The 9:36 InterCity from York pulled into London King’s Cross at 12:05 on Monday, November 13, twenty minutes late. A problem with points outside Peterborough, the conductor explained over the PA system. Not for the first time, Banks regarded the bleak, post-industrial landscape of his hometown with a mixture of nostalgia and horror. Peterborough. Of all the places to come from. Even if the football team he had supported as a teenager had recently edged about halfway up the second division.
As forecast, the rain came. Not a shower or a storm, but steady November drizzle that looked as if it would keep falling forever from a leaden sky. It was raining in Eastvale when Banks and Susan drove out to York that morning; it was raining in York when they caught the train; and it was raining in London when they got off the underground at Oxford Circus. At least it was a little warmer than the weekend: raincoat weather, not heavy overcoat.
To make it easy all around, Michelle Chappel had suggested over the telephone that she talk to them during her lunch-hour, which started at 12:30, in a small pasta restaurant off Regent Street, near where she worked as office administrator for a quality stationery company.
As the questioning was to be informal, and Michelle herself certainly wasn’t suspected of any crime, Banks agreed. It meant they could get the job done and be back in Eastvale by late afternoon if they were lucky.
As usual, Regent Street was crowded, even in the rain, and Banks found he had to dodge many an eye- threatening umbrella spoke as he and Susan made their way to the rendezvous in a side-street not far from Dickins amp; Jones.
They got there about five minutes late, and Banks spotted Michelle Chappel at a window table. With a skill that Peterborough United could have used the previous weekend, he managed to sidestep the waiter, who was blocking the way, holding out large menus and muttering about a fifteen- to twenty-minute wait.
The restaurant was unpretentious in appearance-rickety tables and chairs, plenty of scratched woodwork, gilt- framed water-colors of Venice and Florence, stained white tablecloths-but when Banks looked at the list of specials chalked on the blackboard, he soon realized it was the kind of London unpretentiousness you pay for through the nose.
The small dining-room was crowded, but Michelle had saved two places for them. Waiters scurried around, sweaty-browed; carafes of wine appeared on tables; and the smell of garlic, tomatoes and oregano permeated the air. Despite the bustle, though, it wasn’t unduly noisy, and when they had introduced themselves and sat down, they didn’t have to shout to be heard.
“I’ve told Mr. Littlewood I might be a few minutes late getting back,” Michelle said. “He said he didn’t mind.”
“Good,” said Banks. “We’ll certainly try not to take up too much of your time.”
“That’s all right.”
Physically, Michelle resembled her photograph very closely except for her hair, which was now cut short, razor-sculpted around her delicate ears, and hung in a ragged fringe. The strong bone structure was still apparent in her cheeks and jaw, the pale, almost translucent skin still flawless, and although she was sitting, it was clear that she maintained her slim, athletic figure. She wore a tailored red jacket over a black silk blouse buttoned up to the hollow of her long, swan-like neck. From her tiny, pale ears two silver angel earrings danced every time she moved her head.
“You said on the telephone that you would recognize me from one of Owen’s photographs,” Michelle said to Banks, clearly aware of his scrutiny. “That was two years ago. Have I changed very much?”
Banks shook his head.
“It was one of the nudes, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word on the rest.” She smiled, and the humor flickered in her eyes for a moment just as Owen Pierce had captured it on film. She touched her hair. “I had this cut six months ago. Just for a change. Would you like to eat?”
Both Banks and Susan had skipped the train food and were starving. After much study and some consultation, Banks decided on the gourmet pizza with goat cheese, olives, sun-dried tomatoes and Italian sausage. It was London, after all, he thought, and London prices, so why not? Susan went for the cannelloni. They ordered a half- liter of red wine for the two of them. Michelle was already drinking white. She ordered linguine with clam sauce.
That done, they settled back to talk. Customers came and went, more leaving than arriving as it got close to one o’clock, and the drizzle continued to streak the window behind the slightly dirty white lace curtains.
“I’m not sure what you want from me,” Michelle said. “You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone.”
“I’m not certain myself, Miss Chappel,” said Banks. “I just hope I’ll know it when I hear it.”
“Call me Michelle. Please.”
Banks nodded.
“You said Owen has been arrested?”
“That’s right”
“On what charge?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Well, his name’s not been in the papers, and you didn’t tell me over the phone. How could I know?”
“Of course not.” Banks looked at Susan and nodded.
“I’m afraid it’s very serious, Michelle,” Susan said. “Owen’s been arrested for murder. I’m sorry.”
“Murder? But who…Wait a minute…Not that schoolgirl?”
“Deborah Harrison. Yes.”
“I read about it.” Michelle shook her head slowly. “Bloody hell. So he’s…” She looked back at Banks. “And what do you think I can do for you?”
“We’d like to know what you can tell us about him. He didn’t seem willing to admit he knew you, or tell us who you were.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t.”
“Did something happen between you?”
Michelle frowned. “What do you know already?”
“Not much. Given the nature of the crime, we need to get some sort of grasp on what kind of person he is. We understand already that he’s a bit of a loner, something of an oddball, according to some people.”
“Is he? He wasn’t always, you know. Not at first. He could be fun, could Owen. For a while, anyway, then…” her eyes darkened.
“Then what?”
“Oh, just…things change. People change. That’s all.”
“Well, you can see our problem, can’t you?” Banks said. “He’s got no close family, and no-one in Eastvale seems to know him very well. We were hoping you might be able to throw some light on his character.”
“Is he going to plead insanity?”
“It’s nothing like that. Why do you ask?”
“I mean, what do you want to know about him for?”
“Look, don’t worry. We’re not going to drag you into court or anything.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that.”
“Then what?”
Michelle leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. “In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’d be more than happy to go into court.”
Banks frowned. “I don’t understand, Michelle. What happened between you? All we know is that the two of you split in the summer and that Owen seemed reluctant to admit he knew you. In fact he tried to tell us the photographs were of some anonymous model.”
Michelle snorted. “I’ll bet he did.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because he tried to kill me, too, that’s why.”
