Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 13

The first old ‘gang’ member Gerry had managed to trace for Banks was called Mick Charlton, or Michael, as his wife had insisted on calling him when Banks dropped by the house later. Mrs Charlton had told him that her husband was at work and had given him directions to the workshop. Michael Charlton had done well for himself since leaving Armley Park Secondary Modern for an apprenticeship as an electrician, and he now ran his own business not far from the estate where he grew up.

Gerry had trawled through the case files and newspaper articles for Banks quickly again after Annie and Jenny had passed on Maureen’s story, and, as expected, she had found no mention of Maureen’s secret meeting with Wendy, or of her tryst with anyone called Danny. Clearly, Banks thought, the most important details of that day were not in the public documents, or even in ex-Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe’s memory, but were known only to those in the two close-knit groups — the eleven-year-old boys, on the one side, and the fifteen-year-old girls on the other.

As Banks drove to Leeds, listening to Al Stewart’s Love Chronicles, he couldn’t help but dwell on what Annie and Jenny had told him about Maureen Tindall’s secret meeting with Wendy Vincent, and the reason why it had never happened. He also wanted to know whether the sketch of the man described by Paula Fletcher rang a bell with anyone, and Michael Charlton was someone who might know. He might even know who ‘Gord’ was. All Banks knew so far was that Maureen had said Mark Vincent saw her and Danny holding hands and heading for an old house where the kids went to kiss and canoodle. What he would have made of that at the age of eleven, Banks had no idea. He wasn’t sure what his own feelings towards girls were at that age. Had he ever held a girl’s hand, other than his mother’s? He couldn’t remember for certain, but he felt all that had come a bit later.

Banks turned off the music in the middle of the title track, just after some nice guitar work from Jimmy Page. As he parked in front of the low brick office block on Stanningley Road, he reflected that some people never move far from where they started out. That was certainly the case with Michael Charlton. His old estate was no more than a couple of miles up the road, and Armley Park Secondary Modern School was even closer, only a hundred yards or so from his offices just beyond the busy junction with Crab Lane and Branch Road. Of course, it was no longer a school but an office complex. According to Mrs Charlton, he had been running his own business there for over forty years.

Though the area had been given a facelift not so long ago, it was starting to become shabby again, Banks thought. That was partly because the renovations had never been completed. Some of the buildings condemned ages ago were still clinging on, a boarded-up pub, an empty shop, though the old Clock School, like Armley Park, had been converted into offices.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Charlton, please,’ Banks said to the receptionist in her little alcove.

‘Who may I say is calling?’

Banks flashed his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Banks.’ He had almost said DCI, having still not got used to referring to himself as ‘superintendent’. There was no decent abbreviation for the rank, either. Det. Supt. didn’t sound right, and DS already stood for Detective Sergeant, so he was lumbered with the full moniker.

‘Just a minute.’ The receptionist picked up the phone and announced him.

‘He says to go through,’ she said, pointing to the door marked M. CHARLTON ELECTRICAL. Banks found himself in a large open-plan area with work benches, various pieces of electrical equipment, testing machines and wires and a desk in a corner by the window for the boss. It wasn’t much of a view, just the estate over the road. People worked at the various benches, and another desk was occupied across the room. Banks could smell solder and burned rubber.

‘Superintendent?’ said Charlton, waving him over. ‘Do sit down. There, move those files.’

Banks picked up the batch of files on the chair.

‘Just dump them on top of that cabinet there, if you don’t mind.’

Banks did as Charlton asked and sat down.

Charlton tapped his fleshy lower lip with his pen, contemplating Banks, then said. ‘Well, it’s not every day we get a visit from the boys in blue. What can I do for you?’

No point beating about the bush, Banks thought. ‘It’s about what happened in 1964. The Wendy Vincent business.’

‘Wendy? I thought that was all over and done with now you finally got your man.’

‘I still have a few questions. Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?’

Charlton leaned back in his chair. ‘It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve got nothing to hide. I must admit I’m curious what it is you’re after, though.’

‘Just information,’ said Banks.

‘Then I’m your man. I was there, got the T-shirt.’

‘Did you know Wendy Vincent and her friend Maureen Grainger?’

