Terence Payne would also have known, as Banks did, that Kimberley lived about two hundred yards farther down The Hill than her friend Claire Toth, under the railway bridge, and that there was a dark, desolate stretch of road there, nothing but a wasteland on one side and a Wesleyan chapel on the other, which would have been in darkness at that hour, Wesleyans not being noted for their wild late-night parties. When Banks had walked down there on Saturday afternoon, the day after Kimberley had disappeared, following the route she would have taken home from the dance, he had thought it would have made an ideal pickup place.

Payne would have parked his car a little ahead of Kimberley and either jumped her or said hello, the familiar, safe Mr. Payne from school, somehow maneuvered her inside, then chloroformed her and taken her back through the garage to the cellar.

Perhaps, Banks realized now, Payne couldn’t believe his luck when Kimberley started walking home alone. He would have expected her to be with her friend Claire, if not with others, and could only hope that the others would live closer to the school than Kimberley did and that she would end up alone for that final short but desolate stretch. But with her being alone right from the start, if he was careful and made sure that nobody could see, he could even have offered her a lift. She trusted him. Perhaps he had even, being the good, kind neighbor, given her a lift before.

“Get in the van, Kimberley, you know it’s not safe for a girl your age to be walking the streets alone at this hour. I’ll take you home.”

“Yes, Mr. Payne. Thank you very much, Mr. Payne.”

“You’re lucky I happened by.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now fasten your seat belt.”

“Superintendent?”

“I’m sorry,” said Banks, who had been lost in his imaginings.

“Is it all right if Claire goes home? Her mother should be back by now.”

Banks looked at the child. Her world had shattered into pieces around her. All weekend she must have been terrified that something like this had happened, dreading the moment when the shadow of her guilt was made substance, when her nightmares proved to be reality. There was no reason to keep her here. Let her go to her mother. He knew where she was if he needed to talk to her again. “Just one more thing, Claire,” he said. “Did you see Mr. Payne at all on the evening of the dance?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t at the dance?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t parked outside the youth club?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Did you notice anyone at all hanging around?”

“No. But I wasn’t really looking.”

“Did you see Mrs. Payne at all?”

“Mrs. Payne? No. Why?”

“All right, Claire. You can go home now.”

“Is there any more news of Lucy?” Maggie asked after Claire had left.

“She’s comfortable. She’ll be fine.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Just a few loose ends from this morning’s interview, that’s all.”

“Oh?” Maggie fingered the neck of her T-shirt.

“Nothing important, I shouldn’t think.”

“What is it?”

“One of the officers who interviewed you gave me the impression that he thought you weren’t telling the full story about your relationship with Lucy Payne.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “I see.”

“Would you describe the two of you as close friends?”

“Friends, yes, but close, no. I haven’t known Lucy long.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Yesterday. She dropped by in the afternoon.”

“What did you talk about?”

Maggie looked down at her hands on her lap. “Nothing, really. You know, the weather, work, that sort of thing.”

Kimberley Myers was tied naked in the cellar of the Payne house, and Lucy had dropped by to talk about the weather. Either she really was innocent, or her evil went way beyond anything Banks had experienced before. “Did she ever give you any cause to suspect that anything was wrong at home?” he asked.

Maggie paused. “Not in the way you’re suggesting. No.”

“What way am I suggesting?”

“I assume it’s to do with the murder? With Kimberley’s murder?”

Banks leaned back in his armchair and sighed. It had been a long day, and it was getting longer. Maggie wasn’t a convincing liar. “Ms. Forrest,” he said, “right now anything at all we can find out about life at number thirty-five The Hill would be useful to us. And I mean anything. I’m getting the same impression as my colleague – that you’re keeping something back.”

“It’s nothing relevant.”

“How the hell would you know!” Banks snapped at her. He was shocked by the way she flinched at his harsh tone, at the look of fear and submission that crossed her features and the way she wrapped her arms around herself and drew in. “Ms. Forrest… Maggie,” he said more softly. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve had a bad day, and this is becoming very frustrating. If I had a penny for every time someone told me their information was irrelevant to my investigation I’d be a rich man. I know we all have secrets. I know there are some things we’d rather not talk about. But this is a murder investigation. Kimberley Myers is dead. PC Dennis Morrisey is dead. God knows how many more bodies we’ll unearth there, and I have to sit here and hear you tell me that you know Lucy Payne, that she may have shared certain feelings and information with you and that you don’t think it’s relevant. Come on, Maggie. Give me a break here.”

The silence seemed to go on for ages, until Maggie’s small voice broke it. “She was being abused. Lucy. He… her husband… he hit her.”

“Terence Payne abused his wife?”

“Yes. Is that so strange? If he can murder teenage girls, he’s certainly capable of beating his wife.”

“She told you this?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t she do something about it?”

“It’s not as easy as you think.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy. And don’t assume that you know what I think. What did you advise her?”

“I told her to seek professional help, of course, but she was dragging her heels.”

Banks knew enough about domestic violence to know that victims of it often find it very difficult to go to the authorities or get out: they feel shame, feel it’s their own fault, feel humiliated and would rather keep it to themselves, believing it will turn out all right in the end. Many of them have nowhere else to go, no other lives to live, and they are scared of the world outside the home, even if the home is violent. He also got the impression that Maggie Forrest knew firsthand what she was talking about. The way she had flinched at his sharp tone, the way she had been so reluctant to talk about the subject, holding back. These were all signs.

“Did she ever mention that she suspected her husband of any other crimes?”

“Never.”

“But she was frightened of him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you visit their house?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“Notice anything unusual?”

“No. Nothing.”

“How did the two of them behave together?”

“Lucy always seemed nervous, edgy. Anxious to please.”

“Did you ever see any bruises?”

“They don’t always leave bruises. But Lucy seemed afraid of him, afraid of putting a foot wrong. That’s what I mean.”

Banks made some notes. “Is that all?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Is that all you were holding back, or is there something else?”

“There’s nothing else.”

Banks stood up and excused himself. “Do you see now,” he said at the door, “that what you’ve told me is relevant, after all? Very relevant.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Terence Payne has serious brain injuries. He’s in a coma from which he may never recover, and even if he does, he might remember nothing. Lucy Payne will mend quite easily. You’re the first person who’s given us any information at all about her, and it’s information from which she could benefit.”