Innocent Graves

I

It wasn’t until late Tuesday afternoon that a number of things clicked into place for Banks, and what had been eluding him, niggling him for days, suddenly became clear.

So far, there were no leads on the Ellen Gilchrist murder. Several cars had been spotted on King Street that night-big, small, light, dark, Japanese, French-but no-one had any reason to take down license numbers or detailed descriptions. If the killer had used his own car, Banks reflected, then he may have parked out of sight, just around the corner on one of the sidestreets.

A couple of tourists unable to sleep on a lumpy mattress at a Gratly B amp; B said they heard a car pass shortly after eleven-thirty, which would have been about the right time, but they hadn’t seen anything. So far, no-one in Skield had been disturbed by Saturday night’s events, but that didn’t surprise Banks. If the killer were clever, which he apparently was, then he would have parked off the road, well out of the hamlet itself.

Under Superintendent Gristhorpe’s co-ordination, Susan Gay and Jim Hatchley were still out checking the victim’s friends and acquaintances to see if she could have been killed by someone who knew her, or if anyone knew more than he or she was telling. The more he thought about it, though, the more Banks was convinced that the solution to Ellen Gilchrist’s murder lay in Deborah Harrison’s.

Also, when Banks arrived at the office that morning, he found a telephone message in his pigeon-hole from Rebecca Charters, dated the previous afternoon, asking him to phone her. When he rang Rebecca, she told him about surprising someone in St. Mary’s graveyard the previous afternoon. No, she hadn’t seen who it was, couldn’t even give a description. She laughed at her fears now, apologized for bothering him and said she’d been a bit jumpy lately. Yesterday, she hadn’t hesitated to call, but now she had had time to think about it. Probably just a kid, she decided. Banks wasn’t too sure, but he put it on the back burner for the moment.

Since Stott’s revelation, after the inevitable bollocking from Jimmy Riddle and a reminder that he was close to the end of his allotted week, Banks and Superintendent Gristhorpe had also been engaged in damage control.

So far, they had managed to keep Stott’s illegal surveillance from the press. And Owen Pierce certainly wasn’t interested in blowing the whistle. As far as the media were concerned, Pierce had an unimpeachable alibi. All that had happened was that another innocent person had spent a night in the cells because of police incompetence. Nothing new about that. Eastvale CID came out of it looking only like prize berks, not like a combination of the Gestapo and the KGB.

As for Barry Stott, he hadn’t resigned, but he had taken some of the leave due to him. God knew where he was. Wrestling with his conscience somewhere, Banks guessed. As far as Banks was concerned, though, Stott was overreacting. So, he had let himself get a bit obsessed with Pierce’s guilt. So what? Things like that happened sometimes, and they rarely had dire consequences. After all, Stott had only watched Pierce; he hadn’t beat him up or assassinated him.

Despite the hours of work a murder inquiry consumed, routine work still went on at Eastvale Divisional HQ, and routine papers still found their way to Banks’s desk. On that Tuesday afternoon, when he was distracted by thoughts of Ellen Gilchrist, Deborah Harrison, Barry Stott and Owen Pierce, a proposal requiring every patrol car be fitted with a dashboard computer passed over his desk for perusal after a report on the increase of car theft in North Yorkshire.

Because Banks wasn’t thinking about it, because the words simply floated into that chaotic, intuitive and creative part of his mind rather than engaging his sense of reason and logic, he was struck with that rare feeling of epiphany as a missing piece fell into place. It felt like the simultaneous telescoping and expansion of a chain of unrelated words into one inevitable conclusion: each element rolled firmly into place like the balls with the winning lottery numbers: Car. Computer. Theft. Spinks.

It wasn’t really intuition, but a perfectly logical process, taking a number of facts and relating them in a way that made sense. It only felt like a sudden revelation.

On Friday, when Banks had questioned John Spinks about Michael Clayton and Sylvie Harrison, it had been staring him in the face. But he hadn’t seen it. On Saturday, after his talk with Clayton, he had felt close to something. But he hadn’t known what. Now he did. He still had some dates to check, but as he pushed the proposal aside, he was certain that John Spinks had stolen Michael Clayton’s car and computer in August of last year. Whether that actually meant anything remained to be seen.

Excited by the theory, Banks checked the dates and dashed into Gristhorpe’s office, where he found the superintendent immersed in the statement of Ellen Gilchrist’s best friend. Gristhorpe stretched and rubbed his bushy eyebrows with his fingertips when Banks entered. After he’d done, they looked like birds’ nests.

“Alan. What can I do for you?”

Banks explained about his chain of reasoning. Gristhorpe nodded here and there, and when Banks had finished, put his forefinger to his lips and furrowed his brow.

“So Lady Sylvie Harrison and Michael Clayton found Spinks and Deborah drinking wine in the back garden on August 17, right?” he said.

Banks nodded.

“And Clayton reported his car stolen on August 20. I remember it because when he came to inquire about our progress, he thought he was so important he had to see the top man on the totem pole. About a bloody stolen car. I ask you.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t go directly to Jimmy Riddle.”

“Oh, he did. First off. But Riddle’s in Northallerton and that was too far for Clayton to go every day. So Riddle told him to keep checking with me. I put Barry and Susan on it. Clayton was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Not over the car, though.”

“The computer?”

“Got it in one.”

“Yes. That’s what Susan said,” Banks mused. “When Clayton recognized her that time we went to talk to the Harrisons. I should have realized at the time.”

Gristhorpe smiled indulgently. “I think you can be forgiven that, Alan,” he said. “Wasn’t it about the same time the lead on Pierce came up?”

