Friend of the Devil

13

It was with a terrible sense of déjà vu that Banks pulled into the market square around one o’clock in the morning and saw the crowds held back by police barriers. Many of the onlookers were drunk, had just staggered from the pubs at closing time and seen all the activity by the entrance to the Maze. One or two of them had become aggressive, and the uniforms were having a hard time keeping them back. When Banks saw the sergeant from the station, he asked him to call for reinforcements. They might not need any — drunks often lost interest as quickly as they found it — but it was better to be safe than sorry. Still feeling a sense of deep anxiety, Banks told the officers to block off the entire Maze this time, all exits.

“But, sir,” one of the constables argued. “There are four terraced cottages near the back. People live there.”

“We’ll worry about them later,” said Banks. “Someone has to interview them as soon as possible anyway. For the moment, I want the entire area sealed. No one goes in or out without me knowing about it. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.” The constable scuttled off.

Banks rapped on the door of the Fountain.

“He’s gone home, sir,” said Winsome, emerging from Taylor’s Yard and slipping under the police tape. “The place is all shut up.”

Banks grunted. “I wish the rest of them would do the same.” He noticed the occasional camera flash — press, most likely — and one or two people were holding their mobiles in the air and taking photographs, or even video-recording the scene, the way they did at rock concerts. In some ways it was a sick trend, but it sometimes got results; occasionally, someone captured something none of the CCTV cameras or police photographers did, a suspect in the crowd, for example, and it could help bring about an early solution.

“What the hell’s going on, anyway?” Banks asked. “I couldn’t hear a word you said over the phone. Who’s the victim. Is she dead?”

“No, sir,” said Winsome. “This one survived. If she was meant to be the victim. But someone’s dead. I haven’t had a look at the body yet. It’s dark and I didn’t want to disturb anything before you got here. We’re waiting on SOCO, but Dr. Burns has just arrived.”

“Okay. I’m sure he’ll be more than adequate.”

Banks followed Winsome under the tape and into the Maze, deeper than the previous week, past the end of Taylor’s Yard, around corners and across small cobbled squares, down ginnels so narrow they almost had to walk sideways. And all the while he could see beams of light sweeping the darkness, hear the crackle of police radios in the distance. It was a labyrinth in there, and Banks wished they’d brought a ball of twine. He remembered he had said the same thing about Annie’s cottage in Harkside the first time he had dinner with her there — the first time they had made love — that it was hidden at the center of a labyrinth and he could never find his way out alone. It had been a good way of suggesting he stay the night, at any rate.

There was little light in the Maze, so it was sometimes hard to see exactly where they were going, but Banks trusted to Winsome. She seemed to know her way without the twine.

“Where’s Kev Templeton?” he asked from behind her.

“Don’t know, sir. Couldn’t raise him. Maybe he’s at some club or other.”

They came to a ginnel that led into a square, and Banks could see lights at the end, hear conversation and radios. When they approached, he noticed that someone had already put up arc lights, so the place was lit up like Christmas. Everyone seemed pale and pink around the gills. Banks recognized Jim Hatchley and Doug Wilson lingering by one wall, and a couple of the uniformed officers were making notes. Peter Darby was taking photographs and videotaping the entire scene, though Banks supposed it could hardly be videotape if it was digital, the way they were these days. Everyone glanced Banks’s way as he entered the square, then turned nervously away and a hush fell over them. His heart was in his throat. There was something going on, something he needed to be prepared for.

Dr. Burns bent over the body, which lay face down on the ground, an enormous pool of dark blood spread from the head area toward the wall. Dr. Burns, almost as pale and shaken as the rest, stood up to greet Banks and Winsome. “I don’t want to touch or move the body until the SOCOs get here,” he said. Even Banks could see from where he was standing that it wasn’t the body of a woman.

“Can we have a look now?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Dr. Burns. “Just be careful.”

Banks and Winsome knelt. The stone flags were hard and cold. Banks took a torch one of the uniformed officers offered him, and shone it on the face as best he could. When he saw the young, bloodless profile, he fell back on his tailbone and slumped against the wall as if he had been pushed.

