Clayton said nothing for a moment, then he croaked, “I want my solicitor. Now. Get my solicitor, right now. I’m not saying another word.”
Bloody hell, thought Banks, here we go again. He called in the constable from outside the interview room. “Take him down to the custody suite, will you, Wigmore. And make sure you let him call his lawyer.”
VI
Owen sat in the Nag’s Head nursing his second pint and Scotch chaser, trying to pluck up the courage to go over the road and see Rebecca and Daniel. The problem was, he felt ashamed to face them. They had believed in his innocence, and he had let them down badly. He knew that if there were to be any sort of salvation or reclamation in this business at all, he would have to tell them the whole truth, including what he had done to Michelle. And he didn’t know if he could do that right now. He could hardly even admit to himself that he had become exactly what everyone thought he was: a murderer.
He looked around at the uninspiring decor of the pub and wondered what the hell he was doing here again. It had seemed a nice irony when he saw the sign over the bridge-full circle-but now it didn’t seem like such a good idea.
The Nag’s Head was boisterous, with the landlord entertaining a group of cronies with dirty jokes around the bar and tables full of couples laughing and groups of underage kids who’d had a bit too much.
He didn’t know what he was going to do after he finished his drinks: either go home and meet the police, or have another and go face Rebecca and Daniel. More drink wouldn’t help with that, though, he realized. He would feel less like facing them if he were drunk. Best drink up and turn himself in, then, return to the custody suite, where he should feel quite at home by now.
“What did you say?”
Owen looked up at the sound of the voice. There was a lull in the conversation and laughter. The landlord was collecting empty glasses. He stood over Owen’s table. “Sorry mate,” he said. “I thought I heard you say something.”
Owen shook his head. He realized he must have been muttering to himself. He turned away from the landlord’s scrutiny. He could still feel the man looking at him, though, recognition struggling to come to the surface. He had a couple of days’ growth, a few more pounds around the waist from lack of exercise and a prison pallor, but other than that he didn’t look too different from the person who had sat alone in that same pub one foggy night last November.
Best finish his drinks and leave, he decided, tossing back the Scotch in one and washing it down with beer.
Then, all of a sudden, the landlord said, “Bloody hell, it is him! I don’t bloody believe it. The nerve.”
The men at the bar turned as one to look at Owen.
“It’s him,” the landlord repeated. “The one who was in here that night. The one who murdered those two young lasses.”
Owen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, edging towards the door.
“Nay, they let him off,” someone said.
“Aye, but just because they hadn’t got enough evidence,” another said. “Don’t you read t’papers?”
“It was a bloody cover-up.”
“Bleeding shame, more like. Poor wee lasses.”
“A travesty of justice.”
By the time Owen actually got to the door, a journey that felt like a hundred miles, bar-stools were scraping against the stone floor and he was aware of a crowd surging towards him.
No time to sneak out surreptitiously now. He dashed through the door and ran across Kendal Road. Luckily, the traffic lights were in his favor. When he got to the other side of the road, he saw about five or six people standing outside the pub doors. For a moment, he thought they were going to give chase, but someone shouted something he didn’t hear and they went back inside.
Owen still ran as if he were being chased. There was only one place he could go now. He dashed across North Market Street towards St. Mary’s church. When he was through the gate, running down the tarmac path, he could see, even in the mist, that the kitchen light was on in the vicarage.
VII
Alone in his office at last, Banks went to close the blinds and looked out for a moment on the quiet cobbled market square and the welcoming lights of the Queen’s Arms. Maybe he’d have a quick one there before going home. Still time. Finally, he closed the blinds, turned on the shaded table-lamp and lit a cigarette. Then he sifted through his tapes and decided on Britten’s third string quartet.
For a long time he just sat there smoking, staring at the wall and letting Britten’s meditative quartet wash over him. He thought about the Clayton interview, and especially about the new coldness in Chief Constable Riddle’s manner towards his old lodge pal. Maybe Riddle wasn’t so bad, after all; at least he had an open enough mind to change his opinions when the facts started to weigh heavily against them.
Then, when his cigarette was finished, Banks turned to Deborah’s diary again, striving once more to understand what had happened between her and Clayton over the two months leading up to her death.
August 24
Disaster has struck! Mummy caught John and me in bed this afternoon. She was supposed to be at one of her charity meetings but she wasn’t feeling well and came home early. It was a terrible scene with Mummy and John shouting at one another and I didn’t like to see John at all behaving like that. I thought he was going to hit Mummy in the end but he broke a vase on the wall and a piece of pottery cut Mummy’s face. Then when he’d gone Mummy said I absolutely must not see him again or she would tell Daddy. Then she cried and put her arms around me and I felt sorry for her. John said such terrible things, called her such horrible names and said he would do things to her I won’t repeat even here in my private diary. I don’t care if I never see him again. I hate him. He’s gross. He even stole things from our house. He’s just a common thief. A thief and a thickie. What could I ever have seen in him?
August 27
Michael came to the house today while Mummy and Daddy were out. He was absolutely livid about the other day with John. I didn’t know Mummy had told him. He called me names and I thought at one point he was going to hit me. It was then I told him. I couldn’t help it. I told him I’d read his journal about me and called him a dirty old man. He went so white I thought he was going to faint. Then he asked me what I was going to do. I said I didn’t know. I’d just have to wait and see. Wait for what? he asked me. To see what happens, says I.
August 28
Michael really is rather handsome. And much more intelligent and sophisticated than John. Mary Taylor at school told me last term she had an affair with a married man, a friend of her father’s, who was 38 years old! And she says he was wonderful and considerate at sex and bought her presents and all sorts of things. I think Uncle Michael might be even older than 38 but he’s not fat and ugly or anything like most old people.