Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

Around the same time Mrs. Toth returned with the tray, the front door opened and shut and a young woman walked in wearing a supermarket shift, which she immediately took off and threw over a chair. “Claire!” said her mother. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Hang up your coat.”

Claire gave Annie a long-suffering look and did as she was told. Annie had never seen her before, so she hadn’t really known what to expect. Claire took a packet of Dunhill out of her handbag and lit one with a Bic lighter. Her dirty-blond hair was tied back and she was wearing jeans and a white men’s-style shirt. It wasn’t hard to see that she was overweight: the jeans tight on her, flesh bulging at the hips and waist; and her makeup-free complexion was bad — pasty and spotty chipmunk cheeks, teeth stained yellow from nicotine. She certainly didn’t resemble the slight figure of Mary whom Mel Danvers had seen at Mapston Hall. She was also too young, but as Banks had pointed out, Mel Danvers could have been wrong about the age. Claire certainly seemed old before her time in some of her mannerisms.

As soon as Claire had got the cigarette going she poured herself a glass of wine, without offering any to Annie. Not that she wanted any. Tea was fine.

Mrs. Toth placed herself on an armchair in the corner, and her cup clinked on her saucer every now and then as she took a sip. Daily Cooks continued quietly in the background.

“What do you want?” Claire asked. “Mum told me you’re from the police.”

“Have you been following the news?” Annie asked.

“I don’t really bother.”

“Only Lucy Payne was killed the other day.”

Claire paused, the glass inches from her lips. “She…? But I thought she was in a wheelchair?”

“She was.”

Claire sipped some wine, took a drag on her cigarette and shrugged. “Well, what do you expect me to say? That I’m sorry?”

“Are you?”

“No way. Do you know what that woman did?”

“I know,” said Annie.

“And you lot just let her go.”

“We didn’t just let her go, Claire,” Annie tried to explain.

“You did. They said there wasn’t enough evidence. After what she did. Not enough evidence. Can you believe that?”

“There was no way she could ever harm anyone else, wherever she was,” Annie said. “She couldn’t move a muscle.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

“An eye for an eye. She shouldn’t have been allowed to live.”

“But we don’t have the death penalty in England anymore.”

“ He’ s dead, isn’t he?”

“Terence Payne?”

A shadow flitted in the back of Claire’s eyes. “Yes, him.”

“Yes, he’s dead.”

“Well, then?” Claire stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and drank some more wine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

“What do you do?”

“Claire’s on the checkout at the local supermarket,” said her mother. “Aren’t you, dear?”

“Yes, Mother.” Claire stared defiantly at Annie.

There was nothing to say to that. You could hardly say, “Oh, that’s interesting.” It was a job, and an honest one at that, but Annie felt sad for her. According to all accounts, Claire had been a bright, pretty young girl of fifteen with a good future: GCSEs, A levels, university, a professional career, but something had happened to put paid to all that: Terence and Lucy Payne. Now she had grossly underachieved and she hated her body. Annie had seen the signs before. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find the scars of self-administered burns and cuts under the long sleeves of Claire’s shirt. She wondered if she had been getting psychiatric help, but realized it was none of her business. She wasn’t here as a social worker; she was here for information about a murder.

“Did you know Lucy Payne at all?”

“I’d seen her around, at the shops, like. Everyone knew who she was. The teacher’s wife.”

“But you never talked to her?”

“No. Except to say hello.”

“Do you know where she was living?” she asked.

“The last I heard was that there wasn’t enough of a case against her and she was unfit to stand trial, anyway, so you were letting her go.”

“As I told you,” Annie repeated, “she couldn’t harm anyone ever again. She was in an institution, a place where they take care of people like her.”

“Murderers?”

“Quadriplegics.”

“I suppose they fed her and bathed her and let her watch whatever she wanted on television, didn’t they?”

“They took care of her,” Annie said. “She couldn’t do anything for herself. Claire, I understand your anger. I know it seems—”

“Do you? Do you really?” Claire said. She reached for another cigarette and lit it. “I don’t think you do. Look at me. Do you think I don’t know how ugly and unattractive I am? I’ve seen a shrink. I went for years and it didn’t do me a scrap of good at all. I still can’t bear the thought of a boy touching me.” She laughed harshly. “That’s a laugh, isn’t it. As if any boy would want to touch me, the way I look. And all that’s down to Lucy and Terence Payne.” She glared at Annie. “Well, go on, then!”

“What?”

“Tell me I don’t look so bad. Tell me with just a dab of makeup and the right clothes I’ll be all right. Like they all do. Like all I need is Trinny and fucking Susannah.”

As far as Annie was concerned, nobody needed Trinny and Susannah, but that was another matter. Wave after wave of aggression rolled out of Claire, and Annie just didn’t feel equipped to cope with it. Truth be told, she had enough hang-ups of her own eating away at her.

“Even my dad couldn’t stand it,” Claire said disgustedly, glancing at her mother. “It didn’t take him long to desert the sinking ship. And Kim’s parents moved away right after you let Lucy Payne go. Couldn’t sell their house for years, though. In the end they got practically nothing for it.”

Mrs. Toth reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes, but said nothing. Annie was beginning to feel oppressed by the weight of sadness and loss in the room. Irrationally, she found herself picturing Eric in her mind’s eye for a split second and felt like throttling him. It was all too much for her; her chest felt tight and she was having difficulty breathing. It was too hot in there. Get a grip, Annie, she told herself. Get a bloody grip. Control.

“So you didn’t know where Lucy was?” Annie asked Claire.

“Obviously not, or I’d have probably strangled her myself.”

“What makes you think she was strangled?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Why? Does it matter?”

“No, not really.”

“Where was she?”

“As I told you, she was in a home. It was near Whitby.”

“A home at the seaside. How nice. I haven’t been to the seaside since I was a kid. I suppose she had a nice view?”

“Have you ever been to Whitby?”

“No. We always used to go to Blackpool. Or Llandudno.”

“Do you drive a car?”

“Never learned, did I? No point.”

“Why not?”

“I can walk to work and back. Where else would I go?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Annie. “Out with friends, maybe?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Surely there must be someone?”

“I used to go and see Maggie up the road, but she went away, too.”

“Where did she go?”

“Back to Canada, I suppose. I don’t know. She wasn’t going to stay around here after what happened, was she?”

“Did you ever write to one another?”

“No.”

“But she was your friend, wasn’t she?”

“She was her friend.”