Aftermath, page 30
As Maggie sought the words to express why it didn’t happen as simply as that, the social worker cut in and explained how easy it was for women to get trapped in the cycle of violence and how the shame often prevented them from speaking out. Finally, Maggie found her voice.
“You’re right,” she said to David. “I could have left. As you say, I’m an intelligent and resourceful woman. I had a good job, good friends, a supportive family. I suppose part of it was that I thought it would go away, that we would work through it. I still loved my husband. Marriage wasn’t something I was going to throw away lightly.” She paused, and when nobody else dived into the silence, said, “Besides, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Even after I did leave, he found me, stalked me, harassed me, assaulted me again. Even after the court order.”
This prompted David to go back to the policewoman and talk about how ineffective the courts were in protecting women at risk from abusive spouses, and Maggie had the chance to take stock of what she had said. She hadn’t done too badly, she decided. It was hot under the studio lights and she felt her brow moisten with sweat. She hoped it wouldn’t rinse away the makeup.
Next David turned to the doctor.
“Is domestic violence specifically directed from men to women, Dr. Bletchley?” he asked.
“There are some cases of husbands being physically abused by their wives,” said the doctor, “but relatively few.”
“I think you’ll find, statistically,” Michael butted in, “that male violence against women by far outstrips women’s against men, almost enough to make female violence against men seem insignificant. It’s built into our culture. Men hunt down and kill their ex-partners, for example, or commit familial massacres in a way that women do not.”
“But that aside,” David asked next, “don’t you think sometimes, that a woman might overreact and ruin a man’s life? I mean, once such accusations have been made, they are often very difficult to shake off, even if a court finds the person not guilty.”
“But isn’t it worth the risk,” Maggie argued, “if it saves the ones who really need saving?”
David smirked. “Well, that’s rather like saying what’s hanging a few innocent people matter as long as we get the guilty ones, too, isn’t it?”
“Nobody intentionally set out to hang innocent people,” Kathy pointed out.
“But, say, if a man retaliates in the face of extreme provocation,” David pressed on, “isn’t the woman still far more likely to be seen as the victim?”
“She is the victim,” Maggie said.
“That’s like saying she asked for it,” Michael added. “Just what kind of provocation justifies violence?”
“Are there not also women who actually like it rough?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” said Michael. “That’s the same sort of thing as suggesting that women ask to be raped by the way they dress.”
“But there are masochistic personalities, aren’t there, Doctor?”
“You’re talking about women who like their sex rough, yes?” said the doctor.
David seemed a little embarrassed by the directness of the question—clearly he was a man used to asking, not answering—but he nodded.
Dr. Bletchley stroked his beard before answering. “Well, to answer your question simply: Yes, there are masochistic women, just as there are masochistic men, but you have to understand that we’re dealing with a very tiny fragment of society here and not that section of society concerned with domestic violence.”
Obviously glad to be done with this line of questioning, David moved on to his next question, phrasing it carefully for Maggie. “You’ve recently had some involvement with what’s become rather a cause célèbre involving domestic abuse. Now, while we can’t discuss the case directly for legal reasons, is there anything you can tell us about that situation?”
He looked hungry for an answer, Maggie thought. “Someone confided in me,” she said. “Confided that she was being abused by her husband. I offered advice, as much help and support as I could give.”
“But you didn’t report it to the authorities.”
“It wasn’t my place to do that.”
“What do you think of that, DC Proctor?”
“She’s right. There’s nothing we can do until the persons themselves report the matter.”
“Or until things come to a head, as they did in this instance?”
“Yes. That’s often the unfortunate result of the way things work.”
“Thank you very much,” David said, about to wrap things up.
Maggie realized she had weakened at the end, got sidetracked, so she launched in, interrupting him, and said, “If I might add just one more thing, it’s that victims are not always treated with the care, respect and tenderness we all think they deserve. Right now, there’s a young woman in the cells in Eastvale, a woman who until this morning was in hospital with injuries she sustained when her husband beat her last weekend. Why is this woman being persecuted like this?”
“Do you have an answer?” Dave asked. He was obviously pissed off at the interruption but excited by the possibility of controversy.
“I think it’s because her husband’s dead,” Maggie said. “They think he killed some young girls, but he’s dead, and they can’t exact their pound of flesh. That’s why they’re picking on her. That’s why they’re picking on Lucy.”
“Thank you very much,” David said, turning to the camera and bringing out his smile again. “That just about wraps things up . . .”
There was silence when the program ended and the technician removed their mikes, then the policewoman went over to Maggie and said, “I think it was extremely ill-advised of you to say what you did back there.”
“Oh, leave her alone,” said Michael. “It’s about time someone spoke out about it.”
The doctor had already left, and David and Emma were nowhere to be seen.
