Friend of the Devil ib-17

by Peter Robinson

  “Yes, well . . . I . . . look, I really can’t help you. I’m bound by . . . I only acted for Karen in her business affairs, the house sale, but I . . . I think you should . . . would you excuse me for a moment?”

  She got up and dashed out of the office. Annie and Ginger stared at each other.

  “What’s with her?” Ginger said. “Off to be sick? Taken short?”

  “No idea,” said Annie. “Interesting reaction, though.”

  “Very. What do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  It was almost five minutes before Constance Wells came back, and by then she seemed more composed. Ginger had stayed in her chair, but Annie was standing by the window looking down on Park Square, people-watching. She turned when she heard the door open.

  “I’m sorry,” said Constance. “I suppose that was rude of me, but it’s . . . well, it’s all rather unusual.”

  “What is?” Annie asked.

  8 6 P E T E R

  R O B I N S O N

  “Karen’s case. Look, Julia, that’s Ms. Ford, one of our senior partners, would like to see you. Can you spare her a few moments?”

  Annie and Ginger exchanged another glance. “Can we?” Annie said. “Oh, I think so, don’t you, DC Baker?” And they followed Constance down the corridor.

  5

  TEMPLETON HATED GROTTY OLD PUBS LIKE THE FOUN-tain. They were full of losers and tossers drowning their sorrows, and an atmosphere of failure hung in the air along with the stale smoke and ale. Just being in such a place made him cringe. Give him a modern bar, chrome-and-plastic seating, pastel walls and subdued lighting, even if the beer did come in bottles and the music was too loud. At least he didn’t walk out smelling like a tramp.

  The place was almost empty at three in the afternoon, only a few pathetic diehards with no lives worth living slobbering over their warm pints. A young man in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, shaved head and black-rimmed spectacles, stood at the bar polishing glasses. They still looked dirty when he’d finished.

  “You the landlord?” Templeton asked, f lashing his warrant card.

  “Me? You must be joking,” the man said. He had a Geordie accent.

  Templeton hated Geordie accents, and he heard far too many of them around Eastvale. “The landlord’s away in Florida, like he is most of the time. I don’t think he’s set foot in the place more than twice since he bought it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jamie Murdoch.”

  “Manager, then?”

  “For my sins.”

  8 8 P E T E R

  R O B I N S O N

  “You look too young.”

  “And you look too young to be a detective.”

  “I’m a quick study.”

  “Must be.”

  “Anyway, much as I love a bit of banter, I’ve got a few questions for you about Saturday night.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who was working?”

  “I was.”

  “Just you?”

  “Aye. Jill called in sick, and we couldn’t get anyone else at short notice.”

  “That must have been fun, on your own on a Saturday night?”

  “Hilarious. Anyway, it happens often enough. This about the poor wee lassie who got killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  He shook his head. “A tragedy.”

  “Did you serve her?”

  “Look, if you’re asking me were her and her friends intoxicated, they might have had a few, but there was no way they were so drunk I would have refused to serve them.”

  “Do you know they got kicked out of The Trumpeters before they came here?”

  “No, I didn’t. They must have been rowdy or something. They were well behaved enough here. It was the end of the eve ning. Things were winding down. It wasn’t them causing the trouble.”

  “But someone was?”

  “Isn’t someone always?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Nothing much to tell, really.” Murdoch picked up another glass from the dish rack and started drying it with the tea towel. “It was Saturday night, wasn’t it? Saint Patrick’s Day, too. There always seems to be something, even on a normal Saturday. You get used to it. Didn’t Elton John have a song about it? ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’?”

  “Don’t know that one,” said Templeton. “And this time?”

  F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  8 9

  “Gang of yobs from Lyndgarth got into a barney with some students in the poolroom. Eastvale’s version of town and gown. It came to nothing. Lot of sound and fury signifying nothing.”

  “Where’d you get that line from?”

  “It’s Shakespeare. Macbeth.”

  “Go to college, do you?”

  “I’ve been.”

  “So, tell me, an educated lad like you, how does he end up working in a dive like this?”

  “Just lucky, I suppose.” Murdoch shrugged. “It’s all right. There are worse places.”

