Innocent Graves

I

The man who sat before Banks in the interview room at two o’clock that Saturday afternoon looked very angry. Banks didn’t blame him. He would have been angry, himself, if two hulking great coppers had come and dragged him off to the police station on his day off, especially with it being Remembrance Day, too.

But it couldn’t be helped. Banks would rather have been at home listening to Britten’s War Requiem as he did every November 11, but it would have to wait. New information had come in. It was time for him to talk to Owen Pierce in person.

“Relax, Owen,” said Banks. “We’re probably going to be here for a while, so there’s no point letting your blood pressure go right off the scale.”

“Why don’t you just get on with it,” Owen said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Banks sighed. “Me, too, Owen. Me too.” He put new tapes in the double-cassette recorder, then he told Owen that the interview was being taped, and, as before, stated the names of everyone in the room, along with the time, place and date.

Susan Gay was the only other person present. Her role was mostly to observe, but Banks would give her the chance to ask a question or two. They were taking a “fresh team” approach-so far only Stott and Hatchley had interviewed Pierce-and Banks had already spent a couple of hours that morning going over the previous interview transcripts.

“Okay,” Banks began, “first let me caution you that you do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention now something which you later use in your defense, the court may decide that your failure to mention it strengthens the case against you. A record will be made of anything you say and it may be given in evidence if you are brought to trial.”

Owen swallowed. “Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

“No,” said Banks. “It’s just a formality, so we all know what’s what. I understand you’ve been informed about your right to a solicitor?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve waived it?”

“For the moment, yes. I keep telling you, I haven’t done anything. Why should I have to pay for a solicitor?”

“Good point. They can be very expensive. Now then, Owen, can we just go over last Monday evening one more time, please?”

Owen sighed and told them exactly the same as he had told Stott the last time and the time before that.

“And you never, at any time that day, had contact with the victim, Deborah Harrison?”

“No. How could I? I had no idea who she was.”

“You’re quite sure you didn’t meet her?”

“I told you, no.”

“Why were you in the area?”

“Just walking.”

“Oh, come on. Do you think I was born yesterday, Owen? Hey? You had a meeting with Deborah, didn’t you? You knew her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I know someone like her?”

Banks reached down into his briefcase and pushed the photograph across the desk. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Just a model.”

“Look at it, Owen. Look closely. You know her. Any idiot can see that.”

Banks watched Owen turn pale and lick his lips. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “She was just a model.”

“Bollocks she was just a model. Have you noticed her resemblance to the murdered girl?” Banks set a photograph of Deborah Harrison next to it.

Owen looked away. “I can’t say I have.”

“Look again.”

Owen looked and shook his head. “No.”

“And you still maintain that you’ve never met Deborah Harrison?”

“That’s right.” He looked at his watch. “Look, when is this farce going to end? I’ve got work to do.”

Banks glanced over at Susan and nodded. She leaned forward and placed two labeled packages on the desk. “The thing is, Owen,” Banks said, “that this evidence shows otherwise.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

“Hair, Owen. Hair.” Banks tapped the first envelope. “To cut a long story short, this envelope contains samples of hairs taken from those we found on the anorak you were wearing on Monday evening when you went for your walk, the one you gave us permission to test. There are a number of hairs that our experts have identified as coming from the head of Deborah Harrison.”

Owen grasped the edge of the desk. “But they can’t be! You must be mistaken.”

Banks shook his head gravely. “Oh, I could bore you with the scientific details about the medulla and the cortex and so on, but you can take my word for it-they match.”

Owen said nothing. Susan pushed the other package forward. “Now this,” Banks said, “contains hair samples taken from Deborah Harrison’s school blazer. Oddly enough, some of these hairs have been positively identified as yours, again matched with the samples you freely allowed us to take the other day.” Banks sat back and folded his arms. “I think you’ve got quite a bit of explaining to do, haven’t you, Owen?”

“You’re trying to set me up. Those hairs aren’t mine. They can’t be. You’re lying to get me to confess, aren’t you?”

“Confess to what, Owen?”

Owen smiled. “You’re not going to catch me out as easily as that.”

