“What about the other matter, his connection with the wedding party?” Gerry asked. “What might have pushed him over the edge?”
Robert looked at her askance. “How could we possibly speculate on something like that?”
“What DC Masterson means,” Annie went on, “is whether there’s anything you can think of, anything at all, that might have given someone like Martin Edgeworth a reason to do what he did.”
“But we knew nothing about this Martin Edgeworth,” Robert protested. “And it seems to me there was no reason any sane person could grasp what he did.”
“You mentioned predators earlier,” Annie said. “Were you aware of anyone like that causing Laura problems?”
“No. At least she never said anything. Anyway, she’d left that part of the business behind, the modeling.”
“Fair enough,” said Annie. “Is there anyone from Laura’s past who you think might wish to do her harm, even after a very long time?”
“Revenge being a dish best eaten cold?” said Robert.
“Something like that.” Annie noticed that Maureen Tindall seemed distracted. It could have been the Valium, or the general state of her nerves.
“Mrs. Tindall?” Annie said. “Can you think of anything? Anyone?”
Maureen seemed to snap back from a long distance. “Who, me? No, no, of course not. No one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. “Laura was not the kind of person to go about making enemies.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Annie said. “And if I gave you the wrong impression, I apologize. I’m not saying she did anything wrong to attract the attention of someone like Martin Edgeworth. We don’t even profess to understand his motivation. But it could have been a simple thing that set him off. Someone who did what he did doesn’t exactly see the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.”
“We’ve never heard of the man before,” said Robert Tindall. “And Laura certainly never mentioned him.”
“Would she have?”
“We like to think she would have confided in us if something, or someone, was bothering her, yes.”
“We do know that he seemed interested in the wedding,” said Gerry. “He had newspaper clippings of the announcements. He put them in a scrapbook.”
Maureen took a handkerchief from her sleeve and put it to her mouth. “Why would he do something like that? That’s just sick.”
“Good lord,” said Robert. “So he was stalking Laura?”
“Not necessarily. But he knew the details. It wasn’t a spontaneous assault. That’s what makes us think there could have been someone in particular in the wedding party he wanted to hurt, and hurt very badly, and he killed the others as a sort of smoke screen, to distract us from what he really intended. Naturally, we thought first of Laura and Ben, though Ben wasn’t killed immediately.”
Maureen shook her head. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”
Annie and Gerry exchanged glances. “Can’t be what?” Gerry asked.
“Wh–what you say it is. Something Laura did, or one of us did, or something he thinks we did. Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone else, but as far as Robert and I are concerned, that just sounds ridiculous.”
“There are still so many things about all this we don’t understand,” Annie said, “but that’s probably because we don’t have all the facts yet.”
“Can’t you just let it be, now it’s over and he’s dead?” said Maureen. “Let us be? We just want to get on with our lives. To heal.”
“But someone may have put Martin Edgeworth up to it,” Annie said. “Used him.”
“I don’t see how that could have happened,” said Maureen. “Surely people are not that manipulable?”
“You’d be surprised. With that type of killer, it could have been a minor slight, a buildup of pressure, even over years. Some insult or rejection he perceived or misread. Some past transgression, real or imagined.”
Maureen lowered her head and sniffled.
“Do you remember Wendy Vincent?” Gerry asked.
Maureen looked up sharply. “Wendy?” she repeated. “Yes, of course I do. How could I forget? But what’s that got to do with anything? That all happened fifty years ago.”
“You were her best friend, weren’t you?”
“I like to think so.”
“It must have been terrible for you. And so young.”
“Yes. I was fifteen.”
“Her killer was only brought to justice recently, a cold case solved by modern methods. DNA.”
“I read about it.”
“Did you know him? Frank Dowson?”
“I knew who he was. He was Billy Dowson’s weird older brother.”
“Weird?”
“There was something wrong with him. He wasn’t all there. We stayed away from him. But I still don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“We’re just looking for connections,” Gerry said. “However vague or distant.”
