“This Spinks,” Sandra said. “He sounds like a bad character. Do you think Tracy had anything to do with him?”
Banks shook his head. “He was part of the crowd, that’s all. She’s got more sense than that.”
“Deborah Harrison obviously didn’t have.”
“We all make mistakes.” Banks stood up and walked towards the hall.
“Oh, go on,” Sandra said with a smile. “Have a cigarette if you want one. It’s been a tough day at the gallery. I might even join you.” Sandra had stopped smoking some years ago, but she seemed able to cheat occasionally without falling back into the habit. Banks envied her that.
As it turned out, Banks hadn’t been going for his cigarettes but for the photograph that Stott and Hatchley had got from Owen Pierce. Still, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he weakened and brought the Silk Cut from his overcoat pocket.
Once they had both lit up and the Elgar was moving into the adagio, Banks slid the photograph out of the envelope and passed it to Sandra.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Very pretty. But not your type, surely. Her breasts are too small for your taste.”
“That’s not what I meant. And I’ve got nothing against small breasts.”
Sandra dug her elbow in his side and smiled. “I’m teasing.”
“You think I didn’t know that? Seriously, though, what do you think? Professionally.”
Sandra frowned. “It’s not her, is it? Not the girl who was killed?”
“No. Do you see a resemblance, though?”
Sandra shifted sideways and held the photo under the shaded lamp. “Yes, a bit. The newspaper photo wasn’t very good, mind you. And teenage girls are still, in some ways, unformed. If they’ve got similar hair color and style, and they’re about the same height and shape, you can construe a likeness easily enough.”
“Apparently she’s not a teenager. She was twenty-two when that was taken.”
Sandra raised her dark eyebrows. “Would we could all look so many years younger than we are.”
“What do you think of the style?”
“As a photograph, it’s good. Very good in fact. It’s an excellent composition. The pose looks natural and the lighting is superb. See how it brings out that hollow below the breasts and the ever-so slight swell of her tummy? You can even see where the light catches the tiny hairs on her skin. And it has a mood, too, a unity. There’s a sort of secret smile on her face. A bit Mona Lisa-ish. A strong rapport with the photographer.”
“Do you think she knew him?”
Sandra studied the photograph for a few seconds in silence, Elgar playing softly in the background. “They were lovers,” she said finally. “I’ll bet you a pound to a penny they were lovers.”
“Women’s intuition?”
Sandra gave him another dig in the ribs. Harder this time. Then she passed him the photo. “No. Just look at her eyes, Alan, the laughter, the way she’s looking at him. It’s obvious.”
When he looked more closely, Banks knew that Sandra was right. It was obvious. Men and women only looked like that at one another when they had slept together, or were about to. He couldn’t explain why, certainly couldn’t offer any proof or evidence, but like Sandra, he knew. And Barry Stott had said that Pierce denied knowing the woman. The next job, then, was to find her and discover why. Banks would wait for the initial forensic results, then he’d have a long chat with Owen Pierce himself.
Chapter 8
I
The man who sat before Banks in the interview room at two o’clock that Saturday afternoon looked very angry. Banks didn’t blame him. He would have been angry, himself, if two hulking great coppers had come and dragged him off to the police station on his day off, especially with it being Remembrance Day, too.
But it couldn’t be helped. Banks would rather have been at home listening to Britten’s War Requiem as he did every November 11, but it would have to wait. New information had come in. It was time for him to talk to Owen Pierce in person.
“Relax, Owen,” said Banks. “We’re probably going to be here for a while, so there’s no point letting your blood pressure go right off the scale.”
“Why don’t you just get on with it,” Owen said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
Banks sighed. “Me, too, Owen. Me too.” He put new tapes in the double-cassette recorder, then he told Owen that the interview was being taped, and, as before, stated the names of everyone in the room, along with the time, place and date.
Susan Gay was the only other person present. Her role was mostly to observe, but Banks would give her the chance to ask a question or two. They were taking a “fresh team” approach-so far only Stott and Hatchley had interviewed Pierce-and Banks had already spent a couple of hours that morning going over the previous interview transcripts.
“Okay,” Banks began, “first let me caution you that you do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention now something which you later use in your defense, the court may decide that your failure to mention it strengthens the case against you. A record will be made of anything you say and it may be given in evidence if you are brought to trial.”
Owen swallowed. “Does this mean I’m under arrest?”
“No,” said Banks. “It’s just a formality, so we all know what’s what. I understand you’ve been informed about your right to a solicitor?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve waived it?”
“For the moment, yes. I keep telling you, I haven’t done anything. Why should I have to pay for a solicitor?”
“Good point. They can be very expensive. Now then, Owen, can we just go over last Monday evening one more time, please?”
Owen sighed and told them exactly the same as he had told Stott the last time and the time before that.
“And you never, at any time that day, had contact with the victim, Deborah Harrison?”
“No. How could I? I had no idea who she was.”
“You’re quite sure you didn’t meet her?”
“I told you, no.”
“Why were you in the area?”
“Just walking.”
“Oh, come on. Do you think I was born yesterday, Owen? Hey? You had a meeting with Deborah, didn’t you? You knew her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I know someone like her?”
Banks reached down into his briefcase and pushed the photograph across the desk. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“Just a model.”
“Look at it, Owen. Look closely. You know her. Any idiot can see that.”
Banks watched Owen turn pale and lick his lips. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “She was just a model.”
“Bollocks she was just a model. Have you noticed her resemblance to the murdered girl?” Banks set a photograph of Deborah Harrison next to it.
Owen looked away. “I can’t say I have.”
“Look again.”
Owen looked and shook his head. “No.”
“And you still maintain that you’ve never met Deborah Harrison?”
“That’s right.” He looked at his watch. “Look, when is this farce going to end? I’ve got work to do.”
Banks glanced over at Susan and nodded. She leaned forward and placed two labeled packages on the desk. “The thing is, Owen,” Banks said, “that this evidence shows otherwise.”
“Evidence? What evidence?”
“Hair, Owen. Hair.” Banks tapped the first envelope. “To cut a long story short, this envelope contains samples of hairs taken from those we found on the anorak you were wearing on Monday evening when you went for your walk, the one you gave us permission to test. There are a number of hairs that our experts have identified as coming from the head of Deborah Harrison.”
Owen grasped the edge of the desk. “But they can’t be! You must be mistaken.”
Banks shook his head gravely. “Oh, I could bore you with the scientific details about the medulla and the cortex and so on, but you can take my word for it-they match.”