returned?
The men who had raped her? She couldn’t let her life be ruled by fear.
Try as she might, by then she couldn’t remember the dream.
Unable to sleep, she got out of bed and put on the kettle. Her F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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mouth was dry, and she realized she had polished off the better part of a bottle of sauvignon blanc by herself last night. It was getting to be a habit, a bad one.
She peered through the curtains across the pantile rooftops down to the harbor, where the moon frosted the water’s surface. She wondered if she should have gone home to Harkside for the night, but she liked being close to the sea. It reminded her of her childhood in St. Ives, the long walks along the cliffs with her father, who kept stopping to sketch an abandoned farm implement or a particularly arresting rock formation while she was left to amuse herself. It was then that she had learned to create her own world, a place she could go to and exist in when the real world was too tough to handle, as when her mother died. She only remembered one walk with her mother, who had died when she was six, and all the way along the rough clifftop path her mother had held her hand as they struggled against the wind and rain, and told her stories about the places they would visit one day: San Francisco, Mar-rakech, Angkor Wat. Like many other things in her life, that probably wasn’t going to happen.
The kettle boiled and Annie poured water on the jasmine tea bag in her mug. When the tea was ready she lifted the bag out with a spoon, added sugar and sat cradling her fragrant drink, inhaling the perfume as she stared out to sea, noting the way the moonlight shimmered on the water’s ripples and brought out the texture and silvery-gray color of the clouds against the blue-black sky.
As she sat there watching the night, Annie felt a strange connection with the young woman who had come to Whitby eighteen years ago.
Was it Kirsten Farrow? Had she looked out on the same view as this, all those years ago, planning murder? Annie certainly didn’t condone what she had done, but she felt some empathy with the damaged psyche. She didn’t know what the young woman had felt, but if she had done the things Annie thought she had, and if she had been Kirsten Farrow, it had been because that was her only way of striking back at the man who had condemned her to a kind of living death. There are some kinds of damage that take you far beyond normal rules and systems of ethics and morality—beyond this point be monsters, as the ancients used to say. The young woman had gone there; Annie had 2 7 2 P E T E R
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only stood at the edge of the world and stared into the abyss. But it was enough.
Annie had the overwhelming sensation that she was at an important crossroads in her life, but she didn’t know what the directions were; the signposts were either blurred or blank. She couldn’t trust herself to get close to a man. Consequently, she had abandoned her control to alcohol and gone home with a boy. Whatever demons were driving her, she needed to get sorted, get a grip, develop a new perspective and perhaps even a plan. Maybe she even needed outside help, though the thought caused her to curl up inside and tremble with panic. Then she might be able to read the signposts. Whatever she did, she had to break the circle of folly and self-delusion she had let herself get trapped in.
And there was Banks, of course; it seemed that there was always Banks. Why had she kept him at arm’s length for so long? Why had she abused their friendship so much this past week, thrown herself at him in some sort of drunken rage, then lied to his face about having a row with her boyfriend when he tried to help? Because he was there?
Because she . . . ? It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, Annie couldn’t even remember what it was that had split them apart. Had it been so insurmountable? Was it just the job? Or was that an excuse?
She knew that she had been afraid of the sudden intensity of her feelings for him, their intimacy, and that had been one thing that had caused her to start backing away, that and the attachment he inevitably felt for his ex-wife and family. It had been raw back then. She sipped some hot jasmine tea and stared out to the horizon. She thought of Lucy Payne’s body, sitting there at the cliff edge. Her last sight had probably been that same horizon.
She needed to get things back on a professional footing, talk to Banks again about the Kirsten Farrow case and its history, especially since her conversation with Sarah Bingham. If Kirsten had disappeared, there was a good chance she had turned up in Whitby to kill Eastcote, the man who had stolen her future. Sarah Bingham had certainly lied about Kirsten’s movements, and the truth left her with no alibi at all.
It was more than just the case that was bothering Annie, though.
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She knew she wanted more from Banks. God, if she only knew what it was and how to go about getting it without hurting anyone . . . She couldn’t let go, that was one thing she knew for certain, not with both hands, not even with one. And a lot had changed since they split up.
He seemed to have resolved most of his marital problems now that he had accepted Sandra’s remarriage and recent motherhood, and perhaps she was almost ready to acknowledge the power of her feelings; perhaps she was even ready for intimacy. If she followed all that to its logical conclusion, then she had to admit to herself that she still wanted him.
Not just as a friend, but as a lover, as a companion . . . as . . . Christ, what a bloody mess it all was.
Annie finished her tea and noticed it had started to rain lightly.
Perhaps the sound of the raindrops tapping against her window would help her get back to sleep, the way it had when she was a child, after her mother’s death, but she doubted it.
T H E S E X U A L Assault Referral Centre, new pride and joy of Eastvale General Infirmary, was designed in its every aspect to make its patients feel at ease. The lighting was muted—no overhead f luorescent tubes or bare bulbs—and the colors were calming, shades of green and blue with a dash of orange for warmth. A large vase of tulips stood on the low glass table, and seascapes and landscapes hung on the walls. The armchairs were comfortable, and Bank knew that even the couches used for examinations in the adjoining room were also as relaxing as such things could be, and the colors there were muted, too. Everything was designed to make the victim’s second ordeal of the night as painless as possible.
Banks and Winsome stood just outside the door with Dr. Shirley Wong, whom Banks had met there on a
