Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 14

AC Gervaise had offered Gerry only DC Doug Wilson and PC Neil Stamford to help trace Mark Vincent, and while Stamford worked the phones from the incident room downstairs, and Doug Wilson questioned Edgeworth’s friends at the White Rose and the shooting club, Gerry cracked her knuckles and tilted the screen to suit her angle of vision. Where to begin? That was the question. She needed to find out as much as she could about Mark Vincent as quickly as possible, so they could make an assessment as to whether they were dealing with the killer or a red herring. Detective Superintendent Banks had phoned from Leeds and told her that Mark seemed to resemble Ray’s sketch, and why he might have had a motive for the shooting.

In the first place, no matter what tricks PC Stamford tried, he couldn’t come up with a current address for a Mark Vincent. Gerry had half-expected that and assumed he was operating under an alias. Gord, perhaps? It would be Wilson’s and Stamford’s job to see if that were the case and they could get past that little problem and find out what name he was using.

Banks had already told her the basic details of what happened to him after Wendy’s murder. Digging a little deeper, she found that he had been born on 24 April 1953 and in 1964, after failing his eleven plus, he had attended Armley Park Secondary Modern School. Not long after his sister’s murder, his parents split up and he was sent to live with an aunt and uncle near Castleford, where he attended a local secondary modern.

In the army, after basic training at Catterick, where he was apparently discovered to be an excellent marksman, Mark assumed active duty as a private in the 1st Battalion. Shortly after his eighteenth birthday, he was posted to Northern Ireland. His history there was sketchy. Gerry also discovered that the emblem of the regiment was a pair of wings with a parachute at their centre, and that many soldiers had this tattooed on their upper arms or chests, sometimes with the words PARACHUTE REGIMENT tattooed in a semi-circle above or below the emblem. Banks had told her that Michael Charlton, one of the old gang members, had seen this tattoo less than a year ago.

As Gerry went through the main points, she made notes. Later she would make some phone calls. The forces could be very cagey about giving out information, but she knew a major in the army equivalent of Human Resources at Catterick who had helped her in the past. Aunt Jane would be able to fill a few gaps, she was certain. It might cost Gerry a posh meal, as Aunt Jane loved her gourmet food, but it would be worth it. She was also good company.

Mark Vincent later turned up as a corporal in the Falklands War at the age of twenty-nine then disappeared again until he was promoted to sergeant in 1988. That didn’t last long, and he remained a corporal from then on. He would have been forty-seven by the time he turned up in Kosovo in 2000, Gerry reckoned. It didn’t seem like a very distinguished career, and the details of his discharge were vague to the point of being useless. Reading between the lines, Gerry guessed at best dishonourable, and at worst something to do with a massacre of innocent women and children, but again, perhaps Aunt Jane would be able to help.

Vincent had been in Iraq for just a few months, in Basra, when he finally parted company with the army in 2003 at the age of fifty. The silences were beginning to tell her a lot more than skimpy details at this point. In the early noughties, it seemed that Vincent turned to a life of crime. He spent a short term in prison between 2008 and 2010 for burglary, then another, longer sentence for arson in 2012. Apparently, he had set fire to a failing business on the owner’s instructions for a share of the insurance money. He had also been suspected of involvement in people-trafficking young girls from the Balkans for sex, but the police had insufficient evidence to charge him. He didn’t come out of jail until February 2016, shortly after Frank Dowson had been convicted of Wendy Vincent’s murder.

Jenny Fuller might be able to fill in some of the psychological insights once Gerry had managed to flesh out Vincent’s biography, but the skeleton of it was already in place. With any luck, Aunt Jane would be able to provide some illumination on the army’s role. And there would certainly be more details of his criminal activities in the West Yorkshire police files. She had called Banks to ask if he would get DCI Blackstone to dig around in the records a bit. Banks said he would. Gerry was beginning to think that the super was as convinced as she was that Mark Vincent was their man, and that he was still somewhere within their reach.

Perhaps the most important thing Gerry had learned was that Vincent had a criminal record, which meant there would be a photograph of him in the online archive.

All in all, she thought, turning away from the screen and scribbling more notes on her pad, it hadn’t been a bad afternoon’s work.

