lay a gold lame bag with a thin shoulder strap. Carefully, with his gloved hands, Banks picked it up and opened it. Lipstick; compact with mirror; three condoms; four Benson & Hedges; purple Bic cigarette lighter and a book of matches from The Duck and Drake; facial tissues; paracetamol; nail file and clipper; a tampon; cheap turquoise gel pen; iPod shuff le in a pink skin; driving license; an unmarked vial with four white pills in it, Ecstasy, each stamped with a crown; a small purse with twenty pounds in notes and sixty-five pence in coins. Finally, a small address book with a William Morris cover, and in the front a name, Hayley Daniels, the same name that appeared with the photograph on her driving license, F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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and an address in Swainshead, a village about thirty miles west of Eastvale.
Banks made a note of the details in his notebook and put everything back in the handbag for the SOCOs. He called Kevin Templeton into the doorway and told him to phone the local police station in Swainshead and have the constable there break the news to the girl’s parents.
Arrangements would then be made for them to come to Eastvale to identify the body. No more than the necessary details to be given.
Then Banks glanced back toward the girl’s twisted body. “Anything on the sexual element?” he asked Dr. Burns. “Apart from the obvious.”
“Nothing certain yet, but it looks as if she’s been brutally raped,”
said Burns. “Vaginal and anal. Dr. Wallace will be able to tell you more when she gets her on the table. One odd thing.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she’s been shaved. Down there.”
“The killer?”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But some girls do it . . . I mean, so I’ve heard. And there’s a tattoo, where the hair would have been. You can’t see it well at all from this position, and I don’t want to disturb the body any more than necessary until the SOCOs have had their turn.
But it would seem to indicate maybe she had it done herself some time ago. You can see the tattoo on her ankle, too.”
“Yes.”
Dr. Burns was the local police surgeon and, as such, his job usually stopped with attending the scene, declaring death and releasing the body for the coroner. After that, Dr. Wallace, the new Home Office pathologist, usually performed the postmortem. Banks had found Burns useful in the past, though. Like all doctors, he didn’t like to commit himself, but he could be led into a speculation or two on cause and time of death, which usually proved accurate enough to save Banks some time. That was what he asked about next.
Burns checked his watch. “It’s half past nine now,” he said. “The cold would slow down rigor, and she seems young and healthy enough.
I mean . . . you know.”
Banks knew. Over the years he had got used to dead people being described as “in good health.”
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“I’m only guessing, of course,” Burns went on, “but I’d say after midnight, maybe as late as two in the morning, but not likely later than that.”
“Was she killed here?”
“It seems that way,” said Burns.
Banks scanned the room. “It’s a pretty isolated spot,” he said. “Insulated, too. Thick walls. I doubt anybody would hear anything, if there was anything to hear.” He looked at the swatches of leather that filled the girl’s mouth. “Even if she got off one good scream to start with, that would have soon silenced her.”
Dr. Burns said nothing. He took out his notebook and made a number of jottings, which Banks assumed to be time, temperature, position of body and suchlike. They needed the photographer here soon. The SOCOs would have to wait until he had finished, of course, but they wouldn’t like it. They’d be straining at their chains like a pack of Do-bermans who hadn’t been given a lump of meat in a month.
The hinges creaked and Peter Darby, the police photographer, arrived with his old Pentax and new digital video cam. The room was small, so Banks and Burns edged out and left him to it. Banks felt an urge for a cigarette. He didn’t know why, as nobody around him was smoking. Perhaps it was the Benson & Hedges he had seen in the victim’s handbag. Or the rain that had now replaced the sleet. He had a memory of a cigarette tasting so good in the rain once, when he had been a very young smoker, and it had stuck with him for some reason.
He let go of the thought, and the urge faded. From the church in the market square he thought he could hear the congregation singing
“There Is a Green Hill Far Away,” and it reminded him that Easter was coming up soon.
“She’d also been sick,” Dr. Burns added. “I don’t know if it’s significant, but I noticed traces of vomit both inside and on the wall outside.”
“Yes,” said Banks. “I smelled it, too. There’s also a chance it could have been the killer’s. Not everyone has the stomach for this sort of thing, thank God. I’ll make sure the SOCOs pay close attention.
Thanks, Doc.”
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Dr. Burns nodded and walked away. Templeton came over and shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together. “Juicy one, isn’t it, guv?” he said. “Just like I told you.”
Banks closed his eyes, turned his head up to the strip of gray sky, feeling a few drops of rain on his eyelids, and
