Innocent Graves

I

“Well, sir,” said Sergeant Hatchley, looking at his watch. “Don’t you think we might as well have a spot of lunch?”

Barry Stott sighed. “Oh, all right. Come on.”

This was the detective inspector’s first major case after his promotion and transfer, and he intended to make the most of it. The only thorn in the ointment was this idle, thick lump of Yorkshire blubber beside him: Detective Sergeant Hatchley.

Stott would have preferred DC Susan Gay. Not because she was prettier than Hatchley-he didn’t find her attractive in that way-but because she was smarter, keener and a lot less trouble.

Like now. Left to himself, Stott would have skipped lunch, or bought a take-away from one of the cafés on North Market Street. The morning had been a waste of time; they had found no leads in the sex offender files, and all Stott could find out from immigration about Jelačić was that he was an engineer from Split, who had come to England two years ago. And since then, he had worked at a variety of odd jobs, never lasting long in any one place. Short of going to Croatia himself, Stott thought, it didn’t look as if it would be an easy task getting hold of a criminal record, if there was one.

At least out here, near the crime scene, he felt he had a good chance of scoring some success. Somebody had to have noticed a stranger in the area, fog or no fog. Or a car parked where it shouldn’t be. St. Mary’s was, after all, an upper-crust area, and people who could afford to live there were very wary of strangers. And Stott was sure that a stranger had murdered Deborah Harrison.

They were standing in the rain outside the Nag’s Head at the north-west corner of Kendal Road and North Market Street, diagonally across from St. Mary’s Church, and Stott was ready to do just about anything to shut Hatchley up.

It wasn’t the kind of pub you’d expect in such a wealthy area, Stott thought: no thick carpet, polished brass and gleaming wood, pot of mulled wine heating on the bar. In fact, it looked distinctly shabby. He guessed it was probably a traveler’s pub, being situated at such an important junction. In one form or another, Kendal Road ran all the way from the Lake District to the east coast and Market Street was a major north-south route. The locals would have their own tasteful pubs hidden away in the residential streets. Either that or they drove out to the country clubs.

There were about six people in the lounge bar. Stott noted with distaste that the room smelled of smoke and beer. This certainly wasn’t his kind of pub, if there were such a place. He far preferred churches. Pubs, as far as Stott was concerned, were simply breeding grounds for trouble.

Pubs were where fights started-and he had a couple of scars from his beat days to prove that-they were where crooked deals took place, dodgy goods traded hands, places where drugs were openly sold, where prostitutes plied their filthy trade, spreading disease and misery. Close all the pubs and you’d force the criminals into the open, right into the waiting arms of the police. At least that was what DI Barry Stott thought as he turned up his nose in the Nag’s Head that lunch-time.

Sergeant Hatchley, on the other hand, looked quite at home. He rubbed his ham-like hands together and said, “Ah, this is better. Nowt like a bit of pub grub to take away the chill, don’t you think, sir?”

“Let’s make it quick, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. Alf! Over here, mate. Let’s have a bit of service. A person could die of thirst.”

If there were a landlord Hatchley didn’t know by name in all of the Eastvale-nay, all of Swainsdale-Stott would have been surprised.

When Alf finally turned up, Stott waited while he and Hatchley exchanged a few pleasantries, then ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Alf raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“I’ll have one of those bloody great big Yorkshire puddings full of roast beef, peas and gravy,” said Hatchley. “And a pint of bitter, of course.”

This seemed to please Alf more.

Pint in hand, Hatchley marched over to a table by the window. Through the streaked glass, they could see the rain-darkened trees in the park and the walls of St. Mary’s church across the intersection, square tower poking out above the trees.

The drizzle hadn’t kept the ghouls away. Here and there along the six-foot stone wall, people would jump up every now and then and hold themselves up by the fingertips for a glimpse into the graveyard.

A group of about ten people stood by the Kendal Road entrance. Journalists. One of them, a woman, stood talking into a microphone and looking into a video camera wrapped in a black plastic bag to protect it from the rain. Someone else held a bright light over her head. Yorkshire Television, Stott thought. Or BBC North. And newspaper reporters. Pretty soon they’d be doing re-enactments for “Crimewatch.” Banks was right; the vultures had come.

“We haven’t had much of a chance to get to know one another since you got here, have we, sir?” said Hatchley, lighting a cigarette. “And I always find it helps to know a bit about one another if you’re going to work together, don’t you?”

