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

by Peter Robinson

  “How did he react to that?”

  “Well, that’s it. That’s why I remember. He just grunted, put the items down on the nearest table and left. A bit rude, I thought, but it takes all sorts. He could at least have thanked me for trying. I understand he was disappointed, but it would only have been a matter of a day or two.”

  No, thought Gerry, her excitement rising. It would have been a matter of him having to leave a name, address and telephone number. He needed to buy the two-for-one items at the same time in the same place. “He didn’t buy anything, then?” she asked.

  “Not a thing.”

  Gerry cursed under her breath. No chance of a credit-card transaction, then. And why hadn’t he bought the one set? Her guess was that he wanted to make sure both outfits were the same, and until he could do that, he wasn’t going to lay out cash on one of them. Either that or he was flustered and frustrated at not being able to succeed easily. “Can you give us any idea of what this man looked like?”

  Paula took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago. I mean, I told you about the eyes, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. What color were they?”

  “I don’t remember. I’m not even sure I noticed. But piercing, like. Maybe blue.”

  “Did he have a beard or mustache?”

  “His face hadn’t seen a razor in a week or two, but you get a lot like that these days, don’t you? I don’t know why—”

  “Was he tall or short, fat or thin.”

  “Medium.” She pointed at Doug, who was five foot ten. “About his height, give or take a couple of centimeters. And about the same shape. You know, slimmish. And he had bad skin, sort of rough and pockmarked, like he’d had acne or chicken pox when he was a boy.” She blushed and looked at Doug Wilson. “Not that he resembled you in that, of course.”

  Wilson nodded in acknowledgment. Gerry smiled to herself. The woman fancied Doug; she was sure of it.

  “Anything else, Paula? You’re doing very well. Your powers of recollection are really good.”

  Paula wiggled with embarrassment. “Thank you.”

  “Any scars, moles, distinguishing features?”

  “He did have a tattoo. I could see the top of it where his shirt button was open. The hair, too.”

  “Hair?”

  “Chest hair. It came up almost to his throat.”

  “What kind of tattoo?”

  “I don’t know. You see so many these days, don’t you? If you knew how many young lasses around here have tattoos all down their arms or legs and God only knows where else. I mean, what will they do when they grow up and want a job?”

  Gerry smiled to herself, imagining what AC Gervaise would think if she saw her tattoo. “You didn’t see what the tattoo depicted, what it was of?”

  “Not all of it.”

  “What, then?”

  “I only saw the top bit. Some red, blue whorls, like the tops of wings or something. Maybe a bird. Or a butterfly. I don’t know. All I can say is I had the sense it was part of a bigger one that went down his chest.”

  “OK, thanks, Paula,” said Gerry. “That really is helpful. Would you be willing to spare the time to work with a police artist on trying to put together a sketch of this man?”

  “Ooh, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve got the shop to look after.”

  “It wouldn’t take long,” Gerry said. “It would be a real help. And we can bring the artist here, to you. Or we can do it on the computer if you want.”

  “But what if I get it wrong? What if I can’t remember things?”

  Gerry put her hand gently on Pat’s shoulder. “You mustn’t worry about that. You’ve done fine so far. Besides, people usually remember much more than they think they do when they start to see the beginnings of an image. The shape of the head, hairline, that sort of thing. It’s all important.”

  “He had short curly hair,” Paula said. “Turning gray. Just like on his chest. I remember that.”

  “See,” said Gerry, “you’re remembering already.”

  Paula blushed. “Well, I suppose I can try, if you think it’s important. What did he do, this bloke?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. We don’t even know if he’s done anything, yet. But it might be very important to us, so thank you. There’s just a couple more things. Have you ever seen this man before or since? Do you have any idea who he is, where he lives at all?”

  “None at all. Never seen him before in my life.”

  “Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”

  Paula laughed. “Even if I had, I wouldn’t be any use to you there, love. Can’t tell a Rolls-Royce from a Mini.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “That I do,” said Paula, clearly pleased with herself. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s clothes. That’s my business, after all.”