Winsome squatted at his side. “Bloody hell, sir,” she said. “It’s Kev. It’s Kev Templeton. What the hell was he doing here?”

All Banks could think was that he had never heard Winsome swear before.

One of the uniformed officers had been dispatched to fetch a pot of fresh hot coffee, even if he had to wake up one of the coffee-shop owners in the market square, and the rest of the weary troop filed into the boardroom of Western Area Headquarters, no more than about a quarter of a mile from where the body of their colleague lay, undergoing the ministrations of Stefan Nowak and his SOCOs.

When DS Nowak and his team had arrived in the Maze, they had made it clear they wanted the scene to themselves, and that the little square was far too crowded. It was a relief for most of the officers attending there to leave, and a signal to get the investigation in motion. Everyone was stunned by Templeton’s murder, and no one seemed able to take it in, but all that confusion had to be translated into action as quickly as possible.

Dr. Burns and Peter Darby stuck with the SOCOs, and the rest, about ten of them in all, including Banks, Hatchley and Winsome, returned to the station. Detective Superintendent Gervaise had arrived straight from bed, hurriedly dressed in black denims and a fur-collared jacket, and she was busy setting up the whiteboard while the others arranged themselves around the long polished table, pads and pens in front of them. They wouldn’t need a mobile van near the scene because the station itself was so close, but they would need to set up a special incident room, with extra phone lines, computers and civilian staff. For the moment, they would work out of the Hayley Daniels incident room, given space limitations and the shared location of the crimes.

They would also have to assign the usual roles — office manager, receiver, statement readers, action allocators and so on. Banks was already designated SIO and Gervaise would “interface with the media,” as she put it. But she also made it clear that she wanted to be hands-on and to be kept informed every step of the way. This was one of their own, and it went without saying that there would be no concessions, no quarter. But first they needed to know what had happened to Templeton, and why.

When the coffee arrived, everyone took a Styrofoam cup. They passed milk and sugar around, along with a packet of stale custard creams someone had found in a desk drawer. Banks joined Gervaise at the head of the table, and the first thing they asked for was a summary from the officer on the scene, a PC Kerrigan, who had just happened to be on duty in the public order detail that night. “What happened?” Banks asked. “Take it slowly, lad, step by step.”

The young PC looked as if he’d been sick, which he probably had. At least he had had the presence of mind to do it away from the immediate scene. He took a deep breath, then began. “I was standing outside my van trying to decide whether to…” He glanced at Gervaise.

“It’s all right, man,” she said. “At the moment I don’t care whether you were having a smoke or a blow job. Get on with it.”

The constable blushed, and everyone else was taken aback, even Banks. He hadn’t heard Superintendent Gervaise talk like that before, any more than he had heard Winsome swear, but he ought to know by now that she was full of surprises. This was turning out to be a night of firsts.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Kerrigan said. “Well, you see, there was a minor fracas going on over by the Trumpeters, and we were wondering whether we should just let it run its natural course, you know, like, or jump in there and risk exacerbating matters. The long and the short of it is that we decided to let it run its course. Just at that moment — and I checked my watch, ma’am, it was three minutes to twelve — a young woman came running out of the Maze covered in blood and screaming her head off.”

“What did you do then?” Gervaise asked.

“Well, ma’am, I couldn’t help but think that she’d been attacked, like, especially after last week, so I ran over to her. She seemed all right physically, but, as I said, there was quite a lot of blood on her, and she was pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.”

“Spare us the clichés, Constable, and get on with the story,” said Gervaise.

“Sorry, ma’am. I asked her what was wrong, and she just pointed back where she’d come from. I asked her to take me there, and she froze. She was terrified, shaking her head. Said she was never going back in there. I asked her what she’d seen, but she couldn’t tell me that either, or where it was. In the end, I persuaded her that she would be safe with me. She stuck to me like… like a…” He glanced at Gervaise. “She stuck close to me and led me to… well, you know what to.”