‘Not very well, no. I knew who they were, of course, but they were older than us and, well, when you’re eleven or so, you’re interested in other things than fifteen-year-old girls, aren’t you?’

‘Like cricket and model aeroplanes?’

‘And stamp collecting, trainspotting. That sort of thing, yes. Anything, in fact. And they don’t want anything to do with you, either. It’s all pop stars and Jackie and make-up.’

‘And there was the gang, wasn’t there? You and your mates.’

Charlton laughed. ‘I’d hardly call that ragtag collection of misfits I belonged to a gang. At least not in the sense that people use the word today.’

‘Who were the members?’

‘There was Mark Vincent, Billy Dowson, Ricky Bramble, Tommy Jackson and me.’

‘Just the five of you?’

‘Most weeks, yes.’

‘Frank Dowson?’

‘No. Too old for us.’

‘Did you ever have a member called Gord? Or Gordon?’

‘No.’

‘Did you follow the reports in the papers when the case came back into the limelight a couple of years ago?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did it surprise you, Frank Dowson being found guilty?’

‘Not at all. I always thought he was creepy.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just creepy.’

‘Did you see him often?’

‘Hardly ever. It was Billy’s gang, mostly because it was his dad’s garage we used to meet in, but Frank was away at sea most of the time. Besides, like I said, he was too old to be interested in anything like that, anything we were doing.’

‘Still, you knew him, didn’t you, and he raped and murdered a girl you knew. It must have had some effect on you?’

‘Oh, I’m not saying I wasn’t shocked or upset. Horrified. Creepy as he was, I never thought of Frank Dowson as a murderer. But the more I thought about it, the less surprised I was.’

‘Because he was creepy?’

For the first time, Charlton seemed to become guarded in his responses. Banks could sense a curtain closing, and he wanted to wrench it open. ‘That’s a part of it. Yes. He hardly ever spoke, and when he was around, he had a habit of just appearing there out of nowhere. Like, he was a big bloke and all, but quiet as a mouse.’

‘Did he ever come to your gang meetings?’

Charlton glanced towards the wall. ‘Like I said, he was too old to be in the gang.’

‘That’s not what I asked,’ Banks said.

Charlton sighed. ‘There’s a pub up on Town Street,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Maybe we could talk more comfortably there.’

Banks stood up. ‘Your choice.’

Gerry Masterson stood alone in the boardroom of Eastvale Police HQ with a huge Ordnance Survey map of the area spread open on the desk. She was used to the large space being filled with officers for a briefing, the sort of thing she had done at the beginning of what was now becoming known as the Edgeworth Case. Though she could hear occasional voices and various office noises from the corridor outside, the boardroom seemed to have a muffled atmosphere all of its own, partly due to the wainscoting and the long polished oval table with its matching high-backed chairs, not to mention the silent and disapproving stares of the men with mutton-chop whiskers and red faces in gilt frames around the walls. The woollen merchants who, along with the lead miners before them, had been responsible for whatever prosperity and population Swainsdale possessed.

The lead mines were all in ruins now, tourist attractions, and though you’d be hard pushed to go very far without bumping into a sheep in North Yorkshire, the cloth and woollen industries had long fallen victim to cheap imports; first, legitimately from India, but more recently from Asian sweat shops or child labour. It had also lost a lot of ground to synthetics over the years, though sheep-shearing was still a regular occurrence — and another tourist attraction — it was the meat rather than the wool that people were interested in these days.

Gerry rested her palms on the smooth wood and scanned the map. When it came to maps, she thought, you could only get so far with computers. They were great for the details and for suggesting or calculating routes, but for sheer scale you needed real sheets, not a computer screen, and to get that effect she had spread out the large OS Landranger map on the table and marked the perimeters according to places the killer was known, or highly suspected, to have visited. Maps told you a lot if you could read them well enough, and Gerry had learned that skill at school, then honed it later on country walks. She could follow the contours of a hill, the boundaries of a field and the progress of a footpath with the same ease that most people could read a book.

