Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  At the top of the staircase, a shop-lined corridor ended in an open, glass-roofed area with a central fountain surrounded by a few small, tatty trees in wooden planters. The Swainsdale Center.

  Several other corridors, leading from other street entrances, also converged like spokes at the hub. There were shops all around-HMV, Boots, W.H. Smith, Curry’s, Dixon’s-but at six-thirty that Wednesday evening, none of them were open. Only the small coffee shop was doing any business at all-if you could call two cups of tea and a Penguin biscuit in the last two hours “business.”

  The teenagers hung out around the fountain, usually leaning against the trees or sitting on the benches that had been put up for little old ladies to rest their feet. No little old ladies dared go near them now.

  A number of pennies gleamed at the bottom of the pool into which the fountain ran. God knew why people felt they had to chuck coins in water, Banks thought. But the small pool was mostly full of floating cigarette ends, cellophane, Mars bar wrappers, beer tins, plastic bags containing traces of solvent, and the occasional used condom.

  Banks experienced a brief flash of anger as he approached, imagining Tracy standing there as one of this motley crowd, smoking, drinking beer, pushing one another playfully, raising their voices in occasional obscenities or sudden whoops, and generally behaving as teenagers do.

  Then he reminded himself, as he constantly had to do these days, that he hadn’t been much different himself at their age, and that as often as not, beneath the braggadocio and the rough exteriors, most of them were pretty decent kids at heart.

  Except John Spinks.

  According to Tracy, Spinks was a hero of sorts among the group because of his oft-recounted but never-detected criminal exploits. She thought he made most of them up, but even she had to admit that he occasionally shared his ill-gotten gains with the others in the form of cigarettes and beer. As he didn’t work and couldn’t have got very much from the dole, he clearly had to supplement his income through criminal activities. And he never seemed short of a few quid for a new leather jacket.

  He lived with his mum on the East Side Estate, a decaying monument to the sixties’ social optimism, but he never talked much about his home life.

  He had boasted of going to an “Acid House” party in Manchester once, Tracy said, and claimed he took Ecstasy there. He had also tried glue-sniffing, but thought it was kids’ stuff and it gave you spots. He was proud of his clear complexion.

  Spinks, standing a head taller than the rest, was immediately recognizable from Tracy’s description. His light-brown hair was short at the back and sides, and long on top, with one long lock half-covering the left side of his face. He wore jeans, trainers with the laces untied and a mid-length flak jacket.

  When Banks and Hatchley approached, showed their warrant cards and asked for a private little chat, he didn’t run, curse them or protest, but simply shrugged and said, “Sure,” then he gave his mates a sideways grin as he went.

  They went into the coffee shop, took a table, and Hatchley fetched three coffees and a couple of chocolate biscuits. The owner’s face lit up; it was more business than she’d done in ages.

  In a way, Tracy was right; Spinks did resemble someone from “Neighbors.” Clean cut, with that smooth complexion, he had full lips, perhaps a shade too red for a boy, brown eyes that could probably melt a young girl’s heart, and straight, white teeth, the front ones stained only slightly by tobacco. He accepted the cigarette Banks offered and broke off the filter before smoking it.

  “You Tracy Banks’s dad, then?” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “She said her father were a copper. Nice bit of stuff, Tracy is. I’ve had my eyes on her for a while. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for a few weeks. What’s she up to, these days?”

  Banks smiled. It hadn’t taken long to get past the good looks to the slimy, vain and cocky little creep underneath. Now he knew he wouldn’t feel bad, no matter what he had to do to get Spinks to talk.

  When Banks didn’t answer, Spinks faltered only slightly before saying, “Why don’t you ask her to drop by one evening? She knows where I am. We could have a really good time. Know what I mean?”

  “One more remark like that,” Hatchley cut in, “and you’ll be mopping blood from your face for the rest of our little chat.”

