Innocent Graves

I

The 9:36 InterCity from York pulled into London King’s Cross at 12:05 on Monday, November 13, twenty minutes late. A problem with points outside Peterborough, the conductor explained over the PA system. Not for the first time, Banks regarded the bleak, post-industrial landscape of his hometown with a mixture of nostalgia and horror. Peterborough. Of all the places to come from. Even if the football team he had supported as a teenager had recently edged about halfway up the second division.

As forecast, the rain came. Not a shower or a storm, but steady November drizzle that looked as if it would keep falling forever from a leaden sky. It was raining in Eastvale when Banks and Susan drove out to York that morning; it was raining in York when they caught the train; and it was raining in London when they got off the underground at Oxford Circus. At least it was a little warmer than the weekend: raincoat weather, not heavy overcoat.

To make it easy all around, Michelle Chappel had suggested over the telephone that she talk to them during her lunch-hour, which started at 12:30, in a small pasta restaurant off Regent Street, near where she worked as office administrator for a quality stationery company.

As the questioning was to be informal, and Michelle herself certainly wasn’t suspected of any crime, Banks agreed. It meant they could get the job done and be back in Eastvale by late afternoon if they were lucky.

As usual, Regent Street was crowded, even in the rain, and Banks found he had to dodge many an eye-threatening umbrella spoke as he and Susan made their way to the rendezvous in a side-street not far from Dickins amp; Jones.

They got there about five minutes late, and Banks spotted Michelle Chappel at a window table. With a skill that Peterborough United could have used the previous weekend, he managed to sidestep the waiter, who was blocking the way, holding out large menus and muttering about a fifteen- to twenty-minute wait.

The restaurant was unpretentious in appearance-rickety tables and chairs, plenty of scratched woodwork, gilt-framed water-colors of Venice and Florence, stained white tablecloths-but when Banks looked at the list of specials chalked on the blackboard, he soon realized it was the kind of London unpretentiousness you pay for through the nose.

The small dining-room was crowded, but Michelle had saved two places for them. Waiters scurried around, sweaty-browed; carafes of wine appeared on tables; and the smell of garlic, tomatoes and oregano permeated the air. Despite the bustle, though, it wasn’t unduly noisy, and when they had introduced themselves and sat down, they didn’t have to shout to be heard.

“I’ve told Mr. Littlewood I might be a few minutes late getting back,” Michelle said. “He said he didn’t mind.”

“Good,” said Banks. “We’ll certainly try not to take up too much of your time.”

“That’s all right.”

Physically, Michelle resembled her photograph very closely except for her hair, which was now cut short, razor-sculpted around her delicate ears, and hung in a ragged fringe. The strong bone structure was still apparent in her cheeks and jaw, the pale, almost translucent skin still flawless, and although she was sitting, it was clear that she maintained her slim, athletic figure. She wore a tailored red jacket over a black silk blouse buttoned up to the hollow of her long, swan-like neck. From her tiny, pale ears two silver angel earrings danced every time she moved her head.

“You said on the telephone that you would recognize me from one of Owen’s photographs,” Michelle said to Banks, clearly aware of his scrutiny. “That was two years ago. Have I changed very much?”

Banks shook his head.

“It was one of the nudes, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word on the rest.” She smiled, and the humor flickered in her eyes for a moment just as Owen Pierce had captured it on film. She touched her hair. “I had this cut six months ago. Just for a change. Would you like to eat?”

Both Banks and Susan had skipped the train food and were starving. After much study and some consultation, Banks decided on the gourmet pizza with goat cheese, olives, sun-dried tomatoes and Italian sausage. It was London, after all, he thought, and London prices, so why not? Susan went for the cannelloni. They ordered a half-liter of red wine for the two of them. Michelle was already drinking white. She ordered linguine with clam sauce.

That done, they settled back to talk. Customers came and went, more leaving than arriving as it got close to one o’clock, and the drizzle continued to streak the window behind the slightly dirty white lace curtains.

“I’m not sure what you want from me,” Michelle said. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone.”

“I’m not certain myself, Miss Chappel,” said Banks. “I just hope I’ll know it when I hear it.”

