Friend of the Devil

2

It didn’t take Annie long to drive to Larborough Head from Whitby, where she was temporarily on loan to Spring Hill police station, District of Scarborough, Eastern Division, their rank of detectives being decimated by illness and holidays. Usually she slept in Mrs. Barnaby’s B and B on West Cliff, special rates for visiting police officers, a nice but small third-floor room, whose luxuries consisted of an en suite bathroom, sea view, telephone and tea-making facilities, but last night… well, last night had been different.

It was a Saturday, she’d been working late, and she hadn’t had a good night out in ages. At least, that was what she had told herself when the girls in the station invited her for a drink at the local watering hole and then on to a club or two. She’d lost contact with the rest of the girls sometime during the evening and only hoped they hadn’t seen what had become of her. The guilt and shame bit away at her stomach almost as bad as the heartburn as she pulled up at the side of the unfenced road about a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. Her heart sank when the first figure she saw was the bulky shape of Detective Superintendent Brough heading over to her.

“Good afternoon, DI Cabbot,” he said, though it was still morning. “Glad you could join us.”

Considering how quickly Annie had got there, she thought that was a stupid and insensitive remark, but she let it pass. She was used to those coming from Brough, well known as a lazy, time-serving sod with both eyes fixed on retirement six months down the road, endless rounds of golf and long holidays in Torremolinos. Even as a working copper, he hadn’t had the energy or gumption to line his pockets like some, so there was no villa, just a rented flat with Polyfilla walls and an aging Spanish floozy with a predilection for flashy jewelry, cheap perfume and even cheaper booze. Or so rumor had it.

“I’m surprised to find you up and about on a Sunday morning, sir,” Annie said, as brightly as she could manage. “Thought you’d be in church.”

“Yes, well, needs must. Duty, Cabbot, duty,” he said. “The magic word. And something we would all do well to embrace.” He gestured over to the cliff edge, where Annie could see a seated figure ringed by police. “It’s over there,” he said, as if washing his hands of the entire scene. “DS Naylor and DC Baker will fill you in. I’d better get back to the station and start coordinating. We’ve had to shoo off a couple of local reporters already and there’s bound to be more media interest. You’ll know what I mean when you’ve seen it. Bye for now, DI Cabbot. And I expect one hundred twenty percent on this. One hundred twenty. Remember.”

“Yes, sir. Bye, sir,” Annie said to his retreating back. She mumbled a few curses under her breath and started walking with difficulty against the wind over the slippery clumps of grass to the cliff. She could taste salt on her lips and feel its sting in her eyes. From what she could make out as she squinted, the figure was sitting in a wheelchair staring out to sea. When she got closer and saw it from the front, she noticed that it was a woman, her head supported by a halo brace. Below her chin, a broad, deep bib of dark blood had spread all the way down to her lap. Annie had to swallow an ounce or so of vomit that rose up into her mouth. Dead bodies didn’t usually bother her, but a few pints of Sam Smith’s the night before, followed by those fizzy blue drinks with the umbrellas, didn’t help.

Naylor and Baker were standing beside the body while the police surgeon examined her and the photographer hovered and snapped. Annie greeted them. “What have we got here?” she asked Naylor.

“Suspicious death, ma’am,” said Naylor in his usual laconic manner.

DC Baker smiled.

“I can see that, Tommy,” said Annie, taking in the ear-to-ear cut, exposed cartilage and spilled blood. “Any sign of a weapon?”

“No, ma’am.”

Annie gestured to the cliff edge. “Anyone checked down there?”

“Got a couple of PCs doing a search right now,” said Naylor. “They’ll have to hurry up, though. The tide’s coming in fast.”

“Well, in the absence of a weapon, I think we can assume she didn’t top herself,” said Annie. “Think the seagulls did it?”

“Might have done, at that,” said Naylor, glancing up at the noisy flock. “They’re getting bolder, and they’ve definitely been at the body.” He pointed. “See those marks in and around the ear? My guess is there’s no blood because she’d already bled out by the time they started pecking at her. Dead bodies don’t bleed.”

The doctor glanced up. “We’ll make an MD out of you yet, Tommy,” he said.

Annie’s stomach gave another unpleasant lurch and again she tasted sick in the back of her throat. No, she wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to be sick in front of Tommy Naylor. But seagulls? She had always hated them, feared them even, ever since she was a kid in St. Ives. It didn’t take The Birds to make Annie aware of the threat inherent in a flock of gulls. They had once swarmed her when she was in her pram and her father was off about twenty yards away sketching a particularly artistic group of old oaks. It was one of her earliest memories. She shivered and pulled herself together.

“Anything for us yet, Doc?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s been dead for an hour or two, and the cause is most likely exsanguination, as you can see. Whoever did this is a very sick bastard. The woman was seriously disabled, by the looks of it. Probably couldn’t even lift a bloody finger to defend herself.”

“Weapon?”

