Gristhorpe scratched his stubbly chin. “You’ve got me there,” he said. “But there could be an explanation. Maybe it took her that long to fathom out what she’d got. Or maybe it took Clayton that long to figure out someone had been tampering. You know how quickly things change, Alan. Maybe the information she got didn’t actually mean anything until three months later, when other things happened.”
Banks nodded. “It’s possible. But I’m not sure even Deborah was bright enough to understand Clayton’s electronic schematics. I know I’m not. I saw some of them the other day and they left me dizzy.”
“Well, you know what a Luddite I am when it comes to computers,” Gristhorpe said. “But it could have been something obvious to her. She didn’t have to understand it fully, just recognize a reference, a name or something. Perhaps someone else she knew was involved?”
“Okay,” said Banks. “But we’re letting our imaginations run away with us. Would Clayton even be likely to enter such important information in his notebook? Anyway, I’ve got a simple suggestion: why don’t we bring Spinks in? See if we can’t get the truth out of him?”
“Good idea,” said Gristhorpe.
“And this time,” Banks added, “I think we might even have something to bargain with.”
II
Where was he? Swiss Cottage, that was it. London. The cash register rang and the swell of small-talk and laughter rolled up and down. He thought he could hear the distant rumble of thunder from outside, feel the tension before the storm, that electrical smell in the air, like burning dust in church.
After the police set him free he had gone back home, pushed through the throng of reporters, then got in his car and driven off, leaving everything behind. He hadn’t known where he was heading, at least not consciously. Mostly, he was still in a daze over what had happened: not only his release, but the fact that someone must have deliberately set out to frame him.
And, as he told the police, the only person who hated him that much was Michelle.
They didn’t seem to suspect her-they were sure it was a man, for a start-but Owen knew her better. He wouldn’t put it past her. If she hadn’t done it herself she might have enlisted someone, used her sex to manipulate some poor, sick bastard, the way she did so well.
So with these thoughts half-formed, one moment seeming utterly fantastic and absurd and the next feeling so real they had to be true, he had found himself heading for London, and now he was drinking in Swiss Cottage, trying to pluck up courage to go and challenge Michelle directly.
He was interested to find out what she would have to say if he turned up on her doorstep. Even if she hadn’t engineered the murders to discredit him, she had slandered him in the newspapers. He knew that for a fact. Oh, yes. He was looking forward to hearing what she had to say for herself.
“Are you all right, mate?”
“Pardon?” It was the man next to him. He had turned his head in Owen’s direction.
“I said are you all right?”
“Yes, yes…fine.” Owen realized he must have been muttering to himself. The man gave him a suspicious look and turned away.
Time to go. It was nine o’clock. What day of the week? Tuesday? Wednesday? Did it really matter? There was a good chance she’d be in. People who work nine-to-five usually stay in on weeknights, or at least get home early.
He found the telephone and the well-thumbed directory hanging beside it. Some of the pages had been torn out or defaced with felt-tipped pens, but not the one that counted. He slid his finger down until he came to her name: Chappel. No first name, just the initials, M.E. Michelle Elizabeth. There was her number.
Owen’s chest tightened as he searched his pockets for a coin. He felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall a moment before dialing. Two men passed on their way out and gave him funny looks. When they had gone, he took four deep breaths to steady himself, picked up the phone, put the coin in and dialed. He let it ring once, twice, three times, four, and on the fifth ring a woman’s voice said, rather testily, “Yes, who is it?”
It was her voice. No doubt about it. Owen would recognize that reedy quality with its little-girlish hint of a lisp anywhere.
He held the phone away and heard her repeat the question more loudly-“Look, who is it?”
After he still said nothing, she said, “Pervert,” and hung up on him.
Owen looked at the receiver for a moment, then he smiled and walked out into the gathering storm.
III
John Spinks didn’t seem particularly surprised to find himself back at Eastvale nick shortly after dark that evening. As predicted, he had been at the Swainsdale Center bragging to his mates about how he spent the weekend in jail and gone up before the magistrate. The arrival of two large uniformed officers only added more credibility to his tales, and he got quite a laugh, the officers told Banks, when he stuck out his hands for the cuffs, just like he’d seen people do on television.
He did look surprised, however, to find himself in Banks’s office rather than a smelly interview room. And he looked even more surprised when Banks offered unlimited coffee, cigarettes and biscuits.
Gristhorpe and Banks had decided to tackle him together, to attempt a good-cop bad-cop approach. Spinks already knew Banks, but the superintendent was an unknown quantity, and though his baby blue eyes had instilled fear into more villains than a set of thumbscrews, Gristhorpe could appear the very model of benevolence. He also outranked Banks, which was another card to play. They had Stafford Oakes waiting in Gristhorpe’s own office, should their plan be successful.
“Right, John,” said Banks, “I won’t beat about the bush. You’re in trouble, a lot of trouble.”
Spinks sniffed as if trouble were his business. “Yeah, right.”
“Not only have we got you on taking and driving away,” Banks went on, “but when our men searched your house, they found sufficient quantities of crack cocaine, Ecstasy and LSD for us to bring some serious drug-dealing charges against you.”
“I told you, that stuff wasn’t mine.”
“Whose was it, then?”
“I don’t know her name. Just some slag spent the night there. She must’ve forgotten it.”
“You expect me to believe that someone would leave a fortune in drugs behind? In your bedroom? Come off it, John, that stuff’s yours until someone else claims it, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”
Spinks bit on his lower lip. He was starting to look less like a Hollywood dream-boy and more like a frightened teenager. A lock of hair slid over his eye; he started chewing his fingernails. Bravado could only take someone so far, Banks thought, but he knew it would be a mistake to act as if he were shooting fish in a barrel. Stupidity, along with stubbornness, can be valuable resources when all the big guns are turned on you. And they had served Spinks well for eighteen years.
“Got anything to say?” Banks asked.
Spinks shrugged. “I told you. It’s not mine. You can’t prove it is.”
“We can prove whatever we want,” Banks said. “A judge or a jury has only to take one look at you to throw away the key.”
“My brief says-”
“These legal-aid briefs are about as useful as a sieve in a flood, John. You ought to know that. Overworked and underpaid.”
“Yeah, well, my brief says you can’t pin it on me. The drugs.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “She did? That’s really bad news, John,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought things were pretty bad, but I didn’t realize that lawyers were setting up in practice before they even finished their degrees these days.”
