Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  “Okay,” Banks began, “first let me caution you that you do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention now something which you later use in your defense, the court may decide that your failure to mention it strengthens the case against you. A record will be made of anything you say and it may be given in evidence if you are brought to trial.”

  Owen swallowed. “Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

  “No,” said Banks. “It’s just a formality, so we all know what’s what. I understand you’ve been informed about your right to a solicitor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve waived it?”

  “For the moment, yes. I keep telling you, I haven’t done anything. Why should I have to pay for a solicitor?”

  “Good point. They can be very expensive. Now then, Owen, can we just go over last Monday evening one more time, please?”

  Owen sighed and told them exactly the same as he had told Stott the last time and the time before that.

  “And you never, at any time that day, had contact with the victim, Deborah Harrison?”

  “No. How could I? I had no idea who she was.”

  “You’re quite sure you didn’t meet her?”

  “I told you, no.”

  “Why were you in the area?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Oh, come on. Do you think I was born yesterday, Owen? Hey? You had a meeting with Deborah, didn’t you? You knew her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I know someone like her?”

  Banks reached down into his briefcase and pushed the photograph across the desk. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “Just a model.”

  “Look at it, Owen. Look closely. You know her. Any idiot can see that.”

  Banks watched Owen turn pale and lick his lips. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “She was just a model.”

  “Bollocks she was just a model. Have you noticed her resemblance to the murdered girl?” Banks set a photograph of Deborah Harrison next to it.

  Owen looked away. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Look again.”

  Owen looked and shook his head. “No.”

  “And you still maintain that you’ve never met Deborah Harrison?”

  “That’s right.” He looked at his watch. “Look, when is this farce going to end? I’ve got work to do.”

  Banks glanced over at Susan and nodded. She leaned forward and placed two labeled packages on the desk. “The thing is, Owen,” Banks said, “that this evidence shows otherwise.”

  “Evidence? What evidence?”

  “Hair, Owen. Hair.” Banks tapped the first envelope. “To cut a long story short, this envelope contains samples of hairs taken from those we found on the anorak you were wearing on Monday evening when you went for your walk, the one you gave us permission to test. There are a number of hairs that our experts have identified as coming from the head of Deborah Harrison.”

  Owen grasped the edge of the desk. “But they can’t be! You must be mistaken.”

  Banks shook his head gravely. “Oh, I could bore you with the scientific details about the medulla and the cortex and so on, but you can take my word for it-they match.”

  Owen said nothing. Susan pushed the other package forward. “Now this,” Banks said, “contains hair samples taken from Deborah Harrison’s school blazer. Oddly enough, some of these hairs have been positively identified as yours, again matched with the samples you freely allowed us to take the other day.” Banks sat back and folded his arms. “I think you’ve got quite a bit of explaining to do, haven’t you, Owen?”

  “You’re trying to set me up. Those hairs aren’t mine. They can’t be. You’re lying to get me to confess, aren’t you?”

  “Confess to what, Owen?”

  Owen smiled. “You’re not going to catch me out as easily as that.”

  Banks leaned forward and rested his palm on the desk. “Read my lips, Owen,” he said. “We’re not lying. The hairs are yours.”

  Owen ran his hand through his hair. “Wait a minute. There must be some simple explanation for this. There’s got to be.”

  “I hope so,” said Banks. “I’d really like to hear it.”

  Owen bit his lip and concentrated. “The only thing I can think of,” he said after a few moments, “is that when I was on the bridge, someone bumped into me. It all happened so fast. I was turning from looking over the river, and she knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t get a really good look because she disappeared into the fog and I only saw her from behind, but I think she had long fair hair and wore a maroon blazer and skirt. It could have been her, couldn’t it? That could have been how it happened, couldn’t it?”

  Banks frowned and looked through the notes in front of him. “I don’t understand, Owen. When you talked to DI Stott and DS Hatchley you didn’t say anything about this.”

