Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 12

‘I love that line, “with magic in my eyes”,’ said Banks, sitting in the Low Moor Inn with Linda Palmer on Sunday lunchtime. They both had the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding lunch before them, but while Linda sipped at a glass of red wine and tucked in with gusto, Banks stuck to copious amounts of water and picked at his food.

The Low Moor Inn, which Banks had discovered by accident a couple of years ago, was one of those old sturdy and badly lit Dales pubs high on the moors, well off the beaten track. Its enormous fireplace blazed like a smithy’s forge, quickly erasing memories of the damp and chill weather outside. Prints and framed paintings of the local hunt and sheep-shearing scenes hung here and there on the rough stone walls. Some were for sale and had price tags stuck below them. Bottles of spirits stood on shelves behind the polished bar and reflected in the long mirror behind them. A brass footrest ran along the bottom. The legs of the old wooden chairs scraped on the flagstone floor when anyone moved.

Banks had woken early, disoriented and hung-over in Filey, to the squealing of seagulls and the smell of bacon and eggs. Marcel, of course, had provided a hearty full English breakfast, including black pudding and baked beans. At first Banks hadn’t thought he would be able to manage it all, but he found himself staring at an empty plate when he was on his second cup of coffee. He thanked Marcel, gave Julie a quick peck on the cheek and left. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Julie had called out after him. But he didn’t think he would be back there again, no matter how good the food.

‘It is magnificent, isn’t it? Magic,’ said Linda. They were talking about Hardy’s Poems of 1912–1913, which Banks had read over the new year, before his meeting with Dr Glendenning in the Unicorn, though the quotation that appealed so much to Banks came from a musical setting of an earlier Hardy poem, ‘When I Set Out for Lyonnesse’, by Gerald Finzi. Banks was feeling a little better after his long drive, but he was still finding it difficult to concentrate. The things Julie had told him the night before kept running through his head. Emily. A baby. Abortion. But Emily was dead now, and she had wanted his forgiveness. Thinking back to the first flush of love with Emily made Banks think of Sandra, whom he had married a few years after the split. Sandra. His ex-wife. Mother of Tracy and Brian. Now remarried to Sean, and a mother again. He tried hard to remember the early days, when they were poor but happy, living in Kennington, but the details eluded him. Their break-up had been acrimonious, and relations were still strained between them, so much so that they rarely met unless it was an important event involving Brian or Tracy.

Hardy captured that sense of first love so well, Banks thought, yet his relationship with Emma Gifford had been troublesome, and the couple had grown more distant over the years. Only when she died could he resurrect the magic of those early days, the places they had been and emotions connected with them. That was the thread that ran through the sequence. The poems were a true marriage of place and memory, Linda had said, and Banks had to agree, though he found Hardy’s syntax and diction rather awkward sometimes, as if he were willing to twist the English language into any shape just for the sake of a rhyme or a rhythm. Not like the relaxed conversational flow of Larkin, for example, whom they had discussed at their last meeting, where Banks hardly even noticed the rhymes and meter.

‘You seem a bit distracted today, Alan,’ said Linda. ‘Is it the hangover or the case you’re working on?’

‘Sorry,’ said Banks. ‘Bit of both. Is it so obvious? I am having difficulty concentrating. Other things. The poems... I mean, I’ve just lost someone and... I mean, it ended very abruptly, without explanation. A long time ago. I hadn’t seen her in over forty years, and she died last December. It’s not the same situation as Hardy and Emma at all, but the feelings. Somehow they seem similar. I’m remembering things we used to do, the way she looked, her clothes, places we used to go.’

Linda closed her book and put it down on the table. ‘In some ways Hardy felt he hadn’t seen Emma for forty years, either,’ she said. ‘They were hardly talking by the time she died. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.’

‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘This isn’t a therapy session. Poetry isn’t therapy. That’s what you told me the first time we talked like this.’

‘This person you lost. It was serious, at the time?’

‘Yes. First girl I ever loved, as the song goes.’

‘And the case you’re working on?’ Linda asked.

‘No connection. Except I think it reaches back into the past, too. For different reasons, with different intentions.’ Banks gulped down some water. ‘In fact, I’ve been thinking that it might be something you can help me with.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. If you don’t mind thinking back.’

