Friend of the Devil ib-17

by Peter Robinson

  “What about the girl, Kirsten Farrow?”

  “Ginger’s been trying to trace her, too. Nothing so far. It’s odd, but she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. We’ve checked just about every source we can think of, and beyond about 1992 there’s no Kirsten Farrow. Her father’s been dead for ten years, and her mother’s in a home—Alzheimer’s—so she’s not a lot of use. We’re trying to 2 1 8

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  find the old university friend she was staying with in Leeds when she disappeared: Sarah Bingham. Ginger’s discovered that she went on to study law, so we do have a line to follow, but it’s just all so bloody slow and painstaking.”

  “The toughest part of the job,” Banks agreed. “Waiting, digging, checking, rechecking. Have you thought that Kirsten may be living abroad?”

  “Well, if she is, she’s not the one we want, is she? Les Ferris also says he can come up with the hair samples in the 1988 murders, so we can compare Kirsten’s with the hairs found on Lucy Payne. That should tell us one way or another whether this outlandish theory has any basis in reality at all.”

  “Hair matches are often far from perfect,” said Banks, “but in this case I’d say it’s good enough for rock and roll. So what’s your plan?”

  “Just keep on searching. For Kirsten and for Maggie. And Sarah Bingham. For a while longer, at any rate, until we can either count them in or rule them out. It’s not as if we’ve got a lot of other lines of inquiry screaming us in the face. Still,” Annie said, after a sip of wine and a harp arpeggio that sent a shiver up her spine, “that’s not what you came all this way to talk about, is it?”

  “Not exactly,” said Banks.

  “Before you say anything,” Annie began, glancing away, “I’d like to apologize for the other night. I don’t know what . . . I’d had a couple of drinks with Winsome and then some more at your place, and it just all went to my head for some reason. Maybe because I was tired. I shouldn’t even have been driving. I’d had way too much. It was unforgivable of me to put you in a position like that. I’m sorry.”

  For a while, Banks said nothing, and Annie could sense her heart pounding under the music. “That’s not really why I came, either,” he said eventually, “though I daresay it has something to do with it.”

  “I don’t understand. What, then?”

  “You and I have been finished for a long time,” Banks said, “so I won’t deny it came as a shock when you . . . anyway . . . that’s always difficult, that side of whatever we have. I never stopped wanting you, you know, and when you act like that . . . well . . . you were F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  right, I mean, there’s not a lot going on in my life that I can afford to turn down an offer as good as that. But it didn’t feel right. It wouldn’t have been right. At least I thought we were friends, however difficult it seems sometimes. That you’d tell me if anything was bothering you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, it’s not every night you come around drunk and practically jump on me. There must be something wrong.”

  “Why must there be something wrong?” Annie said. “I’ve told you I was drunk and overtired. Pressure of work. I’m sorry. There’s no point making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “You said some very odd things.”

  “What things?” Annie pushed her hair back. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” She remembered perfectly well what she had said to Banks—she hadn’t been as drunk as on that woeful night with Eric—

  but she was damned if she was going to let him know that.

  “About toyboys.”

  Annie put her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t, did I?”

  “You did.”

  “But that’s terrible of me. I shouldn’t tell tales out of school.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Another drink?”

  “I’d better not. I’m driving.”

  “I think I will.”

  “It’s your house.”

  Annie hurried into the kitchen and refilled her glass. It also gave her a moment to think and let her heart calm down. The last thing she wanted was Banks messing around in her personal life again like some knight in shining armor. She could handle the Eric situation herself, thank you very much. She didn’t need anyone to go and beat him up for her, or warn him off.

  She sat down again and said, “What I said the other night. It was just . . . Look, if you must know, I’d had an argument with my boyfriend and I—”

  “I thought you’d been out for dinner with Winsome?”

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  “Before that. I was angry and upset, that’s all. I said some things I should never have said. I regret them now.”

  Banks sipped some wine and Annie could see that he was thinking, the frown line etched in his forehead. “Is that this toyboy you were talking about?” Banks asked. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Yes. He’s young. Twenty-two.”

  “I see.”

  “We had a row, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

  “It’s quite recent.”

  “And you’re fighting already?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Maybe it’s the age difference?”

  Annie jerked upright in the armchair. “What age difference are you talking about, Alan? The one between me and Eric, or the one between me and you? Don’t be a hypocrite; it doesn’t suit you.”

  “Touché,” said Banks, gently putting his wine down on the glass table. There was a good mouthful left, and smooth legs down the side of the glass, Annie noticed. “So you’re not in any trouble?” he went on.

  “No. Of course not. What makes you think that?”

  “Everything’s okay? Nobody’s bothering you? Stalking you?

  Threatening you?”

  “No, of course not. Don’t be silly. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just because I made one bloody silly mistake before, it doesn’t mean I need a big brother or someone looking out for me. I can manage my own life, thank you very much. Boyfriends and all.”

