“She had done before. I noticed her do it once or twice.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “You never mentioned this before.”
Rebecca shrugged. “You never asked. And it didn’t seem relevant.”
“But didn’t it strike you as odd?”
“No. I’m sorry. It wasn’t something I was paying a lot of attention to. I suppose I assumed that she liked graveyards, as I do. And
this is where the most interesting old tombs are, and the Inchcliffe Mausoleum, of course.” She blushed. “Maybe she went to talk to the angel, like I did.”
“When did she start using the path?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t remember
noticing
her go that way before last September, when school started up, but that doesn’t mean she never did.”
“Did you ever see anyone else with her? Or anyone going along the path before or after her?”
“No. You did ask me about that before, and I would have told you if I’d seen her meeting anyone. I would have noticed something like that. Do you think it’s important that she took this path?”
Banks paused. “From the start,” he explained, “I’d been working on the theory that if Owen Pierce or someone else hadn’t followed Deborah into the graveyard, dragged her off the main path and killed her, then she might have been meeting the person who did. Now you’re telling me you’ve seen her take this path before, I’m wondering if this is where she arranged the meeting. By the mausoleum. Her friend Megan Preece said Deborah had a morbid streak, that she liked spooky things. A rendezvous in the depths of a foggy graveyard beside an old mausoleum might have appealed to her.”
“To meet someone she knew?”
“Yes. A lover, perhaps. Or someone else. We know that Deborah had a secret. It did cross my mind that she might have arranged to meet the person involved to discuss it, what to do about it.”
“But what could she have possibly known that was so important?”
“If we knew that, then we’d probably know who the killer is.”
“And do you still believe that she was meeting someone?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility. She didn’t tell Megan, but perhaps she wanted to be really secretive. Ive Jela
č
i
ć
told me he never saw her meeting anyone, but he’s a pathological liar. On the other hand, you just told me yourself that you never saw anyone else around.”
“It doesn’t mean that there couldn’t have been someone,” Rebecca said. “The woods are quite deep here. And it was a foggy night. I just wish I could be of more help.”
Banks stood and looked around. Rebecca was right. You could just about see the church through the trees to the south, but to the north, between the Inchcliffe Mausoleum and Kendal Road, it was a different matter. There, the yews were thicker, the undergrowth denser. It would be an ideal place for a secret meeting. And if he had learned anything from returning to the scene, it was that Deborah might have taken the gravel path of her accord, and that she had done so before.
He looked up at the Inchcliffe Mausoleum. It could have been the angle he was viewing it from, or perhaps a trick of the light, but he could have sworn the marble angel with the chipped wings was smiling.
FIFTEEN
I
“Let’s assume Pierce didn’t do it, just for the moment,” said Banks. “That’ll make things easier.”
It was the first Friday in June, and the rays of late morning sunlight flooded the market square. Banks sat in Gristhorpe’s office trying to get a fresh perspective on the Deborah Harrison murder.
Gristhorpe, a bulky man with a pock-marked face and bushy eyebrows, sat sideways at his large teak desk, one leg stretched out and propped up on a footstool. He insisted that the broken leg had healed perfectly, but he still got the odd twinge now and then. Given that it was same leg he had also been shot in not so long ago, that wasn’t surprising, Banks thought.
Banks took a sip of coffee. “On the generous side, I’d say we’ve got maybe five or six suspects. If Deborah didn’t have a lover we don’t know about—and I don’t think she did—then the key to it all might lie in the secret she had. And if Deborah knew something about someone, she might easily have misjudged the importance of what she knew, underestimated the desperation of that person. Adults can have some pretty nasty secrets. The Pierce trial redirected all our time and energy towards proving that the killer
didn’t
know her, that she was a random victim, or became a victim because she had the misfortune of resembling Pierce’s ex-girlfriend Michelle Chappel.”
“What’s happening with that now?”
“I talked to Stafford Oakes about an hour ago,” Banks said, “and he’s ninety-nine per cent certain the Crown will appeal the verdict on the basis of the similar fact evidence being declared inadmissible. If they get a judge who allows it in, another trial could be disastrous for Pierce, whether he did it or not.”