Linda narrowed her eyes and gave him that ‘don’t treat me with kid gloves’ look.

Banks held up his hands in surrender. He knew that he sometimes avoided certain topics with her because she had been raped by a well-respected TV celebrity at the age of fourteen. But he also knew that she had not let it ruin her life. She had even written up her recollection of events for him in a journal during the case they had met through. ‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘I know you told me not to pussyfoot around the past. It’s just that in my job I come across some of the worst things people do to each other.’

‘I know that. How do you manage it?’

‘You should know. You visit the dark side often enough. I’ve read your poetry.’

‘I’ve been there,’ said Linda, ‘but it’s different.’

‘Why? Because I see real dead bodies and you see only imaginary ones? You know as well as I do it’s not the bodies but the people who do such things. They’re in your poems as much as they’re in my life. We both spend far too much time down there in the dark. Alone.’

‘You know I have my reasons,’ said Linda softly.

‘So do I,’ said Banks. After a short pause he went on. ‘Anyway, I seem to remember you told me you went to Silver Royd girls’ school in Wortley.’

‘That’s right. Why?’

‘Does the name Wendy Vincent mean anything to you?’

‘Yes, of course. She was the girl who was murdered when I was at school. She was raped and stabbed. It was terrible.’

Banks looked away. He couldn’t help it, knowing the things that had happened to Linda, but she seemed unfazed. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘And there was something about her in the papers a couple of years ago. The fiftieth anniversary. Right?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘It seems a strange sort of anniversary to celebrate. A murder.’

‘Media. What can I say? It wasn’t a celebration of the murder, as such, and it did lead to the reopening of the investigation, the identity of the killer and his eventual capture. So we can’t complain. One of the triumphs of DNA evidence in cold-case work. Turns out Frank Dowson, the killer, was on leave from the merchant navy at the time of the killing, and nobody knew he was in the area. Of course, some people might have known and been lying to protect him. His family, for example.’

‘Dowson? I can’t say I remember anyone by that name.’

‘What about Wendy Vincent? And Maureen Grainger?’

‘If they’re the right ones I’m thinking of, they were ahead of me. I didn’t know either of them. I was just starting in the first form, and they’d have been in the third or fourth. Older girls like them wanted nothing to do with us younger ones back then.’

‘I don’t doubt it’s still the same. Boys, too. Except for a bit of bullying.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t remember either of them being spoken of as bullies. Wendy Vincent was famous for hockey. She was the star of the school team. I saw her play lots of times. Do you remember The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, where all the girls were “famous” for something?’

‘What was Maureen Grainger famous for?’

‘I don’t know if she was famous for anything. I didn’t know her. I only remember Wendy Vincent because she was murdered. Isn’t that a terrible thing?’

‘It’s perfectly normal.’

‘Now, do you want to talk about Hardy or don’t you?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve done my homework.’ Banks glanced through the window. ‘I liked that line about the rain being like “silken strings”. Here, it’s more like rough old rope.’

Linda laughed. But even as they talked about the poems, about the mysterious ghost figure and the way Hardy revisited places where he and Emma had been happy years ago, Banks couldn’t get Maureen Grainger and Wendy Vincent out of his mind. Was Gerry right, and was that crime of over fifty years ago linked to the St Mary’s shootings in any way at all?

Banks wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of Saturday night that Sunday morning. Gerry had been reasonably abstemious back at Annie’s cottage — she could be annoying that way — leaving Annie to polish off most of the wine by herself. At least Gerry had made tea and toast in the morning before leaving, after what must have been an uncomfortable night on the living-room sofa, and she had the good sense to keep small talk and noise in general to a minimum when Annie finally lumbered downstairs. And she left as soon as she decently could after breakfast.

Annie was never much of a morning person, and on Sundays she usually hunkered down with the papers, at least with the Mail on Sunday and the Sunday Express. She missed the old News of the World — nothing like a bit of gossip and scandal with your Sunday morning hangover — but that was long gone now.

By midday, she remembered she was going to interview Maureen Tindall with Jenny Fuller, and her spirits fell. It was an important interview, too, so she needed to be at the top of her game. Maureen Tindall might hold the key, or one of the keys, to the events that had happened in Fortford last December, though as yet nobody could quite imagine how. She had certainly been nervous when the talk got around to past events in their last interview. Annie took a quick hot shower and threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt before going out to her car. She hoped Jenny Fuller would stay in the background and keep her mouth shut. The last thing she wanted was some damn uppity profiler interrupting with pointless questions whenever she felt she was getting somewhere.

