Aftermath, page 17
Banks wondered whether he should tell Lucy that she wouldn’t be going home for some time, that her home looked like the site of an archaeological dig and would be in the police’s hands for weeks, perhaps months, to come. He decided not to bother. She would find out soon enough.
“We’ll go now, then,” said Jenny, standing up. “Take care, Lucy.”
“Would you do me a favor?” Lucy asked as they stood in the doorway.
“What is it?” Banks asked.
“Back at the house, there’s a nice little jewelry box on the dressing table in the bedroom. It’s a lacquered Japanese box, black with all kinds of beautiful flowers hand-painted on it. Anyway, it’s got all my favorite pieces in—earrings I bought on our honeymoon on Crete, a gold chain with a heart Terry bought me when we got engaged. They’re my things. Would you bring it to me, please? My jewelry box.”
Banks tried to hold in his frustration. “Lucy,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “We believe that several young girls were sexually abused and murdered in the cellar of your house, and all you can think about is your jewelry?”
“That’s not true,” said Lucy, a hint of petulance in her tone. “I’m very sorry for what happened to those girls, of course I am, but it’s not my fault. I don’t see why it should stop me having my jewelry box. The only thing anyone’s let me have from there is my handbag and purse, and I could tell someone had even been searching through them first.”
Banks followed Jenny out into the corridor and they headed for the lifts. “Calm down, Alan,” said Jenny. “Lucy’s dissociating. She doesn’t realize the emotional significance of what’s happened.”
“Right,” said Banks glancing at the clock on the wall. “That’s just bloody fine and dandy. Now I have to go and watch Dr. Mackenzie do his next postmortem, but I’ll do my damnedest to remember that none of it is Lucy Payne’s fault and that she’s managing to dissociate herself from it all, thank you.”
Jenny put her hand on his arm. “I can understand why you’re frustrated, Alan, but it won’t do any good. You can’t push her. She won’t be pushed. Be patient.”
The lift came and they got in. “Trying to have a conversation with that woman is like trying to catch water in a sieve,” Banks said.
“She’s a weird one, all right.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
Jenny grinned. “Let me think about it. I’ll talk to you after I’ve talked to her coworker and her parents. Bye.” They arrived at the ground floor and she hurried off toward the car park. Banks took a deep breath and pressed the “down” button.
Rapunzel was going much better today, Maggie decided as she stood back and examined her work, tip of her tongue between her small white teeth. She didn’t look as if one good yank on her hair would rip her head from her shoulders, and she didn’t look a bit like Claire Toth.
Claire hadn’t turned up as usual yesterday after school, and Maggie wondered why not. Perhaps it was only to be expected that she didn’t feel very sociable after what had happened. Maybe she just wanted to be alone to sort out her feelings. Maggie decided she would talk to her psychiatrist, Dr. Simms, about Claire, see if there was something that ought to be done. She had an appointment tomorrow which, despite the events of the week, she was determined to keep.
Lorraine Temple’s story hadn’t turned up in the morning newspaper, as Maggie had expected it to, and she had felt disappointed when she had searched through every page and not found it. She assumed that the journalist needed more time to check her facts and put the story together. After all, it had only been yesterday when they talked. Perhaps it would be a long article focusing on the plight of abused women, a feature in the weekend paper.
She bent over the drawing board and got back to work on the Rapunzel sketch. She had to turn her desk light on as the morning had turned overcast and muggy.
A couple of minutes later, her phone rang. Maggie put her pencil aside and answered it.
“Maggie?”
She recognized the soft, husky voice. “Lucy? How are you?”
“I’m feeling much better now, really.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say at first. She felt awkward. Despite her sending the flowers and defending Lucy to the police and with Lorraine Temple, she realized they didn’t know each other well and came from very different worlds. “It’s good to hear from you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“I just wanted to thank you for the flowers,” Lucy went on. “They’re lovely. They make all the difference. It was a nice thought.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“You know, you’re the only person who’s bothered with me. Everyone else has written me off.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Lucy.”
“Oh, but it is. Even my friends from work.”
Though Maggie could hardly bring herself to ask, it was only polite. “How’s Terry?”
“They won’t even tell me that, but I think he’s very badly hurt. I think he’s going to die. I think the police are going to try to blame me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have they been to talk to you?”
“Twice. Just now there were two of them. One was a psychologist. She asked me all sorts of questions.”
“About what?”
“About things Terry did to me. About our sex life. I felt like such a fool. Maggie, I just feel so frightened and alone.”
“Look, Lucy, if I can help in any way . . .”
“Thank you.”
“Have you got a solicitor?”
“No. I don’t even know any.”
“Look, Lucy. If the police come bothering you again, don’t say anything to them. I know how they can twist your words, make something out of nothing. Will you at least let me try to get you someone? One of Ruth and Charles’s friends is a solicitor in town. Julia Ford. I’ve met her, and she seems nice enough. She’ll know what to do.”