“Fancy a drink?” said Michael to Maggie as they left the studio after having their makeup removed, but she shook her head. All she wanted to do was get a taxi home and climb into a nice warm bath with a good book. It might be the last bit of peace and quiet she got if there was a reaction to what she had said tonight. She didn’t think she had broken any laws. After all, she hadn’t said Terry was guilty of the killings, hadn’t even mentioned his name, but she was also certain that the police could find something to charge her with if they wanted to. They seemed to be good at that. And she wouldn’t put it past Banks at all. Let them do it, she thought. Just let them make a martyr of her.
“Are you sure? Just a quick one.”
She looked at Michael and knew that all he wanted to do was probe her for more details. “No,” she said. “Thank you very much for the offer, but no. I’m going home.”
13
Banks found chaos outside Western Divisional Headquarters early Saturday morning. Even at the back, where the entrance to the car park was located, reporters and camera-wielding television news teams pushed against one another and shouted out questions about Lucy Payne. Banks cursed to himself, turned off the Dylan CD half-way through “Not Dark Yet” and edged his way carefully but firmly through the throng.
Inside, things were quieter. Banks slipped into his office and looked out of the window over the market square. More reporters. TV station vans with satellite dishes. The works. Someone had well and truly let the cat out of the bag. First, Banks walked into the detectives’ squad room looking for answers. DCs Jackman and Templeton were at their desks, and Annie Cabbot was bending over the low drawer in the filing cabinet, a heartwarming sight in her tight black jeans, Banks thought, remembering they had a date that night. Dinner, video and . . .
“What the hell’s going on out there?” he asked the room in general.
Annie looked up. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Didn’t you see her?”
“What are you talking about?”
Kevin Templeton and Winsome Jackman kept their heads down, leaving this one well alone.
Annie put her hands on her hips. “Last night, on the television.”
“I was over in Withernsea interviewing a retired copper about Lucy Payne. What did I miss?”
Annie walked over to her desk and rested her hip against the edge. “The neighbor, Maggie Forrest, was involved in a television discussion about domestic violence.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Indeed. She ended up by accusing us of persecuting Lucy Payne because we can’t wreak our revenge on her husband, and she informed the viewers in general that Lucy was being detained here.”
“Julia Ford,” Banks whispered.
“Who?”
“The lawyer. I’ll bet she’s the one told Maggie where we were holding Lucy. Christ, what a mess.”
“Oh, by the way,” Annie said with a smile, “AC Hartnell’s already phoned twice. Asked if you’d ring him as soon as you get in.”
Banks headed for his office. Before phoning Phil Hartnell, he opened his window as wide as it would go and lit a cigarette. Bugger the rules; it was shaping up to be one of those days, and it had only just begun. Banks should have known Maggie Forrest was a loose cannon, that his warning might well just egg her on to more foolish behavior. But what else could he do about her? Not much, apparently. She hadn’t committed a criminal offense, and certainly there was nothing to be gained by going around and telling her off again. Still, if he did happen to see her for any reason, he’d give her a piece of his mind. She had no idea what she was playing with.
When he calmed down, he sat at his desk and reached for the phone, but it rang before he could pick it up and dial Hartnell’s number.
“Alan? Stefan here.”
“I hope you’ve got some good news for me, Stefan, because the way this morning’s going I could do with some.”
“That bad?”
“Getting that way.”
“Maybe this’ll cheer you up, then. I just got the DNA comparison in from the lab.”
“And?”
“A match. Terence Payne was your Seacroft Rapist, all right.”
Banks slapped the desk. “Excellent. Anything else?”
“Only minor points. The lads going through all the documents and bills taken from the house have found no evidence of sleeping tablets prescribed for either Terence or Lucy Payne, and they didn’t find any illegal ones, either.”
“As I thought.”
“They did find an electronics catalog, though, from one of those places that put you on their mailing list when you buy something from them.”
“What did they buy?”
“There’s no record of their buying anything on their credit cards, but we’ll approach the company and get someone to go through the purchases, see if they used cash. And another thing: There were some marks on the floor of the cellar that on further investigation look rather like those a tripod would make. I’ve talked with Luke and he didn’t use a tripod, so—”
“Someone else did.”
“Looks that way.”
“Then where the hell is it?”
“No idea.”
“Okay, Stefan, thanks for the good news. Keep looking.”
“Will do.”
As soon as he’d hung up, Banks dialed Hartnell’s number. The man himself answered on the second ring.
“Area Commander Hartnell.”
“It’s Alan,” said Banks. “Heard you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”
“Did you see it?”
“No. I’ve only just found out. The place is swarming with media.”
“Surprise, surprise. The stupid woman. What’s the situation with Lucy Payne?”
“I talked to her yesterday, got nowhere.”
“Any more evidence?”
“Not evidence, as such.” Banks told him about the Seacroft Rapist DNA match, the possibility of a camcorder still being hidden somewhere on the Paynes’ property, and his talk with George Woodward about the satanic paraphernalia in Alderthorpe and the ligature strangulation of Kathleen Murray.
“It’s nothing,” said Hartnell. “Certainly not evidence against Lucy Payne. For Christ’s sake, Alan, she was a victim of the most appalling abuse. I remember that Alderthorpe case. We don’t want all that raked up. Think what it will look like if we start suggesting she killed her own bloody cousin when she was only twelve.”
