Sleeping in the Ground: An Inspector Banks Novel (Inspector Banks Novels)

by Peter Robinson

  “All week. I head home tomorrow. Southampton.”

  “You’re on your own?”

  “Yes. A walking holiday. Sort of compensation. I’m . . . well, I just split up with my girlfriend.”

  “Sorry to hear it. So you’ve been out and about a lot this week, then?”

  “I suppose so.” He grinned. “Walking away the pain, you could say.”

  “Have you ever seen either the man or the car before?”

  “Not the man, no, but the car was there on Thursday.”

  “Thursday? Two days ago?”

  “Right.”

  “Same spot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure it was the same car?”

  “I never saw the number plate, so I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I think so. It was the same color, and it was an SUV.”

  What were the odds of another black SUV being parked in the same remote lay-by two days earlier? Banks wondered. Probably very small. So the shooter had been out on at least one reconnaissance mission. He must have heard about the wedding somewhere, or read about it in the local press, specifically targeted it, picked his spot, checked out the lie of the land. Annie had said it was something of a celebrity wedding. Could that be a motive? A stalker of some sort? There were still many lines of inquiry to pursue, but Gareth’s information had given Banks a degree of focus he hadn’t had before. Now he knew at least that the killer had driven away from the scene in a black people mover, rather than heading for a bolt-hole on the moors, which agreed with what Terry Gilchrist said about seeing him hurrying down the hillside. It didn’t mean they could call off the search of the moors completely, as he could have dumped the people mover and struck out over open country, but they could probably afford to scale it down and concentrate on tracking the vehicle.

  “OK.” Banks gestured to Gerry, who closed her notebook, then he turned to Gareth. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.” He handed the youth his card. “If you remember anything else, however minor you think it is, please call me.”

  “Do you know . . . how many?” he asked.

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Gareth hung his head. “It feels terrible, you know. To have been so close and not known, not been able to do anything.”

  Banks stood up and rested his hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “You should think yourself lucky you were over the ridge, out of the way. A walking stick isn’t much use against a powerful rifle. Take care.”

  As they walked to the car, Banks asked Gerry to check Gareth Bishop’s story. “I know he seemed honest,” he said, “but stranger things have happened than killers interposing themselves into the investigation. We’d look like a proper pair of ninnies if it turns out he did it all along. I’d like you and Doug to check his alibi at the Lamb and Flag—find out what time he arrived and how long he was there—then check the walk he says he did just to make sure he isn’t lying about what he could and couldn’t see or hear. Get him to show you it tomorrow morning, if you like. Tell him it’s a reenactment.”

  “What about his room at the hostel, sir?” said Gerry.

  “The search team will get to it. They’re doing the whole place. Though if Gareth did have anything to do with the shooting, he’s no doubt got rid of the gun by now.”

  Back at the mobile incident vehicle parked beside the church, Banks asked if there had been any developments. There hadn’t, and the only comfort Banks could take from that scrap of news was that nobody else had been shot.

  3

  Banks arrived at the boardroom in Eastvale Regional HQ just before eight o’clock that Saturday evening and found the whiteboards already plastered with photographs of the victims. The ancient wool merchants with their purple-veined noses, whiskers and roast-beef complexions, staring down from their gilt frames on the walls, would probably wonder what on earth was going on. Because of the nature and scale of the crime, the usual team had been augmented by staff from county HQ, civilians as well as police officers. All the chairs around the long polished oval table were taken, and someone had brought in some folding chairs for the people at the back. The shooting was now of national concern. People were scared. An armed killer was on the loose, and nobody had any idea who he was or where he might strike next.

  The only new development was that the sniffer dog’s trail had stopped at the lay-by where Gareth Bishop said he saw a man get into a black people mover. Stefan Nowak’s team was working the lay-by, intent on drawing even the tiniest amount of trace evidence from it. They had found a partial tire track that Stefan believed could belong to a RAV4, so that was a start.

