Friend of the Devil

8

So what is it, Alan? What’s going on? You could have cut the tension in there with a knife.”

“Do you think Phil Hartnell noticed?”

“He didn’t get where he is today by not noticing things like that. He probably thought you’d had a lovers’ tiff.”

“And you?”

“It seemed the logical assumption. But…”

“But what, Ken?”

“Well, you’re not lovers, are you? At least I thought you two were no longer an item.”

“We’re not,” said Banks. “At least I didn’t think we were.”

“What does that mean?”

They were sitting outside on a bench at the Packhorse, in a yard just off Briggate. The walls were higher, but it made Banks think of the Maze and Hayley Daniels. Banks tucked into his jumbo haddock and chips, a pint of Black Sheep beside him. There was already a group of students at one table discussing a Radiohead concert, and the lunchtime office crowd was starting to trickle in, men with their ties loosened and jackets slung over their shoulders, and the women in long print skirts and short-sleeved tops, open-toed shoes or sandals. The weather really had warmed up since Sunday, and it was looking good for the weekend.

“I wish I knew,” said Banks. He didn’t feel it was his place to tell Ken exactly what had happened the previous evening, so he gave the bare-bones version, leaving out any mention of the awkward pass Annie had made, or the way he had felt when her thighs and breasts brushed against him. Desire and danger. And he had chosen to protect himself from the danger rather than give in to the desire. But he couldn’t explain that to Ken, either. There had been jealousy, too, when she talked about toyboys. He had read somewhere that jealousy cannot exist without desire.

“So what was all that about, then?” Blackstone asked.

Banks laughed. “Annie doesn’t exactly confide in me these days. Besides, she’s been over at Eastern Area for a couple of weeks. We’ve not been in touch. Something strange is going on in her life; that’s all I can say for certain.”

“She didn’t look good this morning.”

“I know.”

“You say she was drunk when she came to see you?”

“That was definitely the impression I got.”

“Maybe she’s got a problem with the bottle? It happens often enough in our line of work.”

Banks stared into his half-empty pint. Or was it half full? Did he have a problem with the bottle? There were those who would say he did. He knew he drank too much, but he didn’t drink enough to give him a hangover every morning or interfere with his job, so he tended not to worry about it too much. What harm was he doing sitting around by himself having a few glasses of wine listening to Thelonious Monk or the Grateful Dead? So, once in a while he got the blues and let himself wallow in a few late Billie Holiday torch songs, or Dylan’s Modern Times, and perhaps poured an extra glass or two. So what? As Annie had said, what did he have in his miserable little life that was so wonderful he could afford to reject someone like her?

“I don’t think it’s that,” Banks said. “Annie’s always enjoyed a pint, and she can hold her booze. No, I think that’s the symptom, not the cause.”

“Man trouble?”

“Why do we always assume it’s something along those lines?” Banks said. “Maybe it’s job trouble?” But even as he spoke, he wasn’t convinced. There were things that Annie had said last night, things he had only half understood, but if he read between the lines they pointed toward man trouble. He’d been involved in her love life before, and he didn’t know if he wanted to be involved again. “Maybe it’s dredging up that whole Lucy Payne and Janet Taylor business,” he said, hoping at least to divert, if not completely change, the subject.

Blackstone sipped some beer. “She had a rough time of it,” he said. “Definitely got the short end of the shitty stick on that one.”

“We all had a rough time of it,” said Banks. “But I know what you mean. Any ideas?”

“On who might have done it?”

“Yes.”

“Like AC Hartnell said, it’s a long list. One thing that brings me up short, though, is the… well, I suppose you could say the precision of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first let’s assume that one way or another it wasn’t too hard for the killer to find out where Lucy Payne went when she left hospital. I know Julia Ford says her firm went to great lengths to disguise her identity and her whereabouts, but these things can all be circumvented if someone wanted to find out badly enough. A little inside help, a lot of public records, a few quid changing hands, whatever. So let’s put that aside and assume finding her was no real challenge. What I’m thinking about is the method. If it had been an angry and disturbed member of a victim’s family, say, then why not just take Lucy for a walk down the coast and push her over the cliff?”

