‘We think it was about fifty or sixty feet,’ said Banks.
Dr Glendenning stared at him. ‘Is that scientifically accurate or just pure guesswork, laddie?’
‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘it’s about the distance between where the evidence shows the shooter was standing and where the victim fell. He might also have nudged the bolt on the ground when he fell forward and pushed it in a bit further. That’s why it always pays to attend the scene.’
Dr Glendenning narrowed his eyes. ‘You can’t miss at that range if you know what you’re doing and have a decent weapon. Even in the dark. I’ll let you know when the calculations are done.’ He went back to the body, measured and took swabs from the wound, probed it and muttered his findings into his microphone.
A lot of what happened at post-mortems, Banks often found, was simply a matter of restating the obvious, but once in a while something knocked you for six, which was why it was a good idea for the SIO to attend. This time, however, everything was pretty much as he had expected it to be. Dr Glendenning sorted through the stomach contents — chicken casserole, chips and peas, followed by apple pie and ice cream — and agreed with Dr Burns about time of death, placing it at between 11 p.m. Wednesday evening and 1 a.m. Thursday morning, on the basis of digestion. The internal organs were weighed and sectioned for tox screening. Apart from Quinn’s tarry lungs, on which Glendenning could hardly comment, being a smoker himself, and his liver being a bit enlarged, on which Banks certainly wouldn’t be so hypocritical as to pass judgement, everything was in tip top shape. Quinn was no athlete, but he was fit enough, and his heart had been in good working order until the crossbow bolt had pierced it. Both kidneys, and all the other various important bits and pieces Dr Glendenning had removed, had also been up to par. If he hadn’t been murdered, Dr Glendenning ventured, he would probably have lived another thirty years or more if he’d stopped smoking. Every once in a while, Banks would sneak another glance at Joanna, but she seemed quite impassive, fascinated by the whole thing, if anything, and as icily cool as ever.
‘So the cause of death is?’ Banks asked as Dr Glendenning’s assistant closed up.
‘Oh, didn’t I say? How remiss of me. Well, barring any surprises from toxicology, he died of a crossbow bolt through the heart. It pierced the aorta, to be exact, just above the pulmonic valve. Death would have been as instantaneous as it gets, the chest cavity filled with blood, breathing impossible, no blood flow. A matter of seconds. You’ll have my report in a day or two. Tox should take about a week.’
‘Thank you, doc,’ said Banks.
‘My pleasure. And charmed to meet you, ma’am,’ the doctor said, giving a little bow to Joanna, who put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle, or perhaps a gagging reaction, Banks thought. She seemed anxious to get out of the post-mortem suite, at any rate.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Banks asked when they were back in the corridor. ‘I must admit, I always do after a PM. Or is that an arrestable offence in Professional Standards?’
‘Why not?’ said Joanna, glancing at her watch. ‘The sun’s well over the yardarm. You obviously don’t know me very well.’
The Unicorn was just across the road. It wasn’t one of Banks’s favourite pubs, but it would do, and luckily it was still too early for the noisy crowd that filled the place on a Friday and Saturday night. At least the landlord served a passable pint of Black Sheep, if Banks remembered correctly.
‘What would you like?’ he asked Joanna at the bar.
‘I’ll have a brandy please. No ice.’
Banks’s eyes widened. He’d pegged her as a white wine spritzer kind of woman, and definitely not on duty, even if she turned a blind eye to him. Then he realised they weren’t on duty. ‘Soda?’
‘Just as it comes, please.’ She seemed amused by his surprise, but said nothing except, ‘You bring the drinks and I’ll take that table over there by the window, shall I?’
Banks paid for the drinks and carried them over.
‘I see you got some new shoes,’ he said, sitting down.
Joanna stretched out her legs. Banks admired them, as he thought he was intended to do. ‘Had to, didn’t I? It’s such a hard job to dress for. You never know what sort of garden path you’re going to be led up from one day to the next. Or country lane.’
‘What do you mean?’
Joanna took a sip of brandy and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. ‘Oh, come off it, DCI Banks. Don’t play the innocent with me. You spin me around the roundabout, you make me break my heel, then you drag me off to a post-mortem thinking it’ll make me sick all over the nice tiled floor. Isn’t that true? Wasn’t that the idea?’
‘But you weren’t sick, were you? You didn’t even flinch.’
‘Don’t sound so disappointed.’ She sipped some brandy and grinned. ‘My mother’s a cardiovascular surgeon — was, she’s retired now — one of the best in the country. She often invited me to watch her operate when she thought I was old enough. I’ve seen more operations than you’ve put villains away.’
‘But you said...’
‘I said this was my first post-mortem. That’s true. But I’ve seen plenty of by-passes, valve replacements, and even a couple of heart transplants. Beats telly. There was a time when I seriously thought of becoming a surgeon myself, but I don’t have the hands for it.’ She held them up, but Banks had no way of telling what was wrong with them. They didn’t seem to be shaking or anything. He tried to stop his jaw dropping, then he started to laugh. He couldn’t help it.
She let him laugh for a few moments, tolerant and slightly bemused, then, when he had finished, she said, ‘Can we please just stop it now? Bury the hatchet. Whatever. It’s been a crap day so far. Do you think you could just lighten up a bit and stop treating me as your enemy? We both want the truth behind DI Quinn’s murder, right? If he was the rotten apple, I’m sure you want to know as much as I do. So why can’t we work together? I honestly can’t afford a new pair of shoes every day, for a start. And I’m not trying to replace Annie Cabbot. I’m sorry she got shot, but it wasn’t my fault. At least she’s still alive. I had a partner I grew to trust and like very much once, before I came to Professional Standards. Can you just give me the benefit of the doubt? If Quinn was bent, I’ll need to report it. I won’t lie about that. If he’s innocent, then his memory remains unsullied, he has a hero’s funeral, twenty-one gun salute, whatever, and his reputation has nothing to fear from me. How about it?’
‘Your partner? What happened?’
Joanna paused and sipped some more brandy. ‘He died,’ she said finally. ‘Was killed, actually. Shot by a bent cop trying to avoid being exposed. Ironic, really. It was someone Johnny trusted, someone he was trying to help.’
Banks remained silent and drank his beer. There wasn’t much to say after that.
Joanna’s mobile hiccupped. A text. She took it out of her bag and glanced at it, frowned briefly, then stuck it back in her handbag without replying.
‘Anything important?’ Banks asked. ‘Bad news? Your husband?’
Joanna shook her head and finished her drink. ‘What now?’ she asked.
Banks looked at his watch. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to call in at the station and see if there are any developments, then I’m heading home.’
She got to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. Then paused. ‘At least, as far as the station.’
Banks was sitting on a wicker chair in the conservatory, feet up on the low table, sipping a Malbec and listening to June Tabor sing ‘Finisterre’. Only one shaded lamp was lit, and its dim orange-tinged light seemed to emphasise the vast darkness outside. A strong breeze had whipped up, and now it was lashing rain against the windows. April showers. Fortunately, the CSIs had finished their investigation of the St Peter’s grounds and covered over the lane where Banks and Winsome had found the tyre tracks.