Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery)

by Robinson, Peter

‘You make it sound like there was something to tell. It was nothing but blethering, smoke in the wind. We had some conversations, as you do. As we’re doing now. Our conversations were rambling, vague and philosophical.’ He snorted. ‘All the police officer asked me was where I was after dark on Thursday evening, if I knew how to use a crossbow, did I belong to any archery clubs? Had I known Bill Quinn on the force? I was never even on the force, for crying out loud. I was a navy medic, and now I’m a qualified masseur. They asked about practical things. Our conversations weren’t practical.’

  Banks would get along with Nobby very well, Annie thought. He placed as much value in the vague and philosophical as Nobby did. That was why he often went against the rules and spoke to witnesses, even suspects, by himself. He said most detectives didn’t know the right questions to ask. ‘Go on,’ Annie said. ‘What were they about, then?’

  ‘Mostly my own thoughts and imaginings, I suppose,’ said Nobby.

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘No reason not to, I suppose. It’s not as if it’s under the seal of the confessional, or the Official Secrets Act, or anything. And I’m not his shrink. But only because I like you. There’s nothing to tell, really, so don’t get your hopes up. Like I said, I got the impression that Mr Quinn was a troubled man. He said he’d been having these neck pains for about five or six years, and he’d never had any problems before then. It didn’t sound as if the cause was ergonomic. You know, too long at the computer keyboard – he hated computers – or even bad posture at the desk. Apparently he was like you, the kind of copper who liked to get out on the streets, and in his spare time he worked on his allotment, went fishing, spent time with his family. Even so, necks are funny things. The vertebrae deteriorate with age, but the X-rays didn’t show any serious deterioration in his case. Only moderate. What you’d expect.’

  ‘So you’re saying the causes were psychological?’

  ‘I’m not a psychiatrist or a physiotherapist, so don’t quote me on that. Can you see why it’s not something you’d find easy to put into words? I don’t even know why I’m telling you. I suppose it’s because he’s dead, and I’ve been thinking about him. Just days ago, he was alive as you or I.’ He held up his hands. ‘I could touch his skin, the muscle underneath, feel the give and the push, the knots. You know his wife died recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course you do. He was devastated, grief-stricken, poor bloke. I think that was something that brought us together. I knew what he felt like. I lost my Denise five years ago, so I suppose you could say we had something in common. I’m not a grief counsellor, so I couldn’t help him with it in any way, but it was something we could talk about.’

  ‘So you talked about grief, the death of his wife?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes. And about grief in general. And guilt. Could he have done more? Did he let her down? Was he to blame?’

  ‘He wasn’t, was he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Nobby said. ‘That’s just the way you think sometimes when you lose somebody you love. You blame yourself. He was out on surveillance, incommunicado, the night she died. He didn’t find out until the next morning. The kids were away at university. She died alone. Guilt over things like that can gnaw away at you.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told you. I’m not a counsellor. I couldn’t do anything but sympathise with him, as I would with anyone in that position, and reassure him that all this was normal.’

  ‘What did he want? I mean, why was he telling you all this?’

  ‘Like I said, we had something in common. He seemed to want some kind of absolution, as if he was seeking atonement.’

  ‘Atonement for what?’

  ‘Dunno. He didn’t say. But it was something that haunted him.’

  ‘Something he’d done?’

  ‘Or not done. It’s far too easy to regret things you’ve done. He was drinking a bit too much. One of his kids had said something, and he’d read up on AA. He hadn’t joined, hadn’t thought he needed to yet, that there was still time to gain control over it. He saw the drink as temporary relief, a crutch, you know the sort of thing. Anyway, I’ve been there, too, in my long and chequered career, and we got talking a bit philosophically, as you do, about addiction and the whole twelve-step programme, and he seemed fascinated by the idea of being given the chance to change the things you can change and let the higher power deal with those you can’t, and having the wisdom to know the difference.’

  ‘I’ve heard it,’ said Annie. ‘It sounds heavy. And complicated.’