  “Right, then.” Banks stood up. “I suppose I’d better go. Busy day tomorrow.”

  Annie got up and walked with him to the door. She felt in a daze.

  Why had she lied to him, misled him so? Why had she spoken so harshly? “Are you sure you won’t stay awhile?” she asked. “Another half glass won’t do you any harm.”

  “Better not,” said Banks, opening the door. “Besides, I think we’ve said all there is to say, don’t you? You take care of yourself, Annie. I’ll see you soon.” Then he leaned forward, pecked her on the cheek and was gone.

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  As she heard his car drive away, Annie wondered why she felt so sad, so much like crying. He hadn’t stayed long. Alice Coltrane was still on the CD player, only now she didn’t sound so calming after all.

  Annie slammed the door shut and said fuck over and over to herself until she did cry.

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  THE MARKET SQUARE HAD A DIFFERENT CHARACTER AT

  lunchtime, Banks thought as he walked toward The Fountain with Winsome, especially on a Friday when the weather was fine. All the pretty young girls from the banks and estate agents offices were out window-shopping, ID tags hanging from their blouses, having coffee and a sandwich with their boyfriends or a pub lunch in groups of three or four, laughing and talking about their weekend plans. The schoolkids descended en masse, shirts hanging out, ties askew, laughing, pushing and shoving, eating pies and pasties outside Greggs.

  They found Jamie Murdoch behind the bar of The Fountain, and the pub was doing nice business. The menu was interesting, adding curries and Thai dishes to the usual burgers, fish and chips and giant Yorkshires stuffed with mince or sausages. Banks was hungry, but decided it would be best to eat elsewhere afterward, maybe The Queen’s Arms. Jamie had help both at the
bar and in the kitchen, so he was able to take a quick break when Banks called him over to a corner table. The jukebox, or digital radio setup, was playing “Sultans of Swing.” The air smelled of curry sauce, smoke and hops.

  “What is it this time?” Jamie asked, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

  “Just a few more questions,” Banks said.

  “Questions, questions. I told your Mr. Templeton everything the F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  other day. Besides, it says in the paper this morning that some ex-boyfriend probably did it.”

  Banks had seen the article. Irresponsible journalism, he thought.

  Someone in the station had no doubt let it slip that they’d questioned a couple of Hayley’s ex-boyfriends and the story had grown legs and started running.

  “I wouldn’t believe everything I read in the papers, if I were you,”

  Banks said. “The way you told it to DS Templeton, Hayley Daniels came in late with a group of rowdy friends—”

  “They weren’t that rowdy.”

  “Let’s say high-spirited, then. You’d already had some trouble with a gang from Lyndgarth who had wrecked the pub toilets.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So far so good. Hayley and her friends were the last to leave, right?”

  Murdoch nodded.

  “And that would have been about a quarter past twelve?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I locked up.”

  “As soon as they left?”

  “Of course. I’ve heard about robbers busting in just as you’re closing up.”

  “Very sensible,” said Banks. “Did you know where they were going?”

  “Who?”

  “Hayley and her friends.”

  “Someone had mentioned the Bar None. It’s the only place left open at that time, anyway, except the Taj.”

  “Right,” said Banks. “Did Hayley say anything about not going with them?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “I understand she got stroppy with you.”

  “Not really.”

  “But she did mouth off when she found out the toilets were

  closed?”

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  “Well, she was upset, I suppose,” said Jamie, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “Why? I mean, it’s not important, is it?”

  “It might be,” said Banks. “What did she say?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Gave you quite a mouthful, I heard.”

  “Well, she wasn’t pleased. She might have said something about pissing on the f loor.”

  “The way I hear it is that you’re not exactly God’s gift to women, and here comes this snooty bitch telling you to get down there in the toilet on your hands and knees and clean it up or she’ll piss on your f loor. How did it make you feel?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Jamie said.

  “But you didn’t get angry and follow her out to give her what for?”

  Jamie edged back in the chair. “What do you mean? You know I didn’t. You’ve seen me on the cameras. It was as I said. I locked up, and then I spent the next couple of hours cleaning the toilets and replacing the bulbs, sweeping up the glass.”

  “I understand your help didn’t turn up on Saturday,” Banks said.

  “Jill. That’s right. Said she had a cold.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “Not much choice, had I?”

  “Did she do that often, call in poorly?”

  “Once in a while.”

  A group of office workers sat at the next table and started talking loudly. “Do you mind if we had a quick word with you in the back?”

  Banks asked.

  Jamie seemed nervous. “Why? What do you want?”

  “It’s all right,” Winsome assured him, “we’re not going to beat you up.” She glanced around at the busy pub. “It’s just more quiet and private, that’s all. We wouldn’t want the whole place to know your business.”

  Reluctantly, Jamie told one of his bar staff to take charge and led them upstairs, to the room with the TV and the sofa. It was small and stuffy, but at least it was private. Banks could hear Fleetwood Mac’s “Shake Your Moneymaker” playing downstairs. “The thing is, Jamie,” he began, “we’ve been asking around, and we think you’ve F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  been getting your friends and employees to bring back contraband booze and cigarettes from France.”

