As Jenny was trying to make up her mind what to do, the front door of the house opened and two people walked over to the car: a young man with keys in his hand and a woman who looked remarkably like Lucy Payne. Just as Jenny decided to pull away, the young man saw her, said something to Lucy, then walked over and jerked open the driver’s door of Jenny’s car before she had time to lock it.
Well, she thought, you’ve well and truly done it now, this time, haven’t you, Jenny?
There were no new developments at Millgarth, according to Ken Blackstone on the phone that morning. The SOCOs were getting to the point where there wasn’t much left of the Payne house to take apart. Both gardens had been dug up to a depth of between six and ten feet and searched in a grid system. The concrete floors in the cellar and the garage had been ripped up by pneumatic drills. Almost a thousand exhibits had been bagged and labeled. The entire contents of the house had been stripped and taken away. The walls had been punched open at regular intervals. In addition to the crime scene specialists going over all the collected material, forensic mechanics had taken Payne’s car apart looking for traces of the abducted girls. Payne might be dead, but a case still had to be answered, and Lucy’s role had still to be determined.
The only snippet of information about Lucy Payne was that she had withdrawn two hundred pounds from an ATM on Tottenham Court Road. It figured she would go to London if she wanted to disappear, Banks thought, remembering his search there for Chief Constable Riddle’s daughter, Emily. Perhaps he would have to go and search for Lucy, too, although this time he would have all the resources of the Metropolitan Police at his disposal. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that; maybe Lucy wasn’t involved and would simply ease herself into a new identity and a new look in a new place and try to rebuild her shattered life. Maybe.
Banks looked again at the loose sheets of papers on his desk.
Katya Pavelic.
Katya, Candy’s “Anna,” had been identified through dental records late the previous evening. Fortunately for Banks, she had suffered a toothache shortly before she disappeared, and Candy had directed Katya to her own dentist. Katya had disappeared, according to Candy, sometime last November. At least, she remembered the weather was cool and misty and the Christmas lights had recently been turned on in the city center. That likely made Katya the victim before Kelly Matthews.
Certainly Candy, or Hayley Lyndon, as she was called, had seen both Terence and Lucy Payne driving around the area on a number of occasions but couldn’t connect them directly with Katya. The circumstantial evidence was beginning to build up, though, and if Jenny’s psychological probing into the old Alderthorpe wounds turned up anything interesting, then it might be time to reel Lucy in. For the moment, let her enjoy the illusion of freedom.
Katya Pavelic had come to England from Bosnia four years ago, when she was fourteen. Like so many young girls there, she had been gang-raped by Serbian soldiers, and then shot, saving herself only by playing dead under a pile of corpses until some Canadian UN peace-keepers found her three days later. The wound was superficial and the blood had clotted. Her only problem was an infection, and that had responded well to antibiotics. Various groups and individuals had seen that Katya got to England, but she was a disturbed and troublesome girl, and she soon ran away from her foster parents when she was sixteen, and they had tried in vain to find her and contact her ever since.
The irony wasn’t lost on Banks. After having survived the horrors of the Bosnian war, Katya Pavelic had ended up raped, murdered and buried in the Paynes’ back garden. What was the bloody point of it all? he asked. As usual, he got no answer from the Supreme Ironist in the Sky, only a deep hollow laughter echoing through his brain. Sometimes, the pity and the horror of it all were almost too much for him to bear.
And there remained one more unidentified victim, the one who had been buried there the longest: a white woman in her late teens or early twenties, about five feet three inches tall, according to the forensic anthropologist, who was still conducting tests on the bones. There was little doubt in Banks’s mind that this could easily be another prostitute victim, and that might make the corpse hard to identify.
Banks had had one brainstorm and pulled in Terence Payne’s teacher friend Geoff Brighouse to help him find the Aberdeen schoolteacher the two of them had taken up to their room at the convention. Luckily, Banks turned out to be wrong, and she was still teaching in Aberdeen. Though she expressed some anger about her experience, she had kept quiet mostly because she didn’t want to damage her teaching career and had written that one off to experience. She had also been very embarrassed and angry with herself for being so drunk and foolish as to go to a hotel room with two strange men after all the things she had read in the papers. She had almost fainted when Banks told her that the man who had coerced her into having anal sex against her will was Terence Payne. She hadn’t made the connection from the photo in the newspapers and had only been on first-name terms with the two.
Banks opened his window on another fine day in the market-square, tourist buses pulling up already, disgorging their hordes on to the gleaming cobbles. A quick glance around the church’s interior, a walk up to the Castle, lunch at the Pied Piper – Banks felt depressed just thinking about what had happened there yesterday – then they’d pile back in the coach and be off to Castle Bolton or Devraulx Abbey. How he wished he could go on a long holiday. Maybe never come back.
The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at five past ten. Banks lit a cigarette and planned out the rest of his day, plans that included Mick Blair, Ian Scott and Sarah Francis, not to mention the grieving parents, Christopher and Victoria Wray. Winsome had discovered nothing new from talking to the Wrays’ neighbors, none of whom had either seen or heard anything unusual. Banks still had his suspicions about them, though he found it difficult to convince himself that they could actually have killed Leanne.
He had suffered yet another restless night, this time partly because of Annie. Now, the more he thought about her decision, the more sense it made. He didn’t want to give her up, but if he was to be honest, it was best all around. Looking back at her on-again-off-again attitude toward their relationship, the way she bristled every time other aspects of his life came up, he realized that however much there had been, the relationship had also been a lot of grief, too. If she didn’t like the way his past made her face details of her own, like the abortion, then perhaps she was right to end it. Time to move on and stay “just friends,” let her pursue her career and let him try to exorcise his personal demons.
Just as he was finishing his cigarette, DC Winsome Jackman tapped at his door and walked in looking particularly elegant in a tailored pinstripe suit over a white blouse. The woman had clothes sense, Banks thought, unlike himself, and unlike Annie Cabbot. He liked Annie’s casual high style – it was definitely her – but no one could accuse her of making a fashion statement. Anyway, best forget about Annie. He turned toward Winsome.
“Come in. Sit down.”
Winsome sat, crossing her long legs, sniffing accusingly and wrinkling her nose at the smoke.
“I know, I know,” Banks said. “I’m going to stop soon, honestly.”
“That little job you asked me to do,” she said. “I thought you’d like to know that your instinct was right. There was a car reported stolen from Disraeli Street between nine-thirty and eleven o’clock on the night Leanne Wray disappeared.”
“Was there, indeed? Isn’t Disraeli Street just around the corner from the Old Ship Inn?”
“It is, sir.”