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

by Peter Robinson

  “Did he say anything about the car?”

  “I never asked. I do believe he mentioned it was a bit beat-up, but that’s all I can remember.”

  “Was this before he first mentioned this Gord person, or after?”

  “Before.”

  “Neither you nor Mr. Edgeworth ever linked the two?”

  “Good lord, no. Why?”

  “Why would he even tell you about this if he pooh-poohed it so easily?”

  “I think he just wanted to tell me so that he could convince himself he was being silly about it, so I could help him laugh it off. I obliged. I told him it was probably nothing. Just a coincidence. It seemed to help. He said he’d thought it might have been the club keeping an eye on its members, or even the military from the base they used to shoot at. You know, some sort of cockeyed terrorist alert. But nothing came of it.”

  “Maybe not,” said Annie. “Or perhaps everything came of it.”

  Because it was a Saturday, and because they were hungry, Banks, Jenny, Annie and Gerry met up in the Queen’s Arms at lunchtime. There was a lot of information to share and sort, and Cyril, the landlord, opened up the old snug for them and even turned the heat on. It was a tiny room without windows, and perhaps a little chilly and musty at first due to disuse, but it was private, and they wouldn’t have to worry about being seen or overheard by the media, who were leaking hints that the “Red Wedding” investigation, as they called it, was far from over, that the police had discovered new evidence revealing that Martin Edgeworth had possibly not done the shooting, or had not acted alone. There were enough “ifs” and “possibles” to cover a stadium of arses, but the message was clear enough: the cops had screwed up, and the real killer was still at large. Things seemed to be fast approaching conspiracy-theory level.

  The radiators rattled and clanked for a while, then settled down to exude a pleasant warmth. Pat, the Australian barmaid, brought in two large platters of nachos, and while Gerry and Jenny abstained, Banks and Annie both went for pints of Black Sheep bitter.

  As soon as everyone had eaten a few nachos and washed them down, Banks suggested they try to put some sort of order to the things they had found out so far.

  “OK,” he began. “We don’t have a connection between Edgeworth and someone who might be the real killer yet, but we do have four important pointers. First of all, Ollie Metcalfe in the White Rose said Edgeworth was sociable and often talked with nonlocals in there, which means he might have had a drink there with the killer at some point. Second, Geoff McLaren, the manager of the shooting club, told me that Edgeworth had asked him about whether it was possible for someone with a criminal record to join the club. That could mean he was asking on behalf of this new acquaintance who wanted to acquire a gun. Third and fourth, Jonathan Martell told Annie and Gerry this morning that Edgeworth confided in him that he felt he was being followed, and that he later mentioned a fellow called Gord who he sometimes went walking the moors with. They managed to laugh off the bit about being followed between them, and neither made a connection with Gord, but why would they? I don’t think we can do that too easily ourselves. It’s quite possible that if someone was after a gun—someone who either didn’t want to or couldn’t acquire one illegally, and who couldn’t get one legally because of health reasons or a criminal conviction—might wish to befriend someone who already owned one. But perhaps it’s even more likely that whoever did it wanted someone to use as a scapegoat more than he wanted the gun itself. And if he needed a scapegoat, he needed one with a gun that would be traced back to the scapegoat. There’d be no point in all the subterfuge if Edgeworth’s gun didn’t match the murder weapon.”

  “So someone stakes out a shooting club?” Annie said. “Good idea.”

  “But why pick Edgeworth?” Gerry asked. “By chance?”

  “Why not?” said Annie. “Maybe Edgeworth was the first one out of the drive the first day the killer was there, or maybe the killer tried a few others first and they weren’t what he wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “His location, I’d say. Edgeworth lived alone and his house was nicely isolated. And perhaps the guns, too. They were weapons that suited the purpose the killer had in mind.”

  “OK. And then? How does he find out all this?”

  “He follows Edgeworth a few times, just to make sure there is no Mrs. Edgeworth, then perhaps strikes up a conversation with him in the White Rose on a busy night when no one would remember. OK so far?”

  “Go on,” said Banks.

