Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

“Of course it was. Do you think I’d willingly stay a moment longer than I had to with anyone who did that to me?” She hadn’t finished her meal, but she pushed her plate aside and sipped some more wine.

  “I don’t know what your situation was,” Banks said. “Sometimes people, women especially, get stuck in abusive situations. They don’t know what to do.”

  “Yes, well, not me. I’m not like that. Oh, I’d done my best, tried to please him, given in to his…but it was getting impossible. I was at my wits’ end. His demands were getting too much for me. This was the last straw. And I was especially upset by the names he called me and the dirty things he accused me of.”

  “So you resisted him?”

  “Yes. I thought it was awful that someone would say such horrible things to me, call me such vile names and then want to do it to me…you know…like animals.”

  “Did you struggle?”

  Michelle nodded.

  “Then what happened?”

  “It’s not very clear after that. I know he hit me at least once and then everything went dark.”

  “He hit you when you refused to have sex with him?”

  “Yes. I just remember falling and my head hurting and everything going dark for…I don’t know…maybe only a few seconds.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I felt his hands around my neck.”

  “Owen was trying to strangle you?”

  “Yes. He had his hands on my throat and he was pressing.”

  “How did you stop him?”

  “I didn’t. I hadn’t the strength. I must have passed out again.”

  “Then what?”

  “I woke up. It was light, early morning, and I was still on the floor, where I’d fallen. I felt all stiff and my head hurt. My clothes were torn. I had an awful headache.”

  “Where was Owen?”

  “He was in bed asleep, or passed out. I heard him snoring and went to look.”

  “Had he interfered with you sexually in any way?”

  “Yes. I think he’d had sex with me.”

  “You can’t be certain?”

  “No. I wasn’t conscious. But I’m pretty sure he had.”

  “How did you know?”

  She looked directly at Banks. He couldn’t detect any strong emotion in her eyes now, despite the events she was relating. She wasn’t exactly being cold and clinical about it all, but she wasn’t overly agitated, either. The few remaining diners would never have guessed what horrors the trio near the window were talking about.

  “A woman can tell about those things,” she said, then she turned to Susan. “I felt sore…you know…down there.”

  Susan nodded and touched her arm.

  Banks finished his pizza and looked around to see if anyone was smoking. Miraculously, one or two people were. The restaurant had quietened down a lot, and when Banks beckoned the waiter to bring him an ashtray, he did.

  “What did you do next?” Banks asked Michelle.

  “I packed up my things, what little I had, and I left.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I just walked and walked. I had nowhere to go. At least it was summer. And it wasn’t raining. I remember sleeping in the sun in a park.”

  “And that night?”

  “I tried to sleep at the railway station, but the police kept moving me on. I went in shop doorways, wherever I could find shelter. I was scared.”

  “And the next day?”

  “I swallowed my pride, went back to my parents and faced the music. A month later I got the job down here.”

  “What did you tell them?” Susan asked.

  “I couldn’t tell them the truth, could I? I was too ashamed. I couldn’t tell anyone that. I made up a story about just not, you know, being happy with Owen, and they believed it. It was what they wanted to hear. They’d only met him once and didn’t like him anyway. Thought he was too old for me. All I had to do was tell them what they wanted to hear and eat enough crow. They always believed what I told them.”

  “Why didn’t you report the incident to the police?” Banks asked.

  “I told you. I was too ashamed. I’m sure Detective Constable Gay will understand that.”

  Susan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Oh, I know what I should have done,” Michelle went on. “Especially now, after what’s happened to that poor schoolgirl. In a way, I feel terribly guilty, almost responsible. But you can’t really predict what a person will do, can you, how far he will go? I knew Owen was a bit unbalanced, that he could be dangerous. I should have known just how dangerous, and I should have reported him to the police. But I was scared.” She looked at Susan again. “And I’d heard such awful things about what they do, you know, in court, to girls who make such complaints. How they make out you’re the guilty one, that you’re just a slut, and how they get all sorts of doctors and…I…I just didn’t think I could go through with it. I mean, I was living with Owen, wasn’t I? And I had given in to him willingly before. What would they have said about that? They’d have said I led him on, that’s what.”

