Friend of the Devil ib-17

by Peter Robinson

  “All right.” Austin glared at her. “I was at home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Raglan Road.”

  “Near the town center?”

  “Yes. Not far.”

  “You didn’t go out at all?”

  “I went to The Mitre on York Road for a couple of pints between about nine and ten.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  “The usual locals.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went back home. There was nothing that interested me on TV, so I watched a DVD.”

  “What DVD?”

  “Chinatown. ”

  “An oldie.”

  “They’re often the best. Film happens to be one of my passions.

  When it came to a career, it was a toss-up between that and the travel business. I suppose I chose the more practical course.”

  “But you didn’t go into the market square?”

  “On a Saturday night? Do you think I’m crazy?” Austin laughed. “I value my life more than that.”

  Winsome smiled. “We do have a bit of a problem, you see, sir. We know that Hayley wasn’t expected home on Saturday, and she wasn’t planning on going to the Bar None with her friends. She had somewhere mysterious to go, and nobody seems to know where it was.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

  “Are you sure she wasn’t coming to see you?”

  1 3 2

  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “Why would she do that? And why would I want a drunk and immature teenager in my house?”

  Winsome could think of plenty of reasons, most of which would make her blush to say out loud, but she decided it was best to leave Austin to think of them himself. Instead, she ended the interview and walked out of the office, making a mental note of her reservations.

  She wasn’t at all certain that she believed him about his relationship to Hayley, but without evidence there wasn’t much she could do.

  As she walked down the stairs, a skinny long-haired male student she vaguely recognized was on his way up. He paused as they passed each other and glanced at her in an odd way. At first she thought it was because of her color. She got that all the time, especially in a place like Eastvale that wasn’t exactly high in its immigrant population.

  Only when she had reached the street did she realize it was something else. Recognition? Fear? Guilt? He had been one of the people with Hayley in the market square just before she disappeared down Taylor’s Yard. Winsome was certain of it. One of the people DC Wilson hadn’t traced and talked to yet, as far as she knew.

  B A N K S WA S running late. He dressed hurriedly after his shower, went downstairs, grabbed his travel mug of coffee and jumped into the Porsche. Once he was on the unfenced road crossing the desolate moors, he plugged in his iPod. The shuff le started with Neko Case’s

  “That Teenage Feeling.” He checked the dashboard clock and realized he should make it to Annie’s by nine-thirty, barring no unforeseen traffic problems when he hit the A roads.

  He still felt stunned and puzzled by her behavior of the previous eve ning. He had half expected a phone call of apology, and had stayed up late waiting, drinking more wine and listening to Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew. But she didn’t ring. When he called her number, the answering service kicked in; same with her mobile. He hoped she hadn’t got into an accident or anything. He had even thought of calling the station when she drove away, but that was too much like telling tales on a friend. Annie could handle herself in a car, even after a few F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  1 3 3

  drinks. If she got done for drunk driving, there’d be hell to pay in her career. He just hoped she had got home without incident, and that was the simple message he had left on her home phone.

  When he got to Harkside and knocked on her door a couple of minutes early, he got no answer. He glanced up the street, where she usually parked her purple Astra, and saw it wasn’t there. That worried him, but he assured himself that if anything had happened to her, an accident or something, it would have been on the local news that morning, and it hadn’t been. Which meant that more than likely she had wanted to avoid traveling with him and had driven off by herself.

  Feeling angry and resentful, Banks headed for the A1. Neil Young followed Neko Case—a blistering “Like a Hurricane” from Live Rust, which matched his mood. By the time he negotiated the traffic on the Inner Ringroad, parked and got to the office in “fortress” Millgarth, the Leeds city center police station off Eastgate, he was six minutes late and Annie was sitting in Hartnell’s office cool as anything, with DI Ken Blackstone and Area Commander Phil Hartnell himself, who had been in overall charge of the Chameleon investigation six years ago.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Banks said, easing into a vacant chair. Annie avoided looking at him. Her eyes seemed swollen, he noticed, as if she had been crying or was allergic to something.

  “That’s all right, Alan,” said Hartnell. “We hadn’t really started yet.

  Tea? Biscuits?” He gestured to the tray sitting on his desk.

  “Thanks.” Banks helped himself to tea and a couple of chocolate digestives.

  Hartnell perched at the edge of his desk. “DI Cabbot was just bringing us up to speed on her investigation.”

  Banks glanced at Annie again. She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Right,” he said. “Well, it’s DI Cabbot’s case. I’m here merely to help out with the Chameleon angle.”

  “As are we all, Alan. As are we all,” said Hartnell.

  He had filled out over the past six years, as if he had stopped working out regularly, let himself go to seed. His hairline was receding, too. Age gets to us all eventually, Banks realized, and sooner than we expect, remembering when he had first noticed his own hair starting to gray at 1 3 4

  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  the temples. It’ll be bloody liver spots next, he thought gloomily, and prostate cancer. That reminded him of the doctor’s appointment he hadn’t rescheduled. It was getting closer.

  “You were saying about the pathologist’s report?” Hartnell, still perching, said to Annie.

