Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

She seemed torn between her client and whatever new revelation had just come up. “You’ll be all right, Jamie?”

“He’ll be all right, ma’am,” the PC said.

Jamie nodded, eyes averted.

“Very well, then.” Ms. Melchior gathered up her papers and briefcase and strutted out after Banks and Winsome, across the market square to the Fountain. A brisk wind had sprung up, and she had to hold her lilac skirt down with one hand as she walked. There was already a crowd gathered outside the pub, and the two uniformed constables were doing a sterling job of defending the crime scene.

Once they had signed the sheet, Banks and the others were allowed inside the Fountain, where a thorough search had been in progress ever since they had taken Jamie Murdoch over to the station, all legal and aboveboard. The SOCOs were dressed in protective clothing and wore breathing filters against the dust, and an assistant handed out the same gear to Banks, Winsome and Ms. Melchior, who seemed a bit embarrassed in her hard hat, overalls and face mask.

The pub was a shambles. There were dust and crumbled plaster everywhere. The landlord would go crazy when he found out, Banks thought, though with any luck that would be the least of his problems. They followed Stefan Nowak upstairs to one of the storerooms above the bar that abutted on Taylor’s Yard and the Maze. Someone had moved a piece of the old wainscoting away to reveal a hole big enough for a man to get through. Banks could hear voices and see the beam of a torch waving around on the other side.

“There’s no light switch,” said Stefan, handing out torches, “and no window.” He bent and made his way through the hole. Banks followed. Ms. Melchior seemed reluctant, but Winsome held back to let her go first and brought up the rear. With all the beams of light, the room they found themselves in was more than bright enough. It smelled moldy and airless, which it no doubt was, and stacked against one wall were cases of lager and cartons of cigarettes.

“Is this it?” said Banks, disappointed. “Is there no access to the Maze?”

“Hold your horses,” said Stefan, moving to the other side of the room, where he swung a hinged panel toward him. “Follow me.”

They followed. The next room was just as cramped and musty as the first, but a steep wooden staircase led down to the ground floor, where a door with well-oiled hinges and a recently installed Yale lock opened into the anonymous alley at the back of Taylor’s Yard, where no CCTV camera lens ever penetrated.

“Bingo,” said Banks.

“It’s like the bloody Phantom of the Opera, ” said Stefan. “Secret passages and God knows what.”

“They were only secret from us,” Banks pointed out. “Houses and storage areas cheek by jowl like this are often connected by crawl spaces or what have you. Murdoch simply found a way of removing the covering and replacing it so he could come and go as he wanted. Originally, it just made a great hiding place for storing the smuggled goods, but when Hayley Daniels pushed him past the end of his tether, it made the perfect way for him to get back at her. He knew where she was going, and he knew he could get there in seconds without being seen. How long would it take him to get from the front door to the Maze by this route?”

“Less than five minutes,” said Stefan.

“Sir?” One of the SOCOs approached them, torch shining into a corner.

“What is it?” Banks asked.

“A plastic bag of some sort,” Stefan said. He took some photographs, the flash blinding them all momentarily in the confined space, then carefully picked up the bag with his gloved hands and opened it. “Voilà,” he said, showing the contents to Banks. “Clothes. Condoms. Hairbrush. Cloth. Bottle of water.”

“It’s his kit,” said Banks. “Templeton was right. The bastard liked it so much he was planning on doing it again.”

“Or he’d been planning it for some time,” Stefan added. “Possibly both.”

“I don’t think you should assume that,” said a pale Ms. Melchior, who was clearly by now in duty-solicitor mode again, just trying to do her job against all the mounting horror of her client’s guilt that she must have been feeling.

“We’ll see what the lab has to say,” said Banks. “Good work, Stefan, lads. Come on, let’s get back to the interview room. We don’t want to keep Mr. Murdoch waiting too much longer, do we?”

After lunch with Ginger, Annie went back to the police station to see if anything had come in. She was hoping for more good news from forensics but had learned over the years that she had to be patient. In the meantime, she busied herself locating Dr. Laura Henderson who, as it turned out, was still practicing in Bath. After a few engaged signals, Annie finally got through and introduced herself. Dr. Henderson was naturally suspicious and insisted on taking down Annie’s extension number and ringing back through the automated station switchboard.

“Sorry about that,” Dr. Henderson said when they finally got connected again, “but you can’t be too careful in my business.”

“Mine, too,” said Annie. “No problem.”

“Anyway, what can I help you with?”

“Do you remember a patient called Kirsten Farrow? This would be around 1988, perhaps early 1989. I know it’s a long time ago.”

“Of course I remember Kirsten,” said Dr. Henderson. “There are some patients you never forget. Why? Has anything happened to her?”

“Not that I know of,” said Annie. “In fact, that’s the problem. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of her in about eighteen years. Has she been in touch with you at all?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Could you hang on a moment? I’ll dig out the file. I’m afraid anything from that long ago isn’t on the computer.” Annie waited, tapping her pencil on the desk. A few moments later, Dr. Henderson came back on. “Our last session was on the ninth of January, 1989,” she said. “I haven’t seen Kirsten since then.”

“Why did she stop coming to see you?”

There was a long pause at the other end. “I’m not sure I should be discussing this with you,” said Dr. Henderson.

“I’m trying to locate her,” Annie said. “Anything you could tell me might help. I wouldn’t expect you to breach confidentiality.”

“Why are you looking for her?”

“She might know something about a case I’m working on.”

“What case?”

Annie felt like saying she couldn’t divulge that information, but that would be playing the same silly game. Give a little, maybe get a little in return. “A woman has been killed in the same location Kirsten used to visit,” she said. “We were thinking—”

“Oh my God!” said Dr. Henderson. “You think he’s back, don’t you? The killer.”

It wasn’t what Annie was about to say at all, but she recognized a good opening when she heard one. “It’s a possibility,” she said. “They never did catch him.”

“But I still don’t see how I can help you.”

“Why did Kirsten stop seeing you?”

There was another pause, and Annie could almost hear the argument raging in Dr. Henderson’s mind. Finally, the pros seemed to win out over the cons. “The reason she gave me was that our sessions were becoming too painful for her,” she said.

“In what way?”

“You have to realize that Kirsten had blocked out what happened to her on the night she was attacked, and that was causing her all kinds of problems: depression, nightmares, anxiety attacks. Along with her other problems—”

“The inability to have sex or children?”

“You know about that?” Dr. Henderson sounded surprised.

“I know a little,” Annie said.