“Might Laura have unwittingly drawn attention from the wrong sort of person?” Annie cut in. “Perhaps she declined someone’s advances, something like that? Can you think of anyone?”
“We’ve been through all that,” said Robert. “Racked our brains. I think someone already told your colleagues about that cyber-stalker a few years back. But he’s in New Zealand.”
“We’ve checked him out thoroughly,” said Gerry. “It wasn’t him, or anything to do with him.”
“Something could have happened in London, I suppose, either recently or during Laura’s modeling career, but if there was, it wasn’t something she told us. And she usually told us most things.”
Annie doubted that very much. “She may not have even known about it,” she said. “The person might never even have approached her. Perhaps a perceived slight at a party, or something like that, was enough. A colleague. A waiter.”
“If she didn’t even know about it herself,” said Robert Tindall, “then she could hardly tell anyone else about it, could she? I’m sorry, but we can’t help you any further. You can see my wife is upset. Perhaps if you talked to some Laura’s friends and colleagues down in London . . . ?”
“We’ve already done that, Mr. Tindall, but rest assured we’ll stick at it.” Annie gave Gerry the nod and they stood to leave. “I’m sorry for probing at painful memories, Mrs. Tindall, but you’ve been most helpful. I shouldn’t think we’ll have to bother you anymore.”
Maureen Tindall remained with her face buried in her handkerchief. Just as Robert Tindall was leading them to the door, his wife checked the time again and reminded him of the forthcoming doctor’s appointment.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he said. “We’ve got ages yet.”
The market square outside was dark and deserted. As Banks glanced out after having recounted his earlier discussion with Dr. Glendenning, he could see the reflections of the others gathered in AC Gervaise’s office: Jenny Fuller, DCs Doug Wilson and Gerry Masterson and DI Annie Cabbot. The only significant person missing was Winsome, who had spent Christmas in Montego Bay with her parents, and would be there for another two weeks. Terry Gilchrist had gone to visit her over there, and Banks hoped the sun, sand and sea and long cool drinks with umbrellas were helping them get over the terrible ordeal they had endured at their friends’ wedding.
After a brief pause, Gervaise said, “As far as I’m concerned, Alan, I think we’ve got enough already to get started investigating possibilities beyond Edgeworth. But you’ll have to proceed carefully. Don’t tread on any toes or upset any of the bereaved. Most of all, we don’t want the newspapers getting hold of our speculations until you get somewhere with the investigation. If there’s anywhere to get. You know as well as I do how much they’d love the opportunity to tell the world how we got it wrong, or accuse us of harassing grief-stricken survivors.” She drank some coffee. “On the other hand, they’re all still hungry for a motive, for some sort
of explanation, and we haven’t been able to show them yet that Edgeworth was the monster they’d like to paint him as. Anyway, let’s carry on. There must be more. Dr. Fuller?”
Jenny Fuller cast her eyes over the group. “I’ve been over and over my notes, back to the textbooks, reread all your statements and reports, read up on just about every spree killing and mass murder I can find, and I still can’t make him fit. Naturally, there are so many variables. You can always get away by saying he was an exception to the rule, or that we’ve missed some vital piece of information, but in the light of what Alan’s just told us, I don’t think we have. I think it’s a strong case for at least considering other possibilities. Edgeworth doesn’t have a dysfunctional background, for a start. And if what you’re telling me about his cleaning up after things is true, that doesn’t fit the profile, either. Mass murderers don’t usually bother to get rid of all the forensic evidence they possibly can. Admittedly, they rarely have the time, but it’s certainly not part of the profile. Nor do potential suicides. Frankly, I’m stumped. Besides, you need more than a dysfunctional background to make a mass murderer. Plenty of people come from backgrounds of violence and abuse, for example, and never stray off the straight and narrow. You also need a series of triggers, or maybe something more like the series of numbers in a combination lock. Click. Click. Click. Until the tumblers align and it’s all systems go. I’ve got no idea what that combination might be in Edgeworth’s case. I’m not saying he didn’t do it, just that he didn’t do it as a textbook mass murderer, if you understand what I mean. With all the care he took to misdirect us, he could have had a more complicated reason than the need to kill a lot of people. But then why did he kill himself after taking so much care to cover his tracks? And why was it so easy to trace him through the firearms certificate? That kind of basic mistake doesn’t fit with the other stuff, the extra set of clothing and so on.”
