Innocent Graves by Peter Robinson Page B

rain.
    “Interesting, don’t you think?” Banks said. “About the boyfriend.”
    “Yes, sir. Either he really didn’t know, or he was lying.”
    “But why lie?”
    “Perhaps Deborah really did keep it a secret from him? If he’s a strict father, I could see her doing that.”
    “Possibly. What about his alibi?”
    “Very plausible,” said Susan. “I noticed you didn’t ask his wife for hers.”
    “One at a time, Susan. One a time. Besides, I hardly think Sylvie Harrison murdered her own daughter. She’s not tall or strong enough, for a start.”
    “If she goes to a health club, she’s probably strong enough,” Susan pointed out. “Maybe she stood on a stone?”Banks sneezed into his handkerchief.
    “Bless you, sir,” Susan said.
    They headed towards North Market Street. “You know,” said Banks, “I think there’s a lot more to Deborah’s life than people know, or are saying. I’d like to have another talk with her mother, alone if possible. Michael Clayton was right, teenagers don’t have a lot of time for adults, but daughters do sometimes confide in their mothers. And I’d like to find this John, if he exists.”
    “Oh, I’m sure he does, sir. Deborah was an attractive girl. And she was sixteen. I’d be very surprised indeed if she had nothing at all to do with boys.”
    Banks’s car phone beeped. He picked it up.
    “DI Stott here.”
    “What’s up, Barry?”
    “I think we should meet up back at the station. We’ve got a description of a possible suspect in the Deborah Harrison murder, and it could be Jela č i ć . Vic Manson called, too. Jela č i ć ’ s prints are all over the vodka bottles.”
    “We’re on our way.” Banks switched off the phone and put his foot down.
    IV
    All the way home on the rickety bus, Rebecca chewed her nails. She didn’t look once at the fading autumn scenery beyond the rain-streaked windows: the muted gold, russet and lemon leaves still clinging to the roadside trees, fragile and insubstantial as the moon’s halo; the soft greens and browns of the fields; the runic patterns of the drystone walls. She didn’t notice the way that the dale to her west, with its gradually steepening valley sides, was partially lost in mist and drizzle, making it look just like a Chinese water-colour.
    Rebecca just chewed her nails and wished that tight, tearing, churning feeling inside her would go away. She felt constantly on the verge of screaming, and she knew if she started she could never stop. She took deep breaths and held them to calm herself. They helped.
    By the time the bus lumbered into Eastvale, she had regained some control of her emotions, but she still felt devastated, as if her world had been suddenly blown apart. She supposed it had to happen, that she had been living a lie, living on borrowed time, or whatever other cliché she could come up with to describe the last few months of her life.
    Looking at it now, her life had simply become one hangover after another; either from booze or infidelity, it didn’t seem to make any difference. What pleasures she had found in getting drunk or having sex were so fleeting and so quickly overwhelmed by the pains—headaches, stomach-ache, guilt, shame—that they no longer seemed worthwhile. But was it too late now? Had she lost Daniel?
    Almost there.
    She pushed the bell and felt the driver and other passengers giving her strange looks as she waited for the bus to stop. What could they sense about her? Could they smell sex on her? She hadn’t washed before leaving Patrick in Richmond; she had simply pulled her clothes on as quickly as possible and left. But her raincoat covered the torn blouse. God, what could she do about that? If Daniel were home, he would notice. But what did it matter now? He knew anyway. Even so, she couldn’t stand the thought of his knowing she had been with Patrick this afternoon.
    As the bus approached the stop, she saw the knot of reporters hanging about by the church walls and