Annie phoned Jenny to tell her she was on her way and picked her up outside her posh house in The Green, then drove on to the Tindalls’ posh house opposite The Heights. That was about as much posh as Annie could handle for one day. Fortunately, it was all she had signed up for. Naturally, Jenny Fuller was as well turned out as usual in closely fitting black silk trousers and loose white top and tailored jacket. Why did she always make Annie feel like such a slob? It wasn’t as if her own outfit was especially cheap, just that she dressed casually and Jenny had a way of wearing clothes as if they were made for her. Some women had it, and some didn’t. Annie felt that she didn’t. No matter what she wore — Primark or Versace, jeans or a skirt — she felt as if she’d just come out of the Oxfam shop.

Annie had wanted to catch Maureen Tindall off guard, so she hadn’t phoned ahead to say they were coming. It was a risk, she knew; people often go out to visit friends or relatives on a Sunday. But this time it paid off far better than she could have hoped. When Maureen eventually opened the door on the chain and peered nervously through the crack, it became clear that she was alone. Her husband was at a church meeting, she explained, when Annie had finally persuaded her to open up and let them in.

To Annie’s relief, Jenny Fuller settled herself at the far end of the sofa, out of Annie’s line of sight, and took out a large Moleskine notebook. She would, Annie thought, putting her regulation police notebook on the arm of the sofa beside her. She didn’t trust Jenny to make the right sort of notes, and two people in her house were almost more than Maureen Tindall could bear.

Though it was afternoon, Maureen was still wearing a pink quilted dressing gown over her nightdress and her hair was flattened on one side where she had clearly been lying down. Annie tried to dredge up some sympathy for her; after all, it wasn’t long since Laura’s murder. It was difficult, though, as she seemed so full of self-pity to start with. It was a nasty thought, and Annie immediately felt ashamed for having it, but she couldn’t help herself. Maureen didn’t offer any refreshment, even though it was a damp and chilly day. Annie thought herself lucky that there was a fire in the hearth, no doubt started by her husband, and that Maureen herself was obviously cold enough to add a couple of logs.

Maureen sat closest to the fire and leaned forwards in her armchair, hugging her knees. ‘I’ve not been very well,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be up to this. I took one of my pills and fell asleep. What time is it?’

‘Half past two,’ Annie said.

Maureen seemed to relax a bit at that piece of news. ‘Robert will be back soon,’ she said. ‘He said he would be home by half past three, and he’s never late.’

Wouldn’t dare be, Annie bet, given Maureen’s obsession with punctuality.

‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or coffee or something?’ Jenny Fuller asked from the far end of the sofa. There was a note of kindness and concern in her voice that even Annie noticed.

Maureen’s face brightened. ‘Would you?’ She fingered the collar of her dressing gown. ‘I’d do it myself, you know, but...’

‘No problem,’ said Jenny with a smile. ‘Annie?’

‘Er, whatever’s going, please,’ Annie said.

‘I’ll make a nice pot of tea,’ said Jenny, and patted Maureen’s shoulder before heading into the kitchen. She seemed to know instinctively where it was, Annie noticed. Maybe these posh houses were all the same inside.

Maureen smiled after Jenny, then it faded like the Cheshire cat’s when she turned back to Annie. ‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ she said.

‘Very,’ said Annie. ‘Do you know why we’re here?’

‘No. Should I? Something to do with Laura? The wedding?’

‘Sort of.’

‘You must think it’s very odd, me being in bed at half past two in the afternoon.’

‘That’s not for me to comment on.’

‘But Dr Graveney says I need plenty of rest after, you know, the trauma of what happened.’

‘Of course,’ Annie said. ‘We won’t disturb you for very long.’

Maureen consulted her watch again. ‘Robert will be home soon,’ she said, as if to herself.

Jenny Fuller reappeared with a tray. ‘We’ll just let it brew a few minutes, shall we?’

Even as she played mother with the tea, Jenny didn’t have a hair out of place, didn’t spill a drop as she passed over the cups and saucers. When she had done, she sat down in her corner again and set her Moleskine on her lap, as if she were signalling Annie to get started.

