“Interesting. If he’s not there today, find out where he lives and pay him a visit. Ask him what he was doing there so late and see if he remembers anything more. We know Hayley and her friends left The Fountain, had a discussion in the market square, then three minutes later she left to go down Taylor’s Yard. Maybe something happened in the pub? It’s almost the last place she was seen alive in public.”
“Yes, sir.”
Templeton left the viewing room. Banks took the remote control and rewound the surveillance tape. He pressed “play” again and watched Hayley Daniels argue with her friends and head down Taylor’s Yard. He couldn’t read her lips; the tape was of too poor a quality. There was also an annoying, flickering strip of light, as you get on old film prints, behind the group, beside Taylor’s Yard. It disappeared. When Hayley stretched her arms out for balance, she could touch both sides of the alley easily. The glitter on the cheap plastic belt around her waist caught the headlights of a passing car.
After she had disappeared into the darkness, Banks rewound and watched the tape one more time. They might be able to isolate and enhance the license plate of that car, he thought, reasoning that if the driver had seen a pretty girl walking into The Maze alone, he might have zipped around the back and entered from the car park, where there were no CCTV cameras, and seized his opportunity. It was a long shot, but in the absence of anything else, it was worth a try. Banks called DC Wilson down from the squad room.
THERE WAS no point in going all the way back to Whitby first, Annie realized, as she aimed the car toward Leeds on the M1. Not when she could ring DI Ken Blackstone at Millgarth and find out exactly where on Park Square Constance Wells practiced law.
“Annie,” said Blackstone. “How nice to hear from you. How’s things?”
“Fine, Ken.”
“And Alan?”
Blackstone sometimes spoke as if Banks and Annie were still an item, or as if he wished they were, but it didn’t bother her. “Haven’t seen him for a while,” she said. “I’m on loan to Eastern Area. Look, maybe you can help me?”
“Of course, if I can.”
“Should be easy enough. I’m trying to track down a Park Square solicitor name of Constance Wells. Ring any bells?”
“No, but give me a few minutes. I’ll call you back.”
They passed close by the massive cooling towers near Sheffield, and around the bend Annie saw the sprawl of Meadowhall, the popular shopping mall, to her left, cars parked everywhere.
Annie’s mobile rang and she answered immediately. “Ken?”
“Ken?” said the voice. “Who’s that? Do I have a rival? Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s me. Eric.”
“What do you want?”
“I just wanted to check if you were still going to join me for lunch on Thursday.”
“I’m expecting an important call. I can’t talk now,” Annie said.
“See you Thursday, then. Black Horse.”
Annie pressed “end.” She felt her face flush as Ginger gave her a sideways look. “Boyfriend trouble?” she asked.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Ginger held her hands up. “Sorry.”
Annie glanced at her, then laughed. “Some blokes just won’t take no for an answer, right?” she said.
“Tell me about it.”
It wasn’t an invitation, or Annie might have relented. As it was, the mobile saved her. Ken Blackstone this time.
“Yes?” Annie said.
“Constance Wells does indeed work in Park Square,” he said. “Conveyancing.”
“Makes sense,” said Annie.
“Anyway, she’s with the firm of Ford, Reeves and Mitchell.” Blackstone gave an address on Park Square. “That help?”
“Very much,” said Annie. “It even sounds familiar. Would that be Julia Ford’s practice?”
“Indeed it would,” said Blackstone.
Julia Ford was a hotshot solicitor who specialized in high-profile criminal cases. Annie had seen her name and picture in the papers from time to time, though they had never met. “Thanks, Ken,” she said.
“My pleasure. And don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.”
“Say hello to Alan from me, and ask him to give me a ring when he has time.”
“I’ll do that,” said Annie, not at all sure as to when she would get the chance. “Bye.” She ended the call and concentrated on the road. They were coming to the eastern edge of Leeds, where the tangle of roads and motorways merging and splitting almost rivaled Birmingham’s Spaghetti Junction. Annie followed the signs to the city center as best she could and, with Ginger’s help, ended up completely lost. Eventually, they found a car park near the back of City Station and, with only some vague idea of where they were, left the Astra there and walked the rest of the way. It was easy enough when they got to City Square, with its old post office turned into a restaurant, the statue of the Black Prince and torch-bearing nymphs, and a pedestrian area where people sat at tables eating and drinking when the weather was good. Even today, one or two brave souls had ventured out into the open.
They walked along Wellington Street for a short distance, then turned up King Street and made their way over to Park Square. The buildings were mostly Georgian, and the solicitors’ offices hadn’t been modernized that much inside. A receptionist sat clicking away at her computer in the high-ceilinged entrance hall and asked them what they wanted.
“We’d like to see Constance Wells, please,” Annie said, showing her warrant card.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She picked up her telephone. “Let me see if Ms. Wells is available right now. Please take a seat.” She gestured toward the L-shaped sofa with the table of magazines. Annie and Ginger looked at each other, then sat. Annie picked up Hello and Ginger went for Practical Mechanics. They hadn’t got very far when the receptionist called out. “She says she can see you in ten minutes, if you’d care to wait?”
