“I’ll tread softly, sir.”
Stupid pillock, Banks cursed after Riddle had left the office. A whole bloody week. And how, he wondered, could he do his job with one hand tied behind his back, and tied because of bloody privilege, class and wealth, not by compassion for a bereaved family? Again, he had the feeling he would soon be walking on very thin ice indeed if he were to get to the bottom of things.
He walked over to the window, pulled up the venetian blind and opened the sash a couple of inches. It was too early for tourists, but the market square was busy with Eastvalers starting their day, heels clicking on the cobbles as bank cashiers, dentists and estate agents went to work in the warren of offices around the town center. The shops were opening and the smell of fresh-baked bread spilled in with sunlight.
Looking to his right, Banks could see south along Market Street, with its teashops, boutiques, and specialty shops, and out front was the square itself, with the NatWest bank, an estate agent, the EI Toro coffee bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s at the opposite side. Over the shops were solicitors’ offices, dentists’ and doctors’ surgeries.
With a sigh, Banks walked over to his filing cabinet, where he kept his own records of the salient points of the Harrison case. The tons of paperwork and electromagnetic traces that a murder case generated couldn’t possibly be stored in one detective’s office, but most detectives had their own ways of summarizing and keeping track of the cases they worked on. Banks was no exception.
His filing cabinet contained his own notes on all the major cases he had been involved with since coming to Eastvale, plus a few he had brought with him from the Met. The notes might not mean much to anyone else, but with the use of his keen memory, Banks was able to fill in all the gaps his shorthand left out. His own notes also contained the hunches and accounts of off-the-record conversations that didn’t make their way into the official files and statements.
It was time, he thought, to clear his mind of Owen Pierce for the moment and go back to basics. Two possibilities remained: either Deborah Harrison had been murdered by someone she knew, or a stranger other than Owen Pierce had killed her. Putting the second possibility aside, Banks picked up the names and strands of the first. Before the Pierce business, he had believed that Deborah might have arranged to meet someone on her way home from the chess club. He would spend the morning reading his notes and thinking, he decided, then after lunch he would go back to where it all started: St. Mary’s graveyard.
II
“Siobhan would bloody well kill me if she knew I was here with you now,” Ivor said. “You don’t understand what it’s been like, mate. She’s still convinced you did it.”
They were standing at the bar of the Queen’s Arms on Thursday lunch-time, after Owen had spent the entire morning cleaning up his house.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Owen. “I know she never really liked me, but I thought she had more sense than that. Is that why you didn’t report the break-in?”
“I told you, it only happened the other day. You don’t know what it’s been like for us.”
“Tell me.”
Ivor sighed and took a swig from his pint. “You should have seen some of the things you got through your letterbox, for a start.”
“What things?”
“Shit, hate-letters, used johnnies, death threats, something that looked like a lump of kidney or liver. I had to go in and clean it all up, didn’t I?”
“I’m sorry. Did you report it to the police?”
“Of course I did. They sent a man round, but he didn’t do anything. What can you expect?”
“The police thought I was guilty. They still do.” Along with the rest of the world, he thought.
“Still,” Ivor said, “you weren’t living next door. You didn’t have to put up with it all.”
“Right. I was safely locked up in prison, all nice and comfortable in my little cell. Fucking luxury.”
“You don’t have to be so sarcastic, Owen. I’m just trying to explain what it was like on the outside, so you can understand people’s attitudes.”
“Like Siobhan’s?”
“Yes.”
“And yours?”
Ivor shrugged.
“What exactly is your attitude?” Owen asked.
“What’s it matter? You’re out now.”
“Not just out, Ivor, but not guilty. Remember?”
“Well,” he mumbled, “you know what people say.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me what people say.”
“You know, guilty people get off all the time because the system’s biased in their favor. We bend over backward to help criminals and don’t give a damn for their victims.”
“I’m the victim here, Ivor.” Owen thrust his thumb at his own chest. “Me. I even found a letter from the college waiting for me. That bastard Kemp has fired me, and he did it before the jury even went out.”
Ivor looked away. “Yeah, well. I’m just saying what people think, in general, that’s all.”
“And what do you think, Ivor?”
“Look, I really don’t want to get into this. All I’m saying, Owen, is that shit sticks.”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, come on! For Christ’s sake, you’re supposed to be the English teacher. Meaning exactly what it says. All those rumors that went around during the trial, the stuff they couldn’t bring in as evidence? Do you think nobody knew about it? Hell, I found out from one of the students in the local library.”
Owen felt a shiver run up his spine. “Found out about what?”
“Everything. Your sex life, your photographic pursuits, your taste for dirty books and magazines, the porn video, how you screwed your students.”
Owen toyed with a damp beer-mat. “You already knew that Michelle had been one of my students, I don’t think even you would call Lady Chatterly’s Lover a dirty book these days, and, don’t forget, you watched part of one of those videos with me. I’m no worse than anyone else.”
“Oh, grow up. You may not be, but the whole country doesn’t know everything about anyone else, does it? You know how rumors get exaggerated. As far as they’re concerned, you’re the one who beats up women when they won’t let you fuck them. You’re the one who spends his days ogling innocent young schoolgirls and your nights dreaming about defiling and strangling virgins while you’re watching video nasties.”
Owen felt himself flush. “They’re all bloody hypocrites.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t help you, does it?”
“And what does help me?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking, maybe you should go away somewhere…?”
“Run away? That’s great advice. Thanks a lot, mate.”
Owen ordered a couple more pints. At least the barmaid didn’t seem to have recognized him. She actually smiled as she put down the drinks. A woman smiling, something he hadn’t seen in ages, apart from Shirley Castle in her moment of victory. Either she didn’t watch telly or read the papers, or prison had changed his appearance enough to fool some people. Not everyone, of course, but some people.
“Look,” he went on, “get this into your thick skull. I haven’t done anything. I never beat up anyone, and I certainly never raped and murdered anyone. I’ve been a victim of the system. They owe me something. It’s doubtful they’ll pay, but they owe me. In the meantime, I’ve lost a few months out of my life and my reputation’s taken a bit of a bashing. I’ve got to put things in order again, and I’m damned if I’m going to start by running away. How do you think that’ll look?”
Ivor paused and scratched his beard before answering. “It’s not a bad idea, you know. It’s not really like running away. New life somewhere else. Fresh start. You could even go live and teach English on the continent
