Friend of the Devil

11

The market square had a different character at lunchtime, Banks thought as he walked toward the Fountain with Winsome, especially on a Friday when the weather was fine. All the pretty young girls from the banks and estate agents offices were out window-shopping, ID tags hanging from their blouses, having coffee and a sandwich with their boyfriends or a pub lunch in groups of three or four, laughing and talking about their weekend plans. The schoolkids descended en masse, shirts hanging out, ties askew, laughing, pushing and shoving, eating pies and pasties outside Greggs.

They found Jamie Murdoch behind the bar of the Fountain, and the pub was doing nice business. The menu was interesting, adding curries and Thai dishes to the usual burgers, fish and chips and giant Yorkshires stuffed with mince or sausages. Banks was hungry, but decided it would be best to eat elsewhere afterward, maybe the Queen’s Arms. Jamie had help both at the bar and in the kitchen, so he was able to take a quick break when Banks called him over to a corner table. The jukebox, or digital radio setup, was playing “Sultans of Swing.” The air smelled of curry sauce, smoke and hops.

“What is it this time?” Jamie asked, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Just a few more questions,” Banks said.

“Questions, questions. I told your Mr. Templeton everything the other day. Besides, it says in the paper this morning that some ex-boyfriend probably did it.”

Banks had seen the article. Irresponsible journalism, he thought. Someone in the station had no doubt let it slip that they’d questioned a couple of Hayley’s ex-boyfriends and the story had grown legs and started running.

“I wouldn’t believe everything I read in the papers, if I were you,” Banks said. “The way you told it to DS Templeton, Hayley Daniels came in late with a group of rowdy friends—”

“They weren’t that rowdy.”

“Let’s say high-spirited, then. You’d already had some trouble with a gang from Lyndgarth who had wrecked the pub toilets.”

“That’s right.”

“So far so good. Hayley and her friends were the last to leave, right?”

Murdoch nodded.

“And that would have been about a quarter past twelve?”

“That’s right.”

“What did you do next?”

“I locked up.”

“As soon as they left?”

“Of course. I’ve heard about robbers busting in just as you’re closing up.”

“Very sensible,” said Banks. “Did you know where they were going?”

“Who?”

“Hayley and her friends.”

“Someone had mentioned the Bar None. It’s the only place left open at that time, anyway, except the Taj.”

“Right,” said Banks. “Did Hayley say anything about not going with them?”

“Not that I heard.”

“I understand she got stroppy with you.”

“Not really.”

“But she did mouth off when she found out the toilets were closed?”

“Well, she was upset, I suppose,” said Jamie, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “Why? I mean, it’s not important, is it?”

“It might be,” said Banks. “What did she say?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Gave you quite a mouthful, I heard.”

“Well, she wasn’t pleased. She might have said something about pissing on the floor.”

“The way I hear it is that you’re not exactly God’s gift to women, and here comes this snooty bitch telling you to get down there in the toilet on your hands and knees and clean it up or she’ll piss on your floor. How did it make you feel?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jamie said.

“But you didn’t get angry and follow her out to give her what for?”

Jamie edged back in the chair. “What do you mean? You know I didn’t. You’ve seen me on the cameras. It was as I said. I locked up, and then I spent the next couple of hours cleaning the toilets and replacing the bulbs, sweeping up the glass.”

“I understand your help didn’t turn up on Saturday,” Banks said.

“Jill. That’s right. Said she had a cold.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Not much choice, had I?”

“Did she do that often, call in poorly?”

“Once in a while.”

A group of office workers sat at the next table and started talking loudly. “Do you mind if we had a quick word with you in the back?” Banks asked.

Jamie seemed nervous. “Why? What do you want?”

“It’s all right,” Winsome assured him, “we’re not going to beat you up.” She glanced around at the busy pub. “It’s just more quiet and private, that’s all. We wouldn’t want the whole place to know your business.”

Reluctantly, Jamie told one of his bar staff to take charge and led them upstairs, to the room with the TV and the sofa. It was small and stuffy, but at least it was private. Banks could hear Fleetwood Mac’s “Shake Your Moneymaker” playing downstairs. “The thing is, Jamie,” he began, “we’ve been asking around, and we think you’ve been getting your friends and employees to bring back contraband booze and cigarettes from France.”

