Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery)

by Robinson, Peter

‘Did your father have much contact with Rachel’s family?’

  ‘None. Except when she first disappeared, I suppose.’

  ‘He didn’t stay in touch?’

  ‘No. Why would he?’

  ‘No reason. They didn’t . . . you know . . . blame him, or anything?’

  ‘He didn’t need them to blame him. He managed that all by himself.’

  Banks realised that Jessica was probably right. The Rachel Hewitt connection was interesting, but that was all it was, just another item to drop in the bulging file, along with Harry Lake, Stephen Lambert and Warren Corrigan. Soon they would have even more material from West Yorkshire, and a whole host of other names from Quinn’s past to sift through. There was nothing more Banks could think of, so he stood up to leave. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked Jessica at the door.

  ‘Here. Why? It’s not a crime scene, is it?’

  ‘Well, it is, really . . . technically . . . the break-in . . . It’s obviously connected with what happened to your father. But the CSIs have already gathered all the evidence they can, and they’ll be taking the rest of his papers away. They should be finished here soon.’

  ‘Well . . .?’

  ‘I just thought . . . I mean, are you sure you want to stay here? Is there someone I can call for you? A relative? Boyfriend?’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine. Really. Robbie will be here soon. We’ll probably just get pissed.’

  A very good idea, Banks thought, but he didn’t say so.

  Chapter 3

  Banks arrived in his office early on Friday morning after a quiet evening at home listening to Kate Royal, watching the first in the Treme series and sipping the best part of a bottle of Rioja. So much for cutting back.

  He had phoned Stefan Nowak, the Crime Scene Manager, as the team was packing up at St Peter’s around sunset the previous evening. They had finished their search of the woods and lake, and had found no sign of a weapon. They had, however, found a cigarette end close to the body, some synthetic fibres, and traces of what might have been blood from a scratch on the tree trunk where they thought the killer had leaned. There was also a fresh footprint that definitely wasn’t Bill Quinn’s. Their expert said that, at first glance, it was a common sort of trainer you could buy anywhere, but they might be able to get a bit more detail from it. There was often a correlation between shoe size and height, for example, and measurements could give them at least a working estimate of how tall the person who wore them was, and how much he or she weighed. Any distinguishing marks on one or both of the soles could be as individual as a fingerprint.

  DS Keith Palmer and his team had finished searching Bill Quinn’s house and allotment in Rawdon, including his garden shed. They had even dug up a good deal of the allotment, but had found nothing.

  Banks linked his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair and listened to Ravel’s ‘Gaspard de la Nuit’ on Radio Three’s Breakfast. As he glanced around his office, he realised that he had been in the same room for over twenty years, and that it had only been redecorated once, as far as he could remember. He didn’t much care about the institutional green walls, as they were covered in framed prints and posters for concerts and exhibitions – Hockney’s Yorkshire scenes, Miles Davis at Newport, Jimi Hendrix at Winterland, a Chagall poster for the Paris Opera – but he certainly needed a newer and bigger desk, one that didn’t require a piece of wadded-up paper under one of its legs. He could do with another filing cabinet, too, he thought, as his gaze settled on the teetering pile of paper on top of the one he had already. A couple of shelves and an extra bookcase wouldn’t go amiss, either, and perhaps a chair that was kinder to his back than the antique he was sitting in now. No wonder his neck was starting to play up after long days at the office, especially with all the extra paperwork he seemed to have these days. He’d be in St Peter’s soon, himself, if he wasn’t careful. At least the heater worked, and the tatty old Venetian blinds had been replaced.

  But now was not the time to ask for such things, he knew. He should have made his demands a few years ago, when the police were getting almost everything they asked for. Those days were long gone. Like everywhere else, Eastvale had been recently plagued by twenty per cent cuts across the board and a drastic county reorganisation designed to implement some of those cuts. The three ‘Areas’ had been replaced by six ‘Safer Neighbourhood Commands’. Changes at County HQ in Newby Wiske also meant that the Major Crimes Unit, or Homicide and Major Enquiry Team as it was now known, still operated out of Eastvale, but covered more ground.