Close to the River Swain were Fortford, where it all started, Helmthorpe, where the matching sets of clothing were bought, and Swainshead, where Martin Edgeworth had lived. North of there was the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, to which Edgeworth had belonged, and to the east, over the moors, was Lyndgarth, the first place the killer had tried to buy his clothing.

If Gerry drew a line linking all these places she ended up with a wonky rectangle. None of its sides were exactly the same length, but the west — east lines were the longest sides. She also pencilled in an extension from Fortford to include Eastvale in the bottom south-east corner and joined that line to Lyndgarth.

The area she had marked off covered a lot of ground, though much of it was wild moorland, and she also had to accept that the killer might have been living at least a short distance outside the boundaries she had drawn. But it was a start. The only places of any real size were Eastvale, Helmthorpe, Swainshead and Lyndgarth. Even Fortford and Gratly were not much more than small villages. Eastvale, though there was no proof the killer had ever set foot there, was by far the largest settlement, being close to twenty thousand in population.

Somewhere, in the midst of all this, lived a killer, Gerry was certain. The problem was how to find him. He might have lived in the dale for years, of course, but Gerry doubted that. She believed that he had come specifically to carry out the shooting at the wedding. Of course, he might have left the area immediately after — most sensible assassins would — but that was a risk she would have to take. She could hardly search the whole country for him, but she could do a thorough job of covering her own part of it. Even if he had left, there was a chance that, by finding out where he had lived when he was in Yorkshire, they could possibly find some evidence that would lead to his identity and perhaps help track him to his new location.

But Gerry felt he was still close. She didn’t know why, and it wasn’t a feeling she would share with DI Cabbot or the boss, but she felt it, nevertheless. He was nearby, watching, enjoying the results of his handiwork. There was even a chance that he hadn’t finished yet. She had no idea whether he had planned any more killings, or even whether he had managed to get his hands on any more firearms, now that Edgeworth’s AR15 and Taurus were in the police evidence locker, but she somehow felt he hadn’t finished what he came to do.

So she was trying to find someone who lived a relatively hermit-like existence — but not too reclusive as to be suspicious — for perhaps only a short while. That set some limits. She would first check the out-of-the-way places, including empty properties where he might squat without being discovered. There probably weren’t many, but there would be a few decrepit barns and old shepherd’s shelters if he didn’t mind living rough. Of course, he would need somewhere to park his car, and he might have used a nearby public car park. But on second thoughts, she quickly ruled them out. Given the magnitude of his intended crime, she didn’t think he would want to take even the slightest risk of being seen to break the law before he got started. On the other hand, she had decided from his shopping habits that he was either parsimonious or short of money, so she could also rule out any higher priced properties or rentals. That should whittle the list down a bit; prices being what they were in the area these days, it was difficult to find an affordable cottage or flat. There were a few converted barns, but even they were pricey, and he would have stood out like a sore thumb in a student flat in Eastvale. His needs would probably be simple: a roof over his head, a bed or somewhere to set down a sleeping bag — though she ruled out camping because of all the rain — and solitude. The sort of place a poor writer or artist might be able to afford. Ray Cabbot might be able to help there. His resources weren’t exactly limited, but he had been checking out properties all around the county since before Christmas. He didn’t make her as nervous as he had when they first met. Somehow, hearing Annie talk about him and watching the way she dealt with him gave Gerry confidence. Ray Cabbot might not be a pussy-cat or a saint, but he was no abusive predator either.

There were certain routine things that could be done fairly quickly by telephone, such as checking the voters’ registry at the council offices — though a man on the verge of mass murder might be expected to be relatively uninterested in who his next MP or councillor was going to be — and the land registry, which would give her the name of the owner, from which she could also perhaps get the names of anyone who had rented from him. Then there were the utilities that just about everyone had — gas, electricity, Yorkshire Water — and after that telephone companies, Internet providers, the Department of Vehicle Licencing, the post office, HMRC and many more.

She wasn’t stupid enough to imagine that he would have used his own name or real previous address, but whatever details he had given the seller or renter might also help determine who he was and help locate him. And she had the advantage of Ray’s sketch.