“Some sort of very thin, very sharp blade, like a straight-blade razor, or even a surgical instrument. The pathologist will no doubt be able to tell you more later. Anyway, it was a clean, smooth cut, no sawing or signs of serrations.”

“Right- or left-handed?”

“It’s often impossible to say with slash wounds, especially if there are no hesitation cuts, but I’d say probably left to right, from behind.”

“Which makes the killer right-handed?”

“Unless he was faking it. Only probably, mind you. Don’t quote me on it.”

Annie smiled. “As if I would.” She turned to Naylor. “Who found the body?”

Naylor pointed to a bench about two hundred yards away. “Bloke over there. Name’s Gilbert Downie. Walking his dog.”

“Poor sod,” said Annie. “Probably put him right off his roast beef and Yorkshire pud. Anyone know who she is?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” said DC Baker. “No handbag, purse or anything.” Helen Baker was a broad, barrel-shaped woman, built like a brick shit house, as the saying went, but she was remarkably nimble and spry for someone of her shape and build. And she had flaming-red spiky hair. Among her friends and colleagues she was known affectionately as “Ginger” Baker. She glanced around. “Not even a wristband, like they sometimes wear. This is a pretty isolated spot, mind you, especially at this time of year. The nearest village is four miles south and half a mile inland. About the only place in any way close is that residential care home about a mile to the south. Mapston Hall.”

“Residential care home for what?”

“Don’t know.” Ginger glanced at the wheelchair. “For people with problems like hers, I’d hazard a guess.”

“But there’s no way she could have made it all the way here by herself, is there?”

“Doubt it,” Naylor chipped in. “Unless she was doing an Andy.”

Annie couldn’t help but smile. She was a big fan of Little Britain. Banks, too. They had watched it together a couple of times after a long day at work over an Indian takeaway and a bottle of red. But she didn’t want to let herself think of Banks right now. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the SOCO van turn onto the grass verge. “Good work, Tommy and Ginger,” she said. “We’d better get out of the way and let the SOCOs do their stuff. Let’s sit in the car and get out of this bloody wind.”

They walked over to Annie’s Astra, stopping for a brief chat on the way with the crime scene coordinator DS Liam McCullough, and sat in the car with the windows open an inch or two to let in some air, Ginger in the back. Annie’s head throbbed and she had to force herself to pay attention to the matter at hand. “Who’d want to murder some defenseless old woman confined to a wheelchair?” she asked out loud.

“Not that old,” said Naylor. “I reckon that sort of injury ages a person prematurely, but if you can see past the hair and the pasty complexion, you’ll see she’s not more than forty or so. Maybe late thirties. And she was probably quite a looker. Good cheekbones, a nice mouth.”

Forty, Annie thought. My age. Dear God. Not old at all.

“Anyway,” Naylor added, “it takes all sorts.”

“Oh, Tommy, don’t come the world-weary cynic with me. It might suit your rumpled appearance, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. You saw her, the chair, halo brace and all, and you heard what the doc said. She probably couldn’t move at all. Maybe even couldn’t talk, either. What kind of a threat could she have posed to anyone?”

“I’ll bet she wasn’t always in a wheelchair,” said Ginger from the backseat.

“Good point,” said Annie, turning her head. “Very good point. And as soon as we find out who she was we’ll start digging into her past. What do you think of the bloke who found her, Tommy?”

“If he did it, he’s a damn good actor. I think he’s telling us the truth.” Tommy Naylor was a solid veteran in his early fifties with no interest in the greasy poles of ambition and promotion. In the short while they had been working together, Annie had come to respect his opinions. She didn’t know much about him, or about his private life, except rumor had it that his wife was dying of cancer. He was taciturn and undemonstrative, a man of few words, and she didn’t know whether he approved of her or not, but he got the job done without question, and he showed initiative when it was called for. And she trusted his judgment. That was as much as she could ask.

“So someone took her walkies out there, cut her throat and just left her to bleed to death?” she said.

“Looks that way,” said Naylor.

Annie mulled that over for a moment, then said, “Right. Ginger, you go see about setting up the murder room. We’ll need a manned mobile unit out here, too. And, Tommy, let’s you and me get down to Mapston Hall and see if we can find out if that’s where she came from. Maybe if we’re lucky they’ll even offer us a cup of tea.”

While detective Superintendent Gervaise went to the station to set up the mechanics of the murder investigation and deal with the press, the various experts performed their specialist tasks, and Detective Sergeant Hatchley organized a canvassing of the town-center pubs, Banks decided to pay a visit to Joseph Randall, the leather-shop owner who had discovered Hayley Daniels’s body.

Hyacinth Walk was an unremarkable street of run-down prewar redbrick terraces just off King Street, about halfway down the hill between the market square and the more modern Leaview Estate, a good fifteen- or twenty-minute walk from the Maze. Inside, Joseph Randall’s house was starkly furnished and neat, with plain coral wallpaper. A large TV set, turned off at the moment, held center stage in the living room.

