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

by Peter Robinson

  “Is there something wrong? Are you OK? I know you told Annie you are, but—”

  “Physically? No, there’s nothing wrong. No cancer or anything, just the same ticking clock we all have. I’m fit as a fiddle. Well, as fit as can be expected for a man my age who’s led the sort of life I’ve lived.” He tapped his temple. “It’s in here, Alan. I mean, let’s be honest. I turned seventy a few years ago. How many more good years can I expect? Ten? Five? I may be feeling my age, but I’m going to have a bloody good time for as long as I’ve got left. And I want my daughter to be part of that. There. Is that so strange a reason?”

  “Not at all,” said Banks, thinking of his own grown-up children, Brian and Tracy, and how far he felt from them at times. They had their own lives to live, he told himself; they didn’t want to be bothered with him and his problems.

  “Let’s have some loud rock and roll,” Ray said, walking over to the stereo and changing discs. “I picked this one out earlier.” And he put on Jimi Hendrix’s Rainbow Bridge then went for the bottle. The level was getting dangerously low. He was moving unsteadily. “Should we . . . ?”

  They were well into their next glass and “Hear My Train A Comin” when Banks thought he heard his mobile play its blues riff. He left the room, pressed the talk button and put it to his ear. “Banks speaking.”

  It was Annie. “I hate to drag you away from your old fogeys’ sleepover with Ray,” she said. “I should imagine you’re having a nice semidrunken reminisce right now. I hope you can hear me over all that racket. What is it, best shags or best albums? And I hope you haven’t lit up that spliff yet. We’ve got developments. Major developments, we think. A strong lead. In fact, it’s strong enough that we might even have the bastard before the night is over. Interested?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Not far away. Put your glass down. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

  6

  “It’s just beyond Swainshead village,” said Annie, leaning forward and squinting at the road ahead as she drove. The rain had eased up somewhat, and the windshield wipers were keeping up with it, but outside the beams of Annie’s headlights the landscape was pitch-black. She had her foot down hard, and Banks noticed that the speedometer was edging up toward fifty. Madness on this road. He hung on to the door handle tightly.

  “His name is Martin Edgeworth,” Annie was saying. “Lives alone. Retired dentist. Used to have his surgery on Market Street about a mile south of the square.”

  “I remember it,” said Banks. “It was that big old house on the corner, just over the zebra crossing, I used to walk past there on my way to work every morning. Wasn’t there someone else in the practice with him?”

  “I almost forgot you used to live near there,” said Annie. “Yes, he had a partner. A bloke called Martell. Jonathan Martell.”

  “That’s right,” said Banks. “I remember the brass plaque beside the door.”

  “Was he your dentist, then?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? He must have been the closest.”

  “I didn’t need a dentist,” Banks muttered.

  “You were scared, weren’t you?” Annie said. “Scared of the dentist.”

  Banks scowled at her. “There’s no need to make a big deal out of it. Lots of people are nervous about going to the dentist’s.”

  “Scaredy-cat.”

  “Get on with it.”

  Annie grinned. “He’s fifty-nine. Fits the description, as far as it goes. Medium height, slim. Been retired three years now. That’s all we know about him so far. Except he has a Firearms Certificate for an AR15, along with one for a Taurus pistol, he drives a black RAV4 and he’s a member of the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club.”

  The right turn came up faster than Banks had expected. Annie turned the wheel sharply, and the car skidded, tires squealing, as she made the bend onto the minor road that led through the village of Swainshead. Banks hung on for dear life as she regained control and drove on past the triangular village green, squat church and whitewashed pub, blurred images in the dark through the rain-spattered car windows.

  The road they were on, which cut north from the main east–west road, narrowed beyond the borders of the village. Though they were invisible in this weather, Banks knew that the valley sides rose steeply on either side of the road. From this point on, there were very few dwellings, all of them off the beaten track, if you could even call the road they were on beaten, or a track.

