Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 11

‘This is a dead loss,’ Doug Wilson complained as Gerry manoeuvred into yet another narrow parking space later that afternoon. ‘The last sales clerk I talked to said it wasn’t so unusual for people to buy two or more sets of items they liked. I’ve even done it myself with shirts and stuff, especially when they’re on sale two for one. And like I said before, he might have gone to different branches. I know I would have if I’d been worried about getting caught. They didn’t even have to be exactly the same, just like that from a distance.’

‘But maybe he did buy two outfits in the same branch,’ said Gerry, ‘because it would have meant another expedition to find the same of everything in another one. Time might have been a factor. You checked Edgeworth’s debit and credit cards yourself before we set out and we know he didn’t buy them, at least with plastic. Don’t be so negative. I’m just happy to get out of the office for a while. We’ve even got a few patches of blue sky. Enjoy it while you can.’ She knew Doug wanted to be at the football match, a local derby, and she wouldn’t have minded a bit of time off to tidy her flat, as there wasn’t much more digging she could do on the Wendy Vincent case until after the weekend, but that was the way the job went. She didn’t want to have to put up with Doug sulking all afternoon, at any rate.

‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘the killer had no reason to think we’d end up traipsing around every bloody branch of Walkers’ Wearhouse in Yorkshire asking after someone who bought two pairs of everything. He clearly thought his plan would work and everything would end with Edgeworth’s suicide. We’ll do Relton and Lyndgarth, then call it a day. OK?’

Doug glanced at his wristwatch. Gerry could see him calculating whether he’d make the second half or not. ‘Right,’ he said, opening the door and stepping out. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

They turned up nothing in Relton, but things started to get more interesting in Lyndgarth.

The doorbell of the Walkers’ Wearhouse branch jingled as they entered, and immediately Gerry was hit by the smells of leather, wet wool, warm rubber and that peculiar chemical odour that seemed to emanate from waterproofed garments. Doug slunk in behind her, having clearly written the place off before they even got out of the car. Gerry spotted a young woman towards the rear of the overstuffed room sorting out a table of lumberjack-style shirts. She glanced up when she heard the bell and moved forwards, smiling as if she were pleased at the interruption of a customer. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

Gerry showed her warrant card. ‘I hope so.’

‘Police? Is it about the shoplifting we reported?’ The woman smoothed her hair, which was smooth enough to begin with, as it was tied back in a tight ponytail. She looked to be in her forties, short, mousy-haired, and pleasantly round. Her complexion was ruddy, but not weather-beaten like many keen ramblers. Gerry guessed this was just a job to her rather than a way to be close to her passion.

‘It’s not about shoplifting,’ Gerry said.

‘So you haven’t caught them?’

‘Shoplifters are notoriously difficult to track down, unless you catch them in the act.’

‘Yes, yes, I see that. That’s what the local bobby said, too. We’ve been vigilant — that’s Sue and me. She’s not in today. But you can’t have your eyes everywhere at once, can you?’

‘Unfortunately not, or it would make our job a lot easier.’

Doug Wilson grunted in what might have been a minor guffaw or an indication of impatience.

‘My name’s Paula Fletcher, by the way. What can I do for you, then?’

Doug lingered in the background pretending to examine a pair of thermal socks. ‘It may seem an odd question,’ Gerry began, ‘but we were wondering if you can remember a customer, say, last November or early December. Someone who bought two sets of exactly the same items.’ Gerry showed her the photocopied list of articles, colours and sizes.

The woman chewed on her lower lip as she read through before handing it back. ‘We have quite a few customers who like to buy a couple of sets of their favourite walking gear,’ she said. ‘After all, unless you put on a lot of weight you don’t grow much after you reach a certain age, do you?’

‘I suppose not,’ Gerry said, disappointed. She couldn’t fail to notice the ‘I told you so’ smirk of triumph on Doug’s face. ‘This might not be a regular customer,’ Gerry went on. ‘In fact, he’s far more likely to have been a one-off, a stranger.’

Paula’s face scrunched up in a frown of concentration. ‘That’s when we had our last two-for-one sale. When exactly would this have been, did you say?’

‘Towards the end of last year. November or early December, most likely.’ She realised it could have been long before then, but there was no sense in giving anyone such broad parameters, or they wouldn’t even bother trying to remember.

‘Can I have a peek at that list again, please?’

‘Of course.’ Gerry handed it to her. As she waited while Paula went laboriously through the items, she first heard the patters, and then saw the rain trickling down the plate-glass window. It had started again; the blue sky had only been a tease. Please let this be the last stop of the day, she begged silently. Now all she wanted was a long hot bath and a few chapters of the new Rose Tremain novel. She’d tidy up her flat later. After all, it wasn’t as if she was expecting company, or had a hot date this Saturday night. Or any night for that matter. Work took care of that. She didn’t know how DI Cabbot and Detective Superintendent Banks managed relationships, if they did. Banks certainly must have had, because he had a family, and Gerry had heard rumours that he’d had one or two youngish girlfriends of late. She had always got the impression that he would fall for someone more his own age, like the poet Linda Palmer, but what did she know about romance?

