“How are you making a living now, Mr. Jelačić?” Banks asked.
“Dole.”
“Do you own a car?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Da. Is old Ford Fiesta.”
“Did you drive it to Eastvale yesterday?”
Jelačić looked at Blackstone. “Ne. I tell him already. I play cards. Vjeko tells you. And Stipe and Mile.”
Jelačić sat down on his sofa, taking up most of it, and lit a cigarette. The room quickly began to fill with smoke. Blackstone stood with his back against the door, and Banks and Susan sat on the wooden chairs. Banks soon noticed the way Jelačić was sliding his eyes over Susan’s body, and he could tell Susan noticed it too, the way she made sure her skirt was pulled down as far over her knees as it would go and the way she kept her knees pressed tight together. But still Jelačić ogled.
“The thing is,” Banks said, “that people will often lie to cover for their friends, if they think a friend is in trouble.”
Jelačić leaned forward aggressively, muscles bulging in his arms and shoulders. “You call my friends liars! Jebem ti mater! You tell that to their face. Fascist police. upak.”
Banks held out a photograph of Deborah Harrison. “Did you know this girl?”
Jelačić glared at Banks for a moment before glancing towards the photo. He shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Da.”
“She went to St. Mary’s, sang in the church choir, used to walk through the graveyard on her way home.”
He shook his head again.
“I think you’re lying, Mr. Jelačić. You see, she complained about you. She said you used to make lewd, sexual comments and gestures towards her. What do you think about that?”
“Is not true.”
“Father Charters said you were drunk most of the time, you didn’t do your job properly and you bothered the girls. Is that true?”
“Ne. He is liar. All St. Mary’s people lie, get Ive in trouble, make him lose job.”
“Did you ever enter the Inchcliffe Mausoleum.”
“Nikada. Is always locked.”
Banks looked at Ken Blackstone and rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Ive. We found your fingerprints all over the empty vodka bottles in there.”
“Vrag ti nosi!”
“We know you went down there. Why?”
Jelačić paused to sulk for a moment, then said, “All right. So I go down there sometime in summer when it get too hot. Just for cool, you understand? Maybe I have a little drink and smoke. Is not crime.”
“Did you ever take anyone else down there? Any girls?”
“Nikada.”
Banks waved the photograph. “And you swear you didn’t know this girl?”
Jelačić leaned back on the sofa. “Maybe I just see her, you know, if I am working and she walk past.”
“So you do admit you might have seen her?”
“Da. But that is all.”
“Mr. Jelačić, what were you wearing last night?”
Jelačić pointed towards a coat-hook by the door. A red windcheater hung on it.
“Shoes?”
Frowning, Jelačić got to his feet and picked up a pair of old trainers from the mat below the hook. Banks looked at the soles and thought he could see gravel trapped in the tread and, perhaps, bits of leaves. There was also mud on the sides.
“How did your shoes get in this state?” he asked.
“I walk back from Mile’s.”
“You didn’t drive?”
Jelačić shrugged. “Is not far.”
“We’d like to take your shoes and windcheater in for testing,” Banks said. “It would be easiest if you gave us permission. You’ll get a receipt.”
“If I do not?”
“Then we’ll get a court order.”
“Is okay. You take them. I have nothing to hide.”
“Were you standing on the Kendal Road bridge around six o’clock yesterday evening?”
“Ne. I go to Mile’s house. We play cards until late.”
“Did you have two pints of beer and a double whisky in the Nag’s Head, opposite St. Mary’s Park?”
“I tell you. I go to Mile’s and we play cards and drink.”
“Daniel Charters told us you’d been back to Eastvale to extort money from him. Is that true?”
“Vra je! I tell you, that man, he is Satan’s tool, an evil liar.”
“So it’s not true that you offered to withdraw the charges in exchange for money?”
“Is not true. Ne. And I have nothing more to say.” Jelačić looked at Susan again, letting his eyes travel slowly from her feet all the way up to her breasts, where they lingered. He didn’t exactly lick his lips, but he might as well have done. Banks saw Susan flush with embarrassment and rage.
“Well, let me just get clear what you have told us,” Banks said. “Last night, you were playing cards with friends who will vouch for you, right?”
Jelačić nodded.
“You didn’t know the girl in the photograph, though you might have seen her in passing.”
“Da.”
“But you certainly didn’t leer at her or make any suggestive gestures.”
“Ne.”
“And after you were unjustly fired you never went back to Eastvale and tried to extort money out of Father Daniel Charters.”
“Nikada.”
“Fine, then,” said Banks, standing up. “That’ll be all. We’ll be off now.”
Jelačić looked surprised. “You leave now?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of the clothing and get it back to you as soon as we’ve run our tests. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jelačić. Good day.”
And they left him gaping after them.
“Biggest load of bollocks I’ve ever heard in my life,” said Ken Blackstone as they walked down the stairs. A dog went on pissing nonchalantly against the wall as they passed by.
Banks lit a cigarette. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it? What do you think Susan?”
“Whether he did it or not,” Susan Gay said between gritted teeth, “I think the bastard should be hung over the balcony by his balls. Sir.”
