She desperately cast around in her mind for a means of escape. There were no weapons to hand, not even a brick or a stone. Only her Swiss Army knife, and that was in the depths of her pocket. Any attempt to reach for it and open it would surely alert him that she was up to something. She strained her ears and thought she could hear the sound of a patrol car in the distance above the roaring of the water below. Please let it be them, she thought. How could she keep him from killing Maureen until they got here?
“Can you hear it?” she said. “The police. They’re coming. Give it up, Mark.”
“I can’t hear anything,” he said, now almost so close she could reach out and touch him.
Then he did something she hadn’t expected. Maureen was lying on the edge of the bank just a few feet away. Gerry wasn’t sure whether she was still conscious, but she hadn’t moved or spoken since they had made it up the slope.
Mark Vincent walked slowly over to her and kicked her hard in the ribs. She cried out. He swung back his leg to kick her again, and Gerry seized her chance. With all the power she could muster, she thrust her leg up under his ankle, where it met the foot, and lifted it higher. As Vincent seemed to totter and lose his balance, Maureen Tindall found enough strength to swing both her legs at the shin of his other leg, whipping it from under him. He seemed to hang there for a moment, then scratched at the air as he pitched forward over the bank.
Gerry dragged herself right to the edge and saw him sliding and bouncing down the steep slope, desperately reaching out for handholds but finding none. Finally, his head hit the stone path and he made one last attempt to clutch at something solid before he sailed over the edge. But the water and his own momentum were enough to carry him off now, and the stones were slippery with mud. He screamed as he plunged into the water and the surge carried him away. Gerry heard a loud crack as his head hit the inside of the arch, then she heard nothing more but the sound of the water and Maureen Tindall’s whimpering beside her.
She closed her eyes and felt the soothing rain on her lids. Soon she could hear the siren coming closer. She reached for Maureen’s hand and held it tight as the cars screeched to a halt and doors slammed. Then she let herself drift.
As soon as Gerry had managed to satisfy the paramedics that she was suffering from nothing more than physical exhaustion after her trip down to the bridge and up the steep bank, and that all she wanted was a shower and a good night’s sleep, she agreed to Banks’s suggestion that they should all go back to his house, which was not far away, and was safe on high ground. The thought of driving all the way back home to Eastvale didn’t appeal to Gerry at all, and she didn’t particularly want to be alone after her ordeal. Banks said Tracy had left a few of her clothes at the cottage for when she visited, and Gerry was welcome to wear them while he put her stuff in the washer. Happy to be pampered for once, Gerry thanked him. She said she would drive her own car up to Gratly to avoid messing up the inside of his Porsche with her wet and muddy clothes, but he told her not worry about it and get in. They could pick her own car up tomorrow.
There would be questions, of course. Lots of them. There would have to be some kind of internal investigation into what happened at Swainsford Bridge that night, as a man was dead. Mark Vincent’s body had washed up on the edge of the Leas only a short while after his tumble into the fast-flowing river. If his skull hadn’t been cracked open, he would have drowned anyway. Naturally, Dr. Glendenning would perform the postmortem as soon as he could. Banks had talked to AC Gervaise on his mobile, and she had given permission for them all to dry out and rest before facing their questioners the following morning.
Banks phoned home on the way, and back at the house; Ray Cabbot hurried to meet them at the door to make sure that everyone was all right, giving Annie an especially big hug. Then Annie took Gerry upstairs, led her to the shower and left her to herself.
When Gerry had finished, she came out of the en suite, brushing her long wet hair, to find a selection of Tracy’s clothes laid out on the bed. Though the tracksuit bottoms were too short on her, the elastic fitted fine around her waist, and the sweatshirt was just right. Hair brushed but still wet, she headed back downstairs and was surprised at the sight of Banks and Ray in the kitchen putting together plates of cheese, cold cuts, chopped vegetables. She could already smell the curry simmering on the range. As soon as she saw and smelled the food, she realized she was starving.
Ray turned as she entered, and she noticed a bottle of champagne on the table, the familiar yellow label of Veuve Clicquot. “I know the timing’s awful,” he said, “but I was planning a little celebration. I found the perfect cottage today. Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. It was too good to get gazumped over.”
