Peter Robinson: Children of the Revolution

‘All caused by the fall?’

Dr Burns paused. ‘Possibly. Most.’

‘Ah-ha,’ said Banks. ‘Not committing yourself?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Is there any reason to suppose that someone pushed him?’ Banks asked. ‘Maybe hit him over the head first? Or are you leaning towards suicide?’

‘You mean, in which case why did I bring you all the way out here on such a miserable Monday morning?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, there’s nothing definite yet,’ Burns admitted. ‘All I’m saying is that I doubt it was an accident. If he didn’t jump, then someone had to have thrown him over the edge.’

‘Would it be a far enough drop for him, or someone else, to be sure that it would kill him?’

‘No,’ said Burns. ‘He could have got off lucky and simply broken a few minor bones. Falls are difficult to predict. We’ve all heard of someone who survived a long drop. But he landed in a very unfortunate manner. As I said, it was the broken neck and the fractured thigh that did for him. The femur severed the femoral artery. Very nasty. He bled out. It would have been quick, and in all likelihood, with the broken neck, he would have been unconscious, maybe even paralysed, by then. He probably wouldn’t have felt any pain, just a sort of growing numbness.’

Banks raised his voice so that PC Kirwan outside the tent could hear. ‘Is there any way to get down from the bridge to the tracks without jumping?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kirwan. ‘It’s a bit steep, but you can scramble down the embankment on either side. In this weather you’d probably end up sliding most of the way on your arse, sir. And there’s a slightly better path to the cottage, a few steps cut into the earth.’

‘So, if it was deliberate, our killer probably knew that he could get down and finish off his victim if the fall didn’t do it for him? Even if he had to slide down on his arse?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kirwan.

‘Any sign of a suicide note?’ Banks asked the doctor.

‘Nothing.’

‘Anyone checked out the cottage?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘We were waiting for you.’

Banks glanced towards Nowak. ‘What do you make of it, Stefan?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nowak said in his impeccable and slightly pedantic English, the trace of a Polish accent discernible only now and then in certain cadences. ‘This weather makes it rather difficult for us. We’re working on it, but we’ve found no fingerprints or footprints on the bridge so far, as one might expect if he’d hauled himself over the side and jumped, but the rain could easily have washed them away. It was quite heavy at times overnight. But the sides are rusted metal, while the base is wooden planks, so in any case we’d be lucky to find anything after a night’s rain.’

‘How much do you reckon he weighs?’ Banks asked.

‘About eight stones at a guess,’ Burns answered.

Banks thought for a moment, then asked Nowak, ‘Any chance of collecting much trace evidence from the scene?’

‘There’s always a chance,’ Nowak answered, ‘even in this weather. But I’d say no to finger- or footprints, unless someone came by the woodland path. The trees might offer some protection from the rain there.’

‘Tire tracks?’

‘Same. The rain would soften the ground, and some impression might remain, but it’s been coming down pretty heavily all night, and the odds are that it will probably have washed away anything laid down from before. We’ll be doing our best, though.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Blood? DNA?’

‘Possibly. Diluted, difficult, but perhaps not washed away entirely.’

‘I see you’ve already bagged his hands,’ Banks said to the doctor. ‘Anything there? Skin under a nail, perhaps?’

‘Hard to say from a cursory glance,’ said Dr Burns. ‘He was a nail biter.’

Banks stood for a moment taking it all in, listening to the thrumming of rain on the canvas. The tent was leaking. A few drops of water trickled down the back of his neck. He should have put his hood up, he realised too late.

The man could have jumped, of course. Murders were rare in this isolated part of the county. On the other hand, if he had been intent on suicide, why choose a method that, according to Dr Burns, could in no way guarantee success, and might very well involve a great deal of pain, even paralysis?

‘Any idea how long he’s been lying here?’ Banks asked. ‘How long he’s been dead?’

‘It was a chilly night,’ said Dr Burns, ‘and that would have slowed down the processes of rigor mortis and post-mortem decay in general. But from what I can see, the paving stones are quite dry under the body. And there are no obvious signs of animal activity. I’d estimate overnight, somewhere around twelve hours, give or take.’

‘When did it start raining here?’

‘Yesterday? About midnight, sir,’ said PC Kirwan from outside.

‘Let’s say for the sake of argument that he died between ten and midnight last night,’ Banks said. ‘If he didn’t come here to kill himself, what was he doing here on a lonely footbridge not so far from his front door with someone who wanted to kill him?’

‘Maybe he didn’t know the person wanted to kill him, sir,’ Winsome said. ‘They could have just had a disagreement and started fighting spontaneously. Or maybe he got waylaid. He had his anorak on. He was prepared for going out.’

‘Good point. But, the bridge is south of his cottage. Not far, admittedly, but why would he walk even just a few yards south to the bridge if he was going to the village? PC Kirwan said there was a definite path from the cottage down the embankment. That would obviously have been the route he’d use, unless he fancied a walk through the woods. And where might he have been going if he hadn’t been heading for Coverton?’ Banks turned to PC Kirwan. ‘You said there’s nothing further south except a ruined viaduct. Any ideas?’

‘No, sir,’ said Kirwan. ‘It doesn’t make sense. He should have no need to walk south and cross the bridge just to go north. And there’s nothing but miles of open country. A few farms, of course.’

‘What was he carrying in his pockets?’ Banks asked.

‘I was wondering when you’d get around to asking that,’ Winsome answered. She picked up a plastic evidence bag from the bin beside her. ‘Mostly, just the usual. It’s all nicely bagged, sealed and signed. Wallet containing one credit card and driving licence, expired, in the name of Gavin Miller, along with one five-pound note and some receipts from the Spar grocery in Coverton and Bargain Booze in Eastvale. Mobile phone, keys, a small penknife, loose change, a packet of Silk Cut and a cheap butane lighter. Then there’s this.’ With a slight touch of theatricality, she pulled out a bulky envelope and showed its contents to Banks. From what he could see, it was a stack of fifty-pound notes, the new ones, with Boulton and Watt on the back. ‘Cash,’ Winsome went on. ‘There’s five thousand pounds here. I counted it. Not something you’d need for a walk in the woods, I’d say. And that’s why we dragged you out here on a miserable Monday morning, sir.’

Banks whistled. ‘Indeed. I suppose we can rule out a mugging, then?’

There was no garage attached to Gavin Miller’s cottage, though there was a paved space beside it that was the right size and shape for a small car. But there was no car. Banks made a mental note to check whether Miller owned one. The bridge was too narrow for even the slimmest of sports cars to pass over, but the rough laneway widened in front of the cottage, and Banks assumed it probably joined up eventually with one of the local unfenced roads, as PC Kirwan had suggested. It was the closest thing to a road out of there, at any rate. Anyone who used it to get to Gavin Miller’s house would probably have had to know of its existence in advance, though, which would indicate that if it had been used, there was a chance the assailant had known Miller and had visited him there before. But such speculation was for the future, when the CSIs had given Banks more to work on, and when he knew for certain, one way or the other, whether Miller had committed suicide or whether another person was involved. At a quick glance, Banks could see no signs of a vehicle having travelled the track recently.