All the Colours of Darkness by Peter Robinson

All the Colours of Darkness by Peter Robinson

1

Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot thought it was a great shame that she
had to spend one of the most beautiful days of the year so far at a crime
scene, especially a hanging. She hated hangings. And on a Friday afternoon,
too.
Annie had been dispatched, along with Detective Sergeant Winsome
Jackman, to Hindswell Woods, just south of Eastvale Castle, where some
schoolboys spending the last day of their half-term holiday splashing in the
River Swain had phoned to say they thought they had seen a body.
The river ran swift, broad and shallow here, the colour of freshly pumped
beer, frothing around the mossy stones. Along the riverside footpath, the
trees were mostly ash, alder and wych-elm, their leaves a pale, almost
translucent green, trembling in the faint breeze. The scent of wild garlic
filled the air, clusters of midges hovered over the water, and on the other
side the meadows were full of buttercups, pignut and cranesbill. Tewits
twittered and flitted back and forth, nervous about people encroaching on
their ground nests. A few fluffy clouds drifted across the sky.
Four schoolboys, all aged about ten or eleven, sat hunched on the
boulders by the water, draped in towels or damp T-shirts, strips of pale skin,
white as tripe, exposed here and there, all the spirit crushed out of their
joyous play. They’d told the police that one of them had chased another off
the path into the woods above the river, and they had stumbled upon a body
hanging from one of the few oaks that still grew there. They had mobiles,
so one of them dialled 999 and they waited by the riverside. When the
police patrol officers and the ambulance crew arrived and took a look at the
body, they agreed there was nothing they could do, so they stayed well back
and radioed for the heavy brigade. Now it was Annie’s job to assess the
situation and decide on what action should be taken.
Annie left Winsome to take statements from the kids and followed the
patrol officer up the slope into the woods. Through the trees to her left, she
could see the ruins of Eastvale Castle high on its hill. Before long, just over
the rise, she caught a glimpse of a figure hanging from a length of yellow
clothesline on a low bough ahead of her, its feet about eighteen inches off
the ground. It made a striking contrast to the light green of the woods
because it – Annie couldn’t tell yet whether the shape was a man or a
woman – was dressed in an orange shirt and black trousers.
The tree was an old oak with a gnarled, thick trunk and knotty branches,
and it stood alone in a small copse. Annie had noticed it before on her
walks through the woods, where there were so few oaks that it stood out.
She had even made a sketch or two of the scene but had never translated
them into a fully fledged painting.
The uniformed officers had taped off the area around the tree, into which
entry would be severely restricted. “You checked for any signs of life, I
assume?” Annie asked the young constable making his way through the
undergrowth beside her.
“The paramedic did, ma’am,” he answered. “As best he could without
disturbing the scene.” He paused. “But you don’t have to get that close to
see that he’s dead.”
A man, then. Annie ducked under the police tape and inched forward.
Twigs snapped under her feet and last autumn’s leaves crackled. She didn’t
want to get so close that she might destroy or contaminate any important
trace evidence, but she needed a clearer idea of what she was dealing with.
As she stopped about ten feet away, she could hear a golden plover
whistling somewhere near by. Farther up, towards the moorland, a curlew
piped its mournful call. Closer by, Annie was aware of the officer panting
behind her after their trot up the hill, and of the lightest of breezes soughing
through leaves too fresh and moist to rustle.
Then there was the absolute stillness of the body.
Annie could see for herself that he was a man now. His head was closely
shaved, and what hair remained had been dyed blond. He wasn’t twisting at
the end of the rope, the way corpses do in movies, but hanging heavy and
silent as a rock from the taut yellow clothesline, which had almost buried
itself in the livid skin of his neck, now an inch or two longer than it had

All the Colours of Darkness by Peter Robinson