‘You found the body?’ Banks asked Kirsten Brody.
Kirsten Brody touched her throat. ‘Yes. It was a terrible shock. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a dead person outside of a funeral home. I was just so glad I managed to get a signal for the mobile up here.’ She had a lilting Scottish accent. Edinburgh, Banks guessed. Morningside, most likely.
‘It can be a bit hit and miss around these parts,’ Banks allowed. ‘Did you recognise her from anywhere?’
‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Did you touch the body?’
‘Lord, no.’
‘How did you know she was dead?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose I did, really. Not technically. But she wasn’t moving. Her eyes were open. And she was so pale. I don’t, I just... There was nothing I could have done. I didn’t open the door. I tapped gently on the window, but you can see...’
‘Yes.’ Banks paused for a moment to let Kirsten Brody collect herself, then asked, ‘What made you stop in the first place? I mean, I assume you saw the POLICE AWARE sign?’
‘Yes. I see them often enough on out-of-the-way roads like this. I work for the National Parks, so I do quite a lot of country driving. I don’t know what it was, really. It was more like a feeling. Perhaps a shadow that shouldn’t have been there, maybe a draught blowing a lock of her hair, some sort of movement? I really don’t know what it was that made me stop. I can’t explain it. I just felt there was something wrong about it.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘Well, I pulled in as close to the side of the road as I could and went to have a look. There was no other traffic around. I remember the stillness when I got out of the car. The silence. Then, when I saw her, I got scared. I thought how foolish I was being. I mean, what if someone had done something to her? What if that someone was still around?’
‘Did you see any other cars?’
‘None. No one passed me while I was waiting, and I hadn’t seen one single car on my whole drive along the pass.’
‘Did you see anyone around or notice anything odd? A sound? Movement? A smell?’
‘No. Nobody. Nothing. I know it sounds silly, but I didn’t feel right leaving her. I knew she was dead, or I thought she was, but... I don’t know... It just wouldn’t have seemed right. I calmed myself down and called the police. They said they’d send a car up immediately and to stay where I was.’
‘What did you do in the meantime?’
‘I sat in the car and waited. I called my husband. He was expecting me back.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘I think that’s all for now. We’ll get you away from here. You can make a statement at the police station in Eastvale, if that’s all right? Maybe with a nice cup of sweet strong tea? Just follow the patrol car.’ Banks gestured to Knowles, who got back into their car, leaving his partner to keep the scene secure.
Kirsten Brody nodded and smiled briefly.
After he had watched them drive away, Banks had another look at the body then turned to Winsome. ‘We’d better get Dr Burns up here,’ he said. ‘Make that the full CSI team. Peter Darby, too. We’ll need photos and video. And I’ll need Peter to prepare a suitable image of her in time for the TV’s local evening news. We’ll get prints, DNA and dental records, but they can all take time, and I doubt she’s in the system. We need to know who she is. God knows what we’ve got on our hands here. We don’t know whether she died in the car or was dead before she got there, but one thing I am pretty sure of is that she didn’t get here under her own steam.’
Trevor and Nancy Vernon lived in a Georgian-style semi-detached house just off Market Street, in the same part of Eastvale where Banks used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, years ago when he first moved up north. The area hadn’t changed much since he had moved to Newhope Cottage after the divorce. Still the same bay windows, doors panelled with frosted glass, net curtains, well-tended gardens with trim lawns. And across Market Street were the same shops: the newsagent’s where Banks had picked up his morning Guardian on his way to work, a reliable butcher and greengrocer, a hairdresser Sandra had never liked, a bakery that made wonderful baguettes, and a betting shop Banks had used only on those rare occasions when he had a flutter, such as the Grand National and the Derby. There was also the dentist’s surgery on the corner, which had featured in his previous major case, and a pub called The Nag’s Head a bit further along. Banks had only been in there once during the time he had lived in the neighbourhood, and he found he would rather walk into town to somewhere with better beer, quieter music and a more convivial atmosphere.
Banks rang the doorbell and soon saw a blurred figure moving beyond the frosted glass. The man who answered had a puzzled and slightly annoyed expression on his face. He was about forty, wearing a grey V-neck jumper over a white shirt and muted tie. His hair was thinning at the front, and he was running to fat around the middle.
‘Mr Vernon?’ Banks asked.
‘Yes, that’s me. I’m afraid whatever it is, it’s not convenient at the moment. I don’t negotiate financial transactions of any kind on the doorstep.’
‘Very wise, sir, if I may say so. And I can’t say I blame you.’ Banks showed his warrant card. Winsome did likewise.
‘Police? What’s all this— Oh, it must be about the car. Of course. You’ve got it sorted? Sorry, do come in.’
They followed him into the hallway. A number of coats hung on pegs, and Vernon added Banks’s and Winsome’s to the row.
‘What is it, Daddy?’ asked a girl of about twelve, poking her head around the dining-room door.
‘Never you mind,’ said Vernon. ‘You finish your homework or your mummy will be angry with you.’
The head disappeared.
‘Come through here.’ Vernon led them into a comfortable but sterile living room. ‘I’ll just pop back in to tell Nancy what’s going on.’
‘You might ask your wife to come in here, too,’ Banks said. ‘We’d like to speak to her as well.’
‘Oh, all right. Very well. Please sit down.’
Banks and Winsome looked at one another. Winsome rolled her eyes. Banks glanced at the generic Constable-style landscape over the electric fireplace, then looked outside. It felt so strange sitting here looking at the street through the gauze curtains and remembering that he had a similar view for so many years — certainly, the houses were mirror images — and probably a similar life. The child, or children, he guessed as he heard the voices from the kitchen, the regularity of mealtimes, the domestic routine. But his life had never been exactly regular or routine. The very nature of his job prevented that, and that was one of the reasons for his expulsion from this Eden to the one where he lived now. Alone.
Vernon came back with Nancy in tow. She was wearing an apron and carrying a tea towel. She was a harried-looking woman, her hair in a mess, but she obviously kept herself in good shape, and her manner proved to be far less grating than that of her husband.
Trevor Vernon rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, where were we? Oh, yes. The car. Any progress?’
‘Progress?’ asked Winsome.
‘Yes. That idiot came tearing round the bend like a bloody maniac. And the road conditions were appalling.’
‘Well, it is Yorkshire, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘You have to make allowances for the weather.’
Vernon started at her, disbelieving. ‘Allowances? Is that all you can say? My wife and I were involved in a serious collision. Through no fault of our own, I might add. We could have died. Nancy here is a witness. And you go on about allowances. I want to know whether you’ve charged him yet. And what are the possibilities of compensation? Above and beyond the cost of a new car, that is.’