Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  Clayton read.

  His hands were shaking when he put the diary down. “Fantasy,” he said, straining to keep his voice steady. “That’s not very much to go on, is it? It could be anyone.”

  “Come on, Michael,” said Banks. “It’s all over. Admit it. You know what happened. You’ve just read her account. Deborah read your journal and found out you’d been secretly lusting after her since she was twelve. She was both shocked and excited by the idea. But only by the idea. She was flattered, but still too much of a kid to know how serious it all was to you. And she had a bit of a crush on you anyway. So she teased you, made up a bit of romance, flirted a little, the way young girls sometimes do to tease boys they know fancy them. Didn’t she, Michael?”

  “This is absurd. You’re not only insulting me you’re also besmirching my goddaughter’s memory.” He looked around at Riddle again. “Sir Geoff-”

  But Banks cut him off. “Besmirching? That’s a good word, Michael. I like that. Besmirching. Sounds naughty. Very public school. So let’s talk about besmirching. Eventually, when it became clear you wouldn’t leave her alone, Deborah threatened to tell her father. You knew that if Sir Geoffrey found out he would probably kill you. At the very least it would mean the end of your business relationship. That meant a lot to you, didn’t it, Michael? The two old Oxford boys, still together after all these years. Sir Geoffrey’s friendship meant a lot to you, too, but it didn’t stop you lusting after his twelve-year-old daughter, a girl who wasn’t even born when the two of you first met.”

  Clayton glared, the color drained from his face. “You’ll regret this,” he said, glancing at both Gristhorpe and Riddle. “All of you will, if you don’t stop this right now.” Banks could almost hear Clayton’s teeth grinding together. Gristhorpe said nothing. Riddle polished his buttons with a virgin white handkerchief.

  “You waited for Deborah in St. Mary’s graveyard,” Banks continued calmly. “In the shrubbery that foggy Monday evening when you knew she would be walking home alone from the chess club. You were going to grab her and drag her into the bushes, but when you saw her take the gravel path, you followed her towards the Inchcliffe Mausoleum, where you snatched her satchel and strangled her with the strap. Maybe she knew it was you, and maybe she didn’t. Maybe you talked first, tried to persuade her not to say anything, or maybe you didn’t. But that’s what happened, isn’t it, Michael?”

  “I’m saying nothing.”

  “You didn’t know she was going to pick up the diary she’d been keeping and hiding ever since summer, did you? Oh, Michael, but if you’d only been patient, given her a few more seconds, she would have led you straight to it and you probably wouldn’t be here now. Isn’t that how it happened?”

  “I won’t even dignify your accusation with a response.”

  “When she told you she’d read your computer journal, Deborah didn’t tell you that she’d copied the file about her onto a diskette, did she? But you knew she had a diary at one time. You bought it for her. That’s another irony, isn’t it, Michael? You knew she’d told Sylvie she lost it, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you had a good look around her room after you killed her. After all, you had your own key to Sir Geoffrey’s house, and he and Lady Harrison were out. Even if they came back and found you there, it wouldn’t have surprised them. And you opened Deborah’s school satchel, too, didn’t you, to see if she kept anything incriminating in there. Just in case. The only place you couldn’t really get access to was her school desk, but you reasoned she’d be unlikely to keep anything important or private there.”

  Clayton put his hands over his ears. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I don’t have to listen to this. You’ll never be able to prove anything. I want-”

  “Now, I’m only guessing,” Banks went on, “so stop me if I’m wrong, but I also think, as you murdered Deborah, that you found out you liked it. It stimulated you. Maybe you even had an orgasm as you tightened the strap around her neck. I know you were far too clever to actually rape her because you know about DNA and all that, don’t you? But you did mess around with her clothing after you killed her-partly for pure pleasure, I’d guess, and partly to make it look like a genuine sex murder.

  “It was the same with Ellen Gilchrist, wasn’t it? You’d been over and over it in your mind all week, planning how you’d kill again, anticipating the intimacy of it all, and when you did it, when you felt the strap tightening, pulling her back against you, feeling her soft flesh rubbing against you, that excited you, didn’t it?”