Ken Blackstone remained a staunch curry fan, though Banks found that spicy food was giving his digestion more gyp the older he became. He made sure to take an acid reducer before they settled down in the Indian restaurant on Burley Road that evening, on the southern fringe of the University of Leeds student area, and ordered a couple of pints of lager, samosas to start, then vindaloo for Blackstone and a lamb korma for Banks, with aloo gobi, rice and plenty of naans. Streetlights reflected in the wet dark streets through the plate-glass window. Passing cars sent up sheets of water from the gutters. Inside, the mingled smells of the cumin, cardamom and coriander overcame all Banks’s initial reservations, but he tapped his pocket to make sure he had more antacid tablets with him, just in case. Blackstone smiled.

‘It’s all very well for you to smirk,’ said Banks. ‘We don’t all have cast-iron stomachs.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘Anyway, cheers.’ They clinked glasses.

‘What brings you down to our fair city?’ Blackstone asked.

Banks explained about Martin Edgeworth and how an old murder had turned up in the background of the mother of the bride.

‘So you didn’t get the right man?’

‘I don’t think so. I think he was set up, poor sod.’

‘And this old murder is the answer?’

‘Could be. It might help provide us with one, at any rate. I was sceptical at first. Gerry’s apt to go running after any new idea that comes her way. But she’s sharp, and she has good instincts.’

‘So what can I do?’

‘It was on your patch, quite a bit before your time, but you might have heard of Frank Dowson.’

‘Of course. One of our big cold-case successes. He raped and stabbed a teenage girl in 1964.’

‘Right.’

‘But he’s dead,’ said Blackstone. ‘Died in prison last March.’

‘I know that. It’s not him I’m after. It’s the victim’s brother.’

‘Wendy Vincent’s brother?’

‘Yes. Mark. He was eleven at the time.’

Blackstone bit into a samosa and washed it down with lager. ‘Why now, after so long?’

‘I’ve thought about that a lot,’ said Banks. ‘It was one of my first objections against Gerry’s theory. But people do nurse grudges. Feelings do fester. All they need is the right trigger, or triggers, and there were plenty of those.’

‘The trial?’

‘Among other things.’ Banks told him about his chat with Michael Charlton and Wendy waiting for Maureen at the bus stop. ‘And after him,’ he went on, ‘I tracked down a second old “gang” member. A bloke called Ricky Bramble. Quite happily retired, and devoted to his allotment.’

‘Was he any use?’

‘Well, he confirmed what Charlton told me about his sister talking to Wendy Vincent at the bus stop, and about Mark Vincent’s reaction. He also confirmed that Mark Vincent doted on his big sister.’

‘Nobody dotes on their big sisters,’ said Blackstone. ‘Believe me. I know. I have two.’

Banks laughed. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘everyone knew that Wendy did sort of take care of her little brother, look out for him. Their parents weren’t always a lot of use, especially when they’d been drinking, which was most of the time, and Wendy took Mark under her wing. Protected him. But it seems that it was the memory of Wendy that haunted Mark. According to Bramble, after the murder, and years later, when they met up again only a year or so ago, Mark used to talk about places he and Wendy had been when they were kids, hiding places from their parents, the little kindnesses she’d done for him, how she made him laugh and how angelic she was. He carried a photograph of her in his wallet. He even tried to describe what he thought she would look like today if she were still alive. It’s pretty weird stuff. And Ricky Bramble also verified that the sketch looked a lot like the Vincent he met last year.’

‘So her brother idolised her after her death?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Like Thomas Hardy did with his first wife Emma. They hardly talked for years, but when she died, he wrote some beautiful poems about their early days, being in love, travelling around the Cornish coast.’ As he spoke, Banks thought about Emily Hargreaves. Was he doing the same with her, despite what Julie Drake had told him? Perhaps. He certainly found it impossible to blame her for the action she had taken, hurtful though it was to him. And when he pictured her, it was the youthful, beautiful ‘first girl I ever loved’ that he saw. Life can push people in unexpected directions, but he thought he would probably always feel that way about Emily. She was one of those rare girls that you just felt you wanted to be always happy, even if you weren’t going to be the source of that happiness.

‘And then Ricky Bramble comes out with a story about Wendy and Maureen that Mark never knew before,’ Banks went on, ‘and it knocks him for six.’

