“Not bad,” Lucy answered. “Considering.”

“Is there much pain?”

“Some. My head hurts. How’s Terry? What’s happened to Terry? Nobody will tell me.” Her voice sounded thick, as if her tongue were swollen and her words were slurred. The medication.

“Perhaps if you just told me what happened last night, Lucy. Can you remember?”

“Is Terry dead? Someone told me he was hurt.”

The concern of the abused wife for her abuser – if that was what he was witnessing – didn’t surprise Banks very much at all; it was an old sad tune, and he had heard it many times before, in all its variations.

“Your husband was very badly injured, Lucy,” Dr. Landsberg cut in. “We’re doing all we can for him.”

Banks cursed her under his breath. He didn’t want Lucy Payne to know what kind of shape her husband was in; if she thought he wasn’t going to survive, she could tell Banks whatever she wanted, knowing he’d have no way of checking whether it was true or not. “Can you tell me what happened last night?” he repeated.

Lucy half closed her good eye; she was trying to remember, or pretending she was trying to remember. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Good answer, Banks realized. Wait and see what happens to Terry before admitting to anything. She was sharp, this one, even in her hospital bed, under medication.

“Do I need a lawyer?” she asked.

“Why would you need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. When the police talk to people… you know, on television…”

“We’re not on television, Lucy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I know that, silly. I didn’t mean… never mind.”

“What’s the last thing you remember about what happened to you?”

“I remember waking up, getting out of bed, putting on my dressing gown. It was late. Or early.”

“Why did you get out of bed?”

“I don’t know. I must have heard something.”

“What?”

“A noise. I can’t remember.”

“What did you do next?”

“I don’t know. I just remember getting up and then it hurt and everything went dark.”

“Do you remember having an argument with Terry?”

“No.”

“Did you go in the cellar?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember. I might have done.”

Covering all the possibilities. “Did you ever go in the cellar?”

“That was Terry’s room. He would have punished me if I went down there. He kept it locked.”

Interesting, Banks thought. She could remember enough to distance herself from whatever they might have found in the cellar. Did she know? Forensics ought to be able to confirm whether she was telling the truth or not about going down there. It was the basic rule: wherever you go, you leave something behind and take something with you.

“What did he do down there?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know. It was his own private den.”

“So you never went down there?”

“No. I didn’t dare.”

“What do you think he did down there?”

“I don’t know. Watched videos, read books.”

“Alone?”

“A man needs his privacy sometimes. That’s what Terry said.”

“And you respected that?”

“Yes.”

“What about that poster on the door, Lucy? Did you ever see it?”

“Only from the top of the steps, coming in from the garage.”

“It’s quite graphic, isn’t it? What did you think of it?”

Lucy managed a thin smile. “Men… men are like that, aren’t they? They like that sort of thing.”

“So it didn’t bother you?”

She did something with her lips that indicated it didn’t.

“Superintendent,” Dr. Landsberg cut in, “I really think you ought to be going now and let my patient get some rest.”

“Just a couple more questions, that’s all. Lucy, do you remember who hurt you?”

“I… I… it must have been Terry. There was no one else there, was there?”

“Had Terry ever hit you before?”

She turned her head sideways, so the only side Banks could see was bandaged.

“You’re upsetting her, Superintendent. I really must insist-”

“Lucy, did you ever see Terry with Kimberley Myers? You do know who Kimberley Myers is, don’t you?”

Lucy turned to face him again. “Yes. She’s the poor girl that went missing.”

“That’s right. Did you ever see Terry with her?”

“I don’t remember.”

“She was a pupil at Silverhill, where Terry taught. Did he ever mention her?”

“I don’t think so… I…”

“You don’t remember.”

“No. I’m sorry. What’s wrong? What’s happening? Can I see Terry?”

“I’m afraid you can’t, not at the moment,” said Dr. Landsberg. Then she turned to Banks. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. You can see how agitated Lucy is becoming.”

“When can I talk to her again?”

“I’ll let you know. Soon. Please.” She took Banks by the arm.

Banks knew when he was beaten. Besides, the interview was going nowhere. He didn’t know whether Lucy was telling the truth about not remembering or whether she was confused because of her medication.

“Get some rest, Lucy,” Dr. Landsberg said as they left.

“Mr. Banks? Superintendent?”

It was Lucy, her small, thick, slurred voice, her obsidian eye fixing him in its gaze.

“Yes?”

“When can I go home?”

Banks had a mental image of what home would look like right now, and probably for the next month or more. Under construction. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Outside in the corridor, Banks turned to Dr. Landsberg. “Can you help me with something, Doctor?”

“Perhaps.”

“Her not remembering. Is that symptomatic?”

Dr. Landsberg rubbed her eyes. She looked as if she got about as much sleep as Banks did. Someone paged a Dr. Thorsen over the PA system. “It’s possible,” she said. “In cases like this there’s often post-traumatic stress disorder, one of the effects of which can be retrograde amnesia.”

“Do you think that’s the case with Lucy?”

“Too early to say, and I’m not an expert in the field. You’d have to talk to a neurologist. All I can say is that we’re pretty certain there’s no physical brain damage, but emotional stress can be a factor, too.”

“Is this memory loss selective?”

“What do you mean?”

“She seems to remember her husband was hurt and that he was the one who hit her, but nothing else.”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“Is it likely to be permanent?”

“Not necessarily.”

“So her complete memory might come back?”

“In time.”

“How long?”

“Impossible to say. As early as tomorrow, as late as… well, maybe never. We know so little about the brain.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”

Dr. Landsberg gave him a puzzled glance. “Not at all,” she said. “Superintendent, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but I had a word with Dr. Mogabe – he’s Terence Payne’s doctor – just before you came.”

“Yes.”

“He’s very concerned.”

“Oh?” This was what DC Hodgkins had told Banks the day before.

“Yes. It seems as if his patient was assaulted by a policewoman.”

“Not my case,” said Banks.

Dr. Landsberg’s eyes widened. “Just like that? You’re not at all concerned?”

“Whether I’m concerned or not doesn’t enter into it. Someone else is investigating the assault on Terence Payne and will no doubt be talking to Dr. Mogabe in due course. My interest is in the five dead girls and the Paynes. Good-bye, Doctor.”

And Banks walked off down the corridor, footsteps echoing, leaving Dr. Landsberg to her dark thoughts. An orderly pushed a whey-faced, wrinkled old man past on a gurney, IV hooked up, on his way to surgery, by the look of things.

Banks shuddered and walked faster.