Banks got up and edged his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling a hello here and there. One or two people clapped him on the back and congratulated him on the speed with which he had caught the killer.
With his pint in one hand and Susan’s port and lemon in the other, he excuse-me’d his way back. Before he had got halfway he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see Rebecca Charters standing there, long auburn hair framing her pale face.
Banks smiled. “A bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?” he said.
“I dropped by the police station first. The man on the front desk said you were all over here celebrating. I’ve heard that you’ve got someone under arrest for Deborah Harrison’s murder. Is it true?”
Banks nodded. “Yes. A suspect, at least.”
“Does that mean you’ll be leaving us alone now? Things can get back to normal?”
“Whatever that is,” Banks said. “Why? What are you worried about?”
“I’m not worried about anything. It would just be nice to know we could get on with our lives in private now rather than sharing every significant emotional event with the local police.”
“That was never my intention, Mrs. Charters. Look, it’s a bit silly just standing here like this. Would you like a drink?”
He could see Rebecca consider the offer seriously, needily. She eyed the bottles ranged behind the bar, then suddenly she shook her head. “No. No thank you. That’s another thing I’m trying to put behind me.”
“Good,” said Banks. “Good for you.”
“How the hell would you know?” she said, and stormed out.
Banks shrugged and headed back to the table, where everyone, even DI Stott, was laughing at one of Hatchley’s jokes. Banks didn’t mind missing it; he had heard them all before, at least five times.
When he slid into his seat again, Susan thanked him for the drink. “What was all that about?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Banks. “I think I offended her. Or maybe abstinence has made her irritable.”
“As long as she doesn’t complain to the chief constable. What next, sir?”
“Next, I think we’ve got to find out a bit more about what makes Pierce tick. We’ve still got no motive, have we? He asked us why he should have committed such a crime, and I think we have a duty to try and answer that. If not for his sake, then for a jury’s.”
“But, sir, if it was a sex murder we don’t really need a motive, do we? We wouldn’t expect a rational one.”
“Did Owen Pierce seem mad to you?”
“That’s a very difficult question,” Susan said slowly. “The kind of thing experts argue about in court.”
“I’m not asking for an official statement. This is off the record. Your personal observations, your copper’s intuition.”
Susan sipped her port and lemon. “Well, to start with, he was nervous, edgy, hostile and confused.”
“Isn’t that how you would feel if you were accused of murder and subjected to an interrogation?”
Susan shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never been in that position. I mean, if you’ve got nothing to hide…If you’re telling the truth…Why get upset?”
“Because everyone thinks you did it. And they’ve got all the power. We have the power. We basically bullied Pierce until he was so confused he acted like a guilty man.”
“Are you saying you still don’t think he did it, sir?”
Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. It was itching; sometimes that meant something, sometimes not. He wished he knew which was which. “No. All I’m saying is that everyone’s got something to hide. Everyone starts to feel guilty when they’re stopped and questioned by the police, whether they’ve done anything or not. Almost anyone would react the way Pierce did under that sort of pressure.” Banks lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, careful to blow it away from Susan, then he took a long swig of beer.
“But you still have doubts?”
Banks clicked his tongue. “I shouldn’t, should I? I mean, I did arrest him. This is just perfect: signed, sealed and delivered. I’m still confused, that’s all. All this business with Pierce has happened so quickly. There are still too many loose ends. There was so much going on around Deborah. Remember? Jelacic’s alibi still doesn’t really hold water. Then there’s that triangle of Daniel and Rebecca Charters and Patrick Metcalfe. That’s a pretty volatile combination if ever I’ve seen one. There’s John Spinks, another character capable of violence. Add to that the open satchel, Michael Clayton spending half his time with Sylvie Harrison while her husband is out, and you’ve still got a lot of unanswered questions.”
“Yes, sir, but are any of them relevant now we’ve got Pierce with the hair and blood?”
Banks shrugged. “Hair and blood aren’t infallible. But you’re probably right. Sometimes I wish I could just accept the official version.”
“But you agree Pierce could have done it?”
“Oh, yes. He probably did do it. We found no trace evidence at all on either Charters’s or Jelacic’s clothing. And Pierce was in the area. There’s also something about him that harmonizes with the crime in an odd sort of way. I don’t know how to put it any better than that.”
“You struck a nerve in him there, sir. I must admit, he gives me the creeps.”
“Yes. There’s a part of him that has some sort of imaginative sympathy with what happened to Deborah Harrison. What I tried to do in that room was make contact with his dark side.” Banks gave a little shudder.
“What is it, sir?”
“Everyone has a dark side, Susan. Doesn’t Owen Pierce make you wonder about your own?”
Susan’s eyes widened. “No, sir. I don’t think so. I mean, we’ve done our job. We’ve got the evidence, we’ve got a suspect in custody. I think we should just let it lie and move on.”
Banks paused, then smiled. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But we’ve still a fair bit of work to do. How do you fancy a trip to London on Monday?”
“London? Me, sir?”
“Yes. I’d like to pay this Michelle a visit, see what her story is. He did his best to keep their relationship from us, so there has to be something in it. Besides, I’d like you impressions, woman to woman, if that’s not a terribly sexist thing to say.”
“It isn’t, sir. Of course. I’d love to come.”
“Good.” Banks looked at his watch and finished his pint. “I’d better get home. Have a nice lie-in tomorrow. You’ll enjoy it.”
Susan smiled. “I think I will, sir, good-night.”
Banks put his overcoat on, said farewell to everyone and acknowledged a few more pats on the back as he walked through the crowd to the door. He stood for a moment on Market Street by the cobbled square watching his breath plume in the clear, cold air.
So much had happened today that he had hardly had time to notice the clear blue sky, the autumn wind stripping leaves from the trees. Now it was dark and the stars shone for the first time in days. A line from last month’s Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society production tripped through his mind: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves.” Again, Banks thought of that foggy night in the graveyard and wondered what had really happened there. Perhaps he would never know.
It was a cold night to walk home, but he had drunk three pints, too much for driving, and he decided he wanted to clear his head anyway. With numb hands, he managed to put on his headphones and flip the switch of the Walkman in his pocket. After a second or two of hiss, he was shocked by the assault of a loud, distorted electric guitar. He had forgotten about the Jimi Hendrix tape he had put in earlier in the week to wake him up on his way to work. He hadn’t listened to it since then. Then he smiled and started walking home. Why not? “Hear My Train a’ Coming” would do just fine; he would listen to Britten’s War Requiem later.
Chapter 9
I