‘The last time I talked to you,’ Annie began, ‘I noticed that you seemed a bit anxious when I mentioned the possibility of something from your past being connected with the shootings.’

‘Did I?’ said Maureen.

‘Yes. Wendy Vincent.’

‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘It would be only natural. Wendy Vincent was your best friend, and something terrible happened to her.’

‘How could that possibly have anything to do with what happened to Laura?’

‘We don’t know that it does yet, but it’s the kind of coincidence that makes us prick up our ears. Wendy was murdered, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Maureen whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why should you say that?’ Annie asked.

Maureen glanced between the two of them. ‘You know, don’t you? I should have known you’d find out. Who told you?’

‘Know what?’ Annie said. She was sure the exasperation sounded in her tone.

‘It wasn’t in the papers. I never told anyone.’

Annie felt as if she were struggling to land a particularly slippery fish. ‘What happened, Maureen?’ she asked. It was all she could think of to say. ‘Were you there? Did you see something?’

Maureen clutched her dressing gown at her throat. ‘See something? Oh, no. Nothing like that.’

‘Then what is it?’

Annie thought the silence was going to last for ever, then Maureen said in a barely audible voice, ‘I was supposed to meet Wendy at the bus stop after lunch. I’d been to visit my granny in Bradford. We were going to go shopping in town. Clothes and records. We’d arranged to meet in secret because Wendy’s parents didn’t like us being friends.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was a bit more grown up than Wendy. I’d matured quickly. Her father tried to kiss me once. He was drunk and sloppy and I slipped out of his grasp easily enough, but he remembered. He never liked me after that. Wendy was fifteen and never been kissed. A bit of a goody two-shoes, I suppose, and sporty, but she could be a laugh and... well, what can I say, we got along really well. We were different, but we were friends. I didn’t lead her astray or anything. I wasn’t really a bad influence.’

‘We’re not saying you did, Maureen. Go on. You were supposed to meet on the day she disappeared?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you didn’t tell your parents or her parents where you were going?’

‘No. Not even after. And not even later when the reporters came talking to all her friends. And Susan Bramble didn’t tell anyone, either.’

‘Susan Bramble?’

‘Another girl from school. From the hockey team. Another friend. She told me later she saw Wendy at the bus stop, and Wendy admitted she was waiting for me, but to keep it secret in case the Vincents found out. Susan knew how to keep a secret.’

‘But you didn’t meet Wendy?’

‘I was late. By the time I got to the bus stop, Wendy was gone. She must have taken the short cut through the woods. It was my fault.’

‘Listen to me, Maureen.’ It was Jenny talking again, and this time her voice was concerned but authoritative. ‘Nobody’s blaming you for anything. Anything at all. Do you understand?’

Maureen nodded, but Annie doubted that she was convinced.

‘What DI Cabbot needs to know is what happened that afternoon. What stopped you from meeting your friend? This might be important. Why does remembering that day make you feel so anxious?’

‘It was a terrible day,’ Maureen said. ‘Wendy was... stabbed and... I... it was the worst day of my life.’

‘I know,’ said Jenny moving forwards, going on her knees and taking Maureen’s hand. Annie could only look on. Jenny was good with people, she had to admit. ‘All these years you’ve been blaming yourself, haven’t you?’

Maureen hesitated, then said, ‘It was my fault. I was selfish. I should have been there to meet her.’

‘Where were you, Maureen?’ Annie asked. ‘What happened that afternoon?’

Jenny let go of Maureen’s hand and went back to her place on the sofa. After what seemed an eternity, Maureen picked up her tea. The cup and saucer were shaking in her hand.

‘I was with a boy,’ she said.

Having got nowhere in the squad room checking out property rentals and purchases in the Swainshead area for most of the morning, Gerry decided it was time to go out and visit a few Walkers’ Wearhouse branches. There was no sign of Doug Wilson, but that was only to be expected as he had Sunday off. She did, too, but she was working anyway. She was better off doing it by herself, she thought. Doug would only sulk or complain and slow her down. Before she left she phoned Paula Fletcher at the Lyndgarth branch to ask her whether the two-for-one sale had extended to all branches. She said it had.

