Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  Or perhaps the policemen would rip off their uniforms to reveal clowns’ costumes underneath, and Stott would break into a song and dance number, like characters out of a Dennis Potter play.

  As soon as the custody sergeant was free, Stott went over and had a brief word, then gestured for Owen to approach the desk. Stott disappeared through the far door.

  “Empty your pockets, please, sunshine,” said the sergeant, after taking Owen’s personal details.

  Owen emptied his pockets onto the desk. There wasn’t much in them: keys, wallet, three pounds sixty-eight pee in change, check book, bank machine and credit cards, a few crumpled shopping lists and old bus tickets that had been through the washer and dryer a couple of times, his gold Cross fountain-pen, the small Lett’s appointment diary-cum-address book with the pencil tucked down the spine, three pieces of Dentyne chewing-gum and a few balls of fluff.

  The sergeant flipped through Owen’s diary. It was empty apart from a few addresses. Next he looked through Owen’s wallet. “Nothing much there,” he said, placing it in the plastic bag with the other items. He held the pen between thumb and forefinger and said, “Gold-looking fountain-pen.”

  “It is gold,” Owen said. “It’s not just gold-looking.”

  “Well we’re not going to get a bloody appraiser in, mate, are we?” the sergeant said. “Gold-looking.” He dropped it in the bag.

  Before they sealed the bag, a constable patted Owen down to see if he had anything else hidden.

  “Shall we have a look up his arse, sir?” he asked the custody sergeant when he had finished.

  The sergeant looked at Owen, then back at the constable, as if he were seriously considering the proposition. “Nah,” he said. “I never did like rectal searches, myself. Messy business. Never know what you might find. Take him to the studio.”

  Jesus Christ, thought Owen, they’re enjoying this! They don’t need to be rude, violent and brutal; they get their kicks better this way, the vicious tease, the cruel joke. They had already judged and condemned him. In their minds, he was guilty, and the rest would be mere formality. And if they believed it, wouldn’t everyone else?

  When they put him jail, he thought with a stab of fear, it would be even worse. He had heard about the things that went on, how people like the Yorkshire Ripper and Dennis Nilsen had to be kept in solitary for their own good, how Jeffrey Dahmer had been murdered in prison and Frederick West had hanged himself.

  Solitary confinement would probably be better than a poke up the bum from a three-hundred-pound Hell’s Angel with tattoos on his cock, Owen thought. But could he stand the loneliness, the feeling of being hopelessly cut off from everything he held dear, abandoned by the whole civilized world? He liked the solitary life, but that was his choice. Could he stand it when it was imposed on him?

  The constable led him into another room for fingerprinting and mug shots taken by a mounted camera. The “studio.” Another cruel joke.

  “Now then, mate,” the constable said, “let’s have your belt and shoelaces.”

  “What? Why on earth-”

  “Regulations. So’s you don’t top yourself, see.”

  “But I’m not going to do away with myself. I’ve told you all. I’m innocent.”

  “Aye. Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s more than my job’s worth. We’d have your tie too if you were wearing one. Saw a fellow once topped himself with his tie. Polka-dot tie it was. A nice one. You should’ve seen him, eyes all bulging and his tongue sticking out. And the pong, you wouldn’t believe it! Aye, nasty business, it was. Don’t worry, mate, you’ll get your things back-that’s if you’re ever in a position to need them again.”

  He had a good laugh at that while Owen took the belt off his jeans and the long white laces from his trainers.

  Back at the desk, the custody sergeant gave Owen a pamphlet on legal aid and sheet of paper that advised him of his rights: to call a solicitor, to inform a friend, and to consult the Codes of Practice. Then he went over to scrawl details on the board.

  “I want to call my solicitor,” Owen said.

  The sergeant shrugged and gestured to the constable again, who escorted Owen to a telephone. He felt in his inside pocket for his address-book, where he had politely jotted down Wharton’s number, but realized it had been taken away along with all his other possessions. He turned to the constable.

