Innocent Graves

I

Banks took a deep breath outside Michael Clayton’s house on Saturday morning, then he got out of his car and walked up the garden path. If Chief Constable Riddle found out about this, Banks’s life probably wouldn’t be worth living.

Clayton’s house wasn’t quite as large as the Harrisons ’, but it was an impressive enough construction, solidly built of redbrick and sandstone, detached and surrounded by an unkempt garden. The lawn looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed yet this year, and weeds choked the flower-beds.

After he rang the doorbell the first time, Banks heard nothing but silence and began to suspect that Clayton was out. He tried again. About thirty seconds later, just as he was about to head off down the path, the door opened and Clayton stuck his head out.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked crossly. “Oh, it’s you, Chief Inspector.” He moved aside and opened the door fully. “You’d better come in. Sorry about the mess.”

Banks followed him through a door from the hallway into a room full of computer equipment. At least three computers, state-of-the-art, by the look of them, sat on their desks, two of them displaying similar graphic images. These were incomprehensible to Banks, and looked like a cross between circuit diagrams and the molecular structures he remembered from school chemistry. They were all multi-colored, and some of the nodes and pathways between them flashed, different on each screen. The third VDU showed a deck of cards set out in what Banks recognized as the solitaire “pyramid” fashion.

“I always have a game going when I’m working,” Clayton said, smiling. “It helps me concentrate. Don’t ask me why.”

The floor was a mass of snaking cables and Banks trod carefully not to trip over any of them.

He could almost feel the room vibrating with the electrical hum running through them.

Clayton cleared a stack of computer magazines from a hard-backed chair. Banks almost asked him what the diagrams on the screens were, but he knew that either Clayton wouldn’t tell him or he wouldn’t understand anyway. Best not start off looking like an ignoramus.

Sheets of paper hissed as they slid out of a laser printer. One of the computers started to emit a loud, pulsating beep. Clayton excused himself while he went over and hit a few keys.

“Diagnostic programs,” he said when he got back.

Well, that was clear enough, Banks thought. Even he knew what diagnostic programs were. Though what they were supposed to diagnose was another matter entirely.

“Computers,” Clayton went on. “They’ve changed the world, Chief Inspector. Nothing is the same as when you and I were children. And they’re still changing it. Believe me, in the not-too-distant future, nothing will be the same as it is now. But I don’t suppose you came here to talk technology with me, did you? Are you coming to apologize?”

“What for?”

“For letting the bastard who killed Deborah slip through the cracks. I was there, you know, in court with Geoff and Sylvie. They’re devastated. And I’ve hardly been able to concentrate on my work since then. How could you let it happen?”

Banks shrugged. “I’ve seen it happen more often than you have. We’re not living in a perfect world.”

“You can say that again. I don’t know what the procedure is now, but if I can help in any way…” Clayton scratched his smooth chin. “Look, I’ve heard one or two disturbing rumors about this Pierce fellow beating up young girls and raping them. Is that true?”

“I can’t comment on that,” said Banks.

“But there is some evidence that wasn’t admissible, isn’t there? Something that might have got him convicted if it had been heard in the trial?”

“The judge rules on matters of law,” Banks said. “So there might be a strong basis for the appeal. That’s really all I can tell you at the moment.”

Clayton paused and glanced quickly around at the computer screens. “Well, Chief Inspector, thank you for bringing me up to date. Can I help in any way?”

Banks leaned forward. “As a matter of fact, there is something. One of the results of the court’s decision is that we have decided to reopen the case and examine some of the other angles again.”

Clayton frowned. “I don’t understand. Did you get the right man or didn’t you?”

“The jury thinks we didn’t.”

“But what about you. You know more about him than you’re ever allowed to tell the jury. What do you think?”

Banks was getting sick of that question. Now he knew what defense barristers felt when people kept asking them how they could possibly defend people they knew must be guilty. “I didn’t see him do it,” he said, “so there’s always room for doubt.”

Clayton snorted. “So just because the justice system fouls up yet again, you’re going to run around reopening old wounds.”

“I hoped you might look at it as co-operation,” Banks said.

“About what?”

“John Spinks, for a start.”

“That moron who caused all the trouble last summer?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sylvie told you about him?”

“Yes. And I talked to him again yesterday.”

“You surely don’t think he could have done it?”

“It’s possible,” Banks said.

“He doesn’t have either the guts or the brains.”

