Friend of the Devil

obscene poster of the woman with her legs spread; the dank claustrophobic atmosphere with its F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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smell of blood and urine; the occult symbols on the walls. Fortunately for Annie, the body of Kimberley Myers had been removed by the time she got there, along with the bloody mattress.

Annie could imagine the ground haunted by the ghosts of the poor girls who had been raped, tortured and buried down there. And Lucy Payne, the woman in the wheelchair with her throat cut, had definitely been involved in that. Banks had spent a lot of time interviewing Lucy, first as a victim and later as a possible suspect, and she had certainly had an effect on him, no matter what he claimed, but it was clear that even now he hadn’t any more understanding of what really went on in that cellar, or why, than anyone else.

Annie parked at the bottom of the steps in front of Claire’s house and pulled herself together. She knew that she had to get over what happened the other night and talk to Banks. Sober this time. So she had made a fool of herself. So what? It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Explain. He’d understand. God knew, he was understanding enough; he wasn’t going to toss her out on her ear. Was she so afraid of a little embarrassment? That didn’t sound like the woman she thought she was. But was she who she thought she was?

She climbed the steps, noting as she went that the gardens that straggled down to the pavement seemed even more overgrown than ever, especially for the time of year, and a high fence about halfway up blocked the view of the house from below. Annie opened the gate and carried on climbing the last f light of steps.

The front door needed a coat of paint, and a dog or cat had clearly been scratching at the wood. The small lawn was patchy and overgrown with weeds. Annie wasn’t quite sure how she was going to approach Claire. Was the girl a serious suspect? If not, was she likely to know anything that would help? It seemed that all she was doing was going in there to reopen old wounds. Taking a deep breath, she made a fist and knocked on the frosted glass.

After a few moments a woman answered the door in a blue cardigan and gray slacks.

“Mrs. Toth?” Annie said.

“That’s right, love. You must be DI Cabbot. Please come in. Claire’s not back yet but she’ll be here any minute.”

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

Annie went in. The front room had high ceilings and a bay window looking west, over the tops of the houses opposite. A television set stood in the corner. Daily Cooks had just started, with that dishy French chef Jean-Christophe Novelli. Annie bet the French never made a fuss about a one-night stand. Mrs. Toth didn’t make a move to turn the TV off, and when Annie asked her, she turned down the volume a notch or two, but while they made small talk she was watching from the corner of her eye. Finally, she offered a cup of tea, and Annie accepted gratefully. Left to herself in the cavernous living room for a moment, Annie stood at the window and watched the f luffy clouds drifting across the blue sky on the horizon. Another beautiful spring day. She fancied she could even see as far as the bulky shapes of the Pennines far in the distance.

Around the same time Mrs. Toth returned with the tray, the front door opened and shut and a young woman walked in wearing a supermarket shift, which she immediately took off and threw over a chair.

“Claire!” said her mother. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Hang up your coat.”

Claire gave Annie a long-suffering look and did as she was told. Annie had never seen her before, so she hadn’t really known what to expect. Claire took a packet of Dunhill out of her handbag and lit one with a Bic lighter. Her dirty-blond hair was tied back and she was wearing jeans and a white men’s-style shirt. It wasn’t hard to see that she was overweight: the jeans tight on her, f lesh bulging at the hips and waist; and her makeup-free complexion was bad—pasty and spotty chipmunk cheeks, teeth stained yellow from nicotine. She certainly didn’t resemble the slight figure of Mary whom Mel Danvers had seen at Mapston Hall. She was also too young, but as Banks had pointed out, Mel Danvers could have been wrong about the age. Claire certainly seemed old before her time in some of her mannerisms.

As soon as Claire had got the cigarette going she poured herself a glass of wine, without offering any to Annie. Not that she wanted any.

Tea was fine.

Mrs. Toth placed herself on an armchair in the corner, and her cup clinked on her saucer every now and then as she took a sip. Daily Cooks continued quietly in the background.

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

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“What do you want?” Claire asked. “Mum told me you’re from the police.”

“Have you been following the news?” Annie asked.

“I don’t really bother.”

“Only Lucy Payne was killed the other day.”

Claire paused, the glass inches from her lips. “She . . . ? But I thought she was in a wheelchair?”

“She was.”

Claire sipped some wine, took a drag on her cigarette and shrugged.

“Well, what do you expect me to say? That I’m sorry?”

“Are you?”

“No way. Do you know what that woman did?”

“I know,” said Annie.

“And you lot just let her go.”

“We didn’t just let her go, Claire,” Annie tried to explain.