“In your own words,” said Banks. “Be calm, Kerrigan. Take it easy.”

“Yes, sir.” Constable Kerrigan took a deep breath. “We reached the area where the body was lying. I didn’t know who it was, of course. You just couldn’t tell, the way the face was squashed down on the flagstones like that. There was such a lot of blood.”

“Did you or the girl go anywhere near the body?” Banks asked.

“No, sir. Except right at first, to get a closer look and see if he was still alive.”

“Did either of you touch anything?”

“No, sir. I knew to stay well back, and there was no way she was going anywhere near it. She cowered back by the wall.”

“Very good,” said Banks. “Go on.”

“Well, that’s about it, sir. My mates from the van weren’t far behind me, and when I heard them all piling into the square behind me, I told them to stop, turn back and go to station and call everyone they could think of. Maybe I shouldn’t have panicked like that, but…”

“You did the right thing,” said Gervaise. “You stayed with the body while they went?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the girl?”

“She stayed, too. She sort of slid down the wall and held her head in her hands. I did get her name and address. Chelsea Pilton. Funny name, I thought. Sounds like an underground stop, doesn’t it? Daft thing naming a kid after a bun or a flower show, anyway, if you ask me,” he added. “But that seems to be the way of the world these days, doesn’t it?”

“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” muttered Gervaise with her eyes closed and the knuckle of her right middle finger against her forehead.

“Maybe she was named after the football team,” Banks offered.

Gervaise gave him a withering glance.

“She lives on the East Side Estate,” Constable Kerrigan added.

“Where is she now?” Gervaise asked.

“I sent her to the hospital with Constable Carruthers, ma’am. She was in a proper state, the girl. I didn’t see any sense in keeping her there, next to… well, you know.”

“You did right,” said Banks. “They’ll know what to do. I assume Constable Carruthers has instructions to stay with her until someone gets there?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. The parents?”

“Constable Carruthers informed them, sir. I think they’re at the hospital now.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen, sir.”

“Good work.” Banks called down the corridor for a PC. “Get down to the hospital,” he said, “and make sure that Chelsea Pilton is taken straight to the Sexual Assault Referral Centre. Got that? Chelsea Pilton. They’ll know what to do with her there. Ask for Shirley Wong, if she’s in tonight. That’s Dr. Shirley Wong.” The new referral center, the only one in the Western Area, was attached to the hospital, and was seen by many as a rather sad sign of the times. “And see if they can get the parents out of the way. The girl’s nineteen, so they don’t have to present during any interview or examination, and I’d rather they weren’t. Their presence might cause her to clam up. I’ll talk to them separately later.”

“Yes, sir.” The PC set off.

“She’s not a suspect, is she, sir?” PC Kerrigan asked.

“At the moment,” Banks said, “even you are a suspect.” Then he smiled. “We have to follow certain procedures. You ought to know that, Constable.”

Kerrigan swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“You mentioned that she had blood on her,” Banks said.

“Yes. It looked like it had sprayed on her face and chest. Funny, it seemed like freckles in the dim light.” Kerrigan glanced nervously at Gervaise, who rolled her eyes and muttered, “God help us, a poetic PC.”

“Did she say where it had come from?” Banks asked.

“No, sir. I just assumed… well, that she’d been close when it happened.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Yes, sir, but she wouldn’t answer.”

“Did you see or hear anything or anyone else in the Maze while you were there?” Banks went on.

“Not a dickey bird, sir.”

“Any music or anything?”

“No, sir. Just a bit of argy-bargy from the market square. Drunks singing, cars revving up, glass breaking, the usual sort of thing.”

