This prompted David to go back to the policewoman and talk about how ineffective the courts were in protecting women at risk from abusive spouses, and Maggie had the chance to take stock of what she had said. She hadn’t done too badly, she decided. It was hot under the studio lights and she felt her brow moisten with sweat. She hoped it wouldn’t rinse away the makeup.
Next David turned to the doctor.
“Is domestic violence specifically directed from men to women, Dr. Bletchley?” he asked.
“There are some cases of husbands being physically abused by their wives,” said the doctor, “but relatively few.”
“I think you’ll find, statistically,” Michael butted in, “that male violence against women by far outstrips women’s against men, almost enough to make female violence against men seem insignificant. It’s built into our culture. Men hunt down and kill their ex-partners, for example, or commit familial massacres in a way that women do not.”
“But that aside,” David asked next, “don’t you think sometimes, that a woman might overreact and ruin a man’s life? I mean, once such accusations have been made, they are often very difficult to shake off, even if a court finds the person not guilty.”
“But isn’t it worth the risk,” Maggie argued, “if it saves the ones who really need saving?”
David smirked. “Well, that’s rather like saying what’s hanging a few innocent people matter as long as we get the guilty ones, too, isn’t it?”
“Nobody intentionally set out to hang innocent people,” Kathy pointed out.
“But, say, if a man retaliates in the face of extreme provocation,” David pressed on, “isn’t the woman still far more likely to be seen as the victim?”
“She is the victim,” Maggie said.
“That’s like saying she asked for it,” Michael added. “Just what kind of provocation justifies violence?”
“Are there not also women who actually like it rough?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” said Michael. “That’s the same sort of thing as suggesting that women ask to be raped by the way they dress.”
“But there are masochistic personalities, aren’t there, Doctor?”
“You’re talking about women who like their sex rough, yes?” said the doctor.
David seemed a little embarrassed by the directness of the question – clearly he was a man used to asking, not answering – but he nodded.
Dr. Bletchley stroked his beard before answering. “Well, to answer your question simply: Yes, there are masochistic women, just as there are masochistic men, but you have to understand that we’re dealing with a very tiny fragment of society here and not that section of society concerned with domestic violence.”
Obviously glad to be done with this line of questioning, David moved on to his next question, phrasing it carefully for Maggie. “You’ve recently had some involvement with what’s become rather a cause célèbre involving domestic abuse. Now, while we can’t discuss the case directly for legal reasons, is there anything you can tell us about that situation?”
He looked hungry for an answer, Maggie thought. “Someone confided in me,” she said. “Confided that she was being abused by her husband. I offered advice, as much help and support as I could give.”
“But you didn’t report it to the authorities.”
“It wasn’t my place to do that.”
“What do you think of that, DC Proctor?”
“She’s right. There’s nothing we can do until the persons themselves report the matter.”
“Or until things come to a head, as they did in this instance?”
“Yes. That’s often the unfortunate result of the way things work.”
“Thank you very much,” David said, about to wrap things up.
Maggie realized she had weakened at the end, got sidetracked, so she launched in, interrupting him, and said, “If I might add just one more thing, it’s that victims are not always treated with the care, respect and tenderness we all think they deserve. Right now, there’s a young woman in the cells in Eastvale, a woman who until this morning was in hospital with injuries she sustained when her husband beat her last weekend. Why is this woman being persecuted like this?”
“Do you have an answer?” Dave asked. He was obviously pissed off at the interruption but excited by the possibility of controversy.
“I think it’s because her husband’s dead,” Maggie said. “They think he killed some young girls, but he’s dead, and they can’t exact their pound of flesh. That’s why they’re picking on her. That’s why they’re picking on Lucy.”
“Thank you very much,” David said, turning to the camera and bringing out his smile again. “That just about wraps things up…”
There was silence when the program ended and the technician removed their mikes, then the policewoman went over to Maggie and said, “I think it was extremely ill-advised of you to say what you did back there.”
“Oh, leave her alone,” said Michael. “It’s about time someone spoke out about it.”
The doctor had already left, and David and Emma were nowhere to be seen.
“Fancy a drink?” said Michael to Maggie as they left the studio after having their makeup removed, but she shook her head. All she wanted to do was get a taxi home and climb into a nice warm bath with a good book. It might be the last bit of peace and quiet she got if there was a reaction to what she had said tonight. She didn’t think she had broken any laws. After all, she hadn’t said Terry was guilty of the killings, hadn’t even mentioned his name, but she was also certain that the police could find something to charge her with if they wanted to. They seemed to be good at that. And she wouldn’t put it past Banks at all. Let them do it, she thought. Just let them make a martyr of her.
“Are you sure? Just a quick one.”
She looked at Michael and knew that all he wanted to do was probe her for more details. “No,” she said. “Thank you very much for the offer, but no. I’m going home.”
13
Banks found chaos outside Western Divisional Headquarters early Saturday morning. Even at the back, where the entrance to the car park was located, reporters and camera-wielding television news teams pushed against one another and shouted out questions about Lucy Payne. Banks cursed to himself, turned off the Dylan CD half-way through “Not Dark Yet” and edged his way carefully but firmly through the throng.
Inside, things were quieter. Banks slipped into his office and looked out of the window over the market square. More reporters. TV station vans with satellite dishes. The works. Someone had well and truly let the cat out of the bag. First, Banks walked into the detectives’ squad room looking for answers. DCs Jackman and Templeton were at their desks, and Annie Cabbot was bending over the low drawer in the filing cabinet, a heartwarming sight in her tight black jeans, Banks thought, remembering they had a date that night. Dinner, video and…
“What the hell’s going on out there?” he asked the room in general.
Annie looked up. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Didn’t you see her?”
“What are you talking about?”
Kevin Templeton and Winsome Jackman kept their heads down, leaving this one well alone.
Annie put her hands on her hips. “Last night, on the television.”
“I was over in Withernsea interviewing a retired copper about Lucy Payne. What did I miss?”
Annie walked over to her desk and rested her hip against the edge. “The neighbor, Maggie Forrest, was involved in a television discussion about domestic violence.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Indeed. She ended up by accusing us of persecuting Lucy Payne because we can’t wreak our revenge on her husband, and she informed the viewers in general that Lucy was being detained here.”
“Julia Ford,” Banks whispered.
“Who?”
“The lawyer. I’ll bet she’s the one told Maggie where we were holding Lucy. Christ, what a mess.”