“Of course,” said Annie. “Thank you.”
“Probably just sitting twiddling her thumbs making us wait,” said Ginger.
“Or twiddling something else,” Annie added.
Ginger laughed, a deep guffaw. The receptionist glared at her, then went back to her computer. The time passed quickly enough, and Annie was just about to find out the secrets of the latest megastar divorce settlement when the receptionist’s phone buzzed and she directed them toward the first office at the top of the stairs.
Constance Wells appeared lost behind the huge desk. She was a petite woman with wispy dark curls, probably somewhere in her mid-thirties, Annie guessed. Filing cabinets and bookcases rested against the walls, and her window looked out over the square. A framed illustration of a scene from Hansel and Gretel hung on one wall. Annie admired the delicate colors and fluid lines. It was quality work. A couple of hard-backed chairs had been placed before the desk. “Please,” she said, gesturing. “Sit down. How can I help you?”
“Karen Drew,” Annie said.
Constance Wells blinked once. “Yes?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, I…”
“I’m sorry to be so abrupt,” said Annie, “but it’s why we’re here. Karen Drew’s death. Murder, rather. It raises a few questions.”
Constance put her hand to her chest. “I do apologize,” she said. “You took me quite by surprise. I’m not used to such things. Murder, you said?”
“Yes. Karen was murdered yesterday morning on the coast not far from Mapston Hall. Someone took her for a walk and didn’t bring her back.”
“But…who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Annie. “So far we’re not having a lot of luck.”
“Well, I don’t see how I can help you.”
Annie turned to Ginger. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Ginger. “Quite frankly, I’m getting sick of it, myself.”
“I can�
�t help that,” said Constance Wells. “It happens to be true.”
“We understand that you’re her solicitor and that, among other things, you handled the sale of her house.”
“Yes.”
“An address would help, for a start.”
Constance Wells managed a tight smile. “I think I can help you with that,” she said, walking over to a cabinet. She was wearing a green pastel skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse with a ruffled front. She opened a drawer, extracted a file and gave them an address. “I can’t really see how that will help you, though,” she said, sitting down again.
“It’s a start. Can you tell us anything else about her?”
“As Ms. Drew’s solicitor,” Constance said, “all communications between us are strictly privileged.”
“Ms. Wells, you don’t seem to understand. Karen Drew is dead. Someone slit her throat from ear to ear.”
Constance Wells turned pale. “Oh…you…”
“I’m sorry if I shocked you,” said Annie. “But believe me, it nearly shocked me right out of my breakfast.” She hadn’t had any breakfast yesterday, she remembered, having flown from Eric’s flat like a bat out of hell, but Constance Wells wasn’t to know that.
“Yes, well…I…look, I really can’t help you. I’m bound by…I only acted for Karen in her business affairs, the house sale, but I…I think you should…would you excuse me for a moment?”
She got up and dashed out of the office. Annie and Ginger stared at each other.
“What’s with her?” Ginger said. “Off to be sick? Taken short?”
“No idea,” said Annie. “Interesting reaction, though.”
“Very. What do we do?”
“We wait.”
It was almost five minutes before Constance Wells came back, and by then she seemed more composed. Ginger had stayed in her chair, but Annie was standing by the window looking down on Park Square, people-watching. She turned when she heard the door open.
“I’m sorry,” said Constance. “I suppose that was rude of me, but it’s…well, it’s all rather unusual.”
“What is?” Annie asked.
“Karen’s case. Look, Julia, that’s Ms. Ford, one of our senior partners, would like to see you. Can you spare her a few moments?”
Annie and Ginger exchanged another glance. “Can we?” Annie said. “Oh, I think so, don’t you, DC Baker?” And they followed Constance down the corridor.
5
TEMPLETON HATED GROTTY OLD PUBS LIKE THE FOUNTAIN. They were full of losers and tossers drowning their sorrows, and an atmosphere of failure hung in the air along with the stale smoke and ale. Just being in such a place made him cringe. Give him a modern bar, chrome-and-plastic seating, pastel walls and subdued lighting, even if the beer did come in bottles and the music was too loud. At least he didn’t walk out smelling like a tramp.
The place was almost empty at three in the afternoon, only a few pathetic diehards with no lives worth living slobbering over their warm pints. A young man in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, shaved head and black-rimmed spectacles, stood at the bar polishing glasses. They still looked dirty when he’d finished.
“You the landlord?” Templeton asked, flashing his warrant card.
“Me? You must be joking,” the man said. He had a Geordie accent. Templeton hated Geordie accents, and he heard far too many of them around Eastvale. “The landlord’s away in Florida, like he is most of the time. I don’t think he’s set foot in the place more than twice since he bought it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jamie Murdoch.”
“Manager, then?”
“For my sins.”
“You look too young.”
“And you look too young to be a detective.”
“I’m a quick study.”
“Must be.”
“Anyway, much as I love a bit of banter, I’ve got a few questions for you about Saturday night.”
“Yeah?”
“Who was working?”
“I was.”
“Just you?”