  Banks had called the meeting to get a fix on who the victims were and to steer the investigation in the most fruitful direction. He wished he knew what that was. He felt the weight of responsibility, and he couldn’t afford to be wishy-washy; the team was depending on him for leadership and authority. Most of them wouldn’t get to meet the higher ranks who moved the pieces behind the scenes, but Banks was the senior investigating officer, and he was on the front line with his troops.

  Banks stood by the whiteboards and faced the crowd. He already knew that there were three dead and six wounded, including Winsome. Ten shots, nine casualties, one bullet in the church door. Was that precision marksmanship or simply shooting fish in a barrel, as Mike Trethowan had said? Three of the wounded, including the groom, were in critical condition.

  Banks summarized what they already knew about the shootings then walked over to the board of photographs, where he went on to share what he knew about the victims. He pointed to the first photograph. “Let’s start with the dead,” he began. “As many of you already know, it was a fairly high-profile wedding for these parts, and it got a fair bit of coverage in the local media. First victim: the bride. Her name is Laura Tindall. She was a successful model, then she switched to running an agency. Laura was in the process of moving from the Docklands area of London to a country home near Lyndgarth with her husband-to-be. One bullet to the heart. She died instantly.” He moved on. “Second, we have Francesca Muriel, her maid of honor, who also lived in London and was a work colleague at the agency and a close friend of Laura’s. Head shot. Thirdly, there’s Charles Kemp, father of the groom. Bullet wound to the chest, puncturing his right lung. He ran a software development company on the outskirts of Northallerton. Those are the dead. Dr. Glendenning and his assistants will be carrying out the post-mortem examinations as soon as possible. I’d like to add that many of the survivors are in poor psychological shape, as you can imagine, and we may not be able to talk to some of them for a while. Also, Chief Superintendent Gervaise has arranged counseling for those who need it—and that doesn’t only mean the wedding guests.

  “Now the wounded. Benjamin Kemp, bridegroom. The bullet hit his liver. He’s in intensive care. After he left the military, Benjamin went to work for his father’s company and lived in Northallerton. Diana Lofthouse, bridesmaid, an ex-model and another close friend of Laura’s, was shot in the back. She should survive, but she’s unlikely to walk again. Next, Katie Shea, another bridesmaid. Shot in the stomach.” Banks glanced at Gerry, who looked down at her clasped hands on her lap. “She has extensive internal damage. It’s touch and go. In addition, there’s David Hurst, a wedding guest, friend of the groom, with a leg wound, the photographer, Luke Merrifield, who may lose an eye, and our very own DS Winsome Jackman, friend of the groom, who was lucky to escape with a minor flesh wound to her shoulder. Winsome, I’m happy to say, has already been released from hospital and is resting at home with her fiancé, Terry Gilchrist, the hero of the day. Winsome is under mild sedation for shock and pain, but I’ll be talking to both of them at some length tomorrow. And that, ladies and gentleman, is the tally. The bride’s parents, Robert and Maureen Tindall, were uninjured, as was the mother of the groom, Denise Kemp.”

  “Why?” Banks heard someone ask. “For Christ’s sake, why?”

  “A good question,” Banks said. “One thing we have
to accept is that we may never know. Alternatively, we may find out, but we might not be able understand. It may seem like a madman’s reasoning to us. But if we are dealing with a rampage killer, we may discover what triggered him, and we may also find that the wedding was simply the most convenient or dramatic way he could find to express his sick needs. Don’t expect any easy answers. All we have right now are theories.

  “I want to know everything you can find out about the victims, especially those who are deceased. Start with their movements over the last twenty-four hours, including what they ate for breakfast this morning and who they stopped and said hello to on the way to the church. Nobody knows what trigger sets off an event like this. We have information that leads us to believe a certain amount of forethought went into this shooting, so you may find yourself going back beyond those twenty-four hours. Use your judgment. If you come up with anything you think is the remotest bit relevant, tell me. We’ve already got plenty of officers out there canvassing the dale, and all shooting clubs and legal gun owners are being contacted through information from their firearms certificates—especially owners of AR15s.”