“I suppose so,” said Stott, inwardly grimacing, trying to sit downwind of the drifting smoke. It didn’t work. He thought it must be one of those laws, like Sod’s and Murphy’s: wherever a non-smoker sat, the smoke was going to come his way, no matter which way the draft was blowing.

“Where are you from, sir?” Hatchley asked.

“Spalding, Lincolnshire.”

“I’d never have guessed it. Not from the accent, like.”

“We moved away when I was just a boy.”

“Where?”

“All over the place. Cyprus, Germany. My father was in the army.” Stott remembered the misery of each move. It seemed that as soon as he had made friends anywhere, he had to abandon them and start all over again. His childhood had consisted of a never-ending succession of new groups of strangers to whom he had to prove himself. Cruel strangers with their own initiation rights, just waiting to humiliate him. He remembered the beatings, the name-calling, the loneliness.

“A squaddie, eh?”

“Major, actually.”

“Pretty high up, then?” Hatchley swigged some beer. “Where does he live now?”

“ Worthing. He retired a few years ago.”

“Not a dishonorable discharge, I hope, sir.”

“No.”

“Look, sir,” said Hatchley, “I’ve been wondering about this here inspector’s exam. I’ve been thinking of giving it a go, like. Is it easy?”

Stott shook his head. All promotional exams were tough and involved several stages, from the multi-choice law test and the role-playing scenarios to the final oral in front of an assistant chief constable and a chief superintendent. How Hatchley had even passed the sergeant’s exam was a mystery to Stott.

“Good luck,” he muttered as a pasty-faced young woman delivered their food and Stott’s pot of tea, which was actually just a pot of lukewarm water and a teabag on a string to dunk in it. And they were stingy with the ham, too. “About one in four get through,” he added.

How old was Hatchley? he wondered. He couldn’t be older than his mid-thirties. Maybe five or six years older than Stott himself. And just look at him: unfit, a bulky man with hair like straw, piggy eyes, freckles spattered across his fleshy nose, tobacco-stained teeth. He also seemed to own only one suit-shiny and wrinkled-and there were egg stains on his tie. Stott could hardly imagine Hatchley going up before the chief for his formal promotion dressed like that.

Stott prided himself on his dress. He had five suits-two gray, two navy blue and one brown herring-bone-and he wore them in rotation. If it’s Thursday, it must be herring-bone. He also wore his father’s old striped regimental tie and, usually, a crisply laundered white shirt with a starched collar.

He always made sure that he was clean shaven and that his hair was neatly parted on the left and combed diagonally across his skull on each side, then fixed in place with spray or cream if need be. He knew that the way his ears stuck out still made him look odd, especially with his glasses hooked over them, just as they had when he was a young boy, and that people called him names behind his back. There was an operation you could have for sticking-out ears these days, he had heard. Maybe if it wasn’t too late he’d have his ears done soon. A freakish appearance could, after all, be detrimental to one’s career path. And Barry Stott felt destined for the chief constable’s office.

Hatchley tucked into his Yorkie with great relish, adding a gravy stain to the egg on his tie. When he had finished, he lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke with a sigh of such deep satisfaction as Stott had never encountered before over a mere physical function-and an unpleasant one at that. One of nature’s true primitives, Sergeant Hatchley.

“We’d better be getting along, Sergeant,” he said, pushing his plate aside and standing up.

“Can’t I finish my fag first, sir? Best part of the meal, the cigarette after, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

Stott felt himself flush. “You can smoke it outside,” he said rather harshly.

Hatchley shrugged, slurped down the rest of his pint, then followed Stott towards the door.

“Bye, Alf,” he said on the way to the door. “I hope our lads didn’t catch you serving drinks after hours last night.”

“What lads?” said Alf.

Hatchley turned and walked towards the bar. “Police. Didn’t they come and ask you questions last night? Whether you’d seen any strangers, that sort of thing?”

Alf shook his head. “Nah. Nobody in last night. I shut up at ten o’clock. Filthy weather.”

By the time Stott got to the bar, Hatchley seemed to have magically acquired another pint, and his cigarette had grown back to its original length.

Stott swallowed his anger.

“Were you open earlier?” Hatchley asked.

Alf snorted. “Aye, for what it were worth.”

“Any strangers?”

“We get a lot of strangers,” he said. “You know, commercial travelers and the like. Tourists. Ramblers.”

“Aye, I know that,” said Hatchley. “But how about yesterday, late afternoon, early evening?”

“Nah. Weather were too bad for driving.”

“Anyone at all?”

Alf scratched his stubbly cheek. “One bloke. He had nobbut two pints and a whisky and left. That were it.”

“A regular?”

