Innocent Graves

I

Eastvale College of Further Education was a hodgepodge of ugly redbrick and concrete buildings on the southern fringe of the town, separated from the last few houses by a stretch of marshy waste ground. There was nothing else much around save for the Featherstone Arms across the road, a couple of industrial estates and a large riding stable, about half a mile away.

The college itself was a bit of a dump, too, Owen thought over his lunch-time pint and soupy lasagna, and he wouldn’t be teaching there if he could get anything better. The problem was, with only a BA from Leeds and an MA from an obscure Canadian university, he couldn’t get anything better. So he was stuck teaching the business, secretarial and agriculture students how to spell and write sentences, skills they didn’t even want to know. It was a long way from the literary ambitions he had nursed not so many years ago.

But he had more immediate problems than his teaching career: he had lied to the police, and they probably suspected as much.

It wasn’t much of a lie, admittedly. Besides, it was none of their business. He had said he never lived with a woman, but he had. With Michelle. For five years. And Michelle was the woman in the black-and-white nude photographs.

So Owen wasn’t exactly surprised when Stott and Hatchley walked into the pub and asked him if he would mind going to the station with them to clear up a few points. Nervous, yes, but not surprised. They said the department head had told them where they were likely to find him, and they had walked straight over.

Nobody spoke during the first part of the journey. Sergeant Hatchley drove the unmarked Rover, and Inspector Stott sat beside him. Owen could see the sharp line of his haircut at the back of his neck and the jug-handle shape of his ears, glasses hooked over them. As they approached the market square, Owen looked out of the window at the drab, shadowy figures hurrying from shop to shop, holding onto their hats.

“I wonder if you’d mind very much,” Stott said, turning slightly in his seat, “if we arranged to take a couple of samples?”

“What kind of samples?”

“Oh, just the usual. Blood. Hair.”

“Do I have to?”

“Let me put it like this. You’re not under arrest, but the crime we’re investigating is very serious indeed. It would be best all around if you gave your permission and signed a release. For elimination purpose.”

“And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me down, pull my hair out and stick a needle in me?”

“Nothing like that. We could get the superintendent to authorize it. But that wouldn’t look good, would it? Especially if the matter ever went to court. Refusing to give a sample? A jury might see that as an admission of guilt. And, of course, as soon as you’re eliminated from the inquiry, the samples will all be destroyed. No records. What do you say?”

“All right.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stott turned to face the front again and picked up his car phone. “I’ll just take the liberty of calling Dr. Burns and asking him to meet us at the station.”

It was all handled quickly and efficiently in a private office at the police station. Owen signed the requisite forms, rolled up his sleeve and looked away. He felt only a sharp, brief pricking sensation as the needle slid out. Then the doctor pulled some hair out of his scalp. That hurt a little more.

The interview room they took him to next was a desolate place: gray metal desk; three chairs, two of them bolted to the floor; grimy windows of thick wired glass; a dead fly smeared against one institutional-green wall; and that was it.

It smelled of stale smoke. A heavy blue glass ashtray sat on the desk, empty but stained and grimy with old ash.

Stott sat opposite Owen, and Sergeant Hatchley moved the free chair and sat by the wall near the door, out of Owen’s line of vision. He sat backwards on the chair, wrapping his thick arms around its back.

First, Stott placed the buff folder he’d been carrying on the desk, smiled and adjusted his glasses. Then he switched on a double-cassette tape recorder, tested it, and gave the date, time and names of those present.

“Just a few questions, Owen,” he said. “You’ve been very cooperative so far. I hope we don’t have to keep you long.”

“So do I,” said Owen, looking around the grim room. “Shouldn’t I call my lawyer or something?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Stott. “Of course, you can if you want. It’s your right.” He smiled. “But it’s not as if you’re under arrest or anything. You’re free to leave anytime you want. Besides, do you actually have a solicitor? Most people don’t.”

Come to think of it, Owen didn’t have a solicitor. He knew one, though. An old university acquaintance had switched from English to law after his first year and now practiced in Eastvale. They hadn’t seen each other in years, until Owen had bumped into him in a pub a few months back. Gordon Wharton, that was his name. Owen couldn’t remember what kind of law he specialized in, but at least it was a start, if things went that far. For the moment, though, Stott was right. Owen hadn’t been arrested, and he didn’t see why he should have to pay a solicitor.

“Let me lay my cards on the table, Owen. You have admitted to us that you were in the area of St. Mary’s on Monday evening. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I went for a walk.”

“Shall we just go over it again, for the record?”

Owen shrugged. “There’s really nothing to go over.” He could see the sheet of paper in front of Stott, laid out like an appointment book. Some of the times and notes had question marks in red.

“What time did you set off on this walk?”

“Just after I got back from work. About four. Maybe as late as half past.”

“How far is it to St. Mary’s?”

“Along the river? About three miles from my house. And the house is about half a mile from the river.”

“About seven miles there and back, then?”

“Yes. About that.”

“Now, before you ate at the Peking Moon you drank two pints of bitter and a Scotch whisky at the Nag’s Head, right?”

“I wasn’t counting, but yes, I had a couple of drinks.”

“And you left the pub at about a quarter to six?”

“I wasn’t especially aware of the time.”

“That’s what the landlord told us.”

“I suppose it must be true, then.”

