Friend of the Devil

by Peter Robinson

  Dr. Burns glanced over his shoulder and moved back to stand beside Banks. The room was just high enough for them both to stand upright. “Ah, Alan. I’ve disturbed things as little as possible. I know what the SOCOs are like.”

  Banks knew, too. The Scenes-of-Crime Officers were very territorial about their work, and woe betide anyone who got in their way, DCI or not. “Have you had a chance to determine cause of death?” he asked.

  “Looks like manual strangulation to me, unless there are any hidden causes,” Burns said, stooping and carefully lifting a strand of blond hair, gesturing toward the dark bruising under her chin and ear.

  From what Banks could see, she was young, no older than his own daughter Tracy. She was wearing a green top and a white miniskirt with a broad pink plastic belt covered in silver glitter. The skirt had been hitched up even higher than it was already to expose her upper thighs. The body looked posed. She lay on her left side, legs scissored, as if she were running in her sleep. Something glistened on her pale flesh lower down, just above her knee, and Banks thought it might be semen. If so, there was a good chance of DNA. Her red knickers, skimpy as string, had snagged on her left ankle. She was wearing black patent leather high heels and a silver chain around her right ankle. Just above it was a tattoo of a tiny butterfly. Her top had been pushed up to expose the profile of her small pale breasts and puffy nipples, and her eyes were open, staring at the far wall. Two or three of the leather remnants protruded from her mouth.

  “Pretty young thing,” said Dr. Burns. “Damn shame.”

  “Is that all she was wearing? It’s bloody freezing.”

  “Kids today. You must have seen them.”

  Banks had. Whole groups of them, girls in particular, though plenty of boys wore nothing but T-shirts and jeans, running around town from pub to pub in the middle of winter wearing thin sleeveless tops and short skirts. No tights. He had always assumed it was because they wanted to show off their bodies, but perhaps it was a simple practical matter. It just made things easier when you were on the move: no clutter, nothing to remember, or forget, except your handbag. It made coming and going from places easy, and perhaps it was a mark of youth too, indifference to the cold, thumbing one’s nose at the elements.

  “She wouldn’t have ended up in that position naturally, would she?” Banks asked.

  “Not if she was raped and strangled,” said Burns. “She would have been on her back, with her legs open, but there’s no sign of lividity there.”

  “So he moved her when he’d finished, turned her on her side, turned her face away, made her appear a bit more decent, as if she was sleeping. Perhaps he cleaned her up, too.”

  “Well, if he did, he missed something, didn’t he?” said Dr. Burns, pointing to the glistening spot.

  Dr. Burns moved and accidentally bumped his head against the lightbulb, which started swinging back and forth. In the corner, beside the door, Banks glimpsed something catching the light. There, on the dusty stone floor, lay a gold lamé bag with a thin shoulder strap. Carefully, with his gloved hands, Banks picked it up and opened it. Lipstick; compact with mirror; three condoms; four Benson & Hedges; purple Bic cigarette lighter and a book of matches from The Duck and Drake; facial tissues; paracetamol; nail file and clipper; a tampon; cheap turquoise gel pen; iPod shuffle in a pink skin; driving license; an unmarked vial with four white pills in it, Ecstasy, each stamped with a crown; a small purse with twenty pounds in notes and sixty-five pence in coins. Finally, a small address book with a William Morris cover, and in the front a name, Hayley Daniels, the same name that appeared with the photograph on her driving license, and an address in Swainshead, a village about thirty miles west of Eastvale.

  Banks made a note of the details in his notebook and put everything back in the handbag for the SOCOs. He called Kevin Templeton into the doorway and told him to phone the local police station in Swainshead and have the constable there break the news to the girl’s parents. Arrangements would then be made for them to come to Eastvale to identify the body. No more than the necessary details to be given.

  Then Banks glanced back toward the girl’s twisted body. “Anything on the sexual element?” he asked Dr. Burns. “Apart from the obvious.”

  “Nothing certain yet, but it looks as if she’s been brutally raped,” said Burns. “Vaginal and anal. Dr. Wallace will be able to tell you more when she gets her on the table. One odd thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s been shaved. Down there.”

