Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

Tracy looked down and rubbed her hand against her knee. “Well, there’s a lot of girls live in, you know, all together in the dormitories. I thought she meant, like, lesbians and stuff.”

  “Did she imply that any of the teachers had any sort of sexual relations with the pupils?”

  “No, Dad. Honest, I don’t know. I mean, she never really said anything. Not specific. She just implied. Hinted. But she was like that about everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “As if she knew more than she let on. And as if we were poor fools who saw only the surface, and she knew what really went on underneath. Like, we all swallowed the illusion, but she knew the underlying truth. I’m not trying to paint her in a bad way. She was really nice, but she just had this sort of tone, like, as if she knew more than everyone else.”

  “Did she ever speak about her family?”

  “She mentioned her father’s business now and then.”

  “What did she say about that?”

  “I said once that it must be interesting having a father as famous as Sir Geoffrey Harrison, being knighted and all that.”

  So much for having a mere detective for a father, Banks thought, swallowing his pride. “What did she say?”

  “The usual. Something like, ‘Oh, you’d be shocked if you knew some of the things I know.’”

  “And she didn’t elaborate?”

  “No. I just shrugged it off. I thought she meant the bad side of technology, all the war stuff, missiles and bombs and that. We all know Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s companies are involved in things like that. It’s in the papers nearly every day.”

  “And she didn’t say any more about it?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever mention Father Daniel Charters or Ive Jelačić?”

  “The people from St. Mary’s church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not to me. If you ask me, she was more interested in boys than anything else.”

  “Boys? Anyone in particular.”

  “Well, she sort of took up with John Spinks.” Tracy pulled a face. “I mean, of all the boys…”

  Banks leaned forward. The bedsprings creaked. “Tell me about John Spinks,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  I

  Eastvale College of Further Education was a hodgepodge of ugly redbrick and concrete buildings on the southern fringe of the town, separated from the last few houses by a stretch of marshy waste ground. There was nothing else much around save for the Featherstone Arms across the road, a couple of industrial estates and a large riding stable, about half a mile away.

  The college itself was a bit of a dump, too, Owen thought over his lunch-time pint and soupy lasagna, and he wouldn’t be teaching there if he could get anything better. The problem was, with only a BA from Leeds and an MA from an obscure Canadian university, he couldn’t get anything better. So he was stuck teaching the business, secretarial and agriculture students how to spell and write sentences, skills they didn’t even want to know. It was a long way from the literary ambitions he had nursed not so many years ago.

  But he had more immediate problems than his teaching career: he had lied to the police, and they probably suspected as much.

  It wasn’t much of a lie, admittedly. Besides, it was none of their business. He had said he never lived with a woman, but he had. With Michelle. For five years. And Michelle was the woman in the black-and-white nude photographs.

  So Owen wasn’t exactly surprised when Stott and Hatchley walked into the pub and asked him if he would mind going to the station with them to clear up a few points. Nervous, yes, but not surprised. They said the department head had told them where they were likely to find him, and they had walked straight over.

  Nobody spoke during the first part of the journey. Sergeant Hatchley drove the unmarked Rover, and Inspector Stott sat beside him. Owen could see the sharp line of his haircut at the back of his neck and the jug-handle shape of his ears, glasses hooked over them. As they approached the market square, Owen looked out of the window at the drab, shadowy figures hurrying from shop to shop, holding onto their hats.

  “I wonder if you’d mind very much,” Stott said, turning slightly in his seat, “if we arranged to take a couple of samples?”

  “What kind of samples?”

  “Oh, just the usual. Blood. Hair.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Let me put it like this. You’re not under arrest, but the crime we’re investigating is very serious indeed. It would be best all around if you gave your permission and signed a release. For elimination purpose.”

  “And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me down, pull my hair out and stick a needle in me?”

