Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 4

It was still dark the following morning when Banks showered, shaved and dressed for work between gulps of freshly brewed black coffee. He had awoken from a bad dream in the wicker chair in the middle of the night with a crick in his neck and his heart racing fit to burst. He couldn’t remember the details of the dream, but it involved Laura Tindall in a bloody white bridal gown. Only he knew that she was really Emily Hargreaves, and she was telling Banks that she was sorry someone was dead, but that it wasn’t her fault. After that, he had somehow got himself up to bed, but he had slept only fitfully and still felt stiff and aching when he got in the shower. There was no food in the house, not even bread, sardines or baked beans, so coffee would have to do until he got to work. Then he remembered it was Sunday, and the canteen would be closed. There would be something open in the market square. Bound to be. Takeaway roast beef and Yorkshire pud, maybe.

The Porsche started as smoothly as ever, and he set off, headlights piercing the darkness of the deserted Helmthorpe Road, scaring the occasional wandering sheep back into its meadow. His mobile sat in its cradle, hooked up for hands-free communications.

His first port of call was the incident vehicle at St Mary’s, where he found a number of tired CSIs slumped over, heads on the desks. They had been working most of the night. The arc lights were still flooding the churchyard. AFOs stood here and there, Heckler & Kochs cradled in their arms, guarding the area. It was unlikely that the killer would return, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out. Banks had a brief word with the counter-terrorist unit’s second in command but learned nothing. Still no chatter, still no claiming of credit, no evidence of terrorist activity.

When he got back in his car, Banks slipped Ziggy Stardust in the CD player and turned up the volume. ‘Starman’ had been playing over and over in his head since he woke up, so he thought he might as well use fire to fight fire and try and exorcise it. His plan worked, but ‘Starman’ had been replaced by ‘Moonage Daydream’ by the time he reached the station.

‘Alan.’ Chief Superintendent Gervaise turned to Banks from the duty sergeant at the front desk. She looked as if she had been up all night. ‘I was wondering when you’d be getting here. Follow me, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

Puzzled, Banks followed Gervaise upstairs and along the corridor to her office. She opened the door and bade him enter first. Someone was already sitting at the round conference table, cup of coffee in front of her, and when Banks entered, she smoothed her skirt, smiled and said, ‘Hello again, Alan. Long time no see.’

Banks could only stand there rooted to the spot, gobsmacked, and hope that his jaw hadn’t dropped as far as he felt it had. Gervaise managed to squeeze through the door past him and introduce her guest. ‘Detective Superintendent Banks, this is Dr Jennifer Fuller, forensic psychologist. Dr Fuller has very kindly offered to come in and help us out on the case. We’re lucky to have an expert of such sterling reputation, especially so early on a Sunday morning.’

Bloody hell, thought Banks. Jenny Fuller. Was today going to be as full of surprises as yesterday?

Once Banks had taken a couple of seconds to get over his initial shock at seeing Jenny Fuller again, he walked over to her and she tilted her head for him to kiss her cheek. Banks knew it wouldn’t take Gervaise more than a few seconds to figure out that the two of them were already acquainted. Why hadn’t Jenny told her? Banks wondered. No doubt to surprise him. She could be mischievous that way. But why hadn’t she even told him that she was back in Eastvale? He could see by the gently mocking smile on her face that his discomfort pleased her; she had always liked to catch people off guard and, as he remembered, she did it very well. Jenny Fuller was the one woman in Eastvale he had come perilously close to committing adultery with. Then she was gone. Off around the world. America. South Africa, Singapore, New Zealand, finally settling to teach in Sydney, Australia. The last he had heard, she was happily married to an Aussie economics professor.

His first impression was that she hadn’t changed very much since he had last seen her more years ago than he cared to remember. It was an uncanny feeling, losing Emily and suddenly finding long lost Jenny again, as if he were leaping through time and space like Doctor Who. True, there were a few more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but not many, and they only made her that much more attractive, as did the tan. Her pale pink lips were as full as ever, and her eyes still sparkled with mischief, though he fancied he could sense a sadness in them now, something that hadn’t been there all those years ago. The short page-boy hairstyle suited her, but the light brown colour was not as he remembered. As far as he could see, her shapely figure had hardly changed at all. Unless she was as lucky in her metabolism as he was, she must have worked to keep it that way.

‘I’ve brought Dr Fuller in to give us some sort of profile on our killer,’ said Gervaise. ‘I realise there’s very little for her to go on so far, but I’m hoping we can at least make a general start and then build up an even stronger individual picture as more information comes in.’

Jenny yawned. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth. No rings, Banks noticed. ‘Haven’t got over the jet-lag yet.’

‘Sorry to call you in at such short notice,’ said Gervaise. She turned to Banks. ‘I got in touch with a friend at the University of York, and she mentioned that Professor Fuller had just returned from abroad and recommended her.’

‘Just?’ said Jenny. ‘I’d hardly got in the door. Still, needs must, I suppose.’

‘Have you had a chance to read the file I sent over yet?’

‘Over coffee this morning. So don’t expect too much from me. I’m afraid you’ll probably get little more than the textbook version.’

‘Talking about coffee...’ Gervaise refilled Jenny’s cup and poured some for Banks. ‘Now let’s get started.’