  “You feeling all right, by the way?” Annie cast him a sidelong glance. “I mean, I’m not going to have to carry you, am I?”

  “I’m fine,” said Banks.

  “Not had too much to drink? Or smoke?”

  “Hardly got started drinking even.”

  “Good.”

  “There.” Banks pointed toward the left, where flashing police lights were just visible down a driveway. Annie turned, traveling more slowly this time, and they came to a halt beside the two ARVs that had been first at the scene. The large house at the end of the gravel drive was a dark silhouette against the darker daleside.

  Banks and Annie were already kitted out in raincoats and wellies, and they made a dash from the purple Astra to the first Volvo T5 estate car parked ahead of them. Banks recognized both of the officers from St. Mary’s leaning against the car.

  “Evening, sir,” said the driver, a DS in the firearms cadre, whose first name was Keith. “No activity so far.”

  “You’ve checked out the premises?”

  “Outside only. As best we can. There’s a black RAV4 in the garage. Thought we’d better wait for you to arrive. All doors and windows appear to be securely locked. No lights on. No answer when we knock or phone. Unless he’s lying extremely low, I’d say the place is empty.”

  “So how do you want to play this?”

  “Safely, sir. By the book. Just in case he is lying low in there, armed to the teeth. We go in first, then we give you the all clear.”

  “Have you got enough men surrounding the house, just in case?”

  “First thing we did. Called for backup. It’s kettled tighter than a . . .” He glanced nervously at Annie. “The area’s secure, sir. Nobody’s getting away from here. Not even in the dark.”

  “Good to know. After you.”

  The two armed officers left the car, one of them carrying a red battering ram, which he used to splinter the door. Heckler & Kochs slung around their shoulders, Glocks in one hand, torches gripped like overhead handrails, the two officers advanced slowly into the dark house to begin their sweep. One by one, the lights came on. Banks could still hear little but the wind whistling and moaning as it encountered the solid stone, and the different sounds of the rain tapping against slate, glass and metal.

  It seemed to take forever, but the all clear came eventually, and they were able to enter the house. From the vestibule, with pegs and a cupboard for hats and coats, and racks for muddy boots and shoes, they went into a large kitchen with rough natural stone walls, a big red Aga and a flagstone floor. There was a central island, granite-topped, and beyond it, a stainless-steel fridge and freezer unit stood beside wall cupboards, a double metal sink and a dishwasher unit. Everything was sparkling clean.

  “Nice setup,” said Banks.

  “Not your run-of-the-mill mass murderer,” Annie added.

  The rest of the downstairs was well appointed, but not ostentatious. The living room furniture was solid and serviceable, nice on the eye, with beige leather sofas, walls painted light pastel shades. There were the usual items: cocktail cabinet, sideboard, large-screen TV, Blu-ray player, bookcases mostly full of paperbacks and illustrated hardcovers on military history, along with a selection of Ordnance Survey maps and local guides. There was also a glass-fronted cabinet in which stood a number of cups and plaques. When Banks looked more closely, he could see that they were awards for shooting competitions. A wood-burning stove filled the old fireplace, and a set of andirons stood on the hearth next t
o a box of kindling and a stack of firewood. Banks went over to the stove and opened the door. Everything was cold. Cold and clean.

  A quick glance upstairs revealed a large bathroom and toilet, equally clean, and four bedrooms, only one of which was used for sleeping, with an en suite walk-in shower unit. Another was clearly an office, with desk, computer, printer and more bookcases, the third a guest bedroom, and the fourth was filled with boxes. They went back down to the main floor and met Keith coming up from the cellar with a grim expression on his face.

  “You may want to check out down there next,” he said.

  Banks and Annie followed him down the wooden steps. It was a dank, musty-smelling cellar, with whitewashed walls and a bare bulb overhead. One of the AFOs must have jogged it somehow, as it was swinging back and forth, casting shadows across the still figure that slumped against the far wall. The whitewash above his head was splattered and speckled with dark blood. Banks saw the gun in the man’s right hand, where it had fallen into his lap. The black AR15 was lying next to a pile of neatly folded outdoor clothes beside him on the floor.