Banks leaned forward and rested his palm on the desk. “Read my lips, Owen,” he said. “We’re not lying. The hairs are yours.”

Owen ran his hand through his hair. “Wait a minute. There must be some simple explanation for this. There’s got to be.”

“I hope so,” said Banks. “I’d really like to hear it.”

Owen bit his lip and concentrated. “The only thing I can think of,” he said after a few moments, “is that when I was on the bridge, someone bumped into me. It all happened so fast. I was turning from looking over the river, and she knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t get a really good look because she disappeared into the fog and I only saw her from behind, but I think she had long fair hair and wore a maroon blazer and skirt. It could have been her, couldn’t it? That could have been how it happened, couldn’t it?”

Banks frowned and looked through the notes in front of him. “I don’t understand, Owen. When you talked to DI Stott and DS Hatchley you didn’t say anything about this.”

“I know.” Owen looked away. “At first I just forgot, then, well…when I remembered, when I’d seen the paper and knew why they’d been questioning me…Well, I’d already not said anything, so I suppose I was worried it would look bad if I spoke up then.”

“Look bad? But how could it, Owen? How could it look bad if you simply said the girl might have bumped into you? What were you afraid of?”

“Yes, but I mean, if it really had been Deborah Harrison…I don’t know. Besides, I couldn’t be sure it was her. It just seemed like the best thing to do at the time. Keep quiet. It didn’t seem important. I’m sorry if it caused you any problems.”

“Caused us any problems? Not really, Owen. But it has caused you quite a few. It’s funny you should mention it now, though, isn’t it, now we’ve matched the hair samples?”

“Yes, well…I told you. Look, you can check, can’t you? Didn’t her friend see me? I could just see her through the fog.”

Banks tapped the two envelopes. “What if she did see you? That doesn’t help your case at all, does it? In fact, it makes things worse.”

“But I never denied being on the bridge.”

“No. But you led us to believe you didn’t see Deborah Harrison. Now you’re changing your story. I’d like to know why.”

“I was confused, that’s all.”

“I understand that, Owen. But why didn’t you tell the detectives who first interviewed you that you’d seen Deborah that night?”

“I told you. It slipped my mind. After all, I had no idea why the detectives were talking to me. Then later, when I knew…well, I was worried that this was exactly the kind of thing that would happen if I did tell you, that you would misconstrue it.”

“Misconstrue?”

“Yes. Misinterpret, distort, misunderstand.”

“I know what the word means, Owen,” said Banks. “I don’t need a bloody thesaurus, thank you very much. I just don’t see how it applies in your case.”

“I’m sorry. Just put it down to an English teacher’s pedantry. What I mean is, I thought you’d read more into it, that’s all. When you get right down to it, it’s not very much in the way of evidence, is it? You have to admit.” Owen attempted a smile, but it came out crooked. “I mean, a couple of hairs. Hardly enough to stand up in court, is it?”

“Don’t get clever with me, sonny.”

“I…I wasn’t. I was just pointing out, that’s all.”

“But we don’t know how the hairs got where they did, do we?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Maybe it happened when she bumped into me.”

“If it was her who bumped into you.”

“I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“But I can. See, you’ve lied to us before, Owen. To DI Stott and DS Hatchley. Why should we believe you now?”

Owen swallowed. His Adam’s apple bumped up and down. “Lied?”

“Well, you never told us about seeing Deborah, or about bumping into her for that matter. That’s a lie of a kind, isn’t it? You might call it a lie of omission. And you also said you didn’t know the girl in the photo, but you do know her, don’t you?”

“No. I-”

Banks sighed. “Look, Owen, I’m giving you a chance to dig yourself out of this hole before it’s too late. We’ve talked to the landlord of the Nag’s Head again, showed him the picture of this ‘model.’ He says you’ve been in the pub with her on a number of occasions. He’s seen you together. What do you have to say about that?”

Banks noticed the sweat start beading on Owen’s forehead. “All right, I know her. Knew her. But I don’t see how it’s relevant in any way. She was my girlfriend. We lived together. Does that satisfy you?”