Banks felt his stomach rumble and hoped they couldn’t hear it. Jenny cleared her throat and took a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses along with a buff folder from her briefcase. They were the kind of glasses you bought off the rack at Boots or Marks and Spencer’s, the same as he used, but they gave her a studious appearance. He could imagine her standing at a podium lecturing a class of randy young students.

‘First off,’ Jenny said, ‘I trust you’ve made arrangements for psychological counselling for the survivors and any of your officers who may need it?’

‘Yes,’ said Gervaise. ‘It’s hard to come up with enough counsellors, but it’s under control.’

‘Good,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, as far as classification goes, I suppose we’d have to categorise this one as a rampage killer. That statistically makes him far more likely to be a man, so I’ll use the male pronoun from now on. Men are more prone to violence. We don’t know for sure why, but it seems to be the case. It may be evolutionary, in that men have throughout history been rewarded for aggression. To the victor, the spoils. James Bond always gets the girl. Also, if you consider animal behaviour, you’ll find any number of aggressive contests for the privilege of taking a mate, or mates, mostly performed by the males of the species.’

‘Could it be a woman?’ Gervaise asked.

‘It could be,’ said Jenny, ‘but I think it would be more helpful at this point to rule out the more unlikely possibilities along with the traditional list of red flags. A “nutter”, for example. People who are mentally ill rarely kill, especially like this, though of course many would say a person would have to be insane to commit such an act. However, that doesn’t make for a very scientific argument, or for a useful method of approach to an investigation.’ She glanced from Banks to Gervaise over her glasses. ‘While it’s quite true that the killer may well have a long trail of antisocial acts and psychological problems in his background, from abusive parents and pulling the wings off flies to arson, sexual assault, lack of conscience, outbursts of irrational rage and so on, there are many more individuals who have a similar history but never graduate to mass murder. It’s not a natural progression, the way many doctors argue that the route from soft to hard drugs is. I think when you find your man, he will have a history of violence and abuse, and he’s very likely to have served time in prison or been incarcerated in a mental institution. But so have a lot of other people, and that’s not necessarily what will lead you to him. Too many false starts and blind alleys there. That’s why it’s impossible, even armed with all the facts, to pick out the next mass murderer from the millions of other disaffected individuals. A sad comment, but it’s true.’

‘We’re still considering terrorism as a possibility,’ said Banks. ‘Even though the investigators haven’t got anywhere yet.’

Jenny nodded. ‘As you should be. But if that’s the case, you won’t need me. Most of what I say won’t apply if someone kills for ideological reasons, or because he’s under the influence of a powerful personality, though it’s sometimes surprising when you look deeper into the backgrounds of some of these terrorists. You often find the same pattern that you find in other mass murderers.’

‘What will lead us to him?’ Banks asked.

‘I think first you need to know what set him off, what tipped him over the edge. The trigger. This could have been building up for years. He could have felt slighted, humiliated, envious, abused, any number of things — but something pushed him over the edge. Perhaps more than one thing. A combination.’

‘How do we do that?’ Gervaise asked.

‘For a start, we try to push the stereotypes and lists of traits that usually confound cases like this to one side, and then we go from what we know. All I can do is take whatever information you give me and analyse it in the light of scientific and statistical knowledge. It’s not perfect, but then profiling isn’t an exact science, and I won’t try to tell you that it is. Basically, a rampage killer is an umbrella term for a spree killer or a mass murderer. And when we get right down to it, the differences between a spree killer and a mass murderer aren’t great, especially in terms of motivation and criminal history. A mass murderer usually commits his acts in one place. A spree killer kills a number of people in two or more locations, a sort of mobile mass murderer, if you like, before either shooting himself or inviting the police to do it for him.’

‘So we’re dealing with a mass murderer here?’ said Banks.

‘Not necessarily. Though a spree killer operates at two or more locations, there can under certain circumstances be a cooling-off period of up to seven days between killing sprees. Raoul Moat, for example, up in Northumberland in 2010. He shot three people, one of them his ex-girlfriend, and went on the rampage in the countryside. It was seven days before he was found, and then he shot himself.’

‘So our man might not be finished yet?’ said Gervaise.

‘And we have to wait seven days to see if he does it again?’ Banks added.

‘Unless you catch him first,’ said Jenny. ‘Yes, it’s a possibility. But you won’t just be sitting here twiddling your thumbs, will you? A lot can happen in seven days. And it’s not written in stone. He may kill again today, tomorrow, or not at all. He may be a mass murderer who’s finished his work, or a terrorist who’s melted back into the darkness. Moat obviously made a run for it and survived out there for days, but in the end, when it came to the choice, he took his own life rather than face prison. Remember the Hungerford Massacre in 1987? Ryan killed sixteen people and wounded fifteen in and around the Berkshire village of Hungerford. We don’t know why. We assume he had his reasons, but they were explicable only to himself. He also shot himself after being run to ground in a classroom in his old school. You could read all sorts of things into that. And what about Derrick Bird, the taxi driver? Same year as Moat, not far away, in Cumbria. He shot and killed twelve people and wounded eleven more, starting with his twin brother after an argument over a will and tax issues. Then he starts driving around and kills ten people in a forty-five-mile rampage. This all happened on the same day. Bird also shot himself before capture. Or the Dunblane school massacre, sixteen children and one teacher. The killer took his own life. That’s the main thing these killers have in common, except for shooting large numbers of people. They shoot themselves in the end when cornered.’

