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

by Peter Robinson

  “Not at all,” said Banks. “That kind of profile can be very important. And if things had gone on much longer, and we’d had more information to feed Dr. Fuller, then her work might well have been instrumental in leading us to Edgeworth. It just wasn’t the way things worked out this time.”

  “And now?” asked Moss.

  “You said it yourself. Now we’ve got him.”

  “So it’s all over?”

  “The killing is over, which is the main thing. And the killer himself has saved us the expense of a trial.”

  “And your Dr. Fuller? Do you just pat her on the head and send her home? You might not have noticed, but she also happens to be very photogenic. Perhaps a bit long in the tooth, but most presentable for a woman her age. She’ll do well on Newsnight or Panorama. The media will lap her up.”

  Banks held back from punching Moss. “Don’t be so fucking patronizing,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, but I think you know what I mean.”

  Banks glanced at Gervaise then turned back to Moss and said, “I, for one, am certainly still interested in Edgeworth’s psychology, in who he is and why he did what he did. Just because it’s over on one level doesn’t mean we’re going to stop studying him. All I’m saying is that our main job is over.” Banks knew that Jenny would continue with her profile, and he was intending to put Annie Cabbot and Gerry Masterson on the other angles of the case. Gerry was good at digging up stories and background, seemed to have a pretty firm grasp of basic human psychology, and she could use the experience. Annie could steer her. “We also need to make absolutely certain that Edgeworth was acting alone,” he added.

  “What do you mean?” said Moss. “Are you suggesting he had a sidekick? Someone who helped him? Is there evidence of this? Why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Adrian,” said Banks. “It’s merely a box to tick. We have no evidence that anyone else was involved. It’s just an avenue that needs to be thoroughly investigated and cleared.”

  “DCI Banks is right,” Gervaise added. “And perhaps the investigation is not as high-powered now as it was when Edgeworth was on the loose and a danger to the public, but it’s not over yet. We are perfectly aware that profilers such as Dr. Fuller often rely on us for access to information that may give them a deeper understanding of the killer’s psychology.”

  “Good,” said Moss. “Then I think we’re on the same page at last.”

  That was a rather frightening thought for Banks, but he said nothing.

  “But back to this business about the accomplice—”

  “There was no accomplice,” said Banks, wishing to God he’d never mentioned the possibility. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t suggest that there was in any of your releases. We don’t want a panic on our hands, do we? Especially one caused by an MLO who got hold of the wrong end of the stick?”

  Moss swallowed. “But you’ll keep me informed on anything more you find out about Edgeworth?”

  “We’ll keep you informed, Adrian.”

  “Including Dr. Fuller’s profile?”

  “Including the profile.”

  “Right. OK, then.” Moss gave them each a nervous smile and made his way crabwise out of the office.

  “So can you clarify the point of all that for me?” Banks asked Gervaise when the door had closed. “Am I to do anything different than I was intending to do?”

  “No, Alan. Like it or not, we’ve been on the same page all along, as Adrian says. He just needed to vent his spleen a bit. He’s under a lot of pressure. He needs a bit of babying every now and then.”

  “Thought so.” Banks left shaking his head.

  The river was not much more than a beck swollen with the recent rains where it ran through Swainshead village from its source high in the dale. The weather seemed to be offering a brief respite that afternoon. By the looks of the iron sky, though, that wouldn’t last long.

  Now that he could see them in daylight, Banks remembered the rows of limestone cottages with their flagstone roofs, facing one another across the river, the waterside benches and the stone bridge where the old men in flat caps stood talking, passing the time. Three of them were out there today, no doubt talking about the recent excitement, and Banks wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they were the same old men who had stood there almost twenty-five years ago, when he had worked on his first case in Swainshead. Two major incidents in twenty-five years wasn’t bad going for such a small village.

