“Alan?”
“What? Oh, sorry, sir. Lost in thought.”
Superintendent Gristhorpe and DC Gay had come to stand beside him as uniformed officers searched the area.
“We’d better get back to the station and get things moving,” said Gristhorpe. “We can start by questioning all the friends who were at the dance with her again, and then do a house-to-house along King Street, check out the pubs, too. I’ll get someone to ask around Skield as well. You never know. Someone might have been suffering from insomnia.”
“Sir?”
Both Banks and Gristhorpe looked around to see PC Weaver, one of the searchers, approach with something hooked over the end of a pencil. When he got closer, Banks could see that it was one of those transparent plastic containers that 35mm films come in. Living with Sandra, he had seen plenty of those.
“Found this in the grass near the body, sir,” he said.
“Near the shoulder-bag?” Gristhorpe asked.
“No, sir, that’s why I thought it was odd. It was on the other side of her, a couple of yards away. Do you think it could be the killer’s?”
“It could be anyone’s, lad,” Gristhorpe said. “A tourist’s, maybe. But we’d better check it for prints as quickly as we can.” He turned to Banks. “Maybe we’ve got one who likes to photograph his victims?”
“Possible,” Banks agreed. “And we already know one keen amateur photographer, don’t we? I’ll get Vic Manson on it right away. He should be able to do a comparison before the morning’s over.”
Just at that moment, a red bald head, shiny with perspiration, appeared over the rim of the meadow. “What’s going on?” grunted Chief Constable Riddle.
“Oh, we’ve just finished here, sir,” said Banks, smiling cheekily as he walked past Riddle and headed down the slope.
II
The church was hot and smelled like dust burning on the element of an electric fire. Owen remembered hearing somewhere that most household dust was just dead skin. Which meant the church smelled like dead bits of people burning. Hell? All flesh is grass. The heaps of dead, dry grass burning in allotments, or autumn stubble burning in the country fields, vast, rolling carpets of fire spread out in the distance, palls of smoke hanging and twisting in the still twilight air.
Owen took off his jacket and loosened his tie. He had never been comfortable in churches. His parents were both dyed-in-the-wool atheists, and the only times he had really been in church were for weddings and funerals. So he always wore a suit and tie.
Of course, it was all right when you were a tourist checking out the Saxon fonts and Gothic arches, but a different story altogether when there was a vicar up front prattling on about loving thy neighbour. Owen had always distrusted overly churchy types before, feeling that the church offered a public aura of respectability to many who pursued their perversions in private. But the vicar in this case was Daniel Charters, now one of the few allies Owen had in the entire world.
Today it was the hoary old chestnut about how you get nothing but bad news in the papers and how that can make you cynical about the world, but really there are wonders and miracles going on all around you all the time.
That morning, Owen could certainly relate to the first part of the sermon, if not the uplifting bit. Just before he had set off for church, he had screwed up the
News of the World
in a ball and tossed it across the room.
Judging by the looks he got when he walked into St Mary’s, and by the way so many members of the congregation leaned towards one another and whispered behind cupped hands, even
the upmarket clientele of St Mary’s had had a butcher’s at the
News of the World
over their cappuccino and croissants.
And there it was, blazoned across the front page in thick black letters: THE STORY THEY COULDN’T TELL IN COURT. Obviously Michelle’s journalist friend had probed her thoroughly. There was a reference to Owen’s
liking to take photographs,
phrased in such a way that it sounded downright sinister, and a mention of his love of
kinky positions
. He also, it appeared, liked his sex rough and, as far as partners were concerned, the younger the better. Michelle came out of it sounding more like a victim than a willing lover. Which, Owen supposed, was the intention.
There was also an old, slightly blurred, photograph of the two of them and a scrap of a letter Owen had written Michelle once when he was away at a conference. The letter was a perfectly innocuous can’t-wait-to-see-you again sort of thing, but in this context, of course, it took on a far more disturbing aspect.
