Innocent Graves by Peter Robinson

creature, not a bloody dried-up vicar’s wife.”
    “Let me go!”
    She tore herself out of his grasp, finished putting her raincoat on and grabbed the door-handle.
    “Don’t do this, Rebecca,” he said. “Stay with me. Don’t be afraid of finding out who you really are. Follow your passion, your feelings .”
    “Oh, shut up, you pompous bastard. It was just a fuck, that’s all. You don’t know a bloody thing, do you?”
    “Wait. I’ll drive you,” he called out as she walked through the door.
    “Don’t bother,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll catch a bus.” And she slammed the door behind her.
    III
    A couple of uniformed policemen kept the press away from Sir Geoffrey’s house. When Banks and Susan got there early in the afternoon, there were only about six reporters hanging around at the end of the driveway. They fired off a few questions, but Banks ignored them. Too early to start giving statements to the press. Unless you were Chief Constable Riddle, of course.
    The only new information Banks had was that the swabs taken from Deborah had revealed no traces of semen, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell the media that. He had also discovered that Sir Geoffrey’s reception at the Royal Hotel in York had ended at four o’clock, plenty of time to get back home by six, even in the fog. Lady Harrison had, indeed, been at the health club; but she hadn’t arrived there until almost six-thirty.
    Banks hadn’t noticed in the fog last night, but the house had a large lawn and beautiful flower-beds, clearly the work of a gardener. Even keeping the lawn trimmed would have been a full-time job. The house itself was an ostentatious pile of Victorian stone, complete with gables, probably built for one of the get-rich-quick wool merchants in the last century.
    Sir Geoffrey himself answered Banks’s ring and beckoned the two of them in. Banks introduced Susan.
    “Is there any news?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
    Banks shook his head. “Not yet, sir. Sorry.”
    Sir Geoffrey looked drawn and stooped, and he had large bags, like bruises, under his eyes. Banks followed him through to the white room with the bookcases, the Chagall and the grand piano. Michael Clayton was sitting in one of the armchairs, also looking as if he had gone without sleep for a week.
    “Michael, I believe you met Detective Chief Inspector Banks last night,” Sir Geoffrey said.
    “Yes,” said Clayton, “and I know Detective Constable Gay, too. I don’t know if I ever thanked you.”
    Susan smiled. “All part of the service, sir.”
    Banks gave her a quizzical look.
    “Mr Clayton had his car and a valuable notebook computerstolen in August,” she explained. “We got them back for him. Someone was trying to sell the computer at Eastvale market.”
    “I don’t think I explained last night,” Sir Geoffrey went on, “but in addition to being a dear friend, Michael’s the scientific genius behind HarClay Industries. I simply provide the sales and marketing strategies.” He clapped Clayton on the shoulder. “I don’t know what we’d do without him. Please, sit down.”
    “Where’s your wife, sir?” Banks asked.
    “Sylvie’s resting. She … we didn’t get much sleep last night.
    She’s exhausted. Me, too. Look, we … er … I’m sorry. Things are a bit of a mess around here. How can I help you?”
    “We won’t keep you long. Just a couple of questions.”
    Sir Geoffrey nodded wearily. “I’ll do the best I can.”
    “Thank you,” said Banks. “We’ve talked to a few people at Deborah’s school, and everyone seems to agree that Deborah was a cheerful and talented girl.”
    Sir Geoffrey nodded. “Sylvie and I are very proud of her.”
    “But even the best of people make enemies,” Banks went on. “Often inadvertently. Can you think of any enemies Deborah might have made?”
    Sir Geoffrey closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. She got along well with her schoolfriends and