  “What was it?”

  “A cheap gray windcheater.”

  “Any emblems on it?”

  “Emblems? You mean like badges and stuff.”

  “Yes. Decals, symbols, things like that.”

  “I don’t remember any, no.”

  “You mentioned a shirt.”

  “Yes. He kept his jacket zipped up most of the way, so I just saw the button-down collar like, when I noticed the tattoo. Pale blue. And jeans. I think he was wearing just ordinary blue jeans.”

  “Thank you, Paula,” said Gerry. “See you remember far more already than you thought you could. We’d better go now, but we’ll be back with an artist as soon as possible.”

  “That’s all right, love,” said Paula. “I’ll be here.”

  As they hurried back to the car, Gerry wondered where the hell they were going to scrape up a police artist at such short notice. Doug was still sulking as the second half of his game ticked by, so she didn’t imagine she’d get much help out of him. Then she had an idea, took out her mobile and called Annie.

  It was only a couple of hours’ drive to Filey, if that, Banks thought as he skirted the southern edge of the North York Moors, and drove through Malton. In the early darkness, the town center was almost deserted and the roads had been quiet all the way so far. In season, he would probably be stuck in a traffic jam by now. Almost as quickly as they had appeared, the stars had been obscured by clouds, but the rain was still holding off.

  He listened to Maria Muldaur’s Heart of Mine as he drove, probably his all-time favorite album of Dylan covers, mulling over the thought that had leaped unbidden into his mind in the snug with Jenny. He was glad he hadn’t spoken the words out loud. She would probably have taken them as a kind of begging pitch, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel sorry for him. Like her, he didn’t know what he wanted out of a relationship these days. “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight,” which Maria Muldaur was singing at the time, seemed enough for now.

  Naturally, he had thought before about growing old alone, as one does in the wee small hours with only the darkness and a tumbler of whiskey for company. Some men, he knew, were so desperate for someone to care for them as they aged that they deliberately sought out young and healthy women. “A Man Needs a Maid,” as Neil Young once put it. But that wasn’t what Banks wanted. However he ended up, it would be for love, not for comfort and convenience. Over the past few years, since he had moved to the more remote Newhope Cottage from what had been the family home in Eastvale, he had been content to shore up his loneliness with music, books and wine, an evening out now and then at the pub, especially on folk night, and the occasional concert at the Sage or Opera North performance in Leeds. He took his holidays alone, too, usually long weekends in interesting cities he loved to explore on foot—Berlin, Stockholm, Kraków, Barcelona, Paris. And he had girlfriends from time to time, though they never seemed to last. He was so used to his settled way of life that the stray thought had taken him unawares and unnerved him. He didn’t know where it was likely to take him, or even whether he wanted to go there. Maria Muldaur finished and he put on Luna Velvet for the
last mile or two.

  As Banks entered Filey, he concentrated more on the roads and found the hill that sloped down to the seafront. He had suggested that he and Julie meet in a pub or restaurant, but Julie had insisted that he dine with her at the B & B. It was off-season, she had said, and there were no paying guests. Besides, it would be more private. Her chef husband loved nothing more than a chance to show off his skills, she told him. Banks agreed. Why argue against a meal cooked by a fine chef?

  There seemed to be quite a squall out on the water, with the wind whipping things up and the waves slapping hard against the seawall, cascading spray onto the road. Julie had given him clear directions when he phoned to inform her he was coming, and she told him he could park in the front by the row of houses. When Banks saw the sandbags, though, he decided to find a more sheltered spot and parked back up the hill, around the corner, where the houses themselves provided a barrier. The wind tugged at his coat as he walked along the promenade toward the B and B, one of a terrace of similar guesthouses, and he could taste the salt on his lips, feel its sting in his eyes.