“Nah. Don’t have many regulars. People round here are too stuck-up for the likes of this place.”

Stott was beginning to feel frustrated. This Alf was obviously a moron; they would get nothing useful out of him. “But you said you hadn’t had any strangers in lately,” he said.

“He weren’t a stranger, either.”

“Who was he, then?”

“Nay, don’t ask me.”

“But you said you knew him.”

Alf looked over at Hatchley and gave a sniff of disgust before turning back to Stott and answering. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “I said he weren’t a regular, but he weren’t exactly a stranger, either. Different thing.”

“So you’ve seen him before?”

Alf spat on the floor behind the bar. “Well, of course I bloody have. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? He’d have been a stranger if I hadn’t seen him before, wouldn’t he?”

Hatchley took over again. “All right, Alf,” he said. “You’re right. Good point. How often have you seen him?”

“Not often. But he’s been in three or four times this past year or so. Used to come in with a lass. A right bonnie lass, and all. But not the last few times.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No. He always stuck to himself.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

“Could be bloody Timbuktu, for all I know.”

“Are you saying he was African-English?” Stott cut in.

Alf gave him a withering look. “It’s just a saying, like. Summat me mother used to say.”

“What did he look like?” Hatchley asked.

“Well, he were a tall bloke, I remember that. A bit over six foot, anyroad. Thick black hair, a bit too long over t’collar, if you ask me. Bit of a long nose, too.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No more than to serve him and make a few remarks about the weather. He didn’t seem to want to talk. Took his pint over by the fire and just sat there staring into his glass. Muttered to himself now and then, too, as I recall.”

“He talked to himself?”

“Well, not all the time. And not like he was having a conversation or anything. No, he’d just say something once in a while, as if he were thinking out loud, like you do sometimes.”

“Did you hear anything he said?”

“Nay. He were too far away.”

“Did he have any sort of an accent?” Stott cut in.

“Couldn’t say.”

“Did you know Ive Jelačić, the sexton over the road at St. Mary’s?”

“Nah. He drank at t’Pig and Whistle.”

“How do you know?”

“Landlord, Stan, told me, after it was in t’papers, like, about him and that dodgy vicar.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Jelačić?”

“Only from a distance.”

“Could this have been him?”

“Could’ve been, I suppose. Same height and hair color.”

“Do you know if this customer had a car?”

“How would I know that?” Alf rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, he looked more like he’d been walking. You know, a bit damp, short of breath.”

“What time was this, Alf?” Hatchley asked.

“About five o’clock.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Just afore six. Like I said, he had nobbut two pints and a double whisky. One for the road, he said, and knocked it back in one, then he was out the door.” Alf mimicked the drinking action.

Stott pricked up his ears. The timing worked, assuming the girl had been killed on her way home from the school chess club. Was that the way a person might act before raping and murdering a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl in a foggy graveyard? Stott wondered. A dram of Dutch courage? He tried to remember what he’d learned in the criminal psychology course.

The trouble was, you could justify just about any sort of behavior if you were talking about a psycho. Some of them liked to sit and have a beer and a fag before a nice little dismemberment; others liked to buy a box of chocolates or bunch of flowers for their mothers. You could never predict. So maybe the killer would have dropped in at the Nag’s Head. Why not? Maybe he just needed to sit there for a while, have a little chat with himself about what he was going to do?

“Did you see which direction he went?” Stott asked.

“Nay. You don’t expect me to chase outside after my customers and see which way they’re going, do you?”

“What was he wearing?” Stott asked.

“Orange anorak. Expensive type, by the looks of it. That Gore-Tex stuff. Lots of pockets and zips.”

“Can you remember anything else about his appearance?”

“I’m not good at describing people. Never was.”

“Do you think you could work with a police artist?”

“Dunno. Never tried it.”

“Will you give it a try?”

Alf shrugged.

“Sergeant,” Stott said, “go and see if you can get a police artist out as soon as possible, will you? I’ll wait here.”

It was almost worth suffering the stale smoke and booze atmosphere of the Nag’s Head for another hour or so to see the expression on Sergeant Hatchley’s face as he trudged out into the rain.

II

They had made love in every position imaginable: sideways, backwards, forwards, upside down. They had also done it in just about every place they could think of: her bed, his bed, hotels, a field, his cramped Orion, up against a wall, under the kitchen table. Sometimes, it seemed to last forever; other times, it was over almost before it began. Sometimes, the foreplay went on so long Rebecca thought she would burst; other times, they were overtaken by a sense of urgency and didn’t even have time to get all their clothes off.