  The team came under Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) Ron McLaughlin, known as ‘Red Ron’ because of his leftist leanings, but it was run on a day-to-day basis by Area Commander Catherine Gervaise, and it was now responsible not just for the defunct Western Area, but for the whole county – with the same team strength, and no increase in civilian support staff.

  It was time for the nine-thirty briefing, and the team gathered in the boardroom, which despite its modern glass writing board, along with the whiteboard and corkboard, still managed to retain some of its old-fashioned appearance, with the large oval table at its centre, high hard-backed chairs and the portraits of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century wool barons on its walls: red-faced, pop-eyed men with whiskers and tight collars.

  Banks took his place nearest the writing boards as the others drifted in, most of them clutching mugs or styrofoam cups of coffee as well as files and notebooks. AC Gervaise had managed to borrow a couple of DCs, Haig and Lombard, from County HQ, but it wasn’t a big team, Banks reflected, nowhere near big enough for a major investigation into the murder of a fellow police officer. It would have to be augmented if the scope of the investigation ballooned, as Banks expected it would, unless they caught an early break. He would be especially glad to see Annie Cabbot back, but DS Jim Hatchley, one of the officers Banks had known the longest in Eastvale, had retired as soon as he had done his thirty years, as Banks had always known he would. He missed the lumbering, obstinate sod.

  First, he shared what he knew with the team, then asked if they had anything to add. The short answer was that they didn’t. Scientific Support were still working on the footprints, Photographic Services had the photographs, and the DNA results from the cigarette end and blood didn’t come back anywhere near as quickly as they did on CSI. All the specialist was able to tell him so far was that the brand of cigarette was Dunhill, which a few quick inquiries on Winsome’s part ascertained was Bill Quinn’s brand. There were no other cigarettes found in or near the woods. Obviously the groundsman did a good job.

  There was nothing new on the murder weapon, or on the state of Bill Quinn’s body, as Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, was not due to perform the post-mortem until later that afternoon. A list of possible enemies would be on its way up from West Yorkshire sometime later in the day, if they were lucky, and Quinn’s bank statements, credit card details and home and mobile calls log should also be arriving before the day was out, again with luck. It was a Friday, so there was always a possibility of delays. Inquiries were being made in the village nearest to St Peter’s, as well as at the nearest petrol stations and any other places where strangers were likely to have been spotted. Uniformed officers were canvassing the neighbourhood of Quinn’s Rawdon home to find out if anyone had noticed an interloper recently. The interviews at St Peter’s had been concluded and had revealed nothing of interest except that Quinn was in the habit of going outside for a smoke before bed each night.

  ‘So it would seem,’ Banks summed up after the team had digested all this information, or lack of it, ‘that we need to get our fingers out. We’re no closer than we were when DI Jenson found the body yesterday morning.’

  ‘We do have the photos, sir,’ Winsome pointed out. ‘Photographic Services say they’re digital, printed on a common or garden inkjet printer, so nothing new there. They’re analysing the ink content and pixels for comparison with Quinn’s own printer, but it’s
not an entirely accurate process.’

  ‘Their thinking being?’

  ‘That Quinn may have received the photos as JPEG images and printed them out himself. Which also means there might be more.’

  ‘And we might be able to trace them to a sender?’

  ‘If we had them,’ said Winsome, ‘then it’s possible they could be traced to a specific computer.’

  ‘But we don’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s one dead end,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t think it really matters whether he printed them himself or someone sent them by post, unless we have the envelope, and it has a postmark and prints on it, which we don’t.’

  Winsome stood up and started handing out 8 x 10 prints. ‘They also came up with this enhanced blow-up image of the girl from the restaurant photo,’ she said. ‘It was the best they could do. They’re still working on the background to see if they can get any points of reference.’

  ‘Any prints on the photos?’

  ‘Only the victim’s.’

