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

by Peter Robinson

  He stood back and tried to imagine what had gone on in the mind of Edgeworth’s killer. He had probably taken Edgeworth by surprise, and if the killer intended to fake a suicide, he wouldn’t want to risk poison or sleeping tablets in a cup of tea. He would have known that the police would carry out toxicology tests and that anything unusual would be a flagged. So he waited until Edgeworth’s back was turned and stunned him with a blow to the back of the head, then arranged him on the floor against the wall and shot him. It was certainly a plausible explanation.

  If someone else had done it and assumed Edgeworth’s identity, then Edgeworth must have been killed before the church massacre. Even Dr. Glendenning had admitted this could have easily been the case. There were no indications in the postmortem that his body had been restrained in any way. To make everything work, the killer must have got into the house in the morning, done his business in the cellar, then driven off in Edgeworth’s RAV4, with his AR15, wearing clothing identical to that he had left in the cellar neatly piled by the body. And the odds were that Edgeworth had let him in, or taken him back there after meeting on a walk, for example, as there had been no signs of forced entry.

  And if the killer had gone to such lengths and thought things out that much, Banks was probably dealing with a more intelligent person than someone who had simply snapped and started shooting people at random. Which meant there was likely to be a motive somewhere, something very important that he didn’t know yet, hidden away in all this, however deep it may be buried and however tricky it might be to find.

  Banks found Roger behind the bar again when he called at the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club that Friday afternoon. “Boss around today?” he asked.

  Roger regarded him as if he were mad, then recognition dawned. “Oh, it’s you again,” he said. “Sorry. As a matter of fact, Mr. McLaren is in today. I’ll just let him know you’re here.”

  As Roger disappeared through a door behind the bar, Banks leaned on the polished dark wood and waited. The dining area was much busier than on his previous visit, and most of the tables were occupied by late lunchers. Banks tried to pick out George and Margie Sykes among the diners but couldn’t see them. He wondered what drew people to shooting, never having had much inclination or aptitude for it, himself, though he had completed a number of firearms courses both during his training and later. It was probably something you couldn’t imagine people enjoying unless you actually took it up yourself, like trainspotting or running marathons. Maybe it was somewhere between the absorption and soothing influence of a hobby and full-throttled adrenaline-fueled obsession with speed or distance.

  “This way. Second on the left.”

  Roger held the bar flap up and Banks walked through. The business section of the club wasn’t quite as well appointed as the public area, but everything was recently polished, and the air smelled of fresh lemons. Not a whiff of cordite anywhere. Banks walked along the corridor past an open storeroom then tapped on the door marked manager. A reedy voice bade him enter.

  Geoff McLaren sat behind a large desk of imitation teak. At least, Banks assumed it was imitation. Real teak was prohibitively expensive these days. It was a tidy desk, and the laptop computer that sat on it was closed. McLaren’s large bald head shone as if it had been polished as recently as the woodwork, and his handshake was a little too damp and limp for Banks’s liking.

  “Can I get you anything?” McLaren asked, when both were settled in their chairs.

  “Nothing, thanks,” Banks said. “I don’t think I’ll take up much of your time.”

  McLaren’s expression and voice turned funeral-director deep and sympathetic. “It’s about poor Martin, isn’t it, I assume? What a terrible, terrible tragedy.”

  “Did you know Martin Edgeworth personally, or was it merely in your professional capacity?”

  McLaren made a pyramid with his fingertips on the desk. “I’d like to think Martin and I were friends, or at least very good acquaintances. We lunched together on occasion. Not here, of course. My place of business. That wouldn’t do. But at his local down in Swainshead sometimes. In Eastvale once or twice. When he had the dental practice, I was a patient. Martin was one of our longest-standing members, and he helped out with a lot of the committee work, competitions, legal paperwork, that sort of thing.”

  “Vetting new members?”

