Aftermath, page 21
“They’re releasing her from hospital?”
“So I’ve heard. Her injuries aren’t that serious. Besides, they need the bed.”
Annie paused, then she said, “I’d rather make my own way.”
“Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“Oh, don’t look so crestfallen, Alan. It’s nothing personal. It just wouldn’t look good. And people would see us, no matter what you think.”
“You’re right,” Banks agreed. “Look, if there’s any chance of a bit of spare time Saturday night, how about dinner and . . . ?”
The corners of Annie’s mouth turned up, and a gleam came to her dark eyes. “Dinner and what?”
“You know.”
“I don’t. Tell me.”
Banks glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then he leaned forward. But before he could say anything, the doors opened and DC Winsome Jackman walked in. Heads turned: some because she was black, and some because she was a gorgeous, statuesque young woman. Winsome was on duty and Banks and Annie had told her where they would be.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down.
“That’s all right,” said Banks. “What is it?”
“A DC Karen Hodgkins from the task force just phoned.”
“And?”
Winsome looked at Annie. “It’s Terence Payne,” she said. “He died an hour ago in the infirmary without recovering consciousness.”
“Oh, shit,” said Annie.
“Well, that should make life interesting,” said Banks, reaching for another cigarette.
“Tell me about the Alderthorpe Seven,” said Banks into his phone at home later that evening. He had just settled down to Duke Ellington’s Black, Brown and Beige, the latest copy of Gramophone and two fingers of Laphroaig when Jenny phoned. He turned down the music and reached for his cigarettes. “I mean,” he went on, “I vaguely remember hearing about it at the time, but I can’t remember many details.”
“I don’t have a lot yet, myself,” said Jenny. “Only what the Liversedges told me.”
“Go on.”
Banks heard a rustle of paper at the other end of the line. “On the eleventh of February, 1990,” Jenny began, “police and social workers made a dawn raid on the village of Alderthorpe, near Spurn Head on the East Yorkshire coast. They were acting on allegations of ritual satanic abuse of children and investigating a missing child.”
“Who blew the whistle?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I didn’t ask.”
Banks filed it away for later. “Okay. Carry on.”
“I’m not a policeman, Alan. I don’t know what sort of questions to ask.”
“I’m sure you did just fine. Please, go on.”
“They took six children from two separate households into care.”
“What exactly was supposed to have been going on?”
“At first it was all very vague. ‘Lewd and libidinous behavior. Ritualistic music, dance and costume.’ ”
“Sounds like police headquarters on a Saturday night. Anything else?”
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. And sick. It seems this was one of the few such cases in which prosecutions went forward and convictions were gained. All the Liversedges would tell me was that there were tales of torture, of kids being forced to drink urine and eat . . . Christ, I’m not squeamish, Alan, but this stuff turns my stomach.”
“That’s all right. Take it easy.”
“They were humiliated,” Jenny went on. “Sometimes physically injured, kept in cages without food for days, used as objects of sexual gratification in satanic rituals. One child, a girl called Kathleen Murray, was found dead. Her remains showed evidence of torture and sexual abuse.”
“How did she die?”
“She was strangled. She’d also been beaten and half-starved, too. That was what sparked the whistle-blower, her not turning up for school.”
“And this was proven in court?”
“Most of it, yes. The killing. The satanic stuff didn’t come out in the trial. I suppose the CPS must have thought it would just sound like too much mumbo jumbo.”
“How did it come out?”
“Some of the children gave descriptions later, after they’d been fostered.”
“Lucy?”
“No. According to the Liversedges, Lucy never spoke about what happened. She just put it all behind her.”
“Was it followed up?”
“No. There were similar allegations and raids in Cleveland, Rochdale and the Orkneys, and pretty soon it was all over the papers. Caused a hell of a national outcry. Epidemic of child abuse, that sort of thing. Overzealous social workers. Questions in the House, the lot.”
