Innocent Graves (15 page)

Stott turned to Hatchley. “I think we’d better be off, then, Sergeant,” he said. “We’ve already taken up enough of Mr Pierce’s valuable time.”

Hatchley took the plastic bag while Stott slipped the photograph into his briefcase, then they walked towards the door.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s all about?” Owen asked again as he opened the front door for them. It was still raining.

Stott turned and frowned. “That’s the funny thing about it, Owen,” he said. “That you don’t know.” Then he shook his head slowly. “Anybody would think you don’t read the papers. Which is odd, for an educated man like yourself.”

II

Tracy Banks’s bedroom, lit by a shaded table lamp, was a typical teenager’s room, just like Deborah Harrison’s, with pop-star posters on the wall, a portable cassette player, a narrow bed, usually unmade, and clothes all over the floor.

Tracy also had a desk against one wall and perhaps more books on her shelves than many girls her age. They ran the gamut from
The Wind in the Willows
to the
Pelican History of the World
. A row of dolls and teddy bears sat on the bookcase’s lowest shelf; they always reminded Banks that his daughter wasn’t that far away from childhood things yet. One day, they would disappear, as had most of his own toys: the fort with its soldiers, the Hornby train set, the Meccano. He had no idea where they had gone. Along with his childhood innocence.

Tracy herself sprawled on the bed in black leggings and a sloppy sweatshirt. She looked as if she had been crying. When Banks had
got the message from his wife, Sandra, at his office, saying that Tracy was upset and wanted to talk to him, he had hurried straight home.

Now Banks sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his daughter’s hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. “What is it, love?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me,” Tracy said. “Last night.”

“Are you talking about the murder?”

“Yes. Oh, it’s all right. I know
why
you didn’t tell me.” She sniffled. “You wanted to spare my feelings. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you or anything. I wish you had told me, though. It wouldn’t have been such a shock when all the girls at school started talking about it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Banks. “I knew you’d find out eventually and it would upset you. I suppose I was just trying to give you one more night of peace before you had to deal with it. Maybe it was selfish of me.”

“No. Really. It’s all right.”

“So what
is
wrong?”

Tracy was silent a moment. Banks heard laughter and music from downstairs. “I knew her,” she said finally.

“Knew who?”

“Deborah Harrison. I knew her.”

Apart from both being attractive blonde teenagers, Tracy and Deborah Harrison were about as far apart as you get in background and class. Deborah went to the expensive, élite St Mary’s School, where she was carefully groomed for Oxford or Cambridge, and Tracy went to Eastvale Comprehensive, where she had to fight her way through overcrowded classes, massive apathy and incompetent teaching to get decent enough A-levels to get into a redbrick university. Now here was Tracy saying she
knew
Deborah.

“How?” he asked.

Tracy shifted on the bed and sat cross-legged. She pulled the duvet over her shoulders like a shawl. “You won’t get mad at me, will you, Dad? Promise?”

Banks smiled. “I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like this, but you’ve got my word.”

Tracy took a deep breath, then said, “It was in the summer. A few times I hung around with the crowd at the Swainsdale Centre down by the bus station.”

“You hung around with those yobs? Jesus Christ, Tracy, I—”

“See! I knew you’d be mad.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m not mad. Just surprised, that’s all. How could you
do
that? Those kids are into drugs, vandalism, all sorts of things.”

“Oh, we didn’t do any harm, Daddy. It was just somewhere to go, that’s all. And they’re not so bad, really. I know some of them look pretty weird and frightening, but they’re not really. What did you used to do when you were a kid with nowhere to go?”

Banks would like to have to answered, “Museums, art galleries, long walks, books, classical concerts.” But he couldn’t. Mostly he and his friends had hung around on street corners, on waste ground or in empty schoolyards. Sometimes they had even broken into condemned houses and played there.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll let it pass for now. Carry on.”

“Deborah Harrison was down there shopping one day and one of the girls in the group knew her vaguely from dressage or swimming competitions or something, and they got talking. She came down a couple of days later—dressed down a bit—and started to hang out. I think she was bored with just staying at home and studying so she thought she’d slum it for a while.”