  McLaren pursed his lips, then spoke. “On occasion. But only in the preliminary stages, you understand. The rest has been done with the correct legal authorities, by the book.”

  “Of course.”

  “We take law and safety very seriously here, Mr. Banks.”

  “I’m sure you do. Did Mr. Edgeworth vet any new applications for you recently, or perhaps propose any new members?”

  “It doesn’t exactly work that way, but no, he didn’t.”

  “Anything unusual at all happen?”

  “Not that I can think of.” McLaren frowned. “What sort of thing were you thinking of?”

  “Any unpleasant incidents. Arguments. Accidents. Threats. Thefts.”

  “No, nothing of that sort. We run a tight ship.”

  “So nobody got drunk and shot up the restaurant?”

  McLaren’s smile was little more than a polite flicker. “Contrary to what a lot of people seem to think, it’s not exactly the Wild West out here. We don’t permit any firearms in the restaurant and bar area. They have to be securely locked in the specified areas under the specified conditions when not out in use out on the ranges.”

  “Very wise. What did you and Martin Edgeworth talk about when you met up for lunch?”

  “Just things in general. Club gossip, politics, business, new products, that sort of thing.”

  “Is there much club gossip?”

  “Well, it’s only the sort that’s interesting if you know the members involved.”

  “Affairs, that sort of thing?”

  “Hardly. A few members do bring their wives for meals and functions and so forth, but we’re not the sort to go leaving our car keys in a dish by the door.”

  “Good lord, do people really do that?”

  McLaren smiled. “I wouldn’t know. It’s just something I remember from an old movie.”

  “I think they have more sophisticated methods these days. Apps and the like.”

  “I’m sure they do” said McLaren. He was starting to shift in his chair and drum his fingers on the desk.

  “All right,” Banks went on, “I realize that all this probably has nothing to do with your club at all, and believe me, though I’m no fan of firearms, I have no desire to cause any discomfort for those who are. But if Martin Edgeworth did take his AR15 rifle to Fortford on the day in question, if he did kill five people and wound four, then I’m sure you can understand that it would be in all our best interests to know why.”

  “Of course. But I’m afraid I don’t believe he did what you say.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not at all. You didn’t know him. If you had done, you wouldn’t even be suggesting anything of the kind.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive, Mr. McLaren. People found Ted Bundy charming.”

  “For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t like that. I’ve heard all about the charming and convincing psychopaths. We’ve had one or two people of that ilk attempting to join even during my time here. People I wouldn’t trust with a firearm as far as I could throw them. But not Martin. He was straight as a die.”

  Banks had resigned himself for yet another eulogy on Martin Edgeworth, and maybe, he realized, he was simply visiting the club again for reassurance that he was right to believe in Edgeworth’s innocence himself, that he was pushing at people like McLaren to test the strength of his own belief. But there was still the matter of a point of contact between Edgeworth and the real killer, and the club seemed to fit the bill nicely for that. Here were plenty of people who both knew Edgeworth and knew their way around weapons. “I’d like their names, if possible,” he said.
/>   “What names?”

  “These people you wouldn’t trust with a firearm as far as you could throw them.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, that was just an off-the-cuff comment.”

  “So there haven’t been any such applicants?”

  “I’m not saying we don’t turn people down, but there’s usually more to it than my personal feelings about them.”

  “If you have a record of the names of these people you’ve turned away, or if you remember any of them, I’d still very much appreciate a list, along with a list of your active members. Remember, I can get a court order if I need one.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll see what I can do. I’m as concerned as you are that we get to the bottom of what happened that day.”

  “Thank you. Did Martin Edgeworth ever put forward any of these applicants you rejected?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever recommend anyone for membership at all?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “And you know most of your members personally?”

  “All of them. Not as well as I knew Martin but well enough. It’s not that large a membership.” He leaned back in his chair. “Am I to take it that you’re thinking along the same lines as I am? That Martin is, in fact, innocent?”

