Children of the Revolution

by Peter Robinson

  Banks whistled. ‘Indeed. I suppose we can rule out a mugging, then?’

  There was no garage attached to Gavin Miller’s cottage, though there was a paved space beside it that was the right size and shape for a small car. But there was no car. Banks made a mental note to check whether Miller owned one. The bridge was too narrow for even the slimmest of sports cars to pass over, but the rough laneway widened in front of the cottage, and Banks assumed it probably joined up eventually with one of the local unfenced roads, as PC Kirwan had suggested. It was the closest thing to a road out of there, at any rate. Anyone who used it to get to Gavin Miller’s house would probably have had to know of its existence in advance, though, which would indicate that if it had been used, there was a chance the assailant had known Miller and had visited him there before. But such speculation was for the future, when the CSIs had given Banks more to work on, and when he knew for certain, one way or the other, whether Miller had committed suicide or whether another person was involved. At a quick glance, Banks could see no signs of a vehicle having travelled the track recently.

  The postage-stamp garden had been given over to the growing of herbs. Banks had been cultivating a similar patch himself over the summer, and he recognised thyme, dill, parsley, rosemary and chives. The key turned easily in the lock, and it was a relief to get inside out of the rain. Banks and Winsome were still wearing their protective suits and gloves so they could make a quick search of Gavin Miller’s house without contaminating the scene before the CSIs came to turn the place over.

  Banks fumbled for the light switch and found it to the right of the door. A shaded bulb in a ceiling fixture illuminated a small living room, with just enough space for a couple of well-worn maroon armchairs, a small bookcase, a fireplace complete with tiled hearth and mantelpiece, and a desk by the window, which looked out through grubby, moth-eaten lace curtains over the footpath and the fields to the south, with the railway embankment, woods and bridge just visible to the left. The cream wall-to-wall carpet was marked by two large wine or coffee stains in the shape of Australia and Africa, the wallpaper was peeling in places where it reached the ceiling, and a few abstract prints in cheap frames hung on the rose-patterned walls. No family photographs stood on the mantel or on the desk. The chilly room smelled of stale smoke, as if it hadn’t been aired or vacuumed in a while, and the layer of dust on the mantelpiece and desk bore this out. Banks remembered that Miller had a packet of Silk Cut in his pocket.

  The desk had clearly been used recently, as the dust had been disturbed, and the computer that sat there wasn’t dusty at all. The power light was on, screensaver showing a swirling pattern of psychedelic designs, and a squat black Wi-Fi hub stood on the window ledge, its blue lights steady. Beside it sat a green tin ashtray advertising John Smith’s Bitter, in which were a number of stubbed-out cigarettes, the ends of the filters stained brown. Banks eyed the computer greedily. It might contain information that would help him find out what happened to Gavin Miller, but he knew better than to touch anything. When you find a computer at any scene connected with a possible crime, you don’t check the user’s browsing habits; you leave it for the experts.

  Banks and Winsome searched through the desk drawers and found stationery, mini-USB drives, old backup CDs, chargers and various connecting wires. In one of the side drawers Banks found an envelope full of old photos: a pop festival of some kind, the stage way off in the distance; a picket-line scuffle, police in riot gear; a student demo; a city Banks didn’t recognise, tall buildings glinting in the sun; a group of people standing outside a modern building; more groups at restaurants and on beaches; mountains and a sheltered bay; a deep blue lake reflecting the fir trees on the hills that surrounded it, snow-capped mountains in the background. That was it: some black and white, some colour, no portraits, no dates, no names, no indication whether Miller had taken them.

  The books were mostly paperback British and European literary classics, from Robinson Crusoe to L’Étranger. There was also a shelf of literary criticism and general non-fiction: Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, Kierkegaard’s The Sickness Unto Death, F.R. Leavis’s The Great Tradition. Heavy reading, Banks thought.