Gristhorpe scratched his chin. “As you know, Alan,” he said, “I’ve been able to keep an open mind on this because I wasn’t part of the original investigation. I’d just like to say in the first place that I think you did good detective work. You shouldn’t flagellate yourself over the result. It may still turn out that Pierce didn’t do it. But I agree we should put that aside for a moment. From what I’ve read so far, Barry Stott seemed particularly sold on Pierce. Any idea why?”
“It was
his
lead,” Banks said. “Or so he thought. Actually, if it hadn’t been for Jim Hatchley stopping for a pint in the Nag’s Head, he might never have turned it up. But Barry’s ambitious. And tenacious. And let’s not forget, Jimmy Riddle was dead set on Pierce, too.”
“He’s a friend of the family,” Gristhorpe said. “I should imagine he just wanted an early conclusion, no matter who went down for it.”
Banks nodded.
“Now,” Gristhorpe went on, “the two things we have to ask ourselves are what possible secret Deborah Harrison could have learned that was important enough to kill for, and who, given the opportunity, could have killed her because of it.”
Banks told him about his visit to Rebecca Charters and what he had learned about Deborah’s occasional detours from the main path.
“You think she had arranged to meet her killer?” Gristhorpe asked.
“Rebecca never actually saw her meet anyone, but it’s one possibility.”
“Blackmail?”
“Perhaps. Though I’m not sure from what I know of Deborah that she was the type to do that. I suppose it is possible. After all, her satchel was open when we found her, and that has always bothered me. Perhaps she had some sort of hard evidence and the killer took it. On the other hand, maybe she just wanted to let whoever it was know that she knew the secret, or how she had found out. Perhaps she just wanted to flaunt her knowledge a little. Her friends say she could be a bit of a show-off. Anyway, let’s say she didn’t know the power or the value of what she was playing with.”
“Which takes us to my questions: why and who?”
“Yes.” Banks counted them on his fingers, one by one. “For a start, there’s John Spinks. He was Deborah’s boyfriend for part of the summer, and he’s a nasty piece of work. They parted on very bad terms and I think he’s the type to bear a grudge. He also has an alibi that doesn’t hold much water. Ive Jela
č
i
ć
has a solid alibi, I’d say, in Vjeko Batorac, but I’m still certain he’s involved, he knows something.”
“Any idea what?”
“I’d guess he might have seen Deborah meeting someone.”
“Why not tell us who, then?”
“That’s not Jela
č
i
ć
’
s style. If you ask me, I’d say he’s trying to work out what might be in it for him first. For crying out loud, he even asked me if there was a reward.”
“What do we do, beat it out of him?”
“Believe me, that thought’s crossed my mind. But no. We’ll get him one way or another, don’t worry about that. I’m not finished with Mr Jela
č
i
ć
yet.”
“Who else have we got? What about that schoolteacher?”
“Patrick Metcalfe? Another possibility. Though I doubt very much that he’s got the bottle, we have to consider him. He was Deborah’s history teacher and he was having an affair with Rebecca Charters, the vicar’s wife. One might reasonably assume that’s a poor career move for a male teacher at an Anglican girls’ school. If Deborah knew about the affair—and she could easily have seen Metcalfe entering or leaving the vicarage on occasion—then it could have cost Metcalfe not only his job, but his entire teaching career.”
“And as I recall from the statement,” Gristhorpe said, “he says he stayed home alone in his flat after Daniel Charters left.”
Banks nodded. “And we’ve no way of confirming or denying that unless someone saw him, which no-one has admitted to so far.”
“What about the vicar?”
“I’ve been wondering about him, too,” Banks said. “In general I’ve been pretty sympathetic towards him, but looking at things objectively, he could be our man. He certainly has no alibi, and he’s both tall and strong enough.”
“Motive?”
