Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (17 page)

Nobby turned from his paperwork and sat on the only office chair. Annie remained perched on the edge of the massage table.

‘Thanks, lass,’ he said. ‘Bad business, all this, eh?’ He gestured towards the activity outside.

‘It certainly is.’

‘You knew him?’

‘No. You?’

‘Just professionally, like.’

‘Did he talk much?’

‘Sometimes. You know, I’ve always thought a good massage can work a bit like hypnosis. Take a person deep down to those long forgotten places, events and feelings. Sometimes that’s where the answer lies.’

Sexual fantasies, too, Annie thought. She wondered if Bill Quinn had dreamed of the girl in the photo as Nobby’s fingers worked their magic on him. Or was it different for a man, especially when it was another man touching him? ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

Nobby shifted to make himself more comfortable. His chair creaked. ‘Must get this bloody thing oiled. I suppose what I mean is that often the root of the problem isn’t obviously physical. Even something as simple as neck pain or back pain.’

‘You mean like when something’s psychosomatic?’ she said.

‘A massage can work both ways, you know.’ Nobby held his hands up. ‘Lethal weapons,’ he said, and laughed.

Annie laughed with him, but she guessed there was more than a grain of truth in what he said. After all, rumour had it that he had been seconded to the SAS at one time.

‘You have to be careful not to exacerbate the problem,’ he went on. ‘As you can attest better than most, nerves are sensitive things.’

‘I certainly can. What about Bill Quinn?’

‘His neck? There wasn’t a lot wrong with it, as far as I could tell. Certainly not the kind of physical problems you had when we first started our sessions.’

‘Swinging the lead?’

Nobby paused before answering. ‘No. I don’t think so. We can resist getting better for any number of reasons we’re not aware of.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.

‘The usual. Fear. Despair. Indifference. Indecision. Lack of confidence. Guilt, even.’

‘And in Bill’s case?’

‘He was troubled.’

‘By what? Did he talk to you, Nobby? Did he tell you something?’

‘No, not in the way you mean. Not anything you could put your finger on.’ Nobby flashed her a crooked grin. ‘Always the copper first, I suppose, eh?’

‘Well, I am due to start working on the case officially on Monday. Thought I might get a head start.’

‘Aye, well. To answer your question, yes, we talked sometimes.’

‘And you didn’t tell the police officer who questioned you?’

‘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 envy 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?’