  “Really, Banks,” Chief Constable Riddle cut in from behind. “Don’t you think this is getting a little out of hand?”

  Clayton turned and looked at Riddle, a cruel smile on his thin lips. “Well, thank you, Jerry, for all your support. You’re absolutely right. He’s talking rubbish, of course. I’d never even met the girl.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Banks went on, mentally kicking Riddle and trying to ignore his interruption. “Unlike Deborah, Ellen Gilchrist was a random victim. Wrong place, wrong time. You got lucky when Owen Pierce was arrested for the murder of Deborah Harrison, didn’t you? You thought he would get convicted, sentenced and that would be an end to it. But when the trial was nearing its close, you started to worry that he might get off. The defense was good, the prosecution had only circumstantial evidence, and you’d heard rumors about evidence that would have convicted Pierce for certain had it been admissible. But you saw it all slipping away, and the focus perhaps shifting back towards you. So you went to Owen Pierce’s house while the jury was deliberating, and you either found the door open from a previous break-in, or you broke in yourself and made it look like vandals. It doesn’t really matter which. You took some hairs from Owen’s pillow, and you stole an open film container which you guessed would have his fingerprints on it. You set out to deliberately frame Owen Pierce for the murder of Ellen Gilchrist, knowing we’d also put Deborah’s murder down to him, too, and close the file on both of them. But, you know what? I think you also enjoyed it. Just the way you did with Deborah. And I think there would have been more if we hadn’t caught you, wouldn’t there? You’ve developed a taste for it.”

  “This is insane,” Clayton said. “And you can’t prove a thing.”

  “Oh, I think we can,” Banks went on. “Look what we proved against Owen Pierce, and he didn’t even do anything.”

  Clayton smiled. “Ah, but he got off, didn’t he?”

  Banks paused. “Yes. Yes, he did. But maybe you should talk to him about that. I’m sure he’d be very interested to meet you. Getting off isn’t all it’s cracked up to be in some cases. See, maybe you’re right, Michael. Maybe we won’t be able to convince a jury that a fine, upstanding citizen like yourself murdered two young girls. Perhaps even with the evidence of the journal and the diary and the hairs, if we find they match, we won’t be able to prove it to them. But you know who will believe us, don’t you, Michael? You know who knows quite well who ‘Uncle Michael’ is, who knows what Montclair is and that there are no locks on the bathroom doors there. You know exactly who will know who is the writer and who’s the subject. Sir Geoffrey will know. And you’ll have gained nothing. In some ways, I think I’d rather take my chances with a jury, or even go to jail, than incur the wrath of Sir Geoffrey over such a matter as the murder of his only daughter by the man he’s trusted for more than twenty years, don’t you?”

  Clayton said nothing for a moment, then he croaked, “I want my solicitor. Now. Get my solicitor, right now. I’m not saying another word.”

  Bloody hell, thought Banks, here we go again. He called in the constable from outside the interview room. “Take him down to the custody suite, will you, Wigmore. And make sure you let him call his lawyer.”

  VI

  Owen sat in the Nag’s Head nursing his second pint and Scotch chaser, trying to pluck up the courage to go over the road and see Rebecca and Daniel. The problem was, he felt ashamed to face them. They had believed in his innocence, and he
had let them down badly. He knew that if there were to be any sort of salvation or reclamation in this business at all, he would have to tell them the whole truth, including what he had done to Michelle. And he didn’t know if he could do that right now. He could hardly even admit to himself that he had become exactly what everyone thought he was: a murderer.

  He looked around at the uninspiring decor of the pub and wondered what the hell he was doing here again. It had seemed a nice irony when he saw the sign over the bridge-full circle-but now it didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  The Nag’s Head was boisterous, with the landlord entertaining a group of cronies with dirty jokes around the bar and tables full of couples laughing and groups of underage kids who’d had a bit too much.

  He didn’t know what he was going to do after he finished his drinks: either go home and meet the police, or have another and go face Rebecca and Daniel. More drink wouldn’t help with that, though, he realized. He would feel less like facing them if he were drunk. Best drink up and turn himself in, then, return to the custody suite, where he should feel quite at home by now.