“Who is she? Where is she now? What happened to her?”

Owen put his hands over his ears. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Surely you can’t think that I’ve killed Michelle, too?”

“Too? As well as who?”

“For Christ’s sake. It’s a figure of speech.”

“I’d have thought a pedantic English teacher like yourself would be more careful with his figures of speech.”

“Yes, well, I’m upset.”

“This Michelle, what happened?”

“We lived together for nearly five years, then we split up over the summer. Simple as that.”

“And where is she now?”

“She lives in London. In Swiss Cottage.”

“Why did you split up?”

“Why does anyone split up?”

“Irreconcilable differences?” Banks suggested.

Owen laughed harshly. “Yes. That’ll do. Irreconcilable differences. You could call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

“It’s none of your business. But there is something else. It’s got nothing to do with this at all, but if it’ll help…”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s the reason I was out walking. It was the anniversary. The anniversary of the day we met. I was a little down, a bit sad. We used to go for walks by the river, as far as St. Mary’s, or even further, and we’d sometimes drop in at the Nag’s Head to wet our whistles. So I just went for that long walk to get it out of my system.”

“You were upset?”

“Of course I was upset. I loved her.”

“And did you get it out of your system?”

“To a certain extent.”

“How did you get it out of your system?”

“Oh, this is absurd. You’ve got a one-track mind. There’s no point talking to you any more.”

“Maybe not, Owen. But you’ve got to admit things are looking pretty bleak. You lied to us four times.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Once about why you were out walking, once about never meeting Deborah Harrison, once about not knowing the girl in the photo and once again about never having lived with anyone. All lies, Owen. You see what a position it puts me in?”

“But they were all so…such small lies. Yes, all right, I lied. I admit it. But that’s all. I haven’t harmed anyone.”

At that point came the soft knock at the door that Banks had arranged earlier. He turned off the tape recorders and told the person to come in. DI Stott entered, nodded quickly at Owen Pierce and apologized for disturbing them. Then he handed a report to Banks and stood by the door.

Banks glanced over the sheets of paper, taking his time, pretending he didn’t already know the information they contained. When he had finished, he passed them to Susan. All the time, he was aware of Owen’s discomfort and restlessness. Susan read the report and raised her eyebrows. Banks thought they were overacting a bit, behaving like doctors who had just looked at the X-rays and found out their patient had an inoperable tumor. But it was working. Pierce was really sweating now.

Banks turned the tape recorders on again, explaining briefly why he had turned them off and adding that DI Stott was now also in the room. “Results of the blood tests,” he said to Owen.

“What blood tests?”

“Remember, we took samples the other day?”

“Yes, but…”

“With your permission.”

“I know, but-”

“Well, we also found a small dried bloodstain on your anorak, and according to this report, Owen, it’s Deborah Harrison’s blood group, not yours. Can you explain that?”

“I…I…”

The three detectives remained silent for a few moments as Owen struggled for an explanation. Then Banks spoke up again. “Come on, Owen,” he said. “Tell us about it. It’ll do you good.”

Owen slammed his fist on the table. “There’s nothing to tell! I saw a girl. She bumped into me. Then she ran off. She might have been Deborah Harrison. It was foggy. I didn’t get a clear enough look. That’s all that happened. I don’t know how her blood got there. You’re trying to frame me. You’re planting evidence.”

“You’re starting to sound a bit desperate now, Owen,” Banks said. “Clutching at straws. Why don’t you calm down and tell us all about it?”

“But why would I have killed the girl? What possible reason could I have? Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because you didn’t tell us the truth. That means you had something to hide. And there’s something else, too.”

“What?”

“We found your blood under Deborah Harrison’s fingernails. What do you have to say to that?”

“Nothing,” Owen said, “I want a solicitor. Now. I’m not saying another word until I get a solicitor.”

“That’s your right,” said Banks. “But just hear me out for a moment before you do or say anything else. You’ll feel much better if you just tell us what happened. And it’ll go better for you in the long run. When you saw Deborah Harrison on the bridge, she reminded you of this Michelle, didn’t she? The girl you were upset about. Were you punishing Michelle through Deborah, Owen? Is that what all this was about? What did she do to you?”