  A hand went up. “Isn’t it possible we’re dealing with terrorists, sir?”

  “It’s a possibility, and one we overlook only at our peril. We already have counterterrorist officers working the case up here. Special Branch and MI5 are involved, too, I understand. I’d advise you all to stay well out of their way, as they’re a none-too-friendly bunch. All I do know so far is that there has been no chatter, and that no group has claimed responsibility. But you know as well as I do that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Any more questions?”

  There were none.

  “OK.” Banks checked his watch. “Unless you have already been given a specific duty or action to perform, you’d better get home and get some rest. I’ll want everyone back in early tomorrow morning, and if we don’t get a break soon, you can look forward to a few sleepless nights. I know it’s Sunday tomorrow, a tough day to track down leads. You won’t find a government office open on a Sunday, for example, even if it were Armageddon, but there’s still plenty to be done. You may also have already noticed we’re inundated by media. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this, but keep your mouths shut. Everything goes through our media liaison officer, Adrian Moss. Area Commander Gervaise has scheduled a press conference in an hour, just in time for the ten o’clock news. That’ll have to be enough for them right now. And it goes without saying that all leave is canceled until we catch this bastard.”

  It said something of the way everyone felt about this crime that not one groan rose up from the men and women gathered in the boardroom, and that there was no usual rush for the door to be the first one out.

  “Quick coffee before the press conference?” Banks asked Annie in the corridor outside the boardroom.

  “Not tonight, thanks.”

  “Hot date?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “What about Nick Fleming? How are things going?”

  “You know about Nick?”

  “It’s my business to know everything.”

  “Sure. Well, it’s fine. What about you? How’s your poet?”

  “Linda Palmer? Just a friend. She’s teaching me about poetry.” Banks had been looking forward to talking with Linda about Hardy’s Poems of 1912–1913, but he hadn’t read them yet and doubted he would get the time. Suddenly Keats’s Grecian urn seemed a long way away and a long time ago.

  “Is that the literary equivalent of come up and see my etchings? Come up and see my odes?”

  Banks laughed. “Don’t be cheeky.”

  “Anyway,” Annie went on, “it’s not a date. It’s Ray. He’s thinking of moving up here, and he wants to stay at mine until he’s found somewhere suitable.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. He’s fine. It’s just . . . he wants to stay with me while he’s house-hunting.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Alan, don’t be thick. You know how tiny my cottage is. It’s like living in a bloody thimble, even on my own.”

  “True,” said Banks, remembering his days and nights at the little terraced cottage in the center of the labyrinth. It was years ago now, but he still had good memories of the brief time when he and Annie had been lovers, before work and careers got in the way.

  “He can come and stay with me if he likes,” said Banks. “I’ve got plenty of room.”

  Annie’s eyes lit up. “Really? He’d like that.”

  “Of course. We get along well enough.”

  “Well, you like the same music and stuff. I mean, he was listening to Bob Dylan when you were still wearing short trousers.”

  “I was listening to Bob Dylan when I was still wearing short trousers.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re about the same generation, so you should have something in common.”

  “Same generation? He’s got at least ten years on me.”

  “Doesn’t mean so much when you get to your age, though, does it?”

  “Less of your lip, or I’ll change my mind.”

  Annie held her hand up, palm out. “All right, all right. I’m sorry. He might as well stay with me for the weekend, then I’ll send him over to you on Monday, if that’s OK? And I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  “You’d better be.” Banks reached into his pocket and worked one of the keys off his chain. “That’s a spare,” he said. “He knows where I live. Tell him to make himself at home. He’ll probably need to get some food in. And I’ll most likely be late. And if you want rid of him sooner, tell him it’s folk night at the Dog and Gun tonight and tomorrow, if he’s interested. With a bit of luck, I might just make it tonight myself.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “I’ll be sure tell him to take his anorak along.”

