BANKS ARRIVED first at the bistro, and it wasn’t so busy that Marcel, the genuine French maître d’ couldn’t give him an effusive welcome and a quiet secluded table, complete with white linen tablecloth and a long-stemmed rose in a glass vase. He hoped it wasn’t over-the-top, that Sophia wouldn’t think he was trying to impress her or something. He had no expectations of anything, but it felt good to be having dinner with a beautiful and intelligent woman. He couldn’t remember how long it had been.
Sophia arrived on time, and Banks was able to watch her as she handed her coat to Marcel and walked toward the table, fixing his eyes with hers and smiling. She was wearing designer jeans and some sort of wraparound top that tied at the small of her back. Women have to be pretty good at using their hands behind their backs, Banks had noticed over the years; they spent so much time fastening things like ponytails, bras, wraparound clothes and difficult necklace clasps.
Sophia moved elegantly toward him, with unhurried grace, and seemed to flow naturally into a comfortable position once she sat. Her hair was tied loosely at the nape of her long neck again, and a few dark stray tresses curled over her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes were every bit as dark as he remembered, shining and obsidian in the candlelight. She wore no lipstick, but her full lips had natural color, well set off by her flawless olive skin.
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Banks.
“Me, too. I knew our walk was out of the question when I heard the news. Look at you. I’ll bet you didn’t get much sleep.”
“None,” said Banks. He realized as he spoke that not only hadn’t he slept or eaten since he had seen Sophia last night, but he hadn’t even been home, and he was wearing the same clothes he had worn to Harriet’s dinner party. He had to remember to keep a change of clothing at the station. It was embarrassing, but Sophia was clearly too much of a lady to say anything about it. They studied the menu and discussed a few items—Sophia, it turned out, was a keen gourmet cook and a food nut—and Banks ordered a bottle of decent claret.
“So it’s Sophia, is it?” Banks asked when they had ordered—steak and frites for him and sea bass for Sophia, with Stilton, pear and walnut salad to start.
“Sophia Katerina Morton.”
“Not Sophie?”
“No.”
“Kate?”
“Never.”
“Sophia it is, then.”
“Just don’t call me ‘Sugar.’”
“What?”
She smiled. “It’s a song. Thea Gilmore. It’s a bit cheeky, actually.”
“I know her,” Banks said. “She did an old Beatles song on one of those MOJO freebies. I liked it enough to buy a CD of other covers she’d recorded.”
“Loft Music,” said Sophia. “That’s good, but you should try her own songs.”
“I will. Do you work in the music business?”
“No. No, I’m a producer with the BBC. Arts radio, so I do occasionally get involved in music specials. I did a series about John Peel not too long ago, and I’ve done a few programs with Bob Harris.”
“The Old Grey Whistle Test Bob Harris?”
“One and the same. He introduced me to Thea at his birthday party.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You would have been. Robert Plant was there, too. I’ve never met your son, though.”
“Ah, I see. You’re wooing me just to get to my son. They all try it. It won’t work, you know.”
Sophia laughed, and it lit up her features. “I’d hardly call this wooing.”
“You know what I mean.” Banks felt himself blushing.
“I do. He is a remarkable success, though, your Brian. Cute, too. You must be very proud.”
“I am. It took a while to get used to, mind you. I don’t know about the cute bit—you should have seen him when he was a surly, spotty teenager—but it’s not the easiest thing to deal with when your son decides to give up on higher education and join a rock band.”
“I suppose not,” said Sophia.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Banks said, “what were you doing at Harriet’s dinner party last night? I mean, I must admit, it didn’t really seem like your scene at all.”
“It wasn’t. And I wasn’t going to go.”
“So why did you?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to pass over a chance to meet Eastvale’s top cop.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously! I’d heard so much about you over the years. It might sound silly, but I’ve felt I’ve known you ever since that first meeting. When Aunt Harriet told me she was inviting you to the dinner, I said I’d do my best to get there. Really, I wasn’t going to go. That’s why I was late. I only decided after it had started that I’d kick myself if I didn’t take the chance. It could have been a dreadful bore, of course, but…”
“But?”
“It wasn’t.” She smiled. “Anyway, you clearly enjoyed it so much you didn’t even want to change your clothes. I must say, it’s the first time I’ve been out with a man who wore the same clothes two nights in a row.”
So not too much of a lady, then. Banks liked that. He smiled back, and they laughed.
Their starters arrived, and they toasted with the wine and tucked in. Banks felt he would probably be better off wolfing down a burger and chips rather than the delicate and beautifully presented salad, but he tried not to let his hunger show. At least the steak and frites would fill him up. Sophia took tiny bites and seemed to savor each one. As they ate they talked about music, London, country walks—anything but murder—and Banks found out that Sophia lived in a small house in Chelsea, that she had once been married to a successful record producer but was now divorced and had no children, that she loved her job and enjoyed the luxury of her father’s Eastvale flat to visit whenever she wanted.
She was half Greek and half English. Banks remembered Harriet saying something about having a brother in the diplomatic service, and that was Sophia’s father. He had met her mother while posted in Athens, where she had worked in her father’s taverna, and against all advice they had married and had just celebrated their ruby wedding anniversary. They were away in Greece at the moment.
