“Right,” Annie agreed. “Maggie Forrest doesn’t have an alibi, for one thing.”
“Maybe we should have a word with that shrink of hers?”
“Psychiatrists never tell you anything,” Annie said. “They’re worse than priests and lawyers. But I suppose we could always have a try. I want to talk to Kirsten Farrow’s shrink, too. The one who hypnotized her. I’ve got a name from the files: Laura Henderson. I’ll see if I can get her on the phone sometime this afternoon. What about Templeton, though? How does he fit in with all this?”
“Your mate?”
“No mate of mine, and a terrible copper, if truth be told. Poor sod, though. What a way to go.”
“At least it was quick.”
“I suppose so,” said Annie. She felt a pang of sadness for Templeton, with his sharp suits, gelled hair and sense of himself as God’s gift to women. The poor bastard had had blue balls for Winsome ever since she joined the team, and she never gave him a chance. Not that she should have; Annie wouldn’t have either, even if he had tried it on with her. But even so, it had sometimes been painful to watch him suffer so obviously. There were some nights she bet he could hardly walk home.
“What’s so funny?” Ginger asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking about Kev, that’s all. Memories. They’re having a wake for him at The Queen’s Arms tonight.”
“Going?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s all we’re left with when it comes right down to it. Memories.”
“That’s a bloody depressing thought,” said Annie. “What have you got so far? Are we any closer to the leak?”
Ginger ate her last chips and shook her head while her mouth was full. Then she patted her chest and took another sip of beer. Sunlight broke through the clouds for a moment and shone through the stained-glass windows. “Bugger all,” she said. “But I still don’t like Julia Ford, or that other one, the one we met first.”
“Constance Wells?”
“That’s the one. Another slippery little bitch.”
“Now, now, Ginger. Claws.”
“Well…”
“So neither of them will admit to telling anyone Karen Drew’s real identity?”
“Of course not. Lips sealed tighter than a Scotsman’s sphincter, if you’ll excuse my language.”
“Anything interesting in the background checks?”
“Nothing yet. The usual university stuff. I do believe Constance Wells was a member of the Marxist Society when she was a student, mind you. I’ll bet she wouldn’t want that to get around the firm.”
Annie smiled. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
Ginger gave a mischievous grin. “I might. You never know.” She finished her beer. “I’m glad that had no calories in it.”
“Anything else? Pudding, maybe?”
Ginger patted her stomach. “No, that’s me done, guv. There was one thing struck me as interesting in all my digging around. Hardly relevant, mind you, but interesting.”
“Oh?” said Annie. “What’s that?”
“Well, Julia Ford was a late starter. She didn’t go to uni till she was in her early twenties.”
“So?”
“Most people go straight from school, that’s all. Law, medicine, what have you. Want to get the education over with and start earning the big money and pay off their student loans as soon as they can.”
“Okay,” said Annie. “That makes sense. I think they had grants back then, though, not loans. Still, it’s an interesting point. If there’s a chance that Maggie Forrest is really Kirsten Farrow, there’s also a chance that Julia Ford is, too, isn’t there?”
Ginger looked surprised. “That’s not where I was—”
“Hold on a minute, though,” Annie went on. “There is, isn’t there? She’s about the right age, she’s slight enough in build, and if she hid her hair under a hat, downplayed the fancy clothes and the makeup…It could be her, couldn’t it?”
“Julia Ford? Bloody hell! But she defended Lucy Payne.”
“She also knew her identity and where she was. Okay, so we’ve got a bit of a problem with motive. There seems to be a conflict there. But perhaps there was a reason for that. Something we don’t know about.”
“I suppose you could have a point,” said Ginger. “Want me to do a bit more digging into her background?”
Annie nodded. “Yes. See if you can find out where she was between 1985, which was when Kirsten would have started uni, and 1991 or 1992, which is about the last sighting of her. But be careful.”
“What about alibis?”
