“What about the vicar?”
“I’ve been wondering about him, too,” Banks said. “In general I’ve been pretty sympathetic towards him, but looking at things objectively, he could be our man. He certainly has no alibi, and he’s both tall and strong enough.”
“Motive?”
“We know that Ive Jelačić accused him of abusing his position by making homosexual advances. Given Jelačić’s character, this is probably pure fabrication-Vjeko Batorac certainly thinks it is-but let’s say it’s true, or it approximates the truth. And let’s say Deborah saw something that could confirm it, either involving Charters and Jelačić or Charters and someone else. If it got out, he also stood to lose everything. That might give him a powerful enough motive.”
“Or his wife?” Gristhorpe suggested.
“Yes. It could have been a woman,” Banks agreed. “After all, there was no evidence of rape, and the body could have been arranged to make it look like a sex murder. Rebecca Charters is probably tall and strong enough.”
“And she could have had either of two motives,” Gristhorpe added. “To protect the knowledge of her affair with Metcalfe, or to protect her husband from certain dismissal.” He shook his head. “It’s a real Peyton Place we’ve unearthed here, Alan. Who’d think such goings on occurred in a nice little Yorkshire town like Eastvale?”
Banks smiled. “‘It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’”
Gristhorpe smiled back. “And what about Jimmy Riddle’s mates?” he said.
“Certainly not out of the question. I was beginning to think that Michael Clayton might have been having an affair with Sylvie Harrison, unlikely as it sounds. Sir Geoffrey and Michael Clayton have been close friends since university. If Clayton were having an affair with his wife, and if Deborah knew about that, it could have had a devastating effect. Think of how much money and prestige were at stake there.”
“As I understand it, none of them have alibis either.”
“That’s right. And they all knew Deborah went to the chess club on a Monday, and what time she usually came home. And by what route. But even if we accept the horrible possibility that she was capable of such a crime, Sylvie Harrison is neither tall nor strong enough to have killed her daughter. Rebecca Charters is the only woman in this case who could remotely have done it.”
“Clayton, then?”
“Possible. Certainly he’s the more likely of the two. Though, again, he was the child’s godfather.”
“Let’s also not forget,” Gristhorpe added, “that HarClay Industries had a lot of MoD contracts. They do a lot of hush-hush work. If Deborah found out about any hanky-panky going on there, contracts with foreign governments and the like…”
“Or even something our own government didn’t want the general public to know?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Gristhorpe agreed. “According to your notes, at the time of his daughter’s murder, Sir Geoffrey Harrison was in a private meeting with a man from the government called Oliver Jackson. I happen to know Oliver Jackson, and he’s not exactly from the government, he’s Special Branch.”
“Aren’t we getting a bit far-fetched here?” Banks said. “Maybe it’s just someone else with the same name?”
Gristhorpe shook his head. “I checked with the York CID. It was the same Oliver Jackson all right. They knew he was in town, but they weren’t told why. It’s just another aspect to consider. Any other angles?”
Banks sighed. “Not that I can think of,” he said. “Unless Deborah stumbled on something illegal going on in the school-something to do with sex or drugs, perhaps-but we couldn’t dig anything up there.”
“It’s still plenty to be going on with for the moment.”
Banks stood up and walked to the door, already reaching in his pocket for his Silk Cuts.
“By the way,” Gristhorpe asked, “how is DI Stott doing?”
Banks paused at door. “He’s been walking around looking like death warmed up ever since Pierce got off. I’m getting a bit worried about him.”
“Maybe he’ll be better after a weekend’s rest?”
“Maybe.”
As he walked back to his own office, Banks heard raised voices down the corridor and went to see what was happening. There, at the bottom of the staircase, stood John Spinks and DC Susan Gay.
II
“The problem is not with your teaching ability, Owen. You have demonstrated that to us quite clearly over the years.”
