Dead Right Read Free

person?”
    Burns ran his hand over his wet hair and rubbed it dry on the side of his trousers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that. It was more likely two or three. A gang, perhaps.”
    “But one person could have done it?”
    “As soon as the victim was down on the ground, yes. Thing is, though, he looks pretty strong. It might have taken more than one person to get him down. Unless, of course, that was what the bottle was used for.”
    “Any idea how long he’s been there?”
    “Not long.” Burns looked at his watch. “Allowing for the weather conditions, I’d say maybe two hours. Two and a half at the outside.”
    Banks made a quick back-calculation. It was twenty to two now. That meant the kid had probably been killed between ten past eleven and eleven forty-seven, when PC Ford found the body. A little over half an hour. And a half-hour that happened to coincide with pub closing time. His theory was still looking good.
    “Anyone know who he is?” Banks asked.
    Dr Burns shook his head.
    “Any chance of cleaning him up enough for an artist’s impression?”,
    “Might be worth a try. But as I said, the nose is pulped, one eye’s practically—”
    “Yes. Yes, thank you, doctor.”
    Burns nodded briskly and walked off.
    The Coroner’s Officer directed two ambulance attendants to bag the body and take it to the mortuary, Peter Darby took more photographs and the SOCOs went on with their search. The rain kept falling.
    Banks leaned back against the damp wall and lit a cigarette. It might help concentrate his mind. Besides, he liked the way cigarettes tasted in the rain.
    There were things to be done, procedures to be set in motion. First of all, they had to find out who the victim was, where he had come from, where he belonged, and what he had been doing on the day of his death. Surely, Banks thought, someone, somewhere, must be missing him. Or was he a stranger in town, far from home?
    Once they knew something about the victim, then it would simply be a matter of legwork. Eventually, they would track down the bastards who had done this. They would probably be kids, certainly no older than their victim, and they would, by turn, be contrite and arrogant. In the end, if they were old enough, they would probably get charged with manslaughter. Nine years, out in five.
    Sometimes, it was all so bloody predictable, Banks thought, as he flicked his tab-end into the gutter and walked to his car, splashing through puddles that reflected the revolving lights of the police cars. And at that point, he could hardly be blamed for not knowing how wrong he was.
    II
    The telephone call at eight o’clock on Sunday morning woke Detective Constable Susan Gay from a pleasant dream about visiting Egypt with her father. They had never done anything of the kind, of course—her father was a cool, remote man who had never taken her anywhere—but the dream seemed real enough.
    Eyes still closed, Susan groped until her fingers touched the smooth plastic on her bedside table, then she juggled the receiver beside her on the pillow.
    “Mmm?” she mumbled.
    “Susan?”
    “Sir?” She recognized Banks’s voice and tried to drag herself out of the arms of Morpheus. But she couldn’t get very far. She frowned and rubbed sleep from her eyes. Waking up had always been a slow process for Susan, ever since she was a little girl.
    “Sorry to wake you so early on a Sunday,” Banks said, “but we got a suspicious death after closing time last night.”
    “Yes, sir.” Susan raised herself from the sheets and propped herself against the pillows. Suspicious death . She knew what that meant. Work. Now. The thin bedsheet slipped from her shoulders and left her breasts bare. Her nipples were hard from the morning chill in the bedroom. For a moment, she felt exposed talking toBanks while she was sitting up naked in bed. But he couldn’t see her. She told herself not to be so daft.
    “We’ve got scant little to go on,” Banks went