“I’m sure you do. All I’m saying is that I can’t believe it. No more than you would if I told you . . .” He paused, then pointed at Annie. “If I told you that she had done it.”
“So what do you think happened?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know. All I know is it can’t have been Martin Edgeworth. It must have been someone else.”
Banks pulled up outside Jenny’s front gate at seven o’clock that evening and tooted his horn. The rain was coming down in buckets again. He thought perhaps he should dash to the door and hold his umbrella for her—it would be very gallant—but the door opened almost immediately, and out she came with an umbrella of her own. A large, striped one.
“Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in Sydney,” she complained as she slid into the passenger seat. “Not that it never rains there. Mm, nice car. When did you get this? And how did you afford it? Been taking backhanders from drug dealers?”
“My, my,” said Banks, “we do have a lot to catch up on, don’t we? And I believe you’ve developed an accent.” He turned down the volume a notch on Van Morrison’s “Warm Love” and set off. Though not quite a match for the opulence and grandeur of the Heights, the Green was a pleasant and relatively wealthy enclave of Eastvale just southeast of the River Swain, where it curved through the town, opposite the terraced gardens and falls. Those fortunate enough to live in one of the detached Georgian houses by the water had a magnificent view of the castle towering above them on the opposite bank.
Jenny now lived only a street away from the house she had sold when she left Eastvale. Her semi overlooked the green itself, a swathe of parkland, dotted with poplars and plane trees, wooden benches, marked pathways and notices about cleaning up after your dog. Though the area attracted its fair share of tourists in season, especially with a famous ice-cream shop and a bakery nearby, it was far enough from the town center to be quiet for the most part of the year. Professionals and some of the better-off academics lived around there, along with a fair number of retired couples and even a few successful artists and writers. It wasn’t the sort of area that would suit Ray, though, Banks thought. Far too bourgeois for him, and perhaps too claustrophobic.
Luigi’s wasn’t far, just over the bridge and up the road past the formal gardens to Castle Hill, but on a night like this, it wasn’t a walk anyone would care to make. The rain bounced in puddles on the road and pavement and ran like rills down the gutters, warping the reflections of the streetlamps and the occasional green or red neon shop sign. Banks could hardly hear Van Morrison for the noise it made.
Even though it was a wet Monday evening, it wasn’t long until Christmas, the shops were open late, and Banks was lucky to find a parking spot almost right outside the small restaurant. They shared Jenny’s umbrella briefly on the way in and Banks smelled her familiar scent. He could swear it was the same she used all those years ago, and he still couldn’t put a name to it. Whatever it was, it smelled fresh and natural as a perfume carried on a light summer breeze, and it reminded him of childhood trips to Beales with his mother. It seemed they always had to walk through the perfume and makeup department to get to the toys or children’s clothing.
The maître d’ fussed over them, took their wet things and led them to a corner table for two beneath a romantic oil painting of Venetian canals in a scratched old gilt frame. The white tablecloth was spotless, with two red candles at its center casting shadows on the walls. It was still early, and there were only six other diners, one table of four and another of two, but it was a small and very popular restaurant, and it would soon fill up. The ambience was dim and muted, and Banks thought he could hear Elvis Presley singing “Santa Lucia” in the background.
“Have you caught up on your sleep yet?” Banks asked.
“I don’t think so. I don’t seem to be sleeping regular hours, or for very long periods.”
“I imagine it takes a while.”
The menus were printed in italics. Jenny pulled her tortoiseshell reading glasses from her voluminous handbag, and Banks put on his own Specsavers specials. They both laughed and studied the menus in silence. The waiter came and asked about drinks, and after consulting with Jenny, Banks ordered a bottle of Amarone. Pushing the boat out, perhaps, but then, he reminded himself, it was a special occasion: dinner with a lovely woman he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.
