“Is this off the record, Barry?” Banks asked. “I mean, is it something personal?”

“Partly. But not really.” He shook his head. “I can’t understand it myself. I was so sure. So damn certain.” He banged the table. Banks’s beer-glass jumped. “Sorry.”

“I think you’d better just tell me.”

Stott paused. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the lenses of his glasses. In the background Banks could hear the radio playing Jim Reeves singing “Welcome to My World.”

Finally, Stott put his glasses back on, nodded and took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “I suppose the most important thing is that Owen Pierce is innocent, at least of Ellen Gilchrist’s murder. We have to let him go.”

Bank’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about, Barry?”

“I was there,” Stott said. “I know.”

Christ, what was this? A murder confession? Banks held his hand up. “Hold on, Barry. Take it easy. Go slowly. And be very careful what you say.” He almost felt as if he were giving Stott a formal caution. “Where were you? King Street? Skield?”

Stott shook his head and licked his lips. “No. Not either of those places. I was outside Owen Pierce’s house.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching him. I’ve been doing it ever since he got off.”

“So that’s why you’re looking so washed out?”

Stott rubbed his hand over his stubble. “Haven’t had any sleep in a week. Soon as I finish at the station, I grab a sandwich, then head for his street and park. If he goes out, I follow him.”

“All night?”

“Most of it. At least till it looks like he’s settled. Sometimes as late as three or four in the morning. He doesn’t go out much. Most nights he gets drunk and passes out in front of the telly.”

“And he hasn’t spotted you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t taken any great pains to hide myself, but he hasn’t said anything.”

“But why, Barry?”

Stott smoothed down his hair with his hand, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I got obsessed, I suppose. I just couldn’t stop myself. I was so sure of his guilt, so certain he’d beaten the system… And I knew he’d do it again. It was that kind of crime. I could feel it. I wanted to make sure he didn’t kill another girl. I thought if I watched him, kept an eye on him, then either I’d catch him, stop him or, if he knew I was onto him, he wouldn’t be able to do it again and the tension would get unbearable. Then maybe he’d confess or something. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette. “But why, Barry? You’re a good copper. Brainy, diligent, logical. You passed all your exams. You’ve got a bloody university degree, for Christ’s sake. You’re on accelerated promotion. You ought to know better.”

Stott shrugged. “I know. I know. I can’t explain it. Something just…went in me. Like I said, I thought if I watched him long enough I’d catch him one way or another.”

Banks shook his head. “Okay. Let’s get this straight. You were parked outside Owen Pierce’s house on Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“From about five o’clock on.”

“Until?”

“About two-thirty in the morning, when he turned the lights off. He didn’t go out at all except to buy a bottle of something at the off-license around nine o’clock.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Positive. The curtains weren’t quite closed. I could see him clearly whenever he got up. He was watching telly in the front room, but every now and then he’d get up to go to the toilet, or pour a drink, whatever.”

“And you’re certain he was there all the time? He didn’t sneak out the back and come back?”

Stott shook his head. “He was there, sir. Between the crucial times. Definitely. I saw him get up and cross the room twice between eleven o’clock and midnight.”

“Are you sure it couldn’t have been anyone else?”

“Certain. Besides, his car was parked in front of the house the whole time.”

That didn’t mean much. Pierce could have stolen a car to commit the crime, and then returned it, rather than risk using his own and having his license number taken down. When that thought had passed through his mind, Banks had experienced another irritating sense of déjà vu. He had felt the same thing the other day while going over the case files. It couldn’t really be déjà vu, because it wasn’t something he had already experienced, but it came with the same sort of frisson.

“What happened then?” he asked.

“He must have fallen asleep in front of the telly, as usual. I could see the light from the screen. It changed to snow at one fifty-five, when the programs ended, but Pierce didn’t move again until two-thirty. Then he drew the curtains fully, turned out the lights and went upstairs to bed. That’s all.”

“That’s all. Jesus Christ, Barry, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Of course I have. But I had to speak out. I’ve been struggling with my conscience all night. I could have spoken up yesterday and saved Pierce another night in jail, but I didn’t. I didn’t dare. That’s my cross to bear. I was worried about the consequences to my career, partly, I’ll admit that, but I was also trying to convince myself that I could have been wrong, that he could have done it. But there’s no way. He’s innocent, just like he says.”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t see how we can cover this up, Barry. I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

Stott sat bolt upright. “I don’t want you to cover it up. As I said, I grappled with my conscience all night. I prayed for an answer, an easy way out. There isn’t one. I’ll speak up for Pierce. I’m his alibi. I’ve abused my position.” He reached in his inside pocket and brought out a white, business-size envelope, which he placed on the table in front of Banks. “This is my resignation.”

Owen was confused. The Magistrates’ Court had bound him over without bail, as he had expected, but instead of being en route to Armley Jail, he was back in the cell at Eastvale. And nobody would tell him anything. Wharton had received a message from one of the uniformed policemen just as they returned to the van after the court session, and he seemed to have been running around like a blue-arsed fly ever since. Something was going on, and as far as Owen was concerned, it could only be bad.

He ate a lunch of greasy fish and chips, ironically wrapped in Sunday’s News of the World, washed it down with a mug of strong sweet tea, and paced his cell until, shortly after one o’clock, Wharton appeared in the doorway, waistcoat buttons straining over his belly, a scarlet crescent grin splitting his bluish jowls.

“You’re free to go,” he announced, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets.

Owen flopped on the bed. “Don’t joke,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I told you.” Wharton came close to what looked like dancing a little jig like Scrooge on Christmas morning. “You’re free. Free. Free to go.”

Had he gone mad? Owen wondered. Had this new arrest been the straw that broke the camel’s back? By all rights, it should be Owen going mad, not his solicitor, but there was no accounting for events these days. “Please,” Owen said putting his fists to his temples in an attempt to stop the clamor rising inside his head. “Please stop tormenting me.”

“He’s right, Owen,” said a new voice from behind Wharton in the doorway.

Owen looked up through the tears in his eyes and saw Detective Chief Inspector Banks leaning against the jamb, tie loose, hands in his pockets. So it wasn’t a dream; it wasn’t a lie? Owen hardly dared believe. He didn’t know how he felt now. Choked, certainly, his head spinning, a whooshing sound in his ears. Mostly, he was still confused. That and tearful. He felt very tearful. “You believe me?” he asked Banks.

Banks nodded. “Yes. I believe you.”

“Thank God.” Owen let his head fall in his hands and gave in to the tears. He cried loud and long, wet and shamelessly, and it wasn’t until he had finished and started to wipe his nose and eyes with a tissue that he noticed the two men had left him alone, but that the cell door was still open.