Friend of the Devil

“Party pooper,” said Winsome.

Annie looked at her. “Glad to see you’re having such a good time, Winsome. Let me buy you a drink. How about something blue or pink with an umbrella in it?”

“Ooh, I don’t know,” said Winsome, clutching her half pint of Guinness to her breast.

“Oh, go on. Let your hair down.” Annie winked. “You never know what might happen.” Annie leaned over the bar and asked Cyril for one of his specials. Cyril said it was coming right up.

“Look, about the other night—” Winsome began.

“It doesn’t—”

“But it does. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as such a prude. What you do is your own business, and I’ve got no right to judge you. I don’t even have any right to judge Kev the way I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m no angel. I kept a bloke tied to a bed naked when I should have been telling him his daughter was dead.”

“Winsome, are you pissed?” Annie said. “What on earth are you talking about?”

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Winsome explained about Geoff Daniels and Martina Redfern in the Faversham Hotel. Annie burst into laughter. “I really wouldn’t worry too much about that,” she said. “It sounds as if the bastard deserved it, no matter what. ‘Black bitch,’ indeed.”

Winsome smiled. “You really think so?”

“I do. You just got me a bit confused when you started. I mean, I was trying to imagine you tying a naked man to a bed in a hotel room.”

“I didn’t tie him there!”

“I know that now. It was just a funny image, that’s all. Forget it.”

Annie took another long belt of beer. Winsome’s drink arrived. It was pink and blue. They were singing “Why Was He Born So Beautiful?”

over at the table now. She could hear Banks’s tuneless tenor mingled with the rest. “Cat’s choir, hey?” she said.

Winsome laughed. “I mean it, you know,” she said, touching Annie’s arm. “About the other night. I’m sorry. I was insensitive.”

“Look,” said Annie, “between you and me, I fucked up. You were right to say what you did. It was a mistake. A big mistake. But it’s over now. History. Sorted.”

“Apology accepted, then?”

“Apology accepted. And I understand congratulations are in order for you? Nobody knew you could manage such a great rugby tackle.

You’ll be playing for England next.”

Winsome laughed. “Can’t be much worse than the team they’ve got already.”

“Come on.” Annie put her arm over Winsome’s shoulders and together they picked up their drinks and walked over to the table, just in time to join in: “He’s no bloody use to anyone, he’s no bloody use at all.”

18

BANKS ENJOYED THE DRIVE TO LEEDS. THE WEATHER WAS

fine, the traffic not too horrendous, and the iPod shuff le treated him to a truly random medley of David Crosby, John Cale, Pentangle and Grinderman, among others. A mild beer hangover from Kev Templeton’s wake hammered away insistently in the back of his head, muff led by extra-strength aspirin and plenty of water. At least he had had the sense to avoid spirits and sleep on Hatchley’s sofa, though the children had awoken him at some ungodly hour of the morning. Annie had gone home early and said she would be coming back to Eastvale sometime to talk to Elizabeth Wallace. Banks and Annie planned to meet for a late lunch and compare notes.

Julia Ford had agreed to see Banks at eleven o’clock, sounding a little mystified by his request on the telephone, but perfectly pleasant and polite. In Leeds, he was fortunate in finding a parking spot not far off Park Square and arrived at the office in good time for his appointment.

A young receptionist, messing with the f lowers in the vestibule when he arrived, greeted him, then phoned through and led him to Julia’s office.

Julia Ford stood up behind her large, tidy desk, leaned forward, shook hands and smiled. She was wearing a very subtle and no doubt expensive perfume. “DCI Banks,” she said. “What a pleasure to see you again. You seem well.”

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“You, too, Julia. May I call you Julia?”

“Of course. And it’s Alan, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you.” And it was true. Her chocolate-brown hair was longer, curled at her shoulders, and there was the occasional strand of gray. Her eyes were as watchful and suspicious as ever, indicating a mind that never stopped working.

She sat down and patted her skirt. “Flattery will get you nowhere.

What can I do for you?” Julia was quite slight in stature and seemed dwarfed by the desk.