  “I know.” Owen looked away. “At first I just forgot, then, well…when I remembered, when I’d seen the paper and knew why they’d been questioning me…Well, I’d already not said anything, so I suppose I was worried it would look bad if I spoke up then.”

  “Look bad? But how could it, Owen? How could it look bad if you simply said the girl might have bumped into you? What were you afraid of?”

  “Yes, but I mean, if it really had been Deborah Harrison…I don’t know. Besides, I couldn’t be sure it was her. It just seemed like the best thing to do at the time. Keep quiet. It didn’t seem important. I’m sorry if it caused you any problems.”

  “Caused us any problems? Not really, Owen. But it has caused you quite a few. It’s funny you should mention it now, though, isn’t it, now we’ve matched the hair samples?”

  “Yes, well…I told you. Look, you can check, can’t you? Didn’t her friend see me? I could just see her through the fog.”

  Banks tapped the two envelopes. “What if she did see you? That doesn’t help your case at all, does it? In fact, it makes things worse.”

  “But I never denied being on the bridge.”

  “No. But you led us to believe you didn’t see Deborah Harrison. Now you’re changing your story. I’d like to know why.”

  “I was confused, that’s all.”

  “I understand that, Owen. But why didn’t you tell the detectives who first interviewed you that you’d seen Deborah that night?”

  “I told you. It slipped my mind. After all, I had no idea why the detectives were talking to me. Then later, when I knew…well, I was worried that this was exactly the kind of thing that would happen if I did tell you, that you would misconstrue it.”

  “Misconstrue?”

  “Yes. Misinterpret, distort, misunderstand.”

  “I know what the word means, Owen,” said Banks. “I don’t need a bloody thesaurus, thank you very much. I just don’t see how it applies in your case.”

  “I’m sorry. Just put it down to an English teacher’s pedantry. What I mean is, I thought you’d read more into it, that’s all. When you get right down to it, it’s not very much in the way of evidence, is it? You have to admit.” Owen attempted a smile, but it came out crooked. “I mean, a couple of hairs. Hardly enough to stand up in court, is it?”

  “Don’t get clever with me, sonny.”

  “I…I wasn’t. I was just pointing out, that’s all.”

  “But we don’t know how the hairs got where they did, do we?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Maybe it happened when she bumped into me.”

  “If it was her who bumped into you.”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation.”

  “But I can. See, you’ve lied to us before, Owen. To DI Stott and DS Hatchley. Why should we believe you now?”

  Owen swallowed. His Adam’s apple bumped up and down. “Lied?”

  “Well, you never told us about seeing Deborah, or about bumping into her for that matter. That’s a lie of a kind, isn’t it? You might call it a lie of omission. And you also said you didn’t know the girl in t
he photo, but you do know her, don’t you?”

  “No. I-”

  Banks sighed. “Look, Owen, I’m giving you a chance to dig yourself out of this hole before it’s too late. We’ve talked to the landlord of the Nag’s Head again, showed him the picture of this ‘model.’ He says you’ve been in the pub with her on a number of occasions. He’s seen you together. What do you have to say about that?”

  Banks noticed the sweat start beading on Owen’s forehead. “All right, I know her. Knew her. But I don’t see how it’s relevant in any way. She was my girlfriend. We lived together. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Who is she? Where is she now? What happened to her?”

  Owen put his hands over his ears. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Surely you can’t think that I’ve killed Michelle, too?”

  “Too? As well as who?”

  “For Christ’s sake. It’s a figure of speech.”

  “I’d have thought a pedantic English teacher like yourself would be more careful with his figures of speech.”

  “Yes, well, I’m upset.”

  “This Michelle, what happened?”

  “We lived together for nearly five years, then we split up over the summer. Simple as that.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “She lives in London. In Swiss Cottage.”

  “Why did you split up?”

  “Why does anyone split up?”