“I see what you mean,” said Banks. “To do it the way it was done, the killer had to go prepared. The razor, or whatever she used, for example.”

“Yes. And even if we assume that someone set out to kill Lucy, that it was premeditated, it still makes more sense just to dump her over the side. It wasn’t as if she could be forced to confess anything, or even show any fear or feel pain. She couldn’t even talk.”

“Are you suggesting that it wasn’t someone involved in the Chameleon case?”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” said Blackstone. “But it’s a possibility worth considering. Could anyone who was that angry at Lucy Payne for what she’d done to a family member be that cold-blooded? Where was the anger?”

“If the killer had simply pushed Lucy off the edge of the cliff,” Banks said, “there’s always a chance that the body might never have been found.”

“But they’d have recovered the wheelchair, surely, and that would have told them what happened.”

“Perhaps.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” said Blackstone. “I’m just thinking out loud. She might not have even died if she went over the cliff.”

“No, Ken, I think you’re heading in the right direction. This was a cold-blooded job, simple as that. A job that had to be done efficiently. Almost like a hit. The killer had to know that the victim had died at her hands, perhaps even watch her die. She couldn’t face the uncertainty. After all, if Lucy Payne was a quadriplegic already, there wasn’t much more harm anyone could do to her other than extinguish her life completely, what little of it there was left.”

“And all that was left was inside,” said Blackstone.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I’m just rambling. You’re right, though. It was an efficient method. It got the job done, and it left the evidence in plain sight, for all to see. There has to be something in that.”

“So whoever did it was making a statement?” said Banks.

“Yes. Draining her life’s blood. And what was that statement? I think when we get the answer to that, we’ll be a long way toward at least ruling out a lot of people.”

“We?”

“I mean Annie’s team.”

“But it does feel like a continuation, doesn’t it?” Banks said. “Like unfinished business.”

“Yes,” Blackstone agreed. “I was thinking of suggesting bringing in Jenny Fuller again, as a profiler. She worked the original case.”

“I don’t know where she is at the moment. I think she’s left Eastvale for good. She could be in America or Australia as far as I know. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“You sound as if you regret that. History?”

“Plenty,” said Banks, “but not the kind you’re thinking of. All my mistakes with Jenny are in what we didn’t do, not in anything we did. Missed opportunities rather than anything hastily done and regretted.”

“Hmm.”

“We’ve known each other a long time, that’s all,” said Banks. “Ever since I’ve been up north, as a matter of fact. I met her on my very first case. Maybe things could have been different, but they’re not, and it’s too late now. It never happened.”

They finished their drinks and headed out to Briggate. The fine weather had brought people out in the city center, and the pedestrian precinct was packed, the shops doing brisk business: Marks & Spencer, Harvey Nichols, Debenhams, Curry’s Digital. All the fourteen-year-old mothers were out showing off their solarium suntans, pushing the pram with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other. Or so it seemed. After saying good-bye to Blackstone at the Headrow and promising to get together soon for a curry and a few pints, Banks went into Muji and bought a handful of those little cardboard-bound notebooks he liked so much, then he wandered into Borders to see if they had White Heat on sale. He had enjoyed the first volume of Dominick Sandbrook’s history of the fifties in Britain, Never Had It So Good, and looked forward to reading the second — his period, the sixties — after he’d finished Postwar. After that, he would check out the new CDs in HMV.

Annie didn’t feel particularly proud of her performance at Millgarth as she drove into Whitby just over an hour and a half later. It was a beautiful day, and the sea lay spread out below her, all greens and blues, so much brighter and more vibrant than she had seen them before. The red pantile roofs of the houses straggled up the hillside, and the harbor walls stretched out into the water like pincers. The whole scene, flanked on either side by high cliffs, appeared more like an abstract landscape than a real place.

