Peter Robinson: Innocent Graves

“No,” he said, getting up and patting her head. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just an old fool set in his ways, that’s all. Shall I make us both some cocoa?”

Tracy nodded, then yawned and stretched her arms high in the air.

Banks smiled. Gundula Janowitz sang Hermann Hesse’s words. Banks had listened to the songs so many times, he knew the translation by heart:

You can say that again, thought Banks. He looked back at Tracy as he walked to the kitchen. She was examining the small-print CD liner notes with squinting eyes trying to make out the words.

She would find out soon enough what had happened to Deborah Harrison, Banks thought. It would be all over town tomorrow. But not tonight. Tonight father and daughter would enjoy a quiet, innocent cup of cocoa in the middle of the night in their safe, warm house floating like an island in the fog.

Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle was already pacing the lino when Banks arrived at his office early the next morning. Bald head shining like a new cricket ball freshly rubbed on the bowler’s crotch, black eyes glowing like a Whitby jet, clean-shaven chin jutting out like the prow of a boat, uniform sharply creased, not a speck of fluff or cotton anywhere to be seen, and a poppy placed ostentatiously in his lapel, he looked alert, wide-awake and ready for anything.

Which was more than Banks looked, or felt for that matter. All told, he had got no more than about three hours’ uneasy sleep, especially as an early telephone call from Ken Blackstone had woken him up. Though the fog was quickly turning to drizzle this morning, he had walked the mile to work simply to get the cobwebs out of his brain. He wasn’t sure whether he had succeeded. It didn’t help that his cold was getting worse, either, filling his head with damp cotton wool.

“Ah, Banks, about bloody time,” said Riddle.

Banks removed his headphones and switched off the Jimi Hendrix tape he had been listening to. The breakneck arpeggios of “Pali Gap” were still ringing in his stuffed-up ears.

“And do you have to go around with those bloody things stuck in your ears?” Riddle went on. “Don’t you know how silly you look?”

Banks knew a rhetorical question when he heard one.

“I suppose you’re aware who the victim’s father is?”

“Sir Geoffrey Harrison, sir. I talked to him last night.”

“In that case you’ll realize how important this is. This…this…terrible tragedy.” Never at a loss for a cliché wasn’t Jimmy Riddle, Banks reflected. Riddle slid his hand over his head and went on. “I want a hundred per cent on this one, Banks. No. Two hundred per cent. Do you understand? No shirking. No dragging of feet.”

Banks nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Now what about this Bosnian fellow? Jurassic, is it?”

“Jelačić, sir. And he’s Croatian.”

“Whatever. Think he’s our man?”

“We’ll certainly be talking to him. Ken Blackstone has just reported that Jelačić’s known to the Leeds police. Drunk and disorderly, one charge of assault in a pub. And he didn’t get home until after two this morning. They’ve got his prints, so we should be able to compare them if Vic gets anything from the vodka bottle.”

“Good.” Riddle grinned. “That’s the kind of thing I like to hear. I want a quick arrest on this one, Banks. Sir Geoffrey’s a personal friend of mine. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. And take it easy on the family. I don’t want you pestering them in their time of grief. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Riddle straightened his uniform, which didn’t need it, and brushed imaginary dandruff from his shoulders. Wishful thinking, Banks guessed. “Now I’m off to give a press conference,” he said. “Anything I ought to know to stop me looking a prize berk?”

Nothing could stop you from looking like a prize berk, Banks thought. “No, sir,” he said. “But you might like to drop by the murder room and see if there’s anything fresh come in.”

“I’ve already done that. What do you think I am, a bloody moron?”

Banks let the silence stretch.

Riddle kept pacing, though he seemed to have run out of things to say for the present. At last he headed for the door. “Right, then. Remember what I said, Banks,” he said, pointing a finger. “Results. Fast.”

Banks felt himself relax and breathe easier when Riddle had gone, like a Victorian lady when she takes her corsets off. He had read about “Type A” personalities in a magazine article-all push and shove, ambition and self-importance, and bloody exhausting to be in the same room with.

Banks lit a cigarette, read the reports on his desk and looked at the Dalesman calendar on his wall. November showed the village of Muker, in Swaledale, a cluster of gray limestone buildings cupped in a valley of muted autumn colors. He walked over to the window where the early morning light was leaking through the cloud cover like dirty dishwater.

The market square, with its Norman church to his left, bank, shops and cafés opposite and Queen’s Arms to the right, was a study in slate-gray, except for one bright red Honda parked by the weathered market cross. Banks watched a bent old lady hobble across the cobbles under a black umbrella. He checked his watch with the church tower clock: five to eight, time to gather his papers and head for the morning meeting.

DI Stott was already waiting and raring to go in the “Boardroom,” so called because of its well-polished oval table, ten matching stiff-backed chairs and dark-burgundy wallpaper above the wainscoting.

Detective Constable Susan Gay arrived two minutes later. Her make-up almost hid the bags under her eyes, the gel made her short curly hair look as if it were still wet from the shower, and her subtle perfume brought a whiff of spring to the room.

Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley, big and heavy, like a rugby prop-forward gone to seed, came in last. He hadn’t freshened up. His face looked like a lump of dough with tufts of stubble sticking out of it, his eyes were bloodshot and his strawy hair uncombed. His navy-blue suit was creased and shiny.

“Okay,” said Banks, shuffling the papers in front of him, “we’ve got two new pieces of information to deal with. I’d hesitate to call them leads, but you never know. First off, for what it’s worth, one of our diuretically challenged constables found the missing underwear while nipping behind a handy yew to drain the dragon. They’re with the rest of her clothing at the mortuary. The second item might be even more significant,” he went on. “Some of you may already know that a Croatian refugee called Ive Jelačić was recently fired by Daniel Charters, vicar of St. Mary’s, and subsequently brought charges of sexual harassment against him. By the sound of it, this Jelačić’s an unsavory character. According to West Yorkshire CID, Mr. Jelačić didn’t get home until after two o’clock last night, plenty of time to get back from committing a murder in Eastvale, even in the fog. He said he’d been playing cards with some fellow countrymen at a friend’s house.”

Hatchley grunted. “These foreigners would lie as soon as look at you,” he said. “Especially to cover up for one another.”

“West Yorkshire CID are already checking it out,” Banks went on, “but I’m afraid Detective Sergeant Hatchley has, in his inimitable fashion, probably put his finger on the truth of the matter. So we’ll take this alibi with a large pinch of salt. DI Blackstone said they’ll sit on Jelačić until we get there. I think we’ll let him sweat for a couple more hours.