Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 10

Banks and Jenny Fuller drove down the rutted drive to ex-Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe’s farmhouse outside the village of Lyndgarth late the following morning. The sky looked like a pot full of boiling oily rags, and the air was so moist that it was hard to breathe, but at least it wasn’t raining. Which was just as well. All the meteorological reports stated that the ground was so waterlogged already that one more spell of heavy rain would cause even more serious flooding.

The car splashed up water from the puddles, and Banks finally brought it to a halt outside the back door. He hadn’t been to visit the old man in quite a while, but not much had changed. The drystone wall that went nowhere and fenced in nothing still ran through his large back garden, but ended jaggedly and abruptly. There had been no decent weather for working on it lately. It was Gristhorpe’s hobby — he said it was therapeutic, kept him calm and focused — and whenever he came to the end of his allotted pile of stones, he dismantled the wall then mixed them up like a bag of dominoes, adding a few new ones, and started all over again.

The green paint on the heavy back door was so fresh Banks could smell it. He rang the bell. They didn’t have long to wait before it opened and the tall, bulky figure of Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe stood there beckoning them in, wearing a pair of old brown cords and a dark woolly jumper.

‘Well, look at you, lass,’ he said to Jenny. ‘It’s been years since I last saw you, and you’ve hardly changed at all. You’re still a right bobby-dazzler.’

Jenny blushed and gave him a hug. ‘You silver-tongued old devil. It’s been a long time. How are you?’

‘Can’t complain, though I wouldn’t recommend old age,’ said Gristhorpe as he led them into his wood-panelled, book-lined living room and bade them sit in the worn leather armchairs. There was a fire crackling in the hearth and a book on the table beside Gristhorpe’s chair. Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge, Banks noticed. So the old man was still rereading the classics. ‘First, tea.’ Gristhorpe rubbed his hands together. ‘Then talk.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.

Jenny smiled at Banks. ‘It brings back so many memories, just seeing him again. Hearing his voice.’ Her eyes were shining.

‘How long has it been?’ Banks asked.

‘More years than I’d care to remember.’

Banks stared into the flames in silence, thinking about time and age and Emily and death, then Gristhorpe reappeared with the tea and mugs on a tray. He moved his book and set the tray down on the table, rubbing his hands together. ‘We’ll let it mash for a while first.’

Gristhorpe eased himself into his chair. Banks thought he noticed a grimace of pain flash briefly across his features. The old man always did suffer from back problems and a touch of arthritis. Otherwise, he seemed hale and hearty. He had the same weathered, pock-marked face, and the unruly thatch of hair might have turned a bit greyer and thinner since the last time they met, but it was still mostly all there.

When the tea was ready, Gristhorpe poured them each a mug, opened a tin of ginger nut biscuits and sat down again, cradling the mug on his lap. ‘You mentioned something on the telephone about the Wendy Vincent case,’ he said to Banks.

‘Yes. It came up in some research Gerry — that’s DC Masterson — was doing on the wedding shooting.’

‘Nasty business that. But I thought it was all over and done with. I thought you got your man?’

‘We’re not exactly sure about that.’

‘The man we found didn’t match any profile I could come up with for a mass murderer or spree killer,’ Jenny added. ‘Not that such things are always an accurate guide — I’d be the first to admit — but there are certain parameters.’

‘Exception to the rule?’

‘Could be,’ Jenny admitted. ‘But I think Alan also has a number of forensic issues and other concerns.’

‘When you add it all together,’ Banks said, ‘I think the case merits further investigation.’

He told Gristhorpe about Dr Glendenning’s doubts and added a few of his own. Gristhorpe took a mouthful of tea and dunked his ginger biscuit as he listened.

When Banks had finished, Gristhorpe frowned. ‘I’ll go along with you for the time being,’ he said. ‘Maybe it does deserve a bit more attention. But where does Wendy Vincent come into it? I remember that case well. It was one of my very first, and it was a complete bloody disaster. It still galls me to this day, even though they finally caught the bastard. We should have had the gumption to question Frank Dowson back at the time of the crime — it’s not as if he was unknown to us — but he was a merchant seaman, and nobody told us he was in the area at the time.’

‘When your name came up,’ Banks said, ‘Gerry found your connection with me, and she thought I might want your name kept out of it. So she came to me with the story first, in person.’

‘She thought I might resent my failure being broadcast around again?’

‘It may have crossed her mind. She’s young. And she doesn’t know you like I do.’

‘She’ll probably go far, then.’ Gristhorpe slurped some tea. His eyes twinkled.

