Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“Long day?” she said, when he had settled down.

“I’ve had better,” Banks said, rubbing his temples and thinking of the Templeton postmortem, and the talk he’d had with Kev’s distraught parents. “You?”

“A long run in the morning and a bit of work in the afternoon.”

“‘Work’ work?”

“Yes. I’ve got a five-part series on the history of the Booker Prize coming up soon, so I have to read all the winners. Well, most of them, anyway. I mean, who remembers Percy Howard Newby or James Gordon Farrell?” She put her fist to her mouth. “Yawn. You want to eat?”

“Do they do burgers and chips?”

Sophia grinned. “A man of great culinary discernment, I can tell. No, they don’t, but we might get some baked Brie and garlic and a baguette if I ask nicely. The owner’s an old pal of my dad’s.”

“It’ll have to do, then,” said Banks. “Any chance of a drink around here, too?”

“My, my, how impatient you are. You must have had a bad day.” Sophia caught the waitress’s attention and ordered Banks a large Rioja. When it came, she held her glass out for a toast: “To great ideas in the middle of the night.”

Banks smiled and they clinked glasses.

“I’ve brought you a present,” Sophia said, passing a familiar-shaped package across the table to Banks.

“Oh?”

“You can open it now.”

Banks undid the wrapping and found a CD: Burning Dorothy by Thea Gilmore. “Thanks,” he said. “I was going to buy it myself.”

“Well, now you don’t have to.”

Already he could feel himself relaxing, the stresses of the day rolling off, the gruesome images and the raw human misery receding into the background. The wine bar was a good choice, he had to admit. It was full of couples talking softly and discreetly, and the music continued in the same vein. Sophia talked about her work and Banks forgot about his. They touched briefly on politics, found they both hated Bush, Blair and the Iraq war, and moved on to Greece, which Banks loved and Sophia knew well. Both felt that Delphi was the most magical place in the world.

When the baked Brie and garlic had come and gone, toward the end of their second glass of wine, there was no one left in the place but the two of them and the staff. Their conversation meandered on through music, films, wine and family. Sophia loved the old sixties stuff and its contemporary imitators, liked films by Kurosawa, Bergman and Truffaut, she drank Amarone whenever she could afford it, and had a very large extended but close-knit family. She loved her job because it gave her a lot of free time if she arranged things properly, and she liked to spend it in Greece with her mother’s side of the family.

Banks was more than happy simply to sip his wine, listen to Sophia’s voice and watch the expressions flitting across her animated features and behind her dark eyes. Excitement one moment, a hint of sadness the next. Sometimes he looked at her mouth and remembered the kiss, the feel of her lips, though neither of them mentioned it during the evening. He was also aware of her bare shoulders, and of the soft swelling at the front of her blouse, aroused without even really thinking about it. Everything about being here now with her felt so natural that he couldn’t believe he had only known this woman for three days — and known was a gross overstatement. He still knew practically nothing about her.

The evening was winding down, their wine nearly finished. Corinne Bailey Rae, the Leeds lass, was singing “Till It Happens to You.” Sophia insisted on paying the waitress and disappeared for a few moments to the ladies’. Banks looked at the framed Spanish scenes on the walls and let the music roll over him. Sophia came back and sat down again, resting her arms on the table. Banks reached across and took her hand. Her skin was warm and soft. He felt the slight return of pressure as she accepted his touch.

They sat like that in silence for a while, just looking at each other. “Come back with me,” Banks said finally.

Sophia said nothing, but her eyes spoke for her. As one, they stood up and left.

You’ve got a spring in your step, DCI Banks,” said Superintendent Gervaise, when Banks tapped on her door and walked into her office late on Tuesday morning. “What is it? Made a breakthrough?”

“You might say that,” said Banks.

“Shut the door,” Gervaise said.

“I want to show you something first. Can you come with me?”

Gervaise narrowed her eyes. “This had better be good. I was just settling down to last month’s crime figures.”

“I had a call from technical support this morning,” Banks said as they walked down the stairs to the ground-floor viewing room. “I’d asked them if they could tidy up some CCTV surveillance tapes for me.”

“The Hayley Daniels tapes?”

“Yes.” Banks opened the door for her. The room was in semidarkness, and Don Munro, from technical support, was already waiting for them. Gervaise sat down and smoothed her skirt. “You’ve got my attention,” she said. “Let it roll.”

“It doesn’t exactly roll, ma’am,” explained Munro. “Though, I suppose—”

“Oh, just switch it on, man,” said Gervaise.

Munro fiddled with the machine, and the images of Hayley and her friends leaving the Fountain and congregating outside in the market square came into view.

“Here it is,” said Banks, pointing to the flickering strip of light.

“Yes?” said Gervaise.

“Well, ma’am,” said Munro, “DCI Banks asked if we could get rid of the flaring here.”

“I see what you mean,” said Gervaise. “Reminds me of the last time I watched Casablanca .”

Munro gave her an admiring glance. “One of my favorites, ma’am.”

Gervaise treated him to a smile. “Get on with it, then.”

“Well, when I tried to correct the problem, I found that what I was dealing with wasn’t a flaw, or a light flare, but a part of the actual image.”

“A part of the image?” Gervaise glanced at Banks. “What’s he talking about?”

“Well, if you look closely,” Banks said, “you can see that it’s actually a strip of light, flickering and flaring, of course, because of its brightness and the sensitivity of the videotape. But it only looks like a flaw.”

“What is it, then?”

Banks glanced at Munro. “It’s the strip of light showing through a partially open door,” the technician said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Banks took over, “that the door to the Fountain was slightly open while Hayley and her friends stood outside discussing what they were going to do — and more importantly, when Hayley announced she was going into the Maze for… well, to…”

“For a piss,” said Gervaise. “Yes, I know. And?”

“Jamie Murdoch told us he closed the door as soon as they left and had no idea where Hayley was going, but this” — Banks pointed to the screen — “shows us that he was listening, and probably even watching them while they stood outside. Jamie Murdoch was lying. He knew exactly where Hayley Daniels was going, and that she was going by herself.”

“I still don’t see that that gets us anywhere,” said Gervaise. “There’s no access from the pub to the Maze without being seen on CCTV, and Jamie Murdoch just doesn’t show up.”

“I know,” said Banks. “But that set me thinking.”

Munro switched off the television and turned up the lights. “Will you be needing me anymore?” he asked.

“No,” said Banks. “Thanks a lot, Don, you’ve been a great help.”

Munro blushed, gave a little bow to Gervaise, and left. “‘This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’” Gervaise muttered behind him. His shoulders moved as he laughed. “So DCI Banks, what were you going to say?”