He recalled the day the photograph was taken. Shortly after Michelle had moved in with him, they had taken a holiday in Dorset, visiting various sites associated with Thomas Hardy’s novels. In the small graveyard at Stinsford, where Hardy’s heart was buried, they had asked an American tourist to take a photograph of them with Owen’s camera. It turned out a little blurred because the tourist hadn’t quite mastered the art of manual focusing.
Somehow, seeing the photograph and handwriting reproduced in a Sunday tabloid angered Owen even more than the innuendos in the article. Michelle had obviously handed them over to the reporter. It was a violation, a deeper betrayal even than what she said about him. He was quickly beginning to wish that he
had
killed Michelle.
The whole article screamed out his guilt, of course, protested a miscarriage of justice, though the writer never said as much, not in so many words. Mostly, he just posed questions. Owen wondered if he should consider suing for libel. They were clever, though, these newspaper editors; they vetted everything before they printed it; they could afford a team of lawyers and they had the money put aside to finance large law suits. Still, it was worth considering.
The pew in front of Owen creaked and brought him back to the present. He realized he was sweating,
really
sweating, and beginning
to feel dizzy and nauseated, too. Churches weren’t supposed to be this hot. He hoped it wouldn’t go on much longer; he especially hoped that Daniel wouldn’t say anything about him.
They sang a hymn he remembered hearing once at a wedding, then there were more readings, prayers. It seemed to be going on forever. Owen wanted to go to the toilet now, too, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
One of the readers mentioned seeing something “as in a mirror, dimly” and it took Owen a moment or two to realize this was the approved modern version of “through a glass, darkly,” which he thought pretty much described his life. How could they, the English teacher in him wondered, utterly destroy one of the most resonant lines in the Bible, even if people did have trouble understanding what it meant. Since when had religion been about clear, literal, logical meaning anyway?
Finally, it was over. People relaxed, stood, chatted, ambled towards the doors. Many of them glanced at him as they passed. One or two managed brief, flickering smiles. Some pointedly turned away, and others whispered to one another.
Owen waited until most of them had gone. It had cooled down a little now, with the doors open and most people gone home. He still needed to go to the toilet, but not so urgently; he could wait now until he got to the vicarage. That was the plan: tea at the vicarage. He could hardly believe it.
When there were only one or two stragglers left, Owen got up and walked to the door. Daniel and Rebecca stood there chatting with a parishioner. Rebecca put her hand on his arm to stop him going immediately outside, and smiled. Daniel shook his hand and introduced him to the old woman. She looked down at her sensible shoes, muttered some greeting or other, and scurried off. This would obviously take time.
“Well,” said Daniel, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his moist brow. “I suppose we should be grateful Sir Geoffrey and his wife weren’t here.”
Owen hadn’t even thought of that. If he had considered the mere possibility of bumping into Deborah Harrison’s parents, he wouldn’t have gone near the place.
Daniel obviously saw the alarm in Owen’s expression because he reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was insensitive of me to say that. It’s just that they used to attend. Anyway, come on, let’s go.”
Owen walked outside with Daniel and Rebecca, pleased to be in the breeze again and glad to know he wasn’t entirely alone against the world. Then he saw four policemen hurrying down the tarmac path from the North Market Street gate. He told himself to run, but like Daniel and Rebecca, he simply froze to the spot.
III
“So, we meet again, Owen,” said Banks later that Sunday in an interview room at Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. “Nice of you to assist us with our enquiries.”
Pierce shrugged. “I don’t think I have a lot of choice. Just for the record, I’m innocent this time, too. But I don’t suppose that matters to you, does it? You won’t believe me if it’s not what you want to hear. You didn’t last time.”
Very little light filtered through the barred, grimy window and the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was only thirty watts. There were three people in the room: Banks, Susan Gay and Owen Pierce.
One of the public-spirited parishioners at St Mary’s had heard about the Ellen Gilchrist murder on the news driving home after the morning service, and he had wasted no time in using his car-phone to inform the police that the man they wanted had been at St Mary’s Church that very morning, and might still be there if they hurried. They did. And he was.
