Friend of the Devil

7

Malcolm Austin’s office was tucked away in a corner of the Travel and Tourism Department, located in a large old Victorian house on the fringes of the campus. Eastvale College had expanded over the past few years, and the squat sixties brick-and-glass buildings were no longer big enough to house all the departments. Instead of putting up more faceless new blocks, the college authorities had bought up some of the surrounding land, including streets of old houses, and revitalized southeast Eastvale. Now it was a thriving area with popular pubs, coffee shops, cheap cafés and Indian restaurants, student flats and bedsits. The college even got decent bands to play in its new auditorium, and there was talk of the Blue Lamps making an appearance there to kick off their next tour.

Austin’s office was on the first floor, and when Winsome knocked, he opened the door for her himself. It was a cozy room with a high ornate ceiling and broad sash windows. In his bookcase were a lot of travel guides to various countries, some of them very old indeed, and on his wall was a poster of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Against one wall stood a battered old sofa with scuffed black leather upholstery. The only window looked over a flagstone courtyard, where students sat at wooden tables between the trees eating sandwiches, talking and drinking coffee in the spring sunshine. It made Winsome yearn for her own student days.

Austin was about fifty, with his gray hair worn fashionably long and tied in a ponytail at the back. He also had a deep tan, probably one of the perks of the business, Winsome thought. He wore a loose blue cable-knit jumper and faded jeans torn at the knees. He kept himself in shape, and was attractive in a lanky, rangy sort of way, with a strong jaw, straight nose and large Adam’s apple. Winsome noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He pulled out a chair for her and sat behind his small, untidy desk.

Winsome first thanked Austin for agreeing to talk to her so early in the morning.

“That’s all right,” he said. “My first class is at ten o’clock, and I’m afraid my Wednesdays just get worse after that.” His smile was engaging, and his teeth seemed well cared for. “It’s about Hayley Daniels, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

A frown creased his broad forehead. “It’s a terrible tragedy. Such a bright girl.”

“She was?” Winsome realized she knew nothing about Hayley’s academic life.

“Oh, yes. Not just the written work, mind you. She had the personality for the job, too. You need personality in the travel business.”

“I’m sure,” said Winsome. “Do you know of any boyfriends or anyone on campus Hayley might have been involved with?”

Austin scratched his head. “I honestly can’t say. She seemed a very gregarious type, always hanging out with a group rather than any particular individual. I think she enjoyed the attention.”

“Do you know of anyone who disliked her?”

“Not enough to kill her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps some of the other girls envied her her figure and her good looks, her easygoing manner, even her good marks. There is a school of thought that maintains you shouldn’t have it all — brains and beauty. Perhaps some of the boys resented the fact that they couldn’t have her.”

“Stuart Kinsey?”

“He’s one example that comes immediately to mind. He was always hanging around her, drooling. It was pretty obvious he was carrying a torch for her. But Stuart wouldn’t harm a soul. He’d probably just go home and write sad love poems.”

“What was your relationship with Hayley?”

Austin looked puzzled. “Relationship? I was her tutor. I marked her essays, she attended my lectures. I helped supervise her work experience, advised her on career paths, that sort of thing.”

“Work experience?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not just an academic course, you know. Students get the chance to work with travel agents and for airlines, sometimes even as overseas representatives and guides. I was trying to get Hayley a temporary position as a yellow shirt with Swan Hellenic, but I’m afraid they’ve lost their ship to Carnival, so things are a bit up in the air.”

Winsome paused and crossed her legs. She was wearing jeans today — good ones — because she wasn’t going to make the same mistake as yesterday, though the likelihood of her being paired with Templeton again was slim to nonexistent. “Hayley was a very attractive girl,” she said.

“I suppose she was,” said Austin. “There are a lot of attractive girls around the college, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“But maybe Hayley was your type?”

“What on earth do you mean? Are you asking if we were having an affair?”

“Were you?”

“No, we were not. She was nineteen, for crying out loud.”

Yes, Winsome thought, and Annie Cabbot’s latest conquest was twenty-two. Only three years’ difference. So what? she almost said. “Are you married?”

