Friend of the Devil ib-17

by Peter Robinson

  “Don’t worry,” said Banks. He saw the desk sergeant enter the pub, F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  glance around and walk straight toward him. He groaned. “Shit, Ernie, what do you want?” he said.

  “Always nice to find a warm welcome, sir,” said Ernie.

  “I’m sure it happens a lot when you’re always the bearer of good news.”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I never do, but that’s not stopped you yet.”

  “Bloke just came in, neighbor of Joseph Randall, the one you charged.”

  “And?”

  “Says Randall can’t possibly have done it, sir. Wants to talk to the man in charge.”

  “Man in charge?” Banks glanced over at Detective Superintendent Gervaise, who seemed to be enjoying a private chat with DC Wilson, and wondered if feminism might actually work for him, just this once, then he decided just as quickly that it wouldn’t. Why rain on their parade? If there was anything in it, they’d find out soon enough. “All right,” he said, getting to his feet. “Lead on.”

  A N N I E M U L L E D over her conversation with Les Ferris as she drove on the A171, along the edge of the North York Moors, quiet at that time of evening, just after dark. She put some foot-tapping pop music on the radio to keep her going, but the chatter between songs irritated her so much that she turned it off. On the face of it, what Ferris had come up with sounded absurd: one murder, one serious assault and one unsolved disappearance of eighteen years ago, a mysterious woman seen in proximity to two of the three scenes. As he had said, there was only ever officially one crime: Keith McLaren’s assault.

  What could any of this possibly have to do with what happened on Sunday? Curiously enough, Annie thought there were quite a few connections. First was location. There had been no other murders around the cliffs in the past eighteen years, so why again now? Second came the strong possibility of a female killer. Women murderers are much rarer than men. Third, two of the victims were serial killers, or 1 8 4

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  perceived by many to be serial killers: Greg Eastcote and Lucy Payne.

  Four, the murderer of eighteen years ago had not been caught. And that led to the fifth and final point of similarity: If the killer had been around eighteen years ago, that put her at almost forty now, and that was about the only thing they knew about the elusive Mary. Mel Danvers thought she had been about that age. It was still very tenuous, but the more Annie thought about it, the more she became convinced that it at least merited some investigation.

  What about Keith McLaren, the Australian? Perhaps he had recovered more of his memory now. It was all moot until Les Ferris came up with the hair samples, anyway, and then a lot depended on whether they could match Kirsten’s to any of the hairs found on Lucy Payne’s blanket.

  If not, it was a washout, but if they did, they were in business.

  It was a beautiful clear eve ning, Annie thought, as she passed the road to Robin Hood’s Bay. She could see the afterglow of the sunset, dark strata of red and purple silhouetting the western hills. To the east, over the North Sea, spread that magical shade of luminescent dark blue you saw only at the time of night opposite a sunset. A silver moon hung low to the north.

  Soon Annie was amid the traffic lights and streetlights, and the pleasures of the open road were lost. She found a parking spot only yards from her temporary accommodation and let herself in. The place seemed cool and dark, as if it been abandoned far longer than it had. Perhaps the nicest thing about it, Annie thought, was that she could just see a wedge of sea between the rooftops. She turned the lights on, hung up her jacket and headed for the kitchenette. She hadn’t eaten dinner, had only sipped that one pint to Ferris’s three, and she could do with a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers.

  Tomorrow would be a busy day, she ref lected, as she put the plate and glass beside her on the desk and turned on her laptop. There were people connected with the Paynes’ victims to be interviewed, and now another line of inquiry coming out of Les Ferris’s story.

  Only one thing was certain: Given the workload they had already, if they were to follow Ferris’s leads, they were going to be seriously overstretched. Which meant Annie had to approach Detective SuperF R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  intendent Brough for both overtime, as she had already promised Ginger, and for extra personnel. These were the two things no budget-conscious administrator liked to authorize these days. It would be hard to sell it to Brough, but she’d worry about that later. Besides, he was bound to have his hands full with the press.

  The one good thing about Brough, Annie had learned in the short time she had been working at Eastern, was that he didn’t really listen.

  He was easily distracted and tended to focus on matters of public opinion and image; he was also the kind of person who was well on to his response to the next press question before you’d finished speaking.

  Consequently, a lot passed by him, which you could legitimately claim to have told him, and he tended to nod abruptly, agree and say okay simply to facilitate being able to move on, to say something he thought more interesting.

  The Internet connection was slow. The guesthouse didn’t have broadband, and Annie had to rely on the phone line and the computer’s internal modem. But it was good enough for e-mail, which was all she really wanted. Tonight it seemed to take an unusually long time to download. She cursed whoever it was had decided to send her a large attachment, probably some silly joke or holiday snap, then she saw Eric’s name appear next to a paper clip and her heart constricted.

  How had he got hold of her e-mail address? Then it dawned on her.

  They had both been playing with their new Blackberrys, which handled e-mail as well as text and phone, and Eric had shown her how to attach photos and send them. She had sent one to him in the club.

  That was how he had got her e-mail address. How could she be so careless?