“Yes. But-”

“Anyway, let’s assume that Spinks stole Clayton’s car on August 20,” Gristhorpe went on. “He did some damage, but not much. It was the missing notebook computer that really had Clayton dancing on hot coals. We know it was a very expensive one, with all the bells and whistles, but Clayton’s a rich man. He could afford a new one easily. It was what was on the computer that he was worried about. As I recollect, it turned up on the market a couple of weeks later, no worse for wear.”

“From what I’ve seen,” Banks went on, “Spinks would have about as much chance of operating Clayton’s computer as an orangutan. But the point is that he was still seeing Deborah at that time. There’s a chance she knew what he’d done. She wouldn’t necessarily tell Clayton or her parents what happened, not when she was right in the middle of being rebellious, slumming it. And Deborah was bright, good at sciences. That computer would have probably been child’s play to her.”

“So what if she found out something from it?” Gristhorpe suggested. “Something important.”

“Maybe it wasn’t that Clayton was having an affair with Lady Harrison, after all,” Banks said. “That’s what I thought earlier. But maybe they were involved in some scam. Perhaps Clayton had been cheating Sir Geoffrey or something.”

“You don’t even need to go that far,” Gristhorpe said. “Remember, HarClay Industries is big in the defense business. Big enough that Sir Geoffrey met in private with Oliver Jackson, of Special Branch, on the day his daughter was murdered.”

“And you think there’s a connection?”

“I’m saying there could be. Micro-electronics, computers, microchips, weapons circuits, that sort of thing. They’re not only big money, but they have a strong political dimension, too. If Deborah came across something she shouldn’t have seen… If Clayton was working for someone he shouldn’t have been…selling weapons systems to enemy governments, for example…”

“Then either Clayton or his bosses could have had Deborah killed if she threatened to blow the whistle?”

“Yes.”

“And whoever killed Ellen Gilchrist simply chose a random victim to implicate Pierce?”

Gristhorpe shrugged. “Nothing simpler. Not to people like that.”

“But they didn’t bargain on Barry Stott’s ego.”

“‘The best laid plans…’”

“Why wait so long?” Banks asked. “That’s what I don’t understand. Deborah cracked the computer around August 20-if indeed that’s what happened-and she wasn’t killed until November 6. That’s nearly three months.”

Gristhorpe scratched his stubbly chin. “You’ve got me there,” he said. “But there could be an explanation. Maybe it took her that long to fathom out what she’d got. Or maybe it took Clayton that long to figure out someone had been tampering. You know how quickly things change, Alan. Maybe the information she got didn’t actually mean anything until three months later, when other things happened.”

Banks nodded. “It’s possible. But I’m not sure even Deborah was bright enough to understand Clayton’s electronic schematics. I know I’m not. I saw some of them the other day and they left me dizzy.”

“Well, you know what a Luddite I am when it comes to computers,” Gristhorpe said. “But it could have been something obvious to her. She didn’t have to understand it fully, just recognize a reference, a name or something. Perhaps someone else she knew was involved?”

“Okay,” said Banks. “But we’re letting our imaginations run away with us. Would Clayton even be likely to enter such important information in his notebook? Anyway, I’ve got a simple suggestion: why don’t we bring Spinks in? See if we can’t get the truth out of him?”

“Good idea,” said Gristhorpe.

“And this time,” Banks added, “I think we might even have something to bargain with.”

II

Where was he? Swiss Cottage, that was it. London. The cash register rang and the swell of small-talk and laughter rolled up and down. He thought he could hear the distant rumble of thunder from outside, feel the tension before the storm, that electrical smell in the air, like burning dust in church.

After the police set him free he had gone back home, pushed through the throng of reporters, then got in his car and driven off, leaving everything behind. He hadn’t known where he was heading, at least not consciously. Mostly, he was still in a daze over what had happened: not only his release, but the fact that someone must have deliberately set out to frame him.

And, as he told the police, the only person who hated him that much was Michelle.

They didn’t seem to suspect her-they were sure it was a man, for a start-but Owen knew her better. He wouldn’t put it past her. If she hadn’t done it herself she might have enlisted someone, used her sex to manipulate some poor, sick bastard, the way she did so well.

So with these thoughts half-formed, one moment seeming utterly fantastic and absurd and the next feeling so real they had to be true, he had found himself heading for London, and now he was drinking in Swiss Cottage, trying to pluck up courage to go and challenge Michelle directly.

He was interested to find out what she would have to say if he turned up on her doorstep. Even if she hadn’t engineered the murders to discredit him, she had slandered him in the newspapers. He knew that for a fact. Oh, yes. He was looking forward to hearing what she had to say for herself.

“Are you all right, mate?”

“Pardon?” It was the man next to him. He had turned his head in Owen’s direction.

“I said are you all right?”

“Yes, yes…fine.” Owen realized he must have been muttering to himself. The man gave him a suspicious look and turned away.

Time to go. It was nine o’clock. What day of the week? Tuesday? Wednesday? Did it really matter? There was a good chance she’d be in. People who work nine-to-five usually stay in on weeknights, or at least get home early.

He found the telephone and the well-thumbed directory hanging beside it. Some of the pages had been torn out or defaced with felt-tipped pens, but not the one that counted. He slid his finger down until he came to her name: Chappel. No first name, just the initials, M.E. Michelle Elizabeth. There was her number.

Owen’s chest tightened as he searched his pockets for a coin. He felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall a moment before dialing. Two men passed on their way out and gave him funny looks. When they had gone, he took four deep breaths to steady himself, picked up the phone, put the coin in and dialed. He let it ring once, twice, three times, four, and on the fifth ring a woman’s voice said, rather testily, “Yes, who is it?”

