It seemed to take for ever, but the all clear came eventually, and they were able to enter the house. From the vestibule, with pegs and a cupboard for hats and coats, and racks for muddy boots and shoes, they went into a large kitchen with rough natural stone walls, a big red Aga and a flagstone floor. There was a central island, granite-topped, and beyond it, a stainless-steel fridge and freezer unit stood beside wall cupboards, a double metal sink and a dishwasher unit. Everything was sparkling clean.
‘Nice set up,’ said Banks.
‘Not your run-of-the-mill mass murderer,’ Annie added.
The rest of the downstairs was well appointed, but not ostentatious. The living-room furniture was solid and serviceable, nice on the eye, with beige leather sofas, walls painted light pastel shades. There were the usual items: cocktail cabinet, sideboard, large screen TV, Blu-Ray player, bookcases mostly full of paperbacks and illustrated hardcovers on military history, along with a selection of Ordnance Survey maps and local guides. There was also a glass-fronted cabinet in which stood a number of cups and plaques. When Banks looked more closely, he could see that they were awards for shooting competitions. A wood-burning stove filled the old fireplace, and a set of andirons stood on the hearth next to a box of kindling and a stack of firewood. Banks went over to the stove and opened the door. Everything was cold. Cold and clean.
A quick glance upstairs revealed a large bathroom and toilet, equally clean, and four bedrooms, only one of which was used for sleeping, with an en suite walk-in shower unit. Another was clearly an office, with desk, computer, printer and more bookcases, the third a guest bedroom, and the fourth was filled with boxes. They went back down to the main floor and met Keith coming up from the cellar with a grim expression on his face.
‘You may want to check out down there next,’ he said.
Banks and Annie followed him down the wooden steps. It was a dank, musty-smelling cellar, with whitewashed walls and a bare bulb overhead. One of the AFOs must have jogged it somehow, as it was swinging back and forth, casting shadows across the still figure that slumped against the far wall. The whitewash above his head was splattered and speckled with dark blood. Banks saw the gun in the man’s right hand, where it had fallen into his lap. The black AR15 was lying next to a pile of neatly folded outdoor clothes beside him on the floor.
‘Martin Edgeworth, I presume,’ Banks said, then turned to Keith. ‘Call Dr Burns, would you, and bring in the CSIs and a search team. I hate to spoil their beauty sleep, but I think we’ve got our man.’ Then he turned to Annie. ‘Let’s go upstairs and ring the boss,’ he said. ‘She’s going to want to know about this, too.’
Chief Superintendent Gervaise joined them at the scene in less than an hour, and after a quick poke around as they brought her up to speed, she left for Eastvale HQ, where she said she would put on a pot of coffee and make some phone calls, including one to Adrian Moss. By two o’clock in the morning, the house and grounds were lit up by arc lamps, and there were so many people coming and going that anyone might be forgiven for thinking there was a big party going on, albeit a quiet one, without music or dancing.
Stefan Nowak’s CSI team went methodically over all the surfaces, taking fingerprints and trace evidence, while skilled searchers went through the drawers, cupboards and appliances, loading everything from letters and bills to kitchen knives into transparent plastic crates, which they carried out under a makeshift canvas awning to the waiting van outside.
A special team was assigned to the garage where Martin Edgeworth’s black RAV4 was parked. They would pick through it for anything of interest before getting it on a trailer and driving it to the police forensic garage when the rain stopped. They wanted to preserve the exterior of the car as best they could, so someone was sent to find a tarpaulin or some plastic sheeting. For one thing, they would probably be able to match soil samples from the tyres with those from the lay-by where the killer’s car had been parked.
The rain continued to fall steadily, and officers whose duties kept them outside wore bright yellow capes slick with it, the shiny black peaks of their caps glistening in the lights. Inside, after the body had been examined in situ, photographed extensively and taken away in the coroner’s van, someone had managed to get the central heating working, and the radiators banged and rattled as they came to life. At some point, nobody seemed to know quite when or how, ham and cheese sandwiches materialised.
There was no need for Banks and Annie to stay on, they knew, but as neither felt that there was much chance of sleep by now, they made valuable use of their time. Ray would be fast asleep back at Newhope, Banks thought, if he hadn’t decided to stay up and finish the Laphroaig and start watching movies. He was glad that he had drunk only two small whiskies, otherwise he might be nodding off himself. No chance of that. The St Mary’s business was far from over. The killer might be dead, but there would be official inquiries, analyses of Edgeworth’s motivation, questions in the house, more calls for stricter gun laws — all of which meant a lot more media attention focused on Eastvale over the next few weeks or months. They could also not rule out the possibility of an accomplice. The last thing they needed was a second gunman on the loose.
By this time, a few of the villagers had been woken by the mysterious comings and goings, and one or two inquisitive souls had even attempted to wander up the driveway and see for themselves what was going on, only to be turned back by the constables on duty. Tomorrow, they would all be questioned about Martin Edgeworth, but tonight they were civilians, and they had no place at a crime scene.
Banks and Annie sat with Dr Burns at the granite island in the kitchen, where they drank hot strong tea and nibbled on the sandwiches.
‘So everything seems kosher to you?’ Banks said, after Dr Burns had recapped his findings from the preliminary examination of Martin Edgeworth’s body.
Dr Burns rubbed his eyes. ‘I’d say so. Assuming we’re not overlooking something so devastatingly obvious, like he was left-handed.’
‘He’s wearing his watch on his left wrist,’ said Banks, ‘but we’ll be checking all that very carefully. I’d imagine his friends at the club would certainly know. Time of death?’
‘You know I can’t give you that with any reasonable degree of accuracy. All I’ll say is it’s within the time frame.’
‘What time frame?’
‘Of his committing the murders at St Mary’s, driving back here and blowing his brains out. Rigor’s been and gone. It was quite cool in here, which would have slowed the process down a bit, but I’d say offhand that our man has definitely been dead for longer than two days. It’s Monday night now, or Tuesday morning, if you prefer, and I’m afraid the best I can estimate is between ten o’clock Saturday morning and five o’clock that same afternoon. Dr Glendenning may be able to narrow that down a bit in the post-mortem.’
‘Has the body been moved at all?’
‘No sign of that, as far as I can tell, but I’d need to get him on the table and check hypostasis to be certain. It appears to me as if he sat himself down against the wall and... well, you can see the blood spatter for yourself. From a cursory glance, I’d say his head was hanging a little bit forward when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet took most of the back of his head off. He certainly got the angle of his shot right, otherwise the bullet might easily have gone through the roof of his mouth. It happens sometimes.’
‘Ouch,’ said Banks.
‘Dr Glendenning will be able to tell you more, of course, including the exact trajectory the bullet took and whether the body was moved after death, but I’m pretty certain I’m right.’