“But I don’t have that much money, Maggie.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out with her somehow. Will you let me call her for you?”
“I suppose so. I mean, if you think it’s for the best.”
“I do. I’ll call her right now and ask her to drop by and talk to you, shall I?”
“Okay.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?”
Maggie heard a defeated laugh over the line. “Pray for me, perhaps. I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me. For the moment, I’d just like to know there’s someone on my side.”
“Count on it, Lucy, there is.”
“Thank you. I’m tired. I have to go now.”
And Lucy hung up the phone.
After attending Dr. Mackenzie’s postmortem on the sad pile of bones and decaying flesh that had once been a young and vibrant girl with hopes and dreams and secrets, Banks felt twenty years older but none the wiser. First on the slab was the freshest because Dr. Mackenzie said it might tell him more, which seemed logical to Banks. Even so, the body had been partially buried under a thin layer of soil in Payne’s cellar for about three weeks, Dr. Mackenzie estimated, which was why the skin, hair and nails were loose and easy to pull off. Insects had been at work, and much of the flesh was gone. Where skin remained, it had burst open in places, revealing the glistening muscle and fat beneath. Not much fat, because this was Melissa Horrocks, weighing just a little under seven stone, whose T-shirt bore symbols to ward off evil spirits.
Banks left before Dr. Mackenzie had finished, not because it was too gruesome for him, but because these postmortems were going to go on for some time yet, and he had other business to attend to. It would be more than a day or two, Dr. Mackenzie said, before he would be able to get down to a report, as the other two bodies were in an even worse state of decomposition. Someone from the team had to sit through the postmortems, but this was one job Banks was happy to delegate.
After the sights, sounds and smells of Mackenzie’s postmortem, the bland headmaster’s office at Silverhill Comprehensive came as a relief. There was nothing about the uncluttered and nondescript room that indicated it had anything to do with education, or anything else, for that matter; it was much the same as any anonymous office in any anonymous building, and it didn’t even smell of much except a faint whiff of lemon-scented furniture polish. The head was called John Knight: early forties, balding, stoop-shouldered, dandruff on his jacket collar.
After getting a few general details about Payne’s employment history, Banks asked Knight if there had been any problems with Payne.
“There have been a few complaints, now that you mention it,” Knight admitted.
Banks raised his eyebrows. “From pupils?”
Knight reddened. “Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. Have you any idea what happens at the merest hint of something like that these days?”
“No,” said Banks. “When I was at school the teachers used to thrash us with just about anything they could lay their hands on. Some of them enjoyed it, too.”
“Well, those days are over, thank the Lord.”
“Or the law.”
“Not a believer?”
“My job makes it difficult.”
“Yes, I can understand that.” Knight glanced toward the window. “Mine, too, sometimes. That’s one of the great challenges of faith, don’t you think?”
“So what sort of problems were you having with Terence Payne?”
Knight brought himself back from a long way away and sighed. “Oh, just little things. Nothing important in themselves, but they all add up.”
“For example?”
“Tardiness. Too many days off without a valid reason. Teachers may get generous holidays, Superintendent, but they are expected to be here during term time, barring some serious illness, of course.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Just a general sort of sloppiness. Exams not marked on time. Projects left unsupervised. Terry has a bit of temper, and he can get quite stroppy if you call him on anything.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“According to head of science, only since the new year.”
“And before that?”
“No problems at all. Terence Payne is a good teacher—knows his stuff—and he seemed popular with the pupils. None of us can believe what’s happened. We’re stunned. Just absolutely stunned.”
“Do you know his wife?”
“I don’t know her. I met her once at the staff Christmas party. Charming woman. A little reserved, perhaps, but charming nonetheless.”
“Does Terry have a colleague here called Geoff?”
“Yes. Geoffrey Brighouse. He’s the chemistry teacher. The two of them seemed pretty thick. Went out for a jar or two together every now and again.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Geoff’s been with us six years now. Solid sort of fellow. No trouble at all.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Of course.” Knight looked at his watch. “He should be over in the chemistry lab right now, preparing for his next class. Follow me.”
They walked outside. The day was becoming more and more muggy as the clouds thickened, threatening rain. Nothing new. Apart from the past few days, it had been raining pretty much every day on and off since the beginning of April.
Silverhill Comprehensive was one the few pre-war Gothic redbrick schools that hadn’t been sandblasted and converted into offices or luxury flats yet. Knots of adolescents lounged around the asphalt playground. They all seemed subdued, Banks thought, and a pall of gloom, fear and confusion hung about the place, palpable as a pea-souper. The groups weren’t mixed, Banks noticed; the girls stood in their own little conclaves, as if huddled together for comfort and security, staring down and scuffing their shoes on the asphalt as Banks and Knight walked by. The boys were a bit more animated; at least some of them were talking and there was a bit of the usual playful pushing and shoving. But the whole effect was eerie.