  A door with a broken handle led into the kitchen, beyond which was a tiny downstairs toilet and washbasin. The kitchen was surprisingly tidy, dishes washed and standing in the rack beside the sink, all surfaces wiped clean. There wasn’t much food in the fridge except for some wilted broccoli and leftover chicken tikka masala in a plastic container. Still, Banks wasn’t one to speak. Anyone who took the trouble to look would find the same in his fridge as often as not, except he didn’t bother with the plastic container. The green box by the door was full of empty wine bottles – cheap wine, Banks noticed – mixed in with a few whisky bottles, also cheap brands often on sale at Bargain Booze. It looked as if Miller preferred to stop in to do his drinking. If he was as reclusive as PC Kirwan had suggested, he probably did it alone.

  Up a flight of narrow, uncarpeted stairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom, complete with a small walk-in shower. A cursory inspection of the bathroom cabinet showed only the usual: razor, shaving cream, Elastoplast, and a selection of over-the-counter medications such as paracetamol, Alka Seltzer and acid reducers. There were also two prescription medications: an old bottle of heavy-duty painkillers, still half full, and a more recent one of Ativan, sublingual. Banks could see no signs of a toothbrush, toothpaste or deodorant. One bedroom was large enough to hold a double bed, wardrobe and dresser, and it was clearly where Miller had slept. The bed was unmade, strewn with discarded underwear, socks and shirts. An MP3 player lay on the bedside table next to a glass of water, in which a dead fly floated, and a digital clock radio. Banks turned on the radio. It was tuned to Radio Two.

  Winsome shivered. ‘A bit parky in here, isn’t it?’

  ‘The radiator’s not turned on,’ said Banks. ‘He must have been counting his pennies.’

  ‘With five grand in his pocket?’

  Banks shrugged.

  The second bedroom seemed to be Miller’s den, similar in a way to Banks’s entertainment room at Newhope Cottage. There was a cheap laptop computer and the obligatory flat-screen TV hooked up to a fine surround-sound system, which was also connected to a turntable. Most of the equipment was fairly old, Banks noticed, at least three or four years, which is old for electronics. Gavin Miller’s music collection began and ended with the sixties and very early seventies, and most of it was on vinyl. There was plenty of Soft Machine, Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix, and a lot of Grateful Dead, some of the LPs still plastic-wrapped.

  ‘A Dead Head,’ Banks muttered.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Winsome.

  Banks pointed to the rows of albums, CDs, DVDs and the blow-ups of the American Beauty and Live Dead album covers on the wall. ‘It’s what they call people who are fanatical about the Grateful Dead. It used to refer to people who followed the band around from gig to gig. How old was Miller? Did you check?’

  ‘Fifty-nine,’ Winsome said.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ said Banks, shocked that Miller had turned out to be close to his own age. ‘He looked to be in his seventies.’

  ‘That’s what a hard life will do to you, sir.’

  Banks gazed at her curiously, wondering if that was one of her cryptic warnings. ‘He’s about the right age, then,’ he said finally. ‘For the Grateful Dead and all that.’

  ‘Are you one, too, sir? A Dead Head?’

  Banks laughed. ‘Me? No. I just like to listen to them sometimes. And don’t be cheeky. I’m not fifty-nine, either. It certainly doesn’t seem as if anyone has broken in here, does it? There weren’t any damage to the door, and the electronic stuff is all intact. It’s old, mind you, but it might fetch a few quid at a car boot sale. Some of these records are probably worth a bob or two to a collector.’

  ‘How many burglars have you met who’d know a valuable LP from a hole in the ground?’ said Winsome.

  ‘Maybe they get a better class
of burglar around Coverton?’

  Winsome gave him a look. ‘More likely, if anyone did break in, they were after something specific and not interested in a stack of old vinyl and posters. And they were clever enough to enter and leave the place as it was.’

  Banks glanced at the DVDs and saw that Miller was a serious film buff. His shelves housed an extensive collection of foreign art-house films from such directors as Tarkovsky, Almodóvar, Fellini, Kurosawa, Truffaut, Ozu and Godard, along with a stack of Sight & Sound magazines, right up to the previous month’s issue.

  Winsome gestured towards the film collection. ‘You know any of these, sir? You’ve watched them?’

