quickly and answered for him.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Then he felt duty-bound to lie to cover for you. It’s all very admirable in some ways, but it won’t do. Not when there’s a sixteen-year-old girl lying dead in Eastvale mortuary.”
Rebecca felt completely tongue-tied. What the hell was going on? Her mind whirled, searching for things to say, but before she could say anything a voice far calmer than her own cut in.
“Chief Inspector,” Daniel Charters said. “I’m afraid that’s my fault. I should have corrected Rebecca rather than let the deceit stand. Believe me, there was no need for a lie. I have nothing to hide.”
Banks nodded. He seemed to be waiting for something else.
Daniel sighed and went on. “Yes, I was out at the time my wife heard the cry, but I can assure you that my whereabouts had absolutely nothing at all to do with the poor girl’s murder.”
“Where were you?” Banks asked.
Rebecca noticed Daniel’s lips tighten for a moment as he tensed in thought. “I’d rather not say.”
“It would help us a lot if we could verify your story.”
Daniel shook his head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to prove my alibi, even if I told you.”
“You could let us try.”
He smiled sadly. “It’s a kind offer, but-”
The doorbell rang again.
“I’ll go,” said Rebecca.
“Whoever it is,” Daniel told her, “get rid of them.”
Leaving them in silence, Rebecca went to open the front door. Patrick Metcalfe was standing there. He looked as if he had been walking around in the rain without a raincoat for hours.
“Oh, my God,” Rebecca cried, trying to shut the door against his shoulder. “Please, go away. Can’t you see you’ve caused enough trouble already?”
“Let me in, Rebecca. I want to come in. I must come in. I want to talk to both of you. You must listen to me.”
He kept pushing at the door and Rebecca wasn’t strong enough to hold him back. Suddenly, Banks’s calm voice behind her said, “Why don’t you let him in, Mrs. Charters? Whoever he is. The more the merrier.”
II
Even Barry Stott was almost ready to call it a day by six-thirty. The drizzle that, at one time, had looked like ending, had turned into a much harder downpour as darkness fell, and now both he and Sergeant Hatchley were soaked to the skin. Even the best raincoat and shoes, which Stott’s were, could only take so much without springing leaks. If only Jelacic had broken down and confessed instead of stubbornly protesting his innocence, the way Banks said he had, how much easier life would have been.
They were showing the police artist’s impression, based on Alf’s description-and what a lengthy and frustrating experience getting that done had been-along the rather twee row of shops set back from Kendal Road opposite the school. The newsagent hadn’t seen anyone, the grocer was closed and the hairdresser gave a lengthy opinion as to the sorry state of the suspect’s locks, but said she was closed on Mondays, and no, she hadn’t noticed anyone strange hanging around on any other days.
The teashop was also closed, the way most Yorkshire teashops close at teatime, but the Peking Moon, the Chinese restaurant next door, had just opened. It was, as Hatchley explained, a rather pricey, up-market sort of Chinese restaurant, not the kind of place that yobbos go for a quick chop suey after a skinful of ale on a Friday night.
“I wonder why they don’t change the name,” Sergeant Hatchley said as they approached the door. “Isn’t Peking called Beijing now? A real Chinaman wouldn’t have a clue where he was if he saw this.”
Stott turned to Hatchley before he pushed the door open. “I know what you’re thinking, Sergeant. And you can forget it. We’re not staying here for dinner. Definitely not. Got it?”
Hatchley looked hurt. “Furthest thing from my mind, sir. I don’t even like Chinese food. It’s got no sticking power. I’m always hungry again ten minutes after I’ve eaten it.”
“Right. Just as long as we understand each other…”
The bell at the top of the door jingled as they went in. Like many Chinese restaurants, its decor was simple and relaxing, with a series of ancient Chinese landscapes-tiny human figures dwarfed by evergreen-covered mountains- on the walls, and plain red tablecloths. Soft, tinkling music played in the background. So soft that Stott couldn’t even figure out whether it was pop or classical. Or Chinese. Not that he cared much for music.
A waiter in a white jacket walked towards them. “Jim, me old mate. What can I do you for?” he asked in a cockney accent you could cut with a knife, despite the oriental eyes and complexion.
“DI Stott,” Hatchley introduced them, “This is Well Hung Low.” He laughed, and the waiter laughed with him.
Stott seethed inside, his rage, as it always did, crystallizing quickly from fire to ice.
“Just a joke, sir,” Hatchley went on. “His name’s Joe Sung. Deserted the bright lights of Whitechapel for the greener pastures of Eastvale. Joe wanted to be a copper once, too, sir, but I managed to persuade him he was better off where he was. His father owns this place. It’s a little gold-mine.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” Stott said with a smile, shaking Joe’s hand. “We need more…a more ethnically diverse police force. Especially in Yorkshire.”
“Aye,” said Hatchley. “I told him he wouldn’t know what was worse, the prejudice or the patronizing.”
Joe laughed.
Again, Stott felt his anger boil up and freeze. Oafs like Hatchley symbolized all that was wrong in today’s police force. His type’s days were numbered. “I wonder if we might ask you a few questions?” he said to Joe Sung.
“Fire away, mate.” Joe gestured to the empty restaurant. “See how busy we are. Here, take the weight off.” He beckoned them to join him at one of the tables.
“Remember what I said, Sergeant,” Stott hissed in Hatchley ’s ear as they followed. “This isn’t another meal break.”
“No, sir.” But Hatchley took the ashtray on the table as an invitation to light up.
“What is it, then?” Joe asked when they’d sat down. “Official business? About that murder?”
“Yes,” said Stott.
Joe shook his head. “Terrible business. I knew the girl, too, you know.”
“Knew her?”
“Well, not in the real sense of the word. Not to talk to, like. I mean she’d eaten in here with her mates, that’s all. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that photo in the Evening Post.”
Stott couldn’t understand how it happened, but a tray of appetizers suddenly appeared on the table in front of them: spring rolls, garlic shrimp, chicken balls. All Stott noticed was the retreating back of another waiter. He hadn’t heard a thing. Hatchley picked up a shrimp and popped it in his mouth between drags on his cigarette.
“When did she eat here?” Stott asked.
“They come here every now and then. A bunch of girls from the school, that is. Maybe when one of their daddies sends the monthly check. Anyway, they generally keep quiet, don’t cause any trouble, and they don’t expect to be served beer. She was with them once or twice, that Deborah Harrison who got killed. I recognized her.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
“Nah, not really. ’Cept that she was a good-looking girl. That’s why I remembered her in particular.”
“Ever noticed anyone take an unusual interest in her, or the other St. Mary’s girls?”
“Well, they’ve caught the odd eye or two. There’s a couple of right corkers among them, and there’s always something about a girl in a school uniform. Sorry. That was in bad taste.”
“Not at all, Joe,” said Hatchley. “I know what you mean, and I’m sure the inspector does, too.”
Stott said nothing. Three bottles of beer materialized with three glasses on the table before them, as if by magic.
“Somefink to wash the food down,” Joe said with a grin. “My treat.”
