Banks stood in the doorway. ‘Anything for us?’
‘Nothing yet,’ said Winsome. She dangled a ring of house keys. ‘Just these. They were on the desk. A few clothes in the wardrobe. Toiletries. No mobile. No wallet. No room key.’
The room was a mirror image of Lorraine Jenson’s. Banks noticed a fishing rod and tackle in one corner and a stack of Angling Times, Trout & Salmon, Gardeners’ World and Garden News magazines on the coffee table. An outdoorsman, then, Bill Quinn. Banks hadn’t known that. Still, he hadn’t known much about the man at all, a situation that would have to be rectified as quickly as possible. The solution to the crime, he had come to believe over the years, more often than not lies in the victim’s character. ‘I think we’d better send a couple of officers over to search his house. Where does he live?’
‘It’s already taken care of, guv,’ said Winsome. ‘He lives alone in a semi in Rawdon, Leeds, up near the airport.’
‘Alone? For some reason, I thought he was married with kids.’
‘He was. His wife’s dead, and the kids have flown the coop. They’re both at university, one in Hull, the other at Keele. The local police are trying to track them down. His parents, too. They live in Featherstone.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Banks said. ‘About his wife, I mean.’
‘I found out from his boss, sir. It was very recent. Only a month. Massive stroke.’
‘Is that what he was in here for? Depression? Grief counselling?’
‘No. Neck problems. Physio and massage therapy.’
‘OK, carry on,’ said Banks. He stood in the doorway watching Winsome work her way through Bill Quinn’s room.
When she had finished, neither of them was any the wiser.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anything of a personal nature here,’ said Winsome. ‘No diary, journal, notebook. Nothing.’
‘And no note signed by the killer saying, “Meet me by the lake at eleven o’clock tonight”?’
Winsome sighed. ‘I wish.’
‘Did it seem disturbed at all when you first came in? I suppose if someone could get into the woods to kill him and take his key, they could also get in his room.’
‘No signs of it,’ said Winsome. ‘Anyway, it might be a bit riskier, actually entering the building.’
‘Not according to what I’ve just heard from Mary,’ said Banks. ‘There’s about as much security here as a kid’s piggy bank. Do we know if he had a mobile?’
‘I’d be surprised if he didn’t,’ said Winsome. ‘I mean, these days . . .’
‘Well, he doesn’t appear to have one now,’ said Banks. ‘And that’s very peculiar, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, I would. I always take mine with me when I go out.’
‘Better make sure we ask his fellow patients, or guests, or whatever they are, and the staff. Someone should remember if he had one. Same with a laptop or a notepad.’ Banks slipped on the protective gloves he always carried with him to crime scenes and picked up a heavy book Winsome had found in a drawer. Practical Homicide Investigation. Bill Quinn’s name was written in the flyleaf. ‘And this is his only reading material, apart from the fishing and gardening magazines?’ Banks flipped through the book. ‘It hardly looks like the sort of reading you’d want to do if you were here recuperating for a couple of weeks, does it? Some of these pictures are enough to turn your stomach.’
‘Well, he was a detective, sir,’ Winsome said. ‘Maybe he was doing a bit of studying?’
‘I suppose we can check if he was doing any courses.’
Banks flipped through the rest of the book, but nothing fell out. He examined it more closely to see if anything was sellotaped inside, or rolled up and shoved down the spine, but there was nothing. Nor were the pages cut to hold a package of some sort, the way he had cut out The Way to Keep Fit to hide his cigarettes when he was fourteen. It hadn’t worked, of course. His mother had noticed what an unusual title it was, mixed in with James Bond, The Saint, The Toff, The Baron and Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying from which side of the family Banks had inherited his detective abilities. He had fared about as well with his copies of Mayfair, Swank and Oui, too, hidden under a false bottom in the wardrobe. God only knew what had tipped her off to that one.
But Bill Quinn’s secret wasn’t hidden in a hollowed out book, or under the false bottom of a wardrobe; it was between the hard book cover and a loosened endpaper, which had only been very superficially smoothed and pasted back down.