  “The killer?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But some girls do it…I mean, so I’ve heard. And there’s a tattoo, where the hair would have been. You can’t see it well at all from this position, and I don’t want to disturb the body any more than necessary until the SOCOs have had their turn. But it would seem to indicate maybe she had it done herself some time ago. You can see the tattoo on her ankle, too.”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Burns was the local police surgeon and, as such, his job usually stopped with attending the scene, declaring death and releasing the body for the coroner. After that, Dr. Wallace, the new Home Office pathologist, usually performed the postmortem. Banks had found Burns useful in the past, though. Like all doctors, he didn’t like to commit himself, but he could be led into a speculation or two on cause and time of death, which usually proved accurate enough to save Banks some time. That was what he asked about next.

  Burns checked his watch. “It’s half past nine now,” he said. “The cold would slow down rigor, and she seems young and healthy enough. I mean…you know.”

  Banks knew. Over the years he had got used to dead people being described as “in good health.”

  “I’m only guessing, of course,” Burns went on, “but I’d say after midnight, maybe as late as two in the morning, but not likely later than that.”

  “Was she killed here?”

  “It seems that way,” said Burns.

  Banks scanned the room. “It’s a pretty isolated spot,” he said. “Insulated, too. Thick walls. I doubt anybody would hear anything, if there was anything to hear.” He looked at the swatches of leather that filled the girl’s mouth. “Even if she got off one good scream to start with, that would have soon silenced her.”

  Dr. Burns said nothing. He took out his notebook and made a number of jottings, which Banks assumed to be time, temperature, position of body and suchlike. They needed the photographer here soon. The SOCOs would have to wait until he had finished, of course, but they wouldn’t like it. They’d be straining at their chains like a pack of Dobermans who hadn’t been given a lump of meat in a month.

  The hinges creaked and Peter Darby, the police photographer, arrived with his old Pentax and new digital video cam. The room was small, so Banks and Burns edged out and left him to it. Banks felt an urge for a cigarette. He didn’t know why, as nobody around him was smoking. Perhaps it was the Benson & Hedges he had seen in the victim’s handbag. Or the rain that had now replaced the sleet. He had a memory of a cigarette tasting so good in the rain once, when he had been a very young smoker, and it had stuck with him for some reason. He let go of the thought, and the urge faded. From the church in the market square he thought he could hear the congregation singing “There Is a Green Hill Far Away,” and it reminded him that Easter was coming up soon.

  “She’d also been sick,” Dr. Burns added. “I don’t know if it’s significant, but I noticed traces of vomit both inside and on the wall outside.”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “I smelled it, too. There’s also a chance it could have been the killer’s. Not everyone has the stomach for this sort of thing, thank God. I’ll make sure the SOCOs pay close attention. Thanks, Doc.”

  Dr. Burns nodded and walked away. Templeton came over and shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together. “Juicy one, isn’t it, guv?” he said. “Just like I told you.”

  Banks closed his eyes, turned his head up to the strip of gray sky, feeling a few drops of rain on his eyelid
s, and sighed. “It’s a dead girl, Kev,” he said. “Raped and strangled. Now, I appreciate a bit of crime scene humor as much as the next copper, but can you just hold back your glee for a while longer, do you think?”

  “Sorry, guv,” said Templeton, his tone indicating that he had absolutely no idea what he had to apologize for.

  “And we’ll want to interview all local sex offenders, everyone on the books, and those we think should be.”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “And ring the super,” Banks said. “She’ll have to know.”

  Templeton reached for his mobile.

