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

by Peter Robinson

  “Do you remember the last time you saw her?” Julie asked.

  “As if it were yesterday,” said Banks. He could remember the texture of the tree he leaned against, the red-and-white-striped ball two young boys were kicking on the grass, a blackbird’s song, a dark stain on the page of the book he was reading, the heat of the sun on his face, the shouts of rowers from behind him on the Serpentine . . . “Why?”

  Banks noticed the faintest of smiles pass across Julie’s features. “She said she thought you would,” she said. “She remembered, too. It was a hot day in Hyde Park, wasn’t it? You couldn’t understand why she was finishing with you.”

  “That’s because she wouldn’t tell me why.”

  “Did you really not guess?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  Banks speared a thick flake of cod. “After all this time? I don’t know that it matters. Why? Did she tell you?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve known all along. She was pregnant, Alan. That’s why she split up with you and she couldn’t tell you why. Emily was pregnant.”

  “You won’t catch me working with any of those computer facial-recognition programs,” said Ray Cabbot as Annie and Gerry sat with him on the wicker chairs in Banks’s conservatory. Banks was nowhere to be seen. Annie had already tried to get him twice on his mobile, but the first time he didn’t pick up, and the second time it was switched off. She wondered what was going on with him, what mysterious mission he was on, but she wasn’t especially worried. He was a big boy; he could take care of himself. Maybe he was on a hot date with that profiler, she thought, and didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Annie wasn’t too thrilled at first about being dragged away from her date with Nick, but that was the way the job went sometimes, and if anyone could understand, Nick could. She and Gerry were admiring the sketch Ray had done of the man Paula Fletcher had described.

  “You’re a natural,” said Annie. “It’s brilliant.”

  “You don’t know that, not until you find him,” Ray said. “It might be total crap.”

  “Paula Fletcher said it was accurate,” Gerry said.

  “Memories fade.” Ray got up and headed for the door to the entertainment room. “I’m off to find something to drink.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. It had been a successful evening so far. After Gerry had rung, Annie had met her at Banks’s cottage, and they had persuaded a reluctant Ray to go with them to Lyndgarth and try his hand at a police sketch. After a few false starts, Ray and Paula had seemed to develop a rapport, and the end result was amazingly lifelike, Annie thought. Though Ray was right, of course; they wouldn’t know for certain until they found the man.

  First came the music, a little too loud for Annie’s liking, then Ray came back brandishing a bottle of Macallan and three glasses. He seemed disappointed when both Annie and Gerry declined and poured himself a large one.

  “Driving,” Annie said.

  “Me, too,” said Gerry.

  “You can both stop over if you want,” Ray said. “He’s got plenty of room.” He glanced at Gerry. “We can have our own party. Maybe I can do a couple of preliminary sketches?”

  “In your dreams,” said Annie. “Grow up. And you’d better be careful, knocking back Alan’s expensive single malt like that.”

  Ray held up the bottle. “I bought this one, myself,” he said. “Sure you won’t join me, love? I don’t like drinking alone.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Ummagumma.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The album. Pink Floyd. Ummagumma. The live disc. ‘Astronomy Domine’ is the song. Classic. He’s got a fine music library, your boss.”

  “Can you turn it down a bit?” Annie asked.

  Ray muttered to himself but fiddled with the remote, and the volume dropped a couple of decibels. “Philistines,” Annie heard him grumble.

  Ray was in his element with Gerry for an audience, she thought, the old goat, smiling to herself, all old-school charm and romantic roguishness. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. If she heard about the mesmerizing texture of Gerry’s red hair and the smooth creaminess of her complexion one more time she thought she might accidentally knock his drink into his lap.

  Gerry tapped the sketch. “We don’t even know if he’s the one we want yet, remember,” she said. “So perhaps we’d best not get our hopes up.”

  “Fair enough,” said Annie. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get this circulated pronto and see what happens. We could add that he may be called Gord, or Gordon, too. Maybe that’ll help.”

  “But we don’t know for sure it’s the same person Jonathan Martell mentioned.”

  “We don’t know anything for certain. It’s probably not even his real name, if he is the killer. But sometimes you just have to take a shot.”

  “Doesn’t the artist have any rights here?” Ray cut in. “I assume I’ve got some sort of copyright on this, or do you lot take that, too?”

  Gerry ignored him and went on. She’s learning, Annie thought. “We’d be playing our hand, though, if we got it in the media. Tipping him the wink. He might scarper, if he’s still around.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Annie. “If he’s still around, he’s around for a reason.”

  “But why?”

  “To watch us look like fools,” said Annie. “Or because he hasn’t finished.”

  “Finished what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Even so, we should get the sketch out there. We still need to know who he is.”

  “We could just say we’re anxious to speak with him in connection with a recent occurrence,” Annie suggested. “Something vague like that. Covers a multitude of possibilities.”

  “But he could still go to ground if he sees his likeness in the papers or on telly.”

  “It’s a risk we’ve got to take. But I don’t think he’s going anywhere. I reckon he thinks he’s safe. Besides, how else are we going to find him? Do you have any better suggestions?”