Suddenly, Banks thought, Maureen was a slag who was snogging some kid in an old house instead of meeting her friend to go shopping, and that cost her friend her life. Mark had made a paragon of Wendy and a pariah of Maureen. The angel and the whore. And as much as Wendy had become a symbol of purity to him over the years, enshrined in loving memory, the more easily Maureen now became the harlot, the betrayer, the destroyer. At least that was how Banks saw it. And the last straw: the wedding announcement. Maureen Tindall, mother of the happy, affluent, successful bride, marrying not just an ex-soldier, but a successful one, a true hero. All the things Mark Vincent had never had or had never been. That must have hurt.

Banks picked up his briefcase. ‘Gerry found out that Vincent has picked up a criminal record since he left the Paras.’ He told Blackstone about Mark Vincent’s prison terms for burglary and arson and suspicion of being involved in the traffic of young girls from Eastern Europe. ‘It happened on your patch, so I’m hoping you’ve got something on him in records. Particularly a good photograph.’

Blackstone flipped through the file. ‘I’m sure we do,’ he said. ‘We photograph everyone we charge, and it should all be on the national database, along with DNA and fingerprints. But you already know that.’

‘I was just hoping you might be able to dig out something a bit better than the mugshot from the archive.’

‘I suppose we could try. We might have something. It’s not as if you’re asking about a fifty-year-old case this time, the way you usually do. Our recent records are actually in pretty good shape. And I even know where to get my hands on them.’

Banks scooped up a mouthful of korma with his naan. ‘I’m sure you do,’ he said, when he had eaten it. It burned all the way down, even though the waiter had assured him it was mild. Banks glugged some chilled lager.

‘When would you like this information?’

‘Tomorrow morning will do.’

Blackstone made a mock salute. ‘No problemo, sir. I’ll have one of my lads get right on it. Would you be requiring a scan, JPEG or courier job?’

‘What a bewildering array of choices. What’s fastest?’

‘JPEG, probably. I can email it to you.’

‘That’ll do nicely, then.’

‘Your wish, my command.’

Banks grinned. ‘Thanks, Ken. I owe you.’

‘I’ll add it to the list.’

They ate and drank in silence for a while, then Blackstone ordered a couple more pints of lager. Banks could use another one by then; his gut was burning. The nachos had had the same effect the other day. He wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him. Cancer, or something. Or a heart attack. Didn’t they sometimes start with what felt like indigestion? Maybe he should get checked out. On the other hand, it could just be a simple case of indigestion. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he felt it easing off, fading into the distance. He’d take another antacid later.

‘So tell me about your love life,’ Blackstone said.

‘What love life?’

‘A little bird tells me that your profiler is back in town. Jenny Fuller.’

‘Are there no secrets?’

‘Word travels fast, old son. So? Is it true?’

‘That she’s back? Yes. She’s been gone a long time, Ken. A lot of water under the bridge.’

‘Oh, don’t try to fob me off with clichés.’

‘I’m not. There’s nothing to tell.’

‘You must know whether you’re in with a chance.’

‘I don’t, Ken. Really, I don’t. I don’t even know if I want to be.’

‘But you’ve talked about it, haven’t you? I can tell. That’s how it starts, you know.’

‘She’s still finding her feet. She thinks our moment may have passed.’

‘Bollocks. I doubt it’s her feet you’re interested in, though who knows? It takes all sorts. But I’d hurry up if I were you, mate, or believe me, someone will get there before you. From what I heard she’s still a bit of all right.’

‘A bit of all right? Christ, Ken, I haven’t heard that expression in years. Not since I was a teenager, at any rate. A bit of all right?’

‘OK, sorry. Getting carried away. But you’d be a fool not to go for it, you mark my words. Unless you’re too busy dallying with that poet of yours.’

‘She’s not mine, and I’m not dallying with her.’

‘ “Had we but world enough, and time...” ’

Banks laughed. ‘Who’s the poetry fan now?’ He realised that he sometimes got too lost in morose thoughts and memories when he was alone for too long, and someone like Ken brought him out of himself. Banks was a man who took his life and his job very seriously indeed, but he was able to laugh at himself, too. He was tempted to tell Blackstone about Emily, and what Julie Drake had revealed to him on Saturday night, but that still felt too close to home, too private, too raw. He didn’t think he could bear to tell anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

‘It’s one of the few I know,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ve even tried it out a couple of times on dates but it’s never worked.’

They finished their food, paid the bill and lingered over their drinks for a while longer. Eventually Blackstone said, ‘You’re obviously not driving home tonight. Let’s get a cab, go back to mine and have a nightcap. I just picked up a jazz CD that might interest you. Maria Schneider, The Thomson Fields. Heard it?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll like it. But let’s go, before it gets too late. I don’t know about you, but I’m not the night owl I used to be any more. You can come to the station with me in the morning before you set off home, and we’ll see what we can find on your Mark Vincent.’