  “The courts aren’t so easy on rapists these days, Michelle,” said Susan. “It wouldn’t have been like that.”

  “But how was I to know?”

  “Was that the only reason you didn’t report the incident?” Banks asked. “Fear of the police and the courts?”

  “Well, mostly. But there was Owen, too, wasn’t there? I mean, after someone’s done something like that to you, something violent, you have to wonder, don’t you, whether they’re capable of anything. You hear about men stalking women and all the things they do to them. I was ashamed, but I was scared as well. Scared of what he might do.” She looked at her watch. “My God, it’s after two,” she said. “Look, I really must go now. Mr. Littlewood is only liberal to a degree.”

  “In the light of what you’ve just told us,” Banks said, “we’d like to get a full statement from you. We can do it after you’ve finished work this evening, if you’ve got no objection.”

  Michelle bit her lip and thought for moment.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve got no objection. Yes. Let’s do it. Let’s get it over with. I finish at five-thirty.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  They watched her go, then Banks lit another cigarette and they each ordered a cappuccino. “Well,” said Banks, “it looks like we’re stuck in the big city for the afternoon. Want to see the crown jewels? Maybe tour the Black Museum? Or we could always do some early Christmas shopping.”

  Susan laughed. “No thanks, sir. Perhaps we could give Phil Richmond a call at the Yard? He might be able to sneak away for an hour or so.”

  “All right,” said Banks. “Why don’t you phone him?”

  “Yes, sir. Got a ten-pee piece?”

  IV

  Armley Jail loomed ahead like a medieval fortress. Owen could only see part of it through the mesh window between himself and the van’s driver, but he knew the building well enough; he’d seen it many times when he was at Leeds University.

  Standing on a hill to the west of the city center, it was an enormous, sprawling Victorian edifice of black granite, complete with battlements and towers and newer sections that seemed constantly under construction. The place was practically a tourist attraction. They had kept Peter Sutcliffe, the “Yorkshire Ripper” on remand there for a while in 1981.

  At least the van driver had a sense of humor. Elvis Presley belted out “Jailhouse Rock” as the van passed through the huge gates with its load of prisoners shackled in heavy cuffs. Owen wondered if he did that every trip, the way tour guides always made the same jokes.

  In a low-ceilinged reception room, the cuffs were removed, and Owen found himself signed over from the police to the jailers. He might easily have been a cow or pig sold at market. Next he was given a number he made no attempt to memorize, then, after his belongings had been catalogued and placed in a box, much as in the charge room at the police station, he was taken to a cubicle and strip-s
earched.

  After that, the governor explained that as Owen was regarded as a Category A inmate, he would spend twenty-three and a half out of twenty-four hours alone in his cell, the other half-hour being set aside for supervised exercise. He would be allowed to purchase as many cigarettes as he wanted-not that this appealed to Owen at all-and given access to writing paper and books.

  The whole thing reminded Owen of the scene from Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange, where Alex is inducted into jail. This room had the same gray inhuman feel, a perfect setting for humiliation. He was now a number, no longer a man.

  After a cursory medical (“Ever suffered from palpitations, shortness of breath?”) no doubt required to protect the authorities should he drop dead tonight in his cell, he was ordered to take a bath in about six inches of lukewarm water. The tub was an old, Victorian model, with stained sides and claw feet. When he had dried off, he was given his prison uniform: brown trousers and a blue striped shirt that felt coarse and scratchy next to his skin.

  After this, he was handed his equally rough bedding and escorted to his cell. It was in a special wing of the prison with black metal stairs and catwalks like something out of an M.C. Escher print. The walls were covered in flecked institutional-green paint, and high ceilings echoed every footstep.

