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

by Peter Robinson

  Annie thumped his arm playfully. “Don’t talk daft. I told you. You can stay at mine till you get somewhere.”

  Annie’s mobile rang, its “Winkworth Gong” ringtone imitating the bell of a sixties’ police car. “Sorry, got to answer this,” she said. “Work.”

  She walked out into the street and put the phone to her ear. It was Chief Superintendent Gervaise, the Eastvale Regional Area commander, and her voice sounded tight, urgent. “We’ve got a serious incident. Shooting at a wedding. St. Mary’s church near Fortford. Nothing clear on how many casualties yet. All hell’s breaking loose around here, so you’d better get out there ASAP. And see if you can get hold of Detective Superintendent Banks. He should be on his way back from Peterborough by now.”

  Annie could hear voices in the background, shouts, phones ringing, heavy footsteps. As she said, “Yes, guv,” the only thing she could think of was Winsome. Her friend and colleague DS Winsome Jackman was supposed to be going to a wedding at St. Mary’s, Fortford, today.

  Feeling light-headed and sleepy from the hastily consumed second glass of wine and early morning, Banks was glad to find that he had two seats to himself, facing forward. The previous evening, he had compiled a playlist on his computer and downloaded it onto his iPod for the train home. He leaned back, adjusted his headphones and cocooned himself in his own little world as he watched the landscape flash by through half-closed eyes.

  He enjoyed the lush countryside of the English heartland. Even now, in December, the sun was shining on fields of stubble and distant rolling hills. Now and then the train would flash by a village, or he would catch sight of a steeple or squat Norman church tower in the distance, a stately home on top of a rise. Car windshields flashed in the sun. People walked their dogs down country lanes.

  There was a stretch he particularly liked, a series of small lakes separated by grassy banks and copses, where he could usually spot at least two or three fishermen sitting far apart with their rods angled, lines far out in the calm water. The sight always made Banks want to take up fishing. There they sat like Buddhas, still and contemplative, waiting for the bite, the twitch, nirvana. Maybe they were thinking of the bills they had to pay, or the office girl’s tits, but they always seemed so focused on the sublime, so at one with the elements. The only times Banks had been fishing, he had been bored silly, and he hadn’t caught so much as a stickleback.

  As the train sped by the ponds, Banks found himself listening to Andy Roberts singing “Gliders and Parks,” which he had included because it reminded him of the day he had met Emily in Hyde Park and she had ended their relationship. It wasn’t so much the narrative as the mood the song created. That was followed by “First Boy I Loved” by Judy Collins, then Roy Harper’s “I’ll See You Again.” He knew he was indulging himself in gross sentimentality, not to mention nostalgia, but he didn’t care. It was his death, his mourning, and he would cry if he wanted to.

  But he didn’t.

  Memories of Emily didn’t cascade effortlessly in his mind, though he could picture her standing before him, the little scar on her upper lip where she had fallen off her tricycle as a young girl, the way it twisted when she smiled; her pale, smooth complexion, waves of long blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. He had always told her that she reminded him of Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago, and it was true that there had been something luminous about her, as if the light always favored her eyes and lips. But Emily was no ethereal being; she could be earthy, impulsive, even crude. She laughed a lot, he remembered, but she could be serious, too. And she was moody, mercurial. There were times when it had been exceedingly difficult to get through to her at all, when she had remained a silent, aloof and enigmatic presence, especially toward the end of their relationship.

  They had listened to Ziggy Stardust when it first came out, and he did remember that “Starman” had been one of Emily’s favorites from the beginning. He was stunned to discover she had still liked it enough that she chose to have it played at her funeral. But he hadn’t known much about her recent life at all. He hadn’t even known that she worked for Médecins Sans Frontières. If Dave hadn’t clipped the death notice from the local paper and sent it to him, he wouldn’t even have known that she had died. When your friends and lovers start dying, you begin to feel as if you have only narrowly escaped the reaper yourself, and that it’s only a matter of time. Which, of course, it is. In the meantime, there’s a version of survivor’s guilt to deal with.