“And you ate at the Peking Moon at approximately six-thirty, is that correct?”

“About then, yes. Again, I didn’t notice the actual time.”

“What did you do between a quarter to and half past six?”

“Walked around. Stood on the bridge.”

“Did you go into St. Mary’s graveyard?”

“No, I didn’t. Look, if you’re trying to tie me in to that girl’s murder, then you’re way off beam. Why would I do something like that? Perhaps I had better call a solicitor, after all.”

“Ah!” Stott glanced over Owen’s shoulder towards Sergeant Hatchley. “So he does read the papers, after all.”

“I did after you left. Of course I did.”

Stott looked back at him. “But not before?”

“I’d have known what you were talking about, then, wouldn’t I?”

Stott straightened his glasses. “What made you connect our visit with that particular item of news?”

Owen hesitated. Was it a trick question? “It didn’t take much,” he answered slowly, “given the kind of questions you asked me. Even though I know nothing about what happened, I know I was in St. Mary’s that evening. I never denied it. And while we’re on the subject, what led you to me?”

Stott smiled. “Easy, really. We asked around. Small, wealthy neighborhood like St. Mary’s, people notice strangers. Plus you were wearing an orange anorak and you used your Visa card in the Peking Moon.”

Owen leaned forward and slapped his palms on the cool metal surface. “There!” he said. “That proves it, then, doesn’t it?”

Stott gave him a blank look. “Proves what?”

“That I didn’t do it. If I had done it, what you seem to be accusing me of, I would hardly have been so foolish as to leave my calling card, would I?”

Stott shrugged. “Criminals make mistakes, just like everybody else. Otherwise we’d never catch any, would we? And I’m not accusing you of anything at the moment, Owen. You can see our problem, though, can’t you? Your story sounds thin, very thin. I mean, if you were in the area for some real, believable reason…Maybe to meet someone? Did you know Deborah Harrison, Owen?”

“No.”

“Had you been watching her, following her?”

Owen sat back. “I’ve told you why I was there. I can’t help it if you don’t like my reason, can I? I never thought I’d have to explain myself to anyone.”

“Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did you see Deborah Harrison?”

“No.”

“About that scratch on your cheek,” Stott said. “Remember yet where you got it?”

Owen put his hand to his cheek and shrugged. “Cut myself shaving, I suppose.”

“Bit high up to be shaving, isn’t it?”

“I told you. I don’t remember. Why?”

“What about the nude photos, Owen? The ones we found at your house?”

“What about them? They’re figure studies, that’s all.”

Sergeant Hatchley spoke for the first time, and the rough voice coming from behind startled Owen. “Come on lad, don’t be shy. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like looking at a nice pair of tits? You’re not queer, are you?”

Owen half-twisted in his seat. “No. I didn’t say I didn’t like looking at naked women. Of course I do. I’m perfectly normal.”

“And some of the girls in that magazine seemed very young to me,” said Stott.

Owen turned to face him again. “Since when has it been a crime to buy Playboy? You people are still living in the middle ages. For Christ’s sake, they’re models. They get paid for posing like that.”

“And you like videos, too, don’t you, Owen? There was that one in your cabinet, your own private video to keep, to watch whenever you want. Including School’s Out.”

“A friend gave me it, as a sort of joke. I told him I’d never seen any porn-any sexy videos before, and he gave me that, said I’d enjoy it.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Owen,” said Stott. “I’ve got to wonder about a bloke who watches stuff like that and likes the sort of art books and pictures you like. Especially if he takes nude photos of young girls, too.”

“It’s a free country. I’m a normal single male. I also happen to be an amateur photographer. And I have a right to watch whatever kind of videos I want as long as they’re legal.” Owen felt himself flushing with embarrassment. Christ how he wished Chris Lorimer at the college hadn’t given him the bloody video.

“School’s Out,” Hatchley said quietly from behind him. “A bit over the top, that, wouldn’t you say?”

“I haven’t even watched that one.”

“You can see what Sergeant Hatchley’s getting at, though, can’t you, Owen?” said Stott. “It looks bad: the subject-matter, the image. It all looks a bit odd. Distinctly fishy.”

“Well, I can’t help that. It’s not fishy. I’m perfectly innocent, and that’s the truth.”

“Who’s the girl in the photographs? The one who looks about fifteen.”

“She was twenty-two. Just a model. It was a couple of years ago. I can’t remember her name.”

“Funny, that.”

“What is?”

“That you remember her age but not her name.”

Owen felt his heart pounding. Stott scrutinized him closely for a few seconds, then stood up abruptly. “You can go now,” he said. “I’m glad we could have our little chat.”

Owen was confused. “That’s it?”

“For the moment, yes. We’ll be in touch.”

Owen could hardly stand up quickly enough. He banged his knee on the underside of the metal desk and swore. He rubbed his knee and started to back towards the door. His face was burning. “I can really go?”

“Yes. But stay available.”

Owen was shaking when he got out of the police station and turned down Market Street towards home. Could they really treat you like that when you went along with them of your own free will? He had a feeling his rights were being trampled on and maybe it was time to look up Gordon Wharton.

The first thing he did when he got into the house was tear up the copy of Playboy and burn the pieces in the waste-bin, Cormac McCarthy story and all. Next, he took the video that Chris Lorimer had given him, pulled the tape out, broke the plastic casing and dumped it in the rubbish bin to burn too. At least they couldn’t use it as evidence against him now.