Sophia had spent a great deal of her childhood moving from place to place, never settling long enough in a school or a city to make friends, so now she valued those she had more than ever. Through her job, she met a lot of interesting people in the various arts—literature, music, painting, film—and she went out to a lot of events—concerts, exhibitions, festivals.
It sounded an exhausting life to Banks, a real social whirl, and he realized he simply didn’t have time for that sort of thing. His job took pretty much all he had, and what little time he had left over he used to relax with music or a DVD and a glass of wine. He went to Opera North when he could get there, took long walks in the hills when the weather was good, dropped by the local Helmthorpe pub for folk night once in a while, though less often now that Penny Cartwright, the local femme fatale, had turned him down.
As the evening continued and they topped up their wineglasses, it felt to Banks as it had under the street lamp at the bottom of Harriet’s path, as if their illuminated circle of the universe were the only real place, and everything outside it was insubstantial as shadows. That illusion was pierced when Marcel brought the bill. Banks paid, despite Sophia’s objections, and once again they found themselves out in the street saying good night. Banks had to go back to the station to see if there had been any progress. He felt extremely lucky that neither his pager nor his mobile had gone off during dinner.
Sophia thanked him for the meal, then they leaned toward each other to do the awkward cheek-kissing thing that had become so popular, but before Banks knew how it happened their lips were touching in a real kiss, long and sweet. When it was over, they walked off in opposite directions. Banks set off down the hill back to the station, realizing that he had made no specific arrangements to see Sophia again, and after about ten paces he turned around. At about t
he same moment Sophia looked back, too, and they smiled at each other. How odd, Banks thought. He never looked back, and he was willing to bet that Sophia never did, either.
15
ANNIE WAS IN THE STATION BRIGHT AND EARLY ON MONDAY morning after a good night’s sleep and nothing stronger than a cup of hot chocolate over the course of the evening. She was just kicking the coffee machine the way you had to to get a cup out of it when Detective Superintendent Brough walked by and said, “My office, DI Cabbot. Now.”
Annie felt a chill. Was Brough a defender of the coffee machine or had Eric set out to harm her career? Had he got more photos that she hadn’t seen and sent them to Brough, or the chief constable? Or had he reported her behavior the other night? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Brough’s office was spacious and well appointed, as befitted a senior officer. He sat behind his desk and gruffly bade Annie sit opposite him in the hard chair. Her heart was thudding. She could argue that she had been drunk, but that reflected no better on her than sleeping with a snake like Eric in the first place.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” Brough asked, which didn’t help a great deal.
“About what?” Annie said.
“You know damn well what. The Lucy Payne murder. I’ve got the press so far up my arse I can taste their pencil lead, and absolutely bugger all to tell them. It’s been a week now, and as far as I can see you’ve just been marking time.”
In an odd way, Annie felt relieved that it was about the case and not about Eric. He hadn’t been in touch since Annie had paid him her visit on Friday, and that, she thought, was a good sign. Maybe he’d got the hint, which had been about as subtle as a blow to the head with a blunt object.
This was professional. This she could deal with. “With all due respect, sir,” she said, “we’ve done everything we can to trace this mystery woman, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air. We’ve questioned everyone at Mapston Hall twice—staff and patients alike, wherever possible—but no one there seems able to provide us with any kind of a lead or information whatsoever. No one knew anything about Karen Drew. It’s not as if most of the people there lead active social lives.”
Brough grunted. “Is someone lying?”
“Could be, sir. But all the staff members are accounted for during the time of the murder. If anyone there was involved, it was in passing over the information that Karen Drew was Lucy Payne, and not in committing the actual murder itself. Believe me, sir, we’re working on it.”
“Why is it all taking so long?”
“These things do take a long time, sir. Background checks. Ferreting out information.”
“I hear you’ve been going off on a tangent over some old case, gallivanting off to Leeds and Eastvale to talk to your old boyfriend. I’m not running a dating service here, DI Cabbot. You’d do well to remember that.”
“I resent that implication,” Annie said. She could take only so much from authority, and then her father’s streak of anarchy and rebellion broke through, and to the devil with the consequences. “And you’ve no right to speak to me like that.”
Brough seemed taken aback by her angry outburst, but it sobered him. He straightened his tie and settled back in his chair. “You don’t know how much pressure I’m under to get a result here,” he said, by way of a lame explanation.
“Then I suggest you do it by encouraging your team and supporting them, rather than by resorting to personal insults. Sir.”
Brough looked like a slapped arse. He flustered and blathered and then got around to asking Annie exactly where she thought she was going with the Kirsten Farrow angle.
“I don’t know for certain that I’m going anywhere yet,” said Annie, “but it’s starting to appear very much as if the same killer—whoever it is—has now killed again.”
“That Eastvale detective, yes. Templeton. Bad business.”
“It is, sir. I knew Kev Templeton.” Annie stopped short of saying he was a friend of hers, but she wanted Brough to dig into whatever reserves of police solidarity and sympathy he might have. “And in my opinion he was killed by the same person who killed Lucy Payne. We don’t have that many murders around here, for a start, the distance isn’t that great, and how many do we have that, according to witnesses, were committed by a mysterious woman using a straight razor, or some such similar sharp blade, to slit the throat of the victim?”