  Nobby laughed. ‘It’s not so heavy,’ he said. ‘It’s definitely not easy, though. He asked me if I thought that if a person knew a wrong had been done, and he thought he could put it right, should he try to do it, no matter what the cost to himself or others?’

  ‘What did he mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s all he said about it.’

  ‘What was your answer?’

  ‘I didn’t have one. Still don’t.’

  ‘Was he talking about himself?’

  Nobby stood up. It was time for his next patient. ‘That I don’t know. Like I said, he was a haunted man.’

  Fortunately, Jarrow had a police radio in his Range Rover, but even so, it took over three hours to get a CSI team, police surgeon and photographer up to Garskill Farm. In the end, ACC McLaughlin had to bite the bullet and pay for a helicopter to get Dr Burns and Peter Darby there, complaining all the while about how expensive the whole business was becoming, and hinting that this was somehow Banks’s fault. The CSIs managed a bumpy journey up from Ingleby in their well-sprung van, which looked a bit the worse for wear when it pulled up by the garden wall. They were especially disgruntled as it was the weekend, and they weren’t even Eastvale CSIs, who were still busy at St Peter’s. They had come all the way from Harrogate. They also seemed to blame Banks for all their woes, especially the Crime Scene Manager, a particularly surly and obnoxious individual called Cyril Smedley, who did nothing but complain about contamination and bark orders at all and sundry. It made Banks long for Stefan Nowak, who went about his business in a quiet and dignified manner. But Stefan had St Peter’s to deal with.

  On the phone, Banks had warned everyone to avoid coming in from the north of the buildings, as there was a driveway leading to a lane, and that was the most likely area they would find tyre tracks, footprints and other trace evidence. It needed to be preserved, in case the rains hadn’t washed every scrap of evidence away. On a brief reconnoitre, Banks had noticed a couple of sandwich wrappers and an empty paper coffee cup in the grass beside the worn path to the driveway, all of which might prove useful in providing DNA or fingerprint evidence if they had been sheltered well enough from the elements. Whatever these people were up to, they certainly weren’t very tidy about it. Already several CSIs were taking casts and collecting whatever they could find on the path and driveway. Peter Darby was taking digital video of the whole show.

  Darby had finished photographing the body, and Banks crouched beside Dr Burns as he examined it in situ under the bright arc lamps the CSIs had set up. The helicopter was waiting beyond the compound to take it to the mortuary when he was finished, but Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, was away for the weekend, and there would be no post-mortem until Monday. Anything Dr Burns could tell them today might prove vital.

  Banks had already been through the pockets of the discarded clothing and found nothing but fluff. It was the same as with Bill Quinn; everything had been removed from the victim’s pockets. Now the various articles of clothing had been bagged and labelled by the CSIs along with the growing pile of exhibits. It was going to be a tough job to get everything out of here. The idea of establishing a mobile murder room at the site was out of the question, but officers would have to be left on guard day and night as long as it was still classified as a crime scene. The CSIs had already divided the area into zones, which the designated officers were searching thoroughly. Banks didn’t en
vy them crawling around in the wet nettles and animal droppings.

  ‘What do you think, doc?’ Banks asked, returning his attention to the body.

  ‘There are signs of violence,’ Burns said. ‘Bruising on the shoulders and upper arms, indications that the wrists were bound.’ He pointed out the red chafing. ‘But none of these seem to me to constitute cause of death.’

  Banks pointed to the thighs and chest. ‘What about those bloody marks?’

  ‘Small animals. Rats, most likely.’

  Banks gave a shudder. ‘No crossbow bolt?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘What do you think of his hands?’

  Dr Burns examined them. ‘They seem in pretty good condition. He bit his nails, but not excessively.’

  ‘Are they the hands of an unskilled manual labourer?’

  ‘Of course not. There are no callouses, no ground in grime. These hands haven’t been used for anything more strenuous than carrying the shopping home.’

  ‘I thought not,’ said Banks. ‘What about his general condition? He was living pretty rough.’