‘One of the members of the wedding was Maureen Tindall, née Grainger,’ Banks went on. ‘DC Masterson’s discovered in the course of her research that she was Wendy Vincent’s best friend.’

‘That’s right. I remember her. Pretty young thing in a flower-patterned frock. Nervous as hell. And clearly very upset. She was at the wedding?’

‘Mother of the bride.’

‘Dead?’

‘Unharmed.’

‘Then why make the connection?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘All I know is that I suspect there might be one, and I’m not a hundred per cent convinced that Martin Edgeworth was responsible for the shooting.’

‘You’re not trying to say that someone shot Maureen Grainger’s daughter because of what happened to Wendy Vincent over fifty years ago, are you?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. Why don’t you tell me about it?’

‘We worked on the assumption that it was a crime of opportunity.’

‘Most likely it was,’ said Banks. ‘But why did Frank Dowson kill Wendy Vincent after raping her?’

‘You know as well as I do, Alan,’ said Jenny, ‘that rapists often kill their victims.’

‘Not always,’ Banks said. ‘Unless they’re sexual psychopaths. And usually, if they do, it’s a matter of identification.’

‘Which is exactly what it was in this case,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘Wendy Vincent did know Frank Dowson. Not well, but certainly well enough to recognise him, to know who he was. He lived on the same estate. He was the older brother of someone she knew. When they finally caught up with Dowson a couple of years ago, he confessed to a number of other rapes, but denied any more murders.’

‘The others were strangers?’ Jenny said.

‘Aye.’

‘Was there any gossip about Wendy Vincent?’ Banks asked. ‘Did she have any sort of a reputation to make Dowson think she’d be easy, or asking for it? Anything that might make him believe she was sexually available?’

‘Good lord, no,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘Quite the opposite. Young Wendy was an angel, by all accounts. Sunday school, Brownies, the whole kit and caboodle. Did well at school, good at sports. Pretty much held a dysfunctional household together by herself. There’d been problems, social services involved, that sort of thing. The parents were alcoholics. But Wendy was a nice kid. Everyone said so.’

‘Is it possible that he might not have intended to kill Wendy Vincent, but that she surprised him by struggling?’

‘He was certainly a strong lad, and one of those who didn’t know his own strength. But he raped her then stabbed her five times, Alan. There wasn’t much of a struggle. I’d hardly say he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. You were right first time. He knew she’d be able to identify him. And that’s what the court believed as well, fifty years later, despite the sneaky defence barrister trying to claim diminished responsibility.’

‘Frank Dowson was mentally challenged?’ Jenny asked.

‘He had a very low IQ. But he knew what rape and murder were. At least he knew how to commit them.’

‘Can you remember what happened that day?’ Banks asked.

‘As if it were yesterday. Happens when you get older, you know, Alan. Yesterday becomes a blur, but the distant past comes sharp into focus. I remember all my cases, and Wendy Vincent was one of the first, like I said. I was a callow DC working in West Yorkshire.’

‘Do you remember anyone called Chadwick, a DI? Was he involved in this case at all?’

‘I knew Chadwick, but he wasn’t on the Wendy Vincent case. I never worked with him, but I heard things. I don’t even think he was around at the time. Always thought he was a bit iffy. Detective Superintendent Lindsay was running the investigation, and I was working mostly with DI Rattigan and DS Saunders. Decent coppers, all of them. Of course, there were plenty of others involved, plainclothes and uniformed. There was a huge search for the girl, then a manhunt for her killer, but by then Dowson was back at sea, and as far as we knew he’d always been there.’

‘How did it begin?’

‘We got a phone call from Wendy’s parents. Her father, if I remember rightly. They didn’t have a phone in their house, so he had to walk to the nearest telephone box. That’s before they all got vandalised.’

‘When was this?’

‘About seven in the evening. They’d been expecting her home to make their tea. She was playing hockey for the school in the morning, then there was a lunch afterwards at school for the team. Teatime at home was half past five. Regular as clockwork. They assumed she’d be knocking about with her mates in the afternoon, but when she wasn’t home by then, they got worried. By seven they were even more worried. It wasn’t like her. Wendy was a good girl. They got in touch with Maureen’s parents, who said that Maureen hadn’t seen Wendy that day. Maureen wasn’t a hockey player, by the way, so she’d been visiting her gran in Thornhill, near Bradford, and not at the game. Then they got really worried. Being December, it was dark by late afternoon, of course, and it had started raining.’

‘Then what?’