  “Threats now, is it?” He shrugged. “What’s it matter, anyway? I’ve already had the little bitch and she’s not-”

  The woman behind the counter looked over just after Spinks’s face bounced off the table, and she hurried over with a cloth to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

  “That’s police brutality,” Spinks protested, his words muffled by the cool, wet cloth. “Broke my fucking nose. Did you see that?”

  “Me?” said the woman. “Didn’t see nothing. And there’s no call for that sort of language in here. You can keep the cloth.” Then she scurried back behind the counter.

  “Funny,” said Banks, “I was looking the other way, too.” He leaned forward. “Now listen you little arse-wipe, let’s start again. Only this time, I ask the questions and you answer them. Okay?”

  Spinks muttered a curse through the rag.

  “Okay?” Banks asked again.

  Spinks took the cloth away. The flow of blood seemed to have abated, and he only dabbed at it sulkily now and then throughout the interview. “You’ve broken my tooth,” he whined. “That’ll cost money. I was only joking, anyway, about your-”

  “Deborah Harrison,” Banks said. “Name ring a bell?”

  Spinks averted his eyes. “Sure. It’s that schoolkid from St. Mary’s got herself killed the other day. All over the news.”

  “She didn’t ‘get herself’ killed. Someone murdered her.”

  “Whatever.” The lock of hair kept slipping down over Spinks’s eye, and he had developed the habit of twitching his head to flick it back in place. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t kill her.”

  “Where were you on Monday around six o’clock?”

  “Was that the day it was really foggy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was here.” He pointed to the group outside. “Ask anyone. Go on, ask them.”

  Banks nodded at Sergeant Hatchley, who went out to talk to the youths.

  “Besides,” Spinks went on, “why would I want to kill her?”

  “You went out together over the summer and you parted on bad terms. You were angry with her, you wanted revenge.”

  He probed his tooth and winced. “That’s a load of old knob-rot, that is. Besides, they wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

  “Who wasn’t?”

  “Them. The French tart and that bloody Clayton. They went to enough trouble to stop me from telling anyone, now they go and tell you themselves. Bloody stupid, it is. Doesn’t make sense. Unless they just wanted to drop me in it.” He dabbed at his red nose.

  Hatchley came back inside and nodded.

  “They telling the truth?” Banks asked.

  “Hard to say. Like Jelačić’s mates, they’d probably say black was white if young Lochinvar over here told them to.”

  Banks studied Spinks, who showed no emotion, but kept dabbing at his nose and probing his tooth with his tongue. “What did Michael Clayton do to stop you from talking?” he asked.

  Spinks looked down into the bloodstained rag. “Imagine how it would sound if some newspaper got hold of the story that an East Side Estate yobbo like me had been sticking it to Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s daughter.”

  “That’s why. I asked you what.”

  “Gave me some money.”

  “Who did?”

  “Clayton.”

  “Michael Clayton gave you money to stay away from Deborah?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred quid.”

  “So you admit to blackmailing Lady Harrison?”

  “Nothing of the sort. Look, if you sell a story to the papers, they pa
y you for it, don’t they? So why shouldn’t you get paid if you don’t sell the papers a story?”

  “Your logic is impeccable, John. I can see you didn’t waste your time in school.”

  Spinks laughed. “School? Hardly ever there, was I?”

  “Was Deborah there when you went to ask for money?”

  “Nah. Just the two of them. Clayton and the old bag.” He put on a posh accent. “It was Deborah’s day for riding, don’t you know. Dressage. Got a horse out Middleham way. Always did like hot flesh throbbing between her legs, did Deborah.”

  “So the two of them had a talk with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And after Lady Harrison had gone upstairs, Michael Clayton hit you and gave you a hundred pounds.”

  “Like I said, we came to an arrangement. Then her ladyship came back and said if she ever heard I’d been talking about her daughter, she would tell Sir Geoffrey and he’d probably have me killed.”

  “You blackmailed her and she threatened you with murder?”

  “Yeah. Get away with anything, those rich fuckers. Just like the pigs.”

