Innocent Graves (13 page)

“What is it, then?” Joe asked when they’d sat down. “Official business? About that murder?”

“Yes,” said Stott.

Joe shook his head. “Terrible business. I knew the girl, too, you know.”

“Knew her?”

“Well, not in the real sense of the word. Not to talk to, like. I mean she’d eaten in here with her mates, that’s all. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that photo in the
Evening Post
.”

Stott couldn’t understand how it happened, but a tray of appetizers suddenly appeared on the table in front of them:
spring rolls, garlic shrimp, chicken balls. All Stott noticed was the retreating back of another waiter. He hadn’t heard a thing. Hatchley picked up a shrimp and popped it in his mouth between drags on his cigarette.

“When did she eat here?” Stott asked.

“They come here every now and then. A bunch of girls from the school, that is. Maybe when one of their daddies sends the monthly cheque. Anyway, they generally keep quiet, don’t cause any trouble, and they don’t expect to be served beer. She was with them once or twice, that Deborah Harrison who got killed. I recognized her.”

“Do you remember anything about her?”

“Nah, not really. ’Cept that she was a good-looking girl. That’s why I remembered her in particular.”

“Ever noticed anyone take an unusual interest in her, or the other St Mary’s girls?”

“Well, they’ve caught the odd eye or two. There’s a couple of right corkers among them, and there’s always something about a girl in a school uniform. Sorry. That was in bad taste.”

“Not at all, Joe,” said Hatchley. “I know what you mean, and I’m sure the inspector does, too.”

Stott said nothing. Three bottles of beer materialized with three glasses on the table before them, as if by magic.

“Somefink to wash the food down,” Joe said with a grin. “My treat.”

Stott ignored the beer. Hatchley grabbed a bottle and ignored the glass. Well, let him drink it, Stott thought. Fine. He wasn’t going to touch any, himself. Give Hatchley enough rope and he’ll surely hang himself. If only he didn’t have a strong ally in Chief Inspector Banks. Stott couldn’t understand that relationship at all. Banks seemed like an intelligent, civilized sort of copper. What could he possibly see in a boor like Hatchley?

Right now, though, there were more important things to think about than Hatchley’s eating and drinking habits. “So you noticed nothing unusual about the girl and nobody taking any undue interest in her or her friends?” Stott asked.

“That’s right,” said Joe. “Noffink out of the ordinary.”

“Did she ever meet anyone here? Anyone other than her schoolfriends?”

“No. They always came and left together as a group. Never had any boys with them, if that’s what you mean. Too close to the school, if you ask me. You never know when one of the teachers might drop in and catch them. They eat here, too, sometimes.”

Stott glanced over at Hatchley, who took out the artist’s impression of the stranger in the Nag’s Head. “Ever seen this man?” he asked.

Joe stared at the picture, shaking his head. “It doesn’t look much like him, except for the hair,” he said, “but we had a bloke looked a bit like that in here just last night.”

Stott’s pulse began to race. “What was he wearing?”

“An orange anorak.”

“Tall?”

“Yeah, tall-ish. Bit over six feet, anyway.”

“What time did he come in?”

“About half six. I remember because he was the only one in at that time. Miserable night.”

The time fit, Stott thought, feeling his excitement rise. The killer had a couple of drinks at the Nag’s Head, murdered Deborah Harrison, and then he came here for dinner.

“Did he do or say anything unusual?”

“He seemed a bit restless. I saw him muttering to himself once or twice.”

“Hear what he said?”

“Sorry.”

“Who waited his table?”

“I did. We were short-staffed because of the fog. He was certainly hungry, I’ll say that. First he had spring rolls, then he ordered orange beef
and
Szechuan shrimp, a bowl of rice and a pint of lager. Ate it all, too.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Only to take his order. He didn’t seem communicative, so I didn’t push it. You learn how to behave in this business, who wants to chat and who just wants to be left alone. This bloke wanted to be left alone.”

Stott saw his bottle of beer disappear into Hatchley’s hand. He let it pass. “Did you notice anything else about him?”

“Yeah. He had a little cut, just up there, high on his left cheek.” Joe touched the spot on his own cheek.

