Innocent Graves Read Free Page A

every house in the area canvassed as soon as possible. It’s going to be a long, busy night, but we’d better work fast. People forget quickly. Besides, by tomorrow the vultures will be here.”
    “Vultures?”
    “Press, TV people, sightseers. It’s going to be a circus, Barry.
    Prepare yourself.”
    Stott nodded. PC Aiken turned up with the key to the mausoleum. Banks borrowed a torch from one of the search team, and he and Stott trod carefully down the weed-covered steps.
    The heavy wooden door opened after a brief struggle with the key, and they found themselves in the dark with the dead; six sturdy coffins rested on trestles. A few tentacles of fog slid down the stairs and through the door after them, wreathing around their feet.
    The small tomb didn’t smell of death, only of earth and mould. Fortunately, there were no fresh Inchcliffes buried there; the family had left Eastvale fifty years ago.
    All Banks could see on his first glance around were the spider-webs that seemed to be spun in the very air itself. He gave a little shudder and shone his torch over the floor. There, in the corner furthest from the entrance, lay two empty vodka bottles and a pile of cigarette ends. It was hard to tell how recent they were, but they certainly weren’t fifty years old.
    They found nothing else of interest down there, and it was with great relief that Banks emerged into the open air again; foggy as it was, it felt like a clear night after the inside of the tomb. Banks asked the SOCOs to bag the empty bottles and cigarette ends and search the place thoroughly.
    “We’ll need a murder room set up at the station,” he said, turning to Stott again, “and a van parked near the scene; make it easy for people to come forward. Exhibits Officer, phone lines, civilian staff,the usual thing. Get Susan Gay to see to it. Better inform the Chief Constable, too,” Banks added with a sinking feeling.
    At the moment, Banks was senior man in Eastvale CID, as Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had broken his leg while fixing his drystone wall. Technically, Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Wormsley, from North Yorkshire Regional HQ at Northallerton, was supposed to be in charge of a murder investigation. However, Banks knew from experience not to expect much beyond the occasional phone call from DCS Wormsley; he was rumoured to be far too close to finishing his scale matchstick model of the Taj Mahal to be bothered with a mere murder. If it came from anywhere, Banks knew, the main hindrance would come from the new chief constable: Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle, a high-flier of the pushy, breathe-down-your-neck school of police management.
    “We’ll also need a thorough ground-search of the graveyard,” Banks went on, “but we might be better doing that in daylight, especially if this fog disperses a bit during the night. Anyway, make sure the place is well secured.” Banks looked around. “How many entrances are there?”
    “Two. One off North Market Street and one off Kendal Road, just by bridge.”
    “Should be easy to secure, then. The wall looks high enough to deter any interlopers, but we’d better have a couple of men on perimeter patrol, just to make sure. The last thing we need is some intrepid reporter splashing crime-scene photos all over the morning papers. Is there any access from the riverside?”
    Stott shook his head. “The wall’s high there, too, and it’s topped with broken glass.”
    “Welcoming sort of place, isn’t it?”
    “I understand they’ve had a bit of vandalism.”
    Banks peered through the fog at the lights in the vicarage. They looked like disembodied eyes. “You’re a bit of a churchman, aren’t you, Barry?”
    Stott nodded. “Yes. St Cuthbert’s, though, not St Mary’s.”
    Banks nodded towards the vicarage. “Do you know who the vicar is here?”
    “Father Daniel Charters.”
    Banks raised his eyebrows. “I thought so. I don’t know all the details, but isn’t he the one who’s