“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Wallace. “I’m not a psychologist, but I do know something about criminal behavior, and people do become attached to certain places. The Maze is certainly big and complicated enough to be attractive to that sort of personality. He might find that it mirrors his inner state, for example, his inner turmoil. Lots of shadows and nooks and crannies to disappear into and appear from.”
“And lots of ways in and out without being caught on camera,” said Templeton. “The doc’s right,” he went on, getting a frown from Dr. Wallace, which he didn’t notice. “He’s lurking in an area at times when there are likely to be a lot of drunken young girls nearby not exercising a great degree of common sense. There are other similar dark and isolated areas close to the town center, like the Castle Gardens and the Green, and they should be covered, too, but they’re all more open. The Maze is perfect for him. Remember, Jack the Ripper only operated in Whitechapel.”
“Even so, that was a much larger area,” said Gervaise. “Anyway, I’m sorry but the best we can do at this point is increase the number of regular patrols in the area and put up warnings in the pubs advising people to avoid the Maze if they’re alone, especially females,” said Gervaise. “Also to stay in groups, not to wander off alone. That ought to be enough for now. Besides, the place is still a crime scene and will be for a while yet. It’s taped off.”
“Only that part of it near Taylor’s Yard,” argued Templeton, “and if you’re bent on murder you’re hardly likely to worry about a small infringement like—”
“That’s enough, DC Templeton,” said Gervaise. “The subject’s closed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Templeton, tight-lipped.
Everyone was silent for a few moments, then Gervaise asked Banks what was next.
“We have a list of possibles,” said Banks. “Joseph Randall, Stuart Kinsey, Zack Lane, Jamie Murdoch and Malcolm Austin. And the serial-killer angle,” he added, looking at Templeton. “I think the next thing we need to do is have another go at all our suspects, a bit harder than we have before, and see if we can’t find a chink in someone’s armor.”
Someone knocked at the door, and one of Stefan Nowak’s colleagues delivered an envelope to him. There was silence while he opened it. When he had finished, he glanced over at Banks. “That might not be necessary,” he said. “Remember I said our killer might not be as smart as you think? Well, according to the lab, the DNA found in the semen sample on Hayley Daniels’s thigh is the same as the saliva sample freely given by Joseph Randall. It looks very much as if we’ve got a positive match.”
9
Thanks for taking the trouble to come down and see me,” said Les Ferris, the researcher who said he had information, when Annie appeared in his office late that afternoon. “It’s almost knocking-off time, and I don’t get out much,” he went on, picking up his rumpled tweed jacket from the back of his chair, “so why not let me treat you to a pint? Or a cup of tea, if that’s your poison?”
Annie thought for a moment. She’d fallen off the wagon last night with disastrous consequences, but she was feeling better now, and one pint wouldn’t do her any harm. Besides, the office was a mess and smelled of overripe banana skins. “Okay,” she said, “you’re on. A pint it is.”
Les Ferris smiled, showing stained and crooked teeth. He was a bald, roly-poly sort of man with a red face, white whiskers and sad eyes.
It was a beautiful evening in Scarborough, the sort you didn’t often get before the holiday season — or even during it, for that matter — and the locals were taking full advantage. Couples walked hand in hand on the prom and families with young children, or pushing prams, lingered at the edge of the sea, kids throwing pebbles at the waves. One brave man even rolled up his trouser legs and tested the water, but he didn’t last more than a few seconds. Annie could smell salt and seaweed and hear the gulls screeching overhead. For a second, they made her think of Lucy Payne’s body, and she shivered.
“Cold?” asked Ferris.
Annie smiled. “No,” she said. “Someone just walked over my grave.”
Ahead, where the high promontory of Scarborough Castle bulged out and brooded over the bay, Annie could see the waves smashing against the seawall, the salt spray flying high. Ferris picked a cozy pub on a corner near Marine Drive. It looked over the harbor. The tide was out and a few white, red or green fishing boats rested on the wet sand. One man in a blue jersey was painting his hull. The pub was a Jennings house with guest beers, and Annie chose a pint of Cock-a-Hoop. Ferris reached for his cigarettes after he had set the drinks down on the scratched table. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Not at all,” said Annie. The place already reeked of smoke and several people at nearby tables were smoking. “Make the best of it while you can.”
“I’ve tried to stop about twenty times,” said Ferris, “but somehow I just can’t seem to manage it. I’m about to turn sixty-five next month, so at this point I think I’d better just resign myself to my fate, don’t you?”
That wasn’t what Annie had meant. She had been referring to the smoking ban coming into effect in July. But it didn’t matter. “Sixty-five isn’t old,” she said. “You might just as easily live to be ninety. If you stop.” She raised her glass. “Cheers. To ninety.”
“Cheers. I’ll drink to that.” After he drank, Ferris inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
“You said you had something to tell me,” Annie said.
“Yes. I’m not really sure if any of it’s relevant, but when I heard about the identity of your victim it rang a bell.”
“I’m hardly surprised,” said Annie. “Lucy Payne was quite notorious in her day.”
“No, it’s not that. Not Lucy Payne.”
“Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning?”
“Yes,” said Ferris. “Yes, perhaps I had. I haven’t always been a humble researcher, you know,” he went on. “I’ve put in my time on East Yorkshire CID, as it was then. I might be past it now, but I was quite the dashing young detective at one time.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke.
“I’ll bet you were,” said Annie, hoping a bit of flattery might help him get a move on. She had no particular plans for the evening, but she was looking forward to a quiet night in her room watching TV.
“Not that we ever got many murders along this stretch of coast,” he went on, “which is probably why I thought of it. People say I’ve got a bee in my bonnet. For some reason, though, it’s always haunted me. Perhaps because it all ended up as mysterious as it began.”
“What?” said Annie. “You’ve got me intrigued.”
“A case I worked on back in 1989. A mere callow youth of forty-seven, I was then. I’d just made DS. None of your accelerated promotion rubbish in those days. Back then, you earned your stripes.”
“So I’ve heard,” Annie said.
“Aye, well, not that there aren’t plenty of good men around these days. A few women, too,” he added hastily.
“This 1989 case,” Annie said, lest he put his foot even farther in his mouth. “What exactly brought it to your mind when you heard about Lucy Payne?”
“I was just getting to that.” Ferris drained his pint. “Another?”
“Not for me. I’m driving,” said Annie. “But let me get you one.”
“Aye, all right,” Ferris said. “Women’s lib and all that. I’ll have another pint of Sneck-Lifter, please.”
“Sneck-Lifter?”
“Aye. I know it’s strong, but I don’t have far to go. Not driving, like you.”