glanced at her perfect, tiny gold watch. “Look, I have another appointment in a few minutes, and I’d like some time to prepare. If there’s nothing else . . . ?”
Banks got to his feet. “A pleasure, as ever,” he said.
“Oh, don’t lie. You think I was put on this earth just to stand in your way and make your life difficult. I really am sorry about that policeman who was killed. Was he a friend of yours?”
“I knew him,” said Banks.
D U R I N G T H E long drive over the moors to Eastvale, Annie spoke on her mobile with Ginger, when she could get a signal. It was too early for the DNA results from the hair, but Ginger had been burning up the phone lines, fax circuits and e-mail accounts. There was no way that Maggie Forrest could be Kirsten Farrow, she had concluded. Maggie was the right age, and she had been born in Leeds, but she had grown up in Canada, and in 1989, she had been attending art college in Toronto, specializing in graphic illustration. She married a young lawyer, and their relationship ended in a bad divorce a few years later. Apparently, he was a bully and a wife beater. After her divorce she came to live and work in England, staying at Ruth and Charles Everett’s house on The Hill, and befriending Lucy Payne, until the notorious events of six years ago sent her reeling back to Canada.
But Maggie was working in England again and, according to Ginger, seeing Dr. Simms again. This in itself seemed odd to Annie. Why return? She could get book illustration work easily enough in Canada, surely? Maggie had told Annie that it was because she needed to be close to her roots, but was it really because she had decided to go after 3 5 8 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
Lucy, get her revenge? Just because Maggie
The main question in Annie’s mind, given the links between the professional women—Maggie Forrest, Susan Simms, Julia Ford and Elizabeth Wallace—was had she had help from one of them? And if so, why? And where was Kirsten Farrow in all this? It was possible that someone
Annie parked in Eastvale market square rather than behind the police station. It was a bit of a walk down King Street to the infirmary, but the fresh air would do her good. Afterward, she would call in at the station and see how everyone was recovering after last night’s wake. Annie felt quite proud of herself for drinking only one pint over the course of the eve ning, then driving back to Whitby.
Reception told Annie that Dr. Wallace was in her office in the basement. Annie didn’t like Eastvale General Infirmary, especially the basement. The corridors
were high and dark with old green tiles, and footsteps echoed. The whole place was a Victorian Gothic monstrosity, and even though the mortuary and the postmortem theater had been modernized with the best equipment, the surroundings felt antiquated to Annie, associated with the barbaric times of no anesthetics and unhy-gienic conditions. She shivered as her shoes clicked along the tiled corridor. The other thing about the basement that gave her the creeps was that there was hardly ever anyone around. She didn’t know what else was down there other than storage and the mortuary. Maybe the bin where they dumped all the amputated limbs and extracted organs, for all she knew.
Dr. Wallace was actually in the postmortem theater, sitting at the long lab table mixing some chemicals over a Bunsen burner when Annie entered. There was a body on the table. The Y incision had already F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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been made and the internal organs were all on display. The raw-lamb smell of dead human f lesh hung in the air, mixed with disinfectant and formaldehyde. Annie felt slightly nauseated.
“Sorry,” said Dr. Wallace, with a weak smile. “I was just finishing up when I got sidetracked by this test. Wendy had to leave early—
boyfriend trouble—or she’d have done it for me.”
Annie glanced at the body. She could relate to boyfriend trouble.
“Right,” she said. “Just a few questions, as I mentioned.”
“I’ll get him closed up while we talk, if that’s all right. Does it bother you? You seem a bit pale.”
“I’m fine.”
Dr. Wallace gave her an amused glance. “So what burning questions bring you all the way down to my little lair?”
“It’s what we were talking about last night. Lucy Payne and Kevin Templeton.”
“I don’t see how I can help you. Lucy Payne wasn’t my case. We agreed there were similarities, but that’s all.”
“It’s not so much that,” Annie said, settling on a high swivel stool by the lab bench. “Not specifically, at any rate.”
“Oh? What, then? I’m curious.” Dr. Wallace unceremoniously dumped the organs back into the chest cavity and prepared the large needle and heavy thread.
“You went to university with the lawyer, Julia Ford. You’re still friends. Right?”
“That’s true,” said Dr. Wallace. “Julia and I have known each other a long time. We’re practically neighbors, and we play the occasional round of golf together.”
“What did you do before then?” Annie asked.
“Before playing golf ?”
Annie laughed. “No, before going to medical school. You were a mature student, weren’t you?”
