The men who had raped her? She couldn’t let her life be ruled by fear.
Try as she might, by then she couldn’t remember the dream.
Unable to sleep, she got out of bed and put on the kettle. Her F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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mouth was dry, and she realized she had polished off the better part of a bottle of sauvignon blanc by herself last night. It was getting to be a habit, a bad one.
She peered through the curtains across the pantile rooftops down to the harbor, where the moon frosted the water’s surface. She wondered if she should have gone home to Harkside for the night, but she liked being close to the sea. It reminded her of her childhood in St. Ives, the long walks along the cliffs with her father, who kept stopping to sketch an abandoned farm implement or a particularly arresting rock formation while she was left to amuse herself. It was then that she had learned to create her own world, a place she could go to and exist in when the real world was too tough to handle, as when her mother died. She only remembered one walk with her mother, who had died when she was six, and all the way along the rough clifftop path her mother had held her hand as they struggled against the wind and rain, and told her stories about the places they would visit one day: San Francisco, Mar-rakech, Angkor Wat. Like many other things in her life, that probably wasn’t going to happen.
The kettle boiled and Annie poured water on the jasmine tea bag in her mug. When the tea was ready she lifted the bag out with a spoon, added sugar and sat cradling her fragrant drink, inhaling the perfume as she stared out to sea, noting the way the moonlight shimmered on the water’s ripples and brought out the texture and silvery-gray color of the clouds against the blue-black sky.
As she sat there watching the night, Annie felt a strange connection with the young woman who had come to Whitby eighteen years ago.
Was it Kirsten Farrow? Had she looked out on the same view as this, all those years ago, planning murder? Annie certainly didn’t condone what she had done, but she felt some empathy with the damaged psyche. She didn’t know what the young woman had felt, but if she had done the things Annie thought she had, and if she had been Kirsten Farrow, it had been because that was her only way of striking back at the man who had condemned her to a kind of living death. There are some kinds of damage that take you far beyond normal rules and systems of ethics and morality—beyond this point be monsters, as the ancients used to say. The young woman had gone there; Annie had 2 7 2 P E T E R
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only stood at the edge of the world and stared into the abyss. But it was enough.
Annie had the overwhelming sensation that she was at an important crossroads in her life, but she didn’t know what the directions were; the signposts were either blurred or blank. She couldn’t trust herself to get close to a man. Consequently, she had abandoned her control to alcohol and gone home with a boy. Whatever demons were driving her, she needed to get sorted, get a grip, develop a new perspective and perhaps even a plan. Maybe she even needed outside help, though the thought caused her to curl up inside and tremble with panic. Then she might be able to read the signposts. Whatever she did, she had to break the circle of folly and self-delusion she had let herself get trapped in.
And there was Banks, of course; it seemed that there was always Banks. Why had she kept him at arm’s length for so long? Why had she abused their friendship so much this past week, thrown herself at him in some sort of drunken rage, then lied to his face about having a row with her boyfriend when he tried to help? Because he was there?
Because she . . . ? It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, Annie couldn’t even remember what it was that had split them apart. Had it been so insurmountable? Was it just the job? Or was that an excuse?
She knew that she had been afraid of the sudden intensity of her feelings for him, their intimacy, and that had been one thing that had caused her to start backing away, that and the attachment he inevitably felt for his ex-wife and family. It had been raw back then. She sipped some hot jasmine tea and stared out to the horizon. She thought of Lucy Payne’s body, sitting there at the cliff edge. Her last sight had probably been that same horizon.
She needed to get things back on a professional footing, talk to Banks again about the Kirsten Farrow case and its history, especially since her conversation with Sarah Bingham. If Kirsten had disappeared, there was a good chance she had turned up in Whitby to kill Eastcote, the man who had stolen her future. Sarah Bingham had certainly lied about Kirsten’s movements, and the truth left her with no alibi at all.
It was more than just the case that was bothering Annie, though.
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She knew she wanted more from Banks. God, if she only knew what it was and how to go about getting it without hurting anyone . . . She couldn’t let go, that was one thing she knew for certain, not with both hands, not even with one. And a lot had changed since they split up.
He seemed to have resolved most of his marital problems now that he had accepted Sandra’s remarriage and recent motherhood, and perhaps she was almost ready to acknowledge the power of her feelings; perhaps she was even ready for intimacy. If she followed all that to its logical conclusion, then she had to admit to herself that she still wanted him.
Not just as a friend, but as a lover, as a companion . . . as . . . Christ, what a bloody mess it all was.
Annie finished her tea and noticed it had started to rain lightly.
Perhaps the sound of the raindrops tapping against her window would help her get back to sleep, the way it had when she was a child, after her mother’s death, but she doubted it.