Owen broke off eye contact. “Nothing,” he said. “This is all just speculation. It’s rubbish.”

“You followed her into the graveyard and you approached her, didn’t you?” Banks went on, resting his elbows on the desk and speaking softly. “Maybe you offered her a fiver to toss you off so you could pretend it was Michelle doing it. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. But she reacted badly. She got scared. You dragged her off the path, behind the Inchcliffe Mausoleum. It was dark and foggy and quiet there. You were going to give her what for, weren’t you? Give it to her good and proper just to show her she couldn’t do what she did to you and get away with it? All your anger burst out, didn’t it, Owen? What happened? Couldn’t you get it up? What did Michelle do to you? It was her you were strangling, wasn’t it? Why did you lie about knowing her?”

Owen put his head in his hands and groaned. Banks packed up his papers, stood and nodded to Stott, who said, “Owen Pierce, you have already been cautioned and now we’re going to put you under arrest. I’m going to ask you to come with me to the custody officer. Do you understand me, Owen?”

II

Stott had called it the “custody suite” on the way down, and the sign on the door said “Charge Room,” but to Owen it resembled nothing less than the entrance to hell. Abandon all hope…

It was a cavernous room in the basement of the old Tudor-fronted Eastvale Regional HQ, full of noise and activity. Saturday afternoon was one of the busiest times in the Eastvale custody suite. Today, in addition to the usual Saturday bouts of shoplifting, hooliganism and drunkenness, Eastvale United were playing at home to arch-rivals, Ripon, and there had already been plenty of violence both on and off the field.

The flaking paint had obviously once been an attempt at a cheerful lemon color; now it looked like a nicotine stain. Owen sat between Stott and Hatchley on a hard bench opposite elevated, joined desks, screwed to the floor, that ran the whole length of the room like a counter. Behind the desks, about six or seven uniformed police officers typed, bustled about, shouted, laughed, filled in forms and questioned people, presided over by the custody sergeant himself. The contrast between the real smell of fear and this slick, bureaucratic activity brought, for Owen, its special brand of terror, like a hospital casualty department where ripped flesh bleeds and pristine machines hiss and beep.

At the moment, a drunk with a bloody face leaned over the desk singing “Danny Boy” at the custody sergeant, who was trying to get his personal details. On the benches near Owen sat a couple of gloomy skinheads, laces missing from their bovver boots; a man who resembled nothing more than a bank clerk, perhaps an embezzler, Owen thought; and a nervous-looking young woman, smartly dressed, biting her lip. A kleptomaniac?

Another man at the desk started arguing with one of the officers about being picked on because he was black. The drunk paused in his song to look over and shout, “Bloody right, too. Ought to go back to the bloody jungle where you came from, Sambo,” then he emitted a technicolor whoosh of vomit all over the desk and sank to his knees on the floor to clutch his stomach and whimper. The sergeant swore and jumped backwards, but he wasn’t quick enough to prevent some of the vomit from spattering the front of his uniform.

“Get that bastard out of here!” he yelled. In the room’s eerie acoustics, his voice rose, echoed wildly, then fell dead.

Adrenalin pumped through Owen’s system. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and almost gagged on the stink of vomit and ammonia cleaning fluid that permeated the stale air.

An officer filled in names, numbers, charges and times with a black marker on a white board. Posters covered the walls: one gave a graphic warning about the possible consequences of driving while drunk; one informed prisoners of their rights; a third showed sign language; another advised officers to wear gloves when dealing with vomit and blood due to possible AIDS and Hepatitis B exposure.

Two officers dragged the drunk out and another started clearing up the mess with a mop, cloth and a bucket of Lysol. He was wearing plastic gloves. Blood had dripped on the pale green linoleum. Even the skinheads looked cowed by it all.

Owen kept trying to convince himself that the nightmare would end any moment and he would wake up and find himself out shopping with the rest of the Saturday crowd. Perhaps he would go to HMV in the Swainsdale Center and buy the new Van Morrison CD. Then, maybe a pint or two and a nice dinner out, Chinese or Indian, just to celebrate. Alone, the way he liked it best.

