Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 5

‘There it is for you,’ said Dr Glendenning. ‘The tally. Nicely laid out in layman’s terms as close as I could get to the order they were hit in, according to your notes.’

Banks read the list clipped to Dr Glendenning’s post-mortem reports. Ten bullets, nine hits:

‘So Benjamin Kemp is still alive?’ Banks said.

‘For now. His liver’s done for. If I were a gambling man, I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’

Dr Glendenning seemed tired, Banks thought. It was hardly any wonder; he was getting on in years, and he had been bending over dead bodies almost non-stop since Sunday afternoon. He had help, of course. His chief anatomical pathology technologist Karen Galway and two trainee pathologists were working with him, all of them still busy at the stainless-steel tables in the autopsy suite next door. Even so, the long hours showed in his watery eyes behind the black-framed glasses and in his drawn, pale flesh. His white coat had been smeared with blood and worse when Banks had arrived, and he had removed it and dropped it in a bin before sitting behind his desk. He wore a white shirt and maroon tie under his herringbone jacket.

‘Finished?’ Banks asked.

Glendenning raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘With the dead? Aye. For now.’ He took a packet of Benson & Hedges out of his waistcoat pocket and lit one. Smoking was strictly prohibited in the building, but no one dared tell him that. He was more careful these days, though, Banks had noticed, and he didn’t actually smoke while he was working on a body. Watching Glendenning light up brought on one of Banks’s own rare cravings, which surprised him with its urgency and power. He fought it back.

‘It’s not strictly my business,’ Glendenning went on, ‘but you’ve got a lot of psychologically wounded people out there. What are you going to do with them?’

‘Most of them have friends and relatives already with them. There’s also counselling sessions going on.’

‘Poor sods. You come to a wedding and it ends up a funeral.’

‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘There’s something not quite right about that.’

Glendenning scrutinised him. ‘I may not be the picture of health myself, but you certainly seem the worse for wear. Been sleeping properly?’

‘Not much.’

‘Eating?’

Banks was beginning to regret the stop he had made for the full English at the greasy spoon on his way to work that morning. Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, fried bread and a slice of black pudding probably wasn’t the sort of breakfast Dr Glendenning would approve of. ‘Plenty,’ he said.

‘Well, cut out fatty foods. Drinking?’

‘Now and then.’

‘Thought so.’ Glendenning rummaged in his drawer and tossed Banks a foil strip of tablets. ‘Take one of these with two fingers of good whisky every night,’ he said. ‘Only two fingers, mind. And good whisky. That means Highlands. None of that Islay rubbish. I don’t want to come in to work one morning and find you laid on a table out there.’

Banks pocketed the tablets. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Am I likely to become addicted?’

‘If they make you feel better, you’ll probably become addicted,’ said Glendenning. ‘Why wouldn’t you? But don’t worry about it. It won’t last. And you won’t be getting any more from me.’ He sighed and slouched back in his chair. ‘Days like this,’ he said, ‘I sometimes think junkies are the only ones with the right idea. You know they say that sometimes heroin feels so good you don’t even want to hang on to your life any more. It’s better than breathing.’

‘If I hadn’t seen so many dead junkies — most of them kids — I’d probably agree,’ said Banks.

‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just grouching.’

‘So what have you found?’

‘Four corpses, so far,’ said Glendenning. ‘And from what I hear from my colleagues at James Cook, there’s one poor wee lassie in a wheelchair.’

‘Diana Lofthouse,’ said Banks. ‘Anything unexpected show up in your post-mortems?’

‘No. They all died from gunshot wounds. Hollow-point.223 ammo, as a matter of fact. Nasty way to go. The bullet expands when it enters the victim, as I’m sure you’re aware. Causes massive tissue damage. Young Winsome’s lucky the bullet didn’t enter her flesh, but only grazed her shoulder.’

‘Who would have access to such ammunition?’

‘That’s one for you to answer,’ said Glendenning. ‘But everything’s available if you want it badly enough. You should know that. Some people use them for greater accuracy in target shooting, and apparently, they reduce smoke and exposure to lead vapour. And I have a friend who tells me deer hunters use hollow-point ammo, so you can obviously get a special dispensation of some sort. Of course, lots of shooters prefer to make their own bullets. I don’t think the source would be much of a problem.’

‘Still,’ said Banks, ‘it’s a bit unusual. It might help us narrow down the field.’

