Friend of the Devil

by Peter Robinson

  The problem was that Banks knew he had been right in what he told Annie: Templeton could be a good copper, and sometimes what made him one was his brusqueness and his disregard of the rules of common decency. But he also knew that when he had had to rethink whether there was room for someone like Templeton on the team, especially with Winsome progressing so well, he had decided that there wasn’t. The transfer, then, was a good idea.

  Banks tried to clear Lucy Payne and Hayley Daniels out of his mind. Maria Muldaur came to the end of “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere,” so he went to put on a new CD. He decided on the Bill Evans Half Moon Bay concert, one he had always wished he had attended. After Evans introduced his bass player and drummer came the delightful “Waltz for Debby.” It was still early, and Banks decided to spend the rest of the evening at home listening to the jazz collection that he was slowly rebuilding and reading Postwar. He was deeply into the Cold War and “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” by the time he noticed that his glass was empty for the second time.

  IT SEEMED like ages since Annie had been to a restaurant in Eastvale, and she was glad that she had accepted Winsome’s invitation, even though she knew it wouldn’t be an entirely work-free evening. The Italian place they had picked above the shops built onto the back of the church in the market square was excellent: plenty of vegetarian choices and decent cheap plonk. She tucked into her pasta primavera and second glass of Chianti—feeling just a little guilty, but not too much, for not lasting longer on the wagon—while Winsome ate cannelloni and went full speed ahead in her verbal assault on Templeton.

  “So you told him what you thought?” Annie said, the first opening she got.

  “I told him.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Nothing. Not a word. I think he was so shocked that I swore at him. I mean, I was so shocked I swore at him. I never swear.” She put her hand over her mouth and laughed. Annie laughed with her.

  “Don’t worry,” Annie said. “Insults are like water off a duck’s back with Templeton. He’ll be back to normal tomorrow, or what passes for normal in his case.”

  “I’m not sure I want that,” said Winsome. “Really. I mean it this time. One of us has to go. I can’t work with him again, watch the way he tramples all over people’s feelings. I don’t know if I can wait for his transfer to come through.”

  “Look,” said Annie, “nobody ever said being a copper was easy. Sometimes you have to play dirty, tough it out. Be patient and hang in there.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Winsome said. “You’re defending him.”

  “I’m not bloody defending him,” said Annie. “I’m just trying to tell you that if you want to survive in this job you have to toughen up, that’s all.”

  “You don’t think I’m strong enough?”

  “You need to develop a thicker skin.”

  “You don’t think black skin is thicker than white?”

  “What?” said Annie.

  “You heard me. How do you think I deal with all the innuendos and outright insults? People either look down on you, or they go out of their way to pretend they don’t notice your color, that you’re really just like anybody else, but they end up talking to you like they talk to children. I don’t know which is worse. Do you know what it’s like to have someone stare at you or insult you like some sort of lesser being, an animal, just because of the color of your skin? Like Hayley Daniels’s father, or those old men on the bridge at Swainshead.”

  “I don’t know about Hayley Daniels’s father,” said Annie, “but those old men don’t know any better. I know it’s not an excuse, but they don’t. And I might not know how it feels to have people look at me that way because of the color of my skin, but I do know how it feels when they treat me like a lesser species because I’m a woman.”

  “Then double it!” said Winsome.

  Annie looked at her, and they both started laughing so loudly an elderly couple sitting nearby frowned at them. “Oh, what the hell,” said Annie, raising her glass. “Here’s to kicking against the pricks.”

  They clinked glasses. Annie’s mobile rang and she pulled it out of her handbag. “Yes?”

  “Annie? It’s Eric.”

  “Eric. What the hell do you want?”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “I told you not to ring me on my mobile. I’m having dinner with a colleague.”

  “Male or female?”

  “That’s none of your bloody business.”

  “Okay. Okay. Sorry. Just asking. Look, I was thinking about you, and I thought why wait till Thursday. You’re obviously busy tonight, but what about tomorrow? Wednesday. Lunch?”

  “I have to go to Leeds tomorrow,” Annie said, wondering why she was even bothering to tell Eric this. “And I told you I’m not coming on Thursday.”

  “Thursday it is, then,” said Eric. “Sorry to bother you.” And he ended the call.

  Annie shoved her mobile back in her handbag.

  “Something wrong?” asked Winsome.

  Annie ground her teeth, then took a deep breath and a swallow of wine. She looked at Winsome, weighed up the pros and cons and said, “Yes, I think there is. With me. Let’s order another bottle of wine and I’ll tell you all the sordid details.”

  The waitress came with the Chianti. Winsome finished her cannelloni and rested her elbows on the table. Annie poured them both a generous glass.

  “Come on, then,” Winsome said. “Do tell.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Annie said, feeling embarrassed and awkward now the time had come.

  “You seemed annoyed enough on the phone. Who was it?”