“Call me Michelle. Please.”

Banks nodded.

“You said Owen has been arrested?”

“That’s right”

“On what charge?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Well, his name’s not been in the papers, and you didn’t tell me over the phone. How could I know?”

“Of course not.” Banks looked at Susan and nodded.

“I’m afraid it’s very serious, Michelle,” Susan said. “Owen’s been arrested for murder. I’m sorry.”

“Murder? But who…Wait a minute…Not that schoolgirl?”

“Deborah Harrison. Yes.”

“I read about it.” Michelle shook her head slowly. “Bloody hell. So he’s…” She looked back at Banks. “And what do you think I can do for you?”

“We’d like to know what you can tell us about him. He didn’t seem willing to admit he knew you, or tell us who you were.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t.”

“Did something happen between you?”

Michelle frowned. “What do you know already?”

“Not much. Given the nature of the crime, we need to get some sort of grasp on what kind of person he is. We understand already that he’s a bit of a loner, something of an oddball, according to some people.”

“Is he? He wasn’t always, you know. Not at first. He could be fun, could Owen. For a while, anyway, then…” her eyes darkened.

“Then what?”

“Oh, just…things change. People change. That’s all.”

“Well, you can see our problem, can’t you?” Banks said. “He’s got no close family, and no-one in Eastvale seems to know him very well. We were hoping you might be able to throw some light on his character.”

“Is he going to plead insanity?”

“It’s nothing like that. Why do you ask?”

“I mean, what do you want to know about him for?”

“Look, don’t worry. We’re not going to drag you into court or anything.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that.”

“Then what?”

Michelle leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. “In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’d be more than happy to go into court.”

Banks frowned. “I don’t understand, Michelle. What happened between you? All we know is that the two of you split in the summer and that Owen seemed reluctant to admit he knew you. In fact he tried to tell us the photographs were of some anonymous model.”

Michelle snorted. “I’ll bet he did.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because he tried to kill me, too, that’s why.”

II

It was less than a mile from the police station to the Town Hall, and Owen would have appreciated the walk after being cooped up in a cell all weekend. But two officers escorted him straight to a van in front of the station. Before they went out of the doors, one of them threw a musty old raincoat over his head.

It was no distance from the front doors to the van, either, but on the way Owen had the awful sensation of being swallowed up by a huge mob, and he had to struggle to stop his bowels from loosening.

He could hear people shouting questions, yelling insults and cursing him. One group, all women by the sound of them, were chanting, “Hang him! Hang him!” Owen had always feared crowds, had never been able to attend a football match or a music concert in comfort. To Owen, crowds weren’t really human; they were a mindless beast with the power of an elemental force. The raincoat over his head smelled of other people’s fear.

Luckily the jostling didn’t last. Before Owen actually lost control of his bowels and made a fool of himself, he felt himself pushed into the back of a van and heard the door slam. The shouts and chants were muffled now, and the van’s engine soon drowned them out completely.

Things weren’t quite as bad at the other end, where he was hustled through a smaller crowd, then taken to an antechamber. When Owen was finally able to remove the raincoat, the first person he saw was Gordon Wharton. Not the prettiest sight in the world, but a welcome one under the circumstances.

Wharton leaned back in his chair, plucked up the crease of his pinstripe trousers and crossed his legs. It was a prissy sort of gesture, Owen thought, and one that went with his supercilious expression, the pink, well-scrubbed cheeks and the way he wore his few remaining strands of oily hair combed across his gleaming skull. Though he was probably about the same age as Owen, he looked much older. It was partly the fat, Owen thought, and the baldness, and maybe the strain of overwork. Why did the only solicitor he knew turn out to be wharton?

He had been the university swot, never time for a drink in the local or a film in town, and Owen had never much liked him. He sensed the feeling was mutual. The only reason they had first come into contact at all was a shared subsidiary subject in their first year, and then they had both ended up working in Eastvale and met by chance that day.

Wharton had finally arrived to see Owen on Sunday morning, having been out of town on Saturday, and had been unable to get him out on police bail.

“All right?” Wharton asked.

Owen took a few deep breaths. “I suppose so. What are they trying to do, get me torn to pieces?”