  “Martin Edgeworth, I presume,” Banks said, then turned to Keith. “Call Dr. Burns, would you, and bring in the CSIs and a search team. I hate to spoil their beauty sleep, but I think we’ve got our man.” Then he turned to Annie. “Let’s go upstairs and ring the boss,” he said. “She’s going to want to know about this, too.”

  Chief Superintendent Gervaise joined them at the scene in less than an hour, and after a quick poke around as they brought her up to speed, she left for Eastvale HQ, where she said she would put on a pot of coffee and make some phone calls, including one to Adrian Moss. By two o’clock in the morning, the house and grounds were lit up by arc lamps, and there were so many people coming and going that anyone might be forgiven for thinking there was a big party going on, albeit a quiet one, without music or dancing.

  Stefan Nowak’s CSI team went methodically over all the surfaces, taking fingerprints and trace evidence, while skilled searchers went through the drawers, cupboards and appliances, loading everything from letters and bills to kitchen knives into transparent plastic crates, which they carried out under a makeshift canvas awning to the waiting van outside.

  A special team was assigned to the garage, where Martin Edgeworth’s black RAV4 was parked. They would pick through it for anything of interest before getting it on a trailer and driving it to the police forensic garage when the rain stopped. They wanted to preserve the exterior of the car as best they could, so someone was sent to find a tarpaulin or some plastic sheeting. For one thing, they would probably be able to match soil samples from the tires with those from the lay-by where the killer’s car had been parked.

  The rain continued to fall steadily, and officers whose duties kept them outside wore bright yellow capes slick with it, the shiny black peaks of their caps glistening in the lights. Inside, after the body had been examined in situ, photographed extensively and taken away in the coroner’s van, someone had managed to get the central heating working, and the radiators banged and rattled as they came to life. At some point, nobody seemed to know quite when or how, ham-and-cheese sandwiches materialized.

  There was no need for Banks and Annie to stay on, they knew, but as neither felt that there was much chance of sleep by now, they made valuable use of their time. Ray would be fast asleep back at Newhope, Banks thought, if he hadn’t decided to stay up and finish the Laphroaig and start watching movies. He was glad that he had drunk only two small whiskeys, otherwise he might be nodding off himself. No chance of that. The St. Mary’s business was far from over. The killer might be dead, but there would be official inquiries, analyses of Edgeworth’s motivation, questions in the house, more calls for stricter gun laws—all of which meant a lot more media attention focused on Eastvale over the next few weeks or months. They could also not rule out the possibility of an accomplice. The last thing they needed was a second gunman on the loose.

  By this time, a few of the villagers had been woken by the mysterious comings and goings, and one or two inquisitive souls had even attempted to wander up the driveway and see for themselves what was going on, only to be turned back by the constables on duty. Tomorrow, they would all be questioned about Martin Edgeworth, but tonight they were civilians, and they had no place at a crime scene.

  Banks and Annie sat with Dr. Burns at the granite island in the kitchen, where they drank hot strong tea and nibbled on the sandwiches.

  “So everything seems kosher to you?” Banks said, after Dr. Burns had recapped his findings from the preliminary examination of Martin Edgeworth’s body.

  Dr. Burns rubbed his eyes. “I’d say so. Assuming we’re not overlooking something so devastatingly obvious, like he was left-handed.”

  “He’s wearing his watch on his left wrist,” said Banks, “but we’ll be checking all that very carefully. I’d imagine his friends at the club would certainly know. Time of death?”

  “You know I can’t give you that with any reasonable degree of accuracy. All I’ll say is it’s within the time frame.”

  “What time frame?”

