‘Fit But You Know It,’ that you bought online. Very appropriate, don’t you think? Someone heard that, Jamie. He didn’t recognize it at first, but someone else heard it, too, a week later when you were leaving The Fountain. Who was it, Jamie? Your boss calling from Florida, the way he usually does at the end of the night? He couldn’t reach you on the phone in The Fountain, so he rang your mobile. Is that it? It would have been just after seven in the eve ning there and he was probably just settling down to his after-sunset, predinner margarita with some bimbo in a bikini, and he wants to know how his business is doing. What do you tell him, Jamie? Not very well? I imagine you probably lie about it the way you do about everything else. But that’s another problem. You should have changed your ring tone after you killed Hayley.
“How did it happen? I suppose you put your hand over Hayley’s mouth, then stuffed some leather remnants in, threatened you’d kill her if she struggled or told anyone, then you raped her. My God, you raped her. Vaginally and anally. Did that make you feel good? Powerful? And what about when you’d finished? I think you felt guilty then, didn’t you, when you realized what you’d gone and done. Fantasy is 3 5 0 P E T E R
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one thing, but reality . . . I should imagine it can come as quite a shock. There was no turning back now. She knew you. She knew what you’d done. One day, one way or another, it would get out. If she was left alive to tell the story. So you strangled her. Maybe you didn’t enjoy that. I don’t know. She looked too violated lying there with her legs open and her top pulled up. It showed you far too clearly what you’d done, like looking in a mirror, so you turned her gently on her side, put her legs together, as if she were sleeping, running in her sleep. That looked better, didn’t it? Not quite so ugly. How am I doing, Jamie?”
Murdoch said nothing.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Banks said, standing up and terminat-ing the interview. “We’ve got all the evidence we need, and when forensics are through with it we’ll be putting you away and throwing away the key.”
Jamie didn’t move. When Banks looked more closely he could see tears dropping on the scarred and scratched surface of the table. “Jamie?”
“She was so beautiful,” Jamie said. “And so foul. She said she’d do anything. When I . . . when we . . . she said she’d do anything if I let her go.”
“But you didn’t?”
Murdoch looked at Banks, his eyes red with tears. “I wanted to, I really did, but I couldn’t. How could I? You must understand I couldn’t let her go. Not after. She wouldn’t keep her word. A girl like that. A tramp like her. I knew she wouldn’t keep her word. I knew I had to kill her.”
Banks looked over at Ms. Melchior. “Did you get that?” he asked, and left the room.
W H E N A N N I E arrived at The Queen’s Arms, Templeton’s wake was in full swing, and she found out as soon as she got there that it was also being combined with a celebration of the capture of the Hayley Daniels killer, which made for a very odd sort of party indeed. Banks, Hatchley, Gervaise and the rest sat around a long table drinking pints F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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and telling Templeton stories, the way you did at a wake, most of them funny, some of them bittersweet. Annie wasn’t going to be a hypocrite and join in, but nor was she going to sour the mood by telling some of her own Templeton stories. The poor bastard was dead, he didn’t deserve that, let him have a proper send-off.
For some reason, Annie felt in a particularly good mood that night. It wasn’t the occasion, of course, but something to do with being back in Eastvale, back in The Queen’s Arms with the old crew. Eastern Area was okay, but she felt this was where she belonged. Winsome seemed to be enjoying herself, lounging against the bar talking to Dr. Wallace.
Annie went over and joined them. Winsome seemed to stiffen a bit when she arrived, but she soon relaxed and offered Annie a drink.
“Pint of Black Sheep Bitter, please,” Annie said.
“You know,” Winsome offered, “you’re welcome to stay at mine if . . . you know . . .”
It was part apology and part a reminder that she shouldn’t drink and drive. “Thanks, Winsome,” Annie said, clinking glasses. “We’ll see how the eve ning goes. I’m not sure if I feel like getting pissed. How are you, Dr. Wallace? I’m DI Annie Cabbot. We met a couple of times before I was seconded to Eastern.”
