had to make enough money to employ a gardener, at the very least. St. Mary’s School required money, too-about ?1200 per term. Banks had checked when he first arrived in town, but soon found he couldn’t afford to send his daughter, Tracy, there.
Banks cadged some evidence bags from one of the SOCOs and, holding the satchel by its edges, tipped the contents inside one of them. All he found were a couple of exercise books with the name “Deborah Catherine Harrison” written on the cover, a portable chess set, a few cosmetic items and three loose tampons in cellophane wrappers. But why had the satchel been open? he wondered. The buckles seemed strong enough, so he doubted it came open during a struggle. Had someone been looking for something?
Glendenning directed one of his underlings to take oral, vaginal and anal swabs and comb the pubic hair. Then he groaned and got to his feet. “I’m getting old, Banks,” he said, massaging his knees. “Too old for this sort of thing.” He jerked his head towards the body. Tall and white-haired, with a nicotine-stained mustache, the doctor was probably in his late fifties, Banks guessed.
They moved away, letting the screen block their view of the victim. Every so often, Peter Darby’s flash exploded, creating a strobe-light effect in the fog. Banks accepted one of Glendenning’s Senior Service. Normally he smoked Silk Cut tipped, but he had cut down drastically on his smoking over the last few months and wasn’t even carrying a packet with him. Well, he thought, as Glendenning proffered a gold, initialled lighter, cutting down had been easy enough to do in a lazy summer with no murders to investigate. Now it was November and there was a body at his feet. He lit up and coughed.
“Ought to get that cough seen to, laddie,” said Glendenning. “Might be a touch of lung cancer, you know.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just getting a cold, that’s all.”
“Aye…Well, I don’t suppose you dragged me out here on a mucky night like this just to talk about your health, did you?”
“No,” said Banks. “What do you make of it?”
“I can’t tell you much yet, but judging by her color and the marks on her throat, I’d say asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.”
“Any sign of the ligature?”
“Off the record, that satchel strap fits the bill pretty nicely.”
“What about time of death?”
“Oh, come off it, laddie.”
“Vaguely?”
“Not more than two or three hours ago. But don’t quote me on that.”
Banks looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. Which meant she was probably killed between five and six. Not on her way home from school, then. At least not directly.
“Was she killed here?”
“Aye. Almost certainly. Hypostasis is entirely consistent with the position of the body.”
“Any sign of the rest of her underwear?”
Glendenning shook his head. “Only the brassiere.”
“When can you get her on the table?”
“First thing in the morning. Coming?”
Banks swallowed; the fog scratched his throat. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Fine. I’ll reserve you the best seat in the house. I’m off home. You can get her to the mortuary now.”
And with that, Glendenning turned and faded into the fog.
Banks stood alone for a moment trying to forget the girl he had just seen spread-eagled so cruelly before him, trying desperately not to see Tracy in her place. He stubbed out his cigarette carefully on the side of the Inchcliffe Mausoleum and pocketed the butt. No point leaving red herrings at the crime scene.
A couple of yards away, he noticed a light patch on the grass. He walked over and squatted to get a closer look. It looked and smelled as if someone had been sick. He could also make out the stem and fragments of a wineglass, which seemed to have smashed on the stone edging of a grave. He picked up one of the slivers carefully between thumb and forefinger. It was stained with blood or wine; he couldn’t be certain which.
He saw DI Stott within hearing range and called him over.
“Know anything about this?” he asked.
Stott looked at the glass and vomit. “Rebecca Charters. Woman who discovered the body,” he said. “Bit of an oddball. She’s in the vicarage. WPC Kemp is with her.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to her later.” Banks pointed to the mausoleum. “Anyone had a look in there yet?”
“Not yet. I sent PC Aiken to see if he could come up with a key from the vicar.”
Banks nodded. “Look, Barry, someone’s got to break the news to the girl’s parents.”
“And seeing as I’m the new lad on the block…”
“That’s not what I meant. If you’re not comfortable with the job, then get someone else to do it. But get it done.”
“Sorry,” said Stott, taking his glasses off and wiping them on a white handkerchief. “I’m a bit…” He gestured towards the body. “Of course I’ll go.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll join you there soon. Before you go, call in DC Gay and DS Hatchley and tell them to get down here. Someone might have to drag Jim out of The Oak.”
Stott raised his eyebrows. Banks noticed his little moue of distaste at the mention of Detective Sergeant Hatchley. Well, he thought, that’s his cross to bear.
“And get as many officers out on the streets as you can. I want every house in the area canvassed as soon as possible. It’s going to be a long, busy night, but we’d better work fast. People forget quickly. Besides, by tomorrow the vultures will be here.”
“Vultures?”
“Press, TV people, sightseers. It’s going to be a circus, Barry. Prepare yourself.”
Stott nodded. PC Aiken turned up with the key to the mausoleum. Banks borrowed a torch from one of the search team, and he and Stott trod carefully down the weed-covered steps.
The heavy wooden door opened after a brief struggle with the key, and they found themselves in the dark with the dead; six sturdy coffins rested on trestles. A few tentacles of fog slid down the stairs and through the door after them, wreathing around their feet.
The small tomb didn’t smell of death, only of earth and mold. Fortunately, there were no fresh Inchcliffes buried there; the family had left Eastvale fifty years ago.
All Banks could see on his first glance around were the spider-webs that seemed to be spun in the very air itself. He gave a little shudder and shone his torch over the floor. There, in the corner furthest from the entrance, lay two empty vodka bottles and a pile of cigarette ends. It was hard to tell how recent they were, but they certainly weren’t fifty years old.
They found nothing else of interest down there, and it was with great relief that Banks emerged into the open air again; foggy as it was, it felt like a clear night after the inside of the tomb. Banks asked the SOCOs to bag the empty bottles and cigarette ends and search the place thoroughly.
“We’ll need a murder room set up at the station,” he said, turning to Stott again, “and a van parked near the scene; make it easy for people to come forward. Exhibits Officer, phone lines, civilian staff, the usual thing. Get Susan Gay to see to it. Better inform the Chief Constable, too,” Banks added with a sinking feeling.
At the moment, Banks was senior man in Eastvale CID, as Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had broken his leg while fixing his drystone wall. Technically, Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Wormsley, from North Yorkshire Regional HQ at Northallerton, was supposed to be in charge of a murder investigation. However, Banks knew from experience not to expect much beyond the occasional phone call from DCS Wormsley; he was rumored to be far too close to finishing his scale matchstick model of the Taj Mahal to be bothered with a mere murder. If it came from anywhere, Banks knew, the main hindrance would come from the new chief constable: Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle, a high-flier of the pushy, breathe-down-your-neck school of police management.
“We’ll also need a thorough ground-search of the graveyard,” Banks went on, “but we might be better doing that in daylight, especially if this fog disperses a bit during the night. Anyway, make sure the place is well secured.” Banks looked around. “How many entrances are there?”
