Innocent Graves

I

The night it all began, a thick fog rolled down the dale and enfolded the town of Eastvale in its shroud. Fog in the market square, creeping in the cracks between the cobbles; fog muffling the sound of laughter from the Queen’s Arms and muting the light through its red and amber panes; fog rubbing and licking against cool glass in curtained windows and insinuating its way through tiny gaps under doors.

And the fog seemed at its thickest in the graveyard of St. Mary’s Church, where a beautiful woman with long auburn hair wandered barefoot and drunk, a wineglass full of Pinot Noir held precariously in her hand.

She weaved her way between the squat, gnarled yews and lichen-stained stones. Sometimes she thought she saw ghosts, gray, translucent shapes flitting among the tombs ahead, but they didn’t frighten her.

And she came to the Inchcliffe Mausoleum.

It loomed ahead out of the fog, massive and magnificent: classical lines formed in marble, steps overgrown with weeds leading down to the heavy oak door.

But it was the angel she had come to see. She liked the angel. Its eyes were fixed on heaven, as if nothing earthly mattered, and its hands were clasped together in prayer. Though it was solid marble, she often fancied it was so insubstantial she could pass her hand right through it.

She swayed slightly, raised her glass to the angel and drained half the wine at one gulp. She could feel the cold, damp earth and grass under her feet.

“Hello, Gabriel,” she said, voice a little slurred. “I’m sorry but I’ve sinned again.” She hiccupped and put her hand to her mouth. “’Scuse me, but I just can’t seem to-”

Then she saw something, a black-and-white shape, sticking out from behind the mausoleum. Curious, she squinted and stumbled towards it. Only when she was about a yard away did she realize it was a black shoe and a white sock. With a foot still in it.

She tottered back, hand to her mouth, then circled around the back of the tomb. All she could make out were the pale legs, the fair hair, the open satchel and the maroon uniform of St. Mary’s School for Girls.

She screamed and dropped her glass. It shattered on a stone.

Then Rebecca Charters, wife of the vicar of St. Mary’s, fell to her knees on the broken glass and started to vomit.

II

The fog tasted of ashes, thought Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks, as he pulled up his raincoat collar and hurried down the tarmac path towards the faint, gauzy light. Or perhaps he was being fanciful. Even though he hadn’t seen the body yet, he felt that familiar clenching in his stomach that murder always brought.

When he reached the scene, just off a narrow gravel path past the shrubbery, he saw the blurred silhouette of Dr. Glendenning through the canvas screen, bent over a vague shape lying on the ground, like a dumb-show in a Jacobean drama.

Fog had played havoc with the usual order of arrival. Banks himself had been at a senior officers’ meeting in Northallerton when he got the call, and he was consequently almost the last person to arrive. Peter Darby, crime-scene photographer, was there already, and so was Detective Inspector Barry Stott, who, for reasons clear to anyone who saw him, was more commonly known as “Jug-ears.” Stott, who had recently been transferred from Salford upon his promotion from detective sergeant, was a temporary replacement for DS Philip Richmond, who had gone to Scotland Yard to join a special computer unit.

Banks took a deep breath and walked behind the screen. Dr. Glendenning looked up, cigarette dangling from his mouth, its smoke indistinguishable from the fog that surrounded them.

“Ah, Banks…” he said in his lilting Edinburgh accent, then he shook his head slowly.

Banks looked down at the body. In all his years in Eastvale, he hadn’t had to deal with a crime like this. He had seen worse in London, of course, which was part of the reason he had left the Met and transferred up north. But you clearly couldn’t hide from it any more now. Not anywhere. George Orwell was right about the decline of the English murder, and this was exactly the kind of thing it had declined into.

The girl, about fifteen or sixteen by the look of her, lay on her back in the long grass behind a huge Victorian sepulchre, upon which stood a marble statue of an angel. The angel had its back turned to her, and through the fog Banks could make out the chipped feathers of its wings.

Her eyes stared into the fog, her long blonde hair lay fanned out around her head like a halo, and her face had a reddish-purple hue. There was a little cut by her left eye and some discoloration around her neck. A trickle of blood the shape of a large teardrop ran out of her left nostril.

Her maroon school blazer lay bunched up on the ground beside her, and her white blouse had been ripped open at the front; her bra had then been removed-roughly, by the looks of it.

Banks felt the urge to cover her. In his job, he had already seen far more than a man should, and it was little things like this that sometimes affected him more than the blood and guts. The girl looked so vulnerable, so callously violated. He could imagine her shame at being exposed this way, how she would blush and hurry to cover herself if she were alive. But she was beyond shame now.

Below her waist, someone had pulled her skirt up to reveal her thighs and pubic region. Her long legs lay open at a forty-five-degree angle. Her white socks were down around her ankles. She wore shiny black shoes with buckles fastened at the sides.

Lying beside her was an open satchel. The strap had come free of the metal ring at one end. Using his pen, Banks pushed back the flap and read the neatly inked address:

Miss Deborah Catherine Harrison

28 Hawthorn Close

Eastvale

North Yorkshire

England

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

European Community

Earth

Solar System

Milky Way

The Universe.

