“Like policemen,” Banks said with a grin.
The phone rang. Gristhorpe picked it up, listened to the message and turned back to Banks. “Sergeant Rowe says Dr Glendenning’s on his way up. He’s finished his preliminary examination. I think you’d better stay for this.”
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Banks smiled. “It’s a rare honour indeed, the good doctor setting foot in here.
I didn’t know he paid house-calls.”
“I heard that,” said a gruff voice with a distinct Edinburgh accent behind him.
“I hope it wasn’t meant to be sarcastic.”
The tall, white-haired doctor looked down sternly at Banks, blue eyes twinkling.
His moustache was stained yellow with nicotine, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was wheezing after climbing the stairs.
“There’s no smoking in here,” Gristhorpe said. “You ought to know better; you’re a doctor.”
Glendenning grunted. “Then I’ll go elsewhere.”
“Come to my office,” Banks said. “I could do with a fag myself.”
“Fine, laddie. Lead the way.”
“Bloody traitor.” Gristhorpe sighed and followed them.
After they’d got coffee and an extra chair, the doctor began. “To put it in layman’s terms,” he said, “PC Gill was stabbed. The knife entered under the rib-cage and did enough damage to cause death from internal bleeding. The blade was at least five inches long, and it looks like it went in to the hilt. It was a single-edged blade with a very sharp point. Judging by the wound, I’d say it was some kind of flick-knife.”
“Flick-knife?” echoed Banks.
“Aye, laddie. You know what a flick-knife is, don’t you? They come in all shapes and sizes. Illegal here, of course, but easy enough to pick up on the continent.
The cutting edge was extremely sharp, as was the point.”
“What about blood?” Gristhorpe asked. “Nobody conveniently covered in Gill’s type, I suppose?”
Dr Glendenning lit another Senior Service and shook his head. “No. I’ve checked the tests. And I’d have been very surprised if there had been,” he said. “What most people don’t realize is that unless you open a major artery- the carotid or the jugular, for example-there’s often very little external bleeding with knife wounds. I’d say in this case that there was hardly any, and what there was would’ve been
40
mostly absorbed by the man’s clothing. The slit closes behind the blade, you see-especially a thin one-and most of the bleeding is internal.”
“Can you tell if it was a professional job?” Gristhorpe asked.
“I wouldn’t care to speculate. It could have been, but it could just as easily have been a lucky strike. It was a right-handed up-thrust wound. With a blow like that on a dark night, I doubt that anybody would have noticed, unless they saw the blade flash, and there’s not enough light for that on North Market Street. It would have looked more like a punch to the solar plexus than anything else, and from what I hear, there was plenty of that going on. Now if he’d raised his hand above his head and thrust downwards…”
“People aren’t usually so obliging,” Banks said.
“If we take into account the kind of knife used,” Gristhorpe speculated, “it could easily have been a spontaneous act. Pros don’t usually use flick-knives-they’re street weapons.”
“Aye, well,” said Glendenning, standing to leave, “that’s for you fellows to work out. I’ll let you know if I find anything more at the postmortem.”
“Who identified the body?” Banks asked him.
“Sister. Pretty upset about it, too. A couple of your lads did the paperwork.
Luckily, Gill didn’t have a wife and kids.” A quarter inch of ash fell onto the linoleum. Glendenning shook his head slowly. “Nasty business all round. Be seeing you.”
When the doctor had left, Gristhorpe stood up and flapped his hand theatrically in front of his face. “Filthy bloody habit. I’m off back to my office where the air’s clean. Does this Burgess fellow smoke, too?”
Banks smiled. “Cigars, if I remember right.”
Gristhorpe swore.
II
Over the valley from Maggie’s Farm, mist clung to the hillsides and limestone scars, draining them of all colour.
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Soon after breakfast, Seth disappeared into his workshop to finish restoring Jack Lippett’s Welsh dresser; Rick did some shopping in Helmthorpe, then went to his studio in the converted barn to daub away at his latest painting; Zoe busied herself in her flat with Elsie Goodbody’s natal chart; and Paul went for a long walk on the moors.
In the living-room, Mara kept an eye on Luna and Julian while she mended the tears in Seth’s jacket. The children were playing with Lego bricks and she often glanced over, awed by the look of pure concentration on their
