Aftermath

you to play detective.”

“Well, I’m grateful for that.”

“Think about it, Jenny. If she’s guilty, she didn’t just start helping her husband abduct and kill young girls out of the blue on New Year’s Eve. There has to be some pathology, some background of psychological disturbance, some abnormal pattern of behavior, doesn’t there?”

“There usually is. But even if I find out she was a bed wetter, liked to start fires and pulled the wings off flies, it still won’t give you anything you can use against her in court.”

“It will if someone was hurt in the fire. It will if you find out about any other mysterious events in her life that we can investigate. That’s all I’m asking, Jenny. That you make a start on the psychopathology of Lucy Payne, and if you turn up anything we should investigate further, you let us know and we do it.”

“And if I turn up nothing?”

“Then we go nowhere. But we’re already nowhere.”

Jenny sipped some more wine and thought for a moment. Alan seemed so intense about it that she was feeling browbeaten, and she didn’t want to give in just because of that. But she was intrigued by his request; she couldn’t deny that the enigma of Lucy Payne interested her both professionally and as a woman. She had never had the chance to probe the psychology of a possible serial killer up close before, and Banks was right that if Lucy Payne was complicit in her husband’s acts, then she hadn’t just come from nowhere. If Jenny dug deeply enough, there was a chance that she might find something in Lucy’s past. After that… well, Banks had said that was the police’s job, and he was right about that, too.

She topped up their wineglasses. “What if I agree?” she asked. “Where do I start?”

“Right here,” said Banks, digging out his notebook. “There’s a friend from the NatWest branch where Lucy Payne worked. One of our teams went and talked to the employees, and there’s only one of them who knows her well. Name’s Pat Mitchell. Then there’s Clive and Hilary Liversedge. Lucy’s parents. They live out Hull way.”

“Do they know?”

“Of course they know. What do you think we are?”

Jenny raised a fine, plucked eyebrow.

“They know.”

“How did they react?”

“Upset, of course. Stunned, even. But according to the DC who interviewed them, they weren’t much help. They hadn’t been in close touch with Lucy since she married Terry.”

“Have they been to see her in hospital?”

“No. Seems the mother’s too ill to travel and the father’s a reluctant caregiver.”

“What about his parents? Terry’s.”

“As far as we’ve been able to work out,” Banks said, “his mother’s in a mental asylum – has been for fifteen years or so.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Schizophrenia.”

“And the father?”

“Died two years ago.”

“What of?”

“Massive stroke. He was a butcher in Halifax, had a record for minor sex offenses – exposing himself, peeping, that sort of thing. Sounds a pretty classic background for someone like Terry Payne, wouldn’t you say?”

“If there is such a thing.”

“The miracle is that Terry managed to become a teacher.”

Jenny laughed. “Oh, they’ll let anyone in the classroom these days. Besides, that’s not the miracle.”

“What is?”

“That he managed to hold on to the job for so long. And that he was married. Usually serial sex offenders such as Terence Payne find it hard to hold down a job and maintain a relationship. Our man did both.”

“Is that significant?”

“It’s intriguing. If I’d been pushed for a profile a month or so ago I’d have said you were looking for a man between twenty and thirty, most likely living alone and working at some sort of menial job, or a succession of such jobs. Just shows how wrong one can be, doesn’t it?”

“Will you do it?”

Jenny toyed with the stem of her glass. The Mozart ended and left only the memory of music. A car passed by and a dog barked on The Green. She had the time to do as Banks asked. She had a lecture to give on Friday morning, but it was one she had given a hundred times, so she didn’t need to prepare. Then she had nothing until a string of tutorials on Monday. That should give her plenty of time. “As I said, it’s intriguing. I’ll need to talk to Lucy herself.”

“That can be arranged. You are our official consultant psychologist, after all.”

“Easy for you to say that now you need me.”

“I’ve known it all along. Don’t let a few narrow-minded-”

“All right,” said Jenny. “You’ve made your point. I can take being laughed at behind my back by a bunch of thick plods. I’m a big girl. When can I talk to her?”

“Best do it as soon as possible, while she’s still only a witness. Believe it or not, but defense lawyers have been known to claim that psychologists have tricked suspects into incriminating themselves. How about tomorrow morning? I’ve got to be down at the hospital for the next postmortem at eleven, anyway.”

“Lucky you. Okay.”

“I’ll give you a lift if you like.”

“No. I’ll go straight over to talk to the parents after I’ve talked to Lucy and her friend. I’ll need my car. Meet you there?”

“Ten o’clock, then?”

“Fine.”

Banks told her how to find Lucy’s room. “And I’ll let the parents know you’re coming.” Banks gave her the details. “You’ll do it, then? What I’m asking?”

“Doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it?”

Banks stood up, leaned forward and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. Even though she could smell the wine and smoke on his breath, her heart jumped and she wished his lips had lingered a little longer, moved a little closer to her own. “Hey! Any more of that,” she said, “and I’ll have you up on sexual harassment charges.”

8

Banks and Jenny walked past the police guard into Lucy Payne’s room just after ten o’clock the following morning. There was no doctor standing over them this time, Banks was happy to note. Lucy lay propped against the pillows reading a fashion magazine. The slats of the blinds let in some of the morning sun, lighting the vase of tulips on the bedside table, forming a pattern of bars over Lucy’s face and the white bedsheets. Her long glossy black hair was spread out on the pillow around her hospital-pale face. The colors of her bruises had deepened since the previous day, which meant they were on the mend, and she still wore half her head swathed in bandages. Her good eye, long-lashed, dark and sparkling, gazed up at them. Banks wasn’t sure what he saw in it, but it wasn’t fear. He introduced Jenny as Dr. Fuller.

Lucy looked up and gave them a fleeting wisp of a smile. “Is there any news?” she asked.

“No,” said Banks.

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I just have this feeling he’s going to die, that’s all.”

“Would that make a difference, Lucy?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. If Terry died, would it make a difference to what you might care to tell us?”