Friend of the Devil

by Peter Robinson

  “But you don’t know the name of the boy?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind.” Winsome thought she probably had enough to go on. She’d track Hayley’s friends through the college’s Travel and Tourism Department and take it from there. “You said earlier,” she went on, “that you kept your maiden name for professional reasons. Might I ask what they were?”

  “What?” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, smearing some mascara. “Oh, I was a personal trainer. Fitness. Nothing special. But people knew me by that name, I had cards printed, the business logo, everything. It just seemed easier to keep it. And Geoff didn’t mind. That’s how I met Geoff in the first place, actually. He was a client.”

  “What happened to the business?”

  “I packed it in six months ago. Geoff makes more than enough for us all to live on, and I’ve got plenty of other things to occupy my time. Besides, I’m getting a bit old for all those hard workouts.”

  Winsome doubted that. “What did you do last night, all on your own?” she asked casually.

  Donna shrugged. If she felt that Winsome was prodding her for an alibi, she didn’t show it. “Just stayed in. Caroline from over the road came over with a DVD. Casino Royale. The new one, you know, with that dishy Daniel Craig. We drank a few glasses of wine, ordered a pizza, got a bit giggly…you know.”

  “Girls’ night in, then?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Look, do you know how to get in touch with your husband?” Winsome asked. “It’s important.”

  “Yes. He’s staying at the Faversham Hotel, just outside Skipton. A convention. He should be back home sometime tomorrow.”

  “Have you rung him?”

  “Not yet. I…the policeman was here and…I just don’t know what to say. Geoff dotes on Hayley. He’ll be devastated.”

  “He has to be told,” Winsome said gently. “He is her father. Would you like me to do it?”

  “Would you?”

  “Have you got the number?”

  “I always just ring his mobile,” Donna said, and gave Winsome the number. “The phone’s in the kitchen, on the wall.”

  Winsome walked through and Donna followed behind her. The kitchen looked out on the sloping hillside at the back of the house. There was a large garden with a small wooden toolshed leaning against the green fence. Hail pellets now pattered against the windowpanes behind the net curtains. Winsome picked up the handset and dialed the number Donna had given her. As she waited for an answer, she tried to work out what she was going to say. After a few rings, the call went through to Geoff’s answering service.

  “Have you got the hotel’s number?” Winsome asked.

  Donna shook her head.

  “It’s okay.” Winsome rang directory inquiries and got connected to the Faversham. When someone from reception answered, she asked to be put through to Geoffrey Daniels. The receptionist asked her to please hold. There was a long silence at the other end, then the voice came back on. “I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but Mr. Daniels isn’t answering his telephone.”

  “Perhaps he’s at a session?” Winsome said. “He’s with the convention. The car salesmen. Can you check?”

  “What convention?” the receptionist said. “There’s no convention here. We’re not a convention hotel.”

  “Thank you,” said Winsome, hanging up. She looked at Donna McCarthy and the hopeful, expectant expression on her face. What the hell was she going to say now? Well, whatever it was, she would have a bit of time to think while she drove Donna to Eastvale General Infirmary to identify her stepdaughter’s body.

  2

  IT DIDN’T TAKE ANNIE LONG TO DRIVE TO LARBOROUGH Head from Whitby, where she was temporarily on loan to Spring Hill police station, District of Scarborough, Eastern Division, their rank of detectives being decimated by illness and holidays. Usually she slept in Mrs. Barnaby’s B and B on West Cliff, special rates for visiting police officers, a nice but small third-floor room, whose luxuries consisted of an en suite bathroom, sea view, telephone and tea-making facilities, but last night…well, last night had been different.

  It was a Saturday, she’d been working late, and she hadn’t had a good night out in ages. At least, that was what she had told herself when the girls in the station invited her for a drink at the local watering hole and then on to a club or two. She’d lost contact with the rest of the girls sometime during the evening and only hoped they hadn’t seen what had become of her. The guilt and shame bit away at her stomach almost as bad as the heartburn as she pulled up at the side of the unfenced road about a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. Her heart sank when the first figure she saw was the bulky shape of Detective Superintendent Brough heading over to her.

