Innocent Graves

I

The offices of the Eastvale Crown Prosecution Service were located on the top floor of a drafty old three-story building on North Market Street, straddling two shops between the community center and the Town Hall. The lower floor was taken up by a clothes boutique catering to oversize people and a shop that sold imported Belgian chocolate. Somewhere else in the building, a dentist had managed to squeeze in his surgery. Sometimes you could hear the drill while discussing a case.

The chief CPS lawyer assigned to the Pierce file was Stafford Oakes, a shabby little fellow with elbow patches, greasy hair, a sharp nose and eagle eyes. Banks had worked with Oakes before on a number of occasions and had developed great respect for him.

Banks was with DI Stott, and beside Oakes sat Denise Campbell, his colleague, whose expensive and stylish designer clothes stood in stark contrast to Oakes’s off-the-peg bargain items. Denise was an attractive and ambitious young lawyer with short black hair and pale skin. Banks had never once seen her smile, and she seemed far too stiff, prim and proper for her age.

In general, the police were wary of the CPS because of its negative attitude towards bringing cases to court, and indeed Banks had had more than one argument with Oakes on this subject. On the whole, though, Oakes was a fair man, and he didn’t usually-like so many Crown Prosecutors-do more damage to the case than the defense did. Banks had even had a pint with him on a couple of occasions and swapped stories of life in the trenches of London, where they had both spent time.

Oakes’s office was as untidy as the man himself, briefs and files all over the place. Many of them bore his trademark-linked coffee-rings, like the Olympic games symbol-for Oakes was a caffeine addict and didn’t care where he rested his mug. Today it sat on top of the post-mortem report on Deborah Harrison.

It was already only a couple of weeks before Christmas, more than two weeks since they had first consulted by telephone. DNA tests had confirmed that it was, indeed, Deborah’s blood on Owen’s anorak and Owen’s tissue under her fingernail. Banks had sent over all the witness statements and forensic test results collected in the Initial Case File. Owen Pierce’s defense team would also have copies of them by now.

“I like this,” Oakes was saying, tapping the foot-thick heap of files on his desk. “I particularly like this DNA analysis. Something I can really get my teeth into. No confession, you say?”

“No,” Banks answered.

“Good.” He slurped some coffee. “Nothing but trouble, confessions, if you ask me. You’re better off without them. What do you think, Denise?”

“We’ve had some success with confessions. Limited, I’ll admit. As often as not they’ll retract, say the police falsified it or beat it out of them.” She gave Banks a stern look. “But even scientific evidence isn’t entirely problem-free. Depends very much on how it was gathered and who’s presenting it.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Oakes, waving his hand in the air. “Remember that dithering twit in the Innes case we did in Richmond?” He looked at Banks and Stott and rolled his eyes. “Open and shut. Or should have been. Simple matter of bloodstains. By the time the defense had finished with this chap, he was a nervous wreck, not even sure any more that two and two made four. But what I mean is, a good, solid case rests on facts. Like DNA. That’s what judges like and that’s what juries like. Facts. Indisputable. Beautiful. Facts. Am I right, Denise?”

Denise Campbell nodded.

“Now,” Oakes went on after another slug of coffee, “I trust that Mr. Pierce gave his permission for the blood and hair samples to be taken?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “They were taken by a registered police surgeon. You should have copies of the signed consent forms.”

Oakes frowned and dug around deeper in the pile. “Ah, yes,” he muttered, pulling out a few coffee-ringed sheets. “Here they are. Good. Good. And I trust his anorak was legally obtained in the first place?”

Banks looked at Stott, who said, “Yes. He gave us his permission to take it in for tests and we gave him a receipt.”

“But you didn’t go into his home with a search warrant?”

“No,” said Stott. “At that stage in our inquiries we merely wanted to talk to Mr. Pierce. Then, when I saw the orange anorak, having heard descriptions of a man in a similar orange anorak in the vicinity of the crime scene, I took the initiative and-”

Oakes flapped his hand again. “Yes, yes, yes, Inspector. All right. You’re not giving evidence in court. Spare me the formalities. It’s a bit flimsy, but it’ll have to do.”

Stott sat stiffly in his chair, red-faced, mouth tight. Banks couldn’t resist a smile. It was the new lad’s first taste of Stafford Oakes.

Oakes went on, thumbing through the pile on his desk. “Good stuff, most of this,” he said. “DNA, hair, blood analysis. Good stuff. Can’t understand a word of it myself, of course, but get the right man in the box and we’d even be able to sell it to your average Sun reader. That’s the key, you know: plain language, without talking down.” He put a thick wad of papers aside and flapped a few statements in the air. “And this,” he went on. “Not so bad, either. Your vicar, what’s his name…Daniel Charters…places our man on the bridge around the right time.” He touched his index finger to the side of his nose. “Must say though, Banks, there’s a hint of moral turpitude about the fellow.”