  Banks enjoyed the quiet for a moment, the music of the wind, water dripping from a gutter somewhere, and the distant choir singing a hymn. It was so long since he had been to church. Then he heard new sounds and noticed DC Winsome Jackman and DS Stefan Nowak, crime scene coordinator, come bustling down Taylor’s Yard with a gaggle of SOCOs kitted out like spacemen. Soon, they would have the area as brightly lit as a film studio, and their various tools and gadgets would be sucking up or illuminating tiny traces of the most unusual and practically invisible substances. Everything would be carefully bagged, labeled and stored, to be used in the event of a court case down the line, and some of it might even be of use in tracking down the girl’s killer. If they got lucky, they would find DNA, and it would match a sample they already had in the DNA National Database. If…

  Banks welcomed Stefan Nowak and explained what he knew of the situation. Nowak had a few words with his team, and when Peter Darby came out, they went in. They’d be a while setting up and getting started, Nowak explained, and they wanted everyone out of their way. Banks checked the time. Pity, he thought, that with all these new liberal opening hours, none of the local pubs extended them to as early as ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

  Banks sent Winsome off to Swainshead to interview the girl’s parents before bringing them back to Eastvale General Infirmary to identify the body. He needed to know as much as she could find out about where the girl had been last night, and with whom. There was a lot to set in motion, and the sooner the better. Leads had a habit of vanishing very quickly.

  After about three quarters of an hour, Banks had another brief period of peace in which to assess the situation. By the looks of her, the girl had been out on the town, most likely with a boyfriend, or with a group of friends. They needed to be tracked down and interviewed. Someone would have to get hold of all the closed-circuit television footage, too. Most of the market square was covered by CCTV these days, though there were blind spots. How had she ended up alone? Had she gone off with someone, or had the killer been lurking in The Maze, waiting for a victim? Why had she wandered in there alone? Unfortunately, there was no CCTV in The Maze itself.

  Then a voice cut through his reverie. “This had better be bloody important, DCI Banks. I’ve had to cut short my morning gallop and my son and his wife are expecting me for lunch.” And down the alley strutted the diminutive but svelte and powerful figure of Detective Superintendent Catherine Gervaise, resplendent in jodhpurs, cap and boots, slapping her riding crop gently against her thigh as she approached.

  Banks smiled. “I must say, ma’am, you cut quite a dashing figure. Fancy a coffee? We can have a chat and leave DS Nowak to watch over things here.”

  Was Banks imagining it, or did Superintendent Gervaise actually blush at the compliment?

  SOMEWHERE IN the distance, beyond the pain screaming in her head and the sound of the seagulls and church bells, DI Annie Cabbot could hear her mobile ringing. They don’t really ring these days, she thought as she strained toward consciousness; they have ring tones; they tinkle; they play tunes. Hers was playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” and it was driving her crazy. The phone salesman’s little joke. She would have to learn how to change it. Just when she managed to half-open an eye and reach for the bedside table, the sound stopped. Damn, she thought, as her hand reached into empty space. There was no bedside table. Where had the bloody thing gone? She had a moment of absolute panic, not knowing where, or even who, she was. She certainly wasn’t at Mrs. Barnaby’s B and B, where she should have been. Then she became aware of a warm heavy object resting on her hip.

  When she got both her eyes open and looked around, she became immediately aware of three things: she was not in her own bed, hence no bedside table; she had a splitting headache; and the warm heavy thing lying across her hip was a man’s arm. Fortunately—or not, as the case may be—it was still attached to a man.

  Piece by piece, like flipping through cards to make a moving picture, but with cards missing, fragments of the previous evening came back to her. It was vague and fuzzy, and there were big gaps, but she did remember beer, loud music, dancing, fizzy blue drinks with umbrellas, flashing lights, a live band, people laughing; stumbling through winding, dimly lit streets, up a long hill, a steep staircase…then things got more blurred. Another drink or two, perhaps, drunken fumblings and a tumble onto bed. This bed. Gently, Annie disengaged the arm. Its owner stirred and grumbled in his sleep, but thankfully he didn’t awaken. Then Annie sat up and took stock.

  She was naked. Her clothes lay strewn across the hardwood floor with the kind of carelessness that suggested desperate and wanton abandon, her black silk knickers hanging on the bed knob like some obscene sort of trophy. She snatched them off, swung to the side of the bed and slipped them on. She felt like shit. Idiot, she said to herself. Idiot.