Banks peeled back the edge of the flap and managed to prise out a small, thin buff envelope with the tips of his gloved fingers. He sat down by the coffee table, took the envelope, which was closed but not sealed, and shook out its contents on to the table’s surface. Photographs. He turned them all the right way up and set them out in a row. Three colour 4 x 6 prints, run off an inkjet printer on cheap paper. There were no times or dates printed on them, and nothing written on the backs. But they were of good enough quality to show what was happening.
The first one showed Bill Quinn sitting in a bar enjoying an intimate drink with a very beautiful, and very young, woman. She hardly looked old enough to get served, Banks thought. Quinn was leaning in close towards her, and their fingertips were touching on the table. Both had champagne flutes in front of them. The figures in the background were blurred, as were the details of the room, and it was impossible to make out any faces or decor to identify where it had been taken.
In the second photograph, the couple seemed to have moved on to a restaurant. They were sitting in a booth, and the decor seemed darker and more plush, brass, wood and red velour. On the table in front of them, on a white linen tablecloth, were two plates of pasta and two half-full glasses of white wine beside a bottle placed upside down in a metal ice bucket. Their faces were close, as if in intimate conversation, and Quinn’s hand rested on top of the woman’s thigh.
The third photograph was taken slightly from above and showed Quinn on his back with the young girl, naked now, straddling him, her small breasts jutting forward, nipples hard, dark hair hanging over her shoulders. Quinn’s hands rested on her thighs. The girl had an expression of ecstasy on her face, but it was impossible to tell whether it was genuine. Probably not, Banks thought, because the odds were that Bill Quinn had passed out, or had been drugged, by this time. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but there was something about the pose, the way Quinn’s head rested slackly on the pillow, his body slumped, and his hands lying passively on her thighs. Maybe he should have been squeezing her breasts, rearing up and sucking them, kissing them, doing something, at any rate. The surroundings were in darkness except for an oblong of pale light that must have been a window, and one or two pieces of furniture in the shadows. A hotel room, Banks guessed.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Winsome, who was perching on the arm of the chair, beside him peering at the photos.
‘Escort,’ she said, without missing a beat.
‘Perhaps it was more than just a sexual transaction?’ Banks suggested. ‘She’s not dressed like a hooker. Those are more like student clothes, not slutty or expensively stylish at all. Could she have been a lover, maybe? He seems a bit out of it in the room, doesn’t he? What do you think?’
‘She could be a high-priced escort,’ Winsome said. ‘I imagine you can order them dressed any way you wish. Maybe he had a thing about student chic. And you’re right, guv. There’s definitely something odd about that picture in the hotel room. His position. He’s sort of inert, when you wouldn’t expect him to be.’
Banks raised his eyebrows. ‘Winsome, you surprise me. What should he be doing, do you think?’
‘He just seems too passive, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I’d say that if a man his age was lucky enough to be in bed with a girl her age, a girl as beautiful as her, then he should probably be enjoying himself.’
Banks laughed. ‘Good point, Winsome. Thanks for sharing that.’ He stood up. ‘Lots of questions that need answers. Whichever way you lo
ok at it, it seems as if our DI Quinn has been a naughty boy. Bit of a dark horse. OK, let’s get these photos over to Photographic Services and have some copies made before they get to work on them. It would be interesting to find out when they were taken and who the girl is. Perhaps we can isolate her face so we can show it around without giving away what Quinn was up to. Will you seal off this room, Winsome, and make sure no one enters? I especially don’t want any of the media getting a scent of this. They’re bound to find out eventually – they always do – but let’s keep it under wraps for as long as we can.’
‘Yes, guv.’ Banks glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be getting back to the station. I’m sure the boss will be chomping at the bit, wanting to know what’s going on, and I need a few favours from her.’
Chapter 2
Since the reorganisation, which meant more meetings, recently promoted Area Commander Catherine Gervaise had added a low round table and four tubular chairs to her office. There was plenty of room for them, and they allowed for a more informal meeting space than the boardroom, where the full team briefings were carried out.
