Friend of the Devil

by Peter Robinson

  “Mr. Kilbride, much as I’d love to sit and chat with you, I have to get back to work. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  He scratched the comma of beard under his lower lip. “Just that what happened to Jack, like, it never sat well with me.”

  “Did the police talk to you at the time?”

  “Oh, aye. They talked to all his mates. Can I get you another drink?”

  Annie had about a third of a pint left. She wasn’t having any more. “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll stick with this.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “You were saying. About Jack Grimley.”

  “I was the one saw him with that there woman, standing by the railings near the Captain Cook statue.”

  “And you’re sure it was a woman?”

  “Oh, aye. I could tell the difference.” He smiled. “Still can. She might have been a skinny wee thing, but she was a lass, all right. Dark horse, our Jack. Not like him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jack was the serious type when it came to women. Couldn’t look at one he fancied without falling in love with her. We used to tease him something cruel, and he’d go red as a beet.”

  “But he’d never mentioned this girl?”

  “No. Not to me. Not to any of us. And he would have done.”

  “But she was new. He’d only just met her. They were getting to know each other.”

  “Oh, she was new, all right. She’d been in here once, a few days before, with a young lad. I recognized her. Not so much the face as the way she moved. And there she was, back again, outside with Jack.”

  “But she didn’t come in the second time?”

  “No. She must have been waiting for him outside.”

  “And you’re sure he never mentioned anything about a new girlfriend, someone he’d met, or talked to?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  “No. Nor Jack.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Annie said.

  “Aye. The police said he must have fallen off the cliff, but Jack was too careful to do owt like that. He grew up here, knew the place like the back of his hand.”

  “I was just down on the beach,” Annie said. “Do you think a fall would have killed him? There’s not many rocks down there.”

  “It’s hard enough if you fall all that way,” said Kilbride, “but there’s some has got away with a broken leg or two.”

  “There was a theory that he might have jumped.”

  “That’s even more ridiculous. Jack had everything to live for. He was a simple bloke who liked the simple pleasures. Believed in a good job well done. He’d have made a fine husband and father one day if he’d had the chance.” He shook his head. “No, there was no way Jack’d have done away with himself.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “She killed him, pure and simple.”

  “Why?”

  “You lot never tell the likes of us what you’re thinking, so how would I know? Maybe she didn’t need a reason. Maybe she was one of them there serial killers. But she killed him all right. He’d go anywhere with a pretty young woman, would Jack. Putty in her hands. The silly bastard was probably in love with her by the time she killed him.” He stood up. “Anyway, I don’t mean to bother you, love,” he said. “I just recognized you and I thought I’d let you know that if you are investigating what happened to Jack Grimley, for whatever reason, you can take my word for it—someone did for him.”

  Annie finished her beer. “Thanks, Mr. Kilbride,” she said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “And, young lass?”

  “Yes,” said Annie, far more flattered by that endearment than by all of Eric’s attentions.

  “You seem like the determined type. When you do find out, drop by and let us know, will you? I’m here most nights.”

  “Yes,” said Annie, shaking his hand. “Yes, I promise I’ll do that.” When she got back to her room, she made a note to let both Kilbride and Keith McLaren know the outcome of the investigation.

  SOPHIA WAS already waiting when Banks got to the new wine bar on Market Street, where they had arranged to meet. He apologized for being five minutes late and sat down opposite her. It was quieter and far less smoky than the pubs, a much more intimate setting, with shiny round black-topped tables, each bearing a candle floating among flower petals, and chrome stools, mirrors, colorful Spanish prints and contemporary-style fittings. The place had only been open about a month, and Banks hadn’t been there before; it had been Sophia’s idea. When she had been there before, or whom with, he had no idea. The music was cool jazz vocal, and Banks recognized Madeleine Peyroux singing Dylan’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” It was a sentiment he could well share, because tomorrow Sophia was going back to London and Banks had no idea when, or if, he would see her again.

