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

by Peter Robinson

  Banks had been lucky in Leeds that morning. When he had accompanied Ken Blackstone to Elland Road after a late breakfast, they had managed to dig out a photograph of Mark Vincent from their files, a photograph taken by a CSI officer after Vincent had been arrested for assault. His injuries were insignificant compared to those of his victim, and it was his bruised and bleeding knuckles the CSI was most interested in. Nevertheless, he had managed to capture Vincent full face, in a far clearer image than the mug shot, and when all four images were tacked up together, it was clear to anyone that the mug shot, CSI photo, artist’s impression and army photo were of the same man at different ages, the earliest of which, the army photograph, was twelve years old and the most recent, Ray’s sketch, was based on a description given by someone who saw him last November, roughly a couple of months ago. Vincent had lost some weight in the interim, perhaps as a result of his term in prison, but the graying curls, the intense eyes, the beetle brows, the crookedness indicating a nose broken more than once were all giveaways.

  Definitely Mark Vincent.

  “Which brings us to the question of what we do next,” Banks went on.

  “We bring him in for questioning, surely?” said AC Catherine Gervaise.

  “First we have to find him. Gerry?”

  “Still working on it, sir,” said Gerry Masterson. “We have a list of properties within the boundaries I marked off according to Vincent’s movements. Doug and Neil have been checking these out and showing Mr. Cabbot’s sketch around to landlords, neighbors, local shopkeepers and so on, but nothing yet. We can extend the boundaries if we draw a blank. Doug’s also questioned some of the regulars at the White Rose and members of the shooting club. Nobody recognizes the photograph or had heard Edgeworth mention anyone called Gord or Gordon. Three other members reported noticing a beat-up car behind them on the way home from the club on occasion, though they didn’t seem especially perturbed by it. One said he thought it was an old Clio badly in need of a paint job.”

  Banks laughed. “I’ll bet there are a few those around. Thanks, Gerry. Keep at it.”

  “About all we’ve got so far,” added Adrian Moss, “is more reporters sniffing around. They’ve got wind of something, and the rumors that we’re onto someone have already hit the early editions. Some bright sparks are even making a link with the Wendy Vincent case, so they know we’ve been investigating that somehow. We’ll have to give them something soon. Maybe a press conference.”

  “We’re not ready for that yet,” said Banks. “Can’t you keep them at bay?”

  “I can only do so much. The only thing they seem to find more interesting is the weather. Apparently, we’re due for more rain tonight. Can’t we use them, perhaps?”

  “For what?”

  “To help us find him. Let them print a photo, or the sketch. Give them his name. It might speed things up.”

  “I don’t see how it would,” Banks said.

  “Well, we’ve got to give them something,” Moss said. “Once they run out of rumors they’ll simply start making things up.”

  “Most of them wouldn’t know the difference between the truth and fiction if it bit them on the arse,” Annie muttered

  Gervaise gave her a sharp look. “I think we’d better find him before they make up anything close to the truth, hadn’t we?” she said.

  “And maybe we should be asking ourselves just how they get hold of these little snippets of information they make so much of,” Banks said.

  Moss sniffed. “That’s easy. Most police stations have more holes than a sieve. These are experienced information gatherers, not thickies with a notebook and a pencil. They overhear things. They buy off-duty coppers a pint without revealing who they are. There are any number of ways they can get hold of information. There’s no—”

  “If I may say something,” Jenny Fuller interrupted.

  “Go ahead, Jenny,” said Banks. Moss shuffled sulkily in his chair.

  “In my opinion,” Jenny said, “he’s not going to scarper or go to ground because he hasn’t finished yet. I think we can agree, after DC Masterson’s military information, that this Mark Vincent was an excellent shot, a sniper, in fact. That being the case, if he had wanted to kill, or even wound, Maureen Tindall at the wedding, he could have done so quite easily. But he clearly didn’t. Why? In my opinion, it’s because first he wanted to hurt Maureen Tindall, to cripple her with loss and grief, so that she could feel what he felt when his sister was killed all those years ago. But that’s not enough. If it is Mark Vincent, and if those are his motives, then it’s not enough for him. It’s not over yet. Wendy died, so Maureen Tindall has to die. He’ll go after her. And remember, we also know that he has good survival skills, however rusty, and facility with firearms, which could be very dangerous indeed if he has managed to get hold of another pistol or rifle.”