  “Nothing like that. We could get the superintendent to authorize it. But that wouldn’t look good, would it? Especially if the matter ever went to court. Refusing to give a sample? A jury might see that as an admission of guilt. And, of course, as soon as you’re eliminated from the inquiry, the samples will all be destroyed. No records. What do you say?”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Stott turned to face the front again and picked up his car phone. “I’ll just take the liberty of calling Dr. Burns and asking him to meet us at the station.”

  It was all handled quickly and efficiently in a private office at the police station. Owen signed the requisite forms, rolled up his sleeve and looked away. He felt only a sharp, brief pricking sensation as the needle slid out. Then the doctor pulled some hair out of his scalp. That hurt a little more.

  The interview room they took him to next was a desolate place: gray metal desk; three chairs, two of them bolted to the floor; grimy windows of thick wired glass; a dead fly smeared against one institutional-green wall; and that was it.

  It smelled of stale smoke. A heavy blue glass ashtray sat on the desk, empty but stained and grimy with old ash.

  Stott sat opposite Owen, and Sergeant Hatchley moved the free chair and sat by the wall near the door, out of Owen’s line of vision. He sat backwards on the chair, wrapping his thick arms around its back.

  First, Stott placed the buff folder he’d been carrying on the desk, smiled and adjusted his glasses. Then he switched on a double-cassette tape recorder, tested it, and gave the date, time and names of those present.

  “Just a few questions, Owen,” he said. “You’ve been very cooperative so far. I hope we don’t have to keep you long.”

  “So do I,” said Owen, looking around the grim room. “Shouldn’t I call my lawyer or something?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Stott. “Of course, you can if you want. It’s your right.” He smiled. “But it’s not as if you’re under arrest or anything. You’re free to leave anytime you want. Besides, do you actually have a solicitor? Most people don’t.”

  Come to think of it, Owen didn’t have a solicitor. He knew one, though. An old university acquaintance had switched from English to law after his first year and now practiced in Eastvale. They hadn’t seen each other in years, until Owen had bumped into him in a pub a few months back. Gordon Wharton, that was his name. Owen couldn’t remember what kind of law he specialized in, but at least it was a start, if things went that far. For the moment, though, Stott was right. Owen hadn’t been arrested, and he didn’t see why he should have to pay a solicitor.

  “Let me lay my cards on the table, Owen. You have admitted to us that you were in the area of St. Mary’s on Monday evening. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. I went for a walk.”

  “Shall we just go over it again, for the record?”

  Owen shrugged. “There’s really nothing to go over.” He could see the sheet of paper in front of Stott, laid out like an appointment book. Some of the times and notes had question marks in red.

  “What time did you set off on this walk?”

  “Just after I got back from work. About four. Maybe as late as half past.”

  “How far is it to S
t. Mary’s?”

  “Along the river? About three miles from my house. And the house is about half a mile from the river.”

  “About seven miles there and back, then?”

  “Yes. About that.”

  “Now, before you ate at the Peking Moon you drank two pints of bitter and a Scotch whisky at the Nag’s Head, right?”

  “I wasn’t counting, but yes, I had a couple of drinks.”

  “And you left the pub at about a quarter to six?”

  “I wasn’t especially aware of the time.”

  “That’s what the landlord told us.”

  “I suppose it must be true, then.”

  “And you ate at the Peking Moon at approximately six-thirty, is that correct?”

  “About then, yes. Again, I didn’t notice the actual time.”

  “What did you do between a quarter to and half past six?”

  “Walked around. Stood on the bridge.”

  “Did you go into St. Mary’s graveyard?”

  “No, I didn’t. Look, if you’re trying to tie me in to that girl’s murder, then you’re way off beam. Why would I do something like that? Perhaps I had better call a solicitor, after all.”

  “Ah!” Stott glanced over Owen’s shoulder towards Sergeant Hatchley. “So he does read the papers, after all.”

  “I did after you left. Of course I did.”

  Stott looked back at him. “But not before?”

  “I’d have known what you were talking about, then, wouldn’t I?”