Austin hesitated before saying, “I was. Twenty years. We separated four months ago. Irreconcilable differences.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Winsome.

“These things happen. We’d been drifting apart for some time.”

Marriage and a girl’s age were the two things that never made much difference to most men, Winsome remembered from the number of passes she had evaded when she worked at the hotel. “Weren’t you ever tempted?” she asked. “All those pretty young girls around, hanging on your every word. Surely they develop crushes on you sometimes? It’s only natural, you being a teacher and all.”

“You learn to deal with it.”

Winsome paused, then asked, “Would you mind telling me where you were on Saturday night?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir.”

“All right.” Austin glared at her. “I was at home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Raglan Road.”

“Near the town center?”

“Yes. Not far.”

“You didn’t go out at all?”

“I went to the Mitre on York Road for a couple of pints between about nine and ten.”

“Anyone see you?”

“The usual locals.”

“Then what?”

“I went back home. There was nothing that interested me on TV, so I watched a DVD.”

“What DVD?”

“Chinatown.”

“An oldie.”

“They’re often the best. Film happens to be one of my passions. When it came to a career, it was a toss-up between that and the travel business. I suppose I chose the more practical course.”

“But you didn’t go into the market square?”

“On a Saturday night? Do you think I’m crazy?” Austin laughed. “I value my life more than that.”

Winsome smiled. “We do have a bit of a problem, you see, sir. We know that Hayley wasn’t expected home on Saturday, and she wasn’t planning on going to the Bar None with her friends. She had somewhere mysterious to go, and nobody seems to know where it was.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t coming to see you?”

“Why would she do that? And why would I want a drunk and immature teenager in my house?”

Winsome could think of plenty of reasons, most of which would make her blush to say out loud, but she decided it was best to leave Austin to think of them himself. Instead, she ended the interview and walked out of the office, making a mental note of her reservations. She wasn’t at all certain that she believed him about his relationship to Hayley, but without evidence there wasn’t much she could do.

As she walked down the stairs, a skinny long-haired male student she vaguely recognized was on his way up. He paused as they passed each other and glanced at her in an odd way. At first she thought it was because of her color. She got that all the time, especially in a place like Eastvale that wasn’t exactly high in its immigrant population. Only when she had reached the street did she realize it was something else. Recognition? Fear? Guilt? He had been one of the people with Hayley in the market square just before she disappeared down Taylor’s Yard. Winsome was certain of it. One of the people DC Wilson hadn’t traced and talked to yet, as far as she knew.

Banks was running late. He dressed hurriedly after his shower, went downstairs, grabbed his travel mug of coffee and jumped into the Porsche. Once he was on the unfenced road crossing the desolate moors, he plugged in his iPod. The shuffle started with Neko Case’s “That Teenage Feeling.” He checked the dashboard clock and realized he should make it to Annie’s by nine-thirty, barring no unforeseen traffic problems when he hit the A roads.

He still felt stunned and puzzled by her behavior of the previous evening. He had half expected a phone call of apology, and had stayed up late waiting, drinking more wine and listening to Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew. But she didn’t ring. When he called her number, the answering service kicked in; same with her mobile. He hoped she hadn’t got into an accident or anything. He had even thought of calling the station when she drove away, but that was too much like telling tales on a friend. Annie could handle herself in a car, even after a few drinks. If she got done for drunk driving, there’d be hell to pay in her career. He just hoped she had got home without incident, and that was the simple message he had left on her home phone.

When he got to Harkside and knocked on her door a couple of minutes early, he got no answer. He glanced up the street, where she usually parked her purple Astra, and saw it wasn’t there. That worried him, but he assured himself that if anything had happened to her, an accident or something, it would have been on the local news that morning, and it hadn’t been. Which meant that more than likely she had wanted to avoid traveling with him and had driven off by herself.

Feeling angry and resentful, Banks headed for the A1. Neil Young followed Neko Case — a blistering “Like a Hurricane” from Live Rust, which matched his mood. By the time he negotiated the traffic on the Inner Ringroad, parked and got to the office in “fortress” Millgarth, the Leeds city center police station off Eastgate, he was six minutes late and Annie was sitting in Hartnell’s office cool as anything, with DI Ken Blackstone and Area Commander Phil Hartnell himself, who had been in overall charge of the Chameleon investigation six years ago.