“Daniel Charters was accused of making a homosexual advance to a church worker,” said Banks. “A Croatian refugee called Ive Jelačić, who was also a suspect in this case, until we turned up Pierce. If it’s of any interest, I don’t believe Charters did it.”

“Doesn’t matter what you believe. Does it, Denise?”

“No,” said Denise.

“See, my learned colleague agrees. No, what matters, Banks, is what the jury believes. Vicar with a whiff of scandal lingering around the dog-collar like a particularly virulent fart.” He shook his head and tut-tutted. “Now, there, they say to themselves, goes a true hypocrite, a man who preaches the virtue of chastity, a man who belongs to a church that won’t even ordain homosexual ministers, caught with his hand up the choirboy’s surplice, so to speak. Well, you see what I mean? It’s tabloid scandal-sheet material, that’s what it is.”

“The point is academic, anyway,” Banks said, “as Owen Pierce openly admits to being on the bridge at the time.”

“Ah-hah,” said Oakes, raising a finger. “I wouldn’t take too much notice of that. It’s about as useful as a confession. And remember, that’s what he said before he talked to his solicitor. A lot can change between now and the trial. Believe me, we need as much evidence as we can get.”

“Charters isn’t the only one who can place Pierce on the bridge around the right time. Deborah’s friend Megan Preece saw him, too.”

Oakes shook his head. “I’ve read her statement. She’s not entirely sure it was him. Damn good thing, too. Nothing worse than children in the box. Oh, we’ll use your vicar. Don’t worry about that. Just playing devil’s advocate. Have to anticipate all eventualities.” He glanced at more statements. “The landlord of the Nag’s Head places Pierce in the pub a short while before, too, I see. He’s reliable, I suppose?”

Banks looked at Stott again. “Well,” the latter said stiffly. “He seems a bit slow to me, but given that it wasn’t a busy night and Pierce seems to have been about his only customer, I think we can rely on him, yes.”

“Good. And what’s this other place now… Ah, the Peking Moon. A Chinese restaurant.” He wrinkled his nose. “Chinaman, I suppose?”

“Born and bred in Whitechapel,” said Stott.

“Chinaman with a cockney accent, then?”

“Yes.”

Oakes shook his head. “Juries don’t like Chinamen. Don’t trust them. Still think of the old Fu Manchu image, you know, inscrutable, yellow peril and all that. Don’t go for it myself, but you can’t seem to get these racist attitudes out of people’s minds as quickly as you’d like, and you certainly can’t legislate them away. Still, we’ll do our best. Bright fellow, is he?”

“He’s very articulate,” said Stott.

“Good, that’ll help. Unless he seems too bright, of course. Juries don’t like people who come across as being too clever. Especially foreigners. They expect it of the boffins, of course, but not of your common-or-garden sort of restaurateur. Well, can’t be helped.” He got up and refilled his coffee mug from the machine on the filing cabinet. “Now what really bothers me,” he went on, “is this other stuff here.” He reached into the pile again and pulled out more papers. “You took a statement from a woman called Michelle Chappel, an ex-girlfriend of Pierce’s. It’s all above board, of course, but the whole issue’s dodgy.” He clicked his tongue and rested his hand on the papers, as if ready to swear on the Bible. “Dodgy in the extreme.”

“In what way?” asked Banks.

Oakes sat back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head and quoted at the cracked ceiling. “‘A trial judge in a criminal trial has always a discretion to refuse to admit evidence if in his opinion its prejudicial effect outweighs its probative value.’ Lord Diplock, Regina v. Sang, 1979.”

“And do you think this is the case with Michelle Chappel’s statement?” Banks asked.

“I’m saying it could be a problem. ‘There should be excluded from the jury information about the accused which is likely to have an influence on their minds prejudicial to the accused which is out of proportion to the true probative value of admissible evidence conveying that information.’ Same source. And it usually relates to evidence of similar fact. You’re implying here, by trying to introduce the woman’s statement as evidence, that Pierce was just the kind of person who would commit such a crime. Freudian mumbo-jumbo, and juries don’t like it, except on television. And, more to the point, a lot of judges don’t like it, either.”

Banks shrugged. “I’m aware of the similar fact rule,” he said, “but what we’re trying to establish here is a history of violence against women. And there’s a marked physical similarity between the two victims. We’re trying to get at a motive.”

Oakes’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes, that’s all very well and good, Banks. But then you’re an imaginative sort of chap, kind who reads a lot of fiction, aren’t you? If you understand the problem of similar fact evidence, then you must see that what you’re doing is saying that Pierce was the sort of person who would commit such a crime because he once acted in a way similar to the perpetrator of the crime under consideration. And, what’s more, it’s an unreported crime based purely on the evidence of a woman who no doubt despises the man for rejecting her.” He tut-tutted again and drank some coffee. “Still,” he mused, “stranger things have happened.”

“So what’s your conclusion?” Banks asked.

