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

by Peter Robinson

  “Why couldn’t it have happened that way?”

  “When I revisited the scene, I concentrated on the spot where his head hit the wall. It was smooth as a baby’s bottom. Hitting his head against it couldn’t have caused the depth of indentation I found over the skull fragments.” He picked up his glass and took a long pull. “I rest my case.”

  “Are you trying to say what I think you are?”

  “Don’t try to stump me with riddles, laddie. What do you think I’m trying to say?”

  “That someone hit Edgeworth on the back of the head and fired the gun into his mouth. Murdered him.”

  Glendenning sat silently for a while, swirling the liquid in the bottom of his glass. “Well, it’s certainly a possibility, isn’t it?” he said finally. “But there could be other explanations. And I could be wrong. I’m a scientist. I’m uncomfortable enough speculating as much as I have done.”

  “I understand that,” said Banks. “But see it from my point of view. Imagination and speculation are almost as much use to a policeman as reason and scientific evidence. Often more so.” He took a swallow of beer. “Besides, it fits with one or two things that have been bothering me.”

  “All I’m saying,” Glendenning explained, “is that it’s possible—only possible, mind you—that someone hit Edgeworth on the back of the head before any shot was fired.”

  “Hit with what?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of hammer with a rounded head. A ball-peen, or machinist’s hammer, for example. Did you find anything like that at the scene?”

  “We’ve got everything from Edgeworth’s cellar locked up in evidence. There was a workbench, and we can certainly check all the tools for traces of blood and try to match them with the wound.”

  “The weapon would probably be among them,” said Glendenning. “Or whoever used it might have brought it with him and taken it away.”

  “We’ll check,” said Banks. “And then this person shot him?”

  “Well, he could hardly have done it himself. But it might not have been the same person.”

  “Possibly,” said Banks. “But it makes for an odd sequence of events however you look at it. Someone hits him on the back of the head and leaves, then someone else comes and fakes his suicide. Or maybe Edgeworth came round from the blow and then decided to shoot himself?”

  “When you put it like that, it does sound rather far-fetched. But there’s more. The angle was off.”

  “What do you mean? What angle?”

  “It’s a small thing in itself, but taking into account all the evidence of the possible trajectory of the bullet, the angle at which the weapon was held, it would have been . . . well, perhaps ‘uncomfortable’ is the best word, for Edgeworth to have held it the way it would inflict such a wound. He got it right. A lot of suicides don’t realize you need to hold the gun at an angle, pointing up, not straight at the back of your mouth. That likely wouldn’t bring about the desired result. I’m just saying that it would have been a bit of a twist for Edgeworth to hold it at the right angle from the way he was slouching against the wall. Not impossible, you understand, perhaps not even improbable, but uncomfortable.”

  “I understand,” said Banks. “What about time of death?”

  Glendenning sighed. “You know as well as I do that there’s usually plenty of leeway there, especially in a body that’s been dead as long as Edgeworth’s had when we found him.”

  “So he could have been killed earlier on Saturday morning, before the wedding?”

  “He could indeed. That was apparent from the start. The chill slows things down a bit.”

  “I’m just trying to get this all clear. The timing is such that the killer could have killed Edgeworth first and left the pile of clothes beside him, then used Edgeworth’s gun and RAV4 to carry out the shootings at St. Mary’s, returned them to the house and left.”

  “Indeed. What are these other things that have been bothering you?”

  “First,” said Banks, “there’s the scrapbook we found with the pictures and stories about Benjamin Kemp and Laura Tindall’s forthcoming wedding. I can understand why the killer might have kept such a record—it fits with his obsession—but why would he tape it to the underside of a drawer, where any police search was pretty certain to find it, if he was going to commit suicide after the murders?”

  “So in your speculative policeman’s way,” Glendenning said, “you’re suggesting that someone else might have planted the scrapbook there, the real killer perhaps, to incriminate Edgeworth further, or to misdirect you?”

