Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

Randall licked his lips. “What’s the point? You’ll tell me anyway. More fantasy.”

“Perhaps it started as a fantasy,” said Banks, “but it wasn’t mine. I think you’re telling the truth, and so is Mr. Colegate. I think you saw Hayley Daniels in the Trumpeters after you closed up shop on Saturday night and you liked what you saw. Perhaps you’d seen her there before? After all, she frequently spent Saturday nights on the town with her college friends. Or perhaps it didn’t really matter who you saw as long as she was young and scantily dressed. I believe you went home, as you said you did, watched television, or perhaps some porn on DVD, and drank yourself into a stupor, fueling your fantasies, until you could hardly stand up at half past twelve, when you put the cat out and, in all likelihood, went to bed.”

“So what if any of this is true?” said Randall. “None of it’s illegal.”

“I’d like to believe that you dashed back to the shop, saw Hayley Daniels conveniently walking into the Maze and hurried after her,” Banks went on, “but in all fairness, I don’t think that’s very realistic. The timing doesn’t work, and it would be far too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, thank heaven for that! Can I go now?”

“But you did find the body the following morning,” Banks said.

“And reported it.”

“Something happened in those eleven minutes, didn’t it, Joseph? Something came over you, some urge you couldn’t resist.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“Chief Inspector—”

“Please be quiet, Mr. Crawford. I’m not infringing your client’s rights in any way.” Banks turned back to Randall. “That’s what happened, isn’t it, Joseph? You walked into your storage room as usual to pick out some suitable remnants, turned on the light, and you saw her there, lying on her side on the soft pile of scraps as if she were asleep, some poor lost babe in the woods taking shelter from the storm. She looked so innocent and beautiful lying there, didn’t she? And you couldn’t help yourself. I’ll bet you touched her, didn’t you, Joseph? Fondled those small firm breasts, small cold breasts? Did it really turn you on, her being dead like that, unable to respond, to say or do anything, to stop you? You were in complete control, weren’t you, probably for the first time in your life? There wasn’t a thing she could do, was there? So you touched her skin, and you ran your hands over her thighs. Did you kiss her, Joseph? Did you kiss those dead lips? I think you probably did. How could you resist? She was all yours.”

Randall hung his head in his hands. Crawford moved over to him. “You don’t have to say anything, Joseph,” he said. “This is sick.”

“Indeed it is,” said Banks. “And he’s right. You don’t have to say anything. I already know, Joseph. I know everything. I know how you felt as you knelt beside her and unzipped. You were hard, weren’t you, harder than you’d ever been? And with one hand you touched her between her legs and with the other you touched yourself, and it happened, didn’t it? Perhaps sooner than you expected. Then you had to clean up. You didn’t do a very good job. That’s why we found what we did, isn’t it? You thought you’d got it all, but you were in a hurry and you missed some. Eleven minutes, Joseph.”

Randall sobbed into his hands, Crawford had one arm draped awkwardly over his shoulders. “I didn’t kill her,” Randall cried. “I didn’t hurt her. I would never have hurt her.” He looked up at Banks with a tear-streaked face. “You must believe me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Banks felt sick. He edged his chair back, stood up and went to open the door. “Take him back down to the custody suite,” he said to the constable on guard. “And ask the sergeant to charge him with committing an indignity on a dead body, or whatever the bloody hell they call it these days. Go with him, please, Mr. Crawford. Go quick. Just get him out of my sight. Now!”

Crawford helped Randall to his feet and they shuffled out into the grasp of the waiting constable. Alone in the small interview room with only the hum of the recording machines breaking the silence, Banks let out a loud expletive and kicked the only chair that wasn’t bolted to the floor so hard that it sailed across the room and smashed into the tape recorder. Then all was silent.

It was almost twenty past twelve when Annie made her way along Church Street to the Black Horse, having escaped the station and the media. She half hoped that Eric would have left by now; it would save her the trouble of dumping him in person. It would have been easier simply not to turn up, of course, but she already had the impression that Eric wasn’t the type to let go easily; he would need a bit of coaxing.

Annie had deliberately dressed down for the occasion in a pair of old trainers, a shapeless knee-length skirt and a black polo-neck jumper under her denim jacket. She had also resisted putting on any makeup. It had been difficult, more so than she would have expected. She wasn’t vain, but in some ways she would have liked to make a stunning entry, turn all the heads in the pub, and then give him his marching orders. But she also wanted to do nothing to encourage him.

As it turned out, such was her natural appeal — or perhaps it was because everyone in the pub was male — that heads turned anyway when she entered the small busy bar. Including Eric’s. Annie’s heart sank as she dredged up a weak smile and sat opposite him. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, pushing her hair back. “Something came up at the office.” It was partly true. Her meeting with Superintendent Brough had gone on longer than expected, mostly because it was hard to convince him that Les Ferris’s information amounted to anything at all. Finally, she had got Brough to agree to let her initiate a limited search for the Australian and for Sarah Bingham, while Les Ferris tried to find the hair samples for comparison.

“That’s all right,” Eric said, smiling. “I’m just glad you came at all. Drink?”

“Slimline tonic, please.” Annie was determined to do this in a civilized way, over lunch, but with a clear head.

“Are you sure?” Eric had a pint of Guinness in front of him, almost finished.

“Yes, thanks,” Annie said. “Tough afternoon ahead. I’ll need all my wits about me.”

“You must have a really demanding job. What are you, a cop or something? I’ll be back in a minute, and you can tell me all about it.”

Eric headed for the bar and Annie studied the menu. She was starving. Given the lack of choice, the veggie panini would have to do. Either that or a cheese-and-onion sandwich. When she looked up, Eric was on his way back with the drinks, smiling at her. His teeth were straight and white, his black hair flopped over one eye, and he hadn’t shaved since she had last seen him, by the looks of it. He handed her the drink and clinked glasses.

“Decided?” he asked.

“What?”

“Food.”

“Oh, yes,” said Annie. “I think I’ll have a panini with mushrooms, mozzarella and roasted red peppers. Tell me what you want, and I’ll go order.”

Eric put his hand on her arm and stood up. “No. I insist. I invited you. As it happens, I’m a vegetarian, so I’ll have the same.” He smiled. “Is that something else we have in common?”

Annie said nothing. She watched him walk away again and found herself thinking that he had a nice bum and wondering what he thought they had in common other than being vegetarians. She chastised herself for the impure thought and steeled herself for what she had to do, faltering for just a moment as to why she had to do it. But she had no place in her life and career for a young marijuana-smoking musician-cum-hairstylist, no matter how nice his bum or his smile.