Off the Rails

∨ Off the Rails ∧

33

Accidental Death

Back in King’s Cross, underneath the closed Thameslink station, Dan Banbury was wedged inside the green plastic bin, grunting and complaining while Bryant and Hale trained their flashlights on him.

“No signs of violence on the body from what I can see, not that I can see anything. They haven’t got an extension cord long enough, can you believe it? We need to get him over to Camley Street. Giles is waiting for the delivery. He wasn’t thrilled about being dragged back to work at this time of night. Don’t come any closer if you’re not suited up. I don’t want your leavings all over my site.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” grunted Bryant, flicking off his flashlight to leave Banbury floundering about in the dark. “What the hell did Hillingdon think he was doing, playing silly buggers down here? John, where are you?”

“Over to your left,” May called. “The dust’s thick and undisturbed in this part. We’ve got a single set of footprints. Looks like he was alone.”

“So he boarded the last train by himself, somehow managed to pass through a number of solid walls, and wound up wandering about in a disused tunnel, whereupon he fell asleep and died for no reason.”

“That’s about the size of it,” called Banbury. “I’ve got his mouth open. There’s a strong trace of alcohol, and something else on his skin that I can’t place. Might be aftershave, I suppose. At least the mice haven’t been at him. The body position is suggestive. I’m wondering if he crawled in here just to stop the room from spinning. Come on, give me a hand getting out.”

“What are you saying – the booze made him haemorrhage?”

“There’s no blood or vomit that I can see. Perhaps he simply suffocated. Or suffered some kind of delayed allergic reaction to an ingredient in a cocktail. Anaphylactic shock. It happens. His hypostasis appears normal, which means he wasn’t moved after death. I’ll need to take samples and do the tests tonight, so I’ll be a while.”

“Come on, is that all you’ve got?” Bryant groused. “You’re telling me he couldn’t handle his drink? How am I supposed to fit that in with my theories?”

“You know the trouble with you, Mr Bryant?” Banbury called back.

“Why does everyone want to tell me what the trouble with me is?”

“You don’t communicate with other people. You develop these so-called theories and keep them all to yourself. How do I know what to look for if you don’t give me a clue about what’s going on in your head?”

“I don’t wish to make suggestions about what you should be finding,” said Bryant testily. “If I do that, the investigation is compromised. I want you to make deductions I can corroborate without twisting the facts to fit.” He had been accused of forcing his theories on others in the past, and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.

“I’m just here to assess the crime scene, if that’s what it is. At the moment I’m looking at a verdict of accidental death, although maybe some decent lighting will reveal something I’m missing at the moment.”

“Any money on him?”

“Why?”

“He could have been mugged earlier, suffered some kind of a stroke and lost his bearings down here.”

“He’s got a few loose coins. No phone, no asthma inhaler.” Banbury passed a wallet out to them. “Take a look at that, if you’re wearing gloves. It was in his jeans. No money in it, no credit cards, so maybe it was a robbery. He’s not wearing a coat. Sweat-marks on his shirt. He overheated. Probably threw off his top layers.”

“See if you can find them.”

Bryant flicked open the wallet and pulled out a handful of paper scraps, reminders to go to the bank and collect shopping, nothing of use. “Matthew Hillingdon is supposed to be in Russell Square, not the arse-end of King’s Cross.”

“Gloves,” Banbury reminded, “are you wearing them?”

Bryant ignored him. “I want this lad tested for drugs. Nice middle-class boy, he’s bound to have dabbled. His medical records were clean, no fits or dizzy spells, no history of seizures, nothing. No enemies, everybody liked him. Something wrong with that, for a start.”

“You’re a cynic, Mr Bryant.”

“If you live long enough, you will be, too.” Bryant pulled his scarf over his squat nose. “There’s a bad smell down here. Standing water. And I speak as one who knows.”

“Ah, yes, your little adventure through the city sewers,” said Banbury. “I’m amazed you didn’t get sick.”

“I’ve built up plenty of antibodies by eating Alma’s cooking. Do you need a hand getting him out?”

“No, Mr Hale and I can bag him and move him as far as the platform. Then we’ll need the med team to stretcher him. I’ll get some of these fibres off to Portishead, and bung out the dabs.”

“Can we afford it?”

“Only if it turns out to be murder, so we’ll have to take a gamble. They should have finished running a match on your students by now. Why don’t you go back up?”

“Come on, John, let’s get out of here.” Bryant pulled at his partner’s arm, but May remained in place, staring at the body that lay facedown in the bin. “What’s the matter?”

“He reminds me of Alex when he was a student,” said May quietly. “I’ve lost them both, haven’t I?”

“I know you and your son never saw eye to eye, but Alex moved to Toronto to follow his work. Staying with him will be a healthy change for April. She isn’t taking sides against you. She’ll come back when she’s ready, you’ll see.” Bryant was no diplomat, but he could recognise the problem from both sides. May’s granddaughter had little chance of leading a normal life while she worked at the Unit. She needed to be at peace with herself. “Come on, let’s see if we can find a pub that’s still open.”

May lingered near the corpse of the student. “We can go for them now,” he said at last. “Hillingdon’s misplaced travel card is just cause for a full property search. Let’s come down hard on those students. Get their phone records subpoenaed and their emails opened. I’ll want their laptops, phones, hard drives, PDAs, anything else they’ve got. If one of them is responsible we’ll find something that doesn’t make sense.”

“If you’re dealing with someone smart,” Banbury called back, “he’ll be using a Pay As You Go phone and keeping his texts and emails clean of evidence.”

“They’re college students,” May replied, nettled. “One of them will slip up. They won’t all manage to corroborate their stories. They’re already under stress. We need to light a fire beneath them.”

As they walked toward the surface their phone reception returned, and they received Longbright’s message, informing them that she had encountered the sharp end of Mr Fox’s silver skewer.