“What? So there was … I mean, it was you?”
“Not me, exactly, but someone. Did you know there was someone watching you?”
“I had a funny feeling once or twice. But no, I can’t honestly say I knew.” Owen started to laugh.
“What is it?” Banks asked.
Owen wiped his arm over his eyes. “Oh, nothing. Just the irony of it, that’s all. I was under surveillance because you thought I’d commit a crime, but as it turns out the surveillance gives me an alibi. Don’t you think that’s funny?”
Banks smiled. “Ironic, yes. But a young girl did get killed, Owen. Horribly. Just like Deborah Harrison.”
“I know. I wasn’t laughing at that. And I didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know how I can help you.”
“I think you do. I don’t believe you haven’t considered the problem over the past couple of days.”
“What problem?”
Banks sat forward and rested his palms on the blotter. “You want me to spell it out? Okay. The reason we arrested you, Owen, was partly because you had been accused of a very similar crime before, and partly because we found strong physical evidence against you at the scene. It still looks very much as if the same person killed both of those girls, and we found evidence against you at both scenes.”
“The fingerprints and the hairs? Yes. And you’re right: I have been thinking about how they could have got there.”
“Any ideas?”
Owen shook his head. “I
did
go up Skield way, and I probably walked past the spot where … you know. I suppose I could have dropped such a film container, but I don’t think I had one with me. I told you about my camera. I didn’t have it with me. As for the hairs, I suppose I must have shed a few during my walk, but I can’t explain how they got on the victim’s clothes. Unless … ”
“Yes?”
The coffee arrived. Banks poured. Owen blew into his cup first, then took a sip. “This is good. Thank you. Unless,” he went on, “and I know this sounds crazy, paranoid even, but I can’t see how any of it could have happened unless someone, the real killer, had decided to capitalize on my bad reputation, blame it on me, the way he knew everyone else would. It doesn’t make sense unless someone tried to
frame
me for Ellen Gilchrist’s murder.”
Banks started tapping a pencil against his blotter. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, if you accept that premise, then whoever it was must have broken into my house while I was in jail and wrecked the place to cover up his true intentions. Or he could have walked in easily
after
the place had been done over. The front door was unlocked when I got back. The lock was broken, in fact. This person must have thought there was a good chance I’d get off, and he wanted some insurance in case that happened and suspicion turned back on him. He must have found the empty film container in the waste-paper bin and guessed it would have my fingerprints on it. I mean, if it were empty, and I’d opened it … Then he must have picked up some hairs from the pillow in the bedroom. That would have been easy enough to do.”
Banks nodded. “Why not choose something more
obvious
to link you to the crime?”
“Failing my blood, which he couldn’t get hold of, I can’t think of anything more obvious than my hair and fingerprints, can you?”
Banks smiled. “I meant something with your name on, perhaps. So there could be no mistake. After all, the prints on the film container might have been blurred. He couldn’t be
certain
they’d lead us to you.”
“But if you think about it,” Owen said, looking pointedly at Banks, “he didn’t need very much, did he? You all believed I’d murdered Deborah Harrison, so it was easy to convince you I’d also killed Ellen Gilchrist. There was no point risking anything more obvious, like something with my name or photograph on it, because that would only draw suspicion. No, all he needed were my prints and hair. He knew my reputation would do the rest. Even without the prints he could have been fairly certain you’d pick on me. I’ll bet the minute you saw the film container you thought of me because you knew I was an amateur photographer.”
“That still leaves us one important question to answer,” Banks said. “Who? Of course, it might be that the murderer was simply using you as a convenient scapegoat—that it was nothing personal—but it
could
have been someone who really wanted you to suffer. Have you any idea who would want to do that to you?”
“I’ve racked my brains about it. But no. The only person who hates me that much is Michelle.
Could
it have been a woman?”
“I don’t think Michelle is tall enough,” Banks said. “But, yes, it
could
have been a woman.”
Owen shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Like you said, it was probably nothing personal. I mean, whoever did it just wanted
someone else
to blame. It didn’t matter who.”
