Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  So much had happened today that he had hardly had time to notice the clear blue sky, the autumn wind stripping leaves from the trees. Now it was dark and the stars shone for the first time in days. A line from last month’s Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society production tripped through his mind: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves.” Again, Banks thought of that foggy night in the graveyard and wondered what had really happened there. Perhaps he would never know.

  It was a cold night to walk home, but he had drunk three pints, too much for driving, and he decided he wanted to clear his head anyway. With numb hands, he managed to put on his headphones and flip the switch of the Walkman in his pocket. After a second or two of hiss, he was shocked by the assault of a loud, distorted electric guitar. He had forgotten about the Jimi Hendrix tape he had put in earlier in the week to wake him up on his way to work. He hadn’t listened to it since then. Then he smiled and started walking home. Why not? “Hear My Train a’ Coming” would do just fine; he would listen to Britten’s War Requiem later.

  Chapter 9

  I

  The 9:36 InterCity from York pulled into London King’s Cross at 12:05 on Monday, November 13, twenty minutes late. A problem with points outside Peterborough, the conductor explained over the PA system. Not for the first time, Banks regarded the bleak, post-industrial landscape of his hometown with a mixture of nostalgia and horror. Peterborough. Of all the places to come from. Even if the football team he had supported as a teenager had recently edged about halfway up the second division.

  As forecast, the rain came. Not a shower or a storm, but steady November drizzle that looked as if it would keep falling forever from a leaden sky. It was raining in Eastvale when Banks and Susan drove out to York that morning; it was raining in York when they caught the train; and it was raining in London when they got off the underground at Oxford Circus. At least it was a little warmer than the weekend: raincoat weather, not heavy overcoat.

  To make it easy all around, Michelle Chappel had suggested over the telephone that she talk to them during her lunch-hour, which started at 12:30, in a small pasta restaurant off Regent Street, near where she worked as office administrator for a quality stationery company.

  As the questioning was to be informal, and Michelle herself certainly wasn’t suspected of any crime, Banks agreed. It meant they could get the job done and be back in Eastvale by late afternoon if they were lucky.

  As usual, Regent Street was crowded, even in the rain, and Banks found he had to dodge many an eye-threatening umbrella spoke as he and Susan made their way to the rendezvous in a side-street not far from Dickins amp; Jones.

  They got there about five minutes late, and Banks spotted Michelle Chappel at a window table. With a skill that Peterborough United could have used the previous weekend, he managed to sidestep the waiter, who was blocking the way, holding out large menus and muttering about a fifteen- to twenty-minute wait.

  The restaurant was unpretentious in appearance-rickety tables and chairs, plenty of scratched woodwork, gilt-framed water-colors of Venice and Florence, stained white tablecloths-but when Banks looked at the list of specials chalked on the blackboard, he soon realized it was the kind of London unpretentiousness you pay for through the nose.

  The small dining-room was crowded, but Michelle had saved two places for them. Waiters scurried around, sweaty-browed; carafes of wine appeared on tables; and the smell of garlic, tomatoes and oregano permeated the air. Despite the bustle, though, it wasn’t unduly noisy, and when they had introduced themselves and sat down, they didn’t have to shout to be heard.

  “I’ve told Mr. Littlewood I might be a few minutes late getting back,” Michelle said. “He said he didn’t mind.”

  “Good,” said Banks. “We’ll certainly try not to take up too much of your time.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Physically, Michelle resembled her photograph very closely except for her hair, which was now cut short, razor-sculpted around her delicate ears, and hung in a ragged fringe. The strong bone structure was still apparent in her cheeks and jaw, the pale, almost translucent skin still flawless, and although she was sitting, it was clear that she maintained her slim, athletic figure. She wore a tailored red jacket over a black silk blouse buttoned up to the hollow of her long, swan-like neck. From her tiny, pale ears two silver angel earrings danced every time she moved her head.

  “You said on the telephone that you would recognize me from one of Owen’s photographs,” Michelle said to Banks, clearly aware of his scrutiny. “That was two years ago. Have I changed very much?”

  Banks shook his head.

  “It was one of the nudes, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word on the rest.” She smiled, and the humor flickered in her eyes for a moment just as Owen Pierce had captured it on film. She touched her hair. “I had this cut six months ago. Just for a change. Would you like to eat?”

  Both Banks and Susan had skipped the train food and were starving. After much study and some consultation, Banks decided on the gourmet pizza with goat cheese, olives, sun-dried tomatoes and Italian sausage. It was London, after all, he thought, and London prices, so why not? Susan went for the cannelloni. They ordered a half-liter of red wine for the two of them. Michelle was already drinking white. She ordered linguine with clam sauce.

  That done, they settled back to talk. Customers came and went, more leaving than arriving as it got close to one o’clock, and the drizzle continued to streak the window behind the slightly dirty white lace curtains.

  “I’m not sure what you want from me,” Michelle said. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone.”

