Aftermath, page 40
“So you thought I was a reporter. What were you going to do about me?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see where you were going, make sure you were gone.”
“And what if I’d come back?”
Keith spread his hands, palms up. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Did you realize it was Linda as soon as the news about the Paynes broke?”
“I did, yes,” said Laura. “It wasn’t a good photo, but I knew she’d married Terry. I knew where she lived.”
“Did you ever get together, keep in touch?”
“Not often. We did, until Susan committed suicide and Tom went to Australia. And Keith and I visit Dianne as often as we can. But as I said, Linda was always distant, older. I mean, we met up sometimes, for birthdays, that sort of thing, but I thought she was weird.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. It was an evil thought. I mean, she’d suffered the same as we had.”
“But it seemed to have affected her in a different way,” Keith added.
“What way?”
“I didn’t see her nearly as often as Laura did,” he went on, “but she always gave me the impression that she was up to something bad, something deliciously evil. It was just the way she spoke, the hint of sin. She was secretive, so she never told us exactly what she was doing, but . . .”
“She was into some pretty weird stuff,” Laura said, blushing. “S and M. That sort of thing.”
“She told you?”
“Once. Yes. She only did it to embarrass me. I’m not comfortable talking about sex.” She hugged herself and avoided Jenny’s eyes.
“And Linda liked to embarrass you?”
“Yes. Tease me, I suppose.”
“Wasn’t it a shock to you, what Terry had done, with Linda so close by, especially after the events of your childhood?”
“Of course it was,” said Keith. “It still is. We’re still trying to come to terms with it.”
“That’s partly why I’m here,” said Laura. “I needed to be with Keith. To talk. To decide what to do.”
“What do you mean, what to do?”
“But we didn’t want to be rushed,” said Keith.
Jenny leaned forward “What is it?” she asked. “What is it you need to do?”
They looked at each other again, and Jenny waited what seemed like ages before Keith spoke. “We’d better tell her, don’t you think?” he said.
“I suppose so.”
“Tell me what?”
“About what happened. That’s what we’ve been trying to decide, you see. Whether we should tell.”
“But I’m sure you can understand,” Keith said, “that we don’t want the limelight anymore. We don’t want it all raked up again.”
“Your book will do that,” Jenny said.
“I’ll deal with that when and if it happens.” He leaned forward. “Anyway, you’ve sort of forced our hand, haven’t you? We would probably have told someone soon, anyway, so it might as well be you, now.”
“I’m still not sure what you want to tell me,” she said.
Laura looked at her, tears in her eyes. “It’s about Kathleen. Our parents didn’t kill her, Tom didn’t kill her. Linda killed her. Linda killed Kathleen.”
Mick Blair was surly when Banks and Winsome entered the interview room at three thirty-five that afternoon. As well he might be, Banks thought. He had been dragged away from his job as a clerk in the Tandy shop in the Swainsdale Centre by two uniformed police officers and left waiting in the dingy room for over an hour. It was a wonder he wasn’t screaming for his brief. Banks would have been.
“Just another little chat, Mick,” said Banks, smiling as he turned on the tape recorders. “But we’ll get it on record this time. That way you can be certain there’s no funny business from us.”
“Very grateful, I’m sure,” said Blair. “And why the hell did you have to keep me waiting so long?”
“Important police business,” said Banks. “The bad guys just never stop.”
“What’s Sarah doing here?”
“Sarah?”
“You know who I mean. Sarah Francis. Ian’s girlfriend. I saw her in the corridor. What’s she doing here?”
“Just answering our questions, Mick, the way I hope you will.”
“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time on me. I can’t tell you anything you don’t know already.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Mick.”
“What’s it about this time, then?” He eyed Winsome suspiciously.
“It’s about the night Leanne Wray disappeared.”
“Again? But we’ve been over and over all that.”
“Yes, I know, but we haven’t got to the truth yet. See, it’s like peeling off the layers of an onion, Mick. All we’ve got so far is layer after layer of lies.”
“It’s the truth. She left us outside the Old Ship and we went our separate ways. We didn’t see her again. What else can I tell you?”
“The truth. Where the four of you went.”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“You see, Mick,” Banks went on, “Leanne was upset that day. She’d just heard some bad news. Her stepmother was going to have a baby. You might not understand why, but believe me, that upset her. So I should think that night she was in a rebellious mood, ready to say to hell with the curfew, and let’s have some fun. Make her parents suffer a bit at the same time. I don’t know whose suggestion it was, maybe yours, but you decided to steal a car—”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“A car belonging to Mr. Samuel Gardner, a blue Fiat Brava, to be exact, which was parked just around the corner from the pub.”
“That’s ridiculous! We never stole no car. You can’t pin that on us.”
“Shut up and listen, Mick,” said Winsome. Blair looked at her, then swallowed and shut up. Winsome’s expression was hard and unflinching, her eyes full of scorn and disgust.
