Friend of the Devil

by Peter Robinson

  “Did you notice anything odd in the market square, anyone behaving oddly?”

  “No. Everything was normal. You surely don’t think…?”

  Banks had a pretty good idea from Dr. Burns that Hayley Daniels had been killed late the previous night, but that didn’t rule out the killer returning to the scene, or leaving it, having revisited. “Anyone heading out of The Maze?”

  “No. Only a couple of latecomers going to church in the square. And a small queue waiting for the Darlington bus.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “Well, as I said, I was put out by the weather, but there was nothing I could do about that. Anyway, the rain had stopped when I got to the storage building—”

  “What did you notice first?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You weren’t aware that it had been broken into?”

  “No. The door looked closed as usual. It opens inward. There’s only a Yale lock and a handle to pull it shut.”

  “And it was shut?”

  “As far as I could see, yes, but I wasn’t really paying much attention. This was something I’d done hundreds of times before. I was just on automatic pilot, I suppose. There must have been a small gap, if the lock had been broken, but I didn’t notice it.”

  “I understand,” said Banks. “Carry on.”

  “When I went to unlock the door, it just started to swing open. Obviously it couldn’t have been pulled all the way shut, because the lock was broken, as if someone had forced it from the outside.”

  “In your opinion, would that have taken much pressure?”

  “No. The wood was old, the screws loose. I never really worried about it as I…well, all I kept there were scraps and remnants, really. They weren’t valuable. Who’d want to steal them? As I think I’ve told you, they’re usually the bits left over from various projects, but they’re often useful for patchwork and as samples, so I just throw them in there whenever the basket gets full. I’ve got a workshop in the back of the shop where I do most of the cutting and sewing and repairs.”

  “Do you have any employees?”

  Randall barked. “Ha! You must be joking. Most of the time I hardly have enough work to pay the rent, let alone hire an employee.”

  “Enough work to get you there very early on a Sunday morning, though.”

  “I told you. That was a special commission. A rush job. Look, I’m getting tired of this. I had a hell of a shock to my system a few hours ago, and now here you are practically accusing me of attacking and killing that poor girl. By all rights I should be under sedation. My nerves are bad.”

  “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” said Banks. “Calm down. Take it easy. I’m just trying to find out as much as I can about what happened this morning.”

  “Nothing happened this morning! I went to the storage room and I saw…I saw…” He put his hands to his head and his chest started heaving, as if he were having difficulty breathing. “Oh, God…I saw…”

  “Can I get you anything?” Banks asked, afraid that Randall was having a heart attack.

  “Pills,” he gasped. “They’re in my jacket pocket.” He pointed, and Banks saw a navy sports jacket hanging on the back of the door. He took out a small bottle of pills, noting that it was labeled “Activan sublingual,” prescribed by a Dr. Llewelyn, and passed it to Randall, who opened it with shaking hands and placed a tiny tablet under his tongue.

  “Water?” Banks asked.

  Randall shook his head. “See what I mean?” he said a few moments later. “It’s my nerves. Shattered. Never been strong. I get anxiety attacks.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Randall,” said Banks, feeling his patience running out. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel compassion for anyone who found a dead body, but Randall seemed to be pushing everything just a little over the top. “Perhaps we can get back to your account of what happened next, if it isn’t too painful.”

  Randall gave him a glare to indicate that the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “It is painful, Mr. Banks. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I can’t get the image out of my mind, out of my memory. That poor girl. As if she were just…asleep.”

  “But you knew she was dead?”

  “Yes. You can tell. I mean, there’s something…something missing, isn’t there? Nobody home. Just a shell.”

  Banks knew the feeling and had often put it that way himself. “The image will fade in time,” he said, though he doubted that it would. None of his had. “Just tell me exactly what happened. Try to visualize it. Concentrate on the details. There might be something important you’ve overlooked.”

  Randall seemed to have calmed down. “All right,” he said. “All right, I’ll try.”

  “How dark was it in the room?”

  “Quite dark. I mean, I couldn’t really make anything out until I turned on the light. It’s just a bare bulb, as you probably know, but it was enough.”

  “And you saw her straightaway?”

  “Yes. On the pile of remnants.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Ever seen her before?”

  “No.”

  “Did you touch her at all?”

  “Why would I touch her?”

  “To check if she was still alive, perhaps?”

  “No, I didn’t. It never really occurred to me.”

  “So what did you do next?”

  Randall shifted in his chair and tugged at his collar. “I just…I suppose I just stood there a few moments, in shock, taking it all in. You have to understand that at first it seemed so unreal. I kept thinking she would get up and run out giggling, that it was some sort of practical joke.”

  “Have any of the local young people played practical jokes on you before?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Never mind. You said earlier that you knew she was dead.”

  “That was later. These things can run through your mind at the same time. It was the shock, I suppose.”

  “Did you touch anything in the room?”

  “Only the door. And the light switch. I never got beyond the doorway. As soon as I saw her I stopped where I was.”

  “And when you’d got over the shock?”

  “I thought I’d go into the shop and dial 999, then I realized the police station was just across the square, and it would probably make more sense to go over there. So I did.”

