Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  As soon as they got into the living-room, the big one started poking around.

  “Nice place you’ve got,” Stott said, while his partner prowled the room, picking up vases and looking inside them, opening drawers an inch or two, inspecting books.

  “Look, what is this?” Owen said. “Is he supposed to be going through my things like that? There are no drugs here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Oh, don’t mind Sergeant Hatchley. He’s just like that. Insatiable curiosity.”

  “Don’t you need a search warrant or something?”

  “Well, Owen” said Stott, “the way it works is like this. We could go to a magistrate, and we could apply for a warrant to search your premises, but it takes a lot of time. Sergeant Hatchley would have to stay here with you while I took care of the formalities. I think this way is much better all round. Anyway, you’ve nothing to hide, have you?”

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just…”

  “Well,” said Stott with a smile. “That’s all right, then, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Stott sat in the chair by the fake coals and Owen sat opposite him on the sofa. A mug of half-finished coffee stood between them on the glass-topped table beside a couple of unpaid bills and the latest Radio Times.

  “Look,” Owen said, “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage here. What’s it all about?”

  “Just routine inquiries, sir. That’s a nasty scratch on your face. Mind telling me where you got it?”

  Owen put his hand up to his cheek. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “I woke up this morning and there it was.”

  “Were you in the St. Mary’s area of Eastvale yesterday evening?”

  “Let me think…Yes, yes, I believe I was.” He glanced at Hatchley, who seemed fascinated by the print of Renoir’s Bathers over the fireplace.

  “Why?”

  “What? Sorry.”

  “Look, just ignore Sergeant Hatchley for the moment,” Stott said. “Look at me. I asked you why you were in St. Mary’s.”

  Owen shrugged. “No particular reason. I was just walking.”

  “Walking? On a miserable night like that?”

  “Well, if you let the weather dictate it, you wouldn’t get much walking done in Yorkshire, would you?”

  “Even so. St. Mary’s is quite a distance from here.”

  “No more than three miles each way. And it’s a very pleasant walk along the river. Even in the fog.”

  Hatchley fished a copy of Playboy out of the magazine rack and held it up for Stott to see. Stott frowned and reached over for it. The cover showed a shapely blonde in skimpy pink lace panties, bordered in black, a flimsy slip, stockings and suspender belt. She was on her knees on a sofa, and her round behind faced the viewer. Her face was also turned towards the camera: glossy red lips, eyes an impossible shade of green, unfocused, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. One thin strap had slipped over her upper right arm.

  “I bought it because of one of the stories I wanted to read,” Owen said, immediately feeling himself turn red. It wasn’t so much that he had been caught with something warped and perverted, but with something sub-literary, something beneath his intelligence and dignity. “It’s not illegal, you know. You can buy it at any newsagent’s. It’s not pornography.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, sir, isn’t it?” said Stott. He handed the magazine back to Hatchley as if he were dropping something in a rubbish bin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

  “And there’s a video tape full of what sounds like sexy stuff to me, sir, judging by the titles,” said Hatchley. “One of them’s called School’s Out. And you should have a butcher’s at some of the poses in these here so-called art books.”

  “I’m an amateur photographer,” Owen said. “It’s my hobby. For Christ’s sake, what do you expect? Is that what all this is about? Pornography? Because if it is-”

  Stott waved his hand. “No,” he said. “It’s of no matter, really. It might be relevant. We’ll have to see. Do you live here by yourself, Mr. Pierce?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a lecturer at Eastvale College. English.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriends?”

  “Some.”

  “But not to live with?”

  “No.”

  “Videos and magazines enough to satisfy you, eh?”

  “Now just a min-”

  Stott held up his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Tasteless of me. Out of line.”

  Why couldn’t Owen quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Stott had made the remark on purpose to nettle him. He hoped he had passed the test, even though he couldn’t be sure what the question was. Feeling more like Kafka’s Joseph K. every minute, he shifted in his chair. “Why do you want to know all this?” he asked again. “You said you were going to tell me what it’s all about.”

  “Did I? Well, first, would you mind if we had a quick look around the rest of the place? It might save us coming back.”

  “Go ahead,” Owen said, and accompanied them as they did the rounds. It wasn’t a thorough search, and Owen felt that by granting them permission he had probably saved himself a lot of trouble. He had seen on television the way search teams messed up places. They gave the bedrooms, one of which was completely empty, a cursory glance, poked about in his clothing drawers and wardrobe. In the study, Stott admired the aquarium of tropical fish and, of course, Hatchley rummaged through some of Owen’s photo files and found the black-and-white nude studies of Michelle. He showed them to Stott, who frowned.

