Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  “Daniel Charters was accused of making a homosexual advance to a church worker,” said Banks. “A Croatian refugee called Ive Jelačić, who was also a suspect in this case, until we turned up Pierce. If it’s of any interest, I don’t believe Charters did it.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you believe. Does it, Denise?”

  “No,” said Denise.

  “See, my learned colleague agrees. No, what matters, Banks, is what the jury believes. Vicar with a whiff of scandal lingering around the dog-collar like a particularly virulent fart.” He shook his head and tut-tutted. “Now, there, they say to themselves, goes a true hypocrite, a man who preaches the virtue of chastity, a man who belongs to a church that won’t even ordain homosexual ministers, caught with his hand up the choirboy’s surplice, so to speak. Well, you see what I mean? It’s tabloid scandal-sheet material, that’s what it is.”

  “The point is academic, anyway,” Banks said, “as Owen Pierce openly admits to being on the bridge at the time.”

  “Ah-hah,” said Oakes, raising a finger. “I wouldn’t take too much notice of that. It’s about as useful as a confession. And remember, that’s what he said before he talked to his solicitor. A lot can change between now and the trial. Believe me, we need as much evidence as we can get.”

  “Charters isn’t the only one who can place Pierce on the bridge around the right time. Deborah’s friend Megan Preece saw him, too.”

  Oakes shook his head. “I’ve read her statement. She’s not entirely sure it was him. Damn good thing, too. Nothing worse than children in the box. Oh, we’ll use your vicar. Don’t worry about that. Just playing devil’s advocate. Have to anticipate all eventualities.” He glanced at more statements. “The landlord of the Nag’s Head places Pierce in the pub a short while before, too, I see. He’s reliable, I suppose?”

  Banks looked at Stott again. “Well,” the latter said stiffly. “He seems a bit slow to me, but given that it wasn’t a busy night and Pierce seems to have been about his only customer, I think we can rely on him, yes.”

  “Good. And what’s this other place now… Ah, the Peking Moon. A Chinese restaurant.” He wrinkled his nose. “Chinaman, I suppose?”

  “Born and bred in Whitechapel,” said Stott.

  “Chinaman with a cockney accent, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Oakes shook his head. “Juries don’t like Chinamen. Don’t trust them. Still think of the old Fu Manchu image, you know, inscrutable, yellow peril and all that. Don’t go for it myself, but you can’t seem to get these racist attitudes out of people’s minds as quickly as you’d like, and you certainly can’t legislate them away. Still, we’ll do our best. Bright fellow, is he?”

  “He’s very articulate,” said Stott.

  “Good, that’ll help. Unless he seems too bright, of course. Juries don’t like people who come across as being too clever. Especially foreigners. They expect it of the boffins, of course, but not of your common-or-garden sort of restaurateur. Well, can’t be helped.” He got up and refilled his coffee mug from the machine on the filing cabinet. “Now what really bothers me,” he went on, “is this other stuff here.” He reached into the pile again and pulled out more papers. “You took a statement from a woman called Michelle Chappel, an ex-girlfriend of Pierce’s. It’s all above board, of course, but the whole issue’s dodgy.” He clicked his tongue and rested his hand on the papers, as if ready to swear on the Bible. “Dodgy in the extreme.”

  “In what way?” asked Banks.

  Oakes sat back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head and quoted at the cracked ceiling. “‘A trial judge in a criminal trial has always a discretion to refuse to admit evidence if in his opinion its prejudicial effect outweighs its probative value.’ Lord Diplock, Regina v. Sang, 1979.”

  “And do you think this is the case with Michelle Chappel’s statement?” Banks asked.

  “I’m saying it could be a problem. ‘There should be excluded from the jury information about the accused which is likely to have an influence on their minds prejudicial to the accused which is out of proportion to the true probative value of admissible evidence conveying that information.’ Same source. And it usually relates to evidence of similar fact. You’re implying here, by trying to introduce the woman’s statement as evidence, that Pierce was just the kind of person who would commit such a crime. Freudian mumbo-jumbo, and juries don’t like it, except on television. And, more to the point, a lot of judges don’t like it, either.”

  Banks shrugged. “I’m aware of the similar fact rule,” he said, “but what we’re trying to establish here is a history of violence against women. And there’s a marked physical similarity between the two victims. We’re trying to get at a motive.”

  Oakes’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes, that’s all very well and good, Banks. But then you’re an imaginative sort of chap, kind who reads a lot of fiction, aren’t you? If you understand the problem of similar fact evidence, then you must see that what you’re doing is saying that Pierce was the sort of person who would commit such a crime because he once acted in a way similar to the perpetrator of the crime under consideration. And, what’s more, it’s an unreported crime based purely on the evidence of a woman who no doubt despises the man for rejecting her.” He tut-tutted again and drank some coffee. “Still,” he mused, “stranger things have happened.”

  “So what’s your conclusion?” Banks asked.