  Banks arrived at the Dog and Gun just in time for last orders and joined the crush at the bar, but he didn’t see Ray there. After the kind of day he’d had, he didn’t feel like going straight home to a dark and empty house. He wanted people, noise, music, perhaps even company, a bit of harmless blethering to take his mind off things. Finally, pint in hand, he edged his way out of the crowd and found space to lean against the wall. He spotted a few people he recognized, said hello, exchanged a brief pleasantry or two. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he sensed a stunned, subdued atmosphere about the place, which no doubt had something to do with the tragic and bloody events that had taken place only a few miles down the road.

  The press conference had gone about as well as could be expected, the best part of it being that Banks himself had hardly had to say a word. Chief Superintendent Gervaise and Adrian Moss had done most of the talking. After the short announcement, which said nothing, but said it quite eloquently, the usual questions tumbled out, many Banks would have asked himself, had he been a reporter. Terrorists. Nutters. Mass murderers. As expected, news of the delay suffered by emergency services had leaked, and the most persistent inquisitors demanded to know how much time had been wasted and how many people had died because of a lack of trained firearms officers. As Banks had expected, that progressed to, “Shouldn’t more police be armed?” which then led to, “Shouldn’t all police be armed?”

  And so it went on, comparisons with American school shootings, with Raoul Moat and Derrick Bird, even insinuations that refugees, migrants or asylum seekers might have been involved. Banks had been glad to get out of there, which he did as surreptitiously as he could, when the subject turned to how the NHS was coping with the A&E overload and what the waiting times for victims were.

  The band finished their instrumental, and the guitar player introduced the final song, a solo by singer Carol Langland. She seemed very young, hardly older than eighteen, with short, spiky blond-and-pink hair, more punk than folk, and a ring through her right nostril and stud through her lower lip, wearing a black kurt cobain T-shirt and jeans torn at the knees. Banks hadn’t noticed her a
t first, as she had been standing in the shadows while the band played, but now the musicians all walked offstage and left her there alone.

  A hush fell on the audience and Carol Langland started singing an unaccompanied version of “Farewell, Farewell,” Richard Thompson’s words set to a haunting traditional melody. You could hear the proverbial pin drop, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind, Banks thought, that the farewells were for the dead of St. Mary’s. Carol’s voice was a pure and clear contralto, with just a hint of husky tremor, though not so much that she sounded like Sandy Denny.

  Banks leaned against the stone wall sipping his pint of Daleside bitter and let the music wash over and into him, stilling some of the day’s anguish and confusion. His head ached, and his stomach felt permanently clenched, but her voice was so full of youthful yearning and the poignancy of experience beyond her years that it touched him through his pain. He felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax and the tension headache disappear. The voice, the melody, the words sent tingles up his spine and brought hot moist tears to his eyes. Tears for Laura Tindall, Francesca Muriel, Charles Kemp, Katie Shea and the rest of the wounded who were lying in hospital beds not knowing whether they would see tomorrow. Tears, too, for Emily Hargreaves, who definitely wouldn’t.

  “Farewell, Farewell” was followed by “We Bid You Goodnight,” and most of the audience started to drift away. It was close to eleven o’clock and starting to rain by the time Banks pulled up outside his cottage at the edge of the woods, and the house was pitch dark, as he had expected. Banks used the light of his mobile phone to fit his key in the door, which opened directly into his old living room, now a small den where he kept his computer, a comfortable chair and reading lamp. He had left before the post came that morning, but all he found on the floor was a circular about boilers addressed to “The Homeowner” and a postcard that read “Having a great time” from his son, Brian, who was recording with his band in Los Angeles. The picture on the front showed a long curving vista of Santa Monica Beach and pier. Needless to say, the water was blue and the sun was shining. Banks sighed and set it down on the little table by the door, where he piled the mail he didn’t need to answer. He dropped the circular in the recycling box.