  “Well, someone might have realized that it would help to convince us we’d got the right man if we had some evidence to link him with the people at the wedding, and not just physical evidence, ballistics and so forth. The thing is that other than the scrapbook we’ve got nothing, no links at all between Martin Edgeworth and anyone in the wedding party, the church itself, the vicar, verger, curate, you name them.”

  “Maybe he’d just kept the scrapbook hidden so that no casual visitor would see it, and he forgot to move it before his suicide, or couldn’t be bothered to. After all, he had other things on his mind. I mean, he’d hardly take it out of his hiding place and put in on the kitchen table, would be?”

  “Well speculated, Watson. And we found no identifiable prints on the scrapbook, only smudges. But such things are notoriously difficult to get prints from, anyway. Edgeworth didn’t leave a suicide note, either.”

  “That happens so often, in my experience,” said Glendenning, “as to be meaningless.”

  “True. And perhaps even more often with mass murderers. But on the other hand, there’s often a need to explain, or to demonstrate how clever he’s been. None of these little things add up to anything until you start collecting them all together. And there’s another thing. Nobody I talked to who knew Edgeworth believed him to be capable of committing such a crime. Oh, some people didn’t like him much, especially his ex-wife, and some admitted he had a short fuse and he didn’t like losing, but that’s about as far as it goes. Now, I know in itself that means very little. If I had a penny for the number of times I’ve heard friends, family and neighbors describe a sadistic killer as a decent, normal, sociable chap with a few flaws, I’d be a rich man today. But still . . .”

  Glendenning made a throaty, gurgling sort of sound Banks took for laughter.

  Banks finished his pint. “So the question is, I suppose, what are we going to do about it?”

  “I’m not going to do anything,” said Glendenning. “I’m simply trying to bring a few anomalies and alternative interpretations to your attention. I think the rest is up to you.”

  “But you’ll back me up if necessary?”

  “Naturally. To the extent of my professional opinion.”

  “What a waste,” said Banks. “And you seem so promising at speculation.”

  Glendenning polished off his whiskey. “Aye, well, I’ll leave that to you. I would certainly be comfortable to go as far as mentioning the indentation, for example, and should you provide me with a possible weapon I would be happy to check it for fit. Now I’ve had my say. I’ll be off.”

  When Glendenning had left, Banks sat staring into his empty glass. Was there anything in what Glendenning had told him? Was Edgeworth really innocent, as almost of his friends and acquaintances seemed to believe? He might have been involved tangentially, of course, then hoodwinked or double-crossed by an accomplice at the final hurdle, but he might also have been used, knowing nothing about the real killer’s motives or intentions. The only bright spot in all this was that the two of them must have crossed paths at some point. The killer must have known about Edgeworth’s membership in the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, about his guns. And that gave Banks a few places he could start searching for the connections he needed.

  Banks hadn’t given Annie and Gerry any specific instructions for interviewing Robert and Maureen Tindall again other than to play it by ear, go over some of the ques
tions they had already been asked and note their reactions. Robert and Maureen were the only immediate members of the wedding party who hadn’t been killed or wounded, which was interesting in itself to a suspicious detective’s mind. If the killer had been aiming at specific targets, then why had they been spared? Why had he killed the groom’s father, but not the bride’s? Not that Annie thought the Tindalls had anything to do with the shooting, but it was odd, all the same. They had been standing with the main group but had escaped injury. Their witness statements had been taken as soon as they had recovered from the immediate shock, but neither had anything new to add. Had the shootings really been random?

  The Tindalls’ house came complete with double garage, gables, spacious gardens at front and back, and a bay window. It sat in one of the quiet streets a stone’s throw from the Heights, Eastvale’s Millionaire’s Row, but lacked the panoramic view the large detached houses commanded, and wouldn’t fetch anywhere near the same price. Even so, Annie would have given up her cottage in Harkside for such a home had she been able to afford it. Banking had clearly been as good to Robert Tindall as it had been bad to most customers.