‘They make for a very ugly wound. I can tell you that much. That’s another reason the doctors don’t hold out much hope for Benjamin Kemp. The damn bullet expanded and turned his liver and half a kidney to mush, to use a technical term.’

Banks swallowed. ‘And Katie Shea?’

‘Aye. A regular bullet and she might have survived even the blood loss. But her insides resembled a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.’ He pointed towards the post-mortem suite. ‘She’s still on the table. The students are sluicing her down and sewing her up.’

Banks knew he would always remember the pretty blond girl in a coral-coloured dress slumped against the gravestone, the one who reminded him of Emily Hargreaves. Even AC Gervaise had intuited some sort of connection the previous evening when she told him about Katie’s death. And not just her own death, he realised. Not just Katie Shea holding her bloody guts in, keening and wailing and begging for help. But pregnant Katie Shea. Perhaps, in her mind, it was her baby she was cradling on her lap.

‘I don’t know whether anyone’s told you this already,’ Glendenning went on, ‘but one thing they did find out at the hospital was that she was pregnant.’

‘AC Gervaise told me last night.’

‘I have to say, though, it was a hell of a job making sure. The bullet missed the foetus, but there was plenty of damage in the general area. But the tests came out positive.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘OK. I get the picture.’ And he did, all too clearly. In full colour, with sound. He felt his breakfast repeat on him, tasted bile and felt the anger surge inside him again. Just like last night, he wanted to lash out at something, anything.

‘Calm down, laddie,’ said Glendenning. ‘You’ll have apoplexy.’

Banks gritted his teeth. ‘How long?’

‘Not long at all. Six weeks, maybe eight. Do you know how tiny a foetus is at that stage?’

‘No idea.’

‘The size of a blueberry.’

‘Would she have known?’

‘I should think so, though I’m not a mind-reader, especially when it comes to corpses. For a start, she would have missed her period. She would also probably have experienced mood changes. Aches and pains. Even morning sickness. Loss of appetite. Increased urination. She may even have noticed her breasts and waist increasing in size. Does it make a difference?’

‘It could provide a motive,’ said Banks. ‘First we’ll have to find out who the father was. I’ll put DC Masterson on it.’

Glendenning managed a thin smile. ‘Well, I doubt it was an immaculate conception, though I’m afraid even my advanced pathological skills don’t stretch to that kind of judgement.’ He paused. ‘Alan, you know I’m no great fan of this psychological gobbledygook, but don’t you think you might benefit from a bit of this counselling yourself?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Banks. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘It’s just that I noticed her specifically, that’s all. You know how they say it’s hard to relate to the deaths of thousands in a flood or on a battlefield, but if there’s just one, it tends to stay with you. Katie Shea was the one. Out of the whole massacre, it was seeing her that stuck in my mind the most. She reminded me of someone I once knew. And now...’

‘Aye,’ said Glendenning. ‘Well, she would have been a bonny lass when she was alive, that’s for certain.’

‘I never knew her.’ Wearily, Banks got to his feet. ‘Thanks, doc,’ he said. ‘If you come up with anything else, you know my number.’

‘I do. And think about that counselling gobbledygook.’

Banks turned at the door, nodded briefly and left.

‘And don’t forget the pills and whisky, either,’ Glendenning called after him.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ said Gerry Masterson at the opening of the briefing later that Monday morning, ‘but I just heard that Benjamin Kemp died during the night. Along with Katie Shea, that makes murder victims four and five.’ As she spoke, Gerry was uncomfortably aware of some of the male detectives undressing her with their eyes. She had dressed conservatively for work in maroon cords and a pale green jacket buttoned up over her white polo-neck top. She had even tied her long hair in a ponytail as she usually did at work. Still they undressed her. No matter what she did, there was no escaping the fact that she was an attractive young woman, and some men were going to ogle her rather than listen to what she had to say.

Gerry loathed standing in front of an audience like this, but she could hardly say no when Detective Superintendent Banks had asked her to, not if she valued her career prospects. It would be good experience, he had said. An experience in terror, more like, she thought, aware of her hands trembling and her neck stiffening as she tried to stop her head from shaking, too.

Banks was sitting in the front row, but she didn’t feel that he was undressing her. She was aware of her face flushing, but she carried on, casting her gaze to the people at the back of the room, doing her best to concentrate on what she was saying. What made everything worse was the news Banks had given her about Katie Shea. Gerry would never forget witnessing her agony, her courage. All for nothing. And now the baby, too.