“Then I don’t understand,” Owen said. “Why can’t I have my job back?” He was sitting in the chairman’s book-lined office. Peter Kemp, with his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his freckles and ginger hair like tufts on a coconut sat behind the untidy desk. “Kemp the Unkempt,” the staff members had nicknamed him. To one side, a computer hummed, white cursor blinking in anticipation on an empty blue screen.
Kemp leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. Owen could see a dark patch of sweat under each arm. “Technically, Owen,” Kemp said, “you can’t demand back a job you never had. Remember, you were employed purely on a term-to-term basis, no guarantees. We simply can’t use you next term.”
As he spoke, Kemp looked at Owen down his nose, under the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses, as an entomologist might regard an especially interesting but ugly new bug. The office smelled of Polo mints and fresh paint. Owen longed to let in some air, but he knew from experience that none of the windows opened.
“I was depending on you,” Owen said. “You’ve always renewed my contract before.”
Kemp sat forward and rested his hairy forearms on the desk. “Ah, yes. But this time you left us in a bit of a mess, didn’t you? We had to bring in someone to finish your classes. She did a good job, a very good job, under the circumstances. We can’t very well chuck her out without so much as a by-your-leave, can we?”
“I don’t see why not. You seem to be doing it to me, and at least I’ve got seniority. Besides, it was hardly my fault I got arrested.”
Kemp sniggered. “Well, it certainly wasn’t mine. But that’s irrelevant. There’s no such thing as seniority in temporary appointments, Owen. You know that. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied.” And he held them together, linking his fingers as if to demonstrate.
“What about next January? I can just about get by until then.”
Kemp pursed his lips and shook his head. “I can’t see any vacancies opening up. Budgets are tight these days. Very tight.”
“Look,” Owen said, sitting forward. “I’m getting fed up with this. Ever since I’ve been in your office-and I had to wait long enough before I got to see you, by the way-I’ve heard nothing but flannel. You know damn well that you could find courses for me if you wanted to, but you won’t. If it’s nothing to do with my teaching abilities, then maybe you’d better tell me what really is the problem.” Owen had a good idea what he would hear-he had read the letter, after all-but he wanted to put Kemp through the embarrassment of having to say it.
“I’ve told you-”
“You’ve told me bugger-all. Is it the trial? Is that it?”
“Well, you could hardly imagine something like that would endear you to the board, could you? But we all understand that you were mistakenly accused, and we deeply regret any hardship you suffered.”
Owen laughed. “Mistakenly accused? I like that. That’s a nice way of putting it.”
Kemp pursed his lips. “Owen, we know how you suffered, believe me.”
“Do you?” Owen felt himself redden with anger. He gripped the sides of the chair. “Do you also believe in my innocence?”
“One must put faith in the justice system, Owen, abide by the verdict of the jury.”
“So you do believe they were right?”
“The court found you not guilty.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
> “But what else are we to base our judgments on?”
“What else? On your knowledge of the person, on character. On trust, damn it. After all, I’ve worked here for eight years.”
Kemp shrugged. “But I can hardly say I know you, can I? Ours has always been a professional relationship, a work relationship, if you like.”
“And my work has always been of the highest quality. So what about my job, then? If you believe I’ve done nothing wrong and you have faith in my teaching ability, why don’t I get my job back?”
“You’re making this very difficult for me, Owen.”
Owen thumped the desk. “Oh, am I? I’m really sorry about that. Maybe it just hasn’t occurred to you how fucking difficult this is for me.”
Kemp backed away slowly on his wheeled office-chair. “Owen, you’re not helping yourself at all by behaving in this manner.”
“Don’t give me that. You’ve already made it clear what my position is. I want you to admit why. And please don’t tell me how bloody difficult it is for you.”