The problem was that Gerry didn’t have time to do all this work herself. It would mean hours on the phone, perhaps even traipsing about the countryside, visits to out of the way places, false trails galore. And she had other things to do. Would AC Gervaise authorise the manpower? Doug Wilson could help, for a start. He didn’t seem to be doing much these days. And maybe with the addition of a couple of ambitious uniformed officers, that would be enough to get things in motion. Surely the AC couldn’t object to that.

There was only one way to find out.

Banks and Charlton crossed the road and walked up Branch Road, past the Western and back of the Tesco Express, on to Town Street, where most of the shops had foreign names. The pub had clearly seen better days, but they found a quiet corner in the lounge bar, where the noise of video machines and dreadful pop music was distant. Charlton offered to get the drinks. Banks asked for a coffee and wouldn’t be talked out of it. He didn’t want to be driving in Leeds traffic with even one alcoholic drink in him. He had let DCI Ken Blackstone know he would be on his patch that day, and they had arranged to meet in the city centre later for dinner and drinks. There was a good chance they would take a taxi and Banks would spend the night in Blackstone’s spare room.

‘It’s not so bad here during the day,’ said Charlton, ‘but it gets a bit edgier by night. It’s almost all Eastern Europeans these days, as you could see from the shops. First the Poles, now it’s Romanians and Bulgarians.’ Banks had been in the area before on more than one case over the past couple of decades, and he was aware that now the once Northern English working-class neighbourhood was very much dominated by Eastern European immigrants. There was even a new mosque not far away, on Brooklyn Terrace.

When they were settled in the corner, Charlton seemed nervous. ‘You must think it’s odd, me asking if you wanted to go somewhere more private after I said I’d nothing to hide?’

Banks gave a noncommittal shrug.

‘I mean, it’s true. I don’t have anything to hide. Nothing at all. But some things... well, you know, office gossip and the like. After all, I am the boss. I do have a reputation to live up to, a standard to set. I don’t want all my employees knowing about my misspent youth.’

‘What is it that you don’t have to hide, then?’ Banks asked.

Charlton took a long pull on his pint of Guinness and licked the foam from his lips. ‘Mm, nectar,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean misspent in a criminal way, you understand. Just that I suppose I could have spent more time on my books, more time at school listening to teachers. The usual. I failed my eleven plus.’

‘You don’t seem to have done badly for yourself.’

‘Not at all. I’ve nothing to complain about. If you show a bit of application you don’t have to worry too much about the education. The world will always need plumbers and electricians. That’s what I say. Elbow grease and a bit of savvy.’ He touched the side of his nose. ‘That’s what it takes, superintendent. Hard graft never did anyone any harm.’

It was a variation on the Samuel Smiles self-help philosophy that was engraved in pithy sayings inside the Victorian town hall dome, and Banks had heard it many times before, almost as often as ‘where there’s muck there’s brass’.

The coffee was bland. Banks added milk and sweetener. They didn’t help much. ‘Frank Dowson,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘Not much more than I have done,’ said Charlton. ‘I meant what I said. None of us really knew him. Maybe Billy, I suppose, being his brother, but he wasn’t a topic of conversation. We were all a bit scared of him, like we were of Billy’s dad. Frank was definitely strange. Retarded, I think. Or whatever they call it these days.’

‘But there’s something else, isn’t there, or you wouldn’t have wanted us to leave the office?’

Charlton started playing with an extra beermat, first manipulating it between his fingers, then picking it to bits. ‘The day it happened,’ he said finally. ‘You know, the day Wendy... the murder.’

‘Yes?’

‘We had a gang meeting. All the members were there.’

‘But not Frank Dowson?’

‘I told you. Frank wasn’t a member. Not that we did anything serious. A bit of mischief, you know. Boys will be boys. The occasional scuffle with the Sandford gang. But nobody ever got seriously hurt. No knives or bicycle chains involved. A bloody nose or a black eye at worst.’

‘And Frank?’

‘Right. I was getting to that. He was supposed to drop by that afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘As a guest, like. You know. Billy had asked him.’

‘Again, why? Did he have something to say, something to tell you, or show you?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Are you saying that?’

‘Well, er, yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Go on, then. I’m listening.’

‘You’re not making this easy.’