  “Maybe the killer finds out Edgeworth is a keen rambler. He meets him ‘by chance’ on a walk on the moors once or twice. They become pally. At least pally enough for Edgeworth to invite him in for a coffee when he comes knocking on the morning of the wedding.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that he had a grudge against Edgeworth rather than against someone from the wedding group?” Gerry asked. “Or both? Someone from his past?”

  “That might be pushing it a bit,” Annie said, “but I suppose it’s not beyond the bounds of reason. He was certainly out to frame Edgeworth, once he’d killed him, but as to whether that was his primary motivation, I don’t know. We can dig a bit more into Edgeworth’s past, see if we come up with any possible candidates, but we might have to accept that he was chosen simply because he had what the killer wanted. But going back to the story, as soon as they get pally, our man is all set. He’s now got a contact who owns a Black Rifle and a Taurus automatic. I can’t say how far ahead he’s been planning things, but at least he’s thinking clearly in terms of saving his own skin. He has no desire to end up dead at the end of the day, like most mass murderers. Or in prison. So what does he do? He buys two identical sets of outdoor clothes. He visits Edgeworth, or accompanies him back from a walk for a cup of tea or something, manages to wangle a trip to the cellar to play with the guns, hits Edgeworth on the back of the head with a hammer, stuffs the gun in his mouth and shoots him, careful to emulate a suicide and careful to obliterate the traces of the hammer blow.”

  “Have we got anywhere with the ball-peen hammer we took from Edgeworth’s cellar yet?” Banks asked.

  “I’ve had a word with Jazz,” said Annie. “She’s come in today specially to deal with it, so I’ll check with her when we’re done here.”

  “Excellent,” said Banks. “Someone needs to check Edgeworth’s credit and debit cards. Make sure it wasn’t him who bought the two sets of clothing.”

  “He could have used cash,” said Annie.

  “Not much we can do about that, is there? I should imagine if the killer bought the clothing for that purpose, which is most likely, he probably used cash, but there’s no reason to think someone like Edgeworth would. He had nothing to hide, and these days it’s pretty much second nature for most people to use plastic. At least we should try to rule out the possibility that clothing is a red herring. Anything else?”

  “That’s about it,” Annie went on. “He leaves one pile of outdoor clothes beside the body. That’s a black anorak and black waterproof trousers, the sort you put on over your other trousers if you go walking in the rain. That makes it appear as if Edgeworth came back from St. Mary’s and took them off before killing himself. Maybe the real killer’s in a hurry, so he neglects or forgets to make sure the clothes have any trace evidence from Edgeworth himself, or enough to convince our forensic team, at any rate. Then he heads out in Edgeworth’s RAV4, Black Rifle and all, and does his business. Afterward, he returns the RAV4 and the AR15, checks that all is as he wants it to be, then goes home.”

  “Which is probably why the clothes were placed downstairs, next to the body.”

  “What?” said Annie.

  “Something I discussed with Dr. Glendenning,” said Banks. “Wouldn’t you think that if Edgeworth came home from the shooting, he would take off his outer clothing upstairs, the same as he did with his muddy boots? Let’s assume the pistol was in the cellar, so he had to go down there to shoot himself, but wouldn’t
he still most likely have taken his anorak off, and maybe even the waterproof trousers? But if the real killer simply brought the clothes with him and went down in the cellar with Edgeworth before the shooting, and killed him, then it would be perfectly natural to leave the clothes there. He probably wouldn’t think about taking them upstairs and putting them in the hall cupboard. A small point, but one that bolsters up our theory a bit, I think. And there’s another thing. He knows something about firearms if he realizes that Edgeworth’s guns suit his purposes, especially the AR15.”

  “That’s right,” said Annie. “Maybe a military background?”

  “Or police,” Banks added. “Worth checking, at any rate. It’s something we would have done by now if we hadn’t thought Edgeworth was the killer. That was an excellent riff on what few facts we have, by the way, Annie,” he said. “Our only problems are that we don’t know who this person is or where he came from and returned to. And nor do we know his motive. Rather big problems, unfortunately.”