From the heights, she could easily see the town’s two distinctive halves, split by the estuary: East Cliff, with its ruined abbey and Saint Mary’s Church, like an upturned boat; and West Cliff, with its rows of Victorian guesthouses and hotels, the statue of Captain Cook and the massive jawbone of a whale. Though Annie took in the sight, and her painter’s eye translated it to an abstract canvas, her mind was preoccupied with Banks, Eric and, most of all, her own erratic behavior. She’s Lost Control. Didn’t someone used to sing a song called that? Banks would know. Banks. Damn him. What had she been thinking? That one quick shag with him was going to make everything all right?

The more she thought about Saturday night, the more convinced she became that it wasn’t the age difference that bothered her. After all, if it were the other way round, if she were a twenty-two-year-old woman, it would seem perfectly normal for most men of forty and above to sleep with her — she bet there wasn’t one of them would turn down a Keira Knightley or a Scarlett Johansson. There were also plenty of women in their forties who had bragged to Annie about making youthful conquests. She ought to be dead chuffed with herself for pulling Eric, rather than feeling so cheap and dirty. But she knew that she felt that way because that wasn’t who she was.

Perhaps she felt so bad because she had always believed that she chose to sleep with men she could talk to in the morning, and the fact that they were often older than her, more mature, like Banks, never seemed to matter. They had more experience, more to talk about. The young were so self-obsessed, so image-conscious. Even when she was younger, she had felt the same way, had always preferred older men and thought boys her own age somewhat shallow and lacking in everything except sexual energy and frequency. Perhaps that was enough for some women. Perhaps it ought to be enough for her, but it wasn’t; otherwise she wouldn’t feel so bad.

What upset her the most of all, and what refused to go away, was that she hadn’t known what she was doing. She had lost control. For some reason, she had been drunk enough that being fancied by a fit young lad when she’d just turned forty and was starting to feel ancient had appealed to her. Waking up with a blinding hangover and a stranger was never a good thing, in Annie’s experience, but in this case the fact that he was young enough to be her son only made it worse.

And she couldn’t even claim that she had been coerced or date-raped or anything. There had been no Rohypnol or GHB, only alcohol and a couple of joints, and the worst thing about it was that, pissed as she had been, she knew she had been a willing participant in whatever had gone on. She couldn’t remember the details of the sex, only hurried fumblings, graspings, rough grunts and a sense of everything being over very quickly, but she could remember her initial excitement and enthusiasm. In the end, she assumed that it had been as unsatisfactory for him as it had been for her.

Then there was the episode with Banks last night. Again, what on earth had she thought she was doing? Now things could never be the same; she’d never be able to face him with any self-respect again. And she had put both Banks and Winsome in an awkward position, driving in that state. She could have lost her license, got suspended from her job. And that seemed the least of her problems.

The colors of the sea changed as she drove down the winding hill, and soon she was beside the houses, stopping at traffic lights in the streets of the town center, busy with normal life. A herd of reporters had massed outside the station, waving microphones and tape recorders at anyone coming or going. Annie made her way through with the help of the uniformed officers on crowd control and went to the squad room, where she found the usual scene of controlled chaos. She had hardly got in when Ginger came up to her. “You all right, ma’am? You look at bit peaky.”

“I’m fine,” Annie growled. “Those bloody reporters are getting to me, that’s all. Anything new?”

“Got a message for you from an ex-DI called Les Ferris,” Ginger said.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?”

“Local. Used to work out of here, but he’s down in Scarborough now. Put out to pasture, officially, but they give him a cubbyhole and employ him as a civilian researcher. Pretty good at it, apparently.”

“And?”

“Just says he wants to see you, that’s all.”

“Aren’t I the popular one?”

“He says it’s about an old case, but he thinks it might be relevant to the Lucy Payne investigation.”

“Okay,” said Annie. “I’ll try to sneak out and fit him in later. Anything else come up while I’ve been away?”

