“What did you do then?” Gervaise asked.
“Well, ma’am, I couldn’t help but think that she’d been attacked, like, especially after last week, so I ran over to her. She seemed all right physically, but, as I said, there was quite a lot of blood on her, and she was pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.”
“Spare us the clichés, Constable, and get on with the story,” said Gervaise.
“Sorry, ma’am. I asked her what was wrong, and she just pointed back where she’d come from. I asked her to take me there, and she froze. She was terrified, shaking her head. Said she was never going back in there.
I asked her what she’d seen, but she couldn’t tell me that either, or where it was. In the end, I persuaded her that she would be safe with me. She stuck to me like . . . like a . . .” He glanced at Gervaise. “She stuck close to me and led me to . . . well, you know what to.”
“In your own words,” said Banks. “Be calm, Kerrigan. Take it easy.”
“Yes, sir.” Constable Kerrigan took a deep breath. “We reached the area where the body was lying. I didn’t know who it was, of course.
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 6 3
You just couldn’t tell, the way the face was squashed down on the f lagstones like that. There was such a lot of blood.”
“Did you or the girl go anywhere near the body?” Banks asked.
“No, sir. Except right at first, to get a closer look and see if he was still alive.”
“Did either of you touch anything?”
“No, sir. I knew to stay well back, and there was no way she was going anywhere near it. She cowered back by the wall.”
“Very good,” said Banks. “Go on.”
“Well, that’s about it, sir. My mates from the van weren’t far behind me, and when I heard them all piling into the square behind me, I told them to stop, turn back and go to station and call everyone they could think of. Maybe I shouldn’t have panicked like that, but . . .”
“You did the right thing,” said Gervaise. “You stayed with the body while they went?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the girl?”
“She stayed, too. She sort of slid down the wall and held her head in her hands. I did get her name and address. Chelsea Pilton. Funny name, I thought. Sounds like an underground stop, doesn’t it? Daft thing nam-ing a kid after a bun or a f lower show, anyway, if you ask me,” he added.
“But that seems to be the way of the world these days, doesn’t it?”
“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” muttered Gervaise with her eyes closed and the knuckle of her right middle finger against her forehead.
“Maybe she was named after the football team,” Banks offered.
Gervaise gave him a withering glance.
“She lives on the East Side Estate,” Constable Kerrigan added.
“Where is she now?” Gervaise asked.
“I sent her to the hospital with Constable Carruthers, ma’am. She was in a proper state, the girl. I didn’t see any sense in keeping her there, next to . . . well, you know.”
“You did right,” said Banks. “They’ll know what to do. I assume Constable Carruthers has instructions to stay with her until someone gets there?”
2 6 4 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. The parents?”
“Constable Carruthers informed them, sir. I think they’re at the hospital now.”
“How old is she?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
“Good work.” Banks called down the corridor for a PC. “Get down to the hospital,” he said, “and make sure that Chelsea Pilton is taken straight to the Sexual Assault Referral Centre. Got that? Chelsea Pilton. They’ll know what to do with her there. Ask for Shirley Wong, if she’s in tonight. That’s Dr. Shirley Wong.” The new referral center, the only one in the Western Area, was attached to the hospital, and was seen by many as a rather sad sign of the times. “And see if they can get the parents out of the way. The girl’s nineteen, so they don’t have to present during any interview or examination, and I’d rather they weren’t. Their presence might cause her to clam up. I’ll talk to them separately later.”
“Yes, sir.” The PC set off.
“She’s not a suspect, is she, sir?” PC Kerrigan asked.
“At the moment,” Banks said, “even you are a suspect.” Then he smiled. “We have to follow certain procedures. You ought to know that, Constable.”
Kerrigan swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“You mentioned that she had blood on her,” Banks said.
“Yes. It looked like it had sprayed on her face and chest. Funny, it seemed like freckles in the dim light.” Kerrigan glanced nervously at Gervaise, who rolled her eyes and muttered, “God help us, a poetic PC.”
“Did she say where it had come from?” Banks asked.
“No, sir. I just assumed . . . well, that she’d been close when it happened.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes, sir, but she wouldn’t answer.”
“Did you see or hear anything or anyone else in The Maze while you were there?” Banks went on.
“Not a dickey bird, sir.”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 6 5
“Any music or anything?”
“No, sir. Just a bit of argy-bargy from the market square. Drunks singing, cars revving up, glass breaking, the usual sort of thing.”
More coffee arrived, a large urn this time, indicating that it was going to be a long night for everyone, and two constables set it up at the far end of the table. Someone had obviously gained access to the station canteen. They had also brought a bigger stack of styrofoam cups, fresh milk, a bag of sugar and a packet of Fig Newtons. Everyone helped themselves. It was definitely canteen coffee, weak and bitter, but it did the trick. Banks noticed his hand trembling slightly as he raised the cup to his mouth. Delayed shock. He still found it impossible to accept that Kevin Templeton was dead, despite what he had seen with his own eyes. It just didn’t make sense. He ate a fig biscuit. Maybe the sugar would help.