  “My conclusion?” He slapped the stack of coffee-stained files. “Oh, we’ll give it a try. Why not? At worst, her evidence can only be declared inadmissible.” He chuckled. “It used to be that the definition of inadmissible evidence was anything that might help the defense. That was in the good old days. Sometimes, depending on the judge, you can get a bit of leeway on these matters, especially in a case as serious as this one. I’ve seen similar fact evidence admitted more than once. What the rule actually states is that the mere fact that the accused has previously acted in a similar way to the crime he is standing trial for is not relevant. However, if there’s a very close similarity, something that links the two events in a convincing way as part of a whole system of actions, an emerging pattern, so much so that it becomes more than a matter of mere coincidence, then such evidence may be admissible. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so,” said Banks.

  “If we attempt to show that the two assaults are part of such a pattern,” Oakes continued, “then we might just be able to squeeze it in. Depending on the judge, of course. Have you got a psychologist you can consult on this? What about that young woman I’ve seen you with in the Queen’s Arms? Pretty young thing. Redhead. Isn’t she a psychologist?”

  “Jenny Fuller?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yes. But Jenny’s still teaching in America. She won’t be back until after Christmas.”

  “That’ll do fine. No hurry, dear boy, no hurry. We’ve got enough for committal already. Just need something to beef up the admissibility quotient, if we can.”

  “Are you going to prosecute, then?”

  Oakes drank more coffee, looked at the papers and sniffed a few times. “Oh, I think so,” he said, after what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes, I think we’ve got a good case. What about you, Denise?”

  Denise Campbell nodded. “Let’s nail the bastard,” she said. Then she blushed and put her hand over her mouth as if she had just burped.

  II

  Owen’s committal proceeding occurred in early February. The whole affair was about as exciting as a damp squib, more reminiscent of a college faculty meeting than an affair at which grave matters were decided. Nobody was even wearing wigs and robes.

  He appeared before three JPs one bitter cold morning, and on Wharton’s advice, they heard the “new-style committal.” That is, they read all the prosecution’s statements and the defense offered no case. It was basically committal by consent. And just as Wharton had guaranteed, the JPs agreed there was prima facie case and Owen was
bound over for trial in the Crown Court. A trial date was set for late March. There were a few spectators in court, and Owen’s name was now known to the general public, but only the charges and bare details were made known to the press, not the actual evidence.

  Luckily, Owen had quickly got used to the monotony of prison routine: lights on, slop out, lights out, sleep. After the first few weeks, he had lost track of time. He was allowed out of his cell only to exercise in the dreary yard for half an hour each day. He hardly saw another soul there but for his guards, and it was no pleasure walking around in circles alone.

  The food reminded him of school dinners: bread-and-butter pudding, gray leathery beef, lumpy custard, Spam fritters. Usually he left most of it. Even so, he felt constipated most of the time.

  The cells around him were all occupied. At night he heard voices, even crying sometimes, and one evening the person in the next cell tried to strike up a conversation, asking him what he’d done. But Owen didn’t answer. What could the man possibly want to talk about? Compare notes on rape and mutilation?

  Mostly, he listened to the tapes Wharton brought him and read poetry and science fiction. He had Wordsworth almost by heart after the first month.

  Every few days, for some unknown reason, the prison authorities played musical cells with him. Only the smells were different. One place had a mattress acrid with spilled semen; one of the washstands seemed to breathe vomit fumes from its depths. But maybe that was his imagination. The predominating odor was of disinfectant and slops. In one cell, he discovered in the middle of night that there was no chamber pot or bucket. He called a warder, who told him to piss on the floor. He pissed down the sink. That wasn’t his imagination.

  As time went on, it was the little things that began to get him down: the rough feel of his prison clothes, the lack of cooking or tea-making facilities, the lousy coffee, the dreadful food… The more he thought about them, the less petty they seemed. These were the essential parts of the tapestry of his liberty, things he took for granted normally. Now he had no access to them, they assumed greater importance in his mind.

  It was all relative, of course. For a starving child in an Ethiopian village, for example, prison food would be a luxury and freedom might simply be defined as the hour or two’s relief from the agony of hunger. When people are starving, they have no true freedom. But for someone like Owen-middle-class, reasonably well-off, well-educated, living in England-freedom was made up of myriad things, some more abstract than others, but it all came down to having a choice.

  Locked in his small, lonely cell once again, Owen actually felt relieved to be left alone at last, to be shut away from the bureaucrats, the reporters and the women who stared at him with such naked hatred in their eyes. He was protected here from the crowds outside eager for his blood, and from the policemen so anxious to rip off the surface of his life and dig their hands deep into the slimy darkness below.

  His cell was the only place he felt safe now; its routine and isolation sheltered him from the malevolent absurdity of the world outside.

  III

  Jenny Fuller dashed into the Queen’s Arms ten minutes late, shucked off her black overcoat and folded it carefully over the back of the adjacent chair. She gave her head a shake to toss back her mass of flame-colored hair, then sat down and patted her chest. “Out of breath. Sorry I’m late. Are we on expenses?”

  Dr. Jennifer Fuller was a lecturer in psychology at the University of York, and over the years her focus had shifted towards criminal and deviant psychology. Now, she had even started publishing in the field and was quickly making a name for herself. Hence the summer in America. Banks had worked with her on several cases before, and an initial attraction had transformed into an enduring friendship that delighted and surprised both of them.

