Banks went back through the building and stood by the rectangular reservoir. Its bottom was covered in weeds and shrubbery after years of neglect, and that was what had cushioned Banks’s fall. If he had hit the hard bottom full on, he might have done himself even more serious damage. At least a broken limb, if not a fractured skull. He gave a shudder as he shouted farewell to Geoff Hamilton and the others and headed back to his car. Just before he got there, he turned and asked one of the investigators, “It’s a bit isolated around here, isn’t it? Do you know who called it in?”
The investigator scratched his head. “I can’t say for sure,” he answered, “but I do remember the boss saying it was a woman’s voice.”
A THIN drizzle had started when Gerry pulled up that afternoon outside Mrs. Pollard’s house on the outskirts of Halifax. It was a dark stone semi, millstone grit, probably, halfway up a hill, with a pub at the bottom and a fine view of the Pennines beyond, including a couple of enormous woollen mills with tall chimneys, now mostly converted into craft shops, art galleries, cafes, and local theatre venues. Misty rain hung over the valley.
Tracking Mrs. Pollard down had been easy enough—she was still at the same address listed by the General Register Office—but Gerry wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject of her visit. She certainly didn’t want Mrs. Pollard to think she was looking for evidence of her daughter’s wrongdoing, yet she could hardly lie and say she was checking a job reference. Should anything she learned from this visit become important in a court case, then a lie like that could easily get it dismissed. The visit would have to appear to be related to Blaydon’s murder, which it was in a way, but without even the vaguest of hints that Charlotte Westlake might be responsible for that.
When Gerry introduced herself, Mrs. Pollard asked to see her identification, which she studied closely for half a minute before handing it back. “You can’t be too careful these days, love,” she said. “I had a bloke on the phone the other day telling me my bank account had been hijacked and asking for my details. He even knew the last three transactions I’d made on my Mastercard.”
“It’s very sensible of you to be cautious,” said Gerry, following her inside. “These scammers are getting very clever these days.”
“Now sit yourself down and tell me what it’s all about,” said Mrs. Pollard—or Lynne, as she asked Gerry to call her. But first, unlike her daughter, she offered tea, which Gerry was happy to accept after her drive.
Lynne Pollard disappeared into the kitchen and fussed for a while, while Gerry took the opportunity to examine the living room. She didn’t remember seeing many photographs at Charlotte Westlake’s house, just one of Charlotte and a man she assumed to be Gareth, her late husband, but Lynne Pollard more than made up for it. There were framed photographs of Charlotte’s graduation, her wedding, Charlotte as a child and as a teenager (Gerry guessed), not to mention Charlotte with Adele and Charlotte with Daniel Craig. How these meetings had come about, Gerry had no idea. She was glad she had discovered that Charlotte was an only child, because any sibling visiting this shrine would go away with an enormous inferiority complex, if that wasn’t an oxymoron.
Lynne Pollard came back with a teapot, cups, and all the necessaries on a tray and perched at the edge of an armchair upholstered in what resembled a Laura Ashley pattern. She was a short, plump woman with a recently permed head of blue-grey hair. Her face was round and relatively unlined, with a smooth pinkish complexion, small nose, and a wobbly double-chin. She wore brown slacks, moccasin-style slippers, and a loose beige cardigan over a white blouse. Apart from a couple of rings, the only jewellery she wore was a cross on a silver chain around her neck. She wore a little lipstick and a touch of rouge, but no mascara or eyeliner.
“You’ve got a nice view,” Gerry said.
“On a good day, yes. Cradle of the Industrial Revolution. That’s what my husband used to say.”
Gerry happened to have discovered in her researches that Mr. Pollard had died not terribly long after Charlotte Westlake’s husband, but she thought it only polite to ask after him. “Is your husband deceased?”
“Yes. Cyril passed on three and a half years back. Heart. Just like that. Went to bed one night, dead by morning. Never smoked in his life, took a one-hour constitutional every day, hardly touched a drop of alcohol except a small dry sherry at Christmas. It just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”
Exactly what it went to show her, Gerry had no idea. Maybe that life was fleeting and one should enjoy every moment. Well, she tried to do that already.
Lynne Pollard stirred milk and sugar into the tea. “So what’s all this about? It’s not every day I get a visit from a police detective.”
Gerry gestured towards the photographs. “You must be very proud of your Charlotte,” she said.
“Christine,” Mrs. Pollard corrected her. “She was always Christine at home. And, yes, Cyril and I were terribly proud of her. She got into Oxford, you know. Oxford! The only girl from her school to do it in the year.”
“What about her career?”
“Oh, wonderful. You know she mixed with some of the most important, famous people you can imagine. Politicians, pop stars—there’s her with Adele—you name it. If they needed something organising, they asked for Christine. Well, Charlotte, I suppose, as it was her professional name.”
“How did you feel when she went to work for Mr. Blaydon?”
“Is that what this is about? Connor Blaydon?”
“You knew him?”
“Met him on a couple of occasions. Perfect gentleman. You know, there’s been a lot of lies and slanders slung around about him since his death.”
