“Did she ever speak about her family?”
“She mentioned her father’s business now and then.”
“What did she say about that?”
“I said once that it must be interesting having a father as famous as Sir Geoffrey Harrison, being knighted and all that.”
So much for having a mere detective for a father, Banks thought, swallowing his pride. “What did she say?”
“The usual. Something like, ‘Oh, you’d be shocked if you knew some of the things I know.’”
“And she didn’t elaborate?”
“No. I just shrugged it off. I thought she meant the bad side of technology, all the war stuff, missiles and bombs and that. We all know Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s companies are involved in things like that. It’s in the papers nearly every day.”
“And she didn’t say any more about it?”
“No.”
“Did she ever mention Father Daniel Charters or Ive Jelacic?”
“The people from St. Mary’s church?”
“Yes.”
“Not to me. If you ask me, she was more interested in boys than anything else.”
“Boys? Anyone in particular.”
“Well, she sort of took up with John Spinks.” Tracy pulled a face. “I mean, of all the boys…”
Banks leaned forward. The bedsprings creaked. “Tell me about John Spinks,” he said.
Chapter 7
I
Eastvale College of Further Education was a hodgepodge of ugly redbrick and concrete buildings on the southern fringe of the town, separated from the last few houses by a stretch of marshy waste ground. There was nothing else much around save for the Featherstone Arms across the road, a couple of industrial estates and a large riding stable, about half a mile away.
The college itself was a bit of a dump, too, Owen thought over his lunch-time pint and soupy lasagna, and he wouldn’t be teaching there if he could get anything better. The problem was, with only a BA from Leeds and an MA from an obscure Canadian university, he couldn’t get anything better. So he was stuck teaching the business, secretarial and agriculture students how to spell and write sentences, skills they didn’t even want to know. It was a long way from the literary ambitions he had nursed not so many years ago.
But he had more immediate problems than his teaching career: he had lied to the police, and they probably suspected as much.
It wasn’t much of a lie, admittedly. Besides, it was none of their business. He had said he never lived with a woman, but he had. With Michelle. For five years. And Michelle was the woman in the black-and-white nude photographs.
So Owen wasn’t exactly surprised when Stott and Hatchley walked into the pub and asked him if he would mind going to the station with them to clear up a few points. Nervous, yes, but not surprised. They said the department head had told them where they were likely to find him, and they had walked straight over.
Nobody spoke during the first part of the journey. Sergeant Hatchley drove the unmarked Rover, and Inspector Stott sat beside him. Owen could see the sharp line of his haircut at the back of his neck and the jug-handle shape of his ears, glasses hooked over them. As they approached the market square, Owen looked out of the window at the drab, shadowy figures hurrying from shop to shop, holding onto their hats.
“I wonder if you’d mind very much,” Stott said, turning slightly in his seat, “if we arranged to take a couple of samples?”
“What kind of samples?”
“Oh, just the usual. Blood. Hair.”
“Do I have to?”
“Let me put it like this. You’re not under arrest, but the crime we’re investigating is very serious indeed. It would be best all around if you gave your permission and signed a release. For elimination purpose.”
“And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me down, pull my hair out and stick a needle in me?”
“Nothing like that. We could get the superintendent to authorize it. But that wouldn’t look good, would it? Especially if the matter ever went to court. Refusing to give a sample? A jury might see that as an admission of guilt. And, of course, as soon as you’re eliminated from the inquiry, the samples will all be destroyed. No records. What do you say?”
“All right.”
“Thank you, sir.” Stott turned to face the front again and picked up his car phone. “I’ll just take the liberty of calling Dr. Burns and asking him to meet us at the station.”
It was all handled quickly and efficiently in a private office at the police station. Owen signed the requisite forms, rolled up his sleeve and looked away. He felt only a sharp, brief pricking sensation as the needle slid out. Then the doctor pulled some hair out of his scalp. That hurt a little more.
The interview room they took him to next was a desolate place: gray metal desk; three chairs, two of them bolted to the floor; grimy windows of thick wired glass; a dead fly smeared against one institutional-green wall; and that was it.
It smelled of stale smoke. A heavy blue glass ashtray sat on the desk, empty but stained and grimy with old ash.
Stott sat opposite Owen, and Sergeant Hatchley moved the free chair and sat by the wall near the door, out of Owen’s line of vision. He sat backwards on the chair, wrapping his thick arms around its back.
First, Stott placed the buff folder he’d been carrying on the desk, smiled and adjusted his glasses. Then he switched on a double-cassette tape recorder, tested it, and gave the date, time and names of those present.
“Just a few questions, Owen,” he said. “You’ve been very cooperative so far. I hope we don’t have to keep you long.”
“So do I,” said Owen, looking around the grim room. “Shouldn’t I call my lawyer or something?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Stott. “Of course, you can if you want. It’s your right.” He smiled. “But it’s not as if you’re under arrest or anything. You’re free to leave anytime you want. Besides, do you actually have a solicitor? Most people don’t.”
Come to think of it, Owen didn’t have a solicitor. He knew one, though. An old university acquaintance had switched from English to law after his first year and now practiced in Eastvale. They hadn’t seen each other in years, until Owen had bumped into him in a pub a few months back. Gordon Wharton, that was his name. Owen couldn’t remember what kind of law he specialized in, but at least it was a start, if things went that far. For the moment, though, Stott was right. Owen hadn’t been arrested, and he didn’t see why he should have to pay a solicitor.
“Let me lay my cards on the table, Owen. You have admitted to us that you were in the area of St. Mary’s on Monday evening. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I went for a walk.”
“Shall we just go over it again, for the record?”
Owen shrugged. “There’s really nothing to go over.” He could see the sheet of paper in front of Stott, laid out like an appointment book. Some of the times and notes had question marks in red.