‘The usual. Naturally, as the family was known to us through social services, we searched the house and questioned the parents pretty thoroughly. You know as well as I do, Alan, that as often as not it’s the best place to start, however callous it might seem. But they were convincing, even though it was obvious to anyone they were drunk. Pretty much everyone who talked to us believed that Wendy would never run away from home or do anything like that. She was a good kid, despite her tough home life. You could tell. You can almost always tell. Next we checked with all her school friends and teammates. Nobody had seen her after she left the school canteen to go home. We mapped out the route, and instead of taking the main roads and residential streets, she took the short cut through the woods. This involved walking down a narrow treelined lane with houses on one side set well back and high up, hidden by the trees. We did a house to house there, of course, but nobody saw her. On the other side there was a small church, empty that afternoon. The lane petered out at the woods. There’s a stream runs through it, quite wide in parts and there’s an old stone bridge, been there since Dick’s day as far as anyone remembered.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘There wasn’t much more we could do that night except search the streets, knock on doors. It was dark and rainy, turning to mist. It wasn’t much better by morning, but by then we thought we’d found a witness. A local dog-walker from one of the houses on the lane had seen a man going into the woods shortly before we think Wendy would have been there. That’s why we thought it was a matter of bad timing and opportunity, not premeditation. Nobody could have known she would take that route, as far as we could discover. Not that it made much difference to the outcome. Trouble is, we didn’t get a good enough description to put out an identikit. It was a gloomy afternoon, and he was in shadow. It got us nowhere. Someone else saw a lad on a bicycle passing the edge of the woods, maybe a delivery boy of some sort. Same negative result.’

‘And Wendy?’

‘We began a search of the woods. It covered a fairly extensive area so it took a while. Her parents had told us it wasn’t unusual for her to take that route, depending on whether she was with friends who lived close to the main road or not. This time she wasn’t. The woods didn’t have a bad reputation. Nothing terrible had ever happened there, and there was no reason to think anything would. The conditions weren’t much better for the search as far as the rain was concerned, which made it pointless to bring in the canine unit, but at least it was daylight. It took about three hours, but by the early afternoon, one of our uniformed lads found the body under the old stone bridge, covered by a makeshift pile of leaves, twigs and bracken, on the narrow path beside the stream. She was only about a hundred yards from home, poor thing.’

‘But you said Frank Dowson was thick. It sounds a bit sophisticated for someone like him, hiding the body like that.’

‘I only said that his lawyer claimed diminished responsibility. And I said he had a low IQ, that’s all. It doesn’t mean he had no self-preservation instinct. He wasn’t without a certain low cunning. And you’d better watch it. You’ll have the political correctness squad after you if you go around calling intellectually challenged people thick.’

‘Even the least intelligent of us can be quite cunning under the right circumstances,’ said Jenny.

Gristhorpe sighed. ‘Aye, lass. You can say that again. He managed to elude our grasp for fifty years, at any rate. And he committed more rapes during that time. They said that was one of the things that finally led them to him. The crimes corresponded with the periods of his leave from the navy. That and his conviction five years ago for handling stolen goods and committing actual bodily harm. Only God knows how many rapes he committed on his travels around the world.’

‘Do you remember anything else about Wendy Vincent’s family background?’ Jenny asked.

‘From what I could gather,’ said Gristhorpe, ‘the parents weren’t abusive, just neglectful. It was the drink, of course. They could hardly take care of themselves, let alone two kids. Her dad was a bit of a wide boy, too, in and out of work, Beatles’ style haircut, fancied himself as a musician. The mother was a hard-working charlady when she had a job, but she got fired as often as not for absenteeism. There was a younger brother called Mark. He was only eleven at the time of the murder and, naturally, he was pretty shaken up, but maybe still a bit too young to take it all in. Frank Dowson came from an even more dodgy family on the same estate. His old man was a fence. Kept a lock-up across town full of stuff that “fell off the back of a lorry”. Small stuff, but we kept an eye on him. Frank had a younger brother called Billy Dowson, about Mark Vincent’s age. They were mates, as far as we could gather. Part of the same gang. And I don’t mean “gang” like you hear it used today. They never did owt more than knock on a few doors and run away and lather a few doorknobs with treacle. Typical Mischief Night behaviour. Mostly I should imagine they sat around in some den or other and smoked Park Drives and pored over dirty magazines and felt grown up. There was a sister, too. Cilla. She was sixteen and already on the game. But Frank Dowson didn’t live with his parents at the time. Like I said, he’d joined the merchant navy, and he only dropped by occasionally, when he was on leave. That’s one reason we didn’t follow up the way we should have. Nobody told us he was in the area when the murder occurred, so we neglected to check with the naval authorities to see if he had an alibi. It was sloppy police work. No excuses. Except there were more villains on that estate than you could shake a stick at. But I still can’t see how any of this is connected with your wedding shootings.’