  “It’s just…well, you know, the other night, Saturday night, I went out on the town with some friends.” She touched her hair and laughed. “As much as you can go out on the town in a place like Whitby.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I met this bloke and…one thing led to another. I had way too much to drink and we smoked a couple of joints and to cut a long story short, the next morning I woke up in his bed.”

  “You did what?”

  “You heard me. I met this bloke and went back to his place.”

  “And you slept with him?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “This was the first time you’d met him?”

  “Yes. Winsome…what is it?”

  “Nothing.” Winsome shook her head. “Go on.”

  Annie took a long swig of wine. “He turned out to be a bit younger than I probably realized at first, and—”

  “How young?”

  Annie shrugged. “Dunno. Twenty-two, twenty-three, around there.”

  Winsome’s eyes widened. “A boy! You picked up a boy in a bar and slept with him?”

  “Don’t be so naive. These things do happen, you know.”

  “Not to me, they don’t.”

  “Well, you’re obviously not going to the right bars.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I’m serious. I would never go home with anyone I met in a bar, and I would certainly never go home with someone so young.”

  “But Winsome, you’re only thirty!”

  Winsome’s eyes blazed. “And I would still never go to bed with a twenty-two-year-old. And you…how could you do that? It’s sick. You must be old enough to be his mother.”

  “Winsome, lighten up. People are starting to look at us. Maybe if I’d had a baby when I was eighteen I could be his mother, okay? But I didn’t, so cut the Oedipus shit.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I never knew you were such a prude.”

  “I am not a prude. You don’t have to be a prude to have…”

  “To have what? What’s your point?”

  “Moral standards. It’s not right.”

  “Oh, moral standards, is it now? Not right?” Annie drank more wine. She was starting to feel dizzy, and more than a touch angry. “Well, let me tell you what you can do wit
h your moral standards, little Miss High-and-Mighty! You can shove them—”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Annie stopped. There was something in Winsome’s tone that caused her to back off. The two of them shuffled in their seats awhile, eyeing each other. Annie poured herself some more wine. “I thought you were my friend,” she said finally. “I didn’t expect you to go all judgmental on me.”

  “I’m not being judgmental. I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

  “What’s the big deal? That’s not the point of the story, anyway, his age or having a one-night stand or smoking a couple of joints, or whatever it seems to have put that hair up your arse.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  Annie held her hand up. “Fine, fine. I can see this isn’t working. Another bad idea. Let’s just pay the bill and go.”

  “You haven’t finished your wine.”

  Annie picked up her glass and drained it. “You can have the rest of the bottle,” she said, dropping a twenty-pound note on the table. “And you can keep the fucking change.”

  THE SOUND of a car screeching to a halt in front of his cottage around half past nine startled Banks. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The only person who usually dropped by on spec was his son Brian, but he was supposed to be rehearsing in London with his new band. Well, it was the same band, really, The Blue Lamps, but they had replaced Brian’s songwriting partner and fellow guitarist. Their sound had changed a little, but from the couple of demos Brian had played him, Banks thought the new guitarist was better than the one he replaced. The songwriting remained an issue, but Banks was certain Brian would come through, carry the burden.

  By the time the knock at the door came, Banks was already there, and when he opened it, he was surprised to see Annie Cabbot standing there.

  “Sorry it’s so late,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  Banks stood back. “Of course. Anything wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, why should there be anything wrong? Can’t I drop in on an old friend when I feel like it?” As she walked in she stumbled against him slightly, and he took her arm. She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. He let go.

  “Of course you can,” said Banks, puzzled by her manner and discomfited from being so jarringly dragged away from his evening alone with the book, wine and music. Bill Evans had given way to John Coltrane some time ago, and the tenor sax improvised away in the background, flinging out those famous sheets of sound. He knew it would take him a few moments to adjust to having company. “Drink?” he said.

  “Lovely,” said Annie, flinging off her jacket. It landed on the computer monitor. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Banks went into the kitchen and filled up a glass of wine for Annie and one more for himself, emptying the bottle. Annie leaned against the doorjamb as he handed her the drink. “Is that all that’s left?” she said.

  “I’ve got another bottle.”

  “Good.”

  She was definitely unsteady on her feet, Banks thought, as he followed her back through to the living room, and she flopped down on the armchair.

  “So what brings you here?” he asked.

  Annie drank some wine. “That’s nice,” she said. “What? Oh, nothing. Like I said, just a friendly visit. I was having dinner with Winsome in Eastvale and I just thought…you know…it’s not far away.”

  “Eastvale’s quite a drive from here.”

  “You’re not insinuating I’ve had too much to drink, are you?”

  “No. I—”

  “Good, then.” Annie held up her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Banks. “What did Winsome have to say?”

  “Oh, just stuff. Boring stuff. That arsehole Templeton.”

  “I heard that the interview with Hayley’s parents didn’t go well.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t, would it? What could you have been thinking of, putting those two together? What can you be thinking of even having him in the station?”