This time, it had been urgent. Afterwards, Rebecca lay on the bed of a hotel room in Richmond panting for breath, covered by a film of sweat. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist, her knickers down, still hanging around one bare ankle; her blouse was open at the front, a couple of the buttons torn off in the heat of the moment, and her bra was pushed up to expose her breasts.

Patrick’s head lay against her shoulder. She could feel his breath warm against her skin. Both their hearts were beating fast. Rebecca rested one hand over his broad, strong shoulders, and with the other she stroked the hair over his ear, felt the stubbly down at the back of his neck, where it had been recently cut. It wasn’t love-she knew enough to realize that-but it was one hell of a fine substitute.

But all too soon the sense of shame and melancholy that always came to her after sex with Patrick began to descend like a thick fog, numbing the nerve-ends that, only minutes before, had thrilled to such exquisite pleasure, and guilt began to overwhelm the vestiges of her joy.

Patrick moved away and reached for a cigarette. It was the one thing she disliked, his smoking after sex, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to. He also put his glasses on. She knew he couldn’t see a thing without them, but sometimes she laughed because he looked so funny naked except for his glasses.

“What is it?” Patrick asked, clearly sensing something was wrong. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Of course I did. You know that. I always do…with you. No…it’s just that I feel so…so damn guilty.”

“Then leave him. Come and live with me.”

“Don’t be foolish, Patrick. Just imagine the scandal. Schoolteacher shacks up with minister’s wife. You’d lose your job, for a start. And where would we live?”

“Oh, don’t be so practical. We’d manage. We’ll get a flat in town. I can get another job. We’ll move away.”

Rebecca shook her head. “No. No. No.”

“Why not? Don’t you love me?”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

“You do love me, don’t you?” he persisted.

“Of course I do,” Rebecca lied. It was easier that way.

“Then leave him.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t love him.”

“I…I…don’t know.” Rebecca did love Daniel. Somewhere inside her, the feeling was still there, she knew: battered, bruised, half-evaporated, but still there. She couldn’t explain that to Patrick.

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but…”

Rebecca felt a tingle run up her spine at the words, nothing to do with sex. “Yes?” she prompted him. “Go on.”

“Yesterday evening your husband came to see me.”

“Daniel went to see you? Why?”

“He came to talk to me.”

Rebecca sat up. She quickly slipped her bra down and rearranged her skirt to cover herself, holding the front of her blouse together as best she could. “What about?” she asked, feeling awkward and stupid.

“About us.” Patrick flicked his ash into the ashtray on the bedside table. It was a small room, with the curtains drawn, and Rebecca already felt claustrophobic.

“But he doesn’t know about us.”

“Oh, but he does. He says he’s known for a while. He suspected something, then he watched you. He’s seen us together.”

“My God.”

“He told me not to tell you he’d been to see me.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked me to stop seeing you.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him the truth. That we were in love. That you were discovering for the first time your true erotic nature. And that as soon as we could manage it you were going to leave him and we were going to live together.”

Rebecca couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Daniel knew? Had known for ages? “You bloody fool.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled up her knickers. Then she buttoned her blouse, put on her jacket over it and went to the wardrobe where her raincoat was hanging. “You bloody fool,” she muttered again under her breath. “Daniel. I must go to him.”

Patrick sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. “What do you mean? It is the truth, isn’t it?”

“You idiot. You’ve ruined everything.”

He got up and walked over to her. She thought he suddenly looked ridiculous with his glasses on, the limp penis hanging between his thin, hairy legs.

“Rebecca,” he said, grasping her arms. “He’s only concerned about how it looks. With appearances. Don’t you see? He wants everything to seem normal, for you to act like the dutiful vicar’s wife. But it’s not you. It’s really not you. I know you, Rebecca. I know your true nature. We’ve discovered it together. You’re a wild, passionate, sensual creature, not a bloody dried-up vicar’s wife.”

“Let me go!”

She tore herself out of his grasp, finished putting her raincoat on and grabbed the door-handle.

“Don’t do this, Rebecca,” he said. “Stay with me. Don’t be afraid of finding out who you really are. Follow your passion, your feelings.”

“Oh, shut up, you pompous bastard. It was just a fuck, that’s all. You don’t know a bloody thing, do you?”

“Wait. I’ll drive you,” he called out as she walked through the door.

“Don’t bother,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll catch a bus.” And she slammed the door behind her.

III

A couple of uniformed policemen kept the press away from Sir Geoffrey’s house. When Banks and Susan got there early in the afternoon, there were only about six reporters hanging around at the end of the driveway. They fired off a few questions, but Banks ignored them. Too early to start giving statements to the press. Unless you were Chief Constable Riddle, of course.

