Friend of the Devil

It made sense, Banks thought. With the police sniffing around in the wake of Hayley’s murder, and no doubt guessing that Jill might not be as discreet as he would have liked, Murdoch was bound to have got rid of any contraband goods he had. It wasn’t much of a theory, anyway, Banks thought. No one was going to murder anyone over small- time 2 2 6 P E T E R

R

O B I N S

O N

fiddling. He had just wanted to push the buttons and see what happened. Nothing much, as it turned out. He gave the signal to Winsome and they stood up to leave. Just before they went downstairs, he asked Jamie, “Did you hear any music shortly after you locked up on Saturday?”

“Music? I don’t really remember. What music?”

“I’m not sure what it was.”

“I heard a car go by, but the rest of the time I was over the far side, cleaning up the toilets.”

“Did you have the radio or the jukebox on?”

“No. I turned everything off when I locked up. Force of habit.”

“Right,” said Banks, thinking at least he’d like to listen to some music if he had to spend a couple of hours pulling soggy bog rolls out of the toilets. He headed for the stairs. “Nice talking to you. If you think of anything else, we’re just across the square.”

T H E T R A F F I C on the A1 slowed to a crawl just past the Angel of the North, standing there on its hilltop ahead like a rusty spitfire on its tail. More fool me, Annie thought, for driving up to Newcastle on a Friday afternoon when everyone was knocking off work early and heading to the Team Valley Retail World or the MetroCentre. The day had started out with sunshine and distant clouds, but just north of Scotch Corner, the sky had quickly turned murky gray, brooding over Weardale to her left, and it had been raining on and off ever since.

They say if you don’t like the weather up north, wait ten minutes, but what they don’t add is that if you still don’t like it, drive ten miles in any direction.

Annie had spent the morning with the team, going over the interviews with the families of the Paynes’ victims to no avail. Nobody expressed an ounce of sympathy for Lucy, and some were more hostile than others, but nobody even stood out remotely as a possible suspect.

There were still alibis to be checked, but it was a depressing result.

Detective Superintendent Brough had appeared near the end of the meeting, and even his words of encouragement had sounded hollow.

If they could at least get a break on the leak of Lucy Payne’s identity F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

2 2 7

and previous whereabouts, Annie kept thinking, they would be a hell of a lot closer. Ginger was grumbling about trying to find anyone who could tell her anything in a publisher’s office on a Friday, but she was waiting for a call back from Maggie Forrest’s previous art editor and keeping her fingers crossed.

Before that, Ginger had been busy tracking down Sarah Bingham, Kirsten Farrow’s old friend, after she had finished her law degree, and in that she had succeeded. Better yet, Sarah was working at home that afternoon. She had said on the phone that she could spare Annie half an hour or so. She lived in a chic new apartment by the river, which had been completely redeveloped into an upmarket area since Annie had last been that far north, all expensive restaurants and boutique hotels lining Tyneside in shiny new buildings, angular modern designs in steel, concrete and glass, jutting out over the water. As Annie was looking for the visitors’ parking, her mobile rang. It was Les Ferris, and he sounded excited. She pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

“Annie, I’ve found those hair samples.”

“That’s great,” Annie said. “When can Liam get started?”

“There’s a small problem,” Les admitted. “Liam’s all set to go at the drop of a hat, but they’re at West Yorkshire Headquarters along with the rest of the evidence in the ’88 serial killings, which makes sense.

That’s not a problem in itself, but right now it’s Friday afternoon, the shift’s changed, the weekend’s coming up, and there’s nobody to sign them out. There’s a right bastard guarding exhibits, and we need someone with authority. Superintendent Brough is—”

“Probably playing golf,” said Annie. “What’s the bottom line, Les?

I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry myself.”

“Right. Got it. The bottom line is Monday. We should be able to get them to the lab and have Liam and his expert do a comparison check sometime Monday morning. All being well.”

“That’s great,” Annie said. “We’ve waited this long, we can wait till Monday. And if it’s necessary, and if my authority will do, don’t hesitate to give me a ring later. Good work, Les. Thanks a lot.”

“My pleasure,” said Ferris, and rang off.

In the meantime, Annie thought, she would just carry on as she had 2 2 8

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

been doing. If the hair proved that Kirsten Farrow wasn’t involved in the Lucy Payne murder, then she could scratch that line of inquiry. It was a long shot, anyway. She would have wasted a bit of time on a wild-goose chase, but sometimes things like that happened. Then she would have to redirect all her resources into other lines of inquiry.

Maggie Forrest, for example. Janet Taylor’s brother had been a possible, too, but Tommy Naylor had tracked him down to a detox center in Kent, where he’d been drying out for the past month, so that was another dead end.