It was her voice. No doubt about it. Owen would recognize that reedy quality with its little-girlish hint of a lisp anywhere.

He held the phone away and heard her repeat the question more loudly-“Look, who is it?”

After he still said nothing, she said, “Pervert,” and hung up on him.

Owen looked at the receiver for a moment, then he smiled and walked out into the gathering storm.

III

John Spinks didn’t seem particularly surprised to find himself back at Eastvale nick shortly after dark that evening. As predicted, he had been at the Swainsdale Center bragging to his mates about how he spent the weekend in jail and gone up before the magistrate. The arrival of two large uniformed officers only added more credibility to his tales, and he got quite a laugh, the officers told Banks, when he stuck out his hands for the cuffs, just like he’d seen people do on television.

He did look surprised, however, to find himself in Banks’s office rather than a smelly interview room. And he looked even more surprised when Banks offered unlimited coffee, cigarettes and biscuits.

Gristhorpe and Banks had decided to tackle him together, to attempt a good-cop bad-cop approach. Spinks already knew Banks, but the superintendent was an unknown quantity, and though his baby blue eyes had instilled fear into more villains than a set of thumbscrews, Gristhorpe could appear the very model of benevolence. He also outranked Banks, which was another card to play. They had Stafford Oakes waiting in Gristhorpe’s own office, should their plan be successful.

“Right, John,” said Banks, “I won’t beat about the bush. You’re in trouble, a lot of trouble.”

Spinks sniffed as if trouble were his business. “Yeah, right.”

“Not only have we got you on taking and driving away,” Banks went on, “but when our men searched your house, they found sufficient quantities of crack cocaine, Ecstasy and LSD for us to bring some serious drug-dealing charges against you.”

“I told you, that stuff wasn’t mine.”

“Whose was it, then?”

“I don’t know her name. Just some slag spent the night there. She must’ve forgotten it.”

“You expect me to believe that someone would leave a fortune in drugs behind? In your bedroom? Come off it, John, that stuff’s yours until someone else claims it, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”

Spinks bit on his lower lip. He was starting to look less like a Hollywood dream-boy and more like a frightened teenager. A lock of hair slid over his eye; he started chewing his fingernails. Bravado could only take someone so far, Banks thought, but he knew it would be a mistake to act as if he were shooting fish in a barrel. Stupidity, along with stubbornness, can be valuable resources when all the big guns are turned on you. And they had served Spinks well for eighteen years.

“Got anything to say?” Banks asked.

Spinks shrugged. “I told you. It’s not mine. You can’t prove it is.”

“We can prove whatever we want,” Banks said. “A judge or a jury has only to take one look at you to throw away the key.”

“My brief says-”

“These legal-aid briefs are about as useful as a sieve in a flood, John. You ought to know that. Overworked and underpaid.”

“Yeah, well, my brief says you can’t pin it on me. The drugs.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “She did? That’s really bad news, John,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought things were pretty bad, but I didn’t realize that lawyers were setting up in practice before they even finished their degrees these days.”

“Ha fucking ha.”

The other chair creaked as Gristhorpe leaned forward. “My chief inspector might be acting a little harshly towards you, son,” he said. “See, it’s personal with him. He lost a son to drugs.”

Spinks squinted at Banks. “Tracy never said nothing about that.”

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” said Banks quickly. They had decided to improvise according to responses and circumstances, but Gristhorpe had thrown him a spinner here. He smiled to himself. Why not? Play the game. As far as he knew, Brian was alive and well and still studying architecture in Portsmouth, but there was no reason for Spinks to know that.

“Like everyone his age,” Banks went on, “he thought he was immortal, indestructible. He thought it couldn’t happen to him. Anyone else, sure. But not him.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Now, I don’t give a tinker’s whether you smoke so much crack your brains blow out of your arsehole, but I do care very much that you’re selling to others, especially to a crowd that at one time included my daughter. Do we understand one another?”

Spinks shifted in his chair. “What’s this all about? What you after? A confession? I’m not saying anything. My brief-”

“Fuck your brief,” said Banks, thumping the rickety metal desk. “And fuck you! Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Spinks looked rattled. Gristhorpe cut in again and said to Banks, “I don’t think it’s really appropriate to talk that way to Mr. Spinks, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I’m sure he understands you perfectly well.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Banks, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Got a bit carried away.” He fumbled for a cigarette and lit it.

“You his boss?” Spinks asked, turning, wide-eyed, to look at Gristhorpe. “He called you ‘sir.’”

“I thought I’d already made that clear,” Gristhorpe said, then he winked. “Don’t worry, son. I won’t let him off his leash.”

He looked back at Banks, who had removed his jacket and was loosening his tie. “He ought to be locked up, that one,” Spinks went on, emboldened. “And his mate. The fat one. Hit me once, he did. Bounced my nose off a fucking table.”

“Aye, well, people get carried away sometimes,” said Gristhorpe. “Stress of the job. The thing is, though, that he’s right in a way. You are in a lot of trouble. Right now, we’re about the only friends you’ve got.”

“Friends?”

“Yes,” said Banks, catching his attention again. “Believe it or not, John, I’m going to do you the biggest favor anyone’s ever done you in your life.”

Spinks narrowed his eyes. “Oh yeah? Why should I believe you?”