Wharton shrugged.

“What nobody seems to realize is that I’m innocent.”

Wharton made a steeple of his fingers and looked down. “Owen, you’re not the first innocent man to be arrested for some offense or other, and you won’t be the last. That’s why we have the law. Everyone’s innocent until they’re proven guilty. The police are only concerned with whether they can prove a case. It’s up to the courts to decide now. Trust in justice.”

Owen snorted. “The British justice system? It hasn’t done me a lot of good so far, has it?”

“Carp all you may, Owen, but it is the best justice system in the world. In many other countries you’d be on your way to the executioner already, or languishing forever in some smelly cell. Look, I suggest that you accept your situation. Complaining will do you no good at all in your present circumstances. It will only lead to self-pity. Now let us see if there’s anything else we need to consider.”

Pompous bastard, Owen thought. “It’s all very well advising me not to complain,” he said. “You’re not the one who’s in jail. Will I get bail at court this morning?”

Wharton shook his head. “I doubt it. Not on a charge like this one.”

“Look, I’m sure if you could persuade the police to do a bit more digging around, they’ll come up with the real killer.”

Wharton leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. Owen noticed the gold cufflinks flash in the light. “Owen,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “you still don’t seem to realize the gravity of your situation. You have been arrested for the most serious crime there is: murder. Nobody’s going to let you simply walk away.”

“Whose side are you on?”

Wharton held his hand up. “Let me finish. As far as the police are concerned, they have already got their man. Why would they waste their time looking for an alternative? You’ll have to face up to the facts, Owen, you’ve been arrested for murder, you’re being held, in a week or two the Crown Prosecution Service will start building a case against you, and you’re going to be tried in court. I will do everything in my power to help you, including engaging the services of the best barrister I can find to represent you, but you must accept the situation. Do you understand me?”

Owen wasn’t sure that he did, but he nodded anyway.

“Good,” said Wharton.

“So what will happen in court? What’s the point of coming here if they’re only going to send me back to jail?”

“For remand. They’ll either grant it or release you. As I’ve already said, I wouldn’t depend on the latter. Then they’ll set a date for the preliminary hearing.”

“How long will I have to wait before that?”

“Hmm. It’s hard to say. There’s supposed to be a time limit of fifty-six days.” Wharton gave a twisted smile. “Unfortunately, you’re not the only alleged criminal in the system. We get backlogs.”

Owen felt his chest tighten. “Are you saying I could be in jail until February before I even get a preliminary hearing?”

“Oh, at least. Not in Eastvale nick, though. No. Probably somewhere like Armley. And don’t worry, they know well enough to keep the other prisoners away from you. Everyone knows how moral criminals get when sex crimes are involved. You’ll be isolated. But don’t worry about that now. Take things as they come, Owen. One day at a time. That’s my advice. I’ll be working for you, never fear.”

Why didn’t that thought comfort Owen as much as it should have? he wondered.

A clerk popped his head around the door. “Time, gentlemen.”

Wharton smiled and picked up his black leather briefcase. “Come on then, Owen,” he said. “Better gird up your loins.”

III

The food arrived just after Michelle’s remark about Owen Pierce trying to kill her, and they kept silent as the waiter passed them the hot plates and refilled the baskets of bread. It was after one o’clock now. Michelle was going to be late back for work, Banks knew, but she didn’t seem to mind. She clearly wanted to tell them the worst about Owen Pierce.

Banks waited until they had all sampled their food and commented on its quality, then went on. “There was something you said earlier, about Owen being fun at first, then changing. How did he change? Was that anything to do with what happened? Did he become violent?”

“No. Well, not really violent. Not until the end, that is.”

“The end?”

“The day I left him. The night before, rather.”

“If he wasn’t violent before that, then what was wrong? How did he change?”

“He was just becoming impossible, that’s all. Bad-tempered. Complaining. Irrational. Jealous.” She paused and took a mouthful of her linguine, following it with a sip of white wine.

“Did he have a violent temper?”

Michelle nodded. Her angel earrings danced. “He started developing one. It got worse towards the end. He just became so possessive, so jealous. He’d fly into rages over nothing.”