‘So what would our man do next, assuming he hasn’t shot himself already?’ Banks asked. ‘Where would he be likely to hide?’

‘Good question. I wish I knew the answer. From what I’ve read, he was cautious enough to visit the site in advance of his act, which shows a more than usual preoccupation with escape. Most of these sort of events happen in America, as I’m sure you know. To the degree that some sociologists are labelling mass shootings a contagion there. Schools, workplaces, shopping malls, that sort of thing. Shootings distinct from terrorist acts. Loners, outsiders, disgruntled employees. Rarely do they go in with an escape route planned. If your killer was so concerned with escape, and he hasn’t killed anyone else except the people at the wedding, then it’s logical to predict that he had somewhere to escape to, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘A bolt-hole?’ Banks suggested.

‘Something like that. Somewhere he’d feel safe. Somewhere he’d believe you couldn’t find him. He’s clever and obviously not lacking the nerve to take risks. He could even have gone home, on the assumption that you’re not smart enough to find out who he is or where he lives.’

‘He may well be right about that,’ said Banks.

‘Exactly,’ said Jenny. ‘But it’s good that he thinks he’s smarter than you, and that he likes to take risks. It gives him a far greater chance of slipping up, and you a far better chance of catching him when he does. He could even be doing a “purloined letter” and living next door to the police station. That’s just a frivolous example, by the way. I’m not suggesting you should dash out and check up on it. But do you see what I mean? The level of premeditation, of planning, makes his actions a bit different from the run-of-the-mill rampage killer. And whether he’s finished with the killing or not, he still has to hide out somewhere unless he wants to get caught, and so far I wouldn’t say that he does.’

‘Could he already be overseas?’ asked Gervaise.

‘I suppose it’s always possible,’ Jenny answered. ‘It’s true that he could be anywhere, as none of us know who he is or what he looks like. If he’s as organised as he appears to be, he no doubt had a change of clothing stashed somewhere, perhaps a passport, too. He could be in Paris wearing a business suit and carrying a leather briefcase by now, for all we know. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If you start assuming things like that, it tends to affect the investigation, sap confidence, lower morale. All we can do is work with what we’ve got. You’d have to ask a geographical profiler for a more detailed analysis — that’s not my area of expertise — but spree killers generally start close to home. They may travel some distance over the course of the spree, but the starting point, and returning point, if they get that far, is somewhere close to home. Remember Ryan and his old school. We don’t know for certain that our man’s a spree killer yet, but the same applies to most rampage killers. So let’s assume he’s not operating too far from home. Unless he is a terrorist — and I’m sure you have experts in that field working with you — there’s a very good chance that he’ll stick to what he knows, where he knows, where he feels comfortable. Remember, he’s not infallible, no matter what he thinks. He will make mistakes. And you have to believe that even if he has fled overseas already, you’ll still bring him to justice in the end.’

Banks could follow the logic in Jenny’s arguments and accept pretty much everything she said, but he could also see why many police officers were suspicious of psychological profilers. After all, she hadn’t told them where to find the killer or how to go about tracking him down. Pep talks were all very well, but how much further ahead were they? ‘Can you be more specific about any of this, Jenny?’ he asked, trying to word his thoughts as diplomatically as possible.

‘Name, address, National Insurance number, you mean?’

‘That sort of thing would be useful.’

Jenny laughed. ‘Sorry. I warned you not to expect too much or you’d be disappointed.’

‘I’m not disappointed, just frustrated.’

‘Well, Alan, I don’t know if it’s in my job description to do anything about that.’

Banks noticed that Gervaise was following the exchange with great interest, and it was hard to miss the sparkle in Jenny’s eyes. He felt himself redden. ‘Same old Jenny,’ he said. ‘Batting the ball back and forth.’

‘Not so much of the old.’ Jenny put her folder down, leaned back in her chair and removed her glasses. ‘I know how frustrating this must be,’ she said. ‘I’ve been through this sort of thing many times before. Many, many more than I had last time we worked together, Alan. Things have come a long way since then. Certainly profilers have and, in some cases, the police attitude towards us has become somewhat more enlightened, but we’re still not miracle workers.’

‘I didn’t mean to be critical,’ Banks said. ‘I’m just thinking about this specific crime. So we’ve got a mass murderer and not a spree killer, maybe, unless he kills again within seven days. That’s useful to know, but it doesn’t help us, it just puts a ticking clock into the equation.’

Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d say you had that already, wouldn’t you?’

‘Point taken.’

‘Anyway,’ Jenny went on. ‘I was getting to that, to this specific crime. There are some details I find interesting, in addition to the recce and the planning of an escape route.’

‘Such as?’ Banks asked.

‘Such as the occasion. Why target a wedding? As I said before, in America, schools and workplaces are the main targets. At one time post offices seemed such a breeding ground for mass murderers that it was called “going postal”.’

‘So what does our killer have against weddings?’