  “The phone number,” he said. “It’s in my diary. Can I get it back for a minute?”

  “Sorry,” the constable replied. “Against regulations. It’s all been entered and bagged.”

  “But I can’t remember my solicitor’s number.”

  “Best try this, then.” He pulled a dog-eared telephone directory from the desk drawer. “It usually works.”

  Owen flipped through and managed to find Gordon Wharton’s office number. He got an answering machine, and even though it was late on Saturday afternoon, left an urgent message anyway, just in case. Then he tried the listed home number, but got no answer. “What now?” he asked the constable.

  “Cells.” Another constable appeared beside them. They took Owen gently by the elbows and led him back into the corridor. “Nothing to worry about,” the first officer said. “Quite comfortable really. More like a hospital ward. Most modern part of the whole building.”

  Police boots echoed from the greenish-blue walls and high ceiling as the three of them walked down the hallway. At the end, the constable took out a key and opened a heavy, hinged door.

  True, the cell wasn’t the dank, dripping dungeon Owen had imagined; it was actually very clean, all white tiles, like a public urinal, and bright light from bulbs covered by wire mesh.

  It contained a narrow bed, fixed to the wall and floor, with a thin mattress, a washstand and a seatless toilet made of molded orange plastic. There was only one window, set high and deep in the wall, about a foot square and almost as thick. The door had a flap for observation. A faint odor of dead skin and old sweat lurked under the smell of disinfectant.

  “Sorry there’s no telly,” said one of the jailers, “but you can have something to read if you like. A book, maybe, or a magazine?” He turned to his companion. “Jock here’s probably got an issue or two of Playboy hidden away at the back of his desk.”

  Owen ignored the taunt. He simply shook his head and stared around in amazement at the cell.

  “Owt to eat?” the jailer asked.

  When he thought about it, Owen realized that he was hungry. He said yes.

  “The special’s steak and kidney pud today. Or there’s fish and chips, sausage and-”

  “Steak and kidney pud sounds just fine,” Owen said.

  “Mug of tea? Milk and sugar?”

  Owen nodded. This is bloody absurd, he thought, almost unable to contain his laughter. Here I am, sitting in a cell in the bowels of the Eastvale police station putting in an order for steak and kidney pudding and a mug of tea!

  “You won’t be here long,” said the jailer. “And if it wasn’t a weekend we’d have you up before the beak tomorrow. Anyway, just so’s you know, you’ll be well treated. You’ll get three square meals a day, a bit of exercise if you want it, reading material, pen and paper if you want-”

  “We can’t give him a pen, Ted,” said Jock. “He might…you know…Remember that bloke who…?” He drew his forefinger across his throat and made a gurgling sound.

  “Aye, you’re right.” Ted turned back to Owen. “We had a bloke once tried to cut his throat with a fountain-pen. Messy. And another jabbed a pencil right through his eye socket. A yellow HB, if I recollect it right.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry lad, you’ll have to wait for writing privileges. It’s our responsibility, see. Anything else you want, though, just let us know. As I always say, just ring the bell and ask for room service.”

  They laughed and walked out into the corridor. The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

  III

  “So what do you think, sir?” Susan Gay asked over the noise, handing Banks
the pint she had just bought him.

  “Thanks. Looks like I was wrong, doesn’t it?” Banks said, with a shrug.

  The Queen’s Arms was buzzing with conversation and ringing with laughter that Saturday evening. Rumors had leaked out that the “Eastvale Strangler” was in the holding cells and all was well with the world. Parents could once again rest easy in their beds; just about every phone, fax and modem in town was tied up by the press; and those police who were off duty were celebrating their success. The only things missing were the fireworks and the brass band.

  Banks sat next to Susan Gay, with Hatchley and Stott not far away. Stott looked like the cat that got the cream.