“Is that why you left him? Fear of violence?” Susan cut in. “Were you frightened he’d hurt you?”

Michelle looked at Susan. “No,” she said. “Well, not really. It was frightening, especially the last night, but…how can I make you understand?”

“We’re listening.” Susan watched Banks nibble at his pizza out of the corner of her eye. “What happened? Will you tell us?”

Michelle gulped a little more wine, looked at her, then nodded. When she spoke, she looked back and forth between the two of them. “All right. Yes. I’d been out late with a friend. Owen was waiting up for me. And he’d been drinking.”

“Did he usually drink much?” Banks asked.

Michelle speared some linguine and twisted it on her fork. “No, not usually, though he had been doing more lately. Especially if he was brooding about something, which he always seemed to be. Anyway, I could definitely smell the whisky on his breath that night.”

Banks sipped his red wine. It tasted watery. “Had you been drinking much, too?” he asked.

“Only a couple of glasses of wine.”

Banks nodded. “What happened next?”

“He started calling me terrible names and accusing me of all kinds of disgusting things and then he…he…”

“He what, Michelle?”

“Oh, bugger it. Get it out, Michelle.” She took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “He tried to force himself on me, that’s what he did.”

“He tried to rape you?”

“Yes. He tried to rape me.” She wasn’t crying, but her eyes glittered with anger.

“Was this the first time he had ever tried such a thing?”

“Of course it was. Do you think I’d willingly stay a moment longer than I had to with anyone who did that to me?” She hadn’t finished her meal, but she pushed her plate aside and sipped some more wine.

“I don’t know what your situation was,” Banks said. “Sometimes people, women especially, get stuck in abusive situations. They don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, well, not me. I’m not like that. Oh, I’d done my best, tried to please him, given in to his…but it was getting impossible. I was at my wits’ end. His demands were getting too much for me. This was the last straw. And I was especially upset by the names he called me and the dirty things he accused me of.”

“So you resisted him?”

“Yes. I thought it was awful that someone would say such horrible things to me, call me such vile names and then want to do it to me…you know…like animals.”

“Did you struggle?”

Michelle nodded.

“Then what happened?”

“It’s not very clear after that. I know he hit me at least once and then everything went dark.”

“He hit you when you refused to have sex with him?”

“Yes. I just remember falling and my head hurting and everything going dark for…I don’t know…maybe only a few seconds.”

“What happened next?”

“I felt his hands around my neck.”

“Owen was trying to strangle you?”

“Yes. He had his hands on my throat and he was pressing.”

“How did you stop him?”

“I didn’t. I hadn’t the strength. I must have passed out again.”

“Then what?”

“I woke up. It was light, early morning, and I was still on the floor, where I’d fallen. I felt all stiff and my head hurt. My clothes were torn. I had an awful headache.”

“Where was Owen?”

“He was in bed asleep, or passed out. I heard him snoring and went to look.”

“Had he interfered with you sexually in any way?”

“Yes. I think he’d had sex with me.”

“You can’t be certain?”

“No. I wasn’t conscious. But I’m pretty sure he had.”

“How did you know?”

She looked directly at Banks. He couldn’t detect any strong emotion in her eyes now, despite the events she was relating. She wasn’t exactly being cold and clinical about it all, but she wasn’t overly agitated, either. The few remaining diners would never have guessed what horrors the trio near the window were talking about.

“A woman can tell about those things,” she said, then she turned to Susan. “I felt sore…you know…down there.”

Susan nodded and touched her arm.

Banks finished his pizza and looked around to see if anyone was smoking. Miraculously, one or two people were. The restaurant had quietened down a lot, and when Banks beckoned the waiter to bring him an ashtray, he did.

“What did you do next?” Banks asked Michelle.

“I packed up my things, what little I had, and I left.”

“Where did you go?”

“I just walked and walked. I had nowhere to go. At least it was summer. And it wasn’t raining. I remember sleeping in the sun in a park.”

“And that night?”

“I tried to sleep at the railway station, but the police kept moving me on. I went in shop doorways, wherever I could find shelter. I was scared.”

“And the next day?”