“My conclusion?” He slapped the stack of coffee-stained files. “Oh, we’ll give it a try. Why not? At worst, her evidence can only be declared inadmissible.” He chuckled. “It used to be that the definition of inadmissible evidence was anything that might help the defense. That was in the good old days. Sometimes, depending on the judge, you can get a bit of leeway on these matters, especially in a case as serious as this one. I’ve seen similar fact evidence admitted more than once. What the rule actually states is that the mere fact that the accused has previously acted in a similar way to the crime he is standing trial for is not relevant. However, if there’s a very close similarity, something that links the two events in a convincing way as part of a whole system of actions, an emerging pattern, so much so that it becomes more than a matter of mere coincidence, then such evidence may be admissible. Do you follow me?”

“I think so,” said Banks.

“If we attempt to show that the two assaults are part of such a pattern,” Oakes continued, “then we might just be able to squeeze it in. Depending on the judge, of course. Have you got a psychologist you can consult on this? What about that young woman I’ve seen you with in the Queen’s Arms? Pretty young thing. Redhead. Isn’t she a psychologist?”

“Jenny Fuller?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yes. But Jenny’s still teaching in America. She won’t be back until after Christmas.”

“That’ll do fine. No hurry, dear boy, no hurry. We’ve got enough for committal already. Just need something to beef up the admissibility quotient, if we can.”

“Are you going to prosecute, then?”

Oakes drank more coffee, looked at the papers and sniffed a few times. “Oh, I think so,” he said, after what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes, I think we’ve got a good case. What about you, Denise?”

Denise Campbell nodded. “Let’s nail the bastard,” she said. Then she blushed and put her hand over her mouth as if she had just burped.

II

Owen’s committal proceeding occurred in early February. The whole affair was about as exciting as a damp squib, more reminiscent of a college faculty meeting than an affair at which grave matters were decided. Nobody was even wearing wigs and robes.

He appeared before three JPs one bitter cold morning, and on Wharton’s advice, they heard the “new-style committal.” That is, they read all the prosecution’s statements and the defense offered no case. It was basically committal by consent. And just as Wharton had guaranteed, the JPs agreed there was prima facie case and Owen was bound over for trial in the Crown Court. A trial date was set for late March. There were a few spectators in court, and Owen’s name was now known to the general public, but only the charges and bare details were made known to the press, not the actual evidence.

Luckily, Owen had quickly got used to the monotony of prison routine: lights on, slop out, lights out, sleep. After the first few weeks, he had lost track of time. He was allowed out of his cell only to exercise in the dreary yard for half an hour each day. He hardly saw another soul there but for his guards, and it was no pleasure walking around in circles alone.

The food reminded him of school dinners: bread-and-butter pudding, gray leathery beef, lumpy custard, Spam fritters. Usually he left most of it. Even so, he felt constipated most of the time.

The cells around him were all occupied. At night he heard voices, even crying sometimes, and one evening the person in the next cell tried to strike up a conversation, asking him what he’d done. But Owen didn’t answer. What could the man possibly want to talk about? Compare notes on rape and mutilation?

Mostly, he listened to the tapes Wharton brought him and read poetry and science fiction. He had Wordsworth almost by heart after the first month.

Every few days, for some unknown reason, the prison authorities played musical cells with him. Only the smells were different. One place had a mattress acrid with spilled semen; one of the washstands seemed to breathe vomit fumes from its depths. But maybe that was his imagination. The predominating odor was of disinfectant and slops. In one cell, he discovered in the middle of night that there was no chamber pot or bucket. He called a warder, who told him to piss on the floor. He pissed down the sink. That wasn’t his imagination.

As time went on, it was the little things that began to get him down: the rough feel of his prison clothes, the lack of cooking or tea-making facilities, the lousy coffee, the dreadful food… The more he thought about them, the less petty they seemed. These were the essential parts of the tapestry of his liberty, things he took for granted normally. Now he had no access to them, they assumed greater importance in his mind.

It was all relative, of course. For a starving child in an Ethiopian village, for example, prison food would be a luxury and freedom might simply be defined as the hour or two’s relief from the agony of hunger. When people are starving, they have no true freedom. But for someone like Owen-middle-class, reasonably well-off, well-educated, living in England-freedom was made up of myriad things, some more abstract than others, but it all came down to having a choice.

Locked in his small, lonely cell once again, Owen actually felt relieved to be left alone at last, to be shut away from the bureaucrats, the reporters and the women who stared at him with such naked hatred in their eyes. He was protected here from the crowds outside eager for his blood, and from the policemen so anxious to rip off the surface of his life and dig their hands deep into the slimy darkness below.

His cell was the only place he felt safe now; its routine and isolation sheltered him from the malevolent absurdity of the world outside.

III

Jenny Fuller dashed into the Queen’s Arms ten minutes late, shucked off her black overcoat and folded it carefully over the back of the adjacent chair. She gave her head a shake to toss back her mass of flame-colored hair, then sat down and patted her chest. “Out of breath. Sorry I’m late. Are we on expenses?”