  Stott straightened his glasses. “What made you connect our visit with that particular item of news?”

  Owen hesitated. Was it a trick question? “It didn’t take much,” he answered slowly, “given the kind of questions you asked me. Even though I know nothing about what happened, I know I was in St. Mary’s that evening. I never denied it. And while we’re on the subject, what led you to me?”

  Stott smiled. “Easy, really. We asked around. Small, wealthy neighborhood like St. Mary’s, people notice strangers. Plus you were wearing an orange anorak and you used your Visa card in the Peking Moon.”

  Owen leaned forward and slapped his palms on the cool metal surface. “There!” he said. “That proves it, then, doesn’t it?”

  Stott gave him a blank look. “Proves what?”

  “That I didn’t do it. If I had done it, what you seem to be accusing me of, I would hardly have been so foolish as to leave my calling card, would I?”

  Stott shrugged. “Criminals make mistakes, just like everybody else. Otherwise we’d never catch any, would we? And I’m not accusing you of anything at the moment, Owen. You can see our problem, though, can’t you? Your story sounds thin, very thin. I mean, if you were in the area for some real, believable reason…Maybe to meet someone? Did you know Deborah Harrison, Owen?”

  “No.”

  “Had you been watching her, following her?”

  Owen sat back. “I’ve told you why I was there. I can’t help it if you don’t like my reason, can I? I never thought I’d have to explain myself to anyone.”

  “Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Did you see Deborah Harrison?”

  “No.”

  “About that scratch on your cheek,” Stott said. “Remember yet where you got it?”

  Owen put his hand to his cheek and shrugged. “Cut myself shaving, I suppose.”

  “Bit high up to be shaving, isn’t it?”

  “I told you. I don’t remember. Why?”

  “What about the nude photos, Owen? The ones we found at your house?”

  “What about them? They’re figure studies, that’s all.”

  Sergeant Hatchley spoke for the first time, and the rough voice coming from behind startled Owen. “Come on lad, don’t be shy. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like looking at a nice pair of tits? You’re not queer, are you?”

  Owen half-twisted in his seat. “No. I didn’t say I didn’t like looking at naked women. Of course I do. I’m perfectly normal.”

  “And some of the girls in that magazine seemed very young to me,” said Stott.

  Owen turned to face him again. “Since when has it been a crime to buy Playboy? You people are still living in the middle ages. For Christ’s sake, they’re models. They get paid for posing like that.”

  “And you like videos, too, don’t you, Owen? There was that one in your cabinet, your own private video to keep, to watch whenever you want. Including School’s Out.”

  “A friend gave me it, as a sort of joke. I told him I’d never seen any porn-any sexy videos before, and he gave me that, said I’d enjoy it.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Owen,” said Stott. “I’ve got to wonder about a bloke who watches stuff like that and likes the sort of art books and pictures you like. Especially if he takes nude photos of young girls, too.”

  “It’s a free country. I’m a normal single male. I also happen to be an amateur photographer. And I have a right to watch whatever kind of videos I want as long as they’re legal.” Owen felt himself flushing with embarrassment. Christ how he wished Chris Lorimer at the college hadn’t given him the bloody video.

  “School’s Out,” Hatchley said quietly from behind him. “A bit over the top, that, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I haven’t even watched that one.”

  “You can see what Sergeant Hatchley’s getting at, though, can’t you, Owen?” said Stott. “It looks bad: the subject-matter, the image. It all looks a bit odd. Distinctly fishy.”

  “Well, I can’t help that. It’s not fishy. I’m perfectly innocent, and that’s the truth.”

  “Who’s the girl in the photographs? The one who looks about fifteen.”

  “She was twenty-two. Just a model. It was a couple of years ago. I can’t remember her name.”

  “Funny, that.”

  “What is?”

  “That you remember her age but not her name.”