  His cell was slightly larger than the one in Eastvale police station, but a lot more gloomy. The whitewashed walls had turned gray with age and dirt; the floor was cold stone. The only window stood high in the wall. About as big as a handkerchief, it seemed to be made of reinforced glass. Light shone from a low wattage bulb hanging from a ceiling outlet; the shade was covered by wire mesh. Though a washstand, soap and a towel stood in the corner behind the door, there was no toilet. Looking around, Owen located a bucket and some toilet paper beside his bed.

  One added feature was the table and chair. They were so small that he could hardly get his knees underneath comfortably. The scored table was a bit rickety, but a couple of sheets of toilet paper, folded and wadded beneath one of the legs, soon fixed that.

  He had asked for paper and books from the prison library-science fiction if possible, to let him escape, at least in mind from his dreary surroundings. Sci-fi had been a passion during his adolescence, though he hadn’t read any since. Now, curiously, he felt an urge to start reading it again. Wharton would also be bringing him his Walkman and a few cassettes as soon as possible.

  He paced for a while, then tried to take approximate measure of his cell. He concluded that it was about eight feet by ten. Next he slouched on his hard, narrow mattress and stared at the cracks on the ceiling. He had expected to find days crossed off all over the walls, just like he had seen in films, but there were none. There wasn’t even a trace of graffiti, a name scratched by fingernail, to show who had been here last.

  Perhaps it had been the Ripper himself. Owen shivered. That was a foolish thought, he told himself. It was years ago that Sutcliffe had been held here. Dozens of people must have been in and out since then. Still…a haunted cell, that would just about make his day.

  It was time to keep his imagination in check and take stock of his situation. Certainly he was aware of what could happen to him, the “worst case scenario” as Wharton had put it earlier that morning, and that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Wharton had already been right about the Magistrates’ Court; the whole thing had been over in a couple of minutes and Owen found himself on remand awaiting trial for the crime of murder. So much for truth and justice.

  What worried him most now were the practical things: his job, the house, the fish, his car. Wharton had taken his keys and said he would take care of things, but still…Had anyone let the department at college know? If so, what had the chairman done? It wouldn’t be too difficult to share out his classes among his colleagues until a temporary lecturer could be brought in, but what if this thing dragged on for months? He didn’t have tenure, so the college could let him go whenever they felt like it. If he lost his job because of this farce, this absurd mistake, he wondered if he could seek any kind of compensation.

  The house would remain his as long as his bank account could stand the strain of the standing payment order for his mortgage, and that should be long enough. After all, he had been making fairly decent money for some time and had very little in the way of expenses. He hoped that his neighbor Ivor, who also had a key, would take good care of the fish.

  The sound of footsteps disturbed his train of thought, then he heard the key turn in the lock. It was meal-time already. The warder had also brought him a felt-tipped pen, writing pad and envelopes, a surprisingly well-thumbed copy of Wordsworth’s Collected Poems and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy.

  When he had finished his meal and the door closed again behind the warder, Owen picked up the pen and sat at the desk. He had no-one to write to, but he could certainly pass time on a journal of his experiences and impressions. Maybe someday someone would want to publish it.

  Fifty-six days or longer, Wharton had said. Well, there was nothing he could do about it, was there, so he might as well just get used to it.

  Chapter 10

  I

  The offices of the Eastvale Crown Prosecution Service were located on the top floor of a drafty old three-story building on North Market Street, straddling two shops between the community center and the Town Hall. The lower floor was taken up by a clothes boutique catering to oversize people and a shop that sold imported Belgian chocolate. Somewhere else in the building, a dentist had managed to squeeze in his surgery. Sometimes you could hear the drill while discussing a case.

  The chief CPS lawyer assigned to the Pierce file was Stafford Oakes, a shabby little fellow with elbow patches, greasy hair, a sharp nose and eagle eyes. Banks had worked with Oakes before on a number of occasions and had developed great respect for him.

  Banks was with DI Stott, and beside Oakes sat Denise Campbell, his colleague, whose expensive and stylish designer clothes stood in stark contrast to Oakes’s off-the-peg bargain items. Denise was an attractive and ambitious young lawyer with short black hair and pale skin. Banks had never once seen her smile, and she seemed far too stiff, prim and proper for her age.

