Aftermath

out later. We never did find out what the two of them had done to get put there, though, because they wouldn’t talk.”

“Wouldn’t or couldn’t?”

“Wouldn’t. They wouldn’t talk out against the adults, their parents. They’d been abused and messed up in their minds too long to dare put it into words.” He paused a moment. “Sometimes, I don’t think they could have expressed it all anyway, no matter how much they tried. I mean, where does a nine-year-old or an eleven-year-old find the language and points of reference she needs to explain something like that? They weren’t just protecting their parents or shutting up in fear of them – it went deeper than that. Anyway, Tom and Linda… They were both naked and dirty, crawling in their own filth, looked as if they hadn’t eaten for a couple of days – I mean, most of the children were malnourished and neglected, but they were worse. There was a bucket in the cage, and the smell… And Linda, well, she was twelve, and it showed. She was… I mean they’d made no provisions for… you know… time of the month. I’ll never forget the look of shame and fear and defiance on that little kid’s face when Baz and I walked in on them and turned the light on.”

Banks took a sip of Bell’s, waited until it had burned all the way down, then asked, “What did you do?”

“First off, we found some blankets for them, as much for warmth’s sake as modesty’s, because there wasn’t much heat in the place, either.”

“After that?”

“We handed them over to the social workers.” He gave a little shudder. “One of them couldn’t handle it. Well- meaning young lass, thought she was tough, but she didn’t have the stomach.”

“What did she do?”

“Went back to the car and wouldn’t get out. Just sat there hunched up, shivering and crying. There was no one to pay her much mind as we all had our hands full. Me and Baz were mostly occupied with the adults.”

“Did they have much to say?”

“Nah. Surly lot. And Pamela Godwin – well, there was clearly summat wrong with her. In the head. She didn’t seem to have a clue what was going on. Kept on smiling and asking us if we wanted a cup of tea. Her husband, though, Michael, I’ll never forget him. Greasy hair, straggly beard and that look in his dark eyes. You ever seen pictures of that American killer, Charles Manson?”

“Yes.”

“Like him. That’s who Michael Godwin reminded me of: Charles Manson.”

“What did you do with them?”

“We arrested them all under the Protection of Children Act, to be going on with. They resisted arrest, of course. Picked up a few lumps and bruises.” He gave Banks a challenge-me-on-that-one-if-you-dare look. Banks didn’t. “Later, of course, we came up with a list of charges as long as your arm.”

“Including murder.”

“That was later, after we found Kathleen Murray’s body.”

“When did you find her?”

“Later that day.”

“Where?

“Out back in an old sack in the dustbin. I reckon they’d dumped her there until the ground softened a bit and they could bury her. You could see where someone had tried to dig a hole, but they’d given up, the earth was so hard. She’d been doubled over and been there long enough to freeze solid, so the pathologist had to wait till she thawed out before he could do the postmortem.”

“Were they all charged?”

“Yes. We charged all four adults with conspiracy.”

“And?”

“They were all committed for trial. Michael Godwin topped himself in his cell, and Pamela was found unfit to stand trial. The jury convicted the other two after a morning’s deliberation.”

“What evidence did you have?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could anyone else have killed Kathleen?”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. One of the other kids, maybe?”

Woodward’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t see them,” he said. “If you had, you wouldn’t be making suggestions like that.”

“Did anyone suggest it at the time?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Believe it or not, yes. The adults had the gall to try and pin it on the boy, Tom. But nobody fell for that one, thank the Lord.”

“What about the evidence? How was she killed, for example?”

“Ligature strangulation.”

Banks held his breath. Another coincidence. “With what?”

Woodward smiled as if laying down his trump card. “Oliver Murray’s belt. The pathologist matched it to the wound. He also found traces of Murray’s semen in the girl’s vagina and anus, not to mention unusual tearing. It looks they went too far that once. Maybe she was bleeding to death, I don’t know, but they killed her – he killed her, with the knowledge and consent of the others, maybe even with their help, I don’t know.”

“How did they plead? The Murrays?”

“What would you expect? Not guilty.”

“They never confessed?”

“No. People like that never do. They don’t even think they’ve done anything wrong, they’re so beyond the law, beyond what’s normal for the rest of us folks. In the end, they got less than they deserved, in that they’re still alive, but at least they’re still locked up, out of harm’s way. And that, Mr. Banks, is the story of the Alderthorpe Seven.” Woodward put his palms on the table and stood up. He seemed less dapper and more weary than when Banks had first arrived. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got the rooms to do before the missus comes back.”

It seemed like an odd time to be doing the rooms, Banks thought, especially as they were all probably vacant, but he sensed that Woodward had had enough, wanted to be alone and wanted, if he could, to get rid of the bad taste of his memories before his wife came home. Good luck to him. Banks couldn’t think of anything more to ask, so he said his good-byes, buttoned up and walked out into the rain. He could have sworn he felt a few lumps of hail stinging his bare head before he got into his car.

Maggie began to have doubts the moment she got in the taxi to the local television studio. Truth be told, she had been vacillating ever since she first got the call early that afternoon inviting her to participate in a discussion on domestic violence on the evening magazine show at six o’clock, after the news. A researcher had seen the article in the newspaper and thought Maggie would make a valuable guest. This was not about Terence and Lucy Payne, the researcher had stressed, and their deeds were not to be discussed. It was an odd legal situation, she explained, that no one had yet been charged with the murders of the girls, and the main suspect was dead, but not proved guilty. Could you charge a dead man with murder? Maggie wondered.

As the taxi wound down Canal Road, over the bridge and under the viaduct to Kirkstall Road, where the rush hour traffic was slow and heavy, Maggie felt the butterflies begin the flutter in her stomach. She remembered the newspaper article, how Lorraine Temple had twisted everything, and wondered again if she was doing the right thing or if she was simply walking back into the lions’ den.

But she did have very good, strong reasons for doing it, she assured herself. In the first place, she wanted to atone for, even correct, the image the newspaper had given of Lucy Payne as being evil and manipulative, if she could slip it in somehow. Lucy was a victim, and the public should be made to realize that. Secondly, she wanted to rid herself of the mousy, nervous image Lorraine Temple had lumbered her with, both for her own sake and in order to get people to take her seriously. She didn’t like being thought of as mousy and nervous, and she was damn well going to do something about it.

Finally, and this was the reason that pushed her to say yes, was the way that policeman, Banks, had come to the house shouting at her, insulting her intelligence and telling her what she could and couldn’t do. Damn him. She’d show him. She’d show them all. She was feeling empowered now, and if