Innocent Graves

I

Like Canute holding back the tide, or the Greeks fighting off the Trojans, Banks could only postpone the inevitable, not avoid it altogether. In fact, the inevitable was waiting for him at eight o’clock on Thursday morning when he got to his office-coffee in hand, listening to Barber’s setting of “Dover Beach” on his Walkman-in the strutting, fretting form of Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle.

“Banks, take those bloody things out of your ears. And where the hell do you think you were yesterday?”

Banks told him about talking to Batorac and Jelačić while he was in Leeds, but omitted Pamela’s chamber music concert and his quick visit to the Classical Record Shop.

Riddle’s presence called for a cigarette, he thought. He was trying to cut out the early morning smokes, but under the circumstances, lighting up now might achieve the double purpose of both soothing his nerves and aggravating Riddle into a cardiac arrest. He lit up. Riddle coughed and waved his hand about, but he wasn’t about to be distracted, or to die.

“What have you got to say about that fiasco in court yesterday?” the chief constable asked.

Banks shrugged. “There’s nothing much to say, sir,” he replied. “The jury found Pierce not guilty.”

“I know that. Bloody idiots.”

“That may well be, sir,” said Banks, “but there’s still nothing we can do about it. I thought we had a strong case. I’m certain the Crown will appeal. I’ll be talking to Stafford Oakes about it when the fuss dies down.”

“Hmph. We’re going to look like real idiots over this one, Banks, as if we haven’t got enough problems already.” Riddle ran his hand over his red, shiny head. “Anyway, I want you to know that I’ve asked Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe to have a look over the case files. Maybe he can bring a fresh viewpoint. Either you get more evidence on Pierce or, if he really didn’t do it, you damn well find out who did. I’ve decided I’m going to give you a week to redeem yourself on this before we hand it over to a team of independent investigators. I don’t want to do that, I know how bad it looks, an admission of failure, but we’ve no bloody choice if we don’t get results fast. I need hardly remind you of the impact a negative result might have on your future career, need I?”

“No, sir.”

“And go easy on the Harrisons. They’re bound to be upset by Pierce getting off, after everything they’ve been through. Tread softly. Understand?”

“I’ll tread softly, sir.”

Stupid pillock, Banks cursed after Riddle had left the office. A whole bloody week. And how, he wondered, could he do his job with one hand tied behind his back, and tied because of bloody privilege, class and wealth, not by compassion for a bereaved family? Again, he had the feeling he would soon be walking on very thin ice indeed if he were to get to the bottom of things.

He walked over to the window, pulled up the venetian blind and opened the sash a couple of inches. It was too early for tourists, but the market square was busy with Eastvalers starting their day, heels clicking on the cobbles as bank cashiers, dentists and estate agents went to work in the warren of offices around the town center. The shops were opening and the smell of fresh-baked bread spilled in with sunlight.

Looking to his right, Banks could see south along Market Street, with its teashops, boutiques, and specialty shops, and out front was the square itself, with the NatWest bank, an estate agent, the EI Toro coffee bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s at the opposite side. Over the shops were solicitors’ offices, dentists’ and doctors’ surgeries.

With a sigh, Banks walked over to his filing cabinet, where he kept his own records of the salient points of the Harrison case. The tons of paperwork and electromagnetic traces that a murder case generated couldn’t possibly be stored in one detective’s office, but most detectives had their own ways of summarizing and keeping track of the cases they worked on. Banks was no exception.

His filing cabinet contained his own notes on all the major cases he had been involved with since coming to Eastvale, plus a few he had brought with him from the Met. The notes might not mean much to anyone else, but with the use of his keen memory, Banks was able to fill in all the gaps his shorthand left out. His own notes also contained the hunches and accounts of off-the-record conversations that didn’t make their way into the official files and statements.

It was time, he thought, to clear his mind of Owen Pierce for the moment and go back to basics. Two possibilities remained: either Deborah Harrison had been murdered by someone she knew, or a stranger other than Owen Pierce had killed her. Putting the second possibility aside, Banks picked up the names and strands of the first. Before the Pierce business, he had believed that Deborah might have arranged to meet someone on her way home from the chess club. He would spend the morning reading his notes and thinking, he decided, then after lunch he would go back to where it all started: St. Mary’s graveyard.

II

“Siobhan would bloody well kill me if she knew I was here with you now,” Ivor said. “You don’t understand what it’s been like, mate. She’s still convinced you did it.”

