Her eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”
“Your office knew from the start that Karen Drew was Lucy Payne. You arranged for the name change, the false reason for her quadriplegia, the transfer to Mapston Hall. Whatever else Lucy Payne was, she was your client. You took care of all her affairs.”
“Of course. That was what we were engaged to do. I don’t see what your point is.”
“Someone found out and killed Lucy.”
“But surely other people knew? You’re not trying to blame the firm for what happened, are you?”
“We’ve talked to everyone else.” Banks paused. “It comes back to you, Julia. You can help us out here.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“We think that Lucy Payne was killed either by Maggie Forrest or by the same woman who killed two men in the same area eighteen years ago. Her name is Kirsten Farrow, though it’s very unlikely she goes under that name now. A hair on Lucy’s blanket has been matched with hairs taken from Kirsten eighteen years ago. The hair from the blanket has also yielded DNA, which is currently being processed. It would really help us a lot if we could find out who knew that Karen was Lucy, and where that information might have gone. Did you or someone else in your firm tell Maggie Forrest?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Our lips were sealed.”
“Come on, Julia. This is important. People are dead.”
“They usually are when you turn up.”
“A policeman is dead.”
Julia touched her hair. “Yes. I was sorry to hear about that. I wish I could help.”
“Have you ever heard of Kirsten Farrow, the woman I just mentioned?”
“Never.”
“She’d be about forty now. About your age.”
“I already told you flattery would get you nowhere.”
“Do you know Dr. Elizabeth Wallace?”
Julia seemed surprised. “Liz? Yes, of course. We go back years. Why?”
“She’s our pathologist, that’s all.”
“I know. She always was a bright spark. I’m sure she’s very good at her job, especially if her golf game is anything to go by.”
“Do you also know a psychiatrist called Dr. Susan Simms?”
“I’ve met her. For crying out loud, her office is just across the square. We’ve had lunch together now and then, when our paths have crossed.”
“How have your paths crossed?”
“In court, on occasion. I don’t think it’s any secret that she sometimes does forensic psychiatry.”
“Does she also know Dr. Wallace?”
“How would I know?”
“Maggie Forrest was one of her patients.”
“What can I say? It’s a small world. I really don’t know where you’re going with this, Alan, but I can’t tell you anything.” She glanced at her perfect, tiny gold watch. “Look, I have another appointment in a few minutes, and I’d like some time to prepare. If there’s nothing else…?”
Banks got to his feet. “A pleasure, as ever,” he said.
“Oh, don’t lie. You think I was put on this earth just to stand in your way and make your life difficult. I really am sorry about that policeman who was killed. Was he a friend of yours?”
“I knew him,” said Banks.
During the long drive over the moors to Eastvale, Annie spoke on her mobile with Ginger, when she could get a signal. It was too early for the DNA results from the hair, but Ginger had been burning up the phone lines, fax circuits and e-mail accounts. There was no way that Maggie Forrest could be Kirsten Farrow, she had concluded. Maggie was the right age, and she had been born in Leeds, but she had grown up in Canada, and in 1989, she had been attending art college in Toronto, specializing in graphic illustration. She married a young lawyer, and their relationship ended in a bad divorce a few years later. Apparently, he was a bully and a wife beater. After her divorce she came to live and work in England, staying at Ruth and Charles Everett’s house on the Hill, and befriending Lucy Payne, until the notorious events of six years ago sent her reeling back to Canada.
But Maggie was working in England again and, according to Ginger, seeing Dr. Simms again. This in itself seemed odd to Annie. Why return? She could get book illustration work easily enough in Canada, surely? Maggie had told Annie that it was because she needed to be close to her roots, but was it really because she had decided to go after Lucy, get her revenge? Just because Maggie wasn’t Kirsten Farrow, that didn’t mean she hadn’t killed Lucy Payne.
The main question in Annie’s mind, given the links between the professional women — Maggie Forrest, Susan Simms, Julia Ford and Elizabeth Wallace — was had she had help from one of them? And if so, why? And where was Kirsten Farrow in all this? It was possible that someone could have planted one of her hairs on Lucy Payne’s blanket, but how, and why? The hair could also have got there in Mapston Hall, for example. The Mapston Hall staff had been checked and rechecked, but she supposed it would do no harm to check again, dig even deeper, perhaps include the most regular visitors of other patients, deliverymen, maintenance contractors, the postman, everyone who set foot in the place.
Annie parked in Eastvale market square rather than behind the police station. It was a bit of a walk down King Street to the infirmary, but the fresh air would do her good. Afterward, she would call in at the station and see how everyone was recovering after last night’s wake. Annie felt quite proud of herself for drinking only one pint over the course of the evening, then driving back to Whitby.
Reception told Annie that Dr. Wallace was in her office in the basement. Annie didn’t like Eastvale General Infirmary, especially the basement. The corridors were high and dark with old green tiles, and footsteps echoed. The whole place was a Victorian Gothic monstrosity, and even though the mortuary and the postmortem theater had been modernized with the best equipment, the surroundings felt antiquated to Annie, associated with the barbaric times of no anesthetics and unhygienic conditions. She shivered as her shoes clicked along the tiled corridor. The other thing about the basement that gave her the creeps was that there was hardly ever anyone around. She didn’t know what else was down there other than storage and the mortuary. Maybe the bin where they dumped all the amputated limbs and extracted organs, for all she knew.
Dr. Wallace was actually in the postmortem theater, sitting at the long lab table mixing some chemicals over a Bunsen burner when Annie entered. There was a body on the table. The Y incision had already been made and the internal organs were all on display. The raw-lamb smell of dead human flesh hung in the air, mixed with disinfectant and formaldehyde. Annie felt slightly nauseated.
“Sorry,” said Dr. Wallace, with a weak smile. “I was just finishing up when I got sidetracked by this test. Wendy had to leave early — boyfriend trouble — or she’d have done it for me.”
Annie glanced at the body. She could relate to boyfriend trouble. “Right,” she said. “Just a few questions, as I mentioned.”
“I’ll get him closed up while we talk, if that’s all right. Does it bother you? You seem a bit pale.”
“I’m fine.”
Dr. Wallace gave her an amused glance. “So what burning questions bring you all the way down to my little lair?”
“It’s what we were talking about last night. Lucy Payne and Kevin Templeton.”
“I don’t see how I can help you. Lucy Payne wasn’t my case. We agreed there were similarities, but that’s all.”
“It’s not so much that,” Annie said, settling on a high swivel stool by the lab bench. “Not specifically, at any rate.”
“Oh? What, then? I’m curious.” Dr. Wallace unceremoniously dumped the organs back into the chest cavity and prepared the large needle and heavy thread.