“It’s been like this since we heard,” said Knight, as if reading Banks’s mind. “People don’t realize how far-reaching and long-lasting the effects will be around this place. Some of the students may never get over it. It’ll blight their lives. It’s not just that we’ve lost a cherished pupil, but someone we put in a position of trust seems to be responsible for some abominable acts, if I’m not speaking out of turn.”
“You’re not,” said Banks. “And abominable only scratches the surface. But don’t tell the papers.”
“My lips are sealed. They’ve been around already, you know.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“I didn’t tell them anything. Nothing to tell, really. Here we are. The Bascombe Building.”
The Bascombe Building was a modern concrete-and-glass addition to the main school building. There was a plaque on the wall near the door, which read: “This building is dedicated to the memory of Frank Edward Bascombe, 1898–1971.”
“Who was he?” Banks asked, as they went in the door.
“A teacher here during the war,” Knight explained. “English teacher. This used to be part of the main building then, but it was hit by a stray doodlebug in October of 1944. Frank Bascombe was a hero. He got twelve children and another teacher out. Two pupils were killed in the attack. Just through here.” He opened the door to the chemistry lab, where a young man sat at the teacher’s desk in front of a sheaf of notes. He looked up. “Geoff. A Detective Superintendent Banks to see you.” Then he left, shutting the door behind him.
Banks hadn’t been in a school chemistry lab for thirty years or more, and though this one had far more modern fixtures than he remembered from his own school days, much of it was still the same: the high lab benches, Bunsen burners, test tubes, pipettes and beakers; the glass-fronted cabinet on the wall full of stoppered bottles containing sulfuric acid, potassium, sodium phosphate and such. What memories. It even smelled the same: slightly acrid, slightly rotten.
Banks remembered the first chemistry set his parents bought him for Christmas when he was thirteen, remembered the fine powdered alum, the blue copper sulfate and bright purple crystals of potassium permanganate. He liked to mix them all up and see what happened, paying no regard to the instructions or the safety precautions. Once he was heating some odd concoction over a candle at the kitchen table when the test tube cracked, making a mess all over the place. His mother went spare.
Brighouse, wearing a lightweight jacket and gray flannel trousers, not a lab coat, came forward and shook hands. He was a fresh-faced lad, about Payne’s age, with pale blue eyes, fair hair and a lobster complexion, as if he’d been able to find some sun and stayed out in it too long. His handshake was firm, dry and short. He noticed Banks looking around the lab.
“Bring back memories, does it?” he asked.
“A few.”
“Good ones, I hope?”
Banks nodded. He had enjoyed chemistry, but his teacher, “Titch” Barker, was one of the worst, most brutal bastards in the school. He used the rubber connecting lines of the Bunsen burners in his thrashings. Once he held Banks’s hand over a burner and made as if to light it, but he backed off at the last moment. Banks had seen the sadistic gleam in his eye, how much effort it had cost him not to strike the match. Banks hadn’t given him the satisfaction of a plea for mercy or an outward expression of fear, but he had been shaking inside.
“Anyway, it’s sodium today,” said Brighouse.
“Pardon?”
“Sodium. The way it’s so unstable in air. Always goes down well. The kids these days don’t have much of an attention span, so you have to give them pyrotechnics to keep them interested. Luckily, there’s plenty of scope for that in chemistry.”
“Ah.”
“Sit down.” He pointed toward a tall stool by the nearest bench. Banks sat in front of a rack of test tubes and a Bunsen burner. Brighouse sat opposite.
“I’m not sure I can help you in any way,” Brighouse began. “I know Terry, of course. We’re colleagues, and good mates to some extent. But I can’t say I know him well. He’s a very private person in many ways.”
“Stands to reason,” said Banks. “Look at what he was doing in private.”
Brighouse blinked. “Er . . . quite.”
“Mr. Brighouse—”
“Geoff. Please. Call me Geoff.”
“Right, Geoff,” said Banks, who always preferred the first name, as it gave him an odd sort of power over a suspect, which Geoff Brighouse certainly was in his eyes. “How long have you known Mr. Payne?”
“Since he first came here nearly two years ago.”
“He was teaching in Seacroft before then. Is that right?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“You didn’t know him then?”
“No. Look, if you don’t mind my asking, how is he, by the way?”
“He’s still in intensive care, but he’s hanging on.”
“Good. I mean . . . oh, shit, this is so difficult. I still can’t believe it. What am I supposed to say? The man’s a friend of mine, after all, no matter . . .” Brighouse put his fist to his mouth and chewed on a knuckle. He seemed suddenly close to tears.
“No matter what he’s done?”
“I was going to say that, but . . . I’m just confused. Forgive me.”
“It’ll take time. I understand. But in the meantime I need to find out all I can about Terence Payne. What sorts of things did you do together?”
“Mostly went to pubs. We never drank a lot. At least I didn’t.”
“Payne’s a heavy drinker?”
“Not until recently.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“A couple of times. You know, when he was in his car.”