“You’re probably right. But if you think of anyone …”
“Of course. One of the neighbours might have seen someone, you know. They wouldn’t speak out before because they all thought I was guilty and deserved having my house wrecked, but now …? I don’t know. It’s worth asking them, anyway. You might start with that prick Ivor and his wife, Siobhan, next door.”
“We’ll do that,” said Banks, standing up to indicate the interview was at an end.
Owen finished his coffee, stood awkwardly and moved towards the door. He could still hardly believe that freedom was just a few steps away again.
“What now?” Banks asked him.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot to think about. Maybe I’ll go away for a while, just get lost, like everyone suggested I should do in the first place.”
Banks shook his head. “No need to run away,” he said. “We know you didn’t do it now. The press will fall all over themselves to support your cause, and they’ll crucify us for getting the wrong man. Police incompetence.”
Owen forced a smile. “Maybe. Eventually. And I can’t say I’ll be sorry. You deserve it. I remember what you’ve put me through. I remember all the terrible things you accused me of only yesterday. Perversion. Cowardice. Not to mention murder. But I can’t see me getting my job or my friends back, can you? And I imagine there’ll be a lot of people around these parts slow to change their minds, no matter what. Shit sticks, Chief Inspector. That’s one thing I’ve learned from all this.”
Banks nodded. “Perhaps. For a while.”
Owen paused at the door. “Look,” he said, “I don’t expect an apology or anything, but could you just tell me again that you believe I’m innocent? Not just not guilty but
innocent
. Will you say it. I need to hear it.”
“You’re innocent, Owen. It’s true. You’re free to go.”
“Thank you.” Owen turned and started to pull the door shut behind him.
“Owen?” Banks called after him.
Owen felt a little shiver of panic. He turned. “Yes?”
“I
am
sorry. Good luck to you.”
Owen nodded, shut the door and left the building as fast as he could.
NINETEEN
I
It wasn’t until late Tuesday afternoon that a number of things clicked into place for Banks, and what had been eluding him, niggling him for days, suddenly became clear.
So far, there were no leads on the Ellen Gilchrist murder. Several cars had been spotted on King Street that night—big, small, light, dark, Japanese, French—but no-one had any reason to take down licence numbers or detailed descriptions. If the killer had used his own car, Banks reflected, then he may have parked out of sight, just around the corner on one of the sidestreets.
A couple of tourists unable to sleep on a lumpy mattress at a Gratly B & B said they heard a car pass shortly after eleven-thirty, which would have been about the right time, but they hadn’t seen anything. So far, no-one in Skield had been disturbed by Saturday night’s events, but that didn’t surprise Banks. If the killer were clever, which he apparently was, then he would have parked off the road, well out of the hamlet itself.
Under Superintendent Gristhorpe’s co-ordination, Susan Gay and Jim Hatchley were still out checking the victim’s friends and acquaintances to see if she could have been killed by someone who knew her, or if anyone knew more than he or she was telling. The more he thought about it, though, the more Banks was convinced that the solution to Ellen Gilchrist’s murder lay in Deborah Harrison’s.
Also, when Banks arrived at the office that morning, he found a telephone message in his pigeon-hole from Rebecca Charters, dated the previous afternoon, asking him to phone her. When he rang Rebecca, she told him about surprising someone in St Mary’s
graveyard the previous afternoon. No, she hadn’t seen who it was, couldn’t even give a description. She laughed at her fears now, apologized for bothering him and said she’d been a bit jumpy lately. Yesterday, she hadn’t hesitated to call, but now she had had time to think about it. Probably just a kid, she decided. Banks wasn’t too sure, but he put it on the back burner for the moment.
Since Stott’s revelation, after the inevitable bollocking from Jimmy Riddle and a reminder that he was close to the end of his allotted week, Banks and Superintendent Gristhorpe had also been engaged in damage control.
So far, they had managed to keep Stott’s illegal surveillance from the press. And Owen Pierce certainly wasn’t interested in blowing the whistle. As far as the media were concerned, Pierce had an unimpeachable alibi. All that had happened was that another innocent person had spent a night in the cells because of police incompetence. Nothing new about that. Eastvale CID came out of it looking only like prize berks, not like a combination of the Gestapo and the KGB.
