Children of the Revolution Read online

  INSPECTOR BANKS NOVELS BY PETER ROBINSON

  Gallows View

  A Dedicated Man

  A Necessary End

  The Hanging Valley

  Past Reason Hated

  Wednesday’s Child

  Final Account

  Innocent Graves

  Dead Right

  In a Dry Season

  Cold Is the Grave

  Aftermath

  The Summer That Never Was

  Playing With Fire

  Strange Affair

  Piece of My Heart

  Friend of the Devil

  All the Colours of Darkness

  Bad Boy

  Watching the Dark

  Children of the Revolution

  ALSO BY PETER ROBINSON

  Caedmon’s Song

  No Cure for Love

  Not Safe After Dark and Other Stories

  The Price of Love and Other Stories

  Before the Poison

  Copyright © 2013 Eastvale Enterprises Inc.

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Robinson, Peter, 1950-, author

  Children of the revolution / Peter Robinson.

  eISBN: 978-0-7710-7631-2

  I. Title.

  PS8585.O35176C45 2013 C813’.54 C2013-900683-4

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover image: © Robert Swiderski / Trevillion Images

  Cover design: Kelly Hill

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited

  One Toronto Street, Suite 300

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5C 2V6

  www.mcclelland.com

  v3.1

  For Sheila

  ‘The past lies like a nightmare upon the present.’

  Karl Marx, The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgements

  1

  As Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks walked along the disused railway track, he couldn’t help but imagine two young lovers kissing on the footbridge ahead, shrouded in smoke from a steam engine. All very Brief Encounter. But the Age of Steam was long gone, and it wasn’t love he was walking towards; it was a suspicious death.

  Banks made his way towards the group of white-suited crime scene investigators standing outside a tent, lit from inside, just beyond the bridge. Other CSIs were working on the bridge itself; its rusted metal sides were so high that Banks could see only their heads and shoulders.

  The crime scene lay half a mile south of the village of Coverton, which stood at the very limits of the North Yorkshire county line, at the tip of the Yorkshire Dales National Park across the A66 from Barnard Castle. The only way to get to the body, Banks had been told over the phone, was to walk along the old railway tracks or through the woods that ran parallel to them about fifty yards to the east.

  The railway ran dead straight, a narrow, shallow, U-shaped valley cut into the landscape. The embankments were steep and grassy on both sides, and while there were plenty of weeds growing in the unkempt grass, no one had dumped prams, bicycle frames or refrigerators there, as people did in the more urban areas. The rails and sleepers had been taken up long ago, and the track had been paved over, though many of the flagstones were broken or uneven, and hardy weeds insinuated their way through the cracks. It seemed a long half mile to Banks, especially with the rain and wind whipping at him down the man-made valley. The only human dwelling Banks saw on his journey stood to his right, just before he got to the bridge: a small square cottage at the top of the embankment.

  When Banks got to the outer cordon, he showed his warrant card to the officer on duty, who lifted the tape for him and handed him a hooded overall and shoe covers. Awkwardly, he took off his raincoat and put on the protective gear over his clothes. This area was where the CSIs and other officers not required at the immediate scene waited until they were needed. Only essential personnel were given access through the inner cordon to inside the tent itself, and as few people as possible were allowed there at a time.

  Already, the CSIs were busy fixing up extra lights as the early November morning was overcast and dull. Banks poked his head inside the canvas flap and saw the Crime Scene Manager, Stefan Nowak, as immaculate as ever, and dry, along with Dr Burns, the police surgeon, and Detective Sergeant Winsome Jackman, all in their white coveralls. Peter Darby, the crime-scene photographer, crouched by the body taking photographs with his beat-up old Pentax, his state-of-the-art handycam in its waterproof case hanging over his shoulder. All except Darby turned to greet Banks. Suddenly, the tent seemed crowded, and its humid interior smelled like a wet dog.

  Banks saw the crumpled body of an emaciated old man wearing a grey anorak and blue jeans lying on his back. His neck lay at an impossible angle, one arm was bent in the opposite way to which it should have been, and a sharp knife of bone protruded through the denim on his inner right thigh. His clothes were wet with rain. Banks wondered how long he had been there.

  ‘OK,’ Banks said to Winsome. ‘What happened? Run me through it.’

  ‘Dog walker found the body,’ Winsome said, without referring to her notebook. ‘Or rather, her dog did. Eight thirty-seven, to be precise.’

  Banks checked his watch. It was five past ten. ‘That’s very precise.’

  ‘She’s a retired schoolteacher. Probably used to checking her watch every now and then to see when the lesson’s due to end.’

  Banks laughed. ‘I never realised how the teachers might have hated classes as much as we did. I used to believe they existed just to bore and terrorise us.’

  ‘Children often take a very self-centred view of the world.’