‘Nor can I,’ said Banks. ‘What we need is a connection between Martin Edgeworth and the shooter, but we don’t know who the shooter is. All we have so far is a connection, however tenuous, between one member of the wedding party and this fifty-year-old crime. I think we’ll try to track down some of the people who were involved, if they’re still alive. Billy Dowson, maybe his sister, Cilla, Wendy’s brother, any other members of the gang. See if anyone remembers something that might help. Do you know what happened to them?’

‘I didn’t keep in touch,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘And as far as I know both families moved away from the estate fairly soon after the investigation ground to a halt. I know Wendy’s mum and dad split up not long after and the lad, Mark, was packed off to live with an aunt and uncle in Ferry Fryston or some such place, but don’t quote me on it. I can give you some names, and you should be able to find them easily enough with your modern methods.’

‘Gerry should be able to take it from there,’ said Banks. ‘She’s good with computer research.’

‘And now,’ said Gristhorpe, looking towards Jenny, ‘what have you been doing these past few years?’

‘Why is it people always seem to retire to places like this?’ asked Annie as Gerry drove along a narrow, winding road just beyond Sedburgh. They were almost in the Lake District, and the change was apparent in the shapes of the mountains and rolling hills, much older here, bigger and more rounded.

‘I suppose they’re after a bit of peace and quiet after fifty years of the daily grind, commuting and what have you,’ said Gerry.

‘It’s either somewhere like this or some seaside hellhole like Bognor or Blackpool.’

‘Nobody retires to Blackpool.’ Gerry swung the wheel at a particularly awkward corner. The tyres slipped on the shiny road surface.

‘Watch it,’ Annie said as they almost scraped a drystone wall. ‘When my time comes, I’m going to retire to London,’ she announced. ‘Spend my days in the art galleries and my nights in the theatres and pubs. After that, I’ll be out clubbing until dawn.’

Gerry laughed. ‘Better hurry up then.’

Annie gave her a sideways glance. ‘You think I’m too old, don’t you?’

‘Maybe if you just put in your thirty. Do you think that’s what you’ll do, or will you follow in the boss’s footsteps?’

‘Depends on whether I win the lottery,’ Annie said. ‘Ah, here we are. Village of Little-Feather-up-the-Bum.’

‘It’s Featheringham,’ said Gerry. ‘Little Featheringham.’

‘Thank God Alan isn’t here or we’d be getting a lecture about how Wordsworth wrote some stupid poem sitting up on that hill over there.’

‘We’re not quite in Wordsworth territory yet. And I got my A-level English. I know a thing or two about Wordsworth, myself.’

‘Spare me the details. In love with his sister or something, wasn’t he? Pervert. But it’s a fine place for a dentist to retire. Maybe he’s got a cellar full of reclining chairs and slow drills, those pointy things they try and pull your filling out with, and those scrapers they use to clean your teeth? Could be a real torture chamber down there. Nobody could hear you scream. Are you sure you’re ready for this?’

Gerry pulled up outside the squat cottage. A thin column of smoke twisted from the chimney. ‘I don’t suppose we need to worry about parking around here,’ she said. ‘Or the Krook lock.’

‘Doubt it,’ said Annie, slipping out of the car.

A short path led from the red wooden gate to the front door. Jonathan Martell answered almost immediately after Annie rang the bell, and she had to admit that he wasn’t quite what she had expected of a retired dentist. Slim, trim and handsome in a white V-neck cricket jumper over a blue button-down Oxford, jeans and Nike trainers, he appeared a lot younger than she had expected, for a start. He also had a fine head of wavy brown hair and a nice smile. She found herself wondering if he was married. He was wearing a ring, she noticed, but experience had taught her that didn’t always mean anything. They shook hands, and he led them through to the living room. The ceilings were low and criss-crossed with weathered wooden beams, but it was a cosy space, and the fire burned in the hearth. The walls were dotted with local landscapes, some of them quite good, in Annie’s eyes, and a number of framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the fire: Martell on a beach somewhere with an exotic dark-haired young beauty, Martell standing in the garden with his arms around the shoulders of two young children; a professional portrait of the beautiful woman, no doubt his wife, whose teeth were far whiter than Annie’s. She ran her tongue over molars. They felt furry and jagged. It was odd, she thought, as she settled into the comfortable armchair perhaps just a little too close to the fire, but it was as if a whole lifetime had flashed in front of her eyes when she entered the cottage. Not her own lifetime, necessarily, but a lifetime, nonetheless.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Martell asked. ‘I know you’re driving, but I’m sure a small port or sherry wouldn’t do any harm.’

