A Necessary End (34 page)

Banks smiled to himself. “Ease up,” he said. “The doc's a law unto himself.”

Burgess grunted but kept quiet while Glendenning felt for a pulse and busied himself with his stethoscope and thermometer.

About fifteen minutes later, while Glendenning was still making calculations in his little red notebook, the forensic team arrived, headed by Vic Manson, the fingerprints man. Manson was a slight, academic-looking man in his early forties. Almost bald, he plastered the few remaining hairs over the dome of his skull, creating an effect of bars shadowed on an egg. He greeted the two detectives and went inside with the team. As soon as he saw the workshop, he turned to Banks. “Bloody awful place to look for prints,” he said. “Too many rough surfaces. And tools. Have you any idea how hard it is to get prints from well-used tools?”

“I know you'll do your best, Vic,” Banks said. He guessed that Manson was annoyed at being disturbed on a Sunday evening.

Manson snarled and got to work alongside the others, there to take blood samples and anything else they could find.

Banks and Burgess went back outside and lit up again. A few minutes later, Glendenning joined them.

“What's the news, doc?” Burgess asked.

Glendenning ignored him and spoke directly to Banks. “He's dead, and that's about the only fact I can give you so far.”

“Come on, doc!” said Burgess. “Surely you can tell us more than that.”

“Can you ask your pushy friend here to shut up, just for a wee while?” Glendenning said to Banks in a quiet, nicotine-ravaged voice redolent of Edinburgh. “And tell him not to call me doc.”

“For Christ's sake.” Burgess flicked the stub of his cigar into the vegetable patch and stuck his hands deep in his pockets. He was wearing his leather jacket over an open-necked shirt, as usual. The only concession he had made to the cold was a V-necked sweater. Now that darkness had come, their breath plumed in the air, lit by the eerie glow of the bare bulb inside the workshop.

Glendenning lit another cigarette and turned back to Banks, who knew better than to rush him. “It doesn't look to me,” the doctor said slowly, “as if that head wound was serious enough to cause death. Don't quote me on it, but I don't think it fractured the skull.”

Banks nodded. “What do you think was the cause?” he asked. “Loss of blood. And he lost it from his ankles.”

“His ankles?”

“Aye,” Glendenning went on. “The veins on the insides of each ankle were cut. I found a blade—most likely from a plane—lying in the blood, and it looks like it might have been used for the job. I'll have to make sure, of course.”

“So was it suicide?” Burgess asked.

Glendenning ignored him and went on speaking to Banks. “Most suicides with a penchant for gory death,” he said, “slit their wrists. The ankles are just as effective, though, if not more so. But whether he inflicted the wounds himself or not, I canna say.”

“He's tried that way before,” Banks said. “And there was a note.”

“Aye, well, that's your department, isn't it?”

“Which came first,” Banks asked, “the head wound or the cut ankles?”

“That I can't say, either. He could have hit his head as he lost consciousness, or someone could have hit it for him and slit his ankles. If
the two things happened closely in succession, it won't be possible to tell which came first, either. It looks like the head wound was caused by the vice. There's blood on it. But of course it'll have to be matched and the vice compared with the shape of the wound.”

“How long has he been dead?” Banks asked. “At a guess.” Glendenning smiled. “Aye, you're learning, laddie,” he said. “It's always a guess.” He consulted his notebook. “Well, rigor's not much farther than the neck, and the body temperature's down 2.5 degrees. I'd say he's not been dead more than two or three hours.”

Banks looked at his watch. It was six o'clock. So Cotton had probably died between three and four in the afternoon.

“The ambulance should be here soon,” Glendenning said. “I called them before I set off. I'd better just bag the head and feet before they get here. We don't want some gormless young ambulance driver spoiling the evidence, do we?”

“Can you do the post-mortem tonight?” Banks asked.

“Sorry, laddie. We've the daughter and son-in-law down for the weekend. First thing in the morning?”

Banks nodded. He knew they'd been spoiled in the past by Glendenning's eagerness to get down to the autopsy immediately. It was more usual to be asked to wait until the next day. And to Glendenning, first thing in the morning was probably very early indeed.