When she let herself think about it, which wasn’t often, she realised that she wouldn’t mind at all going out with someone like Banks, if he wasn’t her boss, that is, that age wouldn’t really be an issue. He seemed healthy and young enough in body and spirit, was handsome in that lean and intense sort of way, and she certainly got the impression that he was interested in a wide range of subjects, so conversation wouldn’t be a problem. He also had a sense of humour, which she had been told by her mother was essential to a happy marriage. Not that she was having fantasies about marrying Banks, or even going out with him. Just that the whole idea didn’t seem so outlandish. She knew that he and DI Cabbot had had a thing because DI Cabbot had told her once after a few drinks, and warned her that it was a bad idea to have relationships with people you worked closely with, especially your boss. Gerry thought she already knew that, but she thanked Annie for the advice.

Paula tapped the list with her forefinger. ‘You know, there is something here that rings a bell.’

‘Any idea what?’ Gerry asked.

‘It’s just... well, it wasn’t quite the way you said it was.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone buying two sets of the same clothes.’

Gerry frowned. ‘It wasn’t? Then what was it?’

‘It was this fellow who wanted to buy two sets — you know the black anorak, black waterproof trousers, the black woollen cap.’

‘When was this?’

‘Around the time you said. Well, it must have been during the last two weeks of November because that’s when we had our last big two-for-one sale. It helps at that time of year to get people in, a sale, you know, something special like that. Usually business is a bit slow in November.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ said Gerry, rushing on. ‘But what about this particular man? What stood out about him?’

‘Stood out? Oh, nothing. He was ordinary enough, I suppose, except for his eyes. They were deep set, like, and a bit scary, if you know what I mean. Like they’d seen things you wouldn’t want to see.’ She gave a slight shudder.

‘Go on,’ Gerry encouraged her.

‘Well, he came up to me with an armful of clothes, which turned out to be two sets of the same, except for one jacket. We’d had a run on the black anoraks and were completely out of them. I remember he asked me if we had any more in the storeroom and I told him I was sorry but that was it. I even went and had a look. I said we did have orange or yellow if he’d like, but he just shook his head impatiently, like, then I said if he’d care to leave his name and address and a contact number, we could perhaps order some in from the warehouse, or get some from another branch, and let him know, though it might take a day or two. I assured him he’d still get the same deal, even if took a few days.’

‘How did he react to that?’

‘Well, that’s it. That’s why I remember. He just grunted, put the items down on the nearest table and left. A bit rude, I thought, but it takes all sorts. He could at least have thanked me for trying. I understand he was disappointed, but it would only have been a matter of a day or two.’

No, thought Gerry, her excitement rising. It would have been a matter of him having to leave a name, address and telephone number. He needed to buy the two-for-one items at the same time in the same place. ‘He didn’t buy anything, then?’ she asked.

‘Not a thing.’

Gerry cursed under her breath. No chance of a credit-card transaction, then. And why hadn’t he bought the one set? Her guess was that he wanted to make sure both outfits were the same, and until he could do that, he wasn’t going to lay out cash on one of them. Either that or he was flustered and frustrated at not being able to succeed easily. ‘Can you give us any idea of what this man looked like?’

Paula took a deep breath. ‘It was a long time ago. I mean, I told you about the eyes, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. What colour were they?’

‘I don’t remember. I’m not even sure I noticed. But piercing, like. Maybe blue.’

‘Did he have a beard or moustache?’

‘His face hadn’t seen a razor in a week or two, but you get a lot like that these, days, don’t you? I don’t know why—’

‘Was he tall or short, fat or thin?’

‘Medium.’ She pointed at Doug, who was five foot ten. ‘About his height, give or take a couple of centimetres. And about the same shape. You know, slimmish. And he had bad skin, sort of rough and pock-marked, like he’d had acne or chicken pox when he was a boy.’ She blushed and looked at Doug Wilson. ‘Not that he resembled you in that, of course.’

Wilson nodded in acknowledgement. Gerry smiled to herself. The woman fancied Doug; she was sure of it.

‘Anything else, Paula? You’re doing very well. Your powers of recollection are really good.’

Paula wiggled with embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’

‘Any scars, moles, distinguishing features?’

‘He did have a tattoo. I could see the top of it where his shirt button was open. The hair, too.’

‘Hair?’

‘Chest hair. It came up almost to his throat.’

‘What kind of tattoo?’

‘I don’t know. You see so many these days, don’t you? If you knew how many young lasses around here have tattoos all down their arms or legs and God only knows where else. I mean, what will they do when they grow up and want a job?’

Gerry smiled to herself, imagining what AC Gervaise would think if she saw her tattoo. ‘You didn’t see what the tattoo depicted, what it was of?’

‘Not all of it.’

‘What, then?’

‘I only saw the top bit. Some red, blue whorls, like the tops of wings or something. Maybe a bird. Or a butterfly. I don’t know. All I can say is I had the sense it was part of a bigger one that went down his chest.’

‘OK, thanks, Paula,’ said Gerry. ‘That really is helpful. Would you be willing to spare the time to work with a police artist on trying to put together a sketch of this man?’

‘Ooh, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve got the shop to look after.’

‘It wouldn’t take long,’ Gerry said. ‘It would be a real help. And we can bring the artist here, to you. Or we can do it on the computer if you want.’

‘But what if I get it wrong? What if I can’t remember things?’

Gerry put her hand gently on Pat’s shoulder. ‘You mustn’t worry about that. You’ve done fine so far. Besides, people usually remember much more than they think they do when they start to see the beginnings of an image. The shape of the head, hairline, that sort of thing. It’s all important.’

