Peter Robinson: Many Rivers to Cross

Banks nodded. ‘The timing makes sense. Twelve hours or so. Mrs Grunwell says she put her rubbish out at ten o’clock last night, and the bin sat there out back in the same row as everyone else’s until the dustbin men came a short while ago. It’s twenty past eleven now.’

‘So, the body would have to have been dumped there after ten?’ Dr Burns asked.

‘That’s right.’

Dr Burns nodded and took out his thermometer. ‘There is one other thing...’

‘That the victim is dark-skinned?’

‘Yes. Middle Eastern, I’d say. We don’t usually get many people from that part of the world around these parts.’

‘True enough,’ Banks said. ‘I was just thinking about that, myself. It’ll make identifying him either easy or bloody impossible. Either way, we’d better brace ourselves. I have a feeling this is going to be a big case.’

Zelda knew that something was wrong the minute she entered the lobby of the unassuming building on Cambridge Circus late that Monday morning. There was usually just one man at the reception desk, and if it was Sam, she would breeze by with little more than a smile and a hello. Today, however, Sam was absent, and the lobby was crowded with strangers, mostly plainclothes police, by the look of them. She was asked for identification and the purpose of her visit twice before she was even allowed to get into the ancient lift. Fortunately, her ID card worked when she put it in the slot, and the lift groaned into life. A woman in a navy-blue suit accompanied her in silence all the way up to the third floor.

When the lift disgorged them, Zelda found yet more unfamiliar faces. It was nearly lunchtime, and she knew that by now the others would have been at work since nine, but everyone had congregated at the far end of the long office, and nobody seemed to be working at all. She didn’t even need her pass to open the main door; it was propped open with a wedge. The woman who had been with her nodded brusquely and went back down in the lift.

Two people Zelda didn’t recognise sat behind the glass partition of Hawkins’s office. The man who sat at Hawkins’s desk was grey-haired, red-faced and portly, wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and what Zelda took to be an old school, or regimental, tie. He gestured for her to come in and sit opposite him. A woman, rather severe and buttoned-up, Zelda thought, sat by the side of the desk, at an angle to them both.

‘And you are?’ the man asked. His accent was every bit as plummy as Zelda had expected, but his voice was high-pitched, producing a strange, squeaky effect. That made it harder for her to take him seriously, and she could tell that he was a man who clearly wanted to be taken seriously. A detective, undoubtedly.

‘I think it might be better if you told me who you are first,’ Zelda said.

‘Oh, dear. Has nobody explained?’

‘Not yet.’

‘There’s been a bit of trouble.’ The man fumbled in his inside pocket and brought out an official government identification card. ‘I’m Paul Danvers,’ he said. ‘National Crime Agency.’ The photo on the card matched his face.

Zelda nodded and glanced towards the woman, who remained still.

‘That’s Deborah,’ Danvers said. ‘Deborah Fletcher. She’s with me,’ he added with a proprietorial smile. Deborah’s stiff, pasted-on expression didn’t change. Zelda’s overwhelming impression of her was one of thinness — thin face, thin lips, skinny waist and skinny legs. The slash of bright red lipstick didn’t help, nor did the navy pencil skirt.

‘What is this all about?’ Zelda asked.

‘I’m afraid we ask the questions, dearie,’ said Danvers. ‘First of all, may I ask what you’re doing here?’

Patronising bastard , she thought. Whatever this is, I’m not going to make it easy for you. ‘I work here.’

‘In what capacity?’

‘I’m sure it’s in your file.’ Zelda gestured towards the folder on the desk in front of him.

Making a show of it, he opened the file and ran his finger down the list. Finally, he closed it, clasped his hands on the desk and studied Zelda. ‘You must be Nelia Melnic,’ he said. Deliberately pronouncing her last name with an ‘itch’, in the Serbian fashion. She thought of correcting him but decided it wasn’t worth it. ‘And your job?’

‘Not in your files?’

‘I’m sure it’s in there somewhere. But you could save us all a lot of time and trouble if you’d simply answer my questions.’

‘I’m a super-recogniser,’ Zelda said. ‘I remember faces. Every face I’ve ever seen. In fact, I never forget them.’

‘That must be useful.’

‘To you, perhaps.’ Zelda shrugged. ‘To me, it’s both a blessing and a curse. Now, what are you doing here? Where is Mr Hawkins?’

Danvers scratched the side of his nose. ‘Quite... er...’ He glanced towards Deborah Fletcher.

‘Trevor Hawkins is dead,’ she said. ‘Suspicious circumstances. We’re questioning everyone who works here.’

Banks blew gently on the milky brown surface of the tea, watched the ripples and felt the warmth they gave off, then took a sip. It was hot and sweet, and perhaps a bit too weak for Banks’s liking, but it came as a treat after the soaking and the grim sight of the boy’s body.

Edith Grunwell’s living room was an exercise in cleanliness, neatness and economy. Though she had a small cabinet filled with delicate porcelain figurines and a large gilt-framed painting of Fountains Abbey in all its historic and romantic glory over the fireplace, there was nothing excessive about the room, nothing out of place, nothing that jarred with the simplicity of the rose-patterned wallpaper, crocheted antimacassars and beige wall-to-wall carpeting. The armchairs were comfortable, but not so much so as to encourage lingering. Mingled scents of rosemary and thyme came from the potpourri on the windowsill.

Mrs Grunwell herself was thin and birdlike in her movements. The deep-set watery eyes in her wrinkled face looked as if they had seen too much this morning already, and she dabbed at them with a cotton handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Banks. ‘You must forgive me. I’m not squeamish, I’ve seen dead bodies, but it was such a shock, something like that happening so close by. The poor boy.’

‘You’ve seen bodies?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised, young man. I’m eighty-five years old. When you’ve lived to my age you tend to have seen most things. Especially if you work as a nurse, which I did for many years.’ She shook her head. ‘I know what people say about the estate, and it has its bad elements, true enough, but it wasn’t always like this. The violence. The knives. I must admit, I’m a bit frightened by it all.’ She glanced around the room. ‘It makes me feel differently about where I live. My home... it feels violated.’ She gave a little shudder.

‘When did you move here?’

‘When the council first opened the estate, if that’s the right word. July 27th, 1964. They even had a little ceremony, a couple of celebrities cutting the tape. Mike and Bernie Winters, if I remember rightly. Not exactly Morecambe and Wise, but they were very popular in their time. And you can’t believe what a paradise it was for a young married couple like George and me. My George, bless his soul, was a farm labourer, and before we came here we lived in a tiny cottage out Relton way. I used to bicycle to and from the Friarage in Northallerton every day, all seasons, even when I was on nights. There wasn’t much in the way of household comforts in a farm labourer’s cottage. No hot water, an outside toilet, tin tub for a bath, fireplace empty half the time. Even the little paraffin heater we bought didn’t help much with the cold. George didn’t like to use it. He thought it was too dangerous. But we got by. When we got this place, though, we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. Hot water, indoor toilet and bath, underfloor heating, everything spic and span, in working order. I stood out there in the street, just looking, and cried my eyes out. A miracle. At least... that’s how it felt then.’ She put her hand to her chest. ‘Listen to me rambling on. You must think I’m gaga. But my heart’s still going like a steam hammer. I always talk too much when I’m nervous or scared.’