“Where did you go on your little joyride, Mick?” Banks asked. “What happened? What happened to Leanne? Was she giving you the come-on? Did you think it was going to be your lucky night? Did you try it on with her and she changed her mind? Did you get a bit rough? Were you on drugs, Mick?”
“No! It’s not true. None of it’s true. She left us outside the pub.”
“You sound like a drowning man clinging to a bit of wood, Mick. Pretty soon you’ll have to let go.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then prove it.”
“Listen, Mick,” said Winsome, standing up and pacing the small room. “We’ve got Mr. Gardner’s car in the police garage right now and our forensics people are going over it inch by inch. Are you trying to tell us that they won’t find anything?”
“I don’t know what they’ll find,” said Mick. “How can I? I’ve never even seen the fucking car.”
Winsome stopped pacing and sat down. “They’re the best in the business, our forensics team. They don’t even need fingerprints. If there’s just one hair, they’ll find it. And if it belongs to you, Ian, Sarah or Leanne, we’ve got you.” She held a finger up. “One hair. Think about it, Mick.”
“She’s right, you know,” said Banks. “They are very good, these scientists. Me, I know bugger-all about DNA and hair follicles, but these lads could find the exact spot on your head the hair came from.”
“We didn’t steal no car.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Banks said.
“Mind reader, too, are you?”
Banks laughed. “It doesn’t take much. You’re thinking how long ago was it we took that car? It was the thirty-first of March. And what’s today’s date? It’s the sixteenth of May. That’s a month and a half. Surely there can’t be any traces left by now? Surely the car must have been washed, the interior vacuumed? Isn’t that what you’re thinking, Mick?”
“I’ve told you. I don’t know nothing about a stolen car.” He folded his arms and tried to look defiant. Winsome gave a grunt of disgust and impatience.
“DC Jackman’s getting restless,” said Banks. “And I wouldn’t want to push her too far, if I were you.”
“You can’t touch me. It’s all on tape.”
“Touch you? Who said anything about touching you?”
“You’re threatening me.”
“No. You’ve got it wrong, Mick. See, I want to get this all settled, get you back off to work, home in time for the evening news. Nothing I’d like better. But DC Jackman here is, well, let’s just say that she’d be more than happy to see you in detention.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the cells, Mick. Downstairs. Overnight.”
“But I haven’t done anything. You can’t do that.”
“Was it Ian? Is that whose idea it was?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What happened to Leanne?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“I’ll bet Sarah tells us it was all your fault.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“She’ll want to protect her boyfriend, won’t she, Mick? I’ll bet she doesn’t give a damn about you when the chips are down.”
“Stop it!”
Winsome looked at her watch. “Let’s just lock him up and go home,” she said. “I’m getting fed up of this.”
“What do you think, Mick?”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
Banks looked at Winsome before turning back to Mick. “I’m afraid, then, we’re going to have to hold you on suspicion.”
“Suspicion of what?”
“Suspicion of the murder of Leanne Wray.”
Mick jumped to his feet. “That’s absurd. I didn’t kill anyone. Nobody murdered Leanne.”
“How do you know that?”
“I mean I didn’t murder Leanne. I don’t know what happened to her. It’s not my fault if somebody else killed her.”
“It is if you were there.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Then tell us the truth, Mick. Tell us what happened.”
“I’ve told you.”
Banks stood up and gathered his file folders together. “All right. We’ll see what Sarah has to say. In the meantime, I want you to think about two things while you’re in the cells for the night, Mick. Time can drag down there, especially in the wee hours, when all you’ve got for company is the drunk next door singing ‘Your Cheating Heart’ over and over again; so it’s nice to have something to think about, something to distract you.”
“What things?”
“First off, if you come clean with us, if you tell us the truth, if it was all Ian Scott’s idea and if whatever happened to Leanne was down to Ian, then it’ll go a lot easier with you.” He looked at Winsome. “I could even see him walking away from this with little more than a reprimand, failing to report, or something minor like that, can’t you, DC Jackman?”
Winsome grimaced, as if the idea of Mick Blair’s getting off with less than murder appalled her.
“What’s the other thing?” Mick asked.
“The other thing? Oh, yes. It’s about Samuel Gardner.”
“Who?”
“The owner of the stolen car.”
“What about him?”
“Man’s a slob, Mick. He never cleans his car. Inside or out.”
Jenny couldn’t think of anything to say after what Keith and Laura had just told her. She sat with her mouth half open and an astonished expression on her face until her brain processed the information and she was able to continue. “How do you know?” she asked.
“We saw her,” Keith said. “We were with her. In a way, it was all of us. She was doing it for all of us but she was the only one had the guts to do it.”
“Are you certain about this?”
“Yes,” they said.
