“Do you have an answer?” Dave asked. He was obviously pissed off at the interruption but excited by the possibility of controversy.

“I think it’s because her husband’s dead,” Maggie said. “They think he killed some young girls, but he’s dead, and they can’t exact their pound of flesh. That’s why they’re picking on her. That’s why they’re picking on Lucy.”

“Thank you very much,” David said, turning to the camera and bringing out his smile again. “That just about wraps things up…”

There was silence when the program ended and the technician removed their mikes, then the policewoman went over to Maggie and said, “I think it was extremely ill-advised of you to say what you did back there.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” said Michael. “It’s about time someone spoke out about it.”

The doctor had already left, and David and Emma were nowhere to be seen.

“Fancy a drink?” said Michael to Maggie as they left the studio after having their makeup removed, but she shook her head. All she wanted to do was get a taxi home and climb into a nice warm bath with a good book. It might be the last bit of peace and quiet she got if there was a reaction to what she had said tonight. She didn’t think she had broken any laws. After all, she hadn’t said Terry was guilty of the killings, hadn’t even mentioned his name, but she was also certain that the police could find something to charge her with if they wanted to. They seemed to be good at that. And she wouldn’t put it past Banks at all. Let them do it, she thought. Just let them make a martyr of her.

“Are you sure? Just a quick one.”

She looked at Michael and knew that all he wanted to do was probe her for more details. “No,” she said. “Thank you very much for the offer, but no. I’m going home.”

13

Banks found chaos outside Western Divisional Headquarters early Saturday morning. Even at the back, where the entrance to the car park was located, reporters and camera-wielding television news teams pushed against one another and shouted out questions about Lucy Payne. Banks cursed to himself, turned off the Dylan CD half-way through “Not Dark Yet” and edged his way carefully but firmly through the throng.

Inside, things were quieter. Banks slipped into his office and looked out of the window over the market square. More reporters. TV station vans with satellite dishes. The works. Someone had well and truly let the cat out of the bag. First, Banks walked into the detectives’ squad room looking for answers. DCs Jackman and Templeton were at their desks, and Annie Cabbot was bending over the low drawer in the filing cabinet, a heartwarming sight in her tight black jeans, Banks thought, remembering they had a date that night. Dinner, video and…

“What the hell’s going on out there?” he asked the room in general.

Annie looked up. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Didn’t you see her?”

“What are you talking about?”

Kevin Templeton and Winsome Jackman kept their heads down, leaving this one well alone.

Annie put her hands on her hips. “Last night, on the television.”

“I was over in Withernsea interviewing a retired copper about Lucy Payne. What did I miss?”

Annie walked over to her desk and rested her hip against the edge. “The neighbor, Maggie Forrest, was involved in a television discussion about domestic violence.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Indeed. She ended up by accusing us of persecuting Lucy Payne because we can’t wreak our revenge on her husband, and she informed the viewers in general that Lucy was being detained here.”

“Julia Ford,” Banks whispered.

“Who?”

“The lawyer. I’ll bet she’s the one told Maggie where we were holding Lucy. Christ, what a mess.”

“Oh, by the way,” Annie said with a smile, “AC Hartnell’s already phoned twice. Asked if you’d ring him as soon as you get in.”

Banks headed for his office. Before phoning Phil Hartnell, he opened his window as wide as it would go and lit a cigarette. Bugger the rules; it was shaping up to be one of those days, and it had only just begun. Banks should have known Maggie Forrest was a loose cannon, that his warning might well just egg her on to more foolish behavior. But what else could he do about her? Not much, apparently. She hadn’t committed a criminal offense, and certainly there was nothing to be gained by going around and telling her off again. Still, if he did happen to see her for any reason, he’d give her a piece of his mind. She had no idea what she was playing with.

When he calmed down, he sat at his desk and reached for the phone, but it rang before he could pick it up and dial Hartnell’s number.

“Alan? Stefan here.”

“I hope you’ve got some good news for me, Stefan, because the way this morning’s going I could do with some.”

“That bad?”

“Getting that way.”

“Maybe this’ll cheer you up, then. I just got the DNA comparison in from the lab.”

“And?”

“A match. Terence Payne was your Seacroft Rapist, all right.”

Banks slapped the desk. “Excellent. Anything else?”

“Only minor points. The lads going through all the documents and bills taken from the house have found no evidence of sleeping tablets prescribed for either Terence or Lucy Payne, and they didn’t find any illegal ones, either.”

“As I thought.”

“They did find an electronics catalog, though, from one of those places that put you on their mailing list when you buy something from them.”

“What did they buy?”

“There’s no record of their buying anything on their credit cards, but we’ll approach the company and get someone to go through the purchases, see if they used cash. And another thing: There were some marks on the floor of the cellar that on further investigation look rather like those a tripod would make. I’ve talked with Luke and he didn’t use a tripod, so-”

“Someone else did.”

“Looks that way.”

“Then where the hell is it?”

“No idea.”

“Okay, Stefan, thanks for the good news. Keep looking.”

“Will do.”

As soon as he’d hung up, Banks dialed Hartnell’s number. The man himself answered on the second ring.

“Area Commander Hartnell.”

“It’s Alan,” said Banks. “Heard you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

“Did you see it?”

“No. I’ve only just found out. The place is swarming with media.”

“Surprise, surprise. The stupid woman. What’s the situation with Lucy Payne?”

“I talked to her yesterday, got nowhere.”

“Any more evidence?”

“Not evidence, as such.” Banks told him about the Seacroft Rapist DNA match, the possibility of a camcorder still being hidden somewhere on the Paynes’ property, and his talk with George Woodward about the satanic paraphernalia in Alderthorpe and the ligature strangulation of Kathleen Murray.

“It’s nothing,” said Hartnell. “Certainly not evidence against Lucy Payne. For Christ’s sake, Alan, she was a victim of the most appalling abuse. I remember that Alderthorpe case. We don’t want all that raked up. Think what it will look like if we start suggesting she killed her own bloody cousin when she was only twelve.”

“I thought I might use it to push her a bit, see where she goes.”

“You know as well as I do that blood and fibers aren’t enough, and as far as evidence goes, they’re all we’ve got. This speculation about her past will do nothing but gain her more sympathy from the public.”

“There are probably as many people outraged by the crimes and thinking maybe she had more to do with them than she admits.”

“Probably, but they’re nowhere near as vocal as the people who’ve already been phoning Millgarth, believe me. Cut her loose, Alan.”

“But-”

“We caught our killer and he’s dead. Let her go. We can’t hold her any longer.”

Banks looked at his watch. “We’ve still got four hours. Something might turn up.”