Finally, he went into the spare room and took the rest of the nude photographs of Michelle from his filing cabinet. He held them in his hands, ready to rip them into tiny pieces and burn them along with the rest, but as he held them he couldn’t help but look at them.

They were simple, tasteful chiaroscuro studies, and he could tell from the way Michelle’s eyes glittered and her mouth was set that she was holding back her laughter. He remembered how she had complained about goose-bumps, that he was taking so long setting up the lighting, then he remembered the wine and the wild lovemaking afterwards. She had liked being photographed naked; it had excited her.

His hands started to shake again. God, she looked so beautiful, so perfect, so young, so bloody innocent. Still shaking, he thrust the photos back in the cabinet and turned away, tears burning in his eyes.

II

While Stott and Hatchley were interviewing Owen Pierce, Banks drove out to St. Mary’s to see Lady Sylvie Harrison. He would have liked Susan with him, for her reactions and observations, but he knew he was risking Chief Constable Riddle’s wrath by having anything more to do with the Harrisons, and he didn’t want to get Susan into trouble.

She was right; she had worked hard and passed her sergeant’s exam, all but the rubber stamp, and he wouldn’t forgive himself easily if he ruined her chances of a quick promotion. He would be sad to lose her, though. Detective constables were rarely promoted straight to the rank of detective sergeant, and almost never in the same station; they usually went back in uniform for at least a year, then they had to reapply to the CID.

Before setting off, Banks had phoned the Harrison household and could hardly believe his luck. Sir Geoffrey was out with Michael Clayton, and Lady Harrison was at home alone. No, she said, with that faint trace of French accent, she would have no objections to talking to Banks without her husband present.

As he drove along North Market Street past the tourist shops and the community center where Sandra worked, Banks played the tape of Ute Lemper singing Michael Nyman’s musical adaptations of Paul Celan’s poems. It was odd music, and it had taken him some time to get used to it, but now he adored them all, found them pervaded by a sort of sinister melancholy.

It was a chilly day outside, gray and windy, skittering the leaves along the pavements. But at least the rain had stopped. Just as “Corona” was coming to an end, Banks pulled up at the end of the Harrisons’ drive.

Lady Harrison must have heard him coming because she opened the large white door for him as soon as he got out of the car. She wore jeans and a blue cashmere pullover. She hugged herself against the cold as she stood in the doorway.

She had done her best to cover up the marks of misery and pain on her face, but they were still apparent through the make-up, like distant figures looming in the fog.

This time, instead of heading for the white room, she hung up his overcoat and led him to the kitchen, which was done in what Banks thought of as a sort of rustic French style: lots of wood paneling and cupboards, copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging on hooks on the wall, flower-patterned mugs on wooden pegs, a few potted plants, a vase of chrysanthemums on the table and a red-and-white checked tablecloth. The room smelled of herbs and spices, cinnamon and rosemary being the two most prominent. A kettle was just coming to the boil on the red Aga.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Banks sat on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. Its legs scraped along the terracotta floor.

“Tea? I was just going to make some.”

“Fine,” said Banks.

“Ceylon, Darjeeling, Earl Gray or Lapsang Souchong?”

“Lapsang, if that’s all right.”

She smiled. “Exactly what I was going to have.”

Her movements were listless and Banks noticed that the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. It would probably be a long time before one did.

“Are you sure you’re all right here alone, Lady Harrison?” he asked.

“Yes. Actually, it was my idea. I sent Geoffrey out. He was getting on my nerves. I needed a little quiet time to…to get used to things. What would be the point of us both moping around the house all day? He’s used to action, to doing things. And please,” she added with a fleeting smile, “call me Sylvie.”

“Fine,” he said. “Sylvie it is.”

She measured out the leaves into a warmed pot-a rather squat, ugly piece with blue squiggles and a thick, straight spout-then sat down opposite Banks and let it brew.

“I’m sorry to intrude on your grief,” Banks said. “But there are still a lot of questions need answering.”

“Of course,” said Sylvie. “But Geoffrey told me this morning that you already have a suspect. Is it true?”

Interesting, Banks thought. He hadn’t realized there was a lodge meeting last night. Of course, as soon as Stott had tracked down Owen Pierce and sent his anorak off to the lab for analysis, Banks had let the chief constable know what was happening, and Riddle obviously hadn’t wasted much time in reporting to Sir Geoffrey. Ah, privilege.

“Someone’s helping us with our inquiries, yes,” he said, immediately regretting the trite phrase. “I mean, last night we talked to someone who was seen in the area on Monday evening. Detective Inspector Stott is interviewing him again now.”

“It’s not that man from the church, the one who was fired?”

“We don’t think so, but we’re still keeping an open mind about him.”

“Do you think this other person did it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him yet. We’re playing it very cautiously, very carefully. If he is the one, we want to be certain we don’t make any mistakes that will come back to haunt us when the case goes to court.”

“Sometimes,” mused Sylvie, “it seems that the system favors the criminal rather than the victim. Don’t you think?”

Tell me about it, thought Banks wearily. If they did think they’d got their man, next they would have to convince the Crown Prosecution Service they had a case-not always an easy job-then, after they had jumped through all the hoops, as often as not they could look forward to watching the accused’s lawyer tear the evidence to shreds. “Sometimes,” he agreed. “Did Deborah ever mention anyone called Owen Pierce?”

