all, then we’ve got him.”
“I’m not sure we’ve got enough evidence for a search warrant.”
“But we can try, can’t we?”
Gervaise stood up. “We can try,” she said.
“I’ve also been doing a bit of checking around this morning, and I have one more test I want to try first, with your help. Who knows, it might even add to our weight of evidence.”
“At this point, a feather would tip the balance,” said Gervaise. “But tell me, anyway.”
“ M A G G I E F O R R E S T went through a hell of a lot,” Annie told Ginger as they ate a late lunch together in a pub on Flowergate. “It’s bound to have affected her.”
“That’s what you get when you go around befriending sex killers,”
said Ginger, picking at her chips. “But if Liam’s come through with the hair match, she’s out of the picture, anyway, isn’t she?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe we should keep an open mind,” Annie said. “Besides, there was some doubt as to Lucy Payne’s role as a sex killer.”
“You’re not trying to say she didn’t do it, are you?”
Annie ate another forkful of salad and pushed her plate aside. “We never really believed that she killed the victims,” she said, “but she was certainly a willing participant in their degradation and torture. Terence Payne killed them, at least that was where the evidence pointed. But she helped him to abduct them. In my eyes it makes them both guilty of everything.”
“People are less inclined to be wary of a woman, or a couple, approaching them.”
“True enough,” Annie agreed. “Sugar and spice, we are.”
Ginger made a face and wiped the beer froth from her upper lip.
The pub was busy, most of the tables taken up by local shop and office workers enjoying their lunch hour. “Anyway,” she went on, “you’re right about keeping an open mind. This hair business isn’t conclusive.
And just because we found it on the blanket, and just because it might F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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match this Kirsten Farrow’s, that still doesn’t mean Maggie Forrest didn’t kill Lucy Payne, right?”
“Right,” Annie agreed. “Maggie Forrest doesn’t have an alibi, for one thing.”
“Maybe we should have a word with that shrink of hers?”
“Psychiatrists never tell you anything,” Annie said. “They’re worse than priests and lawyers. But I suppose we could always have a try. I want to talk to Kirsten Farrow’s shrink, too. The one who hypnotized her. I’ve got a name from the files: Laura Henderson. I’ll see if I can get her on the phone sometime this afternoon. What about Templeton, though? How does he fit in with all this?”
“Your mate?”
“No mate of mine, and a terrible copper, if truth be told. Poor sod, though. What a way to go.”
“At least it was quick.”
“I suppose so,” said Annie. She felt a pang of sadness for Templeton, with his sharp suits, gelled hair and sense of himself as God’s gift to women. The poor bastard had had blue balls for Winsome ever since she joined the team, and she never gave him a chance. Not that she should have; Annie wouldn’t have either, even if he had tried it on with her.
But even so, it had sometimes been painful to watch him suffer so obviously. There were some nights she bet he could hardly walk home.
“What’s so funny?” Ginger asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking about Kev, that’s all. Memories. They’re having a wake for him at The Queen’s Arms tonight.”
“Going?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s all we’re left with when it comes right down to it. Memories.”
“That’s a bloody depressing thought,” said Annie. “What have you got so far? Are we any closer to the leak?”
Ginger ate her last chips and shook her head while her mouth was full. Then she patted her chest and took another sip of beer. Sunlight broke through the clouds for a moment and shone through the stained-glass windows. “Bugger all,” she said. “But I still don’t like Julia Ford, or that other one, the one we met first.”
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R O B I N S O N
“Constance Wells?”
“That’s the one. Another slippery little bitch.”
“Now, now, Ginger. Claws.”
“Well . . .”