“It’s not illegal anymore,” he said. “You can bring back as much as you want. We’re in Europe, you know.”

“It is illegal to sell them on licensed premises, though,” Banks said. “Is that what’s been going on? Has it got anything to do with Hayley’s murder?”

Jamie’s jaw dropped. “What are you saying? You can’t…”

“Did Hayley know? Jill did. You even asked her to make a run for you. That’s why she doesn’t like working here, among other reasons.”

“But it’s… I mean, okay, so what if we were selling the odd bottle of lager or packet of fags? That’s no reason to go and murder someone, is it? Especially like… you know… the way…”

“You mean the rape?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that wasn’t the real motive, though. Could have been done to make it look that way. On the other hand, there’s not many a man isn’t going to try the goods before he gets rid of it, is there?”

“This is sick,” Jamie said. “You’re sick.” He looked at Winsome as if he had been betrayed. “Both of you.”

“Come on, Jamie,” said Banks. “We know what’s what. Is that what happened? Hayley was going to blow the whistle on you. You had to get rid of her, so you thought you might as well have her first.”

“It’s ridiculous as well as sick,” Jamie said.

“Where are they?” Banks asked.

“What?”

“The booze and fags.”

“What booze and fags? I don’t have anything other than the legitimate stock you’ve already seen.”

“Where are you hiding it?”

“I’m telling the truth. I don’t have any.”

It made sense, Banks thought. With the police sniffing around in the wake of Hayley’s murder, and no doubt guessing that Jill might not be as discreet as he would have liked, Murdoch was bound to have got rid of any contraband goods he had. It wasn’t much of a theory, anyway, Banks thought. No one was going to murder anyone over small-time fiddling. He had just wanted to push the buttons and see what happened. Nothing much, as it turned out. He gave the signal to Winsome and they stood up to leave. Just before they went downstairs, he asked Jamie, “Did you hear any music shortly after you locked up on Saturday?”

“Music? I don’t really remember. What music?”

“I’m not sure what it was.”

“I heard a car go by, but the rest of the time I was over the far side, cleaning up the toilets.”

“Did you have the radio or the jukebox on?”

“No. I turned everything off when I locked up. Force of habit.”

“Right,” said Banks, thinking at least he’d like to listen to some music if he had to spend a couple of hours pulling soggy bog rolls out of the toilets. He headed for the stairs. “Nice talking to you. If you think of anything else, we’re just across the square.”

The traffic on the A1 slowed to a crawl just past the Angel of the North, standing there on its hilltop ahead like a rusty spitfire on its tail. More fool me, Annie thought, for driving up to Newcastle on a Friday afternoon when everyone was knocking off work early and heading to the Team Valley Retail World or the MetroCentre. The day had started out with sunshine and distant clouds, but just north of Scotch Corner, the sky had quickly turned murky gray, brooding over Weardale to her left, and it had been raining on and off ever since. They say if you don’t like the weather up north, wait ten minutes, but what they don’t add is that if you still don’t like it, drive ten miles in any direction.

Annie had spent the morning with the team, going over the interviews with the families of the Paynes’ victims to no avail. Nobody expressed an ounce of sympathy for Lucy, and some were more hostile than others, but nobody even stood out remotely as a possible suspect. There were still alibis to be checked, but it was a depressing result. Detective Superintendent Brough had appeared near the end of the meeting, and even his words of encouragement had sounded hollow. If they could at least get a break on the leak of Lucy Payne’s identity and previous whereabouts, Annie kept thinking, they would be a hell of a lot closer. Ginger was grumbling about trying to find anyone who could tell her anything in a publisher’s office on a Friday, but she was waiting for a call back from Maggie Forrest’s previous art editor and keeping her fingers crossed.

