CHAPTER 1

On nights when pain kept her awake, Lorraine Jensonwould get up around dawn and go outside to sit on oneof the wicker chairs before anyone else in the center wasstirring. With a tartan blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keepout the early-morning chill, she would listen to the birds sing as sheenjoyed a cup of Earl Grey, the aromatic steam curling from itssurface, its light, delicious scent filling her nostrils. She would smokeher first cigarette of the day, always the best one.

Some mornings, the small artificial lake below the sloping lawn wascovered in mist, which shrouded the trees on the other side. Othertimes, the water was a still, dark mirror that reflected the detail ofevery branch and leaf perfectly. On this fine April morning, the lakewas clear, though the water's surface was ruffled by a cool breeze, andthe reflections wavered.

Lorraine felt her pain slough off like a layer of dead skin as the painkillers kicked in, and the tea and cigarette soothed her frayed nerves.She placed her mug on the low wrought iron table beside her chairand adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. She was facing south,and the sun was creeping over the hill through the trees on her left.Soon the spell would be broken. She would hear the sounds of peoplegetting up in the building behind her, voices calling, doors opening,showers running, toilets flushing, and another day to be got throughwould begin.

As the light grew stronger, she thought she could see something,like a bundle of clothes, on the ground at the edge of the woods onthe far side of the lake. That was unusual, as Barry, the head groundsmanand general estate manager, was proud of his artificial lake andhis natural woodlands, so much so that some people complained hespent far more time down there than he did keeping the rest of theextensive grounds neat and tidy.

Lorraine squinted, but she couldn't bring the object into clearerfocus. Her vision was still not quite what it had been. Gripping thearms of her chair, she pushed herself to her feet, gritting her teeth atthe red hot pokers of pain that seared through her left leg, despite theOxycontin, then she took hold of her crutch and made her way downthe slope. The grass was still wet with dew, and she felt it fresh andcool on her bare ankles as she walked.

When she got to the water's edge, she took the cinder path thatskirted the lake and soon arrived on the other side, at the edge of thewoods, which began only a few feet away from the water. Even beforethen, she had recognized what it was that lay huddled there. Thoughshe had seen dead bodies before, she had never actually stumbledacross one. She was alone with the dead now, for the first time sinceshe had stood by her father's coffin in the funeral home.

Lorraine held her breath. Silence. She thought she heard a rustlingdeep in the woods, and a shiver of fear rippled through her. If thebody were a victim of murder, then the killer might still be out there,watching her. She remained completely still for about a minute, untilshe was certain there was nobody in the woods. She heard the rustlingagain and saw a fox making its way through the undergrowth.

Now that she was at the scene, Lorraine's training kicked in. Shewas wary of disturbing anything, so she kept her distance. Much asshe wanted to move in closer and examine the body, see if it wassomeone she knew, she restrained herself. There was nothing shecould do, she told herself; the way he - for it was definitely a man - waskneeling with his body bent forward, head touching the groundlike a parody of a Muslim at prayer, there was no way he was still alive.The best thing she could do was stay here and protect the scene.Murder or not, it was definitely a suspicious death, and whatever shedid, she could not screw up now. Cursing the pain that rippled throughher leg whenever she moved, Lorraine fumbled for her mobile in herjeans pocket and phoned Eastvale police station.

There was something about Bach that suited the early morningperfectly, DCI Alan Banks thought as he drove out of Gratly towardthe St. Peter's Police Convalescence and Treatment Center, four milesnorth of Eastvale, shortly after dawn that morning. He needed somethingto wake him up and keep his attention engaged, get the old graycells buzzing, but nothing too loud, nothing too jarring or emotionallytaxing. Alina Ibragimova's CD of Bach's sonatas and partitas for violinwas just right. Bach both soothed and stimulated the mind at once.Banks knew St. Peter's. He had visited Annie Cabbot there severaltimes during her recent convalescence. Just a few short months ago hehad seen her in tears trying to walk on crutches, and now she was dueback at work on Monday. He was looking forward to that; life hadbeen dull for the past while without her.

He took the first exit from the roundabout and drove alongside thewall for about a hundred yards before arriving at the arched entranceand turning left on the tarmac drive. There was no gate or gatehouse,but the first officers to arrive on the scene had quite rightly taped offthe area. A young PC waved Banks down to check his ID and note hisname and time of entry on a clipboard before lifting the tape andletting him through.

Driving up to the car park was like arriving at a luxury spa hotel,Banks had always thought when he visited Annie. It was no differenttoday. St. Peter's presented a broad south facing facade at the top ofthe rise that led down to the lake and surrounding woods. Designedby a firm of Leeds architects, with Vanbrugh in mind, and built oflocal stone in the late nineteenth century, it was three stories high andhad a flagged portico, complete with simple Doric columns at thefront and two wings, east and west. Though not so extensive as someother local examples, the grounds were landscaped very much in thestyle and spirit of Capability Brown, with the lake and woods androlling lawns. There was even a folly. To the west, beyond the treesand lawns, the outlines of Swainsdale's hills and fells could be seen,forming a backdrop of what the Japanese called borrowed scenery,which merged nature with art.