“Since when did it take brains to murder someone? Outside a detective novel, that is.”

“It takes brains to do it and get away with it.”

“Brains or luck.”

Clayton shrugged. “No point in arguing. Look at it that way and anything’s possible. He was certainly angry at her about what happened. I imagine anger is a familiar enough part of his limited emotional range. I suppose he could have laid in wait for her and lost his temper.”

“Did he know she attended the chess club?”

“How should I know?”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” said Banks. “Not if he hadn’t been seeing her after term started. Anyway, that’s beside the point. As you say, he would know the route she took and he could have simply lain in wait in the foggy graveyard ever since school came out. Now, as I understand it, Spinks came to Sir Geoffrey’s house to extort money from Lady Sylvie Harrison, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you hit him.”

“No more than a little cuff. You’re not going to arrest me for assault and battery are you?”

Banks smiled. “No. Believe me, sir, I’ve felt like doing the same thing myself on more than one occasion.”

“Then you understand my feelings about him.”

“Entirely. You hit him, and later you paid him off?”

“Yes. It seemed the easiest way.”

“How much did you give him?”

“A hundred pounds.”

“That was all?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t come back for more?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Clayton leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. “Because I told him that if he did, I would certainly inform Sir Geoffrey, who would at the very least have him horsewhipped, no matter what vile threats he made.” Clayton frowned and sat back. “You say you talked to Spinks again? Why? Was this in connection with reopening the case?”

“Not really. No, it was coincidence. He stole a car and crashed it.”

“Pity he didn’t break his neck. Serves the little bastard right.”

“I suppose so,” Banks said. He paused, feeling his heartbeat speed up. “What were you doing here when Spinks came?”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the impression that you’re here an awful lot. Especially when Sir Geoffrey is out and his wife is at home.”

Clayton’s mouth dropped open and he started shaking his head very slowly. “My God, you’ve got a mind like a sewer,” he said. “I don’t believe it. On the basis of that you’re suggesting…” He put his fingertips to his temple. “Let me get this clear…Your theory is that Sylvie and I were having a torrid affair and Deborah found out and threatened to tell her father. Instead of allowing that to happen, I waited for Deborah, my own goddaughter, in the graveyard after her school chess club one day and strangled her. Is that your theory?”

“I hadn’t thought it out that far,” Banks said. “I was just trying to get the lie of the land, that’s all. But I must admit you’ve got a way of reducing things to their essentials. Thank you for putting it so succinctly.”

Clayton stood up. His face was red. “This is insane, Banks. You’re clutching at straws. I think you’d better leave now.”

“I was just on my way. But I do have one more question.”

Clayton gritted his teeth. “Very well.”

“About the kind of work HarClay Industries does. Some of it is highly secret, isn’t it, MoD stuff?”

“Yes. So?”

“Is there any chance that Deborah might have stumbled across something she shouldn’t have, say in her father’s papers?”

Clayton shook his head. “First you practically accuse me of murder, then you bring up all this James Bond stuff. No, Chief Inspector, Deborah couldn’t have stumbled across any government secrets that got her killed. I think you already had the killer and you let him get off. Now you’re casting about wildly for some sort of scapegoat.”

Banks stood up to leave. “Maybe,” he admitted.

“And for your information,” Clayton went on, “I’ve known Geoff and Sylvie for years. I was there when they met. I was at university with Geoff. I have never had, nor am I having now, any other sort of relationship with Sylvie Harrison than that of a close friend. Am I making myself clear?”

Banks turned and met his gaze. “Perfectly.”

“And just for this one time I’m willing to forget that this meeting ever took place. But if you ever dare come here again with your-”

Banks held his hand up. “I get the message, sir. If I ask any more questions, you’ll go tell the chief constable. Fair enough.”

When Banks got outside and back into his car, his hands were shaking as he lit his first cigarette of the day.

II

Rebecca Charters hadn’t known what to do at first when Owen Pierce surprised her in the garden on Thursday. She had been scared, as she told Chief Inspector Banks, and her instinct had been to run inside, bolt the door and put the chain on. He hadn’t tried anything after that, even though he must have known she was alone in the house, but she had looked through the window and watched him stand by the garden gate for a moment before walking off. Her heart had beat fast.