“Sorry I’m late,” Banks said, easing into a vacant chair. Annie avoided looking at him. Her eyes seemed swollen, he noticed, as if she had been crying or was allergic to something.

“That’s all right, Alan,” said Hartnell. “We hadn’t really started yet. Tea? Biscuits?” He gestured to the tray sitting on his desk.

“Thanks.” Banks helped himself to tea and a couple of chocolate digestives.

Hartnell perched at the edge of his desk. “DI Cabbot was just bringing us up to speed on her investigation.”

Banks glanced at Annie again. She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Well, it’s DI Cabbot’s case. I’m here merely to help out with the Chameleon angle.”

“As are we all, Alan. As are we all,” said Hartnell.

He had filled out over the past six years, as if he had stopped working out regularly, let himself go to seed. His hairline was receding, too. Age gets to us all eventually, Banks realized, and sooner than we expect, remembering when he had first noticed his own hair starting to gray at the temples. It’ll be bloody liver spots next, he thought gloomily, and prostate cancer. That reminded him of the doctor’s appointment he hadn’t rescheduled. It was getting closer.

“You were saying about the pathologist’s report?” Hartnell, still perching, said to Annie.

“Yes, sir,” Annie said. “The postmortem didn’t really tell us anything we didn’t know already. The pathologist repeated that it’s often hard to tell handedness from slash injuries, but seemed to favor a left-to-right motion, considering pressure and depth of the wound. That gives us a right-handed killer, most likely. Again, he couldn’t commit himself to the actual weapon used but stressed that it was extremely sharp and an old-fashioned straight razor or some sort of scalpel were the most likely possibilities. Other than that, Lucy was, as we thought, a quadriplegic. In her case, that meant she couldn’t move or speak. As for time of death, that was fixed at between eight-thirty and ten-thirty A.M. As we know she left Mapston Hall at nine-thirty and was found at ten-fifteen, we can narrow that down quite a bit.”

Hartnell went behind his desk and sat down. “So what exactly can we help you with?” he asked Annie.

“It’s mostly a matter of names,” Annie said. “The people at Mapston Hall said Karen — sorry, Lucy — had no visitors other than the mysterious ‘Mary’ who picked her up on Sunday morning at nine-thirty A.M. and, in all likelihood, killed her. It appears that nobody saw her car, and we can’t get a decent description of her because they were busy and no one really noticed her apart from one staff member.” Annie took an envelope from her briefcase and passed photocopied sheets of paper to everyone. When it came to Banks, he snatched his copy from her childishly. Annie ignored him. “This is the artist’s impression worked out with Mel Danvers, Lucy’s carer, the only person who saw ‘Mary.’ As you can see, it’s not a lot of use.”

It certainly wasn’t, Banks thought, studying the figure in the rain hat, glasses and a long baggy coat, face in shadow except for a vague sense of thin lips and an oval chin. “It seems as if she deliberately wanted to obscure her appearance,” he said.

Annie said nothing.

“True enough,” Hartnell agreed.

“Yes, sir,” Annie said to him. “She didn’t really need all that gear. It had been raining at the time, but it was clearing up by then. Mel also said she got the vague impression the woman was about forty.”

“Are you working on the assumption that whoever killed Lucy Payne knew her real identity?” Hartnell asked, after examining the drawing and putting it aside.

“It seems a reasonable assumption to make at the moment, sir,” Annie said. “Otherwise, what are we left with?”

“I see your point,” said Hartnell. “Given that Karen Drew hadn’t existed for very long, it would have been rather odd if someone wanted to kill her, unless the whole thing was random, someone who just wanted to kill a helpless victim in a wheelchair for the hell of it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Annie.

“Not entirely out of the question,” said Ken Blackstone, “but perhaps the most unlikely scenario.”

“Exactly,” Annie agreed. “Especially now we know who she really was.”

