number of previous occasions and had even had drinks with once or twice, though only as a colleague. Dr. Wong was a dedicated and gentle woman, perfect for the job. She also made a point of keeping in touch with everyone who passed through her doors and had a memory for detail Banks envied.
She was a petite, short-haired woman in her late forties and wore silver-rimmed glasses. Banks was always surprised by her Geordie accent, but 2 74 P E T E R
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she had been born and bred in Durham. He introduced her to Winsome and they shook hands.
“I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” Dr. Wong said. “Detective Sergeant Templeton, wasn’t it? I don’t think I knew him.”
“He wasn’t really a friend,” Banks said. “More of a colleague. But thank you.” He gestured toward the room. “How is she?”
Dr. Wong raised her eyebrows. “Physically? She’s fine. From what I’ve seen there are no signs of injury, or of sexual assault, or even sexual activity. But I suspect you already knew that. Which sort of brings me to the question . . .”
“Why is she here?”
“Yes.”
Banks explained the chaotic situation in The Maze, and the less than satisfactory option of taking Chelsea to the station and offering her a set of paper overalls while they bagged her clothes, no doubt with her parents fussing around, all under bright f luorescent light.
“You did right, then,” said Dr. Wong. “The parents are in the family room, by the way, if you need to talk to them.”
“So you’re not going to report us to the board for wasting hospital resources?”
“I don’t think so. Not this time. Given a suitable donation to the victims’ fund, of course, and a single malt of my choice. Seriously, though, she’s all right physically, but she’s had a terrible shock. Sobered her up pretty quickly, I’d say. I gave her a mild sedative—nothing that was likely to knock her out or interact badly with the alcohol she had clearly been drinking—so she should be lucid enough if you want to talk to her.”
“I would, yes.”
Dr. Wong pushed the door open with her shoulder. “Follow me.”
She introduced Banks and Winsome to Chelsea, and Banks sat opposite the girl in a matching deep armchair. Winsome sat off to the side and took out her notebook unobtrusively. Soft music played in the background. It was nothing Banks recognized but was no doubt calculated to induce maximum relaxation and a sense of calm. They could at least have used Eno’s ambient music, he thought, say,
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Chelsea wore a blue hospital gown, and her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, making her appear more like a lost little girl than a young woman. Her eyes were red- rimmed, but clear and focused. She had a nice bone structure, Banks noticed, high cheekbones, a strong jaw and pale freckled skin. She sat with her legs curled under her and her hands resting on the arms of the chair.
“Coffee?” asked Dr. Wong.
Chelsea declined the offer, but Banks and Winsome said yes. “I’m not fetching it for you myself, you understand,” Dr. Wong said. “I wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“I don’t care who gets it,” said Banks, “as long as it’s black and strong.”
Dr. Wong smiled. “I just wanted you to know.” Then she left the room.
Banks smiled at Chelsea, who seemed wary of him. “Doctors,” he said, with a shrug.
She nodded, and a hint of a smile f litted across the corners of her lips.
“I know this is tough for you,” Banks went on, “but I’d like you to tell me in your own words, and in your own time, exactly what happened in The Maze tonight, and my friend Winsome over there will write it all down. You can start with why you were there.”
Chelsea glanced at Winsome, then at the f loor. “It was so stupid of me,” she said. “A dare. Mickey Johnston dared me. Just five minutes.
I didn’t think . . . you know . . . The papers said it was her boyfriend or someone. My mum told me to be careful, but I really couldn’t believe I would be in any danger.”
Banks made a mental note of the name. Mr. Mickey Johnston could expect a whole lot of grief to come in his direction soon. “Okay,” he said. “But it must have been a little bit scary, wasn’t it?” A nurse walked in quietly with the two coffees on a tray, which she placed on the table beside the tulips. It was from the machine down the hall. Banks could tell by the plastic cups before he even took a sip. It had both milk and sugar. He let his sit there, but Winsome took hers over to her corner.
“I jumped at my own shadow and every noise I heard,” said Chelsea. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
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“You knew your way around?”
“Yes. I used to play there when I was little.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Chelsea paused. “I was near the end of the five minutes, and I heard . . .” She paused. “Well, I don’t think I really heard anything at first. It was more like a feeling, you know, like something itchy crawl-ing in your scalp.