  He ejected David Gilmour’s Rattle That Lock and parked outside the whitewashed facade of the White Rose, founded in 1615, or so the sign proclaimed. Farther up the road stood the empty Collier house, a Victorian pile of stone cluttered with porticos, oriels and turrets, with most of its windows boarded up. Banks glanced across the river. The Greenock Guest House, which had played a pivotal role in the first Swainshead case, was now a pottery center and gift shop. Banks wondered what had happened to Sam and Katie Greenock, the former proprietors. Katie had been a natural beauty, he remembered, and an innocent, but a woman confused by her attractiveness, an uneasy mix of sexuality and innocence, like Hardy’s Tess. She had been in her twenties back then, so she would be fifty or more by now. He wondered where she was, what she was doing with her life. Was she still married to Sam? Or was she dead, like Emily and Katie Shea, her namesake at the wedding?

  The pub was busy for a Tuesday lunchtime. Most of the customers were locals, Banks guessed by their easy manner and casual clothing, but there was a smattering of reporters, no doubt grubbing for the nitty-gritty on Martin Edgeworth. Adrian Moss had said that Edgeworth was their subject now, and Banks thought he was probably right. No doubt they were hoping to stumble across someone who had seen him pull the wings off a fly when he was five.

  Banks was on his way to the Edgeworth house to meet up with Annie. The CSIs and search teams were still working there, packing anything that might be possible evidence of Edgeworth’s actions or motives into boxes. He might be dead, but the reverberations of his deed lingered on, as Banks had told Adrian Moss, and if anything could be learned from his actions to prevent such a thing happening in the future, it needed to be discovered. Profilers such as Jenny Fuller, for example, were always interested in as much data as they could get on forms of deviant behavior in order to build up more accurate and comprehensive profiles. Jenny hadn’t had much to do this time before they found their man, but she might still be able to learn something useful from the case. Banks had phoned her on his way, and she had agreed to have dinner with him that evening. He couldn’t deny, even to himself, that he was still attracted to her after all these years, but he also knew he could hardly forge ahead on the assumption that she felt the same way.

  First, though, as the sense of urgency had disappeared with Edgeworth’s suicide, Banks realized he hadn’t eaten much over the past couple of days, so he decided to eat a pub lunch while he had a casual word with the landlord. The people in the village who had known Edgeworth—including friends, neighbors, shopkeepers and publicans—would all be officially interviewed over the next few days, but Banks saw no reason not to try to get a general picture of the killer, and what better means than through the landlord of his local pub?

  The White Rose had clearly undergone a face-lift since Banks had last been there. The dark wood paneling was still on the walls, but above it, the pale blue paint was much brighter and fresher than the previous dun color. Perhaps the years of accumulated tar and nicotine from cigarette smoke had also been scraped off the walls and ceiling, too, since the pub smoking ban. The lounge even smelled of air freshener. A number of framed photographs of local attractions hung on the walls: waterfalls, the hanging valley nearby, a panoramic view of the village, the mouth of a cavern. The tables were more modern and less wobbly than before, square with wooden legs rather than the old cast-iron type. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and along with the Christmas lights and decorations, it gave the place a warm, cozy atmosphere. />
  The man behind the bar was a lot younger than old Freddie Metcalfe, who used to run the pub, though he had old Freddie’s craggy brow. It turned out his name was Ollie Metcalfe, Freddie’s nephew. He was a broad-shouldered lad with a bristly beard and weathered outdoorsman’s face, the type who would make a good second-row forward, and probably even had, as his nose seemed to have been broken more than once. Banks introduced himself, ordered a pint of Sneck Lifter and glanced over the menu, which was more gastronomically adventurous than its counterpart from twenty-five years ago. Not that he fancied anything adventurous right now. In the end, he went for a simple steak and mushroom pie and chips, introduced himself and indicated to Ollie Metcalfe that he would prefer to eat at the far end of the bar, away from the reporters, and would appreciate a quiet word when his food arrived. Metcalfe nodded and set off about his business.