  He found himself wondering if Emily’s children would find anything of him when they cleared out her house. Would they find old photo albums and mementos of events and experiences meaningless to them? Rock concert posters? Ticket stubs? Love letters? Postcards? The Tibetan bracelet he had given her for her birthday? The silver ring?

  The train stopped at Newark, then Doncaster. When the food trolley rattled by, Banks stirred himself and bought a cup of coffee and a Penguin biscuit, opened the tray by the empty seat beside him and set them down.

  It always took less time to get from Doncaster to York than he expected, and soon after York came Northallerton. His stop. He switched off his iPod halfway through George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass” and put it in his briefcase beside an anthology of English poetry he hadn’t opened for a few days. The last poem he had read was Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” which he had enjoyed very much.

  He had turned off his mobile for the funeral service and forgot to turn it back on again. Now, as he prepared to get off the train, he did so. The infernal thing practically exploded in his hand with urgent messages and texts. Something seriously bad had happened while he had been away. Juggling the phone in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he walked along the platform and listened to the first message from DI Annie Cabbot.

  2

  By the time Banks arrived in Fortford, the whole village was swarming with police, and the curious inhabitants had been strongly advised to stay in their homes. Naturally, they didn’t, and the police community support officers had a job on their hands keeping everyone behind the police tape at the southern edge of the village green.

  According to Annie, on receiving Terry Gilchrist’s phone call at 1:03 p.m., the dispatcher had consulted with her control room inspector, who had ordered that no unarmed officers or emergency services personnel should attend the scene until given the all clear by Firearms Support Command, even though Terry Gilchrist had claimed that he had seen the shooter leave the hill.

  Firearms support had sent their three closest armed response vehicles, and the officers had just finished securing the area around the church, about a quarter of a mile south of the village itself. Uniformed officers had then contained the scene and constructed designated pathways and meeting points so that the investigators could do their jobs and the paramedics could move in and out and take care of the injured. There were still no accurate reports on exactly what had happened in the churchyard, or how many people had been hurt.

  Banks showed his identification at the second checkpoint, about a hundred yards from the church itself, signed the officer’s log, then sprinted briefly to catch up with Annie Cabbot and DCs Doug Wilson and Geraldine Masterson, who were slightly ahead of him. Chief Superintendent Gervaise was gold commander, coordinating things back at Eastvale HQ along with representatives from the emergency services and firearms support.

  A line of authorized firearms officers, resembling an invading army in their full personal protective equipment, stood outside the churchyard, facing the hill opposite. Banks could see a number of other armed officers moving about on the hillside itself. Each AFO carried a PR-24 baton, rigid handcuffs and CS spray, along with the Glock sidearm and Tasers. Because of the seriousness of the incident, they were also carrying Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines, which they usually kept locked in the boots of their vehicles. They made a chilling sight.

  “Any news?” Banks asked as he caught up with the others.

  “Nothing yet,” Annie answered. “How was the funeral?�
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  “As you’d expect. Winsome?”

  “I’ve talked to Terry on his mobile. Winsome’s been hit, but he couldn’t say how serious it is. The AFOs have searched the hill area, which is where Terry said the shots were fired from, and they confirm the shooter’s definitely gone. They think they’ve found the spot he fired from and secured it for forensic examination. Gold Command has instructed that everyone unharmed inside the church should remain there until the ambulances have cleared the dead and wounded. We’ve arranged coaches for the uninjured. Eastvale General’s been advised to expect the casualties. So have James Cook Hospital and Leeds Infirmary. As far as anyone knows, there were about sixty guests in all. It was a bit of a local celebrity wedding. In the papers and all that.” She swallowed. “It’s a bloodbath, Alan, like nothing we’ve had before.”

  “Media? You said it was a celebrity wedding.”

  “We’re not talking Madonna or royalty or anything. There were a few reporters and photographers, but they either ran away or took refuge in the church.”