Or perhaps the policemen would rip off their uniforms to reveal clowns’ costumes underneath, and Stott would break into a song and dance number, like characters out of a Dennis Potter play.

As soon as the custody sergeant was free, Stott went over and had a brief word, then gestured for Owen to approach the desk. Stott disappeared through the far door.

“Empty your pockets, please, sunshine,” said the sergeant, after taking Owen’s personal details.

Owen emptied his pockets onto the desk. There wasn’t much in them: keys, wallet, three pounds sixty-eight pee in change, check book, bank machine and credit cards, a few crumpled shopping lists and old bus tickets that had been through the washer and dryer a couple of times, his gold Cross fountain-pen, the small Lett’s appointment diary-cum-address book with the pencil tucked down the spine, three pieces of Dentyne chewing-gum and a few balls of fluff.

The sergeant flipped through Owen’s diary. It was empty apart from a few addresses. Next he looked through Owen’s wallet. “Nothing much there,” he said, placing it in the plastic bag with the other items. He held the pen between thumb and forefinger and said, “Gold-looking fountain-pen.”

“It is gold,” Owen said. “It’s not just gold-looking.”

“Well we’re not going to get a bloody appraiser in, mate, are we?” the sergeant said. “Gold-looking.” He dropped it in the bag.

Before they sealed the bag, a constable patted Owen down to see if he had anything else hidden.

“Shall we have a look up his arse, sir?” he asked the custody sergeant when he had finished.

The sergeant looked at Owen, then back at the constable, as if he were seriously considering the proposition. “Nah,” he said. “I never did like rectal searches, myself. Messy business. Never know what you might find. Take him to the studio.”

Jesus Christ, thought Owen, they’re enjoying this! They don’t need to be rude, violent and brutal; they get their kicks better this way, the vicious tease, the cruel joke. They had already judged and condemned him. In their minds, he was guilty, and the rest would be mere formality. And if they believed it, wouldn’t everyone else?

When they put him jail, he thought with a stab of fear, it would be even worse. He had heard about the things that went on, how people like the Yorkshire Ripper and Dennis Nilsen had to be kept in solitary for their own good, how Jeffrey Dahmer had been murdered in prison and Frederick West had hanged himself.

Solitary confinement would probably be better than a poke up the bum from a three-hundred-pound Hell’s Angel with tattoos on his cock, Owen thought. But could he stand the loneliness, the feeling of being hopelessly cut off from everything he held dear, abandoned by the whole civilized world? He liked the solitary life, but that was his choice. Could he stand it when it was imposed on him?

The constable led him into another room for fingerprinting and mug shots taken by a mounted camera. The “studio.” Another cruel joke.

“Now then, mate,” the constable said, “let’s have your belt and shoelaces.”

“What? Why on earth-”

“Regulations. So’s you don’t top yourself, see.”

“But I’m not going to do away with myself. I’ve told you all. I’m innocent.”

“Aye. Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s more than my job’s worth. We’d have your tie too if you were wearing one. Saw a fellow once topped himself with his tie. Polka-dot tie it was. A nice one. You should’ve seen him, eyes all bulging and his tongue sticking out. And the pong, you wouldn’t believe it! Aye, nasty business, it was. Don’t worry, mate, you’ll get your things back-that’s if you’re ever in a position to need them again.”

He had a good laugh at that while Owen took the belt off his jeans and the long white laces from his trainers.

Back at the desk, the custody sergeant gave Owen a pamphlet on legal aid and sheet of paper that advised him of his rights: to call a solicitor, to inform a friend, and to consult the Codes of Practice. Then he went over to scrawl details on the board.

“I want to call my solicitor,” Owen said.

The sergeant shrugged and gestured to the constable again, who escorted Owen to a telephone. He felt in his inside pocket for his address-book, where he had politely jotted down Wharton’s number, but realized it had been taken away along with all his other possessions. He turned to the constable.

“The phone number,” he said. “It’s in my diary. Can I get it back for a minute?”

“Sorry,” the constable replied. “Against regulations. It’s all been entered and bagged.”