“What about her own friends?”

“I don’t really think she had any. She said most of her school-friends were away for the summer. Most of the boarders had gone home, of course, and the day-girls had all jetted off to exotic places like America and the south of France. Why can’t we go to places like that, Dad?”

“You were in France earlier this year.”

She slapped his arm. “I’m only teasing. It wasn’t a serious question.”

“When did Deborah first start joining in with the group?”

“Early August, I think.”

“And how did the others treat her?”

“They’d tease her about being a bit lah-de-dah, sometimes, but she took it well enough. She said somebody had to be, and besides, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“It was just her way of talking about things.”

“Did she ever flaunt her wealth, flash it about?”

“No. Not that I saw.”

“How long did she hang around with the group?”

“About three weeks, on and off.”

“Have you seen her since then?”

Tracy shook her head. “Well, she wouldn’t want to be seen dead with the likes of us now, would she? Not now she’s back at St Mary’s.” Then she put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just haven’t got used to the idea that she’s dead yet.”

Banks patted her arm. “That’s all right, love. It takes time. How well did you know her?”

“Not very well, but we chatted once or twice. She wasn’t so bad, you know, when you got to know her a bit. I mean, she wasn’t so snobbish. And she was quite bright.”

“Did you ever talk about school?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did she think of St Mary’s?”

“She thought it was all right. At least the teachers were pretty good and the classes weren’t too big. She said they had a staff to pupil ratio of one to ten. It must be more like one to five hundred where I go.”

“Did she mention any teachers in particular?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Patrick Metcalfe. Does that name sound familiar?”

Tracy shook her head. “No.”

“What kind of things did she say about school?”

“Nothing much, really. Just like, ‘You’d be surprised if you knew some of the things that go on there.’ That sort of thing. Very melodramatic.”

“What did you think she meant?”

Tracy looked down and rubbed her hand against her knee. “Well, there’s a lot of girls live in, you know, all together in the dormitories. I thought she meant, like, lesbians and stuff.”

“Did she imply that any of the teachers had any sort of sexual relations with the pupils?”

“No, Dad. Honest, I don’t know. I mean, she never really
said
anything. Not specific. She just implied. Hinted. But she was like that about everything.”

“Like what?”

“As if she knew more than she let on. And as if we were poor fools who saw only the surface, and she knew what
really
went on underneath. Like,
we
all swallowed the illusion, but she knew the underlying truth. I’m not trying to paint her in a bad way. She was really nice, but she just had this sort of tone, like, as if she knew more than everyone else.”

“Did she ever speak about her family?”

“She mentioned her father’s business now and then.”

“What did she say about that?”

“I said once that it must be interesting having a father as famous as Sir Geoffrey Harrison, being knighted and all that.”

So much for having a mere detective for a father, Banks thought, swallowing his pride. “What did she say?”

“The usual. Something like, ‘Oh, you’d be shocked if you knew some of the things I know.’”

“And she didn’t elaborate?”

“No. I just shrugged it off. I thought she meant the bad side of technology, all the war stuff, missiles and bombs and that. We all know Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s companies are involved in things like that. It’s in the papers nearly every day.”

“And she didn’t say any more about it?”

“No.”

“Did she ever mention Father Daniel Charters or Ive Jela
č
ci
ć
?”

“The people from St Mary’s Church?”

“Yes.”

“Not to me. If you ask me, she was more interested in boys than anything else.”

“Boys? Anyone in particular.”

“Well, she sort of took up with John Spinks.” Tracy pulled a face. “I mean, of all the boys …”

Banks leaned forward. The bedsprings creaked. “Tell me about John Spinks,” he said.

SEVEN

I

Eastvale College of Further Education was a hodgepodge of ugly redbrick and concrete buildings on the southern fringe of the town, separated from the last few houses by a stretch of marshy waste ground. There was nothing else much around save for the Featherstone Arms across the road, a couple of industrial estates and a large riding stable, about half a mile away.

