“You see, Owen,” Banks went on steadily, “there was another young girl killed last night. A seventeen-year-old schoolgirl from Eastvale Comprehensive. It’s almost certain she was killed by the same person who killed Deborah Harrison-same method, same ritual elements-and we think you are that person.”
“Ridiculous. I was watching television.”
“Alone?”
“I’m always alone these days. You’ve seen to that.”
“So, can you see our problem, Owen? You were home, alone, watching an old film on television. Anyone could say that.”
“But I’m not just anyone, am I?”
“How’s the photography going, Owen?”
“What?”
“You’re a keen photographer, aren’t you? I was just asking how it was going.”
“It isn’t. My house was broken into while I was on trial and the bastard who broke in killed my fish and smashed my cameras.”
Banks paused. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
Banks took out the plastic film container and held it up for Owen to see. “Know what that is?”
“Of course I do.”
“Is it yours?”
“How would I know. There are millions of them around.”
“Thing is, Owen, we found this close to the body, and we found your fingerprints on it.”
Owen seemed to turn rigid, as if all his muscles tightened at once. The blood drained from his face. “What?”
“We found your fingerprints on it, Owen. Can you explain to us how they got there.”
“I…I…” he started shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It must be mine.”
“Speak up, Owen. What did you say?”
“It must be mine.”
“Any idea how it got out in the country near Skield?”
“Skield?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head. “I went up there the other day for a walk.”
“We know,” said Susan Gay, speaking up for the first time. “We asked around the pub and the village, and several people told us they saw you in the area on Friday. They recognized you.”
“Not surprising. Didn’t you know, I’m notorious?”
“What were you doing, Owen?” Banks asked. “Reconnoitring? Checking out the location? Do you do a lot of advance preparation? Is that part of the fun?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I admit I was there. I went for a walk. But that’s the only time I’ve been.”
“Is it, Owen? I’m trying to believe you, honest I am. I want to believe you. Ever since you got off, I’ve been telling people that maybe you didn’t do it, maybe the jury was right. But this looks bad. You’ve disappointed me.”
“Well, excuse me.”
Banks shifted position. These hard chairs made his back ache. “What is this thing you have for rummaging around in girls’ handbags or satchels?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you like to take souvenirs?”
“Of what?”
“Something to focus on, help you replay what you did?”
“What did I do?”
“What did you do, Owen? You tell me how you get your thrills.”
Pierce said nothing. He seemed to shrink in his chair, his mouth clamped shut.
“You can tell me, Owen,” Banks went on. “I want to know. I want to understand. But you have to help me. Do you masturbate afterwards, reliving what you’ve done? Or can’t you contain yourself? Do you come in your trousers while you’re strangling them? Help me, Owen. I want to know.”
Still Pierce kept quiet. Banks shifted again. The chair creaked.
“Why am I here?” Pierce asked.
“You know that.”
“It’s because you think I did it before, isn’t it?”
“Did you, Owen?”
“I got off.”
“Yes, you did.”
“So I’d be a fool to admit it, wouldn’t I? Even if I had done it.”
“Did you do it? Did you kill Deborah Harrison?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Ellen Gilchrist?”
“No.”
Banks sighed. “You’re not making it easy for us, Owen.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I am.”
“Owen, you’re lying to us. You picked up Ellen Gilchrist on King Street last night. First you knocked her unconscious, then you drove her to Skield, where you dragged her a short distance up Witch Fell and strangled her with the strap of her handbag. Why won’t you tell me about it?”
Pierce seemed agitated by the description of his crime, Banks noticed. Guilty conscience?
“What was it like, Owen?” he pressed on. “Did she resist or did she just passively accept her fate. Know what I think? I think you’re a coward, Owen? First you strangled her from behind, so you didn’t have to look her in the eye. Then you lay her down on the grass and tore her clothes away. You imagined she was Michelle Chappel, didn’t you, and you were getting your own back, giving her what for. She didn’t have a chance. She was beyond resistance. But even then you couldn’t get it up, could you? You’re a coward, Owen. A coward and a pervert.”
“No!” The suddenness with which Pierce shot forward and slammed his fist into the desk startled Banks. He saw Susan Gay stand and make towards the door for help, but waved her down.
“Tell me, Owen,” he said. “Tell me how it happened.”
Pierce flopped back in his chair again, as if the energy of his outburst had depleted his reserves. “I want my lawyer,” he said tiredly. “I want Wharton. I’m not saying another word. You people are destroying me. Get me Wharton. And either arrest me or I’m leaving right now.”
Banks turned to Susan and raised his eyebrows, then sighed. “Very well, Owen,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.”
Chapter 18
I
By late Sunday evening, it was clear that the crowd wasn’t going to storm the Bastille of Eastvale Divisional HQ, and by early Monday morning, there were only a few diehards left.
Banks turned his Walkman up loud as he passed the reporters by the front doors; Maria Callas drowned out all their questions. He said hello to Sergeant Rowe at the front desk, grabbed a coffee and headed upstairs. When he got to the CID offices, he took the earphones out and walked on tiptoe, listening for that snorting-bull sound that usually indicated the presence of Chief Constable Riddle.
Silence-except for Susan Gay’s voice on the telephone, muffled behind her closed door.
Dr. Glendenning’s post-mortem report on Ellen Gilchrist was waiting in Banks’s pigeon hole, along with a preliminary report from the forensic lab, who had put a rush on this one.
In the office, Banks closed his door and pulled up the venetian blinds on yet another fine day. Much more of this and life would start to get boring, he reflected. Still, there was a bit of cloud gathering to the south, and the weather forecast threatened rain, even the possibility of a thunderstorm.
He opened the window a couple of inches and watched the shopkeepers open their doors and roll down their awnings against the sunshine. Then he stretched until he felt something crack pleasantly in his back, and sat down to study the report. He tuned the portable radio he kept in his office to Radio 4 and listened to “Today” as he read.
Glendenning had narrowed the time of death to between eleven and one, confirmed that the victim had been killed in the place where she was found, and matched the strap of her shoulder-bag to the weal in her throat.
The wound behind her ear was round and smooth, he also confirmed, about an inch in diameter, and most likely delivered by a metal hammer-head.
This time, unfortunately, there was no scratched tissue beneath her fingernails. In fact, her fingernails were so badly chewed they had been treated with some vile-tasting chemical to discourage her from biting them.
According to the lab, though there was no blood other than the deceased’s at the scene, there were several hairs on her clothing that didn’t come from her body. That was understandable, given that she had been at a crowded dance. What was damning, though, was that four of the hairs matched those found on Deborah Harrison’s school blazer-the ones that had already also been tested against the sample Owen Pierce had given almost eight months ago.