“But I can’t remember my solicitor’s number.”

“Best try this, then.” He pulled a dog-eared telephone directory from the desk drawer. “It usually works.”

Owen flipped through and managed to find Gordon Wharton’s office number. He got an answering machine, and even though it was late on Saturday afternoon, left an urgent message anyway, just in case. Then he tried the listed home number, but got no answer. “What now?” he asked the constable.

“Cells.” Another constable appeared beside them. They took Owen gently by the elbows and led him back into the corridor. “Nothing to worry about,” the first officer said. “Quite comfortable really. More like a hospital ward. Most modern part of the whole building.”

Police boots echoed from the greenish-blue walls and high ceiling as the three of them walked down the hallway. At the end, the constable took out a key and opened a heavy, hinged door.

True, the cell wasn’t the dank, dripping dungeon Owen had imagined; it was actually very clean, all white tiles, like a public urinal, and bright light from bulbs covered by wire mesh.

It contained a narrow bed, fixed to the wall and floor, with a thin mattress, a washstand and a seatless toilet made of molded orange plastic. There was only one window, set high and deep in the wall, about a foot square and almost as thick. The door had a flap for observation. A faint odor of dead skin and old sweat lurked under the smell of disinfectant.

“Sorry there’s no telly,” said one of the jailers, “but you can have something to read if you like. A book, maybe, or a magazine?” He turned to his companion. “Jock here’s probably got an issue or two of Playboy hidden away at the back of his desk.”

Owen ignored the taunt. He simply shook his head and stared around in amazement at the cell.

“Owt to eat?” the jailer asked.

When he thought about it, Owen realized that he was hungry. He said yes.

“The special’s steak and kidney pud today. Or there’s fish and chips, sausage and-”

“Steak and kidney pud sounds just fine,” Owen said.

“Mug of tea? Milk and sugar?”

Owen nodded. This is bloody absurd, he thought, almost unable to contain his laughter. Here I am, sitting in a cell in the bowels of the Eastvale police station putting in an order for steak and kidney pudding and a mug of tea!

“You won’t be here long,” said the jailer. “And if it wasn’t a weekend we’d have you up before the beak tomorrow. Anyway, just so’s you know, you’ll be well treated. You’ll get three square meals a day, a bit of exercise if you want it, reading material, pen and paper if you want-”

“We can’t give him a pen, Ted,” said Jock. “He might…you know…Remember that bloke who…?” He drew his forefinger across his throat and made a gurgling sound.

“Aye, you’re right.” Ted turned back to Owen. “We had a bloke once tried to cut his throat with a fountain-pen. Messy. And another jabbed a pencil right through his eye socket. A yellow HB, if I recollect it right.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry lad, you’ll have to wait for writing privileges. It’s our responsibility, see. Anything else you want, though, just let us know. As I always say, just ring the bell and ask for room service.”

They laughed and walked out into the corridor. The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

III

“So what do you think, sir?” Susan Gay asked over the noise, handing Banks the pint she had just bought him.

“Thanks. Looks like I was wrong, doesn’t it?” Banks said, with a shrug.

The Queen’s Arms was buzzing with conversation and ringing with laughter that Saturday evening. Rumors had leaked out that the “Eastvale Strangler” was in the holding cells and all was well with the world. Parents could once again rest easy in their beds; just about every phone, fax and modem in town was tied up by the press; and those police who were off duty were celebrating their success. The only things missing were the fireworks and the brass band.

Banks sat next to Susan Gay, with Hatchley and Stott not far away. Stott looked like the cat that got the cream.

Chief Constable Riddle had visited the station earlier, patting backs and bragging to the media. He hadn’t wasted the opportunity to admonish Banks for pestering the Harrisons; nor had he neglected to praise Stott for his major role in what was probably the quickest arrest of a sex murderer ever.

This time, Riddle was going to go and tell the Harrisons personally that he had a man in custody for Deborah’s murder, largely due to the efforts of a new member of Eastvale CID, DI Barry Stott. Of course, Riddle wouldn’t be seen dead drinking in a pub with the common foot-soldiers, even if he didn’t have a couple of TV interviews lined up. Thank God for small mercies, Banks thought.

