Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery)

by Robinson, Peter

‘You’d also better organise a thorough search of the buildings and grounds as quickly as possible, before everyone gets wind of what’s going on down here. We’re after the murder weapon, a crossbow. Can’t be that easy to hide.’

  ‘Including the patients’ rooms?’

  ‘Especially the patients’ rooms. They won’t like it. They’re cops, like us. But it has to be done. They ought to understand that much, at least. This is one of our own that’s been killed. It could be an inside job, and if this place is as wide open as it appears, then anybody could come and go as they please. Set up interviews, too. You can start with the two who were just here. Barry . . .?’ Banks glanced at Lorraine Jenson.

  ‘Barry Sadler and Mandy Pemberton.’

  Winsome headed off. Lorraine fell in beside her. She moved well, he noticed, despite the crutch. She made some comment, and Banks spotted Winsome glance over her shoulder and laugh.

  Banks gazed down at the body again. Though they had only met once, at a retirement do with DI Ken Blackstone, he remembered lanky Bill Quinn, prematurely grey-haired, with his stained and crooked teeth, smiling quietly in his seat through the ribald speeches, a small whisky in his hand. ‘Bill Quinn,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What have you been up to?’ He looked around at the lake, the trees and the big house on the hill, sniffed the air, then set off after Winsome and Lorraine, up to the main building.

  ‘You’ll be treating me as a suspect, then, as well as searching my room?’ Lorraine said, as she put her crutch aside and settled down in her armchair. Her bedsit resembled a pleasant hotel room, Banks thought, with a single bed in one corner, en suite bathroom and toilet, a writing desk, and three armchairs arranged around an oval table. There were also tea- and coffee-making facilities on the top of the chest of drawers, a spacious wardrobe, and a flat-screen television fixed to the wall. A combination radio, CD player and iPod dock completed the set-up.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Banks said. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘I discovered the body. It’s always the person who discovers the body.’

  ‘Or the nearest and dearest,’ added Banks. ‘What have you been doing here, reading too much Agatha Christie?’

  ‘It just stands to reason.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got that out of the way, haven’t we?’

  ‘You should suspect me. I would if I were you. We’re all suspects. All of us here.’

  Banks gazed at her with narrowed eyes. Early forties, looking older and more frail since her injury, once-plump body wasted by the recovery process, pale skin sagging, shrewd eyes with bags underneath, a ragged fringe of dark hair. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ he said. ‘For now, you’re just a witness. We’ll want a full written statement later, of course, but all I want now is a few basics, your immediate impressions, what you knew of the victim. That sort of thing. I saw you making notes, so it’s probably still fresh in your mind. Let’s start with what you were doing outside so early, and what made you walk down to the lake.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping very well because of the pain,’ Lorraine said, after a brief hesitation. ‘Most days I get up early, when it starts to get light, and I feel claustrophobic. I need to get out. It’s peaceful sitting there before the place comes to life. And I can enjoy a cigarette.’

  ‘What drew you to the lake?’

  ‘I saw something down there, at the edge of the woods. That’s all. A bundle. It seemed unusual. Out of place. The grounds are usually immaculate.’

  ‘And when you saw what it was?’

  ‘I kept my distance and phoned it in.’

  ‘You didn’t touch anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything odd, apart from the bundle itself.’

  ‘No, not really. I stood and listened. I saw a fox. The sound startled me. I thought the killer might still be in the woods, but it was only a fox.’

  ‘You couldn’t see the crossbow bolt at this point, could you?’

  ‘No. He was practically face down on the ground. You saw for yourself.’

  ‘But you just said “killer”. What made you assume he’d been killed, rather than just, say, dropped dead of a heart attack or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was just the way he was lying, kneeling. It looked suspicious. It was instinct, a hunch. I can’t really think of any logical explanation.’

