“Yes,” said Annie, “but how do we unearth that? And how would we know if we’d found it? We don’t even know where to start looking for Kirsten. For Christ’s sake, we don’t even know that it was her who killed those men eighteen years ago.”
“But you’ve got a pretty strong feeling that it was, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
Annie thought for a moment. Her brain felt sluggish, but she recalled Les Ferris’s tale and what she had since heard from Keith McLaren and Sarah Bingham, and she tried to string her thoughts into something resembling a logical sequence. “From what I can piece together,” she said, “Kirsten must have figured out somehow the identity of her attacker, only she didn’t pass this information on to the police; she went after revenge herself. She finally tracked him down to Whitby—how, I don’t know—and after a false start—Jack Grimley, the poor unlucky sod—she killed him.”
“And the Australian?”
“I don’t know. We talked about that. It’s possible he came too close to working out what was going on. If he knew she was the same person who was in Whitby when Grimley died, and he could link her to him…? Keith McLaren did tell me that he’d noticed Kirsten staring at someone in The Lucky Fisherman—and this is something he only remembered fairly recently—so she might have figured he was a danger to her. Or…”
“Yes?”
“Well, we know he was found in some woods outside Staithes, and that he was seen with a young woman. Say they went for a walk in the woods, things went too far for Kirsten—remember, she was totally traumatized by her experiences as well as mutilated—and she killed him, or thought she had.”
“Self-defense?”
“In her eyes. Maybe overkill in ours. I really don’t believe that Keith McLaren is a rapist.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “And next?”
“I can’t imagine how she must have felt when she had done what she set out to do and finally killed Eastcote, but she couldn’t go back to her old life. She hung around the fringes of it, for a while, saw Sarah a few more times, her parents, perhaps played at being normal, then she finally dropped out of sight a couple of years later. She wasn’t a serious suspect at the time, remember. She had an alibi, and as far as anyone knew, she had no way of knowing that Greg Eastcote was her attacker. That only came out later, when the police searched his house. It’s only now that she seems to have become a suspect in four murders, two of them eighteen years after the others. Anything could have happened since then. She could have gone anywhere, become anyone, done anything.”
“So what do we know about her?” Banks said. “She’d be, what, forty by now?”
“About that, if she’d just finished uni in 1988.”
“And she could be anyone, in any walk of life?”
“Yes. But let’s not forget that she had a university degree. Only English Lit, but even so…By all accounts she was a bright girl with a great future ahead of her. I mean, the odds are that we might be dealing with a professional woman.”
“Unless her experiences completely undermined her ambitions,” Banks argued. “But it’s a good point. If she really has done what we think she’s done, she’s incredibly focused, determined and resourceful. Anyway, it narrows things down. We can certainly check university records. We’re looking for a professional woman, most likely, who could have known that Karen Drew was Lucy Payne.”
“Julia Ford, Lucy’s lawyer, for a start. Ginger went to talk to her again on Friday afternoon and she wasn’t convinced she was telling us everything she knows.”
“Lawyers are naturally tight when it comes to giving information.”
“I know,” said Annie. “But Ginger thinks it was more than that with Julia Ford. I trust her instincts.”
“Maybe I should go and have a word with Ms. Ford,” Banks said. “It’s been a while since we crossed swords.”
“Sarah Bingham’s a lawyer, too, though she says she hasn’t seen Kirsten in years.”
“Believe her?”
“I think so,” Annie said.
“Okay. Who else?”
“A doctor?” Annie suggested. “Perhaps from the hospital she was in near Nottingham. Or Mapston Hall. There are doctors and nurses there.”
“Good point,” said Banks.
“One thing still gets me, though,” said Annie. “If we’re on the right track, why would she kill Templeton?”
“Another mistake?” Banks suggested. “She thought he was the killer stalking the girl, when in fact he was protecting her, like she must have thought Grimley was her attacker eighteen years ago? But you’re right. We need much more corroboration than we’ve got so far that the murders are linked. Who’s your crime scene coordinator?”
“Liam McCullough.”
“He’s a good bloke,” said Banks. “Have him consult with Stefan on this. There has to be trace evidence in common: hairs, fibers, blood, the dimensions of the wound, something to link Lucy Payne and Kev. Let’s see if we can get the pathologists talking to each other, too, when Dr. Wallace has finished with Kev.”
“Okay,” said Annie. “Les Ferris has tracked down the hair samples from the Greg Eastcote case to compare Kirsten’s with the ones Liam and his team collected from Lucy Payne. He says he should be able to get a comparison fixed up for tomorrow morning. That could at least tell us once and for all whether it’s her we are dealing with or not. We also need to know why, if it is Kirsten, she started again after all this time.”
“If we’re right about her motivation,” said Banks, “then I’d guess it’s because she hasn’t been close to any other sex murderers over the past eighteen years. I’m going down to Leeds again sometime this week. While I’m there, I’ll talk to Julia Ford, see if I can push her in the right direction, and I’ll have a read through the old Chameleon postmortem reports Phil Hartnell got out. I have to check, but I seem to remember that the wounds the Paynes inflicted on their victims were similar to those that Kirsten’s attacker inflicted on her, from what you tell me. I know it can’t have been the same killer—Terence Payne is dead, and this Greg Eastcote seemed pretty definite for the killings eighteen years back—but maybe the similarity set her off.”
