Free Piece of My Heart by Peter Robinson Page A

theory, DC Jackman,” said Gervaise. “But that’s all it is, isn’t it, a theory?”
    “Yes, ma’am. For the moment.”
    “And we need facts.”
    That was pretty much self-evident in any investigation, Banks thought. Of course you wanted facts, but until you got them you played around with theories, you used what you did have, then you applied a bit of imagination, and as often as not you came up with an approximation of the truth, which was what he thought Winsome was doing. So Ms. Gervaise wanted to establish herself as a just-the-facts, no-fancy-theories kind of superintendent. Well, so be it. The squad would soon learn to keep their theories to themselves, but Banks hoped her attitude wouldn’t completely crush their creativity and wouldn’t stop them confiding their theories in him. It was all very well to come in with an attitude, but it was another thing if that attitude destroyed the delicate balance that had already been achieved over time.
    They were drastically short of DCs, having recently lost Gavin Rickerd, their best office manager, to the new Neighbourhood Policing Initiative, where he was working with community support officers and specials to tackle the anti-social behaviour that was becoming increasingly the norm all over the country, especially on a Saturday night in Eastvale. Gavin hadn’t been replaced yet, and in his absence the job this time had gone to one of the uniformed constables, hardly the ideal choice, but the best they could do right now.
    Banks wanted Winsome Jackman and Kev Templeton doing what they did best–tracking down information and following leads–and when it came to that, Detective Sergeant Hatchley had always been a bit slow and lazy. His physical presence used to help intimidate the odd suspect or two, but these days the ex–rugby player’s muscle had gone mostly to fat, and the police weren’t allowed to intimidate villains anymore. Villains’ Rights had put paid to that, or so it sometimes seemed, especially since a burglar had fallen off the roof of awarehouse he had broken into last summer, then sued the owner for damages and won.
    “I’m trying to get in touch with the DVLA in Swansea,” Winsome said, “but it’s Saturday. They’re closed and I can’t seem to track down my contact.”
    “Keep trying,” said Superintendent Gervaise. “Is there anything else?”
    Winsome consulted her notes. “DS Templeton and I interviewed the people in the Cross Keys and took statements. Nothing new there. And when the lights came on we made a quick check of their outer clothing for signs of blood. There were none.”
    “What’s your take on this?” Gervaise asked Banks.
    “I don’t have enough facts yet to form an opinion,” Banks said.
    The irony wasn’t lost on Superintendent Gervaise, who pursed her lips. She looked as if she had just bitten into a particularly vinegary pickle. Banks noticed Annie look away and smile to herself, pen against her lips, shaking her head slowly.
    “I understand you entered a licensed premises during the early stages of the investigation yesterday evening,” Gervaise said.
    “That’s right.” Banks wondered who had been talking, and why.
    “I suppose you know there are regulations governing drinking whilst on duty?”
    “With all due respect,” Banks said, “I didn’t go there for a drink. I went to question possible witnesses.”
    “But you did have a drink?”
    “While I was there, yes. I find it puts people at ease. They see you as more like they are, not as the enemy.”
    “Duly noted,” said Gervaise dryly. “And did you find any cooperative witnesses?”
    “Nobody seemed to know very much about the victim,” Banks said. “He was renting a cottage. He wasn’t a local.”
    “On holiday at this time of year?”
    “That’s what I wondered about.”
    “Find out what he was doing there. That might help us get to the bottom of this.”
    Quite the one for dishing out obvious orders, was Superintendent