A hush fell on the audience and Carol Langland started singing an unaccompanied version of ‘Farewell, Farewell’, Richard Thompson’s words set to a haunting traditional melody. You could hear the proverbial pin drop, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind, Banks thought, that the farewells were for the dead of St Mary’s. Carol’s voice was a pure and clear contralto, with just a hint of husky tremor, though not so much that she sounded like Sandy Denny.
Banks leaned against the stone wall sipping his pint of Daleside bitter and let the music wash over and into him, stilling some of the day’s anguish and confusion. His head ached, and his stomach felt permanently clenched, but her voice was so full of youthful yearning and the poignancy of experience beyond her years that it touched him through his pain. He felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax and the tension headache disappear. The voice, the melody, the words sent tingles up his spine and brought hot moist tears to his eyes. Tears for Laura Tindall, Francesca Muriel, Charles Kemp, Katie Shea and the rest of the wounded who were lying in hospital beds not knowing whether they would see tomorrow. Tears, too, for Emily Hargreaves, who definitely wouldn’t.
‘Farewell, Farewell’ was followed by ‘We Bid You Goodnight’, and most of the audience started to drift away. It was close to eleven o’clock and starting to rain by the time Banks pulled up outside his cottage at the edge of the woods, and the house was pitch dark, as he had expected. Banks used the light of his mobile phone to fit his key in the door, which opened directly into his old living room, now a small den where he kept his computer, a comfortable chair and reading lamp. He had left before the post came that morning, but all he found on the floor was a circular about boilers addressed to ‘The Homeowner’ and a postcard that read ‘Having a great time’ from his son Brian, who was recording with his band in Los Angeles. The picture on the front showed a long curving vista of Santa Monica Beach and pier. Needless to say, the water was blue and the sun was shining. Banks sighed and set it down on the little table by the door, where he piled the mail he didn’t need to answer. He dropped the circular in the recycling box.
When he walked through to the kitchen, he realised that he hadn’t eaten since his sardines on toast for breakfast, unless he counted the Penguin biscuit on the train. One disadvantage of living in such an isolated place was the lack of takeaways that stayed open late. The Dog and Gun didn’t serve food on an evening, and there was nowhere else open in Helmthorpe after eleven o’clock at night. Banks checked the fridge and found, as he had expected, nothing but a few hard heels of cheese. There was, however, a tin of baked beans in the cupboard over the sink, and as far as he could tell, the one crust of bread left in the bag hadn’t developed any green spots of mould yet. Beans on toast it was, then.
After putting the beans in the microwave and slotting the bread in the toaster, he plugged in his mobile to recharge, then went into the entertainment room to choose some music. The Dog and Gun had helped, but he still felt jittery and not in the least bit tired. The twists and turns of the St Mary’s shooting were already wearing furrows in his brain, and Emily’s funeral lay like a heavy weight on his heart. More music would help. It could be nothing overly busy or emotionally heavy tonight, no Shostakovich or John Coltrane, just cool jazz or gentle chamber music. In the end, he went for Tabea Zimmermann’s Romance Oubliée, music for viola and piano, and he knew as soon as he heard the opening melody of Hans Sitt’s ‘Albumblätter’ that he had made the right choice. He turned up the volume a notch or two.
Back in the kitchen, he examined his wine rack and settled on a bottle of Primitivo he’d bought on sale at M & S a week or so ago. He poured a large glass and took a swallow. When the microwave beeped and the toast popped up, he plated his baked beans on toast and settled back down to eat in his wicker chair in the conservatory.
He still found it hard to accept that Emily was gone for ever, even though she had been no more than a memory to him for the past forty-five years. And now that lithe, soft, youthful body had first been ravaged by pancreatic cancer, and was now burned to ash. It was a morbid way to think of Emily, he knew, but he couldn’t help it when he remembered her smile, the tilt of her head and serious expression on her face when she was listening to a song she particularly liked, the sound of her laughter, the scent of Sunsilk shampoo in her hair. How easily something you thought was safely buried in your past could suddenly come back and cut you to the quick.