“You should. In years to come you might even thank me for it. You’re eighteen now, John, there’s no getting around that. With the kind of charges you’re looking at, you’ll go to jail, no doubt about it. Hard time. Now I know you’re a big boy, a tough guy and all the rest, but think about it. Think. It’s not only a matter of getting buggered morning, afternoon and evening, of giving blow-jobs at knife-point, maybe catching AIDS, but it’s a life of total deprivation, John. The food’s lousy, the plumbing stinks and there’s no-one to complain to. And when you get out-if you get out-however many years later, you’ll have lost a good part of your youth. All you’ll know is prison life. And you know what, John? You’ll be back in there like a flash. It’s called recidivism. Look it up, John. Call it a sort of death wish, but someone like you gets institutionalized and he can’t survive on the outside. He gets to need jail. And as for the blow-jobs and the buggery…” Banks shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you’d even get to like that after a while.”

Banks’s monologue produced no discernible effect on Spinks, as he had suspected it wouldn’t. It was intended only to soften him to the point of accepting a deal. Banks knew that Spinks was already doomed to exactly the kind of existence he had just laid out for him, but that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, recognize the fact, and wasn’t capable of making the changes necessary to avoid it.

No. What they were about to offer was simple, temporary relief, the chance for Spinks to walk free and keep on doing exactly what he was doing until the next time he got caught, if he didn’t kill himself or someone else first. A sprat to catch a mackerel. Very sad, but very true.

“So what is this big favor you’re going to do me?”

“First,” said Banks, “you’re going to tell us the truth about what happened last August. You’re going to tell us how you stole Michael Clayton’s car and his computer and exactly what happened after that.”

Spinks paled a little but stood his ground. “Why would I want to do something like that?”

“To avoid jail.”

“You mean confess to one crime and get off on another one?”

“Something like that.”

“Christ, you’re worse than the bloody criminals, you lot are.” He turned to Gristhorpe. “Can he do that?” he asked. “Has he got the authority?”

“I have,” said Gristhorpe softly. “I’m a superintendent, remember?”

“Don’t we need a lawyer or something?”

“What’s wrong, John?” said Banks. “Don’t trust us?”

“I don’t trust you. Anyway, why talk to the monkey when the organ-grinder’s here?”

Banks smiled. It was working. And he hadn’t denied stealing Clayton’s car yet.

“There’s a Crown attorney in the building,” said Gristhorpe, “and he can deal with the particulars about the charges and likely sentences, if you want to talk to him.”

Spinks squinted. “Maybe I’ll do that. What’s the deal?”

“You tell us what we want to know,” said Gristhorpe, “and we’ll see you stay out of jail. Dealing becomes simple possession.”

“That’s not enough. I want all charges dropped.”

Gristhorpe shook his head. “Sorry, son. We can’t do that. You see, the paperwork’s already in the system.”

“You can lose it.”

“Maybe the odd sheet or two,” said Gristhorpe. “But not all of it. The lawyer will explain it.”

Spinks sat silently, brow furrowed in thought.

Banks stood up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said to Gristhorpe. “I told you it was no use. His brain’s so addled he doesn’t even recognize a piece of good fortune when he trips over it. Besides, it makes me puke sitting with a drug-dealing moron like him. Let him go to jail. He belongs there. Let him catch AIDS. See if I care.” And he headed towards the door.

“Wait, just a minute,” said Spinks, holding his hand up. “Hold your horses. I haven’t said anything yet.”

“That’s the problem,” said Gristhorpe. “You’d better make your mind up quickly, sonny. You don’t get chances like this every day. We can probably get it down to probation, maybe a bit of community service, but you can’t just walk away from it.”

Spinks glared at Banks, who stood scowling with his hand on the doorknob, then looked back at Gristhorpe, all benevolence and forgiveness. Then he put his feet on Banks’s desk. “All right,” he said. “All right. You’ve got a deal. Get the brief in.”

IV

Large raindrops blotched the pavement when Owen left the pub. Lightning flickered in the north and the thunder grumbled like God’s empty stomach. The drinkers out on the muggy street hurried inside before the deluge arrived.

Owen felt light-headed after all the drinks, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Booze had made him just brave and foolhardy enough to face Michelle.

He walked along the main road past pubs and shops open late, head bowed, jacket collar turned up in a futile attempt to keep dry. Shop-lights and street-lights smeared the pavement and gutter. Hair that had been damp with sweat before was now plastered to his skull by rain.

He had forgotten exactly where he parked his car, but it didn’t matter. Michelle’s place couldn’t be far.

He stopped a young couple coming out of a pub and asked them where her street was. They gave him directions as they fiddled with their umbrella. As he suspected, it was only a couple of hundred yards up the road, then left, short right and left again. He thanked them and walked on, aware of them standing watching him from behind.

Now he knew he was going to see her, his mind shot off in all directions. She wouldn’t want to let him in, of course, not after what she had tried to do to him, not after what she had said about him.

Did he feel reckless enough to break in? Maybe. He didn’t know. Given the address, her flat would probably be in one of those three- or four-story London houses. Perhaps if he waited outside for her to go out, approached her in the street…She might have to go to the shop or go out to meet someone. But it was a bit late in the evening for that. Maybe if he waited until one of the other tenants went in, he could get to the door before it locked and at least gain entry to the building.

A white sports car honked as he crossed a sidestreet against a red light. He flicked the driver the V sign, then caught his foot on the curb and stumbled, bumping into an elderly man walking his dog in the rain. The man gave him a dirty look, adjusted his spectacles and walked on.

He turned left where the couple had told him to and found himself the only pedestrian in quiet backstreets. The houses were all about three stories high, divided into flats, with a buzzer and intercom by the front door. It wouldn’t be easy.