  “Good afternoon, DI Cabbot,” he said, though it was still morning. “Glad you could join us.”

  Considering how quickly Annie had got there, she thought that was a stupid and insensitive remark, but she let it pass. She was used to those coming from Brough, well known as a lazy, time-serving sod with both eyes fixed on retirement six months down the road, endless rounds of golf and long holidays in Torremolinos. Even as a working copper, he hadn’t had the energy or gumption to line his pockets like some, so there was no villa, just a rented flat with Polyfilla walls and an aging Spanish floozy with a predilection for flashy jewelry, cheap perfume and even cheaper booze. Or so rumor had it.

  “I’m surprised to find you up and about on a Sunday morning, sir,” Annie said, as brightly as she could manage. “Thought you’d be in church.”

  “Yes, well, needs must. Duty, Cabbot, duty,” he said. “The magic word. And something we would all do well to embrace.” He gestured over to the cliff edge, where Annie could see a seated figure ringed by police. “It’s over there,” he said, as if washing his hands of the entire scene. “DS Naylor and DC Baker will fill you in. I’d better get back to the station and start coordinating. We’ve had to shoo off a couple of local reporters already and there’s bound to be more media interest. You’ll know what I mean when you’ve seen it. Bye for now, DI Cabbot. And I expect one hundred twenty percent on this. One hundred twenty. Remember.”

  “Yes, sir. Bye, sir,” Annie said to his retreating back. She mumbled a few curses under her breath and started walking with difficulty against the wind over the slippery clumps of grass to the cliff. She could taste salt on her lips and feel its sting in her eyes. From what she could make out as she squinted, the figure was sitting in a wheelchair staring out to sea. When she got closer and saw it from the front, she noticed that it was a woman, her head supported by a halo brace. Below her chin, a broad, deep bib of dark blood had spread all the way down to her lap. Annie had to swallow an ounce or so of vomit that rose up into her mouth. Dead bodies didn’t usually bother her, but a few pints of Sam Smith’s the night before, followed by those fizzy blue drinks with the umbrellas, didn’t help.

  Naylor and Baker were standing beside the body while the police surgeon examined her and the photographer hovered and snapped. Annie greeted them. “What have we got here?” she asked Naylor.

  “Suspicious death, ma’am,” said Naylor in his usual laconic manner.

  DC Baker smiled.

  “I can see that, Tommy,” said Annie, taking in the ear-to-ear cut, exposed cartilage and spilled blood. “Any sign of a weapon?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Annie gestured to the cliff edge. “Anyone checked down there?”

  “Got a couple of PCs doing a search right now,” said Naylor. “They’ll have to hurry up, though. The tide’s coming in fast.”

  “Well, in the absence of a weapon, I think we can assume she didn’t top herself,” said Annie. “Think the seagulls did it?”

  “Might have done, at that,” said Naylor, glancing up at the noisy flock. “They’re getting bolder, and they’ve definitely been at the body.” He pointed. “See those marks in and around the ear? My guess is there’s no blood because she’d alread
y bled out by the time they started pecking at her. Dead bodies don’t bleed.”

  The doctor glanced up. “We’ll make an MD out of you yet, Tommy,” he said.

  Annie’s stomach gave another unpleasant lurch and again she tasted sick in the back of her throat. No, she wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to be sick in front of Tommy Naylor. But seagulls? She had always hated them, feared them even, ever since she was a kid in St. Ives. It didn’t take The Birds to make Annie aware of the threat inherent in a flock of gulls. They had once swarmed her when she was in her pram and her father was off about twenty yards away sketching a particularly artistic group of old oaks. It was one of her earliest memories. She shivered and pulled herself together.

  “Anything for us yet, Doc?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. She’s been dead for an hour or two, and the cause is most likely exsanguination, as you can see. Whoever did this is a very sick bastard. The woman was seriously disabled, by the looks of it. Probably couldn’t even lift a bloody finger to defend herself.”

  “Weapon?”

