Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Eric said, as he sat down again and lit a cigarette. He offered Annie one, but she said no.

Annie sipped some Slimline tonic. “That e-mail you sent me last night wasn’t too cool, you know,” she said.

“What? I’m sorry. I just thought it was a laugh, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well… that’s the difference between you and me. I didn’t. If anyone else saw it…”

“Who else is likely to see it? I only sent it to you. Why would you show it to anyone else?”

“That’s not the point. You know what I mean. E-mails are hardly private.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you worked for MI5. Sworn the Official Secrets Act, have you?”

“I don’t, and I haven’t.”

“What exactly do you do?”

“That’s none of your bloody business.”

“You must be a cop, then. Like Prime Suspect ? That’s so cool.” He held out his hands. “You’d better cuff me, Officer. It’s a fair cop.”

“Knock it off.”

“Sorry. Don’t you have a sense of humor?”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

“Are we on again?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and me. We’ve had our first fight, and we’re over it, so why don’t we make a few plans for some more lovely evenings like the other night?”

“I don’t think so, Eric,” said Annie.

His face dropped. “Why not?”

“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Why I’m here.” She paused again, but not for dramatic effect. Her throat was suddenly dry, and she sipped some more tonic. Why did it come in such small bottles? The serving girl came over with their paninis. Eric tucked in and eyed her expectantly. “I really don’t know how to say this,” Annie went on, not touching her food. “I mean, you seem like a nice guy, and I had a lovely time the other night and all, but I don’t think… I mean, I just don’t think it has to lead anywhere. What I’m saying is that I don’t want it to lead anywhere.”

“A one-night stand?”

“If you like.”

Eric put his panini down and shook his head. A slimy sliver of red pepper with a charred edge hung out of the bread. “I don’t like. I definitely don’t like. I don’t go in for one-night stands.”

What was Annie supposed to say to that? she wondered. That she did? “Look,” she went on, “it’s not something I make a habit of, either. We had a few drinks and a good time and we ended up… well, you know… but that’s it. It was fun. It doesn’t have to go any further. I hope we can still be friends.” Christ, Annie, she thought, that sounded pathetic.

“Friends?” he echoed. “Why would we be friends?”

“Fine,” said Annie, feeling herself redden. “We won’t. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Well, don’t bother on my account. What’s wrong with you?” He had raised his voice so much that some of the other customers were glancing their way.

“What do you mean?” Annie scanned the pub, feeling her panic rise. “And keep your voice down.”

“Why are you saying this? Keep my voice down? I mean, look at you, you’re old enough to be my mother. You should be bloody grateful I picked you up in that pub and gave you a good shag, and here you are trying to work it out so that you’re dumping me . Just how do you get to that, I wonder?”

Annie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her ears buzzed and her breath caught in her throat. She could only sit there with her mouth open and her skin burning, aware of the silence all around them and everyone’s eyes on her.

“Maybe you don’t remember,” Eric went on, “but I do. Christ, you couldn’t get enough of it the other night. You were screaming for it. You should be flattered. I mean, isn’t that just what you older women want, a young stud to give you—”

“You bastard !” Annie stood up and tossed the rest of her Slimline tonic in his face. Unfortunately for her, there wasn’t much left in the bottom of her glass, which undermined the dramatic effect somewhat, but as she shot to her feet, her thighs caught the underside of the table and tipped it over, spilling Eric’s full pint of Guinness and his panini with the slimy red peppers all over his lap. Then, as fast as she could, she dashed out into Church Street and made her way, tears in her eyes, toward the 199 steps up Saint Mary’s Church. Only when she had got to the top and stood in the almost deserted graveyard leaning on a wind-worn tombstone did she stop for breath and start sobbing as the seagulls screeched around her, the wind howled and waves crashed on the rocks below.

“It must mean business if someone of your rank is paying house calls,” said Malcolm Austin as he let Banks and Winsome into his office late Thursday afternoon. Winsome had argued for bringing the professor into the station, but Banks thought it would be a better idea to go at him harder once more on his own territory, where he was surrounded by everything he had to lose.

Banks glanced around at the overflowing bookcases. Sometimes he thought he wouldn’t have minded being an academic, spending his life surrounded by books and eager young minds. But he knew he’d miss the thrill of the chase, and that the young minds were not necessarily as eager or as exciting as he might think. The window was open a few inches, and Banks could smell coffee and fresh bread from the courtyard café below and hear the hum of distant conversations. All morning his mind had been full of Lucy Payne and her crimes, and of Annie’s mysterious behavior, Winsome’s aside in the Queen’s Arms, how he could approach Annie about it, but now he needed to concentrate on the job at hand: finding Hayley Daniels’s killer.

Austin bade them sit and arranged his lanky body, legs crossed, in the swivel chair behind his messy desk. He wore track suit trousers and a red sweatshirt emblazoned with an American basketball team logo. An open laptop sat on the desk in front of him, and as he sat down he closed it. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“Do you remember the last time I talked to you?” Winsome asked.

“Who could forget such—”

“Never mind the bollocks, Mr. Austin,” said Banks. “You told DC Jackman that you weren’t having an affair with Hayley Daniels. Information has come to light that indicates you were lying. What do you have to say about that?”

“What information? I resent the implication.”

“Is it true or not that you were having an affair with Hayley Daniels?”

Austin looked at Winsome, then back at Banks. Finally he compressed his lips, bellowed up his cheeks and let the air out slowly. “All right,” he said. “Hayley and I had been seeing one another for two months. We started about a month or so after my wife left. Which means, strictly speaking, that whatever Hayley and I had, it wasn’t an affair.”

“Semantics,” said Banks. “Teacher shagging student. What do you call it?”

“It wasn’t like that,” said Austin. “You make it sound so sordid. We were in love.”

“Excuse me while I reach for a bucket.”

“Inspector! The woman I love has just been murdered. The least you can do is show some respect.”

“How old are you, Malcolm?”

“Fifty-one.”

“And Hayley Daniels was nineteen.”

“Yes, but she was—”

“That’s an age difference of thirty-two years, according to my calculations. It makes you technically old enough to be her grandfather.”

“I told you, we were in love. Do you think love recognizes such mundane barriers as age?”

“Christ, you’re starting to sound like a bloody pedophile,” said Banks. “If I had a quid for every time I’ve heard that argument.”