“I can’t say,” said Banks. “It depends when they release the body.”
“What do they want to hang on to it for?”
“Sometimes, if someone’s arrested and charged, the defense can ask for a second, independent postmortem. I don’t think that’s likely in this case, but it’s not my decision. Believe me, Dad. I’ll stay on top of it. I don’t want you and Mum worrying about the details.”
“Don’t we have to register the death?”
“You can’t do that until the coroner’s released the body. I’ll take care of it all when the time comes.”
“What else are we going to do except sit around and mope?”
“Just try to get through it day by day. It’ll take time.”
His father sat forward. “But that’s just it. We haven’t got time.”
Banks felt a shiver at the back of his neck.
“What do you mean? Has your heart been giving you more problems?”
“My heart’s fine. A touch of angina, that’s all. It’s not me. It’s your mother.”
“What about her?” Banks recalled his mother’s tired and listless appearance when he first arrived, before he had even told her about Roy, and again he took in the air of neglect about the house. “Is it something to do with these tests she’s been having?”
“They think she’s got cancer,” said Arthur Banks. “That’s why they want her in the hospital to do some more tests.”
“When?”
“They say they can’t fit her in until next week.”
Banks felt the need for a cigarette, but he didn’t give in to it, not there and then. He wished he could afford private insurance for his parents, then they wouldn’t have to wait. “Christ,” he said. “It never rains but it pours.”
“You can say that again.”
“What does the doctor think?”
“You know doctors. Won’t commit themselves without the test results. Anyway, it’s her colon they’re worried about. I can tell you what I think, though. The life’s slowly going out of her. I’ve been watching it drain away for weeks.”
“But even if it is cancer, there are treatments. Especially colon cancer. As far as I know, the cure rate’s pretty good.”
“Depends how far it’s spread, doesn’t it, how soon they catch it?”
“Look, Dad,” said Banks, “there’s no point getting pessimistic. You’ve got enough on your plate with our Roy. See her through this. That has to be your priority right now. We’ll deal with the other thing when we know more about it.”
“You’re right, but… it’s just so bloody hard, all the time thinking I might lose her. Now Roy.”
Banks could see that his father was close to tears, and he remembered that he had never seen him cry. His mother, yes, but not his father. He wanted to spare him the embarrassment, knowing he was a proud man, so he went upstairs to see his mother. She was lying in bed with the sheets pulled up to her neck, but her eyes were open.
“Roy?” she said when he first entered the room. “Is it really you?”
“No, Mum,” said Banks. “It’s me, Alan.”
He could swear he saw the disappointment register in her face. “Oh,” she said. “Where’s our Roy?”
Banks sat at the edge of the bed and grasped her hand. It felt dry and thin. “He’s gone. Mum. Our Roy’s gone.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember now. In the water.” She closed her eyes and seemed to drift off.
Banks leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek, then said good night and went back downstairs.
“She’s in and out,” he told his father.
Arthur Banks had pulled himself together. “Yes,” he said. “It’s probably those tablets the doctor gave her.” He looked at Banks. “You said before you wished there was something you could do, and there is, you know. I’ve been thinking while you were up with your mother.”
“What’s that, Dad?”
“You’re supposed to be a detective, aren’t you? You can do your job and go back to London and catch the bastard that killed our Roy.”
Banks sat down, picked up his mug of tea and reached for a sandwich. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. And that’s exactly what I intend to do first thing tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Late on Tuesday morning, after breakfast and a brief meeting with Brooke to review their progress so far, Annie went back to her room, packed her meager belongings and checked out of the hotel. She was looking forward to getting home, digging out some clean clothes and sleeping in her own bed again, if only for one night. She knew she would have to come back, especially as she planned on visiting Dr. Lukas at home in the near future. For the meantime, though, Brooke was leading the Roy Banks investigation, and Annie needed to show her face to the troops back up in Eastvale, talk to Stefan Nowak and Gristhorpe and see how Winsome and Kev Templeton were getting on.
She wondered what Banks was up to as she waited for a taxi. She hadn’t tried to ring him again the previous evening, deciding it was probably best to leave him and his parents in peace. From what she could remember Banks telling her, they had doted on Roy. And even though he and Roy hadn’t been close, she knew he must be distraught. Though she wasn’t unduly worried about him, he had been depressed lately, and something like this could push him over the edge. She would like to talk to him, anyway, to see him, if only to reassure herself and offer her condolences. A taxi pulled up and Annie got in.
“King’s Cross, please,” she told the driver.
“Right you are, madam.”
They had hardly got over Lambeth Bridge when her mobile rang.
“Annie, it’s Dave Brooke here.”
“Dave. What is it?”
“Thought you might be interested. I’ve just got the pathologist’s report on Roy Banks. Can you talk?”
“It’s okay,” said Annie. “I’m in a taxi on my way to the station.” The driver was listening to an interview on BBC London, chuckling to himself, and there was a Plexiglas window between the front and the back.
“Fair enough. Bottom line is the shot to the head killed him outright. It’s a twenty-two-caliber bullet, just like the one that killed Jennifer Clewes.”
“Anything on time of death?”
“He’d been in the water about forty hours. Had to have been to get in the state he was and end up on that patch of shingle, so the tide experts tell me.”
“So it can’t have been the same killers.”
“No. They couldn’t possibly have got back from Yorkshire in time.” Brooke paused. “DCI Banks isn’t going to like hearing this, but it also appears that his brother was tortured before he was shot.”
“Tortured?”
“Yes. There’s evidence of serious bruising to the body and cigarette burns on the arms and soles of the feet. Some of the fingernails have been pulled out, too.”
“Jesus,” said Annie. “Someone wanted something from him?”
“Or wanted to know how much he knew, or had given away.”
“Either way, you’re right. Alan won’t like that at all. The press-”
“They’re not going to find out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not from us. We’re keeping this to ourselves. All the press will be told is that he was shot. That will be enough for them. I can see the gun-crime editorials right now.”
“True enough,” said Annie. “They’re already having a field day with the Jennifer Clewes shooting. Anything else?”
“Just a couple of things,” said Brooke. “Remember the digital photo that came through on Roy Banks’s mobile?”
“Yes. Alan mentioned it to me.”
“As we suspected, it came from a stolen phone. Technical support didn’t have much trouble enhancing the image. They’ve got all sorts of fancy software that can filter and stretch and make predictions based on pixel statistics. The upshot is, though, that it doesn’t tell us a hell of a lot. We still can’t be absolutely certain whether the man in the chair is Roy Banks. They did manage to get something from the wall in the background.”