Innocent Graves Read Free

of Glendenning’s Senior Service. Normally he smoked Silk Cut tipped, but he had cut down drastically on his smoking over the last few months and wasn’t even carrying a packet with him. Well, he thought, as Glendenning proffered a gold, initialled lighter, cutting down had been easy enough to do in a lazy summer with no murders to investigate. Now it was November and there was a body at his feet. He lit up and coughed.
    “Ought to get that cough seen to, laddie,” said Glendenning. “Might be a touch of lung cancer, you know.”
    “It’s nothing. I’m just getting a cold, that’s all.”
    “Aye … Well, I don’t suppose you dragged me out here on a mucky night like this just to talk about your health, did you?”
    “No,” said Banks. “What do you make of it?”
    “I can’t tell you much yet, but judging by her colour and the marks on her throat, I’d say asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.”
    “Any sign of the ligature?”
    “Off the record, that satchel strap fits the bill pretty nicely.”
    “What about time of death?”
    “Oh, come off it, laddie.”
    “Vaguely?”
    “Not more than two or three hours ago. But don’t quote me on that.”
    Banks looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. Which meant she was probably killed between five and six. Not on her way home from school, then. At least not directly.
    “Was she killed here?”
    “Aye. Almost certainly. Hypostasis is entirely consistent with the position of the body.”
    “Any sign of the rest of her underwear?”
    Glendenning shook his head. “Only the brassiere.”
    “When can you get her on the table?”
    “First thing in the morning. Coming?”
    Banks swallowed; the fog scratched his throat. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    “Fine. I’ll reserve you the best seat in the house. I’m off home. You can get her to the mortuary now.”
    And with that, Glendenning turned and faded into the fog.
    Banks stood alone for a moment trying to forget the girl he had just seen spread-eagled so cruelly before him, trying desperately not to see Tracy in her place. He stubbed out his cigarette carefully on the side of the Inchcliffe Mausoleum and pocketed the butt. No point leaving red herrings at the crime scene.
    A couple of yards away, he noticed a light patch on the grass. He walked over and squatted to get a closer look. It looked and smelled as if someone had been sick. He could also make out the stem and fragments of a wineglass, which seemed to have smashed on the stone edging of a grave. He picked up one of the slivers carefully between thumb and forefinger. It was stained with blood or wine; he couldn’t be certain which.
    He saw DI Stott within hearing range and called him over.
    “Know anything about this?” he asked.
    Stott looked at the glass and vomit. “Rebecca Charters. Woman who discovered the body,” he said. “Bit of an oddball. She’s in the vicarage. WPC Kemp is with her.”
    “Okay. I’ll talk to her later.” Banks pointed to the mausoleum. “Anyone had a look in there yet?”
    “Not yet. I sent PC Aiken to see if he could come up with a key from the vicar.”
    Banks nodded. “Look, Barry, someone’s got to break the news to the girl’s parents.”
    “And seeing as I’m the new lad on the block …”
    “That’s not what I meant. If you’re not comfortable with the job, then get someone else to do it. But get it done.”
    “Sorry,” said Stott, taking his glasses off and wiping them on a white handkerchief. “I’m a bit …” He gestured towards the body. “Of course I’ll go.”
    “Sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. I’ll join you there soon. Before you go, call in DC Gay and DS Hatchley and tell them to get down here. Someone might have to drag Jim out of The Oak.”
    Stott raised his eyebrows. Banks noticed his little moue of distaste at the mention of Detective Sergeant Hatchley. Well, he thought, that’s his cross to bear.
    “And get as many officers out on the streets as you can. I want