Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  “And they call it the Garden of Eden. Is that where you developed a taste for fried chicken?”

  “Not at all. I’ve always had a weakness for lean, relatively fat-free meat deep-fried in batter and cholesterol. It appeases both conflicting sides of my nature.” She sliced off a chunk of deep-fried chicken breast and popped it in her mouth.

  Banks laughed. They finished their meals in silence, then Banks lit a cigarette and said, “Back to Pierce. Look, I know I’m putting you on the spot, Jenny, but I’d like you to work something up for the CPS.”

  “Like what?”

  “The kind of thing we were talking about. Displacement, for example. Tell me more.”

  Jenny sipped her Campari and soda. Banks still had half a pint left, and he wasn’t allowing himself another drink this lunch-time.

  “Okay,” Jenny said, “let’s say that he has poor control over his anger. It’s pretty much a commonplace that people often respond to frustration by getting angry, and if their anger is really intense and their inner controls are weakened even further-say by alcohol or tiredness-then it can result in physical assault, even murder. That seems to be what happened with Michelle, but what about Deborah? Had he been drinking?”

  “He’d had two pints and a whisky.”

  “Okay. Let’s say, then, that we are dealing with displacement, which is a coping pattern. A defense mechanism, if you like.”

  “Defense against what?”

  “Stress, basically. If a situation really threatens your sense of adequacy, your ego, your self-esteem, then your reactions become defense-oriented, you defend your self from devaluation.”

  “How?”

  “Any number of ways. Denial. Rationalization. Fantasy. Repression. Things we all do. What it basically comes down to is ridding yourself of the anxiety and the tensions that are causing the pain.”

  “Sexual tension?”

  “Could be. But that’s just one kind.”

  “And displacement is one of these defense mechanisms?”

  “Yes. You shift the strong feelings you have from the person or object towards which they were originally intended to another person or object. Often very difficult emotions are involved, like hostility and anxiety. It’s an unconscious process.”

  “Are you suggesting he wasn’t responsible?”

  “Interesting point. But I don’t think so. I don’t know exactly what the law is, but I’m not saying a person suffering displacement isn’t responsible for his actions, especially violent ones. Just that he might not know the inner processes that are leading him to want to do what he does.”

  “Which you can probably say for most of us most of the time?”

  “Yes. In less extreme ways.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Displacement is often combined with projection, where you put the blame for your own problems on someone else, or some group.”

  “Women?”

  “Could be. In extreme cases it leads to a form of paranoia. People become convinced that forces or groups are working against them. He could have formed such a projection of his anxieties and hostilities against women in general. Plenty of men do. That French-Canadian who shot all those women at the college in Montreal, for example.”

  “And could he also have displaced his hostile feelings for Michelle onto Deborah, given the stress of the anniversary, the effect of alcohol and the resemblance between the two women?”

  “Possibly. Yes. There’s a study by a psychologist called Masserman, done in 1961, where he manages to show that under sustained frustration people become more willing to accept substitute goals.”

  “Deborah for Michelle?”

  “Yes. Look, I’m a bit rusty on this. I’ll need a few days to come up with something.”

  “How about next week?”

  Jenny smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “If there’s anything else you want to know, give me a call.”

  “Can you get copies of the statements to me?”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay. Now I really must go.” She stood up and reached for her raincoat. Then she leaned forward and gave Banks a quick peck on the cheek.

  When she had gone, he lit another cigarette, vowing it would be his last for the day, and contemplated the remains of his pint. Another half wouldn’t do any harm, he decided, so he went and got one, pouring it into the pint glass because he didn’t like drinking beer from small glasses.

  IV

  One afternoon about three or four weeks after his committal-he was losing track of time-Owen was taken from his cell to a prison interview room, where he met for the first time the barrister Gordon Wharton had engaged to lead his defense.

  In her early forties, Owen guessed, Shirley Castle, QC, was an attractive woman by any standards. She was also the first woman he had seen since his trip to the Magistrates’ Court. She had glossy dark hair that fell over her shoulders and framed a pale, oval face. Her almond-shaped eyes were a peculiar shade of violet, so unusual that Owen wondered if she were wearing tinted contact lenses. She had on a gray pleated skirt and a pale pink blouse buttoned up to her chin. Her perfume smelled subtle and expensive.

  Wharton sat beside her with a smug, proprietorial air about him, basking in the glory of her presence, as if to say, “Just look who I’ve got for you, my boy. What a treat!”

  Shirley Castle took the cap off her Montblanc fountain-pen, shuffled some papers in front of her and began.

  “It doesn’t look very good, Owen,” she said. “I don’t want to give you any false hopes or illusions. We’ll have an uphill struggle on our hands with this one.”

  “But all they’ve got is circumstantial evidence.”

  She looked at him. “The point is, that they can build a very good case on that. Look at it this way.” She started to count off the points on her long fingers. “One, you had the opportunity. Two, motive in such crimes is so obscure, to say the least, that they don’t really need to establish one. And, three, there’s the DNA, hairs and blood.”