“It’ll be tricky without her knowing, but if you could find out where she was at the times Lucy and Templeton were murdered, it would be a big help.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But what I was going to tell you…”
“Yes?”
“Julia Ford did another degree before her law one. Not English Lit. Psychology. At Liverpool.”
“It still doesn’t let her out of the picture. And the law degree?”
“Bristol.”
“Kirsten Farrow was from Bath. It’s very close.”
“Our Ms. Ford shared a flat while she was there. First and second year.”
“Students often do.”
“It’s just that I happened to get connected with a very chatty and helpful young woman from student housing, had all the records going back years. Anyway, Julia Ford shared the flat with Elizabeth Wallace, who was studying medicine at the time. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Elizabeth Wallace your pathologist back in Western Area?”
“She is, indeed,” said Annie. “Dr. Elizabeth Wallace.”
“Just a point of interest, that’s all,” Ginger said. “They were mates, her and Julia Ford. And…”
“And what?”
“I did a bit more checking, and they both live in Harrogate now.”
“Big place.”
“Both members of the local golf club, too.”
“Fellow professionals. Makes sense. But you’re right, Ginger, it is interesting. Are you thinking Julia Ford might have told Dr. Wallace…?”
“And Dr. Wallace might have let it slip elsewhere? Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? That is, if Julia Ford isn’t the one we’re looking for.”
“I wonder if Dr. Wallace can tell us anything?”
“She’s hardly any more likely to spill the beans than Julia Ford, is she?” said Ginger. “I mean, doctors. They’re worse than lawyers. That’s if there are any beans to spill.”
“Perhaps not,” said Annie. “But when we get back to the station, keep digging into Julia Ford’s background. Discreetly, of course. Get back to your friend at Bristol and see if she can dig up any more names from around that time. Others who might have shared the flat, been members of the same societies, that sort of thing. It might be worth my having a word with Dr. Wallace later if you do come up with anything. I’ve met her a couple of times. She seems okay.”
“What are you thinking?”
Annie grabbed her briefcase and stood up. They walked out onto Flowergate and joined the flow of people. “I’m thinking, you know, a couple of drinks at the nineteenth hole—there’s been some decent enough weather for golf recently—the tongue loosens. ‘Guess who’s our client and what we’ve done with her,’ says Julia. ‘Oh?’ says Dr. Wallace. And so on.”
“Girl talk?”
“Something like that. And Dr. Wallace lets it slip somewhere else, another old uni friend or…Who knows? What’s Maggie Forrest’s psychiatrist’s name?”
“Simms. Dr. Susan Simms.”
“Where did she get her education?”
“Dunno.”
“Find out. Has she ever done any forensic psychiatry?”
“I’ll check.”
“Good. That could link her to Julia Ford through the courts. She may have had to give evidence while Julia was appearing as a barrister at some time or another. Dr. Simms is already linked with Maggie Forrest. So many possibilities.�
��
“Right, guv,” said Ginger.
“I don’t know where all this gets us,” Annie said, “but we might just be on to something here.” She took out her mobile. “I should probably let Alan know, too.”
“If you think so.”
“And, Ginger?”
“Yes, guv?”
“Tread very carefully indeed on this one. Not only are we sniffing around the super’s favorite kinds of people—doctors and lawyers—there’s also a killer on the loose somewhere, and the last thing you want to do is step on her tail and disturb her without knowing you’ve done so.”
BANKS WALKED over from Western Area Headquarters to The Fountain late that afternoon mulling over what he had just heard from Annie on his mobile. Julia Ford and Elizabeth Wallace, old flatmates and golf buddies. Well, it made sense. If they’d known each other from their university days, and if both were professional single women living in Harrogate, they would probably be friends, and members of the same golf club.
