Friend of the Devil

“What could you have done?” Banks asked.

“I . . . I don’t—”

“Nothing,” said Banks. It probably wasn’t strictly true. If Kinsey had arrived in Taylor’s Yard at the same time the killer was assaulting Hayley, he might have interrupted things, and the killer might have f led, leaving her alive. But what was the point in letting him believe that? “You had no idea what was going on,” he said, “and besides, it was all over by then. Stop whipping yourself.”

Kinsey said nothing for a few moments, just stared down into his coffee.

“How fond of Hayley were you?” Banks asked.

Kinsey looked at him. He had an angry red spot beside his mouth.

“Why are you asking me that? Do you still believe I’d hurt her?”

“Calm down,” Banks said. “Nobody’s saying that. You told us the last time we talked to you that you fancied Hayley, but that she didn’t reciprocate.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m just wondering how that made you feel.”

“How it made me feel? How do you think it made me feel? How does it make you feel when someone you want so much you can’t even sleep doesn’t so much as acknowledge your existence?”

“Surely it wasn’t as bad as that?” Banks said. “You hung out with Hayley, you saw plenty of her, went to the pictures and so on.”

“Yeah, but mostly the whole crew was around. It was rare we were together, just me and her.”

“You had conversations. You admitted you even kissed her once.”

Kinsey gave Banks a withering glance. He felt he probably deserved 2 1 0

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it. Conversation and a couple of friendly kisses weren’t much compen-sation when you were walking around with a hard- on that took up so much skin you couldn’t close your eyes.

“Stuart, you’re the only person we can place at the scene of the crime at the right time,” said Winsome, in as matter- of-fact and reasonable a voice as she could manage. “And you’ve got the motive, too: your unrequited infatuation with Hayley. We need some answers.”

“Means, motive and opportunity. How bloody convenient for you.

How many more times do I have to tell you that I didn’t do it? For all the frustrations, I cared about Hayley, and I don’t think I could ever kill anyone. I’m a fucking pacifist, for crying out loud. A poet.”

“No need to swear,” said Winsome.

He looked at her, contrite. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. It’s just so unfair, that’s all. I lose a friend and all you do is try to make me into a criminal.”

“What happened in The Maze that night?” Banks asked.

“I’ve already told you.”

“Tell us again. More coffee?”

“No. No, thanks. I’m wired enough already.”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” said Banks. Winsome rolled her eyes and went over to the stand.

“Just between you and me,” Banks said, leaning forward, “did you ever get anywhere with Hayley beyond a couple of kisses in the back row at the pictures? Come on, you can tell me the truth.”

Kinsey licked his lips. He seemed on the verge of tears. Finally, he nodded. “Just once,” he said. “That’s what hurts so much.”

“You slept with her?”

“No. Good Lord, no. Not that. We just . . . you know . . . kissed and messed about. And then it was like she didn’t want to know me.”

“That would make any man angry,” said Banks, seeing Winsome on her way back with the coffee. “Having her right there, tasting her, then having her taken away forever. Thinking of other people having her.”

“I wasn’t angry. Disappointed, I suppose. It wasn’t as if she made any promises or anything. We’d had a couple of drinks. It just felt F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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so . . . right . . . and then it was like it never happened. For her. Now, no matter what, it’ll never happen again.”

Winsome put one coffee down in front of Banks and took one for herself. “Let’s get back to Saturday night in The Maze,” Banks said.

“There might be something you’ve forgotten. I know it’s difficult, but try to reimagine it.”

“I’ll try,” said Kinsey.

Banks sipped some hot, weak coffee and blew on the surface. “You all went into the Bar None around twenty past twelve, is that right?”