‘He had short curly hair,’ Paula said. ‘Turning grey. Just like on his chest. I remember that.’

‘See,’ said Gerry, ‘you’re remembering already.’

Paula blushed. ‘Well, I suppose I can try, if you think it’s important. What did he do, this bloke?’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. We don’t even know if he’s done anything, yet. But it might be very important to us, so thank you. There’s just a couple more things. Have you ever seen this man before or since? Do you have any idea who he is, where he lives at all?’

‘None at all. Never seen him before in my life.’

‘Did you see what kind of car he was driving?’

Paula laughed. ‘Even if I had, I wouldn’t be any use to you there, love. Can’t tell a Rolls-Royce from a Mini.’

‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’

‘That I do,’ said Paula, clearly pleased with herself. ‘If there’s one thing I know, it’s clothes. That’s my business, after all.’

‘What was it?’

‘A cheap grey windcheater.’

‘Any emblems on it?’

‘Emblems? You mean like badges and stuff.’

‘Yes. Decals, symbols, things like that.’

‘I don’t remember any, no.’

‘You mentioned a shirt.’

‘Yes. He kept his jacket zipped up most of the way, so I just saw the button-down collar like, when I noticed the tattoo. Pale blue. And jeans. I think he was wearing just ordinary blue jeans.’

‘Thank you, Paula,’ said Gerry. ‘See you remember far more already than you thought you could. We’d better go now, but we’ll be back with an artist as soon as possible.’

‘That’s all right, love,’ said Paula. ‘I’ll be here.’

As they hurried back to the car, Gerry wondered where the hell they were going to scrape up a police artist at such short notice. Doug was still sulking as the second half of his game ticked by, so she didn’t imagine she’d get much help out of him. Then she had an idea, took out her mobile and called Annie.

It was only a couple of hours drive to Filey, if that, Banks thought as he skirted the southern edge of the North York Moors, and drove through Malton. In the early darkness, the town centre was almost deserted and the roads had been quiet all the way so far. In season, he would probably be stuck in a traffic jam by now. Almost as quickly as they had appeared, the stars had been obscured by clouds, but the rain was still holding off.

He listened to Maria Muldaur’s Heart of Mine as he drove, probably his all-time favourite album of Dylan covers, mulling over the thought that had leapt unbidden into his mind in the snug with Jenny. He was glad he hadn’t spoken the words out loud. She would probably have taken them as a kind of begging pitch, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel sorry for him. Like her, he didn’t know what he wanted out of a relationship these days. ‘I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight’, which Maria Muldaur was singing at the time, seemed enough for now.

Naturally, he had thought before about growing old alone, as one does in the wee small hours with only the darkness and a tumbler of whisky for company. Some men, he knew, were so desperate for someone to care for them as they aged, that they deliberately sought out young and healthy women. ‘A Man Needs a Maid’, as Neil Young once put it. But that wasn’t what Banks wanted. However he ended up, it would be for love, not for comfort and convenience. Over the past few years, since he had moved to the more remote Newhope Cottage from what had been the family home in Eastvale, he had been content to shore up his loneliness with music, books and wine, an evening out now and then at the pub, especially on folk night, and the occasional concert at the Sage or Opera North performance in Leeds. He took his holidays alone, too, usually long weekends in interesting cities he loved to explore on foot — Berlin, Stockholm, Krakow, Barcelona, Paris. And he had girlfriends from time to time, though they never seemed to last. He was so used to his settled way of life that the stray thought had taken him unawares and unnerved him. He didn’t know where it was likely to take him, or even whether he wanted to go there. Maria Muldaur finished and he put on Luna Velvet for the last mile or two.

As Banks entered Filey, he concentrated more on the roads and found the hill that sloped down to the seafront. He had suggested that he and Julie meet in a pub or restaurant, but Julie had insisted that he dine with her at the B&B. It was off season, she had said, and there were no paying guests. Besides, it would be more private. Her chef husband loved nothing more than a chance to show off his skills, she told him. Banks agreed. Why argue against a meal cooked by a fine chef?

There seemed to be quite a squall out on the water, with the wind whipping things up and the waves slapping hard against the sea wall, cascading spray on to the road. Julie had given him clear directions when he phoned to inform her he was coming, and she told him he could park on the front by the row of houses. When Banks saw the sandbags, though, he decided to find a more sheltered spot and parked back up the hill, around the corner, where the houses themselves provided a barrier. The wind tugged at his coat as he walked along the promenade towards the B&B, one of a terrace of similar guest houses, and he could taste the salt on his lips, feel its sting in his eyes.

He walked up the path and rang the doorbell. He would have recognised the woman who had answered his ring even if he hadn’t known who she was. She still looked young for her years, and though she had filled out quite a bit, the plumper version was similar to the one he remembered, except it had rather more substance, more chins, the eyes more deeply buried in puffy cheeks. Her husband’s cooking, perhaps.

She stared at him, a distant smile on her face. ‘Alan Banks, as I live and breathe. Come in, dearie. Do come in. Marcel is busy preparing dinner for us. He’ll be out later to say hello, but he has to go out to a business meeting tonight. We’ve got the place all to ourselves.’

Banks followed her inside and took off his coat in the hallway.