Sylvie frowned. “No. I’ve never heard the name before.”

Banks described Pierce, but it meant nothing to her.

She poured the tea, tilting her head slightly and biting the end of her tongue as she did so. The Lapsang smelled and tasted good, its smoky flavor a perfect foil for a gray, cold November day. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees and rattled the windows, creating dust devils and gathering the fallen leaves into whirlwinds. Sylvie Harrison put both hands around her mug, as if keeping them warm. “What do you want to know from me?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find out as much as I can about what Deborah was like. There are still a few gaps.”

“Such as?”

“Boyfriends, for example.”

“Ah, boyfriends. But Deborah was far too busy at school for boys. There was plenty of time for that later. After she finished her education.”

“Even so. There was the summer.”

Sylvie held his gaze. “She didn’t have a boyfriend.”

Banks paused, then said slowly, feeling as if he were digging his career grave with every word, “That’s not what I heard. Someone told me she had a boyfriend in August.”

Sylvie paled. She pressed her lips so tight together they almost turned white.

“Did she have a boyfriend?” Banks asked again.

Sylvie sighed, then nodded. “Yes. In the summer. But she finished with him.”

“Was his name John Spinks?”

She raised her eyebrows. “How did you know that?”

“You knew about him?”

She nodded. “Yes. He was a most unpleasant character.”

“Why do you think a bright, pretty girl like Deborah would go out with someone like that?”

A distant look came into her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose he was good-looking, perhaps exciting in a way. Sometimes one makes mistakes,” she said, with a shrug that Banks thought of as very Gallic. “Sometimes one makes a fool of oneself, does something with the wrong person for all the wrong reasons.”

“What reasons?”

She shrugged again. “A woman’s reasons. A young woman’s reasons.”

“Was Deborah having sex with John Spinks?”

Sylvie paused for a moment, then nodded and said with a sigh, “Yes. One day I came home unexpectedly and I caught them in Deborah’s bedroom. I was crazy with anger. I shouted at him and threw him out of the house and told him never to come back.”

“How did he react?”

She reddened. “He called me names I will not repeat in front of you.”

“Was he violent?”

“He didn’t hit me, if that’s what you mean.” She nodded in the direction of the hall. “There was a vase, not a very valuable vase, but a pretty one, a present from my father, on a stand by the door. He lifted it with both hands and threw it hard against the wall. One small chip of pottery broke off and cut my chin, that’s all.” She fingered the tiny scar.

“Did he leave after that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Sir Geoffrey about him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She paused before answering. “You must understand that Geoffrey can be very Victorian in some ways, especially concerning Deborah. I hadn’t even told him she was seeing the boy in the first place. He would have made things very uncomfortable for her if he’d known, given Spinks’s character and background. I…well…I’m a woman, and I think in some ways I understood what she was going through, more than Geoffrey would have, anyway. I’m not saying I approved, but it was something she had to get out of her system. Stopping her would only have made her more determined. In the long run it would probably have resulted in even more damage. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so. Did Deborah go on seeing Spinks?”

“No. I don’t think so. Not after he threw the vase. She was very upset about what happened and we had a long talk. She said she was really sorry, and she apologized to me. I like to think that she understood what I was telling her, what a waste of time seeing this Spinks boy was. She said she realized now what kind of person he was and she would never go near him again. She’d heard him curse me in the most vile manner. She’d seen him throw the vase at the wall, seen the sliver cut me, draw blood.” Sylvie touched the small scar again. “I think it truly shocked her, made her see him in a new light. Deborah is a good girl inside, Chief Inspector. Stubborn, willful, perhaps, but ultimately sensible too. And like a lot of girls her age, she is very naïve about men.”

“In what ways?”

“She didn’t understand the way they use women, manipulate them, or the power of their lust. I wanted her to learn to value herself. In sex, when the time came, as much as in everything else. Unless a woman respects her sexual self, she’s going to be every man’s victim all her life. Giving herself away to that…that animal was a bad way for her to start. You men don’t always understand how important that time of a woman’s life is.”

“Was she a virgin before she met Spinks?”

Sylvie nodded and curled her lip in disgust. “She told me all about it that night after the row. He stole a car, like so many youths do these days. They went for a ride out on the moors…” Her fists clenched as she talked. “And he did it to her in the back of the car.”

“Had you met him before that time?”

She nodded. “Just once. It was two or three weeks earlier. Deborah brought him to the house. It was a sunny day. They were out making a barbecue when I got back from shopping in Leeds.”

“What happened?”

“That time? Oh, nothing much. They were drinking. No doubt at the boy’s instigation, Deborah had taken a bottle of my father’s estate wine from the cellar. I was a little angry with them, but not too much. You must remember, Chief Inspector, that I grew up in France. We had wine with every meal, taken with a little water when we were children, so drinking under age hardly seems the great sin it does to you English.”

“What was your impression of John Spinks?”

“He was very much a boy of single syllables. He didn’t have much to say for himself at all. I’ll admit I didn’t like him right from the start. Call me a snob, if you like, but it’s true. After he’d gone, I told her he wasn’t good enough for her and that she should consider breaking off with him.”

“How did she react to that?”