Jenny had been a friend, not a lover like Emily, but they had come close, and there was no doubt about their mutual attraction. Perhaps if he hadn’t been married, things would have turned out differently. As the waiter poured the wine, Banks looked across the table at Jenny in the candlelight and thought how lovely she still was. As she studied the menu, she gently bit the end of her tongue between her front teeth. The candlelight was reflected in her eyes. She had a silk scarf around her neck and was wearing a V-neck rust-colored top, which showed just enough cleavage. Her arms were bare, and she had silver bangles around her left wrist that moved and jingled as she turned the pages, and a tiny watch with a loose chain on her right. He had forgotten that Jenny was left-handed.
“What?” she said, flashing him a smile.
“I didn’t say anything,” muttered Banks, flustered at being caught staring. He reminded himself that this was a working dinner, though he didn’t think he could sneak the expense of the Amarone past AC Gervaise’s eagle eye.
“My mistake. So what do you fancy?”
Banks buried his head in the menu again. “I thought I might start with a small Caesar salad and then perhaps the lobster ravioli or spaghetti and meatballs. You?”
Jenny closed her menu. “I’ll have the same.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course. I always find it easiest to do that when I’m out with somebody.”
“What if you absolutely hate what he orders?”
“Then I get a little more creative. But it’s not always a ‘he.’ Honestly, Alan, spaghetti and meatballs sounds fine, and I’m sure it will go with the wine a lot better than lobster ravioli, delightful as that sounds.”
Banks closed his menu. “Done, then.” They gave the waiter their orders and returned to the wine. “Am I losing my mind, or didn’t you used to be a redhead?”
Jenny laughed. “Can’t a girl change her mind? We women are arch-deceivers when it comes to things like hair color. It was henna,” she said. “Couldn’t you tell?”
Banks had believed the red hair to be genuine. “I never got close enough to find out,” he said.
Jenny arched her eyebrows. “And whose fault was that?” She touched her head. “This is my natural color. I grew into it. You were going to tell me about the Porsche.”
“I’m afraid it’s not a happy story. That’s why I went for a diversion when you first mentioned it. It used to be my brother’s.” Banks explained about Roy’s murder and the newfound wealth for his parents that resulted from it, along with the Porsche for him.
“That is sad,” said Jenny when he’d finished. “But you solved the case, found the killer?”
“Oh yes. That’s not always . . . I mean, it doesn’t always help. You know. Whatever’s lost, you can’t quite make up for that.”
“True,” said Jenny. “You know, I’ve often thought of this moment, or one like this, over the years. Us, meeting again. Wondering what it would be like. I was so nervous. Would it be awkward? Would we have moved so far apart we had no common ground? Other than murder, that is. Would there just be nothing at all, like two strangers?”
“And?”
Jenny laughed. “In some ways it’s like I’ve never been away. I know it’s a bit of a paradox, that so much has changed, that we have both changed, but I honestly don’t feel any different in your company than I used to do.”
Banks leaned back in his chair. “Comfortable like an old pair of slippers, eh? But you’re right that so much has happened. Sandra left me, for a start.”
“Oh, I know, but I’m not talking about that. Not the details. Just the essence. We have to be so
mething more than the accumulation of things that happen to do us, don’t you think?”
Banks worked on that one as he tasted some more Amarone. As he looked into her eyes again, he realized that what he thought had been sadness the other day was a depth of experience, an air of having lived, with all the suffering, joy, hope, loss, dreams, grief and occasional despair that living involved. Their salads arrived and they put their wine aside. The waiter quietly topped up their glasses. Banks had heard the door open a few times and he looked around to see that the place was now almost full.
“I hate it when they do that,” Jenny said. “I get so pissed. I can’t tell how much I’ve had to drink.”
“You’d rather count your glasses, mark your bottle?”
“Well, no. That’s a bit sort of anal, I suppose.”
Banks laughed. “At these prices, I don’t think getting pissed is an option.”
“Then I won’t worry about it again.”
“So what happened? In Australia. Why did you come back?”
“Just couldn’t stay away, I suppose. The English weather, the healthy food, the politics. You. And then the job offer.”
