Innocent Graves (10 page)

“What did he look like?” Hatchley asked.

“Well, he were a tall bloke, I remember that. A bit over six foot, anyroad. Thick black hair, a bit too long over t’collar, if you ask me. Bit of a long nose, too.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No more than to serve him and make a few remarks about the weather. He didn’t seem to want to talk. Took his pint over by the fire and just sat there staring into his glass. Muttered to himself now and then, too, as I recall.”

“He talked to himself?”

“Well, not all the time. And not like he was having a conversation or anything. No, he’d just say something once in a while, as if he were thinking out loud, like you do sometimes.”

“Did you hear anything he said?”

“Nay. He were too far away.”

“Did he have any sort of an accent?” Stott cut in. “Couldn’t say.”

“Did you know Ive Jela
č
i
ć
, the sexton over the road at St Mary’s.”

“Nah. He drank at t’Pig and Whistle.”

“How do you know?”

“Landlord, Stan, told me, after it was in t’papers, like, about him and that dodgy vicar.”

“Did you ever see Mr Jela
č
i
ć
?”

“Only from a distance.”

“Could this have been him?”

“Could’ve been, I suppose. Same height and hair colour.”

“Do you know if this customer had a car?”

“How would I know that?” Alf rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, he looked more like he’d been walking. You know, a bit damp, short of breath.”

“What time was this, Alf?” Hatchley asked.

“About five o’clock.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Just afore six. Like I said, he had nobbut two pints and a double whisky. One for the road, he said, and knocked it back in one, then he was out the door.” Alf mimicked the drinking action.

Stott pricked up his ears. The timing worked, assuming the girl had been killed on her way home from the school chess club. Was that the way a person might act before raping and murdering a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl in a foggy graveyard? Stott wondered. A dram of Dutch courage? He tried to remember what he’d learned in the criminal psychology course.

The trouble was, you could justify just about any sort of behaviour if you were talking about a psycho. Some of them liked to sit and have a beer and a fag before a nice little dismemberment; others liked to buy a box of chocolates or bunch of flowers for their mothers. You could never predict. So maybe the killer would have dropped in at the Nag’s Head. Why not? Maybe he just needed to sit there for a while, have a little chat with himself about what he was going to do?

“Did you see which direction he went?” Stott asked.

“Nay. You don’t expect me to chase outside after my customers and see which way they’re going, do you?”

“What was he wearing?” Stott asked.

“Orange anorak. Expensive type, by the looks of it. That Gore-Tex stuff. Lots of pockets and zips.”

“Can you remember anything else about his appearance?”

“I’m not good at describing people. Never was.”

“Do you think you could work with a police artist?”

“Dunno. Never tried it.”

“Will you give it a try?”

Alf shrugged.

“Sergeant,” Stott said, “go and see if you can get a police artist out as soon as possible, will you? I’ll wait here.”

It was almost worth suffering the stale smoke and booze atmosphere of the Nag’s Head for another hour or so to see the expression on Sergeant Hatchley’s face as he trudged out into the rain.

II

They had made love in every position imaginable: sideways, backwards, forwards, upside down. They had also done it in just about every place they could think of: her bed, his bed, hotels, a field, his cramped Orion, up against a wall, under the kitchen table. Sometimes, it seemed to last forever; other times, it was over almost before it began. Sometimes, the foreplay went on so long Rebecca thought she would burst; other times, they were overtaken by a sense of urgency and didn’t even have time to get all their clothes off.

This time, it had been urgent. Afterwards, Rebecca lay on the bed of a hotel room in Richmond panting for breath, covered by a film of sweat. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist, her knickers down, still hanging around one bare ankle; her blouse was open at the front, a couple of the buttons torn off in the heat of the moment, and her bra was pushed up to expose her breasts.

Patrick’s head lay against her shoulder. She could feel his breath warm against her skin. Both their hearts were beating fast. Rebecca rested one hand over his broad, strong shoulders, and with the other she stroked the hair over his ear, felt the stubbly down at the back of his neck, where it had been recently cut. It wasn’t love— she knew enough to realize that—but it was one hell of a fine substitute.