Banks finished his pint. ‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ he said.

Gerry made her way up the A1 for her meeting with Aunt Jane that evening. It was full dark already, and the road was busy with the last of the rush-hour traffic. Her windshield wipers were whipping back and forth at top speed to clear the filthy spray thrown up by the lorries ahead of her. The A167 through Northallerton would probably have been a more pleasant drive, Gerry thought as she slowed down for the roadworks north of Scotch Corner. Though the rain had stopped for now, for which Gerry was grateful, when she looked out from side to side, she saw lights gleaming on lakes where there should be fields. This was the danger point. The ground was so waterlogged that it couldn’t absorb any more moisture. One more heavy shower and banks would be broken and barriers breached. Low-lying neighbourhoods would be flooded, streets evacuated, and perhaps even people would be killed.

She pulled into the village of Hurworth-on-Tees and parked outside the church opposite the Bay Horse, where she had arranged to meet Aunt Jane for dinner. It was an expensive restaurant, she knew. She had been once before with a potential boyfriend who had been trying to impress her. The meal had impressed her very much, but unfortunately the suitor hadn’t. Her girlfriends had always said she was too fussy when it came to boyfriends, that she never gave anyone long enough to get to know them, but from Gerry’s point of view, she wasn’t so desperate for a man that she was willing to take the second rate. And in her experience the second rate didn’t take long to spot, and was second rate for good reason.

Aunt Jane was already waiting at a table Gerry had reserved in the warm, soft glow of the dining room. The voices of the other diners were muffled and the servers came and went without fuss. She hoped she might be able to get some useful information tonight. She had been disappointed by the mugshot on the police Internet archive. It resembled the person in Ray Cabbot’s sketch, but not enough.

Aunt Jane stood up to greet her, all six foot two of her. Gerry thought herself tall at six foot, and indeed she seemed so at work around her colleagues — only Winsome Jackman matched her — but Aunt Jane put her in the shadow. She was broad-shouldered and full-figured, clearly fit and sturdy, but in no way unfeminine. In fact, Gerry noticed a number of men in the dining room sneak an admiring glance as she stood up. Jane also looked a good ten or more years younger than fifty. Her blond hair was piled high, and that made her seem even taller. Statuesque was the word that came into Gerry’s mind. She wasn’t wearing a uniform tonight, but a simple black dress with a high neckline and a red waistcoat buttoned up the front. Bangles jingled like wind chimes around her wrists, and a simple string of pearls hung around her neck. The hoop earrings were just the right size. As usual, Gerry marvelled at her elegance just as much as she had marvelled years earlier.

Aunt Jane was an honorary title. There was no blood relation between the two. She was Gerry’s mother’s best friend from their schooldays and, though the two had gone in very different directions, the friendship had endured. When Gerry was younger, they didn’t see much of Aunt Jane, who, she later learned, had been serving in both Afghanistan and Iraq, but when she did come to town it was like Christmas. Her energy and enthusiasm for just about everything were infectious, and although Aunt Jane and Gerry’s mother were the same age, to Gerry, Aunt Jane always seemed more vibrant, more fun and far, far more cool. That was unfair to her mother, she now realised, but back then she had just been an impressionable child. Aunt Jane had taught her a few martial arts moves to use against the boys who pulled her hair at school; Aunt Jane had taken her for a pillion ride on her motorcycle and made her promise never to tell her mother; Aunt Jane had helped her choose the colours that suited her and showed her how to apply lipstick, eye-liner and mascara before she was officially allowed to wear make-up by her parents. And then, of course, she had disappeared back to Afghanistan again as suddenly as she had arrived. A leg injury caused by an IED had put paid to her active service, and she now walked with a slight limp, like Terry Gilchrist, but the army had found her a suitable desk job at Catterick, and she had seemed happy enough to leave the world of action behind.

‘Well, look at you, stranger,’ Aunt Jane said as they both sat down. ‘It’s been too long. Why haven’t you been to see me? It’s not as if I’m far away now you’re up in Eastvale.’

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ said Gerry. ‘Just, you know, being the new girl and all... it’s a hard job.’