Before that, Ginger had been busy tracking down Sarah Bingham, Kirsten Farrow’s old friend, after she had finished her law degree, and in that she had succeeded. Better yet, Sarah was working at home that afternoon. She had said on the phone that she could spare Annie half an hour or so. She lived in a chic new apartment by the river, which had been completely redeveloped into an upmarket area since Annie had last been that far north, all expensive restaurants and boutique hotels lining Tyneside in shiny new buildings, angular modern designs in steel, concrete and glass, jutting out over the water. As Annie was looking for the visitors’ parking, her mobile rang. It was Les Ferris, and he sounded excited. She pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

“Annie, I’ve found those hair samples.”

“That’s great,” Annie said. “When can Liam get started?”

“There’s a small problem,” Les admitted. “Liam’s all set to go at the drop of a hat, but they’re at West Yorkshire Headquarters along with the rest of the evidence in the ’88 serial killings, which makes sense. That’s not a problem in itself, but right now it’s Friday afternoon, the shift’s changed, the weekend’s coming up, and there’s nobody to sign them out. There’s a right bastard guarding exhibits, and we need someone with authority. Superintendent Brough is—”

“Probably playing golf,” said Annie. “What’s the bottom line, Les? I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry myself.”

“Right. Got it. The bottom line is Monday. We should be able to get them to the lab and have Liam and his expert do a comparison check sometime Monday morning. All being well.”

“That’s great,” Annie said. “We’ve waited this long, we can wait till Monday. And if it’s necessary, and if my authority will do, don’t hesitate to give me a ring later. Good work, Les. Thanks a lot.”

“My pleasure,” said Ferris, and rang off.

In the meantime, Annie thought, she would just carry on as she had been doing. If the hair proved that Kirsten Farrow wasn’t involved in the Lucy Payne murder, then she could scratch that line of inquiry. It was a long shot, anyway. She would have wasted a bit of time on a wild-goose chase, but sometimes things like that happened. Then she would have to redirect all her resources into other lines of inquiry. Maggie Forrest, for example. Janet Taylor’s brother had been a possible, too, but Tommy Naylor had tracked him down to a detox center in Kent, where he’d been drying out for the past month, so that was another dead end.

Annie found the visitors’ area and parked, checked in with the security desk and found herself buzzed up to the fourth-floor apartment. At the end of the thickly carpeted corridor, Sarah Bingham opened the door to her and led her through to the living room. It wasn’t large, but the floor-to-ceiling window with balcony created more than enough sense of space. The view south to Gateshead wasn’t an idyllic one, more dockside than docklands, but it was probably an expensive one. Annie felt suspended above the water and was glad she didn’t suffer from vertigo.

The furnishings were all red leather modular designs, and what appeared to be a couple of original pieces of contemporary art hung on the walls, which were painted a subtle shade between cream and pink that Annie couldn’t quite name. It was probably a combination of some exotic place and a wildflower, like Tuscan primrose or Peloponnesian hyacinth.

Annie expressed her admiration for the paintings, especially the one made up of different-colored dots, and Sarah seemed pleased at her appreciation. Maybe most of her guests didn’t like abstract art. A large flat-screen TV hung on one wall, and an expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo system took up the other side. There were small speakers on stands in all corners and orchestral music issued very softly from them. Annie couldn’t tell what it was, but she couldn’t really pick out a tune, so she guessed it was probably twentieth-century. It was the very contemporary habitat of a very contemporary young woman. A quick calculation told Annie that Sarah must be about forty, the same age as her.

Sarah Bingham herself was chic, from ash-blond hair so perfectly coiffed, layered and tinted that it looked natural, to the white silk shirt and black designer cargoes. Perhaps the only dissonant note was a pair of pink fluffy slippers. But she was at home. She made Annie feel quite dowdy in her Levi’s and black polo-neck jumper. She also had the kind of lithe body you only get from an hour at the gym each day. Annie didn’t have time for that, even if she had had the inclination. A white MacBook surrounded by papers and file folders sat on the chrome-and-glass worktable by the window. So much for the paperless office, Annie thought. A Hermès handbag lay on the next chair, as if tossed there casually.

“I don’t know what I can do for you,” said Sarah as she sat in a sculpted armchair, “but you’ve certainly got me intrigued.” Her accent was posh, but not forced. Like everything else about her, it seemed natural.

