Peter Robinson: Friend of the Devil

She glanced at his body, where the sheet had slipped off. Short black hair sticking up here and there where he had slept on it, one lock over his right eye; a strong jaw; broad shoulders; a nice chest, not too hairy, but masculine enough. Thank God he wasn’t a colleague, someone from the station. She couldn’t see what color his eyes were because they were closed, and it shamed her that she couldn’t remember. He needed a shave, but not too many years ago he wouldn’t have. How old was he? Twenty-two, twenty-three at the most, she guessed. And how old was she? Just turned forty. At least he wasn’t married, not as far as she could tell from the appearance of the flat. It was usually the older ones, the married ones, that she fell for.

With a sigh, she began to gather up the rest of her clothes and get dressed. The room was pleasant enough, with pale blue walls, a poster of a Modigliani nude, and a Venetian blind that didn’t keep out very much light. There was also a poster of some rock band she didn’t recognize on the opposite wall. Worse, there was an electric guitar propped up beside a small amplifier. She remembered him telling her that he played in a band. Christ, had she really gone home with a musician? Look on the bright side, she told herself; at least it was the guitarist, not the drummer or the bass player, as her old friend Jackie would have said, and especially not the saxophone player. “Never go with a sax player, sweetie,” Jackie had told her. “The only thing he’s thinking of is his next solo.” Still, what a cliché.

In the cold light of day, was he even younger than she thought? She checked him out again. No. At least twenty-two. Younger than Banks’s rock-star son, Brian, though. Perhaps it should make her feel good, she tried to tell herself, that someone so young and attractive had fancied her, that she still had such pulling power, but somehow it didn’t; it made her feel like an old whore. Perfectly all right for older men and younger women — a man would feel proud of himself — but not for her. She zipped up her jeans. Christ, they felt tight. She’d been putting on weight like nobody’s business lately, and it didn’t make her feel any better to see that little bulge of fat where her flat belly used to be. Time for more exercise and less ale.

Annie found her mobile in her shoulder bag and checked the call. It was from the station. She didn’t know if she could face work feeling the way she did. Before doing anything else, she took her bag with her into the bathroom and closed the door. She used the toilet first, then found some aspirin in the cabinet above the sink, washed herself as best she could — was that what they called a “whore’s bath”? — and applied some makeup. He didn’t have a shower, and she didn’t feel like undressing again and getting in the bath. Best just to leave. Find her car, answer the message, then go home, or what passed for home these days, for a good long soak and self-flagellation. Write out one thousand times: “I must not go home with strange young guitarists I meet in nightclubs.” At least she knew she had left her car somewhere near the club. She hadn’t been stupid enough to drive. She’d had some sense, then. And she thought she could even remember which club they had ended up in.

The air in the bedroom smelled of stale smoke and worse, and Annie saw on a small table by the door an ashtray with cigarette butts and a couple of roaches. Beside it lay a small plastic bag of marijuana and her hoop earrings. God, had she had the presence of mind to take her earrings off, and yet she had smoked a couple of joints and… well, what else had she done? It didn’t bear thinking about. She fumbled with the earrings and got them on.

He stirred as she opened the door, but just enough to pull the sheet up, wrap it around himself and curl up like a child. Annie shut the door behind her and walked down the stairs to a strange new day in a strange place. She could smell the fresh sea air as soon as she got outside, feel the cold wind and hear the seagulls squealing. At least she had a warm jacket.

While she headed back down the hill in the direction of the club to her car, she fumbled with her mobile and accessed her voice mail. She was finally rewarded by the stern voice of Detective Superintendent Brough from Eastern Area headquarters telling her to get down to Larborough Head immediately. There’d been a murder and the locals needed her. Being on loan, she thought, ending the call, sometimes felt like being a whore. Then she realized she had had the same thought twice in the space of about half an hour, under different circumstances, and decided it was time to change metaphors. Not a whore at all, but an angel of mercy. That’s what she was: Annie Cabbot, Angel of Mercy, at your service. She found the purple Astra in the public car park beside the club, thinking for the hundredth time that it was about time she got a new car, consulted her AA road map and, with a crunch of gears, set off for Larborough Head, at the far northern edge of Eastern’s territory.

At least the cafés in the market square were open. Banks chose one only three doors down from Taylor’s Yard, on the upper level above the Age Concern shop, where he knew the coffee was good and strong, and sat down with Detective Superintendent Gervaise. She appeared quite attractive, he noticed, with the pert nose, blue eyes, Cupid’s bow lips and the slight glow her morning’s exercise had given to her pale complexion. The faint scar beside her left eye was almost a mirror image of his own. She was probably a good ten years younger than him, which put her in her early forties. Once they had given their orders, his for coffee, hers for a pot of Earl Grey tea, and toasted tea cakes for both of them, they got down to business.

“It looks like we’ve got a particularly nasty murder on our hands,” Banks said.

“And things have been so quiet lately,” said Gervaise. She laid her riding crop on the table, took off her helmet, gave her head a shake and ran her hand through her short fair hair, which lay flattened against her skull. “Ever since that business with the rock group.” She gave Banks a look.

Banks knew that, even though she had given him the freedom he needed to solve his previous murder case, she had still been unhappy with its conclusion. Banks had, too. But that couldn’t be helped. Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you hope they will. Banks moved on quickly, telling her what he had found out from DS Templeton and Dr. Burns. “The body was discovered at eight-fifteen this morning by a Mr. Joseph Randall, age fifty-five, of Hyacinth Walk.”

“And what was he doing in the Maze at that time on a Sunday morning?”

“He’s the owner of the leather goods shop on the corner,” Banks explained. “It’s his storage room. He said he went around there to search for some samples, found the lock broken and saw her just lying there. Swore he didn’t touch anything. Said he backed out and ran straight across the square to the station.”

“Do we believe him?”

“He says he opened the storage room door at eight-fifteen, but one of the people in the market square told DS Templeton she saw Randall go into the Maze at ten past eight by the church clock, which is pretty accurate. She remembers because she was late for church and glanced up to see the time. The desk sergeant logged the report from Randall at eight twenty-one.”

“That’s eleven minutes.” Gervaise pursed her lips. “Sounds rather thin,” she said. “Where is he now?”

“DS Templeton sent him home with a constable. Apparently Mr. Randall was very upset.”

“Hmm. Interview him yourself. Go in hard next time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Banks, making a doodle in his notebook. Ever one for stating the obvious, was Gervaise. Still, it was best to let her think she was in control. Their order arrived. The coffee was as good as he remembered, and the tea cakes had plenty of butter on them.