Friend of the Devil

killers who wanted to make statements were like bores at a party, a bugger to shut up until they’d finished what they had to say.

W H I L E J O S E P H R A N D A L L waited in an interview room, Banks sat in his office enjoying his first few moments of peace and quiet since Templeton’s phone call that morning. He had remembered to phone his mother, who thanked him for the card, and he was pleased to hear that all was well in the Banks household. His parents were going on a Mediterranean cruise in June, she had told him—their first time abroad, except for the time his father was in the army toward the end of the war. They were leaving from Southampton so they didn’t have to f ly.

Now Banks was sipping a cup of tea, eating a KitKat and listening to Anna Netrebko’s Russian Album as he jotted down a list of actions and TIEs—Trace, Interview and Eliminate—he thought should be carried out as quickly as possible in the Hayley Daniels murder investigation.

Winsome had questioned the father, Geoff Daniels, and the hotel staff at the Faversham confirmed his alibi. No one had seen him leave his room since he arrived with his girlfriend Martina rather the worse for wear around three o’clock in the morning. The barman and doorman at the club in Keighley also remembered the couple, who had been there F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

6 1

the whole time between about midnight and two-thirty. They had had more than enough to drink, he said, and at one point they were practically doing it right there on the dance f loor. The bouncer even had to step in and ask them to cool it. There was no way either, or both, of them could have driven to Eastvale and killed Hayley. Winsome hadn’t tracked down the taxi driver yet, but it was just a matter of time.

Also, mostly for form’s sake, Winsome had checked Donna McCarthy’s alibi with her friend and neighbor, Caroline Dexter. They had indeed spent the eve ning together eating pizza and watching Casino Royale, until well after midnight.

Officers were already reviewing as much CCTV footage as they had been able to gather, and forensics experts were still busy in Taylor’s Yard, while most of the samples the SOCOs had collected were being prepared for analysis. Nothing would happen until Monday, of course, and results wouldn’t start coming until Tuesday, or even later in the week, depending on the tests and workloads of the labs involved. If only DNA results came as quickly as they seemed to do on television, Banks thought, his job would be a lot easier. Sometimes waiting was the worst part.

Banks put the writing pad aside. He’d enter it all into the computer later. He glanced out of the window and was surprised to see snow-f lakes blowing horizontally on the wind, obscuring the market square.

He watched for a few moments, hardly believing what he saw, then it stopped and the sun came out. Strange weather, indeed.

He glanced at the map of The Maze he had had enlarged and pinned to his corkboard. There were far more ways in and out than he had realized, and it covered a greater area. Next to the map hung his Dalesman calendar. The month of March lay in neat columns below a photograph of Settle marketplace on a busy day. He had check-up appointments with both his dentist and his GP, having thought at the time it was best to get both unpleasant duties out of the way simul-taneously. Now, he was beginning to wonder. Perhaps he should postpone the dentist until next month. Or the doctor.

His only upcoming social engagement was a dinner party at Harriet Weaver’s, his old next-door neighbor in Eastvale, the following Saturday. Informal, Harriet had said, about ten or twelve people; bring a bottle, he would enjoy himself. Her niece Sophia was up from 6 2 P E T E R

R O B I N S O N

London and might drop by. Every man fell in love with Sophia, Harriet said. Banks thought it would be a very foolish thing to do, in that case, and determined not to. It was all very well for middle-aged writ-ers, artists or rock stars to go around falling in love with younger women, but most irresponsible for a police detective with as much baggage as he was carrying.

Banks hated dinner parties, anyway, and he was only going because he felt guilty about not having kept in touch with Harriet and her husband since he had split up with Sandra. And she had had the good grace to invite him. Well, he’d go, then he’d leave as quickly as he decently could. It shouldn’t be too hard to get Winsome or someone to call his mobile on some pretext or other. It would save him from having to explain the latest crime statistics, or why so many obvious rapists and murderers got off, the usual sort of stuff you get at parties when people know you’re a policeman. One woman had even had the nerve to ask Banks to put a tail on her husband, whom she suspected of having an affair with a local estate agent. After Banks explained that he wasn’t Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, the woman lost all interest in him and started making eyes at the host.

Banks got up. It was time to have a chat with Joseph Randall, who didn’t seem too happy at being dragged down to Western Area Headquarters that afternoon and left to stew in an interview room accom-panied only by a taciturn constable who wouldn’t tell him why he was there. There was no reason for the delay other than to make Randall nervous and angry. In that state, he might make a slip. He had his Activan with him if he needed it, and the constable had been warned to watch out for any signs of a panic attack, so Banks hadn’t been worried on that score.

The interview room was cramped, with one high barred window, a bare bulb covered by a rusty grille, metal table bolted to the f loor, three

fold-up chairs and the recording equipment. The interview would be videotaped, and as Banks set it up, DC Doug Wilson sat facing a disgruntled Randall, who began by asking for his solicitor.

“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Randall, and you haven’t been

charged with anything,” Banks explained, sitting down. “You’re simply here to help us with our inquiries.”

F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

6 3

“Then I don’t have to talk to you?”

Banks leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Mr.

Randall,” he said. “We’re both reasonable men, I hope. Now this is a serious case. A young girl has been raped and murdered. On your property. I’d think you’d be as interested as I am in getting to the bottom of it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I am,” said Randall. “I just don’t understand why you’re picking on me.”