Many rooms were lit, some without curtains, and as he walked he looked in the windows and saw fragments of blue wall, the top corner of a bookshelf, a framed Dali print, an ornate chandelier, flickering television pictures, two people talking, a cat sitting on the window-sill watching the rain-a panorama of life.

The walk had taken some of the steam out of Owen, but he still wanted to see Michelle face to face, if only to watch her squirm as he accused her of her crimes.

He climbed the steps and looked at the list by the door. M.E. Chappel, Flat 4. Would that be on the first or second floor? He didn’t know. He crossed the street and looked up. Both second-floor windows were in darkness, as were those on the ground floor. On the first floor, bluish light filtered through the curtains of one, and the other was open to reveal a William Morris wallpaper design. That wasn’t Michelle at all. The blue room was more like her.

He stood in the shadows wondering what to do. Rain drummed down, an oily sheen on the street. He didn’t feel as brave now as he had on leaving the pub. The booze had worn off, and he had a headache. He needed another drink, but it was close to eleven; the pubs would be closing. Besides, Michelle would probably be going to bed soon. Now he was here, he couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

A man and a woman huddled together under an umbrella approached the house, turned up the path and climbed the steps. The way they walked, Owen guessed they were a little tipsy. Probably unemployed and didn’t have to go to work in the morning. He shrank back into the shadows. The man said something, and the woman laughed. She shook out her umbrella over the steps. It wasn’t Michelle.

When she turned back to the door, Owen hurried across the street behind them. It was a hell of a long shot, but it might just work. They had their backs turned, the street wasn’t well lit, and they couldn’t hear him because of the rain and the rumbles of thunder. Adrenalin pumped him up and seemed to rekindle some of the earlier bravado. He was close now. It all depended on how slowly the door closed on its spring behind them.

As soon as they were both inside and the man let go of the door, Owen dashed on tiptoe up the steps and put his hand out. He stopped the door just before it had completely swung back and relatched.

He looked around at the houses across the street. As far as he could make out, nobody was watching him. He heard another door open and close inside the building, and the lights went on in one of the ground floor flats.

Softly, Owen pushed the front door open and slipped inside.

V

Stafford Oakes quickly assured Spinks that the charges against him could be reduced to a manageable level-the drugs, especially. Add that he had no prior record, that he had been upset over a missed job opportunity and any number of other mitigating circumstances that affected his stress-level when he stole and crashed the car, and he’d probably get a few months community service. Lucky community.

“So,” Banks asked him when Oakes had left. “Why don’t you tell us about it? Then we’ll get the Crown to put the lesser charges in writing. More coffee? Cigarette?”

Spinks shrugged. “Why not.”

Banks poured from the carafe he had had sent up. “Off the record,” he asked, “did you steal Michael Clayton’s car on August 20 last year?”

Spinks snapped the filter off the cigarette and lit it. “I don’t remember the exact date, but it was around then. And I didn’t steal it. Just borrowed it for a quick spin, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because he treated me like shit, that’s why. Fucking snob. Like I wasn’t good enough to wipe his precious goddaughter’s nose with.”

“This was just after he and Lady Harrison found you and Deborah drinking wine in the back garden?”

“Yeah. We weren’t doing no harm. Just having a barbie and a drop or two of the old vino. He acted like it was too good for the likes of me. It was only a fucking bottle of wine, for Christ’s sake. He’d no call to be so rude to me, calling me an idle lout and a thickie and all that. It’s not my fault I can’t get a job, is it?”

“And you did some damage to the car, for revenge?”

“No. It was an accident. I was still learning, wasn’t I? That car’s got a very sensitive accelerator.”

From what Banks had heard of Spinks’s driving history so far, it might be a good idea if the court could somehow prevent him from ever getting a license. Not that it seemed to have stopped him so far.

“Did you also take a notebook computer out of the car?”

“It was in the back seat under a coat.”

“Did you take it?”

Spinks looked at Gristhorpe. “It’s all right, sonny,” the superintendent said, “you can answer any question Chief Inspector Banks asks you with complete impunity.”

“Uh? Come again.”

“No blame attached. It’s all off the record. None of it is being recorded or written down. Remember what the solicitor told you. Relax. Feel free.”

Spinks drank some coffee. “Yes,” he said. “I thought it might be worth something.”

“And was it?”

He shrugged. “Piss all. Bloke on the market offered me seventy-five measly quid.”

And the market vendor was reselling it for a hundred and fifty, Banks remembered. A hundred and fifty quid for a six-thousand-pound computer. “So you sold it to him?”

“That’s right.”

“Before you sold it, did you use it at all?”

“Me? No. Don’t know how to work those things, do I?”

“What about Deborah?”

“What about her?”

“She was a bright girl. Studied computers at school. She’d know how to get it going.”

“Yeah, well…”

“You were still seeing Deborah at that time, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And did she ever visit your house?”

“Yeah. Once or twice. Turned her nose up, though. Said it smelled and it was dirty.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t use the toilet, no matter how much she wanted to go.”

“Right,” said Banks. “Now what I’d like to know, John, is did Deborah have a go with the computer?”

“Yeah, well, she did, as a matter of fact.” He turned to Gristhorpe, as if for confirmation that he could continue with impunity. Gristhorpe nodded like a priest. Spinks went on, “Yeah. Deb, she was with me, like, when I…you know…went for a ride.”

“Deborah was with you when you stole Michael Clayton’s car?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Only don’t use that word ‘stole.’ I don’t like it. See, it was even more in the family with her being there wasn’t it? Just like borrowing the family car, really.”

