Peter Robinson: Friend of the Devil

“Was she killed here?”

“It seems that way,” said Burns.

Banks scanned the room. “It’s a pretty isolated spot,” he said. “Insulated, too. Thick walls. I doubt anybody would hear anything, if there was anything to hear.” He looked at the swatches of leather that filled the girl’s mouth. “Even if she got off one good scream to start with, that would have soon silenced her.”

Dr. Burns said nothing. He took out his notebook and made a number of jottings, which Banks assumed to be time, temperature, position of body and suchlike. They needed the photographer here soon. The SOCOs would have to wait until he had finished, of course, but they wouldn’t like it. They’d be straining at their chains like a pack of Dobermans who hadn’t been given a lump of meat in a month.

The hinges creaked and Peter Darby, the police photographer, arrived with his old Pentax and new digital video cam. The room was small, so Banks and Burns edged out and left him to it. Banks felt an urge for a cigarette. He didn’t know why, as nobody around him was smoking. Perhaps it was the Benson & Hedges he had seen in the victim’s handbag. Or the rain that had now replaced the sleet. He had a memory of a cigarette tasting so good in the rain once, when he had been a very young smoker, and it had stuck with him for some reason. He let go of the thought, and the urge faded. From the church in the market square he thought he could hear the congregation singing “There Is a Green Hill Far Away,” and it reminded him that Easter was coming up soon.

“She’d also been sick,” Dr. Burns added. “I don’t know if it’s significant, but I noticed traces of vomit both inside and on the wall outside.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I smelled it, too. There’s also a chance it could have been the killer’s. Not everyone has the stomach for this sort of thing, thank God. I’ll make sure the SOCOs pay close attention. Thanks, Doc.”

Dr. Burns nodded and walked away. Templeton came over and shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together. “Juicy one, isn’t it, Guv?” he said. “Just like I told you.”

Banks closed his eyes, turned his head up to the strip of gray sky, feeling a few drops of rain on his eyelids, and sighed. “It’s a dead girl, Kev,” he said. “Raped and strangled. Now, I appreciate a bit of crime scene humor as much as the next copper, but can you just hold back your glee for a while longer, do you think?”

“Sorry, Guv,” said Templeton, his tone indicating that he had absolutely no idea what he had to apologize for.

“And we’ll want to interview all local sex offenders, everyone on the books, and those we think should be.”

“Yes, Guv.”

“And ring the super,” Banks said. “She’ll have to know.”

Templeton reached for his mobile.

Banks enjoyed the quiet for a moment, the music of the wind, water dripping from a gutter somewhere, and the distant choir singing a hymn. It was so long since he had been to church. Then he heard new sounds and noticed DC Winsome Jackman and DS Stefan Nowak, crime scene coordinator, come bustling down Taylor’s Yard with a gaggle of SOCOs kitted out like spacemen. Soon, they would have the area as brightly lit as a film studio, and their various tools and gadgets would be sucking up or illuminating tiny traces of the most unusual and practically invisible substances. Everything would be carefully bagged, labeled and stored, to be used in the event of a court case down the line, and some of it might even be of use in tracking down the girl’s killer. If they got lucky, they would find DNA, and it would match a sample they already had in the DNA National Database. If …

Banks welcomed Stefan Nowak and explained what he knew of the situation. Nowak had a few words with his team, and when Peter Darby came out, they went in. They’d be a while setting up and getting started, Nowak explained, and they wanted everyone out of their way. Banks checked the time. Pity, he thought, that with all these new liberal opening hours, none of the local pubs extended them to as early as ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

Banks sent Winsome off to Swainshead to interview the girl’s parents before bringing them back to Eastvale General Infirmary to identify the body. He needed to know as much as she could find out about where the girl had been last night, and with whom. There was a lot to set in motion, and the sooner the better. Leads had a habit of vanishing very quickly.

After about three quarters of an hour, Banks had another brief period of peace in which to assess the situation. By the looks of her, the girl had been out on the town, most likely with a boyfriend, or with a group of friends. They needed to be tracked down and interviewed. Someone would have to get hold of all the closed-circuit television footage, too. Most of the market square was covered by CCTV these days, though there were blind spots. How had she ended up alone? Had she gone off with someone, or had the killer been lurking in the Maze, waiting for a victim? Why had she wandered in there alone? Unfortunately, there was no CCTV in the Maze itself.

Then a voice cut through his reverie. “This had better be bloody important, DCI Banks. I’ve had to cut short my morning gallop and my son and his wife are expecting me for lunch.” And down the alley strutted the diminutive but svelte and powerful figure of Detective Superintendent Catherine Gervaise, resplendent in jodhpurs, cap and boots, slapping her riding crop gently against her thigh as she approached.

Banks smiled. “I must say, ma’am, you cut quite a dashing figure. Fancy a coffee? We can have a chat and leave DS Nowak to watch over things here.”

Was Banks imagining it, or did Superintendent Gervaise actually blush at the compliment?

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the pain screaming in her head and the sound of the seagulls and church bells, DI Annie Cabbot could hear her mobile ringing. They don’t really ring these days, she thought as she strained toward consciousness; they have ring tones; they tinkle; they play tunes. Hers was playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” and it was driving her crazy. The phone salesman’s little joke. She would have to learn how to change it. Just when she managed to half-open an eye and reach for the bedside table, the sound stopped. Damn, she thought, as her hand reached into empty space. There was no bedside table. Where had the bloody thing gone? She had a moment of absolute panic, not knowing where, or even who, she was. She certainly wasn’t at Mrs. Barnaby’s B and B, where she should have been. Then she became aware of a warm heavy object resting on her hip.

When she got both her eyes open and looked around, she became immediately aware of three things: she was not in her own bed, hence no bedside table; she had a splitting headache; and the warm heavy thing lying across her hip was a man’s arm. Fortunately — or not, as the case may be — it was still attached to a man.

Piece by piece, like flipping through cards to make a moving picture, but with cards missing, fragments of the previous evening came back to her. It was vague and fuzzy, and there were big gaps, but she did remember beer, loud music, dancing, fizzy blue drinks with umbrellas, flashing lights, a live band, people laughing; stumbling through winding, dimly lit streets, up a long hill, a steep staircase… then things got more blurred. Another drink or two, perhaps, drunken fumblings and a tumble onto bed. This bed. Gently, Annie disengaged the arm. Its owner stirred and grumbled in his sleep, but thankfully he didn’t awaken. Then Annie sat up and took stock.

She was naked. Her clothes lay strewn across the hardwood floor with the kind of carelessness that suggested desperate and wanton abandon, her black silk knickers hanging on the bed knob like some obscene sort of trophy. She snatched them off, swung to the side of the bed and slipped them on. She felt like shit. Idiot, she said to herself. Idiot.