Stott ignored the beer. Hatchley grabbed a bottle and ignored the glass. Well, let him drink it, Stott thought. Fine. He wasn’t going to touch any, himself. Give Hatchley enough rope and he’ll surely hang himself. If only he didn’t have a strong ally in Chief Inspector Banks. Stott couldn’t understand that relationship at all. Banks seemed like an intelligent, civilized sort of copper. What could he possibly see in a boor like Hatchley?
Right now, though, there were more important things to think about than Hatchley’s eating and drinking habits. “So you noticed nothing unusual about the girl and nobody taking any undue interest in her or her friends?” Stott asked.
“That’s right,” said Joe. “Noffink out of the ordinary.”
“Did she ever meet anyone here? Anyone other than her schoolfriends?”
“No. They always came and left together as a group. Never had any boys with them, if that’s what you mean. Too close to the school, if you ask me. You never know when one of the teachers might drop in and catch them. They eat here, too, sometimes.”
Stott glanced over at Hatchley, who took out the artist’s impression of the stranger in the Nag’s Head. “Ever seen this man?” he asked.
Joe stared at the picture, shaking his head. “It doesn’t look much like him, except for the hair,” he said, “but we had a bloke looked a bit like that in here just last night.”
Stott’s pulse began to race. “What was he wearing?”
“An orange anorak.”
“Tall?”
“Yeah, tall-ish. Bit over six feet, anyway.”
“What time did he come in?”
“About half six. I remember because he was the only one in at that time. Miserable night.”
The time fit, Stott thought, feeling his excitement rise. The killer had a couple of drinks at the Nag’s Head, murdered Deborah Harrison, and then he came here for dinner.
“Did he do or say anything unusual?”
“He seemed a bit restless. I saw him muttering to himself once or twice.”
“Hear what he said?”
“Sorry.”
“Who waited his table?”
“I did. We were short-staffed because of the fog. He was certainly hungry, I’ll say that. First he had spring rolls, then he ordered orange beef and Szechuan shrimp, a bowl of rice and a pint of lager. Ate it all, too.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Only to take his order. He didn’t seem communicative, so I didn’t push it. You learn how to behave in this business, who wants to chat and who just wants to be left alone. This bloke wanted to be left alone.”
Stott saw his bottle of beer disappear into Hatchley’s hand. He let it pass. “Did you notice anything else about him?”
“Yeah. He had a little cut, just up there, high on his left cheek.” Joe touched the spot on his own cheek.
Stott could hardly contain his excitement. The post-mortem had reported skin and tissue under the middle fingernail of Deborah Harrison’s right hand. She had scratched her attacker. It had to be Jelacic. “How long did he stay?” Stott asked.
“Just as long as it took to order and eat. About three-quarters of an hour.”
“Did he have a car?”
“If he did, I didn’t see it. Somehow, I got the impression he was on foot. I mean, who’d take the car out by himself on a night like that, just to go out alone for a Chinese meal? Fine as the food here is. Me, I’d order a take- away and let some other poor bugger do the driving.”
“Good point,” said Stott. “See where he went?”
“Afraid not.”
From the corner of his eye, Stott noticed the last spring roll disappear between two sausage-like fingers.
“Had you ever seen him before?” he asked.
Joe shook his head.
Stott smiled. “I don’t suppose he happened to mention his name, did he?”
Joe grinned back. “Sorry. Didn’t mention his address, either. No. Like I said, some of them are chatty, this one wasn’t.” He paused. “I’ll tell you what, though.”
“What?”
Joe stood up. “If my memory serves me right, he paid by card. You might be able to get his name from that. I haven’t done the returns yet. Shall I go get it for you?”
Stott sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God.
Joe came back with a sheaf of Visa slips in his hand and started going through them. “Not this one. Not that… no…no. Yeah. Right, this is the one.” And he passed it over.
Anxiously, Stott grabbed the slip of paper, but as soon as he looked at it, his spirits sank. He couldn’t read the signature-that was just a mess of loops and whirls-but the name was printed clearly enough in the top left corner. And it wasn’t Ive Jelacic.
Beside him, he heard the glug of an emptying beer bottle followed by a resonant burp.
III
“Right,” said Banks, “now that we’ve all calmed down a bit, maybe we can play truth or consequences. And I’m telling you, the consequences will be bloody severe if you don’t play. Got it?”
The three pale, miserable-looking people in the chilly vicarage living-room nodded in unison. The brown-and- white bundle of fur on the hearth scratched and fell still again.
As soon as Banks had appeared in the hall, Patrick Metcalfe had tried to make a break for it. Perhaps he believed that the power of his love could vanquish unhappy husbands, but he must have known it didn’t stand a chance against the long arm of the law. As he turned to run away, he slipped on the doorstep and fell down three stone steps onto the garden path, sprawling in the rain on the worn paving-stones, holding his knee and cursing. Banks helped him inside with a firm hand and sat him down in one of the armchairs.
Now he sat there, hair plastered to his skull, looking sullen. The “consumptive” look wasn’t hard for him to cultivate, given his lanky frame and hollow cheeks. He kept giving Rebecca Charters significant stares with his soulful eyes, but she averted her gaze.
By this time, Rebecca had brought the bottle of wine from the kitchen and topped up her glass. She was beginning to look a little blurred around the edges. Daniel Charters, permanent frown etched in his high brow, muscle twitching beside his left eye, just sat there, long legs crossed, his face growing steadily paler, looking like a man old before his time.
“Now, then, Mr. Charters,” Banks said. “You were trying to tell me where you were last night before we were so rudely interrupted.”
“He was with me,” the newcomer burst out.
“And you are?”
“Patrick Metcalfe. I’m the history teacher at St. Mary’s.”
“So you knew Deborah Harrison?”
“I wouldn’t say I knew her. I taught her history last year.”
“And you say Mr. Charters was with you yesterday evening?”
“He was.”
“What time did he arrive?”
Metcalfe shrugged. “About a quarter to six. I was just thinking about putting something in the microwave for dinner, and I usually eat at about six.”
“Does that time sound right to you, Mr. Charters?”
Charters nodded glumly.
Banks turned back to Metcalfe. “Where do you live?”
