daffodils were gone, but white and pink blossoms covered the trees, and the hedgerows glowed with the burnished gold stars of celandines. Gorse flowered bright yellow all over the moors.
He parked as close as he could to the cluster of figures, but they still had almost a quarter of a mile to walk over the springy gorse and heather. Blair and the others had certainly carried Leanne a long way from civilization. Though the sun was shining and there were only a few high clouds, the wind was cold. Banks was glad of his sports jacket. Winsome was wearing calf-high leather boots and a herringbone jacket over her black polo-neck sweater. She strode with grace and confidence, whereas Banks caught his ankle and stumbled every now and then in the thick gorse. Time to get out and exercise more, he told himself. And time to stop smoking.
They reached the team that Winsome had dispatched about three hours ago, Mick Blair handcuffed to one of the uniformed officers, greasy hair blowing in the wind.
Another officer pointed down the shallow sinkhole, and Banks saw part of a hand, most of the flesh eaten away, the still-white bone showing. “We tried to disturb the scene as little as possible, sir,” the officer went on. “I sent for the SOCOs and the rest of the team. They said they’d get here ASAP.”
Banks thanked him. He glanced back toward the road and saw a car and a van pull up, figures get out and make their way across the rough moorland, some of them in white coveralls. The SOCOs had soon roped off an area of several yards around the mound of stones, and Peter Darby, the local crime scene photographer, got to work. Now all they needed was Dr. Burns, the police surgeon. Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, would most likely conduct the PM, but he was too old and important to go scrambling across the moors anymore. Dr. Burns was skilled, Banks knew, and he already had plenty of experience of on-scene examinations.
It was another ten minutes before Dr. Burns arrived. By then Peter Darby had finished photographing the scene intact, and it was time to uncover the remains. This the SOCOs did slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb any evidence. Mick Blair had said that Leanne died after taking Ecstasy, but he could be lying; he could have tried to rape her and choked her when she didn’t comply. Either way, they couldn’t go around jumping to conclusions about Leanne. Not this time.
Banks began to feel that the whole thing was just too damn familiar, standing out there on the moors with his jacket flapping around him as men in white coveralls uncovered a body. Then he remembered Harold Steadman, the local historian they had found buried under a similar drystone wall below Crow Scar. That had been only his second case in Eastvale, back when the kids were still at school and he and Sandra were happily married, yet it seemed centuries ago now. He wondered what on earth a drystone wall was doing up here anyway, then realized it had probably marked the end of someone’s property long ago, property that had now gone to moorland, overgrown with heather and gorse. The elements had done their work on the wall, and nobody had any interest in repairing it.
Stone by stone, the body was uncovered. As soon as he saw the blond hair, Banks knew it was Leanne Wray. She was still wearing the clothes she had gone missing in – jeans, white Nike trainers, T-shirt and a light suede jacket – and that was something in Blair’s favor, Banks thought. Though there was some decomposition and evidence of insect and small-animal activity – a missing finger on her right hand, for example – the cool weather had kept her from becoming a complete skeleton. In fact, despite the splitting of the skin to expose the muscle and fat on her left cheek, Banks was able to recognize Leanne’s face from the photographs he had seen.
When the body was completely uncovered, everyone stood back as if they were at a funeral paying their last respects before the interment rather than at an exhumation. The moor was silent but for the wind whistling and groaning among the stones like lost souls. Mick Blair was crying, Banks noticed. Either that or the chill wind was making his eyes water.
“Seen enough, Mick?” he asked.
Mick sobbed, then abruptly turned away and vomited noisily and copiously into the gorse.
Banks’s mobile rang as he turned away to go back to his car. It was Stefan Nowak, and he sounded excited. “Alan?”
“What is it, Stefan? Identified the sixth victim?”
“No. But I thought you’d like to know immediately. We’ve found Payne’s camcorder.”
“Tell me where,” said Banks, “and I’ll be with you as fast as I possibly can.”