  “Irreconcilable differences?” Banks suggested.

  Owen laughed harshly. “Yes. That’ll do. Irreconcilable differences. You could call it that.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “It’s none of your business. But there is something else. It’s got nothing to do with this at all, but if it’ll help…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s the reason I was out walking. It was the anniversary. The anniversary of the day we met. I was a little down, a bit sad. We used to go for walks by the river, as far as St. Mary’s, or even further, and we’d sometimes drop in at the Nag’s Head to wet our whistles. So I just went for that long walk to get it out of my system.”

  “You were upset?”

  “Of course I was upset. I loved her.”

  “And did you get it out of your system?”

  “To a certain extent.”

  “How did you get it out of your system?”

  “Oh, this is absurd. You’ve got a one-track mind. There’s no point talking to you any more.”

  “Maybe not, Owen. But you’ve got to admit things are looking pretty bleak. You lied to us four times.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Once about why you were out walking, once about never meeting Deborah Harrison, once about not knowing the girl in the photo and once again about never having lived with anyone. All lies, Owen. You see what a position it puts me in?”

  “But they were all so…such small lies. Yes, all right, I lied. I admit it. But that’s all. I haven’t harmed anyone.”

  At that point came the soft knock at the door that Banks had arranged earlier. He turned off the tape recorders and told the person to come in. DI Stott entered, nodded quickly at Owen Pierce and apologized for disturbing them. Then he handed a report to Banks and stood by the door.

  Banks glanced over the sheets of paper, taking his time, pretending he didn’t already know the information they contained. When he had finished, he passed them to Susan. All the time, he was aware of Owen’s discomfort and restlessness. Susan read the report and raised her eyebrows. Banks thought they were overacting a bit, behaving like doctors who had just looked at the X-rays and found out their patient had an inoperable tumor. But it was working. Pierce was really sweating now.

  Banks turned the tape recorders on again, explaining briefly why he had turned them off and adding that DI Stott was now also in the room. “Results of the blood tests,” he said to Owen.

  “What blood tests?”

  “Remember, we took samples the other day?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “With your permission.”

  “I know, but-”

  “Well, we also found a small dried bloodstain on your anorak, and according to this report, Owen, it’s Deborah Harrison’s blood group, not yours. Can you explain that?”

  “I…I…”

  The three detectives remained silent for a few moments as Owen struggled for an explanation. Then Banks spoke up again. “Come on, Owen,” he said. “Tell us about it. It’ll do you good.”

  Owen slammed his fist on the table. “There’s nothing to tell! I saw a girl. She bumped into me. Then she ran off. She might have been Deborah Harrison. It was foggy. I didn’t get a clear enough look. That’s all that happened. I don’t know how her blood got there. You’re trying to frame me. You’re planting evidence.”

  “You’re starting to sound a bit desperate now, Owen,” Banks said. “Clutching at straws. Why don’t you calm down and tell us all about it?”

  “But why would I have killed the girl? What possible reason could I have? Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Because you didn’t tell us the truth. That means you had something to hide. And there’s something else, too.”

  “What?”

  “We found your blood under Deborah Harrison’s fingernails. What do you have to say to that?”

  “Nothing,” Owen said, “I want a solicitor. Now. I’m not saying another word until I get a solicitor.”

  “That’s your right,” said Banks. “But just hear me out for a moment before you do or say anything else. You’ll feel much better if you just tell us what happened. And it’ll go better for you in the long run. When you saw Deborah Harrison on the bridge, she reminded you of this Michelle, didn’t she? The girl you were upset about. Were you punishing Michelle through Deborah, Owen? Is that what all this was about? What did she do to you?”

  Owen broke off eye contact. “Nothing,” he said. “This is all just speculation. It’s rubbish.”

