Spinks muttered a curse through the rag.
“Okay?” Banks asked again.
Spinks took the cloth away. The flow of blood seemed to have abated, and he only dabbed at it sulkily now and then throughout the interview. “You’ve broken my tooth,” he whined. “That’ll cost money. I was only joking, anyway, about your-”
“Deborah Harrison,” Banks said. “Name ring a bell?”
Spinks averted his eyes. “Sure. It’s that schoolkid from St. Mary’s got herself killed the other day. All over the news.”
“She didn’t ‘get herself’ killed. Someone murdered her.”
“Whatever.” The lock of hair kept slipping down over Spinks’s eye, and he had developed the habit of twitching his head to flick it back in place. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t kill her.”
“Where were you on Monday around six o’clock?”
“Was that the day it was really foggy?”
“Yes.”
“I was here.” He pointed to the group outside. “Ask anyone. Go on, ask them.”
Banks nodded at Sergeant Hatchley, who went out to talk to the youths.
“Besides,” Spinks went on, “why would I want to kill her?”
“You went out together over the summer and you parted on bad terms. You were angry with her, you wanted revenge.”
He probed his tooth and winced. “That’s a load of old knob-rot, that is. Besides, they wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“Who wasn’t?”
“Them. The French tart and that bloody Clayton. They went to enough trouble to stop me from telling anyone, now they go and tell you themselves. Bloody stupid, it is. Doesn’t make sense. Unless they just wanted to drop me in it.” He dabbed at his red nose.
Hatchley came back inside and nodded.
“They telling the truth?” Banks asked.
“Hard to say. Like Jelačić’s mates, they’d probably say black was white if young Lochinvar over here told them to.”
Banks studied Spinks, who showed no emotion, but kept dabbing at his nose and probing his tooth with his tongue. “What did Michael Clayton do to stop you from talking?” he asked.
Spinks looked down into the bloodstained rag. “Imagine how it would sound if some newspaper got hold of the story that an East Side Estate yobbo like me had been sticking it to Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s daughter.”
“That’s why. I asked you what.”
“Gave me some money.”
“Who did?”
“Clayton.”
“Michael Clayton gave you money to stay away from Deborah?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How much?”
“Hundred quid.”
“So you admit to blackmailing Lady Harrison?”
“Nothing of the sort. Look, if you sell a story to the papers, they pay you for it, don’t they? So why shouldn’t you get paid if you don’t sell the papers a story?”
“Your logic is impeccable, John. I can see you didn’t waste your time in school.”
Spinks laughed. “School? Hardly ever there, was I?”
“Was Deborah there when you went to ask for money?”
“Nah. Just the two of them. Clayton and the old bag.” He put on a posh accent. “It was Deborah’s day for riding, don’t you know. Dressage. Got a horse out Middleham way. Always did like hot flesh throbbing between her legs, did Deborah.”
“So the two of them had a talk with you?”
“That’s right.”
“And after Lady Harrison had gone upstairs, Michael Clayton hit you and gave you a hundred pounds.”
“Like I said, we came to an arrangement. Then her ladyship came back and said if she ever heard I’d been talking about her daughter, she would tell Sir Geoffrey and he’d probably have me killed.”
“You blackmailed her and she threatened you with murder?”
“Yeah. Get away with anything, those rich fuckers. Just like the pigs.”
“You’ve been listening to too many Jefferson Airplane records, John. They don’t call us pigs now.”
“Once a pig, always a pig. And it’s compact discs now, not records. Jefferson Airplane, indeed. You’re showing your age.”
“Oh, spare us the witty repartee. Did you see Deborah again after that?”
“No.”
“Did you ever have anything to do with St. Mary’s Church, with Daniel Charters and his wife, or with Ive Jelačić?”
“Church? Me? You must be fucking joking.”
“Did Deborah ever mention an important secret she had?”
“What secret?”
“You’re not being very co-operative, Johnny.”
“I don’t know anything about no secret. And my name’s John. What you gonna do? Arrest me?”
Banks took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know yet. If you didn’t kill Deborah, who do you think did?”
“Some psycho.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“I saw it on telly. That’s what they said.”
“You believe everything you hear on telly?”
“Well if it wasn’t a psycho, who was it?”
Banks sighed and lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t offer Spinks one. “That’s what I’m asking you.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, wake up, John boy.”
Spinks dabbed at his nose; it had stopped bleeding now. “How should I know?”
“You knew her. You spent time with her. Did she have any enemies? Did she ever talk to you about her life?”
“What? No. Mostly we just fucked, if you want to know the truth. Apart from that, she was boring. Always on about horses and school. And always bloody picking on things I said and the way I said them.”
“Well, she was an educated woman, John. I realize it would have been hard for you to keep up with her intellectually.”
“Like I said, she was only good for one thing.”
“I understand you once stole a car and took Deborah for a joyride?”
“I…Now, hang on just a minute. I don’t know who’s been spreading vicious rumors about me, but I never stole no car. Can’t even drive, can I?” He took a pouch of Drum from his flak-jacket pocket and rolled a cigarette.
“What about drugs?”
“Never touch them. Stay clean. That’s my motto.”
“I’ll bet if we had a look through his pockets,” said Sergeant Hatchley, “we’d probably find enough to lock him up for.”
Banks stared at Spinks for a moment, as if considering the idea. He saw something shift in the boy’s eyes. Guilt. Fear.
“No,” he said, standing up. “He’s not worth the paperwork. We’ll leave him be for the moment. But,” he went on, “we’ll probably be back, so don’t wander too far. I want you to know you’re looking good for this, John. You’ve got quite a temper, so we hear, and you had every reason to hold a grudge against the victim. And one more thing.”
Spinks raised his eyebrows. Banks leaned forward, rested his hands on the table and lowered his voice. “If I ever catch you within a mile of my daughter, you’ll think that bloody nose Sergeant Hatchley gave you was a friendly pat on the back.”
IV
At home later that evening, after dinner, when Tracy had gone up to her room to do her homework, Banks and Sandra found a couple of hours to themselves at last. With Elgar’s first symphony playing quietly on the stereo, Banks poured himself a small Laphroaig and Sandra a Drambuie with ice. He wouldn’t smoke tonight, not at home, he decided, even though the peaty bite of the Islay almost screamed out for an accompaniment of nicotine.
First, Banks told Sandra about John Spinks and his visit to Sylvie Harrison.
“I thought the chief constable ruled the family off-limits,” she said.
“He did.” Banks shrugged. “Actually, I just escaped by the skin of my teeth. Sir Geoffrey came in and caught me talking to her. A word in Jimmy Riddle’s ear and my name would be mud. Luckily, Lady Harrison didn’t want him to know we’d been talking about Deborah’s boyfriend, so she told him I’d just dropped by to give them a progress report. He was more annoyed that she’d been smoking than he was about my presence.”