‘We’ll eat in the guests’ dining room,’ Julie said. ‘There’s a nice window table with a view of the sea, or as much as you can see of it in this weather.’

‘If you like,’ said Banks.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view. It’s a bit wild tonight, isn’t it?’

‘Just a bit.’

‘It’s just through here.’

Banks followed her into the front room, where a table in the bay window was already laid for two with white linen cloth, serviettes in silver rings, gleaming cutlery and two candles flickering in cut glass holders. The rest of the room, filled with bare tables, was in semi-darkness and shadow except for a small dimly lit bar at the end where they entered. Julie asked him if he wanted an aperitif. Banks knew he would have to be careful, but one aperitif and one glass of wine with dinner wouldn’t put him over the limit. He asked if she had Pernod. She did. He watched the clear liquid cloud up as she added a little water and ice. She poured a sherry for herself then led the way to the table, giving Banks the place with the best view of the raging sea.

When they sat down, she raised her glass and proposed a toast. ‘To absent friends.’

‘To absent friends,’ Banks repeated.

It felt strange sitting opposite Julie in the candlelight, surrounded by the dark, deserted dining room, waves crashing against the sea wall and splashing over the road. Christmas lights still strung along the prom between the lamp posts danced and flickered in the wind, and the streetlights themselves reflected and rippled in the undulating water just off the shore. The whitecaps stretched a long way out to sea. Banks felt apprehension. What was he doing here? It all seemed so arranged. Did she have something special in mind? The place to themselves, the candlelight, the view of the sea. He dismissed the thoughts. Her husband was cooking for them.

‘Don’t worry,’ Julie said, clearly noticing an expression of concern on his face and misinterpreting it. ‘The waves rarely come as far as the garden gate. Even on a night like this. We’ve only been flooded once since we moved here over ten years ago. The sandbags are there mostly to reassure people. The squalls come and go. You wait and see, it’ll be all over by the time we’ve finished dinner. The starters should be here soon.’

As if on cue, a man carrying a tray walked into the room. He wasn’t dressed as a chef, but was wearing dark trousers and an open-neck checked shirt. Julie introduced him. He put down the tray, and Banks stood up to shake hands. Unlike his wife, Marcel was tall and rangy. ‘Just a little appetiser,’ he said, gesturing to the plate. ‘Foie gras, figs and crusty bread.’ Then he excused himself and returned to the kitchen.

‘Do tuck in, Alan,’ said Julie, taking a couple of figs. ‘I’m afraid I can’t touch the foie gras myself, not with the state my heart’s in these days.’

‘Serious?’

‘No. Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, anything to do with the heart is serious, isn’t it? I’d been getting a bit short of breath, so I had some tests done. The upshot was that the doctor gave me some pills, told me to lose a few pounds and to cut back on the fatty stuff.’

‘I’ve been told the same,’ said Banks, spreading a little foie gras on a slice of crusty bread.

Julie laughed. The skin around her eyes wrinkled. ‘But you’re skinny as a rake,’ she said. ‘You must be one of those enviable people who can eat what they want and not add an inch to their waistline.’

‘I suppose I’ve been lucky that way, yes,’ said Banks. ‘I didn’t mean the weight, though. Just the fatty stuff.’

‘Ah.’

A wave hit hard against the sea wall, and Banks could swear a few drops of water splashed on the bay window. Julie didn’t seem concerned.

Marcel delivered their main courses next: roast cod with a light watercress sauce and roasted cherry tomatoes, buttered new potatoes and haricots verts. ‘Try the white Rioja with it,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it...’ He turned to Julie. ‘I have to go now, love. There’s a nice cheese plate on the kitchen table for later, along with a drop of Sauternes, and there’s fruit and ice cream if you want sweet stuff.’ He bent forwards to kiss her lightly on the cheek. ‘I won’t be late. Nice to meet you, Mr Banks.’ Then he was gone. Banks felt as if he were being deliberately left alone with Julie to put forward some sort of business or romantic proposal. Again he felt a twinge of apprehension.

‘Don’t be so nervous,’ Julie said.

‘I must admit I hadn’t expected such a feast when I invited myself,’ Banks said, picking up his knife and fork.

‘Oh, he loves it,’ said Julie. ‘Any excuse to spend time on his creations, and make a mess in the kitchen. Honestly, sometimes I think he does it just to get away from me.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Banks.

‘Well, maybe not. He’s one of the good ones, Marcel is. A keeper.’

‘This is excellent,’ said Banks. ‘Nice wine, too. Be sure to pass on my compliments to the chef.’

‘You can do it yourself. He won’t be late back.’

‘Now what was it you wanted to tell me?’

‘Did I say I wanted to tell you something?’

‘You certainly hinted at it.’

‘Yes. Yes, well, I suppose I did.’ Julie paused. ‘I believe I mentioned in my letter how I spent a lot of time with Emily towards the end.’

‘Yes. It must have been a terrible ordeal.’

‘Not half as bad as it was for her, despite the morphine. A lot of the time we just sat in silence. I held her hand. She stayed at home as long as she could, but the last few days...’ Julie shook her head at the memory. ‘She had to go into hospital. She was skin and bone at the end. The skull beneath the skin.’

