, Christopher Wray, a bus driver, and her stepmother Victoria, who stayed home, in a terrace house just north of Eastvale town center. Leanne was a pupil at Eastvale Comprehensive.

Leanne’s parents later told police that they saw nothing wrong in letting their daughter go to the pictures that Friday night, even though they had heard of the disappearances of Kelly Matthews and Samantha Foster. After all, she was going with her friends, and they said she had to be home by half-past ten at the latest.

The one thing Christopher and Victoria might have objected to, had they known about it, was the presence in the group of Ian Scott. Christopher and Victoria didn’t like Leanne hanging around with Ian. For one thing, he was two years older than she was, and that meant a lot at her age. For another, Ian had a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker and had even been arrested twice by the police: once for taking and driving away and once for selling Ecstasy in the Bar None. Also, Leanne was a very pretty girl, slim and shapely, with beautiful golden-blond hair, an almost translucent complexion and long-lashed blue eyes, and they thought an older boy like Ian could be interested in her for only one thing. That he had his own flat was another black mark against him.

But Leanne just liked to hang out with Ian’s crowd. Ian’s girlfriend, also with them that night, was Sarah Francis, age seventeen, and the fourth in the party was Mick Blair, age eighteen, just a friend. They all said they had walked around the center for a while after the film, then gone for a coffee at the El Toro – though the police discovered on further investigation that they had actually been drinking in the Old Ship Inn, in an alley between North Market Street and York Road, and lied about it because both Leanne and Sarah were under age. When pressed, they all said that Leanne had left them just outside the pub and headed home on foot at about a quarter past ten, a journey that should have taken her no more than ten minutes. But she never arrived.

Leanne’s parents, though angry and worried, gave her until morning before calling the police, and an investigation, headed by Banks, soon went into full swing. Eastvale was papered with posters of Leanne; everyone who had been at the cinema, in the Old Ship Inn and in the town center that evening was questioned. Nothing. They even ran a reconstuction, but still nothing came of it. Leanne Wray had vanished into thin air. Not one person reported seeing her since she left the Old Ship.

Her three friends said they went to another pub, The Riverboat, a crowded place that stayed open late, and ended up at the Bar None on the market square. The closed-circuit TV cameras showed them turning up there at