Friend of the Devil ib-17

by Peter Robinson

  “As much as you can go out on the town in a place like Whitby.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I met this bloke and . . . one thing led to another. I had way too much to drink and we smoked a couple of joints and to cut a long story short, the next morning I woke up in his bed.”

  “You did what?”

  “You heard me. I met this bloke and went back to his place.”

  “And you slept with him?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “This was the first time you’d met him?”

  “Yes. Winsome . . . what is it?”

  “Nothing.” Winsome shook her head. “Go on.”

  Annie took a long swig of wine. “He turned out to be a bit younger than I probably realized at first, and—”

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  “How young?”

  Annie shrugged. “Dunno.

  Twenty-two, twenty-three, around

  there.”

  Winsome’s eyes widened. “A boy! You picked up a boy in a bar and slept with him?”

  “Don’t be so naive. These things do happen, you know.”

  “Not to me, they don’t.”

  “Well, you’re obviously not going to the right bars.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I’m serious. I would never go home with anyone I met in a bar, and I would certainly never go home with someone so young.”

  “But Winsome, you’re only thirty!”

  Winsome’s eyes blazed. “And I would still never go to bed with a twenty-two-year-old. And you . . . how could you do that? It’s sick.

  You must be old enough to be his mother.”

  “Winsome, lighten up. People are starting to look at us. Maybe if I’d had a baby when I was eighteen I could be his mother, okay? But I didn’t, so cut the Oedipus shit.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I never knew you were such a prude.”

  “I am not a prude. You don’t have to be a prude to have . . .”

  “To have what? What’s your point?”

  “Moral standards. It’s not right.”

  “Oh, moral standards, is it now? Not right?” Annie drank more wine. She was starting to feel dizzy, and more than a touch angry.

  “Well, let me tell you what you can do with your moral standards, little Miss High-and-Mighty! You can shove them—”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Annie stopped. There was something in Winsome’s tone that caused her to back off. The two of them shuff led in their seats awhile, eyeing each other. Annie poured herself some more wine. “I thought you were my friend,” she said finally. “I didn’t expect you to go all judgmental on me.”

  “I’m not being judgmental. I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

  “What’s the big deal? That’s not the point of the story, anyway, his F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  age or having a one-night stand or smoking a couple of joints, or whatever it seems to have put that hair up your arse.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  Annie held her hand up. “Fine, fine. I can see this isn’t working.

  Another bad idea. Let’s just pay the bill and go.”

  “You haven’t finished your wine.”

  Annie picked up her glass and drained it. “You can have the rest of the bottle,” she said, dropping a twenty-pound note on the table.

  “And you can keep the fucking change.”

  T H E S O U N D of a car screeching to a halt in front of his cottage around half past nine startled Banks. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

  The only person who usually dropped by on spec was his son Brian, but he was supposed to be rehearsing in London with his new band.

  Well, it was the same band, really, The Blue Lamps, but they had replaced Brian’s songwriting partner and fellow guitarist. Their sound had changed a little, but from the couple of demos Brian had played him, Banks thought the new guitarist was better than the one he replaced. The songwriting remained an issue, but Banks was certain Brian would come through, carry the burden.

  By the time the knock at the door came, Banks was already there, and when he opened it, he was surprised to see Annie Cabbot standing there.

  “Sorry it’s so late,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  Banks stood back. “Of course. Anything wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, why should there be anything wrong? Can’t I drop in on an old friend when I feel like it?” As she walked in she stumbled against him slightly, and he took her arm. She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. He let go.

  “Of course you can,” said Banks, puzzled by her manner and dis-comfited from being so jarringly dragged away from his eve ning alone with the book, wine and music. Bill Evans had given way to John Coltrane some time ago, and the tenor sax improvised away in the background, f linging out those famous sheets of sound. He knew it would 1 2 4 P E T E R

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  take him a few moments to adjust to having company. “Drink?” he said.

  “Lovely,” said Annie, f linging off her jacket. It landed on the computer monitor. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Banks went into the kitchen and filled up a glass of wine for Annie and one more for himself, emptying the bottle. Annie leaned against the doorjamb as he handed her the drink. “Is that all that’s left?” she said.

  “I’ve got another bottle.”

  “Good.”

  She was definitely unsteady on her feet, Banks thought, as he followed her back through to the living room, and she f lopped down on the armchair.

  “So what brings you here?” he asked.

  Annie drank some wine. “That’s nice,” she said. “What? Oh, nothing. Like I said, just a friendly visit. I was having dinner with Winsome in Eastvale and I just thought . . . you know . . . it’s not far away.”

  “Eastvale’s quite a drive from here.”

  “You’re not insinuating I’ve had too much to drink, are you?”

