“Look,” he went on, “get this into your thick skull. I haven’t done anything. I never beat up anyone, and I certainly never raped and murdered anyone. I’ve been a victim of the system. They owe me something. It’s doubtful they’ll pay, but they owe me. In the meantime, I’ve lost a few months out of my life and my reputation’s taken a bit of a bashing. I’ve got to put things in order again, and I’m damned if I’m going to start by running away. How do you think that’ll look?”
Ivor paused and scratched his beard before answering. “It’s not a bad idea, you know. It’s not really like running away. New life somewhere else. Fresh start. You could even go live and teach English on the continent somewhere. France maybe. Your French is pretty good, as I remember. Or Japan.”
Owen sniffed. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You think that’s the solution to my problems? Go live in obscurity in a foreign country? A sort of self-imposed exile. I’m telling you for the last time, Ivor,
I haven’t done anything
.”
Ivor paused a little before saying, “You might find it more difficult than you think—putting things in order.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing specific. I’m just pointing out that Siobhan’s attitude isn’t unique. There’s probably a few others feel the same way. Locally, like. Feelings can get pretty strong.”
“Are you telling me I’m in danger? A lynch mob or something?”
“All I’m saying is that when people get frightened they lash out.”
“And what do you feel, Ivor? You never really answered my original question, you know. You’re my neighbour. You’re also supposed to be my friend. Do you think I’m a pervert?”
“What can I say? How do I know? I watched part of that video with you, like you said, didn’t I? I don’t think doing that turned me into a pervert. Mind you, I can’t say it did a lot for me, but I watched it. More of a laugh than anything, if—”
“Fuck off, Ivor.”
“What? Look—”
“Just fuck off and leave me alone.”
Ivor banged his pint down on the bar; the barmaid glanced over anxiously. “All right, if that’s the way you want it, mate. Just don’t expect any more help from me.”
Owen snorted. “Believe me, Ivor, you’ve earned my undying gratitude for what you’ve done for me already. Now just fuck off.”
Ivor stormed out, red-faced above his beard, and the barmaid gave Owen an odd look, perhaps of recognition, of disapproval. Then the landlord, Cyril, he of the Popeye forearms, appeared from the back.
“What’s all the noise about?” he said. He seemed to recognize Owen and started walking towards him.
“Well, you can fuck off, too!” Owen slammed his glass down on the bar so hard it broke and beer swilled over the counter.
“Here!” yelled Cyril, making for the hinged flap. But Owen shot out of the door and down the street, the base of his thumb stinging and bleeding from where a sliver of glass had pierced it.
He hurried along North Market Street, head down and hands thrust deep in his pockets, fists clenched. Ivor. That slimy, back-pedalling little turd. And Michelle? Just what was she trying to do to him?
But perhaps Ivor was right about moving. The thought wasn’t quite as upsetting as it might have been a year or so earlier; somehow, the mess he had found on his release from prison had soured the house for him anyway. There were also, he realized, still too many memories of Michelle there. And moving would be a project, something to do, start looking for a new place, perhaps somewhere a little cheaper in a different part of the country. Not abroad, but in Devon, maybe, or Cornwall. He had always liked the south-west.
As he walked down the street, head bowed, Owen felt like an outsider, as if the rest of the world were swimming happily together in a huge tank and he was knocking on the glass unable to find a way in. One or two people gave him strange looks as he passed, and he realized he must have been mumbling to himself. Or maybe they recognized him.
Shit sticks,
Ivor had said. People would see him the way the rumours had depicted him, and would perhaps move aside and whisper to one another, “Here comes the Eastvale Strangler. You know, the one that got off.”
When he finally looked up to see where he was, he saw he was in St Mary’s. Despite all his resolutions, he had walked there, as if by instinct.
He stood at the church gate, uncertain what to do, then on an impulse he decided to go in. It was a beautiful day, and the few hawthorn trees scattered among the yews bore white, yellow or pink blossoms. Wildflowers pushed their way through the grass around some of the plots. Thriving on decomposing remains, Owen thought fancifully, before he noticed that most of the graves were from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There were some recent ones, but not many.
