Innocent Graves (37 page)

Spinks shrugged. “Could’ve been, for all I know.”

“But you didn’t notice anything special about them, the way they behaved towards one another?”

“No.”

“Were they both fully dressed?”

“Course they were.”

“Did they look dishevelled at all?”

“Come again. Dish what?”

“See what I mean about the need for compulsory education? It means messed up, ruffled, untidy.”

“Oh. No. I don’t think so. Can’t really remember, though.”

“Did Deborah ever say anything about them?”

He shook his head, stopped abruptly and opened his mouth as if to say something, then carried on shaking it. “No.”

Banks leaned forward on the chair back. The two front legs raised off the floor. “What were you going to tell me, John?”

“Nothing. She never said nothing.” He coughed and a mouthful of yellow vomit dribbled down his chin onto his T-shirt. The smell was terrible: booze, cheese-and-onion crisps and tacos. Banks stood up and stepped back.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Susan Gay came in, followed by Dr Burns, the police surgeon, whose surgery was just across the market square.

“Sorry, sir,” Susan said, “but the doctor’s here.”

“Right,” said Banks, shaking hands with Burns. “He’s all yours. I’ve had enough. Take good care of him, Nick. I might want to talk to him again.”

And as he walked back to his own office, he had the strange feeling that not only had Spinks been holding back, hiding something, but that he, himself, hadn’t even been asking the right questions. Something was eluding him, and he knew from experience that it would drive him around the bend until he thought of it.

SIXTEEN

I

Banks took a deep breath outside Michael Clayton’s house on Saturday morning, then he got out of his car and walked up the garden path. If Chief Constable Riddle found out about this, Banks’s life probably wouldn’t be worth living.

Clayton’s house wasn’t quite as large as the Harrisons’, but it was an impressive enough construction, solidly built of redbrick and sandstone, detached and surrounded by an unkempt garden. The lawn looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed yet this year, and weeds choked the flower-beds.

After he rang the doorbell the first time, Banks heard nothing but silence and began to suspect that Clayton was out. He tried again. About thirty seconds later, just as he was about to head off down the path, the door opened and Clayton stuck his head out.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked crossly. “Oh, it’s you, Chief Inspector.” He moved aside and opened the door fully. “You’d better come in. Sorry about the mess.”

Banks followed him through a door from the hallway into a room full of computer equipment. At least three computers, state-of-the-art, by the look of them, sat on their desks, two of them displaying similar graphic images. These were incomprehensible to Banks, and looked like a cross between circuit diagrams and the molecular structures he remembered from school chemistry. They were all multi-coloured, and some of the nodes and pathways between them flashed, different on each screen. The third VDU showed a deck of cards set out in what Banks recognized as the solitaire “pyramid” fashion.

“I always have a game going when I’m working,” Clayton said, smiling. “It helps me concentrate. Don’t ask me why.”

The floor was a mass of snaking cables and Banks trod carefully not to trip over any of them.

He could almost feel the room vibrating with the electrical hum running through them.

Clayton cleared a stack of computer magazines from a hard-backed chair. Banks almost asked him what the diagrams on the screens were, but he knew that either Clayton wouldn’t tell him or he wouldn’t understand anyway. Best not start off looking like an ignoramus.

Sheets of paper hissed as they slid out of a laser printer. One of the computers started to emit a loud, pulsating beep. Clayton excused himself while he went over and hit a few keys.

“Diagnostic programmes,” he said when he got back.

Well, that was clear enough, Banks thought. Even he knew what diagnostic programmes were. Though what they were supposed to diagnose was another matter entirely.

“Computers,” Clayton went on. “They’ve changed the world, Chief Inspector. Nothing is the same as when you and I were children. And they’re still changing it. Believe me, in the not-too-distant future, nothing will be the same as it is now. But I don’t suppose you came here to talk technology with me, did you? Are you coming to apologize?”

“What for?”

“For letting the bastard who killed Deborah slip through the cracks. I was there, you know, in court with Geoff and Sylvie. They’re devastated. And I’ve hardly been able to concentrate on my work since then. How could you let it happen?”