He smiled sadly to himself. It was a typical teenager’s sense of playfulness, exactly the same thing he had done at school.

Hawthorn Close meant money, as did St. Mary’s in general. It was an area of large, mostly detached houses, each with an acre or two of garden, long drives and croquet lawns shaded by copper beeches. To live there, you had to make enough money to employ a gardener, at the very least. St. Mary’s School required money, too-about £1200 per term. Banks had checked when he first arrived in town, but soon found he couldn’t afford to send his daughter, Tracy, there.

Banks cadged some evidence bags from one of the SOCOs and, holding the satchel by its edges, tipped the contents inside one of them. All he found were a couple of exercise books with the name “Deborah Catherine Harrison” written on the cover, a portable chess set, a few cosmetic items and three loose tampons in cellophane wrappers. But why had the satchel been open? he wondered. The buckles seemed strong enough, so he doubted it came open during a struggle. Had someone been looking for something?

Glendenning directed one of his underlings to take oral, vaginal and anal swabs and comb the pubic hair. Then he groaned and got to his feet. “I’m getting old, Banks,” he said, massaging his knees. “Too old for this sort of thing.” He jerked his head towards the body. Tall and white-haired, with a nicotine-stained mustache, the doctor was probably in his late fifties, Banks guessed.

They moved away, letting the screen block their view of the victim. Every so often, Peter Darby’s flash exploded, creating a strobe-light effect in the fog. Banks accepted one of Glendenning’s Senior Service. Normally he smoked Silk Cut tipped, but he had cut down drastically on his smoking over the last few months and wasn’t even carrying a packet with him. Well, he thought, as Glendenning proffered a gold, initialled lighter, cutting down had been easy enough to do in a lazy summer with no murders to investigate. Now it was November and there was a body at his feet. He lit up and coughed.

“Ought to get that cough seen to, laddie,” said Glendenning. “Might be a touch of lung cancer, you know.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just getting a cold, that’s all.”

“Aye…Well, I don’t suppose you dragged me out here on a mucky night like this just to talk about your health, did you?”

“No,” said Banks. “What do you make of it?”

“I can’t tell you much yet, but judging by her color and the marks on her throat, I’d say asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.”

“Any sign of the ligature?”

“Off the record, that satchel strap fits the bill pretty nicely.”

“What about time of death?”

“Oh, come off it, laddie.”

“Vaguely?”

“Not more than two or three hours ago. But don’t quote me on that.”

Banks looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. Which meant she was probably killed between five and six. Not on her way home from school, then. At least not directly.

“Was she killed here?”

“Aye. Almost certainly. Hypostasis is entirely consistent with the position of the body.”

“Any sign of the rest of her underwear?”

Glendenning shook his head. “Only the brassiere.”

“When can you get her on the table?”

“First thing in the morning. Coming?”

Banks swallowed; the fog scratched his throat. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Fine. I’ll reserve you the best seat in the house. I’m off home. You can get her to the mortuary now.”

And with that, Glendenning turned and faded into the fog.

Banks stood alone for a moment trying to forget the girl he had just seen spread-eagled so cruelly before him, trying desperately not to see Tracy in her place. He stubbed out his cigarette carefully on the side of the Inchcliffe Mausoleum and pocketed the butt. No point leaving red herrings at the crime scene.

A couple of yards away, he noticed a light patch on the grass. He walked over and squatted to get a closer look. It looked and smelled as if someone had been sick. He could also make out the stem and fragments of a wineglass, which seemed to have smashed on the stone edging of a grave. He picked up one of the slivers carefully between thumb and forefinger. It was stained with blood or wine; he couldn’t be certain which.

He saw DI Stott within hearing range and called him over.

“Know anything about this?” he asked.

Stott looked at the glass and vomit. “Rebecca Charters. Woman who discovered the body,” he said. “Bit of an oddball. She’s in the vicarage. WPC Kemp is with her.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to her later.” Banks pointed to the mausoleum. “Anyone had a look in there yet?”

“Not yet. I sent PC Aiken to see if he could come up with a key from the vicar.”

Banks nodded. “Look, Barry, someone’s got to break the news to the girl’s parents.”

“And seeing as I’m the new lad on the block…”

“That’s not what I meant. If you’re not comfortable with the job, then get someone else to do it. But get it done.”

“Sorry,” said Stott, taking his glasses off and wiping them on a white handkerchief. “I’m a bit…” He gestured towards the body. “Of course I’ll go.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll join you there soon. Before you go, call in DC Gay and DS Hatchley and tell them to get down here. Someone might have to drag Jim out of The Oak.”

Stott raised his eyebrows. Banks noticed his little moue of distaste at the mention of Detective Sergeant Hatchley. Well, he thought, that’s his cross to bear.

“And get as many officers out on the streets as you can. I want every house in the area canvassed as soon as possible. It’s going to be a long, busy night, but we’d better work fast. People forget quickly. Besides, by tomorrow the vultures will be here.”

“Vultures?”

