Read Online Final Account by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Robinson
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goodbye and went outside. On the way back, he slipped in a cassette of Busoniâs Bach transcriptions. The precise, ordered music had no influence on the chaos of his thoughts.
II
Back in his office, Banks first glanced at Dr Glendenningâs postmortem notes. Generally, there was no such thing as a preliminary post-mortem report, but Dr Glendenning usually condescended to send over the main points in laymanâs language as quickly as possible. He also liked to appear at the scene, but this time he had been staying overnight with friends in Harrogate.
There was nothing in the notes that Banks hadnât expected. Rothwell hadnât been poisoned before he was shot; the stomach contents revealed only pasta and red wine. Dr Glendenning gave cause of death as a shotgun wound to the occipital region, the back of head, most likely a contact wound given the massive damage to bone and tissue. He also noted that it was lucky they already knew who the victim was, as there wasnât enough connected bone or tissue left to reconstruct the face, and though the tooth fragments could probably be collected and analyzed, it would take a bloody long time. The blood group was âO,â which matched that supplied by Rothwellâs doctor, as well as that of about half the population.
Rothwell had most likely been killed in the place and position they found him, Dr Glendenning pointed out, because what blood remained had collected as purplish hypostasis around the upper chest and the ragged edges of the neck. He estimated time of death between eleven and one the previous night.
A cadaveric spasm had caused Rothwell to grab and hold onto a handful of dust at the moment of death, and Banks thought of the T.S. Eliot quotation, âI will show you fear in a handful of dust,â which he had come across as the title of an Evelyn Waugh novel.
Rothwell had been in generally good shape, Dr Glendenning said, and the only evidence of any ill health was an appendix scar. Rothwellâs doctor, Dr Hunter, was able to verify that Rothwell had had his appendix removed just over three years ago.
When Banks had finished, he phoned Sandra to say he didnât know when he would be home. She said that didnât surprise her. Then he went over to the window and looked down on the cobbled market square, most of which was covered by parked cars. The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at a quarter to four.
Banks lit a cigarette and watched the local merchants taking deliveries and the tourists snapping pictures of the ancient market cross and the Norman church front. It was fine enough weather out there, sports jacket warm, but the grey wash that had come at dawn still obscured the sunshine. On Banksâs Dalesman calendar, the May photograph showed a field of brilliant pink and purple flowers below Great Shunner Fell in Swaledale. So far, the real May had been struggling against showers and cool temperatures.
Sitting at his rattly metal desk, Banks next opened the envelope of Rothwellâs pocket contents and spread them out in front of him.
There were a few business cards in a leather slip-case, describing Rothwell as a âFinancial Consultant.â In his wallet were three credit cards, including an American Express Gold; the receipt from Marioâs on the night of his anniversary dinner; receipts from Austickâs bookshop, a computer supplies shop and two restaurants, all from Leeds, and all dated the previous week; and photos of Alison and Mary Rothwell. Happy families indeed. In cash, Rothwell had a hundred and five pounds in his wallet, in new twenties and one crumpled old fiver.
Other pockets revealed a handkerchief, good quality silk and monogrammed âKAR,â like the cufflinks on the body, BMW keys, house keys, a small pack of Rennies, two buttons, a gold Cross fountain pen, an empty leather-bound notebook andâhorror of horrorsâa packet of ten Benson and Hedges, six
II
Back in his office, Banks first glanced at Dr Glendenningâs postmortem notes. Generally, there was no such thing as a preliminary post-mortem report, but Dr Glendenning usually condescended to send over the main points in laymanâs language as quickly as possible. He also liked to appear at the scene, but this time he had been staying overnight with friends in Harrogate.
There was nothing in the notes that Banks hadnât expected. Rothwell hadnât been poisoned before he was shot; the stomach contents revealed only pasta and red wine. Dr Glendenning gave cause of death as a shotgun wound to the occipital region, the back of head, most likely a contact wound given the massive damage to bone and tissue. He also noted that it was lucky they already knew who the victim was, as there wasnât enough connected bone or tissue left to reconstruct the face, and though the tooth fragments could probably be collected and analyzed, it would take a bloody long time. The blood group was âO,â which matched that supplied by Rothwellâs doctor, as well as that of about half the population.
Rothwell had most likely been killed in the place and position they found him, Dr Glendenning pointed out, because what blood remained had collected as purplish hypostasis around the upper chest and the ragged edges of the neck. He estimated time of death between eleven and one the previous night.
A cadaveric spasm had caused Rothwell to grab and hold onto a handful of dust at the moment of death, and Banks thought of the T.S. Eliot quotation, âI will show you fear in a handful of dust,â which he had come across as the title of an Evelyn Waugh novel.
Rothwell had been in generally good shape, Dr Glendenning said, and the only evidence of any ill health was an appendix scar. Rothwellâs doctor, Dr Hunter, was able to verify that Rothwell had had his appendix removed just over three years ago.
When Banks had finished, he phoned Sandra to say he didnât know when he would be home. She said that didnât surprise her. Then he went over to the window and looked down on the cobbled market square, most of which was covered by parked cars. The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock stood at a quarter to four.
Banks lit a cigarette and watched the local merchants taking deliveries and the tourists snapping pictures of the ancient market cross and the Norman church front. It was fine enough weather out there, sports jacket warm, but the grey wash that had come at dawn still obscured the sunshine. On Banksâs Dalesman calendar, the May photograph showed a field of brilliant pink and purple flowers below Great Shunner Fell in Swaledale. So far, the real May had been struggling against showers and cool temperatures.
Sitting at his rattly metal desk, Banks next opened the envelope of Rothwellâs pocket contents and spread them out in front of him.
There were a few business cards in a leather slip-case, describing Rothwell as a âFinancial Consultant.â In his wallet were three credit cards, including an American Express Gold; the receipt from Marioâs on the night of his anniversary dinner; receipts from Austickâs bookshop, a computer supplies shop and two restaurants, all from Leeds, and all dated the previous week; and photos of Alison and Mary Rothwell. Happy families indeed. In cash, Rothwell had a hundred and five pounds in his wallet, in new twenties and one crumpled old fiver.
Other pockets revealed a handkerchief, good quality silk and monogrammed âKAR,â like the cufflinks on the body, BMW keys, house keys, a small pack of Rennies, two buttons, a gold Cross fountain pen, an empty leather-bound notebook andâhorror of horrorsâa packet of ten Benson and Hedges, six
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