Banks shrugged. “I’ve seen it happen more often than you have. We’re not living in a perfect world.”

“You can say that again. I don’t know what the procedure is now, but if I can help in any way …” Clayton scratched his smooth chin. “Look, I’ve heard one or two disturbing rumours about this Pierce fellow beating up young girls and raping them. Is that true?”

“I can’t comment on that,” said Banks.

“But there
is
some evidence that wasn’t admissible, isn’t there? Something that might have got him convicted if it had been heard in the trial?”

“The judge rules on matters of law,” Banks said. “So there might be a strong basis for the appeal. That’s really all I can tell you at the moment.”

Clayton paused and glanced quickly around at the computer screens. “Well, Chief Inspector, thank you for bringing me up to date. Can I help in any way?”

Banks leaned forward. “As a matter of fact, there is something. One of the results of the court’s decision is that we have decided to reopen the case and examine some of the other angles again.”

Clayton frowned. “I don’t understand. Did you get the right man or didn’t you?”

“The jury thinks we didn’t.”

“But what about
you
. You know more about him than you’re ever allowed to tell the jury. What do
you
think?”

Banks was getting sick of that question. Now he knew what defence barristers felt when people kept asking them how they could possibly defend people they knew must be guilty. “I didn’t see him do it,” he said, “so there’s always room for doubt.”

Clayton snorted. “So just because the justice system fouls up yet again, you’re going to run around reopening old wounds.”

“I hoped you might look at it as cooperation,” Banks said.

“About what?”

“John Spinks, for a start.”

“That moron who caused all the trouble last summer?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sylvie told you about him?”

“Yes. And I talked to him again yesterday.”

“You surely don’t think
he
could have done it?”

“It’s possible,” Banks said.

“He doesn’t have either the guts or the brains.”

“Since when did it take brains to murder someone? Outside a detective novel, that is.”

“It takes brains to do it and get away with it.”

“Brains or luck.”

Clayton shrugged. “No point in arguing. Look at it that way and anything’s possible. He was certainly angry at her about what happened. I imagine anger is a familiar enough part of his limited emotional range. I suppose he could have lain in wait for her and lost his temper.”

“Did he know she attended the chess club?”

“How should I know?”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” said Banks. “Not if he hadn’t been seeing her
after
term started. Anyway, that’s beside the point. As you say, he would know the route she took and he could have simply lain in wait in the foggy graveyard ever since school came out. Now, as I understand it, Spinks came to Sir Geoffrey’s house to extort money from Lady Sylvie Harrison, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you hit him.”

“No more than a little cuff. You’re not going to arrest me for assault and battery are you?”

Banks smiled. “No. Believe me, sir, I’ve felt like doing the same thing myself on more than one occasion.”

“Then you understand my feelings about him.”

“Entirely. You hit him, and later you paid him off?”

“Yes. It seemed the easiest way.”

“How much did you give him?”

“A hundred pounds.”

“That was all?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t come back for more?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Clayton leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. “Because I told him that if he did, I would certainly inform Sir Geoffrey, who would at the very least have him horsewhipped, no matter what vile threats he made.” Clayton frowned and sat back. “You say you talked to Spinks again? Why? Was this in connection with reopening the case?”

“Not really. No, it was coincidence. He stole a car and crashed it.”

“Pity he didn’t break his neck. Serves the little bastard right.”

“I suppose so,” Banks said. He paused, feeling his heartbeat speed up. “What were you doing here when Spinks came?”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the impression that you’re here an awful lot. Especially when Sir Geoffrey is out and his wife is at home.”

Clayton’s mouth dropped open and he started shaking his head very slowly. “My God, you’ve got a mind like a sewer,” he said. “I don’t believe it. On the basis of that you’re suggesting …” He put his fingertips to his temple. “Let me get this clear … Your theory is that Sylvie and I were having a torrid affair and Deborah found out and threatened to tell her father. Instead of allowing that to happen, I waited for Deborah, my own goddaughter, in the graveyard after her school chess club one day and strangled her. Is that your theory?”