More coffee arrived, a large urn this time, indicating that it was going to be a long night for everyone, and two constables set it up at the far end of the table. Someone had obviously gained access to the station canteen. They had also brought a bigger stack of Styrofoam cups, fresh milk, a bag of sugar and a packet of Fig Newtons. Everyone helped themselves. It was definitely canteen coffee, weak and bitter, but it did the trick. Banks noticed his hand trembling slightly as he raised the cup to his mouth. Delayed shock. He still found it impossible to accept that Kevin Templeton was dead, despite what he had seen with his own eyes. It just didn’t make sense. He ate a fig biscuit. Maybe the sugar would help.

“Did Chelsea tell you anything about what she witnessed?” Banks asked.

“No, sir,” said Kerrigan. “She was too stunned. Near mute with terror, she was. It’ll be a long time before she has an easy night’s sleep again, I can tell you.”

Me, too, thought Banks, but he didn’t say anything about that. “Right,” he said. “You did a good job, Constable Kerrigan. You can go now. Stick around the station for now. We might need to talk to you again.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

PC Kerrigan left and no one said anything for a while. Finally, Gervaise said, “Anyone met Templeton’s parents? I understand they live in Salford.”

“That’s right,” said Banks. “I met them once, a few years back, when they came to Eastvale to visit him. Nice couple. I got the impression he didn’t get along very well with them, though. He never said much about them. They’ll have to be told.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Gervaise. “I know DS Templeton wasn’t exactly the most popular detective in the station,” she went on, “but I know that won’t stop anyone from doing their jobs.” She stared pointedly at Winsome, who said nothing. “Right, then,” Gervaise said. “As long as that’s understood, we can get down to work. Any theories?”

“Well,” said Banks, “first of all we have to ask ourselves what Kev was doing in the Maze close to midnight.”

“You’re implying that he was about to rape and kill Chelsea Pilton?” Gervaise said.

“Not at all,” Banks answered, “though we’d be remiss in our duties if we failed to acknowledge that possibility.”

“Pushing that unpleasant thought aside for a moment,” Gervaise said, “do you have any other theories for us to consider?”

“Assuming that Kev wasn’t the Maze killer,” Banks said, “I think it’s a pretty good guess that he was there because he hoped he might catch him. Remember at the last meeting, how he was convinced it was a serial killer who’d strike again soon in the same area?”

“And I ridiculed him,” said Gervaise. “Yes, I don’t need reminding.”

“I don’t mean to do that, ma’am,” said Banks. “You were right. We had no evidence to justify the expense of a full saturation operation. But it does appear rather as if Templeton took matters on himself.”

“Our Dr. Wallace agreed with him, too, as I remember,” said Gervaise.

“I’m not arguing right and wrong here,” Banks said. “I’m just trying to ascertain why Templeton was where he was.”

Gervaise nodded brusquely. “Go on.”

“I think he might have been there late on Friday, too,” Banks added. “I remember he was a bit peaky and tired yesterday, dragging his feet. I thought he’d been clubbing, woke up with a hangover, and I gave him a bollocking. He didn’t disabuse me of the notion.” Banks knew that his last words to Templeton had been harsh — something about growing up and behaving like a professional — and he also now knew that they had been unjustified, though how professional was it to wander a possible murder site alone and unarmed? Still, it didn’t make Banks feel any better.

He knew how Templeton rubbed most people the wrong way — accomplished women like Winsome and Annie in particular, and parents of difficult teenagers. No doubt there were some personal issues there. He could also be a racist, sexist bastard, and he had a personality that would steamroller over a person’s finer feelings if he thought it would get him what he wanted. Sometimes you had to do that to a certain extent, Banks knew — he had even done it himself with Malcolm Austin — but Templeton didn’t only do it out of necessity; he also seemed to take great relish in it. Even Banks had seen him reduce witnesses to tears or rage on occasion, and Winsome and Annie had seen it happen far more often.

He was also bright, hardworking and ambitious, and whether he would have matured with age, Banks didn’t know. He wouldn’t have the option now. He was gone, snuffed out, and that wasn’t bloody right. Even Winsome looked upset, Banks noticed, when he cast quick glances in her direction. He needed to talk to her. She could be carrying around a lot of guilt about the way she felt about Templeton, and it wouldn’t help the investigation. He remembered that one of the subjects she and Annie had discussed at dinner was the way Templeton had behaved with Hayley Daniels’s parents. Winsome hadn’t told Banks exactly what had gone on between them, but he knew that a line had been crossed, a bridge burned. It could be eating away at her now, when they all needed to start focusing and thinking clearly.

