Before dipping her toes into the water, she decided to bring the bottle and set it on the edge of the tub. She’d only have to get out and fetch it soon, anyway. Finally, she lay back and let the bubbles tickle her neck. At least she could clean herself. That would be a start. No more off-license clerks asking her if she was all right because she smelled. As for the bags under her eyes, well, they wouldn’t go away overnight, but she would work on them. And on tidying up the flat.
On the other hand, she thought, after a good long sip of gin, there were razor blades in the bathroom cabinet. All she had to do was stand up and reach for them. The water was good and hot. She was certain she would feel no pain. Just a quick slit on each wrist, then put her arms underwater and let the blood seep out. It would be like going to sleep, only there would be no dreams.
As she lay there wrapped in the warmth and softness of the bubble bath, her eyelids started to droop and she couldn’t keep her eyes open. There she was again, in that stinking cellar with Dennis spurting blood all over the place and that maniac Payne coming at her with a machete. What could she have done differently? That seemed to be the question that nobody could, or would, answer for her. What should she have done?
She jerked to consciousness, gasping for breath, and at first the bathtub looked as if it were full of blood. She reached out for the gin, but she was clumsy and she knocked the bottle on the bathroom floor. It shattered on the tiles and spilled its precious contents.
Shit!
That meant she’d have to go out and buy more. She picked up the bath mat and shook it hard to get rid of any glass that might have lodged there, then she hauled herself out of the tub. When she stepped on to the mat, she underestimated her capacity for balance and stumbled a little. Her right foot hit the tiles, and she felt the sting of the glass on her sole. Janet winced with pain. Leaving a thin trail of blood on the bathroom floor, she negotiated her way into the living room without further injury, sat down and pulled out a couple of large slivers of glass, then she put on some old slippers and went back for peroxide and bandages. First she sat on the toilet seat and poured the peroxide as best she could over the sole of her foot. She almost screamed out in pain, but soon the waves abated and her foot just started to throb, then turn numb. She swathed it in bandages, then went to her bedroom and got dressed, putting on clean clothes and extra-thick socks.
She had to get out of the flat, she decided, and not just for as long as it took to go to the off-license. A good drive would help keep her awake, the windows wide open, breeze blowing in her hair, rock music and chatter on the radio. Maybe she’d drop in on Annie Cabbot, the only decent copper among them. Or perhaps she’d drive out into the country and find a B amp;B where nobody knew who she was or what she had done, and stay a night or two. Anything to get away from this filthy, smelly place. She could pick up another bottle on the way. At least now she was clean, and no stuffy off-license clerk was going to turn his nose up at her.
Janet hesitated a moment before she picked up her car keys, then pocketed them anyway. What more could they do to her? Add insult to injury and charge her with drink driving? Fuck the lot of them, Janet thought, laughing to herself as she limped down the stairs.
That same evening, three days since Lucy Payne had jumped out of Maggie Forrest’s bedroom window, Banks was at home listening to Thaïs in his cozy living room with the melted-Brie ceiling and the blue walls. It was his first escape from the paperwork since he had visited Maggie Forrest in hospital on Thursday, and he was enjoying it immensely. Still uncertain about his future, he had decided that before making any major career decisions, he would first take a holiday and think things over. He had plenty of leave due and had already talked to Red Ron and picked up a few travel brochures. Now it was a matter of deciding where to go.
He had also spent quite a lot of time over the past couple of days standing at his office window looking down on the market square and thinking about Maggie Forrest, thinking about her conviction and her compassion, and now he was still thinking about her at home. Lucy Payne had tied Maggie to the bed and was about to strangle her with a belt when the police broke in. Yet Maggie still saw Lucy as the victim, and could shed tears for her. Was she a saint or a fool? Banks didn’t know.
When he thought about the girls Lucy and Terry Payne had violated, terrorized and murdered – of Kelly Matthews, Samantha Foster, Melissa Horrocks, Kimberley Myers and Katya Pavelic – paralysis wasn’t sufficient; it didn’t hurt enough. But when he thought of Lucy’s violent and abusive childhood at Alderthorpe, then a quick, clean death or a lifetime of solitary confinement seemed a more apt punishment.
As usual, what he thought didn’t really matter, because the whole business was out of his hands, the judgment not his to make. Perhaps the best he could hope for was to put Lucy Payne out of his mind, which he would succeed in doing over time. Partially, at any rate. She would always be there – they all were, killers and victims – but in time she would fade and become a more shadowy figure than she was at the moment.
Banks had not forgotten the sixth victim. She had a name, and unless her childhood was like Lucy Payne’s, someone must have once loved her, held her and whispered words of comfort after a nightmare, perhaps, soothed away the pain when she fell and scraped her knee. He would have to be patient. The forensic experts were good at their jobs, and eventually her bones would yield up something that would lead to her identity.
Just as the famous “Meditation” at the end of the first CD started, his phone rang. He was off duty and at first thought of not answering, but curiosity got the better of him, as it always did.
It was Annie Cabbot, and she sounded as if she were standing in the middle of a road, there was no much noise around her: voices, sirens, car brakes, people shouting orders.
“Annie, where the hell are you?”
“Roundabout on the Ripon Road, just north of Harrogate,” Annie said, shouting to make herself heard over the noise.
“What are you doing there?”
Somebody spoke to Annie, though Banks couldn’t hear what was said. She answered abruptly and then came back on the line. “Sorry, it’s a bit chaotic down here.”
“What’s going on?”
“I thought you ought to know. It’s Janet Taylor.”
“What about her?”
“She ran into another car.”
“She what? How is she?”
“She’s dead, Alan. Dead. They haven’t been able to get her body out of the car yet, but they know she’s dead. They got her handbag out and found my card in it.”
“Bloody hell.” Banks felt numb. “How did it happen?”
“Can’t say for sure,” Annie said. “The person in the car behind her says she just seemed to speed up at the roundabout rather than slow down, and she hit the car that was going round. A mother driving her daughter home from a piano lesson.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. What happened to them?”
“The mother’s okay. Cuts and bruises. Shock.”
“The daughter?”
“It’s touch and go. The paramedics suspect internal injuries, but they won’t know till they get her to hospital. She’s still stuck in the car.”
“Was Janet pissed?”
“Don’t know yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if drinking had something to do with it, though. And she was depressed. I don’t know. She might have been trying to kill herself. If she did… it’s…” Banks could sense Annie choking up.