Aunt Jane smiled. ‘No need to tell me that,’ she said. ‘I just miss my old friend Geraldine, that’s all. You must come and see me more often.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Gerry. Aunt Jane was the only person apart from her mother who called her Geraldine.

‘How’s Tess — I mean your mother. I haven’t heard from her in ages, either.’

‘She’s fine,’ said Gerry.

‘Still lecturing at the poly?’

‘It’s a university now,’ said Gerry. ‘They all are. Have been for years. But, yes, she’s still working.’

‘Dad still drafting wills?’

Gerry laughed. ‘He’s still working, yes.’

‘Good for him. Aidan’s still carrying a torch for you, you know.’

Gerry felt herself blush. Aidan was Aunt Jane’s son, and they had been out together a few times in their teens. ‘I thought he was married now.’

‘Oh, he is,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘Mariette. Nice enough girl. But it doesn’t stop him pining for you.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Gerry. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

‘You always did embarrass easily. Shall we study the menus? Wine?’

Jane already had a glass full of red wine in front of her, and the bottle stood open on the table.

‘Just a drop,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m driving.’

Jane poured her some wine. A bit more than a drop, in Gerry’s opinion, but she said nothing. ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ Jane said. ‘I’m not. Driving, that is. One of the perks of rank.’

They clinked glasses and Jane put on her reading glasses to examine the menu. In the end they both decided to have moules marinière for starters and settled on pan-fried halibut with black carrots and various foams, ketchups and sauces for Gerry, and for Jane a 28-day matured fillet steak, cooked rare, with hand-cut chips, onion rings and vegetables. They put in their orders and leaned back in their chairs.

‘You were asking about a Mark Vincent,’ Jane said finally. ‘May I ask why?’

Gerry leaned forwards and lowered her voice. She had known when she set up the meeting that if she expected to get information she had to be willing to give some, and she trusted Aunt Jane as much as she trusted anyone. More than most, in fact. ‘He’s a suspect in a case we’re working on,’ she said.

Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, I assumed that much,’ she said. ‘What case? And don’t try to weasel out of it.’

‘A shooting. A mass shooting.’

‘The Red Wedding?’

‘Shhh,’ said Gerry, glancing around nervously. ‘Yes.’

Jane topped up her glass and offered to pour more for Gerry, who declined. ‘You’re working on that? How exciting. I thought you’d got your man, though. How much of a suspect is he?’

‘Hard to say just yet. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’

‘You know I can’t give you any details? National security and all that. The army likes its privacy. We don’t like to be held too accountable for our actions. We don’t like to let people know what we’re up to. We always have a get-out-of-jail-free card up our sleeve.’

Gerry laughed. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’d just like to know anything you can tell me about his military career.’

‘Oh, there’s plenty I can tell you. I had a good nose around after you phoned, even talked to some people who knew him. And if it helps you, that’s all well and good, as long as nobody else knows where it came from.’

‘I’ve got no problem with that,’ Gerry said. ‘If it helps, I’m just trying to get some kind of confirmation that we’re on the right track. I’m pretty sure of it, but we have no real evidence yet.’

Jane swirled the wine in her glass. ‘Well, I can’t answer that question for you,’ she said. ‘Mark Vincent was nothing unusual. He had a few problems, but who doesn’t?’

‘So how did you, or the army, deal with his problems? And what were they?’

Jane sighed. ‘You have to understand, dear, that in addition to other things, we’re quite tolerant of our own. As you know, we have internal systems of discipline, rules and regulations. They’re as much meant to protect us from the outside as they are to enforce justice and punishment within the services. To put it bluntly, no matter what the recruitment adverts and friendly websites tell you about careers and what have you, all that goes out of the window in wartime. In wartime, a soldier’s job is to kill people, and we will forgive him an awful lot if he just does that one job exceptionally well.’

‘And Mark Vincent did?’

‘There was a war of some sort or another throughout most of Mark Vincent’s army career. Like many other soldiers in his position, he saw far more action than any human being should have to see, and he endured it. Don’t you think that takes a sacrifice, maybe rips out a little part of your soul? We also asked him to do things that no decent human being should ever have to do. Whatever we may be, us soldiers are not automatons. We are not without conscience, human feeling, compassion even. At least we start out with those things. In some cases, they get knocked out of us over the years. That may have been the case with Mark Vincent.’

Their moules arrived and both sat in silence for a while to enjoy them. ‘What was the general consensus on Vincent?’ Gerry asked.