“I also find myself wondering if he was just hanging out there on spec,” Banks said, “or if he knew something.”

“What do you mean?” Gervaise asked.

“Maybe he had a theory, or some special knowledge, something he was working on that he didn’t share with the team.”

“That sounds like Templeton,” said Gervaise. “You mean he might have had inside knowledge, knew who was doing it, that it would happen again tonight, and he was after the glory?”

“Something like that,” said Banks. “We’d better have a very close look at his movements since the Hayley Daniels case began.”

“We’re overstretched as it is,” said Gervaise. “First Hayley Daniels, and now this. I’ll see about bringing in extra personnel.”

“Are you sure it’s not the same investigation?” Banks asked.

“At this moment,” said Gervaise, “we don’t know enough to say one way or another. Let’s wait at least until we get some forensics and talk to the girl, then we’ll have another session.”

“I’ll talk to her now,” said Banks. “And there’s another thing.”

“What?”

“Kev’s throat was cut. You can see it clearly. That’s the same way Lucy Payne was killed out Whitby way.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” said Gervaise. “Another complication we could do without. Right, I think you’d better start trying to find some answers.” She eyed the team grimly. “I want everybody out there on the streets, all night if necessary. Knocking on doors, checking CCTV footage. Wake the whole bloody town up if you have to. I don’t care. There has to be something. Kevin Templeton may have been an arsehole, but let’s not forget he was our arsehole and he deserves our best efforts.” She clapped her hands. “Now go to it!”

Banks paid another visit to the crime scene before heading for the hospital to see Chelsea Pilton. It was about half past two in the morning, and the market square was deserted except for the police cars, the SOCO van and the constable guarding the entrance. He jotted Banks’s name down and let him through. Some bright spark had chalked yellow markings on the pavements and flagstones to guide the way. Not exactly a ball of twine, but the next best thing, and it did make the Maze a lot easier to negotiate.

The SOCOs had erected a canvas covering over the square in which Templeton’s body had been found, and it was brightly lit from all directions. Officers were walking the ginnels and connecting passages with bright torches, searching for clues of any kind. The area immediately around the body had already been thoroughly searched, and crime scene coordinator Stefan Nowak gestured for Banks to come forward into the covered area.

“Alan,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” said Banks. “Me, too. Anything?”

“Early days yet. From what we’ve been able to gather from the blood spatter analysis so far, he was attacked from behind. He wouldn’t have known what hit him. Or cut him.”

“He would have known he was dying, though?”

“For a few seconds, yes, but there are no messages scrawled in blood, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“One lives in hope. Pocket contents?”

Stefan fetched a plastic bag. Inside it, Banks found Templeton’s wallet, some chewing gum, keys, a Swiss Army knife, warrant card, ballpoint pen and a slim notebook. “May I?” he asked, indicating the notebook. Stefan gave him a pair of plastic gloves and handed it to him. The handwriting was hard to read, perhaps because it had been written quickly, but it seemed as if Templeton liked to make brief notes, like an artist’s sketches. He hadn’t written the murderer’s name in there, either. There was nothing since the previous evening, when it appeared that he had also been haunting the Maze, to no avail, as Banks had suspected. He would examine the notebook in more detail later to see if there was anything in the theory that Templeton was following leads of his own, but for now he handed it back. “Thank you. Dr. Burns finished yet?”

“He’s over there.”

Banks hadn’t noticed the doctor in another corner of the square, dressed in navy or black, jotting in his notebook. He went over.

“DCI Banks. What can I do for you?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me a few things.”

“I can’t really tell you much at all,” said a tired Burns. “You’ll have to wait until Dr. Wallace gets him on the table.”