“It was murder, Mrs. Pollard, and I’m one of the officers investigating what happened.”
“We all know what happened, love. And it’s Lynne. Those foreigners killed him, that’s who. Wanted him to be part of their evil crime empire and he wouldn’t have it. Turned them down flat.”
“Did Char—Christine tell you this?”
“Yes. She knew him well enough. Why haven’t you arrested them yet, that’s what I’d like to know?”
“They’re on the run,” said Gerry.
“Then you’d better hurry up and catch them before we cut ourselves off from the Continent for good.”
Gerry didn’t see any point in telling her that Albania wasn’t yet a member of the EU. Not that it mattered much any more. “Yes,” she said. “It’s Connor Blaydon’s murder I came to talk to you about. Christine has been very helpful—as you say, she knew him best—but we wondered if you too could shed any light on his background, maybe fill in a few blanks?”
“I don’t see how I can help you, love. He was Christine’s friend.”
“Yes, but you met him. You said so.”
“Only on a couple of official occasions.”
“How long had Christine known him?”
“I know she did some events for him early on, when she was first in the business after university. Then she cut back a bit on the events when she married Gareth and it was after he died that she went to work for Mr. Blaydon. But you already know that.”
“When did she leave university?”
“When she was twenty-one. 1998 that would have been.”
“And after that?”
“She went off travelling with her friends.”
Gerry remembered Charlotte saying something about going to Thailand and Vietnam, then the Mediterranean. “For how long?”
“Nearly a year. She’d saved up a lot from her summer jobs, and it was something she’d always wanted to do.”
“So she came home when?”
“July, it would have been. July 1999.”
“And she lived with you here?”
“No. She had friends in Oxford and she stayed with them until she got herself fixed up with a job. Surely she could tell you all this. Her memory’s probably a lot better than mine.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your memory. Besides, it�
�s useful to get a different perspective. I’m especially interested in the time she spent abroad. Do you know where she was last, say, June that year?”
“1999? They were in Greece then.”
“Whereabouts?”
“I honestly don’t remember exactly. Greek names. I’ve never been very good with those. Tell you what, though, just hang on a minute.”
Gerry heard her go upstairs, then the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing. A minute or so later, Lynne Pollard came back down with a cardboard box and put it on the low coffee table. As far as Gerry could tell, it was full of envelopes and postcards.
“I’ve kept everything she’s ever sent me,” Lynne said. “Every letter, every card, ever since she went on her first school exchange when she was fourteen.”
Gerry looked at the treasure trove of Charlotte Westlake’s past and smiled at Lynne. “Where shall we begin, then?” she asked.
BANKS PULLED up in the car park of Eastvale General Infirmary at three o’clock that afternoon and headed straight for the basement. The high-tiled corridor echoed as he walked along towards the autopsy suite and Dr. Karen Galway’s office.
Dr. Galway was sitting at her L-shaped desk, which was piled high with file folders. She was wearing a powder-blue blouse, and her white coat was hanging from a hook behind the door. She had bright green eyes, a rather long nose, thin, tight lips, and a high domed forehead over which hung a fringe of greying hair. A framed print of Rembrandt’s “The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp” hung on the wall opposite her desk. While Banks admired the artist’s skill, he could think of any number of Rembrandt paintings he would rather have hanging on his wall.
“Catching up with paperwork?” he asked.
The doctor rolled her eyes and spoke with a trace of Dublin accent. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” She swivelled her chair to face him. “Sit down, please. I wasn’t expecting you. I heard you’d caught a nasty bump on the head.”
Banks sat. “Two. I’d say it’s an occupational hazard, but it really isn’t. Must be the first time in years.”
“You saw Dr. Chowdhury here?”
“Yes.”
“He’s very good.”
“He looks about twelve.”
Dr. Galway laughed. “I’ll tell him you said that. Actually, he’s thirty-three. A graduate of the Faculty of Medicine, Imperial College London. By the way, aren’t you supposed to be resting? It’s customary for concussion sufferers to rest.”
“It was a couple of days ago. And I’m sitting down, aren’t I?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I suppose I should still be resting, but in reality, life gets in the way. Or in this case, criminal investigation.”
“You have short-term memory loss, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Very funny.”
“Yes. That’s true, but there’s nothing wrong with the rest of my memory.”
“I just didn’t expect you to be back at work so soon, that’s all.”
“We still have a missing person to find as well as a rape and murder to solve. I can’t afford the luxury of rest at the moment.”
“In that case, what do you want to know?”
“Have you completed the post-mortems yet?”
“I was in at six o’clock this morning. There wasn’t a lot left to work with. I’ve been as thorough as I know how, but I’d be the first to admit I’m not well experienced with burn victims. As a matter of fact, of all the bodies I have to perform post-mortems on, they disturb me the most. I’m not shirking my duty or making excuses, you understand, just being honest. And if you think you need a second opinion, I wouldn’t hesitate to call in an expert in the field I know in Edinburgh. He’s worked in various war zones around the world, so he’s more than acquainted with the properties of fire. I worked with him briefly in Iraq several years ago, and he handled most of the tough burn cases.”