  “Annie, I don’t really want to discuss—”

  Annie waved her hand in the air. “No. I know. Of course not. I don’t, either. That’s not why I came. Let’s just forget about bloody Templeton and Winsome, shall we?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “How about you, Alan? How are you doing? Julia Ford asked after you, you know. She’s very attractive in a lawyerly sort of way. Don’t you think?”

  “I never really thought about her that way.”

  “Liar. What’s the music?”

  “John Coltrane?”

  “It sounds weird.”

  Banks made to get up. “I’ll put something else on if you like.”

  “No, no. Sit down. I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it sounded weird. I don’t mind weird sometimes. In fact I quite like it.” She gave him an odd smile and emptied her glass. “Oops, it looks as if we might need more wine, after all.”

  “That was quick,” said Banks. He went into the kitchen to open another bottle, wondering what the hell he should do about Annie. He shouldn’t really give her any more wine; she had clearly had enough already. But she wouldn’t react well to being told that. There was always the spare room, if that was what it came to. That was what he decided upon.

  Back in the living room, Annie had settled in the armchair with her legs tucked under her. It wasn’t often she wore a skirt but she was wearing one today, and the material had creased up, exposing half her thighs. Banks handed her the glass. She smiled at him.

  “Do you miss me?” she asked.

  “We all miss you,” Banks said. “When are you coming back?”

  “No, I don’t mean that, silly. I mean, do you miss me?”

  “Of course I do,” said Banks.

  “Of course I do,” Annie echoed. “What do you think of toyboys?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, but I don’t really know what you mean.”

  “Toyboys. You know what they are, don’t you? Toyboys don’t make good lovers, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Banks tried to remember when he was a young boy. He had probably been a lousy lover. He probably was a lousy lover even now, if truth be told. If he weren’t, maybe he would have more luck finding and keeping a woman. Still, chance would be a fine thing; it would be nice to have the opportunity for more practice now and then.

  “Oh, Alan,” she said. “What shall I do with you?”

  The next thing he knew, she was beside him on the sofa. He could feel her thighs warm against him and her breath in his ear. He could smell red wine and garlic. She rubbed her breasts against his arm and tried to kiss his lips, but he turned away.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “It just doesn’t feel right, that’s all.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “You know I want you. I never didn’t want you.”

  Annie started fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. “Then take me,” she said, moving close again and breathing fast. “Men always want it, don’t they, no matter what?”

  Again, Banks backed off. “Not like this,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “So?” She went back to the buttons. He could see the black lacy line of her bra and soft mounds of flesh beneath. “Not another bloody prude, are you?”

  “Look,” Banks said, “it’s not…”

  Annie put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  He moved away. She gave him a puzzled glance. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve told you what’s wrong,” he said. “This just doesn’t feel right, that’s all. I don’t believe you really want to do this, either. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Annie moved away and quickly tried to fasten up the buttons. Her face was flushed and angry. “What do you mean, it doesn’t feel right?” she said. “What’s wrong with me? Am I too fat? Not pretty enough? Are my breasts not
firm enough? Am I not attractive enough? Not good enough for you?”

  “It’s not any of those things,” said Banks. “It’s—”

  “Or is it you? Because I have to wonder, you know,” Annie went on, getting to her feet and reaching for her jacket and handbag, stumbling as she did so. “I really do have to wonder about a man like you. I mean, do you have so much going on in your miserable little life that you can afford to reject me? Do you, Alan? Do you have some pretty young twenty-two-year-old girl hidden away somewhere? Is that it? Am I too old for you?”

  “I told you. It’s not any of those things. I—”

  But it was too late. Banks just heard her say, “Oh, fuck you, Alan. Or not, as the case may be.” Then she slammed the door behind her. When he got outside she was already starting the car. He knew he should try to stop her, that she was drunk, but he didn’t know how, short of trying to drag her out of the driver’s seat or throwing himself in front of the wheels. In her mood, she would probably run him over. Instead, he listened to the gears grate and watched her back out in a spray of gravel at an alarming speed. Then he heard the gears screech again, and she was off down the lane through Gratly.

  Banks stood there, heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. When he went back inside, Coltrane was just getting started on “My Favorite Things.”

  7

  MALCOLM AUSTIN’S OFFICE WAS TUCKED AWAY IN A corner of the Travel and Tourism Department, located in a large old Victorian house on the fringes of the campus. Eastvale College had expanded over the past few years, and the squat sixties brick-and-glass buildings were no longer big enough to house all the departments. Instead of putting up more faceless new blocks, the college authorities had bought up some of the surrounding land, including streets of old houses, and revitalized southeast Eastvale. Now it was a thriving area with popular pubs, coffee shops, cheap cafés and Indian restaurants, student flats and bedsits. The college even got decent bands to play in its new auditorium, and there was talk of The Blue Lamps making an appearance there to kick off their next tour.