Friend of the Devil

Annie found the visitors’ area and parked, checked in with the security desk and found herself buzzed up to the fourth-f loor apartment. At the end of the thickly carpeted corridor, Sarah Bingham opened the door to her and led her through to the living room. It wasn’t large, but the floor-to-ceiling window with balcony created more than enough sense of space. The view south to Gateshead wasn’t an idyllic one, more dockside than docklands, but it was probably an expensive one. Annie felt suspended above the water and was glad she didn’t suffer from vertigo.

The furnishings were all red leather modular designs, and what appeared to be a couple of original pieces of contemporary art hung on the walls, which were painted a subtle shade between cream and pink that Annie couldn’t quite name. It was probably a combination of some exotic place and a wildf lower, like Tuscan primrose or Pelopon-nesian hyacinth.

Annie expressed her admiration for the paintings, especially the one made up of different-colored dots, and Sarah seemed pleased at her appreciation. Maybe most of her guests didn’t like abstract art. A large f lat-screen TV hung on one wall, and an expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo system took up the other side. There were small speakers on stands in all corners and orchestral music issued very softly from them. Annie couldn’t tell what it was, but she couldn’t really pick out a tune, so she guessed it was probably twentieth-century. It was the very contemporary habitat of a very contemporary young woman. A quick calculation told Annie that Sarah must be about forty, the same age as her.

Sarah Bingham herself was chic, from ash-blond hair so perfectly F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L

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coiffed, layered and tinted that it looked natural, to the white silk shirt and black designer cargoes. Perhaps the only dissonant note was a pair of pink f luffy slippers. But she was at home. She made Annie feel quite dowdy in her Levi’s and black polo- neck jumper. She also had the kind of lithe body you only get from an hour at the gym each day. Annie didn’t have time for that, even if she had had the inclination. A white MacBook surrounded by papers and file folders sat on the chrome-and-glass worktable by the window. So much for the paperless office, Annie thought. A Hermes handbag lay on the next chair, as if tossed there casually.

“I don’t know what I can do for you,” said Sarah as she sat in a sculpted armchair, “but you’ve certainly got me intrigued.” Her accent was posh, but not forced. Like everything else about her, it seemed natural.

“It’s about Kirsten Farrow.”

“Yes, you said on the phone.” Sarah made a vague hand gesture.

“But that was all so many years ago.”

“What do you remember about that time?”

“Ooh, let me see. Well, Kirsty and I became friends at university.

We were both reading English Lit. I was seriously into feminist criticism and all that stuff, but Kirsty was more traditional. F. R. Leavis, I. A. Richards and all that. Very unfashionable in the heady days of deconstruction and what have you.”

“What about the attack?” asked Annie, anxious not to waste too much of her allotted time on literary criticism.

“That was awful,” said Sarah. “I visited her in hospital and she was . . . I mean it took her months to put herself back together. If she ever did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you never really get over something like that. I don’t know. Do you?”

“No,” said Annie, “but some people learn to function in spite of it.

Did you spend a lot of time with her in that period?”

“Yes,” said Sarah, “it seemed important to stick by her while everyone else was busy getting on with their lives.”

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

“And what about your life?”

“On hold. I planned to do graduate work, a PhD in Victorian fiction. I wanted to become a professor of English.” She laughed.

“Wanted to?”

“Yes. I got bored by it all in my first year. I dropped out and bummed around Europe for a while, as one does, and when I got back I went in for law, at my parents’ suggestion.”

Annie looked around. “You seem to be doing all right.”

“Not bad, I suppose. I wasted a few years on the way, but I soon made up for it. Now I’m one of the youngest partners in one of the biggest law firms in the North East. Look, would you like something to drink? You’ve come such a long way. How rude of me not to ask sooner.”

“That’s okay,” said Annie. “I’ll have something cold and fizzy, if you’ve got it, thanks.” She’d had a couple more glasses of wine than she had planned after Banks had gone the previous eve ning, and it had left her with a dry mouth. She regretted lying to him about Eric, but sometimes it was the only way to keep someone out of your business. Banks’s, and Winsome’s, intentions might be good, but the last thing she needed right now was someone meddling in her life.

Sarah stood up. “Something cold and fizzy it is,” she said, and went to the cocktail cabinet. She came back with a chilled Perrier and ice for Annie and a gin and tonic for herself, then she settled in the chair again, curling her legs under her.

“Married?” Annie asked. She had noticed that Sarah wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Sarah shook her head. “Once,” she said, “but it didn’t take.” She laughed. “He said he couldn’t handle my working all hours, our never seeing each other, but the truth is that he was a layabout and a sponger.