“Seriously.”
“I got divorced.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Don’t be. Anyway, the job offer was important. I’m not independently wealthy. But the marriage? The divorce wasn’t nice. I don’t suppose it ever is, is it?”
“No,” said Banks. “Mine certainly wasn’t. After all those years, you think you know somebody, then . . . they’re strangers.”
“Yes . . . Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about Australian men. All they’re interested in is beer, Aussie-rules football and dwarf-tossing.” She shook her head. “No. That’s not fair. Henry was a dear fellow, a true thinker and a very creative type. Sensitive. Things just didn’t work out for us, that’s all. I don’t know why. Listen to me, the psychologist who can’t even understand her own psychology.”
“Physician, heal thyself?”
“Something like that. Mutually incompatible, let’s say. That covers a multitude of sins. Best leave it at that.”
“There’s no possibility of a reconciliation?”
“No. You?”
“Lord, no,” said Banks. “It’s been years now. Sandra’s happily married to another man. They’re living in London. They have a child together.”
“Do you ever see one another?”
“No. Not for years. I’ve lost track. I see the kids often enough, though. Brian. Tracy.”
“The Blue Lamps are pretty big down under, you know. You must be a proud father.”
“Don’t tell him that, but yes, I am. And Tracy’s had her ups and down, but she’s turned out all right, too. Seems to have settled down. She’s living in Newcastle now, working and studying at the uni.”
“You’re lucky, then.”
“I suppose I am. Kids?”
“No. It was a matter of choice on both our parts, so it’s OK. I never thought of myself as the maternal type. Lovers?”
“One or two,” said Banks. “You?”
“Three or four.” Jenny’s expression was inscrutable.
The waiter delivered their main course and emptied the last of the wine into their glasses.
“You never wrote,” said Banks, when the waiter was out of earshot.
“Nor did you.”
“I didn’t have your address.”
“You’re a detective. You could have tracked me down.” Jenny stared at the table. When she looked up again, her mouth had taken a downward turn. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“No, really.”
“I mean it. Never mind. It’s nothing. I just needed to get away. Completely away. That’s all. Now eat your spaghetti like a good boy.”
They tucked in. The food was good, the tomato-based sauce piquant and the meatballs moist and spicy.
“I don’t suppose you’ll be needing me anymore, now you’ve got your man,” Jenny said after a while.
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Well, I must say, this is a nice way of giving someone the push. Do thank your boss for using the velvet-glove approach.”
Banks laughed. He had almost forgotten how much he laughed when he was with Jenny. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Yes, we’ve got our man—or he got himself—but there’s so much we still don’t know. I’d like you to keep working on the profile, if you’d be willing.”
Jenny’s expression brightened. “Of course. If nothing else, it might prove useful as research. One of the problems with this type of killer is that we don’t have any useful profiles to work from. They’re so few and far between, and most of them kill themselves before we get a chance to talk to them.”
“Well, this one’s no exception to that rule.”
“In a strange way, not talking to them doesn’t matter that much. I’ve always thought that talking to serial killers and mass murderers was overrated. All they do is whine and lie and blame society or their parents for their crimes. You don’t learn very much. It’s their behavior and the way they present themselves in the world that I find more interesting. And the cracks, of course. What builds up to such a point that it bursts the dam, so to speak, sets them on an unalterable course with only one possible outcome. That’s far more interesting.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“So tell me everything you know about him.”
They finished their main courses, and Banks told her what he had discovered and heard so far about Martin Edgeworth, most of it that very day from Ollie Metcalfe and George and Margie Sykes at the shooting club. Annie and Gerry Masterson would be trying to dig up a lot more background, but that was all he had for now. While he spoke, Jenny rested her chin on her fists, elbows planted on the table. When he had finished, she seemed thoughtful, moved one hand to pick up her glass and drank some more wine. Her glass was nearly empty.
“Do we want another?” Banks asked. “I can’t. I’m driving. But . . .”
