“And what?”
“I did a bit more checking, and they both live in Harrogate now.”
“Big place.”
“Both members of the local golf club, too.”
“Fellow professionals. Makes sense. But you’re right, Ginger, it is interesting. Are you thinking Julia Ford might have told Dr. Wallace…?”
“And Dr. Wallace might have let it slip elsewhere? Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? That is, if Julia Ford isn’t the one we’re looking for.”
“I wonder if Dr. Wallace can tell us anything?”
“She’s hardly any more likely to spill the beans than Julia Ford, is she?” said Ginger. “I mean, doctors. They’re worse than lawyers. That’s if there are any beans to spill.”
“Perhaps not,” said Annie. “But when we get back to the station, keep digging into Julia Ford’s background. Discreetly, of course. Get back to your friend at Bristol and see if she can dig up any more names from around that time. Others who might have shared the flat, been members of the same societies, that sort of thing. It might be worth my having a word with Dr. Wallace later if you do come up with anything. I’ve met her a couple of times. She seems okay.”
“What are you thinking?”
Annie grabbed her briefcase and stood up. They walked out onto Flowergate and joined the flow of people. “I’m thinking, you know, a couple of drinks at the nineteenth hole — there’s been some decent enough weather for golf recently — the tongue loosens. ‘Guess who’s our client and what we’ve done with her,’ says Julia. ‘Oh?’ says Dr. Wallace. And so on.”
“Girl talk?”
“Something like that. And Dr. Wallace lets it slip somewhere else, another old uni friend or… Who knows? What’s Maggie Forrest’s psychiatrist’s name?”
“Simms. Dr. Susan Simms.”
“Where did she get her education?”
“Dunno.”
“Find out. Has she ever done any forensic psychiatry?”
“I’ll check.”
“Good. That could link her to Julia Ford through the courts. She may have had to give evidence while Julia was appearing as a barrister at some time or another. Dr. Simms is already linked with Maggie Forrest. So many possibilities.”
“Right, guv,” said Ginger.
“I don’t know where all this gets us,” Annie said, “but we might just be on to something here.” She took out her mobile. “I should probably let Alan know, too.”
“If you think so.”
“And, Ginger?”
“Yes, guv?”
“Tread very carefully indeed on this one. Not only are we sniffing around the super’s favorite kinds of people — doctors and lawyers — there’s also a killer on the loose somewhere, and the last thing you want to do is step on her tail and disturb her without knowing you’ve done so.”
Banks walked over from Western Area Headquarters to the Fountain late that afternoon mulling over what he had just heard from Annie on his mobile. Julia Ford and Elizabeth Wallace, old flatmates and golf buddies. Well, it made sense. If they’d known each other from their university days, and if both were professional single women living in Harrogate, they would probably be friends, and members of the same golf club.
The Maggie Forrest connection was the one that really interested him, though. According to Annie, she used Constance Wells in Julia Ford’s firm for her legal work, and she also knew Julia Ford slightly, so she might easily have overheard something about Karen Drew when she was in their office once, or seen a revealing document. Julia Ford had been Lucy Payne’s lawyer, and Maggie had been her champion and her stooge. It had all gone haywire, of course, but there was a connection.
Then there was the hair. Annie had told him that their expert, Famke Larsen, had matched one of Kirsten Farrow’s hairs, found in Greg Eastcote’s house in 1989, with a hair on the blanket Lucy Payne had on when she was killed. It wasn’t conclusive, of course, but it was enough to confirm their suspicions that Kirsten had somehow reappeared and was involved in Lucy’s murder. Who she was remained a mystery. The hair on the blanket, Annie had also said, would reveal a mitochondrial DNA profile which could further help them identify the killer. That would take a few days, though, and they would need samples from all their suspects for comparison. Still, it was definitely progress.
For the moment, though, he needed to concentrate on the Hayley Daniels case. He was getting close; he could feel it in his water.
“Hello, Jamie,” Banks said as he walked in and stood at the bar. “Jill.”
Jill Sutherland smiled at him, but Jamie didn’t. A teenager in a long gabardine coat looked around from the slot machine he was playing and immediately turned away again. Banks recognized him from the comprehensive school. Underage truant. But he wasn’t interested in that today. Maybe if he remembered, he’d give the head a ring later. He got on well enough with Norman Lapkin, and they had a pint together now and again. Norman understood the problems of dealing with wayward youth.
“What is it this time?” Murdoch said. “Can’t you lot leave me alone for one minute? I’ve got a pub to run.”
“I won’t get in your way,” said Banks. “In fact, tell you what, I’ll even put your profits up. I’ll have a pint of Black Sheep, if that’s all right with you.”
Jamie glanced over to Jill, who took down a glass and started to pull the pint. “How’s business?” Banks asked.
“Rotten,” said Jamie. “Especially since last weekend.”
“Yes, bloody inconsiderate of Kev Templeton to go and get his throat cut just around the corner, wasn’t it? I mean, one murder might be quite good for business, brings in the curiosity seekers, but two…?”
Murdoch paled. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. You’re putting words into my mouth. I’m sorry about what happened to Mr. Templeton, really I am. He was a good copper.”
“Let’s not go too far, Jamie. Besides, nothing to do with you, was it?”
“Of course not.”
Jill smiled when Banks gave her a five-pound note and told her to have a drink for herself. Jamie went back to poring over his books and menus, and Jill went back to cleaning glasses. They looked as if they had already been cleaned once.
The old music tape, or satellite station, was playing Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want to Be With You.” Banks thought of Sophia and wondered where on earth things would go with her. They had listened to the Thea Gilmore CD that morning, and Banks had finally understood the reference Sophia had made to the song “Sugar” being a bit cheeky. The singer was saying that the person she was with could take her home and lay her on his bed, but not to call her “sugar.” Banks didn’t call Sophia “sugar.” If only he could have just dropped everything and gone off somewhere with her the way he had felt like doing. Now she would be back in London, back to her real life, friends, work and hectic social schedule. Perhaps she would forget him. Perhaps she would decide that it had all been a foolish dalliance with an unpromising future, best forgotten. Perhaps it had been. But why couldn’t Banks stop thinking about her, and why was he suddenly so jealous of everyone who was younger and freer than he was?
He glanced around the pub. There were only about five or six people in the place, but the numbers would pick up soon when the town center offices closed. Jamie Murdoch was right, though. A mood of gloom had descended on Eastvale since Templeton’s murder, and it wouldn’t pass completely until his killer was found. And if Banks didn’t find her soon, the various experts from all over the country would be arriving and taking over, just as Scotland Yard used to do in the old days. The press were already frothing at the mouth; one minute denouncing police incompetence, the next condemning a cop killer.