  “The investigation is still ongoing,” said Banks. “There are a number of issues we have to clear up for ourselves, seeing that Martin Edgeworth committed suicide and can’t explain his actions or motives to us. I can’t really say much more than that at this stage.”

  “Of course,” said McLaren. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you. And I believe you know that I would if I could. If it would help Martin’s reputation in any way.” He paused. “There was only one little thing that struck me as at all odd lately.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up. It’s probably nothing. But once, over lunch, Martin asked me if it was possible for someone with a criminal record to get a firearms certificate and join the club, if he’d paid his debt to society and so on, and his crime hadn’t involved firearms or violence, of course.”

  “I’m not that well up on the law in this area,” said Banks, “but I would assume that it isn’t. All right, that is.”

  “And you’d be correct. Though if the sentence was under three years and the police and doctors offer no objections, then it can be done. Which is what I told Martin. It’s not even a matter of the letter of the law. As a club, as a respectable organization, we wouldn’t accept as a member anyone with a criminal record, and nor would we be required to.”

  “Do you have any idea who he was talking about?”

  “No. The subject was never mentioned again. I’m not sure he was referring to anyone in particular.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “I don’t know. Just wondering, I suppose.”

  “When was this?”

  “Not very long before . . . you know. Say, early last November.”

  “Where?”

  “Over lunch in the White Rose.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “There were only the two of us. I mean, there were others in the pub, of course, but no one else was a party to the conversation. And, as I said, he never mentioned the subject again. I’m sorry I can’t be any more helpful, but that really is all I can tell you.”

  “No, that’s fine,” said Banks, standing to leave. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. McLaren.”

  And, in a way, Banks thought as he made his way across the gravel to his car, he had. McLaren might not have been able to supply any useful practical information, but the simple fact that Edgeworth had been asking about a man with a criminal record joining the shooting club went a long way toward confirming that Edgeworth had probably been a victim rather than the perpetrator. It also implied that the killer might have been grooming him, befriending him and asking for his help. One sure way of gaining someone’s confidence, if you were charming and devious enough, was to be honest with him about something like a prison sentence.

  DC Gerry Masterson parked her lime-green Corsa behind Banks’s Porsche and walked toward the front door. It was going on for ten o’clock, and the lights were still on inside Newhope Cottage, as well as the one over the front door, so she could see her way. She rang the bell, and a few seconds later Banks opened the door. He seemed surprised to see her.

  “Gerry,” he said. “What brings you all the way out here?”

  “I need to talk to you, sir. And I thought it might be better to come in person.”

  Banks stood aside. “Come in, then. Let me take your coat.”

  Gerry handed him her coat, which he hung on the back of the door. They were in a small room, a sort of den or study, with a two-seater sofa and reading lamp, an iMac on a desk and a small bookcase overstuffed with books. The walls were cream with light blue trim. Banks was casually dressed in jeans and black crewneck jumper. Gerry followed him through the kitchen, where she could smell the lingering remnants of a curry, and into the dimly lit conservatory. She didn’t recognize the music that was playing, a woman singing to piano accompaniment.

  “It’s Lorraine Hunt Lieberson,” Banks said. “Singing Mahler’s ‘Liebst du um Schönheit.’ He wrote it as a gift for his new bride, Alma. Ray here’s a bit of a philistine when it comes to classical music, and I’m trying to educate him. Don’t you like it?”

  “I . . . er . . . Yes, sir. It’s very beautiful, haunting.”

  The other man in the room stood up and held out his hand. Gerry shook it. “Take no notice of him, love, he’s a music snob. Give me Pink Floyd any day.” He smiled, and with a little bow, added, “Ray Cabbot, at your service.”

  “This is DI Cabbot’s father,” Banks said. “He’s staying with me until he finds a place of his own.”

