Friend of the Devil

On her way out, Chelsea looked at Banks. “The man,” she said.

“Was he going to kill me?”

“No,” said Banks. “I think he was there to protect you.”

After Chelsea and Winsome had gone, Banks sat for a long time in the calm room mulling over what he’d just heard. Now, even more than before, he knew that he had to contact Annie Cabbot about this.

Possibly a female killer. A sharp blade. A slit throat. Banks didn’t believe in coincidences like that, and he knew Annie didn’t, either.

14

WHEN HER TELEPHONE RANG AT HALF PAST SEVEN ON

Sunday morning, Annie had hardly managed to get back to sleep since the noise and the bad dream had woken her at three. She had lain awake thinking about Banks and Eric and Lucy Payne and Kirsten Farrow and Maggie Forrest until they all became a tangled mess in her mind, and then she had dozed fitfully for a while. Now the telephone.

Annie fumbled with the receiver and muttered her name.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” said the voice on the other end. She noticed something odd about it. At least it wasn’t Eric.

“That’s all right,” she said. “Time to get up, anyway.”

“I did wait until a reasonable hour. I called the police station first and they told me you’d be at this number. It’s half seven over there, right, and you police get up early, don’t you?”

“About that,” said Annie. Now she could place the accent. Australian. “You must be Keith McLaren,” she said.

“That’s right. I’m calling from Sydney. It’s half past six in the evening here.”

“I wish it was that here. Then my working day would be over.”

McLaren laughed. He sounded as if he were in the room with her.

“But it’s Sunday.”

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P E T E R R O B I N S O N

“Ha!” said Annie. “As if that makes any difference to Superintendent Brough. Anyway, it’s good to hear from you so promptly. Thanks for calling.”

“I don’t know if I can tell you anything new, but the officer who rang me did say it was important.”

Ginger had got in touch with McLaren through the Sydney police.

It wasn’t that he had a criminal record, but they had been informed about what happened to him in Yorkshire eighteen years ago, and he was in their files. “It could be,” Annie said, tucking the cordless phone under her chin as she went to get some water and put the kettle on. She was naked, which felt like a disadvantage, but no one could see her, she told herself, and it would be harder to get dressed and talk at the same time. She sipped some water and opened the pad on the table before her. Already she could hear the kettle building to a boil.

“I hope these aren’t painful memories for you,” she went on, “but I want to talk about what happened to you in England eighteen years ago.”

“Why? Have you finally found out who did it?”

“We don’t know yet, but there may be a connection with a case I’m working on. It came up, anyway. Have you been able to remember anything more about what happened over the years?”

“A few things, yes. Little details. They weren’t there, and suddenly they are. I’ve been writing things down as they come back. My doctor told me it would be good therapy, and it really does help. As I’m writing one detail I sometimes remember another. It’s odd. On the whole, I can remember quite a bit until Staithes, then it all becomes a blur.

Isn’t it funny? I remember so little about my holiday of a lifetime.

Waste of money, when you come to think of it. Maybe I should have asked for a refund.”

Annie laughed. “I suppose so. What about that day at Staithes?

Someone thought they saw you walking near the harbor there with a young woman.”

“I know. Like I said, it’s a blur. All I have is a vague sense of talking to someone down by the harbor, and I thought it was someone I knew.

But I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman.”

“It was a woman,” Annie said. “Where do you think you knew her from?”

F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

2 8 3

“That I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, without foundation. The police told me I met a girl at a B and B in Whitby, and I do remember her now. They seemed to think it was the same girl, but I don’t know.

I’ve had recurring dreams, nightmares, I suppose, but I don’t know how truthfully they ref lect the reality.”

“What nightmares?”

“It’s a bit . . . you know, awkward.”

“I’m a police officer,” Annie said. “Just think of me as a doctor.”

“You’re still a woman.”