  ‘I’ve watched some of them, yes,’ said Banks. ‘I’m quite partial to a bit of Mizoguchi and Chabrol every now and then. Can’t say I know them all, though.’

  ‘But does any of it mean anything?’ Winsome asked. ‘I mean, as far as the investigation is concerned?’

  ‘The films? I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘But I doubt it very much. They just happen to be the sort of thing that Gavin Miller liked, along with the books. He was clearly a bit of an artsy type. I suppose they could just as easily have been Rogers and Hammerstein musicals or Disney cartoons. I’m just trying to get a feel for him, really, Winsome, work out what sort of bloke he was, whether he was the type to commit suicide – if there is a type – where he might have got five thousand quid, what he might have been intending to do with it. Now the sixties vinyl, that might mean something. There could be a drug connection. The Grateful Dead were involved in the early acid tests, and their followers are well known for taking psychedelics. LSD especially.’

  ‘Maybe it was all about drugs, then,’ Winsome said. ‘The money in his pocket and all. I mean, there’s no suicide note, not one that we’ve found yet anyway.’

  ‘Not every suicide leaves a note. And if he was doing a drug deal, and if someone robbed him of his stash, why didn’t the killer go down the embankment to the track and take back his money? Five grand’s a fair whack of cash to just leave behind. I can’t imagine any dealer, or buyer, doing that.’

  ‘Dunno, sir. Maybe he thought he heard someone coming and scarpered? Or he saw that Miller was dead and didn’t want to risk leaving any more forensic evidence?’

  ‘Possible. Though PC Kirwan says the track is hardly ever used, especially at this time of year, and at night. Anyway, it’s just an angle to consider.’

  Banks poked through some of the drawers and found, behind a pile of cassette tapes, an old Golden Virginia tobacco tin. When he opened it, he saw a packet of red Rizla cigarette papers, some silver paper wrapped around about a quarter of an ounce of a sandy coloured, crumbly substance, which smelled suspiciously like hash. Also, in a plastic bag, were two small blue tablets, unmarked.

  ‘It looks as if we’ve found the drugs,’ Winsome said.

  ‘OK,’ Banks said, handing her the tin. ‘I’m heading back to the station. Madame Gervaise will want an update. You stick with Stefan and his mob while they do a proper search of this place. Give them this to get analysed and let them know that drugs may be on the agenda. There may be more hidden away. They’ll know the usual places to search. I’ll set Gerry Masterson on finding out all she can about Mr Gavin Miller. I want his life story. Cradle to grave.’

  * * *

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ Area Commander Catherine Gervaise said. ‘You don’t know whether Gavin Miller was a suicide, a perpetrator who ended up being a victim, or the intended victim from the start?’

  ‘No,’ Banks admitted. ‘How could we? We need to know a lot more about him, his background, what made him tick, any reasons he might have had for wanting to end it all. DC Masterson’s working on it now.’

  ‘But you don’t even know whether he was buying or selling drugs, whether any transaction had been carried out or not?’

  ‘That’s right. All we know is that he’s dead under suspicious circumstances, there were drugs in his house, and he had five thousand pounds in his pocket.’

  ‘And you don’t know whether he was deliberately killed or died as the result of a fight? Whether it was murder or manslaughter, in fact.’

  ‘The side of the bridge was too high for him to fall over without being lifted or jumping.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. Let’s keep the five grand out of the media for the time being, if we can. I’ll take a press conference at the end of the day, if anybody’s interested, that is.’

  ‘Even with the possibility of suicide, there’s bound to be a few vultures already, surely? Anyway, we’ll keep the money under wraps. It shouldn’t be a problem.’ Banks scratched his temple. ‘I’d be the first to admit that we need a lot more to go on before we can even get started, but if drugs are involved, I’m sure it’ll be quickly and easily settled once we get a list of his mobile calls and the contents of his computers.’

  ‘I hope so. A quick result would go down nicely in these penny-pinching days. How’s DI Cabbot doing?’

  ‘Annie? She’s fine. She’s wrapping up another case. I’ll bring her in if it turns out I need her on this.’