“Did Chelsea tell you anything about what she witnessed?” Banks asked.
“No, sir,” said Kerrigan. “She was too stunned. Near mute with terror, she was. It’ll be a long time before she has an easy night’s sleep again, I can tell you.”
Me, too, thought Banks, but he didn’t say anything about that.
“Right,” he said. “You did a good job, Constable Kerrigan. You can go now. Stick around the station for now. We might need to talk to you again.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”
PC Kerrigan left and no one said anything for a while. Finally, Gervaise said, “Anyone met Templeton’s parents? I understand they live in Salford.”
“That’s right,” said Banks. “I met them once, a few years back, when they came to Eastvale to visit him. Nice couple. I got the impression he didn’t get along very well with them, though. He never said much about them. They’ll have to be told.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Gervaise. “I know DS Templeton wasn’t exactly the most popu lar detective in the station,” she went on, “but I know that won’t stop anyone from doing their jobs.” She stared pointedly at Winsome, who said nothing. “Right, then,” Gervaise said. “As long as that’s understood, we can get down to work. Any theories?”
2 6 6 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Well,” said Banks, “first of all we have to ask ourselves what Kev was doing in The Maze close to midnight.”
“You’re implying that he was about to rape and kill Chelsea Pilton?” Gervaise said.
“Not at all,” Banks answered, “though we’d be remiss in our duties if we failed to acknowledge that possibility.”
“Pushing that unpleasant thought aside for a moment,” Gervaise said, “do you have any other theories for us to consider?”
“Assuming that Kev wasn’t The Maze killer,” Banks said, “I think it’s a pretty good guess that he was there because he hoped he might catch him. Remember at the last meeting, how he was convinced it was a serial killer who’d strike again soon in the same area?”
“And I ridiculed him,” said Gervaise. “Yes, I don’t need reminding.”
“I don’t mean to do that, ma’am,” said Banks. “You were right. We had no evidence to justify the expense of a full saturation operation.
But it does appear rather as if Templeton took matters on himself.”
“Our Dr. Wallace agreed with him, too, as I remember,” said Gervaise.
“I’m not arguing right and wrong here,” Banks said. “I’m just trying to ascertain why Templeton was where he was.”
Gervaise nodded brusquely. “Go on.”
“I think he might have been there late on Friday, too,” Banks added.
“I remember he was a bit peaky and tired yesterday, dragging his feet.
I thought he’d been clubbing, woke up with a hangover, and I gave him a bollocking. He didn’t disabuse me of the notion.” Banks knew that his last words to Templeton had been harsh—something about growing up and behaving like a professional—and he also now knew that they had been unjustified, though how professional was it to wander a possible murder site alone and unarmed? Still, it didn’t make Banks feel any better.
He knew how Templeton rubbed most people the wrong way—
accomplished women like Winsome and Annie in particu lar, and parents of difficult teenagers. No doubt there were some personal issues there. He could also be a racist, sexist bastard, and he had a personality that would steamroller over a person’s finer feelings if he F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 6 7
thought it would get him what he wanted. Sometimes you had to do that to a certain extent, Banks knew—he had even done it himself with Malcolm Austin—but Templeton didn’t only do it out of necessity; he also seemed to take great relish in it. Even Banks had seen him reduce witnesses to tears or rage on occasion, and Winsome and Annie had seen it happen far more often.
He was also bright, hardworking and ambitious, and whether he would have matured with age, Banks didn’t know. He wouldn’t have the option now. He was gone, snuffed out, and that wasn’t bloody right. Even Winsome looked upset, Banks noticed, when he cast quick glances in her direction. He needed to talk to her. She could be carrying around a lot of guilt about the way she felt about Templeton, and it wouldn’t help the investigation. He remembered that one of the subjects she and Annie had discussed at dinner was the way Templeton had behaved with Hayley Daniels’s parents. Winsome hadn’t told Banks exactly what had gone on between them, but he knew that a line had been crossed, a bridge burned. It could be eating away at her now, when they all needed to start focusing and thinking clearly.
“I also find myself wondering if he was just hanging out there on spec,” Banks said, “or if he knew something.”
“What do you mean?” Gervaise asked.
“Maybe he had a theory, or some special knowledge, something he was working on that he didn’t share with the team.”
“That sounds like Templeton,” said Gervaise. “You mean he might have had inside knowledge, knew who was doing it, that it would happen again tonight, and he was after the glory?”
“Something like that,” said Banks. “We’d better have a very close look at his movements since the Hayley Daniels case began.”
“We’re overstretched as it is,” said Gervaise. “First Hayley Daniels, and now this. I’ll see about bringing in extra personnel.”
“Are you sure it’s not the same investigation?” Banks asked.
“At this moment,” said Gervaise, “we don’t know enough to say one way or another. Let’s wait at least until we get some forensics and talk to the girl, then we’ll have another session.”
“I’ll talk to her now,” said Banks. “And there’s another thing.”
“What?”