The only new information Banks had was that the swabs taken from Deborah had revealed no traces of semen, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell the media that. He had also discovered that Sir Geoffrey’s reception at the Royal Hotel in York had ended at four o’clock, plenty of time to get back home by six, even in the fog. Lady Harrison had, indeed, been at the health club; but she hadn’t arrived there until almost six-thirty.

Banks hadn’t noticed in the fog last night, but the house had a large lawn and beautiful flower-beds, clearly the work of a gardener. Even keeping the lawn trimmed would have been a full-time job. The house itself was an ostentatious pile of Victorian stone, complete with gables, probably built for one of the get-rich-quick wool merchants in the last century.

Sir Geoffrey himself answered Banks’s ring and beckoned the two of them in. Banks introduced Susan.

“Is there any news?” Sir Geoffrey asked.

Banks shook his head. “Not yet, sir. Sorry.”

Sir Geoffrey looked drawn and stooped, and he had large bags, like bruises, under his eyes. Banks followed him through to the white room with the bookcases, the Chagall and the grand piano. Michael Clayton was sitting in one of the armchairs, also looking as if he had gone without sleep for a week.

“Michael, I believe you met Detective Chief Inspector Banks last night,” Sir Geoffrey said.

“Yes,” said Clayton, “and I know Detective Constable Gay, too. I don’t know if I ever thanked you.”

Susan smiled. “All part of the service, sir.”

Banks gave her a quizzical look.

“Mr. Clayton had his car and a valuable notebook computer stolen in August,” she explained. “We got them back for him. Someone was trying to sell the computer at Eastvale market.”

“I don’t think I explained last night,” Sir Geoffrey went on, “but in addition to being a dear friend, Michael’s the scientific genius behind HarClay Industries. I simply provide the sales and marketing strategies.” He clapped Clayton on the shoulder. “I don’t know what we’d do without him. Please, sit down.”

“Where’s your wife, sir?” Banks asked.

“Sylvie’s resting. She…we didn’t get much sleep last night. She’s exhausted. Me, too. Look, we…er…I’m sorry. Things are a bit of a mess around here. How can I help you?”

“We won’t keep you long. Just a couple of questions.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded wearily. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “We’ve talked to a few people at Deborah’s school, and everyone seems to agree that Deborah was a cheerful and talented girl.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded. “Sylvie and I are very proud of her.”

“But even the best of people make enemies,” Banks went on. “Often inadvertently. Can you think of any enemies Deborah might have made?”

Sir Geoffrey closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. She got along well with her schoolfriends and teachers-I’m sure they’ll all bear that out-and there wasn’t really anyone else in her life aside from family.”

“I heard that she had a tendency to show off at times. Would you say that’s fair?”

Sir Geoffrey smiled. “Yes, Deborah can be a show-off, and a bit of a devil at times. But what child can’t be?”

Banks smiled, thinking of Tracy. “And Deborah was still a child in some ways,” he said. “She might not always have realized the effects of her actions on others. Do you see what I mean?”

Sir Geoffrey nodded. “But I can’t see us getting anywhere with this,” he said. “Unless you’re implying that someone at the school had something to do with her death. Or that bloody minister at St. Mary’s.”

“Daniel Charters?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why do you dislike him so?”

“The man’s a pervert. He abused his power.”

Banks shook his head. “But nothing’s been proved against him. Isn’t he entitled to be presumed innocent until proven guilty?”

“In theory, perhaps. But a man in his position should be above suspicion.”

“The man who accused Father Charters is called Ive Jelačić. Would it surprise you to know that he made lewd gestures towards your daughter, and that she complained to Dr. Green, the head of St. Mary’s?”

“She never told me that. If she had, I’d have broke his bloody neck.”

Banks turned to Clayton. “Did Deborah ever confide in you about anything?”

Clayton raised his eyebrows. “Me? Good heavens, no. I suppose I was just as uncool as her parents as far as she was concerned.”

“Uncool?”

“You know teenagers, Chief Inspector. We’re ancient and decrepit creatures to them.”

“I suppose we are.” Banks took a deep breath and turned back to Sir Geoffrey. “This is a little delicate, I’m afraid, but I have to ask where you went after the Royal Hotel reception ended at four o’clock yesterday.”

“Good God, man! You can’t poss-”

“Geoff, he has to ask. He’s just doing his job,” said Michael Clayton, putting his hand on Sir Geoffrey’s arm. “Offensive though it may be.”