  ‘Not bad, considering. I’d place him in his late thirties, early forties, generally quite fit, probably runs or works out in some way. The liver’s not enlarged, at least not to the touch, so he’s probably not a serious drinker. No sign of tobacco staining on the teeth or nicotine on the fingers, so he’s probably not a smoker. I can’t really say much more from a cursory external examination. I’m only really here to pronounce him dead, you know. And he is. Quite dead.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Banks. ‘But I also need some indication of time and cause of death.

  Dr Burns sighed. ‘The same old story.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘All I can say is that rigor has been and gone, and taking the temperature up here into account, I’d guess three days, probably more. But as you know, there are so many variables. It’s not been that cold outside, but it does get chilly at night.’

  ‘He died before Bill Quinn?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d say he definitely died before the last body I examined. You just have to look at the greenish tinge to see that, especially around the stomach area. That’s caused by bacteria on the skin, and it doesn’t usually start until about forty-eight hours after death. It spreads outwards and reaches the hands and feet last, and you can see it’s there, too. The cool nights may have slowed it down a bit as well, but not much. I’d say between three and four days. Remind me. The first body was found when?’

  ‘Thursday morning,’ said Banks. ‘But you said it’s almost certain he was killed between eleven and one the night before, and Dr Glendenning’s post-mortem confirmed it.’ Banks glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it was already after four o’clock in the afternoon. ‘That makes it about two and a half days from then until midday today. Definitely less than three days. Could this one have been dead even longer than you’re suggesting?’

  ‘Hard to say for certain, but I doubt it. After about four days the skin starts to get marble-like, and the veins come closer to surface, become more visible. That hasn’t happened yet. There’s also not much insect activity. Some signs of bluebottles and blowflies, but they’re always the first. Sometimes they come on the first day. The ants and beetles come later. I’d say Tuesday evening or Wednesday morning. That would be my preliminary guess, at any rate.’

  ‘Much appreciated,’ said Banks. If it was the same man who had phoned Bill Quinn around nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, it would have taken him probably about an hour to walk back to Garskill Farm from Ingleby, maybe a bit less, so he had to have been killed sometime after about ten o’clock on Tuesday evening and before, say, eleven on Wednesday evening.

  Dr Burns turned the body slightly so that Banks could see the pooling, or hypostasis on his back and legs. ‘All that tells us in terms of time is that he’s been dead more than six hours,’ said Dr Burns.

  ‘But it also tells us that he more than likely died here and hasn’t been moved from that position, am I right?’

  ‘That’s right. You’re learning.’

  ‘So what killed him?’

  Dr Burns said nothing for a few moments as he examined the body again, touched the hair and looked up at the roof. Then he examined the front and back for signs of fatal injuries. ‘There are no knife wounds or bullet entry points, as far as I can make out,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they’re hard to spot, especially a thin blade or a small calibre bullet, but I’ve been as thorough as I can under the circumstances.’

  ‘Blunt object trauma?’

  ‘You can see for yourself there’s nothing of that sort.’

  ‘So what killed him? Was he poisoned? Did he die of natural causes?’

  ‘He could have been poisoned, but that’ll have to wait until the post-mortem. As for natural causes, again, it’s possible, but given the bruising, the condition of his body, the rope marks, I’d say they rule it out somewhat.’ Dr Burns paused. ‘You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, and I don’t want you repeating this to anyone except your immediate team until the post-mortem has been conducted, but if it helps you at all, it’s my opinion that he drowned.’

  ‘Drowned?’

  ‘Yes. He was naked. His hands were bound behind his back.’ Dr Burns pressed the chest slightly. ‘And if I do that, you can just about hear a slight gurgling sound and feel the presence of water in the lungs. If I pressed much harder it would probably come out of his nose and mouth, but I don’t want to risk disturbing the body that much.’ He gestured to the trough of water, the twisted towels, lengths of rope and overturned chair. ‘In fact, if you ask me, this man died of drowning, probably in conjunction with waterboarding. Those towels by the trough are still wet.’