Randall seemed still dazed by his experience, as well he might be, Banks thought. It’s not every day you stumble across the partially clad body of a young girl. While everyone else was no doubt eating their Sunday lunch, Randall didn’t seem to have anything cooking. Radio 2 was playing in the background: Parkinson interviewing some empty-headed celebrity on his Sunday Supplement program. Banks couldn’t make out who it was, or what was being said.

“Sit down, please,” said Randall, pushing his thick-lensed glasses up on the bridge of his long thin nose. Behind them, his gray eyes looked bloodshot. His wispy gray hair was uncombed, flattened to the skull in some places and sticking up in others. Along with the shabby beige cardigan he wore over his round shoulders, it made him appear older than his fifty-five years. And maybe this morning’s trauma had something to do with that, too.

Banks sat on a brown leather armchair which proved to be more comfortable than it seemed. A gilt-edge mirror hung at an angle over the fireplace, and he could see himself reflected in it. He found the image distracting. He tried to ignore it as best he could while he spoke to Randall.

“I’d just like to get a bit of clarification,” he began. “You said you discovered the body when you went round to the storage building to pick up some samples. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“But it was Sunday morning. What on earth could you possibly want with a few swatches of leather on a Sunday?”

“When you run your own business, Mr. Banks, you find yourself working the oddest hours. I’m sure it must be the same for you.”

“In a way,” said Banks, thinking that he had little choice in the matter, especially when it came to murder. “Who were the samples for?”

“For me.”

“Why?”

“Someone asked me to make a woman’s handbag for his wife’s birthday, wanted to know what the options were.”

“You didn’t have samples in the shop?”

“Some, but not the ones I wanted.”

“Why were you in such a hurry?”

“The birthday is on Tuesday. It was a rush job. I thought if I got off to a quick start…” He paused and adjusted his glasses again. “Look, Mr. Banks, I can see why this might seem odd to you, but it isn’t. I don’t go to church. I’m not married. I have no hobbies. Outside of my work, I don’t have a great deal to do with my time except watch television and read the papers. This project was on my mind, the shop isn’t far away, so I thought I’d get started rather than idle around with the News of the World.”

That wouldn’t take long, Banks thought, but he could see Randall’s point. “Very well,” he said. “Can you give me the woman’s name and address? The one whose birthday it is on Tuesday?”

Randall frowned but gave Banks the information.

“Is there a back or side entrance to your shop?”

“No, just the front.”

“Is there a way from the shop to the storage room from the inside?”

“No. You have to go down Taylor’s Yard. I rent it very cheaply, and that’s one of the minor inconveniences.”

“Okay. Now tell me exactly how it happened,” Banks went on. “How did you approach the building? What did you see?”

Randall paused and glanced at the rain-splattered window. “I approached the place as I usually would,” he said. “I remember being annoyed about the weather. There was a sudden shower. My umbrella had broken near the top of King Street, blown inside out, and I was getting wet.”

“Did you notice anything odd in the market square, anyone behaving oddly?”

“No. Everything was normal. You surely don’t think…?”

Banks had a pretty good idea from Dr. Burns that Hayley Daniels had been killed late the previous night, but that didn’t rule out the killer returning to the scene, or leaving it, having revisited. “Anyone heading out of the Maze?”

“No. Only a couple of latecomers going to church in the square. And a small queue waiting for the Darlington bus.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Well, as I said, I was put out by the weather, but there was nothing I could do about that. Anyway, the rain had stopped when I got to the storage building—”

“What did you notice first?”

“Nothing.”

“You weren’t aware that it had been broken into?”

“No. The door looked closed as usual. It opens inward. There’s only a Yale lock and a handle to pull it shut.”

“And it was shut?”

“As far as I could see, yes, but I wasn’t really paying much attention. This was something I’d done hundreds of times before. I was just on automatic pilot, I suppose. There must have been a small gap, if the lock had been broken, but I didn’t notice it.”

“I understand,” said Banks. “Carry on.”

“When I went to unlock the door, it just started to swing open. Obviously it couldn’t have been pulled all the way shut, because the lock was broken, as if someone had forced it from the outside.”

“In your opinion, would that have taken much pressure?”

“No. The wood was old, the screws loose. I never really worried about it as I… well, all I kept there were scraps and remnants, really. They weren’t valuable. Who’d want to steal them? As I think I’ve told you, they’re usually the bits left over from various projects, but they’re often useful for patchwork and as samples, so I just throw them in there whenever the basket gets full. I’ve got a workshop in the back of the shop where I do most of the cutting and sewing and repairs.”

“Do you have any employees?”

Randall barked. “Ha! You must be joking. Most of the time I hardly have enough work to pay the rent, let alone hire an employee.”

“Enough work to get you there very early on a Sunday morning, though.”

“I told you. That was a special commission. A rush job. Look, I’m getting tired of this. I had a hell of a shock to my system a few hours ago, and now here you are practically accusing me of attacking and killing that poor girl. By all rights I should be under sedation. My nerves are bad.”