The graveyard was peaceful; the muffled sounds of traffic on North Market Street and Kendal Road formed only a distant backdrop to the birdsongs.
Owen followed the tarmac path where it curved past the church and arrived at the Kendal Road exit. There, he walked up to the bridge and stared down at the swirling water, the colour of a pint of bitter, from the peat it picked up on its way through the dale. Ahead, facing south, he could see the formal gardens, the riverside willows and the castle high on its hill, dominating the town. It seemed so long ago he had stood here that foggy November night. No, he would not think about that again.
He took the river path home, and as he passed by the vicarage, he saw, over the garden gate, a woman hanging up washing on the line and stopped to watch her.
The plain white T-shirt she was wearing stretched taut against her heavy round breasts as she reached to peg up a sheet. Owen fancied he could see the dark nipples harden at the wind’s caress.
Then she looked his way. He recognized her; he had seen her in court. She was the woman who had found the body, the one whose husband had been accused of molesting a church worker.
For a moment, she seemed about to smile and say hello, then she frowned, her jaw dropped, and she backed away inside the house, shutting the door behind her. Owen could hear the sound of a chain being fastened. She hadn’t hung the sheet properly on the washing-line, and at the first light gust of wind it filled like a sail then broke free and fluttered onto the flower-bed like a shroud.
III
Banks saw the curtain in the bay window twitch just after he rang the vicarage bell, and a few moments later a nervous and jumpy looking Rebecca Charters answered the door. She looked relieved to see him and ushered him down the hall into the living-room.
It was a lot more cosy than on his previous visits, he noticed immediately, and it felt much more like a family home than a temporary encampment. The whole place had been redecorated: new wallpaper, cream with rose patterns; a new three-piece suite in a matching floral design; and three vases of flowers placed around the room. Ezekiel, the mound of brown-and-white fur, was in his usual place by the empty fireplace.
“How about some tea?” Rebecca asked. “Freshly brewed. Well, ten minutes ago.”
“That’ll be fine,” said Banks. “No milk or sugar, thanks.”
Rebecca went into the kitchen and returned seconds later with two mugs of tea. Today, she wore her hair tied back, fixed in place by a tooled-leather slide and a broad wooden pin. The style made her olive-complexioned face seem to bulge forward a little, emphasizing the slightly long nose, weak chin and curved brow, like a photograph through a fish-eye lens, but she still looked attractive, especially the dark eyes and full lips.
“I noticed you were in court for the verdict,” Banks began.
Rebecca cradled her mug in her hands. “Yes,” she said. “I can hardly believe it. He was here earlier. That was why I was a bit nervous when you rang.”
“Owen Pierce was here? Why?”
“Not actually
here,
but he walked past on the river path. I was in the garden. I saw him.”
“It’s a free country, I suppose,” Banks said. “And he’s a free man.”
“But isn’t he dangerous? I mean, people still think he did it, even if he did get off.”
“They’re free to believe what they want. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Perhaps. Keep your doors and windows locked if it makes you feel better.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “I don’t mean to be sharp. I …”
“It’s all right,” said Banks. “You’re worried. You think there’s a killer been set free and he’s got his eyes on you. The quicker we find out whether he did it or not, the sooner you’ll feel safe again.”
“Do you think he did it?”
Banks scratched the little scar beside his right eye. “Right now, I don’t know,” he admitted. “There were times when I did, certainly, but the more I look at some of the things that struck me as odd before we latched onto Pierce, the more I start to wonder. The courts set innocent people free as well as guilty ones, sometimes, and if anyone knows the truth, he’s a lucky man.”
“What brought you back here?”
“I’m not really sure, except that this is where it all started.”
“Yes,” said Rebecca. “I remember.” She gave a small shudder and fingered the neck of her dress. “And I’d like to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For the last time we met. In the Queen’s Arms. I seem to remember I was very rude to you. I seem to be making a habit of it.” “Don’t worry,” Banks said. “You get used to it in my job.”