Banks leaned forwards. ‘Then let me simplify things, Mr Charlton. If you don’t tell me what it is you have to say, we’ll go up to Eastvale HQ, find an empty interview room and talk there until I’m satisfied. Is that easy enough for you?’

‘You don’t have to be like that.’

‘What do I have to be like to get you to tell me what it is you have to say? I’m being as patient as I can.’

‘All right, all right. Billy told us his brother was going to drop by the garage during our meeting that afternoon, like, to show us something he’d got off a darkie in Marseilles.’

‘What was this something?’

Charlton swallowed. ‘A knife. A flick-knife. But don’t go taking it the wrong way. He was just going to show it to us, that’s all. We were kids, superintendent, fascinated by exotic things like that. A hint of danger, the forbidden.’

‘And what was it like, this knife? Did it live up to your expectations?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why not?’

‘Frank didn’t turn up.’

‘What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.’

‘I said he didn’t turn up. Frank Dowson.’

‘But he was in the area?’

Charlton seem to panic a little at that. ‘I don’t know, I tell you. How would I know? I didn’t see him. I hadn’t seen him for ages. I assumed he probably got leave from the merchant navy, like, and hadn’t been able to come to the meeting for some reason. Maybe he’d been called back to his ship? Maybe his leave got cancelled.’

‘So let me get this straight. Frank Dowson was supposed to drop by the garage and show you this exotic knife he’d picked up in Marseilles, but he didn’t turn up, and around the same time Wendy Vincent gets raped and stabbed in the nearby woods. Stabbed, mind you, with a flick-knife, perhaps, and none of you thinks it’s worth telling the police about it. You don’t even think he was in the area. Am I right?’

‘You didn’t know Billy’s dad. He was a holy terror was Mr Dowson. Like one of them Krays, he was, or that crazy mafia bloke in Goodfellas. You didn’t want to get on his bad side. And Frank was family, after all.’

‘Are you telling me that Billy Dowson’s father told the gang members not to mention that Frank Dowson was supposed to show up with a knife that afternoon but didn’t? That you were all protecting him? Protecting a possible killer?’

‘No, it wasn’t like that. He told Billy that Frank couldn’t get leave. Simple as that. He didn’t talk to us. He didn’t even know about our gang. Billy was scared shitless, and he just asked us, like, not to say anything, or his dad would kill him. After all, Frank hadn’t turned up with the knife. Nobody had seen him. For all we knew, he might have been having us on, or he could have been still at sea. There might not have been any knife at all.’

‘Did Billy believe his father?’

‘I don’t know. He was just scared. He told us what he’d said.’

‘Did you ever think the father could have done it, raped and killed Wendy, not Frank?’

‘I was only eleven. I didn’t think about things like that at all.’

‘But there must have been conversations. At school, perhaps. I know what kids that age are like. I was one myself, too, don’t forget.’

‘It honestly never crossed my mind.’

‘And did you believe Billy?’

‘I don’t know. I hadn’t seen Frank, had I? He could have been anywhere, for all I knew.’

‘Like in the woods?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘But Frank must have been at the house with the knife some time recently, mustn’t he, if Billy knew about it, had persuaded him to come and show it to the gang, and if their father was worried about the police finding out? He must have known something. Frank must have been in the neighbourhood the day Wendy Vincent was murdered.’

‘I don’t know. I never saw him. Honest I didn’t.’

Christ, give me strength, Banks thought, gritting his teeth. ‘So tell me, how did you feel when they finally convicted Frank Dowson of Wendy Vincent’s murder fifty years after the fact, along with several violent rapes he committed after he killed her?’

Charlton swallowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Come on, Mr Charlton. It’s not that tough a question.’

‘Well, I suppose I thought about that flick-knife and that it really might have been him. But I didn’t know at the time. How could I? I hadn’t seen him anywhere around. We didn’t even know what had happened to Wendy Vincent until well after the meeting. The next day. Later, even. And even then you lot didn’t tell us all the details, like exactly when or how it had happened, or what weapon was used.’

‘But Billy Dowson had warned you not to mention Frank and the knife?’

‘Yes. Because of his dad.’

‘So why didn’t you manage to put two and two together? Or suspect the dad?’

