“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. Rumours 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 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-grey 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? Jela
č
i
ć
’
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 Jela
č
i
ć
’
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 your 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.
NINE
I
The 9:36 InterCity from York pulled into London King’s Cross at 12:05 on Monday, 13 November, twenty minutes late. A problem with points outside Peterborough, the conductor explained over the PA system. Not for the first time, Banks regarded the bleak, post-industrial landscape of his hometown with a mixture of nostalgia and horror.
Peterborough
. Of all the places to come from. Even if the football team he had supported as a teenager had recently edged about halfway up the second division.
As forecast, the rain came. Not a shower or a storm, but steady November drizzle that looked as if it would keep falling forever from a leaden sky. It was raining in Eastvale when Banks and Susan drove out to York that morning; it was raining in York when they caught the train; and it was raining in London when they got off the underground at Oxford Circus. At least it was a little warmer than the weekend: raincoat weather, not heavy overcoat.
To make it easy all around, Michelle Chappel had suggested over the telephone that she talk to them during her lunch-hour, which started at 12:30, in a small pasta restaurant off Regent Street, near where she worked as office administrator for a quality stationery company.
As the questioning was to be informal, and Michelle herself certainly wasn’t suspected of any crime, Banks agreed. It meant they could get the job done and be back in Eastvale by late afternoon if they were lucky.
As usual, Regent Street was crowded, even in the rain, and Banks found he had to dodge many an eye-threatening umbrella
spoke as he and Susan made their way to the rendezvous in a sidestreet not far from Dickins & Jones.
They got there about five minutes late, and Banks spotted Michelle Chappel at a window table. With a skill that Peterborough United could have used the previous weekend, he managed to sidestep the waiter, who was blocking the way, holding out large menus and muttering about a fifteen- to twenty-minute wait.
The restaurant was unpretentious in appearance—rickety tables and chairs, plenty of scratched woodwork, gilt-framed water-colours of Venice and Florence, stained white tablecloths—but when Banks looked at the list of specials chalked on the blackboard, he soon realized it was the kind of London unpretentiousness you pay for through the nose.