“What time did you set off on this walk?”
“Just after I got back from work. About four. Maybe as late as half past.”
“How far is it to St. Mary’s?”
“Along the river? About three miles from my house. And the house is about half a mile from the river.”
“About seven miles there and back, then?”
“Yes. About that.”
“Now, before you ate at the Peking Moon you drank two pints of bitter and a Scotch whisky at the Nag’s Head, right?”
“I wasn’t counting, but yes, I had a couple of drinks.”
“And you left the pub at about a quarter to six?”
“I wasn’t especially aware of the time.”
“That’s what the landlord told us.”
“I suppose it must be true, then.”
“And you ate at the Peking Moon at approximately six-thirty, is that correct?”
“About then, yes. Again, I didn’t notice the actual time.”
“What did you do between a quarter to and half past six?”
“Walked around. Stood on the bridge.”
“Did you go into St. Mary’s graveyard?”
“No, I didn’t. Look, if you’re trying to tie me in to that girl’s murder, then you’re way off beam. Why would I do something like that? Perhaps I had better call a solicitor, after all.”
“Ah!” Stott glanced over Owen’s shoulder towards Sergeant Hatchley. “So he does read the papers, after all.”
“I did after you left. Of course I did.”
Stott looked back at him. “But not before?”
“I’d have known what you were talking about, then, wouldn’t I?”
Stott straightened his glasses. “What made you connect our visit with that particular item of news?”
Owen hesitated. Was it a trick question? “It didn’t take much,” he answered slowly, “given the kind of questions you asked me. Even though I know nothing about what happened, I know I was in St. Mary’s that evening. I never denied it. And while we’re on the subject, what led you to me?”
Stott smiled. “Easy, really. We asked around. Small, wealthy neighborhood like St. Mary’s, people notice strangers. Plus you were wearing an orange anorak and you used your Visa card in the Peking Moon.”
Owen leaned forward and slapped his palms on the cool metal surface. “There!” he said. “That proves it, then, doesn’t it?”
Stott gave him a blank look. “Proves what?”
“That I didn’t do it. If I had done it, what you seem to be accusing me of, I would hardly have been so foolish as to leave my calling card, would I?”
Stott shrugged. “Criminals make mistakes, just like everybody else. Otherwise we’d never catch any, would we? And I’m not accusing you of anything at the moment, Owen. You can see our problem, though, can’t you? Your story sounds thin, very thin. I mean, if you were in the area for some real, believable reason…Maybe to meet someone? Did you know Deborah Harrison, Owen?”
“No.”
“Had you been watching her, following her?”
Owen sat back. “I’ve told you why I was there. I can’t help it if you don’t like my reason, can I? I never thought I’d have to explain myself to anyone.”
“Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Did you see Deborah Harrison?”
“No.”
“About that scratch on your cheek,” Stott said. “Remember yet where you got it?”
Owen put his hand to his cheek and shrugged. “Cut myself shaving, I suppose.”
“Bit high up to be shaving, isn’t it?”
“I told you. I don’t remember. Why?”
“What about the nude photos, Owen? The ones we found at your house?”
“What about them? They’re figure studies, that’s all.”
Sergeant Hatchley spoke for the first time, and the rough voice coming from behind startled Owen. “Come on lad, don’t be shy. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like looking at a nice pair of tits? You’re not queer, are you?”
Owen half-twisted in his seat. “No. I didn’t say I didn’t like looking at naked women. Of course I do. I’m perfectly normal.”
“And some of the girls in that magazine seemed very young to me,” said Stott.
Owen turned to face him again. “Since when has it been a crime to buy Playboy? You people are still living in the middle ages. For Christ’s sake, they’re models. They get paid for posing like that.”
“And you like videos, too, don’t you, Owen? There was that one in your cabinet, your own private video to keep, to watch whenever you want. Including School’s Out.”
“A friend gave me it, as a sort of joke. I told him I’d never seen any porn-any sexy videos before, and he gave me that, said I’d enjoy it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Owen,” said Stott. “I’ve got to wonder about a bloke who watches stuff like that and likes the sort of art books and pictures you like. Especially if he takes nude photos of young girls, too.”
“It’s a free country. I’m a normal single male. I also happen to be an amateur photographer. And I have a right to watch whatever kind of videos I want as long as they’re legal.” Owen felt himself flushing with embarrassment. Christ how he wished Chris Lorimer at the college hadn’t given him the bloody video.
“School’s Out,” Hatchley said quietly from behind him. “A bit over the top, that, wouldn’t you say?”
“I haven’t even watched that one.”
“You can see what Sergeant Hatchley’s getting at, though, can’t you, Owen?” said Stott. “It looks bad: the subject-matter, the image. It all looks a bit odd. Distinctly fishy.”
“Well, I can’t help that. It’s not fishy. I’m perfectly innocent, and that’s the truth.”
“Who’s the girl in the photographs? The one who looks about fifteen.”
“She was twenty-two. Just a model. It was a couple of years ago. I can’t remember her name.”
“Funny, that.”
“What is?”
“That you remember her age but not her name.”
Owen felt his heart pounding. Stott scrutinized him closely for a few seconds, then stood up abruptly. “You can go now,” he said. “I’m glad we could have our little chat.”
Owen was confused. “That’s it?”
“For the moment, yes. We’ll be in touch.”
Owen could hardly stand up quickly enough. He banged his knee on the underside of the metal desk and swore. He rubbed his knee and started to back towards the door. His face was burning. “I can really go?”
“Yes. But stay available.”
Owen was shaking when he got out of the police station and turned down Market Street towards home. Could they really treat you like that when you went along with them of your own free will? He had a feeling his rights were being trampled on and maybe it was time to look up Gordon Wharton.
The first thing he did when he got into the house was tear up the copy of Playboy and burn the pieces in the waste-bin, Cormac McCarthy story and all. Next, he took the video that Chris Lorimer had given him, pulled the tape out, broke the plastic casing and dumped it in the rubbish bin to burn too. At least they couldn’t use it as evidence against him now.
Finally, he went into the spare room and took the rest of the nude photographs of Michelle from his filing cabinet. He held them in his hands, ready to rip them into tiny pieces and burn them along with the rest, but as he held them he couldn’t help but look at them.
They were simple, tasteful chiaroscuro studies, and he could tell from the way Michelle’s eyes glittered and her
