Murdoch had no reply to that, and before Banks could say anything else, he heard “Fit But You Know It” coming from Murdoch’s side pocket. Superintendent Gervaise ringing the number they had got from the mobile supplier, as arranged. The color drained from Murdoch’s face, his eyes turned back toward Banks, then he leaped over the bar and dashed out into the market square.
Banks ran after him. “Jamie, don’t be a bloody fool!” he yelled, as Jamie scattered a gaggle of el der ly tourists getting off a tour bus near the cross. “You can’t get away.”
But Jamie ran across the square. The uniformed officers positioned F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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outside the police station in case of just such an eventuality snapped into action, and seeing his escape route cut off, Jamie changed direction and veered toward the Swainsdale Centre. Once there, he bounded up the escalator, Banks in hot pursuit, breathing heavily, and ran into the arcade of first-level shops.
Women clutched their children and screamed as packages and people went f lying. Banks became aware of a couple of uniformed officers behind him, and suddenly he saw Winsome coming in fast from his left side. She was an awesome sight, head tossed back, arms like pistons, long legs pumping like an athlete’s.
Murdoch disappeared into the entrance of the Marks & Spencer food department, knocking baskets out of people’s hands as he went.
A bottle of wine smashed on the f loor, spilling red in every direction.
Someone screamed, and Murdoch almost tripped over a small child who started to cry, but he caught his footing again and ran into the menswear department.
There was no way Banks was going to catch him. He was too out of shape, and he had never been a fast runner. Winsome ran mara-thons, though, and she moved gracefully and easily behind him, catching up with every step. Murdoch glanced back and saw how close she was, then he knocked an old woman out of his way and put on a sprint toward the exit.
Banks could hardly believe what he saw next. Murdoch was about five or six feet ahead of Winsome, when all of a sudden she launched herself through the air at him in something halfway between a dive and a rugby tackle, grasped him around his thighs with her long powerful arms and brought him to the f loor. A few moments later, Banks was standing over them, panting for breath, and Winsome had her knee in Murdoch’s back and was doing her Christie Love act, saying, “You’re under arrest, sugah,” reading him his rights just like an American cop.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Banks couldn’t help but smile, even through the pain in his chest.
That wasn’t the official caution at all, and surely
17
BANKS, WINSOME AND JAMIE MURDOCH SAT IN THE BLEAK
interview room, Murdoch in his orange police-issue coverall, picking his fingernails. The duty solicitor, Ms. Olivia Melchior, sat in the corner. She had already had a word with Jamie and explained the situation, told him it was best to answer simply and truthfully unless he was in danger of incriminating himself or having his rights violated—and she would be the judge of that. Banks turned on the tape recorders and video, went through the preamble about time, date and those present, then gave Jamie his proper caution, the one about the disadvantages of not saying now something he might later rely on in court. Jamie kept on staring down at his fingernails.
“Right,” said Banks. “Why did you run away, Jamie?”
“You were going to fit me up, weren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“For the smuggling charge. The cigs and booze. You were going to fit me up. I’ve heard about things like that.”
“This isn’t about smuggling, Jamie.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“This is about the rape and murder of Hayley Daniels.”
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Murdoch glanced back down at his fingernails. “I’ve already told you, I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Come on, Jamie, you were just around the corner.”
“The walls are thick. You can’t hear much from inside.”
“You can if the door is open, though, can’t you, Jamie?” Winsome said.
Murdoch stared at her. “Huh?”
“When Hayley Daniels and her friends left,” Winsome went on,
“you left the door open a crack and were able to hear what they were saying. We think you heard Hayley say she was going into The Maze on her own.”
“So what?”
“Do you admit this?” Winsome pressed.
“I might have. You know, it’s bad manners to slam the door and lock it the minute your last punters are out in