Again, Banks remembered the young and beautiful girl he had loved all those years ago: her spontaneity, her rebellious spirit, her fearlessness. They’d go on marathon night walks — St John’s Wood, Notting Hill, Holland Park, Hampstead, Camden — pass by desperate late-night partygoers trying to hail a taxi already taken, or hear strange stirrings in the dark bushes of the Heath, see a homeless person bedded down in a shop doorway, walk around an aggressive drunk. Once they got chased by two drunk yobs and ended up panting, breathless and laughing. Streets so busy in day were dark and empty at night. They would go home to lie down and make love as the dawn chorus swelled, then drift to sleep, maybe missing their first lectures of the day and not caring.

‘But we also talked a lot,’ Julie went on. ‘About life, death, old times. She loved you very much, you know.’

‘I loved her, too,’ said Banks. ‘I never could understand why things didn’t work out.’

‘You wanted different things, that’s all. You were both too young. Emily was a free spirit. She wanted to travel, live life to the full.’

‘So did I.’

‘Maybe. But you were also set on a career, even then. You didn’t like business studies, I remember that, but you had mentioned the police once or twice.’

‘I did? Is that why...?’

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. If it wasn’t the police it would have been something else. It’s just that in Emily’s eyes you wanted to settle down. You know, the semi-detached, steady job, healthy pension, mortgage, two point five children, little dog, but Emily, well, Emily—’

‘Didn’t really know what she wanted.’

Julie laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s fair to say that. She only knew what she didn’t want.’

‘Why didn’t she tell me? Maybe if she had I could have... you know... changed.’

‘No, you couldn’t. People don’t. Not deep down.’

Banks remembered hearing almost the same words from Jenny Fuller only hours ago.

‘Besides,’ Julie went on. ‘Things hadn’t reached crisis point. You were still in your honeymoon period, willing to overlook a lot. Neither of you were thinking very much about the future. You were living in the present.’

That was true, Banks remembered. And it was exciting, just going where your fancy led you. It might well have been the last time he had lived for the moment, he thought sadly. Not long after the break-up had come career, promotion boards, marriage to Sandra, children, financial struggles, then the mortgage, the pension, the semi-detached, the move up north. Everything except the little dog, and that was only because Sandra was allergic to dogs.

‘Do you remember the last time you saw her?’ Julie asked.

‘As if it were yesterday,’ said Banks. He could remember the texture of the tree he leaned against, the red-and-white striped ball two young boys were kicking on the grass, a blackbird’s song, a dark stain on the page of the book he was reading, the heat of the sun on his face, the shouts of rowers from behind him on the Serpentine... ‘Why?’

Banks noticed the faintest of smiles pass across Julie’s features. ‘She said she thought you would,’ she said. ‘She remembered, too. It was a hot day in Hyde Park, wasn’t it? You couldn’t understand why she was finishing with you.’

‘That’s because she wouldn’t tell me why.’

‘Did you really not guess?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to know?’

Banks speared a thick flake of cod. ‘After all this time? I don’t know that it matters. Why? Did she tell you?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve known all along. She was pregnant, Alan. That’s why she split up with you and she couldn’t tell you why. Emily was pregnant.’

‘You won’t catch me working with any of those computer facial recognition programmes,’ said Ray Cabbot as Annie and Gerry sat with him on the wicker chairs in Banks’s conservatory. Banks was nowhere to be seen. Annie had already tried to get him twice on his mobile, but the first time he didn’t pick up, and the second time it was switched off. She wondered what was going on with him, what mysterious mission he was on, but she wasn’t especially worried. He was a big boy; he could take care of himself. Maybe he was on a hot date with that profiler, she thought, and didn’t want to be disturbed.

Annie wasn’t too thrilled at first about being dragged away from her date with Nick, but that was the way the job went sometimes, and if anyone could understand, Nick could. She and Gerry were admiring the sketch Ray had done of the man Paula Fletcher had described.

‘You’re a natural,’ said Annie. ‘It’s brilliant.’

‘You don’t know that, not until you find him,’ Ray said. ‘It might be total crap.’

‘Paula Fletcher said it was accurate,’ Gerry said.

‘Memories fade.’ Ray got up and headed for the door to the entertainment room. ‘I’m off to find something to drink.’

Annie rolled her eyes. It had been a successful evening so far. After Gerry had rung, Annie had met her at Banks’s cottage, and they had persuaded a reluctant Ray to go with them to Lyndgarth and try his hand at a police sketch. After a few false starts, Ray and Paula had seemed to develop a rapport, and the end result was amazingly lifelike, Annie thought. Though Ray was right, of course; they wouldn’t know for certain until they found the man.

First came the music, a little too loud for Annie’s liking, then Ray came back brandishing a bottle of Macallan and three glasses. He seemed disappointed when both Annie and Gerry declined and poured himself a large one.

‘Driving,’ Annie said.

‘Me, too,’ said Gerry.

‘You can both stop over if you want,’ Ray said. ‘He’s got plenty of room.’ He glanced at Gerry. ‘We can have our own party. Maybe I can do a couple of preliminary sketches?’

‘In your dreams,’ said Annie. ‘Grow up. And you’d better be careful, knocking back Alan’s expensive single malt like that.’

Ray held up the bottle. ‘I bought this one, myself,’ he said. ‘Sure you won’t join me, love? I don’t like drinking alone.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Ummagumma.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The album. Pink Floyd. Ummagumma. The live disc. “Astronomy Domine” is the song. Classic. He’s got a fine music library, your boss.’