Sir Geoffrey ran his hand over his hair. “I suppose so. I had a private meeting with a client, if you must know. A man from the government called Oliver Jackson. It’s a very confidential matter, and I don’t want anyone else to know about the meeting. Things like this can have an effect on share prices and any number of market factors. Not to mention international affairs. Do you understand?”

Banks nodded. “There is just one more thing…”

Sir Geoffrey sighed. “Go ahead, if you must.”

“I was wondering about any boyfriends Deborah might have had.”

“Boyfriends?”

“Yes. It would be perfectly natural for a girl of sixteen to have an interest in the opposite sex. Perfectly innocent things, like going to the pictures with a boy, maybe. She did have a ticket stub from the Regal in her blazer pocket.”

Sir Geoffrey shook his head. “She used to go to the pictures with her mother a lot. The two of them…Deborah didn’t have any boyfriends, Chief Inspector. You’re barking up quite the wrong tree there. She didn’t have time for boys.”

“Had she never had a boyfriend?”

“Only Pierre, if that counts at all.”

“ Pierre?”

“In Bordeaux, or rather at Montclair. My wife’s family owns a chateau in the country near Bordeaux. We often spend holidays there. Pierre is a neighbour’s son. All quite innocent, of course.”

“Of course,” Banks agreed. “And a long way away.”

“Yes…well. Look, about this Jelačić character. That’s a disturbing piece of news. Are you going to bring him in?”

“We’re pursuing inquiries in a number of directions,” Banks said as he and Susan walked to the door, annoyed at himself for sounding as if he were talking to the press.

Outside, they ducked through the reporters beyond the gate and got back into Banks’s car out of the rain.

“Interesting, don’t you think?” Banks said. “About the boyfriend.”

“Yes, sir. Either he really didn’t know, or he was lying.”

“But why lie?”

“Perhaps Deborah really did keep it a secret from him? If he’s a strict father, I could see her doing that.”

“Possibly. What about his alibi?”

“Very plausible,” said Susan. “I noticed you didn’t ask his wife for hers.”

“One at a time, Susan. One a time. Besides, I hardly think Sylvie Harrison murdered her own daughter. She’s not tall or strong enough, for a start.”

“If she goes to a health club, she’s probably strong enough,” Susan pointed out. “Maybe she stood on a stone?”

Banks sneezed into his handkerchief.

“Bless you sir,” Susan said.

They headed towards North Market Street. “You know,” said Banks, “I think there’s a lot more to Deborah’s life than people know, or are saying. I’d like to have another talk with her mother, alone if possible. Michael Clayton was right, teenagers don’t have a lot of time for adults, but daughters do sometimes confide in their mothers. And I’d like to find this John, if he exists.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does, sir. Deborah was an attractive girl. And she was sixteen. I’d be very surprised indeed if she had nothing at all to do with boys.”

Banks’s car phone beeped. He picked it up.

“DI Stott here.”

“What’s up, Barry?”

“I think we should meet up back at the station. We’ve got a description of a possible suspect in the Deborah Harrison murder, and it could be Jelačić. Vic Manson called, too. Jelačić’s prints are all over the vodka bottles.”

“We’re on our way.” Banks switched off the phone and put his foot down.

IV

All the way home on the rickety bus, Rebecca chewed her nails. She didn’t look once at the fading autumn scenery beyond the rain-streaked windows: the muted gold, russet and lemon leaves still clinging to the roadside trees, fragile and insubstantial as the moon’s halo; the soft greens and browns of the fields; the runic patterns of the drystone walls. She didn’t notice the way that the dale to her west, with its gradually steepening valley sides, was partially lost in mist and drizzle, making it look just like a Chinese water-color.

Rebecca just chewed her nails and wished that tight, tearing, churning feeling inside her would go away. She felt constantly on the verge of screaming, and she knew if she started she could never stop. She took deep breaths and held them to calm herself. They helped.

By the time the bus lumbered into Eastvale, she had regained some control of her emotions, but she still felt devastated, as if her world had been suddenly blown apart. She supposed it had to happen, that she had been living a lie, living on borrowed time, or whatever other cliché she could come up with to describe the last few months of her life.

Looking at it now, her life had simply become one hangover after another; either from booze or infidelity, it didn’t seem to make any difference. What pleasures she had found in getting drunk or having sex were so fleeting and so quickly overwhelmed by the pains-headaches, stomachache, guilt, shame-that they no longer seemed worthwhile. But was it too late now? Had she lost Daniel?

Almost there.