  “No. I—”

  “Good, then.” Annie held up her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Banks. “What did Winsome have to say?”

  “Oh, just stuff. Boring stuff. That arsehole Templeton.”

  “I heard that the interview with Hayley’s parents didn’t go well.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t, would it? What could you have been thinking of, putting those two together? What can you be thinking of even having him in the station?”

  “Annie, I don’t really want to discuss—”

  Annie waved her hand in the air. “No. I know. Of course not. I don’t, either. That’s not why I came. Let’s just forget about bloody Templeton and Winsome, shall we?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “How about you, Alan? How are you doing? Julia Ford asked after you, you know. She’s very attractive in a lawyerly sort of way. Don’t you think?”

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  “I never really thought about her that way.”

  “Liar. What’s the music?”

  “John Coltrane?”

  “It sounds weird.”

  Banks made to get up. “I’ll put something else on if you like.”

  “No, no. Sit down. I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it sounded weird. I don’t mind weird sometimes. In fact I quite like it.” She gave him an odd smile and emptied her glass. “Oops, it looks as if we might need more wine, after all.”

  “That was quick,” said Banks. He went into the kitchen to open another bottle, wondering what the hell he should do about Annie.

  He shouldn’t really give her any more wine; she had clearly had enough already. But she wouldn’t react well to being told that. There was always the spare room, if that was what it came to. That was what he decided upon.

  Back in the living room, Annie had settled in the armchair with her legs tucked under her. It wasn’
t often she wore a skirt but she was wearing one today, and the material had creased up, exposing half her thighs. Banks handed her the glass. She smiled at him.

  “Do you miss me?” she asked.

  “We all miss you,” Banks said. “When are you coming back?”

  “No, I don’t mean that, silly. I mean, do you miss me?”

  “Of course I do,” said Banks.

  “Of course I do,” Annie echoed. “What do you think of toyboys?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, but I don’t really know what you mean.”

  “Toyboys. You know what they are, don’t you? Toyboys don’t make good lovers, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Banks tried to remember when he was a young boy. He had probably been a lousy lover. He probably was a lousy lover even now, if truth be told. If he weren’t, maybe he would have more luck finding and keeping a woman. Still, chance would be a fine thing; it would be nice to have the opportunity for more practice now and then.

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  “Oh, Alan,” she said. “What shall I do with you?”

  The next thing he knew, she was beside him on the sofa. He could feel her thighs warm against him and her breath in his ear. He could smell red wine and garlic. She rubbed her breasts against his arm and tried to kiss his lips, but he turned away.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “It just doesn’t feel right, that’s all.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “You know I want you. I never didn’t want you.”

  Annie started fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. “Then take me,” she said, moving close again and breathing fast. “Men always want it, don’t they, no matter what?”

  Again, Banks backed off. “Not like this,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “So?” She went back to the buttons. He could see the black lacy line of her bra and soft mounds of f lesh beneath. “Not another bloody prude, are you?”

  “Look,” Banks said, “it’s not . . .”

  Annie put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  He moved away. She gave him a puzzled glance. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve told you what’s wrong,” he said. “This just doesn’t feel right, that’s all. I don’t believe you really want to do this, either. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Annie moved away and quickly tried to fasten up the buttons. Her face was f lushed and angry. “What do you mean, it doesn’t feel right?”

  she said. “What’s wrong with me? Am I too fat? Not pretty enough?

  Are my breasts not firm enough? Am I not attractive enough? Not good enough for you?”

  “It’s not any of those things,” said Banks. “It’s—”

  “Or is it you? Because I have to wonder, you know,” Annie went on, getting to her feet and reaching for her jacket and handbag, stumbling as she did so. “I really do have to wonder about a man like you.

  I mean, do you have so much going on in your miserable little life that you can afford to reject me? Do you, Alan? Do you have some pretty F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  young twenty-two-year-old girl hidden away somewhere? Is that it?

  Am I too old for you?”

  “I told you. It’s not any of those things. I—”

  But it was too late. Banks just heard her say, “Oh, fuck you, Alan.

  Or not, as the case may be.” Then she slammed the door behind her.

  When he got outside she was already starting the car. He knew he should try to stop her, that she was drunk, but he didn’t know how, short of trying to drag her out of the driver’s seat or throwing himself in front of the wheels. In her mood, she would probably run him over.

  Instead, he listened to the gears grate and watched her back out in a spray of gravel at an alarming speed. Then he heard the gears screech again, and she was off down the lane through Gratly.

  Banks stood there, heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. When he went back inside, Coltrane was just getting started on “My Favorite Things.”

