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 draughtsmanship, translating 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 colour 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 colours. 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.
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 wind-blown 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. 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 recognise 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 recognise 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 programme 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 realised 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 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 towards the front door. That’s when I thought she recognised him. I tried to shout, but I couldn’t move, not even my vocal cords. I must have lost consciousness, but it was o
nly 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.
Chapter 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 smouldering 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 realised, 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 towards 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 on to the porch, where the chaos was starting to abate, and pointed down the rutted track to his right. ‘Down there, towards 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 hard-headed 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. Neighbour 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 colour because the light was poor, and the streetlights just reflected. But it was a dark colour, and there we
re 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 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 on 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 cosy 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 mouldy dishes, but recently used ones, probably left out that morning after breakfast. It indicated that Vincent probably planned on coming back before too long.
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