She pushed the bell and felt the driver and other passengers giving her strange looks as she waited for the bus to stop. What could they sense about her? Could they smell sex on her? She hadn’t washed before leaving Patrick in Richmond; she had simply pulled her clothes on as quickly as possible and left. But her raincoat covered the torn blouse. God, what could she do about that? If Daniel were home, he would notice. But what did it matter now? He knew anyway. Even so, she couldn’t stand the thought of his knowing she had been with Patrick this afternoon.

As the bus approached the stop, she saw the knot of reporters hanging about by the church walls and knew why the passengers were looking at her. She was getting off at St. Mary’s, the scene of the most horrible crime Eastvale had experienced in decades.

The bus came to a sharp halt and Rebecca would have tumbled forwards if she hadn’t been holding onto the metal pole. When the doors opened, she jumped off and dashed past the policeman at the gate, then ran through the churchyard to the vicarage.

When she got there she flung open the door and called out for Daniel. Silence. Thank God, he wasn’t home. Pulling off her torn blouse, she ran upstairs to the bathroom to wash the smell of sex from her body. Then she would be ready to face Daniel. She would have to be.

V

Ive Jelačić lived on the sixth floor of a ten-story block of flats in Burmantofts, off York Road. In the gray November drizzle, the maze of tall buildings reminded Banks of a newspaper picture he’d seen of workers’ quarters in some Siberian city.

“Charming, isn’t it?” said Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone, waiting for them outside. He looked at his watch. “Do you know, the council had to put slippery domes on all the roofs to stop kids climbing down on the upper balconies and breaking in through people’s windows?”

Immaculately dressed as usual, Blackstone made Banks aware that his top collar button was undone and his tie a little askew. Blackstone looked like an academic, with his wire-rimmed glasses, bookworm’s complexion and thinning sandy hair, a little curly around the ears, and he was, in fact, something of an expert on art and art fraud. Not that there was often much call for his area of expertise in Leeds. Nobody had knocked off any Atkinson Grimshaws recently, and only an idiot would try to fake a Henry Moore sculpture.

“Jelačić’s alibi checks out,” Blackstone said as they walked towards the entrance. “For what it’s worth. And we’ve had a poke about his flat. Nothing.”

“What do you think it’s worth?” Banks asked.

Blackstone pursed his cupid’s-bow lips. “Me? About as much as a fart in a bathtub. There were three of them-all Croatian. Stipe Pavič, Mile Pavelič and Vjeko Batorac. They’d probably swear night was day to protect one another from the police. Here it is. Take my word, the lift doesn’t work.”

Banks looked through the open sliding doors. The walls of the lift were covered in bright, spray-painted graffiti, and even from where he stood he could smell glue and urine. They took the stairs instead, surprising a couple of kids sniffing solvent on the third-floor stairwell. The kids ran. They knew the only people dressed like Blackstone in that neighborhood were likely to be coppers.

There were a few times when Banks regretted smoking, and the climb to the sixth-floor flat was one of them. Puffing for breath and sweating a little, he finally arrived at the outside walkway that went past the front doors.

Number 604 had once been red, but most of the paint had peeled off. It also looked as if it had been used for knife-throwing practice. Jelačić answered on the first knock, wearing jeans and a string vest. His upper body looked strong and muscular, and tufts of thick black hair spilled through the holes in the vest. With his height, longish hair and hooked nose, he certainly resembled the descriptions of the man seen in St. Mary’s yesterday evening.

“Why you bother me?” he said, standing aside to let them in and letting his eyes rest on Susan for longer than necessary. “I tell you already, I have done nothing.”

Inside, the flat was small enough to feel crowded with four people in it and tidy enough to surprise Banks. If nothing else, Ive Jelačić was a good housekeeper. An ironing board stood in one corner, with a shirt spread over it, and there was a small television set in the opposite corner. No video or stereo equipment in sight. The only other furniture in the room consisted of a battered sofa and a table with three chairs. Family photographs and a couple of religious icons stood on the mantelpiece over the electric fire.

“How are you making a living now, Mr. Jelačić?” Banks asked.

“Dole.”

“Do you own a car?”

“Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Da. Is old Ford Fiesta.”

“Did you drive it to Eastvale yesterday?”

Jelačić looked at Blackstone. “Ne. I tell him already. I play cards. Vjeko tells you. And Stipe and Mile.”

Jelačić sat down on his sofa, taking up most of it, and lit a cigarette. The room quickly began to fill with smoke. Blackstone stood with his back against the door, and Banks and Susan sat on the wooden chairs. Banks soon noticed the way Jelačić was sliding his eyes over Susan’s body, and he could tell Susan noticed it too, the way she made sure her skirt was pulled down as far over her knees as it would go and the way she kept her knees pressed tight together. But still Jelačić ogled.

