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

by Peter Robinson

  “I went home. I didn’t feel like going into town by myself.”

  “Did you walk through the woods?”

  “No. Our house was in the other direction. I walked along the main road.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see Frank Dowson or anyone else you knew?”

  “No.”

  “What about afterward? Did anyone ever say anything to make you think Frank Dowson might have hurt Wendy?”

  “No. We moved away not long after, and I never saw any of the old crowd again.”

  “And you’ve been blaming yourself all these years?” Jenny asked.

  “It was my fault,” said Maureen. “I shouldn’t have lost track of time. I can’t be trusted. If I hadn’t been so selfish, Wendy would still be alive.”

  Annie couldn’t help but notice the helplessness in her voice as it cracked, and as Jenny came over again to mutter more words of sympathy and comfort, Annie also couldn’t help thinking that if Maureen had carried her guilt with her through her whole life, and if it were somehow linked with her nerves and obsession with punctuality, then maybe someone else had been nursing a festering blame for her for just as long, and perhaps that, too, had had deep psychological effects. But who? Wendy’s younger brother had seen Maureen with Danny, and Susan Bramble had spoken with Wendy at the bus stop and seen her walk toward the woods. Did someone else know Maureen’s secret? If so, how? And why wait fifty years before taking any action? Why bother now that the killer had been brought to justice? And why not shoot Maureen herself, if she was to blame? To make her suffer?

  It was always possible that Frank Dowson hadn’t killed Wendy Vincent, that despite the DNA evidence, someone else had done it. Maureen? She certainly couldn’t have committed the rape, but who was to say that the person who had raped Wendy was the same as the person who had killed her? There was no apparent motive for anyone around at the time—not, as far as Annie knew—but sometimes motives don’t become clear until much later. In addition to Maureen, there were Billy Dowson and Mark Vincent to consider, though they were very young at the time of Wendy’s murder.

  Whatever had happened, Annie thought, Banks would want to know about this new information as soon as possible. She took out her mobile.

  13

  The first old “gang” member Gerry had managed to trace for Banks was called Mick Charlton, or Michael, as his wife had insisted on calling him when Banks dropped by the house later. Mrs. Charlton had told him that her husband was at work and had given him directions to the workshop. Michael Charlton had done well for himself since leaving Armley Park Secondary Modern for an apprenticeship as an electrician, and he now ran his own business not far from the estate where he grew up.

  Gerry had trawled through the case files and newspaper articles for Banks quickly again after Annie and Jenny had passed on Maureen’s story, and, as expected, she had found no mention of Maureen’s secret meeting with Wendy, or of her tryst with anyone called Danny. Clearly, Banks thought, the most important details of that day were not in the public documents, or even in ex–Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe’s memory, but were known only to those in the two close-knit groups—the eleven-year-old boys, on the one side, and the fifteen-year-old girls on the other.

  As Banks drove to Leeds, listening to Al Stewart’s Love Chronicles, he couldn’t help but dwell on what Annie and Jenny had told him about Maureen Tindall’s secret meeting with Wendy Vincent, and the reason why it had never happened. He also wanted to know whether the sketch of the man described by Paula Fletcher rang a bell with anyone, and Michael Charlton was someone who might know. He might even know who “Gord” was. All Banks knew so far was that Maureen had said Mark Vincent saw her and Danny holding hands and heading for an old house where the kids went to kiss and canoodle. What he would have made of that at the age of eleven, Banks had no idea. He wasn’t sure what his own feelings toward girls were at that age. Had he ever held a girl’s hand, other than his mother’s? He couldn’t remember for certain, but he felt all that had come a bit later.

  Banks turned off the music in the middle of the title track, just after some nice guitar work from Jimmy Page. As he parked in front of the low brick office block on Stanningley Road, he reflected that some people never move far from where they started out. That was certainly the case with Michael Charlton. His old estate was no more than a couple of miles up the road, and Armley Park Secondary Modern School was even closer, only a hundred yards or so from his offices just beyond the busy junction with Crab Lane and Branch Road. Of course, it was no longer a school but an office complex. According to Mrs. Charlton, he had been running his own business there for over forty years.

  Though the area had been given a face-lift not so long ago, it was starting to become shabby again, Banks thought. That was partly because the renovations had never been completed. Some of the buildings condemned ages ago were still clinging on, a boarded-up pub, an empty shop, though the old Clock School, like Armley Park, had been converted into offices.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Charlton, please,” Banks said to the receptionist in her little alcove.

  “Whom may I say is calling?”

  Banks flashed his warrant card. “Detective Superintendent Banks.” He had almost said DCI, having still not got used to referring to himself as “superintendent.” There was no decent abbreviation for the rank, either. “Det. Supt.” didn’t sound right, and “DS” already stood for Detective Sergeant, so he was lumbered with the full moniker.

  “Just a minute.” The receptionist picked up the phone and announced him.

  “He says to go through,” she said pointing to the door marked m. charlton electrical. Banks found himself in a large open-plan area with workbenches, various pieces of electrical equipment, testing machines and wires and a desk in a corner by the window for the boss. It wasn’t much of a view, just the estate over the road. People worked at the various benches, and another desk was occupied across the room. Banks could smell solder and burned rubber.