The Maggie Forrest connection was the one that really interested him, though. According to Annie, she used Constance Wells in Julia Ford’s firm for her legal work, and she also knew Julia Ford slightly, so she might easily have overheard something about Karen Drew when she was in their office once, or seen a revealing document. Julia Ford had been Lucy Payne’s lawyer, and Maggie had been her champion and her stooge. It had all gone haywire, of course, but there was a connection.
Then there was the hair. Annie had told him that their expert, Famke Larsen, had matched one of Kirsten Farrow’s hairs, found in Greg Eastcote’s house in 1989, with a hair on the blanket Lucy Payne had on when she was killed. It wasn’t conclusive, of course, but it was enough to confirm their suspicions that Kirsten had somehow reappeared and was involved in Lucy’s murder. Who she was remained a mystery. The hair on the blanket, Annie had also said, would reveal a mitochondrial DNA profile which could further help them identify the killer. That would take a few days, though, and they would need samples from all their suspects for comparison. Still, it was definitely progress.
For the moment, though, he needed to concentrate on the Hayley Daniels case. He was getting close; he could feel it in his water.
“Hello, Jamie,” Banks said as he walked in and stood at the bar. “Jill.”
Jill Sutherland smiled at him, but Jamie didn’t. A teenager in a long gabardine coat looked around from the slot machine he was playing and immediately turned away again. Banks recognized him from the comprehensive school. Underage truant. But he wasn’t interested in that today. Maybe if he remembered, he’d give the head a ring later. He got on well enough with Norman Lapkin, and they had a pint together now and again. Norman understood the problems of dealing with wayward youth.
“What is it this time?” Murdoch said. “Can’t you lot leave me alone for one minute? I’ve got a pub to run.”
“I won’t get in your way,” said Banks. “In fact, tell you what, I’ll even put your profits up. I’ll have a pint of Black Sheep, if that’s all right with you.”
Jamie glanced over to Jill, who took down a glass and started to pull the pint. “How’s business?” Banks asked.
“Rotten,” said Jamie. “Especially since last weekend.”
“Yes, bloody inconsiderate of Kev Templeton to go and get his throat cut just around the corner, wasn’t it? I mean, one murder might be quite good for business, brings in the curiosity seekers, but two…?”
Murdoch paled. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. You’re putting words into my mouth. I’m sorry about what happened to Mr. Templeton, really I am. He was a good copper.”
“Let’s not go too far, Jamie. Besides, nothing to do with you, was it?”
“Of course not.”
Jill smiled when Banks gave her a five-pound note and told her to have a drink for herself. Jamie went back to poring over his books and menus, and Jill went back to cleaning glasses. They looked as if they had already been cleaned once.
The old music tape, or satellite station, was playing Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want to Be With You.” Banks thought of Sophia and wondered where on earth things would go with her. They had listened to the Thea Gilmore CD that morning, and Banks had finally understood the reference Sophia had made to the song “Sugar” being a bit cheeky. The singer was saying that the person she was with could take her home and lay her on his bed, but not to call her “sugar.” Banks didn’t call Sophia “sugar.” If only he could have just dropped everything and gone off somewhere with her the way he had felt like doing. Now she would be back in London, back to her real life, friends, work and hectic social schedule. Perhaps she would forget him. Perhaps she would decide that it had all been a foolish dalliance with an unpromising future, best forgotten. Perhaps it had been. But why couldn’t Banks stop thinking about her, and why was he suddenly so jealous of everyone who was younger and freer than he was?
He glanced around the pub. There were only about five or six people in the place, but the numbers would pick up soon when the town center offices closed. Jamie Murdoch was right, though. A mood of gloom had descended on Eastvale since Templeton’s murder, and it wouldn’t pass completely until his killer was found. And if Banks didn’t find her soon, the various experts from all over the country would be arriving and taking over, just as Scotland Yard used to do in the old days. The press were already frothing at the mouth; one minute denouncing police incompetence, the next condemning a cop killer.