“We know that Ive Jela
č
i
ć
accused him of abusing his position by making homosexual advances. Given Jela
č
i
ć
’
s character, this is probably pure fabrication—Vjeko Batorac certainly thinks it is—but let’s say it’s true, or it approximates the truth. And let’s say Deborah saw something that could confirm it, either involving Charters and Jela
č
i
ć
or Charters and someone else. If it got out, he also stood to lose everything. That might give him a powerful enough motive.”
“Or his wife?” Gristhorpe suggested.
“Yes. It
could
have been a woman,” Banks agreed. “After all, there was no evidence of rape, and the body could have been arranged to make it look like a sex murder. Rebecca Charters is probably tall and strong enough.”
“And she could have had either of two motives,” Gristhorpe added. “To protect the knowledge of her affair with Metcalfe, or to protect her husband from certain dismissal.” He shook his head. “It’s a real
Peyton Place
we’ve unearthed here, Alan. Who’d think such goings on occurred in a nice little Yorkshire town like Eastvale?”
Banks smiled. “‘It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’”
Gristhorpe smiled back. “And what about Jimmy Riddle’s mates?” he said.
“Certainly not out of the question. I was beginning to think that Michael Clayton might have been having an affair with Sylvie Harrison, unlikely as it sounds. Sir Geoffrey and Michael Clayton have been close friends since university. If Clayton
were
having an affair with his wife, and if Deborah knew about that, it could have had a devastating effect. Think of how much money and prestige were at stake there.”
“As I understand it, none of them have alibis either.”
“That’s right. And they all knew Deborah went to the chess club on a Monday, and what time she usually came home. And by what route. But even if we accept the horrible possibility that she was
capable
of such a crime, Sylvie Harrison is neither tall nor strong enough to have killed her daughter. Rebecca Charters is the only woman in this case who could remotely have done it.”
“Clayton, then?”
“Possible. Certainly he’s the more likely of the two. Though, again, he was the child’s
godfather
.”
“Let’s also not forget,” Gristhorpe added, “that HarClay Industries had a lot of MoD contracts. They do a lot of hush-hush work. If Deborah found out about any hanky-panky going on there, contracts with foreign governments and the like …”
“Or even something our own government didn’t want the general public to know?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Gristhorpe agreed. “According to your notes, at the time of his daughter’s murder, Sir Geoffrey Harrison was in a private meeting with a man from the government called Oliver Jackson. I happen to know Oliver Jackson, and he’s not exactly from the government, he’s Special Branch.”
“Aren’t we getting a bit far-fetched here?” Banks said. “Maybe it’s just someone else with the same name?”
Gristhorpe shook his head. “I checked with the York CID. It was the same Oliver Jackson all right. They knew he was in town, but they weren’t told why. It’s just another aspect to consider. Any other angles?”
Banks sighed. “Not that I can think of,” he said. “Unless Deborah stumbled on something illegal going on in the school— something to do with sex or drugs, perhaps—but we couldn’t dig anything up there.”
“It’s still plenty to be going on with for the moment.”
Banks stood up and walked to the door, already reaching in his pocket for his Silk Cuts.
“By the way,” Gristhorpe asked, “how is DI Stott doing?”
Banks paused at door. “He’s been walking around looking like death warmed up ever since Pierce got off. I’m getting a bit worried about him.”
“Maybe he’ll be better after a weekend’s rest?”
“Maybe.”
As he walked back to his own office, Banks heard raised voices down the corridor and went to see what was happening. There, at the bottom of the staircase, stood John Spinks and DC Susan Gay.
II
“The problem is not with your teaching ability, Owen. You have demonstrated that to us quite clearly over the years.”
“Then I don’t understand,” Owen said. “Why can’t I have my job back?” He was sitting in the chairman’s book-lined office. Peter Kemp, with his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his freckles and ginger hair like tufts on a coconut, sat behind the untidy desk. “Kemp the Unkempt,” the staff members had nicknamed him. To one side, a computer hummed, white cursor blinking in anticipation on an empty blue screen.
Kemp leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. Owen could see a dark patch of sweat under each arm. “Technically, Owen,” Kemp said, “you can’t demand back a job you never had. Remember, you were employed purely on a term-to-term basis, no guarantees. We simply can’t use you next term.”