‘We were only kids, eleven years old, for Christ’s sake, and Frank was always getting into trouble with the police. He was the kind of person you lot pick on, on account of he wasn’t too bright, and he’d probably confess to things he didn’t do, you know, clear unsolved crimes off your books, thinking he was being clever, like.’

‘So you didn’t think that Frank Dowson might have actually murdered Wendy Vincent?’

‘I’m not saying it never crossed my mind. But no. Not seriously. I mean, it’s not as black and white as you’re making out.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, just shut the fuck up and let me think. Will you do that for me?’

Charlton’s jaw hung open, but he did shut up. Drinking some Guinness helped him with that.

‘You should have told the police at the time,’ said Banks after a brief pause. ‘But you know that, don’t you? Because of you, more innocent girls had to suffer at Frank Dowson’s hands. None of them were stabbed, the way Wendy was, but that’s probably because they couldn’t identify him. Some of them might have wished since that they had been killed. Either way, you’ve got blood on your hands, Mick.’

‘That’s not down to me! You can’t blame me for you lot not doing your jobs properly.’

Banks took several deep breaths. He was beginning to wish he’d ordered a real drink, driving or not. ‘Just a couple more points before I go,’ he said, as calmly as he could.

‘Anything.’

‘Where’s Billy Dowson these days?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Charlton. ‘Ten years or more. Drug overdose.’

So Billy Dowson could hardly be involved in the wedding shootings, Banks thought, mentally scratching his name off the list. But could one of them — Ricky, Mark, Tommy, even Charlton himself — for some reason he didn’t yet know? ‘And his sister, Cilla?’

‘Who knows. Probably dead, too, the state she was in back then. Went off to London, didn’t she? And before you ask, Billy’s father’s dead, too.’

‘Shot? Stabbed?’

‘Natural causes. He had a massive stroke.’

‘Hallelujah. So there is divine justice, after all. How about Wendy’s brother, Mark Vincent?’

‘I’ve bumped into him one or twice over the years. He joined the army. Paras, I think.’

‘When did you last see him?’

Charlton broke eye contact.

‘You’d better tell me the truth, Mick.’

‘It was a while ago. We didn’t keep in touch.’

‘How long ago?’

‘March last year.’

‘Around the time Frank Dowson died in prison?’

‘Just after.’

‘Why did you meet him then?’

‘He just happened to be in town. Passing through. He dropped by the office, asked about the others, suggested we could all maybe get together one evening for a few bevvies, like.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it sounded like a good idea to me. I was in touch with Ricky Bramble and Tommy Jackson, so I suggested to them and they were both keen, too.’

‘Where did this get together of yours take place?’

‘Pub in town. Whitelock’s. In the—’

‘I know where it is. How did the evening turn out?’

‘Fine. Mostly.’

‘You all still got along?’

‘Well, people change, you know. Mark was sort of different. He’d seen action overseas. It changes you, that sort of thing.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s hard to explain. You get harder, maybe, less caring. The way he talked about the people in those countries he fought in, as if they were subhuman. To be quite honest he looked as if he’d just come out of prison.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Pale, scruffy, down on his luck. It’s kind of an aura. I’ve had plenty of ex-cons applying for jobs, and I’ve even employed some of them. You get to know the signs.’

‘Did Mark Vincent want a job?’

‘As a matter of fact, he did, but I didn’t have any openings. And he didn’t have the qualifications. He hadn’t learned a trade in the army, either, certainly no electrical stuff.’

‘So you turned him down?’

‘Gently.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘A shrug and a sneer, like he was letting me know he knew I was saying no because he was down on his luck, because he seemed like a desperate bum.’

‘What did you talk about that night?’

‘The past, mostly. See, Mark was always devoted to his big sister. To Wendy. He came from a tough family, his parents were always at each other’s throats, and his, and she was like some sort of guardian angel to him. Protected him when his father got pissed and violent. Fed him when their mother spent the grocery money on ciggies and gin. That sort of thing. Stood up for him against bullies. She was a fairly strong lass, fine hockey player. He was devastated when it happened, young as he was. Never really got over it, if you ask me.’

