‘It’s probably one of those smartphones that needs a fingerprint,’ he said.
‘We can do that at the mortuary.’
Banks looked at Winsome. ‘Yes, I suppose we can. It just feels sort of... I don’t know. Creepy. Like those movies where the baddies cut off someone’s finger to get access to the vault.’
Winsome smiled. ‘We don’t have to cut her finger off, guv. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to watch some terrible movies.’
‘I suppose I do. Anyway, we’ll hand the phone over to the techies and see if we can get a print-out of her emails and texts by tomorrow, along with a list of her phone calls and contacts.’
The walls were painted cheerful colours, mostly yellow and orange, which Banks found a bit OTT, being more into muted blues and greens. Several posters were tacked up here and there; instead of pop stars or actors they featured National Geographic pictures showing a variety of wild animals — lions, leopards, elephants — along with a star chart and a reproduction of Breughel’s The Fall of Icarus. There were also posters advertising a recent Tosca at Covent Garden, Simon Rattle conducting Mahler’s 7th at the Barbican and Nicola Benedetti with her violin poised for a performance at the Royal Festival Hall. No Harry Styles or Justin Bieber. A serious young woman, then, or so it seemed.
Adrienne owned a Dali Klatch Bluetooth speaker, a pair of expensive Bowers and Wilkins headphones and an Astell & Kern AK70 portable music player. All expensive gadgets. Banks whistled between his teeth and picked up the AK70. He had considered buying one himself after Apple cruelly discontinued the iPod Classic. He scanned the contents. There were a few pop bands and singers he had never heard of, except for Radiohead and Parquet Courts, but the bulk of her music was classicaclass="underline" Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, Bach, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, a few Verdi and Puccini operas, even violin works by some contemporary composers like Ligeti, Tavener and John Adams. He was impressed. A violin rested in its case on the armchair, a selection of sheet music beside it on a music stand: Fauré’s ‘Après un rêve’ and the meditation from Massenet’s Thaïs. A competent violinist, then, as well as an agricultural sciences student. Adrienne Munro became more interesting the more he found out about her.
The small wardrobe was filled with clothes, including distressed jeans, fashionable blazers and assorted tops as well as more formal skirts and dresses, like the one she had been wearing when they found her. They were all good quality, though not top designer labels. She also owned a row of fashionable shoes, from sandals and trainers to court shoes, high heels, strappy sandals, like the ones she had been wearing, and leather and suede ankle boots. It wasn’t hard to see where any spare cash Adrienne Munro might have had went. Clothes and gadgets. But how much spare cash did a student have these days? Did she have a part-time job? Rich parents? Banks didn’t think so.
Banks also wondered whether Adrienne had a boyfriend. Though most women balked at the idea that they dressed for anyone other than themselves, he nevertheless regarded Adrienne’s wardrobe as one at least as calculated to impress men as to please herself. But there was no evidence of a boyfriend in her bedsit. No stray socks, extra toothbrush or condoms.
Nor was there any evidence of drug use. And there wasn’t any booze at all.
‘It certainly doesn’t look as if she died here,’ Winsome said. ‘Though I’m not sure how we’d tell.’
‘If she did,’ said Banks, ‘she didn’t lie down on the bed to do it, and it’s hardly something you’d do sitting or standing, is it? Don’t you think it’s odd that there are no signs of a handbag or a purse, either here or in the car?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Winsome. ‘I was going to mention that at the scene. Most girls her age wouldn’t go anywhere without a lipstick, money or credit cards, and keys. And a mobile, of course.’
‘That’s what I thought. But she left that here. Why? And where’s the rest of her personal stuff?’
‘I suppose if someone’s intent on committing suicide, they don’t necessarily think the way they would normally,’ she said. ‘I mean, the way most of us do. Anyway, I’ll ask around.’
‘Just another mystery to add to the list.’ Banks took a final look around the bedsit and saw nothing he had missed on first glance. He checked his watch and touched Winsome’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we’d better call the control room and get some CSIs out here asap. And someone to preserve the scene until they get here. We should head back to the infirmary now. The Munros will be arriving soon, and we owe it to them to be there to meet them.’
It was after ten o’clock when Banks got home to Newhope Cottage, having dropped off Adrienne’s phone and laptop with IT for analysis first thing in the morning. Adrienne’s parents had been too distraught to talk when they came in to identify the body, so he had arranged to drive up to Stockton and interview them the following day. He remembered how, in the cold, dreary mortuary, Mr Munro had tearfully identified his daughter’s body because his wife had been too upset to look at her. Winsome had offered them the services of a local doctor, accommodation in town and counselling, but they had insisted on returning to the family home, the only place they thought they would feel ‘right’. At least they had agreed to phone Mrs Munro’s mother, who lived in Middlesbrough, and she had said she would be waiting in the house with a pot of tea brewing when they got back.
The postman hadn’t called at the cottage before Banks had left for work that morning, but there was nothing of interest waiting for him on the mat behind the door. He had ordered no CDs recently, having gone much more digital in his listening, exploring the world of lossless downloads, and he even got his copy of Gramophone directly on his iPad. Though he liked the ability to browse the archive, he missed turning the pages, the feel of a real magazine in his hands, and thought he might change his subscription to include the print version. He thought of Adrienne’s Astell & Kern and, once again, thought it might well be worth buying one. Streaming was all well and good when you had a Wi-Fi signal, but he liked to listen in the car, and on headphones while he walked, and he was running out of space on his Classic. He could use his smartphone, he supposed, but he associated that too closely with work.
He had eaten only a ham and tomato sandwich from the police station canteen that day, so after turning up the thermostat a notch, he went through to the kitchen and found some aged cheddar and Rustique Camembert in the fridge. The crackers in his cupboard were a bit stale and tended to bend rather than snap, so he binned them. The cheese would be just fine by itself. Or rather, it would be fine with a glass of wine.
He turned on the TV on its ledge above the breakfast nook to watch the news, but quickly turned it off again. The world news had been depressing throughout most of his life, but this past two or three years, it had seemed even more so, with the parade of creepy and dangerous clowns that British and American politics had become, the nuclear threat growing and Russia up to her old habits.
Banks went through to the entertainment room and selected a CD of Chet Baker live in London, recorded in 1983. Baker was supposed to be well past his prime then, ruined by drugs, and not many years away from his mysterious demise after a fall from a high window in Amsterdam. But Banks thought it an excellent concert, and Baker was in terrific form. Music playing, he took his cheese and wine through to the conservatory.