After Banks had left, she rationalized her fear away. Pierce hadn’t done anything, after all, or even said or threatened anything. Perhaps she was overreacting. Pierce might not be guilty of anything. Certainly Inspector Banks had his doubts, and his idea of Deborah having arranged to meet the person who ultimately turned out to be her murderer made sense.

But when Owen Pierce came and knocked at her door on Saturday afternoon, while Daniel was out visiting the terminally ill patients in Eastvale General Infirmary, she felt afraid all over again.

Because it was a warm day and she liked the way the scents of the flowers drifted into the living-room, Rebecca had opened the bay window. Before moving to shut it and lock it, she shouted, “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

“Please,” he said. “Please listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve never hurt anyone. I just want to talk to you.”

She left the window open but put her hands on top of the frame, ready to slam it down if he made any suspicious moves. “What about?” she asked.

“Just talk, that’s all. Please. I need someone to talk to.”

There was something in his tone that touched Rebecca, but not enough to open the door to him.

“Why me?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I know about you. I know what you’ve been through. You’re the vicar’s wife. I’ve read about the accusations and everything. I just felt…I’m not trying to say I’m especially religious or anything. I don’t want to lie to you about that. Please, will you just let me come in and talk? Will someone just treat me like a human being. Please.”

Rebecca could see tears in his eyes. She still didn’t know why he had come. She couldn’t let him in, nor did she feel she could turn him away. After all, she was a Christian, and a minister’s wife.

“Stay there,” she said. “I’ll come out.” She would feel safe outside in the garden, with the constant flow of people on the river path.

Why was she doing it? she asked herself as she went outside. She knew part of the answer. Not too long ago, she had allowed herself to doubt Daniel, her own husband. Instead of offering him her unqualified support and devotion, she had turned to liquor and carnality to escape her obligations. More than that. It wasn’t just her obligations she was running away from, but the horrible realization that she had doubted Daniel, she had believed him guilty. And now, here was this pathetic man, found not guilty by a jury and presumed guilty by the rest of the world. Call it pity, compassion, Christian charity or mere folly, but she couldn’t turn him away.

Daniel had put out a couple of folding chairs in the garden. When the weather was nice, he liked to sit and watch the river as he composed his sermon. There was also a beautiful view of St. Mary’s Hill, the fine old houses above the gentle slope of grass and trees. Here I am, Rebecca thought, sitting in the garden with a possible murderer on a warm June afternoon.

“I still don’t understand why you’re here,” she said.

“I told you. I want-I need-a friend. Or friends. Everywhere I go people turn their backs. I’m lonely and I’m scared. I heard somewhere about what your husband’s been going through. But you have obviously stood by him however hard it’s been. I’ve got nobody.”

Rebecca almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. Instead she said, “Yes. It has been hard. But the court found you innocent. You’re free now.”

Owen sniffed. “Not innocent. Just not guilty as charged. It’s a different thing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not really free. Everyone believes I’m guilty.”

“Are you?”

“Will you believe me if I promise to answer truthfully?”

Rebecca felt her heart speed up. It was such a simple question, but it seemed to her that so much depended on it. Not just Owen Pierce, here and now, but her whole moral reality, her sense of trust and, even, her faith itself. She became aware of Pierce looking at her and realized that she had probably been holding her breath. Finally, she let it out and took the leap.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll believe you.”

Pierce looked her in the eye. “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t do it.”

Somehow, Rebecca felt great relief. “What can we do for you?” she asked.

Almost as if he didn’t believe his good fortune, Pierce remained speechless for a while. His eyes filled with tears and Rebecca felt, for a moment, like taking his hand. But she didn’t.

Finally, in a cracking voice, he said, “I need help. I have to put my life back together again and I can’t do it alone.” As he spoke, he regained his composure and wiped the tears away briskly. “It may seem cold, calculated,” he said, “but it isn’t. When I found out who you were, I remembered you from court and I was drawn to you because I thought you’d understand, you know, about being thought guilty when you’re innocent, about all the hypocrisy they talk about truth and justice. I’m sure your husband didn’t do what he’s been accused of. No more than I did.”

“But I thought you would be angry with us. My husband gave evidence against you.”

Owen shook his head. “All he did was tell the truth. It didn’t make any difference to the case. It was me on the bridge. I never denied that. And it must have been terrible for you finding the body. No, I hold nothing against you or your husband. Look, I have no friends, Mrs. Charters. Everyone’s deserted me. I have no close family. Even strangers treat me like some sort of monster if they recognize me. I need support, public support. I need it to be seen that decent, intelligent people don’t think I’m a monster. I need you on my side. You and your husband.”

