As usual, what he thought didn’t really matter, because the whole business was out of his hands, the judgment not his to make. Perhaps the best he could hope for was to put Lucy Payne out of his mind, which he would succeed in doing over time. Partially, at any rate. She would always be there – they all were, killers and victims – but in time she would fade and become a more shadowy figure than she was at the moment.

Banks had not forgotten the sixth victim. She had a name, and unless her childhood was like Lucy Payne’s, someone must have once loved her, held her and whispered words of comfort after a nightmare, perhaps, soothed away the pain when she fell and scraped her knee. He would have to be patient. The forensic experts were good at their jobs, and eventually her bones would yield up something that would lead to her identity.

Just as the famous “Meditation” at the end of the first CD started, his phone rang. He was off duty and at first thought of not answering, but curiosity got the better of him, as it always did.

It was Annie Cabbot, and she sounded as if she were standing in the middle of a road, there was no much noise around her: voices, sirens, car brakes, people shouting orders.

“Annie, where the hell are you?”

“Roundabout on the Ripon Road, just north of Harrogate,” Annie said, shouting to make herself heard over the noise.

“What are you doing there?”

Somebody spoke to Annie, though Banks couldn’t hear what was said. She answered abruptly and then came back on the line. “Sorry, it’s a bit chaotic down here.”

“What’s going on?”

“I thought you ought to know. It’s Janet Taylor.”

“What about her?”

“She ran into another car.”

“She what? How is she?”

“She’s dead, Alan. Dead. They haven’t been able to get her body out of the car yet, but they know she’s dead. They got her handbag out and found my card in it.”

“Bloody hell.” Banks felt numb. “How did it happen?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Annie said. “The person in the car behind her says she just seemed to speed up at the roundabout rather than slow down, and she hit the car that was going round. A mother driving her daughter home from a piano lesson.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. What happened to them?”

“The mother’s okay. Cuts and bruises. Shock.”

“The daughter?”

“It’s touch and go. The paramedics suspect internal injuries, but they won’t know till they get her to hospital. She’s still stuck in the car.”

“Was Janet pissed?”

“Don’t know yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if drinking had something to do with it, though. And she was depressed. I don’t know. She might have been trying to kill herself. If she did… it’s…” Banks could sense Annie choking up.

“Annie, I know what you’re going to say, but even if she did do it on purpose, it’s not your fault. You didn’t go down there in that cellar, see what she saw, do what she did. All you did was carry out an unbiased investigation.”

“Unbiased! Christ, Alan, I bent over backward to be sympathetic toward her.”

“Whatever. It’s not your fault.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Annie, she was no doubt drunk, and she went off the road.”

“Maybe you’re right. I can’t believe that Janet would take someone else with her if she wanted to kill herself. But whichever way you look at it, drunk or not, suicide or not, it’s still down to what happened, isn’t it?”

“It happened, Annie. Nothing to do with you.”

“The politics. The fucking politics.”

“Do you want me to come down?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Annie-”

“Sorry, got to go now. They’re pulling the girl out of the car.” She hung up, leaving Banks holding the receiver and breathing quickly. Janet Taylor. Another casualty of the Paynes.

The first CD had finished, and Banks had no real desire to listen to the second one after the news he had just heard. He poured himself two fingers of Laphroaig and took his cigarettes outside to his spot by the falls and, as the vivid orange and purple colors streaked the western sky, he drank a silent toast to Janet Taylor and to the nameless dead girl buried in the Paynes’ garden.

But he hadn’t been out there five minutes when he decided he should go to Annie, had to go, no matter what she had said. Their romantic relationship might be over, but he had promised to be her friend and give her support. If she didn’t need that right now, when would she? He looked at his watch. It would take him an hour or so to get there, if he moved fast, and Annie would probably still be at the scene. Even if she’d gone, she would be at hospital, and he would be able to find her there easily enough.

He left the tumbler, still half-full, on the low table and went to grab his jacket. Before he could put it on, the phone rang again. Thinking it was Annie calling back with more news, he answered. It was Jenny Fuller.

“I hope I haven’t called at an awkward moment,” she said.

“I was just going out.”

“Oh. An emergency?”

“Sort of.”

“Only I was thinking we might have a drink and celebrate, you know, now it’s all over.”

“That’s a great idea, Jenny. I can’t do it right now, though. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Story of my life.”

“Sorry. Got to go. I’ll call. Promise.”

Banks could hear the disappointment in Jenny’s voice, and he felt like a real bastard for being so abrupt with her – after all, she had worked on the case as hard as anyone – but he didn’t want to explain about Janet Taylor, and he didn’t feel like celebrating anything.

Now it’s all over, Jenny had said. Banks wondered if it would ever be all over, the aftermath of the Paynes’ rampage, if it would ever cease taking its toll. Six teenage girls dead, one still unidentified. Kathleen Murray dead these ten years or more. PC Dennis Morrisey dead. Terence Payne dead. Lucy Payne paralyzed. Now Janet Taylor dead and a young girl seriously injured.

Banks checked for his keys and cigarettes, and headed out into the night.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my editor, Patricia Lande Grader, for her help in reshaping the unruly early drafts, and my wife, Sheila Halladay, for her perceptive and helpful comments. Also, many thanks to my agent, Dominick Abel, for all his hard work on my behalf, and to Erika Schmid for her fine copyediting.

As far as research goes, the usual crowd came through: Detective Sergeant Keith Wright, Detective Inspectors Claire Gormley and Alan Young, and Area Commander Philip Gormley. Any mistakes are entirely my own and are, of course, made in the interests of dramatic fiction. Also, thanks to Woitek Kubicki for his advice on Polish names.

A number of books proved invaluable in understanding the “killer couple” phenomenon, and among those to which I owe my greatest debt of gratitude are Emlyn Williams, Beyond Belief; Brian Masters, She Must Have Known; Paul Britton, The Jigsaw Man; Gordon Burn, Happy Like Murderers; and Stephen Williams, Invisible Darkness.