Sylvie smiled sadly. “The way any sixteen-year-old girl would. She told me she’d see who she wanted and that I should mind my own business and stop trying to run her life.”

“Exactly what my daughter said in the same situation,” said Banks. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Spinks?”

Sylvie sipped some tea, then she went to fetch her handbag. She slipped her hand inside and pulled out a packet of Dunhill. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” she asked. “Why I should ask permission in my own house, I don’t know. It’s just, these days…the anti-smoking brigade…they get to you. It’s only in moments of stress I revert to the habit.”

“I know what you mean,” said Banks, pulling his Silk Cut out with a conspiratorial smile. “May I join you?”

“That would be even better. Geoffrey will go spare, of course. He thinks I’ve stopped.”

The phrase “go spare” sounded odd with that sight French lilt to it; such a Yorkshire phrase, Banks thought.

“Your husband told me you’re from Bordeaux,” Banks said, accepting a light from her slim gold lighter.

Sylvie nodded. “My father is in the wine business. A négociant. One of la noblesse du bouchon.”

“I’m afraid my French is very rusty.”

“Literally, it means ‘the bottle-cork nobility.’ It’s a collective term for the négociants of a great wine center, like Bordeaux.”

“I suppose it means he’s rich?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Very. Anyway, I met Geoffrey when he was on a wine-tasting tour of the area. It must have been, oh, seventeen years ago. I was only nineteen at the time. Geoffrey was thirty.”

“And Sir Geoffrey fell in love with the négociant’s daughter? How romantic.”

Sylvie dredged up another sad smile. “Yes, it was romantic.” Then she drew deep on her cigarette and let the smoke out of her nose. “You asked if there was anything else about Spinks, Chief Inspector. Yes, there was. Things had been going missing from the house.”

“Missing? Like what?”

She shrugged. “A silver snuffbox. Not very valuable, though it might look antique to the untrained eye. Some foreign currency. A pair of silver earrings. Little things like that.”

“Since Deborah had been seeing Spinks?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’m almost certain of it. Deborah wouldn’t do anything like that. I’m not saying she was a saint-obviously not-but at least she was honest. She was no thief.”

“Did you challenge her about the stolen articles?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she didn’t know about the missing things but she would talk to him.”

“Did she tell you what he said?”

“She said he denied it.”

“Did Spinks ever bother either of you after that day you threw him out?”

Sylvie frowned and stubbed out her cigarette. She rubbed the back of her hand over her lips as if to get rid of the taste. “He made threats. One day, he came to the house when both Deborah and Geoffrey were out.”

“What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything. Nothing physical, if that’s what you mean. If he had, I wouldn’t have hesitated to call the police. I tried to close the door on him, but he pushed his way in and asked for money.”

“Did you give him any?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“He said if I didn’t give him money, he would keep on seeing Deborah, and that he would get her pregnant, make himself part of the family.” She shuddered. “He was disgusting.”

“And you still didn’t give him anything?”

“No. Then he said if I didn’t give him money he would start spreading the word around that he had deflowered Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s daughter. That she was nothing but a slut. He said he would spread it around St. Mary’s and get her expelled, and he would make sure people in the business community knew so that they would all laugh at Geoffrey behind his back.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I was too shocked. Luckily, Michael was here at the time. He handled it.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. I was so upset I went upstairs. All I can say is that I heard nothing more of the matter after that. Spinks disappeared from our lives just as if he had never been there in the first place. Not without leaving some damage, of course.”

“Did he ever threaten to harm Deborah physically?”

Sylvie shook her head. “Not that I heard.”

“But he certainly seemed capable of acting violently?”

She touched her scar again. “Yes. Do you think…?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Banks. “But anything’s possible. Did Mr. Clayton know about Spinks from the start?”

“Yes. He dropped by the house that time when they were having the barbecue. He said something to Spinks about the drinking and Spinks was very rude. Michael agreed with me then that Deborah was wasted on the boy. And I told him about…when I found them together in bed. I had to tell someone.”

Clayton seemed to be dropping by Sir Geoffrey’s house an awful lot, Banks thought. Especially when Sir Geoffrey wasn’t there but Sylvie was.

“Does Mr. Clayton have any family of his own?” he asked.

“Michael? No. He and his wife, Gillian, split up three years ago. It was a childless marriage.” She smiled. “I think part of the problem was that Michael is married to his work. Sometimes I think he has his computers wired directly to his brain. He has a girlfriend in Seattle now, and that seems ideal for him. Long-distance romance. He travels there quite often on company business.”

“How long have he and Sir Geoffrey known one another?”

“Since Oxford. They’ve always been inseparable. In fact, Michael was with Geoffrey when we met.”

Banks paused for a moment and sipped some lukewarm tea. “Do you know any of the teachers at St. Mary’s?” he asked.

“Some of them. When you pay as much money to send your child to school as we do, you tend to have some say in the way the place is run.”

“And?”

“And St. Mary’s is an excellent school. Wonderful facilities, good staff, a healthy atmosphere…I could go on.”

“Did you ever get the sense there was anything unpleasant going on there?”

“Unpleasant?”

“I’m sorry I can’t be any more precise than that. But if anyone, or any group, was up to something at school-something illegal, such as drugs-and if Deborah found out about it…She was attacked on her way home from school, after all. Someone could have followed her from there.”