  “It’s not illegal anymore,” he said. “You can bring back as much as you want. We’re in Europe, you know.”

  “It is illegal to sell them on licensed premises, though,” Banks said.

  “Is that what’s been going on? Has it got anything to do with Hayley’s murder?”

  Jamie’s jaw dropped. “What are you saying? You can’t . . .”

  “Did Hayley know? Jill did. You even asked her to make a run for you. That’s why she doesn’t like working here, among other reasons.”

  “But it’s . . . I mean, okay, so what if we were selling the odd bottle of lager or packet of fags? That’s no reason to go and murder someone, is it? Especially like . . . you know . . . the way . . .”

  “You mean the rape?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the real motive, though. Could have been done to make it look that way. On the other hand, there’s not many a man isn’t going to try the goods before he gets rid of it, is there?”

  “This is sick,” Jamie said. “You’re sick.” He looked at Winsome as if he had been betrayed. “Both of you.”

  “Come on, Jamie,” said Banks. “We know what’s what. Is that what happened? Hayley was going to blow the whistle on you. You had to get rid of her, so you thought you might as well have her first.”

  “It’s ridiculous as well as sick,” Jamie said.

  “Where are they?” Banks asked.

  “What?”

  “The booze and fags.”

  “What booze and fags? I don’t have anything other than the legitimate stock you’ve already seen.”

  “Where are you hiding it?”

  “I’m telling the truth. I don’t have any.”

  It made sense, Banks thought. With the police sniffing around in the wake of Hayley’s murder, and no doubt guessing that Jill might not be as discreet as he would have liked, Murdoch was bound to have got rid of any contraband goods he had. It wasn’t much of a theory, anyway, Banks thought. No one was going to murder anyone over small- time 2 2 6 P E T E R

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  fiddling. He had just wanted to push the buttons and see what happened. Nothing much, as it turned out. He gave the signal to Winsome and they stood up to leave. Just before they went downstairs, he asked Jamie, “Did you hear any music shortly after you locked up on Saturday?”

  “Music? I don’t really remember. What music?”

  “I’m not sure what it was.”

  “I heard a car go by, but the rest of the time I was over the far side, cleaning up the toilets.”

  “Did you have the radio or the jukebox on?”

  “No. I turned everything off when I locked up. Force of habit.”

  “Right,” said Banks, thinking at least he’d like to listen to some music if he had to spend a couple of hours pulling soggy bog rolls out of the toilets. He headed for the stairs. “Nice talking to you. If you think of anything else, we’re just across the square.”

  T H E T R A F F I C on the A1 slowed to a crawl just past the Angel of the North, standing there on its hilltop ahead like a rusty spitfire on its tail. More fool me, Annie thought, for driving up to Newcastle on a Friday afternoon when everyone was knocking off work early and heading to the Team Valley Retail World or the MetroCentre. The day had started out with sunshine and dis
tant clouds, but just north of Scotch Corner, the sky had quickly turned murky gray, brooding over Weardale to her left, and it had been raining on and off ever since.

  They say if you don’t like the weather up north, wait ten minutes, but what they don’t add is that if you still don’t like it, drive ten miles in any direction.

  Annie had spent the morning with the team, going over the interviews with the families of the Paynes’ victims to no avail. Nobody expressed an ounce of sympathy for Lucy, and some were more hostile than others, but nobody even stood out remotely as a possible suspect.

  There were still alibis to be checked, but it was a depressing result.

  Detective Superintendent Brough had appeared near the end of the meeting, and even his words of encouragement had sounded hollow.

  If they could at least get a break on the leak of Lucy Payne’s identity F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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  and previous whereabouts, Annie kept thinking, they would be a hell of a lot closer. Ginger was grumbling about trying to find anyone who could tell her anything in a publisher’s office on a Friday, but she was waiting for a call back from Maggie Forrest’s previous art editor and keeping her fingers crossed.

  Before that, Ginger had been busy tracking down Sarah Bingham, Kirsten Farrow’s old friend, after she had finished her law degree, and in that she had succeeded. Better yet, Sarah was working at home that afternoon. She had said on the phone that she could spare Annie half an hour or so. She lived in a chic new apartment by the river, which had been completely redeveloped into an upmarket area since Annie had last been that far north, all expensive restaurants and boutique hotels lining Tyneside in shiny new buildings, angular modern designs in steel, concrete and glass, jutting out over the water. As Annie was looking for the visitors’ parking, her mobile rang. It was Les Ferris, and he sounded excited. She pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

  “Annie, I’ve found those hair samples.”

  “That’s great,” Annie said. “When can Liam get started?”

  “There’s a small problem,” Les admitted. “Liam’s all set to go at the drop of a hat, but they’re at West Yorkshire Headquarters along with the rest of the evidence in the ’88 serial killings, which makes sense.