  “Superintendent?” said Charlton, waving him over. “Do sit down. There, move those files.”

  Banks picked up the batch of files on the chair.

  “Just dump them on top of that cabinet there, if you don’t mind.”

  Banks did as Charlton asked and sat down.

  Charlton tapped his fleshy lower lip with his pen, contemplating Banks, then said, “Well, it’s not every day we get a visit from the boys in blue. What can I do for you?”

  No point beating about the bush, Banks thought. “It’s about what happened in 1964. The Wendy Vincent business.”

  “Wendy? I thought that was all over and done with now you finally got your man.”

  “I still have a few questions. Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?”

  Charlton leaned back in his chair. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve got nothing to hide. I must admit I’m curious what it is you’re after, though.”

  “Just information,” said Banks.

  “Then I’m your man. I was there, got the T-shirt.”

  “Did you know Wendy Vincent and her friend Maureen Grainger?”

  “Not very well, no. I knew who they were, of course, but they were older than us and, well, when you’re eleven or so, you’re interested in other things than fifteen-year-old girls, aren’t you?”

  “Like cricket and model airplanes?”

  “And stamp collecting, trainspotting. That sort of thing, yes. Anything, in fact. And they don’t want anything to do with you, either. It’s all pop stars and Jackie and makeup.”

  “And there was the gang, wasn’t there? You and your mates.”

  Charlton laughed. “I’d hardly call that ragtag collection of misfits I belonged to a gang. At least not in the sense that people use the word today.”

  “Who were the members?”

  “There was Mark Vincent, Billy Dowson, Dicky Bramble, Tommy Jackson and me.”

  “Just the five of you?”

  “Most we
eks, yes.”

  “Frank Dowson?”

  “No. Too old for us.”

  “Did you ever have a member called Gord? Or Gordon?”

  “No.”

  “Did you follow the reports in the papers when the case came back into the limelight a couple of years ago?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did it surprise you that Frank Dowson was found guilty?”

  “Not at all. I always thought he was creepy.”

  “In what way?”

  “Just creepy.”

  “Did you see him often?”

  “Hardly ever. It was Billy’s gang, mostly because it was his dad’s garage we used to meet in, but Frank was away at sea most of the time. Besides, like I said, he was too old to be interested in anything like that, anything we were doing.”

  “Still, you knew him, didn’t you, and he raped and murdered a girl you knew. It must have had some effect on you?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying I wasn’t shocked or upset. Horrified. Creepy as he was, I never thought of Frank Dowson as a murderer. But the more I thought about it, the less surprised I was.”

  “Because he was creepy?”

  For the first time, Charlton seemed to become guarded in his responses. Banks could sense a curtain closing, and he wanted to wrench it open. “That’s a part of it. Yes. He hardly ever spoke, and when he was around, he had a habit of just appearing there out of nowhere. Like, he was a big bloke and all, but quiet as a mouse.”

  “Did he ever come to your gang meetings?”

  Charlton glanced toward the wall. “Like I said, he was too old to be in the gang.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Banks said.

  Charlton sighed. “There’s a pub up on Town Street,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Maybe we could talk more comfortably there.”

  Bank stood up. “Your choice.”

  Gerry Masterson stood alone in the boardroom of Eastvale Police HQ with a huge Ordnance Survey map of the area spread open on the desk. She was used to the large space being filled with officers for a briefing, the sort of thing she had done at the beginning of what was now becoming known as the Edgeworth Case. Though she could hear occasional voices and various office noises from the corridor outside, the boardroom seemed to have a muffled atmosphere all of its own, partly due to the wainscoting and the long polished oval table with its matching high-backed chairs, not to mention the silent and disapproving stares of the men with muttonchop whiskers and red faces in gilt frames around the walls. The woolen merchants who, along with the lead miners before them, had been responsible for whatever prosperity and population Swainsdale possessed.

  The lead mines were all in ruins now, tourist attractions, and though you’d be hard pushed to go very far without bumping into a sheep in North Yorkshire, the cloth and woolen industries had long fallen victim to cheap imports; first, legitimately from India, but more recently from Asian sweatshops or child labor. It had also lost a lot of ground to synthetics over the years, though sheep-shearing was still a regular occurrence—and another tourist attraction—it was the meat rather than the wool that people were interested in these days.

  Gerry rested her palms on the smooth wood and scanned the map. When it came to maps, she thought, you could only get so far with computers. They were great for the details and for suggesting or calculating routes, but for sheer scale you needed real sheets, not a computer screen, and to get that effect she had spread out the large OS Landranger map on the table and marked the perimeters according to places the killer was known, or highly suspected, to have visited. Maps told you a lot if you could read them well enough, and Gerry had learned that skill at school, then honed it later on country walks. She could follow the contours of a hill, the boundaries of a field and the progress of a footpath with the same ease that most people could read a book.