“I remember,” said Banks.
“Most of the cases were thrown out, and nobody wanted to talk about the one that was true. Well, Alderthorpe wasn’t the only one. There was a similar case in Nottingham in 1989 that also resulted in convictions, but it wasn’t widely publicized. Then we got the Butler-Schloss report and revisions of the Children’s Act.”
“What happened to Lucy’s real parents?”
“They went to jail. The Liversedges have no idea whether they’re still there or what. They haven’t kept track of things.”
Banks sipped some Laphroaig and flicked his cigarette end into the empty grate. “So Lucy stayed with the Liversedges?”
“Yes. She changed her name, too, by the way. She used to be called Linda. Linda Godwin. Then, with all the publicity, she wanted to change it. The Liversedges assured me it’s all legal and aboveboard.”
From Linda Godwin to Lucy Liversedge to Lucy Payne, Banks thought. Interesting.
“Anyway,” Jenny went on, “after they’d told me all this I pushed them a bit more and at least got them to admit life with Lucy wasn’t quite as ‘ordinary’ and ‘normal’ as they’d originally said it was.”
“Oh?”
“Problems adjusting. Surprise, surprise. The first two years, between the ages of twelve and fourteen, Lucy was as good as gold, a quiet, passive, considerate and sensitive kid. They were worried she was traumatized.”
“And?”
“Lucy saw a child psychiatrist for a while.”
“Then?”
“From fourteen to sixteen she started to act up, come out of her shell. She stopped seeing the psychiatrist. There were boys, suspicions that she was having sex, and then there was the bullying.”
“Bullying?”
“Yes. At first they told me it was an isolated incident and came to nothing, but later they said it caused a few problems with the school. Lucy was bullying younger girls out of their dinner money and stuff like that. It’s fairly common.”
“But in Lucy’s case?”
“A phase. The Liversedges worked with the school authorities, and the psychiatrist entered the picture again briefly. Then Lucy settled down to behave herself. The next two years, sixteen to eighteen, she quieted down, withdrew more into herself, became less active socially and sexually. She did her A-levels, got good results and got a job with the NatWest bank in Leeds. That was four years ago. It seemed almost as if she were planning her escape. She had very little contact with the Liversedges after she left, and I get the impression that they were relieved.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. Call it intuition, but I got the feeling that they ended up being scared of Lucy, for the way she seemed able to manipulate them. As I say, it’s just a vague feeling.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“They saw even less of her after she hooked up with Terence Payne. I thought when they first told me that that he might have been responsible for isolating her from her family and friends, you know, the way abusers often do, but now it seems just as likely that she was isolating herself. Her friend from work, Pat Mitchell, said the same thing. Meeting Terry really changed Lucy, cut her off almost entirely from her old life, her old ways.”
“So she was either under his thrall or she’d found a new sort of life that she preferred?”
“Yes.” Jenny told him about the incident of Lucy’s prostitution.
Banks thought for a moment. “It’s interesting,” he said. “Really interesting. But it doesn’t prove anything.”
“I told you that would probably be the case. It makes her weird, but being weird’s no grounds for arrest or half the population would be behind bars.”
“More than half. But hang on a minute, Jenny. You’ve come up with a number of leads worth pursuing.”
“Like what?”
“Like what if Lucy was involved in the Alderthorpe abuse herself? I remember reading at the time that there were cases of some of the older victims abusing their own younger siblings.”
“But what would it mean even if we could prove that after all this time?”
“I don’t know, Jenny. I’m just thinking out aloud. What’s your next step?”
“I’m going to talk to someone from the social services tomorrow, see if I can get the names of any of the social workers involved.”
“Good. I’ll work it from the police angle when I get a spare moment. There are bound to be records, files. Then what?”
“I want to go to Alderthorpe, nose around, talk to people who remember.”
“Be careful, Jenny. It’s bound to be a very raw nerve still out there, even after all this time.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“And don’t forget, there might still be someone who escaped prosecution worried about new revelations.”
