Again, she didn’t hear any answer, but she did hear a movement coming from deeper in the woods. The area behind the Inchcliffe Mausoleum was the most overgrown in the entire graveyard, all the way back to the wall at Kendal Road. The oldest yews grew there, and the wild shrubbery was so dense in places you couldn’t even walk through it easily. If there were any graves, nobody had visited them for a long time.
It must have been a small animal of some kind, Rebecca decided. Then she remembered that she had told the police and the court that the cry she heard that November evening could have come from an animal. When she really thought about it, she knew it never could have. She had simply refused to acknowledge, either to herself or to anyone else that the scream she heard was the last cry for help of a girl about to be murdered. This sound, too, was too loud to be a dog, a cat or a bird. And there were no horses or sheep in the graveyard.
She took a step towards the back of the mausoleum, aware as she did so that this was where Deborah’s body had been found. “Is anybody there?” she called out.
No answer.
Then she heard another rustling sound, this time closer to the North Market Street wall.
Rebecca turned and wandered thigh-deep into the tangled undergrowth. She felt nettles sting her legs as she walked. “Is anyone there?” she called again.
Still no answer.
She paused and listened for a moment. All she could hear was her heart beating.
Suddenly to her left, through the trees, she saw a dark figure break into a run. It looked like a man dressed in brown and green, but she couldn’t be certain because of the way the colors blended in with the background. Whoever it was, he couldn’t get over the high wall before she caught up with him. His only alternative was to head along the wall to the North Market Street gate. If she hurried, perhaps she could catch a glimpse of him before he got away.
She turned back towards the back of the Inchcliffe Mausoleum and the gravel path. He was to her right now. She could hear him running towards the gate.
Before she could get out of the wooded area, something snagged at her ankle and she tripped, scratching her knees and hands on thorns. It only delayed her a few seconds, but when she got to her feet and ran past the mausoleum along the gravel path into the open area, all she saw was the wooden gate slam shut. She stood there and cursed whoever it was. When she looked down, she saw she had blood on her hands.
III
Avoiding the Queen’s Arms, which everyone knew was the Eastvale CID local, Banks spirited Stott along Skinner’s Yard, down to the Duck and Drake on one of the winding alleys off King Street. The cobbled streets were chock-a-block with antique shops, antiquarian booksellers and food specialists, all with mullioned windows and creaky wooden floors.
The Duck and Drake was a small, black-fronted Sam Smith’s house with etched, smoked-glass windows and a couple of tatty hanging baskets over the door. Inside, the entrance to the snug was so low that Banks felt as if he were crawling under a particularly tight overhang in Ingleborough Cave.
The snug was also tiny, with dark wood beams and whitewashed walls hung with hunting prints and brass ornaments. They were the only two people in the place. The bench creaked as Banks sat down opposite Stott with his pint of Old Brewery Bitter and his ham and cheese sandwich. Stott hadn’t wanted anything at all, not even a glass of water.
“What is it, Barry?” Banks asked, chomping on his sandwich. “Off your food? You look bloody awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Stott was pale, with dark bags under his eyes and a two-day stubble around his chin and cheeks. His eyes themselves, behind the glasses, were dull, distant and haunted. Banks had never seen him like this before. Normally, you could depend on Barry Stott to look bright-eyed and alert at all times. Not to mention well groomed. But his suit was creased, as if he had slept in it, his tie was not properly fastened, and his hair was uncombed. He looked so miserable that even his ears seemed to droop.
“You ill?”
“As a matter, of fact,” said Stott, “I haven’t been sleeping well. Not well at all.”
“Something on your mind?”
“Yes.”
Banks finished his sandwich, took a sip of beer and lit a cigarette. “Out with it, then.”
Stott just pursed his lips and frowned in concentration.
“Barry, are you sure it’s something you want to talk to me about?”
“I have to,” Stott replied. “By all rights, I should go to the super, or even the CC. God knows, it’s bound to get that far eventually, but I wanted to tell you first. I don’t know why. Respect, perhaps. It’s just so difficult. I’ve been up wrestling with it all night, and I can’t see any other way out.”
Banks sat back. He had never seen Barry Stott so upset, so consumed by anything before, except that day when Pierce was found not guilty. Stott was a private person, and Banks wasn’t sure how to handle him on a personal level, outside the job.
Was this a private, intimate matter, perhaps? Was Stott going to admit he was homosexual? Not that it mattered. Banks knew for a fact that two of the uniformed officers at Eastvale were gay. So did everyone else. They came in for a bit of baiting now and then from the more macho among their colleagues, who weren’t entirely sure of their own sexuality, and for a certain amount of righteous moral disapproval from the one or two Christian fundamentalists in uniform. But Barry Stott? Banks realized he didn’t even know whether Stott was married, divorced or single.
“Is this off the record, Barry?” Banks asked. “I mean, is it something personal?”
“Partly. But not really.” He shook his head. “I can’t understand it myself. I was so sure. So damn certain.” He banged the table. Banks’s beer-glass jumped. “Sorry.”
“I think you’d better just tell me.”
Stott paused. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the lenses of his glasses. In the background Banks could hear the radio playing Jim Reeves singing “Welcome to My World.”
Finally, Stott put his glasses back on, nodded and took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “I suppose the most important thing is that Owen Pierce is innocent, at least of Ellen Gilchrist’s murder. We have to let him go.”
Bank’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about, Barry?”
“I was there,” Stott said. “I know.”
Christ, what was this? A murder confession? Banks held his hand up. “Hold on, Barry. Take it easy. Go slowly. And be very careful what you say.” He almost felt as if he were giving Stott a formal caution. “Where were you? King Street? Skield?”
Stott shook his head and licked his lips. “No. Not either of those places. I was outside Owen Pierce’s house.”
“Doing what?”
“Watching him. I’ve been doing it ever since he got off.”
“So that’s why you’re looking so washed out?”
Stott rubbed his hand over his stubble. “Haven’t had any sleep in a week. Soon as I finish at the station, I grab a sandwich, then head for his street and park. If he goes out, I follow him.”
“All night?”
“Most of it. At least till it looks like he’s settled. Sometimes as late as three or four in the morning. He doesn’t go out much. Most nights he gets drunk and passes out in front of the telly.”
“And he hasn’t spotted you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t taken any great pains to hide myself, but he hasn’t said anything.”
“But why, Barry?”
Stott smoothed down his hair with his hand, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I got obsessed, I suppose. I just couldn’t stop myself. I was so sure of his guilt, so certain he’d beaten the system… And I knew he’d do it again. It