As he sipped his pint and let the conversation and laughter ebb and flow around him, Banks wondered why he felt so depressed. Never one to shy away from self-examination, he considered professional jealousy first.

But was that really true? Banks had to admit that it would only look that way to the chief constable and one or two others who had it in for him. As far as the media were concerned, Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks had headed the most successful investigation in the history of Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. His troops had won the battle. He was the general. So why did he feel so depressed?

“The evidence is pretty solid, isn’t it, sir?” Susan shouted in his ear.

Banks nodded. It was. Nothing on the shoes that Pierce couldn’t have picked up on the river path, but positive blood and hair matches both ways. His and hers. Suspect a bit of an oddball. A liar, to boot. Seen in the area, with no good reason, around the time of the murder. Oh, yes, Banks admitted, even the Crown Prosecution Service should have no trouble with this one. What could be better? And if the DNA results were positive when they came through…

He looked at Susan. Earnest expression on her round face, with its peaches and cream complexion; short, slightly upturned nose; tight blonde curls. She had a glass of St. Clement’s in front of her.

Banks smiled, trying to shake off his gloom. “Let me buy you a drink, Susan,” he said. “A real drink. What would you like?”

“I shouldn’t, sir, really…” Susan said. “I mean, you know, officially…”

“Bugger officially. You’re off duty. Besides, this is your senior officer telling you it’s time you had a real drink. What’s it to be?”

Susan blushed and smiled, averting her blue-gray eyes. “Well, in that case, sir, I’ll have a port and lemon.”

“Port and lemon it is.”

“Let me go, sir.”

“No, stay there. Save my seat.”

Banks got up and edged his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling a hello here and there. One or two people clapped him on the back and congratulated him on the speed with which he had caught the killer.

With his pint in one hand and Susan’s port and lemon in the other, he excuse-me’d his way back. Before he had got halfway he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see Rebecca Charters standing there, long auburn hair framing her pale face.

Banks smiled. “A bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?” he said.

“I dropped by the police station first. The man on the front desk said you were all over here celebrating. I’ve heard that you’ve got someone under arrest for Deborah Harrison’s murder. Is it true?”

Banks nodded. “Yes. A suspect, at least.”

“Does that mean you’ll be leaving us alone now? Things can get back to normal?”

“Whatever that is,” Banks said. “Why? What are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried about anything. It would just be nice to know we could get on with our lives in private now rather than sharing every significant emotional event with the local police.”

“That was never my intention, Mrs. Charters. Look, it’s a bit silly just standing here like this. Would you like a drink?”

He could see Rebecca consider the offer seriously, needily. She eyed the bottles ranged behind the bar, then suddenly she shook her head. “No. No thank you. That’s another thing I’m trying to put behind me.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Good for you.”

“How the hell would you know?” she said, and stormed out.

Banks shrugged and headed back to the table, where everyone, even DI Stott, was laughing at one of Hatchley’s jokes. Banks didn’t mind missing it; he had heard them all before, at least five times.

When he slid into his seat again, Susan thanked him for the drink. “What was all that about?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Banks. “I think I offended her. Or maybe abstinence has made her irritable.”

“As long as she doesn’t complain to the chief constable. What next, sir?”

“Next, I think we’ve got to find out a bit more about what makes Pierce tick. We’ve still got no motive, have we? He asked us why he should have committed such a crime, and I think we have a duty to try and answer that. If not for his sake, then for a jury’s.”

“But, sir, if it was a sex murder we don’t really need a motive, do we? We wouldn’t expect a rational one.”

“Did Owen Pierce seem mad to you?”

“That’s a very difficult question,” Susan said slowly. “The kind of thing experts argue about in court.”

“I’m not asking for an official statement. This is off the record. Your personal observations, your copper’s intuition.”

Susan sipped her port and lemon. “Well, to start with, he was nervous, edgy, hostile and confused.”

“Isn’t that how you would feel if you were accused of murder and subjected to an interrogation?”