“Press, TV people, sightseers. It’s going to be a circus, Barry. Prepare yourself.”

Stott nodded. PC Aiken turned up with the key to the mausoleum. Banks borrowed a torch from one of the search team, and he and Stott trod carefully down the weed-covered steps.

The heavy wooden door opened after a brief struggle with the key, and they found themselves in the dark with the dead; six sturdy coffins rested on trestles. A few tentacles of fog slid down the stairs and through the door after them, wreathing around their feet.

The small tomb didn’t smell of death, only of earth and mold. Fortunately, there were no fresh Inchcliffes buried there; the family had left Eastvale fifty years ago.

All Banks could see on his first glance around were the spider-webs that seemed to be spun in the very air itself. He gave a little shudder and shone his torch over the floor. There, in the corner furthest from the entrance, lay two empty vodka bottles and a pile of cigarette ends. It was hard to tell how recent they were, but they certainly weren’t fifty years old.

They found nothing else of interest down there, and it was with great relief that Banks emerged into the open air again; foggy as it was, it felt like a clear night after the inside of the tomb. Banks asked the SOCOs to bag the empty bottles and cigarette ends and search the place thoroughly.

“We’ll need a murder room set up at the station,” he said, turning to Stott again, “and a van parked near the scene; make it easy for people to come forward. Exhibits Officer, phone lines, civilian staff, the usual thing. Get Susan Gay to see to it. Better inform the Chief Constable, too,” Banks added with a sinking feeling.

At the moment, Banks was senior man in Eastvale CID, as Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had broken his leg while fixing his drystone wall. Technically, Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Wormsley, from North Yorkshire Regional HQ at Northallerton, was supposed to be in charge of a murder investigation. However, Banks knew from experience not to expect much beyond the occasional phone call from DCS Wormsley; he was rumored to be far too close to finishing his scale matchstick model of the Taj Mahal to be bothered with a mere murder. If it came from anywhere, Banks knew, the main hindrance would come from the new chief constable: Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle, a high-flier of the pushy, breathe-down-your-neck school of police management.

“We’ll also need a thorough ground-search of the graveyard,” Banks went on, “but we might be better doing that in daylight, especially if this fog disperses a bit during the night. Anyway, make sure the place is well secured.” Banks looked around. “How many entrances are there?”

“Two. One off North Market Street and one off Kendal Road, just by bridge.”

“Should be easy to secure, then. The wall looks high enough to deter any interlopers, but we’d better have a couple of men on perimeter patrol, just to make sure. The last thing we need is some intrepid reporter splashing crime-scene photos all over the morning papers. Is there any access from the riverside?”

Stott shook his head. “The wall’s high there, too, and it’s topped with broken glass.”

“Welcoming sort of place, isn’t it?”

“I understand they’ve had a bit of vandalism.”

Banks peered through the fog at the lights in the vicarage. They looked like disembodied eyes. “You’re a bit of a churchman, aren’t you, Barry?”

Stott nodded. “Yes. St. Cuthbert’s, though, not St. Mary’s.”

Banks nodded towards the vicarage. “Do you know who the vicar is here?”

“Father Daniel Charters.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “I thought so. I don’t know all the details, but isn’t he the one who’s been in the news a bit lately?”

“He is,” Stott said through gritted teeth.

“Interesting,” said Banks “Very interesting.” And he wandered off towards the vicarage.

III

The woman who answered Banks’s knock at the back door was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with a lustrous cascade of auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, an olive complexion, large hazel eyes and the fullest, most sensuous lips he had ever seen. She also had a stunned, unfocused look on her face.

“I’m Rebecca Charters,” she said, shaking his hand. “Please come through.”

Banks followed her down the hall. A tall woman, she was wearing a heavy black shawl draped over her shoulders and a loose, long blue skirt that flowed over the swell of her hips almost down to the stone flags of the hallway. Her feet were bare and dirty, with blades of grass stuck to her ankles and instep. There was also a fresh cut by the Achilles tendon of her right foot. As she walked, her hips swayed just a little more than he would have expected in a vicar’s wife. And was it his imagination, or did she seem a little unsteady on her pins?

She led him into a living-room with a high ceiling and dull, striped wallpaper. WPC Kemp stood by the door, and Banks told her she could leave now.

Bottle-green velour curtains were drawn across the bay window against the fog. An empty tiled fireplace stood directly across from the door, and in front of it lay a huge bundle of brown-and-white fur that Banks took to be a large dog of some kind. Whatever it was, he hoped it stayed there. Not that he disliked dogs, but he couldn’t stand the way they slobbered and fussed over him. Cats were much more Banks’s kind of animal. He liked their arrogance, their independence and their sense of mischief, and would have one for a pet were it not that Sandra, his wife, was violently allergic.

The only heat was provided by a small white radiator against the far wall. Banks was glad he hadn’t taken off his raincoat yet; he was thankful for the extra layer of warmth.

A three-piece suite upholstered in worn brown corduroy ranged around the coffee-table, and in one of the armchairs sat a man with thick black eyebrows that almost met in the middle, a furrowed brow, a long, pale face and prominent cheekbones. He had the haunted look of a troubled young priest from an old movie.