“It’s about Kirsten Farrow.”

“Yes, you said on the phone.” Sarah made a vague hand gesture. “But that was all so many years ago.”

“What do you remember about that time?”

“Ooh, let me see. Well, Kirsty and I became friends at university. We were both reading English Lit. I was seriously into feminist criticism and all that stuff, but Kirsty was more traditional. F. R. Leavis, I. A. Richards and all that. Very unfashionable in the heady days of deconstruction and what have you.”

“What about the attack?” asked Annie, anxious not to waste too much of her allotted time on literary criticism.

“That was awful,” said Sarah. “I visited her in hospital and she was… I mean it took her months to put herself back together. If she ever did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you never really get over something like that. I don’t know. Do you?”

“No,” said Annie, “but some people learn to function in spite of it. Did you spend a lot of time with her in that period?”

“Yes,” said Sarah, “it seemed important to stick by her while everyone else was busy getting on with their lives.”

“And what about your life?”

“On hold. I planned to do graduate work, a PhD in Victorian fiction. I wanted to become a professor of English.” She laughed.

“Wanted to?”

“Yes. I got bored by it all in my first year. I dropped out and bummed around Europe for a while, as one does, and when I got back I went in for law, at my parents’ suggestion.”

Annie looked around. “You seem to be doing all right.”

“Not bad, I suppose. I wasted a few years on the way, but I soon made up for it. Now I’m one of the youngest partners in one of the biggest law firms in the North East. Look, would you like something to drink? You’ve come such a long way. How rude of me not to ask sooner.”

“That’s okay,” said Annie. “I’ll have something cold and fizzy, if you’ve got it, thanks.” She’d had a couple more glasses of wine than she had planned after Banks had gone the previous evening, and it had left her with a dry mouth. She regretted lying to him about Eric, but sometimes it was the only way to keep someone out of your business. Banks’s, and Winsome’s, intentions might be good, but the last thing she needed right now was someone meddling in her life.

Sarah stood up. “Something cold and fizzy it is,” she said, and went to the cocktail cabinet. She came back with a chilled Perrier and ice for Annie and a gin and tonic for herself, then she settled in the chair again, curling her legs under her.

“Married?” Annie asked. She had noticed that Sarah wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Sarah shook her head. “Once,” she said, “but it didn’t take.” She laughed. “He said he couldn’t handle my working all hours, our never seeing each other, but the truth is that he was a layabout and a sponger. You?”

“Never found the right man,” said Annie, smiling. “Back to Kirsten. I hope it’s not too painful for you?”

Sarah waved her hand. “No. As I said, it was all so long ago. It seems like another lifetime. Kirsten was attacked in June 1988. We’d just finished finals and we’d been out celebrating. We all got turfed out of some pub or other and ended up at a party at one of the university residences, about six of us. We were pretty drunk already, if truth be told, except maybe Kirsten. She had to head home early the next morning, so she was pacing herself. The party was still going when she left. Nobody really thought anything of it. I mean, people were coming and going all the time, at all times of the day and night. But that was when it happened… you know… on her way home across the park.”

“And someone interrupted?”

“Yes. A man walking his dog. Thank God for that, at least.”

“But her attacker got away?”

“Yes. The police thought it was the same man who’d raped and murdered five other girls, a serial killer I suppose you’d call him. But poor Kirsty couldn’t remember a thing about the attack, which was perhaps a mercy. Can you imagine having to relive something like that?”

Annie sipped some more Perrier. “Did she talk about it much?”

“A bit. I saw her a few times in hospital, and I went to stay with her and her parents that first Christmas after she came out of hospital. They lived in a big house near Bath. I think Kirsty had been undergoing hypnosis at the time. I do remember that it really frustrated her that she couldn’t remember anything after leaving the party. She said she wanted to remember it all, find out who did and go after him.”

“She said that?”

“Yes, but she was very upset at the time. She didn’t really mean it. I mean, the hypnosis was only frustrating her. I think it might have been the police’s idea.”

“Did you tell the police what she said to you?”