Kemp stopped edging back and leaned forward on the desk, making a steeple of his fingers. “All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it. The college has expressed its unwillingness to employ an instructor who has a reputation for bedding his female students and photographing them in the nude. It’s bad for our image. It’ll make parents keep their daughters away. And seeing as we depend on the students for our livelihood, and a good percentage of them are females of an impressionable age, it was felt that your presence would be detrimental to our survival. And besides that, the college also takes a dim view of its lecturers giving marks for sexual favors rather than for academic excellence.” He took a deep breath. “There, Owen, does that suit you better?”
Owen grinned at him. “It’ll do. It certainly beats the bullshit you were giving out earlier. But none of what you say has been proven. It’s all hearsay.”
Kemp looked at the blinking cursor. “You know how rumors spread, what damage they can do. And people here were aware of your…er…relationship with Ms. Chappel. Even at the time.”
“You did nothing then. Why now?”
“Circumstances have changed.”
“So I lost my job because circumstances have changed?”
“No smoke without fire.”
“You smug bastard.”
“Goodbye, Owen.” Kemp stood up. He didn’t hold out his hand.
Michelle, again. Owen felt like picking up the computer monitor and hurling it through the window, then punching Kemp on the nose. But he restrained himself. His teaching career was over here, perhaps everywhere. People would know about him wherever he applied. The academic community is small enough; word gets around quickly.
Instead of hitting Kemp, Owen contented himself with slamming the door. Striding down the corridor, he almost bumped into Chris Lorimer.
“Owen.” Chris had a pile of essays under his arm and seemed to be struggling to hold onto them. “I…it’s…”
“Kemp won’t take me back.”
“Hmm…well. I suppose you can understand his position.” Lorimer shifted from one foot to the other as if he desperately wanted to go to the toilet.
“Can you? Look, Chris, it’s noon, the sun’s over the yardarm, as they used to say, and I’m a bit cheesed off. It’s been a bad day, so far. How about a pint and a spot of lunch over the road? My treat.”
Lorimer contorted to glance at his watch. “I’d like to, Owen, I really would, but I have to dash.” And he really was dashing as he spoke, edging away down the corridor as if Owen had some infectious disease. “Maybe some other time, perhaps?” he called over his shoulder, before disappearing round a corner.
Sure, Owen thought, some other time. Fuck you, too, Chris Lorimer. You and the horse you rode in on.
III
“Well, well, well,” said Banks, standing at the top of the stairs overlooking the open-plan ground floor. “Speak of the devil. Just the fellow I’ve been wanting to see. I’ve been looking over your file. And guess who’s turned eighteen since we last met?”
Spinks looked at him. “Uh?”
“No more youth court.” Banks glanced towards Susan and raised an eyebrow.
“Taking and driving away, sir,” she said. “Under the influence.”
“Influence of what, I wonder?” said Banks. “And so early in the day.”
Spinks struggled, but Susan managed to hold onto him. “Not to mention crashing it through the window of Henry’s fish and chip shop on Elmet Street,” she said through gritted teeth.
Banks smiled and opened the door of the nearest interview room. “Be my guest,” he said to Spinks, stretching an arm out through the open door. “Take a pew.”
“I need a doctor,” Spinks moaned. “The fucking steering was fucked. I hurt my head. I got whiplash. I could’ve been killed.”
“Shut up and sit down,” Banks said with enough authority that Spinks paused and obeyed. “I suppose you’ll be suing the owner next?”
Spinks licked his lips. “Maybe I will.”
There was a small cut just above his right eye. It was nothing serious, but Banks knew that if they didn’t get him medical attention they’d be breaking a PACE directive and Spinks would probably succeed in getting his case dismissed.
“See if you can get Dr. Burns, will you, Susan?” Banks asked, indicating by a private gesture that she should take her time.
Susan nodded, straightened her dress and left.
“What are you on?” Banks asked.
Spinks looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Banks grabbed Spinks’s chin with one hand and held his head up, staring at the pinpoint pupils. “Crack, is it, John? Or solvent? Maybe heroin?”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“Like hell you don’t. You know taking and driving away is an arrestable offense, don’t you, John?”
