Strange Affair

“It won’t do us much good,” said Susan, “unless we have a sample for comparison.”

“Er… well, as a matter of fact, we might have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got a sample of Cropley’s dandruff. Can I send it down to you?”

“I trust you didn’t ask Mr. Cropley for this?”

Templeton laughed. “No. Believe me, he gave it quite freely, though.”

“That’s not the point,” Susan said. “I’m sure you know as well as I do that you have to get the suspect’s written permission even for a non-intimate sample, unless you’ve detained him for a serious offense and the super gives permission to take one.”

“I know my PACE regulations,” said Templeton. “What I’m saying is that this could confirm my suspicions. If you knew it was him, if we knew it was him, then it would make a difference and we could start to build a real case. He doesn’t have to know about the previous sample. Nobody does except you and me. Right now we’ve got no real grounds to arrest him and demand a sample, but if the sample he gave me matches any of the dandruff found in the car, then we’d know where to look and you can be damn sure we’d come up with something to arrest him for. After that… well, then we’d get an official sample, of course.”

“What if it’s not him?”

“Then he’s off the hook.”

“But there’d be records, paperwork relating to the first test. These things are expensive.”

“I know that, but so what? It needn’t come out. Surely you must know someone at the lab with a bit of discretion? How is anybody going to know?”

“A good defense lawyer would use it as ammunition against our case.”

“Only if he found out. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. By that point we’d have officially matching DNA, which we’d have no trouble getting admitted, all by the book. You can’t argue with that. Christ, I’ll even pay for the test myself if that’s your problem.”

“That’s not the problem. And I doubt you could afford it, anyway. The point is that if it does turn out to be Cropley, the real evidence could be thrown out because of what you’re asking. It’s iffy. No, I don’t like this at all.”

Templetion sighed. He hadn’t realized what a stickler DS Browne was. “Look,” he said, “do you want this guy or not? Maybe it’ll rule him out. I don’t know. But we should at least keep an eye on him. If I’m right – and the DNA would prove that one way or another – he’s done it before and he’ll do it again. What do you think? Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Templeton felt himself tense during the silence that followed.

Finally, Susan Browne said, “Send it down. I’ll talk to my SIO, see what I can do. I’m not promising anything, though.”

“Great,” said Templeton. “It’s already on the way.”

Banks felt more trepidation than he could ever have imagined as he walked with Brooke and Annie over the weeds and stony ground toward the dirty brick factory, its ugly facade covered in Day-Glo graffiti. Was he now going to see the exact spot where his brother had been shot and killed? Little Roy, whom he’d saved from a bully and scarred with a toy sword. He gritted his teeth and felt his neck and arm muscles tense up.

The doors looked forbidding, but they were easily opened, and the three were soon crossing the vast factory floor, footsteps echoing. There was something about abandoned factories, with the gaping holes in their roofs, rusted old machines, drums, pallets and weeds growing through cracks in the walls and floor, that always disturbed Banks. He thought it had something to do with a dream that had scared him when he was young, but he couldn’t remember the details. He also thought it had something to do with the ball-bearing factory across the road from his parents’ house, though it had been in operation during his time there and he had no unpleasant experiences associated with it. There had always been derelict houses, workshops and factories, though, and he had explored most of them with his friends, tracking down imaginary monsters. Whatever the reason, places like that still gave him the shivers, and this one was no exception.

“You do take me to the nicest places, Dave,” said Annie. “This is almost as cheerful as that street in Bow.”

“At least it’s not raining today,” Brooke said.

A rat scuttled out from under a rusted sheet of metal and practically ran over Annie’s feet on its way out. She pulled a face but made no sound. Sunlight lanced through missing sections of roof, illuminating the dust motes the three of them kicked up as they walked. The large windows behind their protective grilles were all broken, and shattered glass was strewn all over the floor, sparkling in the rays of light. Here and there were oily puddles and damp patches from the previous night’s rain.

At the center of the factory floor, almost hidden by rusty machines, Banks saw a wooden chair. On the floor beside it lay snakelike lengths of cord.

“Better stand back,” said Brooke as they approached it. “The SOCOs will be here soon and they won’t appreciate it if we trample all over their scene.”

Banks stood and looked. He thought he could see spots of blood on the cord and splatters on the ground near the chair. For a moment he pictured Roy tied there, felt his terror as he knew he was going to die in this filthy place, then his policeman’s instinct kicked in and he tried to interpret what he was seeing.

“Roy was shot in the head with a twenty-two, like Jennifer Clewes, right?” he said.

“That’s right,” said Brooke.

“And there was no exit wound?”

“No.”

“So where did all the blood come from?”

Banks noticed Brooke exchange a glance with Annie.

“Come on,” said Banks. “I’m not a fool.

“The pathologist found some evidence that he was beaten,” Brooke admitted.

“So they tortured him, the bastards.”

Brooke stared down at his shoes. “It looks that way. But we don’t know for certain that your brother was even here yet. You can’t really tell who it is from the photograph.”

“And just who else do you think it would be?” Banks said. “Anyway, now you’ve got all the blood samples you could possibly need to make a match.”

“I suppose we have,” said Brooke.

“But why torture him?” Banks asked.

“We don’t know,” Annie said. “Obviously to make him tell them something. Or to find out how much he knew about something or how much he’d already told.”

“I don’t think it would have taken long to get Roy to talk,” Banks said. The image of the boy bullying Roy flashed though his mind, Roy crying and holding his stomach in pain. Banks’s intervention. But this time he hadn’t been able to come to the rescue. He hadn’t been there for him. And this time Roy had been killed. Banks could only hope that his parents never found out about the torture. He didn’t blame Annie and Brooke for trying to keep it from him – he’d probably have done the same if it were one of their relatives – but now he had the job of protecting his own mother and father from the truth.

“They didn’t bother tidying up after themselves,” said Annie, pointing to a single shell casing on the floor close to the chair.

“Probably thought no one would ever find the place,” said Brooke.

“Some kids would have found it eventually,” Banks said. “Kids love places like this.”

Pigeons flew in and out through the holes in the roof and walls, perching on the rafters and ruffling their feathers. Their white droppings speckled sections of floor, and even the chair itself. Despite its partial openness to the elements, the factory smelled of small dead animals and stale grease.

“I’ll see if I can get some uniforms to canvass the neighborhood,” Brooke said. “Who knows? Someone might have noticed unusual activity around the place.”

The wind made a mournful sound as it blew through the broken windows, harmonizing strangely with the cooing pigeons. Banks gave a little shiver, despite the warmth of the day. He’d seen all he wanted, the godforsaken place where Roy had spent his last few hours being tortured, then shot. No matter how long he lived, he knew he