“Well, no. I mean, why would I? It was just angry talk. She’d no idea who it was.”

“Do you remember the name of the hypnotist, by any chance?”

“I’m sorry, no. I don’t recall that Kirsty ever even mentioned it.”

“But this was in Bath in 1988?”

“Yes. Winter.”

“Go on.”

“Kirsty’s parents went out on New Year’s Eve, some party or other. Anyway, Kirsty and I got drunk on her father’s cognac and she told me everything.”

Annie edged forward in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“About what he’d done to her. The bastard.” For the first time, Sarah seemed shaken by what she was remembering.

“What had he done?” Annie knew she could dig out the medical report, which had to be in the archives somewhere, but she wanted to hear Sarah’s version.

“He used a sharp knife on her. Here.” She moved her hands over her breasts. “And between her legs. She didn’t show me, of course, but she said she had a lot of scarring and stitching. But that wasn’t the worst of it. She also told me the damage to her vagina and uterus had been so extensive that she couldn’t enjoy sex, and she couldn’t have children.” Sarah wiped a tear from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d be like this just talking about it. I thought I would be okay, that it was long enough ago.”

“Are you all right?”

Sarah sniffed and went to get a tissue. She blew her nose. “I’m fine,” she said. “It was just the power of the memory took me by surprise. I could see her sitting there, with that forlorn expression on her face. I mean, can you imagine how that must screw you up? Being sentenced to celibacy and childlessness for the rest of your life? And she was only twenty-one, for crying out loud. I think at that moment I’d gladly have killed him myself if I’d known who it was.”

“Was there ever any suggestion that it was someone close to her?” Annie asked. “Perhaps someone who’d left the party early?”

“The police certainly never told me what they were thinking, but they grilled everyone who’d been there, and all her uni friends.”

As Annie guessed, it would have been standard procedure. Still, there was always a chance that they had missed something. “Did you see her after that New Year’s Eve?”

“Oh, yes. A few times. But she never really talked about it in that sort of detail again. I do remember one night in particular,” Sarah went on. “Odd, isn’t it, how some things stick in your memory? It was the first time Kirsty had come back up north after… since the attack. Over a year later. She’d been in hospital for quite a while, then she’d been at home with her parents recuperating for a long time. Anyway, I had a poky little bedsit then — it used to be Kirsten’s — and she came to stay for a while. September 1989, I think it was, not long before term started. We had a lot to drink that first night, and she said some very odd things. Her behavior quite frightened me, in fact.”

“What odd things?”

“I can’t remember the details, just that it was creepy, you know? She was talking about an eye for an eye and saying she felt like a victim of AIDS or vampirism.”

“AIDS?”

“She didn’t mean it literally. I told you she was talking crazy. She didn’t have AIDS, at least not as far as I knew. No, she meant like some sort of contagion she’d caught from her attacker. I told her it was crazy talk and she stopped. That’s all I remember. But it gave me a chill at the time. Still, I thought, better out than bottled up inside.”

“She spoke about revenge?”

“An eye for an eye, yes. She said again that if she knew who it was she’d kill him.”

“Did she give any indication that she did know?”

“No. How could she?”

“Sorry, go on.”

Sarah gave a nervous laugh. “It was just the wine talking, really. We were into our second bottle by then. Anyway, things went on pretty much as normal for the next while, then term started.”

“So Kirsten was staying with you all the time she was up north that September?”

“Yes. Until the middle of October, I think.”

“You don’t sound so certain. Are you sure?”

Sarah turned away. “That’s what I told the police.”

“But is it true?”

She studied her fingernails. “Well, you know, she sort of came and went.”

“Came and went?”

“Yes. She spent a few days walking in the Dales. Okay?”

“Were you with her?”

“No. She wanted some time by herself.”

“When was this exactly?”

“I can’t remember. It was so long ago. September, though, I think. Soon after she came to stay.”

“Did you tell the police about this?”

“I… no. She asked me not to.”

“Any idea why?”

“No. I mean… look, I’m sorry, but I didn’t have a very good opinion of the police back then. The last thing Kirsten needed was any hassle from them. She’d suffered enough.”

