The rest of the team had headed off on their assigned tasks, which mostly involved showing Ray’s sketch of ‘Mia’ around the pubs, cafés and coffee houses of Eastvale College. A few members of Ken Blackstone’s team were doing the same thing in Leeds.
Banks had already heard from Winsome, who had quickly discovered that no one resembling Mia had ever worked behind the bar at Hadfield’s golf club. Gerry, who had remained in the squad room along with Annie, researching Anthony Randall, had not managed to dig up any serious dirt on the doctor. He hadn’t been struck off, not even close, though there had been a minor incident some years ago in which a young female intern had made a complaint of sexual harassment against him. Apparently, the charges had been investigated and dropped, the doctor completely exonerated, which was hardly likely to happen today, Banks thought. But it was something, and he had asked Gerry to follow up, to try to find the complainant and get the details.
Annie also told Banks about a phone conversation she had had the previous night with Poppy Hadfield, the upshot of which was that Laurence Hadfield had more than one mobile phone, though only one was ever found at Rivendell.
Before Banks got back to his desk, there was a soft knock at his door and Jazz Singh walked in carrying a slim folder.
‘Come bearing good tidings?’ Banks asked, offering her a seat.
Jazz sat down. ‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘Do tell.’
‘I’ve finished the DNA comparison between the hair found in Laurence Hadfield’s bath drain and Adrienne Munro’s, and the short version is, it’s a match.’
Banks leaned back, trying to put this new piece of the puzzle in its correct place. ‘Short version?’ he said.
Jazz waved her hand. ‘Just technical stuff, that’s all. We were lucky to get enough hairs with follicles to make the comparison. As you know, comparing hairs themselves is hit and miss at best.’
‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘And likely to get thrown out as evidence in any trial.’
Jazz nodded. ‘But this is solid. I won’t bore you with the numbers, it’s all in the report, but take it from me, one way or another, some of Adrienne Munro’s hair found its way down Laurence Hadfield’s plughole.’
‘Could she have died there?’
‘She could. Or maybe she just had a bath there. On the whole, I’d go for the former.’
‘Is it possible she drowned, or was drowned?’
Jazz shook her head. ‘No. I thought that myself at first so I went over the post-mortem report again in detail. First of all, there are no signs of bruising on her body, which you would almost certainly find if someone had held her head under water.’
‘And second?’
‘No water in the lungs. Which she would definitely have had if she had been drowned.’
‘So we can stick with our original cause of death?’
‘I think so.’ Jazz paused. ‘There was something else in that bag full of gunk the CSIs brought me, and on further analysis it turned out to be a small amount of Adrienne Munro’s vomit.’
‘You mean—’
‘Yes, she was sick in the bath.’
‘And she died of asphyxiation due to inhaling her own vomit while unconscious, so...’
‘So, she very likely died there.’
‘Thanks, Jazz,’ Banks said. ‘That’s brilliant.’
And it was, but it didn’t solve the case, he realised. If there was a case to solve. Both Adrienne Munro and Laurence Hadfield were dead, so even if Hadfield had been responsible for Adrienne’s death, there was nothing to be done about it now. Randall, on the other hand, was still alive and well. And Mia.
‘With a bit more time, I should be able to find traces of methaqualone in the vomit, too,’ Jazz went on. ‘If there are any, that is. It’s a small sample. That would probably clinch it as far as the CPS are concerned.’
‘Anything else?’
Jazz stood up. ‘Isn’t that enough for you? Jeez, I don’t know. You give the man gold and he wants diamonds for icing. No, there isn’t anything else. As I said, just the numbers and technical details. I’ll get back to you on the methaqualone as soon as I can.’
‘I appreciate that, Jazz. Thanks.’
‘Just doing my job.’
After she left, Banks leaned back in his chair and wondered what had happened at Hadfield’s house that night. When Adrienne had died in his bathtub, had he called Randall to try and resuscitate her sometime between eight and eleven that evening? If he had, he must have used another mobile as there was no record of a call to Randall on the phone they’d found in his study. In the circumstances, that was probably exactly what he would have done. And if Hadfield had another phone, a pay-as-you-go, it had definitely disappeared. Clearly, Randall hadn’t succeeded in the resuscitation, so had they then disposed of Adrienne’s body together? But what could have persuaded Randall, with his career at stake, to help even a friend like Laurence Hadfield dispose of a body? Did Hadfield have something on him?
And then what happened? How had Hadfield ended up dead on Tetchley Moor? Had he gone there with Randall for some reason, and had Randall pushed him into the gully? Again, if so, why? A falling out of some sort, obviously, but over what? Every development in this case seemed to raise a dozen more questions or objections. There were no signs of foul play on Hadfield’s body, though both Dr Burns and Dr Glendenning did say that it was possible he had been pushed into the gully. A gentle shove was all it would have taken, and that wouldn’t have left any marks. So had Randall taken him to the abandoned Ford Focus first to dump Adrienne, then killed him on the way back? And what role did Sarah Chen have in all this? Why was she killed, and by whom? Then there was Mia.
The phone rang and interrupted his chain of thought. It was Ken Blackstone calling from Leeds. ‘Ah, Ken,’ Banks said. ‘I was going to call you about putting someone on watch at Anthony Randall’s place.’
‘Already done,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ve got someone here who met Mia. I think you’d better come down and hear her story for yourself. Can you get away?’
‘I can make it in about forty-five minutes to an hour. I’ll bring Annie with me. OK?’
Banks could hear muffled voices on the end of the line, then Blackstone came back on the line. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Apparently, we’re quite happy to wait as long as there’s another drink in it. We’re in the Original Oak. Headingley.’
Banks and Annie made it to the Original Oak in fifty-two minutes, Creedence Clearwater Revivals’s greatest hits on the stereo speeding them on their way. He pulled up in a side street near the pub just as ‘Up Around the Bend’ was finishing. Annie gave him a look of relief when the music stopped.
‘What’s up? You don’t like Creedence?’ he said.
‘I’d rather have a bit of Barry Manilow or Neil Diamond, to be honest.’
‘I give up,’ said Banks.
Annie grinned. ‘Maybe on the way back.’
They walked into the busy pub and found Ken Blackstone with DC Sharon Musgrave, who had been showing the likeness of Mia around the student haunts, sitting in a corner with a young woman, who seemed to be happily tucking into a plateful of fish and chips, a half-finished pint of what looked like lager beside it.
Blackstone shrugged as if it to say it was only a minor bribe, and Banks and Annie sat down. ‘Leila didn’t want to go to the station, but she was happy enough to wait here and have a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘We didn’t see any reason to disagree, as she’s done nothing wrong.’