Peter Robinson - Innocent Graves

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“From about five o’clock on.”

“Until?”

“About two-thirty in the morning, when he turned the lights off. He didn’t go out at all except to buy a bottle of something at the off-license around nine o’clock.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Positive. The curtains weren’t quite closed. I could see him clearly whenever he got up. He was watching telly in the front room, but every now and then he’d get up to go to the toilet, or pour a drink, whatever.”

“And you’re certain he was there all the time? He didn’t sneak out the back and come back?”

Stott shook his head. “He was there, sir. Between the crucial times. Definitely. I saw him get up and cross the room twice between eleven o’clock and midnight.”

“Are you sure it couldn’t have been anyone else?”

“Certain. Besides, his car was parked in front of the house the whole time.”

That didn’t mean much. Pierce could have stolen a car to commit the crime, and then returned it, rather than risk using his own and having his license number taken down. When that thought had passed through his mind, Banks had experienced another irritating sense of déjà vu. He had felt the same thing the other day while going over the case files. It couldn’t really be déjà vu, because it wasn’t something he had already experienced, but it came with the same sort of frisson.

“What happened then?” he asked.

“He must have fallen asleep in front of the telly, as usual. I could see the light from the screen. It changed to snow at one fifty-five, when the programs ended, but Pierce didn’t move again until two-thirty. Then he drew the curtains fully, turned out the lights and went upstairs to bed. That’s all.”

“That’s all. Jesus Christ, Barry, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Of course I have. But I had to speak out. I’ve been struggling with my conscience all night. I could have spoken up yesterday and saved Pierce another night in jail, but I didn’t. I didn’t dare. That’s my cross to bear. I was worried about the consequences to my career, partly, I’ll admit that, but I was also trying to convince myself that I could have been wrong, that he could have done it. But there’s no way. He’s innocent, just like he says.”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t see how we can cover this up, Barry. I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

Stott sat bolt upright. “I don’t want you to cover it up. As I said, I grappled with my conscience all night. I prayed for an answer, an easy way out. There isn’t one. I’ll speak up for Pierce. I’m his alibi. I’ve abused my position.” He reached in his inside pocket and brought out a white, business-size envelope, which he placed on the table in front of Banks. “This is my resignation.”

Owen was confused. The Magistrates’ Court had bound him over without bail, as he had expected, but instead of being en route to Armley Jail, he was back in the cell at Eastvale. And nobody would tell him anything. Wharton had received a message from one of the uniformed policemen just as they returned to the van after the court session, and he seemed to have been running around like a blue-arsed fly ever since. Something was going on, and as far as Owen was concerned, it could only be bad.

He ate a lunch of greasy fish and chips, ironically wrapped in Sunday’s News of the World, washed it down with a mug of strong sweet tea, and paced his cell until, shortly after one o’clock, Wharton appeared in the doorway, waistcoat buttons straining over his belly, a scarlet crescent grin splitting his bluish jowls.

“You’re free to go,” he announced, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets.

Owen flopped on the bed. “Don’t joke,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I told you.” Wharton came close to what looked like dancing a little jig like Scrooge on Christmas morning. “You’re free. Free. Free to go.”

Had he gone mad? Owen wondered. Had this new arrest been the straw that broke the camel’s back? By all rights, it should be Owen going mad, not his solicitor, but there was no accounting for events these days. “Please,” Owen said putting his fists to his temples in an attempt to stop the clamor rising inside his head. “Please stop tormenting me.”

“He’s right, Owen,” said a new voice from behind Wharton in the doorway.

Owen looked up through the tears in his eyes and saw Detective Chief Inspector Banks leaning against the jamb, tie loose, hands in his pockets. So it wasn’t a dream; it wasn’t a lie? Owen hardly dared believe. He didn’t know how he felt now. Choked, certainly, his head spinning, a whooshing sound in his ears. Mostly, he was still confused. That and tearful. He felt very tearful. “You believe me?” he asked Banks.

Banks nodded. “Yes. I believe you.”

“Thank God.” Owen let his head fall in his hands and gave in to the tears. He cried loud and long, wet and shamelessly, and it wasn’t until he had finished and started to wipe his nose and eyes with a tissue that he noticed the two men had left him alone, but that the cell door was still open.

Gingerly, he walked towards it and poked his head out, afraid that it would slam on him. Nothing happened. He walked along the tiled corridor towards the other locked door that led, he knew, upstairs, then out to the world beyond, worried that it wouldn’t be opened for him. But it was.

Banks and Wharton stood outside, in the custody suite, and Owen now feared he would be rearrested for something else, still anxious that it was all some sort of ruse.

When Banks approached him, he backed away in apprehension.

“No,” said Banks, holding his hands out, palms open. “I meant it, Owen. No tricks. It’s over. You’re a free man. You’re completely exonerated. But I’d really appreciate it if you would come to my office with me for a chat. You might be able help us find out who really did commit these murders.”

“Murders? You believe I’m innocent of both?”

“They’re too similar, Owen. Had to be the same person. And that person couldn’t have been you. Please, come with me, will you? I’ll explain.”

As Owen preceded Banks up the stairs, he felt as if he were walking in a dream and half-expected his feet to disappear right through the steps. On the open-plan ground floor, everyone fell silent as he passed, watching him, and he felt as if he were floating, weightless in space. His vision blurred and his head started to spin, as if he had had too much to drink, but before he stumbled and fell, he felt Bank’s strong hand grasp his elbow and direct him towards the stairs.

“It’s all right, Owen,” Banks said. “We’ll have some strong coffee and a chat. You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

Instead of taking him into a dim, smelly interview room, as Owen had been half-expecting, Banks led him into what must be his own office. It was hardly palatial, but it had a metal desk, some matching filing cabinets and two comfortable chairs.

On the wall was a Dalesman calendar set at June and showing a photograph of a couple of ramblers with heavy rucksacks on their backs approaching Gordale Scar, near Malham. Oddly, Owen found himself thinking he could have done a better job of the photograph himself. The venetian blinds were up, and before he sat down Owen glimpsed the cobbled market square, full of parked cars. Freedom. He sat down. God, he felt tired.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You were under surveillance,” said Banks.

“What? So there was…I mean, it was you?”

“Not me, exactly, but someone. Did you know there was someone watching you?”

“I had a funny feeling once or twice. But no, I can’t honestly say I knew.” Owen started to laugh.