  Banks didn’t recognize any of the reporters, though he prided himself on guessing who they were, if not exactly what newspapers they represented. It used to be a lot easier to tell them apart, but these days it wasn’t even easy to find much difference between the newspapers themselves. He got a few suspicious glances, noticed several whispered exchanges, and assumed that he had been recognized, but nobody approached him. Now they had a bigger story, they were far less interested in any police investigation, unless it related to the now very public row between the firearms cadre and emergency services.

  Banks had managed no more than a couple of pulls on his beer when his pie arrived, delivered by Metcalfe himself, who had left his young helper to handle the bar. The pastry was a puffy, crusty hat plonked on top of the stewed beef and mushrooms, but it would do. Anything would do at the moment. The chips were crispy and hot.

  Metcalfe leaned on the bar opposite him. One or two reporters eyed them enviously—Banks could almost see their ears twitching—but nobody made a move to get any closer. If they knew Banks, they also knew his reputation. “What can I help you with, Mr. Banks?” Metcalfe asked.

  “Nothing specific,” said Banks. “I’m just after a spot of lunch and a nice chat. Case like this plays havoc with your mealtimes.”

  “I’ll bet it does.” He jerked his head. “Up the road with that lot last night, were you?”

  “Until about four.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” said Ollie. “Nobody around here can.”

  “Popular bloke, Mr. Edgeworth?”

  “Very.”

  “Isn’t that always the case with these mass murderers and serial killers?” Banks said. “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, they say. Quiet as a mouse.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never met anyone who did such a thing before. Are you sure you’ve not got it wrong?”

  “Everything adds up so far.”

  “But why? Why would a man like Martin Edgeworth do something like that?”

  “What sort of a man was he?”

  “A decent one. Good sense of humor, took a keen interest in local events, clubbable, went to meetings and so on. He liked to cook. Said if he hadn’t been a dentist he’d have trained as a chef. Keen amateur photographer, too.” He pointed to a picture of a landscape. “And very good. He took that one over there. Even paid to have it enlarged and framed specially for our wall.”

  Banks glanced at the photo. “You mentioned clubs. What clubs?”

  “Well, the shooting club, for a start. Swainsdale Rifle and Pistol. But I suppose you know all about that.”

  Banks was intending to visit the club after stopping in at the Edgeworth house. “Was he any good?”

  “I think he must have been. He went in for competitions, won awards and so forth. They did a lot of shooting on the army range about five miles up the road, too. Proper supervision there, see, so you can use the real McCoy. Or so he said.”

  “What about grouse and the like?”

  “Occasionally. But he got rid of his shotgun a while back.”

  “Why?”

  “Lost interest in shooting defenseless little birds, I should imagine.”

  “What did he do with it?”

  “I’ve no idea. Whatever it is people do with used shotguns. Sold it, I suppose, or handed it in to some government agency.”

  “Do you know if he had any strong political leanings or connections?”

  Metcalfe laughed. “If you’d known Martin, you wouldn’t have got him started on politicians. Hated the lot of them. Thought they were only in it to line their own pockets.”

  “So he had strong views?”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest there was anything unnatural about his ideas. It was just pub banter, blethering, like. A joke or two. He just didn’t care much for politicians, that’s all.”

  “How long had Mr. Edgeworth lived up at the house?”

  Metcalfe scratched his head. “Twenty years or more. He was here when I took on this place from my uncle, and that’s seventeen years back.”

  “Was he always a regular here?”

  “Aye, certainly all the years I’ve been here. Dropped by most days for a jar or two. Not a big drinker, mind you. Just the odd pint or two now and then.”

  “Beer man?”

  “Occasional splash of single malt. Special occasions.”

  “Was he popular?”

  “Aye, I’d say that he was. Yes. Very.”

  “Any particular close friends, drinking companions?”

  “Geoff McLaren, manager of that gun club he belonged to. Nice bloke. George and Margie, a couple of friends of his from the club. Sometimes his old partner came in with him. Jonathan Martell.”

