Friend of the Devil

smashed into the tape recorder. Then all was silent.

10

IT WAS ALMOST TWENTY PAST TWELVE WHEN ANNIE MADE

her way along Church Street to The Black Horse, having escaped the station and the media. She half hoped that Eric would have left by now; it would save her the trouble of dumping him in person. It would have been easier simply not to turn up, of course, but she already had the impression that Eric wasn’t the type to let go easily; he would need a bit of coaxing.

Annie had deliberately dressed down for the occasion in a pair of old trainers, a shapeless knee-length skirt and a black polo- neck jumper under her denim jacket. She had also resisted putting on any makeup.

It had been difficult, more so than she would have expected. She wasn’t vain, but in some ways she would have liked to make a stunning entry, turn all the heads in the pub, and then give him his marching orders. But she also wanted to do nothing to encourage him.

As it turned out, such was her natural appeal—or perhaps it was because everyone in the pub was male—that heads turned anyway when she entered the small busy bar. Including Eric’s. Annie’s heart sank as she dredged up a weak smile and sat opposite him. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, pushing her hair back. “Something came up at the office.” It was partly true. Her meeting with Superintendent Brough had gone on longer than expected, mostly because it was hard to convince him that 1 9 2

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

Les Ferris’s information amounted to anything at all. Finally, she had got Brough to agree to let her initiate a limited search for the Australian and for Sarah Bingham, while Les Ferris tried to find the hair samples for comparison.

“That’s all right,” Eric said, smiling. “I’m just glad you came at all.

Drink?”

“Slimline tonic, please.” Annie was determined to do this in a civilized way, over lunch, but with a clear head.

“Are you sure?” Eric had a pint of Guinness in front of him, almost finished.

“Yes, thanks,” Annie said. “Tough afternoon ahead. I’ll need all my wits about me.”

“You must have a really demanding job. What are you, a cop or something? I’ll be back in a minute, and you can tell me all about it.”

Eric headed for the bar and Annie studied the menu. She was starv-ing. Given the lack of choice, the veggie panini would have to do.

Either that or a cheese- and-onion sandwich. When she looked up, Eric was on his way back with the drinks, smiling at her. His teeth were straight and white, his black hair f lopped over one eye, and he hadn’t shaved since she had last seen him, by the looks of it. He handed her the drink and clinked glasses.

“Decided?” he asked.

“What?”

“Food.”

“Oh, yes,” said Annie. “I think I’ll have a panini with mushrooms, mozzarella and roasted red peppers. Tell me what you want, and I’ll go order.”

Eric put his hand on her arm and stood up. “No. I insist. I invited you. As it happens, I’m a vegetarian, so I’ll have the same.” He smiled.

“Is that something else we have in common?”

Annie said nothing. She watched him walk away again and found herself thinking that he had a nice bum and wondering what he thought they had in common other than being vegetarians. She chastised herself for the impure thought and steeled herself for what she had to do, faltering for just a moment as to why she had to do it.

But she had no place in her life and career for a young marijuana-F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

1 9 3

smoking musician-cum-hairstylist, no matter how nice his bum or his smile.

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Eric said, as he sat down again and lit a cigarette. He offered Annie one, but she said no.

Annie sipped some Slimline tonic. “That e-mail you sent me last night wasn’t too cool, you know,” she said.

“What? I’m sorry. I just thought it was a laugh, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well . . . that’s the difference between you and me. I didn’t.

If anyone else saw it . . .”

“Who else is likely to see it? I only sent it to you. Why would you show it to anyone else?”

“That’s not the point. You know what I mean. E-mails are hardly private.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you worked for MI5. Sworn the Official Secrets Act, have you?”

“I don’t, and I haven’t.”

“What exactly do you do?”

“That’s none of your bloody business.”

“You must be a cop, then. Like Prime Suspect? That’s so cool.” He held out his hands. “You’d better cuff me, Officer. It’s a fair cop.”