Banks had tried to persuade Gerry to go for counselling, but she didn’t feel that she needed it. Besides, however much things had improved over the years, there was still a stigma attached to cops seeing shrinks. Many male officers thought it was a sign of weakness, and it meant you weren’t up to the job. As a woman, she didn’t want or need to invite that kind of attention. She could handle this herself. Yes, she was upset and unnerved by what had happened — who wouldn’t be? — but she could function. She hadn’t slept last night, but she’d had a lot on her mind.

Gerry shuffled her papers. ‘First, a few nuggets we’ve dug up so far, mostly from some of the survivors of the shootings who were able and willing to talk yesterday. Laura Tindall and Benjamin Kemp had known each other for two years and had been engaged for the last six months. They had recently bought a house near Lyndgarth, and Laura was planning to live there with Benjamin after the wedding. Laura’s father Robert is a retired banker, so there’s always a possibility we’re after someone who had a thing against bankers. But, I mean, who doesn’t?’

Gerry was surprised but pleased by the murmur of polite laughter.

‘Maureen Tindall, the mother of the bride, grew up in Leeds, but the family moved down south to Aylesbury when she was in her mid-teens. She trained and worked as a nurse until she met Robert in 1982 when he came in for a routine X-ray after a minor car crash. She married him in 1984, gave up nursing and devoted herself to keeping the house and later to taking care of Laura, their only child, born in 1985. The only interesting fact I’ve been able to dig up about her so far is that her best friend Wendy Vincent was murdered in Leeds when they were both only fifteen years old. That was over fifty years ago, however, and the killer recently died in jail, so I doubt it’s very relevant, but it might account to some extent for her poor psychological state. We won’t be able to talk to her for a while yet.

‘Laura briefly attended the University of Manchester from 2003 to 2005, but gave up her history degree for a modelling career at the end of her second year. Eventually, she decided to retire from that life, and for the last three years she’s been involved in recruiting and training for a West End modelling agency. She planned to keep on working after her marriage, mostly from home. She met Benjamin Kemp at a party in St John’s Wood thrown while he was in town on business for his father’s company. Ben and Laura hit it off, and the rest, as they say, is history, or would have been had it not been for Saturday’s shootings. Benjamin Kemp worked for his father’s software development company just outside Northallerton, where the Kemp family has lived for over twenty years. He also planned on continuing with this work after the wedding.’

Gerry noticed someone near the back raise her hand in the air. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you saying there may be a rational motive somewhere in all this? Revenge, for example?’

‘I’m saying it has to be considered, however outlandish it may seem. In the same vein, it’s important to remember that we’re dealing with some very young victims, and there are ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends out there. None of them has exhibited any odd or violent behaviour as far as we know, but they need to be checked out. Laura Tindall did have a cyber-stalker a few years back, but he’s in New Zealand and there’s no way he could have been in Fortford last Saturday. We’ll be looking into him, anyway. I’ve already asked the Auckland police for their help. Other than that, she didn’t seem to have any obsessively jealous lovers that we know of, but that’s an avenue we will also have to pursue further as the inquiry continues. She was in the public eye, so it’s quite possible that there could have been someone who had active fantasies about her of which she knew nothing. She could even have been stalked without her knowledge. We’ll have to carry out a thorough examination of her computer and see where that leads us. But let’s also remember, this wasn’t a sex crime.’

‘So are you saying there’s no specific line of inquiry yet?’ the speaker asked.

Gerry began to feel flustered. She wished she could pass the briefing over to Superintendent Banks or DI Cabbot, but she struggled on, determined not to show weakness. ‘I’m saying that we need to keep an open mind. I’m sure our profiler Dr Fuller will have more to say about all this when she produces her report. We’re certainly not ruling out the military connection, even though it was three years since Benjamin Kemp’s last tour of duty in Afghanistan. Kemp also had a steady girlfriend until two and a half years ago, when they split up. It sounds as if he might have taken up with Laura quickly afterwards. The girlfriend will need to be interviewed, along with any other exes of Ben, Laura and the rest of the victims.’

