Peter Robinson: Watching the Dark

Banks gestured towards the CSIs. ‘I see you’ve already called in the lads.’

‘Judgement call. I thought it best not to waste any time. The Divisional Duty Inspector made all the decisions.’ She turned to introduce the others. ‘By the way, this is Barry Sadler, estate manager, and Mandy Pemberton, the night nurse.’

Banks greeted them then asked them if they would mind returning to the main building, where they would be asked for statements. Still in shock, they headed up the slope.

‘Who’s the Crime Scene Manager?’ Banks asked Lorraine.

‘Stefan Nowak.’

‘Excellent.’ Stefan Nowak was one of the best. He would protect his scene to the death, if necessary, but he was still a delight to work with, Banks found, a charming, witty and intelligent man. Bank glanced towards the body, slumped forward by the tree line. ‘Know who he is?’

‘Not yet,’ said Lorraine. ‘But I might when I see his face. If he’s from here, that is.’

It was too early for Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, who lived in Saltburn, so the police surgeon, Dr Burns, knelt over the body making notes in his little black book. Banks squatted beside him and watched, hands on his knees.

‘Ah, Alan,’ said Burns. ‘I’d like to get him turned over, if I may?’

‘Peter Darby finished with his camera?’

‘Yes.’

Banks studied the body for a few moments and, finding nothing particularly interesting or unusual about it except for its odd position, helped Dr Burns. Carefully, they turned the body over on its back. As soon as they had done so, they exchanged puzzled glances. Banks stood up. He heard Lorraine Jenson, hovering over them, give a faint gasp.

Something was sticking out of the man’s chest. On first appearances, it resembled the kind of wooden stake that Van Helsing wielded to kill vampires in the old Hammer films, though it had feathers on the end, like an arrow. But it was too deeply embedded to be an ordinary arrow. ‘Looks like a crossbow bolt,’ said Banks.

‘I think you’re right,’ Dr Burns agreed.

‘We don’t get many of those around these parts.’ In fact, Banks couldn’t remember ever investigating a crossbow murder before.

‘I can hardly say it’s my area of expertise, either,’ said Dr Burns. ‘I’m sure Dr Glendenning will be able to tell you more, once he gets him on the table.’ Dr Burns stood up. His knees cracked. ‘From the position and angle, I’d say it almost certainly pierced his heart. He would have died almost instantaneously. Of course, he might have been poisoned first, but there are no apparent signs of strangulation, bruising or other physical trauma.’

‘Do you reckon he was killed here, or was he moved after death?’

Dr Burns unbuttoned the man’s shirt and examined the shoulders and chest area. ‘These are lividity marks, hypostasis, which means he’s been in this position for some time, and the blood has pooled here. But I can’t say for certain. Not until Dr Glendenning does the PM. It certainly seems as if he dropped to his knees, then keeled over and fell forward, so that his head rested on the ground. You can see there are traces of blood on the grass there, approximately where his heart would have been directly above it. That’s consistent with his injuries. There isn’t much blood. Most of the bleeding will have been internal.’ Dr Burns pointed towards the woods. ‘The shot probably came from where those CSIs are working around that tree, say fifty, sixty feet away. Hard to miss at that range, but it means your shooter could also stay hidden by the trees, in case anyone from the centre happened to be watching out of a window.’

Banks glanced at Lorraine Jenson, who was still staring, horrified, at the crossbow bolt in the man’s chest. ‘He seems vaguely familiar to me,’ said Banks, ‘but I’ve met a lot of coppers in my time. Do you recognise him now, Lorraine?’

Lorraine nodded slowly, a little pale. ‘It’s Bill,’ she said. ‘DI Bill Quinn. He was a patient here, too.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Banks. ‘Bill Quinn. I thought I recognised him.’

‘You knew him, too?’

‘Only in passing. He worked out of Millgarth, in Leeds with DI Ken Blackstone.’ Banks paused and turned back to Dr Burns, who was busy with his thermometer. ‘Time of death?’

‘As usual, I can’t be really precise. You’ve seen the lividity. Rigor’s started, but it isn’t complete yet. Judging by the temperature, I’d say he’s been dead about seven or eight hours. I’d guess that he was killed no later than one in the morning, say, and no earlier than eleven last night. Of course, that’s only an estimate. You might do better pinning down his movements, such as when he was last seen. It shouldn’t be too difficult in a place like this.’

‘Just hoping you might be able to save us some time.’

‘Sorry. Perhaps—’

‘Actually, you have,’ said Banks. ‘Two hours is a pretty good window to work with. Wouldn’t it have been too dark for the killer to shoot?’

‘As I said, the killer was probably pretty close,’ Dr Burns answered. ‘Maybe even closer than I estimated. It was a clear night, and there was a bright three-quarters moon, very few clouds. The victim would have made an easy enough target against the backdrop of the building, especially if the killer knew his way around a crossbow. I don’t think it would have been too difficult at all.’

Banks squatted again and went through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing and decided that that, in itself, was odd. When he mentioned it, Dr Burns said, ‘Maybe he left his stuff in his room? You don’t usually need your wallet and mobile if you’re just nipping out for a quick walk before bedtime.’

‘If that’s what he was doing. And people these days tend to be glued to their mobiles. They’re like a lifeline, or something. Then there are the keys.’

‘What about them?’

‘There aren’t any.’

‘Maybe he didn’t need them.’

‘Maybe not. Or maybe someone took them. We’ll find out.’

A black Toyota swung through the arch, and the officers on the gate let it through after their usual checks. DS Winsome Jackman jumped out, all six feet something of her.

‘Not like you to be late, Winsome,’ said Banks, glancing at his watch. ‘Wild night last night, was it?’

Winsome looked aghast, then smiled. ‘No, sir. I never have wild nights. You should know that.’

‘Of course not,’ said Banks. He explained the situation. ‘Will you go up to the house and get the practicalities organised?’ he asked. ‘A murder room in the main building, phone lines, civilian personnel, the usual.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Winsome said.

‘You’d also better organise a thorough search of the buildings and grounds as quickly as possible, before everyone gets wind of what’s going on down here. We’re after the murder weapon, a crossbow. Can’t be that easy to hide.’

‘Including the patients’ rooms?’

‘Especially the patients’ rooms. They won’t like it. They’re cops, like us. But it has to be done. They ought to understand that much, at least. This is one of our own that’s been killed. It could be an inside job, and if this place is as wide open as it appears, then anybody could come and go as they please. Set up interviews, too. You can start with the two who were just here. Barry...?’ Banks glanced at Lorraine Jenson.

‘Barry Sadler and Mandy Pemberton.’

Winsome headed off. Lorraine fell in beside her. She moved well, he noticed, despite the crutch. She made some comment, and Banks spotted Winsome glance over her shoulder and laugh.

Banks gazed down at the body again. Though they had only met once, at a retirement do with DI Ken Blackstone, he remembered lanky Bill Quinn, prematurely grey-haired, with his stained and crooked teeth, smiling quietly in his seat through the ribald speeches, a small whisky in his hand. ‘Bill Quinn,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What have you been up to?’ He looked around at the lake, the trees and the big house on the hill, sniffed the air, then set off after Winsome and Lorraine, up to the main building.