“Constable Carruthers informed them, sir. I think they’re at the hospital now.”
“How old is she?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
“Good work.” Banks called down the corridor for a PC. “Get down to the hospital,” he said, “and make sure that Chelsea Pilton is taken straight to the Sexual Assault Referral Centre. Got that? Chelsea Pilton. They’ll know what to do with her there. Ask for Shirley Wong, if she’s in tonight. That’s Dr. Shirley Wong.” The new referral center, the only one in the Western Area, was attached to the hospital, and was seen by many as a rather sad sign of the times. “And see if they can get the parents out of the way. The girl’s nineteen, so they don’t have to present during any interview or examination, and I’d rather they weren’t. Their presence might cause her to clam up. I’ll talk to them separately later.”
“Yes, sir.” The PC set off.
“She’s not a suspect, is she, sir?” PC Kerrigan asked.
“At the moment,” Banks said, “even you are a suspect.” Then he smiled. “We have to follow certain procedures. You ought to know that, Constable.”
Kerrigan swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“You mentioned that she had blood on her,” Banks said.
“Yes. It looked like it had sprayed on her face and chest. Funny, it seemed like freckles in the dim light.” Kerrigan glanced nervously at Gervaise, who rolled her eyes and muttered, “God help us, a poetic PC.”
“Did she say where it had come from?” Banks asked.
“No, sir. I just assumed . . . well, that she’d been close when it happened.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes, sir, but she wouldn’t answer.”
“Did you see or hear anything or anyone else in The Maze while you were there?” Banks went on.
“Not a dickey bird, sir.”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 6 5
“Any music or anything?”
“No, sir. Just a bit of argy-bargy from the market square. Drunks singing, cars revving up, glass breaking, the usual sort of thing.”
More coffee arrived, a large urn this time, indicating that it was going to be a long night for everyone, and two constables set it up at the far end of the table. Someone had obviously gained access to the station canteen. They had also brought a bigger stack of styrofoam cups, fresh milk, a bag of sugar and a packet of Fig Newtons. Everyone helped themselves. It was definitely canteen coffee, weak and bitter, but it did the trick. Banks noticed his hand trembling slightly as he raised the cup to his mouth. Delayed shock. He still found it impossible to accept that Kevin Templeton was dead, despite what he had seen with his own eyes. It just didn’t make sense. He ate a fig biscuit. Maybe the sugar would help.
“Did Chelsea tell you anything about what she witnessed?” Banks asked.
“No, sir,” said Kerrigan. “She was too stunned. Near mute with terror, she was. It’ll be a long time before she has an easy night’s sleep again, I can tell you.”
Me, too, thought Banks, but he didn’t say anything about that.
“Right,” he said. “You did a good job, Constable Kerrigan. You can go now. Stick around the station for now. We might need to talk to you again.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”
PC Kerrigan left and no one said anything for a while. Finally, Gervaise said, “Anyone met Templeton’s parents? I understand they live in Salford.”
“That’s right,” said Banks. “I met them once, a few years back, when they came to Eastvale to visit him. Nice couple. I got the impression he didn’t get along very well with them, though. He never said much about them. They’ll have to be told.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Gervaise. “I know DS Templeton wasn’t exactly the most popu lar detective in the station,” she went on, “but I know that won’t stop anyone from doing their jobs.” She stared pointedly at Winsome, who said nothing. “Right, then,” Gervaise said. “As long as that’s understood, we can get down to work. Any theories?”
2 6 6 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Well,” said Banks, “first of all we have to ask ourselves what Kev was doing in The Maze close to midnight.”
“You’re implying that he was about to rape and kill Chelsea Pilton?” Gervaise said.
“Not at all,” Banks answered, “though we’d be remiss in our duties if we failed to acknowledge that possibility.”
“Pushing that unpleasant thought aside for a moment,” Gervaise said, “do you have any other theories for us to consider?”
“Assuming that Kev wasn’t The Maze killer,” Banks said, “I think it’s a pretty good guess that he was there because he hoped he might catch him. Remember at the last meeting, how he was convinced it was a serial killer who’d strike again soon in the same area?”
“And I ridiculed him,” said Gervaise. “Yes, I don’t need reminding.”
