she
“Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
Ferris gave her a hurt look. “What do you think I am?”
Annie rubbed her forehead. “Sorry,” she said. “The media’s already in a feeding frenzy since they found out it was Lucy Payne on the edge of that cliff.”
Ferris chuckled. “I’ll bet they are. Anyroad, they’ll get nothing from me.”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
1 8 1
Annie took out her notebook. “Okay, I’ll make a few preliminary inquiries,” she said. “You’d better start by giving me some names and last-known addresses. The Australian, Kirsten’s friend. We’re really pushed for manpower as it is, but maybe it’d be worth a bit of digging.” Then she stopped, struck by an idea that might be as crazy as it sounded.
“What is it?” Ferris said.
“You know those locks of hair you told me about?”
“Yes.”
“Did you keep them?”
“They’d be with the rest of the case material somewhere, yes,” said Ferris.
“Do you think you could dig them out?”
Ferris’s face lit up as if he had been given a new purpose in life. “Is the Pope Catholic?” he said, beaming. “I don’t see why not. I am a researcher, after all.”
T H E B E E R was f lowing in The Queen’s Arms, where the landlord had put two long tables together, and even Detective Superintendent Catherine Gervaise was joining in the celebrations with a smile on her face. Only Banks stood apart, leaning against the windowsill pensively sipping his pint, occasionally glancing out through the diamond-shaped panes at the passersby on Market Street as the shadows lengthened, feeling that something wasn’t quite right, that they were perhaps being premature. But a DNA match was solid, an arrest was an arrest, and it demanded celebration. The Arctic Monkeys were on the jukebox and all was well with the world.
“What is it, sir?” asked Winsome, suddenly standing by his side, a purple drink topped with a maraschino cherry in her hand. Banks didn’t even want to know what it was. She was a little wobbly, but her voice and her eyes were clear.
“Nothing,” said Banks. “Having fun?”
“I suppose so.”
“Something wrong?”
“No,” said Winsome. “You just seemed far away. I wondered . . .”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“What?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Come on, out with it.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“What isn’t?”
Someone bumped into Winsome, but she managed to hold on to her drink without spilling any. The man apologized and moved on.
Hatchley was telling a joke over the music and everyone at the table was waiting for the punch line. Banks had heard it before. “Busy in here tonight, isn’t it?” Winsome said.
“You can’t just start to say something, then cut it off in midstream,”
said Banks. “What’s on your mind?”
“DI Cabbot, sir.”
“Annie?”
“I told you, it’s none of my business. I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I know you two are friends.”
“I used to think so, too,” said Banks. Through the window, a couple of schoolgirls in disheveled uniforms passed by on their way home from a late band practice, one carrying a violin case, the other a f lute.
Hatchley reached his punch line and the table started laughing.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. What about DI Cabbot?”
“I had dinner with her last night. I think something’s bothering her.”
“Bothering her? In what way?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Winsome lowered her voice. “I think it’s a boyfriend. Stalking? Threatening?”
It didn’t take much to work out that Annie had probably driven over to see Banks just after her dinner with Winsome. She had mentioned toyboys, but why hadn’t she told him she was in trouble? She clearly hadn’t got the chance. “I’ll have a word,” he said, wondering just how on earth he would manage to do that given their last