Dr. Wallace shook hands with Annie. “I remember,” she said. “I’m fine. And it’s Liz, please.”
“Okay, Liz.”
“I gather they’re keeping you busy out there?”
“They are.” Annie’s drink came, and she took a long swallow. “Ah, that’s better,” she said.
Hatchley had just finished a Templeton joke, and the whole table roared with laughter. Even Detective Superintendent Gervaise joined in. She was definitely looking a bit f lushed and tipsy, Annie noticed.
“So how’s the case going?” Dr. Wallace asked.
“Lucy Payne? Oh, you know, it’s plodding along. Look.” Annie touched her arm. It was only slight and momentary, but she felt Liz f linch. “We really must get together and talk about it sometime, compare notes.” She gestured around the pub. “Not here. Not now, of course. Not on an occasion like this. But there are some similarities with Kevin Templeton’s murder.”
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“I’m aware of that,” said Dr. Wallace. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Clarke, your pathologist. The blades used, for a start, seem similar.”
“A razor, I believe you suggested?”
“Yes. At least that’s most likely.”
“Or a scalpel?”
“It could have been, I suppose. With that kind of wound it’s often impossible to be exact. Very sharp, at any rate. Scalpels are just a little harder for the man in the street to get hold of.”
“Or woman?”
“Of course. As you said, this is neither the place nor the time. Why don’t you drop by the mortuary? You can usually find me there.” She smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with Superintendent Gervaise before she falls down.”
“Better hurry, then,” said Annie, raising her glass. “Bottoms up.”
Dr. Wallace smiled, walked away and took the empty chair beside Gervaise.
“Party pooper,” said Winsome.
Annie looked at her. “Glad to see you’re having such a good time, Winsome. Let me buy you a drink. How about something blue or pink with an umbrella in it?”
“Ooh, I don’t know,” said Winsome, clutching her half pint of Guinness to her breast.
“Oh, go on. Let your hair down.” Annie winked. “You never know what might happen.” Annie leaned over the bar and asked Cyril for one of his specials. Cyril said it was coming right up.
“Look, about the other night—” Winsome began.
“It doesn’t—”
“But it does. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as such a prude. What you do is your own business, and I’ve got no right to judge you. I don’t even have any right to judge Kev the way I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m no angel. I kept a bloke tied to a bed naked when I should have been telling him his daughter was dead.”
“Winsome, are you pissed?” Annie said. “What on earth are you talking about?”
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Winsome explained about Geoff Daniels and Martina Redfern in the Faversham Hotel. Annie burst into laughter. “I really wouldn’t worry too much about that,” she said. “It sounds as if the bastard deserved it, no matter what. ‘Black bitch,’ indeed.”
Winsome smiled. “You really think so?”
“I do. You just got me a bit confused when you started. I mean, I was trying to imagine you tying a naked man to a bed in a hotel room.”
“I didn’t tie him there!”
“I know that now. It
was just a funny image, that’s all. Forget it.”
Annie took another long belt of beer. Winsome’s drink arrived. It was pink and blue. They were singing “Why Was He Born So Beautiful?”
over at the table now. She could hear Banks’s tuneless tenor mingled with the rest. “Cat’s choir, hey?” she said.
Winsome laughed. “I mean it, you know,” she said, touching Annie’s arm. “About the other night. I’m sorry. I was insensitive.”
“Look,” said Annie, “between you and me, I fucked up. You were right to say what you did. It was a mistake. A big mistake. But it’s over now. History. Sorted.”
“Apology accepted, then?”
“Apology accepted. And I understand congratulations are in order for you? Nobody knew you could manage such a great rugby tackle.
You’ll be playing for England next.”
Winsome laughed. “Can’t be much worse than the team they’ve got already.”
“Come on.” Annie put her arm over Winsome’s shoulders and together they picked up their drinks and walked over to the table, just in time to join in: “He’s no bloody use to anyone, he’s no bloody use at all.”
