Sleeping in the Ground

by Peter Robinson

  ‘A bolt-hole?’ Banks suggested.

  ‘Something like that. Somewhere he’d feel safe. Somewhere he’d believe you couldn’t find him. He’s clever and obviously not lacking the nerve to take risks. He could even have gone home, on the assumption that you’re not smart enough to find out who he is or where he lives.’

  ‘He may well be right about that,’ said Banks.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jenny. ‘But it’s good that he thinks he’s smarter than you, and that he likes to take risks. It gives him a far greater chance of slipping up, and you a far better chance of catching him when he does. He could even be doing a “purloined letter” and living next door to the police station. That’s just a frivolous example, by the way. I’m not suggesting you should dash out and check up on it. But do you see what I mean? The level of premeditation, of planning, makes his actions a bit different from the run-of-the-mill rampage killer. And whether he’s finished with the killing or not, he still has to hide out somewhere unless he wants to get caught, and so far I wouldn’t say that he does.’

  ‘Could he already be overseas?’ asked Gervaise.

  ‘I suppose it’s always possible,’ Jenny answered. ‘It’s true that he could be anywhere, as none of us know who he is or what he looks like. If he’s as organised as he appears to be, he no doubt had a change of clothing stashed somewhere, perhaps a passport, too. He could be in Paris wearing a business suit and carrying a leather briefcase by now, for all we know. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If you start assuming things like that, it tends to affect the investigation, sap confidence, lower morale. All we can do is work with what we’ve got. You’d have to ask a geographical profiler for a more detailed analysis – that’s not my area of expertise – but spree killers generally start close to home. They may travel some distance over the course of the spree, but the starting point, and returning point, if they get that far, is somewhere close to home. Remember Ryan and his old school. We don’t know for certain that our man’s a spree killer yet, but the same applies to most rampage killers. So let’s assume he’s not operating too far from home. Unless he is a terrorist – and I’m sure you have experts in that field working with you – there’s a very good chance that he’ll stick to what he knows, where he knows, where he feels comfortable. Remember, he’s not infallible, no matter what he thinks. He will make mistakes. And you have to believe that even if he has fled overseas already, you’ll still bring him to justice in the end.’

  Banks could follow the logic in Jenny’s arguments and accept pretty much everything she said, but he could also see why many police officers were suspicious of psychological profilers. After all, she hadn’t told them where to find the killer or how to go about tracking him down. Pep talks were all very well, but how much further ahead were they? ‘Can you be more specific about any of this, Jenny?’ he asked, trying to word his thoughts as diplomatically as possible.

  ‘Name, address, National Insurance number, you mean?’

  ‘That sort of thing would be useful.’

  Jenny laughed. ‘Sorry. I warned you not to expect too much or you’d be disappointed.’

  ‘I’m not disappointed, just frustrated.’

  ‘Well, Alan, I don’t know if it’s in my job description to do anything about that.’

  Banks noticed that Gervaise was following the exchange with great interest, and it was hard to miss the sparkle in Jenny’s eyes. He felt himself redden. ‘Same old Jenny,’ he said. ‘Batting the ball back and forth.’

  ‘Not so much of the old.’ Jenny put her folder down, leaned back in her chair and removed her glasses. ‘I know how frustrating this must be,’ she said. ‘I’ve been through this sort of thing many times before. Many, many more than I had last time we worked together, Alan. Things have come a long way since then. Certainly profilers have and, in some cases, the police attitude towards us has become somewhat more enlightened, but we’re still not miracle workers.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be critical,’ Banks said. ‘I’m just thinking about this specific crime. So we’ve got a mass murderer and not a spree killer, maybe, unless he kills again within seven days. That’s useful to know, but it doesn’t help us, it just puts a ticking clock into the equation.’

  Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d say you had that already, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Jenny went on. ‘I was getting to that, to this specific crime. There are some details I find interesting, in addition to the recce and the planning of an escape route.’

  ‘Such as?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Such as the occasion. Why target a wedding? As I said before, in America, schools and workplaces are the main targets. At one time post offices seemed such a breeding ground for mass murderers that it was called “going postal”.’

  ‘So what does our killer have against weddings?’

  ‘Not even that,’ Jenny said. ‘His thinking is unlikely to be so linear. But there’s something in there. Something in why he chose a wedding. Perhaps even why he chose that particular wedding. There’s all the usual stuff in his behaviour, of course, anger against women, or a particular woman, perhaps a failed marriage in his background, but you need to examine it from all angles. Revenge and envy are often strong motives for mass murderers. They’ve often failed and are envious of those who appear to have succeeded, or they’re avenging some real or perceived slight, perhaps from years ago. Something that might seem quite insignificant to us.’

  ‘The wedding got quite a bit of publicity around Eastvale,’ Gervaise said. ‘Minor local celebrities and all that. Model. War hero.’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing I mean,’ said Jenny. ‘Anything like that could have set off some dormant desire for revenge. A war hero, for example, could have been a symbol of something he wanted to destroy, maybe because he was a coward, or he thought he should have been given hero status himself but was overlooked. Envy and revenge.’

