Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“Could it have been a man?”

“I suppose so. But I did get the overwhelming impression that it was a woman. I don’t really know why, and I couldn’t swear to it, of course.”

“Did you see any of her features?”

“No. She was wearing a hat. I remember that, too. Like a beret or something. It must have been the way she moved that made me think she was a woman. I couldn’t be certain, though. Maybe I was mistaken.”

“Maybe,” said Banks, with a glance toward Winsome, who indicated that she was getting it all down. “But it could have been a woman?”

Chelsea thought for a moment and said, “Yes. Yes, I think it could have been.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Dark clothing. Jeans and a black jacket. Maybe leather.”

“Could you have a guess at the age?”

“I never got a good look at her. Sorry. Not really old, though, I mean, you know, she moved fast enough.”

“What happened next?” Banks asked.

“I think I screamed again, then I ran for the market square, by the Fountain. I knew that was where I had the best chance of finding a policeman, and even if there wasn’t one standing around watching all the fun, the station’s just across the square. Well, you know that.”

“Good thinking,” said Banks.

Chelsea shivered. “I still can’t believe it. What was going on, Mr. Banks? What did I see?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “All I know is that you’re safe now.” He glanced toward Winsome, who took Chelsea’s hand.

“Come on, love,” she said. “Let me take you back to your parents. They’ll take you home.”

“What about my clothes?”

“We’re going to have to keep them for the moment to do some tests,” Banks said. “The blood. It helps our forensic scientists. We’ll see if Dr. Wong can rustle up something temporary for you.”

On her way out, Chelsea looked at Banks. “The man,” she said. “Was he going to kill me?”

“No,” said Banks. “I think he was there to protect you.”

After Chelsea and Winsome had gone, Banks sat for a long time in the calm room mulling over what he’d just heard. Now, even more than before, he knew that he had to contact Annie Cabbot about this. Possibly a female killer. A sharp blade. A slit throat. Banks didn’t believe in coincidences like that, and he knew Annie didn’t, either.

When her telephone rang at half past seven on Sunday morning, Annie had hardly managed to get back to sleep since the noise and the bad dream had woken her at three. She had lain awake thinking about Banks and Eric and Lucy Payne and Kirsten Farrow and Maggie Forrest until they all became a tangled mess in her mind, and then she had dozed fitfully for a while. Now the telephone.

Annie fumbled with the receiver and muttered her name.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” said the voice on the other end. She noticed something odd about it. At least it wasn’t Eric.

“That’s all right,” she said. “Time to get up, anyway.”

“I did wait until a reasonable hour. I called the police station first and they told me you’d be at this number. It’s half seven over there, right, and you police get up early, don’t you?”

“About that,” said Annie. Now she could place the accent. Australian. “You must be Keith McLaren,” she said.

“That’s right. I’m calling from Sydney. It’s half past six in the evening here.”

“I wish it was that here. Then my working day would be over.”

McLaren laughed. He sounded as if he were in the room with her. “But it’s Sunday.”

“Ha!” said Annie. “As if that makes any difference to Superintendent Brough. Anyway, it’s good to hear from you so promptly. Thanks for calling.”

“I don’t know if I can tell you anything new, but the officer who rang me did say it was important.”

Ginger had got in touch with McLaren through the Sydney police. It wasn’t that he had a criminal record, but they had been informed about what happened to him in Yorkshire eighteen years ago, and he was in their files. “It could be,” Annie said, tucking the cordless phone under her chin as she went to get some water and put the kettle on. She was naked, which felt like a disadvantage, but no one could see her, she told herself, and it would be harder to get dressed and talk at the same time. She sipped some water and opened the pad on the table before her. Already she could hear the kettle building to a boil. “I hope these aren’t painful memories for you,” she went on, “but I want to talk about what happened to you in England eighteen years ago.”

“Why? Have you finally found out who did it?”

“We don’t know yet, but there may be a connection with a case I’m working on. It came up, anyway. Have you been able to remember anything more about what happened over the years?”

“A few things, yes. Little details. They weren’t there, and suddenly they are. I’ve been writing things down as they come back. My doctor told me it would be good therapy, and it really does help. As I’m writing one detail I sometimes remember another. It’s odd. On the whole, I can remember quite a bit until Staithes, then it all becomes a blur. Isn’t it funny? I remember so little about my holiday of a lifetime. Waste of money, when you come to think of it. Maybe I should have asked for a refund.”

Annie laughed. “I suppose so. What about that day at Staithes? Someone thought they saw you walking near the harbor there with a young woman.”

“I know. Like I said, it’s a blur. All I have is a vague sense of talking to someone down by the harbor, and I thought it was someone I knew. But I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman.”

“It was a woman,” Annie said. “Where do you think you knew her from?”

“That I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, without foundation. The police told me I met a girl at a B and B in Whitby, and I do remember her now. They seemed to think it was the same girl, but I don’t know. I’ve had recurring dreams, nightmares, I suppose, but I don’t know how truthfully they reflect the reality.”

“What nightmares?”

“It’s a bit… you know, awkward.”

“I’m a police officer,” Annie said. “Just think of me as a doctor.”

“You’re still a woman.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that.”

McLaren laughed. “I’ll do my best. It’s a bit sexual, you see. The dream. We’re in the woods, you know, on the ground, making out, kissing and stuff.”

“Got you so far,” Annie said. “And just for the record, I haven’t blushed once.” The kettle was boiling, and she put the phone back under her chin as she poured the water on the tea bag in her cup, careful not to splash any on her exposed skin.

“Well, it turns into a horror story after that,” McLaren went on. “All of a sudden she’s not a lovely young girl anymore, but a monster, with like a dog’s head, or a wolf’s, sort of like a werewolf, I suppose, but her chest is more like raw human skin, only there’s just one nipple, bleeding, and the rest is all crisscrossed with red lines where her breasts and other nipple should be. Then my head splits open. I told you it was pretty weird.”

“That’s the nature of dreams,” Annie said. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to psychoanalyze you.”

“That’s no worry. I’ve been there. Anyway, that’s about it. I wake up in a sweat.”

Annie knew from her conversation with Sarah Bingham that Kirsten Farrow had surgery on her breasts after the attack, and on her vagina and pubic region. “What do you think it’s about?”

“That’s what my shrink asked me. Beats me.”

“What were you doing in Whitby?”