Jane paused with her fork in mid-air. ‘Mark Vincent was a violent and disturbed young man when he joined up. He had a lot of anger, and we taught him to channel and direct that anger and violence. Which, when you think about it, is hardly unusual in the army. As a rule, we can direct violence against the enemy, but if you’re asking me whether I think he’s the kind of man who could direct it against someone he thought had betrayed or crossed him, then I’d have to say yes. But that’s just an opinion based on an afternoon spent reading files and talking to people about him. And I’m not a psychologist.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to quote you,’ Gerry said. ‘Did he ever train as a sniper?’

Jane hesitated before going on. ‘The army doesn’t like to talk about things like that,’ she said, ‘but yes, he did. He was an excellent shot, and he had no compunction about killing strangers from a distance. It would have been a waste not to train him. And use him.’

‘Did he have mental problems?’

‘Of course he did. Show me a soldier who doesn’t. Sometimes mental problems can be valuable assets in the military. Oh, we have our psychiatrists and so on, but it’s not like you can patch up a psyche in a field hospital the way you can a gunshot wound or an IED injury. And it’s not as if our shrinks have the time it takes to spend on fixing these minds. Years of therapy? No chance. Many of them go undiagnosed. PTSD, for example. There’s been a lot of talk about that recently.’

‘Did Vincent suffer from PTSD?’

‘Hard to answer. I’d reckon that he probably did — at least he suffered some of the symptoms. He was never diagnosed — he never spent long enough with a psychiatrist for that — but in my layperson’s opinion, from what I’ve read, and what people have told me, I’d say he did. According to one report I saw, he suffered from headaches and insomnia, and he had difficulty controlling his emotions and forming relationships with others. There were also issues of substance abuse, again not uncommon in PTSD cases, or in combat, for that matter — just think Apocalypse Now.’

Gerry had never seen Apocalypse Now, but she didn’t want to let on to Jane. ‘Drugs?’ she said.

‘In Mark Vincent’s case, the doctor thought it was mostly alcohol, though other drugs may have been involved. You should remember that pretty much all of this was only discovered towards the end of his military career, shortly before his discharge. He never underwent any serious psychiatric evaluation.’

‘I got the impression, reading between the lines,’ said Gerry, ‘that the discharge was dishonourable.’

‘Well, that’s true to some extent,’ Jane said, ‘but we prefer a mutual parting of the ways, if we can work one out. I’m sure you have the same policy with bent coppers when you can get away with it. Far less headline-grabbing. And Mark Vincent had certainly served long enough to retire gracefully.’

‘He didn’t object?’

‘No. He took the package, as they say in business.’

‘Did his discharge involve anything to do with a civilian massacre?’

‘I know of no such massacre.’

‘Kosovo?’

Aunt Jane remained silent for a while. ‘It takes a long time for these things to come out, for the investigation into allegations to be completed, probably much like your business.’

‘So he was?’

Aunt Jane merely smiled.

‘I also think he made connections there he used later when he was involved in people-trafficking,’ Gerry went on. ‘Especially young girls in the sex trade.’

‘Well,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘I wouldn’t deny that such things happen. Soldiers do sometimes come into contact with criminal elements.’

‘But he was also promoted to sergeant at one point. How on earth did that come about?’

‘How do these things usually come about? Deceptive appearances. Human error. He was good at getting people to do things, and that’s one trait you want in a sergeant. Leadership quality. Unfortunately, as we discovered too late, Vincent was only good at getting people to do things that benefitted himself, not the army as a whole. I never came into contact with him, you understand, so I’m speaking very much as an outside observer here, based on official reports and a couple of off-the-record conversations, but I’m pretty good at reading between the lines, and I’d say Vincent was charming and manipulative when he wanted to be. And he did have a bit of a temper.’

‘How did it manifest?’

‘Bar brawls, that sort of thing. Fighting in general. Again, that’s not so unusual for a soldier. He was quite a decent boxer in the ring, too. Controlled and disciplined.’

They finished their moules just as the main courses arrived. Jane worked her way through the wine as she ate her bloody steak. Gerry had only taken a few sips of her first glass. Mostly because she was driving, but partly because the rich and complex red wine didn’t go very well with moules or halibut. ‘What kind of state was he in after he left the army?’

‘I’ve no idea what became of him. Maybe you can fill me in on that?’

