Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) (5 page)

Gervaise rolled her eyes.

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Why do you think he kept the photos with him?’

‘I don’t know. In my experience, people hang on to the strangest things for the strangest of reasons. Can’t complain. It makes our job easier in the long run. Maybe he was proud of himself for pulling her, and they were some sort of trophy? Maybe he was in love with her, and they were all he had left? Maybe he’d just got hold of them? Maybe he was going to pass them on to someone? Quinn obviously didn’t expect that he would never return to his room at St Peter’s last night, and that someone else would find them, unless . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Unless that was why he left them there. As some form of insurance against something happening to him.’

‘You mean he was
expecting
to be killed?’

‘No, not that. Expecting trouble, maybe, if he’d agreed to meet someone he was wary of, to pay off the blackmailer, say. But I doubt very much that he expected to be hurt or killed. He may have left the pictures in his room as a form of insurance, in case something went wrong. They weren’t very well hidden. Quinn was one of us. He knew we’d find them on the first pass. Which means they may be important now that something
has
happened to him. Not just insurance, but evidence.
She
may be important. We need to find her.’

‘It’s not much to go on, though, is it? A handful of photographs?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I suppose we can get someone to trawl through the escort agency file photos, check the online dating services, see if she turns up on one of them?’

‘So you think he was meeting someone he knew out there last night, maybe about something connected with the girl and the photos?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he even thought he was meeting the girl herself? That would cause him to be less on guard.’

‘Maybe he did meet her,’ suggested Gervaise. ‘Maybe she killed him.’

‘It’s possible,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it’s far too early to speculate. One way or another, I think the pictures are connected with his murder, which is what makes me think of blackmail, that they must have been taken while his wife was still alive to be of any use to anyone.’ Banks paused. ‘Any chance of a few extra bodies?’

‘You know what it’s like these days, Alan. But I’ll ask ACC McLaughlin, see what I can do. And I’ll take care of the media. I should bring our Press Officer in on this. One of our own. A high-profile case. I’ll set up a conference.’

‘Appreciated. Winsome and the others are already working on the staff and patient interviews at St Peter’s, but we also need to go over Bill Quinn’s old cases, talk to his colleagues, see if anyone had a grudge against him big enough to kill him, any hard men recently released from jail, that sort of thing. I’ll start by paying DI Ken Blackstone a visit in Leeds before I head out to Rawdon to check out Quinn’s house. Ken knew Bill Quinn fairly well, so he should be able to tell me a bit more about what sort of copper he was. We also need his mobile phone records. Credit card and bank statements, too.’ Banks glanced over at the trophies on the bookcase. ‘Er . . . by the way, I noticed a few archery awards there. You don’t happen to know anything about crossbows, do you?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Gervaise. ‘I’m strictly a longbow person. And I think you’ll find that most serious archers disdain crossbows. They’re hunters’ weapons, mostly, not for sporting competitions.’

‘Well, they’re pretty easy to get hold of,’ Banks said. ‘No questions asked, as long as you’re over eighteen. They’re quiet, and just as deadly as a bullet from the right distance. We need to canvass the shops and Internet sites where people buy these things.’

Gervaise scribbled something on her pad. ‘What else does the choice of weapon tell you?’ she asked.

‘Well, I don’t know much about the mechanics of crossbows, but I assume they could be used just as easily by a man or a woman. They’re efficient, anonymous and cold. And quiet. I don’t know about the range, but it was a moonlit night, and the killer was obviously able to get close enough and stay hidden in the trees. The bolt had buried itself deep in the chest, pierced the heart, according to Tom Burns. He thinks it was shot from about fifty or sixty feet away. If the killer was hiding behind a tree and wearing dark clothing, the odds are that Quinn wouldn’t have known he was there. Or she. Dr Glendenning will be able to tell us more.’

‘It sounds to me suspiciously like a hit.’

