Friend of the Devil

by Peter Robinson

  “He wasn’t really a friend,” Banks said. “More of a colleague. But thank you.” He gestured toward the room. “How is she?”

  Dr. Wong raised her eyebrows. “Physically? She’s fine. From what I’ve seen there are no signs of injury, or of sexual assault, or even sexual activity. But I suspect you already knew that. Which sort of brings me to the question…”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Yes.”

  Banks explained the chaotic situation in The Maze, and the less than satisfactory option of taking Chelsea to the station and offering her a set of paper overalls while they bagged her clothes, no doubt with her parents fussing around, all under bright fluorescent light.

  “You did right, then,” said Dr. Wong. “The parents are in the family room, by the way, if you need to talk to them.”

  “So you’re not going to report us to the board for wasting hospital resources?”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time. Given a suitable donation to the victims’ fund, of course, and a single malt of my choice. Seriously, though, she’s all right physically, but she’s had a terrible shock. Sobered her up pretty quickly, I’d say. I gave her a mild sedative—nothing that was likely to knock her out or interact badly with the alcohol she had clearly been drinking—so she should be lucid enough if you want to talk to her.”

  “I would, yes.”

  Dr. Wong pushed the door open with her shoulder. “Follow me.”

  She introduced Banks and Winsome to Chelsea, and Banks sat opposite the girl in a matching deep armchair. Winsome sat off to the side and took out her notebook unobtrusively. Soft music played in the background. It was nothing Banks recognized but was no doubt calculated to induce maximum relaxation and a sense of calm. They could at least have used Eno’s ambient music, he thought, say, Music for Airports or Thursday Afternoon. Either of those would have worked as well.

  Chelsea wore a blue hospital gown, and her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, making her appear more like a lost little girl than a young woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but clear and focused. She had a nice bone structure, Banks noticed, high cheekbones, a strong jaw and pale freckled skin. She sat with her legs curled under her and her hands resting on the arms of the chair.

  “Coffee?” asked Dr. Wong.

  Chelsea declined the offer, but Banks and Winsome said yes. “I’m not fetching it for you myself, you understand,” Dr. Wong said. “I wouldn’t stoop that low.”

  “I don’t care who gets it,” said Banks, “as long as it’s black and strong.”

  Dr. Wong smiled. “I just wanted you to know.” Then she left the room.

  Banks smiled at Chelsea, who seemed wary of him. “Doctors,” he said, with a shrug.

  She nodded, and a hint of a smile flitted across the corners of her lips.

  “I know this is tough for you,” Banks went on, “but I’d like you to tell me in your own words, and in your own time, exactly what happened in The Maze tonight, and my friend Winsome over there will write it all down. You can start with why you were there.”

  Chelsea glanced at Winsome, then at the floor. “It was so stupid of me,” she said. “A dare. Mickey Johnston dared me. Just five minutes. I didn’t think…you know…The papers said it was her boyfriend or someone. My mum told me to be careful, but I really couldn’t believe I would be in any danger.”

  Banks made a mental note of the name. Mr. Mickey Johnston could expect a whole lot of grief to come in his direction soon. “Okay,” he said. “But it must have been a little bit scary, wasn’t it?” A nurse walked in quietly with the two coffees on a tray, which she placed on the table beside the tulips. It was from the machine down the hall. Banks could tell by the plastic cups before he even took a sip. It had both milk and sugar. He let his sit there, but Winsome took hers over to her corner.

  “I jumped at my own shadow and every noise I heard,” said Chelsea. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

  “You knew your way around?”

  “Yes. I used to play there when I was little.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Chelsea paused. “I was near the end of the five minutes, and I heard…” She paused. “Well, I don’t think I really heard anything at first. It was more like a feeling, you know, like something itchy crawling in your scalp. Once there was an outbreak of nits at school, and the nit nurse came around. I didn’t get them, but my best friend Siobhan did, and she told me what it was like.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Banks. The nit nurse had visited his school on more than one occasion, too, and he hadn’t always been as lucky as Chelsea. “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s what I felt at first, then I thought I heard a noise.”

  “What sort of noise?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Behind me. Just like there was somebody there. A jacket brushing against the wall, perhaps. Something like that.”

  “Did you hear any music?”

  “No.”

  “What about footsteps?”

  “No, more of a swishing sound like your jeans or your tights make sometimes when you walk.”

  “All right,” said Banks. “What did you do next?”

  “I wanted to run, but something told me to slow down and turn around, so that’s what I was doing when…when…” She put her fist to her mouth.

  “It’s all right, Chelsea,” said Banks. “Take a few deep breaths. That’s right. No hurry. Take your time.”

  “That was when I saw him.”

  “How close was he?”

  “I don’t know. A few feet, maybe five or six. But I know I felt that if I turned and ran right then I’d be able to get away from him.”

  “Why didn’t you run?”