  7

  MALCOLM AUSTIN’S OFFICE WAS TUCKED AWAY IN A corner of the Travel and Tourism Department, located in a large old Victorian house on the fringes of the campus. Eastvale College had expanded over the past few years, and the squat sixties brick-and-glass buildings were no longer big enough to house all the depart-ments. Instead of putting up more faceless new blocks, the college authorities had bought up some of the surrounding land, including streets of old houses, and revitalized southeast Eastvale. Now it was a thriving area with popu lar pubs, coffee shops, cheap cafés and Indian restaurants, student f lats and bedsits. The college even got decent bands to play in its new auditorium, and there was talk of The Blue Lamps making an appearance there to kick off their next tour.

  Austin’s office was on the first f loor, and when Winsome knocked, he opened the door for her himself. It was a cozy room with a high ornate ceiling and broad sash windows. In his bookcase were a lot of travel guides to various countries, some of them very old indeed, and on his wall was a poster of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Against one wall stood a battered old sofa with scuffed black leather upholstery. The only window looked over a f lagstone courtyard, where students sat at wooden tables between the trees eating sandwiches, talking and drinking coffee in the spring sunshine. It made Winsome yearn for her own student days.

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  Austin was about fifty, with his gray hair worn fashionably long and tied in a ponytail at the back. He also had a deep tan, probably one of the perks of the business, Winsome thought. He wore a loose blue cable-knit jumper and faded jeans torn at the knees. He kept himself in shape, and was attractive in a lanky, rangy sort of way, with a strong jaw, straight nose and large Adam’s apple. Winsome noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He pulled out a chair for her and sat behind his small, untidy desk.

  Winsome first thanked Austin for agreeing to talk to her so early in the morning.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “My first class is at ten o’clock, and I’m afraid my Wednesdays just get worse after that.” His smile was engag-ing, and his teeth seemed well cared for. “It’s about Hayley Daniels, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  A frown creased his broad forehead. “It’s a terrible tragedy. Such a bright girl.”

  “She was?” Winsome realized she knew nothing about Hayley’s academic life.

  “Oh, yes. Not just the written work, mind you. She had the personality for the job, too. You need personality in the travel business.”

  “I’m sure,” said Winsome. “Do you know of any boyfriends or anyone on campus Hayley might have been involved with?”

  Austin scratched his head. “I honestly can’t say. She seemed a very gregarious type, always hanging out with a group rather than any particu lar individual. I think she enjoyed the attention.”

  “Do you know of anyone who disliked her?”

  “Not enough to kill her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps some of the other girls envied her her figure and her good looks, her easygoing manner, even her good marks. There is a school of thought that maintains you shouldn’t have it all—brains and beauty.

  Perhaps some of the boys resented the fact that they couldn’t have her.”

  “Stuart Kinsey?”

  “He’s one example that comes immediately to mind. He was always hanging around her, drooling. It was pretty obvious he was carrying a 1 3 0

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  torch for her. But Stuart wouldn’t harm a soul. He’d probably just go home and write sad love poems.”

  “What was your relationship with Hayley?”

  Austin looked puzzled. “Relationship? I was her tutor. I mar
ked her essays, she attended my lectures. I helped supervise her work experience, advised her on career paths, that sort of thing.”

  “Work experience?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s not just an academic course, you know. Students get the chance to work with travel agents and for airlines, sometimes even as overseas representatives and guides. I was trying to get Hayley a temporary position as a yellow shirt with Swan Hellenic, but I’m afraid they’ve lost their ship to Carnival, so things are a bit up in the air.”

  Winsome paused and crossed her legs. She was wearing jeans today—good ones—because she wasn’t going to make the same mistake as yesterday, though the likelihood of her being paired with Templeton again was slim to non existent. “Hayley was a very attractive girl,” she said.

  “I suppose she was,” said Austin. “There are a lot of attractive girls around the college, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “But maybe Hayley was your type?”

  “What on earth do you mean? Are you asking if we were having an affair?”

  “Were you?”

  “No, we were not. She was nineteen, for crying out loud.”

  Yes, Winsome thought, and Annie Cabbot’s latest conquest was twenty-two. Only three years’ difference. So what? she almost said.

  “Are you married?”

  Austin hesitated before saying, “I was. Twenty years. We separated four months ago. Irreconcilable differences.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Winsome.

  “These things happen. We’d been drifting apart for some time.”

  Marriage and a girl’s age were the two things that never made much difference to most men, Winsome remembered from the number of passes she had evaded when she worked at the hotel. “Weren’t you ever tempted?” she asked. “All those pretty young girls around, F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  hanging on your every word. Surely they develop crushes on you sometimes? It’s only natural, you being a teacher and all.”

  “You learn to deal with it.”

  Winsome paused, then asked, “Would you mind telling me where you were on Saturday night?”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, sir.”