Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

For the moment, though, he needed to concentrate on the Hayley Daniels case. He was getting close; he could feel it in his water.

“Hello, Jamie,” Banks said as he walked in and stood at the bar. “Jill.”

Jill Sutherland smiled at him, but Jamie didn’t. A teenager in a long gabardine coat looked around from the slot machine he was playing and immediately turned away again. Banks recognized him from the comprehensive school. Underage truant. But he wasn’t interested in that today. Maybe if he remembered, he’d give the head a ring later. He got on well enough with Norman Lapkin, and they had a pint together now and again. Norman understood the problems of dealing with wayward youth.

“What is it this time?” Murdoch said. “Can’t you lot leave me alone for one minute? I’ve got a pub to run.”

“I won’t get in your way,” said Banks. “In fact, tell you what, I’ll even put your profits up. I’ll have a pint of Black Sheep, if that’s all right with you.”

Jamie glanced over to Jill, who took down a glass and started to pull the pint. “How’s business?” Banks asked.

“Rotten,” said Jamie. “Especially since last weekend.”

“Yes, bloody inconsiderate of Kev Templeton to go and get his throat cut just around the corner, wasn’t it? I mean, one murder might be quite good for business, brings in the curiosity seekers, but two…?”

Murdoch paled. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. You’re putting words into my mouth. I’m sorry about what happened to Mr. Templeton, really I am. He was a good copper.”

“Let’s not go too far, Jamie. Besides, nothing to do with you, was it?”

“Of course not.”

Jill smiled when Banks gave her a five-pound note and told her to have a drink for herself. Jamie went back to poring over his books and menus, and Jill went back to cleaning glasses. They looked as if they had already been cleaned once.

The old music tape, or satellite station, was playing Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want to Be With You.” Banks thought of Sophia and wondered where on earth things would go with her. They had listened to the Thea Gilmore CD that morning, and Banks had finally understood the reference Sophia had made to the song “Sugar” being a bit cheeky. The singer was saying that the person she was with could take her home and lay her on his bed, but not to call her “sugar.” Banks didn’t call Sophia “sugar.” If only he could have just dropped everything and gone off somewhere with her the way he had felt like doing. Now she would be back in London, back to her real life, friends, work and hectic social schedule. Perhaps she would forget him. Perhaps she would decide that it had all been a foolish dalliance with an unpromising future, best forgotten. Perhaps it had been. But why couldn’t Banks stop thinking about her, and why was he suddenly so jealous of everyone who was younger and freer than he was?

He glanced around the pub. There were only about five or six people in the place, but the numbers would pick up soon when the town center offices closed. Jamie Murdoch was right, though. A mood of gloom had descended on Eastvale since Templeton’s murder, and it wouldn’t pass completely until his killer was found. And if Banks didn’t find her soon, the various experts from all over the country would be arriving and taking over, just as Scotland Yard used to do in the old days. The press were already frothing at the mouth; one minute denouncing police incompetence, the next condemning a cop killer.

Banks sipped his pint. Dusty gave way to the Shadows’ “Theme for Young Lovers,” another bow in the direction of nostalgia. Banks had stolen his first kiss while that was playing down by the river one beautiful spring Sunday afternoon in 1964. Anita Longbottom was her name, and she wouldn’t let him put his hand on her breast.

“Can you turn it down a bit, Jill?” Banks asked. “I can hardly hear myself think.”

Jill turned the music down. Nobody complained. Banks wondered if anyone would miss it at all, but he realized that silence did bother some people. He sipped his pint and marveled at the fact that even if Detective Superintendent Gervaise walked in right now, he wouldn’t get into trouble. She had gone for his suggestion and had even agreed that he should appear as natural as possible. This was about the only good thing that had come from Templeton’s murder, apart from the fact that Banks had had to postpone both his doctor’s and dentist’s appointments yet again.

“You’re looking nervous, Jamie,” Banks said. “Something on your mind?”

“My conscience is clear, Mr. Banks,” said Jamie.

“Sure? Sure you don’t have a roomful of Spanish brandy and French cigarettes hidden away somewhere? I thought I could smell Gauloises a minute ago.”

“Very funny. You are joking, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, no, I don’t.” Jamie glared at Jill, who busied herself with the glasses again.

“There’s something else that’s been bothering me,” Banks went on. “We have a witness who heard a snatch of music in the Maze around the time Hayley Daniels was killed.”

“You mentioned that before. I didn’t hear anything.”

“We weren’t sure where it came from,” Banks went on. “A car passing by, a door opening and closing… something like that.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Then I had an idea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Banks said. “The witness remembered that the music was ‘Fit But You Know It’ by the Streets, and I went online and found out you can buy it.”

“I imagine you can,” said Murdoch.

“As a ring tone.”

Murdoch had no reply to that, and before Banks could say anything else, he heard “Fit But You Know It” coming from Murdoch’s side pocket. Superintendent Gervaise ringing the number they had got from the mobile supplier, as arranged. The color drained from Murdoch’s face, his eyes turned back toward Banks, then he leaped over the bar and dashed out into the market square.

Banks ran after him. “Jamie, don’t be a bloody fool!” he yelled, as Jamie scattered a gaggle of elderly tourists getting off a tour bus near the cross. “You can’t get away.”

But Jamie ran across the square. The uniformed officers positioned outside the police station in case of just such an eventuality snapped into action, and seeing his escape route cut off, Jamie changed direction and veered toward the Swainsdale Centre. Once there, he bounded up the escalator, Banks in hot pursuit, breathing heavily, and ran into the arcade of first-level shops.

Women clutched their children and screamed as packages and people went flying. Banks became aware of a couple of uniformed officers behind him, and suddenly he saw Winsome coming in fast from his left side. She was an awesome sight, head tossed back, arms like pistons, long legs pumping like an athlete’s.

Murdoch disappeared into the entrance of the Marks & Spencer food department, knocking baskets out of people’s hands as he went. A bottle of wine smashed on the floor, spilling red in every direction. Someone screamed, and Murdoch almost tripped over a small child who started to cry, but he caught his footing again and ran into the menswear department.

There was no way Banks was going to catch him. He was too out of shape, and he had never been a fast runner. Winsome ran marathons, though, and she moved gracefully and easily behind him, catching up with every step. Murdoch glanced back and saw how close she was, then he knocked an old woman out of his way and put on a sprint toward the exit.

Banks could hardly believe what he saw next. Murdoch was about five or six feet ahead of Winsome, when all of a sudden she launched herself through the air at him in something halfway between a dive and a rugby tackle, grasped him around his thighs with her long powerful arms and brought him to the floor. A few moments later, Banks was standing over them, panting for breath, and Winsome had her knee in Murdoch’s back and was doing her Christie Love act, saying, “You’re under arrest, sugah,” reading him his rights just like an American cop. “You have the right to remain silent…”