“Any particular reason you didn’t like the police?”

Sarah shrugged. “I was just a radical, that’s all, and a feminist. They seemed to be only interested in upholding archaic laws made by men and in supporting the status quo.”

“I used to think that, too,” said Annie. “Of course, it might have been more true back then than now, but there are a few dinosaurs left.”

“I still can’t say they’re my favorites,” said Sarah, “but I’ve developed a lot more respect over the years, and I don’t generalize as much as I used to. I don’t practice criminal law, but I’ve come across a few good police officers in my line of work. It’s as you say, there are dinosaurs. Bad apples, too, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes,” said Annie, thinking of Kev Templeton. He might not be a bad apple in the sense of being crooked, but he was certainly a shit of the first degree.

“But back then you lied to them?”

“I suppose so. Honestly, I’d forgotten all about it. Am I in trouble?”

“I don’t think anyone really cares about an eighteen-year-old lie, except that it might be relevant today.”

“I don’t see how.”

“What did happen?”

“I told you. She went to the Dales for a while, then she came back. She was in and out a lot over the next couple of weeks, then she took the room on the upper floor. She started her postgraduate work, same as me, but she got bored even sooner.”

“So she dropped out?”

“Yes. Went back home, I think. At least for a while.”

“And then?”

Sarah looked down at her fingernails again, beautifully manicured and painted a tasteful shade of pink. “We sort of drifted apart, you know, the way people do. As I told you, after I got out of the graduate program I went traveling for a while, then I got immersed in my law studies.”

“So you didn’t see Kirsten again?”

“Only once or twice over the next couple of years. We’d have a drink for old times’ sake.”

“What did you talk about?”

“The past, mostly. The time before the attack.”

“Did she ever mention Whitby?”

“Whitby? No. Why should she?”

“Did she ever talk about someone called Eastcote. Greg Eastcote?”

“No.”

“Jack Grimley?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Keith McLaren, an Australian?”

“No, never. I haven’t heard of any of these people. Who are they?”

“Was she in touch with any of the others you used to know back then, the old uni crowd?”

“No, I don’t think so. Her boyfriend had gone off to Canada or America or somewhere, and the rest had scattered all over the country. She seemed very much a loner, as if she cut herself off. I thought maybe it was because of what happened to her. She couldn’t adjust, pretend to be normal. I don’t know. It wasn’t that we didn’t have a nice chat and a drink and all, but there was always something remote about her, as if she’d sort of set herself apart from the rest. I don’t know how else to describe it. She even looked different, let herself go, cut her hair and stuff. She used to be quite lovely but, you know, she just stopped bothering.”

“Do you know what she was doing with her life?”

“I don’t think she was doing anything, really. I think she was kind of lost. She talked of traveling, China, America, the Far East, but I don’t know if it was a real goal or just wishful thinking.” Sarah checked her watch for the first time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but…” She glanced over at the MacBook. “I do have to finish this job before I meet with the client this evening.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie. “I think I’ve just about got to the end of my questions, anyway.”

“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing,” said Annie. “You’ve finally told the truth at last. Have you seen or heard anything of Kirsten in the last few years?”

“No,” said Sarah. “The last time I saw her must have been ’91 or early ’92, and after that it was just as if she had disappeared.”

“Ever heard of Lucy Payne?”

“Isn’t she the one who killed all those girls with her husband, the one who just got murdered? Is that what this is about? I don’t understand.”

“Maggie Forrest?”

“No, never.”

“Right,” said Annie, standing up to leave and handing Sarah her card. “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”

“What is it all about, anyway?” Sarah asked at the door. “You haven’t told me anything. Why were you asking me about all these people and what happened years ago? Can’t you at least give me a hint?”

“If there’s anything in it,” Annie said, “you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Typical police,” said Sarah, folding her arms. “Some things never change, do they?”

Annie’s mobile rang as she arrived at her car. It was Ginger.

“It’s me, guv. I’ve got a line on that Maggie Forrest. The publisher rang me back.”

“Great,” said Annie, fiddling for her keys, phone wedged under her chin.