As for Barry Stott, he hadn’t resigned, but he had taken some of the leave due to him. God knew where he was. Wrestling with his conscience somewhere, Banks guessed. As far as Banks was concerned, though, Stott was overreacting. So, he had let himself get a bit obsessed with Pierce’s guilt. So what? Things like that happened sometimes, and they rarely had dire consequences. After all, Stott had only
watched
Pierce; he hadn’t beat him up or assassinated him.
Despite the hours of work a murder enquiry consumed, routine work still went on at Eastvale Divisional HQ, and routine papers still found their way to Banks’s desk. On that Tuesday afternoon, when he was distracted by thoughts of Ellen Gilchrist, Deborah Harrison, Barry Stott and Owen Pierce, a proposal requiring every patrol car be fitted with a dashboard computer passed over his desk for perusal after a report on the increase of car theft in North Yorkshire.
Because Banks wasn’t thinking about it, because the words simply floated into that chaotic, intuitive and creative part of his mind rather than engaging his sense of reason and logic, he was struck with that rare feeling of epiphany as a missing piece fell into place. It felt like the simultaneous telescoping and expansion of a
chain of unrelated words into one inevitable conclusion: each element rolled firmly into place like the balls with the winning lottery numbers: Car. Computer. Theft.
Spinks
.
It wasn’t really intuition, but a perfectly logical process, taking a number of facts and relating them in a way that made sense. It only felt like a sudden revelation.
On Friday, when Banks had questioned John Spinks about Michael Clayton and Sylvie Harrison, it had been staring him in the face. But he hadn’t seen it. On Saturday, after his talk with Clayton, he had felt close to something. But he hadn’t known what. Now he did. He still had some dates to check, but as he pushed the proposal aside, he was certain that John Spinks had stolen Michael Clayton’s car and computer in August of last year. Whether that actually meant anything remained to be seen.
Excited by the theory, Banks checked the dates and dashed into Gristhorpe’s office, where he found the superintendent immersed in the statement of Ellen Gilchrist’s best friend. Gristhorpe stretched and rubbed his bushy eyebrows with his fingertips when Banks entered. After he’d done, they looked like birds’ nests.
“Alan. What can I do for you?”
Banks explained about his chain of reasoning. Gristhorpe nodded here and there, and when Banks had finished, put his forefinger to his lips and furrowed his brow.
“So Lady Sylvie Harrison and Michael Clayton found Spinks and Deborah drinking wine in the back garden on 17 August, right?” he said.
Banks nodded.
“And Clayton reported his car stolen on 20 August. I remember it because when he came to inquire about our progress, he thought he was so important he had to see the top man on the totem pole. About a bloody stolen car. I ask you.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t go directly to Jimmy Riddle.”
“Oh, he did. First off. But Riddle’s in Northallerton and that was too far for Clayton to go every day. So Riddle told him to keep checking with me. I put Barry and Susan on it. Clayton was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Not over the car, though.”
“The computer?”
“Got it in one.”
“Yes. That’s what Susan said,” Banks mused. “When Clayton recognized her that time we went to talk to the Harrisons. I should have realized at the time.”
Gristhorpe smiled indulgently. “I think you can be forgiven that, Alan,” he said. “Wasn’t it about the same time the lead on Pierce came up?”
“Yes. But—”
“Anyway, let’s assume that Spinks stole Clayton’s car on 20 August,” Gristhorpe went on. “He did some damage, but not much. It was the missing notebook computer that really had Clayton dancing on hot coals. We know it was a very expensive one, with all the bells and whistles, but Clayton’s a rich man. He could afford a new one easily. It was what was
on
the computer that he was worried about. As I recollect, it turned up on the market a couple of weeks later, no worse for wear.”
“From what I’ve seen,” Banks went on, “Spinks would have about as much chance of operating Clayton’s computer as an oran-goutang. But the point is that he was still seeing Deborah at that time. There’s a chance she knew what he’d done. She wouldn’t necessarily tell Clayton or her parents what happened, not when she was right in the middle of being rebellious, slumming it. And Deborah was bright, good at sciences. That computer would have probably been child’s play to her.”