Susan shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never been in that position. I mean, if you’ve got nothing to hide…If you’re telling the truth…Why get upset?”

“Because everyone thinks you did it. And they’ve got all the power. We have the power. We basically bullied Pierce until he was so confused he acted like a guilty man.”

“Are you saying you still don’t think he did it, sir?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. It was itching; sometimes that meant something, sometimes not. He wished he knew which was which. “No. All I’m saying is that everyone’s got something to hide. Everyone starts to feel guilty when they’re stopped and questioned by the police, whether they’ve done anything or not. Almost anyone would react the way Pierce did under that sort of pressure.” Banks lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, careful to blow it away from Susan, then he took a long swig of beer.

“But you still have doubts?”

Banks clicked his tongue. “I shouldn’t, should I? I mean, I did arrest him. This is just perfect: signed, sealed and delivered. I’m still confused, that’s all. All this business with Pierce has happened so quickly. There are still too many loose ends. There was so much going on around Deborah. Remember? Jelačić’s alibi still doesn’t really hold water. Then there’s that triangle of Daniel and Rebecca Charters and Patrick Metcalfe. That’s a pretty volatile combination if ever I’ve seen one. There’s John Spinks, another character capable of violence. Add to that the open satchel, Michael Clayton spending half his time with Sylvie Harrison while her husband is out, and you’ve still got a lot of unanswered questions.”

“Yes, sir, but are any of them relevant now we’ve got Pierce with the hair and blood?”

Banks shrugged. “Hair and blood aren’t infallible. But you’re probably right. Sometimes I wish I could just accept the official version.”

“But you agree Pierce could have done it?”

“Oh, yes. He probably did do it. We found no trace evidence at all on either Charters’s or Jelačić’s clothing. And Pierce was in the area. There’s also something about him that harmonizes with the crime in an odd sort of way. I don’t know how to put it any better than that.”

“You struck a nerve in him there, sir. I must admit, he gives me the creeps.”

“Yes. There’s a part of him that has some sort of imaginative sympathy with what happened to Deborah Harrison. What I tried to do in that room was make contact with his dark side.” Banks gave a little shudder.

“What is it, sir?”

“Everyone has a dark side, Susan. Doesn’t Owen Pierce make you wonder about your own?”

Susan’s eyes widened. “No, sir. I don’t think so. I mean, we’ve done our job. We’ve got the evidence, we’ve got a suspect in custody. I think we should just let it lie and move on.”

Banks paused, then smiled. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But we’ve still a fair bit of work to do. How do you fancy a trip to London on Monday?”

“London? Me, sir?”

“Yes. I’d like to pay this Michelle a visit, see what her story is. He did his best to keep their relationship from us, so there has to be something in it. Besides, I’d like you impressions, woman to woman, if that’s not a terribly sexist thing to say.”

“It isn’t, sir. Of course. I’d love to come.”

“Good.” Banks looked at his watch and finished his pint. “I’d better get home. Have a nice lie-in tomorrow. You’ll enjoy it.”

Susan smiled. “I think I will, sir, good-night.”

Banks put his overcoat on, said farewell to everyone and acknowledged a few more pats on the back as he walked through the crowd to the door. He stood for a moment on Market Street by the cobbled square watching his breath plume in the clear, cold air.

So much had happened today that he had hardly had time to notice the clear blue sky, the autumn wind stripping leaves from the trees. Now it was dark and the stars shone for the first time in days. A line from last month’s Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society production tripped through his mind: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves.” Again, Banks thought of that foggy night in the graveyard and wondered what had really happened there. Perhaps he would never know.

It was a cold night to walk home, but he had drunk three pints, too much for driving, and he decided he wanted to clear his head anyway. With numb hands, he managed to put on his headphones and flip the switch of the Walkman in his pocket. After a second or two of hiss, he was shocked by the assault of a loud, distorted electric guitar. He had forgotten about the Jimi Hendrix tape he had put in earlier in the week to wake him up on his way to work. He hadn’t listened to it since then. Then he smiled and started walking home. Why not? “Hear My Train a’ Coming” would do just fine; he would listen to Britten’s War Requiem later.