  “Long day?” she said, when he had settled down.

  “I’ve had better,” Banks said, rubbing his temples and thinking of the Templeton postmortem, and the talk he’d had with Kev’s distraught parents. “You?”

  “A long run in the morning and a bit of work in the afternoon.”

  “‘Work’ work?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a five-part series on the history of the Booker Prize coming up soon, so I have to read all the winners. Well, most of them, anyway. I mean, who remembers Percy Howard Newby or James Gordon Farrell?” She put her fist to her mouth. “Yawn. You want to eat?”

  “Do they do burgers and chips?”

  Sophia grinned. “A man of great culinary discernment, I can tell. No, they don’t, but we might get some baked Brie and garlic and a baguette if I ask nicely. The owner’s an old pal of my dad’s.”

  “It’ll have to do, then,” said Banks. “Any chance of a drink around here, too?”

  “My, my, how impatient you are. You must have had a bad day.” Sophia caught the waitress’s attention and ordered Banks a large Rioja. When it came, she held her glass out for a toast: “To great ideas in the middle of the night.”

  Banks smiled and they clinked glasses.

  “I’ve brought you a present,” Sophia said, passing a familiar-shaped package across the table to Banks.

  “Oh?”

  “You can open it now.”

  Banks undid the wrapping and found a CD: Burning Dorothy by Thea Gilmore. “Thanks,” he said. “I was going to buy it myself.”

  “Well, now you don’t have to.”

  Already he could feel himself relaxing, the stresses of the day rolling off, the gruesome images and the raw human misery receding into the background. The wine bar was a good choice, he had to admit. It was full of couples talking softly and discreetly, and the music continued in the same vein. Sophia talked about her work and Banks forgot about his. They touched briefly on politics, found they both hated Bush, Blair and the Iraq war, and moved on to Greece, which Banks loved and Sophia knew well. Both felt that Delphi was the most magical place in the world.

  When the baked Brie and garlic had come and gone, toward the end of their second glass of wine, there was no one left in the place but the two of them and the staff. Their conversation meandered on through music, films, wine and family. Sophia loved the old sixties stuff and its contemporary imitators, liked films by Kurosawa, Bergman and Truffaut, she drank amarone whenever she could afford it, and had a very large extended but close-knit family. She loved her job because it gave her a lot of free time if she arranged things properly, and she liked to spend it in Greece with her mother’s side of the family.

  Banks was more than happy simply to sip his wine, listen to Sophia’s voice and watch the expressions flitting across her animated features and behind her dark eyes. Excitement one moment, a hint of sadness the next. Sometimes he looked at her mouth and remembered the kiss, the feel of her lips, though neither of them mentioned it during the evening. He was also aware of her bare shoulders, and of the soft swelling at the front of her blouse, arouse
d without even really thinking about it. Everything about being here now with her felt so natural that he couldn’t believe he had only known this woman for three days—and known was a gross overstatement. He still knew practically nothing about her.

  The evening was winding down, their wine nearly finished. Corinne Bailey Rae, the Leeds lass, was singing “Till It Happens to You.” Sophia insisted on paying the waitress and disappeared for a few moments to the ladies’. Banks looked at the framed Spanish scenes on the walls and let the music roll over him. Sophia came back and sat down again, resting her arms on the table. Banks reached across and took her hand. Her skin was warm and soft. He felt the slight return of pressure as she accepted his touch.

  They sat like that in silence for a while, just looking at each other. “Come back with me,” Banks said finally.

  Sophia said nothing, but her eyes spoke for her. As one, they stood up and left.

  16

  YOU’VE GOT A SPRING IN YOUR STEP, DCI BANKS,” SAID Superintendent Gervaise, when Banks tapped on her door and walked into her office late on Tuesday morning. “What is it? Made a breakthrough?”

  “You might say that,” said Banks.

  “Shut the door,” Gervaise said.

  “I want to show you something first. Can you come with me?”