  “Not really,” Gerry admitted. “I suppose we could always do it more discreetly. Door-to-door.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Just think how long that would take. And think of the manpower. The AC would never authorize the budget.”

  “Even though we’re pretty certain what happened?”

  “Even so. And just how certain are we?”

  “Well, thanks to Jazz we now know that the blood on the hammer is Edgeworth’s,” said Gerry. “And that probably proves that Edgeworth didn’t shoot up the wedding party, hit himself on the head with the hammer and then shoot himself.”

  “It’s possible the blood might have got there earlier,” Annie said. “A cut or something. I don’t want to muddy the waters, but after all, it was Edgeworth’s hammer and Edgeworth’s blood. He could have hit his thumb banging in a nail or something.”

  “I know we always have to bear in mind the possibility that we might be wrong,” Gerry said, “but in this case I think the odds are pretty good that we’ve got it right. Remember, there’s what Dr. Glendenning said about the blow to the head to factor in, too, and according to Paula Fletcher the man in the sketch was after buying two sets of the same clothes—the same brand and color that we found in Edgeworth’s cellar.”

  “There’s another thing we haven’t followed up on yet,” said Annie.

  “What?”

  “He couldn’t buy the two outfits he wanted at Paula’s branch of the shop, so he didn’t buy anything. Where did he get the clothes? He had to have got them from somewhere. Another branch, perhaps?”

  “Right,” said Gerry. “They were on sale that week. It’s worth checking, and we do have the sketch to show around now. Maybe someone will recognize him, and we’ll find a credit-card receipt after all. Does this mean Doug and I have to carry on with our shop crawl?”

  “So this is how you two like to spend your Saturday nights, is it?” said Ray, who, Annie noticed, had been glancing
from one to the other as they talked the way people watch a tennis ball going back and forth.

  “I thought you’d been quiet for too long,” Annie said. “What is it you want to do? Go dancing, go clubbing or something?”

  Ray topped up his glass. “Well, as I’m in the company of two lovely young women, my muse and my wonderful daughter, I do think we could come up with something a bit better than sitting around talking about bloodstained hammers and murder.”

  Annie jerked her head toward the entertainment room. “Why don’t you go in there and listen to the music on Alan’s headphones, loud as you want, then we wouldn’t have to put up with it blaring in our ears while we’re trying to work.”

  Ray studied his drink and narrowed his eyes. “You can be cruel sometimes, you know. I don’t know where you got it from. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth . . .’ Your mother didn’t have a cruel bone in her body.”

  Annie sighed. “Dad. Just let us finish. Please? We’ll join you in a while. OK? Then we’ll have a party, a dance or two. Gerry might even let you sketch her. She’ll be keeping her clothes on, though.”

  Gerry gave Annie a look of horror. Ray seemed to brighten at the possibility of fun later, picked up his bottle and glass and headed for the entertainment room singing along with Pink Floyd as he went. The music in the conservatory stopped. He’d found the headphones.

  “I quite liked it,” Gerry said.

  “What?”

  “Pink Floyd. They’re good. The boss said he was going to play me Ummagumma in the car sometime, but Ray beat him to it. But why did you tell him he could sketch me? I’d be so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll have forgotten in half an hour, and I’ll get you out of here without the slightest stain on your honor. You have to know how to deal with Ray. Now you know what it was like for me growing up.”

  “How did you manage it?”

  “He’s my dad. I love him.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t understand your relationship at all,” she said. “I mean, my parents are . . . well, just normal.”

  Annie laughed. “Well, you certainly couldn’t say that about Ray.” Growing up in the artists’ colony, her mother dying young, she and Ray had never perfected a normal father–daughter relationship, whatever that was, and in some ways Annie regarded Ray as the child while she played the indulgent parent. But that was too complicated to explain to Gerry. Just then the music came on again on, a loud scream followed by thumping drums and screeching guitar feedback.

  “Oops,” said Gerry. “Perhaps I spoke too soon about liking the music.”

  Annie glanced at her watch. “The headphones have come off. He’s getting impatient. Honestly, he’s got the attention span of a two-year-old, except when he’s working. Then you can’t budge him for love nor money. Let’s get out of here. Leave him to it. He probably won’t even notice. Come back to mine. I’ve got a couple of bottles, and we can have a nice quiet natter. You can crash there if you like. You won’t have to drive home.” It was a step, she thought, the hand of friendship outstretched, beyond the job.

  Gerry seemed to consider the option, then she stood up and said, “Why not? Let’s do it.” And they tiptoed through the kitchen to the front door, got their coats and drove off.

  Banks felt as if someone had pulled the floor from under him. He was spinning, in free fall, the sea outside was deafening, the waves threatening to engulf him. For a while he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get back his hold on reality. Then he heard Julie’s voice cutting through the roaring. “Alan? Alan? Are you all right, Alan? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to give you such a shock. I was so certain you must have suspected.”

