“Women’s intuition?”

Sandra gave him another dig in the ribs. Harder this time. Then she passed him the photo. “No. Just look at her eyes, Alan, the laughter, the way she’s looking at him. It’s obvious.”

When he looked more closely, Banks knew that Sandra was right. It was obvious. Men and women only looked like that at one another when they had slept together, or were about to. He couldn’t explain why, certainly couldn’t offer any proof or evidence, but like Sandra, he knew. And Barry Stott had said that Pierce denied knowing the woman. The next job, then, was to find her and discover why. Banks would wait for the initial forensic results, then he’d have a long chat with Owen Pierce himself.

The man who sat before Banks in the interview room at two o’clock that Saturday afternoon looked very angry. Banks didn’t blame him. He would have been angry, himself, if two hulking great coppers had come and dragged him off to the police station on his day off, especially with it being Remembrance Day, too.

But it couldn’t be helped. Banks would rather have been at home listening to Britten’s War Requiem as he did every November 11, but it would have to wait. New information had come in. It was time for him to talk to Owen Pierce in person.

“Relax, Owen,” said Banks. “We’re probably going to be here for a while, so there’s no point letting your blood pressure go right off the scale.”

“Why don’t you just get on with it,” Owen said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Banks sighed. “Me, too, Owen. Me too.” He put new tapes in the double-cassette recorder, then he told Owen that the interview was being taped, and, as before, stated the names of everyone in the room, along with the time, place and date.

Susan Gay was the only other person present. Her role was mostly to observe, but Banks would give her the chance to ask a question or two. They were taking a “fresh team” approach-so far only Stott and Hatchley had interviewed Pierce-and Banks had already spent a couple of hours that morning going over the previous interview transcripts.

“Okay,” Banks began, “first let me caution you that you do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention now something which you later use in your defense, the court may decide that your failure to mention it strengthens the case against you. A record will be made of anything you say and it may be given in evidence if you are brought to trial.”

Owen swallowed. “Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

“No,” said Banks. “It’s just a formality, so we all know what’s what. I understand you’ve been informed about your right to a solicitor?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve waived it?”

“For the moment, yes. I keep telling you, I haven’t done anything. Why should I have to pay for a solicitor?”

“Good point. They can be very expensive. Now then, Owen, can we just go over last Monday evening one more time, please?”

Owen sighed and told them exactly the same as he had told Stott the last time and the time before that.

“And you never, at any time that day, had contact with the victim, Deborah Harrison?”

“No. How could I? I had no idea who she was.”

“You’re quite sure you didn’t meet her?”

“I told you, no.”

“Why were you in the area?”

“Just walking.”

“Oh, come on. Do you think I was born yesterday, Owen? Hey? You had a meeting with Deborah, didn’t you? You knew her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I know someone like her?”

Banks reached down into his briefcase and pushed the photograph across the desk. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Just a model.”

“Look at it, Owen. Look closely. You know her. Any idiot can see that.”

Banks watched Owen turn pale and lick his lips. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “She was just a model.”

“Bollocks she was just a model. Have you noticed her resemblance to the murdered girl?” Banks set a photograph of Deborah Harrison next to it.

Owen looked away. “I can’t say I have.”

“Look again.”

Owen looked and shook his head. “No.”

“And you still maintain that you’ve never met Deborah Harrison?”

“That’s right.” He looked at his watch. “Look, when is this farce going to end? I’ve got work to do.”

Banks glanced over at Susan and nodded. She leaned forward and placed two labeled packages on the desk. “The thing is, Owen,” Banks said, “that this evidence shows otherwise.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

“Hair, Owen. Hair.” Banks tapped the first envelope. “To cut a long story short, this envelope contains samples of hairs taken from those we found on the anorak you were wearing on Monday evening when you went for your walk, the one you gave us permission to test. There are a number of hairs that our experts have identified as coming from the head of Deborah Harrison.”

Owen grasped the edge of the desk. “But they can’t be! You must be mistaken.”

Banks shook his head gravely. “Oh, I could bore you with the scientific details about the medulla and the cortex and so on, but you can take my word for it-they match.”

Owen said nothing. Susan pushed the other package forward. “Now this,” Banks said, “contains hair samples taken from Deborah Harrison’s school blazer. Oddly enough, some of these hairs have been positively identified as yours, again matched with the samples you freely allowed us to take the other day.” Banks sat back and folded his arms. “I think you’ve got quite a bit of explaining to do, haven’t you, Owen?”

“You’re trying to set me up. Those hairs aren’t mine. They can’t be. You’re lying to get me to confess, aren’t you?”

“Confess to what, Owen?”

Owen smiled. “You’re not going to catch me out as easily as that.”

Banks leaned forward and rested his palm on the desk. “Read my lips, Owen,” he said. “We’re not lying. The hairs are yours.”

Owen ran his hand through his hair. “Wait a minute. There must be some simple explanation for this. There’s got to be.”

“I hope so,” said Banks. “I’d really like to hear it.”

Owen bit his lip and concentrated. “The only thing I can think of,” he said after a few moments, “is that when I was on the bridge, someone bumped into me. It all happened so fast. I was turning from looking over the river, and she knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t get a really good look because she disappeared into the fog and I only saw her from behind, but I think she had long fair hair and wore a maroon blazer and skirt. It could have been her, couldn’t it? That could have been how it happened, couldn’t it?”

Banks frowned and looked through the notes in front of him. “I don’t understand, Owen. When you talked to DI Stott and DS Hatchley you didn’t say anything about this.”

“I know.” Owen looked away. “At first I just forgot, then, well…when I remembered, when I’d seen the paper and knew why they’d been questioning me…Well, I’d already not said anything, so I suppose I was worried it would look bad if I spoke up then.”

“Look bad? But how could it, Owen? How could it look bad if you simply said the girl might have bumped into you? What were you afraid of?”

“Yes, but I mean, if it really had been Deborah Harrison…I don’t know. Besides, I couldn’t be sure it was her. It just seemed like the best thing to do at the time. Keep quiet. It didn’t seem important. I’m sorry if it caused you any problems.”

“Caused us any problems? Not really, Owen. But it has caused you quite a few. It’s funny you should mention it now, though, isn’t it, now we’ve matched the hair samples?”

“Yes, well…I told you. Look, you can check, can’t you? Didn’t her friend see me? I could just see her through the fog.”

Banks tapped the two envelopes. “What if she did see you? That doesn’t help your case at all, does it? In fact, it makes things worse.”