Peter Robinson: Friend of the Devil

“What?” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, smearing some mascara. “Oh, I was a personal trainer. Fitness. Nothing special. But people knew me by that name, I had cards printed, the business logo, everything. It just seemed easier to keep it. And Geoff didn’t mind. That’s how I met Geoff in the first place, actually. He was a client.”

“What happened to the business?”

“I packed it in six months ago. Geoff makes more than enough for us all to live on, and I’ve got plenty of other things to occupy my time. Besides, I’m getting a bit old for all those hard workouts.”

Winsome doubted that. “What did you do last night, all on your own?” she asked casually.

Donna shrugged. If she felt that Winsome was prodding her for an alibi, she didn’t show it. “Just stayed in. Caroline from over the road came over with a DVD. Casino Royale . The new one, you know, with that dishy Daniel Craig. We drank a few glasses of wine, ordered a pizza, got a bit giggly… you know.”

“Girls’ night in, then?”

“I suppose so.”

“Look, do you know how to get in touch with your husband?” Winsome asked. “It’s important.”

“Yes. He’s staying at the Faversham Hotel, just outside Skipton. A convention. He should be back home sometime tomorrow.”

“Have you rung him?”

“Not yet. I… the policeman was here and… I just don’t know what to say. Geoff dotes on Hayley. He’ll be devastated.”

“He has to be told,” Winsome said gently. “He is her father. Would you like me to do it?”

“Would you?”

“Have you got the number?”

“I always just ring his mobile,” Donna said, and gave Winsome the number. “The phone’s in the kitchen, on the wall.”

Winsome walked through and Donna followed behind her. The kitchen looked out on the sloping hillside at the back of the house. There was a large garden with a small wooden toolshed leaning against the green fence. Hail pellets now pattered against the windowpanes behind the net curtains. Winsome picked up the handset and dialed the number Donna had given her. As she waited for an answer, she tried to work out what she was going to say. After a few rings, the call went through to Geoff’s answering service.

“Have you got the hotel’s number?” Winsome asked.

Donna shook her head.

“It’s okay.” Winsome rang directory inquiries and got connected to the Faversham. When someone from reception answered, she asked to be put through to Geoffrey Daniels. The receptionist asked her to please hold. There was a long silence at the other end, then the voice came back on. “I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but Mr. Daniels isn’t answering his telephone.”

“Perhaps he’s at a session?” Winsome said. “He’s with the convention. The car salesmen. Can you check?”

“What convention?” the receptionist said. “There’s no convention here. We’re not a convention hotel.”

“Thank you,” said Winsome, hanging up. She looked at Donna McCarthy and the hopeful, expectant expression on her face. What the hell was she going to say now? Well, whatever it was, she would have a bit of time to think while she drove Donna to Eastvale General Infirmary to identify her stepdaughter’s body.

It didn’t take Annie long to drive to Larborough Head from Whitby, where she was temporarily on loan to Spring Hill police station, District of Scarborough, Eastern Division, their rank of detectives being decimated by illness and holidays. Usually she slept in Mrs. Barnaby’s B and B on West Cliff, special rates for visiting police officers, a nice but small third-floor room, whose luxuries consisted of an en suite bathroom, sea view, telephone and tea-making facilities, but last night… well, last night had been different.

It was a Saturday, she’d been working late, and she hadn’t had a good night out in ages. At least, that was what she had told herself when the girls in the station invited her for a drink at the local watering hole and then on to a club or two. She’d lost contact with the rest of the girls sometime during the evening and only hoped they hadn’t seen what had become of her. The guilt and shame bit away at her stomach almost as bad as the heartburn as she pulled up at the side of the unfenced road about a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. Her heart sank when the first figure she saw was the bulky shape of Detective Superintendent Brough heading over to her.

“Good afternoon, DI Cabbot,” he said, though it was still morning. “Glad you could join us.”

Considering how quickly Annie had got there, she thought that was a stupid and insensitive remark, but she let it pass. She was used to those coming from Brough, well known as a lazy, time-serving sod with both eyes fixed on retirement six months down the road, endless rounds of golf and long holidays in Torremolinos. Even as a working copper, he hadn’t had the energy or gumption to line his pockets like some, so there was no villa, just a rented flat with Polyfilla walls and an aging Spanish floozy with a predilection for flashy jewelry, cheap perfume and even cheaper booze. Or so rumor had it.

“I’m surprised to find you up and about on a Sunday morning, sir,” Annie said, as brightly as she could manage. “Thought you’d be in church.”

“Yes, well, needs must. Duty, Cabbot, duty,” he said. “The magic word. And something we would all do well to embrace.” He gestured over to the cliff edge, where Annie could see a seated figure ringed by police. “It’s over there,” he said, as if washing his hands of the entire scene. “DS Naylor and DC Baker will fill you in. I’d better get back to the station and start coordinating. We’ve had to shoo off a couple of local reporters already and there’s bound to be more media interest. You’ll know what I mean when you’ve seen it. Bye for now, DI Cabbot. And I expect one hundred twenty percent on this. One hundred twenty. Remember.”

“Yes, sir. Bye, sir,” Annie said to his retreating back. She mumbled a few curses under her breath and started walking with difficulty against the wind over the slippery clumps of grass to the cliff. She could taste salt on her lips and feel its sting in her eyes. From what she could make out as she squinted, the figure was sitting in a wheelchair staring out to sea. When she got closer and saw it from the front, she noticed that it was a woman, her head supported by a halo brace. Below her chin, a broad, deep bib of dark blood had spread all the way down to her lap. Annie had to swallow an ounce or so of vomit that rose up into her mouth. Dead bodies didn’t usually bother her, but a few pints of Sam Smith’s the night before, followed by those fizzy blue drinks with the umbrellas, didn’t help.

Naylor and Baker were standing beside the body while the police surgeon examined her and the photographer hovered and snapped. Annie greeted them. “What have we got here?” she asked Naylor.

“Suspicious death, ma’am,” said Naylor in his usual laconic manner.

DC Baker smiled.

“I can see that, Tommy,” said Annie, taking in the ear-to-ear cut, exposed cartilage and spilled blood. “Any sign of a weapon?”

“No, ma’am.”

Annie gestured to the cliff edge. “Anyone checked down there?”

“Got a couple of PCs doing a search right now,” said Naylor. “They’ll have to hurry up, though. The tide’s coming in fast.”

“Well, in the absence of a weapon, I think we can assume she didn’t top herself,” said Annie. “Think the seagulls did it?”

“Might have done, at that,” said Naylor, glancing up at the noisy flock. “They’re getting bolder, and they’ve definitely been at the body.” He pointed. “See those marks in and around the ear? My guess is there’s no blood because she’d already bled out by the time they started pecking at her. Dead bodies don’t bleed.”