“Did you ever tell him it was the two of you who’d ‘borrowed’ his car?”

“Course not. You think I’m stupid or something?”

“Go on.”

“Anyway, she didn’t like the idea at first. No bottle, hadn’t Deb. But soon as I got us inside, quiet as could be, like, and got that Swedish engine purring, she took to it like a duck to water, didn’t she? It was Deb noticed the computer. Said she was surprised Clayton let it out of his sight given as how he was the kind of bloke couldn’t even jot down a dental appointment without putting it on his computer. I said let’s just leave it. But she said no, she wanted to have a go on it.”

“So what did you do?”

“After we’d finished with the car we went back to my house. My mum was out, as usual, and I was feeling a bit randy by then, after a nice fast drive. I fancied a bit of the other, but she went all funny, like she did sometimes, and after a while I didn’t even want it any more. She had a way like that, you know. She could be really off-putting, really cold.”

“The computer, John?”

“Yeah, well once Deb got it going I couldn’t drag her away from it.”

“What about the password?”

“Whatever it was, if there was one, it didn’t take her very long. I will say this, though, she seemed a bit surprised at how easy it was.”

“The password?”

“Whatever it took to get the bloody thing going.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Well, bugger me!’ Not exactly those words, mind you, but that was the feeling. She didn’t like to swear didn’t Deb. More like gosh or golly or something.”

“And then?”

Spinks shrugged. “Then she just played around with it for a while. I got bored and went upstairs for a lie-down.”

“Was she still playing with it when you went back down?”

“Just finishing. It looked like she was taking something out of it. One of those little square things, what do you call them?”

“A diskette?”

“That’s right.”

“Where did she get it from?”

“I don’t know. The computer was in a carrying case and there were a whole bunch of them there, in little pockets, like. I suppose that’s where she got it from.”

“What did she do with it?”

“Put it in her pocket.”

“Any idea what was on it?”

“No. I asked her what she was up to but she told me to mind my own business.”

“Did she do anything else with computer?”

“Yeah. She tapped a few keys, watched the screen for a while, smiled to herself, funny like, then turned it off.”

“And then?”

“She told me I could sell it if I wanted and keep the money.” He looked towards Gristhorpe. “I mean, she practically gave it to me, right? And it was in the family. Well, he was her godfather, anyway. That has to count, doesn’t it.”

“It’s all right,” Gristhorpe assured him. “You’re doing fine. Just keep on answering the questions as fully and as honestly as you can.”

Spinks nodded.

“Did she tell you at any time what she’d found on the computer?”

“No. I mean, I didn’t pester her about it. I could tell she didn’t want to say anything. If you ask me she found out he’d been fiddling the books or something.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“Did she ever refer to the incident again?”

“No. Well, it wasn’t much more than a week or so later when her mother caught us in bed. Then it was cards for me. On your bike, mate.”

“Do you know if Michael Clayton ever found out that you took it, or that Deborah used it?”

“I certainly didn’t tell him. Maybe Deb did, but neither of them ever said anything to me about it.”

“And you got your seventy-five quid?”

“Right.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s everything. I’ve told you everything.” He looked at Gristhorpe. “Can I go now?”

“Alan?”

Banks nodded.

“Aye, lad,” said Gristhorpe. “Off you go.”

“You won’t forget our deal, will you?”

Gristhorpe shook his head. Spinks cast a triumphant grin at Banks and left.

“Christ,” said Banks. “I need a drink to get the taste of shit out of my mouth after that.”

Gristhorpe laughed. “Worth it, though, wasn’t it. Come on, I’ll buy. We’ve got a bit of thinking to do before we decide on our next move.”

But they hadn’t got further than the Starrs when Banks heard his telephone ring. He looked at his watch. Almost ten-thirty.

“I’d better take it,” he said. “Why don’t you go ahead. I’ll meet you over there.”

“I’ll wait,” said Gristhorpe. “It might be important.” They went into the office and Banks picked up the phone.

“Chief Inspector Banks?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Vjeko. Vjeko Batorac.” The voice sounded a little muffled and hoarse.

“Vjeko. What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I thought I should tell you that Ive Jelačić was just here. We fought. He hit me.”

“What happened, Vjeko? Start from the beginning.”

Vjeko took a deep breath. “Ive came here about a half an hour ago and he was a carrying a book of some kind. A notebook, I thought. It was a diary, bound in good leather, written in English. He said he thought it would make him rich. He couldn’t read English so he brought it to me to tell him what it said. He said he would give me money.” Vjeko paused. “That girl, the one who was killed, her name was Deborah Harrison, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Banks felt his grip tighten on the receiver. “Go on, Vjeko.”

“It was her diary. I asked him where he got it, but he wouldn’t tell me. He wanted me to translate for him.”

“Did you?”

“I looked at it. Then I told him it was nothing important, not worth anything, and he should leave it with me. I’d throw it away.”

“What happened then?”

“He became suspicious. He thought I’d found out something and wanted to cheat him out of his money. I think he was hoping to find someone he could blackmail. He said he’d take it to Mile. Mile can read some English, too. I said it was worthless and there was no point. He tried to snatch it from my hand. I held on and we struggled. He is stronger than me, Chief Inspector. He hit me. Dragica was screaming and little Jelena started crying. It was terrible.”

“What happened?”

“Ive ran away with the diary.”

“You said you read it?”

“Some of it.”

“What did it say?”

“If I am right, Chief Inspector, that girl was in terrible trouble. I think you should send someone to get it right away before Ive does something crazy with it.”

