Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

Randall shifted in his chair and tugged at his collar. “I just… I suppose I just stood there a few moments, in shock, taking it all in. You have to understand that at first it seemed so unreal. I kept thinking she would get up and run out giggling, that it was some sort of practical joke.”

“Have any of the local young people played practical jokes on you before?”

“No. Why?”

“Never mind. You said earlier that you knew she was dead.”

“That was later. These things can run through your mind at the same time. It was the shock, I suppose.”

“Did you touch anything in the room?”

“Only the door. And the light switch. I never got beyond the doorway. As soon as I saw her I stopped where I was.”

“And when you’d got over the shock?”

“I thought I’d go into the shop and dial 999, then I realized the police station was just across the square, and it would probably make more sense to go over there. So I did.”

“Can you give me any idea of how long it was, between your finding the body and getting to the station?”

“Not really. I had no concept of time. I mean, I just acted. I ran across the square.”

“You said you found the body at eight-fifteen.”

“That’s right. I checked my watch when I got there. Habit.”

“And you reported it at eight twenty-one. Does that sound right?”

“If you say so.”

“Six minutes, then. How accurate is your watch?”

“It’s accurate as far as I know.”

“You see,” said Banks, shifting in his chair, “we have a witness who saw you enter the Maze at ten past eight by the church clock, and we know it’s no more than thirty seconds or so from the entrance on Taylor’s Yard to your storage room. What do you make of that?”

“But that would mean… eleven minutes. I surely can’t have been that long?”

“Could your watch have been fast?”

“I suppose so.”

“Mind if I see it?”

“What?”

Banks gestured toward his wrist. “Your watch. Mind if I have a look?”

“Oh, not at all.” He turned the face toward Banks. Twelve twenty-seven, the same as his own and, he knew, the same as the church clock.

“Seems to be accurate.”

Randall shrugged. “Well…”

“Have you any explanation for those eleven minutes?”

“I didn’t even know there were eleven minutes,” said Randall. “As I told you, I have no conception of how long it all took.”

“Right,” said Banks, standing. “That’s what you said. And it’s only five minutes difference from what you told us, after all, isn’t it? I mean, what could possibly happen in five minutes?” Banks held Randall’s eyes, and the latter broke away first. “Stick around, Mr. Randall,” Banks said. “I’ll be sending someone along to take your official statement later this afternoon.”

Mapston hall was an old pile of dark stone squatting on its promontory like a horned toad. Beyond the high gates in the surrounding wall, the gravel drive snaked through a wooded area to the front of the building, where there was parking for about ten cars. Most spots were already taken by staff or visitors, Annie guessed, but she found a place easily enough and approached the imposing heavy wooden doors, Tommy Naylor ambling beside her, nonchalant as ever, taking in the view. Despite the aspirins, Annie’s headache was still troubling her, and she felt in desperate need of a long, regenerative soak in the tub.

“Must cost a bob or two to run this place,” Naylor speculated. “Wonder who pays the bills.”

“Not the NHS, I’ll bet,” said Annie, though the sign outside had mentioned that the National Health Service had a part in running the place, and that Mapston Hall specialized in care for people with spinal cord injuries.

“Rich people in wheelchairs,” said Naylor. “Where there’s a will… Just a thought. Some relative couldn’t wait for the cash? Or a mercy killing?”

Annie glanced at him. “Funny way to go about it, slitting her throat,” she said. “But we won’t forget those angles.” How aware would the victim have been of her life slipping away from her? Annie wondered. Perhaps her body had been incapable of sensation, but what emotions had she felt during those final moments? Relief? Horror? Fear?

Though the inside of the hall was as old and dark as the exterior, like a stately home, with its parquet floor, wainscoting, broad winding staircase, high ceiling complete with crystal chandelier, and oil paintings of eighteenth-century dignitaries on the walls — the Mapston clan, no doubt — the computer setup behind the reception desk was modern enough, as was the elaborate stair-lift. The place was surprisingly busy, with people coming and going, nurses dashing around, orderlies pushing trolleys down corridors. Controlled chaos.

Annie and Naylor presented their warrant cards to the receptionist, who looked like a frazzled schoolgirl on her weekend job, and told her they were making inquiries about a patient. The girl probably wanted to work with handicapped people and was getting some work experience, Annie thought. She certainly seemed earnest enough and had that slightly bossy, busybodyish, passive-aggressive way about her that so often indicated a social worker. Her name badge read Fiona.

“I can’t tell you anything,” she said. “I’m only part-time.”

“Then who should we talk to?”

Fiona bit her lip. “We’re short-staffed. And it’s a Sunday. Mother’s Day, in fact.”

“Meaning?” Annie asked.

“Well, it’s a very busy day for us. Visitors. Most of them come on the weekends, you see, and Sunday morning’s the most popular time, especially as it’s—”

“Mother’s Day. Yes, I see,” said Annie. “Is there anyone who can help us?”

“What is it exactly you want to know?”

“I told you. It’s about a patient, a possible patient.”

“Name?”

“That’s one thing we’re trying to find out.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“Fiona,” Annie cut in. “This is really important. Will you please page someone who knows what they’re doing?”

“You don’t have to take—”

“Please!”

Fiona held Annie’s gaze for just a moment. Annie felt her head throb. Fiona sniffed and picked up the phone. Annie heard her page someone called Grace Chaplin over the PA system. In a few moments, a woman of about the same age as Annie, looking elegant and handsome in a crisp white uniform, came striding in a no-nonsense way along a corridor, clipboard under her arm. She stepped over to Fiona and asked what the problem was. Fiona looked nervously toward Annie, who proffered her warrant card. “Is there somewhere we can talk, Ms. Chaplin?”

“Grace, please,” the woman said. “By the way, I’m director of Patient Care Services.”

“Sort of like a matron?” Annie said.

Grace Chaplin gave her a tiny smile. “Sort of like that,” she said. “And the conference room is over here, if you would just follow me. It should be free.”

Annie looked at Tommy Naylor and raised her eyebrows as Grace Chaplin turned and led them toward a set of double doors. “Have a nose-around, Tommy,” she said. “I’ll deal with this. Chat up some of the nurses. Patients, too, if you can. Use your charm. See if you can find anything out.”

“Am I after anything in particular?”

“No. Just have a wander-around and try to develop a feel for the place. See how people react to you. Make a note of anyone who strikes you as useful — or obstructive. You know the drill.”

“Right, ma’am,” said Naylor, heading off across the tiled hall.

The conference room had a large round table on which sat a jug of water and a tray of glasses. Grace Chaplin didn’t offer, but as soon as Annie had sat down, she reached for a glass and filled it. The more water she could get into her system the better.