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

by Peter Robinson

  “Have you any idea what his movements were on Saturday morning?”

  “What they usually were, I suppose,” said Metcalfe.

  “What was that?”

  “He usually went for a long walk along the tops on a Saturday and a Sunday morning, come rain or shine. It’s a bit of a bloody hike to get up there from the back of his house, like, but he did it. You certainly wouldn’t catch me trying it. But Martin kept himself fit. And he said the view’s magnificent. You can see Pen-y-Ghent on a good day.”

  “Any break-ins, or anything unusual happen in the village recently?” Banks asked. “Crimes of any sort, unexplained events?”

  “Nay, wouldn’t you be the first one to know about something like that?”

  “Only if it was reported. There’s plenty goes on never reaches our ears. You must know that.”

  “Aye, well, not that I can think of.” Metcalfe paused. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I mean, Martin’s dead. What does it matter?”

  “We have to cover every angle, Ollie.”

  “Well, I can’t think of anything along those lines. And he wasn’t a nutter, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. We need to understand him, that’s all. Did you ever see him get drunk, get involved in any trouble, any arguments?” Banks asked.

  “Not in here. Like I said, Martin were no saint, and he did have a bit of a short temper, but I never saw him drink to excess. Well . . . maybe once.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Martin? No. Except . . .” He rubbed his beard.

  “Yes?”

  “Remember, I just mentioned that wife of his? Ex-wife. Constance. About two or three years ago, it were now, the split.”

  “Not long after he retired, then?”

  “Aye. Not long at all. It hardly seems to matter now, does it? I mean now that he’s dead.” He gestured toward the group Banks thought were reporters. “It’s just for them vultures to pick his bones clean now, isn’t it?”

  Banks glanced over. “I suppose they’ll do their jobs,” he said. Then he leaned forward slightly. “I’ll give you a word of warning for when you’re dealing with the press, Mr. Metcalfe. Be careful what you say. Be very careful. They’re experts at twisting the simplest thing. You could tell them you make meat pies and you’ll come out sounding like Sweeney Todd. Know what I mean?”

  Metcalfe laughed. “Thanks, but I’ve dealt with their like before. Used to be in public relations for Newcastle United. You know footballers.”

  “Well, you’ll understand, then. We have to employ a bloke specially to deal with them. Media relations officer, he’s called. I ask you. ’Course, we have to try and stay on their good side. It galls me to say it, but they can be useful.”

  “That’s the problem. And don’t they know it?”

  Banks drank some beer and held up his glass to inspect it. “You keep a good pint, Ollie, I’ll say that for you.”

  “Thanks. But what use is a pub but for fine company and a decent pint of ale?”

  “If only all landlords thought that. Now, about this bit of trouble . . .”

  “It were summat and nowt.”

  “Usually is, in my experience. What happened?”

  “Martin was in here one evening enjoying his pint, like, keeping himself to himself, when this bloke Norman Lavalle came in.”

  “Was he a regular?”

  “No. I’d only seen him a couple of times before. And I didn’t like him much. Too smarmy by half, too full of himself.”

  “How long ago was all this?”

  “About two years.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, we all knew what was going on, like, that this Lavalle bloke was having it off with Connie, Martin’s wife. She were a bit flighty, like, but a nice enough lass, or so I thought. I suppose life with Martin was just too quiet and boring for her, especially after he stopped working and spent more time at home. Must’ve cramped her style. She were a good ten years younger than him. Anyway, she’d left him by then and was living down the dale a mile or two with a friend. This Lavalle bloke was panting after her. Well, Martin was none too pleased to see him. He’d been down in the dumps of late, a bit depressed, like, and who could blame him, so he makes some comment like, ‘What are you doing here? Can’t you just leave me in peace?’ or something innocuous like that. Lavalle replies, ‘What’s it got to do with you? I’ll drink where I want.’ At which point I’m about to come in and say not here you bloody well won’t, but Martin shoves him, and Lavalle takes a swing at him. Misses by a mile. Then Martin takes his shot. Connects, too. Lavalle staggers back a bit, with a bloody nose, but by then I’m round the bar like a shot, holding them apart. I get Lavalle out and get Martin sat down again with his drink. He’s a bit upset, so I leave him to it. He knocked back a bit more than usual that night, that’s all.”