  “I’m not certain myself, Miss Chappel,” said Banks. “I just hope I’ll know it when I hear it.”

  “Call me Michelle. Please.”

  Banks nodded.

  “You said Owen has been arrested?”

  “That’s right”

  “On what charge?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Well, his name’s not been in the papers, and you didn’t tell me over the phone. How could I know?”

  “Of course not.” Banks looked at Susan and nodded.

  “I’m afraid it’s very serious, Michelle,” Susan said. “Owen’s been arrested for murder. I’m sorry.”

  “Murder? But who…Wait a minute…Not that schoolgirl?”

  “Deborah Harrison. Yes.”

  “I read about it.” Michelle shook her head slowly. “Bloody hell. So he’s…” She looked back at Banks. “And what do you think I can do for you?”

  “We’d like to know what you can tell us about him. He didn’t seem willing to admit he knew you, or tell us who you were.”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t.”

  “Did something happen between you?”

  Michelle frowned. “What do you know already?”

  “Not much. Given the nature of the crime, we need to get some sort of grasp on what kind of person he is. We understand already that he’s a bit of a loner, something of an oddball, according to some people.”

  “Is he? He wasn’t always, you know. Not at first. He could be fun, could Owen. For a while, anyway, then…” her eyes darkened.

  “Then what?”

  “Oh, just…things change. People change. That’s all.”

  “Well, you can see our problem, can’t you?” Banks said. “He’s got no close family, and no-one in Eastvale seems to know him very well. We were hoping you might be able to throw some light on his character.”

  “Is he going to plead insanity?”

  “It’s nothing like that. Why do you ask?”

  “I mean, what do you want to know about him for?”

  “Look, don’t worry. We’re not going to drag you into court or anything.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind that.”

  “Then what?”

  Michelle leaned forward and rested her elbows
on the table. “In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’d be more than happy to go into court.”

  Banks frowned. “I don’t understand, Michelle. What happened between you? All we know is that the two of you split in the summer and that Owen seemed reluctant to admit he knew you. In fact he tried to tell us the photographs were of some anonymous model.”

  Michelle snorted. “I’ll bet he did.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because he tried to kill me, too, that’s why.”

  II

  It was less than a mile from the police station to the Town Hall, and Owen would have appreciated the walk after being cooped up in a cell all weekend. But two officers escorted him straight to a van in front of the station. Before they went out of the doors, one of them threw a musty old raincoat over his head.

  It was no distance from the front doors to the van, either, but on the way Owen had the awful sensation of being swallowed up by a huge mob, and he had to struggle to stop his bowels from loosening.

  He could hear people shouting questions, yelling insults and cursing him. One group, all women by the sound of them, were chanting, “Hang him! Hang him!” Owen had always feared crowds, had never been able to attend a football match or a music concert in comfort. To Owen, crowds weren’t really human; they were a mindless beast with the power of an elemental force. The raincoat over his head smelled of other people’s fear.

  Luckily the jostling didn’t last. Before Owen actually lost control of his bowels and made a fool of himself, he felt himself pushed into the back of a van and heard the door slam. The shouts and chants were muffled now, and the van’s engine soon drowned them out completely.

  Things weren’t quite as bad at the other end, where he was hustled through a smaller crowd, then taken to an antechamber. When Owen was finally able to remove the raincoat, the first person he saw was Gordon Wharton. Not the prettiest sight in the world, but a welcome one under the circumstances.

  Wharton leaned back in his chair, plucked up the crease of his pinstripe trousers and crossed his legs. It was a prissy sort of gesture, Owen thought, and one that went with his supercilious expression, the pink, well-scrubbed cheeks and the way he wore his few remaining strands of oily hair combed across his gleaming skull. Though he was probably about the same age as Owen, he looked much older. It was partly the fat, Owen thought, and the baldness, and maybe the strain of overwork. Why did the only solicitor he knew turn out to be wharton?

  He had been the university swot, never time for a drink in the local or a film in town, and Owen had never much liked him. He sensed the feeling was mutual. The only reason they had first come into contact at all was a shared subsidiary subject in their first year, and then they had both ended up working in Eastvale and met by chance that day.

  Wharton had finally arrived to see Owen on Sunday morning, having been out of town on Saturday, and had been unable to get him out on police bail.

  “All right?” Wharton asked.

  Owen took a few deep breaths. “I suppose so. What are they trying to do, get me torn to pieces?”

  Wharton shrugged.

  “What nobody seems to realize is that I’m innocent.”

  Wharton made a steeple of his fingers and looked down. “Owen, you’re not the first innocent man to be arrested for some offense or other, and you won’t be the last. That’s why we have the law. Everyone’s innocent until they’re proven guilty. The police are only concerned with whether they can prove a case. It’s up to the courts to decide now. Trust in justice.”

  Owen snorted. “The British justice system? It hasn’t done me a lot of good so far, has it?”

