but time and events had conspired to push making the call out of his consciousness. It was too late for the walk now, he realized, reaching for the telephone, but at least he could apologize. He dialed the number she had given him. Her voice answered on the fourth ring.
“Sophia? It’s Alan. Alan Banks.”
“Oh, Alan. Thanks for calling. I heard about what happened last night on the news. I thought it would keep you busy.”
“I’m sorry about the walk,” said Banks.
“Well, maybe some other time.”
“You go back home on Tuesday?”
“Yes. But I’ll be back again.”
“Look,” Banks said, “even under the circumstances, I was thinking I’ve got to eat. I haven’t had anything except Fig Newtons all day.
There’s a nice bistro on Castle Hill. Café de Provence. Would you consider having dinner with me instead?”
There was the briefest of pauses, then she said, “Yes. Yes, that would be nice. I’d like that. If you’re sure you can make it.”
Banks felt a knot of excitement in his chest. “I’m sure. I might not be able to stay long, but it’s better than nothing.” He checked his watch. “How about seven? Is that too early?”
“No, seven’s fine.”
“Shall I pick you up?”
“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“Okay. See you there, then. Seven.”
“Right.”
2 9 8 P E T E R
R
O B I N S
O N
When he put the receiver down Banks’s palm was sweaty, and his heart was beating fast. Grow up, he told himself, and he got up and reached for his jacket.
M A G G I E F O R R E S T was not only still living and working as a children’s book illustrator in the UK, she was still living in Leeds. She had spent three years in Toronto before returning and subletting a f lat on the waterfront, down by the canal, and going back to her old line of work.
Granary Wharf had been developed in an area of decrepit old warehouses by the river Aire and the Leeds-Liverpool Canal at the back of City Station in the late ’80s, and was now a thriving area with its own shops, market, f lats, restaurants, entertainment and a cobbled canal walk. On Sunday afternoon, when Annie arrived at the car park near the canal basin, it was quiet. She found Maggie Forrest in a third-f loor f lat. They had met brief ly during the Chameleon business, but Maggie didn’t appear to remember her. Annie showed her warrant card, and Maggie let her in.
The f lat was spacious, done in bright warm shades of orange and yellow. There was also plenty of light coming in through a large sky-light, which Maggie would need for her artwork Annie guessed.
“What’s it about?” asked Maggie, as Annie sat on her beige modular couch. Maggie sat cross-legged in a large winged armchair opposite.
The window looked out on the building site at the back of the Yorkshire Post Building, where yet more f lats were going up. On examination, Annie thought, Maggie Forrest certainly had that slight, waif like look about her that Chelsea Pilton had noticed in the killer, and that Mel Danvers at Mapston Hall had spotted about Mary. Her nose was a bit long, and her chin rather pointed, but other than that she was an attractive woman. Her hair was cut short and peppered with gray. Her eyes looked haunted, nervous. Annie wondered if anyone—Mel, Chelsea—might recognize her from an identification parade?
“It’s a nice f lat,” said Annie. “How long have you been here?”
“Eigh teen months,” Maggie answered.
“Never visit your friends down on The Hill? Ruth and Charles? It’s not far away. They don’t even know you’re in town.”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 9 9
Maggie looked away. “I’m sorry. I’ve neglected Ruth and Charles,”
she said. “They were good to me.”
“What about Claire Toth? She misses you.”
“She hates me. I let her down.”
“She needs help, Maggie. She’s grown up now and what happened to her friend has left her with a lot of problems. You might be able to do some good there.”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, damn it. Don’t you think I’ve done enough damage? That part of my life is over. I can’t go back there.”
“Why not move farther away, then, make a clean break?”
“Because I’m from here. I need to be close to my roots. And it’s far enough.” She gestured toward the window. “Could be any modern development in any city.”
That was true, Annie thought. “Married?” she asked.
“No. Not that it’s any of your business,” Maggie answered. “And I don’t have a boyfriend, either. There’s no man in my life. I’m quite happy.”
“Fine,” said Annie. Maybe she could be happy without a man in her life, too. She’d hardly been all that happy with one. Or then again, maybe she was doomed to repeat the patterns of her old mistakes.
Maggie didn’t offer tea or coffee, and Annie was parched. She’d treat herself to something later in one of the city center cafés. “Do you own a car?” she asked.
“Yes. A red Megane. What have I done now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Annie. “Where were you last Sunday morning, the eighteenth of March? Mother’s Day.”
“Here, of course. Where else would I be?”
“How about the Whitby area? Ever been there?”
“A few times, yes, but not last Sunday morning.”
“Know a place called Mapston Hall?”
“Only from the news,” said Maggie. “This is about Lucy Payne, isn’t it? I should have known.”
“I would have thought you did,” said Annie. “Anyway, yes. It’s about Lucy Payne.”
“You think I killed her?”
“I never said that.”
3 0 0
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“But you do, don’t you?”
“Did you?”