  Banks knew how easily witnesses got confused, and how easy it was for the questioner to take advantage of that, to make them even more nervous and defensive. Question anyone for a few minutes, and pretty soon they all sounded as if they were lying. Cops were apparently no different. ‘I just wondered whether there was anything in particular that made you feel that way, that’s all,’ Banks said. ‘You didn’t see or hear anyone running away, a car starting out on the road, or anything like that?’

  ‘No. Just the fox. And birds, of course. The birds were already singing. Why are you asking? When do you think he was killed? He must have been there for a while. Surely he can’t have been killed just before I found him?’

  ‘Did you know Bill Quinn well?’

  ‘No, not really. I’d talked to him, chatted briefly in the lounge over a nightcap, that sort of thing, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. We’re both smokers, so we’d meet up outside occasionally by chance and pass the time of day. We’re all pretty civil here, but we don’t really socialise all that much.’

  ‘You weren’t involved in any sort of relationship?’

  ‘Good God, no.’ She held up her left hand. ‘The only people I’m in a relationship with are my husband and my two children.’

  ‘Did you ever witness DI Quinn arguing with any of the other patients, or hear anyone making threats towards him?’

  ‘No. It’s a pretty peaceful place here, as you might have noticed. He was quiet most of the time, abstracted. I didn’t see much of him. I didn’t witness any arguments at all.’

  ‘Noticed anyone hanging around? Anyone who shouldn’t be here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did you last see Bill Quinn alive?’

  ‘At dinner last night.’

  ‘When was that? What’s the routine?’

  ‘Dinner’s usually at half past six, then three nights a week there’s quiz night at eight. After that, about half past nine, people either meet for a drink or two in the library bar or head off to their rooms to watch TV.’

  ‘And when there’s not a quiz night?’

  ‘There’s a film sometimes, usually a quite recent one, in the gym, or people just amuse themselves, play cards, read, whatever.’

  ‘No karaoke?’

  Lorraine laughed. ‘Hardly. Though I think sometimes it might liven things up a bit.’

  ‘How did Bill Quinn appear at dinner last night? Did he seem agitated, distracted, edgy?’

  Lorraine frowned with the effort of memory. ‘Maybe a little. I’m not sure. He didn’t say much, but then he rarely did. He was always a bit distracted and edgy. Not agitated, mind you, just in another world, as if he was carrying a burden. It’s far too easy to read things into a situation with hindsight.’

  ‘What would you read into his behaviour last night?’

  ‘That he seemed maybe a bit more anxious than usual, that’s all, as if he had something on his mind. He didn’t stick around to chat over coffee, for example, and he didn’t go to the library bar for an after-dinner drink.’

  ‘Did he usually stay for a chat and go for a drink?’

  ‘Yes. A small malt. Just the one, as a rule. He also missed quiz night, which was not like him at all. He enjoyed quiz nights.’ Lorraine paused. ‘He wasn’t easy to know. Hard to get a handle on.’

  ‘Any idea who might have killed him?’

  ‘I doubt if it was anyone here,’ Lorraine said. ‘We’ve all been thrown together by chance and circumstance, and there hasn’t been real
ly much of an opportunity to form grievances and vendettas so far.’ She gestured towards her crutch. ‘Besides, most of us are incapable.’

  ‘Even so,’ Banks said. ‘An old grudge suddenly confronted?’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, though, wouldn’t you say? I reckon you’d be better off checking out the villains he brought down, rather than cops he was spending a couple of weeks’ rest and recuperation with.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Banks glanced around the room. ‘Nice digs,’ he said. ‘And you can get a decent single malt here, too?’

  ‘It’s not a health spa, you know, or a fitness centre.’

  St Peter’s, Annie Cabbot had explained to Banks, was a charity-run convalescence centre for injured police officers, those recuperating from operations, or suffering from stress and anxiety, job-related or otherwise. It offered a range of treatments, from physiotherapy to reiki, including massage, sauna, hydrotherapy and psychological counselling. The general length of stay was two weeks, but that was flexible in some cases; Annie had stayed for three weeks and still returned regularly, as an outpatient, for physio and massage therapy.

