Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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Zelda picked up her pencil again and added a few more deft strokes before passing the sketch to Mati.
‘Do I really look like that?’ she said.
‘To me you do.’
‘I seem very severe . . . very haunted.’
Zelda said nothing.
‘And, seriously,’ Mati went on, ‘I think what you should do is follow your heart, but don’t let it rule your head when it senses danger. You have survived much, perhaps so much that you think you can handle anything that comes along, but, believe me, my dear Nelia, you cannot. There’s always something else. Something worse.’
Zelda nodded. ‘Thank you, Mati. Let’s go see to that new girl.’
Chapter 2
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.’
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.’
‘Not at all,’ said Banks.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Grunwell added, ‘there’s nothing the council would like more than to get rid of me and put me in a home, out of the way somewhere. George is gone and the children all left years ago. Maybe I should let them. But it’s still my home, don’t you see?’
‘I do,’ said Banks.
‘I’d like to stay here until I can’t possibly manage any longer by myself. I feel sorry for these young people not being able to afford a house of their own, but this house has been my home for over fifty years. Still, you didn’t come to hear me reminiscing and grumbling, did you?’
Banks, who often found that letting witnesses unburden themselves a bit before questioning helped them relax, merely smiled at her. ‘You told DI Cabbot you put out the rubbish at ten o’clock. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Like I do every Sunday.’
‘And you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?’
‘No. Nothing. It was very quiet out back. It usually is on a Sunday night, apart from next door’s cat now and then. I never have much rubbish. Just one little bag. I’ve told the council that I hardly need one of those huge bins, but they don’t listen. They have their rules, and they don’t want one batty old lady marching to the beat of a different drummer.’ She grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth. ‘Now, that would give them an excuse to lock me away, wouldn’t it?’
The neighbours on Malden Terrace would all be questioned, of course, as would the tenants of the dozen or so houses on the opposite side of the narrow lane, whose front doors were on Malden Close. In fact, officers would canvass the whole of the East Side Estate in the hopes that someone had noticed something and would be willing to share their knowledge with the police, unlikely as that seemed.