“That’s wonderful,” Gerry said. “Where is it?”
“Not so far from here, just over the other side of the hill, a little village called Beckerby.”
Gerry remembered it from one of her walks. “I know it,” she said. “It’s lovely. Congratulations.”
“You’ll have to come and visit me there.” Ray’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve had a terrible experience tonight. Do you think a little champagne might help?”
Gerry managed a crooked smile. “There’s nothing in the world that a little champagne won’t help.”
Ray poured a glass for them all, and the four of them ate at the breakfast nook in the kitchen, mopping up the lamb korma with naans. Champagne and curry had never tasted so good.
The mood was subdued, but Gerry did her best to convince them all she was fine and that they didn’t need to tread softly around her. When they had finished, Banks phoned the hospital. Gerry could hear only his side of the conversation, but when he sat down again he told them that Maureen Tindall was suffering from two broken ribs, shock and exposure. She would recover eventually, they said, but they were going to keep her in hospital for a while longer. Her husband was up and about and already sitting at her bedside holding her hand.
It might be a long haul for her, Gerry thought, given the shock she had also suffered in the graveyard after the wedding shooting. Maureen Tindall had taken a hell of an emotional beating lately. Gerry also felt that there might be a hard road ahead for Maureen in legal terms, as the law doesn’t take well to people getting killed, even in self-defense. She doubted, however, that there would be any form of prosecution. The CPS wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. She thought that she might have consequences to face, herself, too, but all that could wait. In her heart, she was certain that there was nothing else they could have done. She was only glad that Maureen had seized the time and delivered the coup de grâce, otherwise they might both be dead and Mark Vincent would be languishing in a cell having achieved his goal.
Gerry started to feel a little tired after eating, but Ray had other ideas. He ushered them all into the entertainment room and once there presented Gerry with a large sheet of paper. When she turned it over, she saw it was sketch. Of her.
“I did it from memory,” Ray said.
Gerry was so overcome, so lost for words, that all she could do was cry, and that made her feel like an idiot after all that had happened that evening. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I don’t mean me, I mean, the work, you know, the way . . . the lines . . .”
“We know what you mean,” said Annie. “He was going to do a full-size nude but I talked him out of it.”
“I was not,” said Ray.
Gerry blushed, then laughed. “Well he wouldn’t have been able to do it from memory, I can assure you of that. But this is perfect. Lovely. Thank you.” She gave Ray a peck on the cheek and sank back gratefully into an armchair. It seemed to enfold her as she did so, and she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to get up again. She could hear Gratly Beck roaring outside the house, and the noise reminded her of the Swain earlier tonight at Swainsford Bridge. She gave a little shudder. But that was over now. She’d done it.
She suddenly noticed that Banks wasn’t in the room. Ray had put
a CD on and he and Annie were chatting away about his newfound home, oblivious. Gerry put her empty glass down on the little table beside her and managed to drag herself up. Nobody noticed her as she headed out of the room.
She found Banks in the conservatory, just standing there, looking out of the window at the rain. She could see his reflection distorted in the dark glass, and she thought his expression was incredibly sad. He didn’t even notice she was there until she spoke.
“Sir?”
Banks turned. Gerry thought he still seemed sad, then his expression brightened. “By all rights, I should give you a serious bollocking for disobeying my orders,” he said, walking toward her. “Maybe put you on report. But you and I both know that would only be for form’s sake, and neither of us is that kind of copper. Well done, DC Masterson. You saved a life tonight, young lady. I’m only glad you’re safe. Don’t pull anything like that again. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Gerry felt herself blush. “I’m fine,” she said. “That’s David Bowie singing, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” said Banks. “‘Blackstar.’ Do you know it?”
Gerry shook her head. “Vaguely, perhaps. From the radio. Mostly I just recognize the voice. My dad likes David Bowie. I never really had much time for music.”
“You should make some,” Banks said. “It helps keep you sane and human in a crazy world, especially after a night like tonight.”
“Will you come back through, sir? Join the group?”
Banks smiled. “All right,” he said. “That’s a nice drawing Ray did of you. You should be honored. He’s a bit of a pain in the arse, but he’s got quite a reputation, you know.”
“I know, sir,” said Gerry. “And I am.”