In the distance, Banks could hear the mob chanting and shouting slogans outside the station. They were after Pierce’s blood. Word had leaked out that he had been taken in for questioning over the Ellen Gilchrist murder, and the public were very quick when it came to adding two and two and coming up with whatever number they wanted.
People had started arriving shortly after the police delivered
Pierce to the station, and the crowd had been growing ever since. Growing uglier, too. Banks feared he now had a lynch mob, and if Pierce took one step outside he’d be ripped to pieces. They would have to keep him in, if for no other reason than his own safety.
Already a few spots of blood dotted the front of his white shirt, a result of his “resisting arrest,” according to the officers present; there was also a bruise forming just below his right eye.
Banks started the tape recorders, issued the caution and gave the details of the interview time and those present.
“They hit me, you know,” Pierce said, as soon as the tape was running. “The policemen who brought me here. As soon as they got me alone in the car they hit me. You can see the blood on my shirt.”
“Do you want to press charges?”
“No. What good would it do? I just want you to know, that’s all. I just want it on record.”
“All right. Last night, Owen, about eleven o’clock, where were you?”
“At home watching television.”
“What were you watching?”
“An old film on BBC.”
“What film?”
“Educating Rita.”
“What time did it start?”
“About half past ten.”
“Until?”
“I don’t know. I was tired. I fell asleep before the end.”
“Do you usually do that? Start watching something and leave before the end?”
“If I’m tired. As a matter of fact I fell asleep on the sofa, in front of the television. When I woke up there was nothing on the screen but snow.”
“You didn’t check the time?”
“No. Why should I? I wasn’t going anywhere. It must have been after two, though. The BBC usually closes down then.”
His voice was flat, Banks noticed, responses automatic, almost as if he didn’t care what happened. But still the light burned deep in his eyes. Innocence? Or madness?
“You see, Owen,” Banks went on steadily, “there was another young girl killed last night. A seventeen-year-old schoolgirl from Eastvale Comprehensive. It’s almost certain she was killed by the same person who killed Deborah Harrison—same method, same ritual elements—and we think you are that person.”
“Ridiculous. I was watching television.”
“Alone?”
“I’m always alone these days. You’ve seen to that.”
“So, can you see our problem, Owen? You were home, alone, watching an old film on television. Anyone could say that.”
“But I’m not just anyone, am I?”
“How’s the photography going, Owen?”
“What?”
“You’re a keen photographer, aren’t you? I was just asking how it was going.”
“It isn’t. My house was broken into while I was on trial and the bastard who broke in killed my fish and smashed my cameras.”
Banks paused. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
Banks took out the plastic film container and held it up for Owen to see. “Know what that is?”
“Of course I do.”
“Is it yours?”
“How would I know. There are millions of them around.”
“Thing is, Owen, we found this close to the body, and we found your fingerprints on it.”
Owen seemed to turn rigid, as if all his muscles tightened at once. The blood drained from his face. “What?”
“We found your fingerprints on it, Owen. Can you explain to us how they got there.”
“I … I …” he started shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It must be mine.”
“Speak up, Owen. What did you say?”
“It must be mine.”
“Any idea how it got out in the country near Skield?”
“Skield?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head. “I went up there the other day for a walk.”
“We know,” said Susan Gay, speaking up for the first time. “We asked around the pub and the village, and several people told us they saw you in the area on Friday. They recognized you.”
“Not surprising. Didn’t you know, I’m notorious?”
“What were you doing, Owen?” Banks asked. “Reconnoitring? Checking out the location? Do you do a lot of advance preparation? Is that part of the fun?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I admit I was there. I went for a walk. But that’s the only time I’ve been.”
“Is it, Owen? I’m trying to believe you, honest I am. I want to believe you. Ever since you got off, I’ve been telling people that maybe you didn’t do it, maybe the jury was right. But this looks bad. You’ve disappointed me.”