“Can we start with the basics? His throat was cut, wasn’t it?”

Burns sighed. “That’s the way it looks to me.”

“From behind?”

“The type of wound certainly supports DS Nowak’s blood spatter analysis.”

“Left- or right-handed?”

“Impossible to say at this point. You’ll have to wait for the postmortem, and even that might not tell you.”

Banks grunted. “Weapon?”

“A very sharp blade of some sort. Razor or scalpel, something like that. Not an ordinary knife, at any rate. From what I can see on even a cursory examination, it’s a clean, deep cut. The way it looks is that he simply bled to death. The blade cut through both the carotid and the jugular and severed his windpipe. The poor devil didn’t have a hope in hell.”

“How do you think it happened?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I understand there was a witness?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “A girl. She saw it happen. I’m on my way to talk to her.”

“Then she might be able to tell you more. Perhaps he was following her?”

“Why? To warn her, protect her?”

“Or attack her.”

Kev Templeton, the Maze killer? Banks didn’t want to believe it, even though he had been the first to voice the possibility. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“I’m just trying to keep an open mind,” said Dr. Burns.

“I know,” said Banks. “We all are. I wonder what the killer thought Kev was doing, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking of something else.” Annie’s case had come into his mind again. Lucy Payne sitting in her wheelchair, her throat cut with a sharp blade, a razor or a scalpel, a similar weapon to the one that had killed Templeton.

“I’m sure that Dr. Wallace will get around to the postmortem as soon as she can on this one,” Dr. Burns said. “She should be able to give you more answers.”

“Right,” said Banks. “And thanks. I’d better get to the hospital now and talk to the witness.” As he walked away, he was still thinking about Lucy Payne, and he knew that as soon as it reached a reasonable hour in the morning he would have to ring Annie in Whitby and see if they could get together to compare notes.

It wasn’t as if Annie was sleeping well, or even sleeping at all. Banks could have rung her right then, and she would have been awake enough to hold a conversation. A sound had woken her from a bad dream, and she had lain there not moving, listening hard, until she was sure it was just a creak from the old house and nothing else. Who did she think it was, anyway? Eric come to get her? Phil Keane returned? The men who had raped her? She couldn’t let her life be ruled by fear. Try as she might, by then she couldn’t remember the dream.

Unable to sleep, she got out of bed and put on the kettle. Her mouth was dry, and she realized she had polished off the better part of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc by herself last night. It was getting to be a habit, a bad one.

She peered through the curtains across the pantile rooftops down to the harbor, where the moon frosted the water’s surface. She wondered if she should have gone home to Harkside for the night, but she liked being close to the sea. It reminded her of her childhood in St. Ives, the long walks along the cliffs with her father, who kept stopping to sketch an abandoned farm implement or a particularly arresting rock formation while she was left to amuse herself. It was then that she had learned to create her own world, a place she could go to and exist in when the real world was too tough to handle, as when her mother died. She only remembered one walk with her mother, who had died when she was six, and all the way along the rough clifftop path her mother had held her hand as they struggled against the wind and rain, and told her stories about the places they would visit one day: San Francisco, Marrakech, Angkor Wat. Like many other things in her life, that probably wasn’t going to happen.

The kettle boiled and Annie poured water on the jasmine tea bag in her mug. When the tea was ready she lifted the bag out with a spoon, added sugar and sat cradling her fragrant drink, inhaling the perfume as she stared out to sea, noting the way the moonlight shimmered on the water’s ripples and brought out the texture and silvery-gray color of the clouds against the blue-black sky.

As she sat there watching the night, Annie felt a strange connection with the young woman who had come to Whitby eighteen years ago. Was it Kirsten Farrow? Had she looked out on the same view as this, all those years ago, planning murder? Annie certainly didn’t condone what she had done, but she felt some empathy with the damaged psyche. She didn’t know what the young woman had felt, but if she had done the things Annie thought she had, and if she had been Kirsten Farrow, it had been because that was her only way of striking back at the man who had condemned her to a kind of living death. There are some kinds of damage that take you far beyond normal rules and systems of ethics and morality — beyond this point be monsters, as the ancients used to say. The young woman had gone there; Annie had only stood at the edge of the world and stared into the abyss. But it was enough.