  “What did you say?”

  Owen looked up at the sound of the voice. There was a lull in the conversation and laughter. The landlord was collecting empty glasses. He stood over Owen’s table. “Sorry mate,” he said. “I thought I heard you say something.”

  Owen shook his head. He realized he must have been muttering to himself. He turned away from the landlord’s scrutiny. He could still feel the man looking at him, though, recognition struggling to come to the surface. He had a couple of days’ growth, a few more pounds around the waist from lack of exercise and a prison pallor, but other than that he didn’t look too different from the person who had sat alone in that same pub one foggy night last November.

  Best finish his drinks and leave, he decided, tossing back the Scotch in one and washing it down with beer.

  Then, all of a sudden, the landlord said, “Bloody hell, it is him! I don’t bloody believe it. The nerve.”

  The men at the bar turned as one to look at Owen.

  “It’s him,” the landlord repeated. “The one who was in here that night. The one who murdered those two young lasses.”

  Owen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, edging towards the door.

  “Nay, they let him off,” someone said.

  “Aye, but just because they hadn’t got enough evidence,” another said. “Don’t you read t’papers?”

  “It was a bloody cover-up.”

  “Bleeding shame, more like. Poor wee lasses.”

  “A travesty of justice.”

  By the time Owen actually got to the door, a journey that felt like a hundred miles, bar-stools were scraping against the stone floor and he was aware of a crowd surging towards him.

  No time to sneak out surreptitiously now. He dashed through the door and ran across Kendal Road. Luckily, the traffic lights were in his favor. When he got to the other side of the road, he saw about five or six people standing outside the pub doors. For a moment, he thought they were going to give chase, but someone shouted something he didn’t hear and they went back inside.

  Owen still ran as if he were being chased. There was only one place he could go now. He dashed across North Market Street towards St. Mary’s church. When he was through the gate, running down the tarmac path, he could see, even in the mist, that the kitchen light was on in the vicarage.

  VII

  Alone in his office at last, Banks went to close the blinds and looked out for a moment on the quiet cobbled market square and the welcoming lights of the Queen’s Arms. Maybe he’d have a quick one there before going home. Still time. Finally, he closed the blinds, turned on the shaded table-lamp and lit a cigarette. Then he sifted through his tapes and decided on Britten’s third string quartet.

  For a long time he just sat there smoking, staring at the wall and letting Britten’s meditative quartet wash over him. He thought about the Clayton interview, and especially about the new coldness in Chief Constable Riddle’s manner towards his old lodge pal. Maybe Riddle wasn’t so bad, after all; at least he had an open enough mind to change his opinions when the facts started to weigh heavily against them.

  Then, when his cigarette was finished, Banks turned to Deborah’s diary again, striving once more to understand what had happened between her and Clayton over the two months leading up to her death.

  August 24

  Disaster has struck! Mummy caught John and me in bed this afternoon. She was supposed to be at one of her charity meetings but she wasn’t feeling well and came home early. It was a terrible scene with Mummy and John shouting at one another and I didn’t like to see John at all behaving like that. I thought he was going to hit Mummy in the end but he broke a vase on the wall and a piece of pottery cut Mummy’s face. Then when he’d gone Mummy said I absolutely must not see him again or she would tell Daddy. Then she cried and put her arms around me and I felt sorry for her. John said such terrible things, called her such horrible names and said he would do things to her I won’t repeat even here in my private diary. I don’t care if I never see him again. I hate him. He’s gross. He even stole things from our house. He’s just a common thief. A thief and a thickie. What could I ever have seen in him?

  August 27

  Michael came to the house today while Mummy and Daddy were out. He was absolutely livid about the other day with John. I didn’t know Mummy had told him. He called me names and I thought at one point he was going to hit me. It was then I told him. I couldn’t help it. I told him I’d read his journal about me and called him a dirty old man. He went so white I thought he was going to faint. Then he asked me what I was going to do. I said I didn’t know. I’d just have to wait and see. Wait for what? he asked me. To see what happens, says I.