  Banks examined the blow-up. It was a little grainy, but Photographic Services had done a great job, and he believed that someone could recognise the girl from it. ‘Excellent,’ he said, then addressed the two young DCs on loan. ‘Haig and Lombard, I want you to make it your priority to check the photo of this girl against escort agency files, Internet dating services, and whatever else you think is relevant. You can use the spare desks in the squad room. We’ve no idea when or where the pictures were taken, of course, but my thinking is sometime over the last two or three years.’

  ‘It sounds like a long job, sir,’ mumbled Haig, the bulky one.

  ‘Better get on with it, then. You never know, you might even find you enjoy it. But be careful. If either one of you comes back with a smile on his face and a cigarette in his mouth, he’ll be in deep trouble.’

  Everyone laughed. Haig and Lombard exchanged dark glances, took two copies of the photo and left the room.

  ‘Anything else?’ Banks asked Winsome.

  ‘We’ve just about finished interviewing the patients and staff at St Peter’s,’ she said. ‘Nothing so far. Barry Sadler and Mandy Pemberton were the last up, but neither of them saw or heard anything.’

  ‘Are they telling the truth?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I interviewed Barry Sadler, and he’s very cut up. He’s an ex-copper. The nurse has a clean record and a spotless reputation. Of course, we can always have another go at them if something else turns up pointing in that direction, but I think it’s doubtful.’

  Banks took the photograph of Rachel Hewitt from his briefcase and stuck it on the glass alongside the blow-up of the unknown girl with Quinn. He still didn’t understand why the Deputy Chief Commissioner had seen the necessity of spending close to £500 on a glass writing board when the whiteboard worked perfectly well. Basically, you could write and rub out and stick pictures on it, which was all you needed to do. He’d probably seen one on Law & Order UK or some such television programme and thought it was a necessity for the modern police force.

  ‘This may mean nothing at all,’ Banks said, ‘but Bill Quinn worked on the Rachel Hewitt case for a short while in the summer of 2006, not long after she was reported missing, and he had this photograph in a file in his study. Quinn spent a week in Tallinn helping with the investigation there and carried out background checks into Rachel and her friends. Both DI Blackstone in Leeds and Quinn’s daughter said the case haunted him.’

  ‘Was it ever closed?’ asked Winsome.

  ‘No,’ Banks said. ‘Just inactive. Officially, Rachel Hewitt is still a missing person, but there haven’t been any fresh leads for six years – there weren’t any leads at all – so until new information comes in, there’s nothing more can be done, and the investigation has been mothballed. She’d be twenty-five now.’

  ‘Surely she’s dead?’ said Doug Wilson.

  ‘In all likelihood. But families don’t give up that easily, Doug. Think of the McCanns. Little Madeleine’s been gone for years now, but they won’t let themselves believe that she’s dead, even though, compared to the alternatives, some might say death would be a blessing. They can’t. Rachel Hewitt’s family is the same. They won’t give up. They won’t accept that their daughter is dead. Anyway, as I said, it’s probably nothing, but at some point we’ll have to talk to the parents and friends. In the meantime, I’d like one of you to put together a dossier on Rachel Hewitt. Clippings, photos, names, whatever you can find on the investigation. There should be plenty. Gerry, maybe you can get started on that?’

  DC Geraldine Masterson scribbled something down on her pad. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Banks turned to Winsome. ‘I think in the meantime you and I should get back to St Peter’s and see if we can wrap up there,’ he said. ‘The rest of you all have your actions and TIEs to be getting on with. Doug, I want you here when the list of Bill Quinn’s possible old enemies and his phone records arrive, and I want you to head the examination. Coordinate with DI Ken Blackstone at Millgarth. Ken mentioned a bloke called Corrigan. Warren Corrigan. He’s got his finger in a few pies, all of them nasty, but basically he’s a loan shark. Ask around. See if he has any sort of presence in these parts. We want to know who Quinn has been talking to lately, and who’s been talking to him. Keep an open mind about the old cases. Something might leap out at you, but you can’t rely on that. You can probably forget the junkies and alcoholic wife-beaters – they probably wouldn’t even remember making threats, let alone have what it takes to stalk and kill someone with a crossbow – but give them all at least a passing glance. Anything that strikes you as odd, interesting, possible, make a note of it. Gerry here will give you a hand in her spare time. If she has any.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Doug glanced over at DC Masterson, who tapped the end of her pencil on her notepad.

