‘Why do it down there in a dank miserable cellar?’ Banks asked.
‘No idea,’ said Dr Burns. ‘I would assume it didn’t matter to him where he did it, as he was going to die. And the gun cabinet’s down there.’
‘Fair enough. Maybe he didn’t take the revolver with him to St Mary’s. He certainly didn’t use it there. Perhaps it was still in the cabinet.’
‘Perhaps,’ Burns agreed. ‘But what does it matter now?’
‘It probably doesn’t. Just thinking aloud. Getting my ducks in a row.’
‘Hmm. Well, the wound is definitely consistent with the position of the body and the hand holding the weapon,’ Burns went on. ‘I would imagine the rifle was too large and awkward to use as a suicide weapon, so he put the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He would have died pretty much instantaneously. No doubt your forensics lab will be checking for gunshot residue on his hands. When all you have to do is pull a trigger, it’s sometimes all too bloody easy.’
‘Now, now, doc,’ said Banks. ‘Remember: it’s not the gun but the person who fires it.’
‘Yes,’ said Burns. ‘But take the gun away from them and do you think they’d have the guts to do it some other way? A knife? A rope? Bare hands? I doubt it. When you’ve seen as many gunshot injuries as I have, you can’t help but be a bit cynical about the whole thing. I know people argue it’s a valid and enjoyable sport, like any other, but why the hell can’t they just play golf or tennis like everyone else?’
Banks had forgotten that Dr Burns had worked briefly with the military in Iraq. ‘At least this time it’s not some innocent victim,’ he said.
Dr Burns sighed. ‘No. We had enough of those on Saturday.’ He got wearily to his feet. ‘I’m off home now. You’ll have my report sometime tomorrow. Let’s at least try and be pleased it’s over, shall we?’
‘We’ll be drinking champagne before the night’s through.’
Dr Burns glanced at Annie. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’ Banks noticed that Annie was dozing with her head resting on the island. He nudged her gently and suggested it might be time to leave. The teams were professional and methodical, and it would be hours yet before they finished.
‘Sir?’ It was one of the search team come down from the study upstairs. ‘I think you might be interested in this.’ He held out a scrapbook. ‘I found it taped underneath the bottom of one of the desk drawers in the study.’
Banks slipped his latex gloves back on and opened it. Most of the pages were filled with clipped newspaper and magazine articles about Laura Tindall and Benjamin Kemp, especially the reports of their upcoming wedding at St Mary’s church, Fortford. Here and there, a word or line had been underlined in red. There were newspaper photographs, articles, stories of Benjamin Kemp’s heroism, grainy images of Laura in her modelling days, including one or two, clearly printed from an Internet site, in which she appeared naked. They were tasteful model’s poses, the kind that could be called erotic rather than pornographic.
Banks handed back the scrapbook. ‘It seems he had his sights set on Benjamin and Laura well enough. If only we knew why. Bag it and make sure it gets priority tagging.’
‘Right you are.’ The officer headed back upstairs.
Back out in the rain, Banks offered to drive, and Annie accepted.
‘I can hardly keep my eyes open,’ she said.
‘Come back with me,’ Banks said. ‘You can have Tracy’s room. It’s made up. All fresh linen and everything. Harkside’s a bloody long way, and it’s half three in the morning already.’
Annie said nothing for a while. ‘Mm,’ she said finally. ‘And one of Ray’s famous fry-ups for breakfast. What a treat. How could a girl possibly resist?’
Chapter 7
Eastvale was throbbing with excitement on Tuesday morning, from what Banks could see when he drove in with Annie through the throng of reporters and cameramen. Banks had not managed to get much sleep, and as a consequence he felt groggy as he dodged questions and headed inside. Annie didn’t seem much more lively. At least Ray had done a bit of shopping the previous day and cooked them some eggs and bacon with their morning coffee. He said he would be out house-hunting most of the day, so not to worry about him.
The desk sergeant told Banks that Mike Trethowan, head of the firearms cadre, had left a message to meet him in the lab as soon as possible. Also, Dr Glendenning sent his regrets, but he was still busy with the victims of the wedding shooting and wouldn’t be able to get around to Martin Edgeworth’s post-mortem until tomorrow morning, if then.
They were lucky that the Eastvale Regional HQ was attached to a small forensic laboratory in the building next door, though the lab was constantly under threat due to budget cuts. Even though the technicians there handled jobs from all over the county, Banks could generally get priority on most matters. Unfortunately, the lab wasn’t equipped to deal with ballistics. For that, Edgeworth’s weapons, bullets and casings had to be sent to LGC Forensics in Wakefield.
Trethowan was chatting with CSM Stefan Nowak and Vic Manson, the fingerprints expert, when Banks and Annie dropped by.
‘Good timing,’ Trethowan said. ‘Vic here has just confirmed Martin Edgeworth’s prints on both weapons, and there was gunshot residue on his hand, too.’
‘Good. No other prints?’
‘None,’ said Manson.
‘What about the shell casings and the remaining bullets?’
‘Clean.’
‘You mean no prints at all?’ Banks said.
‘That’s right,’ said Trethowan. ‘It doesn’t mean much, though. People often wear thin gloves, latex or cotton, when they’re handling explosive materials. Edgeworth made his own bullets.’
‘Even so...’
‘We’re just waiting for the designated firearms officer to pick the guns up and take them to Wakefield for further testing,’ Trethowan went on. ‘I’ve had a quick shufty at them myself, and I honestly don’t think there’s much doubt that the rifle is the one used at St Mary’s, and the Taurus is the gun that killed Edgeworth.’
Banks nodded. Trethowan led him and Annie over to the table where the guns lay sealed in carefully labelled plastic bags.
‘Ugly things, aren’t they?’ Annie said.
‘Do you think so?’ said Trethowan. ‘I think they have a sort of beauty all their own, a shapeliness, a form that perfectly suits their purpose. They’re actually rather sleek and elegant machines, when you think about it.’
‘It’s not so much their form I think about as their purpose.’
‘Don’t you mean their owner’s purpose?’
‘Oh, we’re back to that hoary old chestnut, are we?’ Banks cut in.
Trethowan laughed. ‘I suppose it’s become one of the great conundrums, hasn’t it?’
‘Not to me it hasn’t,’ said Annie, fingering the scar on her chest where a bullet had entered her several years ago, narrowly missing her heart.
‘Sorry,’ said Trethowan.
‘No matter.’
Banks stood over the two weapons, the one matte black, the other stainless steel with a hard black rubber butt. As per regulations, the Taurus had a barrel extension, which resembled a silencer, to comply with the twelve-inch legal requirement, and there was a long metal tubular extension sticking out from the butt, so that the gun as a whole was over twenty-four inches in length, also as required by law. Handguns were barely tolerated these days, and those that were had to be almost as long as rifles, far too long and bulky to hide easily in your pocket or stick down your trousers like the gangsters did on TV, but still easy enough to stick in your mouth and pull the trigger.