T H E S E X U A L Assault Referral Centre, new pride and joy of Eastvale General Infirmary, was designed in its every aspect to make its patients feel at ease. The lighting was muted—no overhead f luorescent tubes or bare bulbs—and the colors were calming, shades of green and blue with a dash of orange for warmth. A large vase of tulips stood on the low glass table, and seascapes and landscapes hung on the walls. The armchairs were comfortable, and Bank knew that even the couches used for examinations in the adjoining room were also as relaxing as such things could be, and the colors there were muted, too. Everything was designed to make the victim’s second ordeal of the night as painless as possible.
Banks and Winsome stood just outside the door with Dr. Shirley Wong, whom Banks had met there on a number of previous occasions and had even had drinks with once or twice, though only as a colleague. Dr. Wong was a dedicated and gentle woman, perfect for the job. She also made a point of keeping in touch with everyone who passed through her doors and had a memory for detail Banks envied.
She was a petite, short-haired woman in her late forties and wore silver-rimmed glasses. Banks was always surprised by her Geordie accent, but 2 74 P E T E R
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she had been born and bred in Durham. He introduced her to Winsome and they shook hands.
“I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” Dr. Wong said. “Detective Sergeant Templeton, wasn’t it? I don’t think I knew him.”
“He wasn’t really a friend,” Banks said. “More of a colleague. But thank you.” He gestured toward the room. “How is she?”
Dr. Wong raised her eyebrows. “Physically? She’s fine. From what I’ve seen there are no signs of injury, or of sexual assault, or even sexual activity. But I suspect you already knew that. Which sort of brings me to the question . . .”
“Why is she here?”
“Yes.”
Banks explained the chaotic situation in The Maze, and the less than satisfactory option of taking Chelsea to the station and offering her a set of paper overalls while they bagged her clothes, no doubt with her parents fussing around, all under bright f luorescent light.
“You did right, then,” said Dr. Wong. “The parents are in the family room, by the way, if you need to talk to them.”
“So you’re not going to report us to the board
for wasting hospital resources?”
“I don’t think so. Not this time. Given a suitable donation to the victims’ fund, of course, and a single malt of my choice. Seriously, though, she’s all right physically, but she’s had a terrible shock. Sobered her up pretty quickly, I’d say. I gave her a mild sedative—nothing that was likely to knock her out or interact badly with the alcohol she had clearly been drinking—so she should be lucid enough if you want to talk to her.”
“I would, yes.”
Dr. Wong pushed the door open with her shoulder. “Follow me.”
She introduced Banks and Winsome to Chelsea, and Banks sat opposite the girl in a matching deep armchair. Winsome sat off to the side and took out her notebook unobtrusively. Soft music played in the background. It was nothing Banks recognized but was no doubt calculated to induce maximum relaxation and a sense of calm. They could at least have used Eno’s ambient music, he thought, say, Music for Airports or Thursday Afternoon. Either of those would have worked as well.
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Chelsea wore a blue hospital gown, and her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, making her appear more like a lost little girl than a young woman. Her eyes were red- rimmed, but clear and focused. She had a nice bone structure, Banks noticed, high cheekbones, a strong jaw and pale freckled skin. She sat with her legs curled under her and her hands resting on the arms of the chair.
“Coffee?” asked Dr. Wong.
Chelsea declined the offer, but Banks and Winsome said yes. “I’m not fetching it for you myself, you understand,” Dr. Wong said. “I wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“I don’t care who gets it,” said Banks, “as long as it’s black and strong.”
Dr. Wong smiled. “I just wanted you to know.” Then she left the room.
Banks smiled at Chelsea, who seemed wary of him. “Doctors,” he said, with a shrug.
She nodded, and a hint of a smile f litted across the corners of her lips.
“I know this is tough for you,” Banks went on, “but I’d like you to tell me in your own words, and in your own time, exactly what happened in The Maze tonight, and my friend Winsome over there will write it all down. You can start with why you were there.”
Chelsea glanced at Winsome, then at the f loor. “It was so stupid of me,” she said. “A dare. Mickey Johnston dared me. Just five minutes.
I didn’t think . . . you know . . . The papers said it was her boyfriend or someone. My mum told me to be careful, but I really couldn’t believe I would be in any danger.”
Banks made a mental note of the name. Mr. Mickey Johnston could expect a whole lot of grief to come in his direction soon. “Okay,” he said. “But it must have been a little bit scary, wasn’t it?” A nurse walked in quietly with the two coffees on a tray, which she placed on the table beside the tulips. It was from the machine down the hall. Banks could tell by the plastic cups before he even took a sip. It had both milk and sugar. He let his sit there, but Winsome took hers over to her corner.
“I jumped at my own shadow and every noise I heard,” said Chelsea. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
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“You knew your way around?”
“Yes. I used to play there when I was little.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Chelsea paused. “I was near the end of the five minutes, and I heard . . .” She paused. “Well, I don’t think I really heard anything at first. It was more like a feeling, you know, like something itchy crawl-ing in your scalp. Once there was an outbreak of nits at school, and the nit nurse came around. I didn’t get them, but my best friend Siobhan did, and she told me what it was like.”
