Peter Robinson - Many Rivers to Cross

Zelda nodded. ‘Thank you, Mati. Let’s go see to that new girl.’

Ghostly white figures moved beyond the runnels of rain that blurred Detective Superintendent Alan Banks’s windscreen. As he pulled to a halt on Malden Road, at the western edge of the East Side Estate, one shape detached itself from the rest and stood by his car door.

‘Just what we need,’ said DI Annie Cabbot, holding a transparent plastic umbrella over her head while trying to manoeuvre it so that Banks could stay dry, too, as he got out of the car. The rain splattered down on the plastic and dripped down his neck. Realising that he would have to lean so close to Annie that their cheeks would be touching, or put his arm around her shoulder and pull her towards him in order to stay dry, he edged away. ‘It’s OK, Annie,’ he said. ‘I’ve been soaked before. What have we got?’

Lightning flashed across the sky, and soon afterwards thunder rolled and cracked to the north. Annie handed Banks a disposable white boiler suit and led him through the taped-off outer cordon into the alleyway that ran between the backyards of Malden Terrace and Malden Close. Banks slipped into the suit and zipped it up. He could feel the rain, warm on his head. At least it wasn’t one of those cold winter showers that chilled you to the bone. A spring storm. Much nicer. Heralding a change for the better in the weather. Good for the garden.

‘The CSIs have managed to put a makeshift tent up,’ Annie said as they approached the square canvas structure within the inner cordon. The tent was artificially lit from inside, despite the fact that it was only late morning. She held open a flap and they went inside. Rain hammered down on the flimsy roof, leaking through and dripping to the ground in spots.

At the centre of it all stood a large wheelie bin of the kind the council supplied for rubbish pickup.

‘We’ve had a look already,’ Annie went on, ‘and Peter Darby’s done with the photos. I thought you’d like to see what we’ve got in situ.’

Banks put on his thin latex gloves, slowly opened the bin and recoiled from what he saw there: a boy’s body with his knees tucked under his chin, curled up, almost like a fire victim. But it wasn’t a pugilistic position, and there had been no fire; the boy had been deliberately crammed into the bin.

‘The dustbin men found him when they came to empty the bins,’ Annie said. ‘In with the rubbish. The body’s stuck, so the bin wouldn’t empty, and one of the men went to see what was wrong. He’s still in shock.’

Banks bent forward and peered. The boy was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. There were no immediate signs of violence or ill-treatment, but he couldn’t actually see very much because of the contorted position the body was in. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘He can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. Just a skinny kid. Any idea who he is?’

Annie shook her head. ‘We’ll get the house-to-house going as soon as we can get a few more officers here.’

‘Which house does the bin belong to?’

‘Number six Malden Terrace. Elderly lady, lives on her own. A Mrs Grunwell. She’s pretty upset.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Banks. ‘Could she tell you anything?’

‘Only that she put her bag of rubbish out last night at ten o’clock, as usual, in the bin outside her back gate for the men to pick up this morning, and there was no body there then. As you can see, it was put on top of the rubbish. The dustbin men were running a bit late because of the weather, or it might have been found much earlier.’

‘They’ll be running even later now. Where are they?’

‘In the CSI van. Someone managed to conjure up a pot of tea.’

‘What about CCTV? Surely there’s some around here?’

Annie shook her head. ‘I asked the local PC about that — he was first on the scene — and he told me they’ve been rendered inoperable.’

Banks smiled. ‘ “Rendered inoperable.” That’s fine textbook police talk. He meant they’ve been vandalised?’

‘Impression I got.’

‘We’d better arrange for a mobile incident unit.’ Banks lifted the flap of the tent and glanced around at the estate as the lightning flashed again. ‘Sometimes I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have one permanently stationed here.’

‘Now, now,’ said Annie. ‘And you a loyal Guardian reader. Champion of the underprivileged.’

‘You don’t have to study the crime statistics as closely as I do.’

‘Ah, the responsibilities of high office. You could always go back to your nice warm office and scan a few columns of figures while the rest of us do the grunt work in the rain.’

‘There’s a novel idea,’ said Banks, withdrawing back into the tent. ‘Remind me to learn how to delegate.’

Shadows moved beyond the canvas walls. Another car door slammed and a middle-aged man in a mac dashed in. Dr Burns nodded his greeting to Banks and Annie and complained about the miserable weather. Banks gestured to the CSIs and turned away as they tipped the bin on its side and began to ease the body out. Finally, the dead boy lay on a plastic sheet on the ground, stiffened into the foetal position by rigor mortis. One of the CSIs pointed to the bin. ‘Can we take this for forensic examination?’

Banks glanced into the bin and nodded. ‘There might be some trace evidence inside. It’s possible he got into the bin by himself, maybe to escape someone, but I very much doubt it. Someone must have brought his body here and dumped him. Most likely by car. And there’s very little blood in the bin as far as I can see, which may also indicate he was killed elsewhere.’

Banks bent down and felt in the boy’s pockets. He pulled out a small package filled with white powder. He slipped it into an evidence bag and sealed it, then stood up, hearing his knees crack as he did so.

Dr Burns knelt next, and Banks watched him make notations on his clipboard and check the time as his eyes roamed over the body.

When the doctor stood up, he looked grim. ‘Four stab wounds as far as I can count,’ he said. ‘Of course, there may be others I can’t see, so when Dr Glendenning gets him on the table he’ll be able to tell you more. It’s difficult for me to conduct a proper examination given the position and state of the body.’

‘It won’t be Dr Glendenning,’ said Banks. ‘The doc’s retired. Well, semi-retired. He still likes to stand over Karen whenever he can and make sarcastic comments about her technique.’

‘Dr Karen Galway?’

‘That’s right.’ Dr Karen Galway, who had worked for some years as Dr Glendenning’s chief assistant, was now an official Home Office pathologist, qualified to carry out post-mortem examinations. She lacked the old doctor’s biting humour and irreverent approach, but nobody could fault her work thus far.

Dr Burns nodded. ‘Excellent choice. I must say, I’d been thinking Dr Glendenning was getting a bit long in the tooth.’

‘Long in the tooth and deep in experience,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, what can you tell us so far?’

‘Not much,’ Dr Burns admitted. ‘Those stab wounds are most likely the cause of death. One of them in particular might have nicked or pierced the right ventricle. There’s a fair bit of blood, but most of the bleeding would probably have been internal. I doubt it would have taken the poor lad very long to die, if that’s any consolation.’

‘Not for him,’ said Banks. ‘How long ago?’

‘I can’t tell you precisely, but I’d estimate more than twelve hours. You can see full rigor’s set in. It was pretty mild last night, and he’s young. And he was stuffed in a container. Again, Dr Galway will be able to give you a better idea when she gets him on the table. I’ll try to narrow it down a bit with temperature calculations in a minute, but they’re not always as accurate as I would wish, either. There are better tests these days, but they need to be done in the lab with the proper equipment.’