  Gervaise narrowed her eyes. “This had better be good. I was just settling down to last month’s crime figures.”

  “I had a call from technical support this morning,” Banks said as they walked down the stairs to the ground-floor viewing room. “I’d asked them if they could tidy up some CCTV surveillance tapes for me.”

  “The Hayley Daniels tapes?”

  “Yes.” Banks opened the door for her. The room was in semidarkness, and Don Munro, from technical support, was already waiting for them. Gervaise sat down and smoothed her skirt. “You’ve got my attention,” she said. “Let it roll.”

  “It doesn’t exactly roll, ma’am,” explained Munro. “Though, I suppose—”

  “Oh, just switch it on, man,” said Gervaise.

  Munro fiddled with the machine, and the images of Hayley and her friends leaving The Fountain and congregating outside in the market square came into view.

  “Here it is,” said Banks, pointing to the flickering strip of light.

  “Yes?” said Gervaise.

  “Well, ma’am,” said Munro, “DCI Banks asked if we could get rid of the flaring here.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Gervaise. “Reminds me of the last time I watched Casablanca.”

  Munro gave her an admiring glance. “One of my favorites, ma’am.”

  Gervaise treated him to a smile. “Get on with it, then.”

  “Well, when I tried to correct the problem, I found that what I was dealing with wasn’t a flaw, or a light flare, but a part of the actual image.”

  “A part of the image?” Gervaise glanced at Banks. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Well, if you look closely,” Banks said, “you can see that it’s actually a strip of light, flickering and flaring, of course, because of its brightness and the sensitivity of the videotape. But it only looks like a flaw.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Banks glanced at Munro. “It’s the strip of light showing through a partially open door,” the technician said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” Banks took over, “that the door to The Fountain was slightly open while Hayley and her friends stood outside discussing what they were going to do—and more importantly, when Hayley announced she was going into The Maze for…well, to…”

  “For a piss,” said Gervaise. “Yes, I know. And?”

  “Jamie Murdoch told us he closed the door as soon as they left and had no idea where Hayley was going, but this”—Banks pointed to the screen—“shows us that he was listening, and probably even watching them while they stood outside. Jamie Murdoch was lying. He knew exactly where Hayley Daniels was going, and that she was going by herself.”

  “I still don’t see that that gets us anywhere,” said Gervaise. “There’s no access from the pub to The Maze without being seen on CCTV, and Jamie Murdoch just doesn’t show up.”

  “I know,” said Banks. “But that set me thinking.”

  Munro switched off the television and turned up the lights. “Will you be needing me anymore?” he asked.

  “No,” said Banks. “Thanks a lot, Don, you’ve been a great help.”

  Munro blushed, gave a little bow to Gervaise, and left. “‘This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’” Gervaise muttered behind him. His shoulders moved as he laughed. “So DCI Banks, what were you going to say?”

  “Just a theory I’d like to run by you.”

  She shuffled in her chair. “I’m all ears.”

  “As I said, Jamie Murdoch told us that as soon as the last customers left—Hayley and her friends—he locked up and got to work cleaning out the vandalized toilets.”

  “Well, maybe it took him a few seconds to close the doors, but that doesn’t mean anything necessarily.”

  “It’s over a minute,” said Banks. “And that’s quite a long time. Also, during that period, Hayley announces her intention and goes off, while the others, who tried to persuade her against the idea, head for the Bar None. We know that Stuart Kinsey sneaked right out of the back and in all likelihood heard Hayley being attacked.”

  “So what are you saying? Or am I being thick?”

  “No, ma’am. It took me a while to figure it out.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel a lot better. Well? I still don’t see how Jamie Murdoch could have got into The Maze without being seen, raped and killed Hayley Daniels and then got back in again to clean up his toilets.”

  “Nor did I at first,” said Banks. “Until I realized that nobody has conducted a thorough search of The Fountain. It’s a mini-maze of its own. There’s all sorts of rooms—upstairs, cellar, what have you—and it’s an old building. Eighteenth-century. When you think about it, it stands to reason that there could be another way in and out.”