  “Of his committing the murders at St. Mary’s, driving back here and blowing his brains out. Rigor’s been and gone. It was quite cool in here, which would have slowed the process down a bit, but I’d say offhand that our man has definitely been dead for longer than two days. It’s Monday night now, or Tuesday morning, if you prefer, and I’m afraid the best I can estimate is between ten o’clock Saturday morning and five o’clock that same afternoon. Dr. Glendenning may be able to narrow that down bit in the postmortem.”

  “Has the body been moved at all?”

  “No sign of that, as far as I can tell, but I’d need to get him on the table and check hypostasis to be certain. It appears to me as if he sat himself down against the wall and . . . well, you can see the blood spatter for yourself. From a cursory glance, I’d say his head was hanging a little bit forward when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet took most of the back of his head off. He certainly got the angle of his shot right, otherwise the bullet might easily have gone through the roof of his mouth. It happens sometimes.”

  “Ouch,” said Banks.

  “Dr. Glendenning will be able to tell you more, of course, including the exact trajectory the bullet took and whether the body was moved after death, but I’m pretty certain I’m right.”

  “Why do it down there in a dank miserable cellar?” Banks asked.

  “No idea,” said Dr. Burns. “I would assume it didn’t matter to him where he did it, as he was going to die. And the gun cabinet’s down there.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe he didn’t take the revolver with him to St. Mary’s. He certainly didn’t use it there. Perhaps it was still in the cabinet.”

  “Perhaps,” Burns agreed. “But what does it matter now?”

  “It probably doesn’t. Just thinking aloud. Getting my ducks in a row.”

  “Hmm. Well, the wound is definitely consistent with the position of the body and the hand holding the weapon,” Burns went on. “I would imagine the rifle was too large and awkward to use as a suicide weapon, so he put the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He would have died pretty much instantaneously. No doubt your forensics lab will be checking for gunshot residue on his hands. When all you have to do is pull a trigger, it’s sometimes all too bloody easy.”

  “Now, now, doc,” said Banks. “Remember: it’s not the gun but the person who fires it.”

  “Yes,” said Burns “But take the gun away from them and do you think they’d have the guts to do it some other way? A knife? A rope? Bare hands? I doubt it. When you’ve seen as many gunshot injuries as I have, you can’t help but be a bit cynical about the whole thing. I know people argue it’s a valid and enjoyable sport, like any other, but why the hell can’t they just play golf or tennis like everyone else?”

  Banks had forgotten that Dr. Burns had worked briefly with the military in Iraq. “At l
east this time it’s not some innocent victim,” he said.

  Dr. Burns sighed. “No. We had enough of those on Saturday.” He got wearily to his feet. “I’m off home now. You’ll have my report sometime tomorrow. Let’s at least try and be pleased it’s over, shall we?”

  “We’ll be drinking champagne before the night’s through.”

  Dr. Burns glanced at Annie. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he said. “Good night.” Banks noticed that Annie was dozing with her head resting on the island. He nudged her gently and suggested it might be time to leave. The teams were professional and methodical, and it would be hours yet before they finished.

  “Sir?” It was one of the search team come down from the study upstairs. “I think you might be interested in this.” He held out a scrapbook. “I found it taped underneath the bottom of one of the desk drawers in the study.”

  Banks slipped his latex gloves back on and opened it. Most of the pages were filled with clipped newspaper and magazine articles about Laura Tindall and Benjamin Kemp, especially the reports of their upcoming wedding at St. Mary’s Church, Fortford. Here and there, a word or line had been underlined in red. There were newspaper photographs, articles, stories of Benjamin Kemp’s heroism, grainy images of Laura in her modeling days, including one or two, clearly printed from an Internet site, in which she appeared naked. They were tasteful model’s poses, the kind that could be called erotic rather than pornographic.

  Banks handed back the scrapbook. “It seems he had his sights set on Benjamin and Laura well enough. If only we knew why. Bag it and make sure it gets priority tagging.”

  “Right you are.” The officer headed back upstairs.