  She glanced at his body, where the sheet had slipped off. Short black hair sticking up here and there where he had slept on it, one lock over his right eye; a strong jaw; broad shoulders; a nice chest, not too hairy, but masculine enough. Thank God he wasn’t a colleague, someone from the station. She couldn’t see what color his eyes were because they were closed, and it shamed her that she couldn’t remember. He needed a shave, but not too many years ago he wouldn’t have. How old was he? Twenty-two, twenty-three at the most, she guessed. And how old was she? Just turned forty. At least he wasn’t married, not as far as she could tell from the appearance of the flat. It was usually the older ones, the married ones, that she fell for.

  With a sigh, she began to gather up the rest of her clothes and get dressed. The room was pleasant enough, with pale blue walls, a poster of a Modigliani nude, and a Venetian blind that didn’t keep out very much light. There was also a poster of some rock band she didn’t recognize on the opposite wall. Worse, there was an electric guitar propped up beside a small amplifier. She remembered him telling her that he played in a band. Christ, had she really gone home with a musician? Look on the bright side, she told herself; at least it was the guitarist, not the drummer or the bass player, as her old friend Jackie would have said, and especially not the saxophone player. “Never go with a sax player, sweetie,” Jackie had told her. “The only thing he’s thinking of is his next solo.” Still, what a cliché.

  In the cold light of day, was he even younger than she thought? She checked him out again. No. At least twenty-two. Younger than Banks’s rock-star son, Brian, though. Perhaps it should make her feel good, she tried to tell herself, that someone so young and attractive had fancied her, that she still had such pulling power, but somehow it didn’t; it made her feel like an old whore. Perfectly all right for older men and younger women—a man would feel proud of himself—but not for her. She zipped up her jeans. Christ, they felt tight. She’d been putting on weight like nobody’s business lately, and it didn’t make her feel any better to see that little bulge of fat where her flat belly used to be. Time for more exercise and less ale.

  Annie found her mobile in her shoulder bag and checked the call. It was from the station. She didn’t know if she could face work feeling the way she did. Before doing anything else, she took her bag with her into the bathroom and closed the door. She used the toilet first, then found some aspirin in the cabinet above the sink, washed herself as best she could—was that what they called a “whore’s bath”?—and applied some makeup. He didn’t have a shower, and she didn’t feel lik
e undressing again and getting in the bath. Best just to leave. Find her car, answer the message, then go home, or what passed for home these days, for a good long soak and self-flagellation. Write out one thousand times: “I must not go home with strange young guitarists I meet in nightclubs.” At least she knew she had left her car somewhere near the club. She hadn’t been stupid enough to drive. She’d had some sense, then. And she thought she could even remember which club they had ended up in.

  The air in the bedroom smelled of stale smoke and worse, and Annie saw on a small table by the door an ashtray with cigarette butts and a couple of roaches. Beside it lay a small plastic bag of marijuana and her hoop earrings. God, had she had the presence of mind to take her earrings off, and yet she had smoked a couple of joints and…well, what else had she done? It didn’t bear thinking about. She fumbled with the earrings and got them on.

  He stirred as she opened the door, but just enough to pull the sheet up, wrap it around himself and curl up like a child. Annie shut the door behind her and walked down the stairs to a strange new day in a strange place. She could smell the fresh sea air as soon as she got outside, feel the cold wind and hear the seagulls squealing. At least she had a warm jacket.

  While she headed back down the hill in the direction of the club to her car, she fumbled with her mobile and accessed her voice mail. She was finally rewarded by the stern voice of Detective Superintendent Brough from Eastern Area headquarters telling her to get down to Larborough Head immediately. There’d been a murder and the locals needed her. Being on loan, she thought, ending the call, sometimes felt like being a whore. Then she realized she had had the same thought twice in the space of about half an hour, under different circumstances, and decided it was time to change metaphors. Not a whore at all, but an angel of mercy. That’s what she was: Annie Cabbot, Angel of Mercy, at your service. She found the purple Astra in the public car park beside the club, thinking for the hundredth time that it was about time she got a new car, consulted her AA road map and, with a crunch of gears, set off for Larborough Head, at the far northern edge of Eastern’s territory.