Stott could hardly contain his excitement. The post-mortem had reported skin and tissue under the middle fingernail of Deborah Harrison’s right hand. She had scratched her attacker. It had to be Jela
č
i
ć
. “How long did he stay?” Stott asked.

“Just as long as it took to order and eat. About three-quarters of an hour.”

“Did he have a car?”

“If he did, I didn’t see it. Somehow, I got the impression he was on foot. I mean, who’d take the car out by himself on a night like that, just to go out alone for a Chinese meal? Fine as the food here is. Me, I’d order a take-away and let some other poor bugger do the driving.”

“Good point,” said Stott. “See where he went?”

“Afraid not.”

From the corner of his eye, Stott noticed the last spring roll disappear between two sausage-like fingers. “Had you ever seen him before?” he asked.

Joe shook his head.

Stott smiled. “I don’t suppose he happened to mention his name, did he?”

Joe grinned back. “Sorry. Didn’t mention his address, either. No. Like I said, some of them are chatty, this one wasn’t.” He paused. “I’ll tell you what, though.”

“What?”

Joe stood up. “If my memory serves me right, he paid by card. You might be able to get his name from that. I haven’t done the returns yet. Shall I go get it for you?”

Stott sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God.

Joe came back with a sheaf of Visa slips in his hand and started going through them. “Not this one. Not that … no … no. Yeah. Right, this is the one.” And he passed it over.

Anxiously, Stott grabbed the slip of paper, but as soon as he looked at it, his spirits sank. He couldn’t read the signature—that
was just a mess of loops and whirls—but the name was printed clearly enough in the top left corner. And it
wasn’t
Ive Jela
č
i
ć
.

Beside him, he heard the glug of an emptying beer bottle followed by a resonant burp.

III

“Right,” said Banks, “now that we’ve all calmed down a bit, maybe we can play truth or consequences. And I’m telling you, the consequences will be bloody severe if you don’t play. Got it?”

The three pale, miserable-looking people in the chilly vicarage living-room nodded in unison. The brown-and-white bundle of fur on the hearth scratched and fell still again.

As soon as Banks had appeared in the hall, Patrick Metcalfe had tried to make a break for it. Perhaps he believed that the power of his love could vanquish unhappy husbands, but he must have known it didn’t stand a chance against the long arm of the law. As he turned to run away, he slipped on the doorstep and fell down three stone steps onto the garden path, sprawling in the rain on the worn paving-stones, holding his knee and cursing. Banks helped him inside with a firm hand and sat him down in one of the armchairs.

Now he sat there, hair plastered to his skull, looking sullen. The “consumptive” look wasn’t hard for him to cultivate, given his lanky frame and hollow cheeks. He kept giving Rebecca Charters significant stares with his soulful eyes, but she averted her gaze.

By this time, Rebecca had brought the bottle of wine from the kitchen and topped up her glass. She was beginning to look a little blurred around the edges. Daniel Charters, permanent frown etched in his high brow, muscle twitching beside his left eye, just sat there, long legs crossed, his face growing steadily paler, looking like a man old before his time.

“Now, then, Mr Charters,” Banks said. “You were trying to tell me where you were last night before we were so rudely interrupted.”

“He was with me,” the newcomer burst out.

“And you are?”

“Patrick Metcalfe. I’m the history teacher at St Mary’s.”

“So you knew Deborah Harrison?”

“I wouldn’t say I
knew
her. I taught her history last year.”

“And you say Mr Charters was with you yesterday evening?” “He was.”

“What time did he arrive?”

Metcalfe shrugged. “About a quarter to six. I was just thinking about putting something in the microwave for dinner, and I usually eat at about six.”

“Does that time sound right to you, Mr Charters?”

Charters nodded glumly.

Banks turned back to Metcalfe. “Where do you live?”

“One of the school flats. On St Mary’s grounds.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Alone.” Metcalfe looked longingly at Rebecca Charters, who stared down into her wineglass.

“What time did Mr Charters leave?” Banks asked.

“Around ten to six. He didn’t stay more than five minutes. He could see I wasn’t interested in what he had to say.”