  “Yes, sir,” Annie said. “The postmortem didn’t really tell us anything we didn’t know already. The pathologist repeated that it’s often hard to tell handedness from slash injuries, but seemed to favor a left-to-right motion, considering pressure and depth of the wound. That gives us a right-handed killer, most likely. Again, he couldn’t commit himself to the actual weapon used but stressed that it was extremely sharp and an old-fashioned straight razor or some sort of scalpel were the most likely possibilities. Other than that, Lucy was, as we thought, a quadriplegic. In her case, that meant she couldn’t move or speak. As for time of death, that was fixed at between eight-thirty and ten-thirty a.m. As we know she left Mapston Hall at nine-thirty and was found at ten- fifteen, we can narrow that down quite a bit.”

  Hartnell went behind his desk and sat down. “So what exactly can we help you with?” he asked Annie.

  “It’s mostly a matter of names,” Annie said. “The people at Mapston Hall said Karen—sorry, Lucy—had no visitors other than the mysterious ‘Mary’ who picked her up on Sunday morning at nine-thirty a.m.

  and, in all likelihood, killed her. It appears that nobody saw her car, and we can’t get a decent description of her because they were busy and no one really noticed her apart from one staff member.” Annie took an envelope from her briefcase and passed photocopied sheets of paper to everyone. When it came to Banks, he snatched his copy from her childishly. Annie ignored him. “This is the artist’s impression worked out with Mel Danvers, Lucy’s carer, the only person who saw ‘Mary.’

  As you can see, it’s not a lot of use.”

  It certainly wasn’t, Banks thought, studying the figure in the rain hat, glasses and a long baggy coat, face in shadow except for a vague sense of thin lips and an oval chin. “It seems as if she deliberately wanted to obscure her app
earance,” he said.

  Annie said nothing.

  “True enough,” Hartnell agreed.

  F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  1 3 5

  “Yes, sir,” Annie said to him. “She didn’t really need all that gear.

  It had been raining at the time, but it was clearing up by then. Mel also said she got the vague impression the woman was about forty.”

  “Are you working on the assumption that whoever killed Lucy Payne knew her real identity?” Hartnell asked, after examining the drawing and putting it aside.

  “It seems a reasonable assumption to make at the moment, sir,” Annie said. “Otherwise, what are we left with?”

  “I see your point,” said Hartnell. “Given that Karen Drew hadn’t existed for very long, it would have been rather odd if someone wanted to kill her, unless the whole thing was random, someone who just wanted to kill a helpless victim in a wheelchair for the hell of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Annie.

  “Not entirely out of the question,” said Ken Blackstone, “but perhaps the most unlikely scenario.”

  “Exactly,” Annie agreed. “Especially now we know who she really was.”

  Banks watched her as she spoke. She was focused on the job, but he knew it was costing her an effort, as was not looking at him. It was as if she were straining against powerful forces trying to turn her in another direction. Her jaw was set tight, and a tiny muscle twitched now and then under her left eye. He wished he could just put his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, but whatever the problem was, he knew it went way beyond a simple hug.

  “Which, I suppose,” Hartnell went on, “brings us to the question of how many people knew that Karen Drew was really Lucy Payne.”

  “Yes, sir.” Annie opened one of the folders she had brought with her. “Julia Ford gave us to believe that only she and a couple of other members of her law firm knew, including Constance Wells, of course, who handled Lucy’s affairs.”

  “Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?” said Banks. “Julia Ford isn’t going to take any responsibility for what happened to Lucy Payne.”

  “Certainly there were doctors and administrators at the hospital who knew,” Annie went on, as if Banks hadn’t spoken. Ken Blackstone noticed and gave him a querying glance. Banks gave a small shake of his head in return. Later.

  1 3 6

  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “What about Mapston Hall?” Hartnell asked.

  “Julia Ford said not, and it was certainly in everyone’s best interest to keep it quiet, but it’s always possible someone there knew the truth.”

  “Could anyone simply have recognized her?” Blackstone asked.

  “That’s a difficult one, Ken,” said Annie. “The short answer is, I don’t think so. She was only twenty-eight, but she appeared to be well into her forties. Her hair was different, shorter, mostly gray, and it had lost its sheen. Her face was puffy and her figure . . . well, she’d become rather shapeless, lumpy. I doubt that anyone who had seen her six years ago would recognize her today. No, it’s my guess they’d have to have known who she was by some other means.”

  “And we also have to contend with the fact that anyone who did know might have told someone else,” Blackstone said.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Annie agreed.

  “Did any of the people at hospital or at Mapston have any connection with the Chameleon case?” Hartnell asked. “With the victims or their families?”

  “A good question, sir, and that’s what we’re checking into right now,” said Annie. “As yet, we haven’t found anything, but it’s early days.”

  Hartnell clapped his hands. “Right,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have a long list from me, DI Cabbot.”

  “Better that than no ideas at all,” said Annie.

