Aftermath, page 5
They were both tired and a little tipsy after their own party, they told the police, so they went straight to bed. When they awoke the following morning and found that Kelly’s bed had still not been slept in, they became worried. She had never done anything like this before. First they telephoned the parents of the two girlfriends she had gone with, reliable in their estimation. Both Kelly’s friends, Alex Kirk and Jessica Bradley, had arrived home shortly after two in the morning. Then Adrian Matthews rang the police. PC Rearden, who took the call, picked up on the genuine concern in Mr. Matthews’s voice and sent an officer around immediately.
Kelly’s parents said they last saw her around seven o’clock on the thirty-first of December, when she went to meet her friends. She was wearing blue jeans, white trainers, a thick cable-knit jumper and a three-quarter-length suede jacket.
When questioned later, Kelly’s friends said that the group had become separated during the fireworks display, but nobody was too concerned. After all, there were thousands of people about, buses were running late and the taxis were touting for business.
Adrian and Gillian Matthews weren’t rich, but they were comfortably off. Adrian oversaw the computer systems of a large retail operation and Gillian was assistant manager of a city center building society branch. They owned a Georgian-style semi-detached house not far from Eccup Reservoir, in an area of the city closer to parks, golf courses and the countryside than to factories, warehouses and grim terraces of back-to-backs.
According to her friends and teachers, Kelly was a bright, personable, responsible girl who got consistently high marks and was certain to land in the university of her choice, at the moment Cambridge, where she intended to read law. Kelly was also her school’s champion sprinter. She had beautiful gold-blond hair, which she wore long, and she liked clothes, dancing, pop music and sports. She was also fond of classical music and quite an accomplished pianist.
It soon became clear to the investigating officer that Kelly Matthews was a most unlikely teenage runaway, and he instituted a search of the park. When, three days later, the search parties had found nothing, they called it off. In the meantime, police had also interviewed hundreds of revelers, some of whom said they thought they’d seen her with a man and others with a woman. Taxi drivers and bus drivers were also questioned, to no avail.
A week after Kelly disappeared, her shoulder bag was found in some bushes near the park; in it were her keys, a diary, cosmetics, a hairbrush and a purse containing over thirty-five pounds and some loose change.
Her diary yielded no clues. The last entry, on the thirty-first of December, 1999, was a brief list of new year’s resolutions:
1. Help Mum more around the house.
2. Practice piano every day.
3. Be nicer to my little sisters.
Banks stripped off his protective clothing, leaned against his car out in the street and lit a cigarette. It was going to be a hot, sunny day, he could tell, only the occasional high cloud scudding across the blue sky on a light breeze, and he would be spending most of it indoors, either at the scene or at Millgarth. He ignored the people on the other side of the road, who stopped to stare, and shut his ears to the honking horns from the snarl of cars up The Hill, which had now been blocked off completely by the local traffic police. The press had arrived; Banks could see them straining at the barriers.
Banks had known it would come to this eventually, or to something very much like this, from the first moment he had agreed to head the North Yorkshire half of the two-county task force into the series of disappearances: Five young women in all, three from West Yorkshire and two from North Yorkshire. The West Yorkshire Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was in overall charge, but he was at county headquarters in Wakefield, so Banks and Blackstone rarely saw him. They reported directly to the head of CID, Area Commander Philip Hartnell, at Millgarth in Leeds, who was the official senior investigating officer, but who left them to get on with the job. The main incident room was also at Millgarth.
Under Banks and Blackstone came several detective inspectors; a whole host of detective constables and sergeants, culled from both West and North County forces; skilled civilian employees; Crime Scene Coordinator DS Stefan Nowak; and, acting as consultant psychologist, Dr. Jenny Fuller, who had studied offender profiling in America with the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia, and didn’t look a bit like Jodie Foster. Jenny had also studied with Paul Britton in Leicester and was recognized as one of the rising stars in the relatively new field of psychology combined with police work.
Banks had worked with Jenny Fuller on his very first case in Eastvale, and they had become close friends. Almost more, but something always seemed to get in their way.
It was probably for the best, Banks told himself, though he often couldn’t convince himself of that when he looked at her. Jenny had such lips as you rarely saw on anyone but a pouting French sex symbol, her figure tapered and bulged in all the right places and her clothes, usually expensive clothes, silky mostly in green and russet, just seemed to flow over her. It was that “liquefaction of her clothes” that the poet Herrick wrote about, the dirty old devil. Banks had come across Herrick in a poetry anthology he was working his way through, having felt a disturbing ignorance in such matters for years.
Lines like Herrick’s stuck with him, as did the one about “sweet disorder in the dress,” which made him think of DS Annie Cabbot, for some reason. Annie wasn’t so obviously beautiful in the way Jenny was, not as voluptuous, not the kind to draw wolf whistles on the street, but she had a deep, quiet sort of beauty that appealed very much to Banks. Unfortunately, because of his new and onerous responsibilities, he hadn’t seen much of Annie lately and had found himself, because of the case, spending more and more time with Jenny, realizing that the old feelings, that odd and immediate spark between them, had never gone away. Nothing had happened as such, but it had been touch and go on occasion.