As Banks came in, the man stood up, a maneuver that resembled some large, long-limbed animal uncurling from its lair, and reached out his slender hand.

“Daniel Charters. Would you like some coffee?”

Shaking his hand, Banks noticed the carafe on the table and nodded. “Love some,” he said. “Black, no sugar.”

Banks sat on the sofa, Rebecca Charters next to him. Also on the coffee-table stood an empty bottle of Sainsbury’s Romanian Pinot Noir.

As Daniel Charters poured the coffee, Rebecca walked over to a glass-fronted cabinet, brought out a bottle and a brandy balloon and poured herself a large one. Banks noticed her husband gave her an angry look, which she ignored. The coffee was good. Almost as soon as he sipped it Banks felt the scratchiness in his throat ease up a little.

“I realize you’ve had a terrible shock,” Banks said, “but do you think you could answer a few questions?”

Rebecca nodded.

“Good. Did you report finding the body immediately?”

“Almost. When I saw the shape, what it was, I…I was sick first. Then I ran back here and telephoned the police.”

“What were you doing in the graveyard at that time, on such a miserable night?”

“I went to see the angel.”

Her voice was such a low whisper, Banks didn’t believe he could have heard right. “You what?” he asked.

“I said I went to see the angel.” Her large, moist eyes held his defiantly. They were red-rimmed with crying. “What’s wrong with that? I like graveyards. At least I did.”

“What about the glass?”

“I had a glass of wine. I dropped it, then I fell. Look.” She lifted her skirt as far as her knees. Both of them were bandaged, but the blood was already seeping through.

“Perhaps you should see a doctor?” Banks suggested.

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m all right.”

“Did you disturb the body in any way?” Banks asked.

“No. I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t go near her.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“Just that she was a St. Mary’s girl.”

“Did you know a girl called Deborah Catherine Harrison?”

Rebecca put her hand to her mouth and nodded. For a moment, Banks thought she was going to be sick again. Her husband didn’t make a move, but Banks could tell from his expression that he recognized the name, too.

“Is that who it was?” Rebecca asked.

“We think so. I’ll have to ask you not to say anything to anyone until the identity has been confirmed.”

“Of course not. Poor Deborah.”

“So you knew her?”

“She sang in the choir,” Daniel Charters said. “The school and the church are very closely linked. They don’t have a chapel of their own, so they come here for services. A number of them also sing in the choir.”

“Have you any idea what she might have been doing in the graveyard around five or six o’clock?”

“It’s a short cut,” Rebecca said. “From the school to her house.”

“But school finishes at half past three.”

Rebecca shrugged. “They have clubs, societies, activities. You’d have to ask Dr. Green, the head.” She took another gulp of brandy. The dog on the hearth hadn’t moved. For a moment Banks thought it might have died, then he noticed the fur moving slowly as it breathed. Just old, most likely. The way he was feeling.

“Did either of you see or hear anything outside earlier this evening?” he asked.

Daniel shook his head, and Rebecca said, “I thought I did. When I was in the kitchen opening the wine. It sounded like a stifled cry or something.”

“What did you do?”

“I went over to the window. Of course, I couldn’t see a damn thing in this fog, and when I didn’t hear anything else for a couple of minutes I decided it must have been a bird or a small animal.”

“Can you remember what time that was?”

“Around six o’clock, maybe a few minutes after. The local news was just starting on television.”

“And even though you thought you heard a cry, you still went out into the dark, foggy graveyard alone forty minutes later?”

Rebecca cast her eyes on the empty wine bottle. “I’d forgotten all about it by then,” she said. “Besides, I told you, I assumed it was an animal.”

Banks turned to Daniel Charters. “Did you hear anything?”

“He was in his study until I came back screaming about the body,” Rebecca answered. “That’s the other room at the front, the far side. He couldn’t have heard a thing from there.”

“Mr. Charters?”

Daniel Charters nodded. “That’s right. I was working on a sermon. I’m afraid my wife is correct. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Have either of you seen any strangers hanging around the area recently?”

They both shook their heads.

“Has anyone been inside the Inchcliffe Mausoleum lately?”

Charters frowned. “No. As far as I know no-one’s been in there for fifty years. I just gave the key to one of your men.”

“Where do you usually keep it?”

“In the church. On a hook in the vestry.”

“So it’s accessible to anyone?”

“Yes. But I can’t see-”

“Someone’s been down there recently. We found vodka bottles and cigarette ends. Have you any idea who it might be?”

“I can’t…” Then he stopped and turned pale. “Unless…”

“Unless what, Mr. Charters?” Banks drank some more coffee.

“As you probably know,” Charters said, “I’ve been under a bit of a cloud these past two months. Do you know the details?”

Banks shrugged. “Only vaguely.”

“The whole thing is only vague. Anyway, we employed a Croatian refugee here as a sexton. He turned out to be a complete mistake. He drank, he was abusive and he frightened people.”

“In what way?”