  ‘Her name’s Margery Halton, sir,’ came a voice from just beyond the tent’s entrance flap. ‘Sorry for interrupting, but I’m PC Barry Kirwan, Coverton beat manager. I was first officer on the scene. Margery knows me. She came straight to my house, and I followed her up here and saw who it was, then I called it in.’

  Banks walked back and ducked under the flap into the open. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘One of the community support officers took her home, sir. Bit of a state.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Banks. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Name’s Gavin Miller, sir.’

  ‘Local, then?’

  PC Kirwan pointed. ‘Lived in that old signalman’s cottage just up there, other side of the bridge. You must have noticed it on your way here.’

  Bank turned and looked at the squat cottage he had just passed. Bijou would be a kind description. ‘What do you know about him? What did he do for a living?’

  ‘Don’t know much
about him at all, sir. Not much of a mixer. Kept himself to himself. Bit of an odd duck, or so the locals thought. Reclusive. Didn’t get out much. I don’t know how he made his living.’

  ‘Next of kin?’

  ‘No idea, sir. I mean, he lived alone. I suppose there might be someone …’

  ‘How long had he been living there?’

  ‘He bought the place three or four years ago. It had been up for sale for quite a while. The market was very sluggish, and I think he got a good price. As you’ll see, though, it’s not very big.’

  Banks glanced at the embankment and the paved track. ‘So what’s the story of this place, PC Kirwan? What’s the lie of the land? How frequently is it used? What’s access like?’

  ‘We used to have a branch line here until Dr Beeching closed it in the early sixties. That was before my time, of course. Anyway, since then, it’s just fallen into … well, you can see for yourself. We get a few walkers in season, when the weather’s good – we’re not too far from the Coast-to-Coast – and maybe a few railway buffs, but not so many in these sort of weather conditions. It’s a pretty secluded spot, as you can see, and it doesn’t really lead anywhere.’ He pointed beyond the tent. ‘Keep going south and you’ll end up at a collapsed viaduct about a mile or so further on. Lark Woods are to the east, above the embankment, and there’s a woodland footpath that winds through the woods by the river to the back of the village car park. You can’t get a car within half a mile of here unless you really know the area. There are unsurfaced tracks and lanes, access to the signalman’s cottage, for example, but they’re not generally known, and none of them lead directly to or from Coverton, or anywhere else for that matter.’

  ‘So he could have been lying there undiscovered for a while?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir. But not for days, I wouldn’t say.’

  ‘All night, though?’

  ‘Easily.’

  Banks thanked PC Kirwan, went back into the tent and turned to Winsome. ‘What’s the story here?’

  ‘PC Kirwan phoned in to report a suspicious death and suggested we get some cover out here quickly, just in case there was any evidence left that needed preserving. When I got to the scene, it was pretty obvious that our man hadn’t just dropped dead from a heart attack while he was out jogging, so … well, guv, you can see for yourself.’

  Peter Darby stood up. ‘Done for now,’ he said, and left the tent.

  Banks turned to Dr Burns. ‘Any idea what we’re dealing with, Doc?’

  Burns pointed beyond the open tent flap to the bridge. ‘It would seem from his injuries, and the position of the body, that he fell off the bridge. I don’t think he’s been moved, but I haven’t had a chance to examine him fully for post-mortem lividity yet. Dr Glendenning will be able to give you a more accurate answer later, when he performs the post-mortem. As you can see, the sides of the bridge are quite steep, most likely for the benefit of the farm animals that cross, or used to cross, so an accidental fall is extremely doubtful. It’s about a thirty-foot drop, quite enough to cause the kind of injuries his body has sustained on the paved track. Broke his neck and several other bones. He’d lost a lot of blood from a head wound, too. And from the leg fracture, of course.’

  ‘All caused by the fall?’

  Dr Burns paused. ‘Possibly. Most.’

  ‘Ah-ha,’ said Banks. ‘Not committing yourself?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Is there any reason to suppose that someone pushed him?’ Banks asked. ‘Maybe hit him over the head first? Or are you leaning towards suicide?’

  ‘You mean, in which case why did I bring you all the way out here on such a miserable Monday morning?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing definite yet,’ Burns admitted. ‘All I’m saying is that I doubt it was an accident. If he didn’t jump, then someone had to have thrown him over the edge.’

  ‘Would it be a far enough drop for him, or someone else, to be sure that it would kill him?’

  ‘No,’ said Burns. ‘He could have got off lucky and simply broken a few minor bones. Falls are difficult to predict. We’ve all heard of someone who survived a long drop. But he landed in a very unfortunate manner. As I said, it was the broken neck and the fractured thigh that did for him. The femur severed the femoral artery. Very nasty. He bled out. It would have been quick, and in all likelihood, with the broken neck, he would have been unconscious, maybe even paralysed, by then. He probably wouldn’t have felt any pain, just a sort of growing numbness.’