Annie was also consumed with her work. She had found a detective inspector’s position open in Western Division’s Complaints and Discipline Department, and had taken it because it was the first opportunity that came up. It wasn’t ideal, and it certainly didn’t win her any popularity contests, but it was a necessary step in the ladder she had set out to climb, and Banks had encouraged her to go for it.
DC Karen Hodgkins edged her little gray Nissan through the opening the police made in the barrier for her and broke off Banks’s chain of thought. She got out and walked over. Karen had proved an energetic and ambitious worker throughout the whole investigation, and Banks fancied she would go far if she developed a flair for police politics. She reminded him a bit of Susan Gay, his old DC, now a DS in Cirencester, but she had fewer sharp edges and seemed more sure of herself.
“What’s the situation?” Banks asked her.
“Not much change, sir. Lucy Payne’s under sedation. The doctor says we won’t be able to talk to her until tomorrow.”
“Have Lucy and her husband been fingerprinted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about her clothes?” Banks had suggested that they take the clothes Lucy Payne had been wearing for forensic examination. After all, she wouldn’t be needing them in hospital.
“They should be at the lab by now, sir.”
“Good. What was she wearing?”
“Nightie and a dressing gown.”
“What about Terence Payne? How’s he doing?”
“Hanging on. But they say that even if he does recover he might be . . . you know . . . a vegetable . . . there might be serious brain damage. They’ve found skull fragments stuck in his brain. It seems . . . well . . .”
“Go on.”
“The doctor’s saying that it seems the PC who subdued him used a bit more than reasonable force. He was very angry.”
“Was he, indeed?” Christ. Banks could see a court case looming if Payne survived with brain damage. Best let AC Hartnell worry about it; that was what ACs were put on this earth for, after all. “How’s PC Taylor coping?”
“She’s at home, sir. A friend’s with her. Female PC from Killingbeck.”
“Okay, Karen, I want you to act as hospital liaison for the time being. Any change in the status of the patients—either of them—and I want to know immediately. That’s your responsibility, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’re going to need a family liaison officer.” He gestured toward the house. “Kimberley’s parents need to be told, before they hear it on the news. We also need to arrange for them to identify the body.”
“I’ll do it, sir.”
“Good of you to offer, Karen, but you’ve got your hands full already. And it’s a thankless task.”
Karen Hodgkins headed back to her car. If truth be told, Banks didn’t think Karen had the right bedside manner for a family liaison officer. He could picture the scene—the parents’ disbelief, their outpouring of grief, Karen’s embarrassment and brusqueness. No. He would send roly-poly Jonesy. DC Jones might be a slob, but he had sympathy and concern leaking out of every pore. He should have been a vicar. One of the problems with drawing a team from such a wide radius, Banks thought, was that you could never get to know the individual officers well enough. Which didn’t help when it came to handing out assignments. You needed the right person for the right job in police work, and one wrong decision could screw up an investigation.
Banks just wasn’t used to running such a huge team, and the problems of coordination had given him more than one headache. In fact, the whole matter of responsibility was weighing very heavily on his mind. He didn’t feel competent to deal with it all, to keep so many balls up in the air at once. He had already made more than one minor mistake and mishandled a few situations with personnel. So much so that he was beginning to think his people skills were especially low. It was easier working with a small team—Annie, Winsome Jackman, Sergeant Hatchley—where he could keep track of every little detail in his mind. This was more like the kind of work he had done on the Met down in London, only there he had been a mere constable or sergeant, given the orders rather than giving them. Even as an inspector down there, toward the end, he had never had to deal with this level of responsibility.
Banks had just lit his second cigarette when another car came through the barrier and Dr. Jenny Fuller jumped out, struggling with a briefcase and an overstuffed leather shoulder bag, hurrying as usual, as if she were late for an important meeting. Her tousled red mane cascaded over her shoulders and her eyes were the green of grass after a summer shower. The freckles, crow’s-feet and slightly crooked nose that she always complained ruined her looks only made her appear more attractive and more human.
“Morning, Jenny,” Banks greeted her. “Stefan’s waiting inside. You ready?”
“What’s that? Yorkshire foreplay?”
“No. That’s ‘Are you awake?’ ”
Jenny forced a smile. “Glad to see you’re on form, even at this ungodly hour.”
Banks looked at his watch. “Jenny, I’ve been up since half-past four. It’s nearly eight now.”
“My point exactly,” she said. “Ungodly.” She looked toward the house. Apprehension flitted across her features. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Coming in with me?”
“No. I’ve seen enough. Besides, I’d better go and put AC Hartnell in the picture or he’ll have my guts for garters.”
Jenny took a deep breath and seemed to gird herself. “Right,” she said. “Lay on, Macduff. I’m ready.”
And she walked in.