“Nothing, ma’am. We’ve talked to the people at Mapston Hall again. Nothing new there. If someone did know that Karen Drew was Lucy Payne, they’re hiding it well.”

“We’re going to have to put a team on checking for leaks, dig a lot deeper,” Annie said. “We need to look very closely at everyone in Julia Ford’s practice, the Mapston Hall staff, the hospital, social services, the lot. See if you can get someone local to help down in Nottingham and divide the rest up among our best researchers. Tell them it’ll mean overtime.”

“Yes, Guv,” said Ginger.

“And I think we need to ask questions in other directions, too,” said Annie, taking the folders out of her briefcase. “We’re going to have to widen the base of our inquiry. Take this list of names and divide it up between yourself, DS Naylor and the rest of the team, will you? They’re all people who suffered one way or another at Lucy Payne’s hands six years ago, most of them in West Yorkshire. I’ve already liaised with the locals there, and they’ll give us as much help as they can. We need statements, alibis, the lot. I’ll pay a visit to Claire Toth myself tomorrow. She was close to the Paynes’ last victim, blamed herself for what happened. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” said Ginger, scanning the list. “But it certainly seems as if we’ve got our work cut out.”

“I’ve got more, specially for you, Ginger.”

“How nice, ma’am.”

“There was a young Canadian woman living on The Hill opposite the Paynes. She became quite close friends with Lucy, even after the arrest. Appeared on TV as her ‘champion,’ that sort of thing, thought Lucy was a poor victim.”

“I see,” said Ginger.

“She was also present when Lucy Payne had her ‘accident.’ Lucy was living in her house at the time. You can imagine the sense of betrayal she must have felt. Anyway, she has to be our chief suspect if she was anywhere near the scene. Her name’s Maggie, or Margaret, Forrest. She worked as an illustrator for children’s books, so the odds are that she’s still in the same line of work. You can check publishers, professional associations, what have you. You know the drill.” She passed a folder to Ginger. “The details are all in here.”

“You said she’s Canadian. What if she’s gone home?”

“Then she’s not our problem anymore, is she?”

“And if I find her?”

“Come straight to me,” said Annie. “That’s another interview I’d like to do myself.”

Jill Sutherland, part-time barmaid at the Fountain, was in the kitchen when Winsome called at her flat about a mile from the college. “I was just making a cup of tea,” Jill said. “I only got home about five minutes ago. Can I offer you some?”

“That’d be great,” said Winsome

Jill carried the pot and two cups, along with milk and sugar, on a tray, then sat cross-legged on the small sofa in front of the coffee table. Her living room was light and airy, with a distinct whiff of air freshener. Innocuous pop music played on the radio, occasionally interrupted by a cheery voice turned so low that Winsome thankfully couldn’t hear a word he said. She sat opposite Jill and took out her notebook.

Jill smiled. She was a pretty redhead with a button nose and a pale freckled complexion, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. All in all, she had an air of innocence that Winsome thought probably belied her experience. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I don’t know, really,” Winsome began. “It’s about Saturday night in the Fountain. The girl who was killed, Hayley Daniels, had just been drinking there. We’re trying to gather as much information as we can.”

Jill’s expression changed. “Yes, that was terrible. The poor girl. I read about her in the paper. And to think I could have been working just around the corner. Or even walking through there myself.”

“You walk through the Maze alone?”

“Usually, if I’ve been working. It’s a shortcut. I park in the Castle car park, and it’s the fastest way. I never thought it was dangerous, really.”

“You should be more careful.”

Jill shrugged. “I never had any problems. There was never anyone else there.”

“Even so… Did you know Hayley?”

“I’d seen her around.”

“You’re a student at the college, too?”

“Yes. Forensic science.”

Winsome raised her eyebrows. “Forensic science? I didn’t even know they had a course in that.”

“It’s quite new. After two years you can get into analytical chemistry at the University of Leeds.”

“Is that where you met Hayley, at college?”