‘That’s one possibility,’ said Banks. ‘Which is why we need to find out if anyone had a reason for making a hit on Bill Quinn. We all make enemies on this job, but it’s rare that any of them follow through with their threats, especially in such a cold-blooded way.’

‘Maybe there was another reason?’ Gervaise suggested. ‘Maybe DI Quinn had got himself into deep trouble. Maybe he’d been sleeping with the enemy. It happens. The grey area. Money. Corruption. Gambling debts. Drugs. Or a woman. The girl in the photograph, for example? She must be somebody’s daughter, if not someone’s wife or girlfriend. A jealous husband or lover, perhaps? Maybe Quinn thought he was in love with her, and that’s why he kept the photos? As you say, a trophy, or memento. All he had left of her. A mid-life crisis? Perhaps he was hoping to rekindle the romance after his wife had died and he was suddenly free. Maybe we’re dealing with a love triangle?’ She put her pad down and rubbed her eyes. ‘Too many questions, too many possibilities. How’s DI Cabbot doing, by the way?’

‘Fine,’ said Banks. ‘She’s in Cornwall staying with her father.’

‘She’s due back Monday, right. Clean bill of health?’

‘Far as I know,’ Banks said. Annie Cabbot had been recuperating from a serious operation to remove bullet fragments from an area close to her spine. The wait for surgery had been a long one – she had first had to regain strength from a previous injury to her right lung before the operation on her back could be carried out – but it had been a success in that the fragments had been removed and Annie still had the use of all her limbs. Her recovery had been very slow, however, and involved far more excruciating pain than the surgeons had expected, followed by a great deal of physical therapy, some of it at St Peter’s. The spinal cord was intact, but there had been some disc, muscle and vertebrae problems they hadn’t foreseen. Annie had coped well with the pain and uncertainty, Banks thought, getting stronger every day, but he knew that the shooting had also left her with internal demons she would have to deal with eventually. She would be unlikely to go to a psychologist or psychiatrist because of the stigma involved. Rightly or wrongly, seeking professional help for mental problems was viewed as a weakness in the force. Many coppers still maintained that it was bad for the career, and perhaps it was.

‘I was thinking of putting her on desk duties for a while, until she gets her sea legs back again. What do you think?’

‘For what it’s worth, I think Annie should be given a chance to dive right in. It will do her confidence no end of good to start working on a real case again. Even the doctor says her main hurdles now are psychological. She’s been through a lot. First she gets shot, then she thinks she’s never going to walk again, then she suffers from chronic post-op pain.’

‘I’m simply pointing out that there are a lot of reasons why DI Cabbot, when she comes back next Monday, should keep a low profile on light duties for a little while and catch her breath before attempting to dash off and solve murders.’

‘She can be useful. We need her. Annie’s bright, she’s—’

‘I know all about DI Cabbot’s qualities as a detective, thank you very much.’ Gervaise ran a hand across her brow. ‘Let me think on it,’ she said. ‘I know you need more officers on the case. I’ll have a word with ACC McLaughlin when I talk to him about the personnel issue. I’ll see what he says about DI Cabbot’s future here. It’s the best I can do.’

Banks held her steady gaze. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Thanks.’

‘Anything else you’d like, while you’re at it?’

‘Well, a twenty per cent pay raise would be nice. And a bigger office.’

‘Out!’ Gervaise picked up a heavy paperweight and threatened to toss it at Banks. ‘Out, before I throw you out.’

Smiling to himself, Banks left the office.

Banks munched on his Greggs sausage roll as he guided the Porsche towards the A1, the fourth movement of Mahler’s ‘Resurrection’ symphony playing loudly on the powerful stereo system. It helped that this was a vocal movement. He had always liked Mahler’s lieder, and he had only recently been getting to like the symphonies a lot, having spurned them as boring and bombastic in the past. Was this something that happened when you got older? Failing eyesight, mysterious aches and pains, enjoying Mahler? Would Wagner be next?

