He had covered the whole urban landscape, or so it seemed; the west end, where the bright neons were reflected in the puddles and the nightclubs were open, occasional drunks and prostitutes shouting or laughing out loud; rain-swept wastelands of demolished houses, where he had to pick his way carefully over the piles of bricks with weeds growing between them; clusters of tower blocks surrounded by burned-out cars, playgrounds with broken swings; and broad tree-lined streets, large houses set well back from the road. He had walked through areas he wouldn’t have gone near if he had cared what happened to him, and if he hadn’t been mugged or beaten up it wasn’t for lack of carelessness.
But nothing had happened. He had seen plenty of dangerous-looking people, some hiding furtively in shop doorways or hanging around in groups smoking crack in the shadows of tower-block stairwells, but no-one had approached him. Police cars had passed him as he walked along Finchley Road or Whitechapel High Street, but none had stopped to ask him who he was. If he hadn’t known different, he would have said he was leading a charmed life.
At one point, close to morning, he had stood on a bridge watching the rain pit the river’s surface and felt the life of the city around him, restful perhaps, but never quite sleeping, that hum of energy always there, always running through it like the river did. He didn’t think it was Westminster Bridge, but still Wordsworth’s lines sprung into his mind, words he had read and memorized in prison:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Well, perhaps the air wasn’t exactly “smokeless,” Owen thought, but one has to make allowances for time.
Owen felt tired and empty. So tired and so empty.
Eastvale Station was in the north-eastern part of the town, on Kendal Road a couple of miles east of North Market Street. It was only a short taxi-ride to the town center. But Owen didn’t want to go to the center, or, tired as he was, home.
He was surprised the police weren’t waiting for him at the station, as they probably would be at his house. He didn’t want to walk right into their arms, and however empty he felt, however final every second of continued freedom seemed, he still didn’t want to give it up just yet. Perhaps, he thought, he was like the cancer patient who knows there’s no hope but clings onto life through all the pain, hoping for a miracle, hoping that the disease will just go away, that it was all a bad dream. Besides, he wanted another drink.
Whatever his reasons, he found himself walking along Kendal Road. The day had been so hot and humid that the cooler evening air brought a mist that hung in the air like fog. At the bridge, he looked along the tree-lined banks towards town and saw the high three-quarter moon and the floodlit castle on its hill reflected in the water, all blurry in the haze of the summer mist.
Walking on, he came to the crossroads and saw the Nag’s Head. Well, he thought, with a smile, it would do as well as anywhere. He had come full circle.
V
By the time Banks and Gristhorpe got Chief Constable Riddle’s permission to bring Michael Clayton in for questioning, which wasn’t easy, it was already dark. One of the conditions was that Riddle himself be present at the interview.
Banks was pleased to see that Clayton, as expected, was at least mildly intimidated by the sparse and dreary interview room, with its faded institutional-green walls, flyblown window, table and chairs bolted to the floor, and that mingled smell of urine and old cigarette smoke.
Clayton made the expected fuss about being dragged away from his home, like a common criminal, to the police station, but his confidence had lost a bit of its edge. He was wearing sharp-creased gray trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt; his glasses hung on a chain around his neck.
“Are you charging me with something?” Clayton asked, folding his arms and crossing his legs.
“No,” said Gristhorpe. “At least not yet. Chief Inspector Banks has a few questions he wants to ask you, that’s all.”
Jimmy Riddle sat behind Clayton in the far corner by the window, so the suspect couldn’t constantly look to him for comfort and reassurance. Riddle seemed folded in on himself, legs and arms tightly crossed. He had promised not to interfere, but Banks didn’t believe it for a moment.
“About what?” Clayton asked.
“About the murder of your goddaughter, Deborah Harrison.”
“I thought you’d finished with all that?”
“Not quite.”
He looked at his watch. “Well, you’d better tell him to get on with it, then. I’ve got important work to do.”
Banks turned on the tape recorders, made a note of the time and who was present, then gave Clayton the new caution, the same one he had given Owen Pierce eight months ago. Formalities done, he shuffled some papers on the desk in front of him and asked, “Remember when we talked before, Mr. Clayton, and I asked you if you had been having an affair with Sylvie Harrison?”
Clayton looked from Gristhorpe to Banks. “Yes,” he said to the latter. “I told you it was absurd then, and it’s still absurd now.”
“I know.”
Clayton swallowed. “What?”
“I said I know it’s absurd.”
He shook his head. “So you’re not still trying to accuse me of that? Then why…?”
“And remember I suggested that Deborah might have gained access to some sensitive business material, or some government secret?”
“Yes. Again, ridiculous.”
“You’re absolutely right. You weren’t having an affair with Sylvie Harrison,” Banks said slowly, “and Deborah didn’t gain access to any important government secrets. We know that now. I got it all wrong. You were in love with your goddaughter, with Deborah. That’s why you killed her.”
Clayton paled. “This…this is ludicrous.” He twisted around in his chair to look at Riddle. “Look, Jerry, I don’t know what they’re talking about. You’re their superior. Can’t you do something?”
Riddle, who had read both the diary and the computer journal, shook his head slowly. “Best answer the questions truthfully, Michael. That’s best for all of us.”
While Clayton was staring open-mouthed at Riddle’s betrayal, Superintendent Gristhorpe dropped the printed computer journal on the table in front of him. Clayton first glanced at it, then put his glasses on, picked it up and read a few paragraphs. Then he pushed it aside. “What on earth is that?” he asked Banks.
“The product of a sick mind, I’d say,” Banks answered.
“I hope you’re not suggesting it has anything to do with me.”
Banks leaned forward suddenly, snatched back the pages and slapped them down on the table. “Oh, stop mucking us about. It came from your computer. The one John Spinks stole that day he took your car. He’s already told us all about that, about how he saw Deborah make a copy of the files onto a diskette. You didn’t know about that, did you?”
“I…where…?”
“She kept it well hidden. Look, you know it’s your journal. Don’t deny it.”
Even in his shock, Clayton managed a thin smile and rallied his defenses. “Deny it? I most certainly do. And I’m afraid you’ll have a hard job proving a wild accusation like that. Your suggestions are outrageous.” He glanced back at Riddle. “And Jerry knows it, too. There’s absolutely nothing to link that printout with me. It could have been written by anyone.”
“I don’t think so,” said Banks. “Oh, I know that Deborah reformatted your hard drive well beyond anything an ‘unerase’ or ‘undelete’ command could bring back to life, but you must admit the contents of the journal, the circumstances, all point to you. Very damning.”