When the baked Brie and garlic had come and gone, toward the end of their second glass of wine, there was no one left in the place but the two of them and the staff. Their conversation meandered on through music, films, wine and family. Sophia loved the old sixties stuff and its contemporary imitators, liked films by Kurosawa, Bergman and Truf-faut, she drank amarone whenever she could afford it, and had a very large extended but close-knit family. She loved her job because it gave her a lot of free time if she arranged things properly, and she liked to spend it in Greece with her mother’s side of the family.
Banks was more than happy simply to sip his wine, listen to Sophia’s voice and watch the expressions f litting across her animated features and behind her dark eyes. Excitement one moment, a hint of sadness the next. Sometimes he looked at her mouth and remembered the kiss, the feel of her lips, though neither of them mentioned it during the eve ning.
He was also aware of her bare shoulders, and of the soft swelling at the front of her blouse, aroused without even really thinking about it. Everything about being here now with her felt so natural that he couldn’t believe he had only known this woman for three days—and known was a gross overstatement. He still knew practically nothing about her.
The evening was winding down, their wine nearly finished.
Corinne Bailey Rae, the Leeds lass, was singing “Till It Happens to You.” Sophia insisted on paying the waitress and disappeared for a few moments to the ladies’. Banks looked at the framed Spanish scenes on the walls and let the music roll over him. Sophia came back and sat down again, resting her arms on the table. Banks reached across and took her hand. Her skin was warm and soft. He felt the slight return of pressure as she accepted his touch.
They sat like that in silence for a while, just looking at each other.
“Come back with me,” Banks said finally.
Sophia said nothing, but her eyes spoke for her. As one, they stood up and left.
16
YOU’VE GOT A SPRING IN YOUR STEP, DCI BANKS,” SAID
Superintendent Gervaise, when Banks tapped on her door and walked into her office late on Tuesday morning. “What is it? Made a breakthrough?”
“You might say that,” said Banks.
“Shut the door,” Gervaise said.
“I want to show you something first. Can you come with me?”
Gervaise narrowed her eyes. “This had better be good. I was just settling down to last month’s crime figures.”
“I had a call from technical support this morning,” Banks said as they walked down the stairs to the ground-f loor viewing room. “I’d asked them if they could tidy up some CCTV surveillance tapes for me.”
“The Hayley Daniels tapes?”
“Yes.” Banks opened the door for her. The room was in semidark-ness, and Don Munro, from technical support, was already waiting for them. Gervaise sat down and smoothed her skirt. “You’ve got my attention,” she said. “Let it roll.”
“It doesn’t exactly roll, ma’am,” explained Munro. “Though, I suppose—”
“Oh, just switch it on, man,” said Gervaise.
Munro fiddled with the machine, and the images of Hayley and her F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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friends leaving The Fountain and congregating outside in the market square came into view.
“Here it is,” said Banks, pointing to the f lickering strip of light.
“Yes?” said Gervaise.
“Well, ma’am,” said Munro, “DCI Banks asked if we could get rid of the f laring here.”
“I see what you mean,” said Gervaise. “Reminds me of the last time I watched Casablanca.”
Munro gave her an admiring glance. “One of my favorites, ma’am.”
Gervaise treated him to a smile. “Get on with it, then.”
“Well, when I tried to correct the problem, I found that what I was dealing with wasn’t a f law, or a light f lare, but a part of the actual image.”
“A part of the image?” Gervaise glanced at Banks. “What’s he talking about?”
“Well, if you look closely,” Banks said, “you can see that it’s actually a strip of light, f lickering and f laring, of course, because of its brightness and the sensitivity of the videotape. But it only looks like a f law.”
“What is it, then?”
Banks glanced at Munro. “It’s the strip of light showing through a partially open door,” the technician said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Banks took over, “that the door to The Fountain was slightly open while Hayley and her friends stood outside discussing what they were going to do—and more importantly, when Hayley announced she was going into The Maze for . . . well, to . . .”
“For a piss,” said Gervaise. “Yes, I know. And?”
“Jamie Murdoch told us he closed the door as soon as they left and had no idea where Hayley was going, but this”—Banks pointed to the screen—“shows us that he was listening, and probably even watching them while they stood outside. Jamie Murdoch was lying. He knew exactly where Hayley Daniels was going, and that she was going by herself.”
“I still don’t see that that gets us anywhere,” said Gervaise. “There’s no access from the pub to The Maze without being seen on CCTV, and Jamie Murdoch just doesn’t show up.”
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“I know,” said Banks. “But that set me thinking.”
Munro switched off the television and turned up the lights. “Will you be needing me anymore?” he asked.
“No,” said Banks. “Thanks a lot, Don, you’ve been a great help.”
Munro blushed, gave a little bow to Gervaise, and left. “ ‘This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ ” Gervaise muttered behind him.
His shoulders moved as he laughed. “So DCI Banks, what were you going to say?”
“Just a theory I’d like to run by you.”
She shuff led in her chair. “I’m all ears.”