  He walked up the path and rang the doorbell. He would have recognized the woman who had answered his ring even if he hadn’t known who she was. She still looked young for her years, and though she had filled out quite a bit, the plumper version was similar to the one he remembered, except it had rather more substance, more chins, the eyes more deeply buried in puffy cheeks. Her husband’s cooking, perhaps.

  She stared at him, a distant smile on her face. “Alan Banks, as I live and breathe. Come in, dearie. Do come in. Marcel is busy preparing dinner for us. He’ll be out later to say hello, but he has to go out to a business meeting tonight. We’ve got the place all to ourselves.”

  Banks followed her inside and took off his coat in the hallway.

  “We’ll eat in the guests’ dining room,” Julie said. “There’s a nice window table with a view of the sea, or as much as you can see of it in this weather.”

  “If you like,” said Banks.

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view. It’s a bit wild tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “It’s just through here.”

  Banks followed her into the front room, where a table in the bay window was already laid for two with white linen cloth, serviettes in silver rings, gleaming cutlery and two candles flickering in cut-glass holders. The rest of the room, filled with bare tables, was in semidarkness and shadow except a small dimly lit bar at the end where they entered. Julie asked him if he wanted an aperitif. Banks knew he would have to be careful, but one aperitif and one glass of wine with dinner wouldn’t put him over the limit. He asked if she had Pernod. She did. He watched the clear liquid cloud up as she added a little water and ice. She poured a sherry for herself then led the way to the table, giving Banks the place with the best view of the raging sea.

  When they sat down, she raised her glass and proposed a toast. “To absent friends.”

  “To absent friends,” Banks repeated.

  It felt strange sitting opposite Julie in the candlelight, surrounded by the dark, deserted dining room, waves crashing against the seawall and splashing over the road. Christmas lights still strung along the prom between the lampposts danced and flickered in the wind, and the streetlights themselves reflected and rippled in the undulating water just off the shore. The whitecaps stretched a long way out to sea. Banks felt apprehension. What was he doing here? It all seemed so arranged. Did she have something special in mind? The place to themselves, the candlelight, the view of the sea. He dismissed the thoughts. Her husband was cooking for them.

  “Don’t worry,” Julie said, clearly noticing an expression of concern on his face and misinterpreting it. “The waves rarely come as far as the garden gate. Even on a night like this. We’ve only been flooded once since we moved here over ten years ago. The sandbags are there mostly to reassure people. The squalls come and go. You wait and see, it’ll be all over by the time we’ve finished dinner. The starters should be here soon.”

  As if on cue, a man carrying a tray walked into the room. He wasn’t dressed as a chef, but was wearing dark trousers and an open-neck checked shirt. Julie introduced him. He put down the tray, and Banks stood up to shake hands. Unlike his wife, Marcel was tall and rangy. “Just a little appetizer,” he said, gesturing to the plate. “Foie gras, figs and crusty bread.” Then he excused himself and returned to the kitchen.

  “Do tuck in, Alan,” said Julie, taking a couple of figs. “I’m afraid I can’t touch the foie gras myself, not with the state my heart’s in these days.”

  “Serious?”

  “No. Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, anything to do with the heart is serious, isn’t it? I’d been getting a bit short of breath, so I had some tests done. The upshot was that the doctor gave me some pills, told me to lose a few pounds and to cut back on the fatty stuff.”

  “I’ve been told the same,” said Banks, spreading a little foie gras on a slice of crusty bread.

  Julie laughed. The skin around her eyes wrinkled. “But you’re skinny as a rake,” she said. “You must be one of those enviable people who can eat what they want and not add an inch to their waistline.”

  “I suppose I’ve been lucky that way, yes,” said Banks. “I didn’t mean the weight, though. Just the fatty stuff.”

  “Ah.”

  A wave hit hard against the seawall, and Banks could swear a few drops of water splashed on the bay window. Julie didn’t seem concerned.