‘Tea, please, if you’ve got any,’ said Annie.

‘Do you have herbal?’ Gerry asked.

‘What a healthy pair of coppers,’ said Martell. ‘Peppermint? Chamomile?’

They agreed on peppermint, and Martell disappeared into the kitchen to make it. Annie glanced around the room, its mullioned windows offering a fine view of the open fields across the lane, a range of mountains rising beyond, their summits lost in cloud; the hiss and crackle of logs burning; whiff of woodsmoke and warm leather in the air. Annie shifted her legs away from the heat. She felt that she could almost fall asleep here.

Martell came back in no time with a teapot and mugs on a tray, along with a glass of amber liquid. ‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘I’m not driving anywhere today.’ He gestured to the window. ‘I was supposed to be playing a round of golf later, but it looks like rain.’

A golfer, then, Annie thought. Still, nobody’s perfect. ‘You never know around these parts,’ she said.

‘Too true.’ Martell sat down and crossed his legs. Annie noticed that his jeans had creases, which meant they must have been ironed. Which meant he was married, after all.

As if to confirm her suspicions, Martell went on, ‘I’m sorry my wife Françoise isn’t here to greet you, too, but she’s gone into Carlisle to do some shopping.’

Françoise, Annie thought. Shopping. She tasted the bitter ashes of defeat. Françoise had no doubt borne him two adorable children and still managed to keep her gorgeous figure without exercise or diet. Or maybe she was the replacement model, the trophy wife he took up with after he dumped his first wife, the one who helped him pay his way through dental college? She decided to banish any further speculation from her mind and stick with Nick Fleming. He might be a bit humdrum, but he was handsome enough, they had a good laugh, and he did take her to the pictures and to plays and galleries and nice restaurants in York and Harrogate. They had even been to the First Direct Arena in Leeds once to see Morrissey. Nick would do. For now.

‘I don’t suppose your wife knows a great deal about your dental practice, or about your partner Martin Edgeworth,’ Annie said.

‘Ex-partner. And no. Not a lot. Though Françoise did know Martin, of course. We had many good times with him and Connie before they split up.’

‘How long were you in partnership?’ Gerry asked.

‘It must have been about twelve years.’

‘And before that?’

‘We each had our own private practice. Martin in Eastvale and me in Durham.’

‘The partnership worked well?’

‘Very well,’ said Martell.

‘So there was no particular reason for packing it in?’ Annie asked.

‘No. It was just time. We had both made plenty of money. In addition to some NHS work, we had private patients, too. Martin specialised in cosmetic dentistry, and the NHS doesn’t cover a lot of that, of course. And I’m afraid it’s also a matter of the old cliché. It really does get rather dull poking and prodding about in people’s mouths day after day. Unpleasant, even.’ He smiled. Dazzling white. He leaned forwards and passed them their tea from the table and picked up his whisky. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The other dental cliché doesn’t apply. I’m not an alcoholic. I just enjoy a dram or two of whisky before lunch.’

Annie shrugged to indicate that she didn’t care whether he liked a tumbler or got pissed to the gills. Maybe he had a cylinder of nitrous oxide in his den, too. ‘I understand that you and Martin Edgeworth also remained friends after you gave up the partnership?’

‘Yes,’ said Martell. ‘We didn’t see one another every day, of course, like we used to do at work, but we’d get together every now and then for a couple of drinks or a meal, or a trip to Headingley for the cricket. We’re both big cricket fans. Were. I mean, he was.’

‘This was during the last three years?’

‘Yes. After the practice wound down, and after Connie left him, which was a little over two years ago.’

‘I should imagine he was devastated by the break-up?’

‘Not really. By the time it happened, I think he’d prepared himself for the worst, strengthened his defences. Deep down, he knew he was better off without her.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

‘Connie? She was manipulative, unfaithful, a spendthrift and a liar.’

‘And those are just her good points,’ said Annie with a smile.

‘I’m sure you get the idea.’

‘I do. You didn’t like her very much.’

Martell laughed. ‘Actually, that’s not completely true. Connie was also a lot of fun. A great hostess, wonderful conversationalist, and she had a wicked sense of humour. People are complicated. Sometimes you have to take the good with the bad. But surely Connie doesn’t have anything to do with all this?’

‘No, not at all. I suppose we’re still trying to build up a picture of Martin Edgeworth. He seems rather elusive.’

Martell laughed. ‘Elusive? Martin? He was one of the most open and honest people I’ve ever met.’