  ‘Why does it have to be a symbol?’ asked Banks. ‘Why couldn’t it have been that actual wedding itself he wanted to destroy? Or a particular person who was there? The bride or groom, for example. Both were hit. One killed. Could he have been after a specific person? Isn’t a cigar sometimes just a cigar?’

  ‘I haven’t jumped to any conclusions yet,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s an interesting idea, and of course he could have been after one or more people in particular, people he thought had ruined his life, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough to go on to take my analysis any further than that. If it was a terrorist attack, then perhaps a large social gathering was enough of a target. You also mentioned that the groom was a war hero. There could be something in that, too. A military connection. A number of mass murderers were found to have military backgrounds. You should certainly look at the soldiers who were with him in Afghanistan.’

  Banks had already thought of that and mentioned it to the counter-terrorist investigator.

  ‘What was the order of killing?’ Jenny went on. ‘Did that mean something to him, or was he just firing randomly into the crowd? As far as I could make out, there were more female victims than male. Was that simply because they were wearing brighter or light-coloured clothes that stood out more from his perspective up on the hill, or was it deliberate? It would be pretty easy for him to have picked out the women from a group like that.’

  ‘We’re not sure of the order yet,’ Banks said. ‘And the victims weren’t all women.’

  Jenny consulted her file. ‘Five of them were.’

  ‘But there were four men, too. Anyway, we don’t know the answer to any of those questions yet,’ said Banks. ‘We’re still trying to piece it together from ballistics and witness reports. We should be able to talk to more of the guests today. Naturally, everyone was pretty much in shock last night.’

  ‘Of course. Be sure to let me know when you have some answers,’ Jenny said. ‘It might be important.’

  ‘Will do.’

  She packed away her folder and glas
ses in the briefcase. ‘If it’s OK, I’ll head out and try to catch up on a bit of sleep now,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll be even less use to you next time than I am already.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Dr Fuller,’ Gervaise said.

  Banks got to his feet. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No thanks. My car’s outside.’

  And with that, she was gone.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Gervaise. ‘I take it you two have some history?’

  ‘Many years ago,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, Professor Fuller worked with me on my very first case up here, after London. A peeping Tom. She was very good at her job, even back then, and that was before The Silence of the Lambs came out.’

  Gervaise hesitated, then went on. ‘Alan, I know it’s none of my business, but I know where you were yesterday, and I never got the chance to say how sorry I am. Losing a friend is a terrible thing, the memories it shakes loose, even if you’ve drifted apart. The panicky feeling that you’re losing bits of yourself.’

  Banks thought she spoke as if she knew what it was like. ‘Yes,’ he said, hand on the doorknob. ‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’

  ‘Childhood sweetheart, was she?’

  ‘Something like that. Yes.’

  ‘Just don’t lose sight of the good memories. That’s all.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  ‘How’s the invalid?’ Banks asked Winsome when Terry had let them into his house near the village of Drewick, on the eastern side of the A1. Winsome still kept her flat on the fringes of the Eastvale student area, but now that she and Terry were engaged, she was spending more time at his place. Banks had marvelled more than once at how falling in love had loosened the grip of her previous morally strict and strait-laced approach to life. That morning, she lay on the sofa, half sitting up, with a tartan blanket draped over her.

  ‘I’m fine. Really,’ Winsome said. ‘It’s nice to see you, Guv. Annie.’

  Annie leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  Terry Gilchrist clapped his hands together. ‘Tea, everyone?’ Then he went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and leaned in the doorway while it came to a boil.

  ‘How’s the shoulder?’ Annie asked.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just a scratch.’ Winsome bit her lower lip. ‘It’s the other stuff that’s most upsetting. I still can’t take it in.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Those people were our friends.’

  ‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘We’re trying to sort out exactly what happened. It’s not easy. We’re hoping you and Terry will be able to help us put together a sequence of events.’

  Winsome glanced at Terry, who came and perched beside her on the sofa, taking her hand between his. ‘Terry was more involved than I was,’ she said. ‘I was inside the church a good deal of the time. Everything was chaos. I didn’t know what was going on out there.’

  ‘But not at first,’ said Banks.

  Winsome fingered the tassels on the edge of the blanket. ‘No. Not then.’

  ‘We’ve even brought in a hotshot profiler from Australia,’ Annie went on. ‘Seems she’s an old flame of Alan’s.’

  The kettle started to whistle, and Terry went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Before your time,’ said Banks. ‘Both of you. Believe it or not, I was young once.’

  ‘And married,’ said Annie.

  ‘I told you. Nothing happened.’ Banks felt his cheeks burning.

  ‘Methinks he doth protest too much. What about you, Winsome?’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ said Winsome, smiling. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’ Banks asked.

  ‘That she came all the way from Australia.’

  ‘Yes. She’s taking up a teaching post at York again, where she started out.’

  ‘And you’re not married now, Guv,’ said Winsome. ‘You’re free as a bird.’

  ‘But she may not be.’

  ‘Isn’t life unfair?’ said Annie, with a wink.