‘Not even that,’ Jenny said. ‘His thinking is unlikely to be so linear. But there’s something in there. Something in why he chose a wedding. Perhaps even why he chose that particular wedding. There’s all the usual stuff in his behaviour, of course, anger against women, or a particular woman, perhaps a failed marriage in his background, but you need to examine it from all angles. Revenge and envy are often strong motives for mass murderers. They’ve often failed and are envious of those who appear to have succeeded, or they’re avenging some real or perceived slight, perhaps from years ago. Something that might seem quite insignificant to us.’

‘The wedding got quite a bit of publicity around Eastvale,’ Gervaise said. ‘Minor local celebrities and all that. Model. War hero.’

‘That’s the sort of thing I mean,’ said Jenny. ‘Anything like that could have set off some dormant desire for revenge. A war hero, for example, could have been a symbol of something he wanted to destroy, maybe because he was a coward, or he thought he should have been given hero status himself but was overlooked. Envy and revenge.’

‘Why does it have to be a symbol?’ asked Banks. ‘Why couldn’t it have been that actual wedding itself he wanted to destroy? Or a particular person who was there? The bride or groom, for example. Both were hit. One killed. Could he have been after a specific person? Isn’t a cigar sometimes just a cigar?’

‘I haven’t jumped to any conclusions yet,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s an interesting idea, and of course he could have been after one or more people in particular, people he thought had ruined his life, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough to go on to take my analysis any further than that. If it was a terrorist attack, then perhaps a large social gathering was enough of a target. You also mentioned that the groom was a war hero. There could be something in that, too. A military connection. A number of mass murderers were found to have military backgrounds. You should certainly look at the soldiers who were with him in Afghanistan.’

Banks had already thought of that and mentioned it to the counter-terrorist investigator.

‘What was the order of killing?’ Jenny went on. ‘Did that mean something to him, or was he just firing randomly into the crowd? As far as I could make out, there were more female victims than male. Was that simply because they were wearing brighter or light-coloured clothes that stood out more from his perspective up on the hill, or was it deliberate? It would be pretty easy for him to have picked out the women from a group like that.’

‘We’re not sure of the order yet,’ Banks said. ‘And the victims weren’t all women.’

Jenny consulted her file. ‘Five of them were.’

‘But there were four men, too. Anyway, we don’t know the answer to any of those questions yet,’ said Banks. ‘We’re still trying to piece it together from ballistics and witness reports. We should be able to talk to more of the guests today. Naturally, everyone was pretty much in shock last night.’

‘Of course. Be sure to let me know when you have some answers,’ Jenny said. ‘It might be important.’

‘Will do.’

She packed away her folder and glasses in the briefcase. ‘If it’s OK, I’ll head out and try to catch up on a bit of sleep now,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll be even less use to you next time than I am already.’

‘You’ve been very helpful, Dr Fuller,’ Gervaise said.

Banks got to his feet. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘No thanks. My car’s outside.’

And with that, she was gone.

‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Gervaise. ‘I take it you two have some history?’

‘Many years ago,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, Professor Fuller worked with me on my very first case up here, after London. A peeping Tom. She was very good at her job, even back then, and that was before The Silence of the Lambs came out.’

Gervaise hesitated, then went on. ‘Alan, I know it’s none of my business, but I know where you were yesterday, and I never got the chance to say how sorry I am. Losing a friend is a terrible thing, the memories it shakes loose, even if you’ve drifted apart. The panicky feeling that you’re losing bits of yourself.’

Banks thought she spoke as if she knew what it was like. ‘Yes,’ he said, hand on the doorknob. ‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’

‘Childhood sweetheart, was she?’

‘Something like that. Yes.’

‘Just don’t lose sight of the good memories. That’s all.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

‘How’s the invalid?’ Banks asked Winsome when Terry had let them into his house near the village of Drewick, on the eastern side of the A1. Winsome still kept her flat on the fringes of the Eastvale student area, but now that she and Terry were engaged, she was spending more time at his place. Banks had marvelled more than once at how falling in love had loosened the grip of her previous morally strict and strait-laced approach to life. That morning, she lay on the sofa, half sitting up, with a tartan blanket draped over her.

‘I’m fine. Really,’ Winsome said. ‘It’s nice to see you, Guv. Annie.’

Annie leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Terry Gilchrist clapped his hands together. ‘Tea, everyone?’ Then he went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and leaned in the doorway while it came to a boil.

‘How’s the shoulder?’ Annie asked.

‘It’s nothing. Just a scratch.’ Winsome bit her lower lip. ‘It’s the other stuff that’s most upsetting. I still can’t take it in.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Those people were our friends.’

‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘We’re trying to sort out exactly what happened. It’s not easy. We’re hoping you and Terry will be able to help us put together a sequence of events.’

Winsome glanced at Terry, who came and perched beside her on the sofa, taking her hand between his. ‘Terry was more involved than I was,’ she said. ‘I was inside the church a good deal of the time. Everything was chaos. I didn’t know what was going on out there.’

‘But not at first,’ said Banks.

Winsome fingered the tassels on the edge of the blanket. ‘No. Not then.’

‘We’ve even brought in a hotshot profiler from Australia,’ Annie went on. ‘Seems she’s an old flame of Alan’s.’