“I hardly think that will be necessary. What have you found out?”
“The damage was quite advanced in both cases, and the remains are very fragile. Fire causes any number of changes to the human body—blistering, skin splits, exposure, and rendering of subcutaneous fat. Then the muscles that overlie the bones retract when they’re exposed to extreme heat. That’s what causes the so-called pugilistic position often found in burn victims. What I’m saying is that kind of damage makes it almost impossible to identify any pre-fire trauma the victim might have been exposed to.”
“So you can’t say if either of them was shot, stabbed, or bashed on the head?”
“I didn’t say that. The skin, flesh, and fat are gone. So badly damaged by fire and by being transported here that they won’t tell me what happened. But if the victim had been shot, I would expect to find a bullet—if not the hole it made—and if he was bashed over the head, as you so eloquently put it, I would expect damage to the skull indicating that, unless it exploded from the inside, of course.”
“Of course,” said Banks, feeling momentarily sick. “Have you?”
“No. Stab wounds are particularly difficult, for example. Because the skin blisters and splits in fire, and the inner organs are consumed, any trace of an original knife wound in flesh would probably be erased. On the other hand, if the knife came into contact with a bone, then there could be evidence of that contact on the bone.”
“A notch?”
“That kind of thing, yes.”
“And is there?”
“On one of the bodies, yes.”
“Which one?”
“The one on the lower level.” Dr. Galway twisted in her chair and pointed to a spot on her back. “Fifth rib, posterior left.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s a slight nick on the bone that could be a knife mark. I’ll be further analysing and measuring it, of course, and may soon be able to tell you something about the weapon that caused it. But don’t get your hopes up too high. It’s a tiny nick and there could be other reasons it’s there.”
“What would the result of such a wound be?”
“Most likely, depending on the angle and the length of the blade, it would have pierced the lung.”
“Would the killer, assuming there was one, have needed expert knowledge?”
“Not necessarily. He wouldn’t have had to be a trained commando. It could have just been a lucky stab. Lucky for the killer, I mean. An expert would have known exactly what he was doing, of course, but that knowledge wasn’t essential to the deed.”
It was Keane, Banks knew. Zelda had stabbed him twice in the back. He had witnessed it. “And the other victim?”
“No sign of knife wounds, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
“Did they both die in the flames?”
“Impossible to say. They were both so badly burned that it wasn’t possible to measure smoke inhalation. I’m sorry to be so vague, but it’s well-nigh impossible to determine these things from the remains we had left.”
“Can you get DNA?”
“The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
“Can you?”
“It’s possible. Bones can be quite durable when all else is burned beyond recognition. The DNA may be degraded or contaminated, but there’s a good chance it won’t be. These bones are only semi-burned in places, especially the ones found on the upper level, not black or blue-grey, so there’s still hope. The teeth, too, could be a possible source. I’m working on it with Dr. Jasminder Singh from your forensics lab. There is just one more thing.”
It was probably the answer to the question Banks had been afraid to ask. “Yes?”
“The pelvic bones were badly burned but still held their shape. Both victims were male.”
16
BANKS HAD HARDLY BEEN IN HIS OFFICE TEN MINUTES BEFORE a sharp rap at the door was followed by AC Gervaise and Superintendent Newry.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Newry demanded.
Banks turned down the Thea Gilmore CD he had been listening to. “
My job,” he said.
“I thought I made it clear to you that you were off the case until further notice.”
“You did nothing of the kind.”
“Don’t play clever buggers with me, Banks. I already know you’ve visited the treatment plant, and talked to Dr. Galway at the mortuary.”
“I dropped by both. True.”
“And asked her about the fire victims’ post-mortems?”
“Also true.”
“I’m within a hair’s breadth of suspending you from—”
“Superintendent Newry!” said AC Gervaise. “A little restraint, please. There have been no complaints against Superintendent Banks. He hasn’t been accused of any wrongdoing.”
“Not yet. But what if I accuse him? I’ve got two victims whose deaths are unaccounted for. There’s a chain secured to a radiator in the upstairs staffroom, and it looks as if someone was restrained there. Ropes on the lower floor were most likely used for the same purpose. Your man here was found unconscious outside the building in question without any reasonable explanation.”
“You think I chained someone to the radiator, then tied myself up, stabbed someone, and set the place on fire?” Banks said. “When did I do all that?”
Newry turned to AC Gervaise. “Detective Superintendent Banks can’t account for his whereabouts or his actions during the time the events unfolded in the water treatment plant, and he was found on the premises by the firefighters, with forensic evidence to prove he was at some point inside the plant. He claims to have lost his memory—”
“Claims?” said Banks. “You don’t believe me?”
“Let’s just say I have my doubts,” Newry snarled. “I’ve told you what I think of these memory-loss cases. It’s just a bit too bloody convenient, isn’t it?”
“Not for me. And don’t you think you should leave your prejudices at the door?”
Newry looked at Gervaise. “Do you permit this kind of insubordination under your command, Chief Superintendent?”
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