“So,” said Banks, “the question is, if we’re giving him the benefit of the doubt when it comes to psychology, and admitting the inconsistencies of forensic evidence, are we going to take the leap of faith and assume that the man who was up on the hill shooting at the wedding group outside St. Mary’s was not the same man we found slumped against the wall in Martin Edgeworth’s cellar?”
“I can’t see any other conclusion,” said AC Gervaise. “If Dr. Fuller and Dr. Glendenning are right.”
The others nodded.
“If we’re going to work on the assumption that someone else shot the wedding party and also killed Martin Edgeworth,” Gervaise went on, “then it should open up new lines of inquiry. Now we have a second crime and all the fresh thinking and evidence that brings to the investigation. Where do you suggest we direct our attention next, Alan?”
“I’d like someone to have a word with his old partner, Jonathan Martell,” Banks said. “After all, it’s only a few years since they wound down the practice, and according to Ollie Metcalfe at the White Rose, Martell and Edgeworth often met up for a jar or two. They were still pals. Martell might know something, say if Edgeworth was in some kind of trouble or someone was trying to blackmail him, for example.”
“You think this Martell could be a suspect, sir?” DC Wilson asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Banks. “But keep an open mind. If it comes to it, if we think he merits it, we’ll do a full workup on him. If there’s any hint of a motive, then we’ll have him in. After all, he was Edgeworth’s partner for quite a few years. Edgeworth would have trusted him. Who’s to say it wasn’t Martell who came knocking on his door that Saturday morning, got him down in the cellar with the guns on some pretext or other, then bashed him on the back of the head with a ball-peen hammer and set up a phony suicide?”
“And then?” Wilson asked.
“Then he put the second set of outer clothes he’d bought beside the body, rumpled up a bit but not enough, went out in Edgeworth’s RAV4 with Edgeworth’s AR15 and shot up the wedding party, returned the people mover, guns and all, and hurried off home.”
“So it was well planned?” Annie said.
“At a guess. If it happened that way. Whoever did it.”
“It’s a possibility,” said Gervaise.
“It’s still speculation, ma’am,” said Banks. “But it’s a place to start. What we need to do is find a link between the killer and Edgeworth, and some connection between one of the victims and the killer.”
“As I said in our previous meeting,” Jenny cut in. “It could be that a war hero, a wedding, a model or some other ingredient of the event could have acted as a symbol of something to the killer, a trigger that set him off, so it doesn’t even have to a specific deed by a specific person he’s avenging. I know that sounds vague, but . . .”
“OK,” said Banks. “So maybe we’re after someone who hated models, weddings or war heroes. Or bridesmaids. Even so, we do the best we can with what limited resources we’ve got. Remember the scrapbook at Edgeworth’s house? It was filled with cuttings and pictures of the Tindall family, more than anyone else. Not the Kemps, the bridesmaids, the maid of honor, but the Tindalls. Annie, you and Gerry talked to them this afternoon. What were your impressions?”
“On the whole, I’d say Robert Tindall is trying to put a brave face on things and having a tough time of it,” said Annie. “Still, it’s hardly surprising, given what they’ve been through. Are still going through.”
“And Maureen?”
Annie glanced at Jenny Fuller. “Without being any kind of an expert in the field, I’d say she’s still severely traumatized by what happened and still grieving for her daughter.”
“Isn’t that only natural?” Banks said. “Jenny?”
“Sure it is,” Jenny Fuller agreed. “I don’t quite get what point you’re making, DI Cabbot.”
“It isn’t easy to explain,” Annie went on. “You’re absolutely right, of course. There’s every reason she should still be grieving, taking tranquilizers, spending half the day in bed ‘resting.’”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh on the woman?” Jenny said. “Given what she’s just experienced?”