‘Petty crime,’ said Gerry. ‘Assaults, arson, prison, that possible involvement in people-trafficking I mentioned earlier.’

‘Not surprising. It’s what I would have predicted from what I’ve read. At least the army gave him a rudder to steer by and a structure and shape to his life. Without them, he’d have been lost. I’ve seen his type before, far too often. When they first come to us, it’s generally because someone has told them — either you lot or their parents — that it’s either prison or the army. And when they leave us, as often as not it’s prison they drift towards.’

‘I thought the army was supposed to make men out of boys?’

‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Geraldine. You ought to know that in your line of work.’

‘But was there a specific incident? He was in Iraq at the time, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. Basra.’ Jane finished her steak, pushed the dish away. She had finished her wine, and the alcohol seemed to be having no effect on her. ‘But as I hinted earlier, it was mostly a matter of the Balkans catching up with him. In Iraq it was petty crime, mostly. Black market, that sort of thing.’

‘And in Kosovo?’

‘Other things. Many just rumours. Most not proven.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘That he was rough with women. Certain kinds of women. Rumour has it he beat up a prostitute once. There were several unexplained murders. Nothing we could pin on Mark Vincent, of course, but in retrospect... One way or another, Mark Vincent became a liability. You can argue that it should have happened sooner, but... what can I say? Hindsight makes visionaries of us all.’

‘What was the problem with women?’

‘Same problem as with so many men. Women were all sluts to him. Except his dear dead sister, of course. She was an angel.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘According to one of the men I talked to, someone who knew Mark Vincent, he used to go on and on about her, showed her photo around. It seems she died when he was quite young. Is this of any use?’

‘Yes. We think this may all be connected with his sister’s death.’

‘How?’

The waiter arrived with the dessert menu. Jane studied it and decided on a cream cheese and vanilla mousse, while Gerry settled on a herbal tea. Jane gave her a pitying look. ‘Oh, Geraldine, Geraldine,’ she said. ‘What are we to do with you?’

When the waiter came by, Jane ordered the mousse and a double Remy. Gerry thought about the bill and swallowed.

When the waiter had gone, Gerry told Aunt Jane about what had happened to Mark Vincent’s sister, and of Maureen Tindall’s role in it.

‘And he naturally thought that if this Maureen had turned up, his sister wouldn’t have died?’ she commented.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘In his eyes, then, she was perhaps as responsible for the loss of his sister as the actual murderer himself?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Well that’d certainly do it, wouldn’t it?’

‘It seems so. But don’t say anything, Aunt Jane. It’s only a suspicion. I’m not supposed to talk about it.’

Jane put her hand on Gerry’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, your secret’s safe with me. But I’m puzzled. I read about that wedding, of course, and the mother of the bride survived, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. But he did kill her only child.’

‘Good lord,’ said Jane. ‘How little we really know about people.’

Indeed, thought Gerry. The dessert arrived, along with Jane’s double Remy and Gerry’s chamomile tea. While Jane tucked into her sweet, Gerry sipped the tea and watched her with fascination. She didn’t think she had ever met anyone before who gave herself so wholeheartedly to the act of eating.

‘What are you going to do?’ Jane asked.

‘Now? First we have to find him.’

‘He knows the area. He’s spent time at Catterick on and off over the years.’

‘Right.’

‘And he’s got survival skills. Done all the courses. You know, dropped in the Scottish Highlands with only a Mars bar and a compass. That sort of thing. Passed with flying colours. He could probably live in a box at the bottom of a lake with nothing but cold gravel for breakfast if he had to.’

‘Thanks for that, Aunt Jane. He’s been in jail since his army days, though, and it’s more than likely he’s gone a bit to seed.’

‘Just letting you know what you’re up against. Never mind the killing skills we taught him. Be very careful. And I think you can ditch the “aunt” by now, don’t you?’

Gerry agreed, but she would always think of Jane as ‘Aunt Jane’.

‘My driver won’t be here for another three-quarters of an hour,’ Jane said, ‘so I might as well have another cognac while I’m waiting, and you can entertain me with stories about your life in the police force until he gets here. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to anything stronger than another herbal tea?’

‘I’ll have decaf coffee,’ said Gerry in a small voice.

‘How daring. By the way.’ Jane reached for her bag. ‘I’ve got a photo of Mark Vincent for you. It’s not a very good one, I’m afraid, and it’s a bit old, but it’s all I could come up with at such short notice.’