  “So what’s he likely to do next?” Gervaise asked. “Is he a psycho?”

  “It would take far too long to go into the ins and outs of that diagnosis,” said Jenny. “But the short answer is no, I don’t think he’s a psychopath, but I do think there’s a very good chance he’s the one you’re looking for. At least he’s not a “psycho’ in the sense most people understand the term. He’s certainly suffering from some sort dissociative disorder, and he appears to lack a conscience, or he wouldn’t have been able to do what he did at the wedding. But perhaps his experiences in Kosovo, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland, Iraq and wherever else he fought did that to him. Dehumanized him. There may be reasons for that desensitization in his military training and experience. After all, DC Masterson’s source has already told us not only that Vincent trained as a sniper, but that he had no compunction about killing complete strangers from a distance, a positive quality in the army’s eyes, but perhaps not so in civilian life. And we know that Vincent couldn’t make the adjustment to civilian life. His criminal activities and prison record show that to some extent. He also exhibited some symptoms of PTSD, though he was never diagnosed or treated for it. The lack of ability to form and maintain relations is an important factor here.”

  “But PTSD doesn’t make murderers, does it?” said Gervaise.

  “We don’t know what makes murderers. If we did, we’d all be out of a job. I’m simply talking about the sheer mental burden this man is walking around with, not speculating on what it might cause him to do. And at the root of all this, or tangled up in it somehow, is his sister’s murder. That’s something he doesn’t appear to be able to let go, even fifty years after it happened. And I think we are all agreed that the triggers were there in the cold case, Frank Dowson’s imprisonment, finding out that Maureen didn’t turn up as promised and, finally, the news about the forthcoming wedding. More than enough for someone in as fragile a state a mind as I imagine Mark Vincent is. Gerry, do you know what happened to the Vincent family in the immediate aftermath of the murder?”

  Gerry shuffled through the pages of her notes. “The parents split up three months after Wendy’s murder. The father moved to Sheffield and remained on the dole. He died of cirrhosis in 1988. The mother went home to her own parents in Salford and sent Mark to live with an aunt and uncle in Ferry Fryston, near Castleford. There was an incident recorded in 1967. The details are a bit vague, but Mark Vincent was taken into care for a while.”

  “Abuse?” said Gervaise.

  “Sounds very much like it, ma’am. Naturally, the details are scrappy after so long, but the police and social services were involved, and there was an investigation of sorts before he was returned to the family. His aunt and uncle, that is. That’s when Vincent first started getting in trouble with the law. Small stuff at first, shoplifting, handling stolen goods, starting little fires, then graduating to more serious stuff like muggings and the occasional burglary. As my source said, it was jail or the army. His mother cleaned up her act. Detox, AA. She died of a stroke in 2004.”

  “Any brothers or sisters still living?” Jenny asked.

  “Not according to my
records.”

  “Drugs? In connection with Vincent.”

  “No mention,” said Gerry. “Neither dealing nor using. Though my source did say that alcohol abuse was a significant factor in his later violent behavior, and other drugs may have been involved. But there’s no evidence, or even suspicion, that he was a heroin addict, for example, or a cokehead.”

  “So what exactly do we do now?” asked Gervaise. “Take Maureen Tindall into protective custody?”

  “I’d suggest discreet surveillance” said Banks. “It gives us more chance of nabbing him in the act if he goes after her. But it’s not without risk of scaring him off.”

  “Maybe you should give her a choice,” Jenny said.

  “She’s not in good enough shape to make one,” said Annie. “She’s in a state of constant anxiety, she’s scared all the time, jumps at shadows, feels guilty, ashamed. I know I’m not a psychiatrist, but there you are, that’s my opinion, for what it’s worth.”

