“No way. I value my life.”
“I’d still like to talk to them. Names?”
“You must be joking. Maybe one of them called his mate Steve, and there was another called Mick.”
“Wonderful. Thanks a lot.”
“I told you. Anyway, it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to find them if you want. Just ask around. Lyndgarth’s not a big place and the yobs are probably pretty well known there.”
“And you’d recognize them again?”
“Aye, I’d recognize them.”
“Had you seen the girl and her friends before?”
“They’d been in once or twice, yes.”
“Regulars?”
“I wouldn’t call them regulars, but I’d seen them occasionally in here on a Saturday night. Never caused any trouble.”
“Did you hear anything from Taylor’s Yard while you were cleaning up the toilets?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone go by the front?”
“No, but I wouldn’t have, anyway. See, I was in the toilets, at the Castle Road side, as you’ve seen. Besides, I wasn’t really paying attention. Cleaning up vandalized toilets sort of demands all your attention, if you know what I mean.” Murdoch worked at a glass, then narrowed his eyes. “I can hardly believe it, you know.”
“Believe what?”
He gestured over toward the toilets. “While I was busy cleaning up in there, what was happening in The Maze. That poor girl. I can hardly get my head around it.”
“Don’t even try,” said Templeton, heading toward the door. “It’ll only give you grief.” And he left, rather pleased with himself for his piece of sage advice. He paused at the door and turned back. “And don’t run away,” he said, pointing his finger at Murdoch. “I might be back.”
AS BEFITTING that of a senior partner, Julia Ford’s office was both larger and better appointed than Constance Wells’s. She had the same fine view of the square, but from higher up, and the room was fitted with a thick-pile carpet and a solid teak desk. What looked to Annie like an original David Hockney Yorkshire landscape hung on one wall.
Julia Ford herself was elegance personified. Annie had no idea where her simple dark-blue business suit and plain white blouse had come from, but it definitely wasn’t Next or Primark. She bet there was a designer’s name on it somewhere, and it probably came from Harvey Nicks. Her straight chestnut-brown hair fell to her shoulders and was imbued with the kind of luster Annie had seen only in television adverts. Julia Ford stood up, leaned across the table and shook hands with both Annie and Ginger, then bade them sit. Her chairs were padded and far more comfortable than Constance Wells’s. She regarded them both with watchful brown eyes, then turned to Constance, who lingered in the doorway. “That’s all right, Constance, thank you very much,” she said. “You can go now.” Constance shut the door behind her.
Julia Ford continued to regard Annie and Ginger with those serious eyes and made a steeple of her hands on the table. No rings, Annie noticed. “I understand that Karen Drew has been murdered?” she said finally.
“That’s right,” said Annie. “We’re trying—”
Julia Ford waved her hand dismissively. “I should imagine you are,” she said, a definite smile now playing around the edges of her thin lips. “And I should also imagine you’re not getting very far.”
“It’s like squeezing the proverbial blood out of the proverbial stone,” Annie said. “We were wondering if Ms. Wells might be able to help, but she seemed to think we should talk to you.”
“I thought you should talk to me. Constance has very specific instructions regarding Karen.”
“And can you help?”
“Oh, I think you’ll find I’ll be able to help you a great deal,” said Julia Ford.
“But will you?”
“Will I?” She spread her hands. “Of course I will. I’ve never hindered a police investigation.”
Annie swallowed. Julia Ford had a reputation as a tough barrister who would do anything she possibly could to discredit the police and get her client off.
“Can you tell us about her background, then?” Annie asked.
“I could, but I don’t think that’s really the main issue right now. You’ll find out soon enough, anyway.”
“Ms. Ford,” said Annie, “with all due respect, aren’t we supposed to be the ones who decide what questions we should ask?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to be rude, and I’m not trying to do your job for you. What I’m trying to tell you is that there is something more important you need to know first.”
“And what’s that?”
“Karen Drew wasn’t her real name.”
“I see…May I ask what her real name was?”