“He used to leer at the schoolgirls, make lewd gestures. One girl even saw him urinating on a grave.” Charters shook his head. “That sort of thing. He never actually touched anyone as far as we know, but some of the girls complained to Dr. Green, and she and I had a long talk. The upshot was, I decided to get rid of him. As soon as he’d gone, he went to the church authorities and claimed that I fired him because he refused to have sex with me.”

“And the church authorities believed him?”

“It doesn’t matter what they believed,” said Charters, with a bitter glance at his wife. “Once the accusation is made, the wheels start to grind, inquiries have to be made. And the accused is put immediately on the defensive. You ought to know how it works, Chief Inspector.”

“Like ‘when did you stop beating your wife?’”

“Exactly.”

“And you think he might have been in the mausoleum?”

“He’s the only one I can think of. And he had better access to the key than most. Also, as I remember, vodka was his drink of preference because he believed people couldn’t smell it on his breath.”

“What do you think of all this, Mrs. Charters?”

Rebecca shook her head, looked away and drank more brandy.

“My wife, as you can see,” said Charters, “has been a pillar of strength.”

Banks decided to leave that one well alone. “What’s he called, this man you fired?”

“Ive Jelačić.”

“How do you spell that?”

Charters told him, explaining the diacritical marks. Banks wrote it down.

“What does he look like?”

“He’s tall, about my height, solidly built. He has black hair, which always needed cutting, a dark complexion, a slightly hooked nose.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Where is he now?”

“ Leeds.”

“Has he ever threatened or bothered you at all since you fired him?”

“Yes. He’s been back a couple of times.”

“Why?”

“To offer me a deal. He suggested that he would drop the charges if I gave him money.”

“How much?”

Charters snorted. “More than I can afford, I’m afraid.”

“And how would he get the charges dropped?”

“Say he misinterpreted my gesture. Cultural differences. I told him to go away. The man’s a liar and a drunk, Chief Inspector. What difference does it make?”

“It might make a lot of difference,” said Banks slowly, “if he had a reputation for bothering the St. Mary’s girls and he had a grudge against you. Do you know his address?”

Charters went over and opened a sideboard drawer. “I ought to,” he muttered, flipping through a pile of envelopes. “There’s been enough correspondence on the matter. Ah, here it is.”

Banks looked at the address. It was in the Burmantofts area of Leeds, but he didn’t recognize the street. “Mind if I use your phone?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” said Charters. “There’s an extension in my study, if you want some privacy. It’s just across the hall.”

Banks went into the study and sat at the desk. He was impressed how tidy it was-no papers scattered all around, no chewed pencils, no reference books open face down, no errant paperclips or rubber bands, the way his own desk usually looked when he was working on something. Even the ruler was lined up parallel with the edge of the blotter. A neat man, the Reverend Charters. So neat that he had even tidied his desk after his wife came in screaming about a murder in the graveyard?

Banks consulted his notebook and phoned Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone at home. Blackstone, a good friend, worked for West Yorkshire CID out of Millgarth, Leeds. Banks explained what had happened and asked Blackstone if he could arrange to have a couple of officers go around to the address Charters had given him. First, he wanted to know if Jelačić was at home, and secondly, whether he had an alibi for this evening. Blackstone said it would be no problem, and Banks hung up.

When he went back into the living-room he obviously interrupted Daniel and Rebecca Charters in the midst of a hissed argument. Rebecca, he noticed, had refilled her brandy glass.

Banks had nothing more to ask, so he knocked back the rest of his lukewarm coffee and headed out into the graveyard.

IV

As soon as Banks had gone, Daniel Charters looked disgustedly at the empty wine bottle and the remains of the brandy, then at Rebecca. “I asked you why you did that,” he said. “Why on earth did you lie to him?”

“You know why.”

Daniel leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees. “No, I don’t. You didn’t even give me a chance to answer. You just jumped right in with your stupid lie.”

Rebecca sipped her brandy. “I didn’t notice you rushing to correct me.”

Daniel reddened. “It was too late by then. It would have looked suspicious.”

“Shpicious? Oh, that’s a good one, Daniel. And how do you think it looks already?”

Daniel’s face contorted in pain. “Do you think I did it? Do you really believe I killed that girl out there?” He pointed a long, bony finger towards the graveyard. “Is that what you think you were protecting me from? Giving me an alibi for?”

Rebecca turned away. “Don’t be silly.”

“Then why did you lie?”

“To make things easier.”

“Lies never make things easier.”

Oh, don’t they? Rebecca thought. Shows what you know. “We’ve got enough problems,” she said with a sigh, “without having you as a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“Don’t you want to know where I was?”

“No. I don’t care where you were.”

“But you lied for me.”

“For us. Yes.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Look, Daniel, I saw something horrible out there in the graveyard. I’m tired, I’m upset and I feel sick. Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Daniel remained silent for a moment. Rebecca could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Ezekiel stirred briefly then settled down to sleep again.

“You think I did it, don’t you?” Daniel persisted.

“Please, Daniel, just let it drop. Of course I don’t think you did it.”