  “Who’s this?” Stott asked.

  Owen shrugged. “Just a model.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “She looks very young.”

  “She was twenty-two when those were taken.”

  “Hmm, was she now?” muttered Stott, handing the photos back to Hatchley. “Must be artistic license. Notice any resemblance, Sergeant?” he asked Hatchley.

  “Aye, sir, I do.”

  “Resemblance to who?”

  “Mind if we take these, too?” Stott asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. They’re the only prints I’ve got, and I’ve lost the negatives.”

  “I understand, sir. You want to hang onto them for sentimental reasons. We’ll take good care of them. Wait a minute, though…didn’t you say she was just a model?”

  “I did. And I didn’t say I wanted to keep them for sentimental reasons. They’re part of my portfolio. For exhibitions and such like.”

  “Ah, I see. Might we just take one of them, perhaps, then?”

  “Oh, all right. If you must.”

  Hatchley leafed through some more art books on a shelf over the filing cabinet. One of them dealt with Japanese erotic art, and he opened it at a charcoal sketch of two young girls entwined together on a bed. They had either shaved off their pubic hair, or they were too young to have grown any. It was difficult to tell. He shoved it under Stott’s nose.

  “A bit like those books in the other room, sir,” he said.

  Stott turned up his nose.

  “And some of them novels he reads have been on trial,” Hatchley went on. “Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Naked Lunch, Ulysses, Delta of Venus, a bit of De Sade…”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Owen cut in. “I can’t believe this. I’m an English teacher, you fucking moron. That’s what I do for a living.”

  “Now, you look here, mate,” said Hatchley, squaring up to him. “The last bloke used that kind of language with me had a nasty accident on his way down the police station steps.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Hatchley thrust his chin out. “Take it any way you want.”

&n
bsp; “Stop it, Sergeant!” Stott cut in. “I’ll not have you talking to a member of the public this way. Apologize to Mr. Pierce at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hatchley. He looked at Pierce and said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “If you ask me,” Owen said, “you’re the ones who are sick. Like witch-hunters, seeing the devil’s work everywhere.”

  “Maybe it is everywhere,” Stott said calmly. “Have you ever thought about that?”

  “It’s just hard to believe there’s someone who still thinks Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Ulysses are dirty books, that’s all.”

  They sat down in the living-room again. “Now why don’t you tell me all about what you did in St. Mary’s yesterday evening,” Stott said. “Sergeant Hatchley will take notes. No hurry. Take your time.”

  Owen told them about his walk, the drinks at the Nag’s Head, the meal at the Peking Moon and the walk home. As he spoke, Stott looked directly at him. The stern, triangular face showed no expression; and the eyes behind the lenses seemed cool. The man’s ears almost made Owen want to laugh out loud, but he restrained himself. The big one, Hatchley, scribbled away in a spiral-bound notebook. Owen was surprised he could even write.

  “Are you in the habit of talking to yourself, Mr. Pierce?” asked Stott when he had finished.

  Owen reddened. “I wouldn’t say talking to myself exactly. Sometimes I get lost in thought and I forget there are people around. Don’t you ever do that?”

  “No,” said Stott, “I don’t.”

  Finally, after they had asked him to go over one or two random points again, Hatchley closed his notebook and Stott got to his feet. “That’ll be all for now,” he said.

  “For now?”

  “We might want to talk to you again. Don’t know. We have to check up on a few points first. Would you mind if we had a look in your hall cupboard on the way out?”

  “Why?”

  “Routine.”

  “Go ahead. I don’t suppose I can stop you.”

  Stott and Hatchley searched through the row of coats and jackets and pulled out Owen’s new orange anorak. “Is this what you were wearing last night?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. But-”

  “What about these shoes?”

  “Yes, those too. Look-”

  “Mind if we take them with us, sir?”

  “But why?”

  “Purposes of elimination.”

  “You mean it might help clear this business up?”

  Stott smiled. “Yes. It might. We’ll let you have them back as soon as we can. Do you think you could get me a plastic bag while the sergeant here writes out a receipt?”

  Owen fetched a bin-liner from the kitchen and watched Stott put the shoes and anorak inside it while Hatchley wrote out the receipt. Then he accepted the slip of paper and signed a release identifying the items as his.

  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 Center 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 schoolfriends 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 g
o 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?”