The tapes went on and on, Jamie Murdoch leaving with his bicycle at two-thirty, a few stragglers from the Bar None getting into a shoving match, then nothing. DC Doug Wilson switched off the player, put on the lights, and they all stretched. Over three hours had gone by, and nothing. It was time to send the team out on the streets to start talking to people again, and Banks had an appointment he wished he didn’t have to keep.
Banks leaned on a wall outside Eastvale General Infirmary, feeling queasy, and took a few slow, deep breaths. Dr. Wallace had performed her postmortem on Kevin Templeton with her usual brisk speed and efficiency, but it had been difficult to watch. There had been no banter, no black humor — hardly a word spoken, in fact — and she had seemed to work with the utmost concentration and detachment.
And nothing new had come of her efforts.
Cause of death was the cut throat, time was fixed by the eyewitness Chelsea Pilton, and other than that he was dead, Templeton had been in good health. The postmortem also hadn’t told Dr. Wallace anything more about the weapon, though she leaned toward the theory that a straight-blade razor had been used, pulled most likely from left to right across Templeton’s throat, cutting the carotid, the jugular and the windpipe. It had been quick, as Dr. Burns had noted at the scene, but long enough for Templeton to have known what was happening to him as he struggled for breath and felt himself weaken through loss of blood and oxygen. The consolation was that he would have been in no great pain, but when it came down to it, Banks thought, only Templeton himself could have known that for certain.
Banks stood on the steps of the infirmary, leaning beside the door, with a chill March wind blowing around him, and when he had regained his composure he decided to drive over to Eastvale College to talk to Stuart Kinsey again. On his way, he plucked up the courage to ring Sophia and ask her if she fancied a drink later. She did.
He tracked Kinsey down in the coffee lounge, and they found a dim quiet corner. Banks bought two lattes and a couple of KitKats at the counter and sat down.
“What is it now?” Stuart asked. “I thought you believed me?”
“I do believe you,” said Banks. “At least I believe that you didn’t murder Hayley Daniels.”
“What, then?”
“Just a few more questions, that’s all.”
“I’ve got a lecture at three.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be done long before then if we can make a start.”
“All right,” said Stuart, reaching for a cigarette. “What do you want to know?”
“It’s about the night you followed Hayley into the Maze.”
“I didn’t follow her.”
“But you went to spy on her. You knew she was there.” The smoke drifted toward Banks, and for the first time in ages it didn’t bother him. In fact, it made him crave a smoke himself. Must have been the stress of seeing Templeton opened up on the table. He fought the urge and it waned.
“I wasn’t spying!” Stuart said, glancing around to make sure no one could hear them. “I’m not a pervert. I told you, I wanted to see where she went.”
“Did you think she was meeting someone?”
“Not there, no. Whatever I thought of Hayley, I didn’t think she was the type for a quick drunken fumble in a dark alley. No, she went there for a piss, that’s all. I thought she was going to meet someone later, somewhere else.”
Banks took the silver paper from his KitKat. “Did Hayley give any indications, either that night or at any other time, that there was something or someone bothering her?”
“No. Not that I can think of. Why?”
“She wasn’t worried about anything?”
“You’ve asked me this before. Or the other officer did.”
“Well, I’m asking you again.”
“No. Nothing. Hayley was pretty happy-go-lucky. I mean, I never saw her really down about anything.”
“Angry?”
“She had a bit of temper. Had quite a mouth on her. But it took a lot to get her riled.”
“She was upset in the Fountain, right? And she took it out on Jamie Murdoch.”
“Yeah, a bit. I mean, he was the only one there apart from us. She called him a few names. Limp dick, dickhead, stuff like that. She was way out of line.”
“How did he take it?”
“How would you take it? He wasn’t happy.”
“He told me it wasn’t a big deal.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t want you to think he had a motive for hurting Hayley.”
“Did he? Was he really that angry?”
“I don’t know. More like embarrassed. He rushed us out pretty quickly after that.”
“Were they ever close at all, Hayley and Jamie?”
“No way! Jamie was a loser. He dropped out of the college. I mean, look at him, stuck in the grotty pub night after night, half the time by himself while the landlord suns himself in Florida.”
“Was there anyone in any of the pubs that night — especially the Fountain — who paid undue attention to Hayley, apart from the leather-shop owner?”
“Men looked at her, yes, but nothing weird, not that I can remember. Nothing different from usual, anyway. And like I said, we were the last to leave the Fountain. Nobody followed us.”
“Okay, Stuart. Let’s get back to the Maze now.”
Stuart squirmed in his chair. “Must we?”
“It’s important.” Banks gestured to the second KitKat on the table. “Do you want that?” Stuart shook his head. Banks picked it up and began to eat it. He had forgotten how hungry he was.
“I don’t feel good about it,” Stuart said. “I’ve thought and thought since we last talked, and I know I must have heard it happening. I know I could have stopped it if I’d just done something. Made a lot of noise, banged a dustbin lid on the wall. I don’t know. But I bottled out. I got scared and ran away, and because of that Hayley died.”
“You don’t know that,” said Banks. “Stop beating yourself up over it. I’m interested in what you heard.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“Yes, but you also said you heard some music, a snatch of a song, as if from a passing car. Rap, you said it was. And familiar. You couldn’t remember what it was when I last talked to you. Do you have any idea now?”
“Oh, yeah, that. I think I do… you know, since we talked I’ve been playing it over and over in my mind, the whole thing, and I think it was the Streets, ‘Fit But You Know It.’”
“I know that one,” said Banks. “Are you sure?”
If Stuart was surprised that Banks knew the song, he didn’t show it. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got the CD. Just haven’t played it in a while.”
“And you’re certain you heard it around the same time you heard the other sounds?”
“Yes. Why? Is it important?”
“Maybe,” said Banks. He checked his watch. “You’ll be late for your lecture,” he said, standing up. “Thanks for your time.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Banks finished his latte, screwed up the KitKat wrapper, dropped it in the ashtray and left, thinking he had a pretty good idea why both Stuart Kinsey and Kevin Templeton heard the same music on different nights.
Just after dark that evening, Annie found herself wandering down Saint Ann’s Staith by the estuary, past the blackboard with the tide tables on the short bridge that linked east and west. The strings of red and yellow harbor lights had just come on and made a hazy glow in the slight evening mist. They reflected, swaying slightly, in the narrow channels of the ebbing tide. Fishing boats leaned at odd angles in the silt, their masts tilting toward the fading light and rattling in the light breeze. A ghostly moon was just visible out to sea above the wraiths of mist. The air smelled of salt and dead fish. It was chilly, and Annie was glad she was wearing a wool coat and a pashmina wrapped around her neck.