Annie shook her head. She stretched out her legs sideways from the chair and crossed them. Banks noticed the thin gold chain around her ankle, one of the many things he found sexy about Annie. “She lost it, Alan. It goes way beyond self-defense and reasonable force. There’s another thing, too.”

“What?”

“I spoke to the paramedics and ambulance attendants who were first at the scene. They hadn’t a clue what had happened, of course, but it didn’t take them long to work out it was something really nasty and bizarre.”

“And?”

“One of them said when he went over to PC Taylor, who was cradling PC Morrisey’s body, she looked over at Payne and said, ‘Is he dead? Did I kill the bastard?’ ”

“That could mean anything.”

“My point exactly. In the hands of a good barrister it could mean she had intended to kill him all along and was asking if she had succeeded in her aim. It could signify intent.”

“It could also just be an innocent question.”

“You know as well as I do there’s nothing innocent about this business at all. Especially with the Hadleigh case on the news every day. And don’t forget that Payne was unarmed and down on the floor when she aimed the final few blows.”

“How do we know that?”

“PC Taylor had already broken his wrist, according to her statement, and kicked the machete into the corner where it was found later. Also, the angles of the blows and the force behind them indicate she had the advantage of height, which we know she didn’t have naturally. Payne’s six foot one and PC Taylor’s only five foot six.”

Banks took a long drag on his cigarette as he digested what Annie had to say, thinking it wouldn’t be a hell of a lot of fun to tell AC Hartnell about this. “Not an immediate threat to her, then?” he said.

“Not from where I’m looking.” Annie shifted a little in her chair. “It’s possible,” she admitted. “I’m not saying that wouldn’t freak out even the best-trained copper. But I’ve got to say that it looks to me as if she lost it. I’d still like to have a look at the scene.”

“Sure. Though I doubt there’s much left to see now the SOCOs have been in there for three days.”

“Even so…”

“I understand,” said Banks. And he did. There was something ritualistic in visiting the scene. Whether you picked up vibrations from the walls or what, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that it connected you more closely with the crime. You’d stood there, in that place where evil had happened. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’ll call on Janet Taylor after.”

“I’ll arrange it with the officers on duty,” said Banks. “We can go down there together if you like. I’m off to talk to Lucy Payne again before she disappears.”

“They’re releasing her from hospital?”

“So I’ve heard. Her injuries aren’t that serious. Besides, they need the bed.”

Annie paused, then she said, “I’d rather make my own way.”

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“Oh, don’t look so crestfallen, Alan. It’s nothing personal. It just wouldn’t look good. And people would see us, no matter what you think.”

“You’re right,” Banks agreed. “Look, if there’s any chance of a bit of spare time Saturday night, how about dinner and…?”

The corners of Annie’s mouth turned up, and a gleam came to her dark eyes. “Dinner and what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t. Tell me.”

Banks glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then he leaned forward. But before he could say anything, the doors opened and DC Winsome Jackman walked in. Heads turned: some because she was black, and some because she was a gorgeous, statuesque young woman. Winsome was on duty and Banks and Annie had told her where they would be.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

“That’s all right,” said Banks. “What is it?”

“A DC Karen Hodgkins from the task force just phoned.”

“And?”

Winsome looked at Annie. “It’s Terence Payne,” she said. “He died an hour ago in the infirmary without recovering consciousness.”

“Oh, shit,” said Annie.

“Well, that should make life interesting,” said Banks, reaching for another cigarette.

“Tell me about the Alderthorpe Seven,” said Banks into his phone at home later that evening. He had just settled down to Duke Ellington’s Black, Brown and Beige, the latest copy of Gramophone and two fingers of Laphroaig when Jenny phoned. He turned down the music and reached for his cigarettes. “I mean,” he went on, “I vaguely remember hearing about it at the time, but I can’t remember many details.”

“I don’t have a lot yet, myself,” said Jenny. “Only what the Liversedges told me.”

“Go on.”

Banks heard a rustle of paper at the other end of the line. “On the eleventh of February, 1990,” Jenny began, “police and social workers made a dawn raid on the village of Alderthorpe, near Spurn Head on the East Yorkshire coast. They were acting on allegations of ritual satanic abuse of children and investigating a missing child.”

“Who blew the whistle?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I didn’t ask.”

Banks filed it away for later. “Okay. Carry on.”

“I’m not a policeman, Alan. I don’t know what sort of questions to ask.”

“I’m sure you did just fine. Please, go on.”

“They took six children from two separate households into care.”

“What exactly was supposed to have been going on?”

“At first it was all very vague. ‘Lewd and libidinous behavior. Ritualistic music, dance and costume.’ ”

“Sounds like police headquarters on a Saturday night. Anything else?”

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. And sick. It seems this was one of the few such cases in which prosecutions went forward and convictions were gained. All the Liversedges would tell me was that there were tales of torture, of kids being forced to drink urine and eat… Christ, I’m not squeamish, Alan, but this stuff turns my stomach.”

“That’s all right. Take it easy.”

“They were humiliated,” Jenny went on. “Sometimes physically injured, kept in cages without food for days, used as objects of sexual gratification in satanic rituals. One child, a girl called Kathleen Murray, was found dead. Her remains showed evidence of torture and sexual abuse.”

“How did she die?”

“She was strangled. She’d also been beaten and half-starved, too. That was what sparked the whistle-blower, her not turning up for school.”

“And this was proven in court?”

“Most of it, yes. The killing. The satanic stuff didn’t come out in the trial. I suppose the CPS must have thought it would just sound like too much mumbo jumbo.”

“How did it come out?”

“Some of the children gave descriptions later, after they’d been fostered.”

“Lucy?”

“No. According to the Liversedges, Lucy never spoke about what happened. She just put it all behind her.”

“Was it followed up?”

“No. There were similar allegations and raids in Cleveland, Rochdale and the Orkneys, and pretty soon it was all over the papers. Caused a hell of a national outcry. Epidemic of child abuse, that sort of thing. Overzealous social workers. Questions in the House, the lot.”

“I remember,” said Banks.

“Most of the cases were thrown out, and nobody wanted to talk about the one that was true. Well, Alderthorpe wasn’t the only one. There was a similar case in Nottingham in 1989 that also resulted in convictions, but it wasn’t widely publicized. Then we got the Butler-Schloss report and revisions of the Children’s Act.”

“What happened to Lucy’s real parents?”

“They went to jail. The Liversedges have no idea whether they’re still there or what. They haven’t kept track of things.”

Banks sipped some Laphroaig and flicked his cigarette end into the empty grate. “So Lucy stayed with the Liversedges?”