Suddenly, she wanted to leave. It wasn’t just the sight of Kimberley Myers on the mattress, or the smell of incense and blood, the images flickering in mirrors and candlelight, but the combination of all these elements made her feel claustrophobic and nauseated standing there observing this horror with Stefan. She didn’t want to be here with him, or with any man, feeling the things she did. It felt obscene. And it was an obscenity performed by man upon woman.
Trying to conceal her trembling, she touched Stefan’s arm. “I’ve seen enough down here for now,” she said. “Let’s go. I’d like to have a look around the rest of the house.”
Stefan nodded and turned back to the stairs. Jenny had the damnedest sensation that he knew exactly what she was feeling. Bloody hell, she thought, the sixth sense she could do without right now. Life was complicated enough with the usual five at work.
She followed Stefan past the poster up the worn stone stairs.
“Annie. Got much on right now?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m wearing a mid-length navy-blue skirt, red shoes and a white silk blouse. Do you want to know about my underwear?”
“Don’t tempt me. I take it you’re alone in the office?”
“All on my little lonesome.”
“Listen, Annie, I’ve got something to tell you. Warn you about, actually.” Banks was sitting in his car outside the Payne house talking on his mobile. The mortuary wagon had taken the bodies away, and Kimberley’s stunned parents had identified her body. The SOCOs had located two more bodies so far in the anteroom, both of them in so advanced a state of decomposition that it was impossible to make visual identification. Dental records would have to be checked, DNA sampled and checked against the parents. It would all take time. Another team was still combing through the house, boxing up papers, accounts, bills, receipts, snapshots, letters, anything and everything.
Banks listened to the silence after he had finished explaining the assignment he thought Annie would be getting in the near future. He had decided that the best way to deal with it was to try to put it in a positive light, convince Annie that she would be good for the job and that it was the right job for her. He didn’t imagine he would have much success, but it was worth a try. He counted the beats. One. Two. Three. Four. Then the explosion came.
“He’s doing what? Is this some kind of sick joke, Alan?”
“No joke.”
“Because if it is you can knock it off right now. It’s not funny.”
“It’s no joke, Annie. I’m serious. And if you think about it for a minute you’ll see what a great idea it is.”
“If I thought about it for the rest of my life it still wouldn’t seem like a great idea. How dare he… You know there’s no way I can come out of this looking good. If I prove a case against her, then every cop and every member of the public hates my guts. If I don’t prove a case, the press screams cover-up.”
“No, they won’t. Have you any idea of what sort of monster Terence Payne is? They’ll be whooping for joy that populist justice is served at last.”
“Some of them, perhaps. But not the ones I read. Or you, for that matter.”
“Annie, it’s not going to bury you. It’ll be in the hands of the CPS well before that stage. You’re not judge, jury and executioner, you know. You’re just a humble investigator trying to get the facts right. How can that harm you?”
“Was it you who suggested me in the first place? Did you give Hartnell my name, tell him I’d be the best one for the job? I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Alan. I thought you liked me.”
“I do. And I haven’t done anything. AC Hartnell came up with it all by himself. And you and I both know what’ll happen as soon as it gets into Detective Superintendent Chambers’s hands.”
“Well, at least we’re agreed on that. You know, the fat bastard’s been chomping at the bit all week because he hasn’t been able to find anything really messy for me to do. For crying out loud, Alan, couldn’t you do something?”
“Like what?”
“Suggest he hand it over to Lancashire or Derbyshire. Anything.”
“I tried, but his mind was made up. He knows ACC McLaughlin. Besides, this way he thinks I can hold on to some degree of control over the investigation.”
“Well, he can bloody well think again about that.”
“Annie, you can do some good here. For yourself, for the public interest.”
“Don’t try appealing to my better nature. I haven’t got one.”
“Why are you resisting so strongly?”
“Because it’s a crap job and you know it. At least give me the courtesy of not trying to soft-soap me.”
Banks sighed. “I’m only the advance warning. Don’t kill the messenger.”
“That’s what messengers are for. You’re saying I’ve no choice?”
“There’s always a choice.”
“Yeah, the right one and the wrong one. Don’t worry, I won’t make a fuss. But you’d better be right about the consequences.”
“Trust me. I’m right.”
“And you’ll respect me in the morning. Sure.”
“Look, about the morning. I’m going back to Gratly tonight. I’ll be late, but maybe you could come over, or I could drop by your place on my way?”
“What for? A quickie?”
“Doesn’t have to be that quick. Way I’m sleeping these days it could take all night.”
“No way. I need my beauty sleep. Remember, I’ve got to be up bright and early in the morning to drive to Leeds. Bye.”
Banks held the silent mobile to his ear for a few moments, then put it back in his pocket. Christ, he thought, you handled that one really well, Alan, didn’t you? People skills.
4
Samantha Jane Foster, eighteen years old, five feet five and seven stone three pounds, was a first-year English student at the University of Bradford. Her parents lived in Leighton Buzzard, where Julian Foster was a chartered accountant and Teresa Foster a local GP. Samantha had one older brother, Alistair, unemployed, and a younger sister, Chloe, still at school.
On the evening of the twenty-sixth of February, Samantha attended a poetry reading in a pub near the university campus and left alone for her bed-sit at about eleven-fifteen. She lived just off Great Horton Road, about a quarter of a mile away. When she didn’t turn up for her weekend job in the city center Waterstone’s bookshop, one of her coworkers, Penelope Hall, became worried and called at the bed-sit during her lunch break. Samantha was reliable, she later told the police, and if she wasn’t going to come in to work because of illness, she would always ring. This time she hadn’t. Worried that Samantha might be seriously ill, Penelope managed to persuade the landlord to open the bed-sit door. Nobody home.
There was a very good chance that the Bradford Police might not have taken Samantha Foster’s disappearance seriously – at least not so quickly – had it not been for the shoulder bag that a conscientious student had found in the street and handed in after midnight the previous evening. It contained a poetry anthology called New Blood; a slim volume of poetry signed “To Samantha, between whose silky thighs I would love to rest my head and give silver tongue” and dated by the poet, Michael Stringer, who had read in the pub the previous evening; a spiral notebook full of poetic jottings, observations, reflections on life and literature, including what looked to the desk officer like descriptions of hallucinogenic states and out-of-body experiences; a half-smoked packet of Benson amp; Hedges; a red packet of Rizzla cigarette papers and a small plastic bag of marijuana, less than a quarter of an ounce; a green disposable cigarette lighter; three loose tampons; a set of keys; a personal CD player with a Tracy Chapman CD inside it; a little bag of cosmetics; and a purse containing fifteen pounds in cash, a credit card, student union card, shop receipts for books and CDs and various other sundry items.