“Not the murder. The other business.”

“I don’t think anything of the kind. I told you. Haven’t I stuck by you? Do you think I’d still be here if I thought you did it?”

“Here? You’re not here. You haven’t been here since it happened. Oh, you may actually be physically present in this room. Yes, I’ll admit that. But you’re not really here, not with me. Most of the time you’re in the bottle, the rest you’re…God knows where.”

“Oh, right, and we all know you’re such a bloody saint you haven’t touched a drop throughout all our troubles. Well, maybe I’m not as strong as you, Daniel. Maybe we’re not all so bloody devout. Some of us might just show a little human weakness every now and again. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

Rebecca topped up her brandy with a shaking hand. Daniel reached forward and knocked the glass out of her hand. The brandy spilled on the coffee-table and the sofa, and the glass bounced on the carpet.

Rebecca didn’t know what to say. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the first time since she had known him that Daniel had shown even the slightest sign of violence.

His face was red, and his frown knitted his thick dark eyebrows together at the bridge of his nose. “You have your doubts don’t you?” he insisted. “Go on. Admit it. I’m waiting.”

Rebecca bent down, picked up the glass and poured herself another shot with shaking hands. This time Daniel did nothing.

“Answer me,” he said. “Tell me the truth.”

Rebecca let the silence stretch, then she took a long sip of brandy and said, in a parody of a prostitute’s tone, “Well, you know what they say, don’t you, ducky? There’s no smoke without fire.”

V

Banks left his car parked on North Market Street, outside St. Mary’s, and set off on foot to Hawthorn Close. The fog appeared less menacing on the main road than it had in the unlit graveyard, though the high amber street-lights and the flashing Belisha beacons at the zebra crossing looked like the Martian machines out of War of the Worlds.

Why had Rebecca Charters lied for her husband? She had lied, of that Banks was certain, even without the evidence of the tidy desk. Was she giving him an alibi? Perhaps tomorrow he would call on them again. She was certainly an odd one. Going to see the angel, indeed!

Banks looked at his watch. Luckily, it was just after nine o’clock, and he still had time to nip into the off-license at the corner of Hawthorn Road and buy twenty Silk Cut.

After he had walked about two hundred yards down Hawthorn Road, he took Hawthorn Close to the right, a winding street of big, stone houses that traditionally housed Eastvale’s gentry.

He found number 28, stubbed out his cigarette and walked up the gravel drive, noting the “O” registration Jaguar parked outside the front door. On impulse, he put his hand on the bonnet. Still a little warm.

Barry Stott answered the door, looking grim. Banks thanked him for doing the dirty work and told him he could return to the station and get things organized; then he walked down the hall alone into a spacious white room, complete with a white grand piano. The only contrasting elements were the Turkish carpets and what looked like a genuine Chagall on the wall over the Adam fireplace, where a thick log burned and crackled. A white bookcase held Folio Society editions of the classics, and French windows with white trim led out to the dark garden.

There were three people in the room, all sitting down, and all, by the looks of it, in a state of shock. The woman wore a gray skirt and a blue silk blouse, both of a quality you’d be hard-pushed to find in Eastvale. Her shaggy blonde hair was the expensive kind of shaggy, and it framed an oval face with a pale, flawless complexion, pale blue eyes and beautifully proportioned nose and mouth. All in all, an elegant and attractive woman.

She got up and floated towards him as if in a trance. “Has there been a mistake?” she asked. “Please tell me there’s been a mistake.” She had a hint of a French accent.

Before Banks could say anything, one of the men took her by the elbow and said, “Come on, Sylvie. Sit down.” Then he turned to Banks. “I’m Geoffrey Harrison,” he said. “Deborah’s father. I suppose it’s too much to hope there has been a mistake?”

Banks shook his head.

Geoffrey was about six foot two, with the long arms and broad shoulders of a fast bowler. In fact he looked a bit like a famous test cricketer, but Banks couldn’t put a name to him. He was wearing gray trousers with sharp creases and a knitted green V-neck sweater over a white shirt. No tie. He had curly fair hair, with some gray visible around the ears, and a strong, cleft chin, a bit like Kirk Douglas. Everything about his movements and features spoke of power, of someone used to getting his own way. Banks put his age at about forty-five, probably a good ten years older than his wife.

All of a sudden, the realization hit Banks like a bucket of cold water. Christ, he should have known. Should have been able to add it all up. This damn cold must be addling his brain. The man in front of him was Sir Geoffrey Harrison. Sir. He had been knighted for services to industry-something to do with leading-edge computers, electronics, microchips and the like-about three years ago. And Deborah Harrison was his daughter.

“Do you have a recent photograph of your daughter, sir?” he asked.

“Over there on the mantelpiece. It was taken last summer.”

Banks walked over and looked at the photograph of the young girl posing on the deck of a yacht. It was probably her first year in a bikini, Banks guessed, and while she hardly had the figure to fill it out, it still looked good on her. But then anything would probably have looked good on such youth, such energy, such potential.