18
BANKS ENJOYED THE DRIVE TO LEEDS. THE WEATHER WAS
fine, the traffic not too horrendous, and the iPod shuff le treated him to a truly random medley of David Crosby, John Cale, Pentangle and Grinderman, among others. A mild beer hangover from Kev Templeton’s wake hammered away insistently in the back of his head, muff led by extra-strength aspirin and plenty of water. At least he had had the sense to avoid spirits and sleep on Hatchley’s sofa, though the children had awoken him at some ungodly hour of the morning. Annie had gone home early and said she would be coming back to Eastvale sometime to talk to Elizabeth Wallace. Banks and Annie planned to meet for a late lunch and compare notes.
Julia Ford had agreed to see Banks at eleven o’clock, sounding a little mystified by his request on the telephone, but perfectly pleasant and polite. In Leeds, he was fortunate in finding a parking spot not far off Park Square and arrived at the office in good time for his appointment.
A young receptionist, messing with the f lowers in the vestibule when he arrived, greeted him, then phoned through and led him to Julia’s office.
Julia Ford stood up behind her large, tidy desk, leaned forward, shook hands and smiled. She was wearing a very subtle and no doubt expensive perfume. “DCI Banks,” she said. “What a pleasure to see you again. You seem well.”
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“You, too, Julia. May I call you Julia?”
“Of course. And it’s Alan, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you.” And it was true. Her chocolate-brown hair was longer, curled at her shoulders, and there was the occasional strand of gray. Her eyes were as watchful and suspicious as ever, indicating a mind that never stopped working.
She sat down and patted her skirt. “Flattery will get you nowhere.
What can I do for you?” Julia was quite slight in stature and seemed dwarfed by the desk.
“It’s a rather delicate matter,” Banks said.
“Oh, I think I’m used to those, don’t you? As long as you don’t expect me to give away any secrets.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Banks. “Actually, there are a couple of things. First of all, do you know a woman called Maggie, or Margaret, Forrest?”
“The name rings a bell. I believe we do some legal work for her, yes. Not, I hasten to add, criminal. That’s my area. The other members of the firm cover a wide range of legal services. I believe Ms.
Forrest is a client of Constance’s.”
“Have you spoken with her recently?”
“Not personally, no.”
“Perhaps I could talk to Constance?”
“I don’t think that would help,” said Julia. “My associates and partners are all just as discreet as I am.”
“Somebody hasn’t been,” Banks said.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”
“Your office knew from the start that Karen Drew was Lucy Payne.
You arranged for the name change, the false reason for her quadriple-gia, the transfer to Mapston Hall. Whatever else Lucy Payne was, she was your client. You took care of all her affairs.”
“Of course. That was what we were engaged to do. I don’t see what your point is.”
“Someone found out and killed Lucy.”
“But surely other people knew? You’re not trying to blame the firm for what happened, are you?”
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“We’ve talked to everyone else.” Banks paused. “It comes back to you, Julia. You can help us out here.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“We think that Lucy Payne was killed either by Maggie Forrest or by the same woman who killed two men in the same area eighteen years ago. Her name is Kirsten Farrow, though it’s very unlikely she goes under that name now. A hair on Lucy’s blanket has been matched with hairs taken from Kirsten eighteen years ago. The hair from the blanket has also yielded DNA, which is currently being pro cessed. It would really help us a lot if we could find out who knew that Karen was Lucy, and where that information might have gone. Did you or someone else in your firm tell Maggie Forrest?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Our lips were sealed.”
“Come on, Julia. This is important. People are dead.”
“They usually are when you turn up.”
“A policeman is dead.”
Julia touched her hair. “Yes. I was sorry to hear about that. I wish I could help.”
“Have you ever heard of Kirsten Farrow, the woman I just mentioned?”
“Never.”
“She’d be about forty now. About your age.”
“I already told you f lattery would get you nowhere.”
“Do you know Dr. Elizabeth Wallace?”