  Chief Constable Riddle had visited the station earlier, patting backs and bragging to the media. He hadn’t wasted the opportunity to admonish Banks for pestering the Harrisons; nor had he neglected to praise Stott for his major role in what was probably the quickest arrest of a sex murderer ever.

  This time, Riddle was going to go and tell the Harrisons personally that he had a man in custody for Deborah’s murder, largely due to the efforts of a new member of Eastvale CID, DI Barry Stott. Of course, Riddle wouldn’t be seen dead drinking in a pub with the common foot-soldiers, even if he didn’t have a couple of TV interviews lined up. Thank God for small mercies, Banks thought.

  As he sipped his pint and let the conversation and laughter ebb and flow around him, Banks wondered why he felt so depressed. Never one to shy away from self-examination, he considered professional jealousy first.

  But was that really true? Banks had to admit that it would only look that way to the chief constable and one or two others who had it in for him. As far as the media were concerned, Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks had headed the most successful investigation in the history of Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. His troops had won the battle. He was the general. So why did he feel so depressed?

  “The evidence is pretty solid, isn’t it, sir?” Susan shouted in his ear.

  Banks nodded. It was. Nothing on the shoes that Pierce couldn’t have picked up on the river path, but positive blood and hair matches both ways. His and hers. Suspect a bit of an oddball. A liar, to boot. Seen in the area, with no good reason, around the time of the murder. Oh, yes, Banks admitted, even the Crown Prosecution Service should have no trouble with this one. What could be better? And if the DNA results were positive when they came through…

  He looked at Susan. Earnest expression on her round face, with its peaches and cream complexion; short, slightly upturned nose; tight blonde curls. She had a glass of St. Clement’s in front of her.

  Banks smiled, trying to shake off his gloom. “Let me buy you a drink, Susan,” he said. “A real drink. What would you like?”

  “I shouldn’t, sir, really…” Susan said. “I mean, you know, officially…”

  “Bugger officially. You’re off duty. Besides, this is your senior officer telling you it’s time you had a real drink. What’s it to be?”

  Susan blushed and smiled, averting her blue-gray eyes. “Well, in that case, sir, I’ll have a port and lemon.”

  “Port and lemon it is.”

  “Let me go, sir.”

  “No, stay there. Save my seat.”

  Banks got up and edged his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling a hello here and there. One or two people clapped him on the back and congratulated him on the speed with which he had caught the killer.

  With his pint in one hand and Susan’s port and lemon in the other, he excuse-me’d his way back. Before he had got halfway he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see Rebecca Charters standing there, long auburn hair framing her pale face.

  Banks smiled. “A bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I dropped by the police station first. The man on the front desk said you were all over here celebrating. I’ve heard that you’ve got someone under arrest for Deborah Harrison’s murder. Is it true?”

  Banks nodded. “Yes. A suspect, at least.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be leaving us alone now? Things can get back to normal?”

  “Whatever that is,” Banks said. “Why? What are you worried about?”

  “I’m not worried about anything. It would just be nice to know we could get on with our lives in private now rather than sharing every significant emotional event with the local police.”

  “That was never my intention, Mrs. Charters. Look, it’s a bit silly just standing here like this. Would you like a drink?”

  He could see Rebecca consider the offer seriously, needily. She eyed the bottles ranged behind the bar, then suddenly she shook her head. “No. No thank you. That’s another thing I’m trying to put behind me.”

  “Good,” said Banks. “Good for you.”

  “How the hell would you know?” she said, and stormed out.

  Banks shrugged and headed back to the table, where everyone, even DI Stott, was laughing at one of Hatchley’s jokes. Banks didn’t mind missing it; he had heard them all before, at least five times.

  When he slid into his seat again, Susan thanked him for the drink. “What was all that about?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Banks. “I think I offended her. Or maybe abstinence has made her irritable.”

  “As long as she doesn’t complain to the chief constable. What next, sir?”

  “Next, I think we’ve got to find out a bit more about what makes Pierce tick. We’ve still got no motive, have we? He asked us why he should have committed such a crime, and I think we have a duty to try and answer that. If not for his sake, then for a jury’s.”