“Travel and Tourism’s just around the corner. We share a coffee shop. I’d seen her in town sometimes, too, shopping.”

“And in the Fountain?”

“Once or twice.”

“But you weren’t friends.”

“No, just acquaintances. I only knew her to say hello to.”

“You called in poorly on Saturday, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What was wrong with you?”

“Just a cold.”

Winsome guessed by the way Jill averted her eyes and flushed as she spoke, that she wasn’t exactly telling the truth. As a further distraction, Jill chose that moment to lean forward and pour the tea. As she did so, she gave a small cough and put her hand to her mouth. “Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please,” said Winsome. She accepted the mug and went back to her question. “All better now?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Come on,” said Winsome. “You can be honest with me. I’ve seen the Fountain. You didn’t have a cold, did you? You just didn’t want to go to work.”

Jill’s eyes filled with tears. “I need the money,” she said. “My parents can’t afford to support me.”

“I don’t blame you for that, but there must be a better job.”

“I’m sure there is, and I’m looking. In the meantime, there’s the Fountain.”

“What’s Jamie Murdoch like to work for?”

“Jamie’s all right.”

“Has he ever bothered you?”

“He asked me out a couple of times, but I said no.” Jill wrinkled her nose. “He’s not really my type. I mean, he’s not exactly God’s gift, is he?”

Winsome smiled. “How did he react to that?”

“He was disappointed, naturally, but he didn’t push it. No, it’s not working for Jamie that’s the problem. It’s just… I can’t deal with all the drunks and the abuse. I mean, I know people aren’t really themselves when they’ve had a lot to drink, but the mood can get very uncomfortable. There’s rows and fights and all sorts, and it’s not as if Jamie is the bouncer type.”

“So what happens?”

“Oh, people usually calm down. I mean, no one ever got really hurt or anything. It’s just the language flying around, and the rudeness. Not that I’m a prude or anything. And then there’s the smoke. You wouldn’t believe how bad it gets sometimes. First thing I have to do when I get home is put all my clothes in the basket and have a long soak in the bath.”

“That should improve after the smoking ban in July,” said Winsome. “Is there anything else about working there that bothers you?”

Jill paused and bit on her lower lip. “I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school,” she said finally, “but in the summer, when me and Pauline drove across to France for a weekend, Jamie asked me to stop and fill the boot with cheap lager and cigarettes.”

“It’s not illegal,” said Winsome.

“I know, but I think selling them in the pub is. I know lots of people do it, and like I said, I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, but I didn’t want to do anything that might harm my future, especially if I’m going to be connected to law enforcement. That would be crazy.”

“Quite right,” said Winsome. Illegal booze and cigarettes was not exactly the kind of breakthrough she was looking for, but it was another snippet to add to the file. As far as telling Customs and Excise was concerned, though, a pub like the Fountain was so low down the pecking order when it came to smuggling that it would be hardly worth their while. “Jamie says he was there until half past two cleaning up after someone wrecked the toilets,” she said.

“I know. He told me. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Has it happened before?”

“Not that bad, but someone broke some glasses once. And they often stuff toilet paper down the bowl. That’s what I mean about working there. You dread going to work on a weekend, and the rest of the time it’s dead, except for lunch sometimes. I’m sorry I left Jamie in the lurch like that. I feel really bad now I know he was there all by himself when… you know… it happened.”

Winsome stood up. “He’ll survive. Thanks a lot, Jill, you’ve been a great help.”

“I have?”

Winsome smiled. “Like I said, every little bit helps.”

Detective Superintendent Catherine Gervaise had called the progress review meeting in the boardroom of Western Area HQ for 5:00 P.M. that Wednesday afternoon, by which time some of the forensic reports had started trickling in. DS Stefan Nowak, the crime scene coordinator, was there as liaison with the lab, along with Dr. Elizabeth Wallace, Banks, Templeton, Wilson, Hatchley and Winsome, just back from talking to Jill Sutherland.