  “I can be very thick sometimes,” Banks mumbled. “Or so I’ve been told.” The world began to settle back into its proper order. Even the sea sounded calmer. The candle flames reflected in the bay window like two bright eyes. Banks took a gulp of wine. Julie refilled his glass.

  “But why didn’t she tell me?” he asked when he found his voice.

  “Think about it. You’d have done the decent thing. You were halfway there already. You’d have persuaded her to have the baby and get married. I think you may underestimate how persuasive you could be. And how malleable Emily was. She seemed strong, determined, but she was so uncertain about what she wanted to do with her life that she’d have taken direction from someone as solid and resolute as you. Someone as dependable. And she knew that. That’s why she didn’t tell you. She didn’t want to give you the chance to persuade her to change her mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About the termination, of course.”

  Somehow, Banks had known that was coming, but it still felt like yet another blow he hadn’t had a chance to protect himself from. He didn’t reel quite as much as he had from the first piece of news, but he felt a tightness in his chest and a burning sensation behind his eyes. He gulped some more wine, was vaguely aware of Julie opening another bottle, red this time. He had almost finished his main course and didn’t feel like eating any more so he pushed his plate aside.

  “She knew you’d do your best to talk her out of it,” Julie went on. “It was an awful period for her. Not physically, there were no medical problems, but . . . the depression afterward, the self-loathing. I was there with her through all that. Later.”

  “She didn’t have to go through with it.”

  “Well, she was right, wasn’t she? You would have tried to talk her out of it.”

  Banks considered the comment. “Yes,” he said. “I probably would have tried to dissuade her from having an abortion. But if she was so determined . . . I mean, I wasn’t antiabortion, pro-life or anything. It would have been her choice.”

  “Emily wasn’t anywhere near as strong as you thought she was. Believe me, it took almost all she had to do what she did. But she knew where it would lead if she had a baby, knew the life it would pull her toward, and that wasn’t the life she wanted.”

  “But she had children later.”

  “Yes, when she was ready. Face it, Alan, neither of you were ready back then, in 1973.”

  “We could have made it work.”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps Emily would have believed you. But think about it. Think about it now, after the passage of all that time, the children you do have, the life you’ve lived, the things you’ve achieved. Would you have wished it to be any different?”

  “Well,” said Banks after a brief pause. “There are some days I could definitely have done without.”

  Julie smiled. “I don’t mean that sort of thing. There’s events we all wish had never happened to us, things we regret. A drop of red? It’s Rioja, too.”

  “Please.” Banks, held out his glass.

  “Do you want a clean—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Julie poured. Banks sat with his chin in his hands trying to get a grasp on his feelings. He couldn’t. For some reason he heard a few snatches of “Gliders and Parks” in his head. It seemed to offer some oblique comment on his last meeting with Emily in Hyde Park. He tried to imagine having a baby with her, a life together wholly different from the life he had lived. He couldn’t. And the other alternative would be having a child out there he hadn’t known about all these years. He wondered how that would feel?

  “Is this why you invited me for the condemned man’s last meal?” he said finally. “To give me this news?”

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. Or sarcastic. You’re not being condemned to anything except the truth. And you always did have a sarky tongue on you, Alan Banks. I told you, Marcel loves to cook for people, and I thought you might enjoy it, having driven all this way. Is it just your job, or have you never been able to see any charitable motives in anyone?”

  “Such as Emily?”

  “It’s true that she did what she did to spare herself a lot of grief, but even though you might not realize it even yet, she was sparing you, too.”

  Banks said not
hing, returned to his wine.

  “What are you thinking?” Julie asked.

  “Nothing much. I’m a bit too stunned to think, if truth be told.”

  “It was all for the best, Alan.”

  “Maybe it was. We were very young. I . . . I just wish . . . Oh, never mind.”

  “I know you wish it could have been different. But it couldn’t be. It was what it was. Don’t hold it against Emily. Don’t let it taint your memory of her. Don’t hate her.”

  “I could never hate her. I just wish I’d known, that’s all. I wish she’d told me. Even if she had wanted to go through with the abortion, I could have been with her. At her side. I could have comforted her. She wouldn’t have been alone.”

  “She needed to be alone. And I’ve told you why she couldn’t tell you.”

  “I know. And you’re probably right. But that doesn’t help.”

  “Let me bring the cheese plate.”

  Julie got up and left the room. The candles flickered and the sea continued to rumble and smash against the wall, like Banks’s thoughts, sucking back the water like an indrawn breath. He drank some Rioja. And some more. Julie reappeared with the cheeses. Runny Camembert, old Cheddar, blue-veined Stilton. Banks didn’t have much of an appetite left, but he cut himself a chunk or two, took some water crackers and grapes. He was feeling a bit dizzy and realized that he had had far too much to drink. Driving home was out of the question. Too late to worry about that now. He’d find a hotel in town.

  As if reading his thoughts, Julie said, “You can’t drive all the way back to Eastvale like this. The front guest room’s made up, just in case we had any last-minute customers. It’s yours for the night if you want it.”

  “Thank you,” said Banks. “I’ll take you up on that.”

  “The squall,” Julie said, pointing. “Look. It’s receding.”