“That makes me feel really safe and secure.”
“The other kids . . .”
“Yes?”
“What do you know about them?”
“Nothing, really, except they were aged between eight and twelve.”
“Any idea where they are?”
“No. The Liversedges don’t know. And I did ask them.”
“Don’t be defensive. We’ll make a detective of you yet.”
“No, thanks.”
“Let’s see if we can find them, shall we? They might be able to tell us a lot more about Lucy Payne than anyone else.”
“Okay. I’ll see how much the social workers are willing to tell me.”
“Not much, I’ll bet. Your best chance will be if one of them’s retired or moved on to some other line of work. Then spilling the beans won’t seem like such a betrayal.”
“Hey, I’m supposed to be the psychologist. Leave that sort of thinking to me.”
Banks laughed over the phone. “It’s a blurred line sometimes, isn’t it? Detective work and psychology.”
“Try and tell some of your oafish colleagues that.”
“Thanks, Jenny. You’ve done a great job.”
“And I’ve only just begun.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Promise.”
When Banks put the phone down, Mahalia Jackson was singing “Come Sunday.” He turned up the volume and took his drink outside to his little balcony over Gratly Falls. The rain had stopped, but the downpour had been heavy enough to swell the sound of the falls. It was just after sunset and the deep vermilions, purples and oranges were dying in the western sky, streaked with dark ribs of cloud, while the darkening east went from pale to inky blue. Just across the falls was a field of grazing sheep. In it stood a clump of huge old trees where rooks nested and often woke him early in the morning with their noisy squabbling. Such ill-tempered birds, they seemed. Beyond the field, the daleside sloped down to the river Swain and Banks could see the opposite hillside a mile or more away, darkening in the evening, rising to the long, grinning skeleton’s mouth of Crow Scar. The runic patterns of the drystone walls seemed to stand out in relief as the light faded. Just a little to his right, he could see the Helmthorpe Church tower poking up from the valley bottom.
Banks looked at his watch. Still early enough to stroll down there and have a pint or two in the Dog and Gun, maybe chat with one or two of the locals he’d become friendly with since his move. But he decided he didn’t fancy company; he had too much on his mind, what with Terence Payne’s death, the mystery of Leanne Wray, and the revelations Jenny Fuller had just come through with as regards Lucy’s past. Since taking on the Chameleon investigation, he realized, he had become more and more of a loner, less inclined to make small talk at the bar. Partly, he supposed, it was the burden of command, but it was also something more; the proximity to such evil, perhaps, that tainted him somehow and made small talk seem like a completely inadequate response to what was happening.
The news of Sandra’s pregnancy was also still weighing on his mind, bringing back some memories he had hoped to forget. He knew he wouldn’t be good company, but nor would he be able to get to sleep so early. He nipped inside and poured another shot of whiskey, then picked up his cigarettes and went back outside to lean against the damp wall and enjoy the last of the evening light. A curlew piped up on the distant moors and Mahalia Jackson sang on, humming the tune long after she had run out of words.
10
Friday morning started badly for Maggie. She had spent a night disturbed by vague and frightening nightmares that scuttled away into the shadows the minute she awoke screaming and tried to grasp them. Getting back to sleep was difficult not only because of the bad dreams, but also because of the eerie noises and voices she could hear from across the road. Didn’t the police ever sleep?
Once, getting up to go for a glass of water, she looked out of her bedroom window and saw some uniformed police officers carrying cardboard boxes into a van waiting with its engine running. Then some men carried what looked like electronic equipment through the front door, and a short while later Maggie fancied she could see a strange ghostly light sweeping the living room of number 35 behind the drawn curtains. The digging continued in the front garden, surrounded by a canvas screen and lit on the inside, so that all Maggie could see was enlarged and deformed shadows of men silhouetted against the canvas. These figures carried over into her next nightmare, and in the end she didn’t know whether she was asleep or awake.
