Abattoir Blues by Peter Robinson Page A

smoking. When Banks and Gerry flashed their warrant cards, the officers all straightened up, and the smokers trod out their cigarettes. Banks glanced down at the smudges on the wet concrete, then back at the culprits, who looked at him sheepishly.
    ‘Sorry, sir,’ one of them mumbled.
    ‘That’s all right, son,’ said Banks. ‘You can explain the contamination of the scene to the CSIs when they get here.’
    The officer turned beet red.
    ‘In the meantime,’ Banks went on, ‘don’t you think you could be doing something useful, like organising a house-to-house of the immediate area?’
    ‘What for, sir?’ asked one of the female officers.
    ‘What for? To find out if anybody heard or saw anything. What do you think?’
    ‘But we don’t know what happened yet,’ said one of the others.
    ‘That’s right, sir,’ the woman said. ‘It’s probably just a dead dog or a badger or something.’
    Banks sighed. ‘Well, how do you think you’ll find out? Standing around the car smoking, contaminating the scene?’
    ‘Besides,’ added the female officer, clearly a bit miffed at being bossed about, ‘I can’t see any houses around here. How are we supposed to organise a house-to—’
    ‘Just bloody get cracking and find some,’ snapped Banks, then he and Gerry turned away towards the hangar. Banks shook his head slowly. ‘Where do they get them from these days, Gerry?’
    Gerry smiled. ‘Don’t forget, sir, you were young once.’
    Banks flashed her a surprised glance, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. She was coming along nicely, he thought; she wouldn’t have dared talk to him like that six months ago.
    They found Winsome inside the hangar, to their right, taking photos with her mobile. The crime-scene photographer, if one were to be required, would cover every inch of the place soon, but many detectives liked to take their own set of pictures before the experts arrived, and capture the scene as freshly as they could. They sometimes came in useful. Banks took in the vast hangar, sniffing the air. Nothing specific registered with him. The wind sounded like a bassoon.
    Winsome turned at their arrival, and her eyes widened when she saw Banks. ‘Sir?’
    ‘I know, I know, I’m supposed to be on holiday. I just couldn’t resist the lure of a bloody crime scene. Tell me all about it.’
    Banks listened closely as Winsome told him the story of her morning. ‘Where’s this Gilchrist now?’ he asked, when she had finished.
    ‘I drove him home, sir.’
    ‘You didn’t—’
    ‘As if I would. I left two patrol officers guarding the scene. Gilchrist’s ex-army. Seems to know what he’s about, has his head screwed on right.’
    ‘Not an alarmist, then?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say so.’
    Banks looked at the stains on the ground. ‘Soldiers make good killers,’ he said. ‘It’s what they’re trained to do.’
    ‘He was wounded,’ Winsome said. ‘In Afghanistan. Walks with a stick.’
    ‘Did he have anything interesting to tell us?’
    ‘Not really, sir. Just that he grew up around here and the airfield’s always been like this as far as he remembers. Kids play there. He’s also noticed a few lorries coming or going over the past year or so.’
    Banks knelt by the stains on the ground, hearing his knees crack as he did so. ‘It certainly looks like blood and brains to me. Let’s say it is human. What happened? Someone shoots him, and he falls and bleeds out on the ground?’
    ‘Possibly,’ said Winsome. ‘Or stabs him. Then leaves the mess but takes the body away. If it were just an animal, I couldn’t really see anyone having a reason to do that.’
    Banks glanced at the stain. ‘There’s not really all that much blood, is there? Have you—’
    ‘I thought I’d better leave it to the CSIs.’
    Banks frowned at her. ‘Winsome, you’re developing an annoying habit of answering my questions before I’ve asked them.’
    ‘Yes, sir. You were going to ask if I’d