Banks watched her as she spoke. She was focused on the job, but he knew it was costing her an effort, as was not looking at him. It was as if she were straining against powerful forces trying to turn her in another direction. Her jaw was set tight, and a tiny muscle twitched now and then under her left eye. He wished he could just put his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, but whatever the problem was, he knew it went way beyond a simple hug.

“Which, I suppose,” Hartnell went on, “brings us to the question of how many people knew that Karen Drew was really Lucy Payne.”

“Yes, sir.” Annie opened one of the folders she had brought with her. “Julia Ford gave us to believe that only she and a couple of other members of her law firm knew, including Constance Wells, of course, who handled Lucy’s affairs.”

“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?” said Banks. “Julia Ford isn’t going to take any responsibility for what happened to Lucy Payne.”

“Certainly there were doctors and administrators at the hospital who knew,” Annie went on, as if Banks hadn’t spoken. Ken Blackstone noticed and gave him a querying glance. Banks gave a small shake of his head in return. Later.

“What about Mapston Hall?” Hartnell asked.

“Julia Ford said not, and it was certainly in everyone’s best interest to keep it quiet, but it’s always possible someone there knew the truth.”

“Could anyone simply have recognized her?” Blackstone asked.

“That’s a difficult one, Ken,” said Annie. “The short answer is, I don’t think so. She was only twenty-eight, but she appeared to be well into her forties. Her hair was different, shorter, mostly gray, and it had lost its sheen. Her face was puffy and her figure… well, she’d become rather shapeless, lumpy. I doubt that anyone who had seen her six years ago would recognize her today. No, it’s my guess they’d have to have known who she was by some other means.”

“And we also have to contend with the fact that anyone who did know might have told someone else,” Blackstone said.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Annie agreed.

“Did any of the people at hospital or at Mapston have any connection with the Chameleon case?” Hartnell asked. “With the victims or their families?”

“A good question, sir, and that’s what we’re checking into right now,” said Annie. “As yet, we haven’t found anything, but it’s early days.”

Hartnell clapped his hands. “Right,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have a long list from me, DI Cabbot.”

“Better that than no ideas at all,” said Annie.

Hartnell handed her a sheet of paper and passed copies to Banks and Blackstone. “I’ve made out a list of all the major players in the Chameleon case,” he said. “As you can see, I’ve also included the families of the victims. In some cases, the husbands and wives have separated since then. In three cases, actually. It’s not unusual that such a tragic event can tear apart an entire family. The Myers family, parents of the last victim, lived just down the hill from the Paynes, and they moved away down south very quickly. I believe they’re in Devon now. Can’t say I blame them. Anyway, there were certainly plenty of angry relatives when Lucy Payne got off. There’s also Payne’s friend, Maggie Forrest, though I believe she returned to Canada after her breakdown. She may be back. You can check on her, at any rate.”

“I agree,” said Banks. “I’d have a very close look at Maggie Forrest if she’s around.”

“Why’s that, Alan?” Phil Hartnell asked.

“Because she was the closest to Lucy Payne in many ways, and she got seriously betrayed by her.”

“She almost got killed, if it hadn’t been for you, is what I heard,” said Hartnell.

“Yes,” said Banks. “Anyway, the point is that her feelings are bound to be deeply confused and conflicted on the issue. And let’s not forget that she had a few problems of her own. She was seeing a psychiatrist.”

“Okay,” said Hartnell. “Looks as if your first priority, Annie, is finding out whether this Maggie Forrest is in the country, and if she is, could she have had access to Lucy Payne’s identity and whereabouts?”

“Yes, sir,” said Annie, clearly not pleased that Banks had come up with this.

“What about Janet Taylor’s family?” Blackstone asked, looking up from the list. “If anyone was another Chameleon casualty, it was her.”

Hartnell turned to Annie. “You carried out the investigation into the killing of Terence Payne by Janet Taylor, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” said Annie, jaw tight.

“I understand that,” Hartnell said. “It was a rotten and thankless task, but it had to be done.” Banks happened to know that it was because of Hartnell that Annie had been given the “rotten and thankless task,” to keep it close to home. He had tried to intercede on her behalf, but Annie had been working Complaints and Discipline at the time, just after her promotion to detective inspector, and the case had been pushed right into her lap. Annie didn’t know that.