Gerry studied the photocopy of Ray’s sketch. She still didn’t know how closely it resembled their man, but it was a hell of a good drawing. Ray was a talented artist, despite the drinking and childish behaviour. The thought passed through her mind that perhaps she should let him paint her in the nude, then her modesty pushed it away quickly. She wasn’t prudish — far from it — but the idea of posing nude in front of Ray Cabbot held no appeal. She didn’t even think her body was worth the canvas. She was too skinny by far, had no true womanly curves like Jenny Fuller, or even Annie. She was all bones and planes. And while she was quite willing to believe in the purity of Ray’s artistic intentions, or at least suspend her disbelief, there was something just a bit too louche about him for her liking. And he was old enough to be her father. Christ, he was Annie Cabbot’s father. He was old enough to be Gerry’s grandfather. Why couldn’t some clean-cut handsome young artist come along and want to paint her, or a composer write a song for her like that Mahler had for his Alma?

She took out the list of branches they had already visited, wondering whether it was worth calling again on any of them with the sketch of the man Paula Fletcher had described. Someone had already talked to the press, and word was getting around that the police now had an Identikit picture of their person of interest. While this wasn’t quite accurate, it was enough to make her feel a sense of urgency. She decided it definitely was worth visiting the shops again. On previous visits, they hadn’t had the sketch to show around. It might jog someone’s memory.

She decided on the branches closest to the one in Lyndgarth, where Paula Fletcher had encountered him, guessing that he probably wouldn’t have travelled as far afield as York, Harrogate or Leeds. If she had no luck, then the larger centres, each with two or three branches, would be her next stop, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Buying the clothing would have been a job he wanted to get over with as soon as possible. As far as Gerry could make out, there were three branches nearby: one in Helmthorpe, one in Eastvale and another in Northallerton, east of the A1. She started there but had no luck. She also drew a blank in Eastvale. The third branch was on Helmthorpe High Street, opposite the Dog and Gun.

The first young man Gerry spoke to had only been working at the branch since Christmas, but the manager Henry Bedford also happened to be in the shop that day preparing for stock-taking. He had worked there for over eight years and prided himself on knowing all his regulars, including Martin Edgeworth, who had shopped there often for all of his outdoor needs. ‘Terrible tragedy,’ he said as he examined the sketch.

‘If it helps,’ Gerry said, ‘he was wearing a cheap grey windcheater and an open-neck shirt, showing a bit of chest hair and the top of a tattoo. Maybe a bird or something.’

‘Yes,’ said Bedford, tapping the sketch. ‘Yes.’

Gerry felt the tingle of excitement ripple up her spine. ‘You remember him?’

‘I do. He seemed to be in a hurry, rather brusque, a bit rude, if you ask me. You tend to remember people who act that way. Impatient, imperious. He wanted two sets of identical items. Anorak, waterproof trousers, woolly hat.’

It was their man, Gerry thought. ‘Is this sketch a good likeness?’

The manager peered at it again. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Pretty good.’

‘How did he pay?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t... yes, just a minute. Yes, he paid cash.’

Gerry’s hopes faded. ‘I don’t suppose you got a name or anything?’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Tell me,’ she went on. ‘You said Martin Edgeworth shopped here for his outdoor clothes?’

‘Yes. He was a regular.’

‘Did he know this man? I mean, did you ever see them together? Did he mention Edgeworth?’

‘No,’ said Bedford. ‘Whoever he was, he was a complete stranger to me. I never saw him with Martin, or anyone else, for that matter.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bedford,’ said Gerry, heading for the door. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.’

‘A boy?’ Annie repeated. ‘What boy? Who was he?’

‘It doesn’t matter who he was. He doesn’t have anything to do with it. I think he was called Danny. He was older than me. He’d already left school.’

‘Danny who?’

‘I don’t remember. Honestly. He was just a local boy. He worked for Sammy Ledgard’s, driving.’ She turned imploringly to Jenny.

Annie knew it was time to slow down. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘We won’t worry about that for the time being. Was Danny your boyfriend?’

Maureen was plucking at the stitching of her quilted dressing gown. She managed a weak smile. ‘Sort of, I suppose. I was quite pretty back then. I was fifteen. I had a lot of boyfriends.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ said Annie. ‘The boys liked you?’