  Banks raised his voice so that PC Kirwan outside the tent could hear. ‘Is there any way to get down from the bridge to the tracks without jumping?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Kirwan. ‘It’s a bit steep, but you can scramble down the embankment on either side. In this weather you’d probably end up sliding most of the way on your arse, sir. And there’s a slightly better path to the cottage, a few steps cut into the earth.’

  ‘So, if it was deliberate, our killer probably knew that he could get down and finish off his victim if the fall didn’t do it for him? Even if he had to slide down on his arse?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Kirwan.

  ‘Any sign of a suicide note?’ Banks asked the doctor.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Anyone checked out the cottage?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘We were waiting for you.’

  Banks glanced towards Nowak. ‘What do you make of it, Stefan?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nowak said in his impeccable and slightly pedantic English, the trace of a Polish accent discernible only now and then in certain cadences. ‘This weather makes it rather difficult for us. We’re working on it, but we’ve found no fingerprints or footprints on the bridge so far, as one might expect if he’d hauled himself over the side and jumped, but the rain could easily have washed them away. It was quite heavy at times overnight. But the sides are rusted metal, while the base is wooden planks, so in any case we’d be lucky to find anything after a night’s rain.’

  ‘How much do you reckon he weighs?’ Banks asked.

  ‘About eight stones at a guess,’ Burns answered.

  Banks thought for a moment, then asked Nowak, ‘Any chance of collecting much trace evidence from the scene?’

  ‘There’s always a chance,’ Nowak answered, ‘even in this weather. But I’d say no to finger- or footprints, unless someone came by the woodland path. The trees might offer some protection from the rain there.’

  ‘Tyre tracks?’

  ‘Same. The rain would soften the ground, and some impression might remain, but it’s been coming down pretty heavily all night, and the odds are that it will probably have washed away anything laid down from before. We’ll be doing our best, though.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Blood? DNA?’

  ‘Possibly. Diluted, difficult, but perhaps not washed away entirely.’

  ‘I see you’ve already bagged his hands,’ Banks said to the doctor. ‘Anything there? Skin under a nail, perhaps?’

  ‘Hard to say from a cursory glance,’ said Dr Burns. ‘He was a nail biter.’

  Banks stood for a moment taking it all in, listening to the thrumming of rain on the canvas. The tent was leaking. A few drops of water trickled down the back of his neck. He should have put his hood up, he realised too late.

  The man could have jumped, of course. Murders were rare in this isolated part of the county. On the other hand, if he had been intent on suicide, why choose a method that, according to Dr Burns, could in no way guarantee success, and might very well involve a great deal of pain, even paralysis?

  ‘Any idea how long he’s been lying here?’ Banks asked. ‘How long he’s been dead?’

  ‘It was a chilly night,’ said Dr Burns, ‘and that would have slowed down the processes of rigor mortis and post-mortem decay in general. But from what I can see, the paving stones are quite dry under the body. And there are no obvious signs of animal activity. I’d estimate overnight,
somewhere around twelve hours, give or take.’

  ‘When did it start raining here?’

  ‘Yesterday? About midnight, sir,’ said PC Kirwan from outside.

  ‘Let’s say for the sake of argument that he died between ten and midnight last night,’ Banks said. ‘If he didn’t come here to kill himself, what was he doing here on a lonely footbridge not so far from his front door with someone who wanted to kill him?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know the person wanted to kill him, sir,’ Winsome said. ‘They could have just had a disagreement and started fighting spontaneously. Or maybe he got waylaid. He had his anorak on. He was prepared for going out.’

  ‘Good point. But, the bridge is south of his cottage. Not far, admittedly, but why would he walk even just a few yards south to the bridge if he was going to the village? PC Kirwan said there was a definite path from the cottage down the embankment. That would obviously have been the route he’d use, unless he fancied a walk through the woods. And where might he have been going if he hadn’t been heading for Coverton?’ Banks turned to PC Kirwan. ‘You said there’s nothing further south except a ruined viaduct. Any ideas?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Kirwan. ‘It doesn’t make sense. He should have no need to walk south and cross the bridge just to go north. And there’s nothing but miles of open country. A few farms, of course.’

  ‘What was he carrying in his pockets?’ Banks asked.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d get around to asking that,’ Winsome answered. She picked up a plastic evidence bag from the bin beside her. ‘Mostly, just the usual. It’s all nicely bagged, sealed and signed. Wallet containing one credit card and driving licence, expired, in the name of Gavin Miller, along with one five-pound note and some receipts from the Spar grocery in Coverton and Bargain Booze in Eastvale. Mobile phone, keys, a small penknife, loose change, a packet of Silk Cut and a cheap butane lighter. Then there’s this.’ With a slight touch of theatricality, she pulled out a bulky envelope and showed its contents to Banks. From what he could see, it was a stack of fifty-pound notes, the new ones, with Boulton and Watt on the back. ‘Cash,’ Winsome went on. ‘There’s five thousand pounds here. I counted it. Not something you’d need for a walk in the woods, I’d say. And that’s why we dragged you out here on a miserable Monday morning, sir.’