“I swallowed my pride, went back to my parents and faced the music. A month later I got the job down here.”

“What did you tell them?” Susan asked.

“I couldn’t tell them the truth, could I? I was too ashamed. I couldn’t tell anyone that. I made up a story about just not, you know, being happy with Owen, and they believed it. It was what they wanted to hear. They’d only met him once and didn’t like him anyway. Thought he was too old for me. All I had to do was tell them what they wanted to hear and eat enough crow. They always believed what I told them.”

“Why didn’t you report the incident to the police?” Banks asked.

“I told you. I was too ashamed. I’m sure Detective Constable Gay will understand that.”

Susan nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh, I know what I should have done,” Michelle went on. “Especially now, after what’s happened to that poor schoolgirl. In a way, I feel terribly guilty, almost responsible. But you can’t really predict what a person will do, can you, how far he will go? I knew Owen was a bit unbalanced, that he could be dangerous. I should have known just how dangerous, and I should have reported him to the police. But I was scared.” She looked at Susan again. “And I’d heard such awful things about what they do, you know, in court, to girls who make such complaints. How they make out you’re the guilty one, that you’re just a slut, and how they get all sorts of doctors and…I…I just didn’t think I could go through with it. I mean, I was living with Owen, wasn’t I? And I had given in to him willingly before. What would they have said about that? They’d have said I led him on, that’s what.”

“The courts aren’t so easy on rapists these days, Michelle,” said Susan. “It wouldn’t have been like that.”

“But how was I to know?”

“Was that the only reason you didn’t report the incident?” Banks asked. “Fear of the police and the courts?”

“Well, mostly. But there was Owen, too, wasn’t there? I mean, after someone’s done something like that to you, something violent, you have to wonder, don’t you, whether they’re capable of anything. You hear about men stalking women and all the things they do to them. I was ashamed, but I was scared as well. Scared of what he might do.” She looked at her watch. “My God, it’s after two,” she said. “Look, I really must go now. Mr. Littlewood is only liberal to a degree.”

“In the light of what you’ve just told us,” Banks said, “we’d like to get a full statement from you. We can do it after you’ve finished work this evening, if you’ve got no objection.”

Michelle bit her lip and thought for moment.

“No,” she said. “I’ve got no objection. Yes. Let’s do it. Let’s get it over with. I finish at five-thirty.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

They watched her go, then Banks lit another cigarette and they each ordered a cappuccino. “Well,” said Banks, “it looks like we’re stuck in the big city for the afternoon. Want to see the crown jewels? Maybe tour the Black Museum? Or we could always do some early Christmas shopping.”

Susan laughed. “No thanks, sir. Perhaps we could give Phil Richmond a call at the Yard? He might be able to sneak away for an hour or so.”

“All right,” said Banks. “Why don’t you phone him?”

“Yes, sir. Got a ten-pee piece?”

IV

Armley Jail loomed ahead like a medieval fortress. Owen could only see part of it through the mesh window between himself and the van’s driver, but he knew the building well enough; he’d seen it many times when he was at Leeds University.

Standing on a hill to the west of the city center, it was an enormous, sprawling Victorian edifice of black granite, complete with battlements and towers and newer sections that seemed constantly under construction. The place was practically a tourist attraction. They had kept Peter Sutcliffe, the “Yorkshire Ripper” on remand there for a while in 1981.

At least the van driver had a sense of humor. Elvis Presley belted out “Jailhouse Rock” as the van passed through the huge gates with its load of prisoners shackled in heavy cuffs. Owen wondered if he did that every trip, the way tour guides always made the same jokes.

In a low-ceilinged reception room, the cuffs were removed, and Owen found himself signed over from the police to the jailers. He might easily have been a cow or pig sold at market. Next he was given a number he made no attempt to memorize, then, after his belongings had been catalogued and placed in a box, much as in the charge room at the police station, he was taken to a cubicle and strip-searched.

After that, the governor explained that as Owen was regarded as a Category A inmate, he would spend twenty-three and a half out of twenty-four hours alone in his cell, the other half-hour being set aside for supervised exercise. He would be allowed to purchase as many cigarettes as he wanted-not that this appealed to Owen at all-and given access to writing paper and books.

