‘Yes. All week since the phone call.’
‘And after the murder?’
‘The same, perhaps even more so after you came.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘Thank you for being so frank.’
‘I’m not saying all this for you,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you for her sake. For Ronnie’s sake. Because I’m worried about her. And because I know she could never have hurt that man. It’s true that we were all at home that night. I made dinner, and we watched a movie the way we usually do on Sunday nights, exactly as she told you. She was here all the time. All three of us were.’
‘I understand.’
Oriana sat back in her chair and finished her espresso. ‘Now I must go,’ she said. ‘Thank you for a nice lunch.’
Banks made a motion to the waiter, who brought over the bill. He seemed to be smirking as he ran Banks’s credit card through his machine, as if he had decided they were lovers on their way to some hotel bed for a bit of afternoon delight. ‘What’s your problem?’ Banks said, glancing up at him. ‘Can’t an uncle treat his niece to lunch once in a while?’
The waiter blushed, Oriana could hardly hold back her laughter, and Banks felt rather pleased with himself.
Chapter 9
Banks had always hated prisons. Come to think of it, he realised, he wasn’t alone in that. Everybody hated prisons. The people who worked in them probably got used to them, and the prisoners had no choice, but to the casual and occasional visitor, they were sordid and cruel places where bad things happened. Men got raped by other men, or stabbed by filed-down toothbrushes in the showers. Over his years in the force, Banks had helped put plenty of people away, but it wasn’t something he ever got used to, and he tried not to think of their lives after they had been sentenced. His job usually ended with giving evidence in court, then it was up to the judge and jury. He also realised that the odds were he might have helped convict more than one innocent person, too, but those thoughts were reserved for waking at 4.24 in the morning and being unable to get back to sleep. Mostly he lived with it, grateful only that there was no longer capital punishment, and that he had no deaths on his conscience. Misery aplenty, certainly, probably some blood, too, if truth be told, but not death. Grateful also that when he saw the inside of a prison it was as a visitor.
Armley Jail, built in 1847 of dark millstone grit, resembled the medieval castle of some evil dark lord. No doubt it had been built that way on purpose. The Victorians had very strict and religious ideas about punishment. Since then, a couple of blockish red brick wings had been added, rather like Lego buildings, which broke up the facade somewhat, but they didn’t really take much away from the overall image.
Formalities done, mobile left at the reception area, Banks followed Tim Grainger, whom he had met before, inside across the cobbled yard of the old section. He knew from previous visits that just ahead to the right, up on the first floor, there used to be an apartment where the hangman, as often as not Pierrepoint, spent the night before an execution. From his window, he was able to see across the courtyard to the execution shed below. That was an office now, as was the flat, but the old condemned cell was still there, with its small bunk and scratches on the dank wall, just down some steps next to the grate in the floor where they used to sluice off the bodies after they had hung for an hour to ensure death. Banks had been there once with Grainger, and he still had nightmares about it. But that barbarism was done with now, at least in Britain, though it had been done away with in practice only a few years before Banks had started on the force.
They went inside. Perhaps the thing Banks noticed most, and hated most, about jails was the constant sound of the locking and unlocking of doors. There seemed so many of them, and they all seemed so heavy that the place constantly resounded with the echoes of banging doors, jangling keys and tumbling locks. He found himself forever stopping while Tim inserted yet another large key, and then waiting while he very carefully made sure he locked up again behind him after they had passed through. Various warders said hello as they crossed the office area towards the cells. Most prisons had been built on the same model, an X shape, so that guards could stand at the centre and see all the way down every wing. When Banks and Grainger passed the hub, it was methadone time on one of the wings, and the queue of prisoners stretched down the corridor.
Tim had arranged for Banks to conduct the interview in his own office, rather than a cell, as Kyle McClusky wasn’t considered a dangerous prisoner, or any kind of flight risk. They were also served with coffee and chocolate biscuits before McClusky was brought up. Once Banks and McClusky were settled, Tim left them to it. There was, of course, a guard on the door, just in case. Banks poured McClusky some coffee, added milk and sugar and waited for him to settle down. He seemed nervous, but not too jittery. One leg was jumping, and he bit his nails, but that was all. He seemed healthy enough, though there was nothing he could do about that prison pallor. His hair was cut short, and his face was bony. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘We might as well start. Any idea what this is about, Kyle?’
‘They didn’t tell me. They don’t tell you anything in here. Do you think you can get me a reduction in my sentence if I talk to you?’
‘Come on, Kyle. You know I would if I could, but you only got six months, and you’ve served nearly three already. You’ll be out in weeks, maybe days the way things are going these days.’
‘Yeah, I know. But every little bit helps, man. I mean, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. You know, like, if I talk to you, what’s in it for me?’
The back-scratching image repelled Banks, but he had given some thought to what might be in it for Kyle. The question hadn’t been entirely unexpected. ‘I was rather hoping that you’d want to talk to me, anyway, Kyle. You see, Beth and Kayleigh are in a bit of trouble, and you might be able to help them out.’
‘Those bitches! I wouldn’t cross the road to piss on them if they were on fire. It’s fucking Beth’s fault I’m in here in the first place.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘She wouldn’t help me, right? Too fucking high and mighty, now she’s got an important job in telly, and a nice new flat and that poncy boyfriend. Too good for the likes of me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was down on my luck, wasn’t I? I needed a place to crash, a little cash, you know, just to get back on my feet. I went round to her flat. She sent me packing. Wouldn’t even let me in the front door. Talk about helping an old friend. So don’t talk to me about that bitch.’
This was, in a way, even better than Banks had hoped. Beth certainly hadn’t told Winsome and Gerry about this. He had needed a way to get McClusky talking about what Lisa Gray had said Beth and Kayleigh had done, without having anything on the table to offer him. The chance to help Beth and Kayleigh had been his opening gambit, but now that he knew Kyle hated Beth so much, he could use that to even better advantage, and probably get him to tell the truth about what happened at Eastvale College, as long as it reflected badly on the girls. But he would have to be carefuclass="underline" drug dealers and users lied.
‘That is a bit mean,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I can see where you’re coming from. But she didn’t tell us about that.’
‘She wouldn’t, would she? But it’s true.’
‘I’m sure it is. Do you remember her friend, Kayleigh Vernon?’
‘She’s just as bad. You’d think, you know, after all the freebies I gave her, that she might lend me a little of the readies when I was in need.’