Banks followed her back into the entertainment room, and Gerry wondered why he had been so sad, though she knew she would never dare ask.
Ray clapped his hands and said, “Ah, here they are. Drinks all round? No more champers, I’m afraid, but there’s a nice Macallan here waiting to be finished. Or there’s beer in the fridge.”
For once, Gerry didn’t refuse. She wasn’t driving anywhere tonight. “I’ll have a large whiskey, if that’s all right.”
She noticed Banks raise his eyebrows. “Hidden depths,” he said approvingly, reaching for the bottle and a glass.
Gerry took the drink Banks handed her and peered at the sketch again. It was a simple head and shoulders, the head slightly tilted, but Ray had caught her all right, and it had only taken him a few strokes. After his previous comment, she had checked out some Pre-Raphaelite paintings and decided she didn’t resemble Jane Morris at all. Or Lizzie Siddal.
“We should all watch a movie,” Ray said. “Something funny. Something silly.” He pointed toward Banks. “You might not believe it, but this man has a complete box set of Carry On films. Which one shall we start with?”
They watched Carry On Cleo and laughed themselves silly. Just after Kenneth Williams uttered his immortal line, “Infamy, infamy. They’ve all got it in for me,” Gerry put her empty glass down. Much as she was having a good time drinking whiskey and watching a daft movie with Banks and Annie and Ray, she found the sounds and sights of the world were slipping away from her for the second time tonight, and this time she welcomed oblivion, welcomed it with open arms.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Carolyn Mays, my editor at Hodder & Stoughton, for her insightful and helpful comments on the manuscript. Also thanks to Abby Parsons and Thorne Ryan for all their assistance, and to Justine Taylor for her clear, thorough and reliable copyediting. At McClelland & Stewart, I would like to thank Jared Bland and Kelly Joseph, and at William Morrow, my editor Daniel Mallory and assistant editor Julia Elliott. I would also like to thank my wife Sheila Halliday, who read the manuscript when I thought it was ready to submit and convinced me that it could be much improved.
Thanks to my agents Dominick Abel and David Grossman for their continuing encouragement and efforts. Also thanks to the invaluable publicists—Kerry Hood and Rosie Stephen at Hodder, Ashley Dunn at McClelland & Stewart and Julie Paulauski at William Morrow.
I would also like to thank Jenny Brierley, ICT Archivist at the West Yorkshire Archive Service, whose input is invaluable when it comes to cold cases and lost files.
Thanks again also to Nicholas Reckert for the interesting North Yorkshire walks that, despite their beauty, somehow always seem to suggest to me a possible crime scene.
Last but not least, thanks to the sales and marketing teams who work behind the scenes to make the deals and set up the special promotions, to the reps who get out on the road and sell the book to the shops, and to the booksellers themselves, without whom you wouldn’t be holding this volume in your hand. I would also like to add a special thank you to libraries everywhere. They are an endangered institution these days, and they deserve our support. And thanks, of course, to you, dear reader.
About the Author
One of the world’s most popular and acclaimed writers, PETER ROBINSON is the bestselling, award-winning author of the Inspector Banks series; he has also written two short-story collections and three standalone novels, which combined have sold more than ten million copies around the world. Among his many honors and prizes are the Edgar Award, the CWA (UK) Dagger in the Library Award, and Sweden’s Martin Beck Award.
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Also by Peter Robinson
Inspector Banks series
Gallows View
A Dedicated Man
A Necessary End
The Hanging Valley
Past Reason Hated
Wednesday’s Child
Final Account
Innocent Graves
Blood at the Root
Not Safe After Dark
In a Dry Season
Cold is the Grave
Aftermath
Close to Home
Playing with Fire
Strange Affair
Piece of My Heart
Friend of the Devil
All the Colors of Darkness
The Price of Love and Other Stories
Bad Boy
Watching the Dark
Children of the Revolution
In the Dark Places
When the Music’s Over
Other Works
The First Cut
No Cure for Love
Before the Poison
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Sleeping in the Ground. Copyright © 2017 by Peter Robinson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition AUGUST 2017 ISBN: ISBN: 978-0-06-239509-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-239507-8
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Sleeping in the Ground: An Inspector Banks Novel (Inspector Banks Novels) Page 35