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

by Peter Robinson

  Banks became aware of the doctor talking. He hadn’t noticed him walk in. “It’s not as serious as we thought,” he went on. “He’s lost some blood, and he’s weak, but there’s no skull fracture and no brain damage as far as we can make out. Mild concussion. We’ll keep him in and monitor him overnight, carry out some tests. What was he hit with, by the way?”

  “We think it was a chopping block,” said Banks. He had placed it in an evidence bag and passed it on to one of the uniformed officers before leaving for the hospital. “Can we talk to him?”

  “I don’t see why not. But just for a few minutes. He’s very tired.” He glanced at Annie. “Just one of you, though, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll wait here,” said Annie.

  The doctor led Banks down the corridor and up in the lift to the private room where Robert Tindall lay on a plumped-up pillow with bandages around his head and various tubes and monitors attached to him. They seemed to subject you to that indignity even if all you came in with was a cut finger. “And don’t overexcite him,” the doctor admonished Banks as he walked off.

  “God forbid,” Banks muttered under his breath.

  The light was dim and the curtains closed. Banks could hear the windblown rain lashing against the windowpane, along with an annoying beep inside the room itself every two or three seconds. That was another thing he had noticed; there was always an annoying beep in hospital rooms.

  Tindall’s eyes were open, and Banks noticed signs of recognition. It was a good start. Then Tindall tried to sit up but couldn’t make it. He reached out and grabbed Banks’s wrist. His grasp was surprisingly strong. “Mr. Banks,” he said. His voice was soft but the words were formed clearly enough, and the anxiety and urgency in his tone were obvious. “Can you tell me anything about Maureen? Please. What’s happened to her? Where is she? Did he hurt her?”

  “We don’t know much yet,” said Banks, “but there are no signs that he hurt her. Now calm down. The doctor says you need rest and shouldn’t become too excited.”

  “But I’m worried about her.”

  “Of course you are. It’s only natural. But we’re doing everything in our powers to find her and bring her back home safe and sound.”

  “Thank God. Are you sure she’s not hiding in the house?”

  “I’m afraid not. We searched the whole place and she’s not there.”

  “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Banks took the West Yorkshire photo of Vincent out of his briefcase. It had been taken recently enough that it could definitely be matched to the man in Ray Cabbot’s drawing, but it was far easier for people to make identification from an actual photograph rather than a drawing, Banks had found. Somehow, art makes us expect distortion and exaggeration, yet we take photographs as representations of the real.

  “Do you recognize this man?” Banks asked.

  Tindall fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. He had a hard time getting them on with the bandages over his ears, but he managed it well enough to study the photograph and say almost immediately, “Yes. That’s the man. That’s the man who hit me and grabbed Maureen.”

  “Thank you,” Banks said. “Do you know who he is?”

  “No. He was a stranger. It was . . .” He paused and frowned, as if trying to think clearly. “It was odd. As if Maureen seemed to recognize him just a split second before he grabbed her. Who is he?”

  “His name is Mark Vincent.”

  “Vincent? Vincent? Isn’t that the name of that girl who was murdered? Maureen’s friend. She made me watch the program on TV, the fiftieth anniversary.”

  “That’s right,” said Banks. “He’s her brother.”

  “But what’s he . . . I mean, why would he . . . ?”

  “It’s a long and complicated story,” said Banks, “and I think your wife would be the best person to tell it to you. For now, though, it’s enough for us to know this was the man.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  Banks had to admit that he didn’t, and Tindall’s face fell at that. “Oh,” he said. It was little more than a sigh.

  “But we’ve got men out all over the dale searching for her. Don’t worry, Mr. Tindall. We’re closing in. We’ll find her.”

  Tindall seemed to listen to the rain. “On a night like this?”

  “Even on a night like this. Is there anything else you can remember that might help us? Did Vincent say anything?”