The college itself was a bit of a dump, too, Owen thought over his lunch-time pint and soupy lasagna, and he wouldn’t be teaching there if he could get anything better. The problem was, with only a BA from Leeds and an MA from an obscure Canadian university, he
couldn’t
get anything better. So he was stuck teaching the business, secretarial and agriculture students how to spell and write sentences, skills they didn’t even want to know. It was a long way from the literary ambitions he had nursed not so many years ago.

But he had more immediate problems than his teaching career: he had lied to the police, and they probably suspected as much.

It wasn’t much of a lie, admittedly. Besides, it was none of their business. He had said he never lived with a woman, but he had. With Michelle. For five years. And Michelle was the woman in the black-and-white nude photographs.

So Owen wasn’t exactly surprised when Stott and Hatchley walked into the pub and asked him if he would mind going to the station with them to clear up a few points. Nervous, yes, but not surprised. They said the department head had told them where they were likely to find him, and they had walked straight over.

Nobody spoke during the first part of the journey. Sergeant Hatchley drove the unmarked Rover, and Inspector Stott sat beside
him. Owen could see the sharp line of his haircut at the back of his neck and the jug-handle shape of his ears, glasses hooked over them. As they approached the market square, Owen looked out of the window at the drab, shadowy figures hurrying from shop to shop, holding onto their hats.

“I wonder if you’d mind very much,” Stott said, turning slightly in his seat, “if we arranged to take a couple of samples?”

“What kind of samples?”

“Oh, just the usual. Blood. Hair.”

“Do I have to?”

“Let me put it like this. You’re not under arrest, but the crime we’re investigating is very serious indeed. It would be best all around if you gave your permission and signed a release. For elimination purposes.”

“And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me down, pull my hair out and stick a needle in me?”

“Nothing like that. We could get the superintendent to authorize it. But that wouldn’t look good, would it? Especially if the matter ever went to court. Refusing to give a sample? A jury might see that as an admission of guilt. And, of course, as soon as you’re eliminated from the enquiry, the samples will all be destroyed. No records. What do you say?”

“All right.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stott turned to face the front again and picked up his car phone. “I’ll just take the liberty of calling Dr Burns and asking him to meet us at the station.”

It was all handled quickly and efficiently in a private office at the police station. Owen signed the requisite forms, rolled up his sleeve and looked away. He felt only a sharp, brief pricking sensation as the needle slid out. Then the doctor pulled some hair out of his scalp. That hurt a little more.

The interview room they took him to next was a desolate place: grey metal desk; three chairs, two of them bolted to the floor; grimy windows of thick wired glass; a dead fly smeared against one institutional-green wall; and that was it.

It smelled of stale smoke. A heavy blue glass ashtray sat on the desk, empty but stained and grimy with old ash.

Stott sat opposite Owen, and Sergeant Hatchley moved the free chair and sat by the wall near the door, out of Owen’s line of vision. He sat backwards on the chair, wrapping his thick arms around its back.

First, Stott placed the buff folder he’d been carrying on the desk, smiled and adjusted his glasses. Then he switched on a double-cassette tape recorder, tested it, and gave the date, time and names of those present.

“Just a few questions, Owen,” he said. “You’ve been very cooperative so far. I hope we don’t have to keep you long.”

“So do I,” said Owen, looking around the grim room. “Shouldn’t I call my lawyer or something?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Stott. “Of course, you can if you want. It’s your right.” He smiled. “But it’s not as if you’re under arrest or anything. You’re free to leave anytime you want. Besides, do you actually have a solicitor? Most people don’t.”

Come to think of it, Owen didn’t have a solicitor. He knew one, though. An old university acquaintance had switched from English to law after his first year and now practised in Eastvale. They hadn’t seen each other in years, until Owen had bumped into him in a pub a few months back. Gordon Wharton, that was his name. Owen couldn’t remember what kind of law he specialized in, but at least it was a start, if things went that far. For the moment, though, Stott was right. Owen hadn’t been arrested, and he didn’t see why he should have to pay a solicitor.