  They parked out front and walked up the path. Annie had phoned ahead, so they were expected, and Robert Tindall opened the door almost immediately she rang the bell.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, taking their umbrellas and depositing them in an elephant’s-foot stand by the door. Annie hadn’t seen such a thing in ages, if ever. She thought elephants were a protected species. Certainly, it was illegal to hunt them for ivory. Perhaps it wasn’t a real elephant’s foot. “If you wouldn’t mind removing your footwear,” Robert Tindall went on, “you can put it on that mat there.”

  Annie took off her red boots, not without some awkwardness over the zips, and Gerry slipped off her pumps without even bending down. Annie felt decidedly underdressed in jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt under her raincoat, but Gerry appeared elegant enough in a dark green trouser suit over a russet top that matched her flowing waves of red hair. Tall and elegant, Annie thought, with a rush of irrational envy that occasionally rose in her chest when she worked with Gerry. It passed quickly enough. They had got off to a bad start, but Annie had now actually come to appreciate the many qualities of her occasionally difficult oppo over the past couple of years, even if they hadn’t exactly warmed to one another on a personal level yet. It was her own fault. Women like Gerry Masterson and Jenny Fuller, always elegant, beautiful, well turned out, posh accents, walking around as if they had a stick up their arse, had always irritated her. It was a problem that probably had something to do with her unconventional and bohemian upbringing, but knowing that didn’t solve it.

  Robert Tindall led them into a high-ceilinged living room where a fire burned in the grate and a baby grand occupied one corner.

  “Maureen’s,” he said as Annie stared at it. “She’s the musical one. Not me, I’m afraid. Tone-deaf.”

  “You couldn’t fit one of those in my entire cottage,” said Annie, realizing immediately that she had made Tindall uncomfortable. “Bijou, they call it.”

  “Ah, yes, the vagaries of today’s language. Do sit down.” He gestured to a sofa upholstered in rough cream cloth printed with French wine labels. “Maureen is resting. She hopes to be with us shortly.”

  Annie hoped so, too. She had come to talk to both of them, preferably together. There was a whiff of camphor about the room, she thought, which gave it something of an old-fashioned atmosphere.

  Robert cleared his throat. “I’m afraid she’s not been herself since Laura’s death. It shook her to the core. I’m upset, too, naturally, we all are. But Maureen was always more fragile. Laura was our only child. You know.”

  “Yes,” said Annie. “I can hardly imagine how terrible it must be. Fragile? You say your wife is fragile?”

  “Yes. Sensitive. Highly strung, as they say. But she’s a wonderful wife, and she was a good mother to Laura. Strict but good: attentive, loving, supportive. Maureen helped her so much with her modeling career. Maybe she was overprotective, but there are some wily predators in that business, you know.” He shook his head slowly. “Can I perhaps get you a cup of tea, coffee, or something while you’re waiting?”

  “Tea would be great, thanks,” said Annie.

  “Any kind in particular?”

  “Have you got any chamomile?” Gerry asked.

  “Afraid not. It’s Yorkshire Gold or Earl Grey.”

  They agreed on the Yorkshire Gold and Robert Tindall went off to the kitchen.

  “Bloody chamomile, indeed,” said Annie.

  Gerry blushed. “Well, he asked. And you’re a one to talk. It was you got me into herbal teas in the first place.”

  Before she could reply, Annie heard a soft rustling behind her and turned to see a woman walk into the room. In contrast to her husband, Maureen Tindall was painfully thin and pale, like an invalid, clutching a cashmere cardigan at her throat as if she were freezing despite the fire. Robert Tindall was tall, slightly stooped, silver-haired and distinguished, but his wife looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Maureen Tindall.” Her voice was a shaky whisper. She sat in the armchair closest to the fire and rubbed her hands together. “This weather,” she said. “When will it ever end?”

  “Not until we’ve all been washed away,” Annie replied.