“You may.”
“And…?”
Julia Ford paused and played with her Mont Blanc on the desk in front of her. Annie knew she was indulging in typical courtroom tactics for dramatic effect, but there was nothing she could do but wait out the theatrics. Finally, the barrister tired of playing with her pen and leaned forward across the teak. “Her real name was Lucy Payne,” she said.
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Annie. “Lucy Payne. The Friend of the Devil. That changes everything.”
“SO WHAT do you think of Jamie Murdoch?” Banks asked. He was sitting in his office comparing notes with Kevin Templeton and Winsome Jackman. Templeton, he noticed, kept sneaking glances at Winsome’s thighs under the tight black material of her trousers.
“He’s got an attitude,” Templeton said, “and he’s a bit of a plonker. But that hardly qualifies him as a murderer. No more than being a Geordie does. I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll be able to verify his story about the vandalized bogs when we talk to Hayley’s friends and the yobbos from Lyndgarth. We’ve got film of him leaving on his bike at half past two, and no sign of him before that. Like he says, there’s no access to The Maze from the pub without using the front or side exits, and they were both covered by CCTV.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “Now, what do we make of this new angle Winsome’s come up with?”
Winsome had been watching the rest of the CCTV footage and noticed someone coming out of The Maze from the narrow shopping arcade that led off Castle Road at twelve-forty, which was twenty minutes after Hayley had gone in. There was no CCTV record of the person’s having entered. The images were indistinct, but Winsome thought he resembled one of the people Hayley Daniels had been talking to earlier in the square, just before she went off down Taylor’s Yard by herself.
“Well,” said Templeton, “he certainly hadn’t been shopping at that time of night. Someone searching for her? A friend?”
“Could be,” said Winsome. “Maybe he got worried when she didn’t turn up at the Bar None. But why not use the Taylor’s Yard entrance? It’s nearer the Bar None.”
“Is there a back way from the Bar None to The Maze?” Banks asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Templeton. “A fire exit.”
“So he could have left that way,” said Banks. “And I suppose it’s possible that he knew about the market square CCTV, which is the setup that gets all the publicity, but not about that on Castle Road. He didn’t know he’d be seen coming out. Twenty minutes isn’t very long, but it’s probably long enough for what the killer did, and he seems in a bit of a hurry. This looks very promising. DC Wilson’s at the college working on that list of names. It could take some time to get through them all. Do you think you can get technical support to come up with a still image from the video? Enhanced?”
“I can always try,” said Winsome. “They’re already working on that car number plate, but no luck so far.”
“Ask them to do their best,” said Banks. “It’s another long shot, but it might save us time.” Banks leaned back in his chair and ran his hand across his closely cropped hair. “Okay,” he said, “let’s review what we’ve got so far.” He counted off on his fingers as he spoke. “Joseph Randall, who
swears he was at home alone when Hayley was killed, but has no real alibi and also can’t account for the eleven minutes between finding the body and reporting it. Oh, and he also eyed up the victim in The Duck and Drake earlier on the evening she was killed. After making a fuss, he volunteered a DNA sample and signed the waiver. The lab’s working on it.
“Next we’ve got Jamie Murdoch, pub manager of The Fountain, who says he was fixing broken toilets during the time Hayley was raped and killed. He appears to have had no access to the murder scene, at least not without being spotted, and he doesn’t show up on CCTV until he leaves on his bike at half past two. Finally, one of Hayley’s friends is seen exiting The Maze by the Castle Road arcade at twelve-forty, but not seen going in. What had he been doing in there? How long had he been there? What was he hoping for? A quick grope in the ginnel?”
“Hayley’s stepmother said she didn’t have a steady boyfriend,” Winsome said, “but she did think Hayley was sexually experienced.”
Banks noticed Templeton give a little smile at Winsome’s discomfort in talking about sex in front of them.
“We probably won’t find out any more about that until we talk to the people she was with,” said Banks.