Annie had the overwhelming sensation that she was at an important crossroads in her life, but she didn’t know what the directions were; the signposts were either blurred or blank. She couldn’t trust herself to get close to a man. Consequently, she had abandoned her control to alcohol and gone home with a boy. Whatever demons were driving her, she needed to get sorted, get a grip, develop a new perspective and perhaps even a plan. Maybe she even needed outside help, though the thought caused her to curl up inside and tremble with panic. Then she might be able to read the signposts. Whatever she did, she had to break the circle of folly and self-delusion she had let herself get trapped in.

And there was Banks, of course; it seemed that there was always Banks. Why had she kept him at arm’s length for so long? Why had she abused their friendship so much this past week, thrown herself at him in some sort of drunken rage, then lied to his face about having a row with her boyfriend when he tried to help? Because he was there? Because she…? It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, Annie couldn’t even remember what it was that had split them apart. Had it been so insurmountable? Was it just the job? Or was that an excuse? She knew that she had been afraid of the sudden intensity of her feelings for him, their intimacy, and that had been one thing that had caused her to start backing away, that and the attachment he inevitably felt for his ex-wife and family. It had been raw back then. She sipped some hot jasmine tea and stared out to the horizon. She thought of Lucy Payne’s body, sitting there at the cliff edge. Her last sight had probably been that same horizon.

She needed to get things back on a professional footing, talk to Banks again about the Kirsten Farrow case and its history, especially since her conversation with Sarah Bingham. If Kirsten had disappeared, there was a good chance she had turned up in Whitby to kill Eastcote, the man who had stolen her future. Sarah Bingham had certainly lied about Kirsten’s movements, and the truth left her with no alibi at all.

It was more than just the case that was bothering Annie, though. She knew she wanted more from Banks. God, if she only knew what it was and how to go about getting it without hurting anyone… She couldn’t let go, that was one thing she knew for certain, not with both hands, not even with one. And a lot had changed since they split up. He seemed to have resolved most of his marital problems now that he had accepted Sandra’s remarriage and recent motherhood, and perhaps she was almost ready to acknowledge the power of her feelings; perhaps she was even ready for intimacy. If she followed all that to its logical conclusion, then she had to admit to herself that she still wanted him. Not just as a friend, but as a lover, as a companion… as… Christ, what a bloody mess it all was.

Annie finished her tea and noticed it had started to rain lightly. Perhaps the sound of the raindrops tapping against her window would help her get back to sleep, the way it had when she was a child, after her mother’s death, but she doubted it.

The sexual Assault Referral Centre, new pride and joy of Eastvale General Infirmary, was designed in its every aspect to make its patients feel at ease. The lighting was muted — no overhead fluorescent tubes or bare bulbs — and the colors were calming, shades of green and blue with a dash of orange for warmth. A large vase of tulips stood on the low glass table, and seascapes and landscapes hung on the walls. The armchairs were comfortable, and Bank knew that even the couches used for examinations in the adjoining room were also as relaxing as such things could be, and the colors there were muted, too. Everything was designed to make the victim’s second ordeal of the night as painless as possible.

Banks and Winsome stood just outside the door with Dr. Shirley Wong, whom Banks had met there on a number of previous occasions and had even had drinks with once or twice, though only as a colleague. Dr. Wong was a dedicated and gentle woman, perfect for the job. She also made a point of keeping in touch with everyone who passed through her doors and had a memory for detail Banks envied. She was a petite, short-haired woman in her late forties and wore silver-rimmed glasses. Banks was always surprised by her Geordie accent, but she had been born and bred in Durham. He introduced her to Winsome and they shook hands.

“I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” Dr. Wong said. “Detective Sergeant Templeton, wasn’t it? I don’t think I knew him.”

“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.