“Anyway,” Annie went on, “Janet Taylor had an older brother, and the whole business turned him into a bitter drunk. He’s been known to utter the occasional threat, though most of his vehemence is directed toward the police investigation into his sister’s conduct. There’s a chance that, if he knew where she was, he might have harbored a strong resentment against Lucy Payne, too. We’ll check him out.”

“Fine,” said Hartnell. “Now is there anyone I’ve forgotten?”

“Well, I’m just thinking, it was six years ago,” said Banks, “and that means a significant change in the ages of everyone involved. They’ve all been getting older, like the rest of us.” Blackstone and Hartnell laughed. “But in some cases it means more.”

“What are you getting at, Alan?” asked Hartnell.

“Well, sir,” said Banks, “it’s the ones who were kids at the time. I’m thinking specifically of Claire Toth. She was Kimberley Myers’s best friend. That’s the Chameleon’s last victim, the one we found naked and dead on the mattress in the cellar at 35 The Hill. They went to the dance together, but when it was time for Kimberley to go home, Claire was dancing with a boy she fancied and didn’t go with her. Kimberley went alone and Payne snatched her. Naturally, Claire felt guilty. What I’m saying is that there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one. And she’s had six years to live with the guilt. I know Annie said Mel Danvers thought Mary was about forty, but she didn’t get a good look. She could have been wrong. Quite frankly, the artist’s impression she gave is useless. I’m just saying we don’t rule out Claire or anyone else because they happen to be younger than forty, that’s all.”

“Then we’ll add her to the list, by all means,” said Hartnell. “And by the same token let’s not overlook anyone else who was the victims’ age at the time. As Alan says, people change with age, and no one more quickly and unpredictably than the young. That includes boyfriends, girlfriends, siblings, whatever. I hope you’ve got a big team, DI Cabbot.”

Annie managed a tight smile. “It’ll be a stretch, sir, but we’ll manage.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Hartnell asked.

“If you could have the Chameleon files put aside for me in a cubbyhole here somewhere…? I might need to come in and check details from time to time.”

“Consider it done,” said Hartnell. “Ken, you’ll see to it?”

“I will indeed,” said Blackstone. “And you can use my office, Annie. We’re a bit short on cubbyholes.”

“Thanks, Ken,” said Annie.

Hartnell stood up and looked at his watch, the mark of a busy man. “Well, I think that just about covers it,” he said. “I know that none of us will be shedding any tears over the death of Lucy Payne, but at the same time I think we’d all like to see justice done.”

“Yes, sir,” they all muttered as they filed out of his office.

In the corridor, Banks tried to catch up with Annie, but she was hurrying away toward an open lift door. He managed to reach out and grasp her shoulder but she pulled away with such force it stopped him in his tracks. He watched her get in the lift, and the doors closed behind her. A moment or so later, he felt a friendly hand between his shoulders. “Alan, old mate,” Ken Blackstone said, “I think you need a drink, and they might just be serving lunch by now.”

Winsome found a coffee shop across the street from Austin’s department and decided to settle down and wait for the long-haired student to come out. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when he did emerge from Austin’s building, but she knew she would think of something.

Winsome ordered her latte and sat on a stool by the window, where a long orange molded-plastic shelf ran at just the right height to rest her cup on. She was older than most of the patrons, but found it interesting that she didn’t draw many curious glances. She was wearing black denims and a short zip-up jacket, which weren’t completely out of place there, though perhaps a little upmarket for the student scene.

Most likely, she thought, nobody paid her much attention because there were two Chinese students in deep discussion at one table, a couple of Muslim girls wearing hijabs at another, and a young black woman with dreadlocks talking to a similarly coiffed white boy in a Bob Marley T-shirt. The rest were white, but this was the biggest racial mix Winsome had ever seen in Eastvale. She wondered where they all disappeared to on a Saturday afternoon, when she did her shopping, or on a Saturday evening, when the market square turned into a youth disaster zone. She guessed that there were enough pubs, bars and cafés around campus to keep them entertained without their having to risk life and limb from a bunch of drunken squaddies or farm laborers. So why did Hayley and her friends head for the city center? Living dangerously? Most likely, Winsome guessed, it was the students who actually came from Eastvale who haunted the market-square scene, the locals, or the ones from outlying villages.