  “But I can explain it all. I have done. I never denied being in the area from the start, and I told them the girl bumped into me. Maybe that’s how the hair and blood were exchanged.”

  “Maybe. But the police don’t believe you,” she said. “And quite frankly, I don’t blame them, especially given that you only came up with that explanation at the eleventh hour. No, Owen, I’m afraid we’re going to have to fight tooth and nail for this one.”

  “Are they still looking for the real murderer?”

  “Why should they? They think they’ve already got him.”

  “So there’s nobody out there trying to prove my innocence?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Can’t you employ a private detective or someone?”

  Shirley Castle laughed. It was a lighter, frothier, more vivacious sound than he would have imagined, given her overall gravity. But it was a nervous laugh, no doubt about that. “To do what?” she asked.

  “Find the real murderer. Prove me innocent.”

  “Things don’t work quite like that.”

  “Well, how do they work?”

  She leaned back in her chair and frowned. “We go to court and we give them the best fight we can. There’s no other way. It’s only on ‘Perry Mason’ that the lawyer and the private eye get out on the mean streets and track down the real killer.”

  “Just let me tell them my story. I’m sure they’ll believe me.”

  “I’m not sure yet if I’m going to put you in the witness box at all.”

  “Why not?”

  Shirley Castle frowned. “Cross-examinations can be really tough.”

  “Is something bothering you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact it is. The CPS file suggests an approach to the case that involves similar fact to try and establish a motive for the murder, too.”

  “But you said they didn’t need one.”

  “Their case will be all that much stronger
if they can come up with one.”

  “What are they saying?”

  Shirley Castle rested her chin in her hand. “Tell me about Michelle Chappel, Owen.”

  Owen swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “What about her?”

  “About your relationship. And why you lied to the police about the nude photographs, denied you knew her. You didn’t want them to find her and talk to her, did you?”

  “No, I can’t say I did. Michelle…well, let’s say we parted on bad terms. She’d have nothing good to say about me.”

  “As I understand it, there was violence, perhaps attempted murder?”

  “That’s absurd! Have you talked to her?”

  “No,” she said. “The police have. I’ve just been reviewing the statement, and it’s very interesting. Read for yourself.” She dropped a sheaf of papers in front of him.

  Owen felt rising panic as he read the transcript of the taped interview with Michelle:

  Q: Miss Chappel, could you tell us how and when you first met Mr. Pierce?

  A: Yes. In class. He was my teacher. I was his student.

  Q: How old were you at the time?

  A: Seventeen.

  Q: Was this at Eastvale College of Further Education?

  A: Yes.

  Q: How old was Owen Pierce when you met?

  A: Thirty-two, thirty-three. I’m not exactly sure.

  Q: So he was almost old enough to be your father?

  A: Technically. I suppose a sixteen-year-old could be a father.

  Q: Did you live at home?

  A: Yes. Until I was eighteen.

  Q: Where did you go then?

  A: I moved in with Owen.

  Q: How long did you live with him?

  A: Five years.

  Q: How did Mr. Pierce approach you?

  A: He suggested a coffee after class, one day, then he asked me out to dinner.

  Q: Were your marks good?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Did you start seeing one another regularly?

  A: Yes. We went out together a few times for dinner, to the pictures or for a drink. Sometimes he took me out for a ride in the country in his car, and we’d find a little village pub somewhere.

  Q: How soon did you become lovers?

  A: Very soon after we first went out.

  Q: Weeks? Days?

  A: Days.

  Q: And the relationship went well after you moved in with him?

  A: At first it did, yes. Look, I mean, you have to realize, I was very young. A bit of a misfit, too, I suppose. I wasn’t very happy at home, and I didn’t really have any close friends. I found most people my own age immature. I was also very shy and Owen was nice to me. I suppose I was flattered, too, by the attention. When I talked about leaving home, he asked if I’d like to move in with him, and it seemed like a good idea. I felt safe with him.

  Q: Were you still his student when you moved in with him?

  A: I was in his business communications class, yes.

  Q: Did you continue to do well in that course?

  A: Very well.

  Q: Deservedly?

  A: I think so. Look, I’m not stupid, but I also admit it may have helped, sleeping with my teacher.

  Q: Do you think there was a price to pay for your success?

  A: What do you mean?

  Q: Did Owen ever suggest or attempt to commit any unnatural acts?

  A: Do you mean was he kinky?

  Q: Something like that.

  A: No, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, he liked me to wear certain underclothes. You know, black silky things, thigh stockings, skimpy things. He liked me to keep them on when we…you know.

  Q: During intercourse?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Was that all?

  A: All? Was what all?

  Q: The skimpy clothes. Did he ever make you do anything you didn’t want to?

  A: He wanted to do it to me from behind, like dogs. I didn’t like that.

  Q: But did you do as he wished?

  A: Well, I…yes, at first I did. I wanted to please him.

  Q: Because you were worried about your marks?

  A: A bit, I suppose.

  Q: Did he show any interest in pornography?

  A: We watched a dirty video once. You know the sort of thing. I didn’t really enjoy it. In fact, I thought it was dead gross, but it seemed to turn him on.

  Q: How did he behave when you were watching the video?