Gerry held up some stapled sheets. ‘I have details on all this here, by the way, and DI Cabbot and I will be handing these out with the TIEs and actions when we’ve finished here. You will need to talk to more of the uninjured wedding guests as they become willing and able, and track down family and friends of the deceased. I don’t need to tell you to tread softly here. These people have just lost loved ones. Two bridesmaids went uninjured, Lucy Fisher and Danielle Meynell, along with the best man Wayne Powell. They’re still in shock but will also need to be interviewed as soon as the doctors declare them fit. I wish I could be more specific in telling you what to look for, but the previous questioner was right. There is no certain line of inquiry yet. Right now we’re still working more or less in the dark. Some of you have already been checking on firearms certificates and local shooting clubs. There’s plenty more of those to get through. Some of you have been assigned to track down all local black- or dark-coloured RAV4s and similar vehicles. We’re still trolling the records for anyone with a history of violence, especially involving firearms, of making threats, or anything of that kind. Keep your eyes and ears open. We have messages out in all the media for members of the public to get in touch if they know or suspect anything, so be warned. There’ll be plenty of attention-seekers and just plain weirdoes calling in. Psychics and people who want to confess, too. Of course, the trouble is that once in a while one of these actually has something of value to tell us. There’s also a massive manhunt going on, though it’s being severely hampered by the weather. According to the most recent forecasts, we can’t expect much change there. In fact, the rain is only expected to get worse, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of you who grew up in Yorkshire. CSM Nowak will be bringing you up to date on all that soon, along with any forensic evidence discovered so far.

‘I can tell you one final thing, though. I’ve checked most of the local media reports on the wedding coverage, and the only people mentioned in the articles, or shown in photographs, were the bride and groom and their parents. That means if our killer is local, and if he found out about the wedding from the local media, then he would probably have no idea who else was going to be there. Therefore, it’s not a bad idea to concentrate on Laura and Benjamin and their parents first. As only Laura Tindall and Charles and Benjamin Kemp of this group were killed, that might cut down the possibilities even more. But don’t forget, this is just a rough guide. The main thing not to forget is that we’ve still got a killer out there, and he might strike again at any time.’ She glanced at Banks, who tapped his watch and gestured to her. Time to wrap up and get back to the search for the father of Katie Shea’s baby. ‘Thank you.’

Gerry sank gratefully into her front row chair, exhaling a deep sigh of relief. Stefan Nowak got up to speak next. Banks leaned over to Gerry and whispered, ‘Well done, DC Masterson. I told you it was a piece of cake.’

Gerry could only stare at Banks. She was still trembling inside. When she found her voice, she felt as if it was trembling, too. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘A piece of cake.’

‘We’re very sorry for your loss, Boyd,’ said Banks as he sat down beside Annie at the low round table in his office that Monday evening. Farrow wasn’t a suspect yet, so they had no reason to have their chat in an official interview room. As it turned out, Farrow wasn’t so much a boy as a fortyish man in a light grey Hugo Boss suit carrying a leather designer briefcase. A good fifteen years or so older than Katie Shea, he was handsome in a chiselled kind of way, with short dark hair, a strong square jaw, a slightly overlarge nose and a fleshy mouth. Nobody Gerry had talked to had known that Katie was pregnant, but Gerry had identified and tracked down Boyd Farrow through several emails discovered on her mobile.

‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Farrow. ‘Katie. Dead.’

‘Didn’t you know about the wedding this weekend?’

‘I knew she was going to a wedding, but to be honest I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the details.’

‘You weren’t invited?’

‘I had a business meeting.’

‘On Saturday?’

‘I’m self-employed, Mr Banks. I take my meetings when I can get them.’

‘What business are you in, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Not at all. I’m in website design and social media.’

‘How did you meet Katie?’

‘She’s with a small publishing firm in Leeds, and they wanted to up their profile. The full package. Website, Facebook page, Instagram and Twitter accounts. We met, we hit it off...’ He put his head in his hands. ‘My God. Katie. What am I going to do?’

‘How long had you been together?’

‘Not long. Just six months.’

‘Did you live together?’

‘No. We hadn’t got to that stage yet.’

Banks glanced at Annie, who raised her eyebrows. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Not yet.

‘So Katie had her own flat and you have yours?’

‘Katie rented a flat, yes. I own a house. Well, a mortgage, I should say.’

‘And you lived separate lives?’

‘We spent as much time together as we could, but... well, she had her work. I’m afraid I don’t know many of her friends. We preferred spending time together rather than socialising.’

‘Of course.’ Banks paused. ‘My DC tells me that you seemed rather reluctant when she offered to drive down and talk to you in Leeds.’

