‘This bloody weather,’ Glendenning grumbled. ‘Chill gets in your bones. I’d rather have a bit of snow and ice and get it over and done with it.’
It was true that the rain seemed to have been falling non-stop for weeks now, and every day there was a new story in the papers about somewhere or other being flooded, or on the verge of flooding, from the Lake District to the far end of Cornwall. If you were to believe everything you read or saw on TV, you might be forgiven for thinking that the whole country was under water, and that it was just a matter of time before some present-day Noah would appear with his ark and start shepherding people and animals on board.
‘What’s on your mind, doc?’ Banks asked. Dr Glendenning didn’t usually request lunchtime meetings in quiet pubs; in fact, this was the first time Banks could remember having a drink with him in all his years in Eastvale. This seemed to be a case of firsts. He realised how little he knew the man behind the white coat, what his life was like, his family, even though they had worked together for close to thirty years. Glendenning must certainly be approaching retirement. Banks contemplated the craggy, lined face with its bristly grey moustache, brick-red complexion and head of neat thin grey hair. He could have been a leftover colonel from the Raj in some long-forgotten Saturday afternoon film on TV. The moustache was stained yellow close to his upper lip, and it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the good doctor was still sneaking a cigarette whenever the opportunity offered itself.
‘Good holiday?’ Glendenning asked.
‘You know. The usual. Turkey, green paper hats, crackers that don’t crack and too much to drink.’
‘Aye. Only had two suicides this year, mind you. Usually a bumper time for suicides is Christmas.’
‘So you say every year.’
Glendenning sipped some whisky and grimaced as it burned on the way down. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘In a way.’
‘The Christmas suicides?’
‘One suicide in particular. Martin Edgeworth.’
‘I see.’ Banks leaned back in his chair. It wobbled dangerously so he sat up straight again. It was uncomfortable no matter how he arranged himself. ‘Go on, then.’
‘It’s a bit awkward,’ Glendenning went on. ‘Not that I missed anything, you understand. Not as such. Natalie, one of my most capable assistants, carried out the post-mortem. Under my supervision, of course. Definitely not her fault. It’s more a matter of interpretation than anything else.’
‘I understand.’
‘Unfortunately, even we scientists have to connect the dots on occasion without any clear idea of the order they’re in.’ Glendenning seemed a little embarrassed, and Banks was careful not to tease or push him. After a few moments’ thought, the doctor seemed to make up his mind to carry on. ‘Well, the truth is that I had one or two niggling doubts when I read Natalie’s report after post-mortem. Things I couldn’t quite put my finger on. So I decided to go back and have a look myself, reconstructing the sequence of events in my mind. I even revisited the scene, then I re-examined the body. Fortunately, the coroner hasn’t released it for burial yet. Not a full second post-mortem, you understand, but just another look at one or two features that puzzled me. I had Natalie show me what she had done and what she had found, and she agreed.’
‘And?’
‘Well, perhaps our glee at believing we’d found a mass murderer might have put blinkers on us as regards considering any alternatives.’
‘Such as?’
‘That somebody else did it. Or killed Edgeworth. Or both.’ Glendenning held his hand up. ‘Now, I’m not saying that’s what happened. First of all, I had a hard time trying to visualise how and why the man sort of flopped down backwards against the wall to shoot himself. There’s a bruise on his left shoulder consistent with its bumping against the wall. Usually suicides are... well, more careful, more fastidious, even, in an odd sort of way. I mean, it’s your last act, so you might as well make it as neat and tidy as possible. According to all the crime-scene photographs I looked at, his outer clothing was folded neatly beside him. The anorak, the waterproof trousers, the black woolly hat on top.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that on the one hand you have the signs of a careful, neat man, even on the verge of suicide, but slumping against the wall doesn’t fit. It’s sloppy. You’d expect him to position himself carefully, perhaps even on a chair rather than on a dirty cellar floor. Don’t forget, this is a man who neatly folds an anorak. But he was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out and his back against the wall when the shot was fired.’
‘But what does it matter?’ Banks argued. ‘He was going to shoot himself. I mean, he’d just killed a number of people, and he was about to end his own life. He was no doubt agitated.’
‘Why did he even remove his outer clothing in the first place, then?’ asked Glendenning.
‘Any number of reasons. He was too warm, too uncomfortable...’
‘It was chilly in that cellar.’
‘Perhaps he had been home for a while. The house upstairs would have been warm enough, with that big Aga. Perhaps he took his outer clothing off when he first came in?’
‘In that case, why was it folded neatly beside him in the cellar?’
‘I see your point. But none of that necessarily means anything. I should imagine he was in an unusual state of mind, perhaps not thinking clearly. Certainly not acting normally. He did take his boots off upstairs. We found them.’
‘Balance of his mind disturbed? Yes. Even so... if it were only that...’
‘What else?’
‘I was curious, so I went and had a chat with the forensic chappies who examined the clothes and had them go over their findings with me.’
‘We got their original report,’ said Banks. ‘No unexplained hairs or fibres.’
‘Yes,’ said Glendenning. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd? If he wore those clothes over the clothes he was wearing — and we’ve no reason to think he didn’t — then surely there would have been traces of his sweat, fibres from the shirt itself, and perhaps other things? You can’t tell me he climbed that hill and shot all those people without a shedding a single drop of sweat. Or hair. He wasn’t bald, so you would expect hairs inside the woolly hat, wouldn’t you, and perhaps on the shoulders of the anorak, but there are none.’
‘OK,’ said Banks, frowning.
‘It was as if the outer clothes were new, as if they hadn’t been worn. Fair enough, they were damp, there were a couple of grass stains and a streak of mud here and there, but again, anyone could have rubbed them on the ground. One of the CSIs suggested that if someone had worn those clothes to commit the murders, the stains were in the wrong places. Especially the knees, as they must have made contact with the earth when he got to his feet or lay down.’
‘I get your point,’ said Banks. ‘There were no prints on the shell casings or the other bullets, either,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Mike Trethowan didn’t think it odd, but it bothered me. What are you suggesting?’
‘Perhaps the clothes the killer wore were different altogether? The same kind, of course, and same colour, but not the ones found at the house. If anyone saw him from a distance, all they would see was dark outer clothing and a black cap of some sort. All he’d have to do was dampen the other set of clothes and rub them in the grass and mud. But there are no hairs inside the shoulders of the anorak, as there were on the shirt Edgeworth was wearing underneath, or in the woolen cap. You can’t tell me that if he wore something on top it wouldn’t pick up some hairs inside either piece of clothing.’
‘So you’re suggesting two sets of clothing? One set folded neatly by Edgeworth, unworn, and another worn by someone else? The real killer? If you’re right, what happened to the outfit the real killer wore?’