Sylvie shook her head slowly. “The things you policemen dream up. No, I never heard the slightest hint of a rumor of anything wrong at St. Mary’s. And I believe one does hear about these things, if they are going on.”

“Did you have any reason to think John Spinks or anyone else might have introduced Deborah to drugs?”

She sighed. “I can’t say I didn’t worry about it.” Then she shook her head. “But I don’t think so. I never saw any signs. Deborah was a very active girl. She valued her physical health, her athletic prowess, far too much to damage it with drugs.”

“Do you know Patrick Metcalfe?”

“I’ve met him, yes.”

“Did Deborah ever talk about him?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Did she like him?”

“She didn’t say one way or the other. She did quite well at history, though it wasn’t her best subject. But why do you ask?”

“He’s just part of the tapestry, that’s all. Maybe not an important part. Did Deborah have any contact with the church after you and your husband stopped going?”

“I don’t think so. Geoffrey was quite adamant that we all stay away. But the school and the church remained close. She may have had some contact.” She rubbed her eyes and stood up. “Please excuse me, Chief Inspector, but I’m feeling very tired. I think I’ve told you all I can for the moment. And I hope you’ll be discreet. I’d prefer it if you didn’t let Geoffrey know about what I’ve told you today.”

Banks smiled. “Of course not. Not if you don’t tell him I’ve been here. I’m afraid my boss-”

But before he could get the words out, the front door opened and shut and Sir Geoffrey shouted out, “I’m home, darling. How is everything?”

III

At the back of Eastvale bus station, past the noise of revving engines and the stink of diesel fumes, a pair of heavy glass doors led past the small newsagent’s booth to an escalator that rarely worked.

At the top of the staircase, a shop-lined corridor ended in an open, glass-roofed area with a central fountain surrounded by a few small, tatty trees in wooden planters. The Swainsdale Center.

Several other corridors, leading from other street entrances, also converged like spokes at the hub. There were shops all around-HMV, Boots, W.H. Smith, Curry’s, Dixon’s-but at six-thirty that Wednesday evening, none of them were open. Only the small coffee shop was doing any business at all-if you could call two cups of tea and a Penguin biscuit in the last two hours “business.”

The teenagers hung out around the fountain, usually leaning against the trees or sitting on the benches that had been put up for little old ladies to rest their feet. No little old ladies dared go near them now.

A number of pennies gleamed at the bottom of the pool into which the fountain ran. God knew why people felt they had to chuck coins in water, Banks thought. But the small pool was mostly full of floating cigarette ends, cellophane, Mars bar wrappers, beer tins, plastic bags containing traces of solvent, and the occasional used condom.

Banks experienced a brief flash of anger as he approached, imagining Tracy standing there as one of this motley crowd, smoking, drinking beer, pushing one another playfully, raising their voices in occasional obscenities or sudden whoops, and generally behaving as teenagers do.

Then he reminded himself, as he constantly had to do these days, that he hadn’t been much different himself at their age, and that as often as not, beneath the braggadocio and the rough exteriors, most of them were pretty decent kids at heart.

Except John Spinks.

According to Tracy, Spinks was a hero of sorts among the group because of his oft-recounted but never-detected criminal exploits. She thought he made most of them up, but even she had to admit that he occasionally shared his ill-gotten gains with the others in the form of cigarettes and beer. As he didn’t work and couldn’t have got very much from the dole, he clearly had to supplement his income through criminal activities. And he never seemed short of a few quid for a new leather jacket.

He lived with his mum on the East Side Estate, a decaying monument to the sixties’ social optimism, but he never talked much about his home life.

He had boasted of going to an “Acid House” party in Manchester once, Tracy said, and claimed he took Ecstasy there. He had also tried glue-sniffing, but thought it was kids’ stuff and it gave you spots. He was proud of his clear complexion.

Spinks, standing a head taller than the rest, was immediately recognizable from Tracy’s description. His light-brown hair was short at the back and sides, and long on top, with one long lock half-covering the left side of his face. He wore jeans, trainers with the laces untied and a mid-length flak jacket.

When Banks and Hatchley approached, showed their warrant cards and asked for a private little chat, he didn’t run, curse them or protest, but simply shrugged and said, “Sure,” then he gave his mates a sideways grin as he went.

They went into the coffee shop, took a table, and Hatchley fetched three coffees and a couple of chocolate biscuits. The owner’s face lit up; it was more business than she’d done in ages.

In a way, Tracy was right; Spinks did resemble someone from “Neighbors.” Clean cut, with that smooth complexion, he had full lips, perhaps a shade too red for a boy, brown eyes that could probably melt a young girl’s heart, and straight, white teeth, the front ones stained only slightly by tobacco. He accepted the cigarette Banks offered and broke off the filter before smoking it.

“You Tracy Banks’s dad, then?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“She said her father were a copper. Nice bit of stuff, Tracy is. I’ve had my eyes on her for a while. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for a few weeks. What’s she up to, these days?”

Banks smiled. It hadn’t taken long to get past the good looks to the slimy, vain and cocky little creep underneath. Now he knew he wouldn’t feel bad, no matter what he had to do to get Spinks to talk.

When Banks didn’t answer, Spinks faltered only slightly before saying, “Why don’t you ask her to drop by one evening? She knows where I am. We could have a really good time. Know what I mean?”

