Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, but I don’t really know what you mean.”

“Toyboys. You know what they are, don’t you? Toyboys don’t make good lovers, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Banks tried to remember when he was a young boy. He had probably been a lousy lover. He probably was a lousy lover even now, if truth be told. If he weren’t, maybe he would have more luck finding and keeping a woman. Still, chance would be a fine thing; it would be nice to have the opportunity for more practice now and then.

“Oh, Alan,” she said. “What shall I do with you?”

The next thing he knew, she was beside him on the sofa. He could feel her thighs warm against him and her breath in his ear. He could smell red wine and garlic. She rubbed her breasts against his arm and tried to kiss his lips, but he turned away.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “It just doesn’t feel right, that’s all.”

“Don’t you want me?”

“You know I want you. I never didn’t want you.”

Annie started fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. “Then take me,” she said, moving close again and breathing fast. “Men always want it, don’t they, no matter what?”

Again, Banks backed off. “Not like this,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“So?” She went back to the buttons. He could see the black lacy line of her bra and soft mounds of flesh beneath. “Not another bloody prude, are you?”

“Look,” Banks said, “it’s not…”

Annie put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

He moved away. She gave him a puzzled glance. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve told you what’s wrong,” he said. “This just doesn’t feel right, that’s all. I don’t believe you really want to do this, either. I don’t know what’s going on.”

Annie moved away and quickly tried to fasten up the buttons. Her face was flushed and angry. “What do you mean, it doesn’t feel right?” she said. “What’s wrong with me? Am I too fat? Not pretty enough? Are my breasts not firm enough? Am I not attractive enough? Not good enough for you?”

“It’s not any of those things,” said Banks. “It’s—”

“Or is it you? Because I have to wonder, you know,” Annie went on, getting to her feet and reaching for her jacket and handbag, stumbling as she did so. “I really do have to wonder about a man like you. I mean, do you have so much going on in your miserable little life that you can afford to reject me? Do you, Alan? Do you have some pretty young twenty-two-year-old girl hidden away somewhere? Is that it? Am I too old for you?”

“I told you. It’s not any of those things. I—”

But it was too late. Banks just heard her say, “Oh, fuck you, Alan. Or not, as the case may be.” Then she slammed the door behind her. When he got outside she was already starting the car. He knew he should try to stop her, that she was drunk, but he didn’t know how, short of trying to drag her out of the driver’s seat or throwing himself in front of the wheels. In her mood, she would probably run him over. Instead, he listened to the gears grate and watched her back out in a spray of gravel at an alarming speed. Then he heard the gears screech again, and she was off down the lane through Gratly.

Banks stood there, heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. When he went back inside, Coltrane was just getting started on “My Favorite Things.”

Malcolm Austin’s office was tucked away in a corner of the Travel and Tourism Department, located in a large old Victorian house on the fringes of the campus. Eastvale College had expanded over the past few years, and the squat sixties brick-and-glass buildings were no longer big enough to house all the departments. Instead of putting up more faceless new blocks, the college authorities had bought up some of the surrounding land, including streets of old houses, and revitalized southeast Eastvale. Now it was a thriving area with popular pubs, coffee shops, cheap cafés and Indian restaurants, student flats and bedsits. The college even got decent bands to play in its new auditorium, and there was talk of the Blue Lamps making an appearance there to kick off their next tour.

Austin’s office was on the first floor, and when Winsome knocked, he opened the door for her himself. It was a cozy room with a high ornate ceiling and broad sash windows. In his bookcase were a lot of travel guides to various countries, some of them very old indeed, and on his wall was a poster of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Against one wall stood a battered old sofa with scuffed black leather upholstery. The only window looked over a flagstone courtyard, where students sat at wooden tables between the trees eating sandwiches, talking and drinking coffee in the spring sunshine. It made Winsome yearn for her own student days.

Austin was about fifty, with his gray hair worn fashionably long and tied in a ponytail at the back. He also had a deep tan, probably one of the perks of the business, Winsome thought. He wore a loose blue cable-knit jumper and faded jeans torn at the knees. He kept himself in shape, and was attractive in a lanky, rangy sort of way, with a strong jaw, straight nose and large Adam’s apple. Winsome noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He pulled out a chair for her and sat behind his small, untidy desk.

Winsome first thanked Austin for agreeing to talk to her so early in the morning.

“That’s all right,” he said. “My first class is at ten o’clock, and I’m afraid my Wednesdays just get worse after that.” His smile was engaging, and his teeth seemed well cared for. “It’s about Hayley Daniels, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

A frown creased his broad forehead. “It’s a terrible tragedy. Such a bright girl.”

“She was?” Winsome realized she knew nothing about Hayley’s academic life.

“Oh, yes. Not just the written work, mind you. She had the personality for the job, too. You need personality in the travel business.”

“I’m sure,” said Winsome. “Do you know of any boyfriends or anyone on campus Hayley might have been involved with?”

Austin scratched his head. “I honestly can’t say. She seemed a very gregarious type, always hanging out with a group rather than any particular individual. I think she enjoyed the attention.”

“Do you know of anyone who disliked her?”

“Not enough to kill her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps some of the other girls envied her her figure and her good looks, her easygoing manner, even her good marks. There is a school of thought that maintains you shouldn’t have it all — brains and beauty. Perhaps some of the boys resented the fact that they couldn’t have her.”

“Stuart Kinsey?”

“He’s one example that comes immediately to mind. He was always hanging around her, drooling. It was pretty obvious he was carrying a torch for her. But Stuart wouldn’t harm a soul. He’d probably just go home and write sad love poems.”

“What was your relationship with Hayley?”

Austin looked puzzled. “Relationship? I was her tutor. I marked her essays, she attended my lectures. I helped supervise her work experience, advised her on career paths, that sort of thing.”

“Work experience?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not just an academic course, you know. Students get the chance to work with travel agents and for airlines, sometimes even as overseas representatives and guides. I was trying to get Hayley a temporary position as a yellow shirt with Swan Hellenic, but I’m afraid they’ve lost their ship to Carnival, so things are a bit up in the air.”

Winsome paused and crossed her legs. She was wearing jeans today — good ones — because she wasn’t going to make the same mistake as yesterday, though the likelihood of her being paired with Templeton again was slim to nonexistent. “Hayley was a very attractive girl,” she said.