“The thing is,” Banks said, “that people will often lie to cover for their friends, if they think a friend is in trouble.”

Jelačić leaned forward aggressively, muscles bulging in his arms and shoulders. “You call my friends liars! Jebem ti mater! You tell that to their face. Fascist police. upak.”

Banks held out a photograph of Deborah Harrison. “Did you know this girl?”

Jelačić glared at Banks for a moment before glancing towards the photo. He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Da.”

“She went to St. Mary’s, sang in the church choir, used to walk through the graveyard on her way home.”

He shook his head again.

“I think you’re lying, Mr. Jelačić. You see, she complained about you. She said you used to make lewd, sexual comments and gestures towards her. What do you think about that?”

“Is not true.”

“Father Charters said you were drunk most of the time, you didn’t do your job properly and you bothered the girls. Is that true?”

“Ne. He is liar. All St. Mary’s people lie, get Ive in trouble, make him lose job.”

“Did you ever enter the Inchcliffe Mausoleum.”

“Nikada. Is always locked.”

Banks looked at Ken Blackstone and rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Ive. We found your fingerprints all over the empty vodka bottles in there.”

“Vrag ti nosi!”

“We know you went down there. Why?”

Jelačić paused to sulk for a moment, then said, “All right. So I go down there sometime in summer when it get too hot. Just for cool, you understand? Maybe I have a little drink and smoke. Is not crime.”

“Did you ever take anyone else down there? Any girls?”

“Nikada.”

Banks waved the photograph. “And you swear you didn’t know this girl?”

Jelačić leaned back on the sofa. “Maybe I just see her, you know, if I am working and she walk past.”

“So you do admit you might have seen her?”

“Da. But that is all.”

“Mr. Jelačić, what were you wearing last night?”

Jelačić pointed towards a coat-hook by the door. A red windcheater hung on it.

“Shoes?”

Frowning, Jelačić got to his feet and picked up a pair of old trainers from the mat below the hook. Banks looked at the soles and thought he could see gravel trapped in the tread and, perhaps, bits of leaves. There was also mud on the sides.

“How did your shoes get in this state?” he asked.

“I walk back from Mile’s.”

“You didn’t drive?”

Jelačić shrugged. “Is not far.”

“We’d like to take your shoes and windcheater in for testing,” Banks said. “It would be easiest if you gave us permission. You’ll get a receipt.”

“If I do not?”

“Then we’ll get a court order.”

“Is okay. You take them. I have nothing to hide.”

“Were you standing on the Kendal Road bridge around six o’clock yesterday evening?”

“Ne. I go to Mile’s house. We play cards until late.”

“Did you have two pints of beer and a double whisky in the Nag’s Head, opposite St. Mary’s Park?”

“I tell you. I go to Mile’s and we play cards and drink.”

“Daniel Charters told us you’d been back to Eastvale to extort money from him. Is that true?”

“Vra je! I tell you, that man, he is Satan’s tool, an evil liar.”

“So it’s not true that you offered to withdraw the charges in exchange for money?”

“Is not true. Ne. And I have nothing more to say.” Jelačić looked at Susan again, letting his eyes travel slowly from her feet all the way up to her breasts, where they lingered. He didn’t exactly lick his lips, but he might as well have done. Banks saw Susan flush with embarrassment and rage.

“Well, let me just get clear what you have told us,” Banks said. “Last night, you were playing cards with friends who will vouch for you, right?”

Jelačić nodded.

“You didn’t know the girl in the photograph, though you might have seen her in passing.”

“Da.”

“But you certainly didn’t leer at her or make any suggestive gestures.”

“Ne.”

“And after you were unjustly fired you never went back to Eastvale and tried to extort money out of Father Daniel Charters.”

“Nikada.”

“Fine, then,” said Banks, standing up. “That’ll be all. We’ll be off now.”

Jelačić looked surprised. “You leave now?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of the clothing and get it back to you as soon as we’ve run our tests. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jelačić. Good day.”

And they left him gaping after them.

“Biggest load of bollocks I’ve ever heard in my life,” said Ken Blackstone as they walked down the stairs. A dog went on pissing nonchalantly against the wall as they passed by.

Banks lit a cigarette. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it? What do you think Susan?”

“Whether he did it or not,” Susan Gay said between gritted teeth, “I think the bastard should be hung over the balcony by his balls. Sir.”