Winsome kept an eye on the door of Austin’s building as she sipped the latte. While she waited, she couldn’t help but return in her mind to Annie Cabbot’s shocking confession of the previous evening. A twenty-two-year-old, for Lord’s sake? What was she thinking of? That was no more than a mere boy; DCI Banks’s son, for example, must be about that age, or not much more. And she had regarded Annie as someone she could respect, look up to. She had also secretly thought that Annie and Banks would end up together. She had thought they made a good couple and would have been happy to serve as a bridesmaid at their wedding. How wrong she was. Poor Banks. If only he knew, he would surely be as disgusted as she was.

Winsome was surprised at her own prudish reaction, but she had had a strict religious and moral upbringing, and no amount of exposure to the loose ways of the modern world could completely undo that.

After Annie had stormed out, Winsome had gone home herself. She had been worried about Annie’s driving, but when she got outside, the Astra was gone from the square. Too late. She also felt that she had let her friend down, hadn’t said the right things, made the right noises, given her the sympathy and understanding she needed, but she had felt so shocked and at sea, so burdened by, rather than grateful for, the intimacy of the confession, that she hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t felt much sympathy. So much for sisterly solidarity. There had been something else, though, some trouble with this boy that Annie hadn’t got the chance to tell her about, and that worried her, too.

Students ambled up and down the street carrying backpacks or shoulder bags, wearing T-shirts and jeans; nobody seemed in a hurry. That was the life, Winsome thought. They didn’t have to deal with people like Templeton or face the dead bodies of young women first thing on a Sunday morning. And she bet they indulged in night after night of sweaty guiltless sex. She felt as if she could sit there forever sipping coffee looking out on the sunshine, and a sense of childhood peace came over her, the kind she had felt back at home during the long, hot, still days when all she could hear was birds and the lazy clicking of banana leaves from the plantation.

But it didn’t last. Before she had finished, the young man walked out of the door, glanced around as he went down the steps, and turned up the street. Winsome picked up her briefcase and shoulder bag and set off in pursuit, leaving the rest of her latte. She had decided it would be best simply to approach him and have done with it. She was a police officer and he was a witness, at the very least.

“Excuse me,” she called, as he was about to turn a corner.

He stopped, a puzzled expression on his face, and pointed his thumb to his chest. “Moi?”

“Yes, you. I want a word with you.”

“What about?”

Winsome showed him her warrant card. “Hayley Daniels,” she said.

“I know who you are, but I don’t know—”

“Don’t give me that. You were in the market square with her on Saturday night. We’ve got you on CCTV.”

The boy turned pale. “I suppose I… well… let’s go in here.” He turned into a café. Winsome didn’t want another coffee. Instead, she settled for a bottle of fizzy water while the boy, who said his name was Zack Lane, spooned sugar into his herbal tea. “Okay,” he said. “I knew Hayley. So what?”

“Why didn’t you come forward? You must have known we’d catch up with you eventually.”

“And get involved in a murder investigation. Would you have come forward?”

“Of course I would,” said Winsome. “What’s the problem if you haven’t done anything wrong?”

“Huh. Easy for you to say.” He paused and examined her closely. “On the other hand, maybe it’s not that easy. You ought to know better than most.”

Winsome felt herself bristle. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, come on. I can’t even imagine why you’d want to be a cop. Someone like you. I’ll bet your mates aren’t too thrilled, are they? Always getting pulled over on sus because they’re black. All you have to do is walk down the street and they—”

“Shut up. Stop right there,” said Winsome, holding her palm up, and something in her tone stopped him in his tracks. “I’m not here to discuss racism or my career choices with you. I’m here to ask you questions about Hayley Daniels. Got that? You said you knew who I was when you saw me. How?”

Zack smiled. “There aren’t any other black coppers in Eastvale,” he said. “None except you, as far as I know, and you’ve had your photo in the paper. I can’t say as I’m surprised, either. It didn’t do you justice. Should have been page three.”

