Friend of the Devil

There’s a nice bistro on Castle Hill. Cafe de Provence. Would you consider having dinner with me instead?”

There was the briefest of pauses, then she said, “Yes. Yes, that would be nice. I’d like that. If you’re sure you can make it.”

Banks felt a knot of excitement in his chest. “I’m sure. I might not be able to stay long, but it’s better than nothing.” He checked his watch. “How about seven? Is that too early?”

“No, seven’s fine.”

“Shall I pick you up?”

“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

“Okay. See you there, then. Seven.”

“Right.”

2 9 8 P E T E R

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When he put the receiver down Banks’s palm was sweaty, and his heart was beating fast. Grow up, he told himself, and he got up and reached for his jacket.

M A G G I E F O R R E S T was not only still living and working as a children’s book illustrator in the UK, she was still living in Leeds. She had spent three years in Toronto before returning and subletting a f lat on the waterfront, down by the canal, and going back to her old line of work.

Granary Wharf had been developed in an area of decrepit old warehouses by the river Aire and the Leeds- Liverpool Canal at the back of City Station in the late ’80s, and was now a thriving area with its own shops, market, f lats, restaurants, entertainment and a cobbled canal walk. On Sunday afternoon, when Annie arrived at the car park near the canal basin, it was quiet. She found Maggie Forrest in a third-f loor f lat. They had met brief ly during the Chameleon business, but Maggie didn’t appear to remember her. Annie showed her warrant card, and Maggie let her in.

The f lat was spacious, done in bright warm shades of orange and yellow. There was also plenty of light coming in through a large sky-light, which Maggie would need for her artwork Annie guessed.

“What’s it about?” asked Maggie, as Annie sat on her beige modular couch. Maggie sat cross-legged in a large winged armchair opposite.

The window looked out on the building site at the back of the Yorkshire Post Building, where yet more f lats were going up. On examination, Annie thought, Maggie Forrest certainly had that slight, waif like look about her that Chelsea Pilton had noticed in the killer, and that Mel Danvers at Mapston Hall had spotted about Mary. Her nose was a bit long, and her chin rather pointed, but other than that she was an attractive woman. Her hair was cut short and peppered with gray. Her eyes looked haunted, nervous. Annie wondered if anyone—Mel, Chelsea—might recognize her from an identification parade?

“It’s a nice f lat,” said Annie. “How long have you been here?”

“Eigh teen months,” Maggie answered.

“Never visit your friends down on The Hill? Ruth and Charles? It’s not far away. They don’t even know you’re in town.”

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

2 9 9

Maggie looked away. “I’m sorry. I’ve neglected Ruth and Charles,”

she said. “They were good to me.”

“What about Claire Toth? She misses you.”

“She hates me. I let her down.”

“She needs help, Maggie. She’s grown up now and what happened to her friend has left her with a lot of problems. You might be able to do some good there.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, damn it. Don’t you think I’ve done enough damage? That part of my life is over. I can’t go back there.”

“Why not move farther away, then, make a clean break?”

“Because I’m from here. I need to be close to my roots. And it’s far enough.” She gestured toward the window. “Could be any modern development in any city.”

That was true, Annie thought. “Married?” she asked.

“No. Not that it’s any of your business,” Maggie answered. “And I don’t have a boyfriend, either. There’s no man in my life. I’m quite happy.”

“Fine,” said Annie. Maybe she could be happy without a man in her life, too. She’d hardly been all that happy with one. Or then again, maybe she was doomed to repeat the patterns of her old mistakes.

Maggie didn’t offer tea or coffee, and Annie was parched. She’d treat herself to something later in one of the city center cafes. “Do you own a car?” she asked.

“Yes. A red Megane. What have I done now?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Annie. “Where were you last Sunday morning, the eighteenth of March? Mother’s Day.”

“Here, of course. Where else would I be?”