“There’s still the possibility that someone was lying in wait,” Templeton said. He glanced at Banks. “A serial killer just starting out. Someone who knew how to come and go in The Maze without being seen, which probably means he’s a local and knows the area.”
“We won’t forget that possibility, Kev,” said Banks. “But so far we’ve had no luck with the local sex offenders.” He turned back to Winsome. “What about the family? You talked to them.”
“Yes, sir. I can’t say I was very impressed by the father, but maybe it’s hard to be impressed by a bloke you find tied naked to a bed in a hotel room.”
“Oh, Winsome,” said Templeton. “You disappoint me. Don’t tell me it didn’t turn you on.”
“Shut up, Kev,” said Banks.
Winsome glared at Templeton. “There’s no way either of the parents could have done it,” she went on. “Donna McCarthy was watching a DVD with Caroline Dexter, and Geoff Daniels and Martina Redfern have a watertight alibi. I found the taxi driver who drove them back from the nightclub to the hotel around two-thirty, and even he remembers them.” She gave a nervous glance at Templeton, then looked back at Banks. “They were…you know…in the back of his taxi.”
Even Banks had to smile at that. Templeton laughed out loud.
“Okay,” said Banks. “So far our only suspects who don’t seem to have an alibi are Randall and the mysterious figure on the Castle Road CCTV, and he should be easy enough to track down.” Banks stood up. “Then there’s the Lyndgarth yobs to sort out. They were angry at Jamie Murdoch. They could have hung around The Maze hoping to get a crack at him and found Hayley instead.”
“The CCTV just shows them walking away,” said Templeton.
“They still need looking into. Which is what we ought to be doing now instead of sitting around here. Thanks for bringing me up-to-date. Now let’s get to work and see if we can close this one before the week’s out.”
A STUNNED SILENCE followed Annie’s response to the revelation of Karen Drew’s real identity. Annie could hear other noises from the building—phone conversations, the clacking of a computer keyboard—mixed with the sounds of cars and birds from outside. She tried to digest what she’d just heard.
“You weren’t involved in that case, were you?” Julia Ford asked.
“Peripherally,” said Annie. “My boss was SIO.”
Julia Ford smiled. “Ah, yes, Detective Superintendent Banks. I remember him well. How is he?”
“He’s fine,” said Annie. “Actually, he’s a DCI. He was only acting super. I handled the Janet Taylor investigation.” Janet Taylor was the policewoman who had killed Lucy Payne’s husband, Terence, after he had murdered her partner with a machete and come at her with it. The law about reasonable force being what it was, she had been suspended and put under investigation, until she died in a drunk-driving accident. The whole affair still left a bitter taste in Annie’s mouth.
Julia Ford made a sympathetic grimace. “A tough one.”
“Yes. Look, do you think you could—”
“Explain? Yes. Of course. I’ll do my best.” She glanced at Ginger. “Are you aware of who Lucy Payne was, DC…?”
“Baker,” said Ginger. “And yes, I’m aware of who she was. She killed all those girls a few years ago. The newspapers called her the ‘Friend of the Devil.’”
“So very melodramatic,” said Julia Ford. “But what would you expect of the gutter press? As a matter of fact, Lucy Payne didn’t murder anyone. Her husband was the killer, the ‘devil’ in question.”
“And how convenient that he was dead, so he couldn’t tell his side of the story,” said Annie.
“Well, you’ve only got Janet Taylor to blame for that, haven’t you?”
“Janet did—”
“Look,” Julia Ford interrupted, “as you know, I defended Lucy, so I’m hardly going to say she was guilty, am I? The Crown reviewed the evidence at the preliminary hearing, such as it was, and threw the case out of court. She never even went to trial.”
“Wasn’t that something to do with the fact that she was in a wheelchair?” said Annie.
“The state of her health may have been a mitigating factor. HM prisons have very limited facilities for dealing with quadriplegics. But the fact remains that there wasn’t enough evidence against her to prove that she killed anyone.”