The last time Banks had been to Leeds, he remembered, it was to help his daughter Tracy move a few months ago. She had shared a house in Headingley with two other girls, but it hadn’t worked out. Tracy had suffered a number of traumatic events around the time Annie had been shot, and after a brief period of depression and withdrawal, she had decided to change her life.

That first meant moving from Leeds to Newcastle, which was a little further from Eastvale, but not so much as to make a big difference. It also meant leaving a dead-end job and getting back on to a career track again. She had got a part-time administrative position at the university and enrolled in the master’s programme in History, with a view to moving into teaching once she felt a bit more secure in her qualifications.

It was also time to live alone, too, she had told Banks, so she had rented a tiny bedsit close to the converted riverside area, and both Banks and his ex-wife Sandra were helping her with the rent until she got on her feet. Her brother Brian, whose band The Blue Lamps seemed to be going from strength to strength, had also been most generous. In an odd way, Banks thought, they were starting to act like a family again, though he knew that the gap between him and Sandra was unbridgeable. He had visited Tracy once already in Newcastle and had taken her across the river to The Sage to see The Unthanks in concert, then for a drink after. They had had a good time, and he was looking forward to doing it again.

The A1 was a nightmare. Mile after mile of roadworks, down to one lane each way from Leeming to Wetherby, and a 50mph limit, which everyone obeyed because the cameras averaged out your speed over the whole distance. As a result, it took well over an hour and a half before Banks approached the eastern outskirts of Leeds. The Porsche didn’t like it at all; it had never been happy at 50mph. He had been thinking of selling the car ever since he had inherited it from his brother, but for one reason or another he had never got around to it. Now it was getting a bit shabby and starting to feel comfortable, like a favourite old jacket, jeans or a pair of gloves, and the sound system was a corker, so he reckoned he would probably keep it until it bit the dust.

Millgarth was an ugly, redbrick fortress-style building at the bottom of Eastgate in Leeds city centre. DI Ken Blackstone wanted to hang around his tiny, cluttered office no more than Banks did, so they headed out into the spring sunshine, walked up the Headrow as far as Primark, then turned left down Briggate, a pedestrian precinct crowded with shoppers. There used to be a Borders near the intersection, Banks remembered fondly, but it was gone now, and he lamented its passing. There was a Pizza Hut in its place.

Blackstone was a snappy dresser, and today he wore a light wool suit, button-down Oxford shirt and a rather flamboyant tie. With the tufts of hair over his ears, and his wire-rimmed glasses, Blackstone had always reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. In fact, the older he got, the more he came to resemble some of the photos Banks had seen of the poet Philip Larkin.

Banks and Blackstone decided against the posh Harvey Nichols cafe in the Victoria Quarter and plumped for Whitelocks, an eighteenth-century pub in an alley off Briggate, near Marks & Spencer. The alley was narrow and high, with the pub stretching down one side, much longer than it was deep, and a row of benches down the other side, against the wall, with a few tables and stools where space permitted. Not much light got in at any time of the day, but it was always a popular spot with the city centre workers and the student crowd. It was lunchtime, so they were lucky to get space on the bench next to a group of office girls discussing a wedding one of them had just attended in Cyprus.

‘You hang on to the seats, Alan,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll get us a couple of pints in and something to eat.’

‘Make mine a shandy,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve got to drive. And steak and kidney pie and chips.’

He reached for his wallet, but Blackstone brushed the gesture aside and headed into the pub. He had to stoop to get through the old, low door. People were much shorter in the eighteenth century. Banks remembered that the food was served canteen-style behind an area of the counter beside the bar, so when Blackstone came back he carried the drinks first, then went back for the plates of steaming pie and chips.

‘And Josie got so drunk we had to take her to hospital,’ one of the office girls said. ‘She nearly died of alcohol poisoning.’ The others laughed.

‘It’s terrible news,’ said Blackstone, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘First Sonia, then Bill. I can hardly bloody believe it. Not only one of us, but Bill.’

‘Sonia was his wife, right?’