  He was older than Banks, Gerry noted, and with his ponytail and lined face, he reminded her of a picture of Willie Nelson she had seen on a magazine cover recently. He wore ugly baggy trousers with pockets up and down the legs and a gray sweatshirt that said miami dolphins in bright red letters on the front.

  Ray peered at her. “Has anyone ever told you how closely you resemble Jane Morris?” he said.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her.”

  “Famous artists’ model. Pre-Raphaelite.”

  “Sorry, she’s a new one on me.” Gerry had heard of Lizzie Siddal, and she was sick to death of hearing about her resemblance to the most famous Pre-Raphaelite model, mostly because of her slender “wand-like” figure and long red hair. It wasn’t so much that she thought such comments inappropriate, though they often were, but she wished men could be a bit more original in their compliments, if compliments they were meant to be.

  “Fascinating subject, artists’ models,” Ray Cabbot went on. “You could write a book about them. They invariably slept with the artists, you know. It can be a very intimate relationship, being painted. Very erotic. Rossetti and Fanny Cornforth, for example. Have you ever posed?”

  “I can’t say it’s a line of work I’ve ever wanted to pursue.”

  “Oh, you should. With your bones and coloring, you could—”

  “’Er, Ray,” Banks cut in, tapping his watch. “Weren’t you about to head off to the Dog and Gun? Folk night.”

  “Is it? Was I?” Ray scratched his temple. “Ah, yes. Of course. Right. See you later, Jane. I mean Gerry.” And he shot off through the kitchen and out of the front door.

  “He’s an artist. What can I say?” Banks picked up a remote and turned off the music.

  “You didn’t have to do that for me, sir. I was enjoying it.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t prefer Pink Floyd?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” said Gerry. “I haven’t heard Pink Floyd. Not that I know of. I mean, I know the name, but, you know . . . I’m pleased to hear that Mahler wrote the song for his wife. It must have been a wonderful gift to receive. Nobody’s ever written a song for me, let alone one as
lovely as that.”

  “Me, neither,” said Banks. “And next time we’re in the car together, remind me to play you Ummagumma. So what can I help you with? Would you like a glass of wine? Cup of tea? Coffee? Perhaps a wee dram of whiskey?” He turned the CD player on again with the remote and the beautiful music continued quietly in the background.

  “Nothing, thanks, sir. I can’t stay. I just . . . well, I found something I thought was interesting, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

  “You’ve got my attention. Go ahead.”

  Gerry sat in the one of the wicker chairs. Outside, the dark humps of the fells stood out in silhouette against the lighter night sky. Banks sat on the angled chair beside her and picked up a glass of purplish-red wine from the table between them.

  “You know you told me to dig a bit further into the Wendy Vincent business?”

  “You were working late on that tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Gerry turned slightly to face him. “Do you remember anything about the Wendy Vincent murder, sir? December 1964.”

  “Even I’m not so old that I’ve been on the force that long,” said Banks. “But I do believe I heard the name in the news not long ago.”

  “That’s right. I’ll get to that.” Gerry went on, “Wendy Vincent was a fifteen-year-old girl who was sexually assaulted and murdered in some woods near her home in Leeds. There were rumors that she could have been an early victim of Brady and Hindley, and more recently the press threw Jimmy Savile and Peter Sutcliffe in the mix.”

  “How old would Sutcliffe have been in 1964?”

  “Eighteen, sir. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. If they hadn’t caught the real killer, that is. Frank Dowson. A couple of years back there was a piece in the papers on the fiftieth anniversary of fifth December, 1964. Just a simple retelling of an unsolved crime. That’s probably why you remember the name. The murder took place in the same part of west Leeds where Maureen Tindall lived at the time with her parents. Maureen and Wendy Vincent were the same age, went to the same school and were best friends. According to one of her teachers interviewed for the TV program, Wendy had been playing hockey for the school team that morning, and she took a shortcut through the woods on her way home. Apparently, she had taken a bit of a knock on the field, so she wasn’t feeling too great.”