  “You’re probably quite right,” said Jenny. “And those issues would certainly throw her decision-making ability out of whack, to use a technical term.”

  Even Annie smiled at that.

  “Get an unmarked car to the Tindall house now,” said Gervaise. “Tell them to park down the street and try to remain unobserved,” Gervaise said. “And arrange to have someone watching the back, if there’s access that way. You know the lie of the land better than I do.”

  “Should we tell Mrs. Tindall what we’re doing, ma’am?” Gerry asked.

  Gervaise glanced at Jenny, then at Annie. “Well, you two?”

  “No,” they both said at once.

  “It would only alarm her, cause her to panic,” Jenny said.

  “I think we should get her and her husband out of the house,” said Banks. “Panic or not. Put them in a hotel or somewhere to make sure of their safety. Unless he’s watching at the time, he won’t know they’re not there. If he is watching, maybe that’ll give us a chance of capturing him. At least that way nobody’s in danger, and we still stand a chance of getting our man.”

  “But not of catching him in the act,” Annie said.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re not going to use Maureen Tindall as bait. And don’t forget, all we have is circumstantial evidence and a very strong suspicion of Vincent’s guilt. We’ll need more than that if we want to get a conviction, and I’m hoping we’ll get it when we have him in custody and question him, search his premises. I think we’re all agreed that right now the main thing is finding him, right?”

  They all agreed.

  “Good,” said Gervaise. “Make it so.”

  Before they could all return to their respective tasks, a soft tap at the door was followed by the entry of a uniformed constable.

  “Yes?” said Gervaise, shoving her files into her briefcase.

  “Ma’am.” The constable took a deep breath, then said, “Just heard from dispatch that they’ve had a 999 call from a Robert Tindall. He’s the hus—”

  “I know who he is,” said Gervaise. “What did he want?”

  “They couldn’t make out what he was saying, ma’am. Not all of it. Said his voice sounded funny. But they think he said something about being hurt. They’ve sent an ambulance and a patrol car, but I just thought—”

  “Thank you, Constable. Good thinking,” said Gervaise, and glanced at Banks. “Better get over there, hadn’t you?”

  Banks and Annie set off for the Tindalls’ house as the rain started to fall again, gently at first, then harder. Behind them were two patrol cars with their lights flashing and sirens blaring. It wasn’t far, but by the time they got there the uniformed officer on duty outside the house informed them that Robert Tindall had been taken to A&E on the orders of the paramedic. He couldn’t say whether Tindall’s injuries were life-threatening or not, but his partner, who was still inside the house, had felt for a pulse and found one, and when the paramedics had pushed him out on a gurney, his head had been bandaged. So he was alive when they took him to hospital.

  Banks noticed that the front door was splintered around the chain, which was hanging loose. It looked as if the door had been on the chain when Robert Tindall, or Maureen, had answered it, and whoever was standing there had kicked it open. There was something resembling a scuff, possibly made by someone’s foot, on the front of the door.

  The second patrol officer, who had remained inside the house, led them along the hall and showed them into the kitchen, where Tindall had been found. Banks and Annie stopped in the doorway to avoid contaminating the scene any further. There wasn’t much to see, though there had clearly been a brief struggle, as a few plates lay broken on the floor, along with slices of some oranges and bananas, knives and forks scattered among the wreckage. There was also a pool of dark blood.

  “Where’s his wife?” he asked the constable. “Maureen.”

  The constable shook his head. “There was no one else here when we arrived, sir. Just the man lying on the floor there.”

  “This blood come from him?”

  “It looked that way, sir.”

  “Was he unconscious?”

  “Not quite, but I’d say he was definitely stunned.”

  “Could you tell how he’d been hurt? Gun? Knife?”

  “No, sir. Nothing like that. From what I could tell, he was most likely hit on the head with that heavy wooden chopping block. You can see the blood on it if you look closely. I tried to touch things as little as possible.”

  Banks looked and he did see blood on the chopping block. It was certainly heavy enough to deliver a nasty wound. He knew that head wounds bleed a lot, so the amount no longer seemed so significant as it had at first. On the other hand, a blow to the skull can cause any amount of damage, not all of it immediately apparent. “Did he say anything?”