“Knock it off,” said Winsome. Shortly after she had been sent to Eastvale, the local paper had done a feature on her. She managed a smile. “You must have been very young back then.”

“I’m older than I look. Grew up just down the road. I’m a local lad. My dad’s an alderman, so he likes us all to keep in touch with the beating pulse of the metropolis.” He laughed.

“You just went to see Malcolm Austin.”

“So? He’s my tutor.”

“Any good, is he?”

“Why, thinking of enrolling as a mature student?”

“Stop being cheeky and answer my questions.”

“Lighten up.”

“Lighten up?” echoed Winsome in disbelief. Isn’t that what Annie had said to her last night? She thought of making some sarcastic remark about it being difficult for someone of her color, but instead she prodded him in the chest and said, “Lighten up? I was one of the first on the scene to see Hayley’s body on Sunday morning, so don’t tell me to lighten up. I saw her lying there dead. She’d been raped and strangled. So don’t tell me to lighten up. And you’re supposed to be a friend of hers.”

Zack’s face had gone pale now, and he was starting to appear contrite. “All right. I’m sorry,” he said, sweeping back his hair. “I’m shaken up about Hayley, too, you know. I liked her, the silly cow.”

“Why silly cow?”

“She was outrageous. She got us chucked out of the Trumpeters and nearly did the same at the Fountain.”

“I thought you were well behaved at the Fountain?”

“Been asking around, have you?”

“Doing our job.”

“Just the facts, ma’am. Sure. Well, we were. Except Hayley wanted a p — She needed to go to the toilet badly, and some yobs had wrecked it. Happens all the time. Gave Jamie behind the bar a right mouthful, though it was hardly his fault.”

“Jamie Murdoch?”

“Aye. You know him?”

“We’ve talked to him.”

“I went to school with Jamie. He moved down from Tyneside with his parents when he was about twelve. He’s all right. A bit quiet, lacking in ambition, maybe.”

“In what way?”

“Jamie tried the college once, but he didn’t take to it. He’s actually quite bright, but not everyone can handle the academic life. He can do better than the pub, but I’m not sure he’s got the balls to try.”

“He was running it alone on Saturday night,” said Winsome.

“Yeah, I know. He does that a lot. Can’t seem to keep the staff. I think he’s got Jill Sutherland working there at the moment, but I’ll bet that won’t last.”

“Why not?”

“Too many airs and graces to last long in a dive like the Fountain, our Jill.”

“What about the owner?”

“Terry Clarke? That wanker? He’s never there. Got a time-share in Orlando or Fort Lauderdale or somewhere like that. It can’t be easy for Jamie. He’s not a natural authoritarian. He lets everyone just walk all over him. Anyway, Hayley got a bit mouthy when she saw the state of the bogs, called him a few names, told him to get in there and fix it or she’d do it on the floor. That was our Hayley. But we calmed her down before any real harm was done. We got to finish our drinks, at any rate.”

Winsome made a note that someone should have another chat with Jamie Murdoch and also locate Jill Sutherland. “Is it true that Hayley went down Taylor’s Yard to use the toilet?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Zack. He cocked his head and studied Winsome. “Though that’s an odd way of putting it. I mean, there isn’t an actual toilet there. Like I said, Hayley could be pretty outrageous. As soon as we got outside the Fountain, she announced to all and sundry that she was off for a piss. Sorry. She needed to go to the toilet, and she was going in the Maze.” He paused. “Maybe she should have done it on the floor, then she wouldn’t have gone in there.”

“Didn’t any of you try to talk her out of it?”

“Yes, but you can’t talk Hayley out of anything when she gets her mind set on it.”

That was what Stuart Kinsey had said, Winsome remembered. “One of you could at least have gone with her…” Winsome realized what she had said too late and let the sentence trail off.

“I’m not saying she wouldn’t have got plenty of volunteers,” said Zack with a smirk. “Stuart, for one. Maybe even me, if I was drunk enough. But I can’t say I’m into golden showers, and Hayley wasn’t my type. Oh, we all joked about going down there and jumping out at her, giving her a fright, catching her with her knickers down, but it didn’t happen. We ended up in the Bar None. And Hayley…”

“She wasn’t planning on joining you later?”