“I know what you mean,” said Banks. The nit nurse had visited his school on more than one occasion, too, and he hadn’t always been as lucky as Chelsea. “Go on.”
“Well, that’s what I felt at first, then I thought I heard a noise.”
“What sort of noise?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Behind me. Just like there was somebody there. A jacket brushing against the wall, perhaps. Something like that.”
“Did you hear any music?”
“No.”
“What about footsteps?”
“No, more of a swishing sound like your jeans or your tights make sometimes when you walk.”
“All right,” said Banks. “What did you do next?”
“I wanted to run, but something told me to slow down and turn around, so that’s what I was doing when . . . when . . .” She put her fist to her mouth.
“It’s all right, Chelsea,” said Banks. “Take a few deep breaths.
That’s right. No hurry. Take your time.”
“That was when I saw him.”
“How close was he?”
“I don’t know. A few feet, maybe five or six. But I know I felt that if I turned and ran right then I’d be able to get away from him.”
“Why didn’t you run?”
“I had to get my shoes off first, and by then . . . He wasn’t the only one there. And we were sort of frozen. I couldn’t move. It’s hard to explain. He stopped when he knew I’d seen him, and he looked . . . I F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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don’t know . . . I mean, he wasn’t wearing a mask or anything. It was dark but my eyes had adjusted. I know this sounds, well, stupid and all, but he was really good-looking, and his face, you know, his expression, it was concerned, like he cared, not like he wanted to . . . you know . . .”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. He . . . he was just going to open his mouth to say something when . . .”
“Go on,” said Banks. “What happened?”
She hugged her knees tighter. “It was all so fast and like slow motion at the same time. All such a blur. I saw a movement behind him, another figure.”
“Did you see a face?”
“No.”
“Was it wearing a mask?”
“No. Maybe a scarf or something, covering the mouth, like when you come back from the dentist’s in the cold. I got the impression that most of the face was covered anyway. It’s funny, I remember thinking even then, you know, it was like some avenging figure, like some su-perhero out of a comic book.”
“Was this figure taller or shorter than the man?”
“Shorter.”
“How much?”
“Maybe five or six inches.”
Templeton was five feet ten, which made his attacker around five-four or five-five, Banks calculated. “And what happened?”
“Like I said, it was all just a blur. This second figure reached in front, like you’d put your arm around someone’s neck if you were playing or messing about, and just sort of brushed its hand across the other’s neck, like . . .” She demonstrated on her own neck. “Really gently, like it was tickling.”
“Did you see a blade of any kind?”
“Something f lashed, but I didn’t really see what it was.”
“You’re doing really well, Chelsea,” said Banks. “Almost there.”
“Can I go home soon?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “Your parents are waiting for you down the hall.”
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Chelsea pulled a face.
“Is that a problem?”
“No-o-o. Not really. I mean, my mum’s okay, but my dad . . .”
“What about your dad?”
“Oh, he’s just always on at me, the way I dress, the way I talk, chew gum, the music I listen to.”
Banks smiled. “Mine was the same. Still is.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“It’s funny,” she went on. “I tell myself I don’t really like them, like they’re really naff and all, but at times like this . . .” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I know,” said Banks. “Don’t worry. You’ll soon be with them.
Soon be tucked up safe and warm in your own bed.”
Chelsea wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I was just, like, rooted to the spot. I didn’t know what was happening. The one who was following me just stopped and seemed surprised. I don’t think he knew what had happened to him. I didn’t know. I felt something warm spray on my face, and I think I might have screamed. It was all so fast and so ordinary.”
“What did he do next?”
“He went down on his knees. I could hear the cracking sound. I remember thinking it must have hurt, but he didn’t cry out or anything; he just looked surprised. Then he put his hand to his throat, like, and took it away and stared at it, then he fell forward right on his face on the f lags. It was terrible. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do. I could feel all this . . . stuff on me, warm and sticky stuff, like from a spray, and I didn’t know at first it was blood. It’s silly, but I thought he’d sneezed or something, and I thought, Great, now I’ll get a cold and I won’t be able to go to work. I don’t get paid if I’m not there, you see.”
“Did you get a look at his attacker at all?”
“No. Like I said, she was smaller than him, so most of the time he was in the way, in front, blocking her from view, and then afterward, when he fell, she just sort of melted back into the shadows and I couldn’t see her anymore.”
“You said she.”
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“Did I?”
“Yes.”
Chelsea frowned. “Well, I don’t know. That must have been the impression I got. Maybe because she was so small and slight. I can’t be certain, though.”
“Could it have been a man?”
“I suppose so. But I did get the overwhelming impression that it was a woman. I don’t really know why, and I couldn’t swear to it, of course.”
“Did you see any of her features?”
“No. She was wearing a hat. I remember that, too. Like a beret or something. It must have been the way she moved that made me think she was a woman. I couldn’t be certain, though. Maybe I was mistaken.”
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