“This isn’t something you’ve just remembered?” Like many of her colleagues, Jenny distrusted repressed memory syndrome, and she wanted to make certain that was not what she was dealing with. Linda Godwin might have been kind to animals and never wet the bed or set a fire, but if she had killed when she was twelve, there was something seriously, pathologically wrong with her, and she could have killed again.
“No,” said Laura. “We always knew. We just lost it for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like when you put something away where you can find it again easily, but then you don’t remember where you put it,” said Keith.
Jenny understood that; it happened to her all the time.
“Or when you’re carrying something and you remember you have to do something else, so you put it down on your way, and then you can’t find it again,” Laura added.
“You say you were there?”
“Yes,” said Keith. “We were in the room with her. We saw her do it.”
“And you’ve said nothing all these years?”
Laura and Keith just looked at her and she understood that they couldn’t have said anything. How could they? They were too used to silence. And why would they? They were all victims of the Godwins and the Murrays. Why should Linda be singled out for more suffering?
“Is that why she was in the cage when the police came?”
“No. Linda was in the cage because it was her period,” Keith said. Laura blushed and turned away. “Tom was in the cage with her because they thought he did it. They never suspected Linda.”
“But why?” asked Jenny.
“Because Kathleen just couldn’t take any more,” said Laura. “She was so weak, her spirit was almost gone. Linda killed her to s-s-save her. She knew what it was like to be in that position, and she knew that Kathleen couldn’t handle it. She killed her to save her further suffering.”
“Are you sure?” Jenny asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you certain that’s why Linda killed her?”
“Why else?”
“Didn’t you think it might have been because she was jealous? Because Kathleen was usurping her place?”
“No!” said Linda, scraping back her chair. “That’s horrible. How could you say something like that? She killed her to save her more suffering. She killed her out of k-k-kindness.”
One or two people in the café had noticed Laura’s outburst and were looking over curiously at the table.
“Okay,” Jenny said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Laura looked at her and a note of defiant desperation came into her tone. “She could be kind, you know. Linda could be kind.”
The old house was certainly full of noises, Maggie thought, and she was beginning to jump at almost every one: wood creaking as the temperature dropped after dark, a whistle of wind rattling at the windows, dishes shifting in the rack as they dried. It was Bill’s phone call, of course, she told herself, and she tried the routines she used to calm herself—deep breathing, positive visualization—but the ordinary noises of the house continued to distract her from her work.
She put a CD compilation of Baroque classics in the stereo Ruth had set up in the studio, and that both cut out the disturbing sounds and helped her to relax.
She was working late on some sketches for “Hänsel and Gretel” because the following day she had to go to London to meet with her art director and discuss the project so far. She also had an interview at Broadcasting House: a Radio Four program about domestic violence, naturally, but she was beginning to warm to being a spokesperson, and if anything she said could help anyone at all, then all the minor irritations, such as ignorant interviewers and provocative fellow guests, were worthwhile.
Bill already knew where she was, so she had no reason to worry about giving that away now. She wasn’t going to run away. Not again. Despite his call, and the way it had shaken her, she was determined to continue in her new role.
While she was in London, she would also try to get a ticket for a West End play she wanted to see and stay overnight at the modest little hotel her art director had recommended several visits ago. One of the joys of a country with a decent train service, Maggie thought, was that London was only a couple of hours away from Leeds, a couple of hours that could be spent in reasonable comfort reading a book as the landscape sped by. One thing that amused and intrigued Maggie was the way that the English always complained about their train service, no matter how good it seemed to someone from Canada, where trains were regarded as something of a necessary evil, tolerated but not encouraged. Maggie thought complaining about trains was probably a British institution that had begun long before the days of British Rail, let alone Virgin and Railtrack.
Maggie turned back to her sketch. She was trying to capture the expression on the faces of Hänsel and Gretel when they realized in the moonlight that the trail of crumbs they had left to lead them from the dangers of the forest to the safety of home had been eaten by birds. She liked the eerie effect she had created with the tree trunks, branches and shadows, which with just a little imagination could take the shapes of wild beasts and demons, but Hänsel and Gretel’s expressions still weren’t quite right. They were only children, Maggie reminded herself, not adults, and their fear would be simple and natural, a look of abandonment and eyes on the verge of tears, not as complex as adult fear, which would include components of anger and the determination to find a way out. Very different facial expressions indeed.
In an earlier version of the sketch, Hänsel and Gretel had come out looking a bit like younger versions of Terry and Lucy, Maggie thought, just as Rapunzel had resembled Claire, so she scrapped it. Now they were anonymous, faces she had probably once spotted in a crowd which, for whatever mysterious reason, had lodged in her unconscious.
Claire. The poor girl. That afternoon Maggie had talked with both Claire and her mother together, and they had agreed that Claire would try the psychologist Dr. Simms had recommended. That was a start, at least, Maggie thought, though it might take Claire years to work through the psychological disturbance brought on by Terry Payne’s acts, her friend’s murder and her own sense of guilt and responsibility.