  “Did he get angry when he was drinking?”

  “No, not at all. Only earlier. Lavalle was long gone by then. Martin usually got a bit morose when he drank too much, if truth be told. Quiet. Subdued.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “When I asked him later if he was all right, like, he just says summat like, ‘If Connie runs off with that slimy bastard, I swear I’ll top myself.’” Metcalfe gave a nervous laugh. “It wasn’t like he really meant it or anything, it were just the way he felt at the time. Sort of thing we all say sometimes.”

  “So you didn’t believe he meant it?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But he did threaten to commit suicide if his wife left him?”

  “That’s the long and the short of it. But it were just sort of something you say, like, when you’re upset. And he didn’t. Top himself, that is.”

  Not two years ago, he didn’t, Banks thought. “He didn’t threaten to harm Lavalle or Constance?”

  “Never anything like that.”

  “Any further incidents?”

  “None. That’s just what I can’t understand, Mr. Banks. Martin Edgeworth just wasn’t a violent man. Fair enough, he took a pop at the bloke who was bonking his wife, but what man wouldn’t? And then he goes and does something like this out of the blue. I can’t fathom it.” He scratched his head.

  “What happened to Lavalle?”

  Metcalfe snorted. “He and Connie got married. Live out Carlisle way now.”

  Banks drained his pint. He had eaten what he wanted of the pie and chips a while ago. “Something caused Martin Edgeworth to snap,” he said. “We don’t know what it was, but that’s what I’m after finding out. Maybe some people think it doesn’t matter now that he’s dead, but let’s not forget, he killed five people and ruined a lot of other lives. I like to close my books, Ollie, and I like them to be properly balanced when I do.”

  Banks picked up Annie at the Edgeworth house, where nothing new had come to light, and drove to the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, which was three miles up the road, then another half mile along a gravel drive.

  The clubhouse was an old stone structure, much like a rambling country pub, and inside, beyond the small deserted reception area with its racks of brochures about shooting safely, was a bar. There were several wooden tables with blue-and-white-checked tablecloths, only three of them occupied. The diners turned to see who had come in, then, not recognizing Banks and Annie, went back to their conversations and their meals. The walls were bare, rough stone, and there were a couple of glass-fronted cabinets along one side filled with trophies and photographs of men holding guns. There were, however, no real guns anywhere in sight, for which Banks was grateful. A young man in a white jacket stood drying glasses behind the bar. Banks was surprised to find a fully stocked bar at a shooting club, but he realized there was no law against it.

  “Can I help you?” said the young man, whose name badge identified him as Roger. “Are you members? I haven’t seen you here before. The bar’s for members only.”

  Banks and Annie flashe
d their warrant cards.

  “Oh. I suppose it’s about Martin, isn’t it?”

  “Boss around?” Banks asked.

  “Mr. McLaren isn’t in today.” Roger gestured toward the gray weather outside. “Not much point being open on a day like this, but some of the regulars like to come in for a bite and a natter, so we usually open for lunch.” He checked his watch. “We’ll be closing up for the day in half an hour.”

  “Maybe we can have a quick chat with you?” Banks suggested, sitting on one of the high barstools. Annie sat next to him.

  “I can’t tell you much,” Roger said. “It’s George and Margie over there you want.” He pointed to a man and woman sitting at one of the tables nearer to the door. “George and Margie Sykes. They were close to Martin.”

  Banks glanced over. The man had an almost full pint in front of him, enough to last him awhile yet. Banks guessed that his wife’s drink, with a piece of lime floating in it, was a gin and tonic. “We’ll talk to them in a minute,” he said. “How long had Martin Edgeworth been a member here?”