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” said Banks. “Calm down. Take it easy. I’m just trying to find out as much as I can about what happened this morning.”

“Nothing happened this morning! I went to the storage room and I saw… I saw…” He put his hands to his head and his chest started heaving, as if he were having difficulty breathing. “Oh, God… I saw…”

“Can I get you anything?” Banks asked, afraid that Randall was having a heart attack.

“Pills,” he gasped. “They’re in my jacket pocket.” He pointed, and Banks saw a navy sports jacket hanging on the back of the door. He took out a small bottle of pills, noting that it was labeled “Activan sublingual,” prescribed by a Dr. Llewelyn, and passed it to Randall, who opened it with shaking hands and placed a tiny tablet under his tongue.

“Water?” Banks asked.

Randall shook his head. “See what I mean?” he said a few moments later. “It’s my nerves. Shattered. Never been strong. I get anxiety attacks.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Randall,” said Banks, feeling his patience running out. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel compassion for anyone who found a dead body, but Randall seemed to be pushing everything just a little over the top. “Perhaps we can get back to your account of what happened next, if it isn’t too painful.”

Randall gave him a glare to indicate that the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “It is painful, Mr. Banks. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I can’t get the image out of my mind, out of my memory. That poor girl. As if she were just… asleep.”

“But you knew she was dead?”

“Yes. You can tell. I mean, there’s something… something missing, isn’t there? Nobody home. Just a shell.”

Banks knew the feeling and had often put it that way himself. “The image will fade in time,” he said, though he doubted that it would. None of his had. “Just tell me exactly what happened. Try to visualize it. Concentrate on the details. There might be something important you’ve overlooked.”

Randall seemed to have calmed down. “All right,” he said. “All right, I’ll try.”

“How dark was it in the room?”

“Quite dark. I mean, I couldn’t really make anything out until I turned on the light. It’s just a bare bulb, as you probably know, but it was enough.”

“And you saw her straightaway?”

“Yes. On the pile of remnants.”

“Did you know her?”

“Of course not.”

“Ever seen her before?”

“No.”

“Did you touch her at all?”

“Why would I touch her?”

“To check if she was still alive, perhaps?”

“No, I didn’t. It never really occurred to me.”

“So what did you do next?”

Randall shifted in his chair and tugged at his collar. “I just… I suppose I just stood there a few moments, in shock, taking it all in. You have to understand that at first it seemed so unreal. I kept thinking she would get up and run out giggling, that it was some sort of practical joke.”

“Have any of the local young people played practical jokes on you before?”

“No. Why?”

“Never mind. You said earlier that you knew she was dead.”

“That was later. These things can run through your mind at the same time. It was the shock, I suppose.”

“Did you touch anything in the room?”

“Only the door. And the light switch. I never got beyond the doorway. As soon as I saw her I stopped where I was.”

“And when you’d got over the shock?”

“I thought I’d go into the shop and dial 999, then I realized the police station was just across the square, and it would probably make more sense to go over there. So I did.”

“Can you give me any idea of how long it was, between your finding the body and getting to the station?”

“Not really. I had no concept of time. I mean, I just acted. I ran across the square.”

“You said you found the body at eight-fifteen.”

“That’s right. I checked my watch when I got there. Habit.”

“And you reported it at eight twenty-one. Does that sound right?”

“If you say so.”

“Six minutes, then. How accurate is your watch?”

“It’s accurate as far as I know.”

“You see,” said Banks, shifting in his chair, “we have a witness who saw you enter the Maze at ten past eight by the church clock, and we know it’s no more than thirty seconds or so from the entrance on Taylor’s Yard to your storage room. What do you make of that?”

“But that would mean… eleven minutes. I surely can’t have been that long?”

“Could your watch have been fast?”

“I suppose so.”

“Mind if I see it?”

“What?”

Banks gestured toward his wrist. “Your watch. Mind if I have a look?”

“Oh, not at all.” He turned the face toward Banks. Twelve twenty-seven, the same as his own and, he knew, the same as the church clock.

“Seems to be accurate.”

Randall shrugged. “Well…”

“Have you any explanation for those eleven minutes?”

“I didn’t even know there were eleven minutes,” said Randall. “As I told you, I have no conception of how long it all took.”

“Right,” said Banks, standing. “That’s what you said. And it’s only five minutes difference from what you told us, after all, isn’t it? I mean, what could possibly happen in five minutes?” Banks held Randall’s eyes, and the latter broke away first. “Stick around, Mr. Randall,” Banks said. “I’ll be sending someone along to take your official statement later this afternoon.”

Mapston hall was an old pile of dark stone squatting on its promontory like a horned toad. Beyond the high gates in the surrounding wall, the gravel drive snaked through a wooded area to the front of the building, where there was parking for about ten cars. Most spots were already taken by staff or visitors, Annie guessed, but she found a place easily enough and approached the imposing heavy wooden doors, Tommy Naylor ambling beside her, nonchalant as ever, taking in the view. Despite the aspirins, Annie’s headache was still troubling her, and she felt in desperate need of a long, regenerative soak in the tub.

