Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  “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 Jelačić. 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.”

  “Uncool?”


  “You know teenagers, Chief Inspector. We’re ancient and decrepit creatures to them.”

  “I suppose we are.” Banks took a deep breath and turned back to Sir Geoffrey. “This is a little delicate, I’m afraid, but I have to ask where you went after the Royal Hotel reception ended at four o’clock yesterday.”

  “Good God, man! You can’t poss-”

  “Geoff, he has to ask. He’s just doing his job,” said Michael Clayton, putting his hand on Sir Geoffrey’s arm. “Offensive though it may be.”

  Sir Geoffrey ran his hand over his hair. “I suppose so. I had a private meeting with a client, if you must know. A man from the government called Oliver Jackson. It’s a very confidential matter, and I don’t want anyone else to know about the meeting. Things like this can have an effect on share prices and any number of market factors. Not to mention international affairs. Do you understand?”

  Banks nodded. “There is just one more thing…”

  Sir Geoffrey sighed. “Go ahead, if you must.”

  “I was wondering about any boyfriends Deborah might have had.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “Yes. It would be perfectly natural for a girl of sixteen to have an interest in the opposite sex. Perfectly innocent things, like going to the pictures with a boy, maybe. She did have a ticket stub from the Regal in her blazer pocket.”

  Sir Geoffrey shook his head. “She used to go to the pictures with her mother a lot. The two of them…Deborah didn’t have any boyfriends, Chief Inspector. You’re barking up quite the wrong tree there. She didn’t have time for boys.”

  “Had she never had a boyfriend?”

  “Only Pierre, if that counts at all.”

  “ Pierre?”

  “In Bordeaux, or rather at Montclair. My wife’s family owns a chateau in the country near Bordeaux. We often spend holidays there. Pierre is a neighbour’s son. All quite innocent, of course.”

  “Of course,” Banks agreed. “And a long way away.”

  “Yes…well. Look, about this Jelačić character. That’s a disturbing piece of news. Are you going to bring him in?”

  “We’re pursuing inquiries in a number of directions,” Banks said as he and Susan walked to the door, annoyed at himself for sounding as if he were talking to the press.

  Outside, they ducked through the reporters beyond the gate and got back into Banks’s car out of the rain.

  “Interesting, don’t you think?” Banks said. “About the boyfriend.”

  “Yes, sir. Either he really didn’t know, or he was lying.”

  “But why lie?”

  “Perhaps Deborah really did keep it a secret from him? If he’s a strict father, I could see her doing that.”

  “Possibly. What about his alibi?”

  “Very plausible,” said Susan. “I noticed you didn’t ask his wife for hers.”

  “One at a time, Susan. One a time. Besides, I hardly think Sylvie Harrison murdered her own daughter. She’s not tall or strong enough, for a start.”

  “If she goes to a health club, she’s probably strong enough,” Susan pointed out. “Maybe she stood on a stone?”

  Banks sneezed into his handkerchief.

  “Bless you sir,” Susan said.

  They headed towards North Market Street. “You know,” said Banks, “I think there’s a lot more to Deborah’s life than people know, or are saying. I’d like to have another talk with her mother, alone if possible. Michael Clayton was right, teenagers don’t have a lot of time for adults, but daughters do sometimes confide in their mothers. And I’d like to find this John, if he exists.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he does, sir. Deborah was an attractive girl. And she was sixteen. I’d be very surprised indeed if she had nothing at all to do with boys.”

  Banks’s car phone beeped. He picked it up.

  “DI Stott here.”

  “What’s up, Barry?”

  “I think we should meet up back at the station. We’ve got a description of a possible suspect in the Deborah Harrison murder, and it could be Jelačić. Vic Manson called, too. Jelačić’s prints are all over the vodka bottles.”

  “We’re on our way.” Banks switched off the phone and put his foot down.

  IV

  All the way home on the rickety bus, Rebecca chewed her nails. She didn’t look once at the fading autumn scenery beyond the rain-streaked windows: the muted gold, russet and lemon leaves still clinging to the roadside trees, fragile and insubstantial as the moon’s halo; the soft greens and browns of the fields; the runic patterns of the drystone walls. She didn’t notice the way that the dale to her west, with its gradually steepening valley sides, was partially lost in mist and drizzle, making it look just like a Chinese water-color.

  Rebecca just chewed her nails and wished that tight, tearing, churning feeling inside her would go away. She felt constantly on the verge of screaming, and she knew if she started she could never stop. She took deep breaths and held them to calm herself. They helped.