  “I had to get my shoes off first, and by then…He wasn’t the only one there. And we were sort of frozen. I couldn’t move. It’s hard to explain. He stopped when he knew I’d seen him, and he looked…I don’t know…I mean, he wasn’t wearing a mask or anything. It was dark but my eyes had adjusted. I know this sounds, well, stupid and all, but he was really good-looking, and his face, you know, his expression, it was concerned, like he cared, not like he wanted to…you know…”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No. He…he was just going to open his mouth to say something when…”

  “Go on,” said Banks. “What happened?”

  She hugged her knees tighter. “It was all so fast and like slow motion at the same time. All such a blur. I saw a movement behind him, another figure.”

  “Did you see a face?”

  “No.”

  “Was it wearing a mask?”

  “No. Maybe a scarf or something, covering the mouth, like when you come back from the dentist’s in the cold. I got the impression that most of the face was covered anyway. It’s funny, I remember thinking even then, you know, it was like some avenging figure, like some superhero out of a comic book.”

  “Was this figure taller or shorter than the man?”

  “Shorter.”

  “How much?”

  “Maybe five or six inches.”

  Templeton was five feet ten, which made his attacker around five-four or five-five, Banks calculated. “And what happened?”

  “Like I said, it was all just a blur. This second figure reached in front, like you’d put your arm around someone’s neck if you were playing or messing about, and just sort of brushed its hand across the other’s neck, like…” She demonstrated on her own neck. “Really gently, like it was tickling.”

  “Did you see a blade of any kind?”

  “Something flashed, but I didn’t really see what it was.”

  “You’re doing really well, Chelsea,” said Banks. “Almost there.”

  “Can I go home soon?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “Your parents are waiting for you down the hall.”

  Chelsea pulled a face.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No-o-o. Not really. I mean, my mum’s okay, but
my dad…”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Oh, he’s just always on at me, the way I dress, the way I talk, chew gum, the music I listen to.”

  Banks smiled. “Mine was the same. Still is.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “It’s funny,” she went on. “I tell myself I don’t really like them, like they’re really naff and all, but at times like this…” A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “I know,” said Banks. “Don’t worry. You’ll soon be with them. Soon be tucked up safe and warm in your own bed.”

  Chelsea wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I was just, like, rooted to the spot. I didn’t know what was happening. The one who was following me just stopped and seemed surprised. I don’t think he knew what had happened to him. I didn’t know. I felt something warm spray on my face, and I think I might have screamed. It was all so fast and so ordinary.”

  “What did he do next?”

  “He went down on his knees. I could hear the cracking sound. I remember thinking it must have hurt, but he didn’t cry out or anything; he just looked surprised. Then he put his hand to his throat, like, and took it away and stared at it, then he fell forward right on his face on the flags. It was terrible. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do. I could feel all this…stuff on me, warm and sticky stuff, like from a spray, and I didn’t know at first it was blood. It’s silly, but I thought he’d sneezed or something, and I thought, Great, now I’ll get a cold and I won’t be able to go to work. I don’t get paid if I’m not there, you see.”

  “Did you get a look at his attacker at all?”

  “No. Like I said, she was smaller than him, so most of the time he was in the way, in front, blocking her from view, and then afterward, when he fell, she just sort of melted back into the shadows and I couldn’t see her anymore.”

  “You said she.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  Chelsea frowned. “Well, I don’t know. That must have been the impression I got. Maybe because she was so small and slight. I can’t be certain, though.”

  “Could it have been a man?”

  “I suppose so. But I did get the overwhelming impression that it was a woman. I don’t really know why, and I couldn’t swear to it, of course.”

  “Did you see any of her features?”

  “No. She was wearing a hat. I remember that, too. Like a beret or something. It must have been the way she moved that made me think she was a woman. I couldn’t be certain, though. Maybe I was mistaken.”

  “Maybe,” said Banks, with a glance toward Winsome, who indicated that she was getting it all down. “But it could have been a woman?”

  Chelsea thought for a moment and said, “Yes. Yes, I think it could have been.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Dark clothing. Jeans and a black jacket. Maybe leather.”

  “Could you have a guess at the age?”

  “I never got a good look at her. Sorry. Not really old, though, I mean, you know, she moved fast enough.”

  “What happened next?” Banks asked.

  “I think I screamed again, then I ran for the market square, by The Fountain. I knew that was where I had the best chance of finding a policeman, and even if there wasn’t one standing around watching all the fun, the station’s just across the square. Well, you know that.”

  “Good thinking,” said Banks.

  Chelsea shivered. “I still can’t believe it. What was going on, Mr. Banks? What did I see?”

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “All I know is that you’re safe now.” He glanced toward Winsome, who took Chelsea’s hand.

  “Come on, love,” she said. “Let me take you back to your parents. They’ll take you home.”

  “What about my clothes?”

  “We’re going to have to keep them for the moment to do some tests,” Banks said. “The blood. It helps our forensic scientists. We’ll see if Dr. Wong can rustle up something temporary for you.”

  On her way out, Chelsea looked at Banks. “The man,” she said. “Was he going to kill me?”

  “No,” said Banks. “I think he was there to protect you.”

