Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  The only heat was provided by a small white radiator against the far wall. Banks was glad he hadn’t taken off his raincoat yet; he was thankful for the extra layer of warmth.

  A three-piece suite upholstered in worn brown corduroy ranged around the coffee-table, and in one of the armchairs sat a man with thick black eyebrows that almost met in the middle, a furrowed brow, a long, pale face and prominent cheekbones. He had the haunted look of a troubled young priest from an old movie.

  As Banks came in, the man stood up, a maneuver that resembled some large, long-limbed animal uncurling from its lair, and reached out his slender hand.

  “Daniel Charters. Would you like some coffee?”

  Shaking his hand, Banks noticed the carafe on the table and nodded. “Love some,” he said. “Black, no sugar.”

  Banks sat on the sofa, Rebecca Charters next to him. Also on the coffee-table stood an empty bottle of Sainsbury’s Romanian Pinot Noir.

  As Daniel Charters poured the coffee, Rebecca walked over to a glass-fronted cabinet, brought out a bottle and a brandy balloon and poured herself a large one. Banks noticed her husband gave her an angry look, which she ignored. The coffee was good. Almost as soon as he sipped it Banks felt the scratchiness in his throat ease up a little.

  “I realize you’ve had a terrible shock,” Banks said, “but do you think you could answer a few questions?”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “Good. Did you report finding the body immediately?”

  “Almost. When I saw the shape, what it was, I…I was sick first. Then I ran back here and telephoned the police.”

  “What were you doing in the graveyard at that time, on such a miserable night?”

  “I went to see the angel.”

  Her voice was such a low whisper, Banks didn’t believe he could have heard right. “You what?” he asked.

  “I said I went to see the angel.” Her large, moist eyes held his defiantly. They were red-rimmed with crying. “What’s wrong with that? I like graveyards. At least I did.”

  “What about the glass?”

  “I had a glass of wine. I dropped it, then I fell. Look.” She lifted her skirt as far as her knees. Both of them were bandaged, but the blood was already seeping through.

  “Perhaps you should see a doctor?” Banks suggested.

  Rebecca shook her head. “I’m all right.”

  “Did you disturb the body in any way?” Banks asked.

  “No. I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t go near her.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  “Just that she was a St. Mary’s girl.”

  “Did you know a girl called Deborah Catherine Harrison?”

  Rebecca put her hand to her mouth and nodded. For a moment, Banks thought she was going to be sick again. Her husband didn’t make a move, but Banks could tell from his expression that he recognized the name, too.

  “Is that who it was?” Rebecca asked.

  “We think so. I’ll have to ask you not to say anything to anyone until the identity has been confirmed.”

  “Of course not. Poor Deborah.”

  “So you knew her?”

  “She sang in the choir,” Daniel Charters said. “The school and the church are very closely linked. They don’t have a chapel of their own, so they come here for services. A number of them also sing in the choir.”

  “Have you any idea what she might have been doing in the graveyard around five or six o’clock?”

  “It’s a short cut,” Rebecca said. “From the school to her house.”

  “But school finishes at half past three.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “They have clubs, societies, activities. You’d have to ask Dr. Green, the head.” She took another gulp of brandy. The dog on the hearth hadn’t moved. For a moment Banks thought it might have died, then he noticed the fur moving slowly as it breathed. Just old, most likely. The way he was feeling.

  “Did either of you see or hear anything outside earlier this evening?” he asked.

  Daniel shook his head, and Rebecca said, “I thought I did. When I was in the kitchen opening the wine. It sounded like a stifled cry or something.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went over to the window. Of course, I couldn’t see a damn thing in this fog, and when I didn’t hear anything else for a couple of minutes I decided it must have been a bird or a small animal.”

  “Can you remember what time that was?”

  “Around six o’clock, maybe a few minutes after. The local news was just starting on television.”

  “And even though you thought you heard a cry, you still went out into the dark, foggy graveyard alone forty minutes later?”

  Rebecca cast her eyes on the empty wine bottle. “I’d forgotten all about it by then,” she said. “Besides, I told you, I assumed it was an animal.”

  Banks turned to Daniel Charters. “Did you hear anything?”

  “He was in his study until I came back screaming about the body,” Rebecca answered. “That’s the other room at the front, the far side. He couldn’t have heard a thing from there.”

  “Mr. Charters?”

  Daniel Charters nodded. “That’s right. I was working on a sermon. I’m afraid my wife is correct. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Have either of you seen any strangers hanging around the area recently?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Has anyone been inside the Inchcliffe Mausoleum lately?”

  Charters frowned. “No. As far as I know no-one’s been in there for fifty years. I just gave the key to one of your men.”

  “Where do you usually keep it?”

  “In the church. On a hook in the vestry.”

  “So it’s accessible to anyone?”

  “Yes. But I can’t see-”

  “Someone’s been down there recently. We found vodka bottles and cigarette ends. Have you any idea who it might be?”

  “I can’t…” Then he stopped and turned pale. “Unless…”

  “Unless what, Mr. Charters?” Banks drank some more coffee.