  “You’ve been listening to too many Jefferson Airplane records, John. They don’t call us pigs now.”

  “Once a pig, always a pig. And it’s compact discs now, not records. Jefferson Airplane, indeed. You’re showing your age.”

  “Oh, spare us the witty repartee. Did you see Deborah again after that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever have anything to do with St. Mary’s Church, with Daniel Charters and his wife, or with Ive Jelačić?”

  “Church? Me? You must be fucking joking.”

  “Did Deborah ever mention an important secret she had?”

  “What secret?”

  “You’re not being very co-operative, Johnny.”

  “I don’t know anything about no secret. And my name’s John. What you gonna do? Arrest me?”

  Banks took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know yet. If you didn’t kill Deborah, who do you think did?”

  “Some psycho.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “I saw it on telly. That’s what they said.”

  “You believe everything you hear on telly?”

  “Well if it wasn’t a psycho, who was it?”

  Banks sighed and lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t offer Spinks one. “That’s what I’m asking you.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, wake up, John boy.”

  Spinks dabbed at his nose; it had stopped bleeding now. “How should I know?”

  “You knew her. You spent time with her. Did she have any enemies? Did she ever talk to you about her life?”

  “What? No. Mostly we just fucked, if you want to know the truth. Apart from that, she was boring. Always on about horses and school. And always bloody picking on things I said and the way I said them.”

  “Well, she was an educated woman, John. I realize it would have been hard for you to keep up with her intellectually.”

  “Like I said, she was only good for one thing.”

  “I understand you once stole a car and took Deborah for a joyride?”

  “I…Now, hang on just a minute. I don’t know who’s been spreading vicious rumors about me, but I never stole no car. Can’t even drive, can I?” He took a pouch of Drum from his flak-jacket pocket and rolled a cigarette.

  “What about drugs?”

  “Never touch them. Stay clean. That’s my motto.”

  “I’ll bet if we had a look through his pockets,” said Sergeant Hatchley, “we’d probably find enough to lock him up for.”

  Banks stared at Spinks for a moment, as if considering the idea. He saw something shift in the boy’s eyes. Guilt. Fear.

  “No,” he said, standing up. “He’s not worth the paperwork. We’ll leave him be for the moment. But,” he went on, “we’ll probably be back, so don’t wander too far. I want you to know you’re looking good for this, John. You’ve got quite a temper, so we hear, and you had every reason to hold a grudge against the victim. And one more thing.”

  Spinks raised his eyebrows. Banks leaned forward, rested his hands on the table and lowered his voice. “If I ever catch you within a mile of my daughter, you’ll think that bloody nose Sergeant Hatchley gave you was a friendly pat on the back.”

  IV

  At home later that evening, after dinner, when Tracy had gone up to her room to do her homework, Banks and Sandra found a couple of hours to themselves at last. With Elgar’s first symphony playing quietly on the stereo, Banks poured himself a small Laphroaig and Sandra a Drambuie with ice. He wouldn’t smoke tonight, not at home, he decided, even though the peaty bite of the Islay almost screamed out for an accompaniment of nicotine.

  First, Banks told Sandra about John Spinks and his visit to Sylvie Harrison.

  “I thought the chief constable ruled the family off-limits,” she said.

  “He did.” Banks shrugged. “Actually, I just escaped by the skin of my teeth. Sir Geoffrey came in and caught me talking to her. A word in Jimmy Riddle’s ear and my name would be mud. Luckily, Lady Harrison didn’t want him to know we’d been talking about Deborah’s boyfriend, so she told him I’d just dropped by to give them a progress report. He was more annoyed that she’d been smoking than he was about my presence.”

  “This Spinks,” Sandra said. “He sounds like a bad character. Do you think Tracy had anything to do with him?”

  Banks shook his head. “He was part of the crowd, that’s all. She’s got more sense than that.”

  “Deborah Harrison obviously didn’t have.”