He drained the glass and put it aside. It would have to be his last one for tonight, though if truth be told he felt like getting blotto. But the phone might ring at any second. He was no longer simply a detective working a case; he was SIO of a very big, high-profile case indeed, and he might not get a full night’s sleep or a proper meal until it was over. The need to turn off like this for a while was vital, but so was the ability to snap back into action quickly. Fortunately, his mobile didn’t ring, and he was able to finish listening to Romance Oubliée and lose himself in sun-dappled memories of Emily Hargreaves and the golden days of his lost youth.
Chapter 4
It was still dark the following morning when Banks showered, shaved and dressed for work between gulps of freshly brewed black coffee. He had awoken from a bad dream in the wicker chair in the middle of the night with a crick in his neck and his heart racing fit to burst. He couldn’t remember the details of the dream, but it involved Laura Tindall in a bloody white bridal gown. Only he knew that she was really Emily Hargreaves, and she was telling Banks that she was sorry someone was dead, but that it wasn’t her fault. After that, he had somehow got himself up to bed, but he had slept only fitfully and still felt stiff and aching when he got in the shower. There was no food in the house, not even bread, sardines or baked beans, so coffee would have to do until he got to work. Then he remembered it was Sunday, and the canteen would be closed. There would be something open in the market square. Bound to be. Takeaway roast beef and Yorkshire pud, maybe.
The Porsche started as smoothly as ever, and he set off, headlights piercing the darkness of the deserted Helmthorpe Road, scaring the occasional wandering sheep back into its meadow. His mobile sat in its cradle, hooked up for hands-free communications.
His first port of call was the incident vehicle at St Mary’s, where he found a number of tired CSIs slumped over, heads on the desks. They had been working most of the night. The arc lights were still flooding the churchyard. AFOs stood here and there, Heckler & Kochs cradled in their arms, guarding the area. It was unlikely that the killer would return, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out. Banks had a brief word with the counter-terrorist unit’s second in command but learned nothing. Still no chatter, still no claiming of credit, no evidence of terrorist activity.
When he got back in his car, Banks slipped Ziggy Stardust in the CD player and turned up the volume. ‘Starman’ had been playing over and over in his head since he woke up, so he thought he might as well use fire to fight fire and try and exorcise it. His plan worked, but ‘Starman’ had been replaced by ‘Moonage Daydream’ by the time he reached the station.
‘Alan.’ Chief Superintendent Gervaise turned to Banks from the duty sergeant at the front desk. She looked as if she had been up all night. ‘I was wondering when you’d be getting here. Follow me, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
Puzzled, Banks followed Gervaise upstairs and along the corridor to her office. She opened the door and bade him enter first. Someone was already sitting at the round conference table, cup of coffee in front of her, and when Banks entered, she smoothed her skirt, smiled and said, ‘Hello again, Alan. Long time no see.’
Banks could only stand there rooted to the spot, gobsmacked, and hope that his jaw hadn’t dropped as far as he felt it had. Gervaise managed to squeeze through the door past him and introduce her guest. ‘Detective Superintendent Banks, this is Dr Jennifer Fuller, forensic psychologist. Dr Fuller has very kindly offered to come in and help us out on the case. We’re lucky to have an expert of such sterling reputat
ion, especially so early on a Sunday morning.’
Bloody hell, thought Banks. Jenny Fuller. Was today going to be as full of surprises as yesterday?
Once Banks had taken a couple of seconds to get over his initial shock at seeing Jenny Fuller again, he walked over to her and she tilted her head for him to kiss her cheek. Banks knew it wouldn’t take Gervaise more than a few seconds to figure out that the two of them were already acquainted. Why hadn’t Jenny told her? Banks wondered. No doubt to surprise him. She could be mischievous that way. But why hadn’t she even told him that she was back in Eastvale? He could see by the gently mocking smile on her face that his discomfort pleased her; she had always liked to catch people off guard and, as he remembered, she did it very well. Jenny Fuller was the one woman in Eastvale he had come perilously close to committing adultery with. Then she was gone. Off around the world. America. South Africa, Singapore, New Zealand, finally settling to teach in Sydney, Australia. The last he had heard, she was happily married to an Aussie economics professor.