  “No. He just kicked the door, broke the chain and rushed. He pushed me aside and headed straight for the kitchen. The light was on, so I suppose he must have realized Maureen was in there. It’s right at the end of the hall. I ran after him as quickly as I could. I was a bit winded. But when I got there he picked up that heavy chopping block, whirled around and hit me. I felt was this terrible pain on the side of my head and everything flashed and then went dark. Just before I lost consciousness, I saw him grab Maureen and start to drag her away, out toward the front door. That’s when I thought she recognized him. I tried to shout, but I couldn’t move, not even my vocal cords. I must have lost consciousness, but it was only for a short while. I used my mobile to call 999, then . . . Well, you know the rest.”

  Banks hadn’t expected that Vincent had told Tindall where he was taking Maureen, but he still felt disappointed at the lack of information. Most of what Robert Tindall had told him he had already surmised. Maureen was probably still alive, and Vincent had most likely tied her up and stashed her somewhere. If so, where? And what was he going to do to her? Stab her, like his sister was stabbed? Or did he have a better idea? One thing was for certain, if Vincent had carried out the shootings at the wedding, which it appeared he had, and had not killed Maureen then, it was perhaps only because he had a worse fate in mind for her now.

  It was time to leave Robert Tindall to the ministrations of his doctors and get back to the station.

  16

  Gerry could have kicked herself for not thinking of caravan sites before. If she had, she could simply have googled “caravan parks in Swainsdale” and saved herself some time. But she hadn’t. She had insisted on using maps, the old technology. Well, that would teach her. It wasn’t as if the sites weren’t marked clearly enough by little blue symbols on the OS maps, but she had overlooked them. A caravan was the ideal type of anonymous, easily transportable home that would suit Vincent. And his wallet, if money were indeed a problem. It was possible that he had picked up a used car and caravan somewhere cheap, no questions asked, cash in hand.

  Even though Gerry had drawn a blank at the first two sites, she still felt optimistic as she pulled into the gates of the Riverview Caravan Park around half-past four. It wasn’t the first time Gerry had visited Riverview, about half a mile west of Eastvale across the river from Hindswell Woods. Only a couple of years ago she had been there with Banks around dawn on a miserable March morning watching the smoldering remains of a caravan.

  The site stood on the north side of the River Swale, and when Gerry got there, the place was like a fairground packing up and leaving town. Car headlights and high-beam torches lanced through the darkness like searchlights as the cars crawled to the narrow gates, some of them pulling caravans behind them. Dark shapes stood in the rain waving their arms about and shouting instructions. It was an exodus in the wake of flood warnings, Gerry realized, and she was driving against the flow. She could hardly get through the entrance to park outside the main office building no matter how much she leaned on her horn.

  Some Good Samaritans were directing the traffic towards higher ground, and helping to get out the cars that got stuck in the churning mud. Several caravans had also got bogged down, one of them almost on its side. When Gerry finally managed to squeeze through and park outside the office, she grabbed her umbrella and put on the Wellington boots she had kept in the boot of the car in the event of just such a situation. You didn’t go far without a pair of wellies in the Yorkshire Dales, no matter what the time of year.

  The scene inside
the office wasn’t any less chaotic, with the poor manager inundated by worried residents asking him where the hell they should go. As there was a fair slope down to the river, then a steep bank leading down to the water itself, Gerry wasn’t convinced that the site would be flooded, but perhaps it was better to be safe than sorry.

  The manager seemed almost relieved to see Gerry and excused himself to come over and talk to her, leaving his poor receptionist to deal with the anxious crowd.

  “I remember you from before,” he said. “Harry’s my name. Harry Bell. What’s up?”

  Gerry slipped the photo of Vincent out of her pocket and showed it to Bell. “Have you seen this man?”

  Bell studied the photo for a few seconds, then said, “That’s him. Mr. Newton. Gordon Newton. Can you tell me what it’s all about?”

  Gord, Gerry thought. At last. “How long has he been here?”

  “Over two months. Since last November, I think. Quiet as a mouse. I must admit I had my concerns at first. He’s hardly Mr. Sartorial Elegance, if you catch my drift. His car’s a right old banger, too, a clapped-out Renault, and the caravan’s an eyesore. Mind you, he keeps it clean and tidy. So what’s he done?”