“You might have come to the wrong place,” Rebecca said. “You wouldn’t want to join a losing cause. Remember, my husband is still under suspicion.”

“Yes, but he has carried on in the face of it all. And I know you believe in him. You’ve stuck by him. So have a lot of other members of the congregation, I’m sure. Don’t you see, Mrs. Charters, we’re both victims, your husband and I?”

Rebecca thought for a moment, remembering the hypocrisy of some parishioners. “All right, then,” she said. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll talk to my husband.”

“Thank you,” breathed Owen.

“But will you do one thing for me?”

“Of course.”

“Will you come to church tomorrow morning? I’m not trying to convert you or anything, but it would be good if you could be seen there. The people who still come to St. Mary’s have, for the most part, stuck up for Daniel and believed in his innocence, as you say. If we take you into the congregation, they might do the same for you. I know it might sound hypocritical, the way people judge by appearances, but they do, you know, and perhaps if…Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Charters, I really am. I just can’t help it. Of course I’ll come to church. Believe me, it seems a very small price to pay.”

III

It was just after two o’clock in the morning and Banks kept waking up from disturbing dreams. He and Sandra had been out to a folk night in the Dog and Gun, in Helmthorpe, with some old friends, Harriet Slade and her husband, David. The star of the evening was Penny Cartwright, a local singer who had given up fame and fortune to settle back in Helmthorpe a few years ago. Banks had first met her while investigating the murder of Harold Steadman, a local historian, and he had seen her once or twice in the intervening years. They chatted amicably enough when they met, but there was always a tension between them, and Banks was glad when the chit-chat was over.

Her singing was something to be relished, though. Alto, husky on the low notes but pure and clear in the higher range, her voice also carried the controlled emotion of a survivor. She sang a mix of traditional and contemporary-from Anon to Zimmerman-and her version of the latter’s “I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine” had made Banks’s spine tingle and his eyes prickle with tears.

But now, after a little too much port and Stilton back at Harriet and David’s, Banks was suffering the consequences. He had often thought that the blue bits in Stilton, being mold, had mild hallucinogenic properties and actually gave rise to restless dreams. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t yet found a scientist to agree with him; he was sure of it. Because every time he ate Stilton, it happened.

These weren’t satisfying dreams, the kind you need to make you feel you’ve had a good night’s sleep, but abrupt and disturbing transformations just below the threshold of consciousness: computer games turned into reality; cars crashed through monitor screens; and the ghost of a young woman walked through a foggy graveyard. In one, he had terminal cancer and couldn’t remember what his children looked like. All the while, voices whispered about demon lovers, and crows picked bodies clean to the bone.

Thus Banks was not altogether upset when the phone rang. Puzzled, but relieved in a way to be rescued from the pit of dreams. At the same time, apprehension gripped his chest when he turned over and picked up the receiver. Sandra stirred beside him and he tried to keep his voice down.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Banks mumbled. It was a woman’s voice.

“This is DC Gay, sir. I’m calling from the station.”

“What are you doing there? What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but it looks like there’s been another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another girl disappeared, sir. Name’s Ellen Gilchrist. She went to a school dance at Eastvale Comprehensive tonight and never arrived home. Her mum and dad are climbing up the walls.”

Banks sat up and swung his legs from under the covers. Sandra turned over. “Where are they?” he asked.

“They’re here, sir, at the station. I couldn’t keep them away. I said we’re doing all we can, but…”

“Have you called her friends, boyfriends?”

“Yes, sir. That’s all been done. Everyone her mum and dad and her friends from the dance could think of. We’ve woken up half the town already. As far as I can gather, she left the dance alone just after eleven o’clock. Had a headache. Her parents only live on the Leaview Estate, so it’s not more than a quarter of a mile down King Street. They got worried when she hadn’t turned up by midnight, her curfew. Called us at twelve-thirty. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“They said normally they’d have given her till one, more likely, then give her a good talking to and pack her off to bed. But they said they’d heard about that killer who got off. Owen Pierce. That’s why they called us so soon.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Banks rubbed his eyes, trying once and for all to rid himself of the Stilton dreams. He sighed. From one nightmare to another. “All right,” he said. “Get someone to put on a strong pot of coffee, will you, Susan? I’ll be right over.”