Gingerly, he walked towards it and poked his head out, afraid that it would slam on him. Nothing happened. He walked along the tiled corridor towards the other locked door that led, he knew, upstairs, then out to the world beyond, worried that it wouldn’t be opened for him. But it was.

Banks and Wharton stood outside, in the custody suite, and Owen now feared he would be rearrested for something else, still anxious that it was all some sort of ruse.

When Banks approached him, he backed away in apprehension.

“No,” said Banks, holding his hands out, palms open. “I meant it, Owen. No tricks. It’s over. You’re a free man. You’re completely exonerated. But I’d really appreciate it if you would come to my office with me for a chat. You might be able help us find out who really did commit these murders.”

“Murders? You believe I’m innocent of both?”

“They’re too similar, Owen. Had to be the same person. And that person couldn’t have been you. Please, come with me, will you? I’ll explain.”

As Owen preceded Banks up the stairs, he felt as if he were walking in a dream and half-expected his feet to disappear right through the steps. On the open-plan ground floor, everyone fell silent as he passed, watching him, and he felt as if he were floating, weightless in space. His vision blurred and his head started to spin, as if he had had too much to drink, but before he stumbled and fell, he felt Bank’s strong hand grasp his elbow and direct him towards the stairs.

“It’s all right, Owen,” Banks said. “We’ll have some strong coffee and a chat. You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

Instead of taking him into a dim, smelly interview room, as Owen had been half-expecting, Banks led him into what must be his own office. It was hardly palatial, but it had a metal desk, some matching filing cabinets and two comfortable chairs.

On the wall was a Dalesman calendar set at June and showing a photograph of a couple of ramblers with heavy rucksacks on their backs approaching Gordale Scar, near Malham. Oddly, Owen found himself thinking he could have done a better job of the photograph himself. The venetian blinds were up, and before he sat down Owen glimpsed the cobbled market square, full of parked cars. Freedom. He sat down. God, he felt tired.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You were under surveillance,” said Banks.

“What? So there was…I mean, it was you?”

“Not me, exactly, but someone. Did you know there was someone watching you?”

“I had a funny feeling once or twice. But no, I can’t honestly say I knew.” Owen started to laugh.

“What is it?” Banks asked.

Owen wiped his arm over his eyes. “Oh, nothing. Just the irony of it, that’s all. I was under surveillance because you thought I’d commit a crime, but as it turns out the surveillance gives me an alibi. Don’t you think that’s funny?”

Banks smiled. “Ironic, yes. But a young girl did get killed, Owen. Horribly. Just like Deborah Harrison.”

“I know. I wasn’t laughing at that. And I didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I think you do. I don’t believe you haven’t considered the problem over the past couple of days.”

“What problem?”

Banks sat forward and rested his palms on the blotter. “You want me to spell it out? Okay. The reason we arrested you, Owen, was partly because you had been accused of a very similar crime before, and partly because we found strong physical evidence against you at the scene. It still looks very much as if the same person killed both of those girls, and we found evidence against you at both scenes.”

“The fingerprints and the hairs? Yes. And you’re right: I have been thinking about how they could have got there.”

“Any ideas?”

Owen shook his head. “I did go up Skield way, and I probably walked past the spot where…you know. I suppose I could have dropped such a film container, but I don’t think I had one with me. I told you about my camera. I didn’t have it with me. As for the hairs, I suppose I must have shed a few during my walk, but I can’t explain how they got on the victim’s clothes. Unless…”

“Yes?”

The coffee arrived. Banks poured. Owen blew into his cup first, then took a sip. “This is good. Thank you. Unless,” he went on, “and I know this sounds crazy, paranoid even, but I can’t see how any of it could have happened unless someone, the real killer, had decided to capitalize on my bad reputation, blame it on me, the way he knew everyone else would. It doesn’t make sense unless someone tried to frame me for Ellen Gilchrist’s murder.”

Banks started tapping a pencil against his blotter. “Go on,” he said.

“Well, if you accept that premise, then whoever it was must have broken into my house while I was in jail and wrecked the place to cover up his true intentions. Or he could have walked in easily after the place had been done over. The front door was unlocked when I got back. The lock was broken, in fact. This person must have thought there was a good chance I’d get off, and he wanted some insurance in case that happened and suspicion turned back on him. He must have found the empty film container in the waste-paper bin and guessed it would have my fingerprints on it. I mean, if it were empty, and I’d opened it… Then he must have picked up some hairs from the pillow in the bedroom. That would have been easy enough to do.”

Banks nodded. “Why not choose something more obvious to link you to the crime?”

“Failing my blood, which he couldn’t get hold of, I can’t think of anything more obvious than my hair and fingerprints, can you?”

Banks smiled. “I meant something with your name on, perhaps. So there could be no mistake. After all, the prints on the film container might have been blurred. He couldn’t be certain they’d lead us to you.”

“But if you think about it,” Owen said, looking pointedly at Banks, “he didn’t need very much, did he? You all believed I’d murdered Deborah Harrison, so it was easy to convince you I’d also killed Ellen Gilchrist. There was no point risking anything more obvious, like something with my name or photograph on it, because that would only draw suspicion. No, all he needed were my prints and hair. He knew my reputation would do the rest. Even without the prints he could have been fairly certain you’d pick on me. I’ll bet the minute you saw the film container you thought of me because you knew I was an amateur photographer.”

“That still leaves us one important question to answer,” Banks said. “Who? Of course, it might be that the murderer was simply using you as a convenient scapegoat-that it was nothing personal-but it could have been someone who really wanted you to suffer. Have you any idea who would want to do that to you?”

“I’ve racked my brains about it. But no. The only person who hates me that much is Michelle. Could it have been a woman?”

“I don’t think Michelle is tall enough,” Banks said. “But, yes, it could have been a woman.”

Owen shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Like you said, it was probably nothing personal. I mean, whoever did it just wanted someone else to blame. It didn’t matter who.”

“You’re probably right. But if you think of anyone…”

“Of course. One of the neighbors might have seen someone, you know. They wouldn’t speak out before because they all thought I was guilty and deserved having my house wrecked, but now…? I don’t know. It’s worth asking them, anyway. You might start with that prick Ivor and his wife, Siobhan, next door.”

“We’ll do that,” said Banks, standing up to indicate the interview was at an end.

Owen finished his coffee, stood awkwardly and moved towards the door. He could still hardly believe that freedom was just a few steps away again.

“What now?” Banks asked him.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot to think about. Maybe I’ll go away for a while, just get lost, like everyone suggested I should do in the first place.”