They were standing at the bar of the Queen’s Arms on Thursday lunch-time, after Owen had spent the entire morning cleaning up his house.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Owen. “I know she never really liked me, but I thought she had more sense than that. Is that why you didn’t report the break-in?”

“I told you, it only happened the other day. You don’t know what it’s been like for us.”

“Tell me.”

Ivor sighed and took a swig from his pint. “You should have seen some of the things you got through your letterbox, for a start.”

“What things?”

“Shit, hate-letters, used johnnies, death threats, something that looked like a lump of kidney or liver. I had to go in and clean it all up, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry. Did you report it to the police?”

“Of course I did. They sent a man round, but he didn’t do anything. What can you expect?”

“The police thought I was guilty. They still do.” Along with the rest of the world, he thought.

“Still,” Ivor said, “you weren’t living next door. You didn’t have to put up with it all.”

“Right. I was safely locked up in prison, all nice and comfortable in my little cell. Fucking luxury.”

“You don’t have to be so sarcastic, Owen. I’m just trying to explain what it was like on the outside, so you can understand people’s attitudes.”

“Like Siobhan’s?”

“Yes.”

“And yours?”

Ivor shrugged.

“What exactly is your attitude?” Owen asked.

“What’s it matter? You’re out now.”

“Not just out, Ivor, but not guilty. Remember?”

“Well,” he mumbled, “you know what people say.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me what people say.”

“You know, guilty people get off all the time because the system’s biased in their favor. We bend over backward to help criminals and don’t give a damn for their victims.”

“I’m the victim here, Ivor.” Owen thrust his thumb at his own chest. “Me. I even found a letter from the college waiting for me. That bastard Kemp has fired me, and he did it before the jury even went out.”

Ivor looked away. “Yeah, well. I’m just saying what people think, in general, that’s all.”

“And what do you think, Ivor?”

“Look, I really don’t want to get into this. All I’m saying, Owen, is that shit sticks.”

“Meaning?”

“Oh, come on! For Christ’s sake, you’re supposed to be the English teacher. Meaning exactly what it says. All those rumors that went around during the trial, the stuff they couldn’t bring in as evidence? Do you think nobody knew about it? Hell, I found out from one of the students in the local library.”

Owen felt a shiver run up his spine. “Found out about what?”

“Everything. Your sex life, your photographic pursuits, your taste for dirty books and magazines, the porn video, how you screwed your students.”

Owen toyed with a damp beer-mat. “You already knew that Michelle had been one of my students, I don’t think even you would call Lady Chatterly’s Lover a dirty book these days, and, don’t forget, you watched part of one of those videos with me. I’m no worse than anyone else.”

“Oh, grow up. You may not be, but the whole country doesn’t know everything about anyone else, does it? You know how rumors get exaggerated. As far as they’re concerned, you’re the one who beats up women when they won’t let you fuck them. You’re the one who spends his days ogling innocent young schoolgirls and your nights dreaming about defiling and strangling virgins while you’re watching video nasties.”

Owen felt himself flush. “They’re all bloody hypocrites.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t help you, does it?”

“And what does help me?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking, maybe you should go away somewhere…?”

“Run away? That’s great advice. Thanks a lot, mate.”

Owen ordered a couple more pints. At least the barmaid didn’t seem to have recognized him. She actually smiled as she put down the drinks. A woman smiling, something he hadn’t seen in ages, apart from Shirley Castle in her moment of victory. Either she didn’t watch telly or read the papers, or prison had changed his appearance enough to fool some people. Not everyone, of course, but some people.

“Look,” he went on, “get this into your thick skull. I haven’t done anything. I never beat up anyone, and I certainly never raped and murdered anyone. I’ve been a victim of the system. They owe me something. It’s doubtful they’ll pay, but they owe me. In the meantime, I’ve lost a few months out of my life and my reputation’s taken a bit of a bashing. I’ve got to put things in order again, and I’m damned if I’m going to start by running away. How do you think that’ll look?”

Ivor paused and scratched his beard before answering. “It’s not a bad idea, you know. It’s not really like running away. New life somewhere else. Fresh start. You could even go live and teach English on the continent somewhere. France maybe. Your French is pretty good, as I remember. Or Japan.”

Owen sniffed. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You think that’s the solution to my problems? Go live in obscurity in a foreign country? A sort of self-imposed exile. I’m telling you for the last time, Ivor, I haven’t done anything.”

Ivor paused a little before saying, “You might find it more difficult than you think-putting things in order.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing specific. I’m just pointing out that Siobhan’s attitude isn’t unique. There’s probably a few others feel the same way. Locally, like. Feelings can get pretty strong.”