  “As you probably know,” Charters said, “I’ve been under a bit of a cloud these past two months. Do you know the details?”

  Banks shrugged. “Only vaguely.”

  “The whole thing is only vague. Anyway, we employed a Croatian refugee here as a sexton. He turned out to be a complete mistake. He drank, he was abusive and he frightened people.”

  “In what way?”

  “He used to leer at the schoolgirls, make lewd gestures. One girl even saw him urinating on a grave.” Charters shook his head. “That sort of thing. He never actually touched anyone as far as we know, but some of the girls complained to Dr. Green, and she and I had a long talk. The upshot was, I decided to get rid of him. As soon as he’d gone, he went to the church authorities and claimed that I fired him because he refused to have sex with me.”

  “And the church authorities believed him?”

  “It doesn’t matter what they believed,” said Charters, with a bitter glance at his wife. “Once the accusation is made, the wheels start to grind, inquiries have to be made. And the accused is put immediately on the defensive. You ought to know how it works, Chief Inspector.”

  “Like ‘when did you stop beating your wife?’”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you think he might have been in the mausoleum?”

  “He’s the only one I can think of. And he had better access to the key than most. Also, as I remember, vodka was his drink of preference because he believed people couldn’t smell it on his breath.”

  “What do you think of all this, Mrs. Charters?”

  Rebecca shook her head, looked away and drank more brandy.

  “My wife, as you can see,” said Charters, “has been a pillar of strength.”

  Banks decided to leave that one well alone. “What’s he called, this man you fired?”

  “Ive Jelačić.”

  “How do you spell that?”
/>   Charters told him, explaining the diacritical marks. Banks wrote it down.

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s tall, about my height, solidly built. He has black hair, which always needed cutting, a dark complexion, a slightly hooked nose.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “ Leeds.”

  “Has he ever threatened or bothered you at all since you fired him?”

  “Yes. He’s been back a couple of times.”

  “Why?”

  “To offer me a deal. He suggested that he would drop the charges if I gave him money.”

  “How much?”

  Charters snorted. “More than I can afford, I’m afraid.”

  “And how would he get the charges dropped?”

  “Say he misinterpreted my gesture. Cultural differences. I told him to go away. The man’s a liar and a drunk, Chief Inspector. What difference does it make?”

  “It might make a lot of difference,” said Banks slowly, “if he had a reputation for bothering the St. Mary’s girls and he had a grudge against you. Do you know his address?”

  Charters went over and opened a sideboard drawer. “I ought to,” he muttered, flipping through a pile of envelopes. “There’s been enough correspondence on the matter. Ah, here it is.”

  Banks looked at the address. It was in the Burmantofts area of Leeds, but he didn’t recognize the street. “Mind if I use your phone?” he asked.

  “Go ahead,” said Charters. “There’s an extension in my study, if you want some privacy. It’s just across the hall.”

  Banks went into the study and sat at the desk. He was impressed how tidy it was-no papers scattered all around, no chewed pencils, no reference books open face down, no errant paperclips or rubber bands, the way his own desk usually looked when he was working on something. Even the ruler was lined up parallel with the edge of the blotter. A neat man, the Reverend Charters. So neat that he had even tidied his desk after his wife came in screaming about a murder in the graveyard?

  Banks consulted his notebook and phoned Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone at home. Blackstone, a good friend, worked for West Yorkshire CID out of Millgarth, Leeds. Banks explained what had happened and asked Blackstone if he could arrange to have a couple of officers go around to the address Charters had given him. First, he wanted to know if Jelačić was at home, and secondly, whether he had an alibi for this evening. Blackstone said it would be no problem, and Banks hung up.

  When he went back into the living-room he obviously interrupted Daniel and Rebecca Charters in the midst of a hissed argument. Rebecca, he noticed, had refilled her brandy glass.

  Banks had nothing more to ask, so he knocked back the rest of his lukewarm coffee and headed out into the graveyard.

  IV

  As soon as Banks had gone, Daniel Charters looked disgustedly at the empty wine bottle and the remains of the brandy, then at Rebecca. “I asked you why you did that,” he said. “Why on earth did you lie to him?”

  “You know why.”

  Daniel leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees. “No, I don’t. You didn’t even give me a chance to answer. You just jumped right in with your stupid lie.”

  Rebecca sipped her brandy. “I didn’t notice you rushing to correct me.”

  Daniel reddened. “It was too late by then. It would have looked suspicious.”

  “Shpicious? Oh, that’s a good one, Daniel. And how do you think it looks already?”

  Daniel’s face contorted in pain. “Do you think I did it? Do you really believe I killed that girl out there?” He pointed a long, bony finger towards the graveyard. “Is that what you think you were protecting me from? Giving me an alibi for?”

  Rebecca turned away. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Then why did you lie?”

  “To make things easier.”

  “Lies never make things easier.”

  Oh, don’t they? Rebecca thought. Shows what you know. “We’ve got enough problems,” she said with a sigh, “without having you as a suspect in a murder investigation.”

  “Don’t you want to know where I was?”

  “No. I don’t care where you were.”

  “But you lied for me.”