  ‘Did you hear anything during the night?’ Banks asked. ‘You said you don’t sleep well.’

  ‘I usually take a pill when I go to bed. That knocks me out for a few hours, then I can’t get back to sleep again, so I get up early. But from ten o’clock, when I usually go to bed, until about three or four, I’m dead to the world.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear anything after you woke up early?’

  ‘No. Only the birds.’

  ‘Where did Bill Quinn go instead of staying for a drink and participating in quiz night?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I wasn’t keeping tabs on him. To his room, I suppose. Or out for a late smoke. All I know is I didn’t see him again.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear him leave the building after you went to bed?’

  ‘No. As you can see, my room’s right at the back, on the first floor, and he’s on the second floor at the front. The ground floor is all offices and treatment rooms, along with the dining room and library bar. Then there’s a basement, with the gym and swimming pool. I wouldn’t even have heard Bill Quinn if he’d had a wild orgy in his room. I wouldn’t necessarily hear anyone leaving through the front door. He could have gone out during quiz night for all I know. As I said, I didn’t see him at all after dinner.’

  ‘You were at quiz night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. We’ll ask the others. Someone might have seen something. What’s the security like here? Is access easy?’

  Lorraine snorted. ‘Security? There isn’t any, really. I mean, it’s not a prison, or even a hospital. More like a posh hotel. Maybe there are a few expensive bits of gym gear or medical equipment around, but they don’t keep drugs or cash on the premises. As you know already, there’s a big wall, but no gate, so I suppose anyone can walk or drive in and out whenever they want. We can. It would be easy enough for someone to slip into the woods by the gate without being seen and just wait there. The nearest village is a mile and a half away, and sometimes some of the people here nip out for a jar or two in the pub. There’s no sentry post, no porter’s lodge, no curfew, no book to sign. There’s the night nurse on duty, you met Mandy, and she might have noticed something, but even she was probably fast asleep by then. We come and go as we please.’

  ‘Was Bill Quinn in the habit of going down to the woods at night?’

  ‘Not that I know of, no. Whenever I saw him outside, he’d be having a smoke by the front door.’

  ‘Is there CCTV?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’d better ask one of the staff. I mean, why would there be? We’re all honest coppers here, right?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Banks stood up. ‘I’ll be off, then. Thanks for your time, Lorraine. I might be back.’

  As he left, two uniformed WPCs entered Lorraine’s room. ‘Damn,’ he heard her say. ‘If you must go through my knicker drawer, try not to make too much of a mess.’

  Banks walked down the broad wooden staircase to the reception area, letting his hand slide along the dark polished banister. A stair lift had been fitted on one side for those patients who had difficulty climbing the stairs. Annie had used it, he remembered. The whole place was crawling with police now. Banks spotted DC Doug Wilson and asked him if Winsome was still upstairs searching Bill Quinn’s room.

  ‘As far as I know she is, sir,’ said Wilson. ‘It’s 22B, west wing. I’m just getting the guest interviews organised. It’ll take us a while. We’re using one of the staff meeting lounges as the murder room. It’s being set up now.’

  ‘Excellent. How many patients in all?’

  ‘Only twelve, sir. Then there’s the staff, mostly part-time. We’ll use the library bar and the ground-floor offices and treatment rooms for the interviews. That way we can conduct more than one at a time and get finished sooner.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Banks. ‘Got enough help?’

  ‘I’ve got Gerry, sir. I mean DC Masterson.’

  DC Geraldine Masterson had just finished her probationary period and was shaping up very well. She was young and still had a lot to learn, but that wasn’t such a bad thing. More important, she was bight and keen, and showed above average aptitude for grasping things. She also had a degree in IT.

  ‘I’ll see if I can manage to draft in some help,’ Banks said. ‘Until then, just do the best you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And get a couple of officers asking around the general neighbourhood, the village, find out if anyone was seen hanging around here lately, last night in particular. A car, anything suspicious.’

  ‘It’s pretty isolated, sir.’

