Friend of the Devil

agreed that he couldn’t possibly have been responsible for the murder of Hayley Daniels, which is what you’ve been holding him for.”

“That could change,” Banks said.

“What do you mean?” Randall asked.

“The problem remains,” Banks went on. “Our forensic experts 1 8 8 P E T E R R O B I N S O N

definitely found your DNA in semen samples taken from the victim.

In fact, our crime scene coordinator had been puzzled that the semen hadn’t dried as much as he would have predicted, had it been there overnight.”

Randall folded his arms. “I told you, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there.”

“Oh, I think you can,” said Banks. He leaned forward and rested his palms on the desk, face only a couple of feet from Randall’s.

“Would you like me to tell you what I think really happened in that storage room, Joseph?”

Randall licked his lips. “What’s the point? You’ll tell me anyway.

More fantasy.”

“Perhaps it started as a fantasy,” said Banks, “but it wasn’t mine. I think you’re telling the truth, and so is Mr. Colegate. I think you saw Hayley Daniels in The Trumpeters after you closed up shop on Saturday night and you liked what you saw. Perhaps you’d seen her there before? After all, she frequently spent Saturday nights on the town with her college friends. Or perhaps it didn’t really matter who you saw as long as she was young and scantily dressed. I believe you went home, as you said you did, watched television, or perhaps some porn on DVD, and drank yourself into a stupor, fueling your fantasies, until you could hardly stand up at half past twelve, when you put the cat out and, in all likelihood, went to bed.”

“So what if any of this is true?” said Randall. “None of it’s illegal.”

“I’d like to believe that you dashed back to the shop, saw Hayley Daniels conveniently walking into The Maze and hurried after her,”

Banks went on, “but in all fairness, I don’t think that’s very realistic.

The timing doesn’t work, and it would be far too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, thank heaven for that! Can I go now?”

“But you did find the body the following morning,” Banks said.

“And reported it.”

“Something happened in those eleven minutes, didn’t it, Joseph?

Something came over you, some urge you couldn’t resist.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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

1 8 9

“I think you do.”

“Chief Inspector—”

“Please be quiet, Mr. Crawford. I’m not infringing your client’s rights in any way.” Banks turned back to Randall. “That’s what happened, isn’t it, Joseph? You walked into your storage room as usual to pick out some suitable remnants, turned on the light, and you saw her there, lying on her side on the soft pile of scraps as if she were asleep, some poor lost babe in the woods taking shelter from the storm. She looked so innocent and beautiful lying there, didn’t she? And you couldn’t help yourself. I’ll bet you touched her, didn’t you, Joseph?

Fondled those small firm breasts, small cold breasts? Did it really turn you on, her being dead like that, unable to respond, to say or do anything, to stop you? You were in complete control, weren’t you, probably for the first time in your life? There wasn’t a thing she could do, was there? So you touched her skin, and you ran your hands over her thighs. Did you kiss her, Joseph? Did you kiss those dead lips? I think you probably did. How could you resist? She was all yours.”

Randall hung his head in his hands. Crawford moved over to him.

“You don’t have to say anything, Joseph,” he said. “This is sick.”

“Indeed it is,” said Banks. “And he’s right. You don’t have to say anything. I already know, Joseph. I know everything. I know how you felt as you knelt beside her and unzipped. You were hard, weren’t you, harder than you’d ever been? And with one hand you touched her between her legs and with the other you touched yourself, and it happened, didn’t it? Perhaps sooner than you expected. Then you had to clean up. You didn’t do a very good job. That’s why we found what we did, isn’t it? You thought you’d got it all, but you were in a hurry and you missed some. Eleven minutes, Joseph.”

Randall sobbed into his hands, Crawford had one arm draped awkwardly over his shoulders. “I didn’t kill her,” Randall cried. “I didn’t hurt her. I would never have hurt her.” He looked up at Banks with a tear-streaked face. “You must believe me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Banks felt sick. He edged his chair back, stood up and went to open the door. “Take him back down to the custody suite,” he said to the constable on guard. “And ask the sergeant to charge him with committing an indignity on a dead body, or whatever the bloody hell they 1 9 0

P E T E R R O B I N S O N

call it these days. Go with him, please, Mr. Crawford. Go quick. Just get him out of my sight. Now!”

Crawford helped Randall to his feet and they shuff led out into the grasp of the waiting constable. Alone in the small interview room with only the hum of the recording machines breaking the silence, Banks let out a loud expletive and kicked the only chair that wasn’t bolted to the f loor so hard that it sailed across the room and