What the hell was Wayne Dalton doing in Eastvale? That was what she wanted to know. Was he on a case? Had he been reassigned to Western Divisional Headquarters? She didn’t think she could handle working with him, not after what happened. The last she had heard he had transferred to the Met. Surely he couldn’t be seeking her out? Coming to torment her? True, she had complained to their chief super the following morning, but there was no evidence; it was simply her word against the three of them. The chief super knew that something had gone on, and he also knew it was something he didn’t want aired in his station, thank you very much, so Annie got shipped out sharpish and the three men, after being rapped on the knuckles, were encouraged to transfer at their leisure.
Later, in her bath, Annie remembered Wayne Dalton’s flushed and sweating face as he held her, the little ginger hairs up his nose as he stood over her, waiting his turn. A turn that never came. She remembered walking the streets for hours after her escape, languishing in her bath, just like now, listening to the radio, the sounds of normal life, and scrubbing their filth from her body. Something she shouldn’t have done. Something she, in her turn, had advised rape victims not to do. But it was far easier to say “Do as I say, not as I do.” At the time, she hadn’t thought, had only wanted an escape, a way of undoing what had been done, of going back in time to a day when it had never happened. Foolish, perhaps, but perfectly reasonable, she thought.
And she was still in her bath, on her third glass of wine when, close to twenty past eleven, her telephone rang.
It was five to twelve when Banks, who had driven well over the speed limit the whole way, parked in the market square next to the ambulance and headed for the club door. DC Rickerd had got a uniformed constable to guard the entrance, Banks was pleased to see, and had even put blue-and-white police tape across the doorway. As he headed down the stone steps, he was also pleased to hear that the music had been silenced and the only sounds drifting up were the murmured conversations of detained clubbers grumbling at the tables.
“Over here, sir.”
The only lights on were the colored disco lights that whirled over the dance floor, eerie without the accompaniment of music and gyrating bodies. Banks could make out Rickerd and Jessup standing by the door to the ladies’ toilet with the ambulance crew, a couple of uniformed officers and a young man. Before he could get there, someone tugged at his sleeve.
“Excuse me, are you in authority?”
“Looks that way,” said Banks. The speaker, wearing jeans and a white shirt, was probably in his early twenties, skinny, with bright eyes and dilated pupils. It wasn’t particularly hot in the Bar None, but a sheen of sweat covered his face.
“Why are you keeping us here? It’s been nearly an hour now. You can’t just keep us here.”
“It’s my understanding that there’s been a serious crime, sir,” said Banks. “Until we get things sorted, I’m afraid none of you is going anywhere.” He noticed the boy was still holding his sleeve and plucked it away.
“But this is outrageous. I want to go home.”
Banks leaned forward, close enough to smell the beer and fish and chips on his breath. “Look, sonny,” he whispered, “go sit down with your mates and be quiet. One more word out of you and I’ll have the Drugs Squad down on you like a ton of bricks. Understand?”
The boy looked as if he was going to protest further, but thought better of it and swayed over to the table where his friends sat. Banks continued on his way to meet Rickerd and Jessup. One of the ambulance crew looked at him and shook his head slowly. Annie Cabbot hadn’t arrived yet. She had sounded edgy when he’d called and he had wondered if he had woken her. She said not.
“In here, sir,” said a whey-faced Rickerd, pointing into the ladies’. “It’s not very pretty.” Someone had placed more tape at the entrance, effectively creating an inner crime scene. That was often useful, as you could afford to let some people in the first scene and lead them to think they were privileged, but you kept the real crime scene uncontaminated.
“Who’s he?” Banks gestured toward the young man beside Rickerd.
“He found her, sir.”
“Okay. Keep an eye on him. I’ll talk to him later. Did you call Dr. Burns?”
“Yes, sir. He said he’d get here as soon as he could.”
Banks turned to Inspector Jessup. “What happened, Chris?”
“Call came it at six minutes past eleven. That lad you just noticed. Name’s Darren Hirst. It seems he was with the victim. She went to the toilet and didn’t come out. He got worried, went in for a butcher’s and called us.”
Banks slipped on his latex gloves and stepped under the tape.
The ladies’ toilet was small, given the size of the club. White tile, three stalls, two sinks under a long mirror. The ubiquitous condom machine hung on the wall, the kind that sells all sorts of flavors and colors – Lager amp; Lime, Rhubarb amp; Custard, Curry amp; Chips. The stalls had flimsy wooden doors. “Cindy Sucks Black Cock” was scrawled in lipstick across the front of one of them.
“It’s this one, sir,” said Rickerd, pointing to the end stall.
“Was it locked?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you open it?”
Rickerd took off his glasses and wiped them with a white handkerchief. It was a habit Banks had noticed in him before. “From the next stall, sir. I stood on the toilet seat, leaned over with a stick and slipped the bolt. It was easy enough. We’re bloody lucky the door opens outwards.”
“A locked-toilet mystery, then,” Banks muttered, thinking Rickerd had shown more initiative than he would have expected.
“I didn’t disturb anything any more than necessary, sir. Just to establish who she was and that she was dead. Inspector Jessup supervised, and the others made sure no one left.”
“That’s all right. You did well.” He pulled the door slowly toward him with his fingertips, anxious not to mess up an already messy scene.
“You won’t believe this, sir,” Rickerd said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Neither had Banks.
The girl’s body was wedged crabwise from wall to wall, her back arched about two feet over the toilet, knees jammed against one wall and her shoulders pushed up hard against the other, her neck bent at an awkward angle. A trickle of blood had run from her nose and there were contusions on her face and head. Broken mirror glass and white powder lay scattered on the floor amid the spilled contents of her handbag. Banks knew that the eyes of the dead have no expression, but hers seemed full of terror and agony, as if she had looked the Grim Reaper right in the eye. Her face was dark, suffused with blood, and the corners of her mouth were turned up in a parody of a grin.
But the worst thing about it all, the thing that caused Banks’s blood to scream in his ears and his knees to turn watery and bring him so close to falling down that he had to grab on to the doorjamb to stay on his feet, was that the body wasn’t Ruth Walker’s at all; it was Emily Riddle’s.
8
“Alan?” The voice seemed to reach Banks’s ears from a great distance. “Alan? So now you’re hanging around ladies’ toilets, eh?”
Banks felt someone touch his sleeve, and he turned to see Annie Cabbot standing in the doorway. Never had he seen a more welcome sight. He wanted to fall forward into her arms, have her stroke his head and kiss his face and tell him everything was all right, he’d just had a bad dream, that’s all, and it would all be gone in the morning.