  “You followed her into the graveyard and you approached her, didn’t you?” Banks went on, resting his elbows on the desk and speaking softly. “Maybe you offered her a fiver to toss you off so you could pretend it was Michelle doing it. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. But she reacted badly. She got scared. You dragged her off the path, behind the Inchcliffe Mausoleum. It was dark and foggy and quiet there. You were going to give her what for, weren’t you? Give it to her good and proper just to show her she couldn’t do what she did to you and get away with it? All your anger burst out, didn’t it, Owen? What happened? Couldn’t you get it up? What did Michelle do to you? It was her you were strangling, wasn’t it? Why did you lie about knowing her?”

  Owen put his head in his hands and groaned. Banks packed up his papers, stood and nodded to Stott, who said, “Owen Pierce, you have already been cautioned and now we’re going to put you under arrest. I’m going to ask you to come with me to the custody officer. Do you understand me, Owen?”

  II

  Stott had called it the “custody suite” on the way down, and the sign on the door said “Charge Room,” but to Owen it resembled nothing less than the entrance to hell. Abandon all hope…

  It was a cavernous room in the basement of the old Tudor-fronted Eastvale Regional HQ, full of noise and activity. Saturday afternoon was one of the busiest times in the Eastvale custody suite. Today, in addition to the usual Saturday bouts of shoplifting, hooliganism and drunkenness, Eastvale United were playing at home to arch-rivals, Ripon, and there had already been plenty of violence both on and off the field.

  The flaking paint had obviously once been an attempt at a cheerful lemon color; now it looked like a nicotine stain. Owen sat between Stott and Hatchley on a hard bench opposite elevated, joined desks, screwed to the floor, that ran the whole length of the room like a counter. Behind the desks, about six or seven uniformed police officers typed, bustled about, shouted, laughed, filled in forms and questioned people, presided over by the custody sergeant himself. The contrast between the real smell of fear
and this slick, bureaucratic activity brought, for Owen, its special brand of terror, like a hospital casualty department where ripped flesh bleeds and pristine machines hiss and beep.

  At the moment, a drunk with a bloody face leaned over the desk singing “Danny Boy” at the custody sergeant, who was trying to get his personal details. On the benches near Owen sat a couple of gloomy skinheads, laces missing from their bovver boots; a man who resembled nothing more than a bank clerk, perhaps an embezzler, Owen thought; and a nervous-looking young woman, smartly dressed, biting her lip. A kleptomaniac?

  Another man at the desk started arguing with one of the officers about being picked on because he was black. The drunk paused in his song to look over and shout, “Bloody right, too. Ought to go back to the bloody jungle where you came from, Sambo,” then he emitted a technicolor whoosh of vomit all over the desk and sank to his knees on the floor to clutch his stomach and whimper. The sergeant swore and jumped backwards, but he wasn’t quick enough to prevent some of the vomit from spattering the front of his uniform.

  “Get that bastard out of here!” he yelled. In the room’s eerie acoustics, his voice rose, echoed wildly, then fell dead.

  Adrenalin pumped through Owen’s system. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and almost gagged on the stink of vomit and ammonia cleaning fluid that permeated the stale air.

  An officer filled in names, numbers, charges and times with a black marker on a white board. Posters covered the walls: one gave a graphic warning about the possible consequences of driving while drunk; one informed prisoners of their rights; a third showed sign language; another advised officers to wear gloves when dealing with vomit and blood due to possible AIDS and Hepatitis B exposure.

  Two officers dragged the drunk out and another started clearing up the mess with a mop, cloth and a bucket of Lysol. He was wearing plastic gloves. Blood had dripped on the pale green linoleum. Even the skinheads looked cowed by it all.

  Owen kept trying to convince himself that the nightmare would end any moment and he would wake up and find himself out shopping with the rest of the Saturday crowd. Perhaps he would go to HMV in the Swainsdale Center and buy the new Van Morrison CD. Then, maybe a pint or two and a nice dinner out, Chinese or Indian, just to celebrate. Alone, the way he liked it best.