‘I don’t mind the drive. It can be relaxing after a day at the office.’

Banks gave Annie the most discreet of signals.

‘Did you know that Katie was almost eight weeks pregnant?’ she asked.

Farrow spluttered and seemed set to deny everything, then he folded in on himself. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘She told me.’

‘When?’

‘Ten days ago.’

‘A joyous occasion?’ Banks asked.

‘Not exactly.’

‘You mean you didn’t want children together?’

‘This has absolutely nothing—’

‘Please answer the questions, Mr Farrow,’ Annie said. ‘It’ll be over sooner that way.’

‘But why aren’t you out there catching Katie’s killer?’

‘Believe me,’ Banks answered, ‘there are more than enough people out there after Katie’s killer. They’ve been out there in the wind and rain since Saturday afternoon. Besides, according to most of the TV cop programmes I’ve watched, it’s almost always someone with something to hide who asks that question. What is it you have to hide, Mr Farrow?’

‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t—’

‘The baby, Mr Farrow,’ Banks went on. ‘You didn’t want it? Neither of you?’

‘Katie... she... perhaps more than me. But she saw it couldn’t be. Not yet. We weren’t ready. She understood that.’

‘It doesn’t sound as if you were ready for anything. I should imagine you could have made a few adjustments to your lifestyles if you’d tried. You certainly can’t claim you were too young for such a responsibility.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘What am I missing?’

Farrow stared down at the table. ‘It just wasn’t possible, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, come on, man, isn’t it fucking obvious? Because I’m married, that’s why. That’s what you’ve been wanting me to say, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve been wanting you to tell me the truth, Mr Farrow,’ said Banks. ‘So you were having an affair with Katie Shea?’

‘It wasn’t a... it wasn’t sordid like that. We were in love. We were going to get married as soon as I divorced my wife.’

‘And when were you going to do that?’

‘I’d been trying to broach the subject, then this came up.’

‘How bloody inconvenient,’ said Banks. ‘So what were you going to do?’

‘Well, we couldn’t have the baby, could we? Not yet. Not when things were like they were. Katie was going to have a termination.’

‘Well, she’s certainly had one now, hasn’t she?’ said Banks.

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Annie gave him a puzzled and concerned glance. Farrow reeled as if he’d been thumped and started whimpering and chewing on his thumb. ‘That’s cruel. That’s not fair.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s not fair,’ Banks went on, ‘and that’s a married man getting a young girl pregnant then persuading her to have a termination. I’m assuming it was your idea? And that you were paying?’

‘She didn’t want the child, either!’

‘How do you know that? She obviously wanted to please you. I suppose she believed you when you said you were going to ask your wife for a divorce so you could marry her?’

Farrow slapped the table. ‘It’s true.’

‘Bollocks. It’s the oldest trick in the book. You had no intention of asking for a divorce, did you?’

Farrow hung his head.

‘How many children do you and your wife have?’ Banks went on.

‘Two.’

‘How old?’

‘Seven and five.’

‘The last thing you wanted was another, wasn’t it? You’d already been through it with two. Even if you did plan on getting a divorce and marrying Katie, which I doubt, you weren’t signing up for dirty nappies and sleepless nights, were you? But I’ll bet she wanted children, didn’t she?’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s none of your business. She was no angel. She knew what she was doing. What are you, pro-life or something?’

‘That takes the bloody biscuit, that does,’ said Banks, standing up. ‘If you’d seen just half of what I’ve seen these past two days... And that included your Katie, the woman you say you love, sitting propped—’

‘Alan, that’s enough!’

It was Annie. Banks was so shocked by her sharp tone and the way she was glaring at him that he stopped mid-sentence and turned to face the window, arms folded. His breath was coming in short sharp gasps, and he was certain his blood pressure had gone way over the limit. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He took a few paces and looked out over the dark market square. Car headlights reflected in the puddles among the cobblestones. He’d lost his cool, and he knew it.

After an uncomfortable silence, Annie picked up the questioning in relatively gentle tones. Banks didn’t trust himself to turn around just yet. He had not felt such anger, such revulsion for someone, in a long time. He wanted to pick Farrow up by his neck and shake him. Slowly, his heart rate returned to normal.

‘Did your wife know about the affair?’ he heard Annie ask.

‘She suspected that I was seeing someone else. I think she might have followed me once and seen us meet up.’

‘She never broached the subject with you?’

