Peter Robinson - Children of the Revolution

‘But he had to get it from somewhere, didn’t he?’ said Winsome. ‘However tentative, it’s still a drugs connection. That could link him with some dodgy people. Where there’s drugs there’s money, and where there’s money there’s always the possibility of violence.’

‘True,’ said Banks. ‘Maybe you should have a word with the drugs squad later today? See if they can suggest a possible source. Well done. Anything else?’

‘Well,’ Winsome went on, ‘there was no diary, nothing to give us an account of his daily activities, or an address book. No landline, either. He did have a scratch pad in one of his drawers, and it has a few numbers and names scribbled on it. I passed it on to Liam, and he’ll be trying to coordinate with the information he gets from Miller’s mobile and computers. Then Gerry can try and track down the names and addresses. It’s my guess he had so few appointments, and he knew so few people, that he didn’t need an address book or appointment diary. Then there were the photos we found. That’s it.’

Banks turned to PC Kirwan. ‘Find out anything more around the village?’

Kirwan opened his notebook. ‘A little, sir. Nobody had seen Miller since Friday, when he’d been to the Spar on the high street to buy a few provisions and some wine on sale. He’d also been drinking in the Star and Garter before heading home.’

Banks gazed at the glass board. There was a lot more written on it now than there had been at the start of the meeting, but how much of it was of any use? He needed connections, not disparate facts and guesswork.

‘There is just one more thing that might be of interest, sir,’ said Kirwan. ‘I talked to a Mrs Stanshall, who says she’s certain she saw someone come over the stile from the woodland path into the car park, then get in a car and drive off. She’s another dog walker. It was dark, though, and she couldn’t give any more details, either about the car or the person, but she’s certain it was about half past ten on Sunday night, same time she always takes the dog for a walk, rain or shine. The timing’s about right. If someone was coming out of the woods and getting into a car at that time, there’s a good chance he may be connected with Miller’s death, isn’t there, sir?’

‘If someone did kill Miller, yes, I suppose so. It was definitely a he?’

‘That was all she could be certain of. Something to do with his size and shape.’

‘There are big women.’ Banks looked at Winsome, who was six foot two in her stockinged feet.

‘Are you saying you think someone might mistake me for a man, sir?’ Winsome asked sweetly.

‘Well, no... I mean, perhaps, in the dark...’

Everyone laughed. ‘Don’t go on, sir,’ Winsome said, hardly able to keep back the laughter herself. ‘You’ll only put your foot in deeper.’

‘She said it was the way he moved as well, sir,’ Kirwan rushed on. ‘And his shoulders. There are streetlights that cast a little illumination on the car park. Not much, mind you, and the car was in one of the darker areas near the back, but enough to see silhouettes and such, so she’s probably being as accurate as she can be. There’s no locked gate or anything.’

‘CCTV?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Pay and display?’

‘No, sir. It’s free.’

‘Normally I’d rejoice at that,’ said Banks, ‘but a written record of the time our mystery man arrived would be nice right now.’

‘Sorry, sir. But at least we know when he left, for what it’s worth. Anyway, she said he was bareheaded, but with hair, not bald, and that he was wearing a raincoat and trousers, definitely the kind of style of clothes a man would wear. She saw him get into the car, and she said women get into cars differently. I don’t know about that, but she seemed certain. Maybe someone should have a word.’

‘There’s a few things to follow up in Coverton,’ Banks said. ‘This Mrs Stanshall might be more perceptive than you think she is. Seeing as Stefan tells us that the track from the cottage probably hasn’t been used by any cars recently, then it makes sense that our man parked in the village car park and perhaps walked through the woods or along the railway path. Anyway, I’ll head out there later this morning. Winsome, you can come with me and talk to Mrs Stanshall. Maybe check out the post office box, too.’ Banks turned to Nowak. ‘And Stefan, would you have your team go over the woodland path again. I suppose if anyone used it, there’s always a chance of some fabric caught on a twig, or even, God help us, a preserved footprint.’

Nowak nodded. ‘We’ve been over it once, but we’ll do it again.’

‘Anything else?’ Banks asked. Nobody spoke up. ‘Right, you’ve all got your tasks. Just one more thing to consider. You might bump into one or more members of the media on your travels. The AC has suggested, and I agree, that we should keep all knowledge of the five thousand pounds to ourselves for the moment. It gives us a card up our sleeves should we need it. All clear?’

Everyone muttered their assent, and the meeting broke up. When they had all gone, Banks stood and gazed at the pictures and writing on the glass board. He sensed Gervaise behind him. ‘No forensics,’ she said. ‘That’s a bit of a disaster for us.’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve often thought that solving a crime has far more to do with understanding people and their motives than it does with spectrographic analysis and DNA.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Gervaise. ‘But in the end it’s forensics that will get a conviction any day over motive.’

Gold and russet leaves were spiralling down from the trees that lined the street of large Victorian houses. Along with the chill in the air, they reminded Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot that winter was coming. She parked her car and got out. The weather was fine enough at the moment, and there were even a few patches of blue sky between the clouds drifting across the sky like balls of fluff accumulated in a vacuum cleaner.

Annie walked past groups of students carrying rucksacks and satchels, chatting and laughing as they came and went from the warren of bedsits and flats inside the houses. The Arts Department was housed in one of the sixties buildings at the heart of the old campus, all flat roofs, prefab concrete and glass, broad horizontal blinds. Most of the buildings were about three stories high but built in sprawling L-shapes, or forming squares around quadrangles in some sort of grotesque parody of Oxford or Cambridge.

To get to Lomax’s office, Annie had to walk through iron gates and across a square of scrappy lawn, then climb two flights of stairs. She tried to get plenty of exercise, including yoga and Pilates, but since the shooting and the time spent both in hospital and in convalescence, she found that she had less energy than before, and she was slightly out of breath when she knocked on the door. The doctors told her she would improve over time, but that it would be a long, hard haul. She already knew that. It had been a long, hard haul to crawl away from the bright white light that had beckoned as she lay bleeding on the floor of Banks’s conservatory over a year ago. There were sometimes days when she wondered whether it had been worth the effort. Something had broken in her, and she wanted the old Annie back.

She had telephoned ahead to make an appointment, so Lomax was expecting her. His voice called out for her to enter when she knocked, and she was surprised to find herself not in a vestibule with a fearsome secretary on sentry duty, but standing in the office itself.

To say it was book-lined would be both too generous and inaccurate; it was book-crammed, book-piled, book-besotted. They were everywhere. They probably bred overnight. The room even smelled of books. Here was a man who had never heard of a Kindle. The books were on the wall-to-wall shelves, on the floor, on the windowsills, the chairs, on every flat surface, and even balanced on some of the curved or angled ones. Oddly enough, Lomax didn’t look in the least bit bookish, Annie thought when he stood up to greet her, at least in the way she understood the term. There were no unruly tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles, no tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, no pipe, no thick glasses, no flyaway eyebrows. He was about fifty, Annie guessed, tennis-playing trim, casually dressed in a black polo-neck jumper and jeans, grey hair neatly parted on the left. He was quite handsome, with an engaging dimpled smile, a twinkle in his eyes, and a firm handshake.