“Must cost a bob or two to run this place,” Naylor speculated. “Wonder who pays the bills.”

“Not the NHS, I’ll bet,” said Annie, though the sign outside had mentioned that the National Health Service had a part in running the place, and that Mapston Hall specialized in care for people with spinal cord injuries.

“Rich people in wheelchairs,” said Naylor. “Where there’s a will… Just a thought. Some relative couldn’t wait for the cash? Or a mercy killing?”

Annie glanced at him. “Funny way to go about it, slitting her throat,” she said. “But we won’t forget those angles.” How aware would the victim have been of her life slipping away from her? Annie wondered. Perhaps her body had been incapable of sensation, but what emotions had she felt during those final moments? Relief? Horror? Fear?

Though the inside of the hall was as old and dark as the exterior, like a stately home, with its parquet floor, wainscoting, broad winding staircase, high ceiling complete with crystal chandelier, and oil paintings of eighteenth-century dignitaries on the walls — the Mapston clan, no doubt — the computer setup behind the reception desk was modern enough, as was the elaborate stair-lift. The place was surprisingly busy, with people coming and going, nurses dashing around, orderlies pushing trolleys down corridors. Controlled chaos.

Annie and Naylor presented their warrant cards to the receptionist, who looked like a frazzled schoolgirl on her weekend job, and told her they were making inquiries about a patient. The girl probably wanted to work with handicapped people and was getting some work experience, Annie thought. She certainly seemed earnest enough and had that slightly bossy, busybodyish, passive-aggressive way about her that so often indicated a social worker. Her name badge read Fiona.

“I can’t tell you anything,” she said. “I’m only part-time.”

“Then who should we talk to?”

Fiona bit her lip. “We’re short-staffed. And it’s a Sunday. Mother’s Day, in fact.”

“Meaning?” Annie asked.

“Well, it’s a very busy day for us. Visitors. Most of them come on the weekends, you see, and Sunday morning’s the most popular time, especially as it’s—”

“Mother’s Day. Yes, I see,” said Annie. “Is there anyone who can help us?”

“What is it exactly you want to know?”

“I told you. It’s about a patient, a possible patient.”

“Name?”

“That’s one thing we’re trying to find out.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“Fiona,” Annie cut in. “This is really important. Will you please page someone who knows what they’re doing?”

“You don’t have to take—”

“Please!”

Fiona held Annie’s gaze for just a moment. Annie felt her head throb. Fiona sniffed and picked up the phone. Annie heard her page someone called Grace Chaplin over the PA system. In a few moments, a woman of about the same age as Annie, looking elegant and handsome in a crisp white uniform, came striding in a no-nonsense way along a corridor, clipboard under her arm. She stepped over to Fiona and asked what the problem was. Fiona looked nervously toward Annie, who proffered her warrant card. “Is there somewhere we can talk, Ms. Chaplin?”

“Grace, please,” the woman said. “By the way, I’m director of Patient Care Services.”

“Sort of like a matron?” Annie said.

Grace Chaplin gave her a tiny smile. “Sort of like that,” she said. “And the conference room is over here, if you would just follow me. It should be free.”

Annie looked at Tommy Naylor and raised her eyebrows as Grace Chaplin turned and led them toward a set of double doors. “Have a nose-around, Tommy,” she said. “I’ll deal with this. Chat up some of the nurses. Patients, too, if you can. Use your charm. See if you can find anything out.”

“Am I after anything in particular?”

“No. Just have a wander-around and try to develop a feel for the place. See how people react to you. Make a note of anyone who strikes you as useful — or obstructive. You know the drill.”

“Right, ma’am,” said Naylor, heading off across the tiled hall.

The conference room had a large round table on which sat a jug of water and a tray of glasses. Grace Chaplin didn’t offer, but as soon as Annie had sat down, she reached for a glass and filled it. The more water she could get into her system the better.

“You look a bit under the weather, Inspector,” said Grace. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Annie. “Touch of flu, maybe.”

“Ah, I see. What is it I can help you with?”

Annie explained a little about the body in the wheelchair, and Grace’s expression became more serious as she spoke. “In the end,” Annie said, “this place seemed a natural one to start asking questions. Any idea who it might be?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Grace. “But if you don’t mind staying here a moment, I might be able to find out for you.”

“Thank you.”

Annie topped up her water. Through the large window, she could see Grace go back to the reception desk and talk to Fiona, who seemed flustered. Eventually, Fiona picked up a large ledger from her desk and handed it to Grace, who looked at the open page and returned to the conference room carrying the book.

“This should help,” she said, placing it on the table. “It’s a log of all patient comings and goings. Anyone who leaves the building with a friend or relative has to be signed out.”

“And is anyone?” asked Annie.

