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 colour 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.
EIGHT
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 11 November, 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 defence, 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 labelled 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.