“I know who Kimberley Myers was. I read the newspapers. Go on.”

“They were friends. They went to the same school. Both of them knew Terence Payne. He was their biology teacher.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“And she felt responsible, you know, for Kimberley. They were supposed to walk home together that night, but a boy asked Claire to dance. A boy she liked, and…”

“And her friend walked home alone. To her death?”

“Yes,” said Maggie.

“You said you had a question to ask me.”

“I haven’t seen Claire since she told me this on Monday afternoon. I’m worried about her. Psychologically, I mean. What would something like this do to someone like her?”

“Not knowing the girl in question, I can’t possibly say,” said Dr. Simms. “It depends on her inner resources, on her self-image, on family support, on many things. Besides, it seems to me that there are two separate issues here.”

“Yes?”

“First, the girl’s proximity to the criminal and to one victim in particular, and second, her feeling of responsibility, of guilt. As far as the first is concerned, I can offer a few general considerations.”

“Please do.”

“First of all, tell me how you feel about it all.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I… I don’t know yet. Afraid, I suppose. Not so trusting. He was my neighbor, after all. I don’t know. I haven’t been able to work it all out yet.”

Dr. Simms nodded. “Your friend probably feels the same way. Mostly confused for the moment. Only she’s younger than you, and she probably has fewer defenses. She’ll certainly be more mistrustful of people. After all, this man was her teacher, a figure of respect and authority. Handsome, well-dressed, with a nice house and a pretty young wife. He didn’t look at all like the sort of monster we usually associate in our minds with crimes such as these. And she’ll experience a heightened sense of paranoia. She may not feel comfortable going out alone, for example, may feel she’s being stalked or watched. Or her parents might not let her go out. Sometimes parents take control in these situations, especially if they feel they’ve been guilty of any sort of neglect.”

“So her parents might be keeping her at home? Keeping her from visiting me?”

“It’s possible.”

“What else?”

“From what I can gather so far, these are sex crimes, and as such they are bound to have some effect on a vulnerable young schoolgirl’s burgeoning sexuality. Exactly what effect is hard to say. It takes different people different ways. Some girls might become more childlike, suppress their sexuality, because they think that will afford them some kind of protection. Others may even become more promiscuous because being good girls didn’t help the victims. I can’t tell you which way she’ll go.”

“I’m sure Claire wouldn’t become promiscuous.”

“She may become withdrawn and preoccupied with the case. I think it’s most important that she doesn’t keep these feelings bottled up, that she struggles to understand what happened. I know that’s difficult, even for us adults, but we can help her.”

“How?”

“By accepting its effect on her but also reassuring her that it was some sort of aberration, not the natural course of things. There’s little doubt the effects will be deep and long-lasting, but she will have to learn how to readjust to the way her worldview has altered.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re always saying that teenagers feel immortal, but any immortality your friend felt she had will have been stripped away by what’s happened. That’s a hard adjustment to make, that what happened to someone close to you could happen to you, too. And the full horror of it hasn’t even come out yet.”

“What can I do?”

“Probably nothing,” said Dr. Simms. “You can’t make her come to you, but if she does you should encourage her to talk, be a good listener. But don’t push her, and don’t try to tell her how to feel.”

“Should she be seeing a psychologist?”

“Probably. But that’s her decision. Or her parents’.”

“Could you recommend someone? I mean, if they’re interested.”

Dr. Simms wrote a name on a slip of paper. “She’s good,” she said. “Now, off you go. I’ve got my next patient waiting.”

They arranged another appointment and Maggie walked out into Park Square thinking about Claire and Kimberley and human monsters. That numb sensation had come back, the feeling that the world was at a distance, through mirrors and filters, cotton wool, through the wrong end of the telescope. She felt like an alien in human form. She wanted to go back to where she came from, but she didn’t know where it was anymore.

She walked down to City Square, past the statue of the Black Prince and the nymphs bearing their torches, then she leaned against the wall near the bus stop on Boar Lane and lit a cigarette. The elderly woman beside her gave her a curious look. Why was it, Maggie wondered, that she always felt worse after these sessions with Dr. Simms than she did before she went?

The bus arrived. Maggie trod out her cigarette and got on.

11

The drive to Eastvale went smoothly enough. Banks ordered an unmarked car and driver from Millgarth and left through a side exit with Julia Ford and Lucy Payne. They didn’t run into any reporters. During the journey Banks sat in the front with the driver, a young female DC, and Julia Ford and Lucy Payne sat in the back. Nobody spoke a word. Banks was preoccupied by the discovery of another body in the Payne’s back garden, news he had just received from Stefan Nowak on his mobile as they set off from the infirmary. That made one body too many, and by the sound of it, he didn’t think this one was Leanne Wray’s either.

Occasionally, Banks caught a glimpse of Lucy in the rearview mirror and saw that she was mostly gazing out of the window. He couldn’t read her expression. Just to be on the safe side, they entered the Eastvale Police Station through the rear entrance. Banks settled Lucy and Julia in an interview room and went to his office, where he walked over to the window and lit a cigarette and prepared himself for the coming interview.

He had been so preoccupied with the extra body on the journey up that he had hardly noticed it was another gorgeous day out there. There were plenty of cars and coaches parked on the cobbled market square, family groups milling about, holding on to their children’s hands, women with cardigans fastened loosely by the sleeves around their necks, just in case a cool breeze sprang up, clutching umbrellas against the possibility of rain. Why is it we English can never quite entrust ourselves to believe that fine weather will last? Banks wondered. We’re always expecting the worst. That was why the forecasters covered all bases: sunny with cloudy periods and chance of a shower.

The interview room smelled of disinfectant because its last inhabitant, a drunken seventeen-year-old joyrider, had puked up a take-away pizza all over the floor. Other than that, the room was clean enough, though very little light filtered in through the high barred window. Banks inserted tapes in the machine, tested them, and then went through the immediate formalities of time, date and those present.

“Right, Lucy,” he said when he’d finished. “Ready to begin?”

“If you like.”

“How long have you been living in Leeds?”

“What?”

Banks repeated the question. Lucy looked puzzled by it but said, “Four years, more or less. Ever since I started working at the bank.”

“And you came from Hull, from your foster parents Clive and Hilary Liversedge?”

“Yes. You know that already.”

“Just getting the background clear, Lucy. Where did you live before then?”

Lucy started to fidget with her wedding ring. “Alderthorpe,” she said quietly. “I lived at number four Spurn Road.”