Area Commander Philip Hartnell’s office was, as befitted his rank, large. It was also quite bare. AC Hartnell didn’t believe in making himself at home there. This, the place seemed to shout, is an office and an office only. There was a carpet, of course—an area commander merited a carpet—one filing cabinet, a bookcase full of technical and procedural manuals and, on his desk, beside the virgin blotter, a sleek black laptop computer and a single buff file folder. That was it. No family photographs, nothing but a map of the city on the wall and a view of the open-air market and the bus station from his window, the tower of Leeds Parish Church poking up beyond the railway embankment.
“Alan, sit down,” he greeted Banks. “Tea? Coffee?”
Banks ran his hand over his scalp. “Wouldn’t mind a black coffee, if it’s no trouble.”
“Not at all.”
Hartnell phoned for coffee and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked when he moved. “Must get this bloody thing oiled,” he said.
Hartnell was about ten years younger than Banks, which put him in his late thirties. He had benefited from the accelerated promotion scheme, which was meant to give bright young lads like him a chance at command before they became doddering old farts. Banks hadn’t been on such a track; he had worked his way up the old way, the hard way, and like many others who had done so, he tended to be suspicious of the fast trackers, who had learned everything but the nitty-gritty down-and-dirty of policing.
The odd thing was that Banks liked Phil Hartnell. He had an easy-going manner, was an intelligent and caring copper and let the men under his command get on with their jobs. Banks had had regular meetings with him over the course of the Chameleon investigation and, while Hartnell had made a few suggestions, some of them useful, he had never once tried to interfere and question Banks’s judgment. In appearance good-looking, tall and with the tapered upper body of a casual weight lifter, Hartnell was also reputed to be a bit of a ladies’ man, still unmarried and tipped to remain that way for a while yet, thank you very much.
“Tell me what we’re in for,” he said to Banks.
“A shit storm, if you ask me.” Banks told him about what they had found so far in the cellar at number 35 The Hill, and the condition of the three survivors. Hartnell listened, the tip of his finger touched to his lips.
“There’s not much doubt he’s our man, then? The Chameleon?”
“Not much.”
“That’s good, then. At least that’s something we can congratulate ourselves on. We’ve got a serial killer off the streets.”
“It wasn’t down to us. Just pure luck the Paynes happened to have a domestic disagreement and a neighbor heard and called the police.”
Hartnell stretched his arms out behind his head. A twinkle came to his gray-blue eyes. “You know, Alan, the amount of shit we get poured on us when luck goes against us, or when we seem to be making no progress at all no matter how many man-hours we put in, I’d say we’re entitled to claim a victory this time and maybe even crow a little about it. It’s all in the spin.”
“If you say so.”
“I do, Alan. I do.”
Their coffee arrived and both took a moment to sip. It tasted wonderful to Banks, who hadn’t got his usual three or four cups down his gullet that morning.
“But we do have a potentially serious problem, don’t we?” Hartnell went on.
Banks nodded. “PC Taylor.”
“Indeed.” He tapped the file folder. “Probationary PC Janet Taylor.” He looked away a moment, toward the window. “I knew Dennis Morrisey, by the way. Not well, but I knew him. Solid sort of bloke. Seems he’s been around for years. We’ll miss him.”
“What about PC Taylor?”
“Can’t say I know her. Have the proper procedures been followed?”
“Yes.”
“No statement yet?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Hartnell got up and stared out of the window for a few moments, his back to Banks. When he spoke again he didn’t turn round. “You know as well as I do, Alan, that protocol demands the Police Complaints Authority brings in an investigator from a neighboring force to deal with a problem like this. There mustn’t even be the slightest hint of a cover-up, of special treatment. Naturally, I’d like nothing better than to deal with it myself. Dennis was one of ours, after all. As is PC Taylor. But it’s not on the cards.” He turned and walked back over to his chair. “Can you imagine what a field day the press will have, especially if Payne dies? Heroic PC brings down serial killer and ends up being charged with using excessive force. Even if it’s excusable homicide, it’s still the dog’s breakfast as far as we’re concerned. And what with the Hadleigh case before the court right now . . .”
“True enough.” Banks, like every other policeman, had had to deal more than once with the outrage of men and women who had seriously hurt or killed criminals in defense of their families and property and then found themselves under arrest for assault, or worse, murder. At the moment, the country was awaiting the jury’s verdict on a farmer called John Hadleigh, who had used his shotgun on an unarmed sixteen-year-old burglar, killing the lad. Hadleigh lived on a remote farm in Devon, and his house had been broken into once before, just over a year ago, at which time he had been beaten as well as robbed. The young burglar had a record as long as your arm, but that didn’t matter. What mattered most was that the pattern of shotgun pellets covered part of the side and the back, indicating that the boy had been turning to run away as the gun was fired. An unopened flick-knife was found in his pocket. The case had been generating sensational headlines for a couple of weeks and would be with the jury in a matter of days.
An investigation didn’t mean that PC Janet Taylor would lose her job or go to jail. Fortunately there were higher authorities, such as judges and chief constables, who had to make decisions on such matters as those, but there was no denying that it could have a negative effect on her police career.