“But how could Kirsten know that the Paynes inflicted similar wounds on their victims?” Annie asked.
“There were plenty of media reports at the time, and later, after Lucy Payne was kicked loose. The press didn’t waste a moment in reminding people exactly what had been set free among them by our legal system, whether she could walk or not. Kirsten Farrow is also scarred physically, remember, and that could help us, too.”
“I don’t see how,” said Annie. “We can hardly ask every woman connected with the case to strip to the waist.”
“Pity,” said Banks. “But you’re right.”
Annie rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” Banks went on, “we’ve got more than enough to be going on with. Let’s compare notes again when you’ve talked to Maggie Forrest.”
Annie stood up. “Right you are.” She paused at the door. “Alan?”
“Yes.”
“It’s good to be working together again.”
THE REST of Banks’s Sunday went by in a whirl of meetings and interviews, none of which threw any more light on either the Hayley Daniels or the Kevin Templeton murders—both, apparently, killed by different people, for different reasons, in the same place.
Templeton’s parents arrived from Salford to identify their son’s body, and Banks had a brief meeting with them in the mortuary. It was the least courtesy he could offer under the circumstances. He thought it would also be a good idea to let them believe their son had been killed in the line of duty rather than acting on his own initiative. Templeton’s mother broke down in tears and talked about how they’d failed him, and how it all went back to when his sister ran away from home at seventeen, though she swore it wasn’t really their fault, that they couldn’t keep a girl who was s
leeping with men the way she was in a god-fearing house. They’d tried to find her afterward, the father explained, even reported her missing to the police, but to no avail. And now they’d lost their son, too.
Banks now thought he knew who was in the photograph on Templeton’s bedside table, and why Kev had sometimes been so hard on families he interviewed. Christ, he thought, the secrets and burdens people carry around with them.
He needed to talk to Stuart Kinsey again about the snatch of music he had heard in The Maze the night Hayley was killed. Templeton said he had heard something similar in his notes, and Banks had a theory he wanted to put to the test.
As a result of all that, it was past six o’clock before he realized that he hadn’t rung Sophia about their proposed walk. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of her often during the day—in fact she was powerfully and frequently present in his thoughts for someone he had only just met—but time and events had conspired to push making the call out of his consciousness. It was too late for the walk now, he realized, reaching for the telephone, but at least he could apologize. He dialed the number she had given him. Her voice answered on the fourth ring.
“Sophia? It’s Alan. Alan Banks.”
“Oh, Alan. Thanks for calling. I heard about what happened last night on the news. I thought it would keep you busy.”
“I’m sorry about the walk,” said Banks.
“Well, maybe some other time.”
“You go back home on Tuesday?”
“Yes. But I’ll be back again.”
“Look,” Banks said, “even under the circumstances, I was thinking I’ve got to eat. I haven’t had anything except Fig Newtons all day. There’s a nice bistro on Castle Hill. Café de Provence. Would you consider having dinner with me instead?”
There was the briefest of pauses, then she said, “Yes. Yes, that would be nice. I’d like that. If you’re sure you can make it.”
Banks felt a knot of excitement in his chest. “I’m sure. I might not be able to stay long, but it’s better than nothing.” He checked his watch. “How about seven? Is that too early?”
“No, seven’s fine.”
“Shall I pick you up?”
“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“Okay. See you there, then. Seven.”
“Right.”
When he put the receiver down Banks’s palm was sweaty, and his heart was beating fast. Grow up, he told himself, and he got up and reached for his jacket.
MAGGIE FORREST was not only still living and working as a children’s book illustrator in the UK, she was still living in Leeds. She had spent three years in Toronto before returning and subletting a flat on the waterfront, down by the canal, and going back to her old line of work.
Granary Wharf had been developed in an area of decrepit old warehouses by the river Aire and the Leeds-Liverpool Canal at the back of City Station in the late ’80s, and was now a thriving area with its own shops, market, flats, restaurants, entertainment and a cobbled canal walk. On Sunday afternoon, when Annie arrived at the car park near the canal basin, it was quiet. She found Maggie Forrest in a third-floor flat. They had met briefly during the Chameleon business, but Maggie didn’t appear to remember her. Annie showed her warrant card, and Maggie let her in.
The flat was spacious, done in bright warm shades of orange and yellow. There was also plenty of light coming in through a large skylight, which Maggie would need for her artwork Annie guessed.
“What’s it about?” asked Maggie, as Annie sat on her beige modular couch. Maggie sat cross-legged in a large winged armchair opposite. The window looked out on the building site at the back of the Yorkshire Post Building, where yet more flats were going up. On examination, Annie thought, Maggie Forrest certainly had that slight, waiflike look about her that Chelsea Pilton had noticed in the killer, and that Mel Danvers at Mapston Hall had spotted about Mary. Her nose was a bit long, and her chin rather pointed, but other than that she was an attractive woman. Her hair was cut short and peppered with gray. Her eyes looked haunted, nervous. Annie wondered if anyone—Mel, Chelsea—might recognize her from an identification parade?