Chapter 5
I
It was after six and Daniel still wasn’t back. Rebecca paced. She should make a start on dinner. At least it would take her mind off things. Had all this happened just a couple of days ago, she would have gone to see the angel, blabbed her fears and feelings out to its marble heaven-ward gaze, but the Inchcliffe Mausoleum was soured for her now by what she had seen there.
She put on her striped butcher’s apron-a birthday present from Daniel, when he still had his sense of humor-and searched in the fridge for the remains of the weekend’s roast. She would make shepherd’s pie. There was a bottle of Marks and Sparks Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge, lying on its side near the front. After a moment’s hesitation, Rebecca opened it and poured herself a generous glass before setting about grinding the leftover meat.
She was halfway through her second glass, and had just put the potatoes on, when she heard the door open. Daniel. Her legs turned to water. Suddenly she couldn’t face him, didn’t know what to say. He called out her name and she managed to tell him she was in the kitchen. Quickly, she knocked back the rest of the wine and poured herself another glass. Her hand was shaking so much she spilled some of it on the table. Sometimes you just couldn’t get drunk enough quick enough.
“What happened to the front window?” Daniel asked when he came through.
Rebecca stared down at the potatoes in the pan, waiting for the water to boil. “Someone chucked a brick through it,” she said. She didn’t tell him about the note.
“Where were the police?”
“Up around the Inchcliffe Mausoleum.”
“Isn’t it marvelous? Police all over the place but still a crime gets committed.” Daniel rested the backs of his thighs against the solid wood table.
&nb
sp; “Daniel, a young girl’s been killed. And I found her.”
Daniel rubbed his brow. “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Bad day.”
“How was the meeting?”
“At least they’re resolved on not kicking me out for the present,” Daniel said. Over the past month, he had developed a tic beside his left eye. It was jumping now. “But the bishop is very upset about the murder, especially about its happening on church property. That’s another nail in my coffin. Things could hardly get much worse.”
“Don’t tempt providence.”
“ Providence? Hah. I don’t know if I still believe in providence any more. Or in anything, for that matter. I’m hungry.” He went to the fridge, found some old Cheddar and cut himself a chunk. “How about you?”
Rebecca shook her head. The way her stomach felt, she thought she might never be able to eat again. The potatoes came to a boil. She turned down the heat and wiped her hands on her apron. The tension inside her had built so high that she felt like a volcano about to erupt. She couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Daniel?” She turned to face him.
“What?”
“I…I don’t…Today. I-”
The front doorbell rang.
“Damn!” Rebecca banged her fist on the table. “Who could that be?”
“I’ll go and see.” Daniel went off to answer it.
Rebecca grasped the edge of the table. She could feel the room spinning around her, and it wasn’t the booze this time.
“Becky!” The note of concern in his voice brought her back “Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Not so bad. “I’m fine. Sorry. I just came over a bit funny, that’s all.” When she opened her eyes, she saw Daniel standing next to the detective who had visited them last night.
He was smaller than you’d expect for a policeman, she noticed, compact, lean and wiry, with an aura of pent-up strength. His closely cropped black hair showed just a little gray at the temples, and his blue eyes danced and sparkled with energy. There was a little crescent scar beside his right eye.
“Detective Chief Inspector Banks is back,” Daniel said. “He wants to ask us some more questions.”
Rebecca nodded, took off her apron and followed them through to the living-room. She left the glass of wine on the kitchen table. Another postponement. Maybe she could drink herself through yet another night of guilt and misery.
“I’m sorry to intrude again,” Banks said when they had all sat down. He sneezed, took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose. “Sorry. I seem to be catching a cold. Look, I’ll come straight to the point. I can see you were busy getting dinner ready. I was just wondering if maybe you’d decided to tell me the truth about last night?”
For a moment, Rebecca was stunned by the matter-of-fact way Banks spoke. “The truth?” she echoed.
“Yes. You’re a poor liar, Mrs. Charters. And you can take that as a compliment.” He glanced towards Daniel. “When I asked your husband where he had been at the time you said you heard a cry, you jumped in a bit too quickly and answered for him.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Then he felt duty-bound to lie to cover for you. It’s all very admirable in some ways, but it won’t do. Not when there’s a sixteen-year-old girl lying dead in Eastvale mortuary.”
Rebecca felt completely tongue-tied. What the hell was going on? Her mind whirled, searching for things to say, but before she could say anything a voice far calmer than her own cut in.
“Chief Inspector,” Daniel Charters said. “I’m afraid that’s my fault. I should have corrected Rebecca rather than let the deceit stand. Believe me, there was no need for a lie. I have nothing to hide.”
Banks nodded. He seemed to be waiting for something else.
Daniel sighed and went on. “Yes, I was out at the time my wife heard the cry, but I can assure you that my whereabouts had absolutely nothing at all to do with the poor girl’s murder.”
“Where were you?” Banks asked.
Rebecca noticed Daniel’s lips tighten for a moment as he tensed in thought. “I’d rather not say.”
“It would help us a lot if we could verify your story.”
Daniel shook his head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to prove my alibi, even if I told you.”
“You could let us try.”