‘Rosie doesn’t work like that. She stores it all up until the dam bursts, and then there’s no stopping her.’

‘But she hadn’t reached that stage yet?’

‘No.’

‘Though you think she knew?’

‘Suspected.’

‘Boyd,’ Annie said. ‘This isn’t a personal inquisition into your morals. It’s a murder inquiry. Do you think Rosie knew enough about the affair, was angry enough about it, to harm Katie?’

‘Good God, no. She wouldn’t do anything like that. If anyone was going to suffer for it, it would have been me.’

‘OK. Where was she on Saturday?’

‘At home with the kids. Like I said, I had a business meeting. It was in Wakefield, by the way, and I can tell you the names of the clients. You can check.’

‘That might be useful,’ said Annie. ‘And we’ll need some corroboration of your wife’s whereabouts. Would anyone else have been there? Might she have taken the children shopping or to the playground? Would anyone be likely to have seen her?’

‘It’s possible. I’m sure someone would, but... oh, God...’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘You’re going to have to ask her, aren’t you? You’re going to have to tell her everything. I’ve lost Katie, and now I’m going to lose Rosie and the kids. Please can’t you—’

Banks couldn’t tolerate any more. He walked away from the window and left his office. He didn’t trust himself to stand there and listen to Farrow’s cringing self-pity. When he found himself out in the corridor, he didn’t know what to do, so he just stood at the far end looking out over the car park at the back of the station.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing like that when he heard his office door open and shut behind him. He turned to see Annie standing there with Farrow. A few seconds later, a uniformed constable entered from the stairwell to show Farrow out.

‘What the hell was all that about?’ Annie demanded, following Banks back into his office.

‘Don’t you start, Annie.’

‘What you do you mean, “don’t you start”? What the hell did you think you were up to?’

‘I was trying to push him,’ Banks said, sitting behind his desk.

‘You mean you seriously think he had something to do with the massacre?’

‘I’m not saying that. I—’

‘You were out of bounds, Alan.’ Annie’s tone softened. ‘No matter what you think of him, Farrow is a witness and a victim, not a suspect. You had no right to treat him like that. I don’t know what it was all about, what’s going on in your mind, but you were way out of bounds. What were you thinking of?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘He just pushed all the wrong buttons.’

‘Oh, bugger it, come here, you daft sod.’ Banks stood up and walked over to her. She took him in her arms and gave him a firm hug then held on to his shoulders and faced him.

Banks felt himself relax a little. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I lost it in there. Is Farrow planning on making a formal complaint?’

‘No. He feels far too guilty for that. And I think I managed to calm him down after you’d left the office. In the end, he was more worried about what he was going to say to his wife when he gets home than about anything you might have said to him. You surprised me, though. You were cruel, Alan. I never thought of you as cruel.’

‘I suppose we can all act a little out of character at times. Forgive me?’

‘Of course.’ Annie went over to the coffee machine. ‘Want some?’

‘Please.’

‘Feeling OK now?’

‘Much better.’

Annie handed him the coffee and they sat down at the glass table again. ‘Farrow might be a creep,’ she said, ‘but he didn’t do it. Or his wife.’

‘I know that. It’s just...’

‘What?’

‘Oh, never mind.’

‘You never struck me as being the moralistic kind. I mean, he’s not the only married bloke to have an affair. I’ve been with a married man or two in my time, and you—’

‘It was once, before I came up here.’

‘I know. You did it, though, didn’t you?’

‘You’re saying people in glass houses...’

‘Or “let him who is without sin...” Pick your cliché.’

Banks laughed. ‘It’s a fair cop.’ He put his coffee cup on the table. ‘And thanks for the pep talk. I wasn’t being moralistic, really, though. I was trying to get his goat. I’m sorry, I just lost it. It won’t happen again. And now I think I’m going to go home and have an early night.’

‘Not if Ray has anything to do with it, you won’t,’ said Annie.

When Banks got home to Newhope Cottage later that evening, the rain was still pouring down, and Gratly Beck was close to full spate. Normally a steady, soothing trickle of water over the terraced falls outside his cottage, tonight it roared down the daleside, swollen with the flow of countless becks, burns and rills from higher up in the hills, flecked with foam that caught the light of the half moon like whitecaps out at sea. But the beck was deep and its banks were high. He knew he would be safe from flooding here, so far up the side of the valley, but Helmthorpe and The Leas below might have serious problems. It wouldn’t be the first time. The worst his cottage had ever suffered from protracted wind and heavy rain was a leak where the conservatory joined the older part of the building, which he had caulked the previous spring, and a little dampness had managed to seep its way through the thick stone walls to darken the bedroom wall in patches. After the previous winter, he’d had one of the local handymen around to fix a few gaps in the flagstone roof and spray the back wall with silicon, which was supposed to seal the porous limestone against the elements. The way things were going, he would soon find out whether it worked.