“One more remark like that,” Hatchley cut in, “and you’ll be mopping blood from your face for the rest of our little chat.”

“Threats now, is it?” He shrugged. “What’s it matter, anyway? I’ve already had the little bitch and she’s not-”

The woman behind the counter looked over just after Spinks’s face bounced off the table, and she hurried over with a cloth to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

“That’s police brutality,” Spinks protested, his words muffled by the cool, wet cloth. “Broke my fucking nose. Did you see that?”

“Me?” said the woman. “Didn’t see nothing. And there’s no call for that sort of language in here. You can keep the cloth.” Then she scurried back behind the counter.

“Funny,” said Banks, “I was looking the other way, too.” He leaned forward. “Now listen you little arse-wipe, let’s start again. Only this time, I ask the questions and you answer them. Okay?”

Spinks muttered a curse through the rag.

“Okay?” Banks asked again.

Spinks took the cloth away. The flow of blood seemed to have abated, and he only dabbed at it sulkily now and then throughout the interview. “You’ve broken my tooth,” he whined. “That’ll cost money. I was only joking, anyway, about your-”

“Deborah Harrison,” Banks said. “Name ring a bell?”

Spinks averted his eyes. “Sure. It’s that schoolkid from St. Mary’s got herself killed the other day. All over the news.”

“She didn’t ‘get herself’ killed. Someone murdered her.”

“Whatever.” The lock of hair kept slipping down over Spinks’s eye, and he had developed the habit of twitching his head to flick it back in place. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t kill her.”

“Where were you on Monday around six o’clock?”

“Was that the day it was really foggy?”

“Yes.”

“I was here.” He pointed to the group outside. “Ask anyone. Go on, ask them.”

Banks nodded at Sergeant Hatchley, who went out to talk to the youths.

“Besides,” Spinks went on, “why would I want to kill her?”

“You went out together over the summer and you parted on bad terms. You were angry with her, you wanted revenge.”

He probed his tooth and winced. “That’s a load of old knob-rot, that is. Besides, they wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

“Who wasn’t?”

“Them. The French tart and that bloody Clayton. They went to enough trouble to stop me from telling anyone, now they go and tell you themselves. Bloody stupid, it is. Doesn’t make sense. Unless they just wanted to drop me in it.” He dabbed at his red nose.

Hatchley came back inside and nodded.

“They telling the truth?” Banks asked.

“Hard to say. Like Jelačić’s mates, they’d probably say black was white if young Lochinvar over here told them to.”

Banks studied Spinks, who showed no emotion, but kept dabbing at his nose and probing his tooth with his tongue. “What did Michael Clayton do to stop you from talking?” he asked.

Spinks looked down into the bloodstained rag. “Imagine how it would sound if some newspaper got hold of the story that an East Side Estate yobbo like me had been sticking it to Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s daughter.”

“That’s why. I asked you what.”

“Gave me some money.”

“Who did?”

“Clayton.”

“Michael Clayton gave you money to stay away from Deborah?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How much?”

“Hundred quid.”

“So you admit to blackmailing Lady Harrison?”

“Nothing of the sort. Look, if you sell a story to the papers, they pay you for it, don’t they? So why shouldn’t you get paid if you don’t sell the papers a story?”

“Your logic is impeccable, John. I can see you didn’t waste your time in school.”

Spinks laughed. “School? Hardly ever there, was I?”

“Was Deborah there when you went to ask for money?”

“Nah. Just the two of them. Clayton and the old bag.” He put on a posh accent. “It was Deborah’s day for riding, don’t you know. Dressage. Got a horse out Middleham way. Always did like hot flesh throbbing between her legs, did Deborah.”

“So the two of them had a talk with you?”

“That’s right.”

“And after Lady Harrison had gone upstairs, Michael Clayton hit you and gave you a hundred pounds.”

“Like I said, we came to an arrangement. Then her ladyship came back and said if she ever heard I’d been talking about her daughter, she would tell Sir Geoffrey and he’d probably have me killed.”

“You blackmailed her and she threatened you with murder?”

“Yeah. Get away with anything, those rich fuckers. Just like the pigs.”

“You’ve been listening to too many Jefferson Airplane records, John. They don’t call us pigs now.”

“Once a pig, always a pig. And it’s compact discs now, not records. Jefferson Airplane, indeed. You’re showing your age.”

“Oh, spare us the witty repartee. Did you see Deborah again after that?”

“No.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with St. Mary’s Church, with Daniel Charters and his wife, or with Ive Jelačić?”

“Church? Me? You must be fucking joking.”

“Did Deborah ever mention an important secret she had?”

“What secret?”

“You’re not being very co-operative, Johnny.”

“I don’t know anything about no secret. And my name’s John. What you gonna do? Arrest me?”

Banks took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know yet. If you didn’t kill Deborah, who do you think did?”

“Some psycho.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“I saw it on telly. That’s what they said.”

“You believe everything you hear on telly?”

“Well if it wasn’t a psycho, who was it?”

Banks sighed and lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t offer Spinks one. “That’s what I’m asking you.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, wake up, John boy.”

Spinks dabbed at his nose; it had stopped bleeding now. “How should I know?”

“You knew her. You spent time with her. Did she have any enemies? Did she ever talk to you about her life?”