  “Dunno,” said Roger. “Since well before my time. Ten years, say. Mr. McLaren will be able to tell you.”

  “You can’t show us the membership records yourself?”

  Roger shook his head. “Mr. McLaren always keeps the club office locked when he’s not here, and I don’t have a key.”

  “OK,” said Banks. “We’ll deal with him later. Any trouble recently?”

  “Trouble?”

  “Yes. You know, disagreements, arguments, scenes, fights, shootouts, that sort of thing.”

  “Good lord, no. Never. Mr. McLaren wouldn’t stand for anything of that sort. You’d be out on your arse.”

  “When did you last see Mr. Edgeworth?” Annie asked.

  “Last week. Early on. Tuesday, I think.”

  “Anything unusual about his behavior? Was he upset, depressed, angry, anything like that?”

  “No. Just normal.”

  “And that was?”

  “Cheerful, polite, generous with his tips.”

  “Did you ever hear him mention the Tindall–Kemp wedding?” Banks cut in.

  “No, never. Why would he?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. Did he ever mention Benjamin or Charles Kemp, or Laura Tindall?”

  “No.”

  “Were any of them members? Have they ever been here?”

  “Not that I know of. And if they’d been in the last four years, I’d remember.”

  Banks thanked him and slid off his stool. He turned to Annie. “Let’s go talk to George and Margie.”

  They reached the table and introduced themselves. George and Margie made room while Banks pulled up a couple more chairs. “Thought you were damned reporters at first,” said George apologetically. “Was just about to give you a piece of my mind.” He had a shiny head, striped by a few dark hairs, and a handlebar mustache the likes of which Banks hadn’t seen outside of an old TV program about the RAF. Margie had a mustache, too, but it was far less well developed. She also had bottle-blond hair starched into place like Margaret Thatcher’s.

  “Been around already, have they?” Banks asked.

  “First thing,” said George. “I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the usual rot about should there be shooting clubs at all. What on earth can we get out of it? Isn’t it dangerous? Very aggressive some of them are.”

  “Well,” said Banks. “They’re men and women of great moral character.”

  George guffawed. “‘Great moral character.’ I like that. What can we do for you?”

  Banks sat back and let Annie do some of the talking. “I understand, according to Roger over there, that you were good friends of Martin Edgeworth?”

  “Known him for years,” said George. “Haven’t we, Margie?”

  “Years,” said Margie. “George and I are absolutely devastated about what’s happened. Just devastated.” There was the hint of a slur in her voice, and Banks guessed it wasn’t her first G and T.

  “I take it all this has been a great surprise, then?” Annie went on.

  “You can say that again, love. Completely.”

  “So neither of you would have considered Martin Edgeworth to be capable of something like this?”

  “Never in a million years,” said Margie. “He was a true gentleman, was Martin.”

  “A true gentleman,” her husband echoed. “Martin Edgeworth was one of the gentlest souls you could ever hope to meet. Wouldn’t harm a fly. Mind you . . .”

  “What?” Annie asked.

  “He didn’t like to lose. Did he, Margie?”

  “No, he didn’t like that at all.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “You know, competitions and the like. Got all huffy if he lost.”

  “Why all the interest in guns and shooting?” Annie asked.

  “Why?” said George, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “You’re not one of these antifirearms lot, are you?”

  “Not at all,” said Annie. “Just wondering what the appeal is.”

  “It’s a hobby, that’s all. Gets you out of the house. And I suppose it’s a sport, too. At least it’s competitive. In the Olympics, you know. We have regular competitions. Won a few trophies, as you can see. As far as I’m concerned, shooting’s no more about hurting anyone, or anything, than darts or cricket. You’ve got to be careful around guns, no doubt about that, but if you follow a few simple rules, you’re safe as houses. Martin just enjoyed the sport, getting out and meeting people. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Do you remember when he split up with his wife?” Annie asked.

