“You said you found the body at eight- fifteen.”
“That’s right. I checked my watch when I got there. Habit.”
“And you reported it at eight twenty-one. Does that sound right?”
“If you say so.”
“Six minutes, then. How accurate is your watch?”
“It’s accurate as far as I know.”
“You see,” said Banks, shifting in his chair, “we have a witness who saw you enter The Maze at
“But that would mean . . . eleven minutes. I surely can’t have been that long?”
“Could your watch have been fast?”
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“I suppose so.”
“Mind if I see it?”
“What?”
Banks gestured toward his wrist. “Your watch. Mind if I have a look?”
“Oh, not at all.” He turned the face toward Banks. Twelve twenty-seven, the same as his own and, he knew, the same as the church clock.
“Seems to be accurate.”
Randall shrugged. “Well . . .”
“Have you any explanation for those eleven minutes?”
“I didn’t even know there
“Right,” said Banks, standing. “That’s what you said. And it’s only five minutes difference from what you told us, after all, isn’t it? I mean, what could possibly happen in five minutes?” Banks held Randall’s eyes, and the latter broke away first. “Stick around, Mr. Randall,” Banks said.
“I’ll be sending someone along to take your official statement later this afternoon.”
M A P S TO N H A L L was an old pile of dark stone squatting on its promontory like a horned toad. Beyond the high gates in the surrounding wall, the gravel drive snaked through a wooded area to the front of the building, where there was parking for about ten cars. Most spots were already taken by staff or visitors, Annie guessed, but she found a place easily enough and approached the imposing heavy wooden doors, Tommy Naylor ambling beside her, nonchalant as ever, taking in the view. Despite the aspirins, Annie’s headache was still troubling her, and she felt in desperate need of a long, regenerative soak in the tub.
“Must cost a bob or two to run this place,” Naylor speculated.
“Wonder who pays the bills.”
“Not the NHS, I’ll bet,” said Annie, though the sign outside had mentioned that the National Health Service had a part in running the place, and that Mapston Hall specialized in care for people with spinal cord injuries.
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“Rich people in wheelchairs,” said Naylor. “Where there’s a will . . . Just a thought. Some relative couldn’t wait for the cash? Or a mercy killing?”
Annie glanced at him. “Funny way to go about it, slitting her throat,”
she said. “But we won’t forget those angles.” How aware would the victim have been of her life slipping away from her? Annie wondered.
Perhaps her body had been incapable of sensation, but what emotions had she felt during those final moments? Relief ? Horror? Fear?
Though the inside of the hall was as old and dark as the exterior, like a stately home, with its parquet f loor, wainscoting, broad winding staircase, high ceiling complete with crystal chandelier, and oil paintings of eighteenth- century dignitaries on the walls—the Mapston clan, no doubt—the computer setup behind the reception desk was modern enough, as was the elaborate stair-lift. The place was surprisingly busy, with people coming and going, nurses dashing around, orderlies pushing trolleys down corridors. Controlled chaos.
Annie and Naylor presented their warrant cards to the receptionist, who looked like a frazzled schoolgirl on her weekend job, and told her they were making inquiries about a patient. The girl probably wanted to work with handicapped people and was getting some work experience, Annie thought. She certainly seemed earnest enough and had that slightly bossy, busybodyish, passive-aggressive way about her that so often indicated a social worker. Her name badge read Fiona.
“I can’t tell you anything,” she said. “I’m only part-time.”
“Then who should we talk to?”
Fiona bit her lip. “We’re short-staffed. And it’s a Sunday. Mother’s Day, in fact.”
“Meaning?” Annie asked.