Maggie was tired when her train pulled into City Station around nine o’clock that evening, half an hour late due to a cow in a tunnel outside Wakefield. Now she had an inkling of why the British complained so much about their trains.
There was a long queue at the taxi rank, and Maggie only had a light holdall to carry, so she decided to walk around the corner to Boar Lane and catch a bus. There were plenty of them that stopped within a short walk of The Hill. It was a pleasant evening, no sign of rain here, and there were still plenty of people on the streets. The bus soon came and she sat at the back downstairs. Two elderly woman sat in front her, just come from the bingo, one with hair that looked like a sort of blue haze sprinkled with glitter. Her perfume irritated Maggie’s nose and made her sneeze, so she moved even farther back.
It was a familiar journey by now, and Maggie spent most of it reading another story in the new Alice Munro paperback she had bought on Charing Cross Road. She had also bought the perfect present for Lucy. It nestled in its little blue box in her holdall. It was an odd piece of jewelry and had immediately caught her eye. Hanging on a thin silver chain, it was a circular silver disc about the size of a ten-penny piece. Inside the circle, made by a snake swallowing its own tail, was an image of the phoenix rising. Maggie hoped that Lucy would like and appreciate the sentiment.
The bus turned the last corner. Maggie rang the bell and got off near the top of The Hill. The streets were quiet and the western sky was still smeared with the reds and purples of sunset. There was a slight chill in the air now, Maggie noticed, giving a little shiver. She saw Mrs. Toth, Claire’s mother, crossing The Hill with some fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and said hello, then turned to the steps.
She fumbled for her keys as she made her way up the dark steps overhung with shrubbery. It was hard to see her way. A perfect place for an ambush, she thought, then wished she hadn’t. Bill’s telephone call still weighed on her mind.
The house seemed to be in darkness. Perhaps Lucy was out? Maggie doubted it. Then she got past the bushes and noticed a flickering light coming from the master bedroom. She was watching television. For a moment, Maggie felt the uncharitable wish that she still had the house to herself. The knowledge that there was someone in her bedroom bothered her. But she had told Lucy she could watch television up there if she wanted, and she could hardly just march in and kick her out, tired as she was. Perhaps they should change rooms if Lucy just wanted to watch television all the time? Maggie would be quite happy in the small bedroom for a few days.
She turned the key in the lock and went inside, then put down her bag and hung up her jacket before heading upstairs to tell Lucy she had decided to come back early. As she glided up on the thick pile carpet she could hear sounds from the television but couldn’t make out what they were. It sounded like somebody shouting. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, so without even thinking to knock, Maggie simply pushed it open and walked in. Lucy law sprawled on the bed naked. Well, that wasn’t too much of a surprise after this morning’s display, Maggie thought. But when she turned to see what was on television she didn’t want to believe her eyes.
At first she thought it was just a porn movie, though why Lucy should be watching something like that and where she had got it from were beyond her, then she noticed the homemade quality, the makeshift lighting. It was some sort of cellar, and there was a girl who appeared to be tied to a bed. A man stood beside her playing with himself and shouting obscenities. Maggie recognized him. A woman lay with her head between the girl’s legs, and in the split second it took Maggie to register all this, the woman turned, licked her lips and grinned mischievously at the camera.
“Oh, no!” Maggie said, turning to Lucy, who was looking at her now with those dark, impenetrable eyes. Maggie put her hand to her mouth. She felt sick. Sick and afraid. She turned to leave but heard a sudden movement behind, then felt a splitting pain at the back of her head, and the world exploded.
The pond was gathering the evening light by the time Banks got there after taking Mick Blair back to Eastvale, making sure Ian Scott and Sarah Francis were under lock and key, and picking up Jenny Fuller on his way out of town. Winsome and Sergeant Hatchley could take care of things at Eastvale until tomorrow morning.
The colors shimmered on the water’s surface like an oil slick, and the ducks, having noticed so much human activity, were keeping a polite and safe distance, and no doubt wondering where the expected chunks of bread had