Dr. Jennifer Fuller was a lecturer in psychology at the University of York, and over the years her focus had shifted towards criminal and deviant psychology. Now, she had even started publishing in the field and was quickly making a name for herself. Hence the summer in America. Banks had worked with her on several cases before, and an initial attraction had transformed into an enduring friendship that delighted and surprised both of them.

Banks laughed. “Afraid not.”

“Pity. I was getting sort of used to that in America. Everyone’s on expenses there.”

“Let me buy the first one, at least.”

“How kind. I’ll have a small brandy please, to take the chill off.”

“And to eat?”

“Chicken in a basket.”

On his way to the bar, Banks recognized one or two of the local shop-owners and the manager of the NatWest Bank on his lunch-break. Cyril had also got the coal fire going nicely. The closest table to it was already taken by a group of ramblers in hiking boots and waterproof gear, so Banks and Jenny sat off to one side, near the window. Rain spattered the red and amber diamonds and blurred the clear panes. Along with the drinks, Banks ordered Jenny’s chicken and scampi and chips for himself.

Jenny rubbed her hands together and gave a mock shiver when Banks came back with the drinks, then she picked up her small glass and said, “Cheers.” They clinked glasses. “Have a good Christmas?”

“The usual. My parents for Christmas Eve, Sandra’s for Christmas Day and Boxing Day.”

“And how is Sandra?”

“She’s fine.”

Jenny took another sip of brandy. “So,” she said, “I see you’ve got your man under lock and key. Another notch in your truncheon.”

Banks nodded. “It looks that way.”

“I take it that’s what you do want to pick my brains about, and this isn’t just a ruse to secure the pleasure of my company?”

Banks smiled. “Yes to the first. Not that I’d be averse to the latter.”

“Stop it, you sweet man. You’ll make the lady blush. How can I help?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “I don’t know if you can. Or if you will, rather. Just listen, first of all, and tell me if I’m going way off the tracks.”

Jenny nodded. “Okay.”

Banks told her what they knew about Owen Pierce and Michelle Chappel, stressing Owen’s reluctance to admit to knowing Michelle, her resemblance to Deborah Harrison, and what she said Owen had done to her.

When he had finished, Jenny sat quietly for a moment, sucking her lower lip and thinking. Banks sipped some beer and said, “I’ve been trying to work up some sort of psychological scenario for this crime. Owen Pierce had means and opportunity, and the DNA evidence is pretty damning. I suppose I’m looking for a motive.”

“You should know by now that you don’t always get one with crimes like this, Alan. Motiveless, stranger killings. At least not what you or I would regard as a logical or even a reasonable motive, like anger or revenge.”

“True. But bear with me, Jenny. Say he’s upset about the girl, Michelle, angry at her. He goes for a walk and there, out of the fog, this vision appears. Michelle. Well, maybe not exactly Michelle, but an approximation. A younger model, more innocent, perhaps more vulnerable, less threatening. So he follows her into the graveyard, approaches her, she says something and sparks his anger. He’s already been violent towards Michelle, remember, so there’s a precedent. Does it make sense?”

Jenny frowned. “It could do,” she said. “Sometimes, we act out, we behave towards people as if they were someone else. It’s called ‘displacement,’ an unconscious defense mechanism where emotions or ideas are transferred from one object or person to another that seems less threatening. I think Freud defined it as one of the neuroses, but my Freud’s a bit rusty at the moment. What you’re asking is whether I think Owen Pierce could have displaced his feelings for Michelle to Deborah because of some vague superficial resemblance-”

“And because of his mental state at the time.”

“All right, that too. And that this led him to kill her. Really he was killing Michelle.”

“Yes. What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got a point, or the beginnings of one.”

“You don’t think I’m way off beam?”

“Not at all.” Their food came. “How about another drink to wash this down?”

“Please. I never argue when a woman wants to buy me a drink.”

Banks watched Jenny walk to the bar. She moved well and had a superb figure: long legs, narrow waist and a bum like two plums in a wet paper bag. She had a new energy and confidence in her stride, too, and it looked as if the summer in California had done her good.

She was wearing tight black jeans and a jade-green jacket, made of raw silk, over a white shirt. Judging by the cut and the material of the jacket, the way it narrowed at her waist and flared slightly over the swell of her hips, it had probably cost her a small fortune on Rodeo Drive or some such place. But Jenny always had liked nice clothes.

Banks noticed her exchange a few words with a young man who looked like a trainee bank manager while she waited for Cyril to pour the pint. Poor fellow, Banks thought; he didn’t stand a chance. But Jenny was smiling. Why did he feel a pang of jealousy when he saw her flirt with another man, even to this day?

She came back with a pint of bitter for Banks and a Campari and soda for herself. He thanked her. “Making a date?” he said, nodding towards the man.