“I don’t think I could manage it,” said Jenny. “This tiredness just washes over me.”
“Want to go?”
Jenny waved her glass. “Not just yet. There’s still a mouthful or two left. So, basically,” she went on, “everyone you talked to told you that Martin Edgeworth was sociable, generous, clubbable, uncomplaining, caring and successful?”
“Basically, yes,” said Banks. “Apart from the broken marriage, the quick temper and bad-loser bit.”
“Well, we all know about broken marriages, don’t we? If a difficult divorce were a trigger for mass murder, there’d be a lot more dead people in the streets. Same with a bad temper and being a poor loser.”
“Too true. We haven’t interviewed his wife or children yet. The children—grown-ups now, actually—should be here tomorrow. The wife didn’t mention coming over from Carlisle when Gerry spoke to her on the phone, so who knows? We may have to go there to talk to her.”
“Your man certainly doesn’t fit any profile that I’m aware of,” said Jenny. “Usually mass murderers tend to be profoundly alienated and embittered. They want revenge against the world, and they want to show everyone they’re not failures, that they can’t be used as doormats. There’s no evidence that Martin Edgeworth was a failure, or even felt he was. Sometimes the revenge is specific, and sometimes it’s just a sort of random rage against society in general. That doesn’t seem to fit, either, unless Edgeworth was very, very good at hiding his true self. He wasn’t a loner, and he wasn’t a failure. True, he was divorced and probably felt angry with his wife for humiliating him, but that’s hardly an indication of psychopathy. Some killers are good at hiding their true selves. I’m sure you’ve seen it often enough on the news, how the serial killer next door wouldn’t harm a fly, according to his neighbors. Was just a quiet lad, never any trouble, and he’s got five dismembered corpses buried in his back g
arden. Sure, it happens. But not that often. Most people demonstrate some clues as to what they are. I mean, there’s been plenty of meek little men finally snapping and killing their wives and families and then themselves. But going out with an assault rifle and mowing down a wedding party? That’s something else. We need to dig a lot deeper.”
“I think Raymond Chandler wrote something about meek little wives holding a carving knife and studying their husbands’ necks, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Jenny. “But that was in Southern California during the Santa Ana. The hot wind makes people crazy.”
“Not only is the woman beautiful, but she knows her Raymond Chandler,” said Banks, before he realized exactly what he was saying.
Jenny didn’t miss a beat. She fluttered her eyelashes and said, “Of course, I’m not just a pretty face. You ought to know that by now.”
But Banks could see her blushing beneath the bravado. Yes, he thought, people do demonstrate clues as to what they are, or feel, or think. Most of us can only hide so much from the rest of the world. We have tells, giveaways. Body language. “So what do you think?” he said. “About Edgeworth.”
Jenny knocked back the rest of her wine. “I’m not sure what to think,” she said. “But from what you’ve told me, if I were you there’s one question I would most certainly be asking myself.”
“What’s that?”
“Despite all the evidence to support my position, am I sure, am I absolutely sure, that I’ve got the right man?”
“You’re not the first person to say that to me today,” Banks grumbled. “Shall we go?”
When he stopped outside Jenny’s house to drop her off, the rain was still teeming down. They sat in silence for a while, then Jenny said, “I’m not going to ask you to come in for a nightcap tonight, Alan. Partly I’m just too damn tired, and partly . . . I don’t know . . . I’m still not quite sure where I am in the world yet. I’m out of sync. I don’t know if it’s day or night.”
Banks leaned over and kissed Jenny on the cheek. She smiled and touched his arm with her fingertips before moving away, grabbing her umbrella and dashing out into the rain. He waited until she had got her front door open. She turned, silhouetted by the light, waved to him and closed the door behind her. Van Morrison was singing “Wild Children” as Banks drove back over the bridge, across the market square, where the cobbles glistened with rain under the colored lights, and headed for home.
Sleeping in the Ground: An Inspector Banks Novel (Inspector Banks Novels) Page 14