  “Carp all you may, Owen, but it is the best justice system in the world. In many other countries you’d be on your way to the executioner already, or languishing forever in some smelly cell. Look, I suggest that you accept your situation. Complaining will do you no good at all in your present circumstances. It will only lead to self-pity. Now let us see if there’s anything else we need to consider.”

  Pompous bastard, Owen thought. “It’s all very well advising me not to complain,” he said. “You’re not the one who’s in jail. Will I get bail at court this morning?”

  Wharton shook his head. “I doubt it. Not on a charge like this one.”

  “Look, I’m sure if you could persuade the police to do a bit more digging around, they’ll come up with the real killer.”

  Wharton leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. Owen noticed the gold cufflinks flash in the light. “Owen,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “you still don’t seem to realize the gravity of your situation. You have been arrested for the most serious crime there is: murder. Nobody’s going to let you simply walk away.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  Wharton held his hand up. “Let me finish. As far as the police are concerned, they have already got their man. Why would they waste their time looking for an alternative? You’ll have to face up to the facts, Owen, you’ve been arrested for murder, you’re being held, in a week or two the Crown Prosecution Service will start building a case against you, and you’re going to be tried in court. I will do everything in my power to help you, including engaging the services of the best barrister I can find to represent you, but you must accept the situation. Do you understand me?”

  Owen wasn’t sure that he did, but he nodded anyway.

  “Good,” said Wharton.

  “So what will happen in court? What’s the point of coming here if they’re only going to send me back to jail?”

  “For remand. They’ll either grant it or release you. As I’ve already said, I wouldn’t depend on the latter. Then they’ll set a date for the preliminary hearing.”

  “How long will I have to wait before that?”

  “Hmm. It’s hard to say. There’s supposed to be a time limit of fifty-six days.” Wharton gave a twisted smile. “Unfortunately, you’re not the only alleged criminal in the system. We get backlogs.”

  Owen felt his chest tighten. “Are you saying I could be in jail until February before I even get a preliminary hearing?”

  “Oh, at least. Not in Eastvale nick, though. No. Probably somewhere like Armley. And don’t worry, they know well enough to keep the other prisoners away from you. Everyone knows how moral criminals get when sex crimes are involved. You’ll be isolated. But don’t worry about that now. Take things as they come, Owen. One day at a time. That’s my advice. I’ll be working for you, never fear.”

  Why didn’t that thought comfort Owen as much as it should have? he wondered.

  A clerk popped his head around the door. “Time, gentlemen.”

  Wharton smiled and picked up his black leather briefcase. “Come on then, Owen,” he said. “Better gird up your loins.”

  III

  The food arrived just after Michelle’s remark about Owen Pierce trying to kill her, and they kept silent as the waiter passed them the hot plates and refilled the baskets of bread. It was after one o’clock now. Michelle was going to be late back for work, Banks knew, but she didn’t seem to mind. She clearly wanted to tell them the worst about Owen Pierce.

  Banks waited until they had all sampled their food and commented on its quality, then went on. “There was something you said earlier, about Owen being fun at first, then changing. How did he change? Was that anything to do with what happened? Did he become violent?”

  “No. Well, not really violent. Not until the end, that is.”

  “The end?”

  “The day I left him. The night before, rather.”

  “If he wasn’t violent before that, then what was wrong? How did he change?”

  “He was just becoming impossible, that’s all. Bad-tempered. Complaining. Irrational. Jealous.” She paused and took a mouthful of her linguine, following it with a sip of white wine.

  “Did he have a violent temper?”

  Michelle nodded. Her angel earrings danced. “He started developing one.
It got worse towards the end. He just became so possessive, so jealous. He’d fly into rages over nothing.”

  “Is that why you left him? Fear of violence?” Susan cut in. “Were you frightened he’d hurt you?”

  Michelle looked at Susan. “No,” she said. “Well, not really. It was frightening, especially the last night, but…how can I make you understand?”

  “We’re listening.” Susan watched Banks nibble at his pizza out of the corner of her eye. “What happened? Will you tell us?”

  Michelle gulped a little more wine, looked at her, then nodded. When she spoke, she looked back and forth between the two of them. “All right. Yes. I’d been out late with a friend. Owen was waiting up for me. And he’d been drinking.”

  “Did he usually drink much?” Banks asked.

  Michelle speared some linguine and twisted it on her fork. “No, not usually, though he had been doing more lately. Especially if he was brooding about something, which he always seemed to be. Anyway, I could definitely smell the whisky on his breath that night.”

  Banks sipped his red wine. It tasted watery. “Had you been drinking much, too?” he asked.

  “Only a couple of glasses of wine.”

  Banks nodded. “What happened next?”

  “He started calling me terrible names and accusing me of all kinds of disgusting things and then he…he…”

  “He what, Michelle?”

  “Oh, bugger it. Get it out, Michelle.” She took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “He tried to force himself on me, that’s what he did.”

  “He tried to rape you?”

  “Yes. He tried to rape me.” She wasn’t crying, but her eyes glittered with anger.

  “Was this the first time he had ever tried such a thing?”