“What? No. Mostly we just fucked, if you want to know the truth. Apart from that, she was boring. Always on about horses and school. And always bloody picking on things I said and the way I said them.”

“Well, she was an educated woman, John. I realize it would have been hard for you to keep up with her intellectually.”

“Like I said, she was only good for one thing.”

“I understand you once stole a car and took Deborah for a joyride?”

“I…Now, hang on just a minute. I don’t know who’s been spreading vicious rumors about me, but I never stole no car. Can’t even drive, can I?” He took a pouch of Drum from his flak-jacket pocket and rolled a cigarette.

“What about drugs?”

“Never touch them. Stay clean. That’s my motto.”

“I’ll bet if we had a look through his pockets,” said Sergeant Hatchley, “we’d probably find enough to lock him up for.”

Banks stared at Spinks for a moment, as if considering the idea. He saw something shift in the boy’s eyes. Guilt. Fear.

“No,” he said, standing up. “He’s not worth the paperwork. We’ll leave him be for the moment. But,” he went on, “we’ll probably be back, so don’t wander too far. I want you to know you’re looking good for this, John. You’ve got quite a temper, so we hear, and you had every reason to hold a grudge against the victim. And one more thing.”

Spinks raised his eyebrows. Banks leaned forward, rested his hands on the table and lowered his voice. “If I ever catch you within a mile of my daughter, you’ll think that bloody nose Sergeant Hatchley gave you was a friendly pat on the back.”

IV

At home later that evening, after dinner, when Tracy had gone up to her room to do her homework, Banks and Sandra found a couple of hours to themselves at last. With Elgar’s first symphony playing quietly on the stereo, Banks poured himself a small Laphroaig and Sandra a Drambuie with ice. He wouldn’t smoke tonight, not at home, he decided, even though the peaty bite of the Islay almost screamed out for an accompaniment of nicotine.

First, Banks told Sandra about John Spinks and his visit to Sylvie Harrison.

“I thought the chief constable ruled the family off-limits,” she said.

“He did.” Banks shrugged. “Actually, I just escaped by the skin of my teeth. Sir Geoffrey came in and caught me talking to her. A word in Jimmy Riddle’s ear and my name would be mud. Luckily, Lady Harrison didn’t want him to know we’d been talking about Deborah’s boyfriend, so she told him I’d just dropped by to give them a progress report. He was more annoyed that she’d been smoking than he was about my presence.”

“This Spinks,” Sandra said. “He sounds like a bad character. Do you think Tracy had anything to do with him?”

Banks shook his head. “He was part of the crowd, that’s all. She’s got more sense than that.”

“Deborah Harrison obviously didn’t have.”

“We all make mistakes.” Banks stood up and walked towards the hall.

“Oh, go on,” Sandra said with a smile. “Have a cigarette if you want one. It’s been a tough day at the gallery. I might even join you.” Sandra had stopped smoking some years ago, but she seemed able to cheat occasionally without falling back into the habit. Banks envied her that.

As it turned out, Banks hadn’t been going for his cigarettes but for the photograph that Stott and Hatchley had got from Owen Pierce. Still, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he weakened and brought the Silk Cut from his overcoat pocket.

Once they had both lit up and the Elgar was moving into the adagio, Banks slid the photograph out of the envelope and passed it to Sandra.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Very pretty. But not your type, surely. Her breasts are too small for your taste.”

“That’s not what I meant. And I’ve got nothing against small breasts.”

Sandra dug her elbow in his side and smiled. “I’m teasing.”

“You think I didn’t know that? Seriously, though, what do you think? Professionally.”

Sandra frowned. “It’s not her, is it? Not the girl who was killed?”

“No. Do you see a resemblance, though?”

Sandra shifted sideways and held the photo under the shaded lamp. “Yes, a bit. The newspaper photo wasn’t very good, mind you. And teenage girls are still, in some ways, unformed. If they’ve got similar hair color and style, and they’re about the same height and shape, you can construe a likeness easily enough.”

“Apparently she’s not a teenager. She was twenty-two when that was taken.”

Sandra raised her dark eyebrows. “Would we could all look so many years younger than we are.”

“What do you think of the style?”

“As a photograph, it’s good. Very good in fact. It’s an excellent composition. The pose looks natural and the lighting is superb. See how it brings out that hollow below the breasts and the ever-so slight swell of her tummy? You can even see where the light catches the tiny hairs on her skin. And it has a mood, too, a unity. There’s a sort of secret smile on her face. A bit Mona Lisa-ish. A strong rapport with the photographer.”

“Do you think she knew him?”

Sandra studied the photograph for a few seconds in silence, Elgar playing softly in the background. “They were lovers,” she said finally. “I’ll bet you a pound to a penny they were lovers.”

“Women’s intuition?”

Sandra gave him another dig in the ribs. Harder this time. Then she passed him the photo. “No. Just look at her eyes, Alan, the laughter, the way she’s looking at him. It’s obvious.”

When he looked more closely, Banks knew that Sandra was right. It was obvious. Men and women only looked like that at one another when they had slept together, or were about to. He couldn’t explain why, certainly couldn’t offer any proof or evidence, but like Sandra, he knew. And Barry Stott had said that Pierce denied knowing the woman. The next job, then, was to find her and discover why. Banks would wait for the initial forensic results, then he’d have a long chat with Owen Pierce himself.