‘Perhaps it’s just my suspicious nature. I always get the impression there’s more hidden beneath the surface.’

‘Not with Martin. And I’ve known him for nigh on twenty years. That’s why I can’t believe any of this.’

‘Any of what?’

Martell tasted the whisky and seemed to enjoy it. ‘The shootings. That Martin could have had anything to do with them.’

‘But he did like his guns?’

‘In the same way I like my golf clubs.’

‘You could kill someone with a golf club, too.’

Martell laughed. ‘True, but that’s not what I mean. It was a sport, for each of us. Something we enjoyed and, if I say so myself, were good at. When you spend every day doing what we did, you appreciate something that takes you far away from it. And Martin had a very competitive nature.’

‘Shooting never appealed to you?’

‘No. I’ve nothing against it, per se, but I never felt the inclination to get involved.’

‘What we’re thinking,’ Gerry said, leaning forwards, ‘is that Mr Edgeworth may have had some sort of accomplice, perhaps even someone who tricked, forced or blackmailed him into doing what he did. This is in complete confidence, of course. We have no evidence. We’re just trying to cover every possible angle.’

‘Well, that’s very open-minded of you, I must say. Naturally, it makes far more sense to me than the idea that Martin simply decided it would be a good idea to go and shoot a few people.’

‘If there was someone who forced him or blackmailed him, have you any idea who this person might have been?’

‘You think I would know?’

‘One of the possibilities we have to consider,’ Annie said, ‘is that it was someone he met while he was practising, or at least someone who had befriended him in the last while and whom he might have mentioned to others. A patient, perhaps, or another dentist, a supplier. We thought that seeing as you spent quite a bit of time with him he might have mentioned someone?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Do you know whether anyone would have had reason to blackmail him?’

‘Martin? You must be joking.’

‘Just trying to get things straight, that’s all.’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Nothing odd or unusual happened over the past while, the period leading up to the shootings? No sudden new friends? He wasn’t worried or upset about anything. Distracted? Concerned?’

‘Not as far as I could tell. Everything seemed normal the last time I saw him.’

‘When was that?’

‘About a week or so before the... incident.’

‘You’re sure there was no one bothering him, no one new in his life? A woman, perhaps?’

‘Martin wasn’t especially in the market for a new wife. His experience of the previous one was still a bit raw, and he liked his life the way it was. No, I can’t think of anyone. I knew most of his friends and acquaintances, at least in passing.’

‘You’re sure there was no one else?’

‘The only one I can think of is that he mentioned a bloke Gord a few times. That was quite recent. And someone I never met.’

‘Gord?’ said Annie. ‘Who was that?’

‘Someone he went rambling with on the weekends sometimes. I didn’t get the impression that it was regular — I know Martin used to appreciate his walks alone — but he did mention meeting this bloke up on the moors one morning, and they got chatting. You know what it’s like when people share enthusiasms?’

Annie nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Do you know anything more about this Gord? His last name, where he lived, what he looked like?’

‘I’m afraid not. It’s just someone Martin went rambling with occasionally.’

Annie made a mental note to have Banks ask about this person at Edgeworth’s local and around his shooting-club friends. The name had never come up before, though the idea of someone approaching Edgeworth on one of his walks had certainly crossed Annie’s mind.

‘There was one little thing,’ said Martell, ‘though I doubt it’s of any relevance.’

‘You never know,’ said Annie. ‘Best tell us.’

‘It was funny, but Martin once told me he thought he was being followed.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last November sometime. You know, when the days were getting shorter and the winter gloom was moving in.’

‘Did he give you any details?’

‘He laughed it off. We both did.’

‘Where did he think he was being followed from?’

‘From the club to his home.’

Annie leaned forwards and tried to put a sense of urgency in her voice. ‘This could be important, Mr Martell. Can you remember anything else, anything at all, about what he said?’

‘Just that he said he’d seen the same car on two or three occasions when he left the shooting club. It’s a quiet road up there. You don’t get much traffic.’

‘Did he say anything about the car?’

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

‘Was this before he first mentioned this Gord person, or after?’

‘Before.’

‘Neither you nor Mr Edgeworth ever linked the two?’

‘Good lord, no. Why?’

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

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

‘Maybe not,’ said Annie. ‘Or perhaps everything came of it.’

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

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

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

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

‘So someone stakes out a shooting club?’ Annie said. ‘Good idea.’

‘But why pick Edgeworth?’ Gerry asked. ‘By chance?’

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

‘Which was?’

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

‘OK. And then? How does he find out all this?’

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

‘Go on,’ said Banks.