‘That why he joined the Paras?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. We weren’t in touch a lot by then. His parents split up not long after Wendy’s death and farmed him out to some aunt and uncle or other out Castleford way. What I heard was he kept on getting in trouble with the police and it was either jail or the army. He was sixteen when he joined up.’

‘Anything interesting happen that night?’

‘As a matter of fact, it did. Mostly we were talking about old times. Mark was asking about people we’d all known back then, what they were doing now. We mentioned Maureen, and Ricky happened to know she’d got married to some banker and changed her name to Tindall. And that her daughter was Laura Tindall, the model. Ricky’s sister Susan still keeps in touch with Maureen on and off.’

‘You told Mark Vincent this?’

‘It came up in conversation, that’s all.’

‘Did you talk about Laura’s forthcoming wedding?’

‘No. We didn’t know about it then. At least, it hadn’t been announced, and Susan hadn’t mentioned anything.’

‘Go on.’

‘Anyway, we got on to talking about Wendy taking the short cut through the woods and all, and Ricky Bramble said Susan told him she saw Wendy waiting at a bus stop. She asked her where she was going, and Wendy said she was supposed to be going in town shopping with Maureen Grainger, but Maureen hadn’t shown up. She said not to tell anyone because she wasn’t supposed to hang out with Wendy, but this was years later, like, so Susan didn’t think secrecy mattered any more. Anyway, Susan just walked on, heard the bus come and go, turned and saw Wendy hadn’t got on it. Instead, she was crossing the road to the lane that led to the woods. That was all.’

‘Was this the first time you’d heard that story?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlton. ‘Ricky said his sister had thought it was best not to tell the police. You know how kids can be about keeping secrets. It all seems so important. The cops talked to all of us, like. Susan didn’t want to tell them she was probably the last person to see Wendy alive, did she? You didn’t get involved with the law. It was that kind of estate. We took care of our own.’

‘You didn’t do a very good job with Frank Dowson, did you?’

Charlton stared into his glass.

‘How did Mark Vincent react?’

‘He left. Just like that. Turned very pale, even paler than before, drained his pint, plonked his glass down on the table almost hard enough to break it, and left without so much as a goodbye, lads, nice to see you again.’

‘And did you have any idea why he did that?’

‘Course. I might be a bit thick, but I’m not stupid. It must have been a hell of a shock to his system, like, finding out that maybe if Maureen Grainger had turned up to meet Wendy like she said she would, they’d have gone into town to shop, and none of the rest would have happened. Wendy would have still been alive and his life wouldn’t have been ruined.’

Banks could do nothing but shake his head slowly at what he was hearing. ‘ “A hell of a shock”,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I suppose it must have been. Do you know where Mark Vincent lives now?’

‘No idea. Probably living rough somewhere.’

Banks took a copy of the sketch Ray had done out of his briefcase. ‘Could this be him?’

Charlton studied it then handed it back. ‘Could be, I suppose. The hair’s right. Short and curly. Nose and eyes, too. Yeah, it could be Mark, all right.’

‘Do you know if Mark Vincent had a tattoo?’

‘Yeah. On his chest. He had it done in the army. He showed us it in Whitelock’s. Wings with a parachute superimposed. Really cool.’

In itself, Banks thought, the story was nothing much. A young girl went off snogging with her boyfriend instead of turning up to meet her friend. But that friend got killed, and her brother, who had seen Maureen with a boy, was devoted to his sister. What happened brought his whole life crashing down. His parents split up, he was sent to live with relatives and he became a troubled young man before joining the army at an early age. If Mark Vincent had enough psychological damage to begin with, he could have had a motive for the shooting. The triggers were all there: the new attention given to his sister’s murder in the media, the conviction and death of Frank Dowson, the revelation that Maureen had been supposed to meet Wendy, and the publicity surrounding the forthcoming Tindall — Kemp wedding. He already knew Maureen’s married name, and the odds were pretty good that if he saw a photo of her in the paper, it wouldn’t take him long to put two and two together. There were also ways of checking.

Was it enough? Banks was beginning to think they had a possible suspect in Mark Vincent and needed to find out as much about him as possible. They also needed to find him. They had Ray’s sketch, which was a start, but a real photograph would be even better.