  Owen felt his heart pounding. Stott scrutinized him closely for a few seconds, then stood up abruptly. “You can go now,” he said. “I’m glad we could have our little chat.”

  Owen was confused. “That’s it?”

  “For the moment, yes. We’ll be in touch.”

  Owen could hardly stand up quickly enough. He banged his knee on the underside of the metal desk and swore. He rubbed his knee and started to back towards the door. His face was burning. “I can really go?”

  “Yes. But stay available.”

  Owen was shaking when he got out of the police station and turned down Market Street towards home. Could they really treat you like that when you went along with them of your own free will? He had a feeling his rights were being trampled on and maybe it was time to look up Gordon Wharton.

  The first thing he did when he got into the house was tear up the copy of Playboy and burn the pieces in the waste-bin, Cormac McCarthy story and all. Next, he took the video that Chris Lorimer had given him, pulled the tape out, broke the plastic casing and dumped it in the rubbish bin to burn too. At least they couldn’t use it as evidence against him now.

  Finally, he went into the spare room and took the rest of the nude photographs of Michelle from his filing cabinet. He held them in his hands, ready to rip them into tiny pieces and burn them along with the rest, but as he held them he couldn’t help but look at them.

  They were simple, tasteful chiaroscuro studies, and he could tell from the way Michelle’s eyes glittered and her mouth was set that she was holding back her laughter. He remembered how she had complained about goose-bumps, that he was taking so long setting up the lighting, then he remembered the wine and the wild lovemaking afterwards. She had liked being photographed naked; it had excited her.

  His hands started to shake again. God, she looked so beautiful, so perfect, so young, so bloody innocent. Still shaking, he thrust the photos back in the cabinet and turned away, tears burning in his eyes.

  II

  While Stott a
nd Hatchley were interviewing Owen Pierce, Banks drove out to St. Mary’s to see Lady Sylvie Harrison. He would have liked Susan with him, for her reactions and observations, but he knew he was risking Chief Constable Riddle’s wrath by having anything more to do with the Harrisons, and he didn’t want to get Susan into trouble.

  She was right; she had worked hard and passed her sergeant’s exam, all but the rubber stamp, and he wouldn’t forgive himself easily if he ruined her chances of a quick promotion. He would be sad to lose her, though. Detective constables were rarely promoted straight to the rank of detective sergeant, and almost never in the same station; they usually went back in uniform for at least a year, then they had to reapply to the CID.

  Before setting off, Banks had phoned the Harrison household and could hardly believe his luck. Sir Geoffrey was out with Michael Clayton, and Lady Harrison was at home alone. No, she said, with that faint trace of French accent, she would have no objections to talking to Banks without her husband present.

  As he drove along North Market Street past the tourist shops and the community center where Sandra worked, Banks played the tape of Ute Lemper singing Michael Nyman’s musical adaptations of Paul Celan’s poems. It was odd music, and it had taken him some time to get used to it, but now he adored them all, found them pervaded by a sort of sinister melancholy.

  It was a chilly day outside, gray and windy, skittering the leaves along the pavements. But at least the rain had stopped. Just as “Corona” was coming to an end, Banks pulled up at the end of the Harrisons’ drive.

  Lady Harrison must have heard him coming because she opened the large white door for him as soon as he got out of the car. She wore jeans and a blue cashmere pullover. She hugged herself against the cold as she stood in the doorway.

  She had done her best to cover up the marks of misery and pain on her face, but they were still apparent through the make-up, like distant figures looming in the fog.

  This time, instead of heading for the white room, she hung up his overcoat and led him to the kitchen, which was done in what Banks thought of as a sort of rustic French style: lots of wood paneling and cupboards, copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging on hooks on the wall, flower-patterned mugs on wooden pegs, a few potted plants, a vase of chrysanthemums on the table and a red-and-white checked tablecloth. The room smelled of herbs and spices, cinnamon and rosemary being the two most prominent. A kettle was just coming to the boil on the red Aga.