His first impression was that she hadn’t changed very much since he had last seen her more years ago than he cared to remember. It was an uncanny feeling, losing Emily and suddenly finding long lost Jenny again, as if he were leaping through time and space like Doctor Who. True, there were a few more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but not many, and they only made her that much more attractive, as did the tan. Her pale pink lips were as full as ever, and her eyes still sparkled with mischief, though he fancied he could sense a sadness in them now, something that hadn’t been there all those years ago. The short page-boy hairstyle suited her, but the light brown colour was not as he remembered. As far as he could see, her shapely figure had hardly changed at all. Unless she was as lucky in her metabolism as he was, she must have worked to keep it that way.
‘I’ve brought Dr Fuller in to give us some sort of profile on our killer,’ said Gervaise. ‘I realise there’s very little for her to go on so far, but I’m hoping we can at least make a general start and then build up an even stronger individual picture as more information comes in.’
Jenny yawned. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth. No rings, Banks noticed. ‘Haven’t got over the jet-lag yet.’
‘Sorry to call you in at such short notice,’ said Gervaise. She turned to Banks. ‘I got in touch with a friend at the University of York, and she mentioned that Professor Fuller had just returned from abroad and recommended her.’
‘Just?’ said Jenny. ‘I’d hardly got in the door. Still, needs must, I suppose.’
‘Have you had a chance to read the file I sent over yet?’
‘Over coffee this morning. So don’t expect too much from me. I’m afraid you’ll probably get little more than the textbook version.’
‘Talking about coffee . . .’ Gervaise refilled Jenny’s cup and poured some for Banks. ‘Now let’s get started.’
Banks felt his stomach rumble and hoped they couldn’t hear it. Jenny cleared her throat and took a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses along with a buff folder from her briefcase. They were the kind of glasses you bought off the rack at Boots or Marks and Spencer’s, the same as he used, but they gave her a studious appearance. He could imagine her standing at a podium lecturing a class of randy young students.
‘First off,’ Jenny said, ‘I trust you’ve made arrangements for psychological counselling for the survivors and any of your officers who may need it?’
‘Yes,’ said Gervaise. ‘It’s hard to come up with enough counsellors, but it’s under control.’
‘Good,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, as far as classification goes, I suppose we’d have to categorise this one as a rampage killer. That statistically makes him far more likely to be a man, so I’ll use the male pronoun from now on. Men are more prone to violence. We don’t know for sure why, but it seems to be the case. It may be evolutionary, in that men have throughout history been rewarded for aggression. To the victor, the spoils. James Bond always gets the girl. Also, if you consider animal behaviour, you’ll find any number of aggressive contests for the privilege of taking a mate, or mates, mostly performed by the males of the species.’
‘Could it be a woman?’ Gervaise asked.
‘It could be,’ said Jenny, ‘but I think it would be more helpful at this point to rule out the more unlikely possibilities along with the traditional list of red flags. A “nutter”, for example. People who are mentally ill rarely kill, especially like this, though of course many would say a person would have to be insane to commit such an act. However, that doesn’t make for a very scientific argument, or for a useful method of approach to an investigation.’ She glanced from Banks to Gervaise over her glasses. ‘While it’s quite true that the killer may well have a long trail of antisocial acts and psychological problems in his background, from abusive parents and pulling the wings off flies to arson, sexual assault, lack of conscience, outbursts of irrational rage and so on, there are many more individuals who have a similar history but never graduate to mass murder. It’s not a natural progression, the way many doctors argue that the route from soft to hard drugs is. I think when you find your man, he will have a history of violence and abuse, and he’s very likely to have served time in prison or been incarcerated in a mental institution. But so have a lot of other people, and that’s not necessarily what will lead you to him. Too many false starts and blind alleys there. That’s why it’s impossible, even armed with all the facts, to pick out the next mass murderer from the millions of other disaffected individuals. A sad comment, but it’s true.’