“Only one. Usually we have far more out on a Sunday morning, but today the weather has been so unsettled, hail one minute, sleet and gale-force wind the next, that most visitors either didn’t stay out long or decided simply to stay in with their loved ones. We’ve organized a special Mother’s Day lunch, and most people will be staying indoors for that.”

“And the one who’s signed out?”

Grace slid the book around so Annie could read the single entry: “KAREN DREW, taken out at 9:30 A.M.” No return time filled in. And next to her name was an unintelligible signature, the first part of which might just, at a stretch of the imagination, have been Mary.

“Are you sure she’s not back?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know. Mistakes do happen. I’ll have to have someone check her room to make certain.”

“Would you do that, please?”

“Just a moment. I’ll get Fiona to page Mel, her carer. You’ll want to talk to her, anyway, I presume?”

“Yes, please,” said Annie, reaching for the water jug again as Grace went back to see Fiona.

When Banks arrived at the Queen’s Arms for a working lunch, Detective Sergeant Hatchley and the new probationary DC Doug Wilson were already there and had been lucky to snag a dimpled copper-topped table by the window looking out on the church and market cross. The pub was crowded already, and people were crossing the market square carrying bouquets of flowers or potted plants. It reminded Banks that he still had to phone his mother.

The detectives were still on duty, at the very beginning of a serious inquiry, so, under Detective Superintendent Gervaise’s new totalitarian regime, alcohol was strictly out of the question. Food, though, was another matter entirely. Even a working copper has to eat. Sipping a Diet Coke when Banks arrived, Hatchley ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding all round, and they settled down to business.

Hatchley was starting to appear old, Banks thought, though he was only in his forties. The cares of fatherhood had drawn lines around his eyes and bags under them. Lack of exercise had put on pounds that sagged around the waist of his suit trousers. Even his thatch of strawlike hair was getting thin on top, not helped at all by a very precarious comb-over. Still, Hatchley was never a man who had taken great pride in his appearance, though perhaps the saddest thing about him now was that he would hardly scare even the most mouselike of villains. But he remained a stubborn and dogged copper, albeit slow on the uptake, and Banks valued his presence on the team, when they could steal him away from his teetering piles of paperwork in CID. DC Wilson was fresh from detective training school and looked as if he’d be happier out playing football with his mates.

Hayley Daniels, it seemed, had been around. A number of landlords and bar staff recognized her from the picture Winsome had got from Donna McCarthy, though nobody admitted actually to knowing her. She had been part of a large mixed group of Saturday-night regulars, mostly students from the college. At some times there were eight or nine of them, at others five or six. Hayley had been drinking Bacardi Breezes, and toward the end of the evening at least one landlord had refused to serve her. Nobody remembered seeing her enter the Maze.

“The barmaid from the Duck and Drake recognized her,” DC Wilson said. “In fact, she’s a student at the college herself, working part-time, like a lot of them, and she said she’s seen Hayley around on campus. Doesn’t know her especially well, though.”

“Anything else?” Banks asked.

“She was able to give me a couple of names of people who were with Hayley on Saturday night. She thought there were about eight, maybe nine of them, in all, when she saw them. They met up at the Duck and Drake around seven o’clock, had a couple of drinks and moved on. They weren’t particularly boisterous then, but it was early on.”

“Did you ask if she noticed anyone paying them much attention?”

“I did. She said it was pretty quiet around then, but there was one bloke by himself in a corner giving the girls the eye. In all fairness, the barmaid said she didn’t blame him, given how little they were wearing.”

“Name?”

“Didn’t know,” said DC Wilson. “Said he was vaguely familiar, thought she’d seen him before but couldn’t think where. Thought he might be one of the local shopkeepers having a quiet drink after work. Anyway, I gave her my mobile number in case she remembered.”

“That’s good work, Doug,” said Banks. The pub was filling up and getting noisy around them. It was hardly a day for tourists, but a coach had pulled up in the market square nevertheless, and they all came dashing toward the Queen’s Arms, plastic macs over their heads, mostly aging mothers led by their sons and daughters.

“So DC Wilson found one place they had drinks at, and I found three,” Hatchley said. “Did we miss anywhere, lad?” Hatchley glanced at Wilson, who didn’t need telling twice. He shot up from his seat and hurried to the bar ahead of the tourists.

“He’ll be all right,” said Hatchley, winking at Banks.

“Find out anything else about Hayley?” Banks asked.

“Well,” said Hatchley, “she had quite a mouth on her, according to Jack Bagley at the Trumpeters, especially when he refused to serve her. Wouldn’t believe the stream of foul language that came out of such a pretty young thing, Jack wouldn’t, and there’s not much he hasn’t heard.”

“It’s the drink,” said Banks. “Lord knows, I don’t mind a drop or two myself, but some kids don’t know when to stop these days.”