‘Can you turn it down a bit?’ Annie asked.

Ray muttered to himself but fiddled with the remote, and the volume dropped a couple of decibels. ‘Philistines,’ Annie heard him grumble.

Ray was in his element with Gerry for an audience, the old goat, she thought, smiling to herself, all old-school charm and romantic roguishness. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. If she heard about the mesmerising texture of Gerry’s red hair and the smooth creaminess of her complexion one more time she thought she might accidentally knock his drink into his lap.

Gerry tapped the sketch. ‘We don’t even know if he’s the one we want yet, remember,’ she said. ‘So perhaps we’d best not get our hopes up.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Annie. ‘But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get this circulated pronto and see what happens. We could add that he may be called Gord, or Gordon, too. Maybe that’ll help.’

‘But we don’t know for sure it’s the same person Jonathan Martell mentioned.’

‘We don’t know anything for certain. It’s probably not even his real name, if he is the killer. But sometimes you just have to take a shot.’

‘Doesn’t the artist have any rights here?’ Ray cut in. ‘I assume I’ve got some sort of copyright on this, or do you lot take that, too?’

Gerry ignored him and went on. She’s learning, Annie thought. ‘We’d be playing our hand, though, if we got it in the media. Tipping him the wink. He might scarper, if he’s still around.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Annie. ‘If he’s still around, he’s around for a reason...’

‘But why?’

‘To watch us look like fools,’ said Annie. ‘Or because he hasn’t finished.’

‘Finished what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Even so, we should get the sketch out there. We still need to know who he is.’

‘We could just say we’re anxious to speak with him in connection with a recent occurrence,’ Annie suggested. ‘Something vague like that. Covers a multitude of possibilities.’

‘But he could still go to ground if he sees his likeness in the papers or on telly.’

‘It’s a risk we’ve got to take. But I don’t think he’s going anywhere. I reckon he thinks he’s safe. Besides, how else are we going to find him? Do you have any better suggestions?’

‘Not really,’ Gerry admitted. ‘I suppose we could always do it more discreetly. Door to door.’

Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Just think how long that would take. And think of the manpower. The AC would never authorise the budget.’

‘Even though we’re pretty certain what happened?’

‘Even so. And just how certain are we?’

‘Well, thanks to Jazz we now know that the blood on the hammer is Edgeworth’s,’ said Gerry. ‘And that probably proves that Edgeworth didn’t shoot up the wedding party, hit himself on the head with the hammer and then shoot himself.’

‘It’s possible the blood might have got there earlier,’ Annie said. ‘A cut or something. I don’t want to muddy the waters, but after all, it was Edgeworth’s hammer and Edgeworth’s blood. He could have hit his thumb banging in a nail or something.’

‘I know we always have to bear in mind the possibility that we might be wrong,’ Gerry said, ‘but in this case I think the odds are pretty good that we’ve got it right. Remember, there’s what Dr Glendenning said about the blow to the head to factor in, too, and according to Paula Fletcher the man in the sketch was after buying two sets of the same clothes — the same brand and colour that we found in Edgeworth’s cellar.’

‘There’s another thing we haven’t followed up on yet,’ said Annie.

‘What?’

‘He couldn’t buy the two outfits he wanted at Paula’s branch of the shop, so he didn’t buy anything. Where did he get the clothes? He had to have got them from somewhere. Another branch, perhaps?’

‘Right,’ said Gerry. ‘They were on sale that week. It’s worth checking, and we do have the sketch to show around now. Maybe someone will recognise him, and we’ll find a credit-card receipt after all. Does this mean Doug and I have to carry on with our shop crawl?’

‘So this is how you two like to spend your Saturday nights, is it?’ said Ray, who, Annie noticed, had been glancing from one to the other as they talked the way people watch a tennis ball going back and forth.

‘I thought you’d been quiet for too long,’ Annie said. ‘What is it you want to do? Go dancing, go clubbing or something?’

Ray topped up his glass. ‘Well, as I’m in the company of two lovely young women, my muse and my wonderful daughter, I do think we could come up with something a bit better than sitting around talking about bloodstained hammers and murder.’

Annie jerked her head towards the entertainment room. ‘Why don’t you go in there and listen to the music on Alan’s headphones, loud as you want, then we wouldn’t have to put up with it blaring in our ears while we’re trying to work.’

Ray studied his drink and narrowed his eyes. ‘You can be cruel sometimes, you know. I don’t know where you got it from. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth...” Your mother didn’t have a cruel bone in her body.’

Annie sighed. ‘Dad. Just let us finish. Please? We’ll join you in a while. OK? Then we’ll have a party, a dance or two. Gerry might even let you sketch her. She’ll be keeping her clothes on, though.’

Gerry gave Annie a look of horror. Ray seemed to brighten at the possibility of fun later, picked up his bottle and glass and headed for the entertainment room singing along with Pink Floyd as he went. The music in the conservatory stopped. He’d found the headphones.

‘I quite liked it,’ Gerry said.

‘What?’

‘Pink Floyd. They’re good. The boss said he was going to play me Ummagumma in the car some time, but Ray beat him to it. But why did you tell him he could sketch me? I’d be so embarrassed.’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll have forgotten in half an hour, and I’ll get you out of here without the slightest stain on your honour. You have to know how to deal with Ray. Now you know what it was like for me growing up.’