But all too soon the sense of shame and melancholy that always came to her after sex with Patrick began to descend like a thick fog, numbing the nerve-ends that, only minutes before, had thrilled to such exquisite pleasure, and guilt began to overwhelm the vestiges of her joy.

Patrick moved away and reached for a cigarette. It was the one thing she disliked, his smoking after sex, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to. He also put his glasses on. She knew he couldn’t see a thing without them, but sometimes she laughed because he looked so funny naked except for his glasses.

“What is it?” Patrick asked, clearly sensing something was wrong. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Of course I did. You know that. I always do … with you. No … it’s just that I feel so … so damn guilty.”

“Then leave him. Come and live with me.”

“Don’t be foolish, Patrick. Just imagine the scandal. School-teacher shacks up with minister’s wife. You’d lose your job, for a start. And where would we live?”

“Oh, don’t be so practical. We’d manage. We’ll get a flat in town. I can get another job. We’ll move away.”

Rebecca shook her head. “No. No. No.”

“Why not? Don’t you love me?”

Rebecca didn’t answer.

“You do love me, don’t you?” he persisted.

“Of course I do,” Rebecca lied. It was easier that way.

“Then leave him.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t love him.”

“I … I … don’t know.” Rebecca
did
love Daniel. Somewhere inside her, the feeling was still there, she knew: battered, bruised, half-evaporated, but still there. She couldn’t explain that to Patrick.

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but …”

Rebecca felt a tingle run up her spine at the words, nothing to do with sex. “Yes?” she prompted him. “Go on.”

“Yesterday evening your husband came to see me.”

“Daniel went to see you? Why?”

“He came to talk to me.”

Rebecca sat up. She quickly slipped her bra down and rearranged her skirt to cover herself, holding the front of her blouse together as best she could. “What about?” she asked, feeling awkward and stupid.

“About us.” Patrick flicked his ash into the ashtray on the bedside table. It was a small room, with the curtains drawn, and Rebecca already felt claustrophobic.

“But he doesn’t know about us.”

“Oh, but he does. He says he’s known for a while. He suspected something, then he watched you. He’s seen us together.”

“My God.”

“He told me not to tell you he’d been to see me.” “What did he want?”

“He asked me to stop seeing you.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him the truth. That we were in love. That you were discovering for the first time your true erotic nature. And that as soon as we could manage it you were going to leave him and we were going to live together.”

Rebecca couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Daniel knew? Had known for ages? “You bloody fool.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled up her knickers. Then she buttoned her blouse, put on her jacket over it and went to the wardrobe where her raincoat was hanging. “You bloody fool,” she muttered again under her breath. “Daniel. I must go to him.”

Patrick sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. “What do you mean? It
is
the truth, isn’t it?”

“You idiot. You’ve ruined everything.”

He got up and walked over to her. She thought he suddenly looked ridiculous with his glasses on, the limp penis hanging between his thin, hairy legs.

“Rebecca,” he said, grasping her arms. “He’s only concerned about how it looks. With appearances. Don’t you see? He wants everything to seem normal, for you to act like the dutiful vicar’s wife. But it’s not you. It’s really not you. I know you, Rebecca. I know your true nature. We’ve discovered it together. You’re a wild, passionate, sensual creature, not a bloody dried-up vicar’s wife.”

“Let me go!”

She tore herself out of his grasp, finished putting her raincoat on and grabbed the door-handle.

“Don’t do this, Rebecca,” he said. “Stay with me. Don’t be afraid of finding out who you really are. Follow your passion, your
feelings
.”

“Oh, shut up, you pompous bastard. It was just a fuck, that’s all. You don’t know a bloody thing, do you?”

“Wait. I’ll drive you,” he called out as she walked through the door.

“Don’t bother,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll catch a bus.” And she slammed the door behind her.

III

A couple of uniformed policemen kept the press away from Sir Geoffrey’s house. When Banks and Susan got there early in the afternoon, there were only about six reporters hanging around at the end of the driveway. They fired off a few questions, but Banks ignored them. Too early to start giving statements to the press. Unless you were Chief Constable Riddle, of course.

