“I wonder if you’d mind very much,” Stott said, turning slightly in his seat, “if we arranged to take a couple of samples?”

“What kind of samples?”

“Oh, just the usual. Blood. Hair.”

“Do I have to?”

“Let me put it like this. You’re not under arrest, but the crime we’re investigating is very serious indeed. It would be best all around if you gave your permission and signed a release. For elimination purpose.”

“And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me down, pull my hair out and stick a needle in me?”

“Nothing like that. We could get the superintendent to authorize it. But that wouldn’t look good, would it? Especially if the matter ever went to court. Refusing to give a sample? A jury might see that as an admission of guilt. And, of course, as soon as you’re eliminated from the inquiry, the samples will all be destroyed. No records. What do you say?”

“All right.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stott turned to face the front again and picked up his car phone. “I’ll just take the liberty of calling Dr. Burns and asking him to meet us at the station.”

It was all handled quickly and efficiently in a private office at the police station. Owen signed the requisite forms, rolled up his sleeve and looked away. He felt only a sharp, brief pricking sensation as the needle slid out. Then the doctor pulled some hair out of his scalp. That hurt a little more.

The interview room they took him to next was a desolate place: gray metal desk; three chairs, two of them bolted to the floor; grimy windows of thick wired glass; a dead fly smeared against one institutional-green wall; and that was it.

It smelled of stale smoke. A heavy blue glass ashtray sat on the desk, empty but stained and grimy with old ash.

Stott sat opposite Owen, and Sergeant Hatchley moved the free chair and sat by the wall near the door, out of Owen’s line of vision. He sat backwards on the chair, wrapping his thick arms around its back.

First, Stott placed the buff folder he’d been carrying on the desk, smiled and adjusted his glasses. Then he switched on a double-cassette tape recorder, tested it, and gave the date, time and names of those present.

“Just a few questions, Owen,” he said. “You’ve been very cooperative so far. I hope we don’t have to keep you long.”

“So do I,” said Owen, looking around the grim room. “Shouldn’t I call my lawyer or something?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Stott. “Of course, you can if you want. It’s your right.” He smiled. “But it’s not as if you’re under arrest or anything. You’re free to leave anytime you want. Besides, do you actually have a solicitor? Most people don’t.”

Come to think of it, Owen didn’t have a solicitor. He knew one, though. An old university acquaintance had switched from English to law after his first year and now practiced in Eastvale. They hadn’t seen each other in years, until Owen had bumped into him in a pub a few months back. Gordon Wharton, that was his name. Owen couldn’t remember what kind of law he specialized in, but at least it was a start, if things went that far. For the moment, though, Stott was right. Owen hadn’t been arrested, and he didn’t see why he should have to pay a solicitor.

“Let me lay my cards on the table, Owen. You have admitted to us that you were in the area of St. Mary’s on Monday evening. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I went for a walk.”

“Shall we just go over it again, for the record?”

Owen shrugged. “There’s really nothing to go over.” He could see the sheet of paper in front of Stott, laid out like an appointment book. Some of the times and notes had question marks in red.

“What time did you set off on this walk?”

“Just after I got back from work. About four. Maybe as late as half past.”

“How far is it to St. Mary’s?”

“Along the river? About three miles from my house. And the house is about half a mile from the river.”

“About seven miles there and back, then?”

“Yes. About that.”

“Now, before you ate at the Peking Moon you drank two pints of bitter and a Scotch whisky at the Nag’s Head, right?”

“I wasn’t counting, but yes, I had a couple of drinks.”

“And you left the pub at about a quarter to six?”

“I wasn’t especially aware of the time.”

“That’s what the landlord told us.”

“I suppose it must be true, then.”

“And you ate at the Peking Moon at approximately six-thirty, is that correct?”

“About then, yes. Again, I didn’t notice the actual time.”

“What did you do between a quarter to and half past six?”

“Walked around. Stood on the bridge.”

“Did you go into St. Mary’s graveyard?”

“No, I didn’t. Look, if you’re trying to tie me in to that girl’s murder, then you’re way off beam. Why would I do something like that? Perhaps I had better call a solicitor, after all.”

“Ah!” Stott glanced over Owen’s shoulder towards Sergeant Hatchley. “So he does read the papers, after all.”

“I did after you left. Of course I did.”

Stott looked back at him. “But not before?”

“I’d have known what you were talking about, then, wouldn’t I?”

Stott straightened his glasses. “What made you connect our visit with that particular item of news?”

Owen hesitated. Was it a trick question? “It didn’t take much,” he answered slowly, “given the kind of questions you asked me. Even though I know nothing about what happened, I know I was in St. Mary’s that evening. I never denied it. And while we’re on the subject, what led you to me?”

Stott smiled. “Easy, really. We asked around. Small, wealthy neighborhood like St. Mary’s, people notice strangers. Plus you were wearing an orange anorak and you used your Visa card in the Peking Moon.”

Owen leaned forward and slapped his palms on the cool metal surface. “There!” he said. “That proves it, then, doesn’t it?”

Stott gave him a blank look. “Proves what?”

“That I didn’t do it. If I had done it, what you seem to be accusing me of, I would hardly have been so foolish as to leave my calling card, would I?”

Stott shrugged. “Criminals make mistakes, just like everybody else. Otherwise we’d never catch any, would we? And I’m not accusing you of anything at the moment, Owen. You can see our problem, though, can’t you? Your story sounds thin, very thin. I mean, if you were in the area for some real, believable reason…Maybe to meet someone? Did you know Deborah Harrison, Owen?”

“No.”

“Had you been watching her, following her?”

Owen sat back. “I’ve told you why I was there. I can’t help it if you don’t like my reason, can I? I never thought I’d have to explain myself to anyone.”

“Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did you see Deborah Harrison?”

“No.”

“About that scratch on your cheek,” Stott said. “Remember yet where you got it?”

Owen put his hand to his cheek and shrugged. “Cut myself shaving, I suppose.”

“Bit high up to be shaving, isn’t it?”

“I told you. I don’t remember. Why?”

“What about the nude photos, Owen? The ones we found at your house?”

“What about them? They’re figure studies, that’s all.”

Sergeant Hatchley spoke for the first time, and the rough voice coming from behind startled Owen. “Come on lad, don’t be shy. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like looking at a nice pair of tits? You’re not queer, are you?”

Owen half-twisted in his seat. “No. I didn’t say I didn’t like looking at naked women. Of course I do. I’m perfectly normal.”

“And some of the girls in that magazine seemed very young to me,” said Stott.

Owen turned to face him again. “Since when has it been a crime to buy Playboy? You people are still living in the middle ages. For Christ’s sake, they’re models. They get paid for posing like that.”

“And you like videos, too, don’t you, Owen? There was that one in your cabinet, your own private video to keep, to watch whenever you want. Including School’s Out.”