2 6 8 P E T E R
R
O B I N S
O N
“Kev’s throat was cut. You can see it clearly. That’s the same way Lucy Payne was killed out Whitby way.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” said Gervaise. “Another complication we could do without. Right, I think you’d better start trying to find some answers.” She eyed the team grimly. “I want everybody out there on the streets, all night if necessary. Knocking on doors, checking CCTV
footage. Wake the whole bloody town up if you have to. I don’t care.
There has to be something. Kevin Templeton may have been an arsehole, but let’s not forget he was our arsehole and he deserves our best efforts.” She clapped her hands. “Now go to it!”
B A N K S PA I D another visit to the crime scene before heading for the hospital to see Chelsea Pilton. It was about half past two in the morning, and the market square was deserted except for the police cars, the SOCO van and the constable guarding the entrance. He jotted Banks’s name down and let him through. Some bright spark had chalked yellow markings on the pavements and f lagstones to guide the way. Not exactly a ball of twine, but the next best thing, and it did make The Maze a lot easier to negotiate.
The SOCOs had erected a canvas covering over the square in which Templeton’s body had been found, and it was brightly lit from all directions. Officers were walking the ginnels and connecting passages with bright torches, searching for clues of any kind. The area immediately around the body had already been thoroughly searched, and crime scene coordinator Stefan Nowak gestured for Banks to come forward into the covered area.
“Alan,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” said Banks. “Me, too. Anything?”
“Early days yet. From what we’ve been able to gather from the blood spatter analysis so far, he was attacked from behind. He wouldn’t have known what hit him. Or cut him.”
“He would have known he was dying, though?”
“For a few seconds, yes, but there are no messages scrawled in blood, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“One lives in hope. Pocket contents?”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 6 9
Stefan fetched a plastic bag. Inside it, Banks found Templeton’s wallet, some chewing gum, keys, a Swiss Army knife, warrant card, ball-point pen and a slim notebook. “May I?” he asked, indicating the notebook. Stefan gave him a pair of plastic gloves and handed it to him.
The handwriting was hard to read, perhaps because it had been written quickly, but it seemed as if Templeton liked to make brief notes, like an artist’s sketches. He hadn’t written the murderer’s name in there, either.
There was nothing since the previous eve ning, when it appeared that he had also been haunting The Maze, to no avail, as Banks had suspected.
He would examine the notebook in more detail later to see if there was anything in the theory that Templeton was following leads of his own, but for now he handed it back. “Thank you. Dr. Burns finished yet?”
“He’s over there.”
Banks hadn’t noticed the doctor in another corner of the square, dressed in navy or black, jotting in his notebook. He went over.
“DCI Banks. What can I do for you?”
“I’m hoping you can tell me a few things.”
“I can’t really tell you much at all,” said a tired Burns. “You’ll have to wait until Dr. Wallace gets him on the table.”
“Can we start with the basics? His throat was cut, wasn’t it?”
Burns sighed. “That’s the way it looks to me.”
“From behind?”
“The type of wound certainly supports DS Nowak’s blood spatter analysis.”
“Left- or right-handed?”
“Impossible to say at this point. You’ll have to wait for the postmortem, and even that might not tell you.”
Banks grunted. “Weapon?”
“A very sharp blade of some sort. Razor
or scalpel, something like that. Not an ordinary knife, at any rate. From what I can see on even a cursory examination, it’s a clean, deep cut. The way it looks is that he simply bled to death. The blade cut through both the carotid and the jugular and severed his windpipe. The poor devil didn’t have a hope in hell.”
“How do you think it happened?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I understand there was a witness?”
2 7 0 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Yes,” said Banks. “A girl. She saw it happen. I’m on my way to talk to her.”
“Then she might be able to tell you more. Perhaps he was following her?”
“Why? To warn her, protect her?”
“Or attack her.”
Kev Templeton, The Maze killer? Banks didn’t want to believe it, even though he had been the first to voice the possibility. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“I’m just trying to keep an open mind,” said Dr. Burns.
“I know,” said Banks. “We all are. I wonder what the killer thought Kev was doing, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking of something else.” Annie’s case had come into his mind again. Lucy Payne sitting in her wheelchair, her throat cut with a sharp blade, a razor or a scalpel, a similar weapon to the one that had killed Templeton.
“I’m sure that Dr. Wallace will get around to the postmortem as soon as she can on this one,” Dr. Burns said. “She should be able to give you more answers.”
“Right,” said Banks. “And thanks. I’d better get to the hospital now and talk to the witness.” As he walked away, he was still thinking about Lucy Payne, and he knew that as soon as it reached a reasonable hour in the morning he would have to ring Annie in Whitby and see if they could get together to compare notes.
I T WA S N ’ T as if Annie was sleeping well, or even sleeping at all.
Banks could have rung her right then, and she would have been awake enough to hold a conversation. A sound had woken her from a bad dream, and she had lain there not moving, listening hard, until she was sure it was just a creak from the old house and nothing else. Who did she think it was, anyway? Eric come to get her? Phil Keane returned?
Friend of the Devil ib-17 Page 31