The only new information Banks had was that the swabs taken from Deborah had revealed no traces of semen, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell the media that. He had also discovered that Sir Geoffrey’s reception at the Royal Hotel in York had ended at four o’clock, plenty of time to get back home by six, even in the fog. Lady Harrison had, indeed, been at the health club; but she hadn’t arrived there until almost six-thirty.

Banks hadn’t noticed in the fog last night, but the house had a large lawn and beautiful flower-beds, clearly the work of a gardener. Even keeping the lawn trimmed would have been a full-time job. The house itself was an ostentatious pile of Victorian stone, complete with gables, probably built for one of the get-rich-quick wool merchants in the last century.

Sir Geoffrey himself answered Banks’s ring and beckoned the two of them in. Banks introduced Susan.

“Is there any news?” Sir Geoffrey asked.

Banks shook his head. “Not yet, sir. Sorry.”

Sir Geoffrey looked drawn and stooped, and he had large bags, like bruises, under his eyes. Banks followed him through to the white room with the bookcases, the Chagall and the grand piano. Michael Clayton was sitting in one of the armchairs, also looking as if he had gone without sleep for a week.

“Michael, I believe you met Detective Chief Inspector Banks last night,” Sir Geoffrey said.

“Yes,” said Clayton, “and I know Detective Constable Gay, too. I don’t know if I ever thanked you.”

Susan smiled. “All part of the service, sir.”

Banks gave her a quizzical look.

“Mr Clayton had his car and a valuable notebook computer
stolen in August,” she explained. “We got them back for him. Someone was trying to sell the computer at Eastvale market.”

“I don’t think I explained last night,” Sir Geoffrey went on, “but in addition to being a dear friend, Michael’s the scientific genius behind HarClay Industries. I simply provide the sales and marketing strategies.” He clapped Clayton on the shoulder. “I don’t know what we’d do without him. Please, sit down.”

“Where’s your wife, sir?” Banks asked.

“Sylvie’s resting. She … we didn’t get much sleep last night.

She’s exhausted. Me, too. Look, we … er … I’m sorry. Things are a bit of a mess around here. How can I help you?”

“We won’t keep you long. Just a couple of questions.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded wearily. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “We’ve talked to a few people at Deborah’s school, and everyone seems to agree that Deborah was a cheerful and talented girl.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded. “Sylvie and I are very proud of her.”

“But even the best of people make enemies,” Banks went on. “Often inadvertently. Can you think of any enemies Deborah might have made?”

Sir Geoffrey closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. She got along well with her schoolfriends and teachers—I’m sure they’ll all bear that out—and there wasn’t really anyone else in her life aside from family.”

“I heard that she had a tendency to show off at times. Would you say that’s fair?”

Sir Geoffrey smiled. “Yes, Deborah can be a show-off, and a bit of a devil at times. But what child can’t be?”

Banks smiled, thinking of Tracy. “And Deborah was still a child in some ways,” he said. “She might not always have realized the effects of her actions on others. Do you see what I mean?”

Sir Geoffrey nodded. “But I can’t see us getting anywhere with this,” he said. “Unless you’re implying that someone at the school had something to do with her death. Or that bloody minister at St Mary’s.”

“Daniel Charters?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why do you dislike him so?”

“The man’s a pervert. He abused his power.”

Banks shook his head. “But nothing’s been proved against him. Isn’t he entitled to be presumed innocent until proven guilty?”

“In theory, perhaps. But a man in his position should be above suspicion.”

“The man who accused Father Charters is called Ive Jela
č
i
ć
. Would it surprise you to know that he made lewd gestures towards your daughter, and that she complained to Dr Green, the head of St Mary’s?”

“She never told me that. If she had, I’d have broke his bloody neck.”

Banks turned to Clayton. “Did Deborah ever confide in you about anything?”

Clayton raised his eyebrows. “Me? Good heavens, no. I suppose I was just as uncool as her parents as far as she was concerned.”