  “He was struggling to speak, sir,” the constable said. “But I couldn’t make out any of it. It seemed like he was trying to say something important but it just wasn’t coming out. Then the paramedic got to work and I got out of the way.”

  Banks and Annie next made a quick search of the rest of the house but found nothing of interest. There was no blood to be seen anywhere else, and no signs of a struggle in any of the upstairs rooms. Whatever the interloper had done with Maureen Tindall, he hadn’t done it in the house. Maureen was gone. Someone had taken her.

  Back outside, Banks told the constable to organize a house-to-house of the neighborhood and show Vincent’s photo to everyone, and to pay particular attention to getting information on the car he was driving.

  After the meeting, Gerry went back to her maps with a heightened sense of excitement. She felt a little annoyed at being left out of the trip to Eastvale General Infirmary, but realized there was no point in all of them being there. According to Banks, Robert Tindall would tell them what he could when he was able to talk. It might mean a lot of waiting around, hospitals being what they were, and she had important work to do, especially now that Maureen Tindall was missing, presumed abducted, according to Banks.

  DC Wilson and PC Stamford were out interviewing local estate agents and farmers who rented out rooms and converted barn accommodations. It seemed a fairly thankless task, Gerry thought, especially in this weather, but it had to be done. Now they had a good likeness of their man—of Mark Vincent—they might get a more positive reaction to their inquiries.

  Gerry looked over the OS Landranger map with a magnifying glass, feeling a bit like Sherlock Holmes as she scanned the squares for anything she might have missed. At one and a quarter inches to a mile, it was a fairly detailed sheet, but she decided it might be worth having a look at an Explorer map, two and a half inches to a mile. It would be less cluttered.

  She spent a few minutes in the tiny station library looking through the racks, eventually found the area she wanted and took it back to the boardroom, where she tacked it gently with adhesive putty to the whiteboard. That was better, she thought, standing back to admire the precision draftsmanship, translatin
g the whirls and blobs into images of a vital, living landscape in her mind’s eye. The symbols were larger and less likely to be obscured by contour lines, footpaths or village streets, and after a while of simply standing looking at it as she might a painting in the National Gallery, she spotted something she had overlooked. Pausing only to make a few jottings of locations in her notebook, she dashed back to the squad room grabbed her raincoat and went down to the car park.

  Robert Tindall had been moved to the head of the queue for immediate attention, and nobody would be allowed to see him until the doctors had determined the extent of the damage. So far, none of them had given away a thing.

  The coffee was weak and the decor drab. It was bad enough that you had to be in a hospital, Banks thought, without having to put up with weak coffee and drab decor, too. He vaguely remembered a funny quote about wallpaper. Oscar Wilde, he thought it was. Wilde had all the best funny quotes. Still, Banks didn’t suppose that patients in need of serious attention cared much about the decor, or the coffee, though no doubt an expensive survey would one day prove that a little color in a patient’s life could work miraculous cures.

  He looked out of the window through the “silken strings” of rain to the jaundiced streetlight in front of the Unicorn across the road. That would be an improvement, he thought. The decor was just as bad, but the beer was decent enough. He found himself wondering what Emily’s hospital had been like, her last days, whether she’d been aware enough to notice or care. As he remembered, she was always very fussy about furniture and paint colors. Julie Drake said Emily spent as long as she could at home, but when the pain got too much, and a visiting nurse could no longer provide the level of care she needed, they took her to hospital. He thought about the other hospital, too, where she had had the abortion all those years ago. What had she felt like after that? Empty, he supposed. Wasn’t that the cliché they always used in movies? Perhaps she had felt free, elated. But he doubted it. Empty was more like it. And he hadn’t even known. Hadn’t even been able to hold her hand or offer her any comfort, let alone suggest having the baby, getting married. Julie was most likely right. He would have tried, and he might have succeeded, and it would probably have been a big mistake. Let go with both hands. Smile and forget.