  George’s expression darkened. “Connie, that little minx. Oh yes. We remember, all right.”

  “He was upset about that, right?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Did he ever express any desire for revenge, to hurt her or the man she ran off with?”

  “Not to me he didn’t. Besides, that was over two years ago, and he didn’t go anywhere near Connie again.”

  “Was he angry about the idea of marriage?” Annie asked. “Seeing as it had gone so wrong for him.”

  “He never said as much. And as far as I can tell, he didn’t know those people at the wedding from Adam, either, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

  “Why did he shoot them, then?” Banks asked.

  George glanced back and forth from Annie to Banks and gripped his wife’s hand. “I’ve no idea,” he said in a quiet, trembling voice. “He was my friend. I don’t understand any of what’s happened. To tell you the truth, I’m not even convinced that he did it.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Just not in his nature.”

  “But we know he had a short temper, and you said yourself he was a bad loser,” said Annie.

  “Don’t try to twist my words,” George said. “I’m not saying he was perfect. There’s plenty of people like that, and they don’t go around killing strangers.”

  “There was nothing on his mind, nothing erratic in his behavior lately?” Annie asked.

  “No,” said Margie. “We saw him just last week, and he was the same as normal.”

  “When was this?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing much. Just an upcoming competition, the prices in the new gun catalog, membership fees going up. Nothing important. Club gossip.”

  “Was that the last time either of you saw him?”

  “Yes,” said George.

  “Do you shoot, Mrs. Sykes?” Annie asked.

  “Me? Good lord, no,” said Margie. “I just come along for the company. It’s a bit empty here today, but it’s usually more lively. Quite a few of the wives come along, and we have some fine woman shooters as members. But me? I don’t think I could hit a barn door at ten paces.”

  “It’s probably a good thing you don’t shoot, then,” said Annie with a smile.

  “Yes.”

  “Was Martin a
ny good?” she asked George.

  “He was. Yes. Beat me nearly every time.”

  “Do you know where or when he became interested in shooting? He didn’t have any military training or background, did he?”

  “Martin? Military? Heavens, no. Though he did go up to their range now and then. It’s the only place you can fire the full-bore rifles, you see. Under strict military supervision, of course. Quite a few of our members enjoy the hospitality there from time to time.”

  “Did you go, too?”

  “Me? No. I’m happy enough with small-bore.”

  “It was a small-bore gun Mr. Edgeworth used at St. Mary’s.”

  “Well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it, unless he’d acquired something else illegally?” George leaned forward. “Now listen here, young lady, I respect that you have a serious job to do and all.” He glanced at Banks. “Both of you. But if you’re expecting me to imagine my friend, my best friend, getting up one day, heading out with his gun and shooting into a crowd of people from the top of a hill, then driving back home and blowing his own head off, then you’re in for a disappointment. Because I can’t. I can’t relate to it. Don’t you see. I just can’t . . .” There were tears in his eyes.

  Margie gripped his hand more tightly and patted it. “Now, now, George,” she said gently. “There, there.”

  “I’m sorry if it’s hard to take in,” Annie said, “but we’re just trying to understand why it happened ourselves.”

  “I know. And I’m telling you I can’t help you. I don’t know. I don’t even believe it. Martin was just an ordinary bloke. Sure, he had a bit of a temper. Yes, he didn’t like to lose. I think he might have cheated on his income tax, too, if truth be told. But none of that makes him a killer. He was neither so quiet and polite you might be worried what was really going through his mind, or loud and violent and abusive. He was just Martin. And don’t give me any of that guff the reporters tried on, like your neighbors not being what they seem. With Martin, what you saw was what you got, and it was him.”

  “We’re not just making it up, you know,” said Banks. “There’s often more to people than we think. We do have evidence that Martin Edgeworth shot those people, Mr. Sykes. And himself.”