The kettle started to whistle, and Terry went back into the kitchen.

‘Before your time,’ said Banks. ‘Both of you. Believe it or not, I was young once.’

‘And married,’ said Annie.

‘I told you. Nothing happened.’ Banks felt his cheeks burning.

‘Methinks he doth protest too much. What about you, Winsome?’

‘Oh, leave him alone,’ said Winsome, smiling. ‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’ Banks asked.

‘That she came all the way from Australia.’

‘Yes. She’s taking up a teaching post at York again, where she started out.’

‘And you’re not married now, Guv,’ said Winsome. ‘You’re free as a bird.’

‘But she may not be.’

‘Isn’t life unfair?’ said Annie, with a wink.

Terry returned with a pot of tea and four matching blue mugs on a tray, which he set down on a low glass table in front of the sofa. He still walked with a slight limp, but had shed the walking stick he had used when Banks first met him a couple of years ago. He was a tall, fit young man in his early thirties, maybe a year or two older than Winsome, with a strong jaw, clear blue eyes, close-cropped fair hair and a boyish grin. His beagle, Peaches, lay content in front of the crackling and spitting log fire. Banks could see the garden all misty with drizzle through the window.

Once they each had a mug of hot tea warming their hands, Banks asked Terry if he would recount what happened.

‘Of course.’ Terry sat on the edge of the sofa, set his tea on the tray and kept hold of Winsome’s hand while he talked. ‘The service ended and we all piled outside. Well, some of us did. The photographer was trying to get everyone from the main party organised into groups for the photos, but you know what it’s like. Some people were chatting. A couple lit cigarettes. He was getting frustrated because everyone was having a bit of a laugh instead of standing in their assigned groups, and it was taking so long.’

‘Do you remember the first shot?’ Banks asked.

‘I was about five feet away, kneeling to chat with Megan, the flower girl, when I heard a crack and I saw Laura spin around and fall in a heap. I didn’t realise it was a shot at first because the bells were so loud, but I could see blood on the front of her white dress, and I then knew what had happened.’ He paused and shook his head slowly. ‘It was as if I’d never been away. For a moment, I was right back there in Helmand. I think everyone just froze for a split second. Of course, we didn’t know to expect more shots, or what. All I knew was that Laura had been hit. Bad, by the looks of it. Then I suppose my training kicked in about the same time as someone started screaming. My first thought was to get everyone back into the church in case he fired again. I thought they would be safe in there. Before I could even begin, though, while most of us were still rooted to the spot, there was another shot.’

‘Can you remember who was hit next?’

Terry closed his eyes. ‘Yes. The second shot hit Ben. That’s Benjamin Kemp. The bridegroom. My friend. My God,’ he said, putting his free hand to his mouth then wiping his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK, Terry,’ Annie told him. ‘Take your time.’

‘He’s right so far,’ said Winsome. ‘It was Fran next. Francesca Muriel, Laura’s maid of honour. I was talking to her at the time, telling her to head for the church. It was... I don’t know... her head... it just... cracked open, disintegrated. Like Terry says, we hadn’t really had time to react to what had happened yet. I turned to run back to the church, trying to urge people on before me. That’s when the bullet grazed my shoulder. So I think I may have been the fourth victim.’

‘The photographer was hit around then, too,’ said Terry. ‘And Dave Hurst, one of the guests.’

‘So the two of you were directing people towards the church?’

‘They were completely freaked out,’ said Terry. ‘Running around like... well... you know, chickens. I suppose I was thinking more professionally then, and I knew by the spaces between the shots that whatever make the gun was, it was a single-bolt, not an automatic, and we could be thankful for that. It gave us a bit more time. I remember glancing up at where the shots had come from, but all I could see then was a sort of small black smudge on the edge of the hill. A sniper, or so I thought.’

‘By this time,’ Winsome said, ‘people were starting to get the picture and rush back towards the church doors without my having to tell them. There was a bit of a jam, and I think the next victim was Diana. Diana Lofthouse, another one of the bridesmaids.’

‘Yes,’ said Terry. ‘He shot her in the back just as she was getting near the church door.’

‘That makes seven shots,’ said Banks. ‘There were ten in all. Do you remember who was next?’

‘Charles, I think,’ said Terry. ‘Ben’s father.’

‘I saw none after Diana,’ said Winsome. ‘I was too busy trying to get people into the church. The problem was that there were even a few people who’d stayed inside now trying to get out again to see what was going on. It was a bottleneck.’

‘Did you notice the next victims?’ Banks asked Terry.

‘Not clearly,’ he said. ‘Not by then. Like Winsome, I was too busy trying to get people out of the way. I had little Megan, the flower girl, in my arms, and she was crying. I think I saw Charles go down next — that’s Ben’s father — then Katie, but I couldn’t swear to the order. Katie was just standing there, frozen to the spot. I was on my way over to her. She took one in the stomach and fell back against a gravestone. I don’t know if she’ll make it. She’d lost a lot of blood.’

‘Katie Shea’s still critical,’ said Banks. ‘Same with Benjamin Kemp.’