  Maureen Tindall managed a thin smile. She was in her early sixties, Annie guessed, with short steel-gray hair plastered to her scalp. Her face was bony, blotchy in places, eyes sunken, dull with the numbing glaze of tranquilizers, and anywhere except on Annie or Gerry. Still, Annie thought, the poor woman had just lost her only daughter in the most horrendous circumstances one could possibly imagine. Who in her position wouldn’t reach for the Valium? Maureen smoothed her skirts over her lap and leaned back. “I can’t imagine what you want with us now,” she said. “Not now that it’s all over.”

  “We just want to make sure we’ve got everything right,” said Annie. “The boss is a real stickler about reports and that sort of thing.”

  Robert Tindall came back in with a tray bearing a teapot, cups and saucers, milk and sugar. “Ah, darling, here you are,” he said. “Feeling all right?”

  “A little better,” said Maureen. “I think my rest helped.”

  Her husband put down the tray and patted her arm. “Good. Good.” He glanced at Annie. “I don’t suppose this will take long?”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” Annie said. Gerry took out her notebook and pen.

  Maureen Tindall peered at her wristwatch. “What time is our appointment with Dr. Graveney, darling?” she asked.

  “Not until half-past four. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Only we mustn’t be late. We’ll have to set off in good time.”

  “We will, darling, we will.”

  “Dr. Graveney?” Annie said.

  “Outpatient care,” said Robert Tindall. “Maureen is still rather very much in shock, as you may have noticed.”

  “A psychiatrist, then?”

  “Yes,” said Tindall, through gritted teeth. “A specialist.”

  He clearly didn’t appreciate Annie’s encroaching on their private affairs. Still, plenty of people were embarrassed about seeing shrinks. Annie had felt that way herself after her rape some years ago. In retrospect, though, she thought the visits had done her some good. They had at least speeded her reintegration into some approximation of normal life. Had she been left to her own devices, she would probably still be wallowing in guilt, anger, anxiety, shame, alcohol and God only knows what else.

  “I’m afraid I still find it very difficult to accept the reality of what happened,” Maureen said. “I find myself constantly dwelling on those moments in the churchyard, reliving them. My dearest Laura. I don’t sleep well. It always seems to be on my mind like those tunes you can’t get rid of sometimes, only much worse. Dr. Graveney is trying to help me overcome all that. To make the pictures go away.
”

  Good luck with that, Annie thought. “Then I wish both of you every success. I can’t imagine how terrible it must be reliving events like that over and over.”

  “It’s not even so much the images,” Maureen said, “but the feelings that go with them.”

  “I understand,” said Annie. And she did. “I’m sorry if our visit causes you any more pain. There’s a just a few small things we’d like to go over. Not the event itself, you understand. Just background.”

  “But you’ve got the man, haven’t you?” said Robert Tindall. “The one who did it. He shot himself, didn’t he?”

  Annie noticed Maureen flinch at the word “shot.” “Yes,” she said. “That’s all pretty well cut and dried. What we don’t have is any kind of motive. From all we’ve been told, Martin Edgeworth just wasn’t the kind of man to do what he did.”

  “Something must have pushed him over the edge,” said Robert Tindall.

  “Exactly. That’s what we’re trying to find out. If he had some connection with anyone in the wedding party, for example. And if there was anyone else involved.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Yes. There are one or two anomalies, and there’s a remote possibility that he had an accomplice.”

  “You must understand, we didn’t actually see anyone,” said Robert.

  “Everything was too confusing,” Maureen added. “We didn’t know what was happening.”

  “Of course,” said Annie. “I’m just trying to find out whether you had any sense at all of there being more than one person up there.”

  “Well, the shots seemed to come rather fast,” said Robert. “I can’t say I’ve ever been under fire in a battle situation, but I rather imagine that’s what it would feel like. So I suppose there could have been more than one. But surely your forensics people could tell you all about that?”