‘We’re still considering terrorism as a possibility,’ said Banks. ‘Even though the investigators haven’t got anywhere yet.’
Jenny nodded. ‘As you should be. But if that’s the case, you won’t need me. Most of what I say won’t apply if someone kills for ideological reasons, or because he’s under the influence of a powerful personality, though it’s sometimes surprising when you look deeper into the backgrounds of some of these terrorists. You often find the same pattern that you find in other mass murderers.’
‘What will lead us to him?’ Banks asked.
‘I think first you need to know what set him off, what tipped him over the edge. The trigger. This could have been building up for years. He could have felt slighted, humiliated, envious, abused, any number of things – but something pushed him over the edge. Perhaps more than one thing. A combination.’
‘How do we do that?’ Gervaise asked.
‘For a start, we try to push the stereotypes and lists of traits that usually confound cases like this to one side, and then we go from what we know. All I can do is take whatever information you give me and analyse it in the light of scientific and statistical knowledge. It’s not perfect, but then profiling isn’t an exact science, and I won’t try to tell you that it is. Basically, a rampage killer is an umbrella term for a spree killer or a mass murderer. And when we get right down to it, the differences between a spree killer and a mass murderer aren’t great, especially in terms of motivation and criminal history. A mass murderer usually commits his acts in one place. A spree killer kills a number of people in two or more locations, a sort of mobile mass murderer, if you like, before either shooting himself or inviting the police to do it for him.’
‘So we’re dealing with a mass murderer here?’ said Banks.
‘Not necessarily. Though a spree killer operates at two or more locations, there can under certain circumstances be a cooling-off period of up to seven days between killing sprees. Raoul Moat, for example, up in Northumberland in 2010. He shot three people, one of them his ex-girlfriend, and went on the rampage in the countryside. It was seven days before he was found, and then he shot himself.’
‘So our man might not be finished yet?’ said Gervaise.
‘And we have to wait seven days to see if he does it again?’ Banks added.
‘Unless you catch him first,’ said Jenny. ‘Yes, it’s a possibility. But you won’t just be sitting
here twiddling your thumbs, will you? A lot can happen in seven days. And it’s not written in stone. He may kill again today, tomorrow, or not at all. He may be a mass murderer who’s finished his work, or a terrorist who’s melted back into the darkness. Moat obviously made a run for it and survived out there for days, but in the end, when it came to the choice, he took his own life rather than face prison. Remember the Hungerford Massacre in 1987? Ryan killed sixteen people and wounded fifteen in and around the Berkshire village of Hungerford. We don’t know why. We assume he had his reasons, but they were explicable only to himself. He also shot himself after being run to ground in a classroom in his old school. You could read all sorts of things into that. And what about Derrick Bird, the taxi driver? Same year as Moat, not far away, in Cumbria. He shot and killed twelve people and wounded eleven more, starting with his twin brother after an argument over a will and tax issues. Then he starts driving around and kills ten people in a forty-five-mile rampage. This all happened on the same day. Bird also shot himself before capture. Or the Dunblane school massacre, sixteen children and one teacher. The killer took his own life. That’s the main thing these killers have in common, except for shooting large numbers of people. They shoot themselves in the end when cornered.’
‘So what would our man do next, assuming he hasn’t shot himself already?’ Banks asked. ‘Where would he be likely to hide?’
‘Good question. I wish I knew the answer. From what I’ve read, he was cautious enough to visit the site in advance of his act, which shows a more than usual preoccupation with escape. Most of these sort of events happen in America, as I’m sure you know. To the degree that some sociologists are labelling mass shootings a contagion there. Schools, workplaces, shopping malls, that sort of thing. Shootings distinct from terrorist acts. Loners, outsiders, disgruntled employees. Rarely do they go in with an escape route planned. If your killer was so concerned with escape, and he hasn’t killed anyone else except the people at the wedding, then it’s logical to predict that he had somewhere to escape to, wouldn’t you agree?’
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