arm around me…I felt your small breast press softly against my side and it was all I could do to remain standing let alone furnish the required and conventional praise…well done…well done…wonderful…well done, my love, my Deborah.
The first time I saw you naked as a woman you were standing in the old bath-tub at Montclair looking like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Remember, my love, there were no locks on the doors at Montclair. One simply knew when private rooms were engaged and refrained from entering. Mistakes were made, of course, but honest mistakes. Besides, it was family. They aren’t prudes about such things, the French, Sylvie’s people. I hoped only for a brief glimpse of your nakedness as you bathed. I knew I couldn’t linger, that I must apologize and dash out as if I had a made a mistake before you even realized I had seen you. So fast, so fleeting a glimpse. And even now I wonder what would have happened had I not witnessed you in your full glory.
For you were standing up, reaching for the towel, and your loveliness was on display just for me. Steam hung in the air and the sunlight that slanted through the high window cast rainbows all about you. Droplets of moisture had beaded on your flushed skin; your wet hair clung to your neck and shoulders, long strands pasted over the swellings of your new breasts, where the nipples, pink as opening rosebuds stood erect. Even that early in womanhood your waist curved in and swelled out at the narrow hips. Between your legs a tiny triangle of hair like spun gold lay on the mound of Venus; the paradise I dream of; drops of water had caught among the fine, curled hairs, forming tiny prisms in the sunlight; some just seemed to glitter in clear light like diamonds…
I have other images locked away inside me: the thin black bra strap against your bare shoulder, the insides of your thighs when you cross your legs…
And so it went on. Again, it wasn’t solid evidence, but it was all they had. Banks had no choice but to act on it.
IV
Owen gazed out of the train window into the darkness. Rain streaked the dirty glass and all he could see was reflections of the lights behind him in the carriage. He wished he could get another drink, but he was on the local train now, not the InterCity, and there was no bar service.
As the train rattled through a closed village station on the last leg of his journey, Owen thought again of how he had walked the London streets all night in the rain after killing Michelle, half-hoping the police would pick him up and get it over with, half-afraid of going back to prison, this time forever.
He had covered the whole urban landscape, or so it seemed; the west end, where the bright neons were reflected in the puddles and the nightclubs were open, occasional drunks and prostitutes shouting or laughing out loud; rain-swept wastelands of demolished houses, where he had to pick his way carefully over the piles of bricks with weeds growing between them; clusters of tower blocks surrounded by burned-out cars, playgrounds with broken swings; and broad tree-lined streets, large houses set well back from the road. He had walked through areas he wouldn’t have gone near if he had cared what happened to him, and if he hadn’t been mugged or beaten up it wasn’t for lack of carelessness.
But nothing had happened. He had seen plenty of dangerous-looking people, some hiding furtively in shop doorways or hanging around in groups smoking crack in the shadows of tower-block stairwells, but no-one had approached him. Police cars had passed him as he walked along Finchley Road or Whitechapel High Street, but none had stopped to ask him who he was. If he hadn’t known different, he would have said he was leading a charmed life.
At one point, close to morning, he had stood on a bridge watching the rain pit the river’s surface and felt the life of the city around him, restful perhaps, but never quite sleeping, that hum of energy always there, always running through it like the river did. He didn’t think it was Westminster Bridge, but still Wordsworth’s lines sprung into his mind, words he had read and memorized in prison:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Well, perhaps the air wasn’t exactly “smokeless,” Owen thought, but one has to make allowances for time.
Owen felt tired and empty. So tired and so empty.
Eastvale Station was in the north-eastern part of the town, on Kendal Road a couple of miles east of North Market Street. It was only a short taxi-ride to the town center. But Owen didn’t want to go to the center, or, tired as he was, home.
He was surprised the police weren’t waiting for him at the station, as they probably would be at his house. He didn’t want to walk right into their arms, and however empty he felt, however final every second of continued freedom seemed, he still didn’t want to give it up just yet. Perhaps, he thought, he was like the cancer patient who knows there’s no hope but clings onto life through all the pain, hoping for a miracle, hoping that the disease will just go away, that it was all a bad dream. Besides, he wanted another drink.
Whatever his reasons, he found himself walking along Kendal Road. The day had been so hot and humid that the cooler evening air brought a mist that hung in the air like fog. At the bridge, he looked along the tree-lined banks towards town and saw the high three-quarter moon and the floodlit castle on its hill reflected in the water, all blurry in the haze of the summer mist.
Walking on, he came to the crossroads and saw the Nag’s Head. Well, he thought, with a smile, it would do as well as anywhere. He had come full circle.
V
By the time Banks and Gristhorpe got Chief Constable Riddle’s permission to bring Michael Clayton in for questioning, which wasn’t easy, it was already dark. One of the conditions was that Riddle himself be present at the interview.
Banks was pleased to see that Clayton, as expected, was at least mildly intimidated by the sparse and dreary interview room, with its faded institutional-green walls, flyblown window, table and chairs bolted to the floor, and that mingled smell of urine and old cigarette smoke.
Clayton made the expected fuss about being dragged away from his home, like a common criminal, to the police station, but his confidence had lost a bit of its edge. He was wearing sharp-creased gray trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt; his glasses hung on a chain around his neck.
“Are you charging me with something?” Clayton asked, folding his arms and crossing his legs.
“No,” said Gristhorpe. “At least not yet. Chief Inspector Banks has a few questions he wants to ask you, that’s all.”
Jimmy Riddle sat behind Clayton in the far corner by the window, so the suspect couldn’t constantly look to him for comfort and reassurance. Riddle seemed folded in on himself, legs and arms tightly crossed. He had promised not to interfere, but Banks didn’t believe it for a moment.
“About what?” Clayton asked.
“About the murder of your goddaughter, Deborah Harrison.”
“I thought you’d finished with all that?”
“Not quite.”
He looked at his watch. “Well, you’d better tell him to get on with it, then. I’ve got important work to do.”
Banks turned on the tape recorders, made a note of the time and who was present, then gave Clayton the new caution, the same one he had given Owen Pierce eight months ago. Formalities done, he shuffled some papers on the desk in front of him and asked, “Remember when we talked before, Mr. Clayton, and I asked you if you had been having an affair with Sylvie Harrison?”