  After Chelsea and Winsome had gone, Banks sat for a long time in the calm room mulling over what he’d just heard. Now, even more than before, he knew that he had to contact Annie Cabbot about this. Possibly a female killer. A sharp blade. A slit throat. Banks didn’t believe in coincidences like that, and he knew Annie didn’t, either.

  14

  WHEN HER TELEPHONE RANG AT HALF PAST SEVEN ON Sunday morning, Annie had hardly managed to get back to sleep since the noise and the bad dream had woken her at three. She had lain awake thinking about Banks and Eric and Lucy Payne and Kirsten Farrow and Maggie Forrest until they all became a tangled mess in her mind, and then she had dozed fitfully for a while. Now the telephone.

  Annie fumbled with the receiver and muttered her name.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” said the voice on the other end. She noticed something odd about it. At least it wasn’t Eric.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “Time to get up, anyway.”

  “I did wait until a reasonable hour. I called the police station first and they told me you’d be at this number. It’s half seven over there, right, and you police get up early, don’t you?”

  “About that,” said Annie. Now she could place the accent. Australian. “You must be Keith McLaren,” she said.

  “That’s right. I’m calling from Sydney. It’s half past six in the evening here.”

  “I wish it was that here. Then my working day would be over.”

  McLaren laughed. He sounded as if he were in the room with her. “But it’s Sunday.”

  “Ha!” said Annie. “As if that makes any difference to Superintendent Brough. Anyway, it’s good to hear from you so promptly. Thanks for calling.”

  “I don’t know if I can tell you anything new, but the officer who rang me did say it was important.”

  Ginger had got in touch with McLaren through the Sydney police. It wasn’t that he had a criminal record, but they had been informed about what happened to him in Yorkshire eighteen years ago, and he was in their files. “It could be,” Annie said, tucking the cordless phone under her chin as she went to get some water and put the kettle on. She was naked, which felt like a disadvantage, but no one could see her, she told herself, and it would be harder to get dressed and talk at the same time. She sipped some water and opened the pad on the table before her. Already she could hear the kettle building to a boil. “I hope these aren’t painful memories for you,” she went on, “but I want to talk about what happened to you in England eighteen years ago.”

  “Why? Have you finally found out who did it?”

  “We don’t know yet, but there may be a connection with a case I’m working on. It came up, anyway. Have you been able to remember anything more about what happened over the years?”

  “A few things, yes. Little details. They weren’t there, and suddenly they are. I’ve been writing things down as they come back. My doctor told me it would be good therapy, and it really does help. As I’m writing one detail I sometimes remember another. It’s odd. On the whole, I can remember quite a bit until Staithes, then it all becomes a blur. Isn’t it funny? I remember so little about my holiday of a lifetime. Waste of money, when you come to think of it. Maybe I should have asked for a refund.”

  Annie laughed. “I suppose so. What about that day at Staithes? Someone thought they saw you walking near the harbor there with a young woman.”

  “I know. Like I said, it’s a blur. All I have is a vague sense of talking to someone down by the harbor, and I thought it was someone I knew. But I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman.”

  “It was a woman,” Annie said. “Where do you think you knew her from?”

  “That I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, without foundation. The police told me I met a girl at a B and
B in Whitby, and I do remember her now. They seemed to think it was the same girl, but I don’t know. I’ve had recurring dreams, nightmares, I suppose, but I don’t know how truthfully they reflect the reality.”

  “What nightmares?”

  “It’s a bit…you know, awkward.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Annie said. “Just think of me as a doctor.”

  “You’re still a woman.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that.”

  McLaren laughed. “I’ll do my best. It’s a bit sexual, you see. The dream. We’re in the woods, you know, on the ground, making out, kissing and stuff.”

  “Got you so far,” Annie said. “And just for the record, I haven’t blushed once.” The kettle was boiling, and she put the phone back under her chin as she poured the water on the tea bag in her cup, careful not to splash any on her exposed skin.

  “Well, it turns into a horror story after that,” McLaren went on. “All of a sudden she’s not a lovely young girl anymore, but a monster, with like a dog’s head, or a wolf’s, sort of like a werewolf, I suppose, but her chest is more like raw human skin, only there’s just one nipple, bleeding, and the rest is all crisscrossed with red lines where her breasts and other nipple should be. Then my head splits open. I told you it was pretty weird.”

  “That’s the nature of dreams,” Annie said. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to psychoanalyze you.”

  “That’s no worry. I’ve been there. Anyway, that’s about it. I wake up in a sweat.”

  Annie knew from her conversation with Sarah Bingham that Kirsten Farrow had surgery on her breasts after the attack, and on her vagina and pubic region. “What do you think it’s about?”

  “That’s what my shrink asked me. Beats me.”

  “What were you doing in Whitby?”

  “I’d just finished uni and wanted to see something of the world before settling down back home. I had some money saved up, so I came over to Europe, like so many Aussies do. We’re such a long way from anywhere, and it’s such a huge country, so we feel we have to do the big trip once before settling down back here. I have an ancestor who came from Whitby. A transport. Stole a loaf of bread or something. So it was a place I’d heard a lot about while I was growing up, and I wanted to visit.”