  Banks stood up and took in everything Dr Burns had mentioned. He had never understood the term ‘waterboarding’. It sounded so much like a pleasant activity, something you do at the lake on a lazy summer afternoon, something you do for fun. Along with the rest of the world, he’d had a rude awakening when it hit the news so often over the last few years, especially when George Bush said he approved of it. Now he knew that waterboarding meant putting a cloth or towel over someone’s face and pouring water over it while they were lying on their back. It was said to be excruciatingly painful, and could cause death by dry drowning, a form of suffocation. ‘He didn’t die of the waterboarding, then?’

  ‘He could have,’ said Dr Burns. ‘Depends on the water in his lungs. Dr Glendenning will be able to do a more thorough examination than I can. If he finds petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes, which I am unable to see, then you could be right. You would get that in dry drowning, but not in the case of drowning by water. Rarely, at any rate.’

  ‘But you can’t see any?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Sometimes they’re no larger than pinpricks. You’ll have to wait for the post-mortem.’ Dr Burns stood up. ‘If he was drowned,’ he went on, ‘you should be able to find enough forensic information to prove it, to tie the water in his lungs to the water in the trough, for example. On the other hand, if he died of dry drowning as a result of waterboarding, you probably won’t find any water. There’s always a chance it was accidental. Torture isn’t an exact science. But if he was drowned in the trough, then the odds are somebody would have had to hold his head under until he died. It’s a natural human reaction to breathe, and we’ll use every ounce of strength we have to keep on doing so.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ Banks asked.

  ‘I’ve been to some places nobody should ever have to go to,’ said Burns, then he picked up his bag and walked outside. ‘I’ll tell the helicopter pilot we’re ready for him,’ he said over his shoulder. Banks could remember when Burns was still wet around the ears. Now he had been to places where he had regularly seen the sort of things they had seen here today. Sometimes Banks wondered whether there was any innocence left in the world, and he felt terribly old.

  By ten o’clock on
Saturday night Banks felt like getting out of the house. He had been home only an hour or so, just enough time to eat his Indian takeaway, and he was feeling restless, tormented by the images of the dead bodies of Bill Quinn and the unknown man at Garskill Farm. He couldn’t concentrate on television, and even Bill Evans’s Sunday at the Village Vanguard CD didn’t help. He needed somewhere noisy, vibrant and full of life; he needed to be with people, surrounded by conversation and laughter. He realised that he had become a bit of a stop-at-home lately, cultivating a rather melancholy disposition, importing his solo entertainment via CDs and DVDs, but The Dog and Gun had folk night tonight, and Penny Cartwright was guest starring. There would still be time to catch a set.

  Banks had met Penny on his second case in Eastvale, more than twenty years ago. She would be about fifty now, but back then she had been a young folk singer returning to her roots in Helmthorpe after forging some success in the big city, and her best friend had been killed. Over the years, her fame had grown, as much as a traditional folk singer’s fame can be said to grow, and she had recently moved to a larger house close to the river, which always seemed to be full of guests and passing visitors when she was in residence, many of them well known in folk circles. The wine flowed freely, and the gatherings always ended in a jam session and a mass sing-along. Though Banks had treated her as a suspect on the first case, and it took her many years to forgive him, she seemed comfortable enough with him now and had invited him to her home on occasion. He had joined in with the singing, but very quietly. He had hated his singing voice ever since the music teacher at school made everyone in class sing solo and gave them a mark out of twenty immediately after they had finished. Banks had got nine. He would never forget the public humiliation.

  The evening was breezy but mild enough for him to walk by Gratly Beck and cut through the graveyard, then down the snicket past the antiquarian bookshop into Helmthorpe’s high street, where one or two groups of underdressed teenagers wandered noisily from one pub to another. They wouldn’t go to The Dog and Gun. It would be too crowded already, for a start, and they didn’t seem like the folk music type. There was a disco in the back room of The Bridge and cheap beer at The Hare and Hounds, which was now part of the Wetherspoons chain.