“Are you telling me I’m in danger? A lynch mob or something?”

“All I’m saying is that when people get frightened they lash out.”

“And what do you feel, Ivor? You never really answered my original question, you know. You’re my neighbor. You’re also supposed to be my friend. Do you think I’m a pervert?”

“What can I say? How do I know? I watched part of that video with you, like you said, didn’t I? I don’t think doing that turned me into a pervert. Mind you, I can’t say it did a lot for me, but I watched it. More of a laugh than anything, if-”

“Fuck off, Ivor.”

“What? Look-”

“Just fuck off and leave me alone.”

Ivor banged his pint down on the bar; the barmaid glanced over anxiously. “All right, if that’s the way you want it, mate. Just don’t expect any more help from me.”

Owen snorted. “Believe me, Ivor, you’ve earned my undying gratitude for what you’ve done for me already. Now just fuck off.”

Ivor stormed out, red-faced above his beard, and the barmaid gave Owen an odd look, perhaps of recognition, of disapproval. Then the landlord, Cyril, he of the Popeye forearms, appeared from the back.

“What’s all the noise about?” he said. He seemed to recognize Owen and started walking towards him.

“Well, you can fuck off, too!” Owen slammed his glass down on the bar so hard it broke and beer swilled over the counter.

“Here!” yelled Cyril, making for the hinged flap. But Owen shot out of the door and down the street, the base of his thumb stinging and bleeding from where a sliver of glass had pierced it.

He hurried along North Market Street, head down and hands thrust deep in his pockets, fists clenched. Ivor. That slimy, backpedaling little turd. And Michelle? Just what was she trying to do to him?

But Perhaps Ivor was right about moving. The thought wasn’t quite as upsetting as it might have been a year or so earlier; somehow, the mess he had found on his release from prison had soured the house for him anyway. There were also, he realized, still too many memories of Michelle there. And moving would be a project, something to do, start looking for a new place, perhaps somewhere a little cheaper in a different part of the country. Not abroad, but in Devon, maybe, or Cornwall. He had always liked the south-west.

As he walked down the street, head bowed, Owen felt like an outsider, as if the rest of the world were swimming happily together in a huge tank and he was knocking on the glass unable to find a way in. One or two people gave him strange looks as he passed, and he realized he must have been mumbling to himself. Or maybe they recognized him. Shit sticks, Ivor had said. People would see him the way the rumors had depicted him, and would perhaps move aside and whisper to one another, “Here comes the Eastvale Strangler. You know, the one that got off.”

When he finally looked up to see where he was, he saw he was in St. Mary’s. Despite all his resolutions, he had walked there, as if by instinct.

He stood at the church gate, uncertain what to do, then on an impulse he decided to go in. It was a beautiful day, and the few hawthorn trees scattered among the yews bore white, yellow or pink blossoms. Wildflowers pushed their way through the grass around some of the plots. Thriving on decomposing remains, Owen thought fancifully, before he noticed that most of the graves were from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There were some recent ones, but not many.

The graveyard was peaceful; the muffled sounds of traffic on North Market Street and Kendal Road formed only a distant backdrop to the birdsongs.

Owen followed the tarmac path where it curved past the church and arrived at the Kendal Road exit. There, he walked up to the bridge and stared down at the swirling water, the color of a pint of bitter, from the peat it picked up on its way through the dale. Ahead, facing south, he could see the formal gardens, the riverside willows and the castle high on its hill, dominating the town. It seemed so long ago he had stood here that foggy November night. No, he would not think about that again.

He took the river path home, and as he passed by the vicarage, he saw, over the garden gate, a woman hanging up washing on the line and stopped to watch her.

The plain white T-shirt she was wearing stretched taut against her heavy round breasts as she reached to peg up a sheet. Owen fancied he could see the dark nipples harden at the wind’s caress.

Then she looked his way. He recognized her; he had seen her in court. She was the woman who had found the body, the one whose husband had been accused of molesting a church worker.

For a moment, she seemed about to smile and say hello, then she frowned, her jaw dropped, and she backed away inside the house, shutting the door behind her. Owen could hear the sound of a chain being fastened. She hadn’t hung the sheet properly on the washing-line, and at the first light gust of wind it filled like a sail then broke free and fluttered onto the flower-bed like a shroud.

III

Banks saw the curtain in the bay window twitch just after he rang the vicarage bell, and a few moments later a nervous and jumpy looking Rebecca Charters answered the door. She looked relieved to see him and ushered him down the hall into the living-room.