Deborah was smiling and holding the mast with one hand; with the other she held back a long strand of blonde hair from her face, as if the wind were blowing it out of place. Even though the girl in the picture glowed with health and life, it was the same one who now lay in Eastvale mortuary.

“I’m afraid it’s not a mistake,” he said, glancing at the photograph beside it. It showed two smiling young men in cricket whites, one of them unmistakably Sir Geoffrey, standing together in a quadrangle. The other man, who had his arm casually draped over Sir Geoffrey’s shoulder, could easily have been the other person in the room about twenty-five years ago. Even now, he was still slim and good-looking, though the sandy hair above his high forehead was receding fast and thinning on top. He was wearing what looked like very expensive casual clothes-black cords and a rust-colored cotton shirt-and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles hung around his neck on a chain. “Michael Clayton,” he said, getting up and shaking Bank’s hand.

“Michael’s my business partner,” said Sir Geoffrey. “And my oldest friend. He’s also Deborah’s godfather.”

“I live just around the corner,” said Clayton. “As soon as Geoff heard the news…well, they phoned me and I came over. Have there been any developments?”

“It’s too early to say,” said Banks. Then he turned to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Harrison. “Did you know if Deborah was planning on going anywhere after school?”

Sir Geoffrey took a second to refocus, then said, “Only the chess club.”

“Chess club?”

“Yes. At school. They meet every Monday.”

“What time is she usually home?”

Sir Geoffrey looked at his wife. “It’s usually over by six,” Lady Harrison said. “She gets home about quarter past. Sometimes twenty past, if she dawdles with her friends.”

Banks frowned. “It must have been after eight o’clock when Detective Inspector Stott came to break the bad news,” he said. “But you hadn’t reported Deborah missing. Weren’t you worried? Where did you think she was?”

Lady Harrison started to cry. Sir Geoffrey gripped her hand. “We’d only just got in ourselves,” he explained. “I was at a business reception at the Royal Hotel, in York, and the damn fog delayed me. Sylvie was at her health club. Deborah has a key. She is sixteen, after all.”

“What time did you get back?”

“About eight o’clock. Within minutes of each other. We thought Deborah might have been home and gone out again, but that wasn’t like her, not without letting us know, and certainly not on a night like this. There was no note, no sign she’d been here. Deborah’s not…well, she usually leaves her school blazer over the back of a chair, if you see what I mean.”

“I do.” Banks’s daughter Tracy was just as untidy.

“Anyway, we were worried she might have been kidnapped or something. We were just about to phone the police when Inspector Stott arrived.”

“Have there ever been any kidnap threats?”

“No, but one hears about such things.”

“Could your daughter have been carrying anything of value? Cash, credit cards, anything?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Her satchel was open. I was just wondering why.”

Sir Geoffrey shook his head.

Banks turned to Michael Clayton. “Did you see Deborah at all this evening?”

“No. I was at home until I got Geoff’s phone call.”

Sir Geoffrey and Lady Harrison sat on the white sofa, shoulders slumped, holding hands like a couple of teenagers. Banks sat on the edge of the armchair and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees.

“Inspector Stott says Deborah was found in St. Mary’s graveyard,” Sir Geoffrey said. “Is that true?”

Banks nodded.

Anger suffused Sir Geoffrey’s face. “Have you talked to that bloody vicar yet? That pervert?”

“Daniel Charters?”

“That’s him. You know what he’s been accused of, don’t you?”

“Making a homosexual advance.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded. “Exactly. If I were you, I’d-”

“Please, Geoffrey,” Sylvie said, plucking at his sleeve. “Calm down. Let the chief inspector talk.”

Sir Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, of course. I apologize.”

Why such animosity towards Charters? Banks wondered. But that was best left for later. Sir Geoffrey was distraught; it wouldn’t be a good idea to press him any further just now.

“May I have a look at Deborah’s room?” he asked.

Sylvie nodded and stood up. “I’ll show you.”

Banks followed her up a broad, white-carpeted staircase. What a hell of a job it would be to keep the place clean, he found himself thinking. Sandra would never put up with white carpets or upholstery. Still, he didn’t suppose the Harrisons did the cleaning themselves.

Sylvie opened the door to Deborah’s room, then excused herself and went back downstairs. Banks turned on the light. It was bigger, but in much the same state of disarray as Tracy ’s. Clothes lay tossed all over the floor, the bed was unmade, a mound of rumpled sheets, and the closet door stood open on a long rail of dresses, blouses, jackets and jeans. Expensive stuff, too, Banks saw as he looked at some of the designer labels.

Deborah’s computer, complete with CD-ROM, sat on the desk under the window. Beside that stood a bookcase filled mostly with science and computer textbooks and a few bodice-rippers. Banks searched through all the drawers but found nothing of interest. Of course, it would have helped if he had known what he was looking for.

Arranged in custom shelving on a table by the foot of the bed were a mini-hi-fi system, a small color television and a video-all with remote controls. Banks glanced through some of the CDs. Unlike Tracy, Deborah seemed to favor the rough, grungy style of popular music: Hole, Pearl Jam, Nirvana. A large poster of Kurt Cobain was tacked to the wall next to a smaller poster of River Phoenix.