‘I know there were others hurt,’ Terry went on. ‘David, I think, was shot in the leg quite late on. The photographer was hurt, too. He was holding his eye and it was bleeding. Others had just frozen, like Katie. They couldn’t move. Laura’s mother, Maureen. I had to go back and pick her up and carry her in. And Denise was kneeling beside Charles, her husband. She didn’t want to leave him, but I managed to get her inside. I knew he was dead.’

‘You saw the shooter running away, right?’

‘I saw a dark figure running diagonally down the hillside towards the south, yes. But he was too far away for me to see any detail. He was carrying some sort of long object at his side. It could have been a rifle.’

‘You’re sure it was a man?’

Terry wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Sorry. I’m jumping to conclusions. He was a fair distance away. But what kind of woman would do a thing like that?’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Banks. ‘A lad from the youth hostel saw the same figure — at least, we’re pretty sure it must be the same figure. He seems quite certain it was a man. Something to do with the way he moved, his shape.’

‘I couldn’t see where he went, or any car. I know what your witness means about the way he moved, though. I think that’s one of the things that made me assume it was a man. There were no more shots after I saw him run off, so he must have been the shooter.’

‘Anything to add, Winsome?’

‘Nothing. I was inside the church while all this was going on. I just remember hearing another two or three shots after I got the door closed. It’s still all jumbled up in my mind. Someone made them stop ringing the bells. It was terrible, the noise, and the shots. Terry came in after a while and found me. He told me the shooter was gone and he was going to help the people who’d been hurt out there, that I should stay with the people inside. Maureen took care of me. Maureen Tindall. That’s Laura’s mother. She was in a bit of a trance, but she used to be a nurse. She sort of went on automatic. I’m sorry, but that’s about all I can remember. Terry was in and out a few times, checking on me and the others, then trying to tend to the wounded in the graveyard until the paramedics arrived.’

‘Terry?’

‘Same here.’ Terry finished his tea.

‘So let me get this clear,’ Banks said. ‘You’re both pretty certain that Laura was the first victim, then Ben, then Francesca, then possibly the photographer Luke Merrifield, Dave Hurst and Winsome, then Diana, Charles Kemp and Katie Shea?’

‘I can’t be a hundred per cent sure about Katie and Charles,’ said Terry. ‘I was more concerned with getting people to safety by then.’

‘And I saw none after Diana, as I told you,’ said Winsome. ‘I was inside the church by then. Do you think it means something? The order?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘Ten shots. Nine people hit, including you. Five women, four men. Three dead, six wounded. We found two bullets in the church door, probably the one that nicked you and the wild shot.’

‘Whoever did it had to be pretty cool and collected,’ said Terry. ‘I’ve known snipers. They’re a strange breed.’

‘You think this shooter was a sniper?’ said Annie.

Terry glanced towards her. ‘Well, he certainly acted like one yesterday, even if it was his first time. He stayed in a concealed position and pulled off his shots then made a speedy exit.’

‘True enough,’ said Banks. ‘Special Branch and MI5 will be looking into any possible military or terrorist connections. But whatever the reasons for what happened, we still need to find out as much as we can about the victims. You two can help us with that. If someone hated one or more of them enough, someone unstable, with access to a weapon, then... who knows.’

‘No,’ said Terry. ‘No. I can’t believe it. Not Laura and Charles and Francesca and the others. I’ve known Ben since I was in Afghanistan, and I’ve known Laura, Katie and her friends for as long as Ben did. Laura and Ben had just bought a house not far from Eastvale. She was staying with her parents until after the wedding. They’re all just decent, ordinary folk. Nobody could possibly have a reason for wanting any of them dead.’

Winsome rested her hand on his arm. Terry looked at her and swallowed. ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘I just can’t... I mean, these people were our friends. And now they’re dead. Why?’

Banks paused to let Terry collect himself, then went on. ‘What about any previous boyfriends Laura had? She was a beautiful woman, a model. So was Diana Lofthouse. They would have attracted all sorts of men. Anyone madly jealous, a stalker, anyone who felt Ben stole Laura away. Anyone strange in Diana’s life? Any incidents from her modelling days?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Terry. ‘Though I didn’t know her then.’

‘Any strong political connections?’

‘Laura? No way. And Ben’s family was just typical North Yorkshire conservative.’

‘What about a connection with Francesca, the maid of honour? Or one of the bridesmaids? Diana? Katie? Any trouble, any boyfriend problems lately?’

‘Nothing comes to mind,’ said Terry. ‘Besides, I should think that if someone did want to kill Laura or any of the others specifically, then it would have been a lot easier to do it some other way.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Except that the wedding was the one place they were all together, and the person we’re dealing with doesn’t think in the same way as we do. It may make sense to him, seem logical, but not to you and me. And I’m not saying he did have a specific target. I’m just asking if you know of anything, Terry, that’s all. Then there’s the terrorist angle. Both you and Benjamin Kemp were in Afghanistan—’

‘So were some of the others. Wayne was there, too. Wayne Powell, the best man. And he was uninjured.’

‘Fair enough. But there is a military connection. You mentioned snipers earlier.’

‘Just because of the method.’

‘Yes, but the killer had a military-style weapon — even if it’s one that’s been adapted to make it legal over here — and he knows how to use it.’