  By the time the bus lumbered into Eastvale, she had regained some control of her emotions, but she still felt devastated, as if her world had been suddenly blown apart. She supposed it had to happen, that she had been living a lie, living on borrowed time, or whatever other cliché she could come up with to describe the last few months of her life.

  Looking at it now, her life had simply become one hangover after another; either from booze or infidelity, it didn’t seem to make any difference. What pleasures she had found in getting drunk or having sex were so fleeting and so quickly overwhelmed by the pains-headaches, stomachache, guilt, shame-that they no longer seemed worthwhile. But was it too late now? Had she lost Daniel?

  Almost there.

  She pushed the bell and felt the driver and other passengers giving her strange looks as she waited for the bus to stop. What could they sense about her? Could they smell sex on her? She hadn’t washed before leaving Patrick in Richmond; she had simply pulled her clothes on as quickly as possible and left. But her raincoat covered the torn blouse. God, what could she do about that? If Daniel were home, he would notice. But what did it matter now? He knew anyway. Even so, she couldn’t stand the thought of his knowing she had been with Patrick this afternoon.

  As the bus approached the stop, she saw the knot of reporters hanging about by the church walls and knew why the passengers were looking at her. She was getting off at St. Mary’s, the scene of the most horrible crime Eastvale had experienced in decades.

  The bus came to a sharp halt and Rebecca would have tumbled forwards if she hadn’t been holding onto the metal pole. When the doors opened, she jumped off and dashed past the policeman at the gate, then ran through the churchyard to the vicarage.

  When she got there she flung open the door and called out for Daniel. Silence. Thank God, he wasn’t home. Pulling off her torn blouse, she ran upstairs to the bathroom to wash the smell of sex from her body. Then she would be ready to face Daniel. She would have to be.

  V

  Ive Jelačić lived on the sixth floor of a ten-story block of flats in Burmantofts, off York Road. In the gray November drizzle, the maze of tall buildings reminded Banks of a newspaper picture he’d seen of workers’ quarters in some Siberian city.

  “Charming, isn’t it?” said Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone, waiting for them outside. He looked at his watch. “Do you know, the council had to put slippery domes on all the roofs to stop kids climbing down on the upper balconies and breaking in through people’s windows?”

  Immaculately dressed as usual, Blackstone made Banks aware that his top collar button was undone and his tie a little askew. Blackstone looked like an academic, with his wire-rimmed glasses, bookworm’s complexion and thinning sandy hair, a little curly around the ears, and he was, in fact, something of an expert on art and art fraud. Not that there was often much call for his area of expertise in Leeds. Nobody had knocked off any Atkinson Grimshaws recently, and only an idiot would try to fake a Henry Moore sculpture.

 
“Jelačić’s alibi checks out,” Blackstone said as they walked towards the entrance. “For what it’s worth. And we’ve had a poke about his flat. Nothing.”

  “What do you think it’s worth?” Banks asked.

  Blackstone pursed his cupid’s-bow lips. “Me? About as much as a fart in a bathtub. There were three of them-all Croatian. Stipe Pavič, Mile Pavelič and Vjeko Batorac. They’d probably swear night was day to protect one another from the police. Here it is. Take my word, the lift doesn’t work.”

  Banks looked through the open sliding doors. The walls of the lift were covered in bright, spray-painted graffiti, and even from where he stood he could smell glue and urine. They took the stairs instead, surprising a couple of kids sniffing solvent on the third-floor stairwell. The kids ran. They knew the only people dressed like Blackstone in that neighborhood were likely to be coppers.

  There were a few times when Banks regretted smoking, and the climb to the sixth-floor flat was one of them. Puffing for breath and sweating a little, he finally arrived at the outside walkway that went past the front doors.

  Number 604 had once been red, but most of the paint had peeled off. It also looked as if it had been used for knife-throwing practice. Jelačić answered on the first knock, wearing jeans and a string vest. His upper body looked strong and muscular, and tufts of thick black hair spilled through the holes in the vest. With his height, longish hair and hooked nose, he certainly resembled the descriptions of the man seen in St. Mary’s yesterday evening.

  “Why you bother me?” he said, standing aside to let them in and letting his eyes rest on Susan for longer than necessary. “I tell you already, I have done nothing.”

  Inside, the flat was small enough to feel crowded with four people in it and tidy enough to surprise Banks. If nothing else, Ive Jelačić was a good housekeeper. An ironing board stood in one corner, with a shirt spread over it, and there was a small television set in the opposite corner. No video or stereo equipment in sight. The only other furniture in the room consisted of a battered sofa and a table with three chairs. Family photographs and a couple of religious icons stood on the mantelpiece over the electric fire.