‘Not like that. I wasn’t like some girls. Not like they said at school. There were some houses on the old estate over the road, all boarded up. We knew how to get into one of them. It was the only place you could go, you know, to be by yourselves. We were just kissing and cuddling. It was all quite innocent. I lost track of time, and I was late to meet Wendy. She’d set off home. They said later that her leg was hurting from where someone had whacked her with a hockey stick. If she had been feeling better, maybe she would have waited and we’d have got the next bus. You can’t believe how sorry I am for being so selfish.’

‘You mustn’t think that way,’ Jenny said.

‘But if I’d been there, like I should have been, we’d have both gone into town, and it would never have happened. Don’t you see? If it wasn’t for me, Wendy would still be alive.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Jenny. ‘Perhaps she would have told you she didn’t feel like going, and you’d have gone by yourself, then she would have still walked through the woods alone. After all, neither of you thought there was anything to be afraid of there.’

‘But it didn’t happen like that, did it?’

‘Had you arranged this meeting with Danny before?’ Annie asked.

‘No. I just bumped into him in the street. I was early to meet Wendy, so I went with him. I thought I still had enough time. My watch... stopped. I didn’t realise. But we didn’t do anything wrong. We were just kissing and holding hands.’

‘Nobody’s suggesting you were doing anything wrong,’ said Annie, smiling. ‘I liked a kiss and cuddle with my boyfriend when I was that age, too. It’s only natural.’

‘But I lost track of the time,’ said Maureen, clutching at the neck of her dressing gown. She consulted her watch again. ‘Robert will be home soon. He will be home soon.’ Annie thought it sounded like a kind of mantra she was saying to calm herself down as she struggled to hold back the tears.

‘It’s all right, Maureen.’ Jenny’s velvety comforting voice came from the far end of the sofa. ‘You’ve nothing to blame yourself for.’

‘But I do!’ Maureen said. ‘Don’t you see? I was kissing a boy while Wendy... Wendy was... Oh, my God.’ She held her face in her hands and cried. In a flash, Jenny was kneeling beside her, a tissue materialising from nowhere. Annie wondered how she did it, but she got Maureen calmed down quickly enough and went back to the sofa.

‘It’s all right,’ Maureen said after a while, looking at Annie now. ‘Ask me what you want to know. It’s all right. I’ll tell you. Then you can take me away.’

‘Nobody’s going to take you away, Maureen,’ said Annie. ‘Robert will be back soon. He’ll take care of you. Why didn’t you tell anyone about this before?’

‘Because Wendy and I weren’t supposed to be friends. Because I was ashamed. Because I felt guilty. I thought if they knew, they’d blame me. They already said I was a bad influence.’

‘But you’ve blamed yourself all these years,’ said Jenny. ‘Maybe if you’d told your parents or someone, you’d have been able to get the help you needed.’

‘What good would it have done? Nobody can undo the past. Wendy was dead and it was all because of me. What does it matter now? Laura’s dead, too. I thought you’d got the man who did it?’

‘We have to follow up on things that come up, even if they don’t seem connected.’

‘Do people have to know?’

‘Have to know what?’

‘That I lied. What I was really doing.’

‘I don’t see any reason why they should. Nobody knew about this but you and Danny?’

‘Only Mark Vincent.’

Annie ears pricked up. ‘Mark Vincent?’

‘Wendy’s younger brother. He was on his way to the gang meeting in Billy Dowson’s garage. He must have seen me and Danny holding hands, but he didn’t say anything. He was only eleven. He probably didn’t know what holding hands meant.’

Annie tried to work it out. Susan Bramble had seen Wendy at the bus stop shortly before she was killed, but had said nothing to anyone. Mark Vincent had seen Maureen walking hand in hand with this Danny, and he had also said nothing. But why should he have? He didn’t know that Maureen was supposed to meet his sister. The meeting between Maureen and Wendy for the trip into town was a secret. Only Susan Bramble knew about it. Annie wasn’t sure what it all meant, if anything. ‘Where is Danny now?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. We lost touch. I haven’t seen him since then.’

‘You knew Frank Dowson, right?’

‘I knew who he was. He was Billy Dowson’s older brother. But I didn’t know him.’

‘You knew his brother?’