  ‘That’s why someone might have noticed something. You can get the word out to the media, too. No information about DI Quinn’s murder, especially about method of death, but we want to talk to anybody who passed by St Peter’s between, say, ten o’clock last night and two in the morning. The press will be here soon, so make sure you warn the men on the gate to keep them at bay. Did DS Jackman mention anything about searching the grounds and rooms?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re trying to get it done as quickly and discreetly as possible.’

  ‘Carry on, Doug,’ said Banks.

  ‘OK, sir.’ Doug Wilson strode off.

  ‘Sir? Excuse me. Just a minute, sir. Are you in charge of all this?’

  Banks turned towards the new voice. The woman behind the reception desk was calling out to him. The area reminded him of a hotel reception, with the rows of pigeonholes on the wall behind her for keys and messages, a laptop computer on a pullout shelf, filing drawers, printer, fax and photocopy machine. The woman was perhaps a little older than Banks, grey-haired, matronly, and her name badge read ‘Mary’.

  ‘I’m DCI Banks,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Sorry for all this upheaval, Mary. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering, you know, about the regular schedules. The patients. I mean physio, massage and suchlike. We do have our routines and timetables.’

  ‘A police officer has been murdered,’ said Banks. ‘I’d say normal operations are pretty much suspended for the moment, wouldn’t you? I’ll let you know when they can be resumed.’

  Mary reddened. ‘I’m sorry. But what should I tell people? I mean, one of our physiotherapists drives all the way over from Skipton, and her first appointment isn’t till two this afternoon. Should I phone and cancel?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Banks. ‘We’ll want to talk to everyone connected with the place as soon as we possibly can, including the staff. That means we’ll need the names and addresses of any personnel who won’t be coming in today. Were you here all night?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Mary. ‘I live in Eastvale. The desk isn’t staffed twenty-four hours a day. No need. I’m usually gone by six or seven at the latest, depending on how much catching up I have to do. I start at eight, as a rule. In fact, I just arrived. I can’t really believe what’s goin
g on.’

  ‘Are you a police officer, Mary?’

  ‘No, sir. Registered nurse. Retired.’

  ‘No need to call me sir, then.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s a shock,’ Banks said. ‘Apart from the patients and the nurse, is there anyone else who stops here for the whole night?’

  ‘There’s Barry.’

  ‘Barry Sadler?’

  ‘Yes. Head groundsman, porter, jack of all trades. He lives in the flat over the old stables, but he’s here to help if there’s ever a need for heavy lifting or anything, and he does most of the odd jobs himself. Of course, he has a small staff to call in, as and when he needs them. Cleaners, gardeners, a lawn-trimmer and topiarist and so on. But they don’t live here.’

  ‘I’ll need a list of their names, too,’ said Banks. ‘Do you have a security system?’

  Mary paused. ‘Well, yes, sort of. I mean . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The rule is that the front door’s locked at midnight, and the burglar alarm is activated.’

  ‘But?’

  Mary gave Banks a lopsided grin. ‘You know what it’s like. It’s a pretty laissez-faire sort of place. If someone wants to go out for a smoke, or stops out late at the pub, you don’t want to be turning the burglar alarm on and off, do you?’

  ‘Right,’ said Banks, who used to smoke back in the days when it was possible to light up almost anywhere. He could hardly imagine the hassle these days, standing out in the cold in winter. Another reason to be grateful he had stopped. ‘So what you’re saying is that there isn’t much in the way of security?’

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘And no CCTV?’

  ‘Afraid not. St Peter’s is a charity-run establishment, and the board decided that CCTV was too expensive to be worth it. Also, people don’t like being spied on. Especially police officers.’

  Banks smiled and thanked her for her time. Mary blushed. As he walked away, Banks figured he’d made a conquest there. His charm seemed to work especially well on the over-sixties these days.

  Banks turned right at the top of the second flight of stairs, following the sign on the wall to rooms 20 to 30B. The door to Bill Quinn’s room was open, and Winsome was still systematically searching through the drawers and cupboards.