hand?”
Clayton turned and looked at Riddle, a cruel smile on his thin lips. “Well, thank you, Jerry, for all your support. You’re absolutely right. He’s talking rubbish, of course. I’d never even met the girl.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Banks went on, mentally kicking Riddle and trying to ignore his interruption. “Unlike Deborah, Ellen Gilchrist was a random victim. Wrong place, wrong time. You got lucky when Owen Pierce was arrested for the murder of Deborah Harrison, didn’t you? You thought he would get convicted, sentenced and that would be an end to it. But when the trial was nearing its close, you started to worry that he might get off. The defense was good, the prosecution had only circumstantial evidence, and you’d heard rumors about evidence that would have convicted Pierce for certain had it been admissible. But you saw it all slipping away, and the focus perhaps shifting back towards you. So you went to Owen Pierce’s house while the jury was deliberating, and you either found the door open from a previous break-in, or you broke in yourself and made it look like vandals. It doesn’t really matter which. You took some hairs from Owen’s pillow, and you stole an open film container which you guessed would have his fingerprints on it. You set out to deliberately frame Owen Pierce for the murder of Ellen Gilchrist, knowing we’d also put Deborah’s murder down to him, too, and close the file on both of them. But, you know what? I think you also enjoyed it. Just the way you did with Deborah. And I think there would have been more if we hadn’t caught you, wouldn’t there? You’ve developed a taste for it.”
“This is insane,” Clayton said. “And you can’t prove a thing.”
“Oh, I think we can,” Banks went on. “Look what we proved against Owen Pierce, and he didn’t even do anything.”
Clayton smiled. “Ah, but he got off, didn’t he?”
Banks paused. “Yes. Yes, he did. But maybe you should talk to him about that. I’m sure he’d be very interested to meet you. Getting off isn’t all it’s cracked up to be in some cases. See, maybe you’re right, Michael. Maybe we won’t be able to convince a jury that a fine, upstanding citizen like yourself murdered two young girls. Perhaps even with the evidence of the journal and the diary and the hairs, if we find they match, we won’t be able to prove it to them. But you know who will believe us, don’t you, Michael? You know who knows quite well who ‘Uncle Michael’ is, who knows what Montclair is and that there are no locks on the bathroom doors there. You know exactly who will know who is the writer and who’s the subject. Sir Geoffrey will know. And you’ll have gained nothing. In some ways, I think I’d rather take my chances with a jury, or even go to jail, than incur the wrath of Sir Geoffrey over such a matter as the murder of his only daughter by the man he’s trusted for more than twenty years, don’t you?”
Clayton said nothing for a moment, then he croaked, “I want my solicitor. Now. Get my solicitor, right now. I’m not saying another word.”
Bloody hell, thought Banks, here we go again. He called in the constable from outside the interview room. “Take him down to the custody suite, will you, Wigmore. And make sure you let him call his lawyer.”
VI
Owen sat in the Nag’s Head nursing his second pint and Scotch chaser, trying to pluck up the courage to go over the road and see Rebecca and Daniel. The problem was, he felt ashamed to face them. They had believed in his innocence, and he had let them down badly. He knew that if there were to be any sort of salvation or reclamation in this business at all, he would have to tell them the whole truth, including what he had done to Michelle. And he didn’t know if he could do that right now. He could hardly even admit to himself that he had become exactly what everyone thought he was: a murderer.
He looked around at the uninspiring decor of the pub and wondered what the hell he was doing here again. It had seemed a nice irony when he saw the sign over the bridge-full circle-but now it didn’t seem like such a good idea.
The Nag’s Head was boisterous, with the landlord entertaining a group of cronies with dirty jokes around the bar and tables full of couples laughing and groups of underage kids who’d had a bit too much.
He didn’t know what he was going to do after he finished his drinks: either go home and meet the police, or have another and go face Rebecca and Daniel. More drink wouldn’t help with that, though, he realized. He would feel less like facing them if he were drunk. Best drink up and turn himself in, then, return to the custody suite, where he should feel quite at home by now.
“What did you say?”
Owen looked up at the sound of the voice. There was a lull in the conversation and laughter. The landlord was collecting empty glasses. He stood over Owen’s table. “Sorry mate,” he said. “I thought I heard you say something.”
Owen shook his head. He realized he must have been muttering to himself. He turned away from the landlord’s scrutiny. He could still feel the man looking at him, though, recognition struggling to come to the surface. He had a couple of days’ growth, a few more pounds around the waist from lack of exercise and a prison pallor, but other than that he didn’t look too different from the person who had sat alone in that same pub one foggy night last November.
Best finish his drinks and leave, he decided, tossing back the Scotch in one and washing it down with beer.
Then, all of a sudden, the landlord said, “Bloody hell, it is him! I don’t bloody believe it. The nerve.”
The men at the bar turned as one to look at Owen.
“It’s him,” the landlord repeated. “The one who was in here that night. The one who murdered those two young lasses.”
Owen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, edging towards the door.
“Nay, they let him off,” someone said.
“Aye, but just because they hadn’t got enough evidence,” another said. “Don’t you read t’papers?”
“It was a bloody cover-up.”
“Bleeding shame, more like. Poor wee lasses.”
“A travesty of justice.”
By the time Owen actually got to the door, a journey that felt like a hundred miles, bar-stools were scraping against the stone floor and he was aware of a crowd surging towards him.
No time to sneak out surreptitiously now. He dashed through the door and ran across Kendal Road. Luckily, the traffic lights were in his favor. When he got to the other side of the road, he saw about five or six people standing outside the pub doors. For a moment, he thought they were going to give chase, but someone shouted something he didn’t hear and they went back inside.
Owen still ran as if he were being chased. There was only one place he could go now. He dashed across North Market Street towards St. Mary’s church. When he was through the gate, running down the tarmac path, he could see, even in the mist, that the kitchen light was on in the vicarage.
VII
Alone in his office at last, Banks went to close the blinds and looked out for a moment on the quiet cobbled market square and the welcoming lights of the Queen’s Arms. Maybe he’d have a quick one there before going home. Still time. Finally, he closed the blinds, turned on the shaded table-lamp and lit a cigarette. Then he sifted through his tapes and decided on Britten’s third string quartet.
For a long time he just sat there smoking, staring at the wall and letting Britten’s meditative quartet wash over him. He thought about the Clayton interview, and especially about the new coldness in Chief Constable Riddle’s manner towards his old lodge pal. Maybe Riddle wasn’t so bad, after all; at least he had an open enough mind to change his opinions when the facts started to weigh heavily against them.
Then, when his cigarette was finished, Banks turned to Deborah’s diary again, striving once more to understand what had happened between her and Clayton over the two months leading up to her death.
August 24