“It’s not just these days,” said Hatchley, scratching the side of his nose. “I could tell you a rugby club tale or two that would curl your toes. And what’s binge drinking, anyway, when you get right down to it? Five or more drinks in a row, three or more times a month. That’s how the so-called experts define it. But you tell me which one of us has never done that. Still, you’re right. Drinking’s quite the social-order problem these days, and Eastvale’s up there with the worst, for a town its size. And it was Saint Paddy’s Day yesterday, too. You know the Irish. Couple of drinks, a punch-up, a few songs and another drink.”

“Come on, Jim,” said Banks. “I promised Superintendent Gervaise you weren’t going to offend anyone.”

Hatchley looked hurt. “Me? Offend?”

DC Wilson rejoined them looking pleased with himself. “Seems they were here later on in the evening,” he said.

“And Cyril served them?”

“Cyril wasn’t here last night. The young lad at the far end was, though. He said they were quiet enough by then. Maybe a bit the worse for wear, but nobody was acting so drunk he thought he ought to refuse to serve them. They had a drink each, just the one, and left in orderly fashion half an hour or so before closing time.”

“That would be about half past eleven, then,” said Banks.

“Did he see where they went?” Hatchley asked.

“Over to the Fountain.”

The Fountain was the pub on the far side of the square, on the corner of Taylor’s Yard, and it was known to stay open until about midnight, or not long after. “The others must have quietened Hayley down after that fracas in the Trumpeters so they could get more drinks,” Hatchley said. “I wonder if they went to the Bar None when the Fountain closed? They’ve been stricter about who they serve in there since the last time they were in trouble, but it’s the only place in town you can get a drink after midnight, unless you fancy a curry and lager at the Taj.”

DC Wilson’s mobile buzzed and he put it to his ear. When he had asked a couple of questions and listened for a while, the frown deepened on his brow.

“What is it?” Banks asked when Wilson turned the phone off.

“It was that barmaid at the Duck and Drake,” he said. “She remembered where she’d seen the bloke sitting by himself. Got a tear in her leather jacket a couple of months ago and someone recommended that shop on the corner of Taylor’s Yard for invisible mending. Said she didn’t know the bloke’s name, but it was him, the bloke from the leather shop.”

Mel Danvers, Karen Drew’s assigned carer, was a slender young thing of twenty-something with doe eyes and a layered cap of chocolate-brown hair. Grace Chaplin seemed in control, but Mel seemed nervous, fiddling with a ring on her finger, perhaps because she was in front of her supervisor. Annie didn’t know if the nervousness meant anything, but she hoped she would soon find out. Someone had managed to get her hands on an assortment of sandwiches, she noticed, along with some digestive biscuits and a pot of tea. Things were looking up in the conference room.

Mel turned from Annie to Grace. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Karen? Murdered?”

She had checked Karen’s room, and her colleagues had searched the rest of Mapston Hall, just in case Karen had somehow returned without anyone knowing, but she was nowhere to be found. And Karen fit the description that Annie gave Grace and Mel. Tommy Naylor was busy searching her room.

“Tell me what happened?” Annie said. “Were you there when she left?”

“Yes. I even advised her against it. The weather… but her friend was quite adamant. She said a bit of wind and rain never bothered her, and it would be a long time before she could come again. I couldn’t stop her from going. I mean, she wasn’t a prisoner or anything.”

“It’s all right,” said Annie. “Nobody’s blaming you. What was her friend’s name?”

“Mary.”

“No surname?”

“She didn’t give me one. It should be in the log,” Mel said, with a glance at Grace. “They have to sign the log.”

Annie showed her the signature. Mel narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t read it,” she said.

“Nobody can,” said Annie. “I think that was the intention.”

“But you can’t mean… Oh, dear God!” She put her hand to her mouth.

Grace touched her shoulder gently. “There, there, Mel,” she said. “Be strong. Answer the inspector’s questions.”

“Yes,” said Mel, stiffening and straightening her uniform.

“Is the time right? Nine-thirty?” Annie asked.

“Yes,” Mel answered.

Well, that was something, Annie thought. “Do you require any sort of identification from people signing patients out?” she asked.

“No,” said Grace. “Why would we? Who would want to…” She let her words trail off when she realized where she was heading.

“I understand,” said Annie. “So basically anyone can walk in and take any one of your patients out?”

“Well, yes,” said Grace. “But usually they’re friends or relatives, unless they’re social workers or volunteers, of course, and then they take whoever requires them.” She paused. “Not all our patients have relatives who recognize their existence.”

“It must be difficult,” Annie said, not entirely sure what she meant. She turned to Mel again. “Had you ever seen this Mary before?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you certain it was a woman?”

“I think so,” Mel said. “It was mostly her voice, you know. I couldn’t see much of her face because she was wearing a hat and glasses, and she had a long raincoat on with the collar turned up so, you know, it sort of hid her shape, her figure and her neck. I’m pretty sure, though.”

“What was her voice like?”

“Just ordinary.”

“Any particular accent?”