The whole thing reminded Owen of the scene from Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange, where Alex is inducted into jail. This room had the same gray inhuman feel, a perfect setting for humiliation. He was now a number, no longer a man.

After a cursory medical (“Ever suffered from palpitations, shortness of breath?”) no doubt required to protect the authorities should he drop dead tonight in his cell, he was ordered to take a bath in about six inches of lukewarm water. The tub was an old, Victorian model, with stained sides and claw feet. When he had dried off, he was given his prison uniform: brown trousers and a blue striped shirt that felt coarse and scratchy next to his skin.

After this, he was handed his equally rough bedding and escorted to his cell. It was in a special wing of the prison with black metal stairs and catwalks like something out of an M.C. Escher print. The walls were covered in flecked institutional-green paint, and high ceilings echoed every footstep.

His cell was slightly larger than the one in Eastvale police station, but a lot more gloomy. The whitewashed walls had turned gray with age and dirt; the floor was cold stone. The only window stood high in the wall. About as big as a handkerchief, it seemed to be made of reinforced glass. Light shone from a low wattage bulb hanging from a ceiling outlet; the shade was covered by wire mesh. Though a washstand, soap and a towel stood in the corner behind the door, there was no toilet. Looking around, Owen located a bucket and some toilet paper beside his bed.

One added feature was the table and chair. They were so small that he could hardly get his knees underneath comfortably. The scored table was a bit rickety, but a couple of sheets of toilet paper, folded and wadded beneath one of the legs, soon fixed that.

He had asked for paper and books from the prison library-science fiction if possible, to let him escape, at least in mind from his dreary surroundings. Sci-fi had been a passion during his adolescence, though he hadn’t read any since. Now, curiously, he felt an urge to start reading it again. Wharton would also be bringing him his Walkman and a few cassettes as soon as possible.

He paced for a while, then tried to take approximate measure of his cell. He concluded that it was about eight feet by ten. Next he slouched on his hard, narrow mattress and stared at the cracks on the ceiling. He had expected to find days crossed off all over the walls, just like he had seen in films, but there were none. There wasn’t even a trace of graffiti, a name scratched by fingernail, to show who had been here last.

Perhaps it had been the Ripper himself. Owen shivered. That was a foolish thought, he told himself. It was years ago that Sutcliffe had been held here. Dozens of people must have been in and out since then. Still…a haunted cell, that would just about make his day.

It was time to keep his imagination in check and take stock of his situation. Certainly he was aware of what could happen to him, the “worst case scenario” as Wharton had put it earlier that morning, and that didn’t bear thinking about.

Wharton had already been right about the Magistrates’ Court; the whole thing had been over in a couple of minutes and Owen found himself on remand awaiting trial for the crime of murder. So much for truth and justice.

What worried him most now were the practical things: his job, the house, the fish, his car. Wharton had taken his keys and said he would take care of things, but still…Had anyone let the department at college know? If so, what had the chairman done? It wouldn’t be too difficult to share out his classes among his colleagues until a temporary lecturer could be brought in, but what if this thing dragged on for months? He didn’t have tenure, so the college could let him go whenever they felt like it. If he lost his job because of this farce, this absurd mistake, he wondered if he could seek any kind of compensation.

The house would remain his as long as his bank account could stand the strain of the standing payment order for his mortgage, and that should be long enough. After all, he had been making fairly decent money for some time and had very little in the way of expenses. He hoped that his neighbor Ivor, who also had a key, would take good care of the fish.

The sound of footsteps disturbed his train of thought, then he heard the key turn in the lock. It was meal-time already. The warder had also brought him a felt-tipped pen, writing pad and envelopes, a surprisingly well-thumbed copy of Wordsworth’s Collected Poems and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy.

When he had finished his meal and the door closed again behind the warder, Owen picked up the pen and sat at the desk. He had no-one to write to, but he could certainly pass time on a journal of his experiences and impressions. Maybe someday someone would want to publish it.

Fifty-six days or longer, Wharton had said. Well, there was nothing he could do about it, was there, so he might as well just get used to it.