  August 28

  Michael really is rather handsome. And much more intelligent and sophisticated than John. Mary Taylor at school told me last term she had an affair with a married man, a friend of her father’s, who was 38 years old! And she says he was wonderful and considerate at sex and bought her presents and all sorts of things. I think Uncle Michael might be even older than 38 but he’s not fat and ugly or anything like most old people.

  September 1

  Michael came for dinner tonight. Mummy and Daddy were there, of course. I wore a tight black jumper and a short skirt. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking at my thighs and breasts when he thought I wasn’t watching. It really is amazing how he can seem so normal and ordinary when we’re all together, but when there’s just him and me he’s so passionate and can hardly control himself!

  September 3

  Michael came again today when everyone was out. He told me he felt such powerful desire for me he didn’t know if he could control himself. That was the word he used: desire. I don’t think that anyone has ever desired me before. It feels rather exciting. Of course, he wanted to do it, and when I said no he got all upset and said if I let a no-good lout like John Spinks do it to me why wouldn’t I let him? I must admit I don’t know the answer to that. Except that he’s Uncle Michael and I’ve known him all my life.

  September 6

  This is getting to be quite an adventure! Saw Michael again today and let him kiss me again. It made him happy for a while, then he said he wanted to kiss my breasts. I wouldn’t let him do that but I let him touch them over my jumper. While he was doing it he took my hand and held it to the front of his trousers so I could feel he was really hard. I started to feel a bit scared because his grip was so strong and then I felt him go all wet and he gasped as if somebody had hit him just the way John used to do. Gross. I can’t explain why I felt it then, but I started to panic a bit because I’d just been teasing really and this was UNCLE MICHAEL, and even if he isn’t really my uncle I’ve still known him since I was a little girl. I just couldn’t let him do it to me. It wouldn’t be right. After he’d finished he went all quiet so I left.

  September 8 />
  School again. Sad, sad, sad. Saw Mucky Metcalfe in the corridor. Wonder if he knows I know he’s been doing it with the vicar’s wife?

  There were no more entries until October, and Banks assumed that Deborah had been getting settled in at St. Mary’s again in the interim. But even by late October, Michael Clayton still hadn’t got the message.

  October 24

  Can’t Uncle Michael understand that whatever it was we had is over now? I’ve told him I don’t love him, but it doesn’t do any good. He keeps coming to the house when he knows I’m here alone. Now he says he just wants to see me naked, that he won’t even touch me if I just take my clothes off in front of him and stand there the way I did in the bath at Montclair. I suppose it’s flattering in a way to have a sophisticated older man in love with you, but to be honest he doesn’t seem very sophisticated when he keeps wanting me to touch that hard thing in his pants. I don’t want to play any more. I suppose he must still be living in hope, but doesn’t he understand that summer’s over and I’m back at school now?

  Obviously he didn’t, thought Banks. It hadn’t been just a summer romance for Michael Clayton; it had been a dark, powerful obsession. And beneath all the veneer of sophistication and experience, Deborah had simply been a naïve teenager misreading the depth of an older man’s passion; she was just a girl who thought she was a woman.

  But even as Deborah grew worried by Clayton’s persistence, she always kept her secret, always lived in hope that he would simply give up and stop pestering her. She clearly knew what dreadful consequences would occur if she told her parents, and she wanted to avoid that if she could. But Clayton wouldn’t give up and go away. He couldn’t; he was too far gone. Her final entry, dated the day before she died, read,

  November 5 (Bonfire Night)

  Yesterday Uncle Michael grabbed me and held my arm until it hurt and told me I had stolen his soul and all sorts of other rubbish. I know it was cruel of me to tease him, and to let him kiss me and stuff, but it was just a game at first and he wouldn’t let me stop it. I want him to stop it now because I’m getting frightened, the way he looks at me. You still wouldn’t believe it if you saw him with other people around, but he really does change when he’s only with me. It’s like he has a split personality or something. I told him if he doesn’t promise to leave me alone I’ll tell Daddy when I get home from school tomorrow. I don’t know if I will I don’t really want to tell Daddy because I know what he gets like and what trouble it will cause. The house won’t be worth living in. Anyway, we’ll see what happens tomorrow.