‘How did you manage it?’

‘He’s my dad. I love him.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t understand your relationship at all,’ she said. ‘I mean, my parents are... well, just normal.’

Annie laughed. ‘Well, you certainly couldn’t say that about Ray.’ Growing up in the artists’ colony, her mother dying young, she and Ray had never perfected a normal father — daughter relationship, whatever that was, and in some ways Annie regarded Ray as the child while she played the indulgent parent. But that was too complicated to explain to Gerry. Just then the music came on again, a loud scream followed by thumping drums and screeching guitar feedback.

‘Oops,’ said Gerry. ‘Perhaps I spoke too soon about liking the music.’

Annie glanced at her watch. ‘The headphones have come off. He’s getting impatient. Honestly, he’s got the attention span of a two-year-old, except when he’s working. Then you can’t budge him for love nor money. Let’s get out of here. Leave him to it. He probably won’t even notice. Come back to mine. I’ve got a couple of bottles, and we can have a nice quiet natter. You can crash there if you like. You won’t have to drive home.’ It was a step, she thought, the hand of friendship outstretched, beyond the job.

Gerry seemed to consider the option, then she stood up and said, ‘Why not? Let’s do it.’ And they tiptoed through the kitchen to the front door, got their coats and drove off.

Banks felt as if someone had pulled the floor from under him. He was spinning, in free-fall, the sea outside was deafening, the waves threatening to engulf him. For a while he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get back his hold on reality. Then he heard Julie’s voice cutting through the roaring. ‘Alan? Alan? Are you all right, Alan? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to give you such a shock. I was so certain you must have suspected.’

‘I can be very thick sometimes,’ Banks mumbled. ‘Or so I’ve been told.’ The world began to settle back into its proper order. Even the sea sounded calmer. The candle flames reflected in the bay window like two bright eyes. Banks took a gulp of wine. Julie refilled his glass.

‘But why didn’t she tell me?’ he asked when he found his voice.

‘Think about it. You’d have done the decent thing. You were halfway there already. You’d have persuaded her to have the baby and get married. I think you may underestimate how persuasive you could be. And how malleable Emily was. She seemed strong, determined, but she was so uncertain about what she wanted to do with her life that she’d have taken direction from someone as solid and resolute as you. Someone as dependable. And she knew that. That’s why she didn’t tell you. She didn’t want to give you the chance to persuade her to change her mind.’

‘About what?’

‘About the termination, of course.’

Somehow, Banks had known that was coming, but it still felt like yet another blow he hadn’t had a chance to protect himself from. He didn’t reel quite as much as he had from the first piece of news, but he felt a tightness in his chest and a burning sensation behind his eyes. He gulped some more wine, was vaguely aware of Julie opening another bottle, red this time. He had almost finished his main course and didn’t feel like eating any more so he pushed his plate aside.

‘She knew you’d do your best to talk her out of it,’ Julie went on. ‘It was an awful period for her. Not physically, there were no medical problems, but... the depression afterwards, the self-loathing. I was there with her through all that. Later.’

‘She didn’t have to go through with it.’

‘Well, she was right, wasn’t she? You would have tried to talk her out of it.’

Banks considered the comment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I probably would have tried to dissuade her from having an abortion. But if she was so determined... I mean, I wasn’t anti-abortion, pro-life or anything. It would have been her choice.’

‘Emily wasn’t anywhere near as strong as you thought she was. Believe me, it took almost all she had to do what she did. But she knew where it would lead if she had a baby, knew the life it would pull her towards, and that wasn’t the life she wanted.’

‘But she had children later.’

‘Yes, when she was ready. Face it, Alan, neither of you were ready back then, in 1973.’

‘We could have made it work.’

‘Perhaps. And perhaps Emily would have believed you. But think about it. Think about it now, after the passage of all that time, the children you do have, the life you’ve lived, the things you’ve achieved. Would you have wished it to be any different?’

‘Well,’ said Banks after a brief pause. ‘There are some days I could definitely have done without.’

Julie smiled. ‘I don’t mean that sort of thing. There’s events we all wish had never happened to us, things we regret. A drop of red? It’s Rioja, too.’

‘Please.’ Banks held out his glass.

‘Do you want a clean—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Julie poured. Banks sat with his chin in his hands trying to get a grasp on his feelings. He couldn’t. For some reason he heard a few snatches of ‘Gliders and Parks’ in his head. It seemed to offer some oblique comment on his last meeting with Emily in Hyde Park. He tried to imagine having a baby with her, a life together wholly different from the life he had lived. He couldn’t. And the other alternative would be having a child out there he hadn’t known about all these years. He wondered how that would feel?

‘Is this why you invited me for the condemned man’s last meal?’ he said finally. ‘To give me this news?’

‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. Or sarcastic. You’re not being condemned to anything except the truth. And you always did have a sarky tongue on you, Alan Banks. I told you, Marcel loves to cook for people, and I thought you might enjoy it, having driven all this way. Is it just your job, or have you never been able to see any charitable motives in anyone?’

‘Such as Emily?’

‘It’s true that she did what she did to spare herself a lot of grief, but even though you might not realise it yet, she was sparing you, too.’

Banks said nothing, returned to his wine.

‘What are you thinking?’ Julie asked.

‘Nothing much. I’m a bit too stunned to think, if truth be told.’

