“I know you do.”
“That’s part of the problem.”
“It’ll get better. Over time. Sorry, I can’t seem to think of anything to say but clichés. Maybe that’s what they’re for, situations like this? Maybe that’s why there are so many of them. But don’t worry, Annie, I mean what I say. I’ll do the best I can to behave toward you with the utmost courtesy and respect.”
“Oh, bloody hell!” Annie said, laughing. “You don’t have to be so damn stuffy! A simple good morning, a smile and a friendly little chat in the canteen every now and then would be just fine.”
Banks felt his face burn, then he laughed with her. “Right you are. How’s Janet Taylor?”
“Stubborn as hell. I’ve tried to talk to her. The CPS has tried to talk to her. Her own lawyer has tried to talk to her. Even Chambers has tried to talk to her.”
“At least she’s got a lawyer now.”
“The Federation sent someone over.”
“What’s she being charged with?”
“They’re going to charge her with voluntary manslaughter. If she pleads guilty with extenuating circumstances, there’s every chance she’ll get it down to excusable homicide.”
“And if she goes ahead as planned?”
“Who knows? It’s up to the jury. They’re either going to give her the same as they gave John Hadleigh, despite the vastly different circumstances, or they’re going to take her job and her situation into account and give her the benefit of the doubt. I mean, the public doesn’t want us hamstrung when it comes to doing our job, but they don’t want us to get ideas above our station, either. They don’t like to see us acting as if we’re beyond that law. It’s a toss-up, really.”
“How’s she bearing up?”
“She’s not. She’s just drinking.”
“Bugger.”
“Indeed. How about the Payne investigation?”
Banks told her what Jenny had discovered about Lucy’s past.
Annie whistled. “So what are you going to do?”
“Bring her in for questioning in the death of Kathleen Murray. If we can find her. It’s probably a bloody waste of time – after all, it was over ten years ago, and she was only twelve at the time – so I doubt we’ll get anywhere with it, but who knows, it might open other doors if a little pressure is judiciously applied.”
“AC Hartnell won’t like it.”
“I know that. He’s already made his feelings clear.”
“Lucy Payne doesn’t suspect you know so much about her past?”
“She has to be aware there was a chance the others would talk, or that we’d find out somehow. In that case, she may have already gone to ground.”
“Anything new on the sixth body?”
“No,” said Banks. “But we’ll find out who it is.” The fact that they couldn’t identify the sixth victim nagged away at him. Like the other victims, she had been buried naked and no traces of clothing or personal belongings remained. Banks could only guess that Payne must have burned their clothes and disposed of any rings or watches somehow. He certainly hadn’t kept them as trophies. The forensic anthropologist working on her remains had so far been able to tell him that she was a white female between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two and that she had died, like the others, of ligature strangulation. Horizontal striations in the tooth enamel indicated inconsistent nutrition during her early years. The regularity of the lines indicated possible seasonal swings in food supplies. Perhaps, like Katya, she had come from a war-torn country in Eastern Europe.
Banks had had a team keeping track of all mispers over the past few months, and they were working overtime now, following up on reports. But if the victim was a prostitute, like Katya Pavelic, then the chances of finding out who she was were slim. Even so, Banks kept telling himself, she was somebody’s daughter. Somewhere, somebody must be missing her. But perhaps not. There were plenty of people out there without friends or family, people who could die in their homes tomorrow and not be found until the rent was long overdue or the smell grew too bad for the neighbors to bear. There were refugees from Eastern Europe, like Katya, or kids who had left home to travel the world and might be anywhere from Katmandu to Kilimanjaro. He had to inure himself to the fact that they might not be able to identify the sixth victim for some time, if ever. But still it galled. She should have a name, an identity.
Annie stood up. “Anyway, I’ve said what I came to say. Oh, and you’ll probably be hearing very soon that I’ve made a formal request to come back to CID. Think there’s any chance?”
“You can have my job, if you want.”
Annie smiled. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I? Anyway, I don’t know if they’ve changed their minds about CID staffing levels, but I’ll talk to Red Ron, if you think that’ll help. We don’t have a DI right now, so it’s probably a good time to make your application.”
“Before Winsome catches up with me?”
“She’s sharp, that lass.”
“Pretty, too.”
“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”
Annie stuck her tongue out at Banks and left his office. Sad as he felt at the end of their brief romance, he felt some relief, too. He would no longer have to wonder from one day to the next whether they were on or off again; he had been given his freedom yet again, and freedom was a somewhat ambiguous gift.
“Sir?”
Banks looked up and saw Winsome framed in his doorway. “Yes?”
“Just had a message from Steve Naylor, the custody sergeant downstairs.”
“Problem?”
“No, not at all.” Winsome smiled. “It’s Mick Blair. He wants to talk.”
Banks clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Excellent. Tell them to send him straight up. Our best interview room, I think, Winsome.”
When she was packed and ready to head for London, Maggie took Lucy a cup of tea in bed the following morning. It was the least she could do after all the poor woman had been through lately.
They had talked well into the previous night, emptying a bottle of white wine between them, and Lucy had hinted at what a terrible childhood she had suffered and how recent events had brought it all back to mind. She had also confided that she was afraid of the police, afraid they might try to fabricate some sort of evidence against her, and that she couldn’t stand the thought of going to jail. Just one night in the cell had almost been too much for her to bear.
The police didn’t like loose ends, she said, and in this case she was a very serious loose end indeed. She knew they had been watching her and had sneaked out of her foster parents’ house after dark and taken the first train from Hull to York, then changed for London, where she had worked on changing her appearance, mostly through hair, makeup and a different style of dress. Maggie had to agree that the Lucy Payne she knew wouldn’t have been seen dead in the kind of casual clothes she was wearing now, nor would she have worn the same, slightly tarty makeup. Maggie agreed to tell no one that Lucy was there, and if any of the neighbors saw her and asked who she was, she would tell them she was a distant relative just passing through.
Both bedrooms, the large and the small, looked over The Hill, and when Maggie tapped on the door of the smaller room she had given Lucy and entered, she saw that Lucy was already standing by the window. Stark naked. She turned when Maggie entered with the tea. “Oh, thank you. You’re so kind.”
Maggie felt herself blush. She couldn’t help but notice what a fine body Lucy had: the full, round breasts, taut, flat stomach, gently curving hips and smooth tapered thighs, the dark triangle between her legs. Lucy seemed completely unembarrassed by her own nakedness, but Maggie felt uncomfortable and tried to avert her eyes.
Luckily the curtains were still closed and the light was fairly dim, but Lucy had held them open a little at the top and had clearly been watching the activity across the street. It had let up a bit in the past couple of days, Maggie had noticed, but there was still a great deal of coming and going, and the front garden was still a complete mess.