  “Did Mr. Martell come here often?”

  “Now and then. He’s retired now, too. Lives out Sedburgh way.”

  “Did Mr. Edgeworth bring any new friends in here during the past month or so, anyone you hadn’t seen before?”

  “Once in a while, aye. I mean, we didn’t live in each other’s pockets. He knew plenty of people, and I was quite happy if he wanted to meet any of them in here for a drink and a bite to eat.”

  “So he sometimes came in with people you didn’t know?”

  “Now and then. Yes.”

  “Singly or in groups?”

  “Both. I mean, but not with groups that often, not unless the family was around, like.”

  “Did he ever strike up conversations with strangers?”

  Metcalfe considered the question. “Sometimes,” he answered. “Martin was sociable enough. He’d get chatting with other customers from time to time. Especially the ramblers. Martin liked walking, himself, and he knew a lot about local history, so if a customer had a question I’d usually point them in his direction.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Not as far as I recollect. Certainly not in the past few months.”

  “Anyone stand out for any reason at all shortly before the shootings? Say November, early December?”

  “We get a lot of people in, believe it or not. And that’s a busy time. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember anyone in particular. I’m not saying he didn’t come in with anyone, just that no one stands out in my memory. Sorry.”

  “Who else did he come with regularly?”

  “Nobody special. I mean, most of my regulars knew him. I’m not saying he was a saint, but ask any one of them, and I don’t think you’ll hear a bad word.”

  “We’ll get around to that eventually,” said Banks. “Had he been behaving any differently lately, say this past month or so?”

  “Not at all. Same as normal.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Friday night.”

  That was the day before the murders. “And he behaved as normal?”

  “Aye.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “No. He came in by himself and sat by the fire with Les and Barry most of the time he was here. They’re regulars, like Martin. They’ll be gutted.”

  Banks made a note of the names. “Did he say anything odd at all, anything that struck you as
out of character or mysterious?”

  “No. Like I said, he was the same as ever. Said good evening to me and the other regulars, ordered his pint and we chatted for a bit. It wasn’t a busy night, as I remember. He didn’t stay long after his drink with Les and Barry, though. Only had the two pints. Something on telly he wanted to see.”

  “What did he talk to you about?”

  “Oh, this and that. The weather. Christmas, how commercial it is these days. What everyone’s holiday plans were.”

  “What were his?”

  “He was going to stop with his son and daughter-in-law in Derby. They’ve got a couple of wee ones. See, when Martin and Constance split, like, I know people say they don’t take sides and all, but they do. Kids especially. The daughter, Marie, were always much closer to her mother. Not that she didn’t come and see Martin now and then, of course, but when it comes to summat like Christmas, well, she’s with her mother, isn’t she? And she’s divorced, like. Lives in Norwich, too, which is a bit of a bugger to get to and from.”

  Banks thought about his own Christmas arrangements. It was coming up fast. He didn’t think he would get to see either of his children this year, as it was his ex-wife Sandra’s turn to have Tracy down in London, and Brian was still in L.A. with his band, the Blue Lamps. “But his son stuck with him?”

  “Aye, I suppose so. Nice lad. Colin, his name is. He’ll be bloody heartbroken. And his wife, Mandy. Pretty lass. Thought the world of Martin. They always used to drop in here for a pint and a pub lunch whenever they were up visiting.”

  Officers in Derby, Norwich and Carlisle had called on the various members of Edgeworth’s family early that morning, so they wouldn’t have to read about what happened to him first in the papers, or see it on TV. According to their brief reports, there had been the predictable outbursts of tears and disbelief, and the upshot was that both his children said they’d be up in Eastvale to sort things out as soon as possible. His ex-wife in Carlisle had been stunned by the news, too, but she hadn’t mentioned making the journey. By now, Banks calculated, the media would be camping out in their gardens and their telephones would be ringing off the hook.