She got up a little after seven o’clock and headed for the kitchen, where a cup of tea helped soothe her frayed nerves. This was one English habit that she had slipped into easily. She planned to spend the day working on Grimm again, perhaps “Hänsel and Gretel,” now that she had satisfactory sketches for “Rapunzel,” and trying to put the business of number 35 out of her head for a few hours at least.
Then she heard the paperboy arrive and the newspaper slip through her letter box on to the hall mat. She hurried out and carried it back to the kitchen, where she spread it on the table.
Lorraine Temple’s story was prominent on the front page, beside the bigger headline story about Terence Payne’s dying without recovering consciousness. There was even a photograph of Maggie, taken without her knowledge, standing just outside her front gate. It must have been taken when she was going down to the pub to talk with Lorraine, she realized, as she was wearing the same jeans and light cotton jacket as she had worn on Tuesday.
HOUSE OF PAYNE: NEIGHBOR SPEAKS OUT, ran the headline, and the article went on to detail how Maggie had heard suspicious sounds coming from across The Hill and called the police. Afterward, calling Maggie Lucy’s “friend,” Lorraine Temple reported what Maggie had said about Lucy’s being a victim of domestic abuse, and how she was scared of her husband. All of which was fine and accurate enough, as far as it went. But then came the sting in the tail. According to sources in Toronto, Lorraine Temple went on to report, Maggie Forrest herself was on the run from an abusive husband: Toronto lawyer, William Burke. The article detailed the time Maggie had spent in hospital and all the fruitless court orders issued to stop Bill’s going near her. Describing Maggie as a nervous, mousy sort of woman, Lorraine Temple also mentioned that she was seeing a local psychiatrist called Dr. Simms, who “declined to comment.”
Lorraine ended by suggesting that, perhaps because of Maggie’s own psychological problems, Maggie had been gullible, and that her identification with Lucy’s plight may have blinded her to the truth. Lorraine couldn’t come out and say that she thought Lucy was guilty of anything—the laws of libel forbade that—but she did have a very good stab at making her readers think Lucy might just be the sort of manipulative and deceitful person who could twist a weak woman like Maggie around her little finger. It was rubbish, of course, but effective rubbish, nonetheless.
How could she do that? Now everybody would know.
Every time Maggie walked down the street to go to the shops or catch the bus into town, the neighbors and shopkeepers would look at her differently, with pity and perhaps just the merest hint of blame in their eyes. Some people would avoid looking her in the eye and perhaps even stop talking to her, associating her too closely for comfort with the events at number 35. Even strangers who recognized her from the photograph would wonder about her. Perhaps Claire would stop coming to see her altogether, though she hadn’t been since the time the policeman turned up, and Maggie was already worried about her.
Perhaps even Bill would find out.
It was her own fault, of course. She had put herself in harm’s way. She had been trying to do a favor for poor Lucy, trying to garner her some public sympathy, and the whole thing had backfired. How stupid she had been to trust Lorraine Temple. One lousy article like this and her whole new fragile, protected world would change. Just like that. It wasn’t fair, Maggie told herself as she cried over the breakfast table. It just wasn’t fair.
After a short but satisfying night’s sleep—perhaps due to the generous doses of Laphroaig and Duke Ellington—Banks was back in his Millgarth cubbyhole by eight-thirty on Friday morning, and the first news to cross his desk was a note from Stefan Nowak informing him that the skeletal remains dug up in the Paynes’s garden were not Leanne Wray’s. Had Banks been harboring the slightest hope that Leanne might still be alive and well after all this time, he would have jumped for joy, but as it was, he rubbed his forehead in frustration; it looked as if it was going to be another one of those days. He punched in Stefan’s mobile number and got an answer after three rings. It sounded as if Stefan was in the middle of another conversation, but he muttered a few asides and gave his attention to Banks.