He smiled sadly. “It’s a kind offer, but-”
The doorbell rang again.
“I’ll go,” said Rebecca.
“Whoever it is,” Daniel told her, “get rid of them.”
Leaving them in silence, Rebecca went to open the front door. Patrick Metcalfe was standing there. He looked as if he had been walking around in the rain without a raincoat for hours.
“Oh, my God,” Rebecca cried, trying to shut the door against his shoulder. “Please, go away. Can’t you see you’ve caused enough trouble already?”
“Let me in, Rebecca. I want to come in. I must come in. I want to talk to both of you. You must listen to me.”
He kept pushing at the door and Rebecca wasn’t strong enough to hold him back. Suddenly, Banks’s calm voice behind her said, “Why don’t you let him in, Mrs. Charters? Whoever he is. The more the merrier.”
II
Even Barry Stott was almost ready to call it a day by six-thirty. The drizzle that, at one time, had looked like ending, had turned into a much harder downpour as darkness fell, and now both he and Sergeant Hatchley were soaked to the skin. Even the best raincoat and shoes, which Stott’s were, could only take so much without springing leaks. If only Jelačić had broken down and confessed instead of stubbornly protesting his innocence, the way Banks said he had, how much easier life would have been.
They were showing the police artist’s impression, based on Alf’s description-and what a lengthy and frustrating experience getting that done had been-along the rather twee row of shops set back from Kendal Road opposite the school. The newsagent hadn’t seen anyone, the grocer was closed and the hairdresser gave a lengthy opinion as to the sorry state of the suspect’s locks, but said she was closed on Mondays, and no, she hadn’t noticed anyone strange hanging around on any other days.
The teashop was also closed, the way most Yorkshire teashops close at teatime, but the Peking Moon, the Chinese restaurant next door, had just opened. It was, as Hatchley explained, a rather pricey, up-market sort of Chinese restaurant, not the kind of place that yobbos go for a quick chop suey after a skinful of ale on a Friday night.
“I wonder why they don’t change the name,” Sergeant Hatchley said as they approached the door. “Isn’t Peking called Beijing now? A real Chinaman wouldn’t have a clue where he was if he saw this.”
Stott turned to Hatchley before he pushed the door open. “I know what you’re thinking, Sergeant. And you can forget it. We’re not staying here for dinner. Definitely not. Got it?”
Hatchley looked hurt. “Furthest thing from my mind, sir. I don’t even like Chinese food. It’s got no sticking power. I’m always hungry again ten minutes after I’ve eaten it.”
“Right. Just as long as we understand each other…”
The bell at the top of the door jingled as they went in. Like many Chinese restaurants, its decor was simple and relaxing, with a series of ancient Chinese landscapes-tiny human figures dwarfed by evergreen-covered mountains-on the walls, and plain red tablecloths. Soft, tinkling music played in the background. So soft that Stott couldn’t even figure out whether it was pop or classical. Or Chinese. Not that he cared much for music.
A waiter in a white jacket walked towards them. “Jim, me old mate. What can I do you for?” he asked in a cockney accent you could cut with a knife, despite the oriental eyes and complexion.
“DI Stott,” Hatchley introduced them, “This is Well Hung Low.” He laughed, and the waiter laughed with him.
Stott seethed inside, his rage, as it always did, crystallizing quickly from fire to ice.
“Just a joke, sir,” Hatchle
y went on. “His name’s Joe Sung. Deserted the bright lights of Whitechapel for the greener pastures of Eastvale. Joe wanted to be a copper once, too, sir, but I managed to persuade him he was better off where he was. His father owns this place. It’s a little gold-mine.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” Stott said with a smile, shaking Joe’s hand. “We need more…a more ethnically diverse police force. Especially in Yorkshire.”
“Aye,” said Hatchley. “I told him he wouldn’t know what was worse, the prejudice or the patronizing.”
Joe laughed.
Again, Stott felt his anger boil up and freeze. Oafs like Hatchley symbolized all that was wrong in today’s police force. His type’s days were numbered. “I wonder if we might ask you a few questions?” he said to Joe Sung.
“Fire away, mate.” Joe gestured to the empty restaurant. “See how busy we are. Here, take the weight off.” He beckoned them to join him at one of the tables.
“Remember what I said, Sergeant,” Stott hissed in Hatchley ’s ear as they followed. “This isn’t another meal break.”
“No, sir.” But Hatchley took the ashtray on the table as an invitation to light up.
“What is it, then?” Joe asked when they’d sat down. “Official business? About that murder?”
“Yes,” said Stott.
Joe shook his head. “Terrible business. I knew the girl, too, you know.”
“Knew her?”
“Well, not in the real sense of the word. Not to talk to, like. I mean she’d eaten in here with her mates, that’s all. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that photo in the Evening Post.”
Stott couldn’t understand how it happened, but a tray of appetizers suddenly appeared on the table in front of them: spring rolls, garlic shrimp, chicken balls. All Stott noticed was the retreating back of another waiter. He hadn’t heard a thing. Hatchley picked up a shrimp and popped it in his mouth between drags on his cigarette.
“When did she eat here?” Stott asked.
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