Aftermath

Lucy turned to look at Winsome and seemed to Banks to be calculating how to deal with this new factor in the equation.

“Of course not. I would never have married a rapist.”

“So you didn’t know about him?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you find anything odd about Terry? I mean, I never knew him, but it sounds to me as if there’s enough there to give a person cause for concern.”

“He could be very charming.”

“Did he do or say nothing to make you suspicious in all the time you were together?”

“No.”

“But, somehow, you ended up married to a man who was not only a rapist but also an abductor and murderer of young girls. How can you explain that, Lucy? You’ve got to admit it’s highly unusual, hard to believe.”

“I can’t help that. And I can’t explain it. That’s just how it happened.”

“Did he like to play games, sexual games?”

“Like what?”

“Did he like tying you up? Did he like to pretend he was raping you?”

“We didn’t do anything like that.”

Winsome gave Banks a signal to take over again, and her look mirrored his feelings; they were getting nowhere, and Lucy Payne was probably lying.

“Where’s the camcorder?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We found evidence in the cellar. A camcorder had been set up at the end of the bed. I think you liked to video what you were doing to the girls.”

“I didn’t do anything to them. I’ve told you, I didn’t go down there, except maybe the once. I know nothing about any camcorder.”

“You never saw your husband with one?”

“No.”

“He never showed you any videos?”

“Only rented or borrowed ones.”

“We think we know where he bought the camcorder, Lucy. We can check.”

“Go ahead. I never saw one, never knew about any such thing.”

Banks paused and changed tack. “You say you didn’t play sexual games, Lucy, so what made you decide to dress up and act like a prostitute?” Banks asked.

“What?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t it. I mean, I didn’t… I wasn’t on the street or anything. Who told you that?”

“Never mind. Did you pick up a man in a hotel bar for sex?”

“What if I did? It was just a lark, a dare.”

“So you did like games.”

“This was before I knew Terry.”

“So that makes it all right?”

“I’m not saying that. It was a lark, that’s all.”

“What happened?”

Lucy gave a sly smile. “Same as happened often enough if I let myself get chatted up in a pub. Only this time I got paid two hundred pounds. Like I said, it was a lark, that’s all. Are you going to arrest me for prostitution?”

“Some lark,” said Banks.

Julia Ford looked a bit perplexed by the exchange, but she said nothing.

Banks knew they were still going nowhere. Hartnell was right: they had no real evidence against Lucy beyond the extreme weirdness of her relationship with Payne and the tiny bloodstains and rope fibers. Her answers might not make a lot of sense, but unless she confessed to aiding and abetting her husband in his murders, she was in the clear. He looked at her again. The bruises had almost faded to nothing and she looked quite innocent and lovely with her pale skin and long black hair, almost like a Madonna. The only thing that made Banks persist in his belief that there was far more to events than she would ever care to admit was her eyes: black, reflective, impermeable. He got the impression that if you stared into eyes like hers for too long you’d go mad. But that wasn’t evidence; that was an overactive imagination. All of a sudden, he’d had enough. Surprising all three of them, he stood up so abruptly he almost knocked over his chair, said, “You’re free to go now, Lucy. Just don’t go too far,” and hurried out of the interview room.

Easington was a pleasant change from Alderthorpe, Jenny thought as she parked her car near the pub at the center of the village. Though still almost as remote from civilization, it seemed at least to be connected, to be a part of things in a way that Alderthorpe didn’t.

Jenny found Maureen Nesbitt’s address easily enough from the barmaid and soon found herself on the doorstep facing a suspicious woman with long white hair tied back in a blue ribbon, wearing a fawn cardigan and black slacks a little too tight for someone with such ample hips and thighs.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m a psychologist,” said Jenny. “I want to talk to you about what happened in Alderthorpe.”

Maureen Nesbitt looked up and down the street, then turned back to face Jenny. “Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“Because they were all over me when it happened, but I told them nothing. Scavengers.” She pulled her cardie tighter over her chest.

“I’m not a reporter,” Jenny repeated, digging deep into her handbag for some sort of identification. The best she could come up with was her university library card. At least it identified her as Dr. Fuller and as a member of the staff. Maureen scrutinized the card, clearly unhappy it didn’t also bear a photograph, then she finally let Jenny in. Once inside, her manner changed completely, from grand inquisitor to gracious host, insisting on brewing a fresh pot of tea. The living room was small but comfortable, with only a couple of armchairs, a mirror above the fireplace and a glass-fronted cabinet full of beautiful crystal ware. Beside one of the armchairs was a small table, and on it lay a paperback of Great Expectations next to a half-full cup of milky tea. Jenny sat in the other chair.

When Maureen brought through the tray, including a plate of digestive biscuits, she said, “I do apologize for my behavior earlier. It’s just that I’ve learned the hard way over the years. A little notoriety can quite change your life, you know.”

“Are you still teaching?”

“No. I retired three years ago.” She tapped the paperback. “I promised myself that when I retired I would reread all my favorite classics.” She sat down. “We’ll just let the tea mash for a few minutes, shall we? I suppose you’re here about Lucy Payne?”

“You know?”

“I’ve tried to keep up with them all over the years. I know that Lucy – Linda, as she was back then – lived with a couple called Liversedge near Hull, and then she got a job at a bank and went to live in Leeds, where she married Terence Payne. Last I heard this lunch-time was that the police just let her go for lack of evidence.”

Even Jenny hadn’t heard that yet, but then she hadn’t listened to the news that day. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

“My sister works for the social services in Hull. You won’t tell, will you?”

“Cross my heart.”

“So what do you want to know?”

“What were your impressions of Lucy?”

“She was a bright girl. Very bright. But easily bored, easily distracted. She was headstrong, stubborn, and once