An ex-boyfriend had killed Hayley Daniels, Chelsea repeated to herself. Remember that. Then she wondered if any of her ex-boyfriends might want to kill her. She had been cruel enough in her short time, she realized. She had two-timed Derek Orton, for a start, and he hadn’t been too happy when he found out. And she hadn’t replied to any of Paul Jarvis’s letters or e-mails for months after he went off to Strathclyde University until he’d finally given up on her. Maybe he had started stalking her? He had said many times that he loved her.
Then she had slept with Ian McRae’s best friend just to hurt him, and made sure he knew about it. That had been about the worst. But Ian was still in jail for mugging that old woman, surely?
Chelsea turned a corner and ventured farther into The Maze. She knew where she was going. It would take her about five minutes to get through from the Castle Road arcade to the car park exit. But the deeper in she got, the more anxious she became, the more she jumped at each little noise and shadow and cursed Mickey for goading her into it in the first place.
As she was crossing a small, ill-lit square, she thought she heard a swishing noise behind her, like the sound someone’s clothes make when they walk. She turned, and when she saw a man all in black, his face in shadows, she froze. In her mind she was making the calcula-tions. If she ran now, she could probably get to the exit before he could catch her. But those damn high heels she was wearing would be a hindrance. She would have to lose them.
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
As she started to kick her shoes off, he came toward her, and she saw him open his mouth as if to say something, but before she knew what was happening, another figure appeared behind him, this one also wearing dark clothing, impossible to make out clearly. The figure moved quickly, drawing a hand across the man’s throat from behind.
They were only about three feet away now, and a warm and faintly sweet, metallic spray hit Chelsea on her face and chest. The man seemed confused and put his fingers to his neck. The other figure disappeared back into shadows.
Chelsea staggered back a few paces. She was left alone with the man now, but he seemed fixed to the spot. He took his hand away from his throat and looked at it, then he opened his mouth as if he was trying to say something to her, but no sound came out. Then he dropped to his knees. Chelsea heard them crack as they hit the f lagstones. As she stood there, hand to her mouth, the man toppled forward and fell on his face. She heard another crack as his nose hit the ground. Only then did she start screaming and running for the exit.
J O S H R I T T E R was singing “Girl in the War” as Banks drove the dark winding road on the daleside just above the river. He was finally beginning to like the Porsche, he realized. It was starting to fit him better. It was a bit shabbier now, more lived-in, less ostentatious, and it handled beautifully on winding hilly roads like this. Maybe he would hang on to it after all. The valley side rose steeply to his left, fields giving way to outcrops of limestone and moors of gorse and heather, just looming shapes in the night, and the river gleamed in the moonlight as it meandered over the wide lush valley bottom through The Leas. He passed the drumlin with the four trees permanently bent by the wind and knew he would soon be on the home stretch.
As he drove and half-listened to the music, he thought of Sophia and what a breath of fresh air she had breathed into Harriet’s dinner party. He wondered if she was married. An attractive woman like her probably had a serious boyfriend, at the very least, perhaps even lived with him. He knew there was no point, not even for a moment, in allowing himself to think that her invitation to go for a walk together F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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meant anything more than it seemed, and he remembered his earlier advice to himself not to fall in love with her. Not much chance of that. He hoped he would at least have time to see her again on Sunday, though. As she had said, even a hotshot detective needed a few hours off now and then. And he was the boss, or close enough.
The so-called random shuff le seemed to go into folk mode, as it did from time to time. Eliza Carthy’s “Worcester City” followed Kate Rusby’s “No Names.” Then came Isobel Campbell’s “O Love Is Teas-ing.” Sometimes Banks didn’t believe it was random at all, but had a devious mind of its own. Once it had followed The Small Faces’ “Here Come the Nice” with The Nice’s “America.” Nobody could convince Banks that was random.
A mile or so past the drumlin, Banks’s mobile rang. He fumbled with it and managed to get it to his ear without losing the rhythm of his driving. He was in a very dodgy area for coverage, and what came over the line was crackly and faint, fading in and out. He got the impression that it was Winsome talking, and he thought he heard the words “murder”
and “The Maze” before reception broke down completely. With a growing sense of anxiety, he switched off the mobile, and at the next farm gate he turned around and headed back toward Eastvale.
13
IT WAS WITH A TERRIBLE SENSE OF DEJA VU THAT BANKS
pulled into the market square around one o’clock in the morning and saw the crowds held back by police barriers. Many of the onlookers were drunk, had just staggered from the pubs at closing time and seen all the activity by the entrance to The Maze. One or two of them had become aggressive, and the uniforms were having a hard time keeping them back. When Banks saw the sergeant from the station, he asked him to call for reinforcements. They might not need any—drunks often lost interest as quickly as they found it—but it was better to be safe than sorry. Still feeling a sense of deep anxiety, Banks told the officers to block off the entire Maze this time, all exits.
“But, sir,” one of the constables argued. “There are four terraced cottages near the back. People live there.”
“We’ll worry about them later,” said Banks. “Someone has to interview them as soon as possible anyway. For the moment, I want the entire area sealed. No one goes in or out without me knowing about it. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.” The constable scuttled off.
Banks rapped on the door of The Fountain.
“He’s gone home, sir,” said Winsome, emerging from Taylor’s Yard and slipping under the police tape. “The place is all shut up.”
Banks grunted. “I wish the rest of them would do the same.” He F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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