“I hadn’t thought it out that far,” Banks said. “I was just trying to get the lie of the land, that’s all. But I must admit you’ve got a way of reducing things to their essentials. Thank you for putting it so succinctly.”

Clayton stood up. His face was red. “This is insane, Banks. You’re clutching at straws. I think you’d better leave now.”

“I was just on my way. But I do have one more question.”

Clayton gritted his teeth. “Very well.”

“About the kind of work HarClay Industries does. Some of it is highly secret, isn’t it, MoD stuff?”

“Yes. So?”

“Is there any chance that Deborah might have stumbled across something she shouldn’t have, say in her father’s papers?”

Clayton shook his head. “First you practically accuse me of murder, then you bring up all this James Bond stuff. No, Chief Inspector, Deborah
couldn’t
have stumbled across any government secrets that got her killed. I think you already had the killer and you let him get off. Now you’re casting about wildly for some sort of scapegoat.”

Banks stood up to leave. “Maybe,” he admitted.

“And for your information,” Clayton went on, “I’ve known Geoff and Sylvie for years. I was there when they met. I was at university with Geoff. I have never had, nor am I having now, any other sort
of relationship with Sylvie Harrison than that of a close friend. Am I making myself clear?”

Banks turned and met his gaze. “Perfectly.”

“And just for this one time I’m willing to forget that this meeting ever took place. But if you ever dare come here again with your—”

Banks held his hand up. “I get the message, sir. If I ask any more questions, you’ll go tell the chief constable. Fair enough.”

When Banks got outside and back into his car, his hands were shaking as he lit his first cigarette of the day.

II

Rebecca Charters hadn’t known what to do at first when Owen Pierce surprised her in the garden on Thursday. She had been scared, as she told Chief Inspector Banks, and her instinct had been to run inside, bolt the door and put the chain on. He hadn’t tried anything after that, even though he must have known she was alone in the house, but she had looked through the window and watched him stand by the garden gate for a moment before walking off. Her heart had beat fast.

After Banks had left, she rationalized her fear away. Pierce hadn’t
done
anything, after all, or even said or threatened anything. Perhaps she was overreacting. Pierce might not be guilty of anything. Certainly Inspector Banks had his doubts, and his idea of Deborah having
arranged
to meet the person who ultimately turned out to be her murderer made sense.

But when Owen Pierce came and knocked at her door on Saturday afternoon, while Daniel was out visiting the terminally ill patients in Eastvale General Infirmary, she felt afraid all over again.

Because it was a warm day and she liked the way the scents of the flowers drifted into the living-room, Rebecca had opened the bay window. Before moving to shut it and lock it, she shouted, “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

“Please,” he said. “Please listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve never hurt anyone. I just want to talk to you.”

She left the window open but put her hands on top of the frame, ready to slam it down if he made any suspicious moves. “What about?” she asked.

“Just talk, that’s all. Please. I need someone to talk to.”

There was something in his tone that touched Rebecca, but not enough to open the door to him.

“Why me?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I know
about
you. I know what you’ve been through. You’re the vicar’s wife. I’ve read about the accusations and everything. I just felt … I’m not trying to say I’m especially religious or anything. I don’t want to lie to you about that. Please, will you just let me come in and talk? Will someone just treat me like a human being. Please.”

Rebecca could see tears in his eyes. She still didn’t know why he had come. She couldn’t let him in, but nor did she feel she could turn him away. After all, she was a Christian,
and
a minister’s wife.

“Stay there,” she said. “I’ll come out.” She would feel safe outside in the garden, with the constant flow of people on the river path.

Why was she doing it? she asked herself as she went outside. She knew part of the answer. Not too long ago, she had allowed herself to doubt Daniel, her own husband. Instead of offering him her unqualified support and devotion, she had turned to liquor and carnality to escape her obligations. More than that. It wasn’t just her obligations she was running away from, but the horrible realization that she
had
doubted Daniel, she
had
believed him guilty. And now, here was this pathetic man, found not guilty by a jury and presumed guilty by the rest of the world. Call it pity, compassion, Christian charity or mere folly, but she
couldn’t
turn him away.