Banks sat next to Susan Gay, with Hatchley and Stott not far away. Stott looked like the cat that got the cream.
Chief Constable Riddle had visited the station earlier, patting backs and bragging to the media. He hadn’t wasted the opportunity to admonish Banks for pestering the Harrisons; nor had he neglected to praise Stott for his major role in what was probably the quickest arrest of a sex murderer ever.
This time, Riddle was going to go and tell the Harrisons personally that he had a man in custody for Deborah’s murder, largely due to the efforts of a new member of Eastvale CID, DI Barry Stott. Of course, Riddle wouldn’t be seen dead drinking in a pub with the common foot-soldiers, even if he didn’t have a couple of TV interviews lined up. Thank God for small mercies, Banks thought.
As he sipped his pint and let the conversation and laughter ebb and flow around him, Banks wondered why he felt so depressed. Never one to shy away from self-examination, he considered professional jealousy first.
But was that really true? Banks had to admit that it would only look that way to the chief constable and one or two others who had it in for him. As far as the media were concerned, Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks had headed the most successful investigation in the history of Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. His troops had won the battle. He was the general. So why did he feel so depressed?
“The evidence is pretty solid, isn’t it, sir?” Susan shouted in his ear.
Banks nodded. It was. Nothing on the shoes that Pierce couldn’t have picked up on the river path, but positive blood and hair matches both ways. His and hers. Suspect a bit of an oddball. A liar, to boot. Seen in the area, with no good reason, around the time of the murder. Oh, yes, Banks admitted, even the Crown Prosecution Service should have no trouble with this one. What could be better? And if the DNA results were positive when they came through…
He looked at Susan. Earnest expression on her round face, with its peaches and cream complexion; short, slightly upturned nose; tight blonde curls. She had a glass of St. Clement’s in front of her.
Banks smiled, trying to shake off his gloom. “Let me buy you a drink, Susan,” he said. “A real drink. What would you like?”
“I shouldn’t, sir, really…” Susan said. “I mean, you know, officially…”
“Bugger officially. You’re off duty. Besides, this is your senior officer telling you it’s time you had a real drink. What’s it to be?”
Susan blushed and smiled, averting her blue-gray eyes. “Well, in that case, sir, I’ll have a port and lemon.”
“Port and lemon it is.”
“Let me go, sir.”
“No, stay there. Save my seat.”
Banks got up and edged his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling a hello here and there. One or two people clapped him on the back and congratulated him on the speed with which he had caught the killer.
With his pint in one hand and Susan’s port and lemon in the other, he excuse-me’d his way back. Before he had got halfway he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see Rebecca Charters standing there, long auburn hair framing her pale face.
Banks smiled. “A bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?” he said.
“I dropped by the police station first. The man on the front desk said you were all over here celebrating. I’ve heard that you’ve got someone under arrest for Deborah Harrison’s murder. Is it true?”
Banks nodded. “Yes. A suspect, at least.”
“Does that mean you’ll be leaving us alone now? Things can get back to normal?”
“Whatever that is,” Banks said. “Why? What are you worried about?”
“I’m not worried about anything. It would just be nice to know we could get on with our lives in private now rather than sharing every significant emotional event with the local police.”
“That was never my intention, Mrs. Charters. Look, it’s a bit silly just standing here like this. Would you like a drink?”
He could see Rebecca consider the offer seriously, needily. She eyed the bottles ranged behind the bar, then suddenly she shook her head. “No. No thank you. That’s another thing I’m trying to put behind me.”
“Good,” said Banks. “Good for you.”
“How the hell would you know?” she said, and stormed out.
Banks shrugged and headed back to the table, where everyone, even DI Stott, was laughing at one of Hatchley’s jokes. Banks didn’t mind missing it; he had heard them all before, at least five times.
When he slid into his seat again, Susan thanked him for the drink. “What was all that about?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Banks. “I think I offended her. Or maybe abstinence has made her irritable.”
“As long as she doesn’t complain to the chief constable. What next, sir?”
“Next, I think we’ve got to find out a bit more about what makes Pierce tick. We’ve still got no motive, have we? He asked us why he should have committed such a crime, and I think we have a duty to try and answer that. If not for his sake, then for a jury’s.”
“But, sir, if it was a sex murder we don’t really need a motive, do we? We wouldn’t expect a rational one.”
“Did Owen Pierce seem mad to you?”
“That’s a very difficult question,” Susan said slowly. “The kind of thing experts argue about in court.”
“I’m not asking for an official statement. This is off the record. Your personal observations, your copper’s intuition.”
Susan sipped her port and lemon. “Well, to start with, he was nervous, edgy, hostile and confused.”
“Isn’t that how you would feel if you were accused of murder and subjected to an interrogation?”
Susan shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never been in that position. I mean, if you’ve got nothing to hide…If you’re telling the truth…Why get upset?”
“Because everyone thinks you did it. And they’ve got all the power. We have the power. We basically bullied Pierce until he was so confused he acted like a guilty man.”
“Are you saying you still don’t think he did it, sir?”
Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. It was itching; sometimes that meant something, sometimes not. He wished he knew which was which. “No. All I’m saying is that everyone’s got something to hide. Everyone starts to feel guilty when they’re stopped and questioned by the police, whether they’ve done anything or not. Almost anyone would react the way Pierce did under that sort of pressure.” Banks lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, careful to blow it away from Susan, then he took a long swig of beer.
“But you still have doubts?”
Banks clicked his tongue. “I shouldn’t, should I? I mean, I did arrest him. This is just perfect: signed, sealed and delivered. I’m still confused, that’s all. All this business with Pierce has happened so quickly. There are still too many loose ends. There was so much going on around Deborah. Remember? Jelačić’s alibi still doesn’t really hold water. Then there’s that triangle of Daniel and Rebecca Charters and Patrick Metcalfe. That’s a pretty volatile combination if ever I’ve seen one. There’s John Spinks, another character capable of violence. Add to that the open satchel, Michael Clayton spending half his time with Sylvie Harrison while her husband is out, and you’ve still got a lot of unanswered questions.”
“Yes, sir, but are any of them relevant now we’ve got Pierce with the hair and blood?”
Banks shrugged. “Hair and blood aren’t infallible. But you’re probably right. Sometimes I wish I could just accept the official version.”
“But you agree Pierce could have done it?”
“Oh, yes. He probably did do it. We found no trace evidence at all on either Charters’s or Jelačić’s clothing. And Pierce was in the area. There’s also something about him that harmonizes with the crime in an odd sort of way. I don’t know how to put it any better than that.”