The cottage felt more welcoming than it had on Saturday night, with smoke coming out of the chimney, a light visible from the entertainment room and Ray’s ancient Honda Civic parked outside. As soon as Banks got inside, he could hear Billie Holiday singing ‘Lover Man’. Even though it was his own home, he tapped gently on the entertainment room door before entering, so as not to surprise Ray if he happened to be asleep or lost in thought.

‘Alan, nice to see you,’ Ray said, rising and shaking hands. ‘As you can see, I’m making myself at home. I do appreciate this. I’m not a particularly large man, but I must confess that in Annie’s place, I felt rather like Alice when she was ten feet tall after taking that pill.’

‘No problem.’ Banks dropped his keys on the sideboard beside an open bottle of Laphroaig. Ray must have bought it, he realised, as he hadn’t had any in the house for ages. Ray had also managed to light the wood stove, and the room felt warm and cosy.

‘Why don’t you join me?’ Ray said, pointing to the bottle. ‘Nightcap.’

Banks hesitated. He had lost his taste for the peaty whisky since he had come to associate it with a fire at the cottage, but he had tried a drop now and then over the past couple of years, and his tolerance was improving. Besides, after the day he’d had, he felt he needed a drink or two to help him unwind. He helped himself to a wee dram and topped up Ray’s glass.

‘Slainte,’ Banks said, clinking glasses.

‘Slainte. Hope you don’t mind the music.’

‘Billie? Never,’ said Banks.

‘They said she could tell a story in a song, but as far as I’m concerned she can tell a story in just one note.’

‘She had what it takes,’ Banks agreed.

‘Frank Sinatra said he’d once kissed her as she ought to be kissed,’ Ray mused. ‘I’ve often wondered what that was like.’

Banks flopped down in his armchair. ‘Perhaps a mixture of bourbon, gardenias and cigarette smoke.’ He tasted the Laphroaig, and it burned nicely as it went down. Billie Holiday was singing ‘Solitude’ now in her husky, booze-soaked late-career voice, the one Banks loved best, the one that expressed clearly in every broken note how much she had lived and loved and suffered, but also how she had come through, survived. He inhaled the peat and iodine fumes from his whisky and revelled in the music.

‘Tough day?’ Ray asked.

‘Yes, it was tough.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

It was strange having someone else in the house. Banks knew Ray reasonably well from previous visits, but he wouldn’t say they were especially close friends. And he wasn’t one for talking things through. Oddly enough, though, he felt like talking to someone tonight. ‘And I was at a funeral on Saturday,’ he said, ‘just before... well... before the shit hit the fan up here.’

‘That must have been hard. Someone close?’

‘No. Not for years. That’s the thing. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her, even with all this chaos going on up here. We went out together for a while when we were kids back in Peterborough. You know, just a bit of necking on the back row, reaching for a blouse button and getting your hand slapped. That sort of thing. Then we met up again quite by chance a few years later, when I was at London Poly and she was at the university. It was the early seventies, and we were both away from home for the first time, footloose and fancy-free.’

‘Exciting times. And it developed into something serious?’

‘It did. Yes. But for Christ’s sake, that was over forty years ago, and I haven’t seen her since. My children are older now than Emily was when I knew her. It just all came rushing back at the funeral.’

‘Doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it, the passage of time?’

‘You were pretty young when your wife died, weren’t you? Annie’s mother. That must have been hard.’

Ray slugged back some whisky. ‘Hard? I was thirty-seven, and Annie would have been about seven. I don’t know how we made it through those first few years, to be honest. The colony, I suppose. People took care of each other. Without the others... I don’t know. I do know Annie’s never got over losing her mother.’

‘You never thought of remarrying?’

