The sound of footsteps disturbed his train of thought, then he heard the key turn in the lock. It was meal-time already. The warder had also brought him a felt-tipped pen, writing pad and envelopes, a surprisingly well-thumbed copy of Wordsworth’s Collected Poems and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy.
When he had finished his meal and the door closed again behind the warder, Owen picked up the pen and sat at the desk. He had no-one to write to, but he could certainly pass time on a journal of his experiences and impressions. Maybe someday someone would want to publish it.
Fifty-six days or longer, Wharton had said. Well, there was nothing he could do about it, was there, so he might as well just get used to it.
Chapter 10
I
The offices of the Eastvale Crown Prosecution Service were located on the top floor of a drafty old three-story building on North Market Street, straddling two shops between the community center and the Town Hall. The lower floor was taken up by a clothes boutique catering to oversize people and a shop that sold imported Belgian chocolate. Somewhere else in the building, a dentist had managed to squeeze in his surgery. Sometimes you could hear the drill while discussing a case.
The chief CPS lawyer assigned to the Pierce file was Stafford Oakes, a shabby little fellow with elbow patches, greasy hair, a sharp nose and eagle eyes. Banks had worked with Oakes before on a number of occasions and had developed great respect for him.
Banks was with DI Stott, and beside Oakes sat Denise Campbell, his colleague, whose expensive and stylish designer clothes stood in stark contrast to Oakes’s off-the-peg bargain items. Denise was an attractive and ambitious young lawyer with short black hair and pale skin. Banks had never once seen her smile, and she seemed far too stiff, prim and proper for her age.
In general, the police were wary of the CPS because of its negative attitude towards bringing cases to court, and indeed Banks had had more than one argument with Oakes on this subject. On the whole, though, Oakes was a fair man, and he didn’t usually-like so many Crown Prosecutors-do more damage to the case than the defense did. Banks had even had a pint with him on a couple of occasions and swapped stories of life in the trenches of London, where they had both spent time.
Oakes’s office was as untidy as the man himself, briefs and files all over the place. Many of them bore his trademark-linked coffee-rings, like the Olympic games symbol-for Oakes was a caffeine addict and didn’t care where he rested his mug. Today it sat on top of the post-mortem report on Deborah Harrison.
It was already only a couple of weeks before Christmas, more than two weeks since they had first consulted by telephone. DNA tests had confirmed that it was, indeed, Deborah’s blood on Owen’s anorak and Owen’s tissue under her fingernail. Banks had sent over all the witness statements and forensic test results collected in the Initial Case File. Owen Pierce’s defense team would also have copies of them by now.
“I like this,” Oakes was saying, tapping the foot-thick heap of files on his desk. “I particularly like this DNA analysis. Something I can really get my teeth into. No confession, you say?”
“No,” Banks answered.
“Good.” He slurped some coffee. “Nothing but trouble, confessions, if you ask me. You’re better off without them. What do you think, Denise?”
“We’ve had some success with confessions. Limited, I’ll admit. As often as not they’ll retract, say the police falsified it or beat it out of them.” She gave Banks a stern look. “But even scientific evidence isn’t entirely problem-free. Depends very much on how it was gathered and who’s presenting it.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Oakes, waving his hand in the air. “Remember that dithering twit in the Innes case we did in Richmond?” He looked at Banks and Stott and rolled his eyes. “Open and shut. Or should have been. Simple matter of bloodstains. By the time the defense had finished with this chap, he was a nervous wreck, not even sure any more that two and two made four. But what I mean is, a good, solid case rests on facts. Like DNA. That’s what judges like and that’s what juries like. Facts. Indisputable. Beautiful. Facts. Am I right, Denise?”
Denise Campbell nodded.
“Now,” Oakes went on after another slug of coffee, “I trust that Mr. Pierce gave his permission for the blood and hair samples to be taken?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “They were taken by a registered police surgeon. You should have copies of the signed consent forms.”
Oakes frowned and dug around deeper in the pile. “Ah, yes,” he muttered, pulling out a few coffee-ringed sheets. “Here they are. Good. Good. And I trust his anorak was legally obtained in the first place?”
Banks looked at Stott, who said, “Yes. He gave us his permission to take it in for tests and we gave him a receipt.”
“But you didn’t go into his home with a search warrant?”
“No,” said Stott. “At that stage in our inquiries we merely wanted to talk to Mr. Pierce. Then, when I saw the orange anorak, having heard descriptions of a man in a similar orange anorak in the vicinity of the crime scene, I took the initiative and-”
Oakes flapped his hand again. “Yes, yes, yes, Inspector. All right. You’re not giving evidence in court. Spare me the formalities. It’s a bit flimsy, but it’ll have to do.”
Stott sat stiffly in his chair, red-faced, mouth tight. Banks couldn’t resist a smile. It was the new lad’s first taste of Stafford Oakes.
Oakes went on, thumbing through the pile on his desk. “Good stuff, most of this,” he said. “DNA, hair, blood analysis. Good stuff. Can’t understand a word of it myself, of course, but get the right man in the box and we’d even be able to sell it to your average Sun reader. That’s the key, you know: plain language, without talking down.” He put a thick wad of papers aside and flapped a few statements in the air. “And this,” he went on. “Not so bad, either. Your vicar, what’s his name…Daniel Charters…places our man on the bridge around the right time.” He touched his index finger to the side of his nose. “Must say though, Banks, there’s a hint of moral turpitude about the fellow.”
“Daniel Charters was accused of making a homosexual advance to a church worker,” said Banks. “A Croatian refugee called Ive Jelačić, who was also a suspect in this case, until we turned up Pierce. If it’s of any interest, I don’t believe Charters did it.”
“Doesn’t matter what you believe. Does it, Denise?”
“No,” said Denise.
“See, my learned colleague agrees. No, what matters, Banks, is what the jury believes. Vicar with a whiff of scandal lingering around the dog-collar like a particularly virulent fart.” He shook his head and tut-tutted. “Now, there, they say to themselves, goes a true hypocrite, a man who preaches the virtue of chastity, a man who belongs to a church that won’t even ordain homosexual ministers, caught with his hand up the choirboy’s surplice, so to speak. Well, you see what I mean? It’s tabloid scandal-sheet material, that’s what it is.”
“The point is academic, anyway,” Banks said, “as Owen Pierce openly admits to being on the bridge at the time.”
“Ah-hah,” said Oakes, raising a finger. “I wouldn’t take too much notice of that. It’s about as useful as a confession. And remember, that’s what he said before he talked to his solicitor. A lot can change between now and the trial. Believe me, we need as much evidence as we can get.”
“Charters isn’t the only one who can place Pierce on the bridge around the right time. Deborah’s friend Megan Preece saw him, too.”
Oakes shook his head. “I’ve read her statement. She’s not entirely sure it was him. Damn good thing, too. Nothing worse than children in the box. Oh, we’ll use your vicar. Don’t worry about that. Just playing devil’s advocate. Have to anticipate all eventualities.” He glanced at more statements. “The landlord of the Nag’s Head places Pierce in the pub a short while before, too, I see. He’s reliable, I suppose?”