Friend of the Devil ib-17

by Peter Robinson

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  f licked the ash off her cigarette. “There was nothing suitable available locally, and I’d dealt with the Mapston Hall people before, so I knew their area of specialization matched Karen’s needs. It was just a matter of waiting for a bed, getting the paperwork done, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. I really had nothing more to do with it than that.”

  “What were your personal impressions of Karen?” Annie asked.

  “That’s a funny question.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, what impression can you have of someone who just sits there and says nothing?”

  “She must have had a life before the accident.”

  “I suppose so, but that wasn’t any of my business.”

  “Didn’t you have to contact her family at all?”

  “She didn’t have any. You must have read her file.”

  “Yes. It tells me nothing.”

  “Which is about as much as I can tell you, too.” Gail stubbed out her cigarette as the food arrived. Burgers and chips for Gail and Ginger, the inevitable cheese- and-tomato sandwich for Annie. Maybe she should start eating meat again, she thought, then decided that her diet was probably the only part of her life she seemed to have much control over at the moment. The conversations ebbed and f lowed around them. At one table, a group of women laughed loudly at a bawdy joke.

  The air was full of smoke tinged with hops.

  “Karen lived in Mansfield before the accident, according to her file,” said Annie. “Do you know what her address was?”

  “Sorry,” said Gail. “But you should be able to find out from Morton’s, the estate agents. They handled the sale for her. I do happen to know that. It was part of the financing.”

  “Okay,” said Annie. “How do you know about the estate agents?”

  “Her solicitor told me about them.”

  “Karen Drew had a solicitor?”

  “Of course. Someone had to take care of her affairs and look after her interests. She

  couldn’t do it herself, could she? And a proper bloody busybody she was, too. Always ringing about this, that or the other. Voice like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘Gail, do you think you could just . . .’ ‘Gail, could you . . .’ ” She gave a shudder.

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  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Do I? Connie Wells. That was her name. Constance, she called herself. Insisted on it. Right bloody smarmy stuck-up bitch.”

  “Do you have her phone number or address?”

  “Probably, somewhere in my files. She worked for a firm in Leeds, that’s all I can remember. Park Square.”

  It would be, thought Annie. Leeds. That was interesting. If Karen Drew lived in Mansfield, why was her solicitor with a firm in Leeds?

  It wasn’t far away, true, just up the motorway, but there were plenty of lawyers in Mansfield or Nottingham. Well, she could Google Constance Wells easily enough once she got back to Whitby. Maybe the solicitor would be able to tell them something about Karen Drew’s mysterious past.

  “ LO O K , T H E R E she goes,” said DS Kevin Templeton, pointing at the television screen. “Right there.”

  They were in the viewing room on the ground f loor of Western Area Headquarters reviewing one of the CCTV tapes. It could have been a clearer image, Banks thought, and perhaps technical support could tidy it up, but even blurred in the dark, with f laws and light f lares, there was no doubt that the tall, long-legged girl, a little unsteady on her pins, heading up the alley between Joseph Randall’s leather shop and The Fountain pub was Hayley Daniels, teetering on her high heels, reaching her hands out to touch the walls on both sides as she made her way down Taylor’s Yard.

  She had come out of the pub with a group of people at twelve-seventeen, said something to them, and after what looked like a bit of a heated discussion waved them away and headed into the alley at twelve-twenty. It was hard to make out exactly how many of them there were, but Banks estimated at least seven. He could see the backs of a couple of her friends as they lingered and watched her disappear, shaking their heads, then they shrugged and walked in the direction of the Bar None after the others. Banks watched as Hayley’s figure was finally swallowed up by the darkness of The Maze. Nobody waited for her.

  “Anyone go down there before or after her?”

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  “Not on any of the surveillance tapes we’ve seen,” said Templeton.

  “It’s her, though, isn’t it, sir?”

  “It’s her, all right,” said Banks. “The question is, was he waiting or did he follow her?”

  “I’ve watched it through till half past two in the morning, sir, well after the doc’s estimate of time of death,” said Templeton, “and no one else went up Taylor’s Yard earlier, and no one goes up there after her.

  No one comes out, either. We’ve got some footage from the Castle Road cameras to view, but this is it for the market square.”

  “So whoever it was entered by some other way, an entrance not covered by CCTV,” said Banks.

  “Looks that way, sir. But surely no one could have known she was going to go into The Maze? And if no one followed her . . .”

  “Someone was already there, waiting for just such a likelihood?

  Possibly,” said Banks.

  “A serial killer?”

  Banks gave Templeton a long-suffering look. “Kev, there’s only one victim. How can it be a serial killer?”

  “So far there’s only one victim,” said Templeton. “But that doesn’t mean it’ll stop with one. Even serial killers have to start somewhere.”

  He grinned at his own weak joke. Banks didn’t follow suit.

  Banks knew what he meant, though. Sexual predators who had done what this man had done to Hayley Daniels didn’t usually stop at just one victim, unless the killer was a personal enemy of Hayley’s, an area that remained to be explored. “What if she isn’t his first victim?”

  he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Get on the National Database,” Banks went on. “See if you can find any similar incidents in the last eighteen months, anywhere in the country. Get Jim Hatchley to help you. He’s not much good with a computer, but he knows his way around the county forces.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Templeton.

  A few years ago, Banks knew, such information would not have been easily available, but a lot had changed in the wake of the Yorkshire Ripper investigation and other interforce fiascos. Now, belatedly, Banks thought, they had come kicking and screaming into the twenty-first 8 0 P E T E R

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  century with the realization that criminals don’t respect city, county or even country borders.

  “I still wonder why she went into The Maze alone,” Templeton said, almost to himself. “No one went in with her or waited for her to come back.”

  “She was well pissed,” said Banks. “They all were. You could see that for yourself. People don’t think straight when they’re pissed. They lose their inhibitions and their fears, and sometimes it’s only your fears that keep you alive. I’ll send DC Wilson out to the college. He looks young enough to be a student there himself. We’ve got to find those people she was with, and the odds are that they were fellow students. She talked to them. You can see her doing it. They talked to her. It looked as if they were maybe trying to persuade her not to go. Someone must know something.”

  “She could have arranged to meet someone in there earlier. The Maze, that is.”

  “She could have,” Banks agreed. “Again, we need to talk to her friends about that. We need to interview everyone she met that night from the time they set out to the time she went into that alley. We’ve let ourselves be sidetracked by Joseph Randall.”

  “I’m still not sure about him,” said Templeton.

  “Me, neither,” Banks agreed. “But we have to broaden the i
nquiry.

  Look, before you get cracking on that database, have another word with the bartender who was on duty at The Fountain on Saturday night. Find out if there were any incidents in the pub itself. Any sign of him on the tapes?”

  “Oddly enough, yes, sir,” said Templeton.

  “Why oddly?”

  “Well, he wheeled his bicycle out of the front door and locked up.”

  “What’s so strange about that?”

  “It was nearly half past two in the morning.”

  “Maybe he’s a secret drinker. What did he have to say?”

  “He wasn’t there when the lads canvassed the pubs yesterday. Day off. Nobody’s talked to him yet.”

  “Interesting. If he’s not there today, find out where he lives and pay F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  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, f lickering 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.

  T H E R E WA S 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 8 2 P E T E R

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  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 pop u lar 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 f lush 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 F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  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.”

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  “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 f luid 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.”

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  “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 ruff led 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 f lown from Eric’s f lat like a bat out of hell, but Constance Wells wasn’t to know that.