Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

Dr. Burns bent over the body, which lay face down on the ground, an enormous pool of dark blood spread from the head area toward the wall. Dr. Burns, almost as pale and shaken as the rest, stood up to greet Banks and Winsome. “I don’t want to touch or move the body until the SOCOs get here,” he said. Even Banks could see from where he was standing that it wasn’t the body of a woman.

“Can we have a look now?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Dr. Burns. “Just be careful.”

Banks and Winsome knelt. The stone flags were hard and cold. Banks took a torch one of the uniformed officers offered him, and shone it on the face as best he could. When he saw the young, bloodless profile, he fell back on his tailbone and slumped against the wall as if he had been pushed.

Winsome squatted at his side. “Bloody hell, sir,” she said. “It’s Kev. It’s Kev Templeton. What the hell was he doing here?”

All Banks could think was that he had never heard Winsome swear before.

One of the uniformed officers had been dispatched to fetch a pot of fresh hot coffee, even if he had to wake up one of the coffee-shop owners in the market square, and the rest of the weary troop filed into the boardroom of Western Area Headquarters, no more than about a quarter of a mile from where the body of their colleague lay, undergoing the ministrations of Stefan Nowak and his SOCOs.

When DS Nowak and his team had arrived in the Maze, they had made it clear they wanted the scene to themselves, and that the little square was far too crowded. It was a relief for most of the officers attending there to leave, and a signal to get the investigation in motion. Everyone was stunned by Templeton’s murder, and no one seemed able to take it in, but all that confusion had to be translated into action as quickly as possible.

Dr. Burns and Peter Darby stuck with the SOCOs, and the rest, about ten of them in all, including Banks, Hatchley and Winsome, returned to the station. Detective Superintendent Gervaise had arrived straight from bed, hurriedly dressed in black denims and a fur-collared jacket, and she was busy setting up the whiteboard while the others arranged themselves around the long polished table, pads and pens in front of them. They wouldn’t need a mobile van near the scene because the station itself was so close, but they would need to set up a special incident room, with extra phone lines, computers and civilian staff. For the moment, they would work out of the Hayley Daniels incident room, given space limitations and the shared location of the crimes.

They would also have to assign the usual roles — office manager, receiver, statement readers, action allocators and so on. Banks was already designated SIO and Gervaise would “interface with the media,” as she put it. But she also made it clear that she wanted to be hands-on and to be kept informed every step of the way. This was one of their own, and it went without saying that there would be no concessions, no quarter. But first they needed to know what had happened to Templeton, and why.

When the coffee arrived, everyone took a Styrofoam cup. They passed milk and sugar around, along with a packet of stale custard creams someone had found in a desk drawer. Banks joined Gervaise at the head of the table, and the first thing they asked for was a summary from the officer on the scene, a PC Kerrigan, who had just happened to be on duty in the public order detail that night. “What happened?” Banks asked. “Take it slowly, lad, step by step.”

The young PC looked as if he’d been sick, which he probably had. At least he had had the presence of mind to do it away from the immediate scene. He took a deep breath, then began. “I was standing outside my van trying to decide whether to…” He glanced at Gervaise.

“It’s all right, man,” she said. “At the moment I don’t care whether you were having a smoke or a blow job. Get on with it.”

The constable blushed, and everyone else was taken aback, even Banks. He hadn’t heard Superintendent Gervaise talk like that before, any more than he had heard Winsome swear, but he ought to know by now that she was full of surprises. This was turning out to be a night of firsts.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Kerrigan said. “Well, you see, there was a minor fracas going on over by the Trumpeters, and we were wondering whether we should just let it run its natural course, you know, like, or jump in there and risk exacerbating matters. The long and the short of it is that we decided to let it run its course. Just at that moment — and I checked my watch, ma’am, it was three minutes to twelve — a young woman came running out of the Maze covered in blood and screaming her head off.”

“What did you do then?” Gervaise asked.

“Well, ma’am, I couldn’t help but think that she’d been attacked, like, especially after last week, so I ran over to her. She seemed all right physically, but, as I said, there was quite a lot of blood on her, and she was pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.”

“Spare us the clichés, Constable, and get on with the story,” said Gervaise.

“Sorry, ma’am. I asked her what was wrong, and she just pointed back where she’d come from. I asked her to take me there, and she froze. She was terrified, shaking her head. Said she was never going back in there. I asked her what she’d seen, but she couldn’t tell me that either, or where it was. In the end, I persuaded her that she would be safe with me. She stuck to me like… like a…” He glanced at Gervaise. “She stuck close to me and led me to… well, you know what to.”

“In your own words,” said Banks. “Be calm, Kerrigan. Take it easy.”

“Yes, sir.” Constable Kerrigan took a deep breath. “We reached the area where the body was lying. I didn’t know who it was, of course. You just couldn’t tell, the way the face was squashed down on the flagstones like that. There was such a lot of blood.”

“Did you or the girl go anywhere near the body?” Banks asked.

“No, sir. Except right at first, to get a closer look and see if he was still alive.”

“Did either of you touch anything?”

“No, sir. I knew to stay well back, and there was no way she was going anywhere near it. She cowered back by the wall.”

“Very good,” said Banks. “Go on.”

“Well, that’s about it, sir. My mates from the van weren’t far behind me, and when I heard them all piling into the square behind me, I told them to stop, turn back and go to station and call everyone they could think of. Maybe I shouldn’t have panicked like that, but…”

“You did the right thing,” said Gervaise. “You stayed with the body while they went?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the girl?”

“She stayed, too. She sort of slid down the wall and held her head in her hands. I did get her name and address. Chelsea Pilton. Funny name, I thought. Sounds like an underground stop, doesn’t it? Daft thing naming a kid after a bun or a flower show, anyway, if you ask me,” he added. “But that seems to be the way of the world these days, doesn’t it?”

“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” muttered Gervaise with her eyes closed and the knuckle of her right middle finger against her forehead.

“Maybe she was named after the football team,” Banks offered.

Gervaise gave him a withering glance.

“She lives on the East Side Estate,” Constable Kerrigan added.

“Where is she now?” Gervaise asked.

“I sent her to the hospital with Constable Carruthers, ma’am. She was in a proper state, the girl. I didn’t see any sense in keeping her there, next to… well, you know.”

“You did right,” said Banks. “They’ll know what to do. I assume Constable Carruthers has instructions to stay with her until someone gets there?”