Julia seemed surprised. “Liz? Yes, of course. We go back years.
Why?”
“She’s our pathologist, that’s all.”
“I know. She always was a bright spark. I’m sure she’s very good at her job, especially if her golf game is anything to go by.”
“Do you also know a psychiatrist called Dr. Susan Simms?”
“I’ve met her. For crying out loud, her office is just across the square. We’ve had lunch together now and then, when our paths have crossed.”
“How have your paths crossed?”
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“In court, on occasion. I don’t think it’s any secret that she sometimes does forensic psychiatry.”
“Does she also know Dr. Wallace?”
“How would I know?”
“Maggie Forrest was one of her patients.”
“What can I say? It’s a small world. I really don’t know where you’re going with this, Alan, but I
can’t tell you anything.” She
glanced at her perfect, tiny gold watch. “Look, I have another appointment in a few minutes, and I’d like some time to prepare. If there’s nothing else . . . ?”
Banks got to his feet. “A pleasure, as ever,” he said.
“Oh, don’t lie. You think I was put on this earth just to stand in your way and make your life difficult. I really am sorry about that policeman who was killed. Was he a friend of yours?”
“I knew him,” said Banks.
D U R I N G T H E long drive over the moors to Eastvale, Annie spoke on her mobile with Ginger, when she could get a signal. It was too early for the DNA results from the hair, but Ginger had been burning up the phone lines, fax circuits and e-mail accounts. There was no way that Maggie Forrest could be Kirsten Farrow, she had concluded. Maggie was the right age, and she had been born in Leeds, but she had grown up in Canada, and in 1989, she had been attending art college in Toronto
, specializing in graphic illustration. She married a young lawyer, and their relationship ended in a bad divorce a few years later. Apparently, he was a bully and a wife beater. After her divorce she came to live and work in England, staying at Ruth and Charles Everett’s house on The Hill, and befriending Lucy Payne, until the notorious events of six years ago sent her reeling back to Canada.
But Maggie was working in England again and, according to Ginger, seeing Dr. Simms again. This in itself seemed odd to Annie. Why return? She could get book illustration work easily enough in Canada, surely? Maggie had told Annie that it was because she needed to be close to her roots, but was it really because she had decided to go after 3 5 8 P E T E R
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Lucy, get her revenge? Just because Maggie wasn’t Kirsten Farrow, that didn’t mean she hadn’t killed Lucy Payne.
The main question in Annie’s mind, given the links between the professional women—Maggie Forrest, Susan Simms, Julia Ford and Elizabeth Wallace—was had she had help from one of them? And if so, why? And where was Kirsten Farrow in all this? It was possible that someone could have planted one of her hairs on Lucy Payne’s blanket, but how, and why? The hair could also have got there in Mapston Hall, for example. The Mapston Hall staff had been checked and rechecked, but she supposed it would do no harm to check again, dig even deeper, perhaps include the most regular visitors of other patients, deliverymen, maintenance contractors, the postman, everyone who set foot in the place.
Annie parked in Eastvale market square rather than behind the police station. It was a bit of a walk down King Street to the infirmary, but the fresh air would do her good. Afterward, she would call in at the station and see how everyone was recovering after last night’s wake. Annie felt quite proud of herself for drinking only one pint over the course of the eve ning, then driving back to Whitby.
Reception told Annie that Dr. Wallace was in her office in the basement. Annie didn’t like Eastvale General Infirmary, especially the basement. The corridors
were high and dark with old green tiles, and footsteps echoed. The whole place was a Victorian Gothic monstrosity, and even though the mortuary and the postmortem theater had been modernized with the best equipment, the surroundings felt antiquated to Annie, associated with the barbaric times of no anesthetics and unhy-gienic conditions. She shivered as her shoes clicked along the tiled corridor. The other thing about the basement that gave her the creeps was that there was hardly ever anyone around. She didn’t know what else was down there other than storage and the mortuary. Maybe the bin where they dumped all the amputated limbs and extracted organs, for all she knew.
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