Banks closed the door behind him and walked back down the stairs. He could hear Sylvie crying in the white room and Sir Geoffrey and Michael Clayton in muffled conversation. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and when he moved close, they saw him through the open door and asked him back in.

“I have just one more question, Sir Geoffrey, if I may?” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“Did your daughter keep a diary? I know mine does. They seem to be very popular among teenage girls.”

Sir Geoffrey thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “I think so. Michael bought her one last Christmas.”

Clayton nodded. “Yes. One of the leather-bound kind, a page per day.”

Banks turned back to Sir Geoffrey. “Do you know where she kept it?”

He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t. Sylvie?”

Sylvie shook her head. “She told me she lost it.”

“When was this?”

“About the beginning of term. I hadn’t seen it for a while, so I asked her if she’d stopped writing it. Why? Is it important?”

“Probably not,” said Banks. “It’s just that sometimes what we don’t find is as important as what we do. Trouble is, we never really know until later. Anyway, I won’t bother you any further tonight.”

“Inspector Stott said I’d have to identify the body,” Sir Geoffrey said. “You’ll make the arrangements?”

“Of course. Again, sir, my condolences.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded, then he turned back to his wife. Like a butler, Banks was dismissed.

VI

What with one thing and another, it was after two in the morning when Banks parked the dark-blue Cavalier he had finally bought to replace his clapped-out Cortina in front of his house. After Hawthorn Close, it was good to be back in the normal world of semis with postage-stamp gardens, Fiestas and Astras parked in the street.

The first thing he did was tiptoe upstairs to check on Tracy. It was foolish, he knew, but after seeing Deborah Harrison’s body, he felt the need to see his own daughter alive and breathing.

The amber glow from the street-lamp outside her window lit the faint outline of Tracy ’s sleeping figure. Every so often, she would turn and give a little sigh, as if she were dreaming. Softly, Banks closed her door again and went back downstairs to the living-room, careful to bypass the creaky third stair from the top. Despite the late hour, he didn’t feel at all tired.

He turned on the shaded table lamp and poured himself a stiff Laphroaig, hoping to put the image of Deborah Harrison spread-eagled in the graveyard out of his mind.

After five minutes, Banks hadn’t succeeded in getting his mind off the subject. Music would help. “Music alone with sudden charms can bind/The wand’ring sense, and calm the troubled mind,” as Congreve had said. Surely it wouldn’t wake Sandra or Tracy if he played a classical CD quietly?

He flipped through his quickly growing collection-he was sure that they multiplied overnight-and settled finally on Richard Strauss’s Four Last Songs.

In the middle of the second song, “September,” when Gundula Janowitz’s crystaline soprano was soaring away with the melody, Banks topped up his Laphroaig and lit a cigarette.

Before he had taken more than three or four drags, the door opened and Tracy popped her head around.

“What are you doing up?” Banks whispered.

Tracy rubbed her eyes and walked into the room. She was wearing a long, sloppy nightshirt with a picture of a giant panda on the front. Though she was seventeen, it made her look like a little girl.

“I thought I heard someone in my room,” Tracy muttered. “I couldn’t get back to sleep so I came down for some milk. Oh, Dad! You’re smoking again.”

Banks put his finger to his lips. “Shhh! Your mother.” He looked at the cigarette guiltily. “So I am.”

“And you promised.”

“I never did.” Banks hung his head in shame. There was nothing like a teenage daughter to make you feel guilty about your bad habits, especially with all the anti-smoking propaganda they were brainwashed with at school these days.

“You did, too.” Tracy came closer. “Is something wrong? Is that why you’re up so late smoking and drinking?”

She sat on the arm of the sofa and looked at him, sleep-filled eyes full of concern, long blonde hair straggling over her narrow shoulders. Banks’s son, Brian, who was away studying architecture in Portsmouth, took after his father, but Tracy took after her mother.

They had come a long way since the bitter arguments over her first boyfriend, long since dumped, and too many late nights over the summer. Now Tracy had determined not to have a boyfriend at all this year, but to put all her efforts into getting good A-level results so she could go to university, where she wanted to study history. Banks couldn’t help but approve. As he looked at her perching so frail and vulnerable on the edge of the sofa his heart swelled with pride in her, and with fear for her.

“No,” he said, getting up and patting her head. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just an old fool set in his ways, that’s all. Shall I make us both some cocoa?”

Tracy nodded, then yawned and stretched her arms high in the air.

Banks smiled. Gundula Janowitz sang Hermann Hesse’s words. Banks had listened to the songs so many times, he knew the translation by heart:

You can say that again, thought Banks. He looked back at Tracy as he walked to the kitchen. She was examining the small-print CD liner notes with squinting eyes trying to make out the words.

She would find out soon enough what had happened to Deborah Harrison, Banks thought. It would be all over town tomorrow. But not tonight. Tonight father and daughter would enjoy a quiet, innocent cup of cocoa in the middle of the night in their safe, warm house floating like an island in the fog.