  “So back to Saturday night. You’re here behind the bar all alone, you’ve just calmed down a fracas. What happens next?”

  “The Lyndgarth lot left and the girl and her friends came in. They knew some of the other students, so some of them started playing pool and the rest just sat around chatting.”

  “No incidents?”

  “No incidents. That was earlier.”

  “The fracas?”

  “And the vandalism.”

  “What vandalism?”

  “The bastards smashed up the toilets, didn’t they? Ladies and gents. I think it was the Lyndgarth mob, but I can’t prove it. Toilet rolls shoved down the bowl, lightbulbs broken, glass all over the f loor, piss—”

  “I get the picture,” said Templeton.

  “Aye, well, I was here until nearly half past two in the morning cleaning it up.”

  “Half past two, you say?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “We saw you leaving on the CCTV, that’s all.”

  “You could have said.”

  Templeton grinned. “Look at it from my point of view. If you’d said you went home at half past twelve we’d have had a discrepancy, wouldn’t we?”

  “But I didn’t. I left at half past two. Like you said, it’s on candid camera.”

  9 0 P E T E R

  R O B I N S O N

  “Anybody vouch for you?”

  “I told you, I was here alone.”

  “So you could have nipped out into The Maze, raped and killed the girl, then got back to cleaning up the bog?”

  “I suppose I could have, but I didn’t. You already said you saw me leave on the CCTV.”

  “But you could have sneaked out earlier and come back.”

  “Look around you. There’s only two ways out of this place on account of its location. There’s not even a window opens on Taylor’s Yard. We take all our brewery deliveries down the chute at the front.

  The only ways out of the place are the front, which leads to the market square, and the other side, the passageway between the toilets and the kitchen, which leads to Castle Road. I assume you’ve got CCTV

  there, too?”

  “We have,” said Templeton.

  “There you go, then. You tell me how I’m supposed to get out, rape and murder a girl, and come back without being seen.”

  “Mind if I have a look around?”

  “Not at all. I’ll show you.” Murdoch put the glass down, called to one of the regulars to keep his eye on the place and first took Templeton upstairs, where there were an office, a toilet, a storeroom full of cases of wine and spirits piled against the wall, and a sitting room with a TV set, fading wallpaper and a let-down sofa.

  Next, Murdoch showed him the poolroom and the toilets downstairs, which weren’t in such bad shape; then the kitchen near the back, which was clean as it should be; and the side exit onto Castle Road.

  They went into the cellar next, a dank place with damp ston
e walls and barrels of beer in a row and crates of ale piled up. It stank of yeast and hops. The walls were solid everywhere, probably about three feet thick.

  Templeton couldn’t see any possible way out, and he didn’t particularly fancy staying down there a moment more than he needed, so he headed back up the worn stone steps.

  “Seen enough?” asked Murdoch when they got back to the bar.

  “For now,” said Templeton. “This incident with the toilets. When did it happen?”

  “Don’t know for certain,” said Murdoch. “The Lyndgarth yobs had F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  9 1

  been gone maybe about ten minutes or so when one of the students came and told me. Not that there was anything I could do about it right there and then, like, when I had drinks to serve. It was about that time the girl and her friends came in.”

  “Pretty near closing time, then?”

  “Aye, not far off. I’d have closed up early except I had paying customers. I reckoned I’d see the punters off the premises at the usual time and get it cleaned up. Never imagined it would take so bloody long.”

  “This Lyndgarth lot, did they stick around the square?”

  “I didn’t see them again, but then I didn’t get out till late.”

  “Any names?”

  “Why? Are you going to prosecute them?”

  “For what?”

  “Vandalizing the pub.”

  “No, dickhead. They might be suspects in a murder investigation.

  Why, are you going to bring charges?”

  “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 9 2 P E T E R

  R O B I N S O N

  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.”

  A S B E F I T T I N G 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 ad-verts. 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.

  F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  9 3

  “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 hin-dered 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.

  9 4 P E T E R

  R O B I N S O N

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Annie. “Lucy Payne. The Friend of the Dev il. That changes everything.”

  “ S O W H AT 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 re
st 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 F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  9 5

  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 eve ning she was killed.