The doctor went back inside, where Manson and his team were finishing up. A short while later, the ambulance arrived, and two white-coated men bearing a stretcher crossed to the workshop. Seth looked oddly comical now, with his head in a plastic bag. Like some creature out of a fifties horror film, Banks thought. The ambulance men tagged him, zipped him into a body bag and laid him on the stretcher.

“Can you leave by the side exit?” Banks asked, pointing to the large gate in the garden wall. “They're shook up enough in the house without having to see this.”

The ambulance men nodded and left.

Manson came out five minutes later. “Lots of prints,” he grumbled, “but most of them a mess, just as I thought. At first glance, though, I'd say they belong to only two or three people, not dozens.”

“You'll get Seth's, of course,” Banks said, “and probably Boyd's and some of the others. Could you get anything from the blade?”

Manson shook his head. “Sorry. It was completely covered in blood. And the blood had mixed to a paste with the sawdust on the floor. Very sticky. You'd have to wipe it all off to get anywhere, and if you do that . . .” He shrugged. “Anyway, the doc's taken it with him to match to the wounds.”

“What about the typewriter?”

“Pretty smudged, but we might get something. The paper, too. We can treat it with graphite.”

“Look, there's a handwriting expert down at the lab, isn't there?”

“Sure. Geoff Tingley. He's good.”

“And he knows about typewriting, too?”

“Of course.”

Banks led Manson back into the workshop and over to the old Remington. The suicide note was now lying beside it. Also on the desk was a business letter Seth had recently written and not posted. “Dear Mr Spelling,” it read, “I am most grateful for your compliments on the quality of my work, and would certainly have no objection to your spreading the word in the Wharfedale area. Whilst I always endeavour to meet both deadlines and quality standards, I am sure you realize that, this being a one-man operation, I must therefore limit the amount of work I take on.” It went on to imply that Mr Spelling should seek out only the best jobs for Seth and not bother him with stacks of minor repairs and commissions for matchbox-holders or lamp stands.

“Can you get Mr Tingley to compare these two and let us know if they were typed by the same person?”

“Sure.” Manson looked at the letters side by side. “At a pinch I'd say they weren't. Those old manual typewriters have all kinds of eccentricities, it's true, but so do typists. Look at those ‘e's, for a start.”

Banks looked. The ‘e's in Seth's business letter had imprinted more heavily than those in his suicide note.

“Still,” Manson went on, “better get an expert opinion. I don't suppose his state of mind could be called normal, if he killed himself.” He placed each sheet of paper in an envelope. “I'll see Geoff gets these first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks, Vic.” Banks led the way outside again.

Burgess stood with his hands still in his pockets in the doorway beside Peter Darby, who was showing him the polaroids he'd taken before getting down to the real work. He raised his eyebrows as Banks and Manson joined him. “Finished?”

“Just about,” Banks said.

“Time for a chat with the inmates, then.” Burgess nodded towards the house.

“Let's take it easy with them,” Banks said. “They've had a hell of a shock.”

“One of them might not have had, if Cotton was murdered. But don't worry, I won't eat them.”

In the front room, Zoe, Rick, Paul and the children sat drinking tea with the doctor, a young female GP from Relton. A fire blazed in the hearth and candles threw shadows on the whitewashed walls. Music played quietly in the background. Banks thought he recognized Bach's Third
Brandenburg
Concerto.

“Mara's under sedation,” Rick said. “You can't talk to her.”

“That's right,” the doctor agreed, picking up her bag and reaching for her coat. “I just thought I'd wait and let you know. She took it very badly, so I've given her a sedative and put her to bed. I'll be back in the morning to check.”

Banks nodded, and the doctor left.

“How about some tea?” Burgess said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “It's real brass-monkey weather out there.”

Rick scowled at him, but Zoe brought two cups and poured the steaming liquid.

Burgess smiled down at her. “Three lumps and a splash of milk, love, please.”

