‘Thursday morning,’ said Banks. ‘But you said it’s almost certain he was killed between eleven and one the night before, and Dr Glendenning’s post-mortem confirmed it.’ Banks glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it was already after four o’clock in the afternoon. ‘That makes it about two and a half days from then until midday today. Definitely less than three days. Could this one have been dead even longer than you’re suggesting?’
‘Hard to say for certain, but I doubt it. After about four days the skin starts to get marble-like, and the veins come closer to surface, become more visible. That hasn’t happened yet. There’s also not much insect activity. Some signs of bluebottles and blowflies, but they’re always the first. Sometimes they come on the first day. The ants and beetles come later. I’d say Tuesday evening or Wednesday morning. That would be my preliminary guess, at any rate.’
‘Much appreciated,’ said Banks. If it was the same man who had phoned Bill Quinn around nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, it would have taken him probably about an hour to walk back to Garskill Farm from Ingleby, maybe a bit less, so he had to have been killed sometime after about ten o’clock on Tuesday evening and before, say, eleven on Wednesday evening.
Dr Burns turned the body slightly so that Banks could see the pooling, or hypostasis on his back and legs. ‘All that tells us in terms of time is that he’s been dead more than six hours,’ said Dr Burns.
‘But it also tells us that he more than likely died here and hasn’t been moved from that position, am I right?’
‘That’s right. You’re learning.’
‘So what killed him?’
Dr Burns said nothing for a few moments as he examined the body again, touched the hair and looked up at the roof. Then he examined the front and back for signs of fatal injuries. ‘There are no knife wounds or bullet entry points, as far as I can make out,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they’re hard to spot, especially a thin blade or a small calibre bullet, but I’ve been as thorough as I can under the circumstances.’
‘Blunt object trauma?’
‘You can see for yourself there’s nothing of that sort.’
‘So what killed him? Was he poisoned? Did he die of natural causes?’
‘He could have been poisoned, but that’ll have to wait until the post-mortem. As for natural causes, again, it’s possible, but given the bruising, the condition of his body, the rope marks, I’d say they rule it out somewhat.’ Dr Burns paused. ‘You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, and I don’t want you repeating this to anyone except your immediate team until the post-mortem has been conducted, but if it helps you at all, it’s my opinion that he drowned.’
‘Drowned?’
‘Yes. He was naked. His hands were bound behind his back.’ Dr Burns pressed the chest slightly. ‘And if I do that, you can just about hear a slight gurgling sound and feel the presence of water in the lungs. If I pressed much harder it would probably come out of his nose and mouth, but I don’t want to risk disturbing the body that much.’ He gestured to the trough of water, the twisted towels, lengths of rope and overturned chair. ‘In fact, if you ask me, this man died of drowning, probably in conjunction with waterboarding. Those towels by the trough are still wet.’
Banks stood up and took in everything Dr Burns had mentioned. He had never understood the term ‘waterboarding’. It sounded so much like a pleasant activity, something you do at the lake on a lazy summer afternoon, something you do for fun. Along with the rest of the world, he’d had a rude awakening when it hit the news so often over the last few years, especially when George Bush said he approved of it. Now he knew that waterboarding meant putting a cloth or towel over someone’s face and pouring water over it while they were lying on their back. It was said to be excruciatingly painful, and could cause death by dry drowning, a form of suffocation. ‘He didn’t die of the waterboarding, then?’
‘He could have,’ said Dr Burns. ‘Depends on the water in his lungs. Dr Glendenning will be able to do a more thorough examination than I can. If he finds petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes, which I am unable to see, then you could be right. You would get that in dry drowning, but not in the case of drowning by water. Rarely, at any rate.’
‘But you can’t see any?’
‘That doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Sometimes they’re no larger than pinpricks. You’ll have to wait for the post-mortem.’ Dr Burns stood up. ‘If he was drowned,’ he went on, ‘you should be able to find enough forensic information to prove it, to tie the water in his lungs to the water in the trough, for example. On the other hand, if he died of dry drowning as a result of waterboarding, you probably won’t find any water. There’s always a chance it was accidental. Torture isn’t an exact science. But if he was drowned in the trough, then the odds are somebody would have had to hold his head under until he died. It’s a natural human reaction to breathe, and we’ll use every ounce of strength we have to keep on doing so.’
‘How come you know so much about it?’ Banks asked.
‘I’ve been to some places nobody should ever have to go to,’ said Burns, then he picked up his bag and walked outside. ‘I’ll tell the helicopter pilot we’re ready for him,’ he said over his shoulder. Banks could remember when Burns was still wet around the ears. Now he had been to places where he had regularly seen the sort of things they had seen here today. Sometimes Banks wondered whether there was any innocence left in the world, and he felt terribly old.
By ten o’clock on Saturday night Banks felt like getting out of the house. He had been home only an hour or so, just enough time to eat his Indian takeaway, and he was feeling restless, tormented by the images of the dead bodies of Bill Quinn and the unknown man at Garskill Farm. He couldn’t concentrate on television, and even Bill Evans’s Sunday at the Village Vanguard CD didn’t help. He needed somewhere noisy, vibrant and full of life; he needed to be with people, surrounded by conversation and laughter. He realised that he had become a bit of a stop-at-home lately, cultivating a rather melancholy disposition, importing his solo entertainment via CDs and DVDs, but The Dog and Gun had folk night tonight, and Penny Cartwright was guest starring. There would still be time to catch a set.
Banks had met Penny on his second case in Eastvale, more than twenty years ago. She would be about fifty now, but back then she had been a young folk singer returning to her roots in Helmthorpe after forging some success in the big city, and her best friend had been killed. Over the years, her fame had grown, as much as a traditional folk singer’s fame can be said to grow, and she had recently moved to a larger house close to the river, which always seemed to be full of guests and passing visitors when she was in residence, many of them well known in folk circles. The wine flowed freely, and the gatherings always ended in a jam session and a mass sing-along. Though Banks had treated her as a suspect on the first case, and it took her many years to forgive him, she seemed comfortable enough with him now and had invited him to her home on occasion. He had joined in with the singing, but very quietly. He had hated his singing voice ever since the music teacher at school made everyone in class sing solo and gave them a mark out of twenty immediately after they had finished. Banks had got nine. He would never forget the public humiliation.