Banks read the list clipped to Dr Glendenning’s post-mortem reports. Ten bullets, nine hits:
Laura Elizabeth Tindall, age 32, bride. Residence: London. Deceased.
Benjamin Lewis Kemp, age 33, groom. Residence: Northallerton. Critical.
Francesca Muriel, age 29, maid of honour. Residence: London. Deceased.
Luke Merrifield, age 42, photographer. Residence: Eastvale. Damage to right eye.
David Ronald Hurst, age 30, guest. Residence: Harrogate. Minor flesh wound.
Winsome Jackman, age 33, guest. Residence: Eastvale. Minor flesh wound.
Diana Lofthouse, age 30, bridesmaid. Residence: Ripon. Spinal cord injury.
Kathleen Louise Shea, age 30, bridesmaid. Residence: Leeds. Deceased.
Charles Morgan Kemp, age 59, father of groom. Residence: Northallerton. Deceased.
‘So Benjamin Kemp is still alive?’ Banks said.
‘For now. His liver’s done for. If I were a gambling man, I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’
Dr Glendenning seemed tired, Banks thought. It was hardly any wonder; he was getting on in years, and he had been bending over dead bodies almost non-stop since Sunday afternoon. He had help, of course. His chief anatomical pathology technologist Karen Galway and two trainee pathologists were working with him, all of them still busy at the stainless-steel tables in the autopsy suite next door. Even so, the long hours showed in his watery eyes behind the black-framed glasses and in his drawn, pale flesh. His white coat had been smeared with blood and worse when Banks had arrived, and he had removed it and dropped it in a bin before sitting behind his desk. He wore a white shirt and maroon tie under his herringbone jacket.
‘Finished?’ Banks asked.
Glendenning raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘With the dead? Aye. For now.’ He took a packet of Benson & Hedges out of his waistcoat pocket and lit one. Smoking was strictly prohibited in the building, but no one dared tell him that. He was more careful these days, though, Banks had noticed, and he didn’t actually smoke while he was working on a body. Watching Glendenning light up brought on one of Banks’s own rare cravings, which surprised him with its urgency and power. He fought it back.
‘It’s not strictly my business,’ Glendenning went on, ‘but you’ve got a lot of psychologically wounded people out there. What are you going to do with them?’
‘Most of them have friends and relatives already with them. There’s also counselling sessions going on.’
‘Poor sods. You come to a wedding and it ends up a funeral.’
‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘There’s something not quite right about that.’
Glendenning scrutinised him. ‘I may not be the picture of health myself, but you certainly seem the worse for wear. Been sleeping properly?’
‘Not much.’
‘Eating?’
Banks was beginning to regret the stop he had made for the full English at the greasy spoon on his way to work that morning. Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, fried bread and a slice of black pudding probably wasn’t the sort of breakfast Dr Glendenning would approve of. ‘Plenty,’ he said.
‘Well, cut out fatty foods. Drinking?’
‘Now and then.’
‘Thought so.’ Glendenning rummaged in his drawer and tossed Banks a foil strip of tablets. ‘Take one of these with two fingers of good whisky every night,’ he said. ‘Only two fingers, mind. And good whisky. That means Highlands. None of that Islay rubbish. I don’t want to come in to work one morning and find you laid on a table out there.’
Banks pocketed the tablets. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Am I likely to become addicted?’
‘If they make you feel better, you’ll probably become addicted,’ said Glendenning. ‘Why wouldn’t you? But don’t worry about it. It won’t last. And you won’t be getting any more from me.’ He sighed and slouched back in his chair. ‘Days like this,’ he said, ‘I sometimes think junkies are the only ones with the right idea. You know they say that sometimes heroin feels so good you don’t even want to hang on to your life any more. It’s better than breathing.’
‘If I hadn’t seen so many dead junkies — most of them kids — I’d probably agree,’ said Banks.
‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just grouching.’
‘So what have you found?’
‘Four corpses, so far,’ said Glendenning. ‘And from what I hear from my colleagues at James Cook, there’s one poor wee lassie in a wheelchair.’
‘Diana Lofthouse,’ said Banks. ‘Anything unexpected show up in your post-mortems?’
‘No. They all died from gunshot wounds. Hollow-point.223 ammo, as a matter of fact. Nasty way to go. The bullet expands when it enters the victim, as I’m sure you’re aware. Causes massive tissue damage. Young Winsome’s lucky the bullet didn’t enter her flesh, but only grazed her shoulder.’
‘Who would have access to such ammunition?’
‘That’s one for you to answer,’ said Glendenning. ‘But everything’s available if you want it badly enough. You should know that. Some people use them for greater accuracy in target shooting, and apparently, they reduce smoke and exposure to lead vapour. And I have a friend who tells me deer hunters use hollow-point ammo, so you can obviously get a special dispensation of some sort. Of course, lots of shooters prefer to make their own bullets. I don’t think the source would be much of a problem.’
‘Still,’ said Banks, ‘it’s a bit unusual. It might help us narrow down the field.’
‘They make for a very ugly wound. I can tell you that much. That’s another reason the doctors don’t hold out much hope for Benjamin Kemp. The damn bullet expanded and turned his liver and half a kidney to mush, to use a technical term.’
Banks swallowed. ‘And Katie Shea?’
‘Aye. A regular bullet and she might have survived even the blood loss. But her insides resembled a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.’ He pointed towards the post-mortem suite. ‘She’s still on the table. The students are sluicing her down and sewing her up.’
Banks knew he would always remember the pretty blond girl in a coral-coloured dress slumped against the gravestone, the one who reminded him of Emily Hargreaves. Even AC Gervaise had intuited some sort of connection the previous evening when she told him about Katie’s death. And not just her own death, he realised. Not just Katie Shea holding her bloody guts in, keening and wailing and begging for help. But pregnant Katie Shea. Perhaps, in her mind, it was her baby she was cradling on her lap.
‘I don’t know whether anyone’s told you this already,’ Glendenning went on, ‘but one thing they did find out at the hospital was that she was pregnant.’
‘AC Gervaise told me last night.’
‘I have to say, though, it was a hell of a job making sure. The bullet missed the foetus, but there was plenty of damage in the general area. But the tests came out positive.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘OK. I get the picture.’ And he did, all too clearly. In full colour, with sound. He felt his breakfast repeat on him, tasted bile and felt the anger surge inside him again. Just like last night, he wanted to lash out at something, anything.
‘Calm down, laddie,’ said Glendenning. ‘You’ll have apoplexy.’
Banks gritted his teeth. ‘How long?’
‘Not long at all. Six weeks, maybe eight. Do you know how tiny a foetus is at that stage?’
‘No idea.’
‘The size of a blueberry.’
‘Would she have known?’
‘I should think so, though I’m not a mind-reader, especially when it comes to corpses. For a start, she would have missed her period. She would also probably have experienced mood changes. Aches and pains. Even morning sickness. Loss of appetite. Increased urination. She may even have noticed her breasts and waist increasing in size. Does it make a difference?’