It was a lot more cozy than on his previous visits, he noticed immediately, and it felt much more like a family home than a temporary encampment. The whole place had been redecorated: new wallpaper, cream with rose patterns; a new three-piece suite in a matching floral design; and three vases of flowers placed around the room. Ezekiel, the mound of brown-and-white fur, was in his usual place by the empty fireplace.

“How about some tea?” Rebecca asked. “Freshly brewed. Well, ten minutes ago.”

“That’ll be fine,” said Banks. “No milk or sugar, thanks.”

Rebecca went into the kitchen and returned seconds later with two mugs of tea. Today, she wore her hair tied back, fixed in place by a tooled-leather slide and a broad wooden pin. The style made her olive-complexioned face seem to bulge forward a little, emphasizing the slightly long nose, weak chin and curved brow, like a photograph through a fish-eye lens, but she still looked attractive, especially the dark eyes and full lips.

“I noticed you were in court for the verdict,” Banks began.

Rebecca cradled her mug in her hands. “Yes,” she said. “I can hardly believe it. He was here earlier. That was why I was a bit nervous when you rang.”

“Owen Pierce was here? Why?”

“Not actually here, but he walked past on the river path. I was in the garden. I saw him.”

“It’s a free country, I suppose,” Banks said. “And he’s a free man.”

“But isn’t he dangerous? I mean, people still think he did it, even if he did get off.”

“They’re free to believe what they want. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Perhaps. Keep your doors and windows locked if it makes you feel better.”

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “I don’t mean to be sharp. I…”

“It’s all right,” said Banks. “You’re worried. You think there’s a killer been set free and he’s got his eyes on you. The quicker we find out whether he did it or not, the sooner you’ll feel safe again.”

“Do you think he did it?”

Banks scratched the little scar beside his right eye. “Right now, I don’t know,” he admitted. “There were times when I did, certainly, but the more I look at some of the things that struck me as odd before we latched onto Pierce, the more I start to wonder. The courts set innocent people free as well as guilty ones, sometimes, and if anyone knows the truth, he’s a lucky man.”

“What brought you back here?”

“I’m not really sure, except that this is where it all started.”

“Yes,” said Rebecca. “I remember.” She gave a small shudder and fingered the neck of her dress. “And I’d like to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For the last time we met. In the Queen’s Arms. I seem to remember I was very rude to you. I seem to be making a habit of it.”

“Don’t worry,” Banks said. “You get used to it in my job.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. I mean, I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did.” She put her mug down on the table. “I’m not that kind of person. Rude…I… Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except that your coming here again brings it all back.”

“Brings what back? Finding the body?”

“That, yes, certainly. But it was a terrible time for me all round. The charges against Daniel, all the turmoil they caused.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Chief Inspector, you didn’t know the half of it. Of course you didn’t, it wasn’t relevant, not to your inquiries, but I lost a baby about three months before that business with Jelačić, and the doctor said it would be dangerous for me to try for another. Daniel and I hadn’t talked about it as much as we should, and we had started drifting apart. We had just made some tentative inquiries about adoption when Jelačić brought the charges. Of course, everything fell through. It was worse than it was before. I’m afraid I withdrew. I blamed Daniel. There was even a time when I thought he was guilty. Since I lost the baby, we hadn’t been…well, you know…and I thought he’d lost interest in me. It was easier to explain that by assuming he was really interested in men. What can I say? I started to drink too much. Then there was Patrick.” She laughed nervously. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Except that you witnessed the final scene.”

Banks smiled. “You’d be surprised the things people tell us, Mrs. Charters. Anyway, I hope life has improved since then.”

She beamed. “Yes. Yes, it has. Daniel and I are stronger than we’ve ever been. There are still…well, a few problems…but at least we’re working together now.”

“How’s the Jelačić problem progressing?”

“It drags on. We’ve not heard anything for over a month now, but I believe he’s got some human-rights lawyer working on it.”

“And the drink?”

“Six months without.”

“Patrick Metcalfe?”

“Not since that time you were here, when he caused all that fuss.”

“Has he pestered you at all since then?”

She smiled. “No. I think he realized pretty quickly how carried away with himself he was getting. And I think your interest in him helped keep him at bay, too. I should thank you for that. You don’t still suspect him, do you?”

“He’s not off the hook yet,” Banks said. “Anyway, that’s not why I came. Actually, I was hoping for another look at the area where the body was found.”