“We’re in luck. She’s back in the country. Living in Leeds again. Down by the canal.”

“Okay,” said Annie. “Maybe I should drive down there now.”

“Won’t do you any good. She’s in London at the moment — meetings with said publisher. She’s heading back Saturday evening, though.”

“Fine,” said Annie. “I’d got nothing else planned for Sunday, anyway. I might as well go talk to her then. Thanks, Ginger. Great work.”

“No problem.”

Annie turned off her phone and headed for the A1.

Annie remembered where Eric lived, and it was after dark when she turned up at his flat, having taken a while to pluck up her courage and stopped to fortify herself with a stiff double brandy at a pub on the way. She was on foot, so it didn’t matter whether she had a couple of drinks. Even though she had convinced herself that this would be easy, she still felt on edge. Confrontations with suspects were one thing, but in her private life they were another matter entirely. She knew that she had walked away from more than one relationship in the past rather than confront what was wrong with it. The problem with Banks was that she couldn’t quite walk away entirely; neither her job nor the remnants of her feelings for him, so easily stirred up by working so closely together, would let her. That was partly why she had accepted the temporary posting to Eastern Area so eagerly, to put some distance between them for a while. It didn’t seem to be working very well.

Eric answered her ring with a curt “Oh, it’s you,” then he turned his back and walked inside, leaving the door open. “I was just getting ready to go out,” he said, when she followed him into the living room. There was no evidence of this. A cigarette burned in the ashtray and a can of lager sat by a half-full glass on the low table. The TV was on, tuned to EastEnders. Eric sprawled on the sofa, legs splayed and arms stretched out. He was wearing jeans and a torn black T-shirt. His hair was greasy, as if it needed a good wash, and a stray lock hung over one eye, as usual. “What do you want?” he asked.

Annie held her hand out. “Give me your mobile.”

“What?”

“You heard. Give me your mobile.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Eric grinned. “Those photos? You want to delete them, don’t you? You don’t trust me.”

“That’s right. We’ll start with your mobile, then we’ll move on to your computer.”

“What do you think I’ll do? Post them on the Internet?” He rubbed his chin in mock conjecture. “I suppose I could, couldn’t I? Do you think they’ll accept nudes?”

“I don’t think you’re going to do anything with them,” Annie said. “You’re going to give me your mobile, then we’re going to check your computer, and I’m going to delete them.”

“Look, why don’t you sit down and have a drink? I’m not in a great hurry. We can talk about it.”

“I don’t want a drink, and I’m not staying long enough to sit down,” Annie said, holding her hand out. “There’s nothing to talk about. Give.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were making an obscene suggestion.”

“But you do, and I’m not. Come on.”

Eric folded his arms and stared at her defiantly. “No,” he said.

Annie sighed. She had thought he might want to play games. So be it. She sat down.

“So you will have that drink?” Eric said.

“I’ll sit down because this is clearly going to take longer than I expected,” Annie said, “but I still don’t want a drink. You know what I want.”

“I know what you wanted the other night,” said Eric. “But now I’m not so sure. There are some other pictures, you know. Ones you haven’t seen yet. Better ones.”

“I don’t care,” said Annie. “Just delete them, then we’ll forget all about it, forget it ever happened.”

“But I don’t want to forget it ever happened. Can’t you at least leave me something to remember you by?”

“I’ll leave you more than enough to remember me by if you don’t do as I say.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Take it as you will, Eric. I’ve had a long day. I’m running out of patience. Are you going to give me that mobile?”

“Or what?”

“All right,” said Annie. “We’ll do it your way. You were right the first time when you guessed what I do for a living. I’m a policewoman. A detective inspector, as a matter of fact.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You’re supposed to do as I say.”

“What will you do if I don’t?”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“Get some of your Neanderthal cronies to beat me up?”

Annie smiled and shook her head slowly. “I really don’t think I’d have to bring in any help, but no, that’s not the plan.”

“Pretty confident, aren’t you?”