  Terry returned with a pot of tea and four matching blue mugs on a tray, which he set down on a low glass table in front of the sofa. He still walked with a slight limp, but had shed the walking stick he had used when Banks first met him a couple of years ago. He was a tall, fit young man in his early thirties, maybe a year or two older than Winsome, with a strong jaw, clear blue eyes, close-cropped fair hair and a boyish grin. His beagle, Peaches, lay content in front of the crackling and spitting log fire. Banks could see the garden all misty with drizzle through the window.

  Once they each had a mug of hot tea warming their hands, Banks asked Terry if he would recount what happened.

  ‘Of course.’ Terry sat on the edge of the sofa, set his tea on the tray and kept hold of Winsome’s hand while he talked. ‘The service ended and we all piled outside. Well, some of us did. The photographer was trying to get everyone from the main party organised into groups for the photos, but you know what it’s like. Some people were chatting. A couple lit cigarettes. He was getting frustrated because everyone was having a bit of a laugh instead of standing in their assigned groups, and it was taking so long.’

  ‘Do you remember the first shot?’ Banks asked.

  ‘I was about five feet away, kneeling to chat with Megan, the flower girl, when I heard a crack and I saw Laura spin around and fall in a heap. I didn’t realise it was a shot at first because the bells were so loud, but I could see blood on the front of her white dress, and I then knew what had happened.’ He paused and shook his head slowly. ‘It was as if I’d never been away. For a moment, I was right back there in Helmand. I think everyone just froze for a split second. Of course, we didn’t know to expect more shots, or what. All I knew was that Laura had been hit. Bad, by the looks of it. Then I suppose my training kicked in about the same time as someone started screaming. My first thought was to get everyone back into the church in case he fired again. I thought they would be safe in there. Before I could even begin, though, while most of us were still rooted to the spot, there was another shot.’

  ‘Can you remember who was hit next?’

  Terry closed his eyes. ‘Yes. The second shot hit Ben. That’s Benjamin Kemp. The bridegroom. My friend. My God,’ he said, putting his free hand to his mouth then wiping his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK, Terry,’ Annie told him. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘He’s right so far,’ said Winsome. ‘It was Fran next. Francesca Muriel, Laura’s maid of honour. I was talking to her at the time, telling her to head for the church. It was . . . I don’t know . . . her head . . . it just . . . cracked open, disintegrated. Like Terry says, we hadn’t really had time to react to what had happened yet. I turned to run back to the church, trying to urge people on before me. That’s when the bullet grazed my shoulder. So I think I may have been the fourth victim.’

  ‘The photographer was hit around then, too,’ said Terry. ‘And Dave Hurst, one of the guests.’

  ‘So the two of you were directing people towards the church?’

  ‘They were completely freaked out,’ said Terry. ‘Running around like . . . well . . . you know, chickens. I suppose I was thinking more professionally then, and I knew by the spaces between the shots that whatever make the gun was, it was a single-bolt, not an automatic, and we could be thankful for that. It gave us a bit more time. I remember glancing up at where the shots had come from, but all I could see then was a sort of small black smudge on the edge of the hill. A sniper, or so I thought.’

  ‘By this time,’ Winsome said, ‘people were starting to get the picture and rush back towards the church doors without my having to tell them. There was a bit of a jam, and I think the next victim was Diana. Diana Lofthouse, another one of the bridesmaids.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Terry. ‘He shot her in the back just as she was getting near the church door.’

  ‘That makes seven shots,’ said Banks. ‘There were ten in all. Do you remember who was next?’

  ‘Charles, I think,’ said Terry. ‘
Ben’s father.’

  ‘I saw none after Diana,’ said Winsome. ‘I was too busy trying to get people into the church. The problem was that there were even a few people who’d stayed inside now trying to get out again to see what was going on. It was a bottleneck.’

  ‘Did you notice the next victims?’ Banks asked Terry.

  ‘Not clearly,’ he said. ‘Not by then. Like Winsome, I was too busy trying to get people out of the way. I had little Megan, the flower girl, in my arms, and she was crying. I think I saw Charles go down next – that’s Ben’s father – then Katie, but I couldn’t swear to the order. Katie was just standing there, frozen to the spot. I was on my way over to her. She took one in the stomach and fell back against a gravestone. I don’t know if she’ll make it. She’d lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘Katie Shea’s still critical,’ said Banks. ‘Same with Benjamin Kemp.’

  ‘I know there were others hurt,’ Terry went on. ‘David, I think, was shot in the leg quite late on. The photographer was hurt, too. He was holding his eye and it was bleeding. Others had just frozen, like Katie. They couldn’t move. Laura’s mother, Maureen. I had to go back and pick her up and carry her in. And Denise was kneeling beside Charles, her husband. She didn’t want to leave him, but I managed to get her inside. I knew he was dead.’

  ‘You saw the shooter running away, right?’

  ‘I saw a dark figure running diagonally down the hillside towards the south, yes. But he was too far away for me to see any detail. He was carrying some sort of long object at his side. It could have been a rifle.’