“Weren’t there some dodgy videos?” Ginger asked.
“Showing at the most sexual assault, at the least, consensual sex,” said Julia Ford. “The Crown knew they were on shaky ground with the videos, so they weren’t even admitted as evidence. As I said, the case collapsed before it went to trial. Not enough evidence. As is, sadly, so often the case.”
Annie ignored the barb. “The fact that one of the star prosecution witnesses, Maggie Forrest, had a nervous breakdown and was unable to testify might have helped, too,” she said.
“Possibly. But these things happen. Besides, even Maggie had no evidence to connect Lucy with any murders.”
“All right,” said Annie, raising her hand. “We’ll get nowhere now debating Lucy Payne’s role in the rape, torture and murder of those young girls.”
“I agree,” said Julia Ford. “I simply wanted to lay my cards on the table and let you know who you’re really dealing with. The events took place six years ago, when Lucy was just twenty-two. When faced with arrest, Lucy jumped out of a window, Maggie Forrest’s window. Lucy was in hospital after hospital for a long, long time, and the firm took care of her affairs. She had a number of serious operations, none of which was entirely successful, but they managed to keep her alive, after a fashion. In the end, we found her a place at Mapston Hall. Given the publicity surrounding the Payne case, once she had managed to disappear from the public view, and from the media, we thought it best that she assumed a new identity for the rest of her days. It was all perfectly legal. I have the papers.”
“And what about the car accident they told us about at Mapston Hall? Drunk driving?”
“Another necessary fiction.”
“I’m sure it was,” said Annie, “and I’m not really here to contest any of that. I thought I was looking for the killer of Karen Drew, but now I find out that I’m looking for who killed Lucy Payne. That changes things.”
“I hope knowing that won’t stop you from putting just as much effort into it.”
Annie glared at her. “I won’t even dignify that with a reply,” she said.
“There were plenty at the time who said Lucy got exactly what she deserved when she ended up in a wheelchair. Perhaps you were one of them.”
“No.” Annie felt herself turn red. She had never said that, but she had thought it. Like Banks, she believed that Lucy Payne had been as guilty as her husband, and spending the rest of her days paralyzed was fitt
ing enough punishment for what the two of them had done to those girls in their cellar, whether Lucy had actually delivered the killing blows or not. The videos showed that she knew all about what was going on and had been a willing participant in her husband’s sick, elaborate sexual games with his victims. No, Lucy Payne’s fate elicited no sympathy from Annie. And now someone had put her out of her misery. It could almost be viewed as an act of kindness. But she wouldn’t let any of that cloud her judgment. She wouldn’t give Julia Ford the satisfaction of being right. She would work this case as hard as any other, harder perhaps, until she had discovered who killed Lucy Payne and why.
“How does it change things?” Julia Ford asked.
“Well, it brings two important questions to mind,” said Annie.
“Oh?”
“First: Did the killer know she was killing Lucy Payne?”
“And the second?”
“Who knew that Karen Drew was Lucy Payne?”
“WELL, STUART,” said Banks. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do, don’t you?”
Stuart Kinsey sat opposite Banks in the interview room that evening pouting, picking at a fingernail, glancing at Winsome out of the corner of his eye. It had been a long two days; everyone was tired and wanted to go home. Kinsey wore the typical student uniform of denim and a T-shirt proclaiming The Who’s triumphant return to Leeds University the previous June. His hair was shaggy, but not especially long, and Banks supposed he might be attractive to women in that surly, moody sort of way some of them liked. Whether he had been attractive to Hayley Daniels was another matter.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked.
Banks looked at Winsome. “Why does everyone ask us that?” he said.
“Don’t know, sir,” said Winsome. “Maybe they think it makes a difference.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Kinsey.
“Not really,” said Banks. “See, we could arrest you. Nothing easier. A mere formality. I’d say, ‘Stuart Kinsey, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Hayley Daniels. You don’t have to say anything…blah blah blah.’ The standard caution. Something along those lines. Then—”
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