  Hartnell handed her a sheet of paper and passed copies to Banks and Blackstone. “I’ve made out a list of all the major players in the Chameleon case,” he said. “As you can see, I’ve also included the families of the victims. In some cases, the husbands and wives have separated since then. In three cases, actually. It’s not unusual that such a tragic event can tear apart an entire family. The Myers family, parents of the last victim, lived just down The Hill from the Paynes, and they moved away down south very quickly. I believe they’re in Devon now. Can’t say I blame them. Anyway, there were certainly plenty of angry relatives when Lucy Payne got off. There’s also Payne’s friend, Maggie Forrest, though I believe she returned to Canada after her breakdown.

  She may be back. You can check on her, at any rate.”

  F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  1 3 7

  “I agree,” said Banks. “I’d have a very close look at Maggie Forrest if she’s around.”

  “Why’s that, Alan?” Phil Hartnell asked.

  “Because she was the closest to Lucy Payne in many ways, and she got seriously betrayed by her.”

  “She almost got killed, if it hadn’t been for you, is what I heard,”

  said Hartnell.

  “Yes,” said Banks. “Anyway, the point is that her feelings are bound to be deeply confused and conf licted on the issue. And let’s not forget that she had a few problems of her own. She was seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “Okay,” said Hartnell. “Looks as if your first priority, Annie, is finding out whether this Maggie Forrest is in the country, and if she is, could she have had access to Lucy Payne’s identity and whereabouts?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Annie, clearly not pleased that Banks had come up with this.

  “What about Janet Taylor’s family?” Blackstone asked, looking up from the list. “If anyone was another Chameleon casualty, it was her.”

  Hartnell turned to Annie. “You carried out the investigation into the killing of Terence Payne by Janet Taylor, didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t my choice,” said Annie, jaw tight.

  “I understand that,” Hartnell said. “It was a rotten and thankless task, but it had to be done.” Banks happened to know that it was because of Hartnell that Annie had been given the “rotten and thankless task,” to keep it close to home. He had tried to intercede on her behalf, but Annie had been working Complaints and Discipline at the time, just after her promotion to detective inspector, and the case had been pushed right into her lap. Annie didn’t know that.

  “Anyway,” Annie went on, “Janet Taylor had an older brother, and the whole business turned him into a bitter drunk. He’s been known to utter the occasional threat, though most of his vehemence is directed toward the police investigation into his sister’s conduct. There’s a chance that, if he knew where she was, he might have harbored a strong resentment against Lucy Payne, too. We’ll check him out.”

  “Fine,” said Hartnell. “Now is there anyone I’ve forgotten?”

  “Well, I’m just thinking, it was six years ago,” said Banks, “and that means a significant change in the ages of everyone involved. They’ve 1 3 8

  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  all been getting older, like the rest of us.” Blackstone and Hartnell laughed. “But in some cases it means more.”

  “What are you getting at, Alan?” asked Hartnell.

  “Well, sir,” said Banks, “it’s the ones who were kids at the time. I’m thinking specifically of Claire Toth. She was Kimberley Myers’s best friend. That’s the Chameleon’s last victim, the one we found naked and dead on the mattress in the cellar at 35 The Hill. They went to the dance together, but when it was time for Kimberley to go home, Claire was dancing with a boy she fancied and didn’t go with her. Kimberley went alone and Payne snatched her. Naturally, Claire felt guilty. What I’m saying is that there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one. And she’s had six years to live with the guilt. I know Annie said Mel Danvers thought Mary was about forty, but she didn’t get a good look. She could have been wrong. Quite frankly, the artist’s impression she gave is useless. I’m just s
aying we don’t rule out Claire or anyone else because they happen to be younger than forty, that’s all.”

  “Then we’ll add her to the list, by all means,” said Hartnell. “And by the same token let’s not overlook anyone else who was the victims’ age at the time. As Alan says, people change with age, and no one more quickly and unpredictably than the young. That includes boyfriends, girlfriends, siblings, whatever. I hope you’ve got a big team, DI Cabbot.”

  Annie managed a tight smile. “It’ll be a stretch, sir, but we’ll manage.”

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” Hartnell asked.

  “If you could have the Chameleon files put aside for me in a cubbyhole here somewhere . . . ? I might need to come in and check details from time to time.”

  “Consider it done,” said Hartnell. “Ken, you’ll see to it?”

  “I will indeed,” said Blackstone. “And you can use my office, Annie. We’re a bit short on cubbyholes.”

  “Thanks, Ken,” said Annie.

  Hartnell stood up and looked at his watch, the mark of a busy man.

  “Well, I think that just about covers it,” he said. “I know that none of us will be shedding any tears over the death of Lucy Payne, but at the same time I think we’d all like to see justice done.”

  F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

  1 3 9

  “Yes, sir,” they all muttered as they filed out of his office.

  In the corridor, Banks tried to catch up with Annie, but she was hurrying away toward an open lift door. He managed to reach out and grasp her shoulder but she pulled away with such force it stopped him in his tracks. He watched her get in the lift, and the doors closed behind her. A moment or so later, he felt a friendly hand between his shoulders. “Alan, old mate,” Ken Blackstone said, “I think you need a drink, and they might just be serving lunch by now.”

  W I N S O M E F O U N D a coffee shop across the street from Austin’s department and decided to settle down and wait for the long-haired student to come out. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when he did emerge from Austin’s building, but she knew she would think of something.