“Aye. Jill called in sick, and we couldn’t get anyone else at short notice.”
“That must have been fun, on your own on a Saturday night?”
“Hilarious. Anyway, it happens often enough. This about the poor wee lassie who got killed?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head. “A tragedy.”
“Did you serve her?”
“Look, if you’re asking me were her and her friends intoxicated, they might have had a few, but there was no way they were so drunk I would have refused to serve them.”
“Do you know they got kicked out of The Trumpeters before they came here?”
“No, I didn’t. They must have been rowdy or something. They were well behaved enough here. It was the end of the evening. Things were winding down. It wasn’t them causing the trouble.”
“But someone was?”
“Isn’t someone always?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Nothing much to tell, really.” Murdoch picked up another glass from the dish rack and started drying it with the tea towel. “It was Saturday night, wasn’t it? Saint Patrick’s Day, too. There always seems to be something, even on a normal Saturday. You get used to it. Didn’t Elton John have a song about it? ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’?”
“Don’t know that one,” said Templeton. “And this time?”
“Gang of yobs from Lyndgarth got into a barney with some students in the poolroom. Eastvale’s version of town and gown. It came to nothing. Lot of sound and fury signifying nothing.”
“Where’d you get that line from?”
“It’s Shakespeare. Macbeth.”
“Go to college, do you?”
“I’ve been.”
“So, tell me, an educated lad like you, how does he end up working in a dive like this?”
“Just lucky, I suppose.” Murdoch shrugged. “It’s all right. There are worse places.”
“So back to Saturday night. You’re here behind the bar all alone, you’ve just calmed down a fracas. What happens next?”
“The Lyndgarth lot left and the girl and her friends came in. They knew some of the other students, so some of them started playing pool and the rest just sat around chatting.”
“No incidents?”
“No incidents. That was earlier.”
“The fracas?”
“And the vandalism.”
“What vandalism?”
“The bastards smashed up the toilets, didn’t they? Ladies and gents. I think it was the Lyndgarth mob, but I can’t prove it. Toilet rolls shoved down the bowl, lightbulbs broken, glass all over the floor, piss—”
“I get the picture,” said Templeton.
“Aye, well, I was here until nearly half past two in the morning cleaning it up.”
“Half past two, you say?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“We saw you leaving on the CCTV, that’s all.”
“You could have said.”
Templeton grinned. “Look at it from my point of view. If you’d said you went home at half past twelve we’d have had a discrepancy, wouldn’t we?”
“But I didn’t. I left at half past two. Like you said, it’s on candid camera.”
“Anybody vouch for you?”
“I told you, I was here alone.”
“So you could have nipped out into The Maze, raped and killed the girl, then got back to cleaning up the bog?”
“I suppose I could have, but I didn’t. You already said you saw me leave on the CCTV.”
“But you could have sneaked out earlier and come back.”
“Look around you. There’s only two ways out of this place on account of its location. There’s not even a window opens on Taylor’s Yard. We take all our brewery deliveries down the chute at the front. The only ways out of the place are the front, which leads to the market square, and the other side, the passageway
between the toilets and the kitchen, which leads to Castle Road. I assume you’ve got CCTV there, too?”
“We have,” said Templeton.
“There you go, then. You tell me how I’m supposed to get out, rape and murder a girl, and come back without being seen.”
“Mind if I have a look around?”
“Not at all. I’ll show you.” Murdoch put the glass down, called to one of the regulars to keep his eye on the place and first took Templeton upstairs, where there were an office, a toilet, a storeroom full of cases of wine and spirits piled against the wall, and a sitting room with a TV set, fading wallpaper and a let-down sofa.
Next, Murdoch showed him the poolroom and the toilets downstairs, which weren’t in such bad shape; then the kitchen near the back, which was clean as it should be; and the side exit onto Castle Road. They went into the cellar next, a dank place with damp stone walls and barrels of beer in a row and crates of ale piled up. It stank of yeast and hops. The walls were solid everywhere, probably about three feet thick. Templeton couldn’t see any possible way out, and he didn’t particularly fancy staying down there a moment more than he needed, so he headed back up the worn stone steps.
“Seen enough?” asked Murdoch when they got back to the bar.
“For now,” said Templeton. “This incident with the toilets. When did it happen?”
“Don’t know for certain,” said Murdoch. “The Lyndgarth yobs had been gone maybe about ten minutes or so when one of the students came and told me. Not that there was anything I could do about it right there and then, like, when I had drinks to serve. It was about that time the girl and her friends came in.”
“Pretty near closing time, then?”
“Aye, not far off. I’d have closed up early except I had paying customers. I reckoned I’d see the punters off the premises at the usual time and get it cleaned up. Never imagined it would take so bloody long.”
“This Lyndgarth lot, did they stick around the square?”
“I didn’t see them again, but then I didn’t get out till late.”
“Any names?”
“Why? Are you going to prosecute them?”
“For what?”
“Vandalizing the pub.”
“No, dickhead. They might be suspects in a murder investigation. Why, are you going to bring charges?”
Friend of the Devil Page 10