Free Watching the Dark (Inspector Banks Mystery) by Peter Robinson Page B

thought it was some sort of modern psycho-babble, but he knew that in their case there could be no rest, no peace, until their daughter’s body was recovered and returned home.
    ‘Did your father have much contact with Rachel’s family?’
    ‘None. Except when she first disappeared, I suppose.’
    ‘He didn’t stay in touch?’
    ‘No. Why would he?’
    ‘No reason. They didn’t . . . you know . . . blame him, or anything?’
    ‘He didn’t need them to blame him. He managed that all by himself.’
    Banks realised that Jessica was probably right. The Rachel Hewitt connection was interesting, but that was all it was, just another item to drop in the bulging file, along with Harry Lake, Stephen Lambert and Warren Corrigan. Soon they would have even more material from West Yorkshire, and a whole host of other names from Quinn’s past to sift through. There was nothing more Banks could think of, so he stood up to leave. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked Jessica at the door.
    ‘Here. Why? It’s not a crime scene, is it?’
    ‘Well, it is, really . . . technically . . . the break-in . . . It’s obviously connected with what happened to your father. But the CSIs have already gathered all the evidence they can, and they’ll be taking the rest of his papers away. They should be finished here soon.’
    ‘Well . . .?’
    ‘I just thought . . . I mean, are you sure you want to stay here? Is there someone I can call for you? A relative? Boyfriend?’
    ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine. Really. Robbie will be here soon. We’ll probably just get pissed.’
    A very good idea, Banks thought, but he didn’t say so.

Chapter 3
    Banks arrived in his office early on Friday morning after a quiet evening at home listening to Kate Royal, watching the first in the Treme series and sipping the best part of a bottle of Rioja. So much for cutting back.
    He had phoned Stefan Nowak, the Crime Scene Manager, as the team was packing up at St Peter’s around sunset the previous evening. They had finished their search of the woods and lake, and had found no sign of a weapon. They had, however, found a cigarette end close to the body, some synthetic fibres, and traces of what might have been blood from a scratch on the tree trunk where they thought the killer had leaned. There was also a fresh footprint that definitely wasn’t Bill Quinn’s. Their expert said that, at first glance, it was a common sort of trainer you could buy anywhere, but they might be able to get a bit more detail from it. There was often a correlation between shoe size and height, for example, and measurements could give them at least a working estimate of how tall the person who wore them was, and how much he or she weighed. Any distinguishing marks on one or both of the soles could be as individual as a fingerprint.
    DS Keith Palmer and his team had finished searching Bill Quinn’s house and allotment in Rawdon, including his garden shed. They had even dug up a good deal of the allotment, but had found nothing.
    Banks linked his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair and listened to Ravel’s ‘Gaspard de la Nuit’ on Radio Three’s Breakfast . As he glanced around his office, he realised that he had been in the same room for over twenty years, and that it had only been redecorated once, as far as he could remember. He didn’t much care about the institutional green walls, as they were covered in framed prints and posters for concerts and exhibitions – Hockney’s Yorkshire scenes, Miles Davis at Newport, Jimi Hendrix at Winterland, a Chagall poster for the Paris Opera – but he certainly needed a newer and bigger desk, one that didn’t require a piece of wadded-up paper under one of its legs. He could do with another filing cabinet, too, he thought, as his gaze settled on the teetering pile of paper on top of the one he had already. A couple of shelves and an extra bookcase wouldn’t go amiss, either, and perhaps a chair