“As I said, Jamie Murdoch told us that as soon as the last customers left—Hayley and her friends—he locked up and got to work cleaning out the vandalized toilets.”
“Well, maybe it took him a few seconds to close the doors, but that doesn’t mean anything necessarily.”
“It’s over a minute,” said Banks. “And that’s quite a long time. Also, during that period, Hayley announces her intention and goes off, while the others, who tried to persuade her against the idea, head for the Bar None. We know that Stuart Kinsey sneaked right out of the back and in all likelihood heard Hayley being attacked.”
“So what are you saying? Or am I being thick?”
“No, ma’am. It took me a while to figure it out.”
“Oh, that makes me feel a lot better. Well? I still don’t see how Jamie Murdoch could have got into The Maze without being seen, raped and killed Hayley Daniels and then got back in again to clean up his toilets.”
“Nor did I at first,” said Banks. “Until I realized that nobody has conducted a thorough search of The Fountain. It’s a mini-maze of its own. There’s all sorts of rooms—upstairs, cellar, what have you—and it’s an old building. Eighteenth-century. When you think about it, it stands to reason that there could be another way in and out.”
“A secret passage? You jest, surely?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time in this part of the world,” said Banks.
“Some way of getting out quickly when unwelcome guests arrived, perhaps?”
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“All right. I know my history. Priest holes and the like. Maybe you’ve got a point.”
“And that made me think of something else.”
Gervaise raised an eyebrow. “Pray tell.”
“When Winsome talked to Jill Sutherland, the girl who works at The Fountain, Jill told her that one of the reasons she didn’t like it there was because Jamie Murdoch dealt in smuggled booze and cigarettes,
and that he had even tried to get her to bring back stuff when she went abroad.”
“Everybody does it,” said Gervaise. “I know it’s a crime, but trying to stop it would be like sticking your finger in the dike.”
“That’s not my point,” said Banks. “The point is that when Kev Templeton had a look around The Fountain he didn’t find anything.
Nor did Winsome and I.”
“ ‘Nothing can come of nothing.’ Didn’t someone say that?”
“Shakespeare, ma’am.”
“Clever bugger.”
“It was just a guess. You’ve usually got at least forty- nine percent of being right if you say Shakespeare to every quote, maybe more.”
“And the other fifty-one percent?”
“Most—forty-nine percent—to the Bible, and the rest . . . well, your guess is as good as mine. Mostly Oscar Wilde, probably.”
“Interesting theory. Go on.”
“Well, at first I thought that maybe all the police attention had encouraged Jamie to get rid of the stuff, or move it somewhere else, but then it struck me that if he had a good enough hiding place from the start, and if the stuff ’s not in—”
“Any of the places Templeton searched, then it has to be hidden somewhere. A cubbyhole, something like that?”
“Exactly,” said Banks. “And this cubbyhole may well lead out into The Maze.”
“There’s a great deal of speculation here,” said Gervaise. “I’m not sure I like it.”
“But we can check, can’t we?” said Banks. “If you can arrange for a search warrant, first for Murdoch’s home, so we can make sure he’s 3 2 8
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
not stashing the smuggled goods there, and second for a thorough search of The Fountain, walls, f loors and all, then we’ve got him.”
“I’m not sure we’ve got enough evidence for a search warrant.”
“But we can try, can’t we?”
Gervaise stood up. “We can try,” she said.
“I’ve also been doing a bit of checking around this morning, and I have one more test I want to try first, with your help. Who knows, it might even add to our weight of evidence.”
“At this point, a feather would tip the balance,” said Gervaise. “But tell me, anyway.”
“ M A G G I E F O R R E S T went through a hell of a lot,” Annie told Ginger as they ate a late lunch together in a pub on Flowergate. “It’s bound to have affected her.”
“That’s what you get when you go around befriending sex killers,”
said Ginger, picking at her chips. “But if Liam’s come through with the hair match, she’s out of the picture, anyway, isn’t she?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe we should keep an open mind,” Annie said. “Besides, there was some doubt as to Lucy Payne’s role as a sex killer.”
“You’re not trying to say she didn’t do it, are you?”
Annie ate another forkful of salad and pushed her plate aside. “We never really believed that she killed the victims,” she said, “but she was certainly a willing participant in their degradation and torture. Terence Payne killed them, at least that was where the evidence pointed. But she helped him to abduct them. In my eyes it makes them both guilty of everything.”
“People are less inclined to be wary of a woman, or a couple, approaching them.”
“True enough,” Annie agreed. “Sugar and spice, we are.”
Ginger made a face and wiped the beer froth from her upper lip.
The pub was busy, most of the tables taken up by local shop and office workers enjoying their lunch hour. “Anyway,” she went on, “you’re right about keeping an open mind. This hair business isn’t conclusive.
And just because we found it on the blanket, and just because it might F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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match this Kirsten Farrow’s, that still doesn’t mean Maggie Forrest didn’t kill Lucy Payne, right?”