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

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

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

‘Have we got anywhere with the ballpeen hammer we took from Edgeworth’s cellar yet?’ Banks asked.

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

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

‘He could have used cash,’ said Annie.

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

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

‘Which is probably why the clothes were placed downstairs, next to the body.’

‘What?’ said Annie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll put that in motion,’ said Banks.

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

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

‘Yes, sir,’ said Gerry.

‘And I suppose I should keep working on the profiles?’ Jenny said.

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

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

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

‘Gareth Bishop, sir,’ said Gerry.

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

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

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

‘Indeed I will. Opportunistic and premeditated. Careless and extremely cautious. Devious and—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course.’ Annie realised that Jazz, short for Jasminder, must have seen her reflection on the screen.

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

‘The ballpeen hammer, right?’ Jazz said.

‘That’s the one. Any luck?’

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

Annie laughed.

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

‘Only if you think it’ll help.’

‘Help you appreciate my skills more?’

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

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

‘That makes sense,’ said Annie.

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

‘Like the Higgs boson and Schrödinger’s cat?’

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

‘So in this case?’

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

‘For human blood?’

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

‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘I think I get it. We have blood. What next.’

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

Annie clapped her hands together.

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

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

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

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

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

‘OK,’ she said. ‘You’re on. Five o’clock it is.’

‘Thanks for that, Alan,’ Jenny said as soon as the others had left the snug. ‘She hates me.’

‘She doesn’t hate you,’ said Banks. ‘You’re the new girl on the team, that’s all.’

‘Girl?’

‘They’re all saying it these days. Book titles and all. That woman on the train was far from being a girl.’

‘Are you saying I’m too old to be a girl?’

‘I... I...’

Jenny laughed. ‘You’re too easy to bait, Alan. But as for DI Cabbot being “an old friend of yours”, come on, give. Did you two have a thing?’

Banks sighed. ‘Once,’ he said. ‘Briefly. A long time ago. After Sandra and I split up. We decided that work and dating didn’t mix.’

‘Very wise of you, I’m sure.’

‘Seriously, Jenny. Give her a chance. She’s a good cop and a good person. She’s just a bit insecure, that’s all, and she can be abrasive.’

‘Insecure? Abrasive? I’d say the ropes have just about pulled away from the moorings.’

‘It’s not that bad.’

Jenny took a few deep breaths then seemed to relax and smile. ‘I don’t know how you manage to do it,’ she said.

‘Do what?’

‘See the good in everyone after so long on the job.’

‘It’s not that,’ Banks protested. ‘I know my team. Strengths and weaknesses.’

‘And do you know me?’

‘Not any more, apparently.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a sensitive bastard. I’m only teasing. Remember that?’

Banks dredged up a weak smile. ‘I remember.’

‘Besides, I haven’t changed that much.’

‘Come off it. We both have. We’ve already discussed that. A lot’s happened.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. You’ve become a bit more grumpy, true, but I don’t think people change all that much, deep down.’

‘We learn nothing from experience?’

‘Well, it certainly seems that mankind learns nothing from history, so why should individuals learn anything from their own experience?’

‘I’m no expert, but that sounds like spurious logic to me.’

Jenny wrinkled her nose. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘Rhetoric, to make a point. I know we shouldn’t, driving and all, but do you fancy another pint? It’s quite cosy in here, and I don’t much like the idea of hurrying home to an empty house so soon.’

‘I’ll have another,’ said Banks. Jenny went to the bar.

He planned on going back to the office and getting through some more paperwork after lunch. By the time he’d finished with that, he planned on heading out to Filey to see Julie Drake. He had phoned, and she had invited him to dinner. In the meantime, why not enjoy another drink in a nice warm snug with a beautiful and intelligent woman? The music Cyril was playing through his sound system was muted in the snug, but Banks could make out Ray Charles singing ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’. It seemed a good omen.

Jenny returned with another pint of Black Sheep for him and a glass of white wine for herself.

‘What happened with DI Cabbot,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s serious? I mean, could it affect the case?’

‘Just teething troubles,’ said Banks. ‘We’ve all been under a lot of pressure.’

‘She doesn’t seem to have much time or use for profilers.’

‘Forget about Annie,’ Banks said, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to solving the case.’

They clinked glasses.

After a long pause, Banks shifted in his chair and said, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think, maybe after all this is over, you and I could, you know, maybe get together for a drink or dinner or something?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Jenny said. ‘Aren’t we having a drink now? And as I remember we’ve had dinner since I’ve been back.’

‘I know that, but...’

‘And how many ways are there to take it?’