  “For us. Yes.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Look, Daniel, I saw something horrible out there in the graveyard. I’m tired, I’m upset and I feel sick. Can’t you just leave me alone?”

  Daniel remained silent for a moment. Rebecca could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Ezekiel stirred briefly then settled down to sleep again.

  “You think I did it, don’t you?” Daniel persisted.

  “Please, Daniel, just let it drop. Of course I don’t think you did it.”

  “Not the murder. The other business.”

  “I don’t think anything of the kind. I told you. Haven’t I stuck by you? Do you think I’d still be here if I thought you did it?”

  “Here? You’re not here. You haven’t been here since it happened. Oh, you may actually be physically present in this room. Yes, I’ll admit that. But you’re not really here, not with me. Most of the time you’re in the bottle, the rest you’re…God knows where.”

  “Oh, right, and we all know you’re such a bloody saint you haven’t touched a drop throughout all our troubles. Well, maybe I’m not as strong as you, Daniel. Maybe we’re not all so bloody devout. Some of us might just show a little human weakness every now and again. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  Rebecca topped up her brandy with a shaking hand. Daniel reached forward and knocked the glass out of her hand. The brandy spilled on the coffee-table and the sofa, and the glass bounced on the carpet.

  Rebecca didn’t know what to say. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the first time since she had known him that Daniel had shown even the slightest sign of violence.

  His face was red, and his frown knitted his thick dark eyebrows together at the bridge of his nose. “You have your doubts don’t you?” he insisted. “Go on. Admit it. I’m waiting.”

  Rebecca bent down, picked up the glass and poured herself another shot with shaking hands. This time Daniel did nothing.

  “Answer me,” he said. “Tell me the truth.”

  Rebecca let the silence stretch, then she took a long sip of brandy and said, in a parody of a prostitute’s tone, “Well, you know what they say, don’t you, ducky? There’s no smoke without fire.”

  V

  Banks left his car parked on North Market Street, outside St. Mary’s, and set off on foot to Hawthorn Close. The fog appeared less menacing on the main road than it had in the unlit graveyard, though the high amber street-lights and the flashing Belisha beacons at the zebra crossing looked like the Martian machines out of War of the Worlds.

  Why had Rebecca Charters lied for her husband? She had lied, of that Banks was certain, even without the evidence of the tidy desk. Was she giving him an alibi? Perhaps tomorrow he would call on them again. She was certainly an odd one. Going to see the angel, indeed!

  Banks looked at his watch. Luckily, it was just after nine o’clock, and he still had time to nip into the off-license at the corner of Hawthorn Road and buy twenty Silk Cut.

  After he had walked about two hundred yards down Hawthorn Road, he took Hawthorn Close to the right, a winding street of big, stone houses that traditionally housed Eastvale’s gentry.

  He found number 28, stubbed out his cigarette and walked up the gravel drive, noting the “O” registration Jaguar parked outside the front door. On impulse, he put his hand on the bonnet. Still a little warm.

  Barry Stott answered the door, looking grim. Banks thanked him for doing the dirty work and told him he could return to the station and get things organized; then he walked down the hall alone into a spacious white room, complete with a white grand piano. The only contrasting elements were the Turkish carpets and what looked like a genuine Chagall on the wall over the Adam fir
eplace, where a thick log burned and crackled. A white bookcase held Folio Society editions of the classics, and French windows with white trim led out to the dark garden.

  There were three people in the room, all sitting down, and all, by the looks of it, in a state of shock. The woman wore a gray skirt and a blue silk blouse, both of a quality you’d be hard-pushed to find in Eastvale. Her shaggy blonde hair was the expensive kind of shaggy, and it framed an oval face with a pale, flawless complexion, pale blue eyes and beautifully proportioned nose and mouth. All in all, an elegant and attractive woman.

  She got up and floated towards him as if in a trance. “Has there been a mistake?” she asked. “Please tell me there’s been a mistake.” She had a hint of a French accent.

  Before Banks could say anything, one of the men took her by the elbow and said, “Come on, Sylvie. Sit down.” Then he turned to Banks. “I’m Geoffrey Harrison,” he said. “Deborah’s father. I suppose it’s too much to hope there has been a mistake?”

  Banks shook his head.

  Geoffrey was about six foot two, with the long arms and broad shoulders of a fast bowler. In fact he looked a bit like a famous test cricketer, but Banks couldn’t put a name to him. He was wearing gray trousers with sharp creases and a knitted green V-neck sweater over a white shirt. No tie. He had curly fair hair, with some gray visible around the ears, and a strong, cleft chin, a bit like Kirk Douglas. Everything about his movements and features spoke of power, of someone used to getting his own way. Banks put his age at about forty-five, probably a good ten years older than his wife.

  All of a sudden, the realization hit Banks like a bucket of cold water. Christ, he should have known. Should have been able to add it all up. This damn cold must be addling his brain. The man in front of him was Sir Geoffrey Harrison. Sir. He had been knighted for services to industry-something to do with leading-edge computers, electronics, microchips and the like-about three years ago. And Deborah Harrison was his daughter.