“Thanks, Vjeko,” Banks said, already reaching out to cut the call off. “Stay where you are. I’m calling West Yorkshire CID right now. Jelačić was heading for Mile Pavelič’s house, you said?”

VI

Owen walked up the carpeted stairs in the dark to the first-floor landing. There, he found a timer-switch on the wall and turned the light on. He knocked on the door of Flat 4, noticing it didn’t have a peep-hole, and held his breath. The odds were that, if she had friends in the building, especially friends who were in the habit of dropping by to borrow a carton of milk or to have a chat, she would open it. After all, nobody had buzzed her, and not just anyone could walk in from the street.

He heard the floor creak behind the door and saw the knob begin to turn. What if it was on a chain? What if she were living with someone? His heart beat fast. Slowly the door opened.

“Yes?” Michelle said.

No chain.

Owen pushed. Michelle fell back into the room and the door swung fully open. He shut it behind him and leaned back on it. Michelle had stumbled into her sofa. She was wearing a dark-blue robe, silky in texture, and it had come open at the front. Quickly, she wrapped it around herself and looked at him.

“You. What the hell do you want?” There was more anger than fear in her voice.

“That’s a good question, that is, after what you’ve done to me.”

“You’ve been drinking. You’re drunk.”

“So what?”

“I’m going to call the police.”

Michelle lunged for the telephone but Owen got there first and knocked it off its stand. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped. He had just wanted to talk, find out why she had it in for him, but she was making it difficult.

They faced each other like hunter and prey for a few seconds, completely still, breathing hard, muscles tense, then she ran for the door. Owen got there first and pushed her away. This time she tipped backwards over the arm of the sofa. Owen walked towards her. Her robe had risen up high over her thighs and split open at her loins to show the triangle of curly golden hair. Owen stopped in his tracks. Michelle gave him a cool, scornful look, covered herself up and sat down.

“Well, then,” she said, pushing her hair back behind her ears. “So you’re here. I must admit I’m a bit surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t be.” She reached for a cigarette and lit it with a heavy table-lighter, blowing the smoke out through her nose. He remembered the mingled taste of tobacco and toothpaste on her mouth in bed after lovemaking. “Why don’t you sit down?” she said.

“Aren’t you frightened?”

Michelle laughed and put her little pink tongue between her teeth. “Should I be?”

Her blue eyes looked cool, in control. Her long, smooth neck rose out of the gown, elegant and graceful. Even at twenty-four she still looked like a teenager. It was partly the flawless, marble complexion, the delicately chiseled nose and lips whose fine lines any sculptor would be proud of.

But it was mostly in her character, Owen realized, not her looks. She was the cruel teenager who called others names, the leader of the gang who suggested new cruelties, new kicks, with not a care in the world for the feelings of the ones she bullied and taunted.

“If you really believe I murdered those women, then you should be scared,” he said. “They looked like you, you know.”

“You were killing me by proxy. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t? You’re not afraid because you know I didn’t do it. Am I right?”

“Well,” Michelle said, “I really found it hard to believe you had the guts, I’ll admit. But then I was mistaken enough to think it takes guts to strangle a woman.”

“And you found out different?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You did it, didn’t you, Michelle? I’m not sure about the first one, about Deborah Harrison, but you did the second, didn’t you? You killed her to frame me. Or you got someone to do it.”

Michelle laughed and glanced towards the door again. “You’re mad,” she said. “Paranoid. If you think I’d do something like that, go to all that trouble, you’re insane.” She stood up and walked over to the cocktail cabinet. Her legs swished against the robe. Owen stayed close to her. “I’d offer you a drink,” she said, “but I think you’ve had too much already.”

“Why did you do it, Michelle? For God’s sake why?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why did I do what?”

“You know what I mean. Kill that girl to implicate me. You broke into my house, stole the film container with my fingerprints on it and took hairs from my pillow. Then you messed the place up to make it look like a hate-crime.”

Michelle shook her head “You’re crazy.” She poured neat Scotch into a crystal glass. Owen could see her hand was shaking.

“And what you said to the police about us,” he pressed on. “That stuff in the newspapers. Why did you tell those lies about me?”

“They paid well.” She laughed. “Not the police, the newspapers. And I didn’t kill anyone. Don’t be an idiot, Owen. I couldn’t do anything like that. Besides, I didn’t tell any lies.”

“You know it didn’t happen like that.”

“It’s all versions, Owen. That’s how it happened from my perspective. I’m willing to admit yours might be different. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t sound so ungrateful. You did help me through college. You helped me financially, you gave me somewhere to live, and you certainly helped with my marks. It was fun for a while… But you’d no right to start spying on me, following me everywhere I went. You didn’t own me. And you had no right to throw me out in the street like that. Nobody ever treats me like that.” Her eyes blazed like ice.

“Fun…for a while? Michelle, I was in love with you. We were going to…I can’t believe you’d say that, make it all sound so meaningless. Why do you hate me so much?”

She shrugged. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t give a damn about you one way or another.”

“You bitch.”

Owen stepped towards her. She stood her ground by the cabinet and sipped her drink. Then she jerked her head back to toss her hair over her shoulders again. It was a gesture he remembered. She looked at him down her nose, lips curled in a sneer of contempt.

“Oh, come on, Owen,” she said, twisting the belt of her robe around one finger. “You can do better than that. Or can’t you? Do you have to murder schoolgirls these days to get your rocks off?” The smile tormented him: a little crooked, icy in the eyes and wholly malevolent. “I’m glad you’ve found something that turns you on at last. What are you going to do, Owen? Kill me, too? Do you know what? I don’t think you can do it. That’s why you have to do it to the schoolgirls and pretend it’s me. Isn’t that true, Owen?”