“No. I was here. I told you.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. I’m always alone. I like it best that way. When you’re alone, you can’t hurt anyone, and no one can hurt you.”
“Except yourself.”
“That doesn’t count.”
A diesel train blew its horn as it entered Leeds City Station. “So there’s no way you can prove you were here?” Annie asked.
“I never thought I’d have to.”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t remember.”
“It’s only a week ago,” said Annie. “Try. Didn’t you visit your mother?”
“My mother’s dead. I was probably reading the Sunday papers.
That’s what I do on Sunday mornings. Sometimes, if it’s nice, I take them down to that café with the tables outside, but I think that morning was windy and cold.”
“Remember that, do you?” said Annie.
“It’s why I stayed inside to read the papers.”
“Ever heard of Karen Drew?”
Maggie seemed surprised by the question. “No,” she said. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Funny,” said Annie. “It was in the papers when they got hold of the story about Lucy Payne. It was the name she was going under.”
“I didn’t know that. I must have missed it.”
“How do you feel about Lucy?”
“The woman tried to kill me. When it came time to go to court, you told me the CPS wasn’t even going to bother prosecuting her.
How do you think I feel?”
“Resentful?”
“You could start there. Lucy Payne took my trust, took my help when she needed it the most, then she turned around and not only betrayed me, but she would have killed me, I know, if the police hadn’t arrived. So how do you think I feel?”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
3 0 1
“Angry enough to have killed her?”
“Yes. But I didn’t. I didn’t know where she was, for a start.”<
br />
“Do you know Julia Ford?”
“I’ve met her. She was Lucy’s lawyer.”
“Stay in touch?”
“I use her firm whenever I need legal work done, which isn’t often.
But do we play golf or go out to the pub together? No. Anyway, I don’t need a criminal lawyer. Mostly I deal with Constance. Constance Wells. We’re quite friendly, I suppose. She helped me find this place.”
Of course, Annie thought, remembering the framed illustration on Constance Wells’s wall. One of Maggie’s, no doubt. “You gave her that Hansel and Gretel drawing.”
Maggie looked surprised. “Yes. You’ve seen it?”
“I was in her office last week. It’s very good.”
“You don’t have to patronize me.”
“I wasn’t. I mean it.”
Maggie gave a little dismissive gesture with her shoulders.
“Where were you at about midnight last night?”
“I’d just got home from London. I had a meeting with my publishers on Friday afternoon, so I decided to stay down until Saturday, do some shopping. That’s about as much of London as I can take these days.”
“Where did you stay?”
“Hazlitt’s. Frith Street. My publisher always puts me up there. It’s very convenient.”
“And they would verify this?”
“Of course.”
Well, Annie thought, getting ready to leave, it had been a long shot, but subject to corroboration of her alibi, it didn’t look as if Maggie Forrest could have killed Kevin Templeton. When it came to Lucy Payne, though, Maggie was still high on the list. And she didn’t have an alibi for that.
B A N K S A R R I V E D first at the bistro, and it wasn’t so busy that Marcel, the genuine French maître d’ couldn’t give him an effusive welcome and a quiet secluded table, complete with white linen tablecloth 3 0 2
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
and a long-stemmed rose in a glass vase. He hoped it wasn’t over-the-top, that Sophia wouldn’t think he was trying to impress her or something. He had no expectations of anything, but it felt good to be having dinner with a beautiful and intelligent woman. He couldn’t remember how long it had been.
Sophia arrived on time, and Banks was able to watch her as she handed her coat to Marcel and walked toward the table, fixing his eyes with hers and smiling. She was wearing designer jeans and some sort of wraparound top that tied at the small of her back. Women have to be pretty good at using their hands behind their backs, Banks had noticed over the years; they spent so much time fastening things like ponytails, bras, wraparound clothes and difficult necklace clasps.
Sophia moved elegantly toward him, with unhurried grace, and seemed to f low naturally into a comfortable position once she sat. Her hair was tied loosely at the nape of her long neck again, and a few dark stray tresses curled over her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes were every bit as dark as he remembered, shining and obsidian in the candlelight.
She wore no lipstick, but her full lips had natural color, well set off by her f lawless olive skin.
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Banks.
“Me, too. I knew our walk was out of the question when I heard the news. Look at you. I’ll bet you didn’t get much sleep.”
“None,” said Banks. He realized as he spoke that not only hadn’t he slept or eaten since he had seen Sophia last night, but he hadn’t even been home, and he was wearing the same clothes he had worn to Harriet’s dinner party. He had to remember to keep a change of clothing at the station. It was embarrassing, but Sophia was clearly too much of a lady to say anything about it. They studied the menu and discussed a few items—Sophia, it turned out, was a keen gourmet cook and a food nut—and Banks ordered a bottle of decent claret.
“So it’s Sophia, is it?” Banks asked when they had ordered—steak and frites for him and sea bass for Sophia, with Stilton, pear and wal-nut salad to start.
“Sophia Katerina Morton.”
“Not Sophie?”