  The other messages were all junk—Viagra, breast enlargement and genuine Rolex offers, along with various sales newsletters.

  She opened Eric’s message. It was short, in blue italic script, and to the point:

  Dear Annie,

  I hope you enjoyed Saturday as much as I did. You were fantastic!!

  I can’t wait to do it again (and more J ). In the meantime I’m really 1 8 6

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  looking forward to our lunch tomorrow and getting to know you a bit more. I don’t even know where you come from or what you do for a living! Don’t forget: 12 noon at The Black Horse, I’ll be waiting.

  Love, Eric.

  Annie’s heart sank when she opened the attached JPEG. She definitely didn’t remember posing for this one. It was a slightly blurred picture of her and Eric, no doubt using the self- timer. This time she had her head resting on his shoulder, his arm encircling her. Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes unfocused. All of which would have been perfectly innocent, albeit a little embarrassing, except that it was clear, even from the head and shoulders, that both she and Eric were stark-naked, and that she was holding a joint between her thumb and forefinger. And bugger it if she wasn’t smiling.

  “ W E L L , J O S E P H ,” said Banks, back in the same interview room with the tape recorder running and Sebastian Crawford hovering nervously in the background again. “It looks as if we’re not at the bottom of this yet, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Randall.

  “I think you do,” said Banks. He leaned forward. “And I think it would be in your best interests to admit that you do.”

  Randall licked his lips and looked to Crawford for guidance. Crawford said nothing.

  “Right,” said Banks, leaning back in his chair. “Let me lay it out for you, then. We’ve just had a visit from your neighbor, Roger Colegate, who tells us that he saw you putting the cat out at half past twelve on Saturday night. Thou
gh we don’t as yet know the exact time Hayley Daniels was murdered, we do have evidence pointing toward the fact that she entered The Maze at twelve-twenty and was most likely accosted by her attacker by twelve twenty-five or there-abouts.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” said Randall, with a triumphant glance toward Sebastian Crawford. “I couldn’t have done it, could I?”

  “It would probably have taken you at least fifteen minutes to walk F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  up to the market square from where you live,” Banks went on, “even if you had been capable of walking in a straight line at the time.”

  “What do you mean?” Randall said.

  “According to your neighbor, you were pissed,” said Banks. “In fact, according to Mr. Colegate, you were usually pissed by that time most nights.”

  “That’s a lie,” said Randall. “I might have had a drink or two, but there’s no law against that, is there?”

  “Not at all,” said Banks. “No law against getting pissed, either, providing you don’t cause any bother.”

  “Well . . . ?”

  “Mr. Colegate says you were unsteady on your feet and that when he called out good evening, you replied in a slurred voice. You don’t even remember that, do you?”

  “No,” said Randall, “but it doesn’t matter, does it? He remembers it. That’s what counts. Like you say, there’s no law against getting a little drunk in one’s own home once in a while, is there? I’m off the hook. I can’t have done this terrible thing. You have to let me go.”

  Banks paused. “You did find the body, however.”

  “You already knew that. I was the one who reported it to you. And I had a legitimate reason for being there.”

  “Yes, we’ve checked with the customer you told us about. You did have a rush order for a handbag. But that’s hardly relevant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You spent eleven minutes alone with Hayley Daniels’s body.”

  “So? She was dead when I found her.”

  “I know that,” said Banks.

  “Look, I think you should just apologize, cut your losses, let me go and have done with it. Sebastian?”

  Crawford cleared his throat. “Er . . . My client does have a point, Chief Inspector. After all, you’ve already agreed that he couldn’t possibly have been responsible for the murder of Hayley Daniels, which is what you’ve been holding him for.”

  “That could change,” Banks said.

  “What do you mean?” Randall asked.

  “The problem remains,” Banks went on. “Our forensic experts 1 8 8 P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  definitely found your DNA in semen samples taken from the victim.

  In fact, our crime scene coordinator had been puzzled that the semen hadn’t dried as much as he would have predicted, had it been there overnight.”

  Randall folded his arms. “I told you, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there.”

  “Oh, I think you can,” said Banks. He leaned forward and rested his palms on the desk, face only a couple of feet from Randall’s.

  “Would you like me to tell you what I think really happened in that storage room, Joseph?”

  Randall licked his lips. “What’s the point? You’ll tell me anyway.

  More fantasy.”

  “Perhaps it started as a fantasy,” said Banks, “but it wasn’t mine. I think you’re telling the truth, and so is Mr. Colegate. I think you saw Hayley Daniels in The Trumpeters after you closed up shop on Saturday night and you liked what you saw. Perhaps you’d seen her there before? After all, she frequently spent Saturday nights on the town with her college friends. Or perhaps it didn’t really matter who you saw as long as she was young and scantily dressed. I believe you went home, as you said you did, watched television, or perhaps some porn on DVD, and drank yourself into a stupor, fueling your fantasies, until you could hardly stand up at half past twelve, when you put the cat out and, in all likelihood, went to bed.”

  “So what if any of this is true?” said Randall. “None of it’s illegal.”

  “I’d like to believe that you dashed back to the shop, saw Hayley Daniels conveniently walking into The Maze and hurried after her,”

  Banks went on, “but in all fairness, I don’t think that’s very realistic.