“Look,” said Annie, “let’s stop playing games, shall we? What happened happened. Maybe it was good. I don’t know. I don’t remember, and it doesn’t do me any credit to say that. But no matter what, it was a mistake. If—”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

Eric sat up. “How do you know it was a mistake. You haven’t given me a chance to—”

“It was a mistake for me. Just accept that. And your recent behavior hasn’t helped matters at all.”

“But why?”

“I really don’t want to go into it. I didn’t come here to cause trouble. I just came to ask you — nicely — to let me delete those photos. They’re embarrassing and, quite frankly, I wouldn’t even want to consider a relationship with anyone who would take them.”

“You didn’t object at the time. And don’t forget, you took some, too. Can’t you lighten up a bit, cut me a bit of slack? It was just harmless fun.”

“Give me the fucking BlackBerry!” Annie was shocked at her own vehemence, but Eric was pushing her patience way beyond its limits. She couldn’t be bothered explaining the difference between her taking a few innocent photos for fun in a club and his taking more intimate ones, that she couldn’t even remember, in the privacy of the bedroom. If he couldn’t understand that himself, he didn’t deserve any slack.

He seemed shocked, too. He said nothing for a moment, then reached into his hip pocket, pulled out his mobile and tossed it to her. She caught it. “Thank you,” she said. When she found the media library, she scrolled through all the photos he had taken that night. In addition to the ones she had seen, in which she had at least been awake, there were others of her sleeping, hair tousled, a breast exposed. Nothing really dirty, but crude and invasive. She deleted them all. “Now the computer.”

He waved her to the desk in the corner. “Be my guest.”

The same pictures were on his computer, so she deleted all those, too. Just as a precaution, she also emptied his recycle bin. She knew there were ways of getting back erased data, but she doubted that Eric was up to the task, or even that he could be bothered, for that matter. Maybe he’d stored them on a CD or a smart drive, too, but short of ransacking his entire flat she couldn’t do much about that. “Is that all?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s all. You’ve got what you came for. Now just fuck off.” He turned away, picked up his drink and pretended to watch television.

“Before I go,” Annie said, “let me just tell you what will happen if you do have copies and if any of them turn up on the Internet. You were wrong about me enlisting people I know to beat you up. That’s way too crude. But I do have friends, and, believe me, we can make your life very uncomfortable indeed.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Eric, not bothering to turn his gaze away from the television. “And just how will you do that?”

“If any of those photos turn up anywhere, I’ll not only claim I was drunk at the time they were taken, which is true, and which anyone can see, but that I think I was given a date-rape drug.”

Eric turned to face her slowly, an uncomprehending expression on his face. “You’d actually do that?” he said.

“Yes. And if it became necessary, the police officers who searched your flat would find Rohypnol or GHB or some such thing. You’d be surprised how much we have lying around the station spare.” Annie felt her heart beating in her chest, and she was sure that Eric must be able to hear it, or even see the twitching. She wasn’t used to lying, or threatening, like this.

Eric lit another cigarette. He had turned pale and Annie could see that his hands were shaking. “You know,” he said, “I really believe that you would. When I met you, I thought you were a nice person.”

“Don’t give me that crap. When you met me, you thought here’s a not-too-bad-looking drunk old bitch I can get into bed without too much trouble.”

Eric’s jaw hung open.

“What’s wrong?” Annie went on. “Home truth’s not palatable to you?”

“I… just…” He shook his head in wonder. “You’re really something else, a real piece of work.”

“Believe it,” said Annie. “I take it I don’t need to say any more?”

Eric swallowed. “No.”

“On that, note, then, I’ll say good-bye.”

Annie was careful not to slam the door behind her. As angry and upset as she was, she needed to demonstrate to Eric that she was in control, even if she wasn’t. When she walked into the cool night air, she paused at the corner of the street and took a few deep breaths. She’d done it, she told herself. Problem over. Sorted. So much for Annie Cabbot, Angel of Mercy. Why was it, though, she thought as she walked down the street and looked out at the dark glittering sea beyond, that as obnoxious as Eric was, she felt as if she had just broken a butterfly on a wheel? But then, she reminded herself, he wasn’t a butterfly at all, more like a snake, and she smiled.