Jenny laughed. “What do you think I am, a cradle-snatcher? Besides, he’s not my type.” Jenny was thirty-five in December; the young man about twenty-four. As yet, Banks knew, Jenny hadn’t quite figured out what her “type” was.

When Jenny smiled, her green eyes lit up and the lines around them crinkled into a map of her humor. Her tan brought out the freckles across her nose and cheeks.

“How was California?” he asked.

“All sun and surf. Just like ‘Baywatch.’”

“Really?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, not really. You’d hate it,” she said. “Can’t smoke anywhere.”

“And they call it the Garden of Eden. Is that where you developed a taste for fried chicken?”

“Not at all. I’ve always had a weakness for lean, relatively fat-free meat deep-fried in batter and cholesterol. It appeases both conflicting sides of my nature.” She sliced off a chunk of deep-fried chicken breast and popped it in her mouth.

Banks laughed. They finished their meals in silence, then Banks lit a cigarette and said, “Back to Pierce. Look, I know I’m putting you on the spot, Jenny, but I’d like you to work something up for the CPS.”

“Like what?”

“The kind of thing we were talking about. Displacement, for example. Tell me more.”

Jenny sipped her Campari and soda. Banks still had half a pint left, and he wasn’t allowing himself another drink this lunch-time.

“Okay,” Jenny said, “let’s say that he has poor control over his anger. It’s pretty much a commonplace that people often respond to frustration by getting angry, and if their anger is really intense and their inner controls are weakened even further-say by alcohol or tiredness-then it can result in physical assault, even murder. That seems to be what happened with Michelle, but what about Deborah? Had he been drinking?”

“He’d had two pints and a whisky.”

“Okay. Let’s say, then, that we are dealing with displacement, which is a coping pattern. A defense mechanism, if you like.”

“Defense against what?”

“Stress, basically. If a situation really threatens your sense of adequacy, your ego, your self-esteem, then your reactions become defense-oriented, you defend your self from devaluation.”

“How?”

“Any number of ways. Denial. Rationalization. Fantasy. Repression. Things we all do. What it basically comes down to is ridding yourself of the anxiety and the tensions that are causing the pain.”

“Sexual tension?”

“Could be. But that’s just one kind.”

“And displacement is one of these defense mechanisms?”

“Yes. You shift the strong feelings you have from the person or object towards which they were originally intended to another person or object. Often very difficult emotions are involved, like hostility and anxiety. It’s an unconscious process.”

“Are you suggesting he wasn’t responsible?”

“Interesting point. But I don’t think so. I don’t know exactly what the law is, but I’m not saying a person suffering displacement isn’t responsible for his actions, especially violent ones. Just that he might not know the inner processes that are leading him to want to do what he does.”

“Which you can probably say for most of us most of the time?”

“Yes. In less extreme ways.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“Displacement is often combined with projection, where you put the blame for your own problems on someone else, or some group.”

“Women?”

“Could be. In extreme cases it leads to a form of paranoia. People become convinced that forces or groups are working against them. He could have formed such a projection of his anxieties and hostilities against women in general. Plenty of men do. That French-Canadian who shot all those women at the college in Montreal, for example.”

“And could he also have displaced his hostile feelings for Michelle onto Deborah, given the stress of the anniversary, the effect of alcohol and the resemblance between the two women?”

“Possibly. Yes. There’s a study by a psychologist called Masserman, done in 1961, where he manages to show that under sustained frustration people become more willing to accept substitute goals.”

“Deborah for Michelle?”

“Yes. Look, I’m a bit rusty on this. I’ll need a few days to come up with something.”

“How about next week?”

Jenny smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“If there’s anything else you want to know, give me a call.”

“Can you get copies of the statements to me?”

“No problem.”

“Okay. Now I really must go.” She stood up and reached for her raincoat. Then she leaned forward and gave Banks a quick peck on the cheek.

When she had gone, he lit another cigarette, vowing it would be his last for the day, and contemplated the remains of his pint. Another half wouldn’t do any harm, he decided, so he went and got one, pouring it into the pint glass because he didn’t like drinking beer from small glasses.

IV

One afternoon about three or four weeks after his committal-he was losing track of time-Owen was taken from his cell to a prison interview room, where he met for the first time the barrister Gordon Wharton had engaged to lead his defense.

In her early forties, Owen guessed, Shirley Castle, QC, was an attractive woman by any standards. She was also the first woman he had seen since his trip to the Magistrates’ Court. She had glossy dark hair that fell over her shoulders and framed a pale, oval face. Her almond-shaped eyes were a peculiar shade of violet, so unusual that Owen wondered if she were wearing tinted contact lenses. She had on a gray pleated skirt and a pale pink blouse buttoned up to her chin. Her perfume smelled subtle and expensive.

Wharton sat beside her with a smug, proprietorial air about him, basking in the glory of her presence, as if to say, “Just look who I’ve got for you, my boy. What a treat!”

