“Which takes us to my questions: why and who?”
“Yes.” Banks counted them on his fingers, one by one. “For a start, there’s John Spinks. He was Deborah’s boyfriend for part of the summer, and he’s a nasty piece of work. They parted on very bad terms and I think he’s the type to bear a grudge. He also has an alibi that doesn’t hold much water. Ive Jelačić has a solid alibi, I’d say, in Vjeko Batorac, but I’m still certain he’s involved, he knows something.”
“Any idea what?”
“I’d guess he might have seen Deborah meeting someone.”
“Why not tell us who, then?”
“That’s not Jelačić’s style. If you ask me, I’d say he’s trying to work out what might be in it for him first. For crying out loud, he even asked me if there was a reward.”
“What do we do, beat it out of him?”
“Believe me, that thought’s crossed my mind. But no. We’ll get him one way or another, don’t worry about that. I’m not finished with Mr. Jelačić yet.”
“Who else have we got? What about that schoolteacher?”
“Patrick Metcalfe? Another possibility. Though I doubt very much that he’s got the bottle, we have to consider him. He was Deborah’s history teacher and he was having an affair with Rebecca Charters, the vicar’s wife. One might reasonably assume that’s a poor career move for a male teacher at an Anglican girls’ school. If Deborah knew about the affair-and she could easily have seen Metcalfe entering or leaving the vicarage on occasion-then it could have cost Metcalfe not only his job, but his entire teaching career.”
“And as I recall from the statement,” Gristhorpe said, “he says he stayed home alone in his flat after Daniel Charters left.”
Banks nodded. “And we’ve no way of confirming or denying that unless someone saw him, which no-one has admitted to so far.”
“What about the vicar?”
“I’ve been wondering about him, too,” Banks said. “In general I’ve been pretty sympathetic towards him, but looking at things objectively, he could be our man. He certainly has no alibi, and he’s both tall and strong enough.”
“Motive?”
“We know that Ive Jelačić accused him of abusing his position by making homosexual advances. Given Jelačić’s character, this is probably pure fabrication-Vjeko Batorac certainly thinks it is-but let’s say it’s true, or it approximates the truth. And let’s say Deborah saw something that could confirm it, either involving Charters and Jelačić or Charters and someone else. If it got out, he also stood to lose everything. That might give him a powerful enough motive.”
“Or his wife?” Gristhorpe suggested.
“Yes. It could have been a woman,” Banks agreed. “After all, there was no evidence of rape, and the body could have been arranged to make it look like a sex murder. Rebecca Charters is probably tall and strong enough.”
“And she could have had either of two motives,” Gristhorpe added. “To protect the knowledge of her affair with Metcalfe, or to protect her husband from certain dismissal.” He shook his head. “It’s a real Peyton Place we’ve unearthed here, Alan. Who’d think such goings on occurred in a nice little Yorkshire town like Eastvale?”
Banks smiled. “‘It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’”
Gristhorpe smiled back. “And what about Jimmy Riddle’s mates?” he said.
“Certainly not out of the question. I was beginning to think that Michael Clayton might have been having an affair with Sylvie Harrison, unlikely as it sounds. Sir Geoffrey and Michael Clayton have been close friends since university. If Clayton were having an affair with his wife, and if Deborah knew about that, it could have had a devastating effect. Think of how much money and prestige were at stake there.”
“As I understand it, none of them have alibis either.”
“That’s right. And they all knew Deborah went to the chess club on a Monday, and what time she usually came home. And by what route. But even if we accept the horrible possibility that she was capable of such a crime, Sylvie Harrison is neither tall nor strong enough to have killed her daughter. Rebecca Charters is the only woman in this case who could remotely have done it.”
“Clayton, then?”
“Possible. Certainly he’s the more likely of the two. Though, again, he was the child’s godfather.”
“Let’s also not forget,” Gristhorpe added, “that HarClay Industries had a lot of MoD contracts. They do a lot of hush-hush work. If Deborah found out about any hanky-panky going on there, contracts with foreign governments and the like…”
“Or even something our own government didn’t want the general public to know?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Gristhorpe agreed. “According to your notes, at the time of his daughter’s murder, Sir Geoffrey Harrison was in a private meeting with a man from the government called Oliver Jackson. I happen to know Oliver Jackson, and he’s not exactly from the government, he’s Special Branch.”
“Aren’t we getting a bit far-fetched here?” Banks said. “Maybe it’s just someone else with the same name?”
Gristhorpe shook his head. “I checked with the York CID. It was the same Oliver Jackson all right. They knew he was in town, but they weren’t told why. It’s just another aspect to consider. Any other angles?”
Banks sighed. “Not that I can think of,” he said. “Unless Deborah stumbled on something illegal going on in the school-something to do with sex or drugs, perhaps-but we couldn’t dig anything up there.”
“It’s still plenty to be going on with for the moment.”
Banks stood up and walked to the door, already reaching in his pocket for his Silk Cuts.
“By the way,” Gristhorpe asked, “how is DI Stott doing?”
Banks paused at door. “He’s been walking around looking like death warmed up ever since Pierce got off. I’m getting a bit worried about him.”
“Maybe he’ll be better after a weekend’s rest?”
“Maybe.”
As he walked back to his own office, Banks heard raised voices down the corridor and went to see what was happening. There, at the bottom of the staircase, stood John Spinks and DC Susan Gay.
II
“The problem is not with your teaching ability, Owen. You have demonstrated that to us quite clearly over the years.”
“Then I don’t understand,” Owen said. “Why can’t I have my job back?” He was sitting in the chairman’s book-lined office. Peter Kemp, with his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his freckles and ginger hair like tufts on a coconut sat behind the untidy desk. “Kemp the Unkempt,” the staff members had nicknamed him. To one side, a computer hummed, white cursor blinking in anticipation on an empty blue screen.
Kemp leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. Owen could see a dark patch of sweat under each arm. “Technically, Owen,” Kemp said, “you can’t demand back a job you never had. Remember, you were employed purely on a term-to-term basis, no guarantees. We simply can’t use you next term.”
As he spoke, Kemp looked at Owen down his nose, under the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses, as an entomologist might regard an especially interesting but ugly new bug. The office smelled of Polo mints and fresh paint. Owen longed to let in some air, but he knew from experience that none of the windows opened.