  A: Well, he was, you know, maybe a bit more ardent than usual. He wanted to try out things they were doing, you know, on the video.

  Q: Against your will?

  A: No, but I thought it was a bit weird.

  Q: Did he ever resort to violence for the purpose of sexual stimulation?

  A: He used to like to tie me up sometimes.

  Q: How did you react to this?

  A: What could I do? He was stronger than me. I wanted to please him. It was uncomfortable and it frightened me a bit, but it didn’t really hurt. It was just a game, really. It was something he’d seen in that silly film and it turned him on.

  Q: Did he beat you at all? Flagellation?

  A: No.

  Q: So apart from the tying up he wasn’t violent?

  A: No…not until the end. Then living with him became sort of like being in prison. Every time I went out I had to account for my movements. Some nights he wouldn’t even let me go out.

  Q: How did he keep you in?

  A: He just made such a fuss it wasn’t worth it. I felt shut in, always under observation. I couldn’t breathe. I was frightened of his temper. I started rebelling in small ways, like seeing other friends and stuff, and it made him more and more possessive.

  Q: Is that why you left him? Fear of violence?

  A: Partly…it was frightening, especially the last night, but…

  Q: Can you tell us about that last night, Michelle?

  Michelle went on to tell about the night she claimed Owen had raped and tried to strangle her. Pale, Owen shoved the papers aside and looked at Shirley Castle.

  “Well?” she asked. “What do you think of it?”

  Owen shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s not true, then?”

  “Some of it, maybe. But she even makes the truth sound different, sound bad for me, the way she slants it.”

  “In what way?”

  “Every way. The sex, for example. She makes me sound like a pervert, but most of it was her idea. She loved it, the tying up, the talking dirty. It really got her going. And she liked the video.”

  “Did you hit her that last night?”

  “I pushed her. I was protecting myself. She was berserk, out of control. She’d have killed me if I hadn’t pushed her away.”

  “And she hit her head as she fell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Knocking her unconscious?”

  “Yes, but…Oh, God.” Owen held his head in his hands. “I know how it sounds, but I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, never on purpose.”

  “Did you have sex with her after she’d knocked herself out?”

  “No, I didn’t. That’s a lie. What do you take me for?”

  “I’m just trying to get at the truth, Owen. Did you try to force her to have sex at any time that evening?”

  “No. I mean, yes. No, I didn’t try to force her, but I suggested it. I just wanted to see how she would react. It was a test. I didn’t force her.”

  Shirley frowned. “You made advances? I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Owen. You’ll have to explain it to me.”

  How could he tell her about that night? Still vivid in his mind, it was like watching a cartoon play, the gaudy colors, the exaggerated violence, the sense of being a spectator, unable to stop the film, unable even to walk out of the cinema.

  “How did it start, Owen?”

  Owen tried to explain. He had grown suspicious of Michelle over the last year or so, he said, suspected that she was seeing another man, or other
men. That night, when she said she was going to meet a girlfriend, he followed her into Eastvale town center and watched her meet someone in a pub. As they talked and drank, rubbing close together, Owen sat, shielded by a frosted-glass partition and watched the shadows. At closing time, he followed them to a house not far from his own and watched outside as the bedroom light went on, then the curtains closed, and someone turned out the light.

  He went home and paced and drank whisky until Michelle got in after two-thirty in the morning. Instead of challenging her immediately with what he’d found out, he made sexual advances to see how she would react.

  She pushed him away and told him she was too tired, listening to her girlfriend’s tales of woe till so late. He could smell the other man on her, the stale beer and smoke on her clothes, in her hair, mingled with the reek of sex. She hadn’t even had the decency to take a shower afterwards.

  Then he told her what he’d seen, what he had watched. She went wild, flew at him, screamed that he didn’t own her and if he was no good in bed she had every damn right to find someone who was. It was like watching another person emerge from the shell of someone you thought you knew.

  He called her a bitch, a whore, told her he knew she’d been at it all the time they’d been together, that she had just used him, had never really loved him. For a moment, she paused in her attack and a different look came into her eyes: hard, cold hatred. She picked up a pair of scissors from the table and lunged at him. He grabbed her hand and twisted until she dropped them.

  Then she renewed the attack, kicking, scratching, flailing out wildly. He held his hands in front of his face to ward off the blows and tried to talk her down. But she wouldn’t stop. Finally, out of desperation, he pushed her away, just to give himself some space to maneuver, and she fell over and hit her head on the chair leg.

  He tried to tell Shirley Castle all this, as calmly as he could. He knew it sounded thin without the whole background of the relationship, from the early innocence to the bitter knowledge that it had all been a lie.

  What he couldn’t tell her, though, what he hardly dare even admit to himself, was that after Michelle had fallen on the floor, arms spread out, one leg crooked over the other, he had wanted her. Hating her even then, he had torn at her clothing, then, half-mad with jealousy and hatred, had put his hands around her throat and wanted to choke the life out of her for what she had done to him, for ruining, for defiling what he had thought was the love of a lifetime. He hated himself for wanting her, and he hated her for making him.