Peter Robinson - Innocent Graves

“Was she being secretive about anything recently?”

Megan frowned. “Yes, she was. I was getting fed up of it.”

“Did she tell you anything about it?”

“No. It wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?”

“Did she tell you who or what it concerned?”

Megan shook her head. “No.”

“Did she say anything about it?”

“Just that she thought it was time to tell someone, and then to watch what happened when the sh-. Just to see what happened.”

“When did she tell you this?”

“Just as she was leaving, on the bridge.”

“While she was running backwards?”

“Yes. It’s…it was the last thing she said.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m tired.”

“All right,” said Banks. “I’m sorry, Megan. You’re doing really well. I’ll try not to be much longer. But you must realize how important it is. If it was a secret about somebody who didn’t want it known…And if that somebody knew that Deborah knew…Do you see what I mean?”

Megan nodded.

“How long had she been talking about this secret?”

“Since the beginning of term.”

“That’s quite a long time.”

“Yes. She’d let it drop for a week or two, then bring it up again.”

“Would she have told anyone else?”

“No. I’m her best friend.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Megan? Anything at all.”

Megan shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Banks and Susan stood up. “Get some rest now,” Banks said. “And believe me, we’ll be doing our best to find out who did this.”

They said goodbye to the nurse, picked up their raincoats and headed out into the drizzle.

“What did you think?” Banks asked Susan as they walked back to the car.

“About Megan? I think she told us pretty much all she knew.”

“Notice the way she blushed and turned her eyes away when I pushed her about the boyfriend? I’d say there’s more to that relationship than she’s told us.”

“Well, sir,” said Susan, “from my experience I’d say Deborah probably said he had his uses but he was thick.”

“You think Deborah might have slept with this John?”

“She might have, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, she’d say that, or hint that she had, the way kids do. It doesn’t mean they actually did anything.”

“And Megan was embarrassed by it?”

“Yes. I’d guess Megan is a bit shy around boys.”

“Would you agree she was the ugly one in that relationship?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, sir.”

Banks smiled. “I’m sorry. It must be something to do with being on school grounds again. It takes me back. But when you were a teenager and you met two girls, one of them was bound to be the ugly one.”

“And when you met two boys, one of them was certain to be a drip and the other an octopus. If you were really lucky, you got a combination of the two.”

Banks laughed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Susan went on, “I don’t get your point. Surely you’re not suggesting that Megan Preece had anything to do with Deborah’s murder?”

“No. Of course not. Just thinking out loud, is all.”

They got in the unmarked police car. When it started up, Vaughan Williams’s Suite for Viola and Orchestra was playing on the radio: the beautiful, melancholy “Ballad.” It suited the falling leaves and the November drizzle perfectly, Banks thought.

“I’m just trying to understand the relationship so that I can understand the way Deborah related to people,” he said. “The way I see it is that Megan was the less attractive of the two friends. That would probably make her adoring and resentful in equal measures. She knew she was overshadowed and outclassed by Deborah’s looks and talent, and for the most part she was probably content to bask in the glory of being the chosen one, best friend of the goddess. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, sir. Megan was the kind of friend who could only make Deborah look even better.”

“Right. But it also sounded as if Deborah could twist the knife, too, could be cruel. If she could annoy her best friend the way she did, then she could have angered a more dangerous enemy, don’t you think?”

“It’s possible, sir. But a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind me saying so. I still say we’re looking for a stranger. And from what we know already, that stranger on the bridge could have been Ive Jelačić.”

“True,” said Banks. “It could also have been a figment of Megan’s imagination, at least in part. But we’ll sort out Mr. Jelačić later. He’s not going anywhere. Ken Blackstone’s got him under surveillance. What do you think about the secret?”

“Not much. A lot of schoolkids are like that. As Megan said, it probably didn’t mean anything.”

“Not to her, perhaps. But maybe to someone else. Look, isn’t that…” He pointed.

As they were turning left onto North Market Street, Banks noticed a woman in a long navy raincoat standing at the bus-stop over the road.

“Isn’t it who?” Susan asked.

“Oh, I forgot. You haven’t met her. Rebecca Charters, the vicar’s wife. I’m sure it was her. I wonder where she’s going?”

“Curioser and curioser,” said Susan.

“Well, sir,” said Sergeant Hatchley, looking at his watch. “Don’t you think we might as well have a spot of lunch?”

Barry Stott sighed. “Oh, all right. Come on.”

This was the detective inspector’s first major case after his promotion and transfer, and he intended to make the most of it. The only thorn in the ointment was this idle, thick lump of Yorkshire blubber beside him: Detective Sergeant Hatchley.

Stott would have preferred DC Susan Gay. Not because she was prettier than Hatchley-he didn’t find her attractive in that way-but because she was smarter, keener and a lot less trouble.

Like now. Left to himself, Stott would have skipped lunch, or bought a take-away from one of the cafés on North Market Street. The morning had been a waste of time; they had found no leads in the sex offender files, and all Stott could find out from immigration about Jelačić was that he was an engineer from Split, who had come to England two years ago. And since then, he had worked at a variety of odd jobs, never lasting long in any one place. Short of going to Croatia himself, Stott thought, it didn’t look as if it would be an easy task getting hold of a criminal record, if there was one.

At least out here, near the crime scene, he felt he had a good chance of scoring some success. Somebody had to have noticed a stranger in the area, fog or no fog. Or a car parked where it shouldn’t be. St. Mary’s was, after all, an upper-crust area, and people who could afford to live there were very wary of strangers. And Stott was sure that a stranger had murdered Deborah Harrison.

They were standing in the rain outside the Nag’s Head at the north-west corner of Kendal Road and North Market Street, diagonally across from St. Mary’s Church, and Stott was ready to do just about anything to shut Hatchley up.

It wasn’t the kind of pub you’d expect in such a wealthy area, Stott thought: no thick carpet, polished brass and gleaming wood, pot of mulled wine heating on the bar. In fact, it looked distinctly shabby. He guessed it was probably a traveler’s pub, being situated at such an important junction. In one form or another, Kendal Road ran all the way from the Lake District to the east coast and Market Street was a major north-south route. The locals would have their own tasteful pubs hidden away in the residential streets. Either that or they drove out to the country clubs.

There were about six people in the lounge bar. Stott noted with distaste that the room smelled of smoke and beer. This certainly wasn’t his kind of pub, if there were such a place. He far preferred churches. Pubs, as far as Stott was concerned, were simply breeding grounds for trouble.