Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“Well, I’m just thinking, it was six years ago,” said Banks, “and that means a significant change in the ages of everyone involved. They’ve all been getting older, like the rest of us.” Blackstone and Hartnell laughed. “But in some cases it means more.”

“What are you getting at, Alan?” asked Hartnell.

“Well, sir,” said Banks, “it’s the ones who were kids at the time. I’m thinking specifically of Claire Toth. She was Kimberley Myers’s best friend. That’s the Chameleon’s last victim, the one we found naked and dead on the mattress in the cellar at 35 The Hill. They went to the dance together, but when it was time for Kimberley to go home, Claire was dancing with a boy she fancied and didn’t go with her. Kimberley went alone and Payne snatched her. Naturally, Claire felt guilty. What I’m saying is that there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one. And she’s had six years to live with the guilt. I know Annie said Mel Danvers thought Mary was about forty, but she didn’t get a good look. She could have been wrong. Quite frankly, the artist’s impression she gave is useless. I’m just saying we don’t rule out Claire or anyone else because they happen to be younger than forty, that’s all.”

“Then we’ll add her to the list, by all means,” said Hartnell. “And by the same token let’s not overlook anyone else who was the victims’ age at the time. As Alan says, people change with age, and no one more quickly and unpredictably than the young. That includes boyfriends, girlfriends, siblings, whatever. I hope you’ve got a big team, DI Cabbot.”

Annie managed a tight smile. “It’ll be a stretch, sir, but we’ll manage.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Hartnell asked.

“If you could have the Chameleon files put aside for me in a cubbyhole here somewhere…? I might need to come in and check details from time to time.”

“Consider it done,” said Hartnell. “Ken, you’ll see to it?”

“I will indeed,” said Blackstone. “And you can use my office, Annie. We’re a bit short on cubbyholes.”

“Thanks, Ken,” said Annie.

Hartnell stood up and looked at his watch, the mark of a busy man. “Well, I think that just about covers it,” he said. “I know that none of us will be shedding any tears over the death of Lucy Payne, but at the same time I think we’d all like to see justice done.”

“Yes, sir,” they all muttered as they filed out of his office.

In the corridor, Banks tried to catch up with Annie, but she was hurrying away toward an open lift door. He managed to reach out and grasp her shoulder but she pulled away with such force it stopped him in his tracks. He watched her get in the lift, and the doors closed behind her. A moment or so later, he felt a friendly hand between his shoulders. “Alan, old mate,” Ken Blackstone said, “I think you need a drink, and they might just be serving lunch by now.”

Winsome found a coffee shop across the street from Austin’s department and decided to settle down and wait for the long-haired student to come out. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when he did emerge from Austin’s building, but she knew she would think of something.

Winsome ordered her latte and sat on a stool by the window, where a long orange molded-plastic shelf ran at just the right height to rest her cup on. She was older than most of the patrons, but found it interesting that she didn’t draw many curious glances. She was wearing black denims and a short zip-up jacket, which weren’t completely out of place there, though perhaps a little upmarket for the student scene.

Most likely, she thought, nobody paid her much attention because there were two Chinese students in deep discussion at one table, a couple of Muslim girls wearing hijabs at another, and a young black woman with dreadlocks talking to a similarly coiffed white boy in a Bob Marley T-shirt. The rest were white, but this was the biggest racial mix Winsome had ever seen in Eastvale. She wondered where they all disappeared to on a Saturday afternoon, when she did her shopping, or on a Saturday evening, when the market square turned into a youth disaster zone. She guessed that there were enough pubs, bars and cafés around campus to keep them entertained without their having to risk life and limb from a bunch of drunken squaddies or farm laborers. So why did Hayley and her friends head for the city center? Living dangerously? Most likely, Winsome guessed, it was the students who actually came from Eastvale who haunted the market-square scene, the locals, or the ones from outlying villages.

Winsome kept an eye on the door of Austin’s building as she sipped the latte. While she waited, she couldn’t help but return in her mind to Annie Cabbot’s shocking confession of the previous evening. A twenty-two-year-old, for Lord’s sake? What was she thinking of? That was no more than a mere boy; DCI Banks’s son, for example, must be about that age, or not much more. And she had regarded Annie as someone she could respect, look up to. She had also secretly thought that Annie and Banks would end up together. She had thought they made a good couple and would have been happy to serve as a bridesmaid at their wedding. How wrong she was. Poor Banks. If only he knew, he would surely be as disgusted as she was.

Winsome was surprised at her own prudish reaction, but she had had a strict religious and moral upbringing, and no amount of exposure to the loose ways of the modern world could completely undo that.

After Annie had stormed out, Winsome had gone home herself. She had been worried about Annie’s driving, but when she got outside, the Astra was gone from the square. Too late. She also felt that she had let her friend down, hadn’t said the right things, made the right noises, given her the sympathy and understanding she needed, but she had felt so shocked and at sea, so burdened by, rather than grateful for, the intimacy of the confession, that she hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t felt much sympathy. So much for sisterly solidarity. There had been something else, though, some trouble with this boy that Annie hadn’t got the chance to tell her about, and that worried her, too.

Students ambled up and down the street carrying backpacks or shoulder bags, wearing T-shirts and jeans; nobody seemed in a hurry. That was the life, Winsome thought. They didn’t have to deal with people like Templeton or face the dead bodies of young women first thing on a Sunday morning. And she bet they indulged in night after night of sweaty guiltless sex. She felt as if she could sit there forever sipping coffee looking out on the sunshine, and a sense of childhood peace came over her, the kind she had felt back at home during the long, hot, still days when all she could hear was birds and the lazy clicking of banana leaves from the plantation.

But it didn’t last. Before she had finished, the young man walked out of the door, glanced around as he went down the steps, and turned up the street. Winsome picked up her briefcase and shoulder bag and set off in pursuit, leaving the rest of her latte. She had decided it would be best simply to approach him and have done with it. She was a police officer and he was a witness, at the very least.

“Excuse me,” she called, as he was about to turn a corner.

He stopped, a puzzled expression on his face, and pointed his thumb to his chest. “Moi?”

“Yes, you. I want a word with you.”

“What about?”

Winsome showed him her warrant card. “Hayley Daniels,” she said.

“I know who you are, but I don’t know—”

“Don’t give me that. You were in the market square with her on Saturday night. We’ve got you on CCTV.”

The boy turned pale. “I suppose I… well… let’s go in here.” He turned into a café. Winsome didn’t want another coffee. Instead, she settled for a bottle of fizzy water while the boy, who said his name was Zack Lane, spooned sugar into his herbal tea. “Okay,” he said. “I knew Hayley. So what?”