“I doubt it. Oh, I suppose he could be lying. They all could. Hayley Daniels certainly had a knack for turning young men into pale and panting admirers. Talk about
“No, thank you, sir!”
Banks grinned. “I was speaking meta phorically, Winsome. Stuart Kinsey is a sensitive kid, a romantic. A poet, like he said. He’s not a dissembler, probably not a very good actor, either. Pretty much what you see is what you get. And if something important happened to him, or he did something important, people would know. If he’d killed Hayley, he’d probably have staggered into the station and admitted it.”
“I suppose so,” said Winsome. “Which leaves?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Banks. “Come on, let’s call it a day.”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“What about DI Cabbot, sir?”
“Don’t worry,” Banks said, with that sinking feeling. “I’ll have a word with DI Cabbot.”
A N N I E WA S glad she had decided to come home to Harkside after her visit to Claire Toth, rather than go all the way back to Whitby. It would mean an early start in the morning, but she could handle that, especially if she didn’t drink too much. She was feeling as if she had been put through the wringer after her disastrous lunchtime meeting with Eric and her afternoon chat with Claire. A few home comforts might help. Glass of wine, book, bath, lots of bubbles.
At least Les Ferris had phoned her mobile on her way home and told her he had a line on the hair samples and should be able to get his hands on them before the weekend, so that was one piece of good news.
As darkness fell, Annie closed the curtains and turned on a couple of small shaded table lamps which gave a nice warm glow to the room. She wasn’t very hungry, but she ate some cold leftover pasta and poured herself a healthy glass of Tesco’s Soave from the three-liter box. Banks might have turned into a wine snob since he had inherited his brother’s cellar, but Annie hadn’t. She couldn’t tell a forward leathery nose from a hole in the ground. All she knew was whether she liked it, or if it was off, and usually if it came from a box it wasn’t off.
She picked up the second volume of Hilary Spurling’s Matisse biog-raphy, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words for thinking about Claire and the events that had stunted her life so early. She could get beyond it, of course; there was still time, with the right help, but could she ever completely recover from that much damage? When Annie remembered the look Claire gave her when she said she was seeking Lucy’s killer, she felt like giving up. What was the point? Did anyone want the killer of the notorious “Friend of the Devil” brought to justice? Could anyone ever forgive Lucy Payne? Had Maggie Forrest forgiven her? And had she moved beyond?
Annie remembered a TV film about Lord Longford’s campaign to free Myra Hindley she’d seen a few months ago. It had been hard F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
2 1 5
viewing. The Moors Murders were well before her time, but like every other copper, she had heard all about them, and about the tape recording Brady and Hindley had made. On the one hand, religion asked you to forgive, told you that nobody was beyond forgiveness, held the possibility of redemption sacred, but Lord Longford aside, you’d be hard pushed to find anyone Christian enough to forgive Myra Hindley her crimes, even though, as a woman, she had been judged less responsible for the murders than Brady had. It was the same with Lucy Payne, though circumstances had conspired both to deliver her from justice and imprison her in her own body at the same time.
Tommy Naylor and the other members of the team had been out all day in West Yorkshire questioning the Paynes’ victims’ families, while Ginger had been busy trying to come up with leads in the Kirsten Farrow business. Annie had talked to Naylor on her mobile and got the impression that they all felt as depressed as Annie did tonight, if not more so. When you expose yourself to so much accumulated grief and outraged sense of injustice, how can you keep a clear focus on the job you’re supposed to be doing?
Annie was just about to take her bath when she heard a knock at her door. Her heart leaped into her mouth. Her first thought was that Eric had found out where she lived, and she didn’t want to see him now. For a moment, she thought of ignoring it, pretending she wasn’t home.
Then whoever was there knocked again. Annie risked tiptoeing over to the window and peeking through the curtain. She couldn’t see very well from that angle in the poor light, but she could tell it wasn’t Eric.
Then she saw the Porsche parked just along the street. Banks. Shit, she didn’t really want to see him right now, either, not after the embarrassment of the other night. He wouldn’t give up easily, though. He stood his ground and knocked again. She had the TV on with the sound turned off, and he could probably see the picture f lickering.
Finally, Annie answered the door, stood aside and let him enter. He was carrying a bottle of wine in a gift bag. Peace offering? Why would he need that? If anyone needed to offer the olive branch, it was Annie. Ever the bloody tactician, Banks, disarming the enemy before a word was spoken. Or perhaps that was unfair of her.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked.
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“Lucky guess, I suppose,” said Banks. “Phil Hartnell said you’d been in Leeds talking to Claire Toth today, and I thought you might decide to come home rather than go all the way back to Whitby.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re a DCI and I’m a mere DI.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“You could have rung.”
“You would only have told me not to bother coming.”
Annie fidgeted with a strand of hair. He was right. “Well, you might as well sit down, seeing as you’re here.”
