II
It was less than a mile from the police station to the Town Hall, and Owen would have appreciated the walk after being cooped up in a cell all weekend. But two officers escorted him straight to a van in front of the station. Before they went out of the doors, one of them threw a musty old raincoat over his head.
It was no distance from the front doors to the van, either, but on the way Owen had the awful sensation of being swallowed up by a huge mob, and he had to struggle to stop his bowels from loosening.
He could hear people shouting questions, yelling insults and cursing him. One group, all women by the sound of them, were chanting, “Hang him! Hang him!” Owen had always feared crowds, had never been able to attend a football match or a music concert in comfort. To Owen, crowds weren’t really human; they were a mindless beast with the power of an elemental force. The raincoat over his head smelled of other people’s fear.
Luckily the jostling didn’t last. Before Owen actually lost control of his bowels and made a fool of himself, he felt himself pushed into the back of a van and heard the door slam. The shouts and chants were muffled now, and the van’s engine soon drowned them out completely.
Things weren’t quite as bad at the other end, where he was hustled through a smaller crowd, then taken to an antechamber. When Owen was finally able to remove the raincoat, the first person he saw was Gordon Wharton. Not the prettiest sight in the world, but a welcome one under the circumstances.
Wharton leaned back in his chair, plucked up the crease of his pinstripe trousers and crossed his legs. It was a prissy sort of gesture, Owen thought, and one that went with his supercilious expression, the pink, well-scrubbed cheeks and the way he wore his few remaining strands of oily hair combed across his gleaming skull. Though he was probably about the same age as Owen, he looked much older. It was partly the fat, Owen thought, and the baldness, and maybe the strain of overwork. Why did the only solicitor he knew turn out to be wharton?
He had been the university swot, never time for a drink in the local or a film in town, and Owen had never much liked him. He sensed the feeling was mutual. The only reason they had first come into contact at all was a shared subsidiary subject in their first year, and then they had both ended up working in Eastvale and met by chance that day.
Wharton had finally arrived to see Owen on Sunday morning, having been out of town on Saturday, and had been unable to get him out on police bail.
“All right?” Wharton asked.
Owen took a few deep breaths. “I suppose so. What are they trying to do, get me torn to pieces?”
Wharton shrugged.
“What nobody seems to realize is that I’m innocent.”
Wharton made a steeple of his fingers and looked down. “Owen, you’re not the first innocent man to be arrested for some offense or other, and you won’t be the last. That’s why we have the law. Everyone’s innocent until they’re proven guilty. The police are only concerned with whether they can prove a case. It’s up to the courts to decide now. Trust in justice.”
Owen snorted. “The British justice system? It hasn’t done me a lot of good so far, has it?”
“Carp all you may, Owen, but it is the best justice system in the world. In many other countries you’d be on your way to the executioner already, or languishing forever in some smelly cell. Look, I suggest that you accept your situation. Complaining will do you no good at all in your present circumstances. It will only lead to self-pity. Now let us see if there’s anything else we need to consider.”
Pompous bastard, Owen thought. “It’s all very well advising me not to complain,” he said. “You’re not the one who’s in jail. Will I get bail at court this morning?”
Wharton shook his head. “I doubt it. Not on a charge like this one.”
“Look, I’m sure if you could persuade the police to do a bit more digging around, they’ll come up with the real killer.”
Wharton leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. Owen noticed the gold cufflinks flash in the light. “Owen,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “you still don’t seem to realize the gravity of your situation. You have been arrested for the most serious crime there is: murder. Nobody’s going to let you simply walk away.”
“Whose side are you on?”
Wharton held his hand up. “Let me finish. As far as the police are concerned, they have already got their man. Why would they waste their time looking for an alternative? You’ll have to face up to the facts, Owen, you’ve been arrested for murder, you’re being held, in a week or two the Crown Prosecution Service will start building a case against you, and you’re going to be tried in court. I will do everything in my power to help you, including engaging the services of the best barrister I can find to represent you, but you must accept the situation. Do you understand me?”
Owen wasn’t sure that he did, but he nodded anyway.
“Good,” said Wharton.
“So what will happen in court? What’s the point of coming here if they’re only going to send me back to jail?”
“For remand. They’ll either grant it or release you. As I’ve already said, I wouldn’t depend on the latter. Then they’ll set a date for the preliminary hearing.”
“How long will I have to wait before that?”
“Hmm. It’s hard to say. There’s supposed to be a time limit of fifty-six days.” Wharton gave a twisted smile. “Unfortunately, you’re not the only alleged criminal in the system. We get backlogs.”
Owen felt his chest tighten. “Are you saying I could be in jail until February before I even get a preliminary hearing?”
“Oh, at least. Not in Eastvale nick, though. No. Probably somewhere like Armley. And don’t worry, they know well enough to keep the other prisoners away from you. Everyone knows how moral criminals get when sex crimes are involved. You’ll be isolated. But don’t worry about that now. Take things as they come, Owen. One day at a time. That’s my advice. I’ll be working for you, never fear.”
Why didn’t that thought comfort Owen as much as it should have? he wondered.
A clerk popped his head around the door. “Time, gentlemen.”
Wharton smiled and picked up his black leather briefcase. “Come on then, Owen,” he said. “Better gird up your loins.”
III
The food arrived just after Michelle’s remark about Owen Pierce trying to kill her, and they kept silent as the waiter passed them the hot plates and refilled the baskets of bread. It was after one o’clock now. Michelle was going to be late back for work, Banks knew, but she didn’t seem to mind. She clearly wanted to tell them the worst about Owen Pierce.
Banks waited until they had all sampled their food and commented on its quality, then went on. “There was something you said earlier, about Owen being fun at first, then changing. How did he change? Was that anything to do with what happened? Did he become violent?”
“No. Well, not really violent. Not until the end, that is.”
“The end?”
“The day I left him. The night before, rather.”
“If he wasn’t violent before that, then what was wrong? How did he change?”
“He was just becoming impossible, that’s all. Bad-tempered. Complaining. Irrational. Jealous.” She paused and took a mouthful of her linguine, following it with a sip of white wine.
“Did he have a violent temper?”
Michelle nodded. Her angel earrings danced. “He started developing one. It got worse towards the end. He just became so possessive, so jealous. He’d fly into rages over nothing.”
“Is that why you left him? Fear of violence?” Susan cut in. “Were you frightened he’d hurt you?”
Michelle looked at Susan. “No,” she said. “Well, not really. It was frightening, especially the last night, but…