  “Pity for once the place wasn’t swarming with them,” Banks said. “It might have made the killer think twice, or one of them might have got some footage of him. What about the wedding photographer?”

  “I don’t think so,” Annie said. “He caught a splinter of stone in one eye. But we’ll be checking out all photos and videos taken at the scene. Terry said he’s done what he can for the injured,” Annie went on. “He managed to tie some tourniquets and stanch the blood flow on a couple of victims. He said it took ages for the AFOs to get here. It’s been well over an hour since the shooting.”

  Banks glanced at his watch. “I know,” he said. “I was just getting off the train when I got your messages. I drove as fast as I could from Northallerton. I’m sorry my mobile was turned off earlier.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you could have done on the train except fret. We’ve only just been permitted to approach, ourselves. Before that, it was armed personnel only. We couldn’t get near the place. The first armed response vehicle didn’t arrive until 1:41 p.m., and they had to search the area and make sure the shooter wasn’t still around. Some of the paramedics and doctors are really pissed off. They say people could have been dying up here while they were tied up in red tape.”

  The four detectives walked through the lychgate into the old country churchyard. Banks saw the wounded sprawled here and there, sobbing and clutching torn bits of shirt or dresses to stanch their bleeding. He could hear more ambulance sirens in the distance, and already paramedics were making their way around the churchyard along the common approach path designated by bright yellow plastic squares, like garish stepping-stones, marked out to avoid people contaminating the scene. Peter Darby, the crime-scene photographer, was already hard at work amid the carnage. These were the “golden hours,” the period closest to when the crime had taken place, and evidence would never be as fresh or as plentiful as now. Dr. Burns, the police surgeon, glanced up as Banks passed. Banks had never seen him so pale.

  One beautiful young woman in a coral-colored dress sat propped up against a gravestone shaking and whimpering, “Help me. Please.” Her lap was soaked in blood and her hands were clutched around her stomach, as if she were trying to hold her insides in. With her long blond hair and her pale heart-shaped face, she reminded Banks a little of Emily Hargreaves. A doctor hurried past him toward her. Another girl lay on the grass with half her head missing. She resembled an actor from that zombie TV program wearing a realistic prosthetic.

  “How many victims?” Banks asked.

  “Seven or eight, according to Terry. It’s not official yet.”

  “Adrian Moss here?” Moss was their media liaison officer, and he would soon be much in demand.

  “Not yet.”

  Banks noticed that Gerry Masterson, the newest and youngest team member, had turned white. She was slowing to a halt, as if marooned on one of the yellow pads, staring at the girl holding her stomach by the gravestone. Banks thought he could see Gerry start to shake. Quickly he went over to her and grasped her arm. “Come on, you’ll be OK,” he said. “Look at me. Deep breaths. One. Two. Three.”

  Gerry turned toward him, her nostrils flared, eyes wild, then she gave a slight nod. Her shoulders stiffened, and he could see the effort she made, slowing her breathing, staring fixedly straight ahead at the church doors. “I’ll be all right, sir,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Banks could hear children crying the moment he stepped through the doors, but it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the church. There were people everywhere, some silent, some crying, some just talking. Banks saw a flower girl, with her hair in ringlets, holding her bouquet and sobbing. She had blood on her dress and her face, but he didn’t think it was hers. A little boy in a smart suit had his arm around her and was trying awkwardly to get her to be quiet. Next he saw the vicar sitting on the worn stone step by the altar, hunched over, head lowered, hands clasped in prayer, mumbling to God. Then he spotted Terry Gilchrist holding someone in his arms, leaning against a stone column.

  Banks hurried over to Terry and saw, as he had expected, that it was Winsome he was holding. Her arms were wrapped around her raised knees, clutching them tightly to her chest. There was blood all over the front of Terry’s shirt as well as on his suit and face. Winsome’s peach satin dress—the one she had been so thrilled to find on sale—was smeared and stained with blood, too, and he noticed a bloody streak running across the top of her bare left shoulder. Something had made a furrow in her skin. The cut wasn’t bleeding much, a superficial flesh wound at best, but she had come that close. Winsome was trembling; her tear-filled eyes seemed unfocused, directed inwards, unaware of her surroundings.

