Burgess pushed the door open slowly and they walked in. Mixed with the scents of shaved wood and varnish was the sickly metallic smell of blood. Both men had come across it often enough before to recognize it immediately.
At first, they stood in the doorway to take in the whole scene. Seth was just in front of them, wearing his sand-coloured smock, slumped over his work-bench. His head lay on the surface in a small pool of blood, and his arms dangled at his side. From where Banks was standing, it looked as if he had hit his head on the vice clamped to the bench slightly to his left. On the concrete floor over in the right-hand corner stood a small bureau in the Queen Anne style, its finish still wet, a rich, glistening nut-brown. At the far end of the workshop, another bare light bulb shone over the area Seth used for office work.
It was only when Banks moved forward a pace that he noticed he had stepped in something sticky and slippery. The light wasn’t very strong and most of the floor space around
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Seth was in semi-darkness. Kneeling, Banks saw that what he had first taken for shadow was, in fact, more blood. Seth’s feet stood at the centre of a large puddle of blood. It hadn’t come from the head wound, though, Banks realized, examining the bench again. There hadn’t been much bleeding and none of the blood seemed to have dribbled off the edge. Bending again, he caught sight of a thin tubular object, a pen or a pencil, perhaps, half- submerged in the pool. He decided to leave it for the forensic team to deal with. They were on their way from Wetherby and should arrive shortly after Dr Glendenning and Peter Darby, the young photographer, neither of whom had as far to travel.
Leaving the body, Banks walked cautiously to the back of the workshop where the old Remington stood on its desk beside the filing cabinet. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. Leaning forward, Banks was able to read the message: “I did it. I killed the policeman Gill. It was wrong of me. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused. This is the best way. Seth.”
He called Burgess over and pointed out the note to him.
Burgess raised his eyebrows and whistled softly between his teeth. “Suicide, then?”
“Looks like it. Glendenning should be able to give us a better idea.”
“Where the hell is this bloody doctor, anyway?” Burgess complained, looking at his watch. “It can’t take him that long to get here. Everywhere’s within pissing distance in this part of the country.”
Burgess and Glendenning hadn’t met yet, and Banks was looking forward to seeing Dirty Dick try out his aggressive arrogance on the doctor. “Come on,” he said, “there’s nothing more to do in here till the others arrive. We’ll only mess up the scene. Let’s go outside for a smoke.”
The two of them left the workshop and stood in the cool evening air.
Glendenning, Banks knew, would smoke wherever he wanted and nobody had ever dared say a word to him, but then he was one of the top pathologists in the country, not a lowly chief inspector or superintendent.
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From the doorway of the shed, they could see the kitchen light in the house.
Someone-Zoe, it looked like-was filling a kettle. Mara had taken the news very badly, and Rick had called the local doctor for her. He had also phoned the Eastvale station, which surprised Banks, given Rick’s usual hostility. Still, Seth Cotton was dead, there was no doubting that, and Rick probably knew there would be no way of avoiding an investigation. It made more sense to start out on the right foot rather than have to explain omissions or evasions later. Banks wondered whether to go inside and have a chat with them, but decided to give them a bit longer. They would have probably got over the immediate shock by the time Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team had finished.
At last, the back door opened and the tall, white-haired doctor crossed the garden, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was closely followed by a fresh-faced lad with a camera bag slung over his shoulder.
“About bloody time,” Burgess said.
Glendenning gave him a dismissive glance and stood in the doorway while Darby did his work. Banks and Burgess went back into the workshop to make sure he photographed everything, including the blood on the floor, the pen or pencil, the Queen Anne bureau and the typewriter. When Darby had finished, Glendenning went in. He was so tall he had to duck to get through the door.
“Watch out for the blood,” Banks warned him.
“And there’s no smoking at the scene,” Burgess added. He got no answer.
Banks smiled to himself. “Ease up,” he said. “The doc’s a law unto himself.”
Burgess grunted but kept quiet while Glendenning felt for a pulse and busied himself with his stethoscope and thermometer.
About fifteen minutes later, while Glendenning was still making calculations in his little red notebook, the forensic team arrived, headed by Vic Manson, the fingerprints man. Manson was a slight, academic-looking man in his early forties. Almost bald, he plastered the few remaining hairs 247
over the dome of his skull, creating an effect of bars shadowed on an egg. He greeted the two detectives and went inside with the team. As soon as he saw the workshop, he turned to Banks. “Bloody awful place to look for prints,” he said.
“Too many rough surfaces. And tools. Have you any idea how hard it is to get prints from well-used tools?”
“I know you’ll do your best, Vic,” Banks said. He guessed that Manson was annoyed at being disturbed on a Sunday evening.
Manson snarled and got to work alongside the others, there to take blood samples and anything else they could find.
Banks and Burgess went back outside and lit up again. A few minutes later, Glendenning joined them.