“No, she was gong to stay at a friend’s.”

“Who? A girlfriend?”

Zack laughed. “Come off it. Whatever our Hayley was, she definitely wasn’t a girl’s girl. I’m not saying she didn’t have a couple of mates — Susie and Colleen come to mind — but mostly she liked to hang around with the guys.”

“Can you give me the names of everyone who was there on Saturday?”

“Let’s see, there was me, Hayley, Susie Govindar, Colleen Vance, then there were Stuart Kinsey, Giles Faulkner and Keith Taft. That was about it. Will, that’s Will Paisley, he was with us earlier but he went off to see some mates in Leeds early on. To be quite honest, I think he’s got a boyfriend there, though he seems to be lingering overlong in the closet. Mind you, I can’t say I blame him in a place like this.”

“So most of the time, after this Will had gone off to Leeds, for whatever reason, there were seven of you, right?”

“Give or take one or two we met on the way.”

“You said that Hayley preferred the company of men. Why was that?”

“Why do you think? Because then she was the center of attention. Because they’d do anything she wanted. Because she pretty much had all of them wrapped around her little finger.”

“She sounds like a drunken lout to me.”

Zack studied Winsome closely. “But you didn’t know her,” he said. “Actually, there was a lot more to her than that. Sure, she liked to cut loose on a Saturday night, go wild, get kalied and let her hair down. But she was a good student, she did her work on time, and she had a good future. She was bright, too. Sometimes you have to dig deeper than the flashy clothes and the superficial bravado.”

“And you did?”

“I went out with her a couple of times last year. But like I said, she wasn’t really my type. And in case you were thinking of asking, no, I didn’t sleep with her. Hayley wasn’t a slag. Kept herself fastened up as tight as a Scotsman’s wallet, in spite of the sexy clothes and all. It was strictly top only for me.”

“So she was a tease?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“No, not really. She could be. She liked playing games, flirting, winding you up. But she could be serious, too. I mean, you could have a good serious talk with Hayley. Politics. Music. History. Whatever. She had opinions and the knowledge to back them up. All I’m saying is that just because she dressed the way she did, it didn’t mean she was giving it away to everyone. You should know that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Okay, don’t get your kni — Don’t take offense. I meant in your job you must hear that excuse about someone asking for it because of the way she dresses, and you know it shouldn’t matter. A woman should be able to walk the streets of Eastvale stark naked if she wants, and no one has the right to touch her.”

Winsome laughed. “I’m sure they’d have a good look, though.”

“Well,” said Zack, “that’s one thing you lot haven’t made illegal. Yet.” He tapped the side of his head. “Along with what people think.”

“We’re trying to find out who Hayley had been seeing recently,” Winsome went on. “If it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Stuart Kinsey, do you have any idea who it might have been?”

Zack paused. “Well, she didn’t say anything, but…” He glanced out of the window back down the street whence they’d come. “I don’t think you’d have to look much further than our Mr. Austin back there.”

“Is that where she was going on Saturday night?”

“I think so.”

“Austin denied that he had anything to do with her.”

Zack laughed. “He would, wouldn’t he? He’d stand to lose his job. They don’t take kindly to that sort of thing around here.”

“Do you know this for a fact?”

“About Mal and Hayley? Sure. I’ve seen them together, seen him with his hand creeping up her thigh, nibbling her neck.”

“When was this?”

“About a month ago.”

Winsome felt her pulse speed up. Zack Lane had been worth the wait, after all. “Where did you see them?”

“Pub outside Helmthorpe. The Green Man. They must have thought they were far enough out of the manor, but I was over there for a darts competition.”

“Did they see you?”

“I don’t think so. I cleared out pretty quickly when I saw them.”

“Why?”

“It would have been awkward. Remember, Austin’s my tutor, too.”

“Yes,” said Winsome. “Of course.” She stood up. “Thanks, Mr. Lane. Thanks a lot.” Now she had the corroboration she needed, Winsome had the feeling that things were starting to progress, and Malcolm Austin was going to have a lot of difficult questions to answer the next time he got a visit from the police.