  “We all make mistakes.” Banks stood up and walked towards the hall.

  “Oh, go on,” Sandra said with a smile. “Have a cigarette if you want one. It’s been a tough day at the gallery. I might even join you.” Sandra had stopped smoking some years ago, but she seemed able to cheat occasionally without falling back into the habit. Banks envied her that.

  As it turned out, Banks hadn’t been going for his cigarettes but for the photograph that Stott and Hatchley had got from Owen Pierce. Still, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he weakened and brought the Silk Cut from his overcoat pocket.

  Once they had both lit up and the Elgar was moving into the adagio, Banks slid the photograph out of the envelope and passed it to Sandra.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Very pretty. But not your type, surely. Her breasts are too small for your taste.”

  “That’s not what I meant. And I’ve got nothing against small breasts.”

  Sandra dug her elbow in his side and smiled. “I’m teasing.”

  “You think I didn’t know that? Seriously, though, what do you think? Professionally.”

  Sandra frowned. “It’s not her, is it? Not the girl who was killed?”

  “No. Do you see a resemblance, though?”

  Sandra shifted sideways and held the photo under the shaded lamp. “Yes, a bit. The newspaper photo wasn’t very good, mind you. And teenage girls are still, in some ways, unformed. If they’ve got similar hair color and style, and they’re about the same height and shape, you can construe a likeness easily enough.”

  “Apparently she’s not a teenager. She was twenty-two when that was taken.”

  Sandra raised her dark eyebrows. “Would we could all look so many years younger than we are.”

  “What do you think of the style?”

  “As a photograph, it’s good. Very good in fact. It’s an excellent composition. The pose looks natural and the lighting is superb. See how it brings out that hollow below the breasts and the ever-so slight swell of her tummy? You can even see where the light catches the tiny hairs on her skin. And it has a mood, too, a unity. There’s a sort of secret smile on her face. A bit Mona Lisa-ish. A strong rapport with the photographer.”

  “Do you think she knew him?”

  Sandra studied the photograph for a few seconds in silence, Elgar playing softly in the background. “T
hey were lovers,” she said finally. “I’ll bet you a pound to a penny they were lovers.”

  “Women’s intuition?”

  Sandra gave him another dig in the ribs. Harder this time. Then she passed him the photo. “No. Just look at her eyes, Alan, the laughter, the way she’s looking at him. It’s obvious.”

  When he looked more closely, Banks knew that Sandra was right. It was obvious. Men and women only looked like that at one another when they had slept together, or were about to. He couldn’t explain why, certainly couldn’t offer any proof or evidence, but like Sandra, he knew. And Barry Stott had said that Pierce denied knowing the woman. The next job, then, was to find her and discover why. Banks would wait for the initial forensic results, then he’d have a long chat with Owen Pierce himself.

  Chapter 8

  I

  The man who sat before Banks in the interview room at two o’clock that Saturday afternoon looked very angry. Banks didn’t blame him. He would have been angry, himself, if two hulking great coppers had come and dragged him off to the police station on his day off, especially with it being Remembrance Day, too.

  But it couldn’t be helped. Banks would rather have been at home listening to Britten’s War Requiem as he did every November 11, but it would have to wait. New information had come in. It was time for him to talk to Owen Pierce in person.

  “Relax, Owen,” said Banks. “We’re probably going to be here for a while, so there’s no point letting your blood pressure go right off the scale.”

  “Why don’t you just get on with it,” Owen said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

  Banks sighed. “Me, too, Owen. Me too.” He put new tapes in the double-cassette recorder, then he told Owen that the interview was being taped, and, as before, stated the names of everyone in the room, along with the time, place and date.

  Susan Gay was the only other person present. Her role was mostly to observe, but Banks would give her the chance to ask a question or two. They were taking a “fresh team” approach-so far only Stott and Hatchley had interviewed Pierce-and Banks had already spent a couple of hours that morning going over the previous interview transcripts.