Spinks said nothing.
“Do you know what that means?”
Spinks gave a lopsided grin. A little drool had formed at the side of his mouth. “It means you can arrest me for it.” He giggled.
“Good,” said Banks, patting his shoulder gently. “Very good, John. Now, you might not know this, but to put it nice and simply that also means we can detain you for up to twenty-four hours, longer if the superintendent authorizes it. Which he will. But wait a minute. Do you know what day it is, John?”
“What do you mean? Course I know. It’s Friday.”
“That’s right.” Banks looked at his watch. “Pity for you, John. See, a day like this, the magistrates will all be on the golf course by now. And they don’t sit on Saturday or Sunday, so you’ll have to stay with us until Monday morning.”
“So what?”
“Your arrest also gives us powers of search, John. We don’t need a warrant. That means there’ll be coppers all over your mum’s place, if there aren’t already. Bound to turn up something. Your mum will love you for that, won’t she?”
“She doesn’t give a fuck.”
Banks turned the free chair around and sat with his arms resting on the back. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m not interested in petty stuff like car theft and drug abuse. You don’t think a detective chief inspector concerns himself with run-of-the-mill stuff like that, do you?”
Spinks sniffed. “Can’t say I care one way or another.”
“No. Course not. I don’t suppose you do. Well, I’m not doing this by the book, John. I want you to know that. Like I said, I’m not really interested in some gormless pill-popping pillock who steals a car and can’t even drive it straight.”
Spinks bristled. “I can fucking drive! I told you, the steering was fucked. Fucking owner ought to be locked up.”
“Know what they say about a poor workman, John? He always blames his tools.”
“Fuck off.”
“Look, I’m getting sick and tired of your severely limited vocabulary. Know what I think we ought to do with people like you instead of comm
unity service or jail? I think we ought to have compulsory education for gobshites like you who spent so much time blitzed on model airplane glue that they never set foot in school more than a couple of weeks a year. Know what I’d do? I’d make you read the dictionary, for a start. At least ten new words a day. And spelling tests. Every morning, first thing after slopping out. A dozen lashes for every word you get wrong. Literature, too. Lots of it. Austen, Hardy, Dickens, Trollope, George Eliot. Long books. Poetry, as well-Wordsworth, Shelley, Dryden, Milton. And Shakespeare, John. Tons and tons of Shakespeare. Memorizing poems and long, lovely speeches. Analyzing the imagery in Macbeth and Othello. Sound like fun?”
“I’d rather be in fucking jail.”
Banks sighed. “You will be, John. You will be. It’s just a fantasy of mine. Now I’d like you to travel back in time through that addled, worm-eaten brain of yours. I’d like you, if you can negotiate through that lump of Swiss cheese you call a mind, to go back to last summer. Specifically, to last August. Can you do that?”
Spinks frowned. “Is this about that bird what got snuffed?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “This, as you so eloquently put it, is ‘about that bird what got snuffed.’ Remember her name, John? Deborah Harrison.”
“That’s right. Yeah, Debbie.”
“Good. Now something happened, didn’t it? Something nasty?”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“Her mother and her godfather warned you off, didn’t they?”
“Oh, right. Stuck-up motherfuckers. Look, what’s this got to do with-”
“I told you, John. I’m not doing this by the book. This is unofficial, off the record. Okay?”
Spinks nodded, a look of suspicion forming in his glazed eyes.
“One day you went around to ask Lady Sylvie Harrison to give you money to leave her daughter alone. Right?”
“So? There’s no law against it. They’d got plenty. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t get some compensation. Bird wasn’t much of a fuck, really. More like a sack of potatoes. But-”
Banks gripped the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “Spare me your erotic memoirs, John,” he said. “They might make me do something I’ll regret. You might not realize it, but I’m exercising great restraint as it is.”
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