  The timing doesn’t work, and it would be far too much of a coincidence.”

  “Well, thank heaven for that! Can I go now?”

  “But you did find the body the following morning,” Banks said.

  “And reported it.”

  “Something happened in those eleven minutes, didn’t it, Joseph?

  Something came over you, some urge you couldn’t resist.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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  “I think you do.”

  “Chief Inspector—”

  “Please be quiet, Mr. Crawford. I’m not infringing your client’s rights in any way.” Banks turned back to Randall. “That’s what happened, isn’t it, Joseph? You walked into your storage room as usual to pick out some suitable remnants, turned on the light, and you saw her there, lying on her side on the soft pile of scraps as if she were asleep, some poor lost babe in the woods taking shelter from the storm. She looked so innocent and beautiful lying there, didn’t she? And you couldn’t help yourself. I’ll bet you touched her, didn’t you, Joseph?

  Fondled those small firm breasts, small cold breasts? Did it really turn you on, her being dead like that, unable to respond, to say or do anything, to stop you? You were in complete control, weren’t you, probably for the first time in your life? There wasn’t a thing she could do, was there? So you touched her skin, and you ran your hands over her thighs. Did you kiss her, Joseph? Did you kiss those dead lips? I think you probably did. How could you resist? She was all yours.”

  Randall hung his head in his hands. Crawford moved over to him.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Joseph,” he said. “This is sick.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Banks. “And he’s right. You don’t have to say anything. I already know, Joseph. I know everything. I know how you felt as you knelt beside her and unzipped. You were hard, weren’t you, harder than you’d ever been? And with one hand you touched her between her legs and with the other you touched yourself, and it happened, didn’t it? Perhaps sooner than you expected. Then you had to clean up. You didn’t do a very good job. That’s why we found what we did, isn’t it? You thought you’d got it all, but you were in a hurry and you missed some. Eleven minutes, Joseph.”

  Randall sobbed into his hands, Crawford had one arm draped awkwardly over his shoulders. “I didn’t kill her,” Randall cried. “I didn’t hurt her. I would never have hurt her.” He looked up at Banks with a tear-streaked face. “You must believe me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Banks felt sick. He edged his chair back, stood up and went to open the door. “Take him back down to the custody suite,” he said to the constable on guard. “And ask the sergeant to charge him with committing an indignity on a dead body, or whatever the bloody hell they 1 9 0

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  call it these days. Go with him, please, Mr. Crawford. Go quick. Just get him out of my sight. Now!”

  Crawford helped Randall to his feet and they shuff led out into the grasp of the waiting constable. Alone in the small interview room with only the hum of the recording machines breaking the silence, Banks let out a loud expletive and kicked the only chair that wasn’t bolted to the f loor so hard that it sailed across the room and smashed into the tape recorder. Then all was silent.

  10

  IT WAS ALMOST TWENTY PAST TWELVE WHEN ANNIE MADE

  her way along Church Street to The Black Horse, having escaped the station and the media. She half hoped that Eric would have left by now; it would save her the trouble of dumping him in person. It would have been easier simply not to tur
n up, of course, but she already had the impression that Eric wasn’t the type to let go easily; he would need a bit of coaxing.

  Annie had deliberately dressed down for the occasion in a pair of old trainers, a shapeless knee-length skirt and a black polo- neck jumper under her denim jacket. She had also resisted putting on any makeup.

  It had been difficult, more so than she would have expected. She wasn’t vain, but in some ways she would have liked to make a stunning entry, turn all the heads in the pub, and then give him his marching orders. But she also wanted to do nothing to encourage him.

  As it turned out, such was her natural appeal—or perhaps it was because everyone in the pub was male—that heads turned anyway when she entered the small busy bar. Including Eric’s. Annie’s heart sank as she dredged up a weak smile and sat opposite him. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, pushing her hair back. “Something came up at the office.” It was partly true. Her meeting with Superintendent Brough had gone on longer than expected, mostly because it was hard to convince him that 1 9 2

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  Les Ferris’s information amounted to anything at all. Finally, she had got Brough to agree to let her initiate a limited search for the Australian and for Sarah Bingham, while Les Ferris tried to find the hair samples for comparison.

  “That’s all right,” Eric said, smiling. “I’m just glad you came at all.

  Drink?”

  “Slimline tonic, please.” Annie was determined to do this in a civilized way, over lunch, but with a clear head.

  “Are you sure?” Eric had a pint of Guinness in front of him, almost finished.

  “Yes, thanks,” Annie said. “Tough afternoon ahead. I’ll need all my wits about me.”

  “You must have a really demanding job. What are you, a cop or something? I’ll be back in a minute, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Eric headed for the bar and Annie studied the menu. She was starv-ing. Given the lack of choice, the veggie panini would have to do.

  Either that or a cheese- and-onion sandwich. When she looked up, Eric was on his way back with the drinks, smiling at her. His teeth were straight and white, his black hair f lopped over one eye, and he hadn’t shaved since she had last seen him, by the looks of it. He handed her the drink and clinked glasses.