“No.”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
3 0 3
“Kate?”
“Never.”
“Sophia it is, then.”
“Just don’t call me ‘Sugar.’ ”
“What?”
She smiled. “It’s a song. Thea Gilmore. It’s a bit cheeky, actually.”
“I know her,” Banks said. “She did an old Beatles song on one of those MOJO freebies. I liked it enough to buy a CD of other covers she’d recorded.”
“Loft Music,” said Sophia. “That’s good, but you should try her own songs.”
“I will. Do you work in the music business?”
“No. No, I’m a producer with the BBC. Arts radio, so I do occasionally get involved in music specials. I did a series about John Peel not too long ago, and I’ve done a few programs with Bob Harris.”
“The Old Grey Whistle Test Bob Harris?”
“One and the same. He introduced me to Thea at his birthday party.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You would have been. Robert Plant was there, too. I’ve never met your son, though.”
“Ah, I see. You’re wooing me just to get to my son. They all try it.
It won’t work, you know.”
Sophia laughed, and it lit up her features. “I’d hardly call this wooing.”
“You know what I mean.” Banks felt himself blushing.
“I do. He is a remarkable success, though, your Brian. Cute, too.
You must be very proud.”
“I am. It took a while to get used to, mind you. I don’t know about the cute bit—you should have seen him when he was a surly, spotty teenager—but it’s not the easiest thing to deal with when your son decides to give up on higher education and join a rock band.”
“I suppose not,” said Sophia.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Banks said, “what were you doing at Harriet’s dinner party last night? I mean, I must admit, it didn’t really seem like your scene at all.”
3 0 4
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“It wasn’t. And I wasn’t going to go.”
“So why did you?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to pass over a chance to meet Eastvale’s top cop.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously! I’d heard so much about you over the years. It might sound silly, but I’ve felt I’ve known you ever since that first meeting.
When Aunt Harriet told me she was inviting you to the dinner, I said I’d do my best to get there. Really, I wasn’t going to go. That’s why I was late. I only decided after it had started that I’d kick myself if I didn’t take the chance. It could have been a dreadful bore, of course, but . . .”
“But?”
“It wasn’t.” She smiled. “Anyway, you clearly enjoyed it so much you didn’t even want to change your clothes. I must say, it’s the first time I’ve been out with a man who wore the same clothes two nights in a row.”
So not too much of a lady, then. Banks liked that. He smiled back, and they laughed.
Their starters arrived, and they toasted with the wine and tucked in. Banks felt he would probably be better off wolfing down a burger and chips rather than the delicate and beautifully presented salad, but he tried not to let his hunger show. At least the steak and frites would fill him up. Sophia took tiny bites and seemed to savor each one. As they ate they talked about music, London, country walks—anything but murder—and Banks found out that Sophia lived in a small house in Chelsea, that she had once been married to a successful record producer but was now divorced and had no children, that she loved her job and enjoyed the luxury of her father’s Eastvale f lat to visit whenever she wanted.
She was half Greek and half English. Banks remembered Harriet saying something about having a brother in the diplomatic service, and that was Sophia’s father. He had met her mother while posted in Athens, where she had worked in her father’s taverna, and agai
nst all advice they had married and had just celebrated their ruby wedding anniversary. They were away in Greece at the moment.
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
3 0 5
Sophia had spent a great deal of her childhood moving from place to place, never settling long enough in a school or a city to make friends, so now she valued those she had more than ever. Through her job, she met a lot of interesting people in the various arts—literature, music, painting, film—and she went out to a lot of events—concerts, exhibitions, festivals.
It sounded an exhausting life to Banks, a real social whirl, and he realized he simply didn’t have time for that sort of thing. His job took pretty much all he had, and what little time he had left over he used to relax with music or a DVD and a glass of wine. He went to Opera North when he could get there, took long walks in the hills when the weather was good, dropped by the local Helmthorpe pub for folk night once in a while, though less often now that Penny Cartwright, the local femme fatale, had turned him down.
As the evening continued and they topped up their wineglasses, it felt to Banks as it had under the street lamp at the bottom of Harriet’s path, as if their illuminated circle of the universe were the only real place, and everything outside it was insubstantial as shadows. That illusion was pierced when Marcel brought the bill. Banks paid, despite Sophia’s objections, and once again they found themselves out in the street saying good night. Banks had to go back to the station to see if there had been any progress. He felt extremely lucky that neither his pager nor his mobile had gone off during dinner.
Sophia thanked him for the meal, then they leaned toward each other to do the awkward cheek- kissing thing that had become so popu lar, but before Banks knew how it happened their lips were touching in a real kiss, long and sweet. When it was over, they walked off in opposite directions. Banks set off down the hill back to the station, realizing that he had made no specific arrangements to see Sophia again, and after about ten paces he turned around. At about the same moment Sophia looked back, too, and they smiled at each other. How odd, Banks thought. He never looked back, and he was willing to bet that Sophia never did, either.
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