  In general, the police were wary of the CPS because of its negative attitude towards bringing cases to court, and indeed Banks had had more than one argument with Oakes on this subject. On the whole, though, Oakes was a fair man, and he didn’t usually-like so many Crown Prosecutors-do more damage to the case than the defense did. Banks had even had a pint with him on a couple of occasions and swapped stories of life in the trenches of London, where they had both spent time.

  Oakes’s office was as untidy as the man himself, briefs and files all over the place. Many of them bore his trademark-linked coffee-rings, like the Olympic games symbol-for Oakes was a caffeine addict and didn’t care where he rested his mug. Today it sat on top of the post-mortem report on Deborah Harrison.

  It was already only a couple of weeks before Christmas, more than two weeks since they had first consulted by telephone. DNA tests had confirmed that it was, indeed, Deborah’s blood on Owen’s anorak and Owen’s tissue under her fingernail. Banks had sent over all the witness statements and forensic test results collected in the Initial Case File. Owen Pierce’s defense team would also have copies of them by now.

  “I like this,” Oakes was saying, tapping the foot-thick heap of files on his desk. “I particularly like this DNA analysis. Something I can really get my teeth into. No confession, you say?”

  “No,” Banks answered.

  “Good.” He slurped some coffee. “Nothing but trouble, confessions, if you ask me. You’re better off without them. What do you think, Denise?”

  “We’ve had some success with confessions. Limited, I’ll admit. As often as not they’ll retract, say the police falsified it or beat it out of them.” She gave Banks a stern look. “But even scientific evidence isn’t entirely problem-free. Depends very much on how it was gathered and who’s pres
enting it.”

  “Oh, I know that,” said Oakes, waving his hand in the air. “Remember that dithering twit in the Innes case we did in Richmond?” He looked at Banks and Stott and rolled his eyes. “Open and shut. Or should have been. Simple matter of bloodstains. By the time the defense had finished with this chap, he was a nervous wreck, not even sure any more that two and two made four. But what I mean is, a good, solid case rests on facts. Like DNA. That’s what judges like and that’s what juries like. Facts. Indisputable. Beautiful. Facts. Am I right, Denise?”

  Denise Campbell nodded.

  “Now,” Oakes went on after another slug of coffee, “I trust that Mr. Pierce gave his permission for the blood and hair samples to be taken?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “They were taken by a registered police surgeon. You should have copies of the signed consent forms.”

  Oakes frowned and dug around deeper in the pile. “Ah, yes,” he muttered, pulling out a few coffee-ringed sheets. “Here they are. Good. Good. And I trust his anorak was legally obtained in the first place?”

  Banks looked at Stott, who said, “Yes. He gave us his permission to take it in for tests and we gave him a receipt.”

  “But you didn’t go into his home with a search warrant?”

  “No,” said Stott. “At that stage in our inquiries we merely wanted to talk to Mr. Pierce. Then, when I saw the orange anorak, having heard descriptions of a man in a similar orange anorak in the vicinity of the crime scene, I took the initiative and-”

  Oakes flapped his hand again. “Yes, yes, yes, Inspector. All right. You’re not giving evidence in court. Spare me the formalities. It’s a bit flimsy, but it’ll have to do.”

  Stott sat stiffly in his chair, red-faced, mouth tight. Banks couldn’t resist a smile. It was the new lad’s first taste of Stafford Oakes.

  Oakes went on, thumbing through the pile on his desk. “Good stuff, most of this,” he said. “DNA, hair, blood analysis. Good stuff. Can’t understand a word of it myself, of course, but get the right man in the box and we’d even be able to sell it to your average Sun reader. That’s the key, you know: plain language, without talking down.” He put a thick wad of papers aside and flapped a few statements in the air. “And this,” he went on. “Not so bad, either. Your vicar, what’s his name…Daniel Charters…places our man on the bridge around the right time.” He touched his index finger to the side of his nose. “Must say though, Banks, there’s a hint of moral turpitude about the fellow.”