  Banks laughed. “Afraid not.”

  “Pity. I was getting sort of used to that in America. Everyone’s on expenses there.”

  “Let me buy the first one, at least.”

  “How kind. I’ll have a small brandy please, to take the chill off.”

  “And to eat?”

  “Chicken in a basket.”

  On his way to the bar, Banks recognized one or two of the local shop-owners and the manager of the NatWest Bank on his lunch-break. Cyril had also got the coal fire going nicely. The closest table to it was already taken by a group of ramblers in hiking boots and waterproof gear, so Banks and Jenny sat off to one side, near the window. Rain spattered the red and amber diamonds and blurred the clear panes. Along with the drinks, Banks ordered Jenny’s chicken and scampi and chips for himself.

  Jenny rubbed her hands together and gave a mock shiver when Banks came back with the drinks, then she picked up her small glass and said, “Cheers.” They clinked glasses. “Have a good Christmas?”

  “The usual. My parents for Christmas Eve, Sandra’s for Christmas Day and Boxing Day.”

  “And how is Sandra?”

  “She’s fine.”

  Jenny took another sip of brandy. “So,” she said, “I see you’ve got your man under lock and key. Another notch in your truncheon.”

  Banks nodded. “It looks that way.”

  “I take it that’s what you do want to pick my brains about, and this isn’t just a ruse to secure the pleasure of my company?”

  Banks smiled. “Yes to the first. Not that I’d be averse to the latter.”

  “Stop it, you sweet man. You’ll make the lady blush. How can I help?”

  Banks lit a cigarette. “I don’t know if you can. Or if you will, rather. Just listen, first of all, and tell me if I’m going way off the tracks.”

  Jenny nodded. “Okay.”

  Banks told her what they knew about Owen Pierce and Michelle Chappel, stressing Owen’s reluctance to admit to knowing Michelle, her resemblance to Deborah Harrison, and what she said Owen had done to her.

  When he had finished, Jenny sat quietly for a moment, sucking her lower lip and thinking. Banks sipped some beer and said, “I’ve been trying to work up some sort of psychological scenario for this crime. Owen Pierce had means and opportunity, and the DNA evidence is pretty damning. I suppose I’m looking for a motive.”

  “You should know by now that you don’t always get one with crimes like this, Alan. Motiveless, stranger killings. At least not what you or I would regard as a logical or even a reasonable motive, like anger or revenge.”

  “True. But bear with me, Jenny. Say he’s upset about the girl, Michelle, angry at her. He goes for a walk and there, out of the fog, this vision appears. Michelle. Well, maybe not exactly Michelle, but an approximation. A younger model, more innocent, perhaps more vulnerable, less threatening. So he follows her into the graveyard, approaches her, she says something and sparks his anger. He’s already been violent towards Michelle, remember, so there’s a precedent. Does it make sense?”

  Jenny frowned. “It could do,” she said. “Sometimes, we act out, we behave towards people as if they were someone else. It’s called ‘displacement,’ an unconscious defense mechanism where emotions or ideas are transferred from one object or person to another that seems less threatening. I think Freud defined it as one of the neuroses, but my Freud’s a bit rusty at the moment. What you’re asking is whether I think Owen Pierce could have displaced his feelings for Michelle to Deborah because of some vague superficial resemblance-”

  “And because of his mental state at the time.”

  “All right, that too. And that this led him to kill her. Really he was killing Michelle.”

  “Yes. What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got a point, or the beginnings of one.”

  “You don’t think I’m way off beam?”

  “Not at all.” Their food came. “How about another drink to wash this down?”

  “Please. I never argue when a woman wants to buy me a drink.”

  Banks watched Jenny walk to the bar. She moved well and had a superb figure: long legs, narrow waist and a bum like two plums in a wet
paper bag. She had a new energy and confidence in her stride, too, and it looked as if the summer in California had done her good.

  She was wearing tight black jeans and a jade-green jacket, made of raw silk, over a white shirt. Judging by the cut and the material of the jacket, the way it narrowed at her waist and flared slightly over the swell of her hips, it had probably cost her a small fortune on Rodeo Drive or some such place. But Jenny always had liked nice clothes.

  Banks noticed her exchange a few words with a young man who looked like a trainee bank manager while she waited for Cyril to pour the pint. Poor fellow, Banks thought; he didn’t stand a chance. But Jenny was smiling. Why did he feel a pang of jealousy when he saw her flirt with another man, even to this day?

  She came back with a pint of bitter for Banks and a Campari and soda for herself. He thanked her. “Making a date?” he said, nodding towards the man.

  Jenny laughed. “What do you think I am, a cradle-snatcher? Besides, he’s not my type.” Jenny was thirty-five in December; the young man about twenty-four. As yet, Banks knew, Jenny hadn’t quite figured out what her “type” was.

  When Jenny smiled, her green eyes lit up and the lines around them crinkled into a map of her humor. Her tan brought out the freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  “How was California?” he asked.

  “All sun and surf. Just like ‘Baywatch.’”

  “Really?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, not really. You’d hate it,” she said. “Can’t smoke anywhere.”