‘You’ll be treating me as a suspect, then, as well as searching my room?’ Lorraine said, as she put her crutch aside and settled down in her armchair. Her bedsit resembled a pleasant hotel room, Banks thought, with a single bed in one corner, en suite bathroom and toilet, a writing desk, and three armchairs arranged around an oval table. There were also tea- and coffee-making facilities on the top of the chest of drawers, a spacious wardrobe, and a flat-screen television fixed to the wall. A combination radio, CD player and iPod dock completed the set-up.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Banks said. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘I discovered the body. It’s always the person who discovers the body.’
‘Or the nearest and dearest,’ added Banks. ‘What have you been doing here, reading too much Agatha Christie?’
‘It just stands to reason.’
‘Did you do it?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, we’ve got that out of the way, haven’t we?’
‘You should suspect me. I would if I were you. We’re all suspects. All of us here.’
Banks gazed at her with narrowed eyes. Early forties, looking older and more frail since her injury, once-plump body wasted by the recovery process, pale skin sagging, shrewd eyes with bags underneath, a ragged fringe of dark hair. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ he said. ‘For now, you’re just a witness. We’ll want a full written statement later, of course, but all I want now is a few basics, your immediate impressions, what you knew of the victim. That sort of thing. I saw you making notes, so it’s probably still fresh in your mind. Let’s start with what you were doing outside so early, and what made you walk down to the lake.’
‘I’m not sleeping very well because of the pain,’ Lorraine said, after a brief hesitation. ‘Most days I get up early, when it starts to get light, and I feel claustrophobic. I need to get out. It’s peaceful sitting there before the place comes to life. And I can enjoy a cigarette.’
‘What drew you to the lake?’
‘I saw something down there, at the edge of the woods. That’s all. A bundle. It seemed unusual. Out of place. The grounds are usually immaculate.’
‘And when you saw what it was?’
‘I kept my distance and phoned it in.’
‘You didn’t touch anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything odd, apart from the bundle itself.’
‘No, not really. I stood and listened. I saw a fox. The sound startled me. I thought the killer might still be in the woods, but it was only a fox.’
‘You couldn’t see the crossbow bolt at this point, could you?’
‘No. He was practically face down on the ground. You saw for yourself.’
‘But you just said “killer”. What made you assume he’d been killed, rather than just, say, dropped dead of a heart attack or something?’
‘I don’t know. It was just the way he was lying, kneeling. It looked suspicious. It was instinct, a hunch. I can’t really think of any logical explanation.’
Banks knew how easily witnesses got confused, and how easy it was for the questioner to take advantage of that, to make them even more nervous and defensive. Question anyone for a few minutes, and pretty soon they all sounded as if they were lying. Cops were apparently no different. ‘I just wondered whether there was anything in particular that made you feel that way, that’s all,’ Banks said. ‘You didn’t see or hear anyone running away, a car starting out on the road, or anything like that?’
‘No. Just the fox. And birds, of course. The birds were already singing. Why are you asking? When do you think he was killed? He must have been there for a while. Surely he can’t have been killed just before I found him?’
‘Did you know Bill Quinn well?’
‘No, not really. I’d talked to him, chatted briefly in the lounge over a nightcap, that sort of thing, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. We’re both smokers, so we’d meet up outside occasionally by chance and pass the time of day. We’re all pretty civil here, but we don’t really socialise all that much.’
‘You weren’t involved in any sort of relationship?’
‘Good God, no.’ She held up her left hand. ‘The only people I’m in a relationship with are my husband and my two children.’
‘Did you ever witness DI Quinn arguing with any of the other patients, or hear anyone making threats towards him?’
‘No. It’s a pretty peaceful place here, as you might have noticed. He was quiet most of the time, abstracted. I didn’t see much of him. I didn’t witness any arguments at all.’
‘Noticed anyone hanging around? Anyone who shouldn’t be here?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see Bill Quinn alive?’
‘At dinner last night.’
‘When was that? What’s the routine?’
‘Dinner’s usually at half past six, then three nights a week there’s quiz night at eight. After that, about half past nine, people either meet for a drink or two in the library bar or head off to their rooms to watch TV.’
‘And when there’s not a quiz night?’
‘There’s a film sometimes, usually a quite recent one, in the gym, or people just amuse themselves, play cards, read, whatever.’
‘No karaoke?’
Lorraine laughed. ‘Hardly. Though I think sometimes it might liven things up a bit.’
‘How did Bill Quinn appear at dinner last night? Did he seem agitated, distracted, edgy?’
Lorraine frowned with the effort of memory. ‘Maybe a little. I’m not sure. He didn’t say much, but then he rarely did. He was always a bit distracted and edgy. Not agitated, mind you, just in another world, as if he was carrying a burden. It’s far too easy to read things into a situation with hindsight.’
‘What would you read into his behaviour last night?’
‘That he seemed maybe a bit more anxious than usual, that’s all, as if he had something on his mind. He didn’t stick around to chat over coffee, for example, and he didn’t go to the library bar for an after-dinner drink.’
‘Did he usually stay for a chat and go for a drink?’
‘Yes. A small malt. Just the one, as a rule. He also missed quiz night, which was not like him at all. He enjoyed quiz nights.’ Lorraine paused. ‘He wasn’t easy to know. Hard to get a handle on.’
‘Any idea who might have killed him?’
‘I doubt if it was anyone here,’ Lorraine said. ‘We’ve all been thrown together by chance and circumstance, and there hasn’t been really much of an opportunity to form grievances and vendettas so far.’ She gestured towards her crutch. ‘Besides, most of us are incapable.’
‘Even so,’ Banks said. ‘An old grudge suddenly confronted?’
‘Bit of a coincidence, though, wouldn’t you say? I reckon you’d be better off checking out the villains he brought down, rather than cops he was spending a couple of weeks’ rest and recuperation with.’
‘Fair enough.’ Banks glanced around the room. ‘Nice digs,’ he said. ‘And you can get a decent single malt here, too?’
‘It’s not a health spa, you know, or a fitness centre.’
St Peter’s, Annie Cabbot had explained to Banks, was a charity-run convalescence centre for injured police officers, those recuperating from operations, or suffering from stress and anxiety, job-related or otherwise. It offered a range of treatments, from physiotherapy to Reiki, including massage, sauna, hydrotherapy and psychological counselling. The general length of stay was two weeks, but that was flexible in some cases; Annie had stayed for three weeks and still returned regularly, as an outpatient, for physio and massage therapy.
‘Did you hear anything during the night?’ Banks asked. ‘You said you don’t sleep well.’