“I thought I might use it to push her a bit, see where she goes.”
“You know as well as I do that blood and fibers aren’t enough, and as far as evidence goes, they’re all we’ve got. This speculation about her past will do nothing but gain her more sympathy from the public.”
“There are probably as many people outraged by the crimes and thinking maybe she had more to do with them than she admits.”
“Probably, but they’re nowhere near as vocal as the people who’ve already been phoning Millgarth, believe me. Cut her loose, Alan.”
“But—”
“We caught our killer and he’s dead. Let her go. We can’t hold her any longer.”
Banks looked at his watch. “We’ve still got four hours. Something might turn up.”
“Nothing will turn up in the next four hours, believe me. Release her.”
“What about surveillance?”
“Too bloody expensive. Tell the local police to keep an eye on her, and tell her to stick around; we might want to talk to her again.”
“If she’s guilty, she’ll disappear.”
“If she’s guilty we’ll find the evidence and then we’ll find her.”
“Let me have one more shot at her first.” Banks held his breath as Hartnell paused at the other end.
“All right. Talk to her one more time. If she doesn’t confess, let her go. But be bloody careful. I don’t want any allegations of Gestapo interrogation tactics.”
Banks heard a knock at his door, put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out, “Come in.”
Julia Ford entered and gave him a broad smile.
“No worry on that score, sir,” Banks said to Hartnell. “Her lawyer will be present at all times.”
“Quite the zoo out there, isn’t it?” Julia Ford said after Banks had hung up. The fine lines around her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She was wearing a different suit this morning—gray with a pearl blouse—but it looked every bit as business-like. Her hair looked shiny, as if fresh from the shower, and she had applied just enough makeup to take a few years off her age.
“Yes,” Banks answered. “Looks as if someone tipped the entire British media off about Lucy’s whereabouts.”
“Are you going to let her go?”
“Soon. I want another chat first.”
Julia sighed and opened the door for him. “Ah, well. Once more unto the breach.”
Hull and beyond were parts of Yorkshire Jenny hardly knew at all. On her map there was a tiny village called Kilnsea right at the southern tip of land where the Humber joined the North Sea, just before a thin strip called Spurn Head, designated as a heritage coast, stuck out into the sea like a witch’s crooked, wizened finger. It looked so desolate out there that Jenny shuddered just looking at the map, feeling the ceaseless cold wind and the biting salt spray she imagined were all one would find there.
Was it named Spurn Head because someone was spurned there once, she wondered, and her ghost lingered, walking the sands and wailing in the night, or because “spurn” was a corruption of “sperm” and it looked a bit like a sperm wiggling out to sea? It was probably something much more prosaic, like “peninsula” in Viking. Jenny wondered if anybody ever went there. Birders, perhaps; they were crazy enough to go anywhere in search of the elusive lesser-speckled yellow tree warbler, or some such creature. It didn’t look as if there were any holiday resorts in the region, except perhaps Withernsea, which Banks had visited yesterday. All the hot spots were much farther north: Bridlington, Filey, Scarborough, Whitby, all the way up to Saltburn and Redcar, in Teeside.
It was a fine day: windy, but sunny with only an occasional high white cloud passing over. It wasn’t exactly warm—definitely light-jacket weather—but then it wasn’t freezing, either. Jenny seemed to be the only car on the road beyond Patrington, where she stopped briefly for a cup of coffee and a look at St. Patrick’s Church, reputed to be one of the finest village churches in England.
It was desolate country, mostly flat farmland, green fields and the occasional flash of bright yellow rapeseed. What villages she passed through were no more than mean assemblages of bungalows and the odd row of redbrick terraces. Soon, the surrealistic landscape of the North Sea Gas Terminal, with its twisted metal pipes and storage units, came into view, and Jenny headed up the coast toward Alderthorpe.
She had been thinking about Banks quite a lot during her journey and came to the conclusion that he wasn’t happy. She didn’t know why. Apart from Sandra’s pregnancy, which was obviously upsetting to him for any number of reasons, he had everything to be thankful for. For a start, his career was back on track, and he had an attractive young girlfriend. At least she assumed that Annie was attractive.
But perhaps it was Annie who was making Banks unhappy? He had never seemed quite certain of their relationship whenever Jenny had questioned him. She had assumed that was mostly due to his innate evasiveness when it came to personal and emotional matters—like most men—but perhaps he was genuinely confused.
Not that she could do anything. She remembered how disappointed she had felt last year when he had accepted her dinner invitation and failed to turn up, or even phone. Jenny had sat there in her most seductive silky outfit, duck à l’orange in the oven, ready to take a risk again, and waited and waited. At last he had phoned. He’d been called to a hostage situation. Well, it was definitely a good excuse, but it didn’t do much to dispel her sense of disappointment and loss. Since then, they had been more circumspect with each other, neither willing to risk making an arrangement in case it got screwed up, but still she fretted about Banks and still, she admitted to herself, she wanted him.