‘Only because he was mates with Wendy’s brother Mark. They were both eleven. They were in some sort of silly gang, and they used to meet in Billy’s dad’s garage. He never used it to keep his car in there. It was an old banger and he left it in the street. People said he had a lock-up across town where he stored stolen goods, but I don’t know if that was true or not. Billy had a key to the garage. They just used to sit around and smoke and tell dirty jokes. He thought we didn’t know about it, but Wendy and Susan and me listened outside once.’

‘Who else was in this gang?’

‘Just local kids. Mark, Billy, Ricky Bramble, Susan’s younger brother, Tommy Jackson and Mick Charlton. Maybe others. I don’t remember. They wouldn’t let girls in. As if we’d want to be a part of it. They were just little kids.’

‘Maureen, you do know that Frank Dowson was arrested for Wendy’s murder just a couple of years ago, don’t you? And that he died in prison last year?’

‘I saw it on TV.’

‘Was Frank in the gang?’

‘No way. He was a grown-up. Maybe twenty-one or something. And he didn’t come home very often. We hardly ever used to see him. He was in the merchant navy. We were all a bit scared of him.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. The way he looked at us. How he was so big and quiet. We’d heard there was something wrong with him. You know, in his head.’

‘Did you see him that day you were supposed to meet Wendy?’

‘No. Wendy and I had arranged to meet at the bus stop just before half past one. That was when the bus went. There wasn’t another one for twenty minutes. It was nearly quarter to when I got there. I thought she might still be waiting and we’d get the next one, but she was gone. I just thought she’d gone home. I didn’t see anyone around.’

That was something that simply couldn’t happen today, Annie realised, in the age of mobiles, of constantly being in touch. When she found out she was running late, Maureen would probably have texted Wendy and got a response — either she would wait or she was going home. They would probably have been in touch earlier, too, and Wendy would have texted Maureen that she’d taken a nasty hit on the hockey pitch and didn’t feel too well, so she’d have to cancel the trip to town for today. It might not have made any difference to the outcome, if she had taken the short cut and bumped into Frank Dowson, but communication might well have brought about a different course of action entirely. Still, it was pointless speculation. With today’s methods, Frank Dowson would have been caught pretty quickly, too — but it hadn’t happened in the twenty-first century; it had happened in 1964.

‘What did you do when you found Wendy wasn’t there?’ Annie asked.

‘I went home. I didn’t feel like going into town by myself.’

‘Did you walk through the woods?’

‘No. Our house was in the other direction. I walked along the main road.’

‘And you’re sure didn’t see Frank Dowson or anyone else you knew?’

‘No.’

‘What about afterwards? Did anyone ever say anything to make you think Frank Dowson might have hurt Wendy?’

‘No. We moved away not long after, and I never saw any of the old crowd again.’

‘And you’ve been blaming yourself all these years?’ Jenny asked.

‘It was my fault,’ said Maureen. ‘I shouldn’t have lost track of time. I can’t be trusted. If I hadn’t been so selfish, Wendy would still be alive.’

Annie couldn’t help but notice the helplessness in her voice as it cracked, and as Jenny came over again to mutter more words of sympathy and comfort, Annie also couldn’t help thinking that if Maureen had carried her guilt with her through her whole life, and if it were somehow linked with her nerves and obsession with punctuality, then maybe someone else had been nursing a festering blame for her for just as long, and perhaps that, too, had had deep psychological effects. But who? Wendy’s younger brother had seen Maureen with Danny, and Susan Bramble had spoken with Wendy at the bus stop and seen her walk towards the woods. Did someone else know Maureen’s secret? If so, how? And why wait fifty years before taking any action? Why bother now that the killer had been brought to justice? And why not shoot Maureen herself, if she was to blame? To make her suffer?

It was always possible that Frank Dowson hadn’t killed Wendy Vincent, that despite the DNA evidence, someone else had done it. Maureen? She certainly couldn’t have committed the rape, but who was to say that the person who had raped Wendy was the same as the person who had killed her? There was no apparent motive for anyone around at the time — not, as far as Annie knew — but sometimes motives don’t become clear until much later. In addition to Maureen, there were Billy Dowson and Mark Vincent to consider, though they were very young at the time of Wendy’s murder.

Whatever had happened, Annie thought, Banks would want to know about this new information as soon as possible. She took out her mobile.