Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“You should write detective fiction,” Austin said. “With an imagination like that, I’m surprised you waste it on being a policeman.”

“You’d be surprised how useful imagination is in my job,” said Banks. “Am I at least close?”

“Miles away.” Austin leaned back in his chair. “Inspector, it would save us all a lot of trouble if you would just believe that I didn’t kill Hayley. Whatever you might think of me, I really did love her, and if I could help you, I would.” He glanced at Winsome. “I’m sorry I lied, but I really didn’t want to lose my job over this and have my name dragged through the mud. Those are the only reasons I did what I did.”

“How well did you know Hayley?” Banks asked.

“Well enough, I suppose. As I said, we’d been together for about two months, but I’d known her for about a year in all. And before you ask, there was nothing between us in that time.” He paused. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Whatever you might have heard about Hayley’s behavior on Saturday night, it was… youthful high spirits. Just that. She sometimes needed to let off steam. Most of the time, as anyone will tell you, Hayley was an intelligent, sober, quiet-spoken, hardworking and ambitious young woman. That’s what I meant when I referred to her maturity. Mostly she found boys of her own age trivial and obsessed with only one thing.”

“And you weren’t?”

“I’ll admit that knowing Hayley gave me a new lease on life in that direction, but you mustn’t make the mistake of assuming that was what it was all about.”

“What was it all about?”

“Sharing a nice meal. Just being together. Talking. Going for walks. Holding hands. Breakfast in bed. Going to a concert. Listening to classical music. Cuddling. Discussing a book we’d both read. Simple things. I could hardly wait until we were able to come out in the open with it. The secrecy was such agony. I’ll miss her more than you could ever imagine.”

Banks felt jealous. He hadn’t done any of those things with anyone for years, if ever, or felt that way about anyone. He and his ex-wife, Sandra, had had such different tastes and interests that their lives had been parallel rather than joined. And when the parallel lines started to diverge slightly, the end had come quickly. Even with Annie there had been more differences than things in common. Still, he wasn’t going to let sentimentality and sympathy for Austin cloud his vision. “You say you want to help,” he went on. “If you didn’t kill her, have you any idea who did?”

“I don’t know. Some maniac, by the sound of it.”

“The truth could be closer to home,” said Winsome. “What about enemies? Is there anyone in her immediate circle she had problems with?”

“There’s Stuart Kinsey, I suppose. He was always chasing after her.”

“But you told me he wouldn’t harm anyone,” said Winsome.

“I still don’t think he would,” said Austin, “but you asked me, and I can’t think of anyone else. Hayley just wasn’t the sort of person to make enemies.”

“Well, she made one,” said Banks, standing up. “Thanks for your time, Malcolm. And stick around. We might need to talk to you again.”

Intense and rejected in love. That was a very bad combination, Banks knew. A very bad combination indeed. And Stuart Kinsey had admitted to going into the Maze, ostensibly to spy on Hayley, to find out whom she was seeing. That gave him motive and opportunity. Could means be far behind? Time for another word with Mr. Kinsey.

It was a good hour and a half or more from Whitby to Leeds, depending on the traffic, and this was the second time Annie had done it in two days. Her feelings were still smarting from the lunch with Eric. It hadn’t taken him long to show his true colors. Now she worried about what other photos he might still have on his mobile or his computer. What would he do with them? Post them on YouTube? How could she have been so bloody foolish, drunk or not? Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight and her teeth gritted as she thought about it and remembered what he said. He had been lashing out just to be cruel, of course, but was there any truth in it? Had she seemed too desperate, too eager, too grateful ?

She drove along Stanningley Road, turned off before Bramley, and found her way to The Hill. The Paynes had lived close to the top, just before the railway bridge, on the right as you drove down, and Claire Toth and her family lived practically over the street, where a row of old detached houses with overgrown gardens stood at the top of a steep rise. It was six years since Annie had last driven by, and then there had been police barriers and crime scene tape all over the place. Now that was all gone, of course, but so was number 35, and in its place stood two new redbrick semis. Well, she supposed no one would want to live in the “House of Payne,” as the newspapers had called it, or next door, for that matter.

As she slowed down, Annie shivered at a sudden memory of the time she went down into the cellar: the obscene poster of the woman with her legs spread; the dank claustrophobic atmosphere with its smell of blood and urine; the occult symbols on the walls. Fortunately for Annie, the body of Kimberley Myers had been removed by the time she got there, along with the bloody mattress.

Annie could imagine the ground haunted by the ghosts of the poor girls who had been raped, tortured and buried down there. And Lucy Payne, the woman in the wheelchair with her throat cut, had definitely been involved in that. Banks had spent a lot of time interviewing Lucy, first as a victim and later as a possible suspect, and she had certainly had an effect on him, no matter what he claimed, but it was clear that even now he hadn’t any more understanding of what really went on in that cellar, or why, than anyone else.

Annie parked at the bottom of the steps in front of Claire’s house and pulled herself together. She knew that she had to get over what happened the other night and talk to Banks. Sober this time. So she had made a fool of herself. So what? It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Explain. He’d understand. God knew, he was understanding enough; he wasn’t going to toss her out on her ear. Was she so afraid of a little embarrassment? That didn’t sound like the woman she thought she was. But was she who she thought she was?

She climbed the steps, noting as she went that the gardens that straggled down to the pavement seemed even more overgrown than ever, especially for the time of year, and a high fence about halfway up blocked the view of the house from below. Annie opened the gate and carried on climbing the last flight of steps.

The front door needed a coat of paint, and a dog or cat had clearly been scratching at the wood. The small lawn was patchy and overgrown with weeds. Annie wasn’t quite sure how she was going to approach Claire. Was the girl a serious suspect? If not, was she likely to know anything that would help? It seemed that all she was doing was going in there to reopen old wounds. Taking a deep breath, she made a fist and knocked on the frosted glass.

After a few moments a woman answered the door in a blue cardigan and gray slacks.

“Mrs. Toth?” Annie said.

“That’s right, love. You must be DI Cabbot. Please come in. Claire’s not back yet but she’ll be here any minute.”

Annie went in. The front room had high ceilings and a bay window looking west, over the tops of the houses opposite. A television set stood in the corner. Daily Cooks had just started, with that dishy French chef Jean-Christophe Novelli. Annie bet the French never made a fuss about a one-night stand. Mrs. Toth didn’t make a move to turn the TV off, and when Annie asked her, she turned down the volume a notch or two, but while they made small talk she was watching from the corner of her eye. Finally, she offered a cup of tea, and Annie accepted gratefully. Left to herself in the cavernous living room for a moment, Annie stood at the window and watched the fluffy clouds drifting across the blue sky on the horizon. Another beautiful spring day. She fancied she could even see as far as the bulky shapes of the Pennines far in the distance.