“Okay,” said Gervaise, when everyone had settled with coffee, pads and pens in front of them. “Let’s add up what we’ve got so far. First off, DS Nowak is here on behalf of forensic services. I know it’s probably too early yet, but do you have anything for us, Stefan?”

“Not a lot, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said Nowak. “And most of it’s negative. Technical support did manage to enhance the number plate of the car that passed by around the same time Hayley Daniels went into Taylor’s Yard, but it turns out it was just a couple on their way home from celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary at that posh restaurant down Market Street.”

“What about Hayley herself?” Gervaise asked. “Anything more on what happened there?”

“The rapist wore a condom, so we don’t—”

“Hang on a minute,” said Banks. “What about the semen on the victim’s thigh?”

“I was getting to that,” said Nowak. “All I can suggest is that he was in a hurry and it spilled out when he removed the condom, or it belongs to someone else. We’re still waiting on DNA results.”

“There were two of them?” said Gervaise.

“Not necessarily two attackers,” said Nowak. “Someone could have had consensual sex with her, in accordance with the theory that she went into the Maze to meet someone.”

“Then someone else killed her?” said Templeton.

“Possibly.”

“She went into the Maze to relieve herself,” said Winsome. “And she wasn’t a slut.”

“I’m not suggesting that she was,” said Nowak, looking taken aback. “Just that the results are inconsistent. We know that someone had sex with Hayley using a condom because we found traces of a lubricant used on a common brand, but we also found traces of semen on her thigh and on two of the adjacent leather remnants. Those are the facts. It’s not up to me to speculate, but I’d ask why a killer clever enough to clean up the body to some extent would miss the semen, unless it happened at a different time, or perhaps was left by someone else. There was one slight inconsistency.”

“Yes?” said Gervaise.

“The seminal fluid wasn’t quite as dry as it should have been given the time of death.”

“As I’ve explained many times,” said Dr. Wallace with a definite hint of defensiveness in her tone, “time of death is always, at best, a rough estimate.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Nowak.

“What time, then?” asked Banks.

Nowak looked at Dr. Wallace before answering. “I don’t see any reason to argue with the original estimate, between midnight and two A.M.,” he said. “There could be other reasons for the inconsistency. I’ll work on it.”

“Very well,” said Gervaise.

“I noted in my postmortem that Hayley might have tried to fight off her attacker,” said Dr. Wallace. “Did you find any tissue in the samples we scraped from under her fingernails?”

“Alas, no,” said Nowak. “As you mentioned in your report, the nails were too short to actually scratch anyone. All we got were a few common cotton fibers.”

“Any luck identifying them?” Gervaise asked.

Nowak shook his head. “We’re still working with them, but they could come from any number of brands. Not only that,” Nowak went on, “but she could have picked them up at any time during the evening. Remember, she was with a large group of people, and the odds were that some or all of them touched or brushed against the others at some point.”

“Hair?” Banks asked.

“Only hers and Joseph Randall’s.”

“So our killer wore a balaclava, or he’s bald,” said Hatchley.

Nobody laughed.

“There’s evidence the killer cleaned her up,” said Dr. Wallace. “Washed her pubic area.”

“Except he missed that semen,” Banks said.

“It looks that way,” said Nowak. “Or that happened after he’d cleaned her up.”

“Possible,” Dr. Wallace agreed.

“Fingerprints?” asked Banks.

“None. Sorry.”

“I thought you lot could perform miracles these days,” said Banks, seeing everything slipping away.

Nowak looked at Dr. Wallace. “Sometimes it seems that way, but we’re only as good as the evidence we collect.”

“Any luck with the known offenders?” Gervaise asked.

“Nothing,” said Banks. “They’ve all been interviewed, and they all have alibis. We’re still working on it.”

Gervaise turned to Nowak again. “Have we missed something?”