Shirley Castle took the cap off her Montblanc fountain-pen, shuffled some papers in front of her and began.

“It doesn’t look very good, Owen,” she said. “I don’t want to give you any false hopes or illusions. We’ll have an uphill struggle on our hands with this one.”

“But all they’ve got is circumstantial evidence.”

She looked at him. “The point is, that they can build a very good case on that. Look at it this way.” She started to count off the points on her long fingers. “One, you had the opportunity. Two, motive in such crimes is so obscure, to say the least, that they don’t really need to establish one. And, three, there’s the DNA, hairs and blood.”

“But I can explain it all. I have done. I never denied being in the area from the start, and I told them the girl bumped into me. Maybe that’s how the hair and blood were exchanged.”

“Maybe. But the police don’t believe you,” she said. “And quite frankly, I don’t blame them, especially given that you only came up with that explanation at the eleventh hour. No, Owen, I’m afraid we’re going to have to fight tooth and nail for this one.”

“Are they still looking for the real murderer?”

“Why should they? They think they’ve already got him.”

“So there’s nobody out there trying to prove my innocence?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Can’t you employ a private detective or someone?”

Shirley Castle laughed. It was a lighter, frothier, more vivacious sound than he would have imagined, given her overall gravity. But it was a nervous laugh, no doubt about that. “To do what?” she asked.

“Find the real murderer. Prove me innocent.”

“Things don’t work quite like that.”

“Well, how do they work?”

She leaned back in her chair and frowned. “We go to court and we give them the best fight we can. There’s no other way. It’s only on ‘Perry Mason’ that the lawyer and the private eye get out on the mean streets and track down the real killer.”

“Just let me tell them my story. I’m sure they’ll believe me.”

“I’m not sure yet if I’m going to put you in the witness box at all.”

“Why not?”

Shirley Castle frowned. “Cross-examinations can be really tough.”

“Is something bothering you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is. The CPS file suggests an approach to the case that involves similar fact to try and establish a motive for the murder, too.”

“But you said they didn’t need one.”

“Their case will be all that much stronger if they can come up with one.”

“What are they saying?”

Shirley Castle rested her chin in her hand. “Tell me about Michelle Chappel, Owen.”

Owen swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “What about her?”

“About your relationship. And why you lied to the police about the nude photographs, denied you knew her. You didn’t want them to find her and talk to her, did you?”

“No, I can’t say I did. Michelle…well, let’s say we parted on bad terms. She’d have nothing good to say about me.”

“As I understand it, there was violence, perhaps attempted murder?”

“That’s absurd! Have you talked to her?”

“No,” she said. “The police have. I’ve just been reviewing the statement, and it’s very interesting. Read for yourself.” She dropped a sheaf of papers in front of him.

Owen felt rising panic as he read the transcript of the taped interview with Michelle:

Q: Miss Chappel, could you tell us how and when you first met Mr. Pierce?

A: Yes. In class. He was my teacher. I was his student.

Q: How old were you at the time?

A: Seventeen.

Q: Was this at Eastvale College of Further Education?

A: Yes.

Q: How old was Owen Pierce when you met?

A: Thirty-two, thirty-three. I’m not exactly sure.

Q: So he was almost old enough to be your father?

A: Technically. I suppose a sixteen-year-old could be a father.

Q: Did you live at home?

A: Yes. Until I was eighteen.

Q: Where did you go then?

A: I moved in with Owen.

Q: How long did you live with him?

A: Five years.

Q: How did Mr. Pierce approach you?

A: He suggested a coffee after class, one day, then he asked me out to dinner.

Q: Were your marks good?

A: Yes.

Q: Did you start seeing one another regularly?

A: Yes. We went out together a few times for dinner, to the pictures or for a drink. Sometimes he took me out for a ride in the country in his car, and we’d find a little village pub somewhere.

Q: How soon did you become lovers?

A: Very soon after we first went out.

Q: Weeks? Days?

A: Days.

Q: And the relationship went well after you moved in with him?

A: At first it did, yes. Look, I mean, you have to realize, I was very young. A bit of a misfit, too, I suppose. I wasn’t very happy at home, and I didn’t really have any close friends. I found most people my own age immature. I was also very shy and Owen was nice to me. I suppose I was flattered, too, by the attention. When I talked about leaving home, he asked if I’d like to move in with him, and it seemed like a good idea. I felt safe with him.

Q: Were you still his student when you moved in with him?

A: I was in his business communications class, yes.

Q: Did you continue to do well in that course?

A: Very well.

Q: Deservedly?

A: I think so. Look, I’m not stupid, but I also admit it may have helped, sleeping with my teacher.

Q: Do you think there was a price to pay for your success?

A: What do you mean?

Q: Did Owen ever suggest or attempt to commit any unnatural acts?

A: Do you mean was he kinky?

Q: Something like that.

A: No, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, he liked me to wear certain underclothes. You know, black silky things, thigh stockings, skimpy things. He liked me to keep them on when we…you know.

