Peter Robinson: When the Music's Over

‘No nicer ones, though. I always make sure I have plenty of time.’

Annie looked him up and down. ‘You go to work dressed like that?’

‘Oh, no.’ He pointed to the little bundle strapped to the back of his saddle. ‘I change at the office. We have a shower there, too.’

‘Very civilised.’ Annie made a mental note to take in the bundle of work clothes for forensic analysis. Maybe he didn’t do it, but she couldn’t go around letting things like that slip by. ‘So you make this same journey every morning?’

‘And evening. More or less. Every weekday.’

‘Do you ever notice anyone else using the road?’

‘No. I mean, once or twice I’ve seen a tractor out early, pulling a few bales of hay or something from one field to another, and once there was a farmer shifting some cows over the road, blocking the way. Maybe the occasional car, but they’re few and far between, thank the Lord. Cars are... well let’s just say they’re not always sympathetic towards cyclists. Usually the lane is deserted. That’s why I like it. Nice and quiet.’

Yeah, thought Annie, and cyclists are a pain in the arse as far as motorists and pedestrians are concerned. They don’t stop at red lights, they go the wrong way up one-way streets, they ride on the pavements when it suits them, and the list went on. But she said nothing. ‘Let’s go back to this morning. Anything unusual at all?’

‘No,’ said Stanford. ‘I set off the same time I always do, around a quarter past eight, and I got here as I said, about a quarter to nine. It’s only about six miles, but there’s a tough uphill stretch, and I wasn’t really pushing my speed.’

‘Did any cars pass you?’

‘No.’

‘See anyone on foot?’

‘No one. It was a perfectly ordinary morning — until I got here.’ He put his head in his hands again. ‘The first thing I saw was the crows. That poor, poor girl...’

‘I’m sorry I have to ask these questions Mr Stanford, but the sooner I’m done, the sooner you can go home.’

‘Home? But I haven’t... I have to...’

‘I’d go home if I were you, Mr Stanford. Phone your work. They’ll understand. Delayed shock and all that. We’ll have someone come around and take a statement from you this afternoon. Who knows, you may have remembered something else by then.’

‘He’s already given his address,’ said Steph.

Annie nodded. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Stanford. If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch. But I’d like to take the clothes you’re carrying to our lab. We’ll let you have them back good as new. Is that a problem?’

‘My clothes? But...? Oh, I see. But surely you can’t think I did it?’

‘Just for purposes of elimination, Mr Stanford.’

‘Of course.’ Stanford walked over to his bike, still stunned, unbuckled the bag and handed it over. Then he got on the bike and rode back, rather wobbly, down the lane.

‘Where are the nearest houses?’ Annie asked PC Mellors.

She pointed. ‘Nearest farmhouse is over there, at the other side of that field.’

Annie could see the house in the distance. ‘Unlikely they’ll have witnessed anything,’ she said, ‘though it’s not so far away. Someone might have heard a car, for example, especially as the lane is little used by traffic.’ No houses lined its sides, she noticed, only trees and fields of grazing sheep beyond the ditch and the drystone walls. That said, it was certainly a scenic route if you weren’t in a hurry. But it’s hard to see pretty landscapes at night. On the other hand, she realised, if you wanted to avoid the Automated Number Plate Recognition cameras, the speed cameras and all the rest of the Big Brother paraphernalia that makes any road trip practically a public event these days, then Bradham Lane was your route of choice.

Annie glanced over at the body by the roadside and took a deep breath. No sense putting it off any longer. ‘Come on, Gerry,’ she said. ‘Let’s go have a butcher’s at what we’ve got.’

The girl lay curled up in the foetal position, half in the long grass that edged a ditch, hands covering her face, as if to protect it. She was naked, and her body was streaked with mud, dirty water and blood. The soles of her feet were crusted with dried blood, and small stones from the road were embedded in the skin. There were no obvious bullet holes or stab wounds, and her throat seemed unscathed. Not so the rest of her. She could have been hit by a car, Annie supposed, but it would be up to the medical professionals to determine that. It was hard to see her features because of the position of her hands, but Annie noticed between the fingers that one eye was swollen shut, her lips were split and bloody, with a tooth protruding through the lower one, and her nose was crooked. Squatting to examine the rest of the body again, Annie noticed signs of bruising around the ribs, stomach and right hip. There were also signs of a scuffle in the earth around the body and, not so far away, the only obvious skid marks on the road surface, far too faint and blurred to give a decent tyre impression. In the absence of a medical and CSI opinion, Annie was convinced that this girl had been beaten to death, kicked, perhaps even jumped on. And girl she was. Despite the injuries, Annie could see that the victim was hardly any older than fifteen or sixteen. She sensed Gerry’s presence beside her and stood up.

‘My God,’ said Gerry, hand to her mouth.

Annie put a friendly hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think God had much to do with it, do you? And I’d like to say you get used to it, but you don’t.’ Not so used to it, Annie thought, that you become indifferent to it, that you don’t feel that tightening in your gut and that surge of anger that someone had done this to a fellow human being, or don’t feel you’re going to put your all into catching the bastard who did it.

‘But she’s so young. She’s just a girl.’

‘I know.’ Gently directing a pale and trembling Gerry away with an arm around her shoulder, Annie headed back towards the uniformed officers. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time to call in the heavy brigade.’

‘Well, Banksy, what a turn-up for the books. You and me working together again. Just like old times. Congratulations, by the way. The promotion. Long overdue.’

They were basking in the sunshine at one of the tables outside at the Queen’s Arms, eating lunch: monster fish and chips and mushy peas, with a pint of Timothy Taylor’s for Banks and a cheap lager for Burgess. Cyril, the landlord, had taken on a new barmaid to deal with the summer rush, an attractive blond Australian called Pat, to whom Burgess had already taken a shine. Luckily, Cyril wasn’t around, as he and Burgess had history.

‘So what’s your official title these days?’ Banks asked. ‘What do I call you?’

‘I always fancied “Special Agent”. It has a ring to it. But in actual fact I’m a non-executive director. Sounds like a dull second-rate businessman. Mostly I go by plain “Mr Burgess” these days.’

‘Like a surgeon.’

‘Exactly. It’s got class, don’t you think?’

The cobbled market square was buzzing with shoppers and tourists, and clogged with parked cars. Young girls in vests and tight denim cut-offs over black tights hung out around Greggs eating pasties, then disappeared into the amusement arcade next door. A gaggle of serious ramblers, with walking-sticks like ski poles, expensive boots, baggy shorts and maps in plastic bags around their necks gathered by the market cross. A few people sat on the plinth around the market cross waiting for a local bus. Not far from Banks and Burgess sat a group of bloke-ish tourists in garish shorts and even more garish shirts, their faces flushed and eyes glazed from sunburn and beer. They were talking and laughing loudly enough that nothing Banks and Burgess spoke of could be overheard.