Banks sipped his pint. Dusty gave way to The Shadows’ “Theme for Young Lovers,” another bow in the direction of nostalgia. Banks had stolen his first kiss while that was playing down by the river one beautiful spring Sunday afternoon in 1964. Anita Longbottom was her name, and she wouldn’t let him put his hand on her breast.
“Can you turn it down a bit, Jill?” Banks asked. “I can hardly hear myself think.”
Jill turned the music down. Nobody complained. Banks wondered if anyone would miss it at all, but he realized that silence did bother some people. He sipped his pint and marveled at the fact that even if Detective Superintendent Gervaise walked in right now, he wouldn’t get into trouble. She had gone for his suggestion and had even agreed that he should appear as natural as possible. This was about the only good thing that had come from Templeton’s murder, apart from the fact that Banks had had to postpone both his doctor’s and dentist’s appointments yet again.
“You’re looking nervous, Jamie,” Banks said. “Something on your mind?”
“My conscience is clear, Mr. Banks,” said Jamie.
“Sure? Sure you don’t have a roomful of Spanish brandy and French cigarettes hidden away somewhere? I thought I could smell Gauloises a minute ago.”
“Very funny. You are joking, right?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, no, I don’t.” Jamie glared at Jill, who busied herself with the glasses again.
“There’s something else that’s been bothering me,” Banks went on. “We have a witness who heard a snatch of music in The Maze around the time Hayley Daniels was killed.”
“You mentioned that before. I didn’t hear anything.”
“We weren’t sure where it came from,” Banks went on. “A car passing by, a door opening and closing…something like that.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Then I had an idea.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Banks said. “The witness remembered that the music was ‘Fit But You Know It’ by The Streets, and I went online and found out you can buy it.”
“I imagine you can,” said Murdoch.
“As a ring tone.”
Murdoch had no reply to that, and before Banks could say anything else, he heard “Fit But You Know It” coming from Murdoch’s side pocket. Superintendent Gervaise ringing the number they had got from the mobile supplier, as arranged. The color drained from Murdoch’s face, his eyes turned back toward Banks, then he leaped over the bar and dashed out into the market square.
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Banks ran after him. “Jamie, don’t be a bloody fool!” he yelled, as Jamie scattered a gaggle of elderly tourists getting off a tour bus near the cross. “You can’t get away.”
But Jamie ran across the square. The uniformed officers positioned outside the police station in case of just such an eventuality snapped into action, and seeing his escape route cut off, Jamie changed direction and veered toward the Swainsdale Centre. Once there, he bounded up the escalator, Banks in hot pursuit, breathing heavily, and ran into the arcade of first-level shops.
Women clutched their children and screamed as packages and people went flying. Banks became aware of a couple of uniformed officers behind him, and suddenly he saw Winsome coming in fast from his left side. She was an awesome sight, head tossed back, arms like pistons, long legs pumping like an athlete’s.
Murdoch disappeared into the entrance of the Marks & Spencer food department, knocking baskets out of people’s hands as he went. A bottle of wine smashed on the floor, spilling red in every direction. Someone screamed, and Murdoch almost tripped over a small child who started to cry, but he caught his footing again and ran into the menswear department.
There was no way Banks was going to catch him. He was too out of shape, and he had never been a fast runner. Winsome ran marathons, though, and she moved gracefully and easily behind him, catching up with every step. Murdoch glanced back and saw how close she was, then he knocked an old woman out of his way and put on a sprint toward the exit.
Banks could hardly believe what he saw next. Murdoch was about five or six feet ahead of Winsome, when all of a sudden she launched herself through the air at him in something halfway between a dive and a rugby tackle, grasped him around his thighs with her long powerful arms and brought him to the floor. A few moments later, Banks was standing over them, panting for breath, and Winsome had her knee in Murdoch’s back and was doing her Christie Love act, saying, “You’re under arrest, sugah,” reading him his rights just like an American cop. “You have the right to remain silent…”
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