“It’s a nice flat,” said Annie. “How long have you been here?”
“Eighteen months,” Maggie answered.
“Never visit your friends down on The Hill? Ruth and Charles? It’s not far away. They don’t even know you’re in town.”
Maggie looked away. “I’m sorry. I’ve neglected Ruth and Charles,” she said. “They were good to me.”
“What about Claire Toth? She misses you.”
“She hates me. I let her down.”
“She needs help, Maggie. She’s grown up now and what happened to her friend has left her with a lot of problems. You might be able to do some good there.”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, damn it. Don’t you think I’ve done enough damage? That part of my life is over. I can’t go back there.”
“Why not move farther away, then, make a clean break?”
“Because I’m from here. I need to be close to my roots. And it’s far enough.” She gestured toward the window. “Could be any modern development in any city.”
That was true, Annie thought. “Married?” she asked.
“No. Not that it’s any of your business,” Maggie answered. “And I don’t have a boyfriend, either. There’s no man in my life. I’m quite happy.”
“Fine,” said Annie. Maybe she could be happy without a man in her life, too. She’d hardly been all that happy with one. Or then again, maybe she was doomed to repeat the patterns of her old mistakes.
Maggie didn’t offer tea or coffee, and Annie was parched. She’d treat herself to something later in one of the city center cafés. “Do you own a car?” she asked.
“Yes. A red Megane. What have I done now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Annie. “Where were you last Sunday morning, the eighteenth of March? Mother’s Day.”
“Here, of course. Where else would I be?”
“How about the Whitby area? Ever been there?”
“A few times, yes, but not last Sunday morning.”
“Know a place called Mapston Hall?”
“Only from the news,” said Maggie. “This is about Lucy Payne, isn’t it? I should have known.”
“I would have thought you did,” said Annie. “Anyway, yes. It’s about Lucy Payne.”
“You think I killed her?”
“I never said that.”
“But you do, don’t you?”
“Did you?”
“No. I was here. I told you.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. I’m always alone. I like it best that way. When you’re alone, you can’t hurt anyone, and no one can hurt you.”
“Except yourself.”
“That doesn’t count.”
A diesel train blew its horn as it entered Leeds City Station. “So there’s no way you can prove you were here?” Annie asked.
“I never thought I’d have to.”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t remember.”
“It’s only a week ago,” said Annie. “Try. Didn’t you visit your mother?”
“My mother’s dead. I was probably reading the Sunday papers. That’s what I do on Sunday mornings. Sometimes, if it’s nice, I take them down to that café with the tables outside, but I think that morning was windy and cold.”
“Remember that, do you?” said Annie.
“It’s why I stayed inside to read the papers.”
“Ever heard of Karen Drew?”
Maggie seemed surprised by the question. “No,” she said. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Funny,” said Annie. “It was in the papers when they got hold of the story about Lucy Payne. It was the name she was going under.”
“I didn’t know that. I must have missed it.”
“How do you feel about Lucy?”
“The woman tried to kill me. When it came time t
o go to court, you told me the CPS wasn’t even going to bother prosecuting her. How do you think I feel?”
“Resentful?”
“You could start there. Lucy Payne took my trust, took my help when she needed it the most, then she turned around and not only betrayed me, but she would have killed me, I know, if the police hadn’t arrived. So how do you think I feel?”
“Angry enough to have killed her?”
“Yes. But I didn’t. I didn’t know where she was, for a start.”
“Do you know Julia Ford?”
“I’ve met her. She was Lucy’s lawyer.”
“Stay in touch?”
“I use her firm whenever I need legal work done, which isn’t often. But do we play golf or go out to the pub together? No. Anyway, I don’t need a criminal lawyer. Mostly I deal with Constance. Constance Wells. We’re quite friendly, I suppose. She helped me find this place.”
Of course, Annie thought, remembering the framed illustration on Constance Wells’s wall. One of Maggie’s, no doubt. “You gave her that Hansel and Gretel drawing.”
Maggie looked surprised. “Yes. You’ve seen it?”
“I was in her office last week. It’s very good.”
“You don’t have to patronize me.”
“I wasn’t. I mean it.”
Maggie gave a little dismissive gesture with her shoulders.
“Where were you at about midnight last night?”
“I’d just got home from London. I had a meeting with my publishers on Friday afternoon, so I decided to stay down until Saturday, do some shopping. That’s about as much of London as I can take these days.”
“Where did you stay?”
“Hazlitt’s. Frith Street. My publisher always puts me up there. It’s very convenient.”
“And they would verify this?”
“Of course.”
Well, Annie thought, getting ready to leave, it had been a long shot, but subject to corroboration of her alibi, it didn’t look as if Maggie Forrest could have killed Kevin Templeton. When it came to Lucy Payne, though, Maggie was still high on the list. And she didn’t have an alibi for that.
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