Banks smiled. “Ironic, yes. But a young girl did get killed, Owen. Horribly. Just like Deborah Harrison.”
“I know. I wasn’t laughing at that. And I didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know how I can help you.”
“I think you do. I don’t believe you haven’t considered the problem over the past couple of days.”
“What problem?”
Banks sat forward and rested his palms on the blotter. “You want me to spell it out? Okay. The reason we arrested you, Owen, was partly because you had been accused of a very similar crime before, and partly because we found strong physical evidence against you at the scene. It still looks very much as if the same person killed both of those girls, and we found evidence against you at both scenes.”
“The fingerprints and the hairs? Yes. And you’re right: I have been thinking about how they could have got there.”
“Any ideas?”
Owen shook his head. “I did go up Skield way, and I probably walked past the spot where…you know. I suppose I could have dropped such a film container, but I don’t think I had one with me. I told you about my camera. I didn’t have it with me. As for the hairs, I suppose I must have shed a few during my walk, but I can’t explain how they got on the victim’s clothes. Unless…”
“Yes?”
The coffee arrived. Banks poured. Owen blew into his cup first, then took a sip. “This is good. Thank you. Unless,” he went on, “and I know this sounds crazy, paranoid even, but I can’t see how any of it could have happened unless someone, the real killer, had decided to capitalize on my bad reputation, blame it on me, the way he knew everyone else would. It doesn’t make sense unless someone tried to frame me for Ellen Gilchrist’s murder.”
Banks started tapping a pencil against his blotter. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, if you accept that premise, then whoever it was must have broken into my house while I was in jail and wrecked the place to cover up his true intentions. Or he could have walked in easily after the place had been done over. The front door was unlocked when I got back. The lock was broken, in fact. This person must have thought there was a good chance I’d get off, and he wanted some insurance in case that happened and suspicion turned back on him. He must have found the empty film container in the waste-paper bin and guessed it would have my fingerprints on it. I mean, if it were empty, and I’d opened it… Then he must have picked up some hairs from the pillow in the bedroom. That would have been easy enough to do.”
Banks nodded. “Why not choose something more obvious to link you to the crime?”
“Failing my blood, which he couldn’t get hold of, I can’t think of anything more obvious than my hair and fingerprints, can you?”
Banks smiled. “I meant something with your name on, perhaps. So there could be no mistake. After all, the prints on the film container might have been blurred. He couldn’t be certain they’d lead us to you.”
“But if you think about it,” Owen said, looking pointedly at Banks, “he didn’t need very much, did he? You all believed I’d murdered Deborah Harrison, so it was easy to convince you I’d also killed Ellen Gilchrist. There was no point risking anything more obvious, like something with my name or photograph on it, because that would only draw suspicion. No, all he needed were my prints and hair. He knew my reputation would do the rest. Even without the prints he could have been fairly certain you’d pick on me. I’ll bet the minute you saw the film container you thought of me because you knew I was an amateur photographer.”
“That still leaves us one important question to answer,” Banks said. “Who? Of course, it might be that the murderer was simply using you as a convenient scapegoat-that it was nothing personal-but it could have been someone who really wanted you to suffer. Have you any idea who would want to do that to you?”
“I’ve racked my brains about it. But no. The only person who hates me that much is Michelle. Could it have been a woman?”
“I don’t think Michelle is tall enough,” Banks said. “But, yes, it could have been a woman.”
Owen shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Like you said, it was probably nothing personal. I mean, whoever did it just wanted someone else to blame. It didn’t matter who.”
“You’re probably right. But if you think of anyone…”
“Of course. One of the neighbors might have seen someone, you know. They wouldn’t speak out before because they all thought I was guilty and deserved having my house wrecked, but now…? I don’t know. It’s worth asking them, anyway. You might start with that prick Ivor and his wife, Siobhan, next door.”
“We’ll do that,” said Banks, standing up to indicate the interview was at an end.
Owen finished his coffee, stood awkwardly and moved towards the door. He could still hardly believe that freedom was just a few steps away again.
“What now?” Banks asked him.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot to think about. Maybe I’ll go away for a while, just get lost, like everyone suggested I should do in the first place.”
Banks shook his head. “No need to run away,” he said. “We know you didn’t do it now. The press will fall all over themselves to support your cause, and they’ll crucify us for getting the wrong man. Police incompetence.”
Owen forced a smile. “Maybe. Eventually. And I can’t say I’ll be sorry. You deserve it. I remember what you’ve put me through. I remember all the terrible things you accused me of only yesterday. Perversion. Cowardice. Not to mention murder. But I can’t see me getting my job or my friends back, can you? And I imagine there’ll be a lot of people around these parts slow to change their minds, no matter what. Shit sticks, Chief Inspector. That’s one thing I’ve learned from all this.”
Banks nodded. “Perhaps. For a while.”
Owen paused at the door. “Look,” he said, “I don’t expect an apology or anything, but could you just tell me again that you believe I’m innocent? Not just not guilty but innocent. Will you say it. I need to hear it.”
“You’re innocent, Owen. It’s true. You’re free to go.”
“Thank you.” Owen turned and started to pull the door shut behind him.
“Owen?” Banks called after him.
Owen felt a little shiver of panic. He turned. “Yes?”
“I am sorry. Good luck to you.”
Owen nodded, shut the door and left the building as fast as he could.
Chapter 19
I
It wasn’t until late Tuesday afternoon that a number of things clicked into place for Banks, and what had been eluding him, niggling him for days, suddenly became clear.
So far, there were no leads on the Ellen Gilchrist murder. Several cars had been spotted on King Street that night-big, small, light, dark, Japanese, French-but no-one had any reason to take down license numbers or detailed descriptions. If the killer had used his own car, Banks reflected, then he may have parked out of sight, just around the corner on one of the sidestreets.
A couple of tourists unable to sleep on a lumpy mattress at a Gratly B amp; B said they heard a car pass shortly after eleven-thirty, which would have been about the right time, but they hadn’t seen anything. So far, no-one in Skield had been disturbed by Saturday night’s events, but that didn’t surprise Banks. If the killer were clever, which he apparently was, then he would have parked off the road, well out of the hamlet itself.
Under Superintendent Gristhorpe’s co-ordination, Susan Gay and Jim Hatchley were still out checking the victim’s friends and acquaintances to see if she could have been killed by someone who knew her, or if anyone knew more than he or she was telling. The more he thought about it, though, the more Banks was convinced that the solution to Ellen Gilchrist’s murder lay in Deborah Harrison’s.