Banks felt the tubes holding up his chair give gently as he sat and leaned back, carefully placing his coffee mug on a rose-patterned coaster on the glass table. The coffee was from Gervaise’s personal filter machine, and it was good and strong. There was no doubt that Gervaise had brought a feminine touch to what used to be Superintendent Gristhorpe’s very masculine office, though she would never thank anyone for telling her so.
Photographs of her husband and children adorned her desk and the top of the filing cabinet; the walls were painted in muted pastel shades of blue, complemented by a couple of well-framed water lily prints. The whole place seemed somehow more airy and light, with everything neat and in its place.
Most of the books were legal or forensic texts, rather than the rows of leather-bound literary classics Gristhorpe had kept on the shelves, though there was the tell-tale Stella Rimington autobiography that Gervaise had clearly forgotten to hide. The books were in neat groups, separated by the occasional cup or plaque for archery, dressage or fencing, which had been Gervaise’s passions when she had had more time to indulge in such pursuits.
The window was open about three inches, and Banks could hear sounds from Eastvale’s cobbled market square – delivery vans, children’s squeals, shouted greetings – and the smell of fresh-baked bread from Bob’s Bakery made his mouth water. It was going on for nine o’clock. He had been up since just after five, and he hadn’t eaten anything yet. Maybe he’d grab a pasty or a sausage roll from Greggs after the meeting.
AC Gervaise was as fresh and business-like as ever in her navy blue suit and crisp white linen blouse, a little red, blue and yellow needlework around the collar adding a touch of colour to its strict lines.
‘Is everything in hand?’ she asked, sitting opposite Banks and smoothing her skirt.
‘It is,’ said Banks.
The mechanics of a murder investigation could be quite overwhelming, and it was as well to get everything set up and running, make sure everyone knew what his or her job was, before information started arriving in the form of forensics reports, witness statements, alibis and the like. Computer systems such as HOLMES and SOCRATES needed to be set up, and that job would probably fall to DC Gerry Masterson these days, with her IT background, but there was still so much reliance on actual paper in police investigations that plenty of good strong cardboard boxes and large filing cabinets would also be needed. And even though officers used their mobiles most of the time, dedicated land lines had to be set up, and the public needed to be made aware of numbers to call if they had information.
‘Did you know DI Quinn personally?’ Gervaise asked.
‘I met him once,’ said Banks. ‘Seemed like a nice enough bloke. But I can’t say I knew him. You?’
‘Same thing. He was awarded a medal for bravery about three years ago. I was at the presentation.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Distinguished service record. I don’t get this at all, Alan. From everything I’ve heard so far, it certainly doesn’t seem like a random act of violence, or even an old enemy lashing out in anger.’
‘No,’ Banks agreed. ‘The choice of weapon. It all seems very deliberate, as if it were planned. And then there are the photos.’
Gervaise’s eyes widened. ‘The what?’
Banks explained about the photographs he’d found in Quinn’s forensic textbook. ‘They should be with Photographic Services by now, though I don’t imagine there’ll be a lot they can tell us.’
‘You’d be surprised. Quinn with a young woman, you say?’
‘Very young.’
‘What do you make of it? Blackmail?’
‘That seems most likely.’ Banks paused. ‘Winsome told me his wife died just a month ago,’ he went on, ‘which makes me think that if the photos had been used for blackmail before then, there’s a good chance they’d be quite useless after.’
‘What about his children?’
‘It’s not the same, is it? Besides, they’re grown up. At university.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I know that I wouldn’t want my kids to know . . . you know . . .’ Gervaise reddened. ‘If I’d done anything like that.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Banks imagined what Tracy or Brian would say if they knew about some of the things he’d done over the years. Not that infidelity had been a habit, but once was enough. There were other things he’d done, things he wasn’t proud of, down in London when he was undercover and living on the edge, or over it sometimes. ‘But the blackmail still loses a lot of its sting, doesn’t it? I mean, your kids can hardly haul you through the divorce courts and take everything you’ve got, can they?’