  ‘And we also need to find out if Bill Quinn had ever worked with or had any close connection with anyone staying at St Peter’s. Or if anyone there had a connection with someone he put away, someone who threatened him, had a grudge. You might as well include the staff, too. I realise this all adds up to casting a very wide net indeed, but we’ve either got to rule all these things out, or find a link to Quinn’s murder somewhere, if we’re to narrow it down to a viable line of inquiry. I shouldn’t have to remind you that Bill Quinn was one of our own and that we’ll be under extreme scrutiny on this. Clear?’

  Everyone nodded, glum expressions on their faces. They knew what it meant: say goodbye to the weekend, and all leave is cancelled.

  ‘Sir?’ said Winsome.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ve just been thinking. The choice of weapon, the murder in the woods . . . Could we be looking for someone with hunting experience? Hunting and tracking? We know that Quinn himself was into outdoors stuff – angling and gardening, specifically – so he might have known people who were hunters, who belonged to the same clubs or societies he did.’

  ‘That’s a good point, Winsome,’ said Banks. ‘Doug and Gerry, you should keep an eye open for anything like that, too. Any hunters, flag them. Check on Quinn’s friends outside the force, too, if he had any, and any organisations he belonged to. Also,’ Banks went on, ‘one of you will need to check sources for crossbows and bolts, including online. And I want someone to search for any similar crimes, anything involving a crossbow, in fact, over, say, the past five years. OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said DC Wilson.

  Before the meeting broke up, the door opened and Area Commander Gervaise walked in with another woman behind her. Late thirties or early forties, Banks guessed, a tall attractive blonde, elegant suit, the skirt ending just above her knees, black tights – no Primark for her – a trim, lithe figure with gentle curves, a smattering of freckles across her small nose, intelligent green eyes, regal bearing. Her blonde tresses were piled and coiled on top, giving the impression of casual simplicity, though Banks guessed the haircut was expensive and the arrangement took a lot of time. She se
emed a little nervous, he thought.

  ‘If you’d all just hang on for a minute,’ Gervaise said, avoiding Banks’s gaze, ‘I’d like to introduce Inspector Joanna Passero. Joanna is from Professional Standards, and she’ll be working with you all very closely on this case.’

  ‘The rat squad,’ Banks muttered.

  Gervaise raised an eyebrow. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Banks. ‘Welcome to the squad. Pleased to meet you, Inspector Passero.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Inspector Passero. ‘Call me Joanna.’ Even in those few words, Banks thought he noticed a hint of a Scottish accent, which went quite against her Italian surname, as did her blonde good looks. Still, he thought, remembering Bill Forsyth’s Comfort and Joy, with its Glasgow ice-cream wars, a lot of Italians had settled in Scotland over the years.

  ‘In my office, Alan,’ said Gervaise. ‘The rest of you can get back to work.’

  Banks gestured for Winsome to wait for him and followed Gervaise and Joanna Passero down the corridor.

  The three of them made themselves comfortable around Gervaise’s circular glass table and drank coffee made from Gervaise’s machine. Banks felt lucky; it was his second cup in two days. On the other hand, when he realised why Inspector Joanna Passero was present, he didn’t feel so lucky after all. She crossed her long, black-stockinged legs and leaned back with the mug in her hand as if she were at her book club, or a Women’s Institute coffee morning. A half smile played around her full pink lips. Perhaps she was enjoying Banks’s obvious discomfort, he thought, or perhaps she had noticed his stolen glances at the swell of her breasts under the finely tailored jacket, or the shapely ankle of her crossed leg.

  There was a Nordic aspect to her beauty, despite her Italian surname and Scottish accent. All that lovely blonde coolness, Banks thought. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved her. And tied twenty birds to her clothes with long nylon threads.

  ‘You could have given me some warning,’ Banks said to Gervaise. ‘You made me look a right twat back there at the briefing.’