“So, we meet again, Owen,” said Banks later that Sunday in an interview room at Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. “Nice of you to assist us with our inquiries.”

Pierce shrugged. “I don’t think I have a lot of choice. Just for the record, I’m innocent this time, too. But I don’t suppose that matters to you, does it? You won’t believe me if it’s not what you want to hear. You didn’t last time.”

Very little light filtered through the barred, grimy window and the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was only thirty watts. There were three people in the room: Banks, Susan Gay and Owen Pierce.

One of the public-spirited parishioners at St. Mary’s had heard about the Ellen Gilchrist murder on the news driving home after the morning service, and he had wasted no time in using his car-phone to inform the police that the man they wanted had been at St. Mary’s Church that very morning, and might still be there if they hurried. They did. And he was.

In the distance, Banks could hear the mob chanting and shouting slogans outside the station. They were after Pierce’s blood. Word had leaked out that he had been taken in for questioning over the Ellen Gilchrist murder, and the public were very quick when it came to adding two and two and coming up with whatever number they wanted.

People had started arriving shortly after the police delivered Pierce to the station, and the crowd had been growing ever since. Growing uglier, too. Banks feared he now had a lynch mob, and if Pierce took one step outside he’d be ripped to pieces. They would have to keep him in, if for no other reason than his own safety.

Already a few spots of blood dotted the front of his white shirt, a result of his “resisting arrest,” according to the officers present; there was also a bruise forming just below his right eye.

Banks started the tape recorders, issued the caution and gave the details of the interview time and those present.

“They hit me, you know,” Pierce said, as soon as the tape was running. “The policemen who brought me here. As soon as they got me alone in the car they hit me. You can see the blood on my shirt.”

“Do you want to press charges?”

“No. What good would it do? I just want you to know, that’s all. I just want it on record.”

“All right. Last night, Owen, about eleven o’clock, where were you?”

“At home watching television.”

“What were you watching?”

“An old film on BBC.”

“What film?”

“Educating Rita.”

“What time did it start?”

“About half past ten.”

“Until?”

“I don’t know. I was tired. I fell asleep before the end.”

“Do you usually do that? Start watching something and leave before the end?”

“If I’m tired. As a matter of fact I fell asleep on the sofa, in front of the television. When I woke up there was nothing on the screen but snow.”

“You didn’t check the time?”

“No. Why should I? I wasn’t going anywhere. It must have been after two, though. The BBC usually closes down then.”

His voice was flat, Banks noticed, responses automatic, almost as if he didn’t care what happened. But still the light burned deep in his eyes. Innocence? Or madness?

“You see, Owen,” Banks went on steadily, “there was another young girl killed last night. A seventeen-year-old schoolgirl from Eastvale Comprehensive. It’s almost certain she was killed by the same person who killed Deborah Harrison-same method, same ritual elements-and we think you are that person.”

“Ridiculous. I was watching television.”

“Alone?”

“I’m always alone these days. You’ve seen to that.”

“So, can you see our problem, Owen? You were home, alone, watching an old film on television. Anyone could say that.”

“But I’m not just anyone, am I?”

“How’s the photography going, Owen?”

“What?”

“You’re a keen photographer, aren’t you? I was just asking how it was going.”

“It isn’t. My house was broken into while I was on trial and the bastard who broke in killed my fish and smashed my cameras.”

Banks paused. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

Banks took out the plastic film container and held it up for Owen to see. “Know what that is?”

“Of course I do.”

“Is it yours?”

“How would I know. There are millions of them around.”

“Thing is, Owen, we found this close to the body, and we found your fingerprints on it.”

Owen seemed to turn rigid, as if all his muscles tightened at once. The blood drained from his face. “What?”

“We found your fingerprints on it, Owen. Can you explain to us how they got there.”

“I…I…” he started shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It must be mine.”

“Speak up, Owen. What did you say?”

“It must be mine.”

“Any idea how it got out in the country near Skield?”

“Skield?”

“That’s right.”

He shook his head. “I went up there the other day for a walk.”

“We know,” said Susan Gay, speaking up for the first time. “We asked around the pub and the village, and several people told us they saw you in the area on Friday. They recognized you.”

“Not surprising. Didn’t you know, I’m notorious?”

“What were you doing, Owen?” Banks asked. “Reconnoitring? Checking out the location? Do you do a lot of advance preparation? Is that part of the fun?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I admit I was there. I went for a walk. But that’s the only time I’ve been.”

“Is it, Owen? I’m trying to believe you, honest I am. I want to believe you. Ever since you got off, I’ve been telling people that maybe you didn’t do it, maybe the jury was right. But this looks bad. You’ve disappointed me.”

“Well, excuse me.”

Banks shifted position. These hard chairs made his back ache. “What is this thing you have for rummaging around in girls’ handbags or satchels?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you like to take souvenirs?”

“Of what?”

“Something to focus on, help you replay what you did?”

“What did I do?”

“What did you do, Owen? You tell me how you get your thrills.”

Pierce said nothing. He seemed to shrink in his chair, his mouth clamped shut.

“You can tell me, Owen,” Banks went on. “I want to know. I want to understand. But you have to help me. Do you masturbate afterwards, reliving what you’ve done? Or can’t you contain yourself? Do you come in your trousers while you’re strangling them? Help me, Owen. I want to know.”

Still Pierce kept quiet. Banks shifted again. The chair creaked.

“Why am I here?” Pierce asked.

“You know that.”

“It’s because you think I did it before, isn’t it?”

“Did you, Owen?”

“I got off.”

“Yes, you did.”

“So I’d be a fool to admit it, wouldn’t I? Even if I had done it.”

“Did you do it? Did you kill Deborah Harrison?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Ellen Gilchrist?”

“No.”

Banks sighed. “You’re not making it easy for us, Owen.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I am.”

“Owen, you’re lying to us. You picked up Ellen Gilchrist on King Street last night. First you knocked her unconscious, then you drove her to Skield, where you dragged her a short distance up Witch Fell and strangled her with the strap of her handbag. Why won’t you tell me about it?”

Pierce seemed agitated by the description of his crime, Banks noticed. Guilty conscience?

“What was it like, Owen?” he pressed on. “Did she resist or did she just passively accept her fate. Know what I think? I think you’re a coward, Owen? First you strangled her from behind, so you didn’t have to look her in the eye. Then you lay her down on the grass and tore her clothes away. You imagined she was Michelle Chappel, didn’t you, and you were getting your own back, giving her what for. She didn’t have a chance. She was beyond resistance. But even then you couldn’t get it up, could you? You’re a coward, Owen. A coward and a pervert.”