  “She’s in shock,” Terry said. “She needs a doctor, but there are people far worse off. You’ve seen what it’s like outside.”

  “You were out there when it happened?”

  Terry stood up, but he didn’t take his eyes off Winsome. Annie took his place beside her. “I did the best I could. I tried to get everyone inside to safety. The shooter nicked Winsome’s shoulder. She’s lucky. I think the bastard was using hollow points, judging by the damage he’s caused. I saw him leave the hill over the road, heading south. I think the waiting was the worst. People were crying everywhere, screaming in pain. We could have got the ambulances and paramedics in much sooner, they were just waiting for the word, but the firearms officers wouldn’t let anybody past, and it had taken long enough for them to get here. Christ, Alan, people were dying. Winsome could have died. The bastards just wouldn’t take my word for it that the shooter had gone.”

  Banks touched him lightly on the shoulder. “You did the best you could, Terry. Remember, I know your military background but the others don’t. They had to follow procedure. Don’t worry, we’ll get Winsome some attention soon enough. She’ll be fine. What about you?”

  “I’m OK.”

  Banks stood up and surveyed the scene. Gerry and the others were squatting on their haunches, talking to witnesses. The sirens he had heard out in the churchyard stopped suddenly, and then more paramedics and doctors rushed into the church bearing stretchers and medical supplies.

  Banks stood on top of the hill opposite the scene and watched the activity in the churchyard. Tiny figures, like a Lowry painting. The hillside sloped gently down toward a field full of sheep across the road from St Mary’s. They were grazing innocently, as unaware of what had happened as the horse scratching its behind on a tree in the Auden poem about the fall of Icarus. To his left, he could see the village of Fortford, at the junction with the Helmthorpe Road, a cluster of stone cottages with flagstone roofs huddled around a village green, the familiar Roman hill fort, the whitewashed facade of the Lamb and Flag. Behind him stretched the moors, a tangle of bare heather and gorse, like coiled barbed wire among the rocky outcrops. On the other side of the road, behind the church, a similar hillside sloped up to similar moorland. It had been a
perfect sniper’s day, not even a hint of a breeze nor a drop of rain, but now the wind was whipping up again and the rain clouds were gathering fast. It was close to four on a Saturday afternoon in early December, and it was already getting dark, a chill creeping into the air from the north.

  Banks was joined by Stefan Nowak, crime-scene manager, and Superintendent Mike Trethowan, head of the firearms cadre. The three men stood by a section of the hilltop surrounded by police tape, inside which two CSIs were busy erecting a makeshift canvas tent over the area where the shooter had lain.

  “Find anything yet?” Banks asked.

  “Ten shell casings,” said Trethowan. “They’ve gone to ballistics.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet,” Nowak answered. “The grass is clearly flattened, as if someone has been lying there. No doubt there’ll be other traces when we organize a full search. Fibers, most likely. Who knows, maybe he smoked a cigarette and left us a nice DNA sample.”

  Trethowan pointed to a rough path leading diagonally down the hillside to their right. “Mr. Gilchrist said he saw the shooter head down there,” he said. “We’ve already got roadblocks up. Alerts have gone out all over the county. If only we knew what we were looking for. We’re still waiting for the sniffer dogs up here.”

  “Vehicle?”

  “We don’t know. I assume so. Plenty of spots to park it out of the way nearby. They’re all being checked out. It’s not a busy road. And there’s no CCTV for miles.”

  Banks knew the road well enough. It was a pass that cut sharp south from the main east–west Helmthorpe Road. After climbing then winding through a long stretch of wild moorland beyond the youth hostel, it dropped slowly into the adjacent dale. From there, anyone could easily get to Harrogate, York or Leeds, and from there to the M62 or M1. The killer had a good start. He could be well on his way to London by now, and they would be none the wiser as they had no vehicle description to go on.