  Close to the River Swain were Fortford, where it all started, Helmthorpe, where the matching sets of clothing were bought, and Swainshead, where Martin Edgeworth had lived. North of there was the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, to which Edgeworth had belonged, and to the east, over the moors, was Lyndgarth, the first place the killer had tried to buy his clothing.

  If Gerry drew a line linking all these places she ended up with a wonky rectangle. None of its sides were exactly the same length, but the west–east lines were the longest sides. She also penciled in an extension from Fortford to include Eastvale in the bottom southeast corner and joined that line to Lyndgarth.

  The area she had marked off covered a lot of ground, though much of it was wild moorland, and she also had to accept that the killer might have been living at least a short distance outside the boundaries she had drawn. But it was a start. The only places of any real size were Eastvale, Helmthorpe, Swainshead and Lyndgarth. Even Fortford and Gratly were not much more than small villages. Eastvale, though there was no proof the killer had ever set foot there, was by far the largest settlement, being close to twenty thousand in population.

  Somewhere, in the midst of all this, lived a killer, Gerry was certain. The problem was how to find him. He might have lived in the dale for years, of course, but Gerry doubted that. She believed that he had come specifically to carry out the shooting at the wedding. Of course, he might have left the area immediately after—most sensible assassins would—but that was a risk she would have to take. She could hardly search the whole country for him, but she could do a thorough job of covering her own part of it. Even if he had left, there was a chance that, by finding out where he had lived when he was in Yorkshire, they could possibly find some evidence that would lead to his identity and perhaps help track him to his new location.

  But Gerry felt he was still close. She didn’t know why, and it wasn’t a feeling she would share with DI Cabbot or the boss, but she felt it, nevertheless. He was nearby, watching, enjoying the results of his handiwork. There was even a chance that he hadn’t finished yet. She had no idea whether he had planned any more killings, or even whether he had managed to get his hands on any more firearms, now that Edgeworth’s AR15 and Taurus were in the police evidence locker, but she somehow felt he hadn’t finished what he came to do.

  So she was trying to find someone who lived a relatively hermit-like existence—but not too reclusive as to be suspicious—for perhaps only a short while. That set some limits. She would first check the out-of-the-way places, including empty properties where he might squat without being discovered. There probably weren’t many, but there would be a few decrepit barns and old shepherd’s shelters if he didn’t mind living rough. Of course, he would need somewhere to park his car, and he might have used a nearby public car park. But on second thoughts, she quickly ruled them out. Given the magnitude of his intended crime, she didn’t think he would want to take even the slightest risk of being seen to break the law before he got started. On the other hand, she had decided from his shopping habits that he was either parsimonious or short of money, so she could also rule out any higher-priced properties or rentals. That should whittle the list down a bit; prices being what they were in the area these days, it was difficult to find an affordable cottage or flat. There were a few converted barns, but even they were pricey, and he would have stood out like a sore thumb in a student flat in Eastvale. His needs would probably be simple: a roof over his head, a bed or somewhere to set down a sleeping bag—though she ruled out camping because of all the rain—and solitude. The sort of place a poor writer or artist might be able to afford. Ray Cabbot might be able to help there. His resources weren’t exactly limited, but he had been checking out properties all around the county since before Christmas. He didn’t make her as nervous as he had when they first met. Somehow, hearing Annie talk about him and watching the way she dealt with him gave Gerry confidence. Ray Cabbot might not be a pussycat or a saint, but he was no abusive predator, either.

  There were certain routine things that could be done fairly quickly by telephone, such as checking the voters” registry at the co
uncil offices—though a man on the verge of mass murder might be expected to be relatively uninterested in who his next MP or councillor was going to be—and the land registry, which would give her the name of the owner, from which she could also perhaps get the names of anyone who had rented from him. Then there were the utilities that just about everyone had—gas, electricity, Yorkshire Water—and after that telephone companies, Internet providers, the Department of Vehicle Licencing, the post office, HMRC and many more.

  She wasn’t stupid enough to imagine that he would have used his own name or real previous address, but whatever details he had given the seller or renter might also help determine who he was and help locate him. And she had the advantage of Ray’s sketch.

  The problem was that Gerry didn’t have time to do all this work herself. It would mean hours on the phone, perhaps even traipsing about the countryside, visits to out-of-the-way places, false trails galore. And she had other things to do. Would AC Gervaise authorize the manpower? Doug Wilson could help, for a start. He didn’t seem to be doing much these days. And maybe with the addition of a couple of ambitious uniformed officers, that would be enough to get things in motion. Surely the AC couldn’t object to that.

  There was only one way to find out.

  They crossed the road and walked up Branch Road, past the Western and back of the Tesco Express, on to Town Street, where most of the shops had foreign names. The pub had clearly seen better days, but they found a quiet corner in the lounge bar, where the noise of video machines and dreadful pop music was distant. Charlton offered to get the drinks. Banks asked for a coffee and wouldn’t be talked out of it. He didn’t want to be driving in Leeds traffic with even one alcoholic drink in him. He had let DCI Ken Blackstone know he would be on his patch that day, and they had arranged to meet in the city center later for dinner and drinks. There was a good chance they would take a taxi and Banks would spend the night in Blackstone’s spare room.