Vjeko shook his head. “No. I do not think it is true. I have listened to him talk about it, and I think he did what he did to get revenge for losing his job.”
“If that’s so,” said Banks, “then he’s caused Daniel Charters an awful lot of grief.”
Vjeko spread his hands. “But what can anyone do? I did not know Ive back in Eastvale, when all this happened, and I do not know this Father Daniel Charters. Perhaps he is a good man; perhaps he is not. But I do think that Ive is tired with his revenge. He has had enough. The problem is that he is mixed up with lawyers and human-rights campaigners among our own people. It is not so easy for him to turn around and say to them it was all a lie, a mistake or a joke. He would lose face.”
“And face is important to him?”
“Yes.”
Dragica returned carrying a sleeping Jelena in her arms and said something in Croatian; Vjeko nodded, and she went into the kitchen.
“Dragica asked if dinner is nearly ready,” he said. “I told her yes.”
Banks stood up. “Then I won’t use up any more of your time. You’ve been very helpful.” He stuck out his hand.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Vjeko asked. “It is not very much, just sarma. Cabbage rolls. But we would be happy if you would share with us.”
Banks paused at the door. It was almost six-thirty and he hadn’t had anything since lunch at Whitelock’s. He would have to eat sometime. “All right,” he said. “Thanks very much. Yes, I’d love to stay.”
II
Instead of continuing along Roundhay Road towards Wetherby and the A1, Banks cut back down Roseville Road and Regent Street, then headed for Burmantofts. He had dined well with the Batoracs, and conversation had ranged from books and teaching to the Balkan war and crime. After their goodbyes, it was a quarter to eight on a fine May evening, and dusk was slowly gathering when Banks pulled up near Jelacic’s flat. In the failing, honeyed light, the shabby concrete tower blocks looked as eerie as a landscape on Mars.
There were plenty of people around in the recreation areas between the buildings, mostly teenagers congregated in little knots here and there, some of them playing on swings and roundabouts.
Banks managed to climb the six flights of graffiti-scarred concrete without incident, apart from a little shortness of breath, and rapped on Jelacic’s door.
He could already hear the television blaring “Coronation Street” through the paper-thin walls, so when no-one answered the first time, he knocked even harder. Finally Jelacic answered the door, grubby shirt hanging out of his jeans, and scowled when he recognized Banks.
“You,” he said. “ upak. Why you come here? You already have killer.”
“Things change, Ive,” said Banks, gently shouldering his way inside. The place was as he remembered, tidy but overlaid with a patina of stale booze and cigarette smoke. Here he could light up with impunity. He turned down the sound on one of Jack and Vera Duckworth’s loud public arguments.
Jelacic didn’t complain. He picked up a glass of clear liquid-probably vodka, Banks guessed-from the table and flopped down on the settee. It creaked under his weight. Jelacic had put on quite a few pounds since they had last met, most of it on his gut. He looked about eight months pregnant.
“You’ll be glad to hear,” Banks said, “that your alibi still seems to hold water.”
Jelacic frowned. “Water? Hold water? What you mean?”
“I mean we believe you were playing cards at Mile Pavelic’s house at the time Deborah Harrison was killed.”
“I already tell you that. So why you come here?”
“To ask you some questions.”
Jelacic grunted.
“First of all, when exactly did you come here from Eastvale?”
“Was last year. September.”
“So the St. Mary’s girls would have been back at school for a while before you left?”
“Yes. Two weeks.”
Banks leaned forward and flicked his ash into an overflowing tin ashtray, which looked as if it had been stolen from a pub. “Now the last time we talked,” he said, “you swore blind you’d never seen Deborah Harrison, or at most that you might just have seen her once or twice, in passing.”
“Is true.”
“Now I’m asking you to rethink. I’m giving you another chance to tell the truth, Ive. There’s no blame attached to this now. You’re not a suspect. But you might be a witness.”
“I saw nothing.”
Banks nodded towards the TV set. “I don’t suppose you watch the news,” he said. “But for your information Owen Pierce was found not guilty and released earlier today.”
“He is free?” Jelacic stared open-mouthed, then began to laugh. “Then you failed. You let the guilty man go free. Always that happens here.” He shook his head. “Such a crazy country.”
“Yes, well at least we don’t shoot them first and ask questions later. But that’s beside the point. He may or may not have committed the crime, but officially he didn’t and we’re reopening the case. Which is why I’m here. Now why is trying to get the tiniest scrap of help from you like getting blood out of a stone, Ive? Can you tell me that?”
Jelacic shrugged. “I know nothing.”
“Don’t you care what happened to Deborah Harrison?”
“Deborah Harrison. Deborah Harrison. Silly little English rich girl. Why I care? More girls killed in my homeland. Who cares about them? My father and mother die. My girlfriend is killed. But to you that means nothing. Nobody cares.”
“‘Any man’s death diminishes me.’ John Donne wrote that. Have you never heard it, Ive? Have you never heard of the concept that we’re all in this together, all part of mankind?”
Jelacic just looked at Banks, incomprehension written on his features.
“Why don’t you answer my questions?” Banks went on. “You saw the girl, you’ve admitted as much. You must have seen her quite often when you were working outside.”
“I work inside and out. Clean church. Cut grass…”
“Right. So you liked to watch the St. Mary’s girls-we know you did-and you must have noticed Deborah. She was very striking and she complained about your making lewd gestures towards her.”
“I never-”
“Ive, spare me the bullshit, please. I’ve heard enough of it to last a lifetime. Nobody’s going to arrest you or deport you for this. Bloody hell, they might even give you a medal if you tell us anything that leads to the killer.”
Jelacic’s eyes lit up. “Medal? You mean there is reward?”
“It was a joke, Ive,” said Banks. “No, there isn’t a reward. We just expect you to do your duty like any other decent, law-abiding citizen.”
“I see nothing.”
“Did you ever notice anyone hanging around the graveyard looking suspicious?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see Deborah Harrison meet anyone in St. Mary’s churchyard?”
He shook his head.
“Did she ever linger around there, as if she was going to meet someone, or was up to something?”
Again, he shook his head, but not before Banks noticed something flicker behind his eyes, some memory, some sign of recognition.
“What is it?” Banks asked.