  “What about the club?” Gerry said. “Why choose that one in particular to stake out? It might have been because it’s the nearest one to where the killer lives. It’s not as if such places are abundant around the dale. They’re few and far between.”

  “It makes sense that he would choose somewhere fairly close to home,” Banks said. “Though it might have simply been a temporary base. Either way, let’s check who’s been renting or buying property in that area of the dale since, say, last summer. B and Bs and hotels, too, for good measure. He must have stayed somewhere for a few days, at least. Maybe he’s still here. Maybe he hasn’t finished yet. Good thinking, Gerry.”

  “And we should ask a few questions about this mysterious Gord,” said Annie. “Maybe Edgeworth mentioned him to someone else. And we can check with other members at the shooting club, see if any of them remembers being followed by a beat-up car.”

  “I’ll put that in motion,” said Banks.

  “What about the Wendy Vincent murder?” said Jenny Fuller. “Where does that fit in? Or does it?”

  Banks swallowed a mouthful of Black Sheep and leaned back in his chair. He’d had enough of the nachos, which were already burning their way through however many feet of intestines he had. “We don’t know that it does,” he said, with a glance at Gerry. “Not for certain. But I think it’s worth doing a bit more digging. You might carry on with that, Gerry, seeing as it was you who came up with the possibility in the first place.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gerry.

  “And I suppose I should keep working on the profiles?” Jenny said.

  “Perhaps,” said Banks, “you could attempt a profile of the sort of killer who does the things we’ve just been talking about.”

  “I can tell you one thing right away,” Jenny said, rolling her eyes. “He’s a mass of contradictions. I say ‘he,’ but let me correct myself. He could just as easily have been a she.”

  “Don’t forget the lad from the youth hostel—what’s his name?”

  “Gareth Bishop, sir,” said Gerry.

  “Yes. Gareth Bishop. Let’s not forget that he told us he was certain it was a male figure he saw scampering down the hillside to the people mover.”

  “Because he didn’t see a pair of tits,” said Jenny. “I’ve read his statement. Just for your information, one of my bosses over in Oz was skinny and titless, and she was as much a woman as any woman can be.”

  “All right, Jenny,” said Banks. “Point taken. I know you’ll proceed with caution.”

  “Indeed I will. Opportunistic and premeditated. Careless and extremely cautious. Devious and—”

  “You might start with the fact that he may have a prison record,” said Annie.

  “Along with how many other members of the local population? How would that help me?”

  “And he may have done some sort of military or police training,” Annie continued, ignoring her.

  “It’s not as if we’re exactly a million miles from Catterick Garrison,” said Jenny. “Half—”

  “Jenny, why don’t you go and talk to Maureen Tindall with Annie tomorrow? You might be able to read between the lines.”

  Annie gave Banks a look and glared at Jenny. Banks drank some more bitter. Gerry studied her fingernails. Banks couldn’t tell whether she was disappointed at not being included, especially as the Wendy Vincent business was her discovery to begin with, but he suspected that she was. Still, it was a matter of teamwork, and Banks thought that Annie and Jenny might benefit from working on something together. Jenny was a skilled psychologist, and she ought to be able to spot what it was that seemed to get Maureen Tindall wound up so tightly.

  Pat the barmaid walked into the ensuing silence and asked if anyone wanted anything else. Nobody did. She picked up the empty plates and left. Gerry reached for her coat, and Annie did likewise. Banks still had a little beer left, so he stayed where he was, as did Jenny, who seemed to have something she wanted to say.

  Blood on the hammer, let there be blood on the hammer, thought Annie as she inserted her police ID card in the slot then walked through the sliding doors that led to the forensic lab next door. When it came right down to it, a bloody hammer was what mattered most right now, not the half-baked theories of some airy-fairy psychological profiler, despite what Banks seemed to think. He clearly still fancied Jenny Fuller; that was obvious enough to all and sundry. Whatever had remained dormant all those years, since before her time, had certainly come back to life. She just hoped he didn’t embarrass himself. In Annie’s view, Dr. Fuller was in all likelihood a high-maintenance prick-teaser with an inflated opinion of herself.