The forensic team had got there before Banks, which seemed odduntil he remembered that a detective inspector had made the initialcall. Kitted out in disposable white coveralls, they were already goingabout their business. The crime scene photographer, Peter Darby, wasat work with his battered old Nikon SLR and his ultramodern digitalvideo recorder. Most So Cos - or CSIs, as they now liked to becalled - also took their own digital photos and videos when theysearched a scene, but though Peter Darby accepted the use of video, heshunned digital photography as being far too susceptible to tamperingand error. It made him a bit of a dinosaur, and one or two of theyounger techies cracked jokes behind his back. He could counter byboasting that he had never had any problems with his evidence incourt, and he had never lost an image because of computer problems.DI Lorraine Jenson, a lone, hunched figure resting her weight on acrutch by the water's edge and jotting in her notebook, stood withtwo other people about five or six yards away from the body. Banksknew her slightly from a case he had worked a few months ago thatcrossed the border into Humberside, where she worked. Not long ago,he had heard, she'd had a run-in with a couple of drug dealers in atower block, which ended with her falling from a second-floor balcony.She had sustained multiple fractures of her left leg, but aftersurgery, the cast and physio, she would be back at work soon enough.

"What a turn-up," she said. "Me finding a body."

Banks gestured toward the CSIs. "I see you've already called in thelads."

"Judgment call. I thought it best not to waste any time. The divisionalduty inspector made all the decisions." She turned to introducethe others. "By the way, this is Barry Sadler, estate manager, andMandy Pemberton, the night nurse."

Banks greeted them, then asked them if they would mind returningto the main building, where they would be asked for statements. Stillin shock, they headed up the slope.

"Who's the crime scene manager?" Banks asked Lorraine.

"Stefan Nowak."

"Excellent." Stefan Nowak was one of the best. He would protecthis scene to the death, if necessary, but he was still a delight to workwith, Banks found, a charming, witty and intelligent man. Banksglanced toward the body, slumped forward by the tree line. "Knowwho he is?"

"Not yet," said Lorraine. "But I might when I see his face. If he'sfrom here, that is."

It was too early for Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, wholived in Saltburn, so the police surgeon, Dr. Burns, knelt over thebody making notes in his little black book. Banks squatted beside himand watched, hands on his knees.

"Ah, Alan," said Burns. "I'd like to get him turned over, if I may?"

"Peter Darby finished with his camera?"

"Yes."

Banks studied the body for a few moments and, finding nothingparticularly interesting or unusual about it except for its odd position,helped Dr. Burns. Carefully, they turned the body over on its back. Assoon as they had done so, they exchanged puzzled glances. Banksstood up. He heard Lorraine Jenson, hovering over them, give a faintgasp.

Something was sticking out of the man's chest. On first appearances,it resembled the kind of wooden stake that Van Helsing wieldedto kill vampires in the old Hammer films, though it had feathers onthe end, like an arrow. But it was too deeply embedded to be anordinary arrow. "Looks like a crossbow bolt," said Banks.

"I think you're right," Dr. Burns agreed.

"We don't get many of those around these parts." In fact, Bankscouldn't remember ever investigating a crossbow murder before."I can hardly say it's my area of expertise, either," said Dr. Burns."I'm sure Dr. Glendenning will be able to tell you more, once he getshim on the table." Dr. Burns stood up. His knees cracked. "From theposition and angle, I'd say it almost certainly pierced his heart. Hewould have died almost instantaneously. Of course, he might havebeen poisoned first, but there are no apparent signs of strangulation,bruising or other physical trauma."

"Do you reckon he was killed here, or was he moved after death?"Dr. Burns unbuttoned the man's shirt and examined the shouldersand chest area. "These are lividity marks, hypostasis, which meanshe's been in this position for some time, and the blood has pooled here.But I can't say for certain. Not until Dr. Glendenning does the PM. Itcertainly seems as if he dropped to his knees, then keeled over and fellforward, so that his head rested on the ground. You can see there aretraces of blood on the grass there, approximately where his heartwould have been directly above it. That's consistent with his injuries.There isn't much blood. Most of the bleeding will have been internal."Dr. Burns pointed toward the woods. "The shot probably camefrom where those CSIs are working around that tree, say fifty, sixtyfeet away. Hard to miss at that range, but it means your shooter couldalso stay hidden by the trees, in case anyone from the center happenedto be watching out of a window."

Banks glanced at Lorraine Jenson, who was still staring, horrified,at the crossbow bolt in the man's chest. "He seems vaguely familiar tome," said Banks, "but I've met a lot of coppers in my time. Do yourecognize him now, Lorraine?"

Lorraine nodded slowly, a little pale. "It's Bill," she said. "DI BillQuinn. He was a patient here, too."

"Bloody hell," said Banks. "Bill Quinn. I thought I recognizedhim."

"You knew him, too?"

"Only in passing. He worked out of Millgarth, in Leeds, with DIKen Blackstone." Banks paused and turned back to Dr. Burns, whowas busy with his thermometer. "Time of death?"

"As usual, I can't be really precise. You've seen the lividity. Rigor'sstarted, but it isn't complete yet. Judging by the temperature, I'd sayhe's been dead about seven or eight hours. I'd guess that he was killedno later than one in the morning, say, and no earlier than eleven lastnight. Of course, that's only an estimate. You might do better pinningdown his movements, such as when he was last seen. It shouldn't betoo difficult in a place like this."

"Just hoping you might be able to save us some time."

"Sorry. Perhaps—"

"Actually, you have," said Banks. "Two hours is a pretty goodwindow to work with. Wouldn't it have been too dark for the killer toshoot?"

"As I said, the killer was probably pretty close," Dr. Burns answered."Maybe even closer than I estimated. It was a clear night, andthere was a bright three-quarters moon, very few clouds. The victimwould have made an easy enough target against the backdrop of thebuilding, especially if the killer knew his way around a crossbow. Idon't think it would have been too difficult at all."

Banks squatted again and went through the dead man's pockets. Hefound nothing and decided that that, in itself, was odd. When hementioned it, Dr. Burns said, "Maybe he left his stuff in his room?You don't usually need your wallet and mobile if you're just nippingout for a quick walk before bedtime."