“No. But not Yorkshire, like, or Geordie. Just sort of neutral. She didn’t say very much, just said she was a friend and had come to take Karen for a walk.”

“What did you notice about her?”

“She was quite slight. You know, wiry. Not very tall.”

“Did you catch a glimpse of her hair color at all?”

“Not really. I think it must have been under the hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“I don’t know. A hat. With a brim.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

“Any idea what age she was?”

“Hard to say. I didn’t get a real look at her face. Old, though. From the way she moved and her general appearance, I’d say maybe late thirties or forty.”

Annie let that go by. “Anything distinguishing about her?”

“Just ordinary, really.”

“Okay. Did you see her car? She couldn’t have walked here.”

“No,” said Mel. “I mean, I was inside all the time. Someone might have seen it in one of the parking spots.”

“Do you have CCTV in the car park?”

“No. We don’t have it at all here. I mean, it’s not as if the patients are under guard or they’re going to do… you know, run away or anything.”

“How did Karen react to the idea of a walk with Mary?”

Mel fiddled with her ring and reddened. “She didn’t. I mean, sh-she couldn’t, could she? Karen was a quadriplegic. She couldn’t communicate.”

“Did she have any particular friends here?” Annie asked. “Anyone she spent a lot of time with?”

“It’s difficult when a person can’t communicate,” Mel said. “You tend to be confined to a pretty solitary existence. Of course, the staff here make sure she has all she needs. They talk to her, tell her what’s going on. They’re all truly wonderful people. And she has her television, of course. But… well, it all goes in, but nothing comes out.” Mel shrugged.

“So you had no way of knowing whether she recognized Mary or not? Or, indeed, wanted to go with her?”

“No. But why would this Mary… I mean…” Mel started crying. Grace passed her a handkerchief from her pocket and touched her shoulder again. “Why would anybody want to take Karen out if they didn’t know her?” Mel went on. “What would be the point?”

“Well, I think we know the answer to that,” Annie said. “Someone wanted to get her alone in an isolated spot and kill her. The puzzle that remains is why. Was Karen wealthy?”

“I believe she had some money from the sale of her house,” Grace said, “but that would all have been put toward her care. I wouldn’t say she was wealthy, no.”

“How did she end up here, by the way?” Annie asked.

“Drunk driver,” said Grace. “Broke her back. Awkward area. Spinal cord damage. It happens far more often than you would imagine. Tragic case.”

“There’d be insurance, then?”

“Whatever there was, it would have also gone toward her care.”

“How long had she been here?”

“About three months.”

“Where did she come here from?”

“A hospital called Grey Oaks, just outside Nottingham. Specializes in spinal injuries.”

“How did she end up here? What’s the process?”

“It varies,” said Grace. “Sometimes it’s people’s families who’ve heard of us. Sometimes it comes through social services. Karen’s stay in the hospital was up — there was nothing more they could do for her there, and they need all the beds they can get — so the social services helped and came up with us. We had a room available, and the details were worked out.”

“Do you know the name of the social worker involved?”

“It should be in the file.”

“Does Karen have any relatives?”

“None that I know of,” said Grace. “I’d have to check the files for the information you want.”

“I’d like to take those files.”

Grace paused, then said, “Of course. Look, do you seriously think the motive was money?”

“I don’t know what it was,” said Annie. “I’m just covering all the possibilities. We need to know a lot more about Karen Drew and the life she lived before she ended up here if we hope to get any further. As nobody seems to be able to help us very much on that score, perhaps we’d better concentrate our efforts elsewhere.”

“We’ve told you all we can,” said Grace. “You should find more information in her files.”

“Maybe.” Annie looked at Mel, who seemed to have pulled herself together and was nibbling on a digestive biscuit. “We’ll need a description of this Mary as soon as possible. Someone might have seen her locally. Mel, do you think you could work with a police artist on this? I don’t know how quickly we can get someone here at such short notice, but we’ll do our best.”

“I think so,” said Mel. “I mean, I’ve never done it before, but I’ll have a try. But like I said, I never got a good look at her face.”

Annie gave her a reassuring smile. “The artist’s very good,” she said. “Just do your best. He’ll help steer you in the right direction.” Annie stood up and said to Grace, “We’ll be sending some officers over to take statements from as many staff members and patients as possible. DS Naylor will be picking up the files before we leave. I hope you’ll be cooperative.”

“Of course,” said Grace.

Annie remained in the conference room and ate a potted meat sandwich, washed down with a glass of water, until Tommy Naylor came in with the files, then they left together. “What do you think?” she asked Naylor when they got outside.

“I think we’ve got our work cut out,” he said, waving a file folder about half an inch thick. “I’ve had a quick glance, and there’s not a lot here except medical mumbo jumbo, and we don’t even have a next of kin to go on.”

Annie sighed. “These things are sent to try us. See if you can get the artist organized, not that it’ll do much good, by the sound of things, and I’ll find out if DS McCullough and the SOCOs have anything for us.”