  “Can you give me any idea of how long it was, between your finding the body and getting to the station?”

  “Not really. I had no concept of time. I mean, I just acted. I ran across the square.”

  “You said you found the body at eight-fifteen.”

  “That’s right. I checked my watch when I got there. Habit.”

  “And you reported it at eight twenty-one. Does that sound right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Six minutes, then. How accurate is your watch?”

  “It’s accurate as far as I know.”

  “You see,” said Banks, shifting in his chair, “we have a witness who saw you enter The Maze at ten past eight by the church clock, and we know it’s no more than thirty seconds or so from the entrance on Taylor’s Yard to your storage room. What do you make of that?”

  “But that would mean…eleven minutes. I surely can’t have been that long?”

  “Could your watch have been fast?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Mind if I see it?”

  “What?”

  Banks gestured toward his wrist. “Your watch. Mind if I have a look?”

  “Oh, not at all.” He turned the face toward Banks. Twelve twenty-seven, the same as his own and, he knew, the same as the church clock.

  “Seems to be accurate.”

  Randall shrugged. “Well…”

  “Have you any explanation for those eleven minutes?”

  “I didn’t even know there were eleven minute
s,” said Randall. “As I told you, I have no conception of how long it all took.”

  “Right,” said Banks, standing. “That’s what you said. And it’s only five minutes difference from what you told us, after all, isn’t it? I mean, what could possibly happen in five minutes?” Banks held Randall’s eyes, and the latter broke away first. “Stick around, Mr. Randall,” Banks said. “I’ll be sending someone along to take your official statement later this afternoon.”

  MAPSTON HALL was an old pile of dark stone squatting on its promontory like a horned toad. Beyond the high gates in the surrounding wall, the gravel drive snaked through a wooded area to the front of the building, where there was parking for about ten cars. Most spots were already taken by staff or visitors, Annie guessed, but she found a place easily enough and approached the imposing heavy wooden doors, Tommy Naylor ambling beside her, nonchalant as ever, taking in the view. Despite the aspirins, Annie’s headache was still troubling her, and she felt in desperate need of a long, regenerative soak in the tub.

  “Must cost a bob or two to run this place,” Naylor speculated. “Wonder who pays the bills.”

  “Not the NHS, I’ll bet,” said Annie, though the sign outside had mentioned that the National Health Service had a part in running the place, and that Mapston Hall specialized in care for people with spinal cord injuries.

  “Rich people in wheelchairs,” said Naylor. “Where there’s a will…Just a thought. Some relative couldn’t wait for the cash? Or a mercy killing?”

  Annie glanced at him. “Funny way to go about it, slitting her throat,” she said. “But we won’t forget those angles.” How aware would the victim have been of her life slipping away from her? Annie wondered. Perhaps her body had been incapable of sensation, but what emotions had she felt during those final moments? Relief? Horror? Fear?

  Though the inside of the hall was as old and dark as the exterior, like a stately home, with its parquet floor, wainscoting, broad winding staircase, high ceiling complete with crystal chandelier, and oil paintings of eighteenth-century dignitaries on the walls—the Mapston clan, no doubt—the computer setup behind the reception desk was modern enough, as was the elaborate stair-lift. The place was surprisingly busy, with people coming and going, nurses dashing around, orderlies pushing trolleys down corridors. Controlled chaos.

  Annie and Naylor presented their warrant cards to the receptionist, who looked like a frazzled schoolgirl on her weekend job, and told her they were making inquiries about a patient. The girl probably wanted to work with handicapped people and was getting some work experience, Annie thought. She certainly seemed earnest enough and had that slightly bossy, busybodyish, passive-aggressive way about her that so often indicated a social worker. Her name badge read Fiona.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” she said. “I’m only part-time.”

  “Then who should we talk to?”

  Fiona bit her lip. “We’re short-staffed. And it’s a Sunday. Mother’s Day, in fact.”

  “Meaning?” Annie asked.

  “Well, it’s a very busy day for us. Visitors. Most of them come on the weekends, you see, and Sunday morning’s the most popular time, especially as it’s—”

  “Mother’s Day. Yes, I see,” said Annie. “Is there anyone who can help us?”

  “What is it exactly you want to know?”

  “I told you. It’s about a patient, a possible patient.”

  “Name?”

  “That’s one thing we’re trying to find out.”

  “Well, I don’t—”

  “Fiona,” Annie cut in. “This is really important. Will you please page someone who knows what they’re doing?”

  “You don’t have to take—”

  “Please!”

  Fiona held Annie’s gaze for just a moment. Annie felt her head throb. Fiona sniffed and picked up the phone. Annie heard her page someone called Grace Chaplin over the PA system. In a few moments, a woman of about the same age as Annie, looking elegant and handsome in a crisp white uniform, came striding in a no-nonsense way along a corridor, clipboard under her arm. She stepped over to Fiona and asked what the problem was. Fiona looked nervously toward Annie, who proffered her warrant card. “Is there somewhere we can talk, Ms. Chaplin?”

  “Grace, please,” the woman said. “By the way, I’m director of Patient Care Services.”

  “Sort of like a matron?” Annie said.