  “Some sort of very thin, very sharp blade, like a straight-blade razor, or even a surgical instrument. The pathologist will no doubt be able to tell you more later. Anyway, it was a clean, smooth cut, no sawing or signs of serrations.”

  “Right- or left-handed?”

  “It’s often impossible to say with slash wounds, especially if there are no hesitation cuts, but I’d say probably left to right, from behind.”

  “Which makes the killer right-handed?”

  “Unless he was faking it. Only probably, mind you. Don’t quote me on it.”

  Annie smiled. “As if I would.” She turned to Naylor. “Who found the body?”

  Naylor pointed to a bench about two hundred yards away. “Bloke over there. Name’s Gilbert Downie. Walking his dog.”

  “Poor sod,” said Annie. “Probably put him right off his roast beef and Yorkshire pud. Anyone know who she is?”

  “Not yet, ma’am,” said DC Baker. “No handbag, purse or anything.” Helen Baker was a broad, barrel-shaped woman, built like a brick shit house, as the saying went, but she was remarkably nimble and spry for someone of her shape and build. And she had flaming-red spiky hair. Among her friends and colleagues she was known affectionately as “Ginger” Baker. She glanced around. “Not even a wristband, like they sometimes wear. This is a pretty isolated spot, mind you, especially at this time of year. The nearest village is four miles south and half a mile inland. About the only place in any way close is that residential care home about a mile to the south. Mapston Hall.”

  “Residential care home for what?”

  “Don’t know.” Ginger glanced at the wheelchair. “For people with problems like hers, I’d hazard a guess.”

  “But there’s no way she could have made it all the way here by herself, is there?”

  “Doubt it,” Naylor chipped in. “Unless she was doing an Andy.”

  Annie couldn’t help but smile. She was a big fan of Little Britain. Banks, too. They had watched it together a couple of times after a long day at work over an Indian takeaway and a bottle of red. But she didn’t want to let herself think of Banks right now. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the SOCO van turn onto the grass verge. “Good work, Tommy and Ginger,” she said. “We’d better get out of the way and let the SOCOs do their stuff. Let’s sit in the car and get out of this bloody wind.”

  They walked over to Annie’s Astra, stopping for a brief chat on the way with the crime scene coordinator DS Liam McCullough, and sat in the car with the windows open an inch or two to let in some air, Ginger in the back. Annie’s head throbbed and she had to force herself to pay attention to the matter at hand. “Who’d want to murder some defenseless old woman confined to a wheelchair?” she asked out loud.

  “Not that old,” said Naylor. “I reckon that sort of injury ages a person prematurely, but if you can see past the hair and the pasty complexion, you’ll see she’s not more than forty or so. Maybe late thirties. And she was probably quite a looker. Good cheekbones, a nice mouth.”

  Forty, Annie thought. My age. Dear God. Not old at all.

  “Anyway,” Naylor added, “it takes all sorts.”

  “Oh, Tommy, don’t come the world-weary cynic with me. It might suit your rumpled appearance, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. You saw her, the chair, halo brace and all, and you heard what the doc said. She probably couldn’t move at all. Maybe even couldn’t talk, either. What kind of a threat could she have posed to anyone?”

  “I’ll bet she wasn’t always in a wheelchair,” said Ginger from the backseat.

  “Good point,” said Annie, turning her head. “Very good point. And as soon as we find out who she was we’ll start digging into her past. What do you think of the bloke who found her, Tommy?”

  “If he did it, he’s a damn good actor. I think he’s telling us the truth.” Tommy Naylor was a solid veteran in his early fifties with no interest in the greasy poles of ambition and promotion. In the short while they had been working together, Annie had come to respect his opinions. She didn’t know much about him, or about his private life, except rumor had it that his wife was dying of cancer. He was taciturn and undemonstrative, a man of few words, and she didn’t know whether he approved of her or not, but he got the job done without question, and he showed initiative when it was called for. And she trusted his judgment. That was as much as she could ask.

  “So someone took her walkies out there, cut her throat and just left her to bleed to death?” she said.