Gervaise gave him a look that would freeze a volcano. ‘You mean take what they’re entitled to, surely, Alan?’
‘Sorry, ma’am. Yes. Of course.’
Gervaise inclined her head regally. ‘I should think so. And less of the ma’am. It does nothing to excuse your sexist attitudes.’ She paused. ‘All I’m saying is that the threat of blackmail might have still been there, if not as strong. Kids. Parents. Even bosses, work colleagues. And it’s hardly a good thing for a police officer’s career to admit that he left himself open to blackmail. There’s been rumours lately, too. A rotten apple. Just rumours, mind, but even so . . .’
‘So I heard,’ said Banks. ‘You think it was Quinn?’
‘All I’m saying is that we need to keep an open mind. Back to the girl. You say she’s young?’
‘Yes.’
‘Underage?’
‘Just young.’
‘But if it even appeared that way, he could have lost his job,’ Gervaise pointed out.
‘I still think that for Quinn the biggest fear would have been his wife finding out. Anything else he could have brushed off, or dealt with. There’s no proof the girl’s underage. And she’s certainly a very attractive woman. Any man would be proud to be seen with her. Christ, some of his mates at work might even have envied him.’
Gervaise rolled her eyes.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Why do you think he kept the photos with him?’
‘I don’t know. In my experience, people hang on to the strangest things for the strangest of reasons. Can’t complain. It makes our job easier in the long run. Maybe he was proud of himself for pulling her, and they were some sort of trophy? Maybe he was in love with her, and they were all he had left? Maybe he’d just got hold of them? Maybe he was going to pass them on to someone? Quinn obviously didn’t expect that he would never return to his room at St Peter’s last night, and that someone else would find them, unless . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Unless that was why he left them there. As some form of insurance against something happening to him.’
‘You mean he was expecting to be killed?’
‘No, not that. Expecting trouble, maybe, if he’d agreed to meet someone he
was wary of, to pay off the blackmailer, say. But I doubt very much that he expected to be hurt or killed. He may have left the pictures in his room as a form of insurance, in case something went wrong. They weren’t very well hidden. Quinn was one of us. He knew we’d find them on the first pass. Which means they may be important now that something has happened to him. Not just insurance, but evidence. She may be important. We need to find her.’
‘It’s not much to go on, though, is it? A handful of photographs?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I suppose we can get someone to trawl through the escort agency file photos, check the online dating services, see if she turns up on one of them?’
‘So you think he was meeting someone he knew out there last night, maybe about something connected with the girl and the photos?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he even thought he was meeting the girl herself? That would cause him to be less on guard.’
‘Maybe he did meet her,’ suggested Gervaise. ‘Maybe she killed him.’
‘It’s possible,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it’s far too early to speculate. One way or another, I think the pictures are connected with his murder, which is what makes me think of blackmail, that they must have been taken while his wife was still alive to be of any use to anyone.’ Banks paused. ‘Any chance of a few extra bodies?’
‘You know what it’s like these days, Alan. But I’ll ask ACC McLaughlin, see what I can do. And I’ll take care of the media. I should bring our Press Officer in on this. One of our own. A high-profile case. I’ll set up a conference.’
‘Appreciated. Winsome and the others are already working on the staff and patient interviews at St Peter’s, but we also need to go over Bill Quinn’s old cases, talk to his colleagues, see if anyone had a grudge against him big enough to kill him, any hard men recently released from jail, that sort of thing. I’ll start by paying DI Ken Blackstone a visit in Leeds before I head out to Rawdon to check out Quinn’s house. Ken knew Bill Quinn fairly well, so he should be able to tell me a bit more about what sort of copper he was. We also need his mobile phone records. Credit card and bank statements, too.’ Banks glanced over at the trophies on the bookcase. ‘Er . . . by the way, I noticed a few archery awards there. You don’t happen to know anything about crossbows, do you?’
Watching the Dark Page 3