  Grace Chaplin gave her a tiny smile. “Sort of like that,” she said. “And the conference room is over here, if you would just follow me. It should be free.”

  Annie looked at Tommy Naylor and raised her eyebrows as Grace Chaplin turned and led them toward a set of double doors. “Have a nose-around, Tommy,” she said. “I’ll deal with this. Chat up some of the nurses. Patients, too, if you can. Use your charm. See if you can find anything out.”

  “Am I after anything in particular?”

  “No. Just have a wander-around and try to develop a feel for the place. See how people react to you. Make a note of anyone who strikes you as useful—or obstructive. You know the drill.”

  “Right, ma’am,” said Naylor, heading off across the tiled hall.

  The conference room had a large round table on which sat a jug of water and a tray of glasses. Grace Chaplin didn’t offer, but as soon as Annie had sat down, she reached for a glass and filled it. The more water she could get into her system the better.

  “You look a bit under the weather, Inspector,” said Grace. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Annie. “Touch of flu, maybe.”

  “Ah, I see. What is it I can help you with?”

  Annie explained a little about the body in the wheelchair, and Grace’s expression became more serious as she spoke. “In the end,” Annie said, “this place seemed a natural one to start asking questions. Any idea who it might be?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” said Grace. “But if you don’t mind staying here a moment, I might be able to find out for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Annie topped up her water. Through the large window, she could see Grace go back to the reception desk and talk to Fiona, who seemed flustered. Eventually, Fiona picked up a large ledger from her desk and handed it to Grace, who looked at the open page and returned to the conference room carrying the book.

  “This should help,” she said, placing it on the table. “It’s a log of all patient comings and goings. Anyone who leaves the building with a friend or relative has to be signed out.”

  “And is anyone?” asked Annie.

  “Only one. Usually we have far more out on a Sunday morning, but today the weather has been so unsettled, hail one minute, sleet and gale-force wind the next, that most visitors either didn’t stay out long or decided simply to stay in with their loved ones. We’ve organized a special Mother’s Day lunch, and most people will be staying indoors for that.”

  “And the one who’s signed out?”

  Grace slid the book around so Annie could read the single entry: “KAREN DREW, taken out at 9:30 A.M.” No return time filled in. And next to her name was an unintelligible signature, the first part of which might just, at a stretch of the imagination, have been Mary.

  “Are you sure she’s not back?” Annie asked.

  “I don’t know. Mistakes do happen. I’ll have to have someone check her room to make certain.”

  “Would you do that, please?”

  “Just a moment. I’ll get Fiona to page Mel, her carer. You’ll want to talk to her, anyway, I presume?”

  “Yes, please,” said Annie, reaching for the water jug again as Grace went back to see Fiona.

  WHEN BANKS arrived at The Queen’s Arms for a working lunch, Detective Sergeant Hatchley and the new probationary DC Doug Wilson were already there and had been lucky to snag a dimpled copper-topped table by the window looking out on the church and market cross. The pub was crowded already, and people were crossing the market square carrying bouquets of flowers or potted plan
ts. It reminded Banks that he still had to phone his mother.

  The detectives were still on duty, at the very beginning of a serious inquiry, so, under Detective Superintendent Gervaise’s new totalitarian regime, alcohol was strictly out of the question. Food, though, was another matter entirely. Even a working copper has to eat. Sipping a Diet Coke when Banks arrived, Hatchley ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding all round, and they settled down to business.

  Hatchley was starting to appear old, Banks thought, though he was only in his forties. The cares of fatherhood had drawn lines around his eyes and bags under them. Lack of exercise had put on pounds that sagged around the waist of his suit trousers. Even his thatch of strawlike hair was getting thin on top, not helped at all by a very precarious comb-over. Still, Hatchley was never a man who had taken great pride in his appearance, though perhaps the saddest thing about him now was that he would hardly scare even the most mouselike of villains. But he remained a stubborn and dogged copper, albeit slow on the uptake, and Banks valued his presence on the team, when they could steal him away from his teetering piles of paperwork in CID. DC Wilson was fresh from detective training school and looked as if he’d be happier out playing football with his mates.

  Hayley Daniels, it seemed, had been around. A number of landlords and bar staff recognized her from the picture Winsome had got from Donna McCarthy, though nobody admitted actually to knowing her. She had been part of a large mixed group of Saturday-night regulars, mostly students from the college. At some times there were eight or nine of them, at others five or six. Hayley had been drinking Bacardi Breezes, and toward the end of the evening at least one landlord had refused to serve her. Nobody remembered seeing her enter The Maze.

  “The barmaid from The Duck and Drake recognized her,” DC Wilson said. “In fact, she’s a student at the college herself, working part-time, like a lot of them, and she said she’s seen Hayley around on campus. Doesn’t know her especially well, though.”

  “Anything else?” Banks asked.

  “She was able to give me a couple of names of people who were with Hayley on Saturday night. She thought there were about eight, maybe nine of them, in all, when she saw them. They met up at The Duck and Drake around seven o’clock, had a couple of drinks and moved on. They weren’t particularly boisterous then, but it was early on.”