  Marcel delivered their main courses next: roast cod with a light watercress sauce and roasted cherry tomatoes, buttered new potatoes and haricots verts. “Try the white Rioja with it,” he said. “I think you’ll enjoy it . . .” He turned to Julie. “I have to go now, love. There’s a nice cheese plate on the kitchen table for later, along with a drop of Sauternes, and there’s fruit and ice cream if you want sweet stuff.” He bent forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “I won’t be late. Nice to meet you, Mr. Banks.” Then he was gone. Banks felt as if he were being deliberately left alone with Julie to put forward some sort of business or romantic proposal. Again he felt a twinge of apprehension.

  “Don’t be so nervous,” Julie said.

  “I must admit I hadn’t expected such a feast when I invited myself,” Banks said, picking up his knife and fork.

  “Oh, he loves it,” said Julie. “Any excuse to spend time on his creations, and make a mess in the kitchen. Honestly, sometimes I think he does it just to get away from me.”

  “I doubt it,” said Banks.

  “Well, maybe not. He’s one of the good ones, Marcel is. A keeper.”

  “This is excellent,” said Banks. “Nice wine, too. Be sure to pass on my compliments to the chef.”

  “You can do it yourself. He won’t be late back.”

  “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “Did I say I wanted to tell you something?”

  “You certainly hinted at it.”

  “Yes. Yes, well, I suppose I did.” Julie paused. “I believe I mentioned in my letter how I spent a lot of time with Emily toward the end.”

  “Yes. It must have been a terrible ordeal.”

  “Not half as bad as it was for her, despite the morphine. A lot of the time we just sat in silence. I held her hand. She stayed at home as long as she could, but the last few days . . .” Julie shook her head at the memory. “She had to go in hospital. She was skin and bone at the end. The skull beneath the skin.”

  Again, Banks remembered the young and beautiful girl he had loved all those years ago: her spontaneity, her rebellious spirit, her fearlessness. They’d go on marathon night walks—St. John’s Wood, Notting Hill, Holland Park, Hampstead, Camden—pass by desperate late-night partygoers trying to hail a taxi already taken, or hear strange stirrings in the dark bushes of the Heath, see a homeless person bedded down in a shop doorway, walk around an aggressive drunk. Once they got chased by two drunk yobs and ended up panting, breathless and l
aughing. Streets so busy in day were dark and empty at night. They would go home to lie down and make love as the dawn chorus swelled, then drift to sleep, maybe missing their first lectures of the day and not caring.

  “But we also talked a lot,” Julie went on. “About life, death, old times. She loved you very much, you know.”

  “I loved her, too,” said Banks. “I never could understand why things didn’t work out.”

  “You wanted different things, that’s all. You were both too young. Emily was a free spirit. She wanted to travel, live life to the full.”

  “So did I.”

  “Maybe. But you were also set on a career, even then. You didn’t like business studies, I remember that, but you had mentioned the police once or twice.”

  “I did? Is that why . . . ?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. If it wasn’t the police it would have been something else. It’s just that in Emily’s eyes you wanted to settle down. You know, the semidetached, steady job, healthy pension, mortgage, two-point-five children, little dog, but Emily, well, Emily—”

  “Didn’t really know what she wanted.”

  Julie laughed. “Yes, I suppose it’s fair to say that. She only knew what she didn’t want.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me? Maybe if she had I could have . . . you know . . . changed.”

  “No, you couldn’t. People don’t. Not deep down.”

  Banks remembered hearing almost the same words from Jenny Fuller only hours ago.

  “Besides,” Julie went on. “Things hadn’t reached crisis point. You were still in your honeymoon period, willing to overlook a lot. Neither of you were thinking very much about the future. You were living in the present.”

  That was true, Banks remembered. And it was exciting, just going where your fancy led you. It might well have been the last time he had lived for the moment, he thought sadly. Not long after the breakup had come career, promotion boards, marriage to Sandra, children, financial struggles, then the mortgage, the pension, the semidetached, the move up north. Everything except the little dog, and that was only because Sandra was allergic to dogs.