‘So you’re suggesting there might be some connection with the war? With Afghanistan? Or that we were somehow symbols of oppression, to be made an example of by IS?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. Only that there are plenty of military people with some sort of expertise in shooting. But could there be a connection? Maybe even someone you knew. I’m just asking you if you can think of anyone from those days. Any incident. Anyone go off the rails, have a grudge against Benjamin Kemp? Anything from your military time, from Benjamin’s military time, that could be in any way connected with yesterday? We know that war can do terrible things to a man’s mind. Maybe someone you served with just lost it for some reason. PTSD, for example. What happened was not necessarily a rational response to anything.’

Terry ran his hand over his head. ‘Yes, but people who suffer from PTSD don’t usually go around committing mass murder. I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything or anyone offhand, but I’ll give it some thought, see if anything comes up.’

‘I understand Benjamin is something of a war hero?’

Terry laughed. ‘Sorry. He always laughed about it. Said it was more of a media invention than anything else. It was, really.’

‘Even so, he did get a fair amount of publicity at the time, didn’t he? I wonder if it was enough to make him a target.’

Terry got up, put his mug down and went upstairs. Banks glanced out of the window and saw that it was getting dark. When Terry came down he was carrying a large scrapbook. He went over to Banks and Annie and opened it to a newspaper clipping. It showed a front-page picture of Benjamin Kemp standing outside a burning ruin holding an Afghani boy of about five in his arms. The boy was staring into the camera and tears were running down his dirt-streaked face. Kemp seemed merely determined, his jaw set firm.

‘That was what it was all about,’ Terry said. ‘Ben rescued a young lad from a bombed-out school, under fire, and there was a war photographer on the spot, ready to capture the event. There were about twelve of us involved in that operation. We’d all been in and done our bit. A few minutes earlier, one of our mates had come out with two boys, one under each arm, but the photographer wasn’t ready. You know what’s so funny about the whole thing? Well, not funny ha-ha, but ironic, I suppose you’d say.’

‘What?’

‘It turned out it was the Americans who bombed the school in the first place. By mistake. They killed fifty-six children and we managed to pull out seven alive. The Taliban fighters were in another building less than a hundred yards away, shooting at us. We cleared them out later. They’d booby-trapped the building they were in, and there’s where I got...’ He tapped his leg.

‘You got a medal, too, didn’t you?’

‘We all did. But there was no photographer present to capture the moment.’

‘Was there anyone involved in that day’s operations you think may have taken against Benjamin Kemp? For any reason. Envy. Feeling slighted. Side-lined. Anything that could become warped and exaggerated into an event like yesterday’s?’

‘Envious enough to shoot up his wedding? No way. We were all just doing our duty. And we were mates. We depended on one another for our lives. I’m not saying events like that happened all the time — it was a pretty intense day, as I remember — but it was wartime, and you did your duty. Everybody thought it was a bit of a laugh that Ben got his picture in the paper, all Rambo.’

‘Maybe somebody didn’t,’ said Banks.

Banks was still not used to his new office. It felt like a suit two sizes too big for him. He had tried to fill the bookcases, but even with a few ornaments, bulky poetry anthologies, forensic texts and orange-covered Penguin paperbacks from the Oxfam shop, there were still too many gaps and not enough family photographs to fill them.

The view was the same as from his old office, only one floor higher up. That Sunday evening, the rain was sweeping down the windowpanes in torrents and bouncing on the cobbles in the market square. The lamps were on in the pubs and shop windows, and Christmas lights and decorations hung all around the square, giving the scene a distinctly Dickensian aspect. Banks could see a few distorted figures shuffling about under umbrellas, and the crowd of reporters, who had set up camp outside the police station. They must be bored, as nothing new had happened during the day.

The office was well enough appointed. Banks’s desk was large and solid, he had a small flat-screen TV attached to the wall, on which he could watch relevant breaking news stories and police press conferences on cases with which he was involved, and there was a low round table for small, informal meetings. He also had a Nespresso-like machine, a promotion present from his Homicide and Major Crimes Squad team, and Annie had made it clear when she presented it to him that she and the others expected to be allowed to nip in for a cup of coffee whenever they needed one. Banks had brought in his own Bose mini sound-dock, with a Bluetooth facility for his Nano. The little iPod didn’t have much memory, but he rotated its contents fairly often from the large music library on his computer at home.

He was reading over the statements taken so far and listening to the Brahms ‘Clarinet Quintet’, whose melancholy edge seemed nicely attuned to the weather outside.

Just as Banks was about to tidy up his desk and go home to enjoy one final night of peace and quiet in Newhope Cottage, the sound of his telephone startled him. It was going on for ten o’clock. He picked up the receiver. It was Chief Superintendent Gervaise.

‘Still at it?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Banks. ‘As a matter of fact, I was just about to head out.’

‘How do you fancy a pint over the road? On me?’

Banks almost dropped the receiver. He had never been for a drink with Catherine Gervaise before; she had always kept a professional distance. He wondered what it was about. ‘Of course, ma’am,’ he said.

‘On one condition.’

‘Yes?’

‘That you don’t call me ma’am.’