  “We don’t know that he’s done anything yet. I just need to talk to him.”

  Bell gestured toward the outside. “Must be serious if you’ve come out here in this weather.”

  Gerry smiled. “I’m only a detective constable,” she said. “I’m out in all weathers. Now if it was my DI or the super, you might have a bit more cause for concern.”

  Bell laughed.

  “Is he here now?” Gerry asked.

  “I’m afraid he’s gone out. Drove off earlier this afternoon, before the rain was quite so bad. I try to keep an eye on the comings and goings. It passes the time.”

  “Any idea where he was heading?”

  “No. I just remember seeing his car leaving.”

  “With or without the caravan?”

  “Without.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Turned right at the top.”

  That meant he was most likely heading for Eastvale, Gerry thought. On his way to abduct Maureen Tindall. “Would it be possible for me to have a look inside his caravan?” she asked.

  “Well, I—”

  “As I said, we just want to talk to him, but it is quite urgent that we find him as soon as possible.”

  “Bad news, is it? A death in the family.”

  “Something like that,” Gerry said. “There might be a clue in his caravan as to where he’s gone.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “’Er . . . no. Is that a problem?”

  “We’ll see,” said Gerry. In her experience, caravan doors were pretty easy to open.

  Bell accompanied her outside onto the porch, where the chaos was starting to abate, and pointed down the rutted track to his right. “Down there, toward the river. Second left, fourth caravan along, on the right side as you’re walking. You can’t miss it. It’s quite small and could definitely do with a paint job. You’ll see what I mean. Pardon me if I don’t accompany you but . . .” He gestured back to the office. “Bit of a crisis. We’ll probably be fine, but people get all wound up listening to the weather forecasts.”

  Gerry stood on the porch, scowled up at the sky, unfurled her umbrella and trudged off into the mud, fumbling with her mobile as she went.

  Banks looked out of his office window at the blurry lights in the town square, listening to a Philip Glass string quartet on Radio 3. Gerry’s phone call had him a little worried. If Harry Bell was wrong and Vincent was home, or if he suddenly came back, it could be dangerous for her. He had told her to wait at the site office for backup, but he was pretty sure she had already set off for the caravan when she phoned, and she wouldn’t go back. There was a kind of hardheaded fearlessness about Gerry that he much admired, but it caused him concern for her safety. He called the duty sergeant and asked him to send out the nearest patrol car, just to be on the safe side. The sergeant said he’d do what he could, but the roads were a major concern. Banks stopped short of saying “officer in need of assistance,” the way he’d heard it on American cop shows, but raised the level of urgency in his voice and made it quite clear that Gerry’s welfare took precedence over bloody traffic problems, thank you very much.

  Next, he phoned Annie in the squad room.

  “DI Cabbot,” she answered.

  “Found out anything yet?”

  “Not much,” Annie said. “I talked to Doug back on the Tindalls’ street. Neighbor across the way three doors down is the best bet. Says he saw someone leading Mrs. Tindall by the elbow out of the house and shoving her into a beat-up old car about three o’clock. Thought it looked suspicious. He did phone it in, by the way, but Robert Tindall called us first.”

  “Did he get the make?”

  “He didn’t get the number plate, but he said he thought it was a Renault. An old Clio. He couldn’t see the color because the light was poor, and the streetlights just reflected. But it was a dark color, and there were rust patches, or lighter patches at any rate, around the wheel rims, and what looked like spray jobs elsewhere. All in all, it looked as it if it had been around the block a few times too many. Seemed to know his cars.”

  “Good.” Banks paused. “Gerry’s hot on the trail. She thinks she’s found him. Vincent.”

  “The little devil,” said Annie.

  “Riverview Caravan Park.”

  “That hotbed of crime.”

  “Seems so. Anyway, the site manager says he’s not in his caravan but has no idea where he might be. Drove off earlier this afternoon.”

  “In time to nab Maureen Tindall?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “According to my calculations.”

  “So what next?”