“If you’d let me explain.”
“Go ahead, Annie,” said Banks. Jenny leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.
“Naturally, I was sympathetic. Gerry and I both were. I kept telling myself this woman has been through a severe trauma. She lost her only child. What could be worse?”
“But?” said Banks.
“According to her husband, Maureen Tindall was always a bit fragile, fraught with anxiety.”
“That business with the time,” said Gerry.
“Yes,” Annie went on. “She seemed obsessed with punctuality. They had a doctor’s appointment later in the afternoon. Dr. Graveney. A psychiatrist”—she glanced at Jenny—“and she seemed obsessed with getting there in plenty of time. She was always looking at her watch. The appointment was at least a couple of hours away.”
“Punctuality isn’t a bad thing,” said Jenny. “Especially if you’re going to see a doctor. But you’re bandying about words like ‘anxiety’ and ‘obsession’ with probably very little understanding of their true technical meaning.”
“I’m just trying to give you my experience of the interview,” Annie said. “I’m using the words as any layperson would. I mean, maybe you don’t, but most of us know what it’s like to be anxious, perhaps even obsessed, or consumed by grief. I’m not pretending to be a psychologist or anything. I’ll leave that to you.”
“The pretending?”
“You know what I mean.” Annie sniffed. “So that’s the impression we got, and I think Gerry would agree that Maureen Tindall was edgy, nervous, always worried about the time, and maybe that wasn’t all caused by the recent trauma. That’s all. Not that it matters so much. And we checked with Dr. Graveney. The appointment was genuine, and she kept it.”
“There was also that business about repeating ‘It can’t be’ when we were talking about the killer mayb
e having a reason to hurt someone in the wedding party,” said Gerry.
“Disbelief sounds pretty reasonable to me, under the circumstances,” said Gervaise.
“But it wasn’t just that, ma’am.” Gerry glanced at Annie, who gave her the go-ahead. “It was the way she said it. It seemed to us that the mention of Wendy Vincent made her think of something, or make some sort of connection which she then refused to tell us about. She quickly became very eager for us to move on, to leave, even, and not come back. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being fanciful.”
“You think there could be something in that?” said Banks.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find any connection with Martin Edgeworth. He was a few years younger than Maureen Tindall, and he grew up in Lincolnshire, so I doubt there is any. And Laura wasn’t even born then. But the direction of the whole inquiry seems to be changing now.”
“Indeed it does.” Banks finished his coffee, though it was a little too bitter for his taste. “What do you think about Maureen Tindall?” he asked Jenny Fuller.
“I couldn’t possibly say without talking to her, but people do get hung up on punctuality and such, for example, which is a little bit different from simply being on time. It’s not especially abnormal. It may be a sign of general anxiety. As for the other thing, who knows? I imagine what Gerry here is trying to say is that she thinks there was something about Maureen Tindall’s past, or her daughter’s or husband’s past, that she didn’t want to touch upon, was maybe worried you would uncover, so she changed the subject.”
“That’s what it felt like,” said Gerry.
“Well, we can’t always trust our feelings on these matters,” said Jenny. “It bears further examination, though, I’d say.”
“OK,” said Banks. “Well done, the two of you. Gerry, do you think you can work your magic and get us some more background on that old murder, dig even deeper than you dug before?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Doug, you can also keep working on the old dental practice for now, ex-patients and so on. Who knows, something could have happened there. Perhaps Edgeworth made a mistake and ruined someone’s smile, or sexually assaulted a female patient under anesthetic. It happens. I might wander back up to the club tomorrow and talk to Geoff McLaren the manager. According Ollie Metcalfe at the White Rose, he was a drinking buddy of Edgeworth’s. I keep thinking that if Edgeworth didn’t do it but his guns did, then the club’s a good place to start looking.”
Sleeping in the Ground: An Inspector Banks Novel (Inspector Banks Novels) Page 17