‘Jenny, don’t make it more... awkward...’

Jenny gave him a thoughtful stare. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I know what you mean. I shouldn’t tease. But do you have any idea why I went away in the first place all those years ago?’

‘Your work, I assumed. Or you’d already met a fellow you wanted to follow halfway around the world.’

‘Neither of the above. You can be so thick sometimes, you know. Though I won’t deny moving did my career no harm. No, it was because of you.’

Banks felt his chest tighten. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. Maybe you thought I was just a frivolous young slut making a pass at you, but I was in love with you, Alan, and I knew it was hopeless. Christ, I was young and idealistic, and you were married with kids. I knew you were a decent man, that you wouldn’t cheat on your wife or leave her and the kids for me. What was the point in me hanging around and feeling like crap every time I saw you, going home crying every night after we’d worked together because you weren’t going home with me?’

‘Australia was a long way to go just to get away from me.’

Jenny laughed, the lines around her eyes and mouth curving as she did so. ‘You’re incorrigible. That was just what came up, where I settled. I’d probably have gone to Antarctica if there was a job there. In fact, I did go to Antarctica once with Sam. No, my career was certainly a part of it, but if you’d been free, and interested... Who knows? Maybe things would have turned out differently.’

‘Maybe they still could. I was interested. I just wasn’t free.’

‘And now?’

‘Both.’

‘Are you sure? What about Annie?’

‘Old friends.’

‘And the poet?’

‘A newer friend.’

Jenny stared at him as if trying to make her mind up whether he was telling the truth.

‘I’m not being difficult,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know what I want, Alan. I might have left because of you, but I certainly didn’t come back for you.’

‘Someone else?’

‘No, you idiot. I’d just got divorced, I felt alone and I wanted to come home. Simple as that. And let’s face it, you haven’t exactly been the world’s best correspondent over the years. I had no idea what your situation was. Married, single. Even if you were still here. Still alive.’

‘And now you know?’

Jenny drank some wine and looked down at the table. ‘You can’t just pick up where you left off, you know. Maybe our time has passed. Maybe we didn’t take the chance when it was there.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say we’d be picking up where we left off, would you? We didn’t leave off anywhere.’

‘You know what I mean. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you regretted not taking what you could have had. Maybe I’m the one that got away. How do you know you’re not just chasing a memory, making up for what you didn’t do the first time around? I suppose what I’m saying is I just don’t know any more. I don’t want to piss away what’s left of my life, Alan. Maybe it doesn’t mean so much to you, but I’m well turned fifty, and I know damn well that most men prefer younger women. From what I’ve heard, you’re no different. I don’t want a toy boy, but I don’t want a fling with someone I care about, either. I still have feelings for you. I think that much is clear. Can’t we just leave things as they are? The occasional dinner? Drinks like now? No pressure. I may not want a fling, but I’m also not sure I want commitment yet, either. I’m still stinging from the divorce. I don’t even know if I like men any more — and if you make one crack about me turning lesbian, you’ve lost any chance you might ever have had.’

‘You mean I’m in with a chance?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘She said, weakening?’

Jenny flicked a little wine at him. ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘we’ll be working together. You said work and dating didn’t mix.’

‘It wouldn’t be the same. You’re a consultant. You’d be doing other work, teaching, work for other crime units. We wouldn’t be work colleagues. And I’m not your boss.’

Jenny rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘God, it is good to see you again. To sit and talk like this.’

‘So you’ll give it a go?’

‘I didn’t say that. I don’t know. Like I said, I still care about you, but I don’t want a fling. I’ve only been here a month or so. I’m still settling in.’ She sighed. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what I want.’

‘Me, neither. At least we’re agreed on that. Neither of us can predict where we’ll end up, but as the bard said, “Our doubts are traitors / And make us lose the good we oft might win / By fearing to attempt”.’

‘Oh, you smooth-talking bastard. That your poet’s influence?’

‘She’s not my poet, but yes, it is.’

‘Aren’t you just saying, “nothing ventured, nothing gained” in fancy language?’

Banks laughed. ‘I suppose I am. Though I’d argue that the Shakespeare quote does have more of a ring to it.’

Jenny lifted her head from her hands. ‘You’re right,’ she said, leaning forwards slowly. ‘Of course you are. But please do me a favour, for now at least. Don’t push it. Just leave things as they are.’ She held up both her hands, palms out.

Banks didn’t know where his next thought came from, and he had the good sense and quick enough wits to stop before he spoke it out aloud, but as he leaned back and reached for his beer glass, it flashed through his mind, as clear as anything: I don’t want to grow old alone.