“But Templeton’s not our case, damn it.”
“He is if it’s the same killer, sir. Do you really believe there are two women going around slitting people’s throats—people they believe to be dangerous killers?”
“Put like that it does sound—”
“And do you find it so hard to believe that these might be related to an unsolved case in which a woman also may have killed two men, one of whom was a serial killer and one of whom she may have mistaken for him?”
“May have. You said ‘May have.’ I’ve looked over the files, DI Cabbot. There’s absolutely no evidence whatsoever that Greg Eastcote was murdered, either by a woman or by anyone else. He could have faked his disappearance because he thought the police were getting too close. In fact that’s the most logical explanation.”
“He could have,” Annie agreed. “But the police weren’t getting close. And a woman was seen with Jack Grimley and with the Australian boy, Keith McLaren, and she conveniently disappeared, too.”
“But this was eighteen years ago, for God’s sake. You can’t even prove that this Kirsten, or whoever she was, knew that Eastcote had attacked her. It’s absurd.”
“No more than most cases when you don’t have all the pieces, sir. I’m also trying to locate Kirsten’s psychiatrist. She had a course of hypnosis in Bath in 1988, and it might have helped her recover some of her memory of the attack.”
Brough grunted. Not impressed by the idea of hypnotherapy, Annie guessed. “The MO is completely different,” he went on. “The attacker used a rock on Keith McLaren and some sort of sharp blade on Lucy Payne.”
“MOs can change. And perhaps if she only kills killers, or people she mistakes for them, she hasn’t come across any in the last eighteen years? Perhaps she’s been abroad?”
“It’s all speculation.”
“If you don’t speculate, sir, you don’t get anywhere.”
“But I need something I can tell the press. Something real. Something substantial.”
“Since when have the press cared about reality or substance?”
“DI Cabbot!”
“Sorry, sir. Why don’t you tell them we’ve got a new lead we’re following, but you can’t say any more about it right now. They’ll understand.”
“What new lead?”
“Kirsten Farrow. We’re going to interview everyone we know was connected with Karen/Lucy until we get a connection to the killer.”
“Whom you believe to be Kirsten Farrow?”
“Yes,” said Annie. “But you don’t have to tell them that. Even if I’m wrong, we’re heading in the right direction. I’m not wearing blinkers, sir. Someone knew that Karen was Lucy, and that someone is either the killer herself, or the person who told the killer. And I’m trying to get some evidence to prove that Kirsten killed Lucy Payne. With any luck I should have it before the end of the day.”
“Okay,” said Brough. “That’s the kind of thing I want to hear. And I do take your point. It makes sense when you get rid of all that 1989 gobbledygook. Just be careful whose feet you’re treading on. Remember, these are professional people, you know, doctors and the like.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir, I won’t eat any of them,” Annie said. “Now can I go?”
He jerked his head. “Go on. Get to work. And hurry up. And this evidence? Don’t forget, I expect to see some positive results before the end of the day.”
“Yes, sir,” Annie said as she left the office, fingers crossed.
DESPITE BEING dog-tired, Banks hadn’t slept at all well when he got home from the station well after mid
night on Monday. They were no closer to finding Templeton’s killer, or Hayley Daniels’s, for that matter, and part of the program for the day was to start a complete review of both cases so far.
Everything about the Hayley Daniels murder pointed toward a scared rapist, someone the victim knew, who had strangled Hayley to avoid being named and caught, someone who was also possibly ashamed of what he’d done and had arranged the body in a pose more suggestive of sleep than rape and murder. Under further questioning, Joseph Randall had finally admitted that he had touched Hayley and masturbated at the scene, but he insisted that he hadn’t changed the position of the body, and Banks believed him. At that point, he had no reason to lie.
The Templeton murder, efficient and practical as it had been, seemed very much as if it had been a mistake on the part of a killer, who in the darkness of The Maze had thought she had been protecting Chelsea Pilton and ridding the world of a budding serial killer.
When Banks asked himself who might think that and why, he came back to Kirsten Farrow. And nobody knew what had become of her. The only thing that gave rise to any doubts at all in Banks’s mind about Kirsten’s being responsible was that the first murders, the 1989 ones, involved someone who had directly harmed Kirsten, mutilated her, and she had not been a victim of Lucy and Terence Payne. That meant that, if it was Kirsten, she had extended her parameters.
Or, Banks thought, with a quiver of excitement, perhaps she did have some connection with the Paynes. What it could be he had no idea, but it was a direction worth pursuing, and something he needed to tell Annie about, if she hadn’t thought of it herself. Annie had been right yesterday when she said it was good to be working together again. It was. Personal problems aside, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed her since she had gone to Eastern Area.
First thing on the agenda was another look at all the CCTV footage they had on both cases. Hayley Daniels first. As soon as the team was gathered—Banks, Winsome, Hatchley, Wilson, with the gaping absence of Templeton and the off-the-wall comments everyone had come to expect from him—they started watching the footage.
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