  “I think we’d better get out there as soon as possible. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You know how impulsive Gerry can be. I’ve already dispatched a patrol car, but you can’t rely them tonight. They’re very thin on the ground.”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Banks went back to the window, then walked over and turned off the radio. Philip Glass’s edgy repetition was doing nothing to dispel his sense of unease. He grabbed his raincoat, switched out the lights and headed down. The sooner they got out to the Riverview Caravan Park, the better.

  The door proved as easy to open as Gerry had expected, and when she switched on the light she found herself inside a cramped but cozy room. The single bed was made, the top sheet tight enough to bounce a coin off, and there were no dirty socks or underpants on view. Mark Vincent certainly knew how to take care of himself. It must be his army training, Gerry thought. But the place looked lived in, nevertheless. There were dirty dishes in the sink, for a start. Not disgusting old moldy dishes, but recently used ones, probably left out that morning after breakfast. It indicated that Vincent probably planned on coming back before too long.

  Gerry started her search slowly and methodically, from the end where the bed was. There was nothing of interest on the small bedside table, only a cheap clock radio, and in the one small drawer was the usual jumble of small change, blank notepad, pens and pencil stubs, a few rubber bands and a post office savings book that showed Vincent with a balance of £52.40. The third drawer was reserved for socks and underwear.

  Gerry could find no correspondence in the small writing desk in the living area, not even a bill or a circular. A few clothes hung in the wardrobe, but not the black anorak and waterproof trousers he had been wearing during the shooting. Gerry guessed he was wearing them again now, along with the black woolly hat. There were a few shirts, jeans, a couple of pairs of worn trainers and a sports jacket.

  In the recycling box beside the door were newspapers, neatly folded and piled, that morning’s on top. Gerry bent and picked it out. It was open at the crossword, which Vincent seemed to have completed in ink without corrections. Gerry was impressed. It
was one of those difficult cryptic ones filled with anagrams and synonyms and the names of plants she’d never heard of.

  In the tiny fridge she found milk, margarine, some cheese slices and a loaf of white bread. A box of bran flakes stood on top, along with tea bags and a jar of instant coffee. The cutlery was in a drawer below the hot plate, along with a plate and a bowl. Frugal, indeed. Gerry looked in vain for any traces of Maureen Tindall, but there were no signs of a struggle.

  Rain beat down on the flimsy roof as she searched, and she noticed a leak above the door. Water was trickling slowly down the inside wall. Outside, car headlights flashed by the windows now and then, and engines whined as wheels spun uselessly in the soft mud. Occasionally she could hear someone shout above the hammering of the rain.

  At the opposite end to the bed was a breakfast nook, and beside it a small armchair with the stuffing leaking out, a reading light angled beside it. There was no TV, nor any kind of entertainment device, unless you counted the clock radio. A row of secondhand paperbacks stood on the single bookshelf over the desk. Old thrillers: Ken Follett, Robert Ludlum, Jack Higgins, Alistair MacLean. Well, she wouldn’t have expected Vincent to have a taste for Jane Austen or Zadie Smith.

  Gerry noticed something else on the bookshelf and pulled it toward her. It was an old WH Smith wide-ruled exercise book, battered and dog-eared. She sat down carefully in the chair and opened it up. The first thing that caught her attention was a newspaper cutting that slipped onto her lap, a photograph of Maureen Tindall cut from a larger group shot. Across it, someone—Mark Vincent, most likely—had written “grainger” in angry pen strokes.

  Gerry shivered and flipped through the pages. She saw a list of names, three of which had been crossed out, and the second one, Martin Edgeworth, ringed in ink. She recognized the other names from the list of shooting-club members Doug Wilson had interviewed. Over the page were Edgeworth’s personal details—his address, telephone number, date of birth, bank, estimate of height and weight. Later came a list of places, including the White Rose, a pub called the Moorcock in Eastvale, and the names of several local restaurants and country inns, presumably places where Edgeworth liked to dine. There was also a list of all the Walkers’ Wearhouse branches in the dale.