The Queen’s Arms was almost deserted at that time on a wet Sunday night. Cyril himself was working behind the bar, and true to her word, AC Gervaise folded up her umbrella, went up and bought two pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord Bitter, one for herself and one for Banks.

‘I understand this is one of your favourite tipples,’ she said, setting the glasses on the table. She had changed out of her uniform and wore a simple cream blouse and navy skirt with a matching jacket.

‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Banks asked.

Gervaise said nothing, just shuffled in her seat and made herself comfortable. Banks drank some beer. Cyril had one of his interminable sixties’ playlists going, and Gene Pitney was singing ‘That Girl Belongs to Yesterday’ in the background.

‘It’s something I wanted to tell you in person,’ she said. ‘It’s been a trying two days, and I’m afraid I’m not going to make things any better.’

‘Oh?’

‘I just got a call from James Cook Hospital in Middlesbrough. Katie Shea died on the operating table at five past nine tonight.’

Banks felt the beer turn to lead in his stomach. His teeth clenched and his chest tightened. He felt like standing up and kicking the table over, throwing a chair through the window. Instead, he took several deep breaths, only vaguely aware of Gervaise’s hand on his forearm.

‘I suppose I knew it was bound to happen,’ he said eventually. ‘Gerry will be devastated.’

‘I heard about DC Masterson in the churchyard,’ said Gervaise. ‘She’ll be fine, Alan. She’s young and resilient. It’s you I’m worried about.’

Banks gave her a flicker of a smile. ‘Me being old and weak?’

‘You having had rather too much misery for one weekend. I wasn’t there, but I understand Katie Shea was in very poor shape.’

‘She was holding her guts in with her hands and a bit of material Terry had found for her,’ Banks said. ‘Begging for help, but the bloody gunslingers didn’t get there for three-quarters of an hour, and it was almost as long again before they let any medics in.’

‘You know that’s the protocol, Alan. It was nobody’s fault. Certainly not the AFOs’. Nobody but the killer’s.’

‘Even so...’

‘You’d like to throttle someone. I understand.’

Banks drank some more beer. For the second night in a row he felt like getting rat-arsed, but he couldn’t. He had a feeling that no matter how much he drank, it would have no effect on him, anyway; it wouldn’t take the anger and sadness away, would hardly even dull it. A sudden image of Katie Shea propped against the gravestone flashed through his mind. The expression on her face, the fear, pain and despair there, as if she knew what was going to happen, knew she was down to her last few sacred minutes on earth. Perhaps he was being fanciful, but that was what he had felt. A young woman who not long earlier had her whole life ahead of her was now facing certain death, and she knew it. He didn’t know whether Katie had any religious faith. That might have given her some comfort towards the end. Banks hoped so, for her sake, though he had no such faith himself. He remembered, too, the look on Gerry’s face. She had seen death before, but nothing quite like Katie. It had shaken her to the core. Yes, she was young and resilient, but she wouldn’t forget that day in St Mary’s churchyard; she would carry it with her always; it would change her.

‘Don’t make it personal,’ Gervaise went on. ‘Your old sweetheart’s death is personal, but this is what your job is about. It wasn’t only Katie Shea. Laura Tindall died from a gunshot wound to the heart. Her maid of honour had her head almost blown off. Need I go on?’

Banks shook his head and finished his drink. Gervaise had about three-quarters of a pint left.

‘Want another?’ she said. ‘Or a whisky perhaps?’

‘Are you trying to get me drunk, ma—’ Banks managed to stop himself before he got the title out.

‘Furthest thing from my mind, but you’ve got an empty glass in front of you, and you’re not going anywhere yet. Don’t worry about driving. Leave your car and I’ll drop you off home.’ She pushed her beer aside. ‘I don’t even want this. I’m a white wine spritzer girl, myself. So what’s it to be?’

‘Macallan, please,’ said Banks. ‘If that’s OK.’ He couldn’t face another beer.

With that, Gervaise went to the bar and got him another drink. ‘Cyril said it’s on the house,’ she said when she got back. ‘Double. Says you look as if you need it.’

Banks glanced over at Cyril, who gave him a nod and a wink. ‘Taking bribes from the publican,’ he said. ‘What will it come to next?’ The song changed. Skeeter Davis, ‘The End of the World’.

‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ he went on. ‘But thanks for telling me in person, not over the phone, and thanks for the drinks. That makes four dead now, right?’

‘Yes. And Benjamin Kemp is hanging on by a thread. They don’t think he’ll make it through the night.’

‘What about Diana Lofthouse?’

‘The spinal cord was severed. There were other injuries, internal organs, but that’s by far the worst. It’s unlikely she’ll walk again. As yet, they’re not sure if she’ll be a quad or a para.’

‘What a bloody mess. And we’ve no leads at all so far yet.’

‘It’s early days,’ said Gervaise. ‘There is one more thing, though, and it might be something of a development. When the surgeons were working on Katie Shea, they discovered that she was pregnant. The foetus was unharmed by the gunshot, but, of course, it didn’t survive. She wasn’t married — not that that means anything these days — but there has to be a father somewhere.’

‘And we’ll find him,’ said Banks. ‘How far along was she?’

‘I don’t know all the details yet. Dr Glendenning will be doing the post-mortem tomorrow morning, so we’ll no doubt find out more then.’