Q: During intercourse?

A: Yes.

Q: Was that all?

A: All? Was what all?

Q: The skimpy clothes. Did he ever make you do anything you didn’t want to?

A: He wanted to do it to me from behind, like dogs. I didn’t like that.

Q: But did you do as he wished?

A: Well, I…yes, at first I did. I wanted to please him.

Q: Because you were worried about your marks?

A: A bit, I suppose.

Q: Did he show any interest in pornography?

A: We watched a dirty video once. You know the sort of thing. I didn’t really enjoy it. In fact, I thought it was dead gross, but it seemed to turn him on.

Q: How did he behave when you were watching the video?

A: Well, he was, you know, maybe a bit more ardent than usual. He wanted to try out things they were doing, you know, on the video.

Q: Against your will?

A: No, but I thought it was a bit weird.

Q: Did he ever resort to violence for the purpose of sexual stimulation?

A: He used to like to tie me up sometimes.

Q: How did you react to this?

A: What could I do? He was stronger than me. I wanted to please him. It was uncomfortable and it frightened me a bit, but it didn’t really hurt. It was just a game, really. It was something he’d seen in that silly film and it turned him on.

Q: Did he beat you at all? Flagellation?

A: No.

Q: So apart from the tying up he wasn’t violent?

A: No…not until the end. Then living with him became sort of like being in prison. Every time I went out I had to account for my movements. Some nights he wouldn’t even let me go out.

Q: How did he keep you in?

A: He just made such a fuss it wasn’t worth it. I felt shut in, always under observation. I couldn’t breathe. I was frightened of his temper. I started rebelling in small ways, like seeing other friends and stuff, and it made him more and more possessive.

Q: Is that why you left him? Fear of violence?

A: Partly…it was frightening, especially the last night, but…

Q: Can you tell us about that last night, Michelle?

Michelle went on to tell about the night she claimed Owen had raped and tried to strangle her. Pale, Owen shoved the papers aside and looked at Shirley Castle.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think of it?”

Owen shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s not true, then?”

“Some of it, maybe. But she even makes the truth sound different, sound bad for me, the way she slants it.”

“In what way?”

“Every way. The sex, for example. She makes me sound like a pervert, but most of it was her idea. She loved it, the tying up, the talking dirty. It really got her going. And she liked the video.”

“Did you hit her that last night?”

“I pushed her. I was protecting myself. She was berserk, out of control. She’d have killed me if I hadn’t pushed her away.”

“And she hit her head as she fell?”

“Yes.”

“Knocking her unconscious?”

“Yes, but…Oh, God.” Owen held his head in his hands. “I know how it sounds, but I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, never on purpose.”

“Did you have sex with her after she’d knocked herself out?”

“No, I didn’t. That’s a lie. What do you take me for?”

“I’m just trying to get at the truth, Owen. Did you try to force her to have sex at any time that evening?”

“No. I mean, yes. No, I didn’t try to force her, but I suggested it. I just wanted to see how she would react. It was a test. I didn’t force her.”

Shirley frowned. “You made advances? I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Owen. You’ll have to explain it to me.”

How could he tell her about that night? Still vivid in his mind, it was like watching a cartoon play, the gaudy colors, the exaggerated violence, the sense of being a spectator, unable to stop the film, unable even to walk out of the cinema.

“How did it start, Owen?”

Owen tried to explain. He had grown suspicious of Michelle over the last year or so, he said, suspected that she was seeing another man, or other men. That night, when she said she was going to meet a girlfriend, he followed her into Eastvale town center and watched her meet someone in a pub. As they talked and drank, rubbing close together, Owen sat, shielded by a frosted-glass partition and watched the shadows. At closing time, he followed them to a house not far from his own and watched outside as the bedroom light went on, then the curtains closed, and someone turned out the light.

He went home and paced and drank whisky until Michelle got in after two-thirty in the morning. Instead of challenging her immediately with what he’d found out, he made sexual advances to see how she would react.

She pushed him away and told him she was too tired, listening to her girlfriend’s tales of woe till so late. He could smell the other man on her, the stale beer and smoke on her clothes, in her hair, mingled with the reek of sex. She hadn’t even had the decency to take a shower afterwards.

Then he told her what he’d seen, what he had watched. She went wild, flew at him, screamed that he didn’t own her and if he was no good in bed she had every damn right to find someone who was. It was like watching another person emerge from the shell of someone you thought you knew.

He called her a bitch, a whore, told her he knew she’d been at it all the time they’d been together, that she had just used him, had never really loved him. For a moment, she paused in her attack and a different look came into her eyes: hard, cold hatred. She picked up a pair of scissors from the table and lunged at him. He grabbed her hand and twisted until she dropped them.