‘It was all for the best, Alan.’

‘Maybe it was. We were very young. I... I just wish... Oh, never mind.’

‘I know you wish it could have been different. But it couldn’t be. It was what it was. Don’t hold it against Emily. Don’t let it taint your memory of her. Don’t hate her.’

‘I could never hate her. I just wish I’d known, that’s all. I wish she’d told me. Even if she had wanted to go through with the abortion, I could have been with her. At her side. I could have comforted her. She wouldn’t have been alone.’

‘She needed to be alone. And I’ve told you why she couldn’t tell you.’

‘I know. And you’re probably right. But that doesn’t help.’

‘Let me bring the cheese plate.’

Julie got up and left the room. The candles flickered and the sea continued to rumble and smash against the wall, like Banks’s thoughts, sucking back the water like an indrawn breath. He drank some Rioja. And some more. Julie re-appeared with the cheeses. Runny Camembert, old Cheddar, blue-veined Stilton. Banks didn’t have much of an appetite left, but he cut himself a chunk or two, took some water crackers and grapes. He was feeling a bit dizzy and realised that he had had far too much to drink. Driving home was out of the question. Too late to worry about that now. He’d find a hotel in town.

As if reading his thoughts, Julie said, ‘You can’t drive all the way back to Eastvale like this. The front guest room’s made up, just in case we had any last-minute customers. It’s yours for the night if you want it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Banks. ‘I’ll take you up on that.’

‘The squall,’ Julie said, pointing. ‘Look. It’s receding.’

Banks followed her gaze and, sure enough, the sea had stopped battering the wall, and there were even one or two gaps in the clouds towards the horizon, like tears in fabric, where the stars and a hint of moonlight shone through. Banks thought he could see the lights of a fishing boat far out at sea, but he realised it must be a buoy of some sort; it would be madness for anyone to go out fishing in this weather.

‘Someone mentioned at the funeral that Emily worked for Médecins Sans Frontières,’ he said. ‘How did that come about?’

‘It was just something she wanted to do. She travelled through most of her twenties and early thirties, did temp office work to make money, then she married Luke and raised two children. She and Luke were happy for many years, but they split up when the kids went to university. That’s when she took the job.’

‘But she didn’t train as a doctor, did she?’

Julie laughed. ‘Good lord, no. She wasn’t a doctor. She worked in administration. The doctors’ doctor, she called herself. They need someone to keep the wheels rolling — food, supplies, medicines, personnel, soap, towels, accommodation and so on. Training local people to do the job. That was Emily’s job. She worked in every hellhole in the world, from South Sudan to Afghanistan. I can’t imagine how awful a lot of it must have been. But her letters and emails were funny and insightful. Never self-pitying. I wish I’d kept them. She loved what she was doing, though it took its toll on her. Depression was never very far from the horizon. Witnessing so much of man’s inhumanity to man can do that to you. But it didn’t break her spirit.’

Banks took in what Julie had said, tried to imagine Emily under fire in a tent in a desert somewhere. ‘Why tell me about the pregnancy now?’ he asked. ‘After all these years. You said you knew all along.’

‘Yes, but it was my secret to keep, not to spread around. In the end, it was something Emily wanted, a favour she asked of me. Her last wish, if you like. Not to hurt you. She’d just felt guilty about it her whole life. She wanted you to know. That’s all. I think because she knew she was dying she got caught up in the past, her youth, and you were a big part of that, an unresolved issue, if you like. Unfinished business. She wanted to put things right. She knew she couldn’t turn back the clock, but she wanted to do what she could to reveal what happened. Believe me, she didn’t ask me to do this to hurt you. That was the last thing on her mind. I think she wanted your forgiveness. She talked most of all about the good times and good feelings. She said people often forget about that as love grows older and colder over time. That first days feeling. The sheer joy and ecstasy of falling in love, when everything seems new and possible. Do you forgive her, Alan?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Banks. ‘I would never have wanted to hold her back, to stand in her way. I just wish things...’ He felt his eyes prickling and swigged more wine. ‘Oh, never mind.’

‘Wish things had been different?’ Julie paused. ‘Let me ask you a question. Where would you have gone from there? If things had been different. If she had told you at the time. If you had persuaded her against having the abortion. If you had got married. Where would you have gone from there?’

‘I don’t know. I tried to imagine it just now, our life together, but I couldn’t.’

‘Whatever it would have been, Alan, the moment’s gone. You had your time, you and Emily.’ She got up and walked over to the bar, took something out of a drawer. ‘And don’t forget it was a good time. She wanted me to give you this to remind you.’

It was a photograph. Banks held it by the candlelight. He and Emily in the early seventies. He was wearing a denim jacket over a T-shirt, and bell bottoms, and his hair was much longer than it was now. Emily was wearing the embroidered white cheesecloth top she had favoured so much, along with her jeans, also bell bottoms. Banks had his arm around her and her head rested on his shoulder, her long blond hair hanging over his chest, that little sleepy satisfied smile on her face. Banks felt a lump in his throat.

‘Turn it over,’ Julie said.

Banks turned it over. Written on the other side, in shaky handwriting, were the words, ‘Better by far you should forget and smile / Than that you should remember and be sad.’

‘Christina Rossetti again,’ Banks said.

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ Julie whispered. ‘Forget and smile.’