“I don’t think so,” said Nowak. “The SOCOs went over that place as thoroughly as any scene they’ve ever handled. One other thing we found was traces of the girl’s urine on the ground outside the storage room, which is consistent with her friends’ statement that she went down Taylor’s Yard to relieve herself. We also found traces of vomit which we matched to her stomach contents, so it looks very much as if she was sick, too. The team also went through the neighboring buildings. Most of them are empty or used for storage of some kind. Nothing there.”

“So are we dealing with a particularly clever killer?” Templeton asked.

“Not necessarily,” said Nowak. “You’ve got to wonder how smart a killer is when he cleans up a body but misses a drop of semen. Maybe he’s just lucky. But let’s be honest: Anyone who sets out to commit a crime today has seen The Bill, probably Silent Witness and CSI, too. The general public knows way too much about forensics, no matter how much of it is fabricated. People know to be careful, and what to be careful about. In some cases, they even know how to go about it.”

“What I’m getting at, ma’am,” Templeton said to Gervaise, “is that we might be dealing with the first in a series. The more well prepared our killer went out, the more he cleaned up after himself, the more it suggests forward planning, surely?”

“It doesn’t mean that he had any victim in mind beyond Hayley Daniels,” argued Banks, “or that it wasn’t someone who knew her. If Stefan is right and there are two distinct people involved, perhaps her killer wasn’t her rapist. Has anyone traced Hayley’s biological mother, by the way?”

“She went off to South Africa with her boyfriend,” said Winsome. “Hasn’t been back.”

Banks turned to Templeton. “I think we all take your point, Kev,” he said. “Jim, did your search turn up any similar crimes anywhere in the country over the past eighteen months?”

“There are plenty of teenage girls gone missing,” said Hatchley, “but most of them have turned up, and the ones who haven’t didn’t disappear in circumstances like Hayley Daniels.”

“Thanks, Jim. Keep searching.” Banks turned back to Templeton. “What I’m saying, Kev, is that we’ll only know for sure we’re dealing with a serial killer if there’s a second and a third. It could have been a spontaneous crime, a rape gone wrong, not necessarily a serial killer in the making.”

“But we can at least put some men in the Maze on weekends, can’t we?”

“I’m not sure we can justify that expense, DS Templeton,” Gervaise said. “We just don’t have the manpower. We’re already over budget on the forensics.”

“It had to be a spontaneous attack to some extent,” added Winsome. “Nobody knew Hayley was going to go into the Maze until she left the Fountain with her friends at twelve-seventeen.”

“But they all knew?” Gervaise asked.

“Yes. She told them outside the pub. It’s on CCTV.”

“Who else knew?”

“Nobody, as far as we know.”

“Then it’s one of her friends,” said Gervaise. “Or the Lyndgarth yobs, the ones who gave the bartender in the Fountain such a hard time.”

“No, ma’am,” said Templeton. “I’ve just finished checking on them. Seems that after they were kicked out of the pub they nicked a car and went for a joyride. They crashed it outside York. Nothing serious, just cuts and bruises, but they were tied up at the hospital and with the York police most of the night.”

“Well that’s one we can cross off our list,” said Gervaise.

“There is one small point,” Winsome said. “Just now, when I spoke to Jill Sutherland, she told me that she often walks through the Maze when she’s been working at the Fountain. It’s a shortcut to the car park.”

“So you think the killer was waiting for Jill and got Hayley instead?” Gervaise said.

“No, not necessarily, ma’am,” Winsome answered. “Just that he might have known he had a good chance of finding a victim there if he knew about that.”

“What I was saying,” Templeton went on, “is that the killer was already waiting in there, inside the Maze. Winsome’s right. It’s the location that counts, not the specific victim. Maybe he’d been there on previous occasions, staking the place out, but nothing happened, and he was waiting. He knew it would happen sometime, that some unfortunate girl would walk in there alone — Jill Sutherland, for example — and he could strike. These people have infinite amounts of patience. This time he got lucky.”