“Right,” Annie agreed. “Maggie Forrest doesn’t have an alibi, for one thing.”
“Maybe we should have a word with that shrink of hers?”
“Psychiatrists never tell you anything,” Annie said. “They’re worse than priests and lawyers. But I suppose we could always have a try. I want to talk to Kirsten Farrow’s shrink, too. The one who hypnotized her. I’ve got a name from the files: Laura Henderson. I’ll see if I can get her on the phone sometime this afternoon. What about Templeton, though? How does he fit in with all this?”
“Your mate?”
“No mate of mine, and a terrible copper, if truth be told. Poor sod, though. What a way to go.”
“At least it was quick.”
“I suppose so,” said Annie. She felt a pang of sadness for Templeton, with his sharp suits, gelled hair and sense of himself as God’s gift to women. The poor bastard had had blue balls for Winsome ever since she joined the team, and she never gave him a chance. Not that she should have; Annie wouldn’t have either, even if he had tried it on with her.
But even so, it had sometimes been painful to watch him suffer so obviously. There were some nights she bet he could hardly walk home.
“What’s so funny?” Ginger asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking about Kev, that’s all. Memories. They’re having a wake for him at The Queen’s Arms tonight.”
“Going?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s all we’re left with when it comes right down to it. Memories.”
“That’s a bloody depressing thought,” said Annie. “What have you got so far? Are we any closer to the leak?”
Ginger ate her last chips and shook her head while her mouth was full. Then she patted her chest and took another sip of beer. Sunlight broke through the clouds for a moment and shone through the stained-glass windows. “Bugger all,” she said. “But I still don’t like Julia Ford, or that other one, the one we met first.”
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“Constance Wells?”
“That’s the one. Another slippery little bitch.”
“Now, now, Ginger. Claws.”
“Well . . .”
“So neither of them will admit to telling anyone Karen Drew’s real identity?”
“Of course not. Lips sealed tighter than a Scotsman’s sphincter, if you’ll excuse my language.”
“Anything interesting in the background checks?”
“Nothing yet. The usual university stuff. I do believe Constance Wells was a member of the Marxist Society when she was a student, mind you. I’ll bet she wouldn’t want that to get around the firm.”
Annie smiled. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
Ginger gave a mischievous grin. “I might. You never know.” She finished her beer. “I’m glad that had no calories in it.”
“Anything else? Pudding, maybe?”
Ginger patted her stomach. “No, that’s me done, guv. There was one thing struck me as interesting in all my digging around. Hardly relevant, mind you, but interesting.”
“Oh?” said Annie. “What’s that?”
“Well, Julia Ford was a late starter. She didn’t go to uni till she was in her early twenties.”
“So?”
“Most people go straight from school, that’s all. Law, medicine, what have you. Want to get the education over with and start earning the big money and pay off their student loans as soon as they can.”
“Okay,” said Annie. “That makes sense. I think they had grants back then, though, not loans. Still, it’s an interesting point. If there’s a chance that Maggie Forrest is really Kirsten Farrow, there’s also a chance that Julia Ford is, too, isn’t there?”
Ginger looked surprised. “That’s not where I was—”
“Hold on a minute, though,” Annie went on. “There is, isn’t there?
She’s about the right age, she’s slight enough in build, and if she hid her hair under a hat, downplayed the fancy clothes and the makeup . . . It could be her, couldn�
��t it?”
“Julia Ford? Bloody hell! But she defended Lucy Payne.”
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“She also knew her identity and where she was. Okay, so we’ve got a bit of a problem with motive. There seems to be a conf lict there. But perhaps there was a reason for that. Something we don’t know about.”
“I suppose you could have a point,” said Ginger. “Want me to do a bit more digging into her background?”
Annie nodded. “Yes. See if you can find out where she was between 1985, which was when Kirsten would have started uni, and 1991 or 1992, which is about the last sighting of her. But be careful.”
“What about alibis?”
“It’ll be tricky without her knowing, but if you could find out where she was at the times Lucy and Templeton were murdered, it would be a big help.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But what I was going to tell you . . .”
“Yes?”
“Julia Ford did another degree before her law one. Not English Lit.
Psychology. At Liverpool.”
“It still doesn’t let her out of the picture. And the law degree?”
“Bristol.”
“Kirsten Farrow was from Bath. It’s very close.”
“Our Ms. Ford shared a f lat while she was there. First and second year.”
“Students often do.”
“It’s just that I happened to get connected with a very chatty and helpful young woman from student housing, had all the rec ords going back years. Anyway, Julia Ford shared the f lat with Elizabeth Wallace, who was studying medicine at the time. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Elizabeth Wallace your pathologist back in Western Area?”
“She is, indeed,” said Annie. “Dr. Elizabeth Wallace.”
“Just a point of interest, that’s all,” Ginger said. “They were mates, her and Julia Ford. And . . .”
“And what?”
“I did a bit more checking, and they both live in Harrogate now.”
“Big place.”
“Both members of the local golf club, too.”
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