“But you shouldn’t have to. I mean, I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did.” She put her mug down on the table. “I’m not that kind of person. Rude … I … Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except that your coming here again brings it all back.”
“Brings what back? Finding the body?”
“That, yes, certainly. But it was a terrible time for me all round. The charges against Daniel, all the turmoil they caused.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Chief Inspector, you didn’t know the half of it. Of course you didn’t, it wasn’t relevant, not to your enquiries, but I lost a baby about three months before that business with Jela
č
i
ć
, and the doctor said it would be dangerous for me to try for another. Daniel and I hadn’t talked about it as much as we should, and we had started drifting apart. We had just made some tentative inquiries about adoption when Jela
č
i
ć
brought the charges. Of course, everything fell through. It was worse than it was before. I’m afraid I withdrew. I blamed Daniel. There was even a time when I
thought he was guilty. Since I lost the baby, we hadn’t been … well, you know … and I thought he’d lost interest in me. It was easier to explain that by assuming he was really interested in men. What can I say? I started to drink too much. Then there was Patrick.” She laughed nervously. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Except that you witnessed the final scene.”
Banks smiled. “You’d be surprised the things people tell us, Mrs Charters. Anyway, I hope life has improved since then.”
She beamed. “Yes. Yes, it has. Daniel and I are stronger than we’ve ever been. There are still … well, a few problems … but at least we’re working together now.”
“How’s the Jela
č
i
ć
problem progressing?”
“It drags on. We’ve not heard anything for over a month now, but I believe he’s got some human-rights lawyer working on it.”
“And the drink?”
“Six months without.”
“Patrick Metcalfe?”
“Not since that time you were here, when he caused all that fuss.”
“Has he pestered you at all since then?”
She smiled. “No. I think he realized pretty quickly how carried away with himself he was getting. And I think your interest in him helped keep him at bay, too. I should thank you for that. You don’t still suspect him, do you?”
“He’s not off the hook yet,” Banks said. “Anyway, that’s not why I came. Actually, I was hoping for another look at the area where the body was found.”
“Surely you don’t have to ask my permission to do that?”
“No, but it’s partly a matter of courtesy. And you know the area better than I do. Will you come with me?”
“Certainly.”
To retrace Deborah’s steps, they walked first along the riverside path from the vicarage towards the Kendal Road bridge, where worn stone steps led up to the pavement. It was another beautiful day, and over the road in St Mary’s Park, lovers lay entwined, students sat reading in the shade of the trees, and children played with balls and Frisbees.
“This was where she would enter,” said Rebecca, holding the wooden gate open for Banks. It was a lych-gate, with a small wooden roof, where the coffin would await the arrival of the clergyman in days gone by. “Seventeenth century,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t it superb?”
Banks agreed that it was.
“This is the main path we’re on now,” Rebecca explained.
It was about a yard and a half wide and had a pitted tarmac surface. Ahead, it curved around slightly in front of the church, separated from the doors only by a swath of grass, across which led a narrow flagstone path.
“It leads to North Market Street,” Rebecca said, “near the zebra crossing where Deborah would cross to go home. And this path,” she said, taking Banks by the elbow and diverting him to the right, where the entrance to the path was almost obscured by shrubbery, “is the path that leads to the Inchcliffe Mausoleum.”
It was the gravel path Banks remembered from last November. After a couple of yards, the shrubbery gave way to yews and lichen-stained graves. Warm sunlight filtered through the greenery and flying insects buzzed around the dandelions and forget-me-nots.
Some of the graves were above-ground tombs with heavy lids and flowery religious epitaphs. By far the most impressive and baroque was the Inchcliffe Mausoleum, to the right.
“Now,” said Banks, “we were assuming that Deborah reached the junction between the main path and this one when someone either grabbed her and dragged her up here or persuaded her to go with him of her own free will.”
“But why couldn’t she have come this way herself?” Rebecca asked.
“Why should she? It’s out of her way.”