“Surely you don’t have to ask my permission to do that?”

“No, but it’s partly a matter of courtesy. And you know the area better than I do. Will you come with me?”

“Certainly.”

To retrace Deborah’s steps, they walked first along the riverside path from the vicarage towards the Kendal Road bridge, where worn stone steps led up to the pavement. It was another beautiful day, and over the road in St. Mary’s Park, lovers lay entwined, students sat reading in the shade of the trees, and children played with balls and Frisbees.

“This was where she would enter,” said Rebecca, holding the wooden gate open for Banks. It was a lych-gate, with a small wooden roof, where the coffin would await the arrival of the clergyman in days gone by. “Seventeenth century,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t it superb?”

Banks agreed that it was.

“This is the main path we’re on now,” Rebecca explained.

It was about a yard and a half wide and had a pitted tarmac surface. Ahead, it curved around slightly in front of the church, separated from the doors only by a swath of grass, across which led a narrow flagstone path.

“It leads to North Market Street,” Rebecca said, “near the zebra crossing where Deborah would cross to go home. And this path,” she said, taking Banks by the elbow and diverting him to the right, where the entrance to the path was almost obscured by shrubbery, “is the path that leads to the Inchcliffe Mausoleum.”

It was the gravel path Banks remembered from last November. After a couple of yards, the shrubbery gave way to yews and lichen-stained graves. Warm sunlight filtered through the greenery and flying insects buzzed around the dandelions and forget-me-nots.

Some of the graves were above-ground tombs with heavy lids and flowery religious epitaphs. By far the most impressive and baroque was the Inchcliffe Mausoleum, to the right.

“Now,” said Banks, “we were assuming that Deborah reached the junction between the main path and this one when someone either grabbed her and dragged her up here or persuaded her to go with him of her own free will.”

“But why couldn’t she have come this way herself?” Rebecca asked.

“Why should she? It’s out of her way.”

“She had done before. I noticed her do it once or twice.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “You never mentioned this before.”

Rebecca shrugged. “You never asked. And it didn’t seem relevant.”

“But didn’t it strike you as odd?”

“No. I’m sorry. It wasn’t something I was paying a lot of attention to. I suppose I assumed that she liked graveyards, as I do. And this is where the most interesting old tombs are, and the Inchcliffe Mausoleum, of course.” She blushed. “Maybe she went to talk to the angel, like I did.”

“When did she start using the path?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t remember noticing her go that way before last September, when school started up, but that doesn’t mean she never did.”

“Did you ever see anyone else with her? Or anyone going along the path before or after her?”

“No. You did ask me about that before, and I would have told you if I’d seen her meeting anyone. I would have noticed something like that. Do you think it’s important that she took this path?”

Banks paused. “From the start,” he explained, “I’d been working on the theory that if Owen Pierce or someone else hadn’t followed Deborah into the graveyard, dragged her off the main path and killed her, then she might have been meeting the person who did. Now you’re telling me you’ve seen her take this path before. I’m wondering if this is where she arranged the meeting. By the mausoleum. Her friend Megan Preece said Deborah had a morbid streak, that she liked spooky things. A rendezvous in the depths of a foggy graveyard beside an old mausoleum might have appealed to her.”

“To meet someone she knew?”

“Yes. A lover, perhaps. Or someone else. We know that Deborah had a secret. It did cross my mind that she might have arranged to meet the person involved to discuss it, what to do about it.”

“But what could she have possibly known that was so important?”

“If we knew that, then we’d probably know who the killer is.”

“And do you still believe that she was meeting someone?”

“I think it’s a strong possibility. She didn’t tell Megan, but perhaps she wanted to be really secretive. Ive Jelačić told me he never saw her meeting anyone, but he’s a pathological liar. On the other hand, you just told me yourself that you never saw anyone else around.”

“It doesn’t mean that there couldn’t have been someone,” Rebecca said. “The woods are quite deep here. And it was a foggy night. I just wish I could be of more help.”

Banks stood and looked around. Rebecca was right. You could just about see the church through the trees to the south, but to the north, between the Inchcliffe Mausoleum and Kendal Road, it was a different matter. There, the yews were thicker, the undergrowth denser. It would be an ideal place for a secret meeting. And if he had learned anything from returning to the scene, it was that Deborah might have taken the gravel path of her accord, and that she had done so before.

He looked up at the Inchcliffe Mausoleum. It could have been the angle he was viewing it from, or perhaps a trick of the light, but he could have sworn the marble angel with the chipped wings was smiling.