  But Banks didn’t think Annie was fine. She had changed since she had been shot over a year ago, become more reckless, more secretive, harder, even. She was more difficult to talk to, and their conversations ended up as arguments, or at least minor quarrels, far more often than was healthy. He was worried about her, but she wouldn’t let him close.

  ‘DC Masterson working out all right?’

  DC Geraldine Masterson was their latest detective constable, who had just come out of her probationary period. ‘Gerry? Yes. She’s doing well. She could do with a bit more confidence, but that often comes with experience. She’s got a damn useful set of skills, but I don’t think we let her out often enough to build her confidence. No problems to report, though.’

  ‘Good.’

  Enjoying the coffee from Gervaise’s espresso machine, Banks figured that the penny-pinching hadn’t yet reached as high as the chief super’s budget for little luxuries. He felt a subtle shift of gear during one of Gervaise’s lengthy pauses.

  ‘Have you ever thought about retirement at all, Alan?’ she asked after a few beats had passed.

  Banks was taken aback. ‘Retirement? Surely I’ve got a couple of years left yet, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course you have. But the way things are going, with budget cuts and all, who knows? It’s something that’s being encouraged in a lot of cases.’

  ‘Including me?’

  ‘Not specifically, no. Not yet. But I’m just letting you know that it’s an option. You’ve done your thirty. Plus. You’d have a decent pension.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of pensions,’ said Banks. ‘You know that. What would I do?’

  Gervaise smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’d find something, Alan. Bit of gardening, perhaps? Maybe take up a musical instrument? You like music, don’t you? Learn to play the piano. Some charity work, helping out in a care home or a hospital, feeding the poor in a church basement, something like that? Get a life?’

  Banks shifted in his chair. ‘Am I missing something? You’re starting to make me nervous. Is this a roundabout way of telling me something I don’t want to hear?’

  Gervaise’s smile was inscrutable. ‘Is that what you think? Does the subject of retirement make you uncomfortable, Alan?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it does. It makes me cringe.’

  Gervaise paused again. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m jittery enough as it is. All this talk about retirement.’

  ‘That’s just one option. Have you ever thought about promotion?’

  ‘You must be joking? Me? Surely I’m unpromotable?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. You’ve made a few mistakes over the years, a few enemies, true enough, though many of them have moved on. You’ve got a lot of influential and powerful people on your side, too.’

  ‘Even since that business with MI5?’


  ‘Even since then. When did we ever dance to MI5’s tune?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly notice the cavalry hurrying around the bend to my rescue when they had me over a barrel.’

  ‘Well, you have only yourself to blame for that. You didn’t tell anyone what you were up to, did you? That’s your greatest failing. But despite your maverick tendencies, you’ve still got a lot of support where it counts.’

  ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

  ‘It’s simple, really.’ Gervaise spread her hands in a gesture of openness. ‘Nature abhors a vacuum. Since I was made chief superintendent, there’s been a vacuum. It needs to be filled. Homicide and Major Crimes really needs a detective superintendent to run it. I can’t think of a better person than you for the job.’ Gervaise had recently been promoted, and had also taken on the role of area commander for the Eastvale Local Policing Area.

  ‘Detective superintendent! Hang on. Wait a minute. You flatter me, but—’

  ‘It’s not flattery. Think about it, Alan. That’s all I ask. Yes, there’ll be more paperwork, more responsibility, more meetings, more crime stats and budgets to fret over, more of the sort of stuff you hate. And you’re going to have to tread a bit more carefully, avoid stepping on too many toes. But on the other hand, there’ll be more money and more holidays, and nobody’s going to stop you working the way you do, even if it means getting your hands dirty now and then. This wouldn’t be a move designed to stop you from doing your job the way you do it best. Some very high-up people have spent a lot of time discussing this.’

  ‘I thought my ears were burning a lot lately. You’re saying I would still be able to handle cases as I see fit?’

  ‘Within reason, same as always. If you mean can you get out there and work in the field, then the answer’s “yes”. It’ll just mean more unpaid overtime catching up with budgeting and reports and the rest of the paperwork.’