Owen snatched the tumbler from her hand and tossed it back in one.

“More Dutch courage? Is that what you need? I still don’t believe-”

He didn’t know how it happened. One moment he was looking at his own reflection in her pupils, and the next he had his hands around her throat. He shoved her back against the cabinet, knocking bottles and glasses over. She clawed at his eyes, but her arms weren’t long enough. She scratched and pulled at his wrists, making gurgling sounds deep in her throat, back bent over the cabinet, feet off the ground, kicking him.

He was throttling her for everything she’d ever done to him: for being a faithless whore and spreading her legs for anyone who took her out for an expensive dinner; for telling the whole country he was a sick pervert who would be in jail if there were any real sting in the justice system; for framing him.

And he was strangling her for everything else, too: his arrest; the humiliation and indignity of jail; the loss of his friends, his job. The whole edifice that had been his life exploded in a red cloud and his veins swelled with rage. For all that, and for treating him like a fool, like someone she could keep on a string and order around. Someone she didn’t even believe had the courage to kill her.

He pressed his fingers deep into her throat. One of her wild kicks found his groin. He flinched in pain but held on, shoving her hard up against the wall. She was sitting on the top of the cabinet among the broken crystal and spilled liquor, her legs wrapped around him in a parody of the sex act. He could smell gin and whisky. The robe under her thighs was sodden with blood and booze, as if she had wet herself.

Michelle continued to flail around, knocking over more bottles, making rasping sounds. Once she pushed forward far enough that her nails raked his cheek, just missing his eyes.

But just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Owen loosened his grip on her throat and she slid off the cabinet onto the floor, leaning back against it, not moving.

Someone hammered on the door and yelled, “Michelle! Are you all right?”

Owen stood for a moment trying to catch his breath and grasp the enormity of what he had done, then he opened the door and rushed past the puzzled neighbor back down to the street.

VII

“I think Deborah Harrison lied to her mother about losing her diary,” Banks said to Gristhorpe as they waited for Ken Blackstone’s call. It was well after closing-time. No hope of a pint now. “I think she kept it hidden.”

“So it would seem,” Gristhorpe agreed. “The question is, how did it get into Jelačić’s hands? We already know he couldn’t have been in Eastvale the evening she was killed. Even if the diary had been in her satchel, Jelačić couldn’t have taken it.”

“I think I know the answer to that,” Banks said. “Rebecca Charters surprised someone in the graveyard yesterday, in the wooded area behind the Inchcliffe Mausoleum. I thought nothing of it at the time-she didn’t get a good look at whoever it was-but now it seems too much of a coincidence. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny it was Jelačić.”

“It was hidden there?”

Banks nodded. “And he knew where. He’d seen her hide it. When Pierce was released, and I went to question Jelačić again last week, he must have remembered it and thought there might be some profit in getting hold of it. It’s ironic, really. That open satchel always bothered me. When I first saw it, I thought the killer might have taken something incriminating and most likely got rid of it. But Lady Harrison told me Deborah had lost her diary. I saw no reason why either of them would lie about that.”

“Unless there were secrets in it that Deborah didn’t want anyone to stumble across?”

“Or Lady Harrison. If you think about it, either of them could have lied. Sir Geoffrey had already told me that Deborah did have a diary, so his wife could hardly deny its existence.”

“But she could say Deborah had told her she lost it, and we’d have no way of checking.”

“Yes. And we probably wouldn’t even bother looking for it. Which we didn’t.”

“Didn’t the SOCOs search the graveyard the day after Deborah’s murder?”

“They did a ground search. We weren’t looking for a murder weapon, just Deborah’s knickers and anything the killer might have dropped in the graveyard. All we found were a few empty fag packets and some butts. Most of those were down to Jelačić, who we knew had worked in the graveyard anyway. We put the rest down to St. Mary’s girls sneaking out for a smoke. Besides, it’s only in books that murderers stand around smoking in the fog while they wait for their victims. Especially since now everyone knows we’ve a good chance of getting DNA from saliva.”

“What about the Inchcliffe Mausoleum? Deborah could have gained access to that, couldn’t she?”

“Yes. But we searched that, too, after we found the empty bottles. At least-”

The phone rang. Banks grabbed the receiver.

“Alan, it’s Ken Blackstone. Sorry it took so long.”

“Any luck?”

“We’ve got him.”

“Great. Did he give you any trouble?”

“He picked up a bruise or two in the struggle. Turns out he’d just left Pavelič’s house when our lads arrived. They followed him across the waste ground. He saw them coming and made a bolt for it, right across York Road and down into Richmond Hill. When they finally caught up with him he didn’t have the diary.”

Banks’s spirits dropped. “Didn’t have it? But, Ken-”

“Hold your horses, mate. Seems he dumped it when he realized he was being chased. Didn’t want to be caught with any incriminating evidence on him. Anyway, our lads went back over the route he’d taken and we found it in a rubbish bin on York Road.”

Banks breathed a sigh of relief.

“What do you want us to do with him?” Blackstone asked. “It’s midnight now. It’ll be going on for two in the morning by the time we get him to Eastvale.”

“You can sit on him overnight,” Banks said. “Nobody in this case is going anywhere in a hurry. Have him brought up in the morning. But, Ken-”

“Yes, it is Deborah Harrison’s diary.”

“Have you read it?”

“Enough.”

“And?”

“If it means what I think it does, Alan, it’s dynamite.”

“Tell me about it.”

And Blackstone told him.