Then she renewed the attack, kicking, scratching, flailing out wildly. He held his hands in front of his face to ward off the blows and tried to talk her down. But she wouldn’t stop. Finally, out of desperation, he pushed her away, just to give himself some space to maneuver, and she fell over and hit her head on the chair leg.

He tried to tell Shirley Castle all this, as calmly as he could. He knew it sounded thin without the whole background of the relationship, from the early innocence to the bitter knowledge that it had all been a lie.

What he couldn’t tell her, though, what he hardly dare even admit to himself, was that after Michelle had fallen on the floor, arms spread out, one leg crooked over the other, he had wanted her. Hating her even then, he had torn at her clothing, then, half-mad with jealousy and hatred, had put his hands around her throat and wanted to choke the life out of her for what she had done to him, for ruining, for defiling what he had thought was the love of a lifetime. He hated himself for wanting her, and he hated her for making him.

At that moment, the full power of his love turned to hate and overwhelmed him, and he knew that everything, her words, her gestures, her lovemaking, her promises, had all been a lie. But he let go; he couldn’t kill her. He stood up, steadied himself and went to collapse on the bed. She was still breathing; there was no blood; he hadn’t raped her.

In the morning he found her sulking in the spare room, nursing the bump on her head. She tried to make up to him, told him she would do anything he wanted…anything…and started squirming around under the thin sheet. It had always worked before, but this time Owen had had more than enough.

He knew that if he took her back, if he lived with her for just one more day he would lose his self-respect forever. When he told her to go, she screamed and begged, but he threw her out in the street with only her suitcase. The next thing he knew, he got a letter with a Swiss Cottage address to send on the rest of her things. He did so.

Shirley Castle let the silence stretch after his explanation. Owen couldn’t read the way she looked at him. He didn’t know whether she believed him or not.

“Owen,” she said finally. “Whatever the truth is, Michelle’s is a very damning statement. You can imagine the case the Crown is trying to build up. A man obsessed with pornography, especially if it features young girls, capable of sexual violence against women…You see my point?”

“But it’s not true!” Owen argued. “None of it. I’m not obsessed with pornography.”

Shirley held up her hand. “I’m not attacking you, Owen. I’m simply trying to demonstrate the spin the prosecution will try and put on the facts, given the chance.”

Owen laid his hands on the desk and stared at the veins in his wrists. “I don’t know what you must think of me,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “but I want you to know that I’m not the monster they say I am. It’s a distortion. If I knew only certain facts about your life, or anyone’s, if your fantasies were laid bare for all to see…well, I might form a picture, and it might be the wrong one. Do you know what I mean?”

He could have sworn there was an amused glint in her eyes, and perhaps a faint flush on her cheeks. “You don’t need to please me, Owen,” she said. “I’m here as a professional. It’s not my place to make judgments about your private life, only to prove reasonable doubt. You don’t need to seek my approval.”

“But I want it,” Owen said. “Damn it, I want it! You’re not a machine, are you? You must have opinions, feelings.”

Shirley Castle didn’t answer. Instead, she shuffled the papers back towards her briefcase and said, “There’s one more important question before I go, Owen. Why would Michelle do what she did? Why would she say all those things about you to the police if they’re not true? What reason has she to want you to go to jail?”

“Don’t you understand? Michelle’s a user. She used me from the start, for her education, her escape from her overbearing parents, for her living-quarters, the good life. I was her passport through college. She threw me a few crumbs and I took them for love. Even now I have a hard time believing that you can live with someone for so long and not really see them for what they are, not know them at all. But it’s true. Maybe I didn’t want to see. All the time she was with me, she was going with other men, and I admit I got jealous and possessive. But she didn’t care. She thought she could get away with everything, just take her clothes off for me and make it all right. At heart she’s a cold, calculating monster. She has no conscience. Do you understand? Sometimes, it’s only when the final piece falls into place that you see there was ever a pattern at all. That was what happened that last night. The final piece. She’d been doing it all along, lying to me, seeing other men, doing exactly what she wanted, using my home-our home-as a squat. I gave her all the freedom she wanted at first, before I started to suspect the truth. She was young after all. How can you keep the love of a younger woman if you try to put her in a cage? As soon as I became more vigilant, the cracks started to appear.”

Shirley Castle shook her head. “I can accept all that, Owen, but it doesn’t really answer my question. Why does she wish you so much harm?”

“Why? Because I found her out,” Owen answered, remembering that one calm moment in the final battle, when he had seen her for what she really was. “Because I saw through her. I saw her true face. And because I rejected her. I threw her out. Though she denied me the night before, just after she’d been with her boyfriend, she offered me her body the next morning. But I wouldn’t take it. She begged me to forgive her and let her stay. But I threw her out. She was like a spiteful child if she didn’t get her own way. She can’t forgive me for seeing the truth and having the courage to throw her out before she dumped me.”

Shirley Castle nodded slowly. “Well, Owen, that’s all very well,” she said. “But we’d just better hope, for your sake, that she doesn’t get anywhere near the witness-box.”