  “But, sir, if it was a sex murder we don’t really need a motive, do we? We wouldn’t expect a rational one.”

  “Did Owen Pierce seem mad to you?”

  “That’s a very difficult question,” Susan said slowly. “The kind of thing experts argue about in court.”

  “I’m not asking for an official statement. This is off the record. Your personal observations, your copper’s intuition.”

  Susan sipped her port and lemon. “Well, to start with, he was nervous, edgy, hostile and confused.”

  “Isn’t that how you would feel if you were accused of murder and subjected to an interrogation?”

  Susan shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never been in that position. I mean, if you’ve got nothing to hide…If you’re telling the truth…Why get upset?”

  “Because everyone thinks you did it. And they’ve got all the power. We have the power. We basically bullied Pierce until he was so confused he acted like a guilty man.”

  “Are you saying you still don’t think he did it, sir?”

  Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. It was itching; sometimes that meant something, sometimes not. He wished he knew which was which. “No. All I’m saying is that everyone’s got something to hide. Everyone starts to feel guilty when they’re stopped and questioned by the police, whether they’ve done anything or not. Almost anyone would react the way Pierce did under that sort of pressure.” Banks lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, careful to blow it away from Susan, then he took a long swig of beer.

  “But you still have doubts?”

  Banks clicked his tongue. “I shouldn’t, should I? I mean, I did arrest him. This is just perfect: signed, sealed and delivered. I’m still confused, that’s all. All this business with Pierce has happened so quickly. There are still too many loose ends. There was so much going on around Deborah. Remember? Jelačić’s alibi still doesn’t really hold water. Then there’s that triangle of Daniel and Rebecca Charters and Patrick Metcalfe. That’s a pretty volatile combination if ever I’ve seen one. There’s John Spinks, another character capable of violence. Add to that the open satchel, Michael Clayton spending half his time with Sylvie Harrison while her husband is out, and you’ve still got a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “Yes, sir, but are any of them relevant now we’ve got Pierce with the hair and blood?”

  B
anks shrugged. “Hair and blood aren’t infallible. But you’re probably right. Sometimes I wish I could just accept the official version.”

  “But you agree Pierce could have done it?”

  “Oh, yes. He probably did do it. We found no trace evidence at all on either Charters’s or Jelačić’s clothing. And Pierce was in the area. There’s also something about him that harmonizes with the crime in an odd sort of way. I don’t know how to put it any better than that.”

  “You struck a nerve in him there, sir. I must admit, he gives me the creeps.”

  “Yes. There’s a part of him that has some sort of imaginative sympathy with what happened to Deborah Harrison. What I tried to do in that room was make contact with his dark side.” Banks gave a little shudder.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Everyone has a dark side, Susan. Doesn’t Owen Pierce make you wonder about your own?”

  Susan’s eyes widened. “No, sir. I don’t think so. I mean, we’ve done our job. We’ve got the evidence, we’ve got a suspect in custody. I think we should just let it lie and move on.”

  Banks paused, then smiled. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But we’ve still a fair bit of work to do. How do you fancy a trip to London on Monday?”

  “London? Me, sir?”

  “Yes. I’d like to pay this Michelle a visit, see what her story is. He did his best to keep their relationship from us, so there has to be something in it. Besides, I’d like you impressions, woman to woman, if that’s not a terribly sexist thing to say.”

  “It isn’t, sir. Of course. I’d love to come.”

  “Good.” Banks looked at his watch and finished his pint. “I’d better get home. Have a nice lie-in tomorrow. You’ll enjoy it.”

  Susan smiled. “I think I will, sir, good-night.”

  Banks put his overcoat on, said farewell to everyone and acknowledged a few more pats on the back as he walked through the crowd to the door. He stood for a moment on Market Street by the cobbled square watching his breath plume in the clear, cold air.