  “A secret passage? You jest, surely?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time in this part of the world,” said Banks. “Some way of getting out quickly when unwelcome guests arrived, perhaps?”

  “All right. I know my history. Priest holes and the like. Maybe you’ve got a point.”

  “And that made me think of something else.”

  Gervaise raised an eyebrow. “Pray tell.”

  “When Winsome talked to Jill Sutherland, the girl who works at The Fountain, Jill told her that one of the reasons she didn’t like it there was because Jamie Murdoch dealt in smuggled booze and cigarettes, and that he had even tried to get her to bring back stuff when she went abroad.”

  “Everybody does it,” said Gervaise. “I know it’s a crime, but trying to stop it would be like sticking your finger in the dike.”

  “That’s not my point,” said Banks. “The point is that when Kev Templeton had a look around The Fountain he didn’t find anything. Nor did Winsome and I.”

  “‘Nothing can come of nothing.’ Didn’t someone say that?”

  “Shakespeare, ma’am.”

  “Clever bugger.”

  “It was just a guess. You’ve usually got at least forty-nine percent of being right if you say Shakespeare to every quote, maybe more.”

  “And the other fifty-one percent?”

  “Most—forty-nine percent—to the Bible, and the rest…well, your guess is as good as mine. Mostly Oscar Wilde, probably.”

  “Interesting theory. Go on.”

  “Well, at first I thought that maybe all the police attention had encouraged Jamie to get rid of the stuff, or move it somewhere else, but then it struck me that if he had a good enough hiding place from the start, and if the stuff’s not in—”

  “Any of the places Templeton searched, then it has to be hidden somewhere. A cubbyhole, something like that?”

  “Exactly,” said Banks. �
��And this cubbyhole may well lead out into The Maze.”

  “There’s a great deal of speculation here,” said Gervaise. “I’m not sure I like it.”

  “But we can check, can’t we?” said Banks. “If you can arrange for a search warrant, first for Murdoch’s home, so we can make sure he’s not stashing the smuggled goods there, and second for a thorough search of The Fountain, walls, floors and all, then we’ve got him.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve got enough evidence for a search warrant.”

  “But we can try, can’t we?”

  Gervaise stood up. “We can try,” she said.

  “I’ve also been doing a bit of checking around this morning, and I have one more test I want to try first, with your help. Who knows, it might even add to our weight of evidence.”

  “At this point, a feather would tip the balance,” said Gervaise. “But tell me, anyway.”

  “MAGGIE FORREST went through a hell of a lot,” Annie told Ginger as they ate a late lunch together in a pub on Flowergate. “It’s bound to have affected her.”

  “That’s what you get when you go around befriending sex killers,” said Ginger, picking at her chips. “But if Liam’s come through with the hair match, she’s out of the picture, anyway, isn’t she?”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe we should keep an open mind,” Annie said. “Besides, there was some doubt as to Lucy Payne’s role as a sex killer.”

  “You’re not trying to say she didn’t do it, are you?”

  Annie ate another forkful of salad and pushed her plate aside. “We never really believed that she killed the victims,” she said, “but she was certainly a willing participant in their degradation and torture. Terence Payne killed them, at least that was where the evidence pointed. But she helped him to abduct them. In my eyes it makes them both guilty of everything.”

  “People are less inclined to be wary of a woman, or a couple, approaching them.”

  “True enough,” Annie agreed. “Sugar and spice, we are.”

  Ginger made a face and wiped the beer froth from her upper lip. The pub was busy, most of the tables taken up by local shop and office workers enjoying their lunch hour. “Anyway,” she went on, “you’re right about keeping an open mind. This hair business isn’t conclusive. And just because we found it on the blanket, and just because it might match this Kirsten Farrow’s, that still doesn’t mean Maggie Forrest didn’t kill Lucy Payne, right?”