  “Looks that way,” said Naylor.

  Annie mulled that over for a moment, then said, “Right. Ginger, you go see about setting up the murder room. We’ll need a manned mobile unit out here, too. And, Tommy, let’s you and me get down to Mapston Hall and see if we can find out if that’s where she came from. Maybe if we’re lucky they’ll even offer us a cup of tea.”

  WHILE DETECTIVE Superintendent Gervaise went to the station to set up the mechanics of the murder investigation and deal with the press, the various experts performed their specialist tasks, and Detective Sergeant Hatchley organized a canvassing of the town-center pubs, Banks decided to pay a visit to Joseph Randall, the leather-shop owner who had discovered Hayley Daniels’s body.

  Hyacinth Walk was an unremarkable street of run-down prewar redbrick terraces just off King Street, about halfway down the hill between the market square and the more modern Leaview Estate, a good fifteen- or twenty-minute walk from The Maze. Inside, Joseph Randall’s house was starkly furnished and neat, with plain coral wallpaper. A large TV set, turned off at the moment, held center stage in the living room.

  Randall seemed still dazed by his experience, as well he might be, Banks thought. It’s not every day you stumble across the partially clad body of a young girl. While everyone else was no doubt eating their Sunday lunch, Randall didn’t seem to have anything cooking. Radio 2 was playing in the background: Parkinson interviewing some empty-headed celebrity on his Sunday Supplement program. Banks couldn’t make out who it was, or what was being said.

  “Sit down, please,” said Randall, pushing his thick-lensed glasses up on the bridge of his long thin nose. Behind them, his gray eyes looked bloodshot. His wispy gray hair was uncombed, flattened to the skull in some places and sticking up in others. Along with the shabby beige cardigan he wore over his round shoulders, it made him appear older than his fifty-five years. And maybe this morning’s trauma had something to do with that, too.

  Banks sat on a brown leather armchair which proved to be more comfortable than it seemed. A gilt-edge mirror hung at an angle over the fireplace, and he could see himself reflected in it. He found the image distracting. He tried to ignore it as best he could while he spoke to Randall.

  “I’d just like to get a bit of clarification,” he began. “You said you discovered the body when you went round to the storage building to pick up some samples. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”


  “But it was Sunday morning. What on earth could you possibly want with a few swatches of leather on a Sunday?”

  “When you run your own business, Mr. Banks, you find yourself working the oddest hours. I’m sure it must be the same for you.”

  “In a way,” said Banks, thinking that he had little choice in the matter, especially when it came to murder. “Who were the samples for?”

  “For me.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone asked me to make a woman’s handbag for his wife’s birthday, wanted to know what the options were.”

  “You didn’t have samples in the shop?”

  “Some, but not the ones I wanted.”

  “Why were you in such a hurry?”

  “The birthday is on Tuesday. It was a rush job. I thought if I got off to a quick start…” He paused and adjusted his glasses again. “Look, Mr. Banks, I can see why this might seem odd to you, but it isn’t. I don’t go to church. I’m not married. I have no hobbies. Outside of my work, I don’t have a great deal to do with my time except watch television and read the papers. This project was on my mind, the shop isn’t far away, so I thought I’d get started rather than idle around with the News of the World.”

  That wouldn’t take long, Banks thought, but he could see Randall’s point. “Very well,” he said. “Can you give me the woman’s name and address? The one whose birthday it is on Tuesday?”

  Randall frowned but gave Banks the information.

  “Is there a back or side entrance to your shop?”

  “No, just the front.”

  “Is there a way from the shop to the storage room from the inside?”

  “No. You have to go down Taylor’s Yard. I rent it very cheaply, and that’s one of the minor inconveniences.”

  “Okay. Now tell me exactly how it happened,” Banks went on. “How did you approach the building? What did you see?”

  Randall paused and glanced at the rain-splattered window. “I approached the place as I usually would,” he said. “I remember being annoyed about the weather. There was a sudden shower. My umbrella had broken near the top of King Street, blown inside out, and I was getting wet.”