“We have,” said Templeton.
“There you go, then. You tell me how I’m supposed to get out, rape and murder a girl, and come back without being seen.”
“Mind if I have a look around?”
“Not at all. I’ll show you.” Murdoch put the glass down, called to one of the regulars to keep his eye on the place and first took Templeton upstairs, where there were an office, a toilet, a storeroom full of cases of wine and spirits piled against the wall, and a sitting room with a TV set, fading wallpaper and a let-down sofa.
Next, Murdoch showed him the poolroom and the toilets downstairs, which weren’t in such bad shape; then the kitchen near the back, which was clean as it should be; and the side exit onto Castle Road. They went into the cellar next, a dank place with damp stone walls and barrels of beer in a row and crates of ale piled up. It stank of yeast and hops. The walls were solid everywhere, probably about three feet thick. Templeton couldn’t see any possible way out, and he didn’t particularly fancy staying down there a moment more than he needed, so he headed back up the worn stone steps.
“Seen enough?” asked Murdoch when they got back to the bar.
“For now,” said Templeton. “This incident with the toilets. When did it happen?”
“Don’t know for certain,” said Murdoch. “The Lyndgarth yobs had been gone maybe about ten minutes or so when one of the students came and told me. Not that there was anything I could do about it right there and then, like, when I had drinks to serve. It was about that time the girl and her friends came in.”
“Pretty near closing time, then?”
“Aye, not far off. I’d have closed up early except I had paying customers. I reckoned I’d see the punters off the premises at the usual time and get it cleaned up. Never imagined it would take so bloody long.”
“This Lyndgarth lot, did they stick around the square?”
“I didn’t see them again, but then I didn’t get out till late.”
“Any names?”
“Why? Are you going to prosecute them?”
“For what?”
“Vandalizing the pub.”
“No, dickhead. They might be suspects in a murder investigation. Why, are you going to bring charges?”
“No way. I value my life.”
“I’d still like to talk to them. Names?”
“You must be joking. Maybe one of them called his mate Steve, and there was another called Mick.”
“Wonderful. Thanks a lot.”
“I told you. Anyway, it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to find them if you want. Just ask around. Lyndgarth’s not a big place and the yobs are probably pretty well known there.”
“And you’d recognize them again?”
“Aye, I’d recognize them.”
“Had you seen the girl and her friends before?”
“They’d been in once or twice, yes.”
“Regulars?”
“I wouldn’t call them regulars, but I’d seen them occasionally in here on a Saturday night. Never caused any trouble.”
“Did you hear anything from Taylor’s Yard while you were cleaning up the toilets?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone go by the front?”
“No, but I wouldn’t have, anyway. See, I was in the toilets, at the Castle Road side, as you’ve seen. Besides, I wasn’t really paying attention. Cleaning up vandalized toilets sort of demands all your attention, if you know what I mean.” Murdoch worked at a glass, then narrowed his eyes. “I can hardly believe it, you know.”
“Believe what?”
He gestured over toward the toilets. “While I was busy cleaning up in there, what was happening in the Maze. That poor girl. I can hardly get my head around it.”
“Don’t even try,” said Templeton, heading toward the door. “It’ll only give you grief.” And he left, rather pleased with himself for his piece of sage advice. He paused at the door and turned back. “And don’t run away,” he said, pointing his finger at Murdoch. “I might be back.”
As befitting that of a senior partner, Julia Ford’s office was both larger and better appointed than Constance Wells’s. She had the same fine view of the square, but from higher up, and the room was fitted with a thick-pile carpet and a solid teak desk. What looked to Annie like an original David Hockney Yorkshire landscape hung on one wall.
Julia Ford herself was elegance personified. Annie had no idea where her simple dark-blue business suit and plain white blouse had come from, but it definitely wasn’t Next or Primark. She bet there was a designer’s name on it somewhere, and it probably came from Harvey Nicks. Her straight chestnut-brown hair fell to her shoulders and was imbued with the kind of luster Annie had seen only in television adverts. Julia Ford stood up, leaned across the table and shook hands with both Annie and Ginger, then bade them sit. Her chairs were padded and far more comfortable than Constance Wells’s. She regarded them both with watchful brown eyes, then turned to Constance, who lingered in the doorway. “That’s all right, Constance, thank you very much,” she said. “You can go now.” Constance shut the door behind her.
Julia Ford continued to regard Annie and Ginger with those serious eyes and made a steeple of her hands on the table. No rings, Annie noticed. “I understand that Karen Drew has been murdered?” she said finally.
“That’s right,” said Annie. “We’re trying—”
Julia Ford waved her hand dismissively. “I should imagine you are,” she said, a definite smile now playing around the edges of her thin lips. “And I should also imagine you’re not getting very far.”
“It’s like squeezing the proverbial blood out of the proverbial stone,” Annie said. “We were wondering if Ms. Wells might be able to help, but she seemed to think we should talk to you.”
“I thought you should talk to me. Constance has very specific instructions regarding Karen.”
“And can you help?”
“Oh, I think you’ll find I’ll be able to help you a great deal,” said Julia Ford.
“But will you?”
“Will I?” She spread her hands. “Of course I will. I’ve never hindered a police investigation.”
Annie swallowed. Julia Ford had a reputation as a tough barrister who would do anything she possibly could to discredit the police and get her client off.
“Can you tell us about her background, then?” Annie asked.
“I could, but I don’t think that’s really the main issue right now. You’ll find out soon enough, anyway.”
“Ms. Ford,” said Annie, “with all due respect, aren’t we supposed to be the ones who decide what questions we should ask?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to be rude, and I’m not trying to do your job for you. What I’m trying to tell you is that there is something more important you need to know first.”
“And what’s that?”
“Karen Drew wasn’t her real name.”
“I see… May I ask what her real name was?”
“You may.”
“And…?”
Julia Ford paused and played with her Mont Blanc on the desk in front of her. Annie knew she was indulging in typical courtroom tactics for dramatic effect, but there was nothing she could do but wait out the theatrics. Finally, the barrister tired of playing with her pen and leaned forward across the teak. “Her real name was Lucy Payne,” she said.
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Annie. “Lucy Payne. The Friend of the Devil. That changes everything.”
“So what do you think of Jamie Murdoch?” Banks asked. He was sitting in his office comparing notes with Kevin Templeton and Winsome Jackman. Templeton, he noticed, kept sneaking glances at Winsome’s thighs under the tight black material of her trousers.