‘Me? No. Oh, maybe once or twice.’ Ray grinned. ‘Fleetingly. I’m not saying there haven’t been other women, but I’ve never been able to give myself to any of them the way I had with Judy. I’ve always held something back. The part of me I probably shouldn’t have held back if I wanted any sort of meaningful relationship. The part that won’t let you get close to anyone ever again because you know you’re going to lose them, and you know how bad it feels. Because they’re going to die.’ He waved his glass. ‘Maybe that’s why I’ve been a bit distant from Annie over the years, too. Not because I associate her with Judy’s death, or blame her, or any of that psychological claptrap, but because I don’t know if I could take that sort of blow again. When she got shot... well, you remember what it was like. Lovers leave you, and it hurts, of course, but you can get them back, sometimes, if you try, if you want to, if you know how. But death’s the final thing. At least, I think it is. I don’t know about you, maybe you’re religious, but I don’t believe there’s anything after death. I reckon you should think about your first serious girlfriend. It’s a major emotional turning point in your life. Remember her. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about Judy, no matter how many years have passed. But if you can take a bit of advice from an old fool like me, save your best efforts for the living, because one day they’ll be dead, too, and you’ll end up feeling guilty for neglecting them while they were alive. That’s the paradox. Damned if you do and double-damned if you don’t.’

‘It never stopped you from loving Annie, though, did it, all this fear of one day losing her?’

Ray grunted. ‘No. I suppose not. But she’s my daughter. It’s different.’ He knocked back his whisky and laughed. ‘Listen to me. Sorry, mate. What a fucking old bore I must sound talking about lessons learned. And me a guest in your home. Must be the whisky talking. Much more of this and you’ll be kicking me out on my arse before I’ve even spent a night under your roof.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Banks. ‘I’m glad of the company, to be honest.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that. I was worried about being a burden. Fancy a quick spliff?’

Banks smiled. ‘No, thanks. Better not.’

‘Maybe I’ll go outside later. You won’t arrest me, will you?’

Banks laughed and drank some more Laphroaig. He could get used to the peaty taste again very easily, he decided, despite Dr Glendenning’s words of derision. ‘Is there any particular reason you want to move up to Yorkshire?’ he asked.

Ray shuffled in his seat. ‘Something about the light up here,’ he said. ‘Hell, if Hockney could do it, I don’t see why I can’t.’

‘Tired of the light in Cornwall?’

‘It’s not that. I’ve spent most of my life there. I love the place. Always will. But it’s getting to be a young person’s world now, the colony. I feel like an intruder, an old fogey. And it’s what we’ve been talking about. Mortality. Like I said, I feel I’ve neglected Annie. I may have had my reasons, but they don’t count for much now. It’s something I’ve been thinking about since that time we almost lost her. She’s my only child, after all. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever created, or helped to create. All that’s left of Judy and me. Oh, fuck, I’m getting morbid and sentimental now.’

‘Is there something wrong? Are you OK? I know you told Annie you are, but—’

‘Physically? No, there’s nothing wrong. No cancer or anything, just the same ticking clock we all have. I’m fit as a fiddle. Well, as fit as can be expected for a man my age who’s led the sort of life I’ve lived.’ He tapped his temple. ‘It’s in here, Alan. I mean, let’s be honest. I turned seventy a few years ago. How many more good years can I expect? Ten? Five? I may be feeling my age, but I’m going to have a bloody good time for as long as I’ve got left. And I want my daughter to be part of that. There. Is that so strange a reason?’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks, thinking of his own grown-up children, Brian and Tracy, and how far he felt from them at times. They had their own lives to live, he told himself; they didn’t want to be bothered with him and his problems.

‘Let’s have some loud rock ’n’ roll,’ Ray said, walking over to the stereo and changing discs. ‘I picked this one out earlier.’ And he put on Jimi Hendrix’s Rainbow Bridge then went for the bottle. The level was getting dangerously low. He was moving unsteadily. ‘Should we...?’

They were well into their next glass and ‘Hear My Train A Comin’’ when Banks thought he heard his mobile play its blues riff. He left the room, pressed the talk button and put it to his ear. ‘Banks speaking.’

It was Annie. ‘I hate to drag you away from your old fogey’s sleepover with Ray,’ she said. ‘I should imagine you’re having a nice semi-drunken reminisce right now. I hope you can hear me over all that racket. What is it, best shags or best albums? And I hope you haven’t lit up that spliff yet. We’ve got developments. Major developments, we think. A strong lead. In fact, it’s strong enough that we might even have the bastard before the night is over. Interested?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not far away. Put your glass down. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.’