“What happened?” Zoe asked, stirring in the sugar. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

“That's for you to tell us, isn't it?” Burgess said. He really was being quite polite, Banks noticed. “All we know is that Seth Cotton is dead and it looks like suicide. Has he been depressed lately?” He took a sip of tea and spluttered. “What the fuck is this?”

“It's Red Zinger,” Zoe said. “No caffeine. You shouldn't really have milk and sugar with it.”

“You're telling me.” Burgess pushed the tea aside. “Well, was he?”

“He was upset when Paul was in jail,” Zoe answered. “But he cheered up this morning. He seemed so happy today.”

“And he never said anything about ending it all?”

“Never.” Zoe shook her head.

“I gather you had some kind of meeting this afternoon,” Banks said. “Who was here?”

Rick eyed him suspiciously but said nothing.

“Just Dennis Osmond, Tim and Abha, that's all,” Zoe answered. “What time were they here?”

“They arrived about half-two and left around five.”

“Were you all present?”

Zoe shook her head. “Seth stayed for a few minutes then went to . . . to work.”

“And I went for a walk,” Paul said defiantly. “I needed some fresh air after being cooped up in your bloody jail for so long.”

“Not half as long as you will be if you don't knock off the cheek, sonny,” said Burgess.

“Was it you who found the body?” Banks asked.

“Yes.”

“Don't be shy. Tell us about it,” Burgess prompted him. “Nothing to tell, really. I just got back from my walk and decided to look in on Seth and see how he was doing. I helped him, you know. I was sort of an apprentice. When I opened the door—”

“The door was closed?” Burgess asked.

“Yes. But it wasn't locked. Seth never locked it.”

“And what did you see?”

“You know what I saw. He was sprawled out on the bench, dead.”

“How did you know he was dead? Did you feel his heart?”

“No, of course I didn't. I saw the blood. I called his name and he didn't answer. I just knew.”

“Did you touch anything?” Banks asked.

“No. I ran in here and told the others.”

“Did you go near the typewriter?”

“Why should I? I didn't even notice the bloody thing. All I saw was Seth, dead.”

It was hard to know whether or not he was telling the truth.

The shock of what he'd seen made his responses vague and defensive.

“So you left everything just as you found it?” Banks said.

“Yes.”

“This afternoon, during the meeting,” Burgess asked, “did anyone leave the room for any length of time?”

“We all left at one time or another,” said Zoe. “You know, to go to the toilet, stretch our legs, whatever.”

“Was anyone gone for a long time?”

“I don't know. We were talking. I don't remember.”

“So someone could have been away for, say, ten minutes?”

“I suppose so.”

“I know you were all busy playing at being concerned citizens,”

Burgess said, “but surely one of you must have noticed if anyone was gone too long?”

“Look,” Rick cut in, “I thought you said it was suicide. What are you asking these questions for?”

“I said it
looked
like suicide,” Burgess answered coldly. “And I'll ask whatever bloody questions I think necessary, without any comments from you, Leonardo, thank you very much.”

“Did any of you hear the typewriter at any time this afternoon?” Banks asked.

“No,” Zoe answered. “But we wouldn't anyway. The walls are thick and the workshop's right at the far end of the garden. Well . . . you've seen where it is. We were all here in the front room. We could never even hear Seth sawing or using his drill from here.”

Banks glanced at Burgess. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of right now,” the superintendent said, subdued again after his exchange with Rick. “I don't want any of you buggering off anywhere, hear me?” he added, wagging his finger and giving Paul a particularly menacing look. “There'll be more questions when we've got the results of the post-mortem tomorrow, so be available, all of you.”

Banks and Burgess left them to their grief. Down the valley side, the lights of Relton looked inviting in the chilly darkness.

“Pint?” Burgess suggested.

“Just what I had in mind,” said Banks. They got into the Cortina and bumped away down the track towards the Black Sheep.

II

The pillow felt like a cloud, the bed like cotton wool. Mara lay on her back, drifting, but not quite asleep. When she had first heard the news, she had lost control completely. The tears seemed to spurt from her eyes, her heart began to beat wildly, and the breath clogged in her throat. But the doctor's injection had taken care of all that, trading spasms and panic for clouds and cotton wool.