“I think DS Templeton has a point,” said Dr. Wallace. She was in her casual civilian clothes today and Banks had hardly recognized her at first, a slight figure, with her hair drawn back from her forehead and pinned up tight, black polo-neck top and jeans, Nike trainers. He got the impression that she could be quite attractive if she wanted to be, but that it didn’t interest her. “In my experience,” she went on, “times before I’ve seen such cases, or even read case histories involving such injuries as I found on Hayley Daniels’s body, they were almost always part of a series. I’ve looked at the crime scene photos,” she went on, “and there was a definite ‘posed’ quality about the body. She wouldn’t have been left in that position naturally after he’d finished with her. She would have been… exposed… open… abandoned like a used doll. But she wasn’t. He carefully turned her on her side, hid the damage he’d done, the trauma he had caused, so she just looked as if she were sleeping. He even cleaned her body. One-off killers don’t usually go to such trouble.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” said Banks, “but I’ve seen examples where someone has killed someone close to them and covered up the injuries in that way out of shame, or even covered the body with a jacket or a sheet. No killer except the habitual one knows what he’s going to feel like after he’s finished, and that sort of reaction, horror at the results of the crime, is common enough.”

“Well,” said Dr. Wallace, “I bow to your expert knowledge, of course, but I repeat: This could be only the beginning. There are indications the killer will strike again. And the Maze is a perfect location.”

“All right,” said Gervaise. “Point taken, DS Templeton and Dr. Wallace. But as I said before, at this stage we can hardly afford the manpower to saturate the Maze with police officers on Fridays and Saturdays. Besides,” she went on, “don’t you think that if you’re right, and this is a potential serial killer, then he’ll have the good sense to choose another location next time?”

“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Wallace. “I’m not a psychologist, but I do know something about criminal behavior, and people do become attached to certain places. The Maze is certainly big and complicated enough to be attractive to that sort of personality. He might find that it mirrors his inner state, for example, his inner turmoil. Lots of shadows and nooks and crannies to disappear into and appear from.”

“And lots of ways in and out without being caught on camera,” said Templeton. “The doc’s right,” he went on, getting a frown from Dr. Wallace, which he didn’t notice. “He’s lurking in an area at times when there are likely to be a lot of drunken young girls nearby not exercising a great degree of common sense. There are other similar dark and isolated areas close to the town center, like the Castle Gardens and the Green, and they should be covered, too, but they’re all more open. The Maze is perfect for him. Remember, Jack the Ripper only operated in Whitechapel.”

“Even so, that was a much larger area,” said Gervaise. “Anyway, I’m sorry but the best we can do at this point is increase the number of regular patrols in the area and put up warnings in the pubs advising people to avoid the Maze if they’re alone, especially females,” said Gervaise. “Also to stay in groups, not to wander off alone. That ought to be enough for now. Besides, the place is still a crime scene and will be for a while yet. It’s taped off.”

“Only that part of it near Taylor’s Yard,” argued Templeton, “and if you’re bent on murder you’re hardly likely to worry about a small infringement like—”

“That’s enough, DC Templeton,” said Gervaise. “The subject’s closed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Templeton, tight-lipped.

Everyone was silent for a few moments, then Gervaise asked Banks what was next.

“We have a list of possibles,” said Banks. “Joseph Randall, Stuart Kinsey, Zack Lane, Jamie Murdoch and Malcolm Austin. And the serial-killer angle,” he added, looking at Templeton. “I think the next thing we need to do is have another go at all our suspects, a bit harder than we have before, and see if we can’t find a chink in someone’s armor.”

Someone knocked at the door, and one of Stefan Nowak’s colleagues delivered an envelope to him. There was silence while he opened it. When he had finished, he glanced over at Banks. “That might not be necessary,” he said. “Remember I said our killer might not be as smart as you think? Well, according to the lab, the DNA found in the semen sample on Hayley Daniels’s thigh is the same as the saliva sample freely given by Joseph Randall. It looks very much as if we’ve got a positive match.”