Which meant that Charters was unaccounted-for during the crucial period around six o’clock. Banks could see Rebecca frowning at this information. She had lied for her husband, only to have someone give him what seemed like an alibi, then immediately snatch it away again. Did
she
know where he had been between ten to six and whenever he got back home?

And, Banks realized, this also left Patrick Metcalfe without an alibi. Rebecca, too, for that matter; he only had her word that she had heard something like a cry around six o’clock.

“What were you wearing?” Banks asked Charters.

“Wearing? A raincoat.”

“Colour?”

“Beige.”

“May I see it.”

Charters went and brought the raincoat in from the hall closet. Banks examined it closely but could see no traces of blood or earth. “Do you mind if I take this for further testing?” he asked. “I’ll give you a receipt of course.”

Charters looked alarmed. “Should I call my lawyer?”

“Not if you’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. Go ahead. Take it.”

“Thank you.”

“Where did you go after you left Mr Metcalfe?”

“Nowhere in particular. I just walked.”

“Where?”

“In the school grounds. By the river.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“There were a few people about, yes.”

“What about on or near the bridge?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, come to think of it, I did see someone. When I came out of the main school gate and crossed the road, there was a man in front of me walking along Kendal Road towards the bridge.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No. He stopped on the bridge and I walked past him. He was about my height—six foot two—and he was wearing an orange anorak. I could see that much from behind. His hair was dark and rather long.”

“Are you sure it was a man?”

“Certain. Even in the fog I could tell by the way he walked. There’s something … I don’t know how to explain it … but I’m
certain
it was a man.”

Another sighting of the mysterious stranger that Stott and Hatchley had unearthed in the Nag’s Head. Interesting. “Can you tell me anything more about him?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Charters. “I had other things on my mind.”

“Could it have been a red windcheater rather than an orange anorak?”

Charters frowned. “I suppose it
could
have been. I wasn’t paying really close attention.”

“I hope you realize, Mr Charters, that if you’d continued lying to us you would also have been withholding what could be an important piece of evidence.”

Charters said nothing.

“Where did you go next?” Banks asked.

“I walked up to North Market Street, carried along there for a
while, then took Constance Avenue back down to the river path and home.” He looked at Rebecca, then looked away again. “But when I got here I … I … didn’t want to go in and … Not just yet. So I kept on walking for a good ten minutes or so, then turned back and came home.”

“Is that everything?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go into the churchyard at any time?”

“No. I wish I had. I might have been able to prevent the poor girl’s murder.”

“What time
did
your husband get home, Mrs Charters?”

“He was home when I got back from the graveyard.”

“And that was about a quarter to seven?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do after Mr Charters left your flat?” Banks said to Metcalfe.

“Nothing much. Heated up my dinner. I considered coming over here and putting an end to the ridiculous charade, but decided against it.”

“What ridiculous charade?”

They were all silent for a moment, as if someone had finally gone too far and they were deciding how to cover up, then Daniel Charters spoke up. “I went to talk to Metcalfe,” he said, “to try to persuade him to stop seeing my wife.”

Banks looked at Metcalfe. “Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“And what was your response?”

Metcalfe sneered at Charters. “I told him I wasn’t interested, that it was too late. Rebecca and I are in love and we’re going away together.”

Banks looked towards Rebecca. She had lowered her head, so he couldn’t see her expression, only the mass of auburn hair hanging down to her knees. Her glass of wine had sat untouched for several minutes on the table.

“Tell him,” Metcalfe urged her. “Go on, Rebecca. Tell him it’s true. Tell him how this marriage is a sham, how it’s stifling you, destroying your true nature. Tell him you don’t love your—”

“No!”

“What?”

Rebecca Charters held her head up and stared directly at Metcalfe. Her dark eyes flashed with angry tears. “I said no, Patrick.” She seemed to gain control of the situation; the welling tears remained at the edges of her eyes. She spoke quietly: “I tried to tell you before, but you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t want to understand. I’m not defending myself. What I’ve done is wrong. Terribly wrong.” She looked at her husband, who showed no expression, then back at Metcalfe. “But it’s
my
guilt,
my
sin. If I wasn’t strong enough to stand by my husband when he needed me most, if I let a hint of scandal and suspicion poison our marriage, then it’s my mistake, my fault. But I won’t compound it with lies.”