  As usual, Annie was impressed by the pristine appearance of the lab and all its inhabitants, buzzing around in their Persil-white coats. She had no idea what the various machines that sat on the benches and desks actually did, but she respected the results they spat out.

  The lab was open plan for the most part, though some of its most sensitive equipment was housed in special rooms or chambers, and Annie found Jazz Singh in her cubbyhole staring at a large computer screen full of strange dots and colored lines, as far as Annie could see.

  “Good timing,” Jazz said, keeping her eyes on the screen. “Just about time for a coffee break. Join me?”

  “Of course.” Annie realized that Jazz, short for Jasminder, must have seen her reflection on the screen.

  The lab had a decent Nespresso machine, like Banks’s office, and Jazz and Annie walked over, made their drinks and went into the common room. A couple of other members of the department sat around reading the newspapers or poring over laptops, and people mumbled their greetings. Jazz and Anne took a corner table with two comfortable orange chairs.

  “The ball-peen hammer, right?” Jazz said.

  “That’s the one. Any luck?”

  “Well, I’d hardly call it luck, myself,” Jazz said. “More like the application of consummate skill of the blood specialist.”

  Annie laughed.

  “But I don’t expect you want a lesson in the science of blood detection, do you?” Jazz went on.

  “Only if you think it’ll help.”

  “Help you appreciate my skills more?”

  “Jazz, I couldn’t appreciate your skills any more than I do already. You know that. Now give.”

  “OK. Naturally, the first problem is to determine whether there’s any blood present at all. That hammer had been well washed and wiped. Second, it’s then important to discover whether it’s human or animal blood. And finally, while you’re doing all that, you have to be damn careful you don’t contaminate the sample so much that you can no longer determine whose blood it is, should you need to do so.”

  “That makes sense,” said Annie.

  “It’s science,” said Jazz. “Logic. Reason. Of course it makes sense.”

  “Like Higgs boson and Schrödinger’s cat?”

  Jazz laughed. “They make perfectly good sense, too, if you have a bit of patience.”

  “So in th
is case?”

  “In this case I used good old Luminol. Favorite of CSI and a thousand other cop shows because it lights up nicely when it comes into contact with blood. But you have to be careful not to overuse it on the entire stain, which is rather difficult when you can’t see the stain, or the reaction could destroy any sample needed for further analysis. I used very effective masking, and the area I sprayed came up positive.”

  “For human blood?”

  “For blood. The only problem is that Luminol can also give false results. It can light up on certain plant enzymes, and even metals. But you can usually tell by the color and kind of luminescence what you’re dealing with what you’ve got. Blood doesn’t sparkle, for example, and it gives a steadier, longer glow.”

  “OK,” said Annie. “I think I get it. We have blood. What next.”

  Jazz took a hit of espresso. “Mm, that’s good. After getting a positive human antigen-antibody test, which isn’t always the case with invisible stains, I think I can safely say that we have human blood.”

  Annie clapped her hands together.

  “This was mostly around the region of the ball and the top of the shaft. It’s almost impossible to wash every trace of blood from that area where the head and shaft join. There are also minuscule cracks in wood that trap blood, though they render it invisible to the human eye.”

  “So we’ve cracked it? Edgeworth was hit with the hammer?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. The blood on the hammer is consistent with Edgeworth’s blood group, but that’s all I can tell you right now.” Jazz looked at her watch. “It’ll be a few hours before the PCR DNA results are available, and I’ll probably need another hour or more to interpret and compare the results. Say if you call back around five or six I might have something more positive for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Annie, standing up to leave. “I think I can manage to wait that long. And I appreciate your coming in